Gobble fucking gobble. Usually the only thing I give a shit about on Thanksgiving day is the fucking games. Turkey... stuffing... family... fuck em all. They do nothing for me. But after my first Thanksgiving in New Orleans this has all changed. This year I actually failed to watch the Detroit Lions for the first time since I was old enough to bet... which was sometime back in the 70's I think. How is this possible you may ask? Well because here in New Orleans on Thanksgiving day everyone goes to the fuckin track. Genius no?
I think so. You see Thanksgiving is traditionally opening day at Fair Grounds Racecourse. Instead of watching that stupid fuckin parade with the snoopy float everyone gets all dressed up and goes to the track. The men wear suits. The women wear hats. It's like Kentucky Derby day, only instead of classy like people it's populated by bohemian types who don't know shit about horse racing. I enjoy the crowd but.
Yup my first Thanksgiving in New Orleans was quite a time. Annie left town to be with her family, leaving me alone to try to murder myself. Apparently Thanksgiving brings out the worst in me. Being a degenerate gambler is hard enough, but when the symptoms of my sickness are magnified by the holiday fuckin spirit it can be nearly unbearable. You've got to have some David Blaine in you to escape it. You really do. And I do. I've got lots of it. In fact things got so savage back in the Thanksgiving of 2007—which I blame all on Annie—that I had to magic my ass out of that motherfucker. Honestly, I should be dead. Fuckin Annie. Well I guess I can tell you a bit about 2007 while I'm on the subject. But first let's get to the 2011 edition. Here it is. I'm a week late once again. But by the power of my character, and strength of my will, and with a bit of pharmaceutical assistance, I'm back up in this shit again and loving it. Now get ready doubters. The guy is ready, all jacked up on ritalin at the stroke of midnight, ready to start this fuckin blog. Fuck me let's do this.
Variations on a Theme in 2 Parts....
Part I....Thanksgiving 2011
I wake up hungover. I drink way too much. It's just ridiculous really. The doctor's always asking me if I think I'm an alcoholic. I don't think I'm an alcoholic, but I'm an alcoholic. That's what I fuckin tell him.
My boy Will, who I call Kafka, comes and scoops me for the track. I call the kid Kafka not because he writes weird, existential novels that I have to pretend to understand to bang the broads I really want to bang, but because he's always fucking sick. I don't think I've ever known the kid not to be ill. One of my greatest fears is that the kid drops dead in my apartment. I don't want anything to do with that nonsense. I was just involved with a bachelor party last month and some guy bore his soul to me while we sang background for Sweet Caroline at the Cats Meow. Apparently a friend of his choked himself to death on a steak right in front of him. A few months later he uninvitedly pissed on his girlfriend. I'm not into pissing on broads so like I said.... my greatest fear.
Kafka's driving with a coffee and a cigarette bitchin about his stomach. I'm in the passenger seat on the phone betting the Packer/Lion game. I love the fucking over. It's my favorite play of the year. I have $700 in the account going into the day. I bet the over first half and game for $200 each. That leaves me with $300 to bet the ponies, which I absolutely can't lose. If I do I'll start borrowing money from friends and bumming beers and eventually call Annie and yell at her. I don't want that to happen today.
I get my bets down and take out The Sheets that I printed out this morning. Eventually these fucking Sheets are everywhere. Fuck I need an IPAD. I need to get my shit together with technology. I mean I'm old school and all but situations like these really make me feel like a loser. I run through the card, which is short since we'll be getting there late. It seems like a pretty straightforward card. Short fields with less parity. I've done a bit of research for this season and one of the barns to watch out for is Albert Stahl. He has horses in just about every race. There's also the local boy Tom Amoss. He always has live horses at this meet. I decide in memory of Steve Jobs that I'm going to go minimalist this time and keep things fucking simple. I'll bet these trainers all day and find a horse of two to box them in exactas. No bullshit pick 3's or 4's. No triples and superfectas. I'm going to enjoy myself today. I'll make my fucking bets early and spend the rest of the time enjoying the beauty of the horses and bohemian broads while I sip on cold beer. Fucking Thanksgiving. This is how it should be.
And fuck, don't you know it actually goes my way! Fucking Stahl takes down the first three races and I hit em' all. I'm up over $500. Two of the three winners were favorites or I'd be up $2000. Kafka is only up $50 because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing, and because he's fuckin sick all the time!
You see Kafka doesn't know anything about the horses. I have to explain to him what a three horse exacta box means a dozen times. He just can't get it through his congested little head that if he boxes three horses in an exacta, he only has to have his horses finish first and second. I had to pick a winning ticket off the pavement for christsakes after he tossed it. He though he had lost because his horses didn't finish first, second, and third. If he understood this to begin with and didn't get nervous and hit the wrong buttons on the betting machine... and if he didn't miss one of my winners because he had to go to the bathroom to take a shit, he'd be up a few hundred dollars right now.
After Stahl takes a break for a race, he comes in once again with the favorite. I have $200 on him and I'm back up over $600. Kafka's ADD kicks in after the 3rd race and he's nowhere to be found. I eventually find him. He forgot all about Stahl and bet someone else. Poor Kafka.
While I'm in the paddock for the next race I run into this tall, angular, YAT weirdo I know from the coffee shop. He's one of the few people I talk horses with in this town and he's all jacked up. He tells me he's hot. Of course he's hot! We're both suckers who bet favorites and it just happens they're all hitting today!
He tells me he's got a tip on a couple horses in the next two races. He gives me the 11 in the upcoming race and the 3 in the feature. He tells me he's friends with the trainer of the 3 horse and then takes off, stumbling and bumbling all awkward and shit. What a weirdo.
I grab Kafka and make him stay with me. We grab a couple sausages and head to the paddock. The 11 is an Amoss horse— one of the few horses of his on the card. I already banged him in an exacta with Stahl. Without a Stahl entry in this race I have no doubt he's a winner. The guy's fucking due.
And fuck I'm right. The eleven wins by a football field. Kafka and I clean up. The sausage goes right through Kafka and he runs off to the bathroom to take another shit. I tell him to meet me at the paddock. We have to bang this 3 and get the fuck out of here!
I check the Packer score. Two losers. Thank god I'm up $800 with these horses. I fucking hate these stupid fucking games in Detroit every year. They're always terrible... just terrible. Thank god I live in New Orleans now and can go gamble at the track instead of having to sit through this NFL garbage. The game is so weak nowadays anyway. Just so fuckin weak. But I parlay the Dolphins with the under for $150 anyway in the next piece of shit game and put the $200 that's left in the account on the fucking 3. Gantry is his name. I have no fucking idea what that word means but I love it.
Kafka meets me in the paddock all pumped up. The kid is up $150. You'd think he was $1500 the way he was clownin about. The thing is Kafka is gambling addict who's habitual illness prevents him from really getting involved with it. When Kafka was in high school he apparently went through a period when he wasn't on the verge of death. During his physiological renaissance, the kid spent most of his time in the poker rooms of New York City. He claims he pushed A-Rod all in once and the guy folded. What a fucking surprise. My point is Kafka really got into the sickness good and lost thousands before he got one of his infections again, sending him back into his feeble cell. Poor Kafka. I hope he lives to see this 3 horse come in.
The 3 is sitting at 5-1 on the board. I decide I'm not going to fuck with any exotic bullshit. Going to keep it simple. Steve fucking Jobs. My new model. I wish I knew years ago he dropped so much acid. I would've really hit it hard. I didn't do nearly enough acid. Not nearly enough. And the Zen Buddhist stuff. I read Kerouac and the rest of them, a couple meditation books by that Suzuki guy, some Krishnamurti and other spiritual weirdos. I did a bit of meditation and had a mantra and all that nonsense. I thought it was all fruity so I gave it up. Shit if I knew the Jobs was down I would have kept rolling with it. Fucking Jobs. I'm gonna start wearing black turtlenecks and round rimless glasses. My glasses are all wrong. All fucking wrong. Fucking Jobs.
I call out to the horse, "Gantry baby you're beautiful," "you got this man," "one time." God the horse looks great on The Sheets. His last race is the top number in the field and there he sits at 5-1. There's a lot of public money pouring in on this horse Mambo Galliano, who won the race the last two years and is the sentimental choice of the bohemians. There's also Joe Hollywood, who looks like the speed in the race and is a slight favorite over Mambo. I'm feeling really fucking good about this. I've got the wise guy horse. I'm on the inside for once. This fucking goon gives me the 3 and it's going to make my fucking day. Lets fucking go with this3!!!
The race goes off and Kafka and I are 8 beers and three sausages in. He's as excited as I am. Of course he is! He's a degenerate too! I tell Kafka the 3 has to be laying 3rd, right off the pace of Joe Hollywood and this other horse Cash Refund. The race is a six furlong sprint so the idea is the two pace setters will tire themselves out battling for the lead and we'll get the jump on the rest of the field and run by them in the stretch. I honestly don't see anyone else in the race beating us once we get past the pace setters, but we have to be sitting 3rd—WE JUST HAVE TO BE! So after a quarter mile we're sitting fucking third! I start punching Kafka in the shoulder. We're standing to the left of finish line on the fence, so we can't see what's going on as the horses speed down the backstretch. We can only look at the board on the infield displaying the order of the horses and listen for the track announcer to say the word 'Gantry'.As the horses enter the stretch Gantry clicks into second place on the board. Then the board goes blank, as it always does when the horses reach the stretch. Kafka and I are jumping up and down trying to get a glimpse of what the hell is happening. Suddenly we see two horses emerge and the track announcer screams, "and here comes Gantry on the outside!" At this point I've got my hand dug into Kafka's shoulder like it's a nerf football and I'm spilling beer all over this bohemian to my left. The horses come into view and I see the blue saddlecloth of the 3 a neck behind on the outside and closing the gap with every stride. Kafka and I are going absolutely nuts. Nobody else seems to be excited at all. It's like we're the only two people at the track on the 3. As they hit the wire I scream, "Nooooooooooooo! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!" It looks like we just got nosed. I turn to Kafka. "I think we're beat. Fuck Kafka we had to have this one... had to have it." There's no monitor outside to see the replay. I decide to just wait it out and wait for the board to light up with the official order of finish. After a couple minutes the number 3 flashes up on the board. Gantry!We fucking did it you bastard! I hug Kafka then start shaking the shit out of him. "I thought we were beat. I really thought we were beat Kafka."
We head inside to check out the replay. Gantry got up in the final bob to nip the 6 by a cunt/pussy hair. I'm still screaming "Gantry!" and "Fuck you!" to all the bohemians at the top of my lungs. I fucking love this shit! I am more alive than any of you fucking bohemians. Fuck you! The fucking 3!
Then I get real silly and walk right into the winners circle. I high five the jockey and give him a hug. FUCK YEAH! and then I hug the trainer. MOTHERFUCKER! I run up and down and high five and/or hug just about everyone in the winners circle. Nobody seems to care. I act like I'm family and get in all the photos. Fucking New Orleans! Fucking bohemians! I'm the last person to leave that fucking winners circle. This is the best fucking day of my life!
Kafka somehow gets me out of The Fairgrounds after I go inside and start betting every other track that's running. He has to go home and take a nap and a couple more shits before he heads to a friend's house for some turkey. I have him drop me at bar to watch the Dolphin game. The Fins are down 4 at half catching 7. I bang em' again second half. I love the fucking Fins. They lose by 1 and the under comes in as well. I'm up $1000 for the day. I'll take it.
The next twelve hours are filled with vague impressions of joy and dread. I'm pretty sure I had a hell of a good time before things eventually got a little dark and weird. It seems I made it home alive and I have $2200 with a $1500 bet on Tulsa (that I don't remember making) pending. Looks like I hit Texas and Baltimore pretty good, but lost some back on UMASS and UC Riverside in college hoops. UCRiverside? Who the fuck? What the fuck?
I go steal a coffee and a half-gallon of milk from Whole Foods. This is the first time I've walked with anything besides a coffee. I'm building myself up to a full grocery bag full of shit. Baby steps baby. I turn on the tube. The Tulsa game has just started. Well, nothing I can do about it now. I crush my coffee and fix myself a gin and tonic. Lets go fucking Tulsa!
Part II....Thanksgiving 2007
I'm in Venice beach California staying at Lisa Loeb's house. My friend is house sitting. They're both Jews and became friends through some Jew thing. I don't know anything about it really. All I know is I'm waking up on Thanksgiving day with this broad's cats all over me.
I take a shower and get dressed. Annie is picking me up and we're going out to her apartment in Pasadena to do Thanksgiving with her friends. I put on a $250 pair of jeans, a $70 V-neck, and a $300 cardigan I bought yesterday from a some clothing boutique on this Venice Beach Boardwalk bullshit. I tried on five pairs of jeans just as an excuse to rap with this blond surfer chick. We drank a little holiday wine (I love these fucking boutique shops!) I'll go back there this week and ask her if she wants to come over and play with these fucking cats. Lisa Loeb is going to get me some pussy. She fucking has to.
Annie and I just started dating. At this point I don't know who the hell this broad is and why the hell I'm dating her. All I know is she's picking me up for Thanksgiving and I have to get my bets in before she does. I call Bookie, which he'll be called for the rest of this fucking blog, and say B4. B4 is my account number with Bookie and the only thing he knows about me at this point. "Go ahead B4." Give me $5000 on Detroit for the game. $5000 on the over. Give me $2000 on Detroit first half. $2000 on the over. Give me a two team teaser Detroit and the over for $3000. Give me a four team parlay Detroit and the over with the Cowboys and the under for $1000. "You want the Dallas game now or should I call after this game?" "Give me everything now." $5000 on Dallas. $5000 on the under. $2000 on Dallas first half. $2000 under. Two team tease Dallas and the under for $3000. Four team parlay Dallas and the under with the Colts and the over for $1000. That'll do me.
About ten minutes later my phone rings. It's Big Yates. "What are you doing?" Big Yates really doesn't yell at anyone when he's angry. He just speaks directly, frustrated as hell. "I'm betting these fucking games." "Dude I told you to go easy." "Don't worry about it. It's all good." "Bookie just called me. He says your boy just called in and dropped bombs on me. $5,000 a game?" "What's the big deal?" "What if you lose dude? If you lose it's on me." "Don't worry about it. I've got over 80k offshore. I'll fucking cashout and pay him. Listen I have to go man. My ride's here." "You better not fucking lose." "Later man." I love fucking with Big Yates. He's so funny when he's upset. I go to the bathroom, throw some water on my face, adjust my cardigan, and push off for Pasadena.
We get to her apartment. I exchange niceties with her friends. They all seem like awful people, especially this one dude from Arkansas they call "The Daddy". He's short and out of shape and sports one of those blond goatees that looks like a thin patch of pussy hair on his chin. He's wearing one of those hats that all those douchebag bartenders wear these days. Annie thinks I'll like this guy, but she also thought I'd like this movie Little Miss Sunshine we watched together the other day. What a piece of shit. I hate this "Daddy" guy already. There's a nice sized TV with the game on but it's not in High Def, so I'm immediately pissed off. I go to the kitchen, mix up a Stoli bloody mary, and sit down in the most isolated chair in the joint.
The game reaches halftime. The first half over is a winner. Favre and the Packers go in late in the half to fuck me. I break even. The game flys over but Packers win handily. I lose my teaser by 2 points and my parlay is dead as well. I'm down $5000 for the day after game one.
At this point I should probably fill you - my loyal readers - in on the circumstances that have allowed me to drop such bombs on Thanksgiving day. See a couple months ago I convinced Big Yates to set me up with his boy out of Boston, Bookie. In these last two months I've hit him for $42,000, most of which is gone, squandered on things such as online poker and $300 cardigans. Big Yates thinks I have $80,000 in various offshore sportsbooks. I kinda lied a bit. I only have $15,000. But I can turn that $15,000 into $80,000 in a week if I have to. In any case, this $80,000 is my collateral to fire scuds at this guy. Now Bookie wants his $42,000 back, but he also doesn't want me to get crushed and not pay because he's got guys above him, bad guys, that he passes off a lot of my action to. That's why Bookie's a bit pissed I'm betting $5,000 a game.
Annie and I have been geographically together for less than a month. We did the long distance, internet bullshit for almost a year (I know sounds fucking ridiculous for a guy like me to get involved with but I was deep into the sickness and spending most of my time on my parents davenport.) Annie became my only connection to the real, grown-up, world. Over the last year she went on to manipulate me and create whatever this shit between us is. Now I'm fucking stuck here.
I try to eat some of this turducken but I'm finding it difficult to eat with $20,000 on the line. I'm playing it cool and am not too worried about coming off as a gambling addict in front of her friends. When it comes to gambling it truly takes one to know one and I'm pretty confident the fuckin Daddy doesn't have 20k tied up in this Cowboy game.
So the Cowboys lock me up. The under hits. Winners across the board. I pick up $19,000. I'm now down $8,000 for the week. I'm still pissed. I haven't had a losing week in a month and I'm not about to start now.
I go upstairs into Annie's room and get on her laptop. I hit the forums to check on college basketball action. There's a few games the degenerates are all over. I call Bookie and put $5000 on four games and put $2000 on the first halves. I've still got a half an hour for the football games so I hang up and go downstairs. The next hour is a period I relive every day of my life, fantasizing of how different my life would be if I did something else, something different than what I decided to do. As much of a badass that I am, this one really hurt. But fuck it here it is.
Downstairs sitting on the couch next to The Daddy is Annie's friend's boyfriend, Dave. Dave is wearing an Arizona St. jersey. Apparently he's an alumni. What are the odds that I'm at a Thanksgiving dinner with a dude wearing an Arizona St. jersey and the game I need a winner in is Arizona St. vs. USC? This is a fucking sign. Dave and I go outside and toss the football around a bit. The Daddy dude stays inside because he's too cool to toss the football. Dave's got a nice arm on him and seems like a real nice guy. I'm feeling better and better about Arizona St. In fact I'm really loving them. Let's fucking go with this Arizona St.!
I'm six bloody marys and two shots of tequila in and I've got a five minutes til gametime. I run upstairs to Annie's room. I call the Bookie...B4...go ahead B4. Give me $5000 on Arizona St. $5000 on the over. Tease both for $5000. Give me $3000 on both first half. Then give me $5000 on the Colts. $5000 on the over. $3000 on both first half. Tease the Colts and the Over for $5000. Then give me a 4 team parlay with all four for $2000....That'll do me.
Arizona St. gets absolutely fucking destroyed. The game goes under. The Colts and the over are a push, but I manage to hit the first halves and the teaser. Then there's the college hoop. I go 0-4.
Losses: $30,800 on hoops. $25,300 on Arizona St. $8,000 going in. That's $64,100. Winnings: $10,500 on the Colts. $53,500 in the red. How ya doin.
At this point my anxiety disorder is not so pronounced so I don't have any pills of any kind. Luckily Annie has an attack or two every now and then when she makes a mistake in life and has a bottle of Xanax in her medicine cabinet. As soon as the Arizona St. game is over, and I've calculated my fate, I run upstairs and take five of them (I'm a big guy). I turn my phone off and in an hour I'm out cold.
Somehow I get out of bed the next morning. Annie wants to go get brunch. I turn my phone on and see I have 47 new messages. The phone isn't on two minutes before it rings. It's Big Yates. I tell Annie it's my father and go outside. The conversation goes something like this. "Yo" "Dude. What the fuck." "What?" "What? You're down over $50,000 for the week." "Whatever. I've still got $30,000 from the Bookie with the $12,000 I loaned you to do your coke thing and the $80,000 I've got offshore. It's all good. The week isn't over yet." "We'll I told him I'm holding $12,000 for you but you've got to come up with $20,000 is you want to play." "Alright I'll get it too him Monday. Just let him know I'm good so I can play this weekend." "Dude. He needs $20,000 from you in his hand until he turns you back on." "I'm fucking call him. This is bullshit. I give him a chance to win his money back and he won't give me a chance to win mine? Fucking bullshit man." "Dude, you've got to show him something. And you have to get him something now or he's gonna be all over my ass until you do. What about your offshore accounts? Anyway he can see you have money in them?" This is where my David Blaine shit kicks in. "Well the thing is for security reasons you have to either log in from my computer or call directly from my cell phone. I set it up that way after I went on this run." "You're not fucking with me are you? Tell me you have this money. Tell me you're not fucking with me." "Big Yeats man I got this shit. Tell him I'll get him $40,000 on Monday. Fuck it I'm calling him right now."
Fucking Big Yeats. Good thing he knows nothing about offshore sportsbooks. This is the first of the many spoonfuls of bullshit I'll feed him and Bookie over the next few months. I ended up calling Bookie and tried to convince him to give me action but he told me to go fuck myself and that he better have $20,000 in his hands on Monday or he sending some guy named Zoltan out to find me. Bookie's a really nice guy actually and we've had a lot of laughs over the last couple months. Under other circumstances I think we could've been friends. I still have the $15,000 offshore so I'm not really worried. I'm confident I can run it up over $20,000 and get turned on again. When I do I will crush him and he'll owe me 50K. Fuck him.
There it is. Thanksgiving 2007. If Annie never came into my life and dragged my ass to that fucking apartment for that fucking turducken I never would've got into this bullshit. I never would have drank eight bloody mary's and bet four random basketball games and bet fucking Arizona St. just because this fucking guy was wearing a jersey. Fucking Annie. I figure she has cost me a quarter of a million dollars. That's what she fucking owes me. A quarter of a million dollars.
And Here....
It's Saturday afternoon. Annie is flying back into town today. I have off from work and no money to bet the games. I went into the weekend after Thanksgiving with $2200 and came out with a bagel. After Tulsa got destroyed by Houston I had a little over $500 in the account. I ran it up to $1500 on Saturday and then up over 2k on Sunday. After being between 3k and a thousand all week I had $1500 in the account last night. I put $500 on Oregon first half and $500 on them for the game. There's 12 seconds left in the first half and Oregon is up 21 laying 19. They have the ball and it's 4th down on the UCLA 44 yard line. I'd say I'm about a %99.3 winner at this point. They get stuffed and UCLA calls timeout with 8 seconds left. The next play UCLA completes a 35 yard pass. They call timeout with one second left and kick a field goal. You can't make this shit up. I'm a loser. They don't cover for the game either and I have $400 left in the account when I wake up this morning. I put it all on Houston, who fucked me last week by winning, and fuck me again this week by losing. I'm broke. What a fucking relief. I'm on the couch with my stolen coffee and sandwich. I walked with my coffee in one hand and the milk and sandwich in the other. Next time I'll have to bring a bag. I flip around on the tube and land on Hannah and Her Sisters. Nice. I try to watch this one every Thanksgiving. It's Woody Allen's best. A fucking masterpiece. The story centers around these three broads, who happen to be sisters. This isn't a fruity chick flick though. It's a real drama with some funny shit in it too. One storyline is about the older sister Hannah, played by Mia Farrow, and her husband Elliot, played by Michael Caine (who just crushes it.) Elliot wants to bang Hannah's sister, Lee, played by Barbara Hershey (such a hot little number back then). The thing is Hannah's the successful one of the bunch and is kinda a perfect human being. Elliot is kind of a bumbling fool....an idiot really. So I think one of the reasons Elliot wants to bang Lee is because being with Hannah makes him feel like such a fucking loser with nothing to offer. I start to really relate to this storyline and I start thinking about how similar my whole deal with Annie is. Annie is successful at everything she does. She always does the right thing in life. She's sweet...caring - an all around good person. I think to myself, "maybe that's why I want to bang other broads all the time." Shit maybe that's why I bet these fucking games. All because Annie is so perfect and I'm such a fuck up. I'll have to bring this up in therapy this week and see what Mia has to say about it.
In the end Elliot can't leave Hannah. Without her he really has nothing. Maybe that's why I can't leave Annie. She's the only good, wholesome thing I'm involved with in life. Without her it's nothing but evil....evil.
Fucking Woody Allen. You know what? Fuck that. Elliot is a pussy. A fucking coward. I'm nothing like that fucking guy. His glasses are stupid and his cardigans are tired. Fuck him. I can leave Annie anytime I want to. In fact I'm going to. I'm going to fucking do it. As soon as I find the right broad. Someone like Lee, lost....tragic....beautiful. That's my kind of broad. I'm gonna grab her, fuck her all over town, and take her to fucking Berlin with me. That's what I'm gonna do....fucking Berlin!
Rooney Mara is the most lovely young lady going right now. She's not a bad actress either. Although I've only seen her on screen for a combined forty minutes or so, I'm already smitten. I mean I don't just want to bang her. I'm in love with her.
The thing is she's cute and beautiful. Usually they're just one or the other. She's petite, which I like a lot, and she has a real ass - not a flat, bullshit ass. She has little titties with perk and the right nips. Just superb. She's looks like she can fuck the hell out of you from what I saw in that flick. L-O-V-E.
She's the real deal to. I've watched every interview with her, video and print, and every youtube video she's at all involved in. She's perfect...never misses a beat. I believe it was my boy F. Scott Fitz who said, "personality is a series of unbroken successful gestures." Well this spectacular human being hasn't broken shit.
After watching The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, which was shit, I was really mad at Annie for not being Rooney Mara. I'm not talking about looking like her - fucking being her. One of the crap Hollywood stories I was told once was that Andre Agassi used to fuck with Brook Shields and put a photo of Steffi Graff up on the fridge, with a magnet I assume, and tell her every morning that she needed to get her ass in shape, that she should look more like Steffi Graff. Brooke went on to write a book about Post-Partem Depression. I've never really believed in Post-Partem Depression. If your kid weirds you out and you don't love him right when the chord is cut, you probably just hate the father and don't want to be around anything that slightly resembles him. Sounds like she just had Post-Agassi Depression to me. What an asshole. I would never do something like that to Annie. Like I said I don't want Annie to look like Rooney Mara. I want her to be her.
Sorry about talking about this lovely, perfect creature so much and not about gambling. It's just that I've gotten really distracted by her and haven't focused on gambling much over the last couple days. Actually I think if I married Rooney Mara I'd never gamble. I'd actually make a deal with the Devil that if I could marry Rooney Mara I would not only never gamble again, but I'd never leave my apartment - never. If I could wake up and go to sleep next to Rooney Mara every day there'd be no reason to go outside. I'd take that fucking deal in a heartbeat. If I could wake up, make an omelet, go for a jog (a treadmill would have to be included in the deal), make a sandwich, and dick around on the internet for the rest of the day (facebook would be enough to sustain me every day, and of course a GambleorDie blog post every few hours of the day.) Wait a sec. I'd have nothing to write about. What the fuck would I do with the blog, or facebook for that matter if I wasn't a degenerate? That's all I got. I'd have no personality if I married Rooney Mara and made this deal. I mean not like you have any personality when you marry a broad anyway, but in this case I wouldn't even be able to fake it. You know what fuck that deal. Fuck Rooney Mara. I want to jog outside and gamble wherever and whenever the hell I want. And most of all I want to write this fucking blog. Let's fucking go.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past
2003
I'm having a Christmas party at my apartment in Brooklyn. I have $6,000 in an account with Betgameday.com. The thing is I made a $10,000 deposit using Firepay. Firepay is an ewallet company. What these companies do is let you deposit funds into sportsbooks and poker rooms with your checking account. You tell them who you are (give them your social security number and birthdate), and they give you an account. The thing is, this is the beginning of the gambling universe. What would happen in the future will become a thing of legend. Now I'm no Terrence Malick, but I'm going to try to tell you assholes a little something about how all this shit started and how fucked up it all was and how I figured out how to rob these idiots blind.
So I'm just starting to figure this thing out at this point. I'm sitting in my local's barber chair getting a chop and a fucking shave. This guy's in his late 70's and will probably fuck me up, but I roll with it anyway because it's the move. I'm getting a real man's hair cut this time. The last time I got a haircut I went to some homosexual fella - a cool one who came into my bar and drank margaritas all day - in the village and got a super gay chop. Neely loved it for two reasons. The first was because it was a birthday present from her and the second being because down deep she likes soft dudes with their purple shirts and emotions. Neely is my lady. I'll get into her in a quick.
So I'm sitting in this fucking barber chair and thinking about this whole fucking deal that I just discovered when these Firepay assholes let me make a $10,000 deposit using my checking account, a checking account that didn't exist - I just used a Bank of America routing number and made up an account number. I took that 10K and deposited 4K into Betgameday (they only let you deposit $2000 every 24 hours), put 2K into Pokerstars (which I lost), 2K into Paradise Poker (gone in one hand), and another 2k in Partypoker (gonzo). Basically I lost 6k in a few hours, hitting a new site as soon as I got crushed. I was able to be disciplined enough not lose it all playing cards to get the rest into Betgameday to bet these games. Now here I am, in this fucking barber chair, trying to figure out how to make $100,000.
At this point I figure I have to have over $10,000 in this GD account to see what their move is. I figure if I can run this thing up to 15k I'll be able to cashout 5k. My feeling is that I would. What I do know for a fact is that I can get a ton of cash, that doesn't exist, in these poker rooms. What I need is to get someone on the other end with a real account and dump chips to him.
After this old bastard cuts me all up and leaves my face all spotted like, I go outside and call my boy Lou. Lou's the only one I can think of that would comprehend any of this. Everyone else I know has no balls, or is too smart, and would want nothing to do with this. I get Lou on the phone and right off it he's down.
"So you're telling me you're writing phony checks for as much as 10k and they're giving you the cash to play with?" "Yuup." "And this offshore shit is illegal so they can't legally come after you for fraud." "That's exactly what I'm saying." "Dude, this is some crazy shit." "No shit. Are they retarded or is this some Ponzi scheme." "Yeah it could be a Ponzi scheme." "I don't know man. Looks to me like bunch of corrupt, greedy bastards that don't know what the hell they're doing and they can probably deal with a few desperate, degenerate assholes like me to fuck with them." "Yeah man you're just the fucking man for this!" "Yeah well, you in Lou?" "I'm in. Call me next week when you have a plan." "Will do. Merry fucking Christmas!" "Merry Christmas to you!" Lou's the fucking man. He's got a family and still, because he's ballsy and smart, knows the deal.
I head back to the apartment. I get there and people are starting to arrive. Neely is taking her Chicken Pot Pie out of the oven. It's the only thing she can make that's decent. She's a shit cook, but I'm down with her anyway. She does make a very clean sandwich, which can make up for just about any shortcoming. My boy Ron, who I call Kundera, is in on the deal. I call him Kundera because he's a writer and writes "polyphonic" novels (a term he gets from Milan Kundera) on yellow writing pads with fucking red felt pens. He never shuts up about the "polyphonic novel". All day long with Kundera, "polyphonic", and "the first and the third." I don't know what the fuck he's talking about but I listen as if I do. Kundera's a neurotic, balding jew from Hartford. He's not completely bald, more like Art Garfunkel bald. It turns out Hartford is to Kundera as Manhattan is to Woody Allan. They both have trouble functioning outside of their beloved cities. Right now Kundera is standing in my kitchen, scared to fucking death.
I hand Kundera another whiskey. We go into my bedroom where my TV is set up. I moved it in there so I wouldn't be distracted when playing poker on my computer in the living room. I filled Kundera in on the situation when he got here this afternoon. He fucking loves it. I tell him I put 2k on the Vikings and Randy Moss. The Vikes are playing the 12-2 Chiefs and Trent Green at home. Kundera tells me they're a lock. Randy fucking Moss. Dante fucking Culpepper. Let's go get it.
The Vikings crush the Chiefs. The night game is Pats v. Jets. The Jets are catching 7 at home. They suck and the Pats are the best team in the league. Kundera is a jet fan. He rubs his bald head, throws down a shot of whiskey, and tells me they're a lock. "They're a lock guy!" "Pennington's elbow is gonna throw for 250." "We need to get 15K in the account and kill the Canadians!" The Canadians Kundera's referring to is Firepay. Their company is located in Canada. Kundera's convinced that if I keep this up, one day the Canadians will find me and kill me. I have a slight anxiety about this as well, but I know down deep, like I know down deep I've got no shot in this life, that I have nothing to worry about. This whole deal is like the Wild Wild West and I'm striking that fucking gold.
I put the whole $8,000 on the Jets. I make the call in front of Kundera while rubbing his bald jew head. He's drinking a glass of Rittenhouse straight, and not just a glass, a water glass, a fucking collins glass full of the stuff, just to forget he's not in Hartford. "Fucking Canadians guy (he's always saying fucking guy.") "Gretzky's gonna show up with a banana guy." I don't know what the fuck he's talking about but I laugh anyway. Kundera hangs out somewhere much above me.
We roll out for some Pot Pie. I've got a weird mix of friends everywhere.The great thing about betting these games is that all my friends know the deal with me - even Neely, but she would rather not think of such things, so doesn't. I can just watch this game and act ridiculous and play it up big. All my friends will get down with it, while all her friends will think I'm a gambleholic fuck-up. Fuck Neely's friends.
The Jets lose by 6. Kundera has said the word "Canadians" a hundred times and is still ripping collins glasses full of 100 proof rye whiskey. It's beginning to take its toll. Every time I rub his bald head I can see a few follicles fall to the floor. I need to get this kid back to Hartford before he catches cancer. Apparently stress can just about cause anything.
Now I've got just short of $16,000 in the account. Betgameday doesn't have a poker site so I should be able to stay away until my check bounces and see what happens with Firepay. I'm in a decent mood now and go out to talk to people. It's my fucking party after all.
Neely is sitting at the kitchen table with an american spirit medium in her mouth talking away. Neely has the ability to turn our kitchen into a salon. She can hold court like Gertrude Stein. Neely's the first broad I've ever pursued. I first saw her in a video store on Martha's Vineyard. She had a Parker Posey video, I'm not sure which one, in her hand. Immediately the girls overall vibe kicked me right in the balls. I knew right then and there that I'd be in pain until I had her. Neely actually had a little Parker Posey in her. I fucking loved Parker Posey. Maybe I was just doing that projection bullshit, but along with Parker Posey she had a Diane Keaton - an Annie Hall Diane Keaton - style and quirkiness to her. Throw in the dark, mysterious beauty of a Stardust Memories Charlotte Rampling and you have my perfect girl. I absolutely loved these broads. They were my template at the time - and they would all destroy me.
That was three years ago. Not only did I get her to date me, but I got her to rent this apartment with me in Brooklyn. Poor girl. I had her conned all this time, but now I can sense she's beginning to smell the sickness in me. I'll see how long I can keep her on my team. I hate breaking up with broads. I try to stay away from it. Fucks me all up, and causes me to lose even more money with this shit.
Anyway, my Christmas party kills. Kundera disappears for two hours, coming back dripping in vomit. I clean him up and get him on the fucking train back to Hartford the next day. The guy should never leave Hartford....never.
A few days later I log onto my Betgameday account and it's locked. I call them up and they tell me that there's an issue with Firepay and my deposit and that I had to clear it up before they could unlock my account. I call Firepay. They tell me my ACH (automatic clearing house) check bounced and that I had to cover the balance before any accounts I used with them to deposit were unlocked. So I couldn't just cover it with 10K from Gameday. I'm fucked.
I call Lou and let him in on the scenario. I tell him I could probably scrounge up a few thousand, but would need about 7k to cover it all. I tell him I'll split the 6K with him if he comes in. Lou does pretty well for himself, but giving me 7K to get involved with the Canadians is a pretty risky proposition to say the least, especially with a sketchball like me. But Lou's got a little gamble in him too, and decides to come in. Let's see what happens here.
I get my two unemployment checks for the week (I'm collecting from New York and Massachusetts, which I don't think you're supposed to do, but I do it anyway.) I go withdraw $500 off my Capital One credit card, then come back and pay the balance off with my checking account - which will of course bounce. This is my move these days. My balance at this point is up to $6,000 of a $9,000 limit. I simply withdraw $500 every 24 hours until my electronic check bounces and they lock my account. Then I go back and pay the entire balance with an electronic check and the card is immediately unlocked - another $500 a day until the check bounces. How awesome is that?
So I get together a few thousand and with Lou's 7K, I Fed X a certified check to Canada. Within a week my account is unlocked and I withdraw the 16K via check. Sure as shit a Fed X shows up with two checks, one for 10K and the other for 6K. They both clear and Lou and I split the 6K. How awesome is that?
This becomes my life for the winter and then continues well into the future. I collect unemployment from two states, I do this credit card bullshit (I must have maxed out three or four credit cards for over 30K), I open Firepay and other Ewallet (Neteller, Citadel, etc...) accounts with multiple identities and figure out every way possible to deposit with phony checks and get paid from these assholes. While I'm working on this I do nothing but play online poker, bet horse races I can't even watch, and bet every game I can. Party Poker...Pokerstars...Poker Paradise...VIP Sports...Nine.com...the list goes on and on. Ever time I drain one well I find another way to deposit. Fucking disgusting.
Neely eventually catches on and despite her pleading, I continue on with this shit. She eventually smartens up and leaves me. What follows is three years of pain. Thank goodness I have the sickness to keep me distracted. Fuck it. And so it is. "Gambling, light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul."That queer quote just about says it all.
OTHER GHOSTS - A Brief Rundown
2004
I'm in Florida with the family. I go to Church, then come back to the house, get on the couch, and watch some tube. I've got about $13,000 in my Nine.com account, that I ran up from a $1000 deposit, that I've already covered. My plan is to bet the basketball games tomorrow and cash out on Monday. No fucking poker.
I flip through the tube and stop on a WSOP tourney on ESPN. I know I can't watch this shit, but I do it anyway. After watching for a half an hour I go get my laptop and log into the poker room. I end up being down to $2,000 by 8am. My parents are up and I walk out and get a coffee wanting to kill myself.
We eat breakfast and exchange gifts, then right back to the bedroom and my laptop. I get on a 100/200 limit table and run my account back up to 11K. I end up betting the games all day, nodding off occasionally, and end up with $14,000 when it's all over. I cash out $10,000 the next morning. I'll end up losing most of that elsewhere, but today I'm a fucking winner.
2008
My first Christmas with Annie. We're having Christmas dinner at her apartment (we essentially live together but I keep a room of my own.) She drops me off on Christmas Eve. Instead of going right to bed I open an account with Absolute Poker and deposit $500 with a phony check. Over the next nine hours I go on to run the account up to 11K by 7am. Annie is picking me up at nine. Instead of taking a quick nap I keep playing. I lose it all. I spend the whole day with Annie and her family just trying to stay awake. I end up taking a 20 minute nap in the bathroom midday. How ya doin.
2009
I spend Christmas Eve and Christmas day alone, watching nothing but Man v. Food and basketball. I don't leave the couch and honestly can't remember how I did. I do know I didn't win. Fucking disgusting.
And Here...
I cleaned up the apartment. There's some organization to the fucking bookshelf finally. Annie wants me to go to Alexandria to spend Christmas with her and her folks, but it's a three hour bus ride and well...I just don't fucking want to. I just put up a little Christmas tree and hung a fucking wreath on the front door. I have $500 in an account. There's NFL games all day on Christmas Eve and then opening day of the NBA on Christmas day. I'm just going to sit here and bet. The fridge is stocked with beer. I've got a nice ham that I'm going to throw in the oven for Christmas dinner. What more could a man ask for? I'm fucking serious...
I haven't bet a game since I got cleaned out Sunday afternoon. It's Wednesday. This is the longest I've gone without having money on something since the 90's. I put the Sunday Night Football game on and was asleep on the couch by halftime. On Monday, the biggest day of the year in College Football, I didn't watch one minute of any of the six bowl games. I can't remember the last time I missed a Rose Bowl. When I was two? Three? It can't get any more depressing than to get out of bed when there's a game on and you're too broke to bet it. When I finally crawled out of bed at 3pm I was so despondent that I agreed to hang out with Annie for the day. We went to the mall. Got something to eat at P.F. Chang's (I had them seat us way in the back, away from the T.V. at the bar.) I ate some dumplings and Annie told me she's been reading the fucking blog since the beginning and is concerned about the gambling. She doesn't think we can work if I continue to bet the games. I assured her it's at least 80% fiction and told her she should probably stop reading the fucking blog. She agreed and promised to do so. No mention of wanting to fuck our shrink or anything like that. Genius. Anyway, we came back to the apartment and watched season three of Curb Your Enthusiasm until we both passed out. The Curb is my favorite T.V. show of all time, and season three is my favorite season of The Curb. But still.... with all the nice things that happened... Monday was one of the worst fucking days of my life.
Here it is Thursday. I'm back in the game. I deposited a couple hundred last night and banged West Virginia. Easy winner. I've got it all on Michigan catchin' 7 against Indiana. I put the bet in last night so I didn't lose everything on horses today before the game started. I'm gonna make some eggs here, sunny side up (I like to dip the toast), and go for a fucking jog. I feel like shit -- and it's all Annie's fault. The bullshit that broad pulls. The nagging, the endless flirting in front of my eyes, the selfish acts of cruelty. Yesterday these reflections left me alone. Today is my day to obsess over them. What the hell am I gonna do? I have to have a clear head to throw down this blog. This jog better work. If it doesn't I'm gonna have to go to a yoga class, and I'm not down with yoga. If the yoga doesn't work I'm gonna have to hop on a plane to Berlin. Fucking Berlin!
an hour or so later....
What's the deal with these headphones you put straight into your ear? Particularly these white Apple ones. They won't stay in my goddamn ear. I look around and every broad I pass seems to have no problem at all, while I spend most of my jog putting these fucking things back into my ear. I'm gonna have to go buy a headband. I hate any form of headband, and the people that wear them. Fuck.
The good thing is I got this blog figured out by mile three. Once I get into this blog it's over. I can chill with the obsessive thoughts for a bit until it's done. So I'm firing up The Joy Formidable, strapping on a real pair of headphones, fucking sunnheiser, and doin this shit. Let's go. Fucking Saints!
Somewhere in Pasadena...Early 2008
a little after 4pm...
I'm sitting at the bar in Barney's Beanery, somewhere in Pasadena. I'm drinking a Stella and watching the first halves of a few shitty college and NBA games. I'm sitting at the right corner of the bar. I always sit here because they have three small T.V.'s, as well as a couple larger HD ones. I usually try to get here at least ten minutes before 4pm so I can have the bartender set me up with all my games. That way if someone sits down next to me and wants to watch another game he can't.... he simply can't.
I have my charger plugged into an outlet in the back, behind an old Donkey Kong machine. There's a neon Bud sign back there that's the only thing in the bar I can unplug without anyone noticing. I drop a few quarters into that fucking machine every now and then but. King of Kong...Great fucking movie.
Annie will be here, as she always is, a little after five to pick me up. This is routine. This is the thing. She works for a newspaper here in Pasadena, her first job straight out of college. She gets up around 8:15 and leaves the apartment at 8:45 to go to work. I'm living with her, and have to get up with her, because I'm not allowed to be in the apartment (she has two roomates) when she's not there. This is not her rule, it's Lisa's, this big Asian broad who owns the apartment. You see a couple months ago, a week before Christmas, I flooded the fucking apartment. And when I say flooded, I mean the bottom floor was like a giant kiddie pool. You put a little slide in the middle of that thing and you'd never have to see your kids again.
It goes like this. I'm doing laundry in the early afternoon....
I put my t-shirts on hangers (I hang dry those fuckers) and hang them up all over Annie's room. I have one shirt left and nowhere to hang it. Annie has a little balcony outside of her room. I walk out there and look up at the ceiling. There's an old sprinkler up there. It looks like it's been there since the 70's. There's no fucking way that thing works. I hook my t-shirt right on that guy and I'm immediately blasted by this purple shit, which turns out to be water, and almost knocked right off the balcony. When the shock wears off, and I realize exactly what I've done and the magnitude of the situation I now find myself in, I try to stop it with my finger. That doesn't work. I decide to get the hell out of there and run into the bathroom. I grab a towel and check myself in the mirror. I look like Grimace. I towel myself off and go back out onto that fucking balcony. The stuff pouring out of that damn sprinkler actually looks like real water by now. Again I'm up into that sprinkler with my fingers. I try to find a button or something to stop it... like it's a fire detector or something. At this point the water is flowing inside and beginning to fill up Annie's bedroom. I plead with the sprinkler to stop with the fucking water. If I wasn't me I would have cried. Finally I say fuck it. I'm beat. I towel myself off again and call 911. Hello? Yeah I kinda made a little mistake here and need a little help... Fucking SOS! I'm Drowning over here!
I call Annie. She's pretty calm, but then again she doesn't see me standing in the middle of her bedroom with water up to my ankles. She gives me the big Asians number. Fuck. I really don't want to talk to this big Asian broad. I call her, and as I'm telling her that her apartment's under water, I hear the sirens. She tells me she's on her way and hangs up the phone. I wade downstairs and open the door for these assholes. At this point water is rolling down from the ceiling and the water level is beginning to climb. I feel like actually have a pretty good grasp of the situation and think that the only way to save us all is to find the fail-safe switch in the apartment complex. I mean there's got to be a fucking fail-safe doesn't there? Anyway, the lead fireguy leads a small crew upstairs to the water park. The bastard is carrying a piece a wood in his right hand. Isn't there a fail-safe man? He tells me a couple of his guys are trying to locate it as we speak. When we get upstairs, this guy, all done up like Baldwin in Backdraft, goes out onto the balcony with this piece of wood and tries to stop this shit. He's out there for about five minutes getting blasted, having no success. Finally, he taps out and hands the piece of wood to one of his guys. His guy's out there for less than a minute before he runs back inside. I try to be a hero and ask them to give me the fucking piece of wood so I can have a go at it, but they don't even acknowledge me. Then, the lead bastard gets on the walkie talkie and says something in fireman code I guess, since I couldn't understand a word of it. A couple minutes later this guy comes up the stairs wearing an all black fire suit with a pair of black ski goggles on. The lead bastard hands him the piece of wood. This fire sniper guy walks out onto the patio and within thirty seconds he stops the flood with that fucking piece of wood. He immediately leaves the room, never to be seen again.
It turns out the sprinkler system is so old that there's no fail-safe, at least not one that works. The fireman had to turn off the water supply for the entire street (or something like that...no idea how that works.) My goal at this point is to get the hell away from that apartment complex as soon as possible without having to talk to Lisa. But the only entrance is through this courtyard on the side of the building, and there's no away around that big Asian. As I walk by, her whole body shifts, almost jumps around and she squares right up, seemingly ready to come at me like she's Bruce Lee. Fuck I hope she doesn't know karate. I'm speechless. I feel like if I try to speak she'll smack me in the face. So I just shrug my shoulders, turn, and walk out just like I would if I was stealing a coffee from Whole Foods.
Annie oh Annie. It's amazing she didn't dump me right then and there. She's either a saint, or just really desperate for a boyfriend. At this point it could go either way I think. A couple weeks earlier, I spilled a tall glass of water on her laptop while she was at work. The thing went to sleep. I called my friend T. (because I'm an idiot who knows nothing and couldn't fix anything if I did), who tells me, god love her, to get a blow dryer and blow dry the fucker. So I take her advice, and after a couple minutes of waving this thing on top of the laptop, I notice the S key is melting. I call the Apple store. They tell me it'll probably cost around $800 to repair. I laugh for a few minutes then crawl under the covers. When Annie gets home I show her the laptop and she says, "well it was getting old and I'm going to need a new one for law school anyway." As she did then, she does now with this flood. "Accidents happen," she says. "Seems like it was the buildings fault. I think Lisa has a pretty good insurance plan." I get off with a $1000 deductible - which Annie pays and which I've yet to pay her back for -- and banishment from the apartment during daytime hours. Not such a bad deal considering.
Loitering and more Asians...
So this is my life. I get woken up at 7:30 every morning hating it. I want to throw Annie out the window for hitting snooze 80 times, but I feel so terrible about the flood I deal with it... all the while silently hating Annie for being selfish and thoughtless, when in reality she's really great and most likely the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Annie drops me off at this coffee shop on Colorado Blvd., the main strip in Pasadena. The coffee shop's centrally located. I can walk to a nice independent bookstore and my favorite independent movie theater in town. Most importantly, when the time comes, I can saunter over to Barney's Beanery.
The coffee shop is owned by a nice little Asian family. There's the Mother, Son, and Daughter that are there all day long. The Father dips in every now and then, but never for long. I like to imagine he's off playing Mah Jongg all day, while his family slaves to support his gambling habit. Seems plausible.
I'm always the first one here... always. I set up shop on the same table every day. This is my desk and this coffee shop is my office. If I come in at some other time of the day and someone is sitting at my table, I politely ask them if they can find another desk and tell them that I have a severe case of OCD and if I can't sit at my desk I may get extremely agitated. This always works... always.
When I walk in the door, the whole family smiles and says "good morning". I do the same. I love this little family. The Mother has that classic, all-around game that all great mothers possess. She seems loving and nurturing enough, but it's also clear that she's dealing with a couple teenage kids (the daughter is 19 and the son is 16) all day long and that they know better than to fuck with her. She doesn't seem to have much of a problem with them though. They both are good kids. The son seems solid. He works hard and isn't at all the angsty type. But he does spend all day playing video games with his headphones in his ear, and if his mother catches him neglecting a customer, he gets slapped in the head. Other than that he seems to get by fine.
The daughter is kinda amazing... and cute as hell. She's always in a good mood, she's clearly intelligent, and most importantly, she gets my jokes. Everyday I think about asking her if she'd like to get a drink after work. She's only nineteen I know, but I'm sure I could sneak her into Barney's. I think she'd go for it, but there's that slight chance she wouldn't, and I don't want to risk getting kicked out of my office. I've tried all the other coffee shops in town and I just don't feel comfortable in any of them. Besides, even though Annie and I just started dating, and I don't see any problem with exploring other options, throwing a sly seduction on top of the laptop and flood would most likely make for a guilt sandwich I wouldn't be able to get down. But like I said I don't want to get kicked out of my fucking office.
I get my coffee and muffin and pay my rent for the day: I usually throw 10 bucks or so in the tip jar, depending on how I'm doing with the games. Now I'm ready to set up shop and get to it. My job these days is to set up a few phony gambling accounts a day and try to run them up playing poker and betting these games. This is a full-time job with lots of overtime involved. Honestly, it's like working in a sweatshop in Cambodia.
So there's another company out of Canada called EwalletXpress. They're an Ewallet company that acts acts as a third party and processes transactions between the gambling site and the gambler. EwalletXpress is part of the Kahnawake Gambling Commission, which hosts a variety of poker, sportsbook, and ewallet companies on it's server up there in Canuckville (It will later turn out, as I expected at the time, that most of the the operating poker rooms, such as Absolute Poker and Full Tilt Poker were corrupt - Absolute Poker colluded and cheated players out of close to $10 million, while Full Tilt Poker was a Ponzi Scheme whose owners netted over $444 Million, including a bunch of those assholes on T.V.) I know what the deal is so I don't find anything wrong with stealing from these scumbags.
This is how it works.....
NOTE: This breakdown can be skipped, as the bottom line is I figured out a way to deposit funds, that did not exist, into various online gambling sites. I then found a way to convert those funds into real cash in my pocket and the pockets of a few partners.
To open the accounts I need two things...
1. I need a checking account that I can receive two small verification deposits into and be able to find out what those amounts are. 2. I need a different phone number each time to register the accounts with (I'll discover later on that there was another way to do this without running all over Pasadena.)
The checking accounts I get from a pre-paid debit card company, that I'll refer to as CHECKME to protect anonymity. I'm able to open four of these at a time with my identity. As soon as I open an account I receive a checking account #. Now it's time to open the EwalletXpress accts. I register an account online and make up a phony name (Harry Potter, Sam Malone, Tony Soprano... names like this) and use a phone number of a nearby business where it'd be possible to use their phone. For example today, for the first account, I'm going to use this bookstore across the street: I scoped the place out and a young girl is working who should give me no trouble. I look up a phone number, then register the acct. and get an eight digit verification code to enter in when I call. I have ten minutes to do this or the account is erased. I run across the street and after picking up a book or two, I pull out my cell and act like I'm checking my voicemail. Then I go up to the girl and ask if she could be so kind as to let me use the phone for a second. I tell her my cellphone died and I'm expecting an important call and need to check my messages: This really isn't necessary... she doesn't give a shit. So I call EwalletXpress and get an automated system instructing me to enter in my verification code. I enter in the 8 digit number and if it's correct I hear a "goodbye". That means my registration is successful. Now I just have to wait two days for the two verification deposits to show up in my CHECKME account. The genius thing about this is that they tell me of any activity in my account, whether or not I received my card and activated it. For example, a couple of days later, some lady in India tells me there are two deposits, one for say $.23 and one for $.78. I log on to my EwalletXpress account and enter in these verification amounts. Done. Now I can write an echeck for $750 and deposit it into one of these gambling sites such as Absolute Poker and Full Tilt Poker. Another beautiful thing is that I can immediately cancel the CHECKME account and apply for a new one in 24 hours. So I can do four CHECKME accounts a few times a week... say 12 accounts... $9K a week. The problem is finding the damn phones to use. It's all about the damn phones.
A Quick Interlude
This goes on in one form or another for close to two years. Throughout these two years I discover methods to make it easier, while my rivals find ways to make it more difficult for me. I end up bringing a few friends on board and we create an intricate network operating all over the continental United States. We end up working this thing for all it's worth before it eventually dies. I spend most my time trying to figure out how to get money into the accounts and how to get money out of them. It gets more and more complicated, but I'm always able to figure something out. It becomes my all consuming obsession. I'm like that guy in a Beautiful Mind with this shit. I guess I'll get more into it along the way but for now let's get back to Pasadena and Annie...and yours truly, running around all over Los Angeles trying to get myself out of this mess I made with Big Yates.
Part 2...
I'm in the middle of Colorado Avenue dropping bombs. Give me a dime on Phoenix... a dime on Detroit... and in college hoops give me a dime on Texas... and parlay all three for three hundred... yeah that's it.... readback...
The other day a got a phone call from a friend, and when it was over, I had an account with a 10k limit to bet the games. A stroke of genius luck. Like I said, just when it seems like I've got no more outs, I find a way to get things going again. 10k that I can take a shot at this guy with and try to win enough to pay of BOOKIE and get that bastard out of my life... and Big Yates with him.
Annie is inside Barney's eating a chicken sandwich. Just plain chicken... no condiments. She has no use for them. The girl is really amazing. She'll eat anything, anywhere. I myself find Barney's disgusting, and only eat there when I'm watching the games and can't leave the place. Annie actually suggested we eat there. If you missed it in week 6: Annie's the Honey Badger of dining... She doesn't give a shit.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's time to turn back the clock a bit. This Annie deal needs to be given a little context. Let's take it back to somewhere near the beginning. Yeah somewhere near The Well, the place where it all started.
Somewhere Near The Well - Late 2006...
Walking down Sunset Blvd., a little past midnight, I'm thinking to myself that I may be approaching the low point of my existence here on planet earth. I walk by this bar, The Well, and turn to my left to take a look at another handful of the terrible people here in Los Angeles that have nearly emptied my soul. In the middle of these vampires I see a girl who's no so bad looking....
