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....
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 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 fucks I see a girl who's no so bad looking....
Tall, pale... really fucking pale. She's talking to some kid half her height. All these kids seem to be half her height. I feel like I'm in Ireland. Fucking small people everywhere.
This is where I bring in the Mavman. The Mavman is a jew cowboy from Dallas. He's been a first hand witness to all this bullshit more than any other of my friends that have survived. I'll tell you more about Mav in a bit.
Mav and I creep around in the crowd for a bit. We usually park our car in the parking lot across the street from The Well, so if we hit up other bars in the area, and fail, we always have The Well to take one last shot at finding something worth trying to fuck. Mav always takes the lead. I'm too depressed to initiate conversation with anyone. Mav is genius with broads. He uses that NLP shit. It helps that he's a good looking guy with floppy black hair and built like a spokesman for soloflex. But it's the NLP shit that puts him over the top.
Weak crowd of broads tonight. Mav isn't able to put anything together. I head inside for a few minutes to see if this redheaded bartender is working tonight. I love redheads. The fucking best. There she is. Beautiful pale skin, flaming red hair, fucking bottle opener slid into a black elastic garter on her right thigh. Holy shit. Last week we shared a moment. I played some old school Modest Mouse on the jukebox, fucking Trailor Trash. I started groovin to it a bit and I look behind the bar and there she is groovin with me. She looked right into my eyes as she ripped a little lyric. That moment. Stop right there. Freeze it. That's it. That's what I've been waiting for my whole fucking life. The most important moment of my life and I'm too miserable to talk to her. So I do nothing. I do nothing but smile like a clutz and act like a creep. Fuck. I do have a plan. The plan is to get some fucking meds. Whatever it takes. Celexa, lexapro, efexor, wellbutrin, lamictal, fucking lithium --fucking whatever! I'll wait til something sticks then come back here and lock this down. I will not lose this woman. She is my destiny.
A note on regret...
To this day the redhead, Nikki, remains one of the greatest regrets of my life. I try to find her online at least once a month. I type in the most ridiculous shit into the google. That moment... that moment we shared listening to Trailor Trash... that moment was... nice. I mean how can I explain this it's... it's never been like that with any other woman. Not even close. As many broads as I've fucked, never. And I know I probably shouldn't be telling any of you guys this but fuck I've never known anything like it... ever. To this day, and I feel I'm right about this, I believe that Nikki felt something special had happened as well.
I left L.A. without ever talking to Nikki. I never could win enough extra cash to see a shrink and get on anti-depressants. My mental state just continued to deteriorate until I left. But to this day I think about Nikki, the redhead bartender with the fucking bottle opener slid into that elastic garter. To this day... I know something special happened.
Annie wants my number...
I walk outside, sick, a fucking pussy once again. Mav grabs me and leads me back to the Infiniti. As we're approaching the Infiniti a car pulls up next to us. The driver says to Mav, "Hey! My friend wants your friend's number."
I'm on the other side of the car, right next to the passengers seat. The window's rolled down and sitting in the passenger seat is the fucking tall, pale broad. "Hi I'm Annie," she says. "Like the orphan." I have no idea what to do in this situation. I can't speak, so I just nod my head. "Do you want my number?", she says, excited and nervous, in a very strange way, just looking straightforward as if she's talking to the glove compartment. Do I want your number? Am I looking that good tonight? How the hell did you spot me in the first place? It must be the sportcoat. That's got to be it. The fucking sportscoat.
The fucking sportscoat...
I'll continue to wear this sportcoat just about every night I'm out searching for tail for the next year. I don't find out the real deal until over a year later. The reason this broad wanted my number was because her friend, who was driving, thought I was the little guy who'd been chatting her up while they waited for the car, which was valeted. Annie is such a weirdo she didn't put it together until months later. She did think I was a bit taller upon our first meeting than the little guy, but just rolled with it. If I ever find this little shit who was chatting her up he's dead. The guy's singlehandedly destroyed my existence.
First encounter cont'd...
Finally gathering up the strength to speak to a broad I respond, "Why not...give it to me," even though this broad seems like a fucking freak show. I do the thing and take down her number and call her. "Ok. Are you going to call me or should I call you?" she says, still looking straight ahead at the glove compartment. "Yeah," I mutter. She laughs. "Ok." And they drive off. There's no way I'm calling this broad and broads don't call men. They just don't so that's that. Like I said -- Dark times upstairs... DARK. I have the self-esteem of Christopher Reeve after he fell off that horse. Besides, I really just don't give a shit about anything in this world but Nikki. Annie could be fucking Giselle and I'd blow her off.
A week later the fucking Orphan calls me. What the bloody hell. It's a Sunday afternoon. Mav and I are at Barney's Beanery in Hollywood watching the games. She asks me if I'd like to meet up with her later. It's around 4pm and Mav and I have been drinking pitchers of Bud since 10am (you've gotta get up early to watch these fucking games out here... it sucks.) "Sure," I say, knowing that I'll be rolling into this thing annihilated and extremely sad.
At this point I'm just hoping to scare the shit out of this broad so I don't end up getting involved with something evil. I'm very vulnerable right now and a lock for a Faustian bargain. I tell her to call me when she's leaving work and I'll tell her where to meet me. She agrees and I pour myself another glass of Budweiser.
I get a text ten minutes later. 'El carmen at 10???' I ask Mav if he knows anything about El Carmen. The Mav knows every bar in L.A. I text Annie and tell her I'll be there. Twenty seconds later... 'kkkkkkk.' What the fuck? Who is this crazy broad? I just started texting yesterday as it is, which makes this girl seem even more insane.
My own death v. your own life: A First Date...
This is where it begins. This is where the baton is officially, unknowingly passed and my life is taken from me. The courtship, the manipulation begins. I'm powerless. My ego has completely dissolved at this point of my life. I'm a blank canvas for Annie to paint with any style or color she chooses. A blank canvas to piss and shit on. And boy does she paint, piss, and shit. She sniffed this out from the very beginning. This is why I'm the chosen one. It reminds me of that Neil Labute film,"The Shape of Things," where that girl makes Paul Rudd her art project and transforms him from the nerdy shithead that he is into the boyfriend that she wants him to be. Paul Rudd is her sculpture. I'm fucking Paul Rudd in that film. I'm Annie's sculpture! Only this is not Annie's Thesis. This is real fucking life! Jai Ya!
The late games are finished. I'm cleaned out. Mav and I push off for El Carmen. Never once has Mav refused a drink because he was driving. If anything it helps. He's a bit ADD so it's better for him to drive with a bit of concern. It keeps him focused. He does like to look straight at me sometimes when he's talking, which makes me a bit nervous when we're pushing 80mph, but it hasn't been a problem up to this point. And we did get pulled over on the way to Commerce Casino a couple months ago, and Mav went to jail for about 18 hours or so, and I had to take a cab home, but Mav's a lawyer so he handled that shit. Like I said... no problems.
We get to El Carmen. El Carmen is a Mexican bar. They've got all kinds of tequila behind the bar and Mexican wrestlers wearing masks on every wall in the joint. Mav and I order a couple Cadillac margaritas, fucking Patron, and get to it. It's 9pm, so I've got an hour to get a nice buzz on for this broad. After 20 or so glasses of Budweiser I feel completely sober.
Mav immediately goes right to work on few broads to our left. He's already touching shoulders, talking real slow, and making some clicking noise in the back of his throat. They're all hanging on his every word. I'm telling you the guy's the best. The fucking best. There's a short blonde who's kinda cute. A tall, thin brunette that's alright looking, about a 6. And a big broad. I'm forced into the conversation, and after a few minutes Mav is touching me on the shoulder and I can't keep my eyes off him. We have a safe word for these situations, so when Mav says "Jason Terry," the spell is broken. Mav uses the safe word and I immediately return to my aloof, indifferent self. The little blond seems to a be all about it. Maybe she knows the safe word too? After a half an hour of awful conversation with this blonde, it's quite clear that it's on. I start trying to figure out a way to get her out to the Mav-mobile and and throw her a bang. I could probably take care of things before Annie gets here. The fucking problem is this girl would probably get a bit upset if I fuck her and then she sees that I had a date with someone else all along. I figure when I walk away from her the moment Annie walks through the door she might cause a scene. So I scratch that idea. I guess I could blow Annie off. She seems completely bananas anyway, and this blonde is ready to roll. Shit I can't make the call.
Then I get a text from Annie. 'I'm my way!!!' I text her back and tell her I'm here. Twenty seconds later... 'kkk...order me a Red Bull!!!' Red Bull? So that's it. I'm locked in. She's made the decision for me. Thank God. Now I can relax.
I knock back a couple shots of Patron with the crew and order another Cadillac. I think I'm ready. I'm talking to the Blonde and turning around every 30 seconds to check the door. Finally, there she is. We make contact and she gives me a goofy wave. I turn away from the blonde mid-conversation and greet Annie. She's still tall. Real fucking tall. Six foot I figure with the heels. I'm six three so it's no problem. She's wearing a purple dress. (Later on she'll have no recollection of a purple dress, just as she had no recollection of what the mini who was chatting her up outside The Well looked like. This lack of memory will continue to be quite prevalent in our relationship.) She's kinda gorgeous I think -- but I could be wrong. Who the hell knows these days.
We sit down at the bar. I order her a Red Bull and another Cadillac for myself. She tells me she's exhausted and that she's been working all day and that she works for a newspaper in Pasadena. She has a real job. This girl's way out of my league. Beautiful. This shit is over as soon as I walk out that door. No evil.
We talk and talk. The conversation is actually moving pretty good. I mean I'm actually talking. The tequila has done it's job and I'm manic as hell at this point. She's hangin right with me and seems to be as manic as I am and she's sober. This broad is crazy time.
We share a lot of interests it seems. Most importantly Death Cab for Cutie. We both fucking love the Death Cab. Once I went on a 12k run playing 30/60 limit listening to The Photo Album. Shit I listened to the fuck out of that album. I don't tell her that.
Mav and the broads take off. On the way out I introduce Mav to Annie. He's can't so much as speak, but he's ready to drive. Annie is quite disturbed by this. I assure her he'll be Ok.... "don't worry... Mav's the best. The fucking best," I tell her.
We continue yakking away, like we just killed an 8-ball together in the Mav-mobile. Finally, she says she has to get home so we stumble out of the joint together (she's sober mind you and I swear she's stumbling.) Reality sets in with the streetlights and I realize I'm lost. It's at least a $50 cab ride to get home. I've got $12 in my pocket.
"Where are you going?" "Oh, nowhere." "You don't have a car do you?" "I do not." "Ok Ok come on. I'll give you ride. Where are you going?",
laughing, seemingly already aware that I'm not really a human being.
"I'm not quite sure. Somewhere in the Hollywood Hills. Once we get over to Franklin I'll be able to figure it out." "Ok Ok," still laughing like a dork.
She throws in Death Cab and we head to the Hills. I get us lost of course, and what should have been a 30 minute ride, turns into an hour. She seems to find this hilarious but. We pull up to the house. I'm staying in the guest room, which happens to be in the pool house of my friends five million dollar house overlooking all of Los Angeles. This place is an ass-machine. It hasn't failed me yet. And even though I think this broad is kinda alright, my sole focus at this point is to try to bang her.
A brief history of the ass-machine in bullet points...
My friend, The Director, invited me to come out and stay in the ass-machine back in April. We went to college together and did some film and theater shit together while we were there. He ended up making it big while I ended up, well, here.
My second night staying in the ass-machine I banged this broad that was bartending the pool party The Director through that day.
I did nothing during the day but layout by the pool, laps, npr, porn, bukowski, online poker, basketball, drink the booze left over from the party, rip American Spirits, and eat turkey subs from the deli down the street.
I met Mav at Barney's during a Dallas game. I had my balls on Dallas and it was quite obvious. Mav approached me because he thought I was a Dallas fan. It's been on from there.
All summer long I'd go out with Mav every night. He'd NLP broads... and we'd bring them up to the ass-machine.
After a couple months we finally pulled our first DT together up in the ass-machine. Her name was Marie. Marie would only let me fuck her. She would just blow Mav. Believe me I did everything I could do to get Mav's dick in her. The best thing about Marie was her cellphone message. It was the Michigan Fight Song. Til this day, I get excited whenever I hear it.
Without Mav's Infiniti I would have rarely left the ass-machine. It was really my only connection to the outside world.
To relax I liked to play boche on the nice strip of grass outside the ass-machine.
But what I remember most about the ass-machine (and it is my fondest memory) you'll find by cutting and pasting this link into your browser..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlS3twJWYSc&feature=related
Now Annie...
She asks me if I live here. I'm so tempted to say yes, which I've pulled off before, but figure the pool house should be good enough to get the job done, as it always is. So I ask her if she wants to come up and see the place. She says she "doesn't think so," and tells me she should get home. She has to get up early she says. I tell her there's a fucking olympic size pool in the backyard overlooking the city. "Not tonight... another time," she says. I'm very confused. This girl really doesn't give a shit. Is my ass machine really going to fail me?
"Ok you're sure now?... Listen I'm going to give you one more chance here. Now this is it. This is your last chance to hook-up with me. Whatcha think?" "Hahaha...Yeah I don't do this." She apparently either thinks I'm joking or she's simply not a whore.
I surrender. "Ok"... and I lean in for a kiss. The broad turns her head. I get the cheek. The fucking cheek. What the fuck? I thought I destroyed her tonight. I was manic as hell, I threw the Death Cab at her, I live in this ass-machine that I've described in detail to her -- What else could this broad ask for? (I later find out that I almost fell asleep in her car and smelled like petrol, which was enough for her to pass on the kiss and the ass-machine.)
"Ok then," I say. I open the door, slap my thighs, and get out of the car. "How the hell do I get out of here?" "Just follow this fucking road all the way down and you'll be good." "Ok... goodnight." "Alright Later then."
And off she goes... I'm at a loss. That's a first for me. Not even a goddamn kiss. Well that's it then. I must have scared the shit of her. No evil. Beautiful.
A week later I'm forced to leave my pool house. My friend, The Director, is returning from Pittsburgh where he's been shooting a film. He's going to turn my ass-machine into an editing room. I have conflicting emotions about the situation. I know that while there's really nowhere else to go but up from here, as far as life's likability is concerned, I also know that my life will never be any cooler than it is right now. But hey fuck it. I don't really like to swim anyway.
I call the Mavman to come get me the fuck out of here. I failed to mention there is a bi-polar, bald, British dude here I've had to tolerate while The Director's been in Pittsburgh. I say British because he claims he's from the UK, but was raised in Brooklyn. Here's a few things you should know about this asshole.
A few things you should know about this bi-polar, bald, British fuck...
1) He dated the black Spice Girl for a bit. She was a rebound. 2) The girl he was rebounding from crushed him. She dumped him because he's a bi-polar, bald, British fuck. They would often get in fights in public. He would act like a little baby boy. She would call him a bitch and man child. This has been confirmed by many. 3) He thinks he's a great musician who's on the brink of fame. He's not. His music is maudlin and trite. It sucks. 4) He's into the male empowerment movement. He goes to meetings, reads Iron John, and watches the Tom Cruise scenes from Magnolia everyday. 5) His favorite song at the moment is Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. 6) He's a sociopath. It pains me to say this, since I've always thought sociopath's were super cool. From what I know, and what I've pulled from Wikipedia, here are a few characteristics of a sociopath. a) Glibness and superficial charm... This guy is a cross between Guy Ritchie and Charles Manson. He has a harem of weak and vulnerable actors who have no fucking idea who they are. They do whatever The British tells them to do. He speaks fluidly, spitting out bullshit, oscillating between both British and Brooklyn accents (sometimes in the same sentence.) b) Manipulation and Conning... The guy is house sitting in The Director's five million dollar home... end of story. c) Pathological lying... He told me once he just got back from the Barber Shop. d) Shallowness, Callowness, Lack of Empathy... It's like anything else. The guy is a little bitch. Always whining about himself, and all his pain, and expressing all this pussy emotion that poses as depth and sincerity when in reality it's fucking heartless. The guy's a fraud and I want to punch him in the face. e) Parasitic Lifestyle... The guy lives all up in this shit and doesn't work. He does nothing. I've never seen him take out or pick up the fucking garbage. I do that shit. He VJ's once a week. He makes a $100 maybe? I mean yes I'm freeloading up here myself, but at least I try to make money and consider what I do a job. I mean I put in at least 40 hours of online poker a week... Fuck.
So as you can see I hate this fucking guy. I would have already murdered him, but I didn't want to give up my pool house. I came close once, but my attempt was thwarted. It went like this...
I threw a party, a fucking big one, and I made sure The British was cool with it before I put it together. So the party goes off. We have a DJ in the pool house, everyone's drunk and doing drugs, broads are naked in the pool, titties all over the estate... shit like this. Toward the end of this party, The British shows up ranting and raving about how I didn't have the authority to throw a party and that it wasn't my house and that he was going to have me arrested for trespassing...shit like this. Fucking clown. I had a bottle of tequila and a couple grams of cocaine in me at this point, so naturally I went nuts, and had to be restrained from attacking him with a pool skimmer. After things calmed down a bit, and The British realized how much ass I had at this thing, he relaxed and jumped in the pool. He tried to be cool with me again, and I played along, continuing to drink Cadillac's, snort cocaine, and plot this guys murder. The party finally came to an end. Pretty much everyone left and The British went to sleep. I sat with the Mavman and a couple broads in the ass-machine, continuing to do bad things and talk about stabbing this guy in his sleep. I swear I was going to do it. I wasn't just fucking around when I picked up a knife at 6am and started walking toward the main house. I'm telling you if the Mavman wasn't there to tackle me to the ground, I'd either be in jail or in Berlin right now. Goddamnit I should have stabbed that prick. Second biggest regret of my life.
Do you think I'm fucking with you reader? This happened. I'm telling you this is my life!
And Now Ladies and Gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you The British...
Right now The British is running around slamming shit all over the place, trying to clear out the pool house and get it ready for editing. He's telling me to hurry the fuck up and get my shit out of the poolhouse. He's using this tone with me because he has a 300 pound homeless black guy, prone to anxiety attacks and shadowing, sleeping on his couch. The homeless guy came up for that party I threw and hasn't left. The British figured he could use a big body up here to keep the peace and help him out with his operation. Anyway, I just got back from the Commerce Casino and haven't slept a wink so I just want to get my shit together and find somewhere to sleep.
I end up going straight to a bar and am forced to drink straight through the day and into the evening. Mav's got nowhere to put me up. His roommate is a puss and doesn't want anyone staying in the apartment. So I have to sleep in the Mav-mobile. The fucking Mav-mobile. Awesome car. Shitty bed. Every night I'm forced to go out with Mav and get as wasted as possible to prepare for a nights sleep in that fucker. After a few nights of this shit I book a flight to Miami. This Venezuelan friend of mine is living there and says he can get me a job bartending as soon as I land and has an apartment that we can both move into the week I arrive. My plane ticket cleans me out so I borrow $700 from the Mavman for expenses. Miami baby.
I have a layover in Washington. I get off the plane and head straight to the bathroom. I drank screwdrivers with this stripper on the plane and am trying to get away from her. As I'm walking into the bathroom I get a text. It's Annie. 'What are you up to? Why haven't you called me???' What the hell. I never thought I'd hear from this broad again. I think for a second. At this point I'm sitting in a stall, planning on waiting 15 minutes or so before I go back out there. I'm on the fence about texting her back now, or waiting, or not texting her back, or texting her and telling her to move on and leave me alone. After a little contemplation I figure fuck it and send her a text. 'I'm sitting on a toilet in Chicago O' Hare reading the Economist (I figure if I'm going to play this game I might as well try to sound as smart as possible) and trying to avoid another encounter with this stripper I got drunk with on the flight here.' 20 seconds later... 'The economist and drunk strippers. A true renaissance man you are!'
There is no job. There is no apartment. There is only the Venezuelan and bags and bags of cocaine. Hugo is this guy's name. He's the closest thing to the Devil that I've found on Planet Earth.
Hugo speaks in a deep spanish accent. I understand half of what he says. I've known him for ten years and his English is the same, if not worse. He's talking to me about the situation. The situation is this. He is living with his family--mother, brother, sister, and a two year old niece in his mother's one bedroom apartment. He has no job, but is waiting for a new bar to open, which should be in a couple weeks. He tells me I'm welcome to sleep at his place on his mother's floor. I tell him to take me to a hotel on the beach and to find me a fucking sandwich.
The following CD can be used as accompaniment to the rest of the blog...
We find a hotel-- some dump nowhere near the beach. The room is $500 for three nights including deposit. When I ask Hugo if he can chip in at all he pulls a crinkled $10 bill out of his pocket and says, "Mike Mike iz ok... I makes sum moonie diz wecan an u get jobs nixt weeks." This fuck. So I have to throw down the entire $500. After the screwdrivers, transportation from the airport, and a sandwich, I barely have $100 left in my pocket. I'm fucked. Fuck Hugo. Fuck his family and their floor.
Hugo is talking and talking. He talks like a poet-philospher conman. He's a combination of a coked up Borges and Bernie Madoff. I understand every third word. It's almost unbearable. If I didn't have severe ADD there's no way I could be his friend. He is talking about the jobs we're going to get and the two bedroom apartment that he already has on lockdown that's beautiful and in the perfect location. He's talking about all his IDEAS and all the connections he has to make his IDEAS happen. He's promising me lots of money and lots of fucking ass. With the depression and the $100 in my pocket I almost believe him. Fucking Ponzi schemes. This fuck. How do I get him to shut the fuck up?
Five hours later Hugo (he went home for lunch-- sandwiches hand made by Mom) shows up with a backpack full of his shit. He's gonna stay with me then kick me some cash next week. He promises this. I make it very clear to him that I'm going to be broke by Monday and that this has to happen. "Mike, Mike no worry iz Ok," this fuck says. It's Ok? It's Ok?God I hate this fucking guy.
I call The Mayor. The Mayor is my old man. He was the mayor of the town I grew up in pretty much throughout my entire childhood and teenage years. What a pain in the ass that was. It's taken me ten years of therapy to forgive him. The Mayor asks me what the hell I'm doing in Miami-- I never tell my family what I'm doing until after I've done it. I feed him all the bullshit Hugo's fed me and ask him if I can borrow a few hundred dollars. I tell him I'll pay him back once I get back on my feet-- which will happen because I'm all fucking set up over here! He's on board and I go find a western union to pick up the cash. The fucking Mayor. The best.
I get the cash and send $200 to Costa Rica. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I have no job and doubt I will anytime soon. I'll be out on the fucking street on Monday--or worse--on Hugo's floor with the rest of the Venezuelan's. I have to run this up to at least a thousand to get through next week. I have to make this Miami bullshit happen. If I don't I really don't know what my next move could be. My only other option at this point looks like an institution of some sorts--or worse--my parents davenport. Fucking Ponzi schemes.
Hugo actually has a shitty bartending job, so I'm rid of him for the evening. I pick up the paper (those days I still got my lines from the fucking Post... no internet bullshit) and get to handicapping the Friday card in the NBA. It's early in the season so I don't really know what the hell's going on. My boy Max (my Italian friend in New York who is my NBA and horse racing kindred) loves Toronto this year because they have Andrea Bargnani, a 7 foot power forward from Rome who bombs three's. He's got game similar to Dirk Nowinski, who's quite simply, the best. Max thinks the team is gonna put up 60 in the first half tonight against the Nets. I decide to put the $200 on the first half over. Fuck it. If it loses I'll go deposit another $100 and spend the entire weekend in the hotel room.
Bang. The over hits. I double up. Now I'm fucking dangerous. Let's go. No more bullshit. Bet smart all weekend and on Monday I get out of this shit hole and get a suite on the beach with a balcony. A fucking balcony baby! And fuck Hugo. I'll tell him I'm leaving town.
I end up running the account up to $600. It's 11pm and I've been drinking the cheap rum I picked up on the way back from the western union. I'm in fucking Miami! I've to go make this night happen. I've dreamt about bangin broads from this town ever since my first nut. I put on a black linen shirt and my flip flops. Let's go get em! I walk two miles down to the beach and kick of my flops and stick my feet in the sand. I light up a fucking cigarette and look at the stars for a bit. The stars, the ocean air, the rolling waves... I've got a nice fucking buzz on.
Where am I going to start my mission to bang a broad? Hotel? Hotel bar? The fucking Delano! That's where I'll fire this up. The fucking Delano. I walk down Ocean Drive toward the Delano Hotel. Halfway there it hits me. I'm broke. The hundred or so I have in my pocket might get me two drinks. Fuck me. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I had such promise. I was a quarterback for christsake. What the hell happened? I turn around and head back toward my hotel. I realize I have only one place to go unless I want to spend the rest of my night in my shitty hotel room.
Eternal Return far from Caracas...
I arrive at Hugo's bar. What bullshit. Stark, empty, awful... I can smell the sulfur as soon as I walk in the door. There is one person in the bar. He turns out to be Hugo's older brother and coke dealer. "Mike Mike! Comes here I wants to introdoos u to sombady." The excitement I was carrying within me on my way to the Delano has been replaced by a pit of nausea that will settle in my soul and remain there for my entire stay here in this evil place.
"Hugo" I say. I have act really excited to see this guy all the time so as not to fall to the ground in agony. He introduces me to his brother, Olivier. Olivier is older... older and darker. Smells more of sulfur than Hugo. Olivier's been in the shit apparently. From what I can understand from Hugo, Olivier's kind of a Henry Hill type figure. He just got out of the cling a couple months ago after taking the fall for some cartel shit. This fall has made him the fuckin man. But all that cartel shit is behind him, Hugo assures me, and he's in a much better place now.
"Ju wan to jwink someting?", the fuck says. I tell him to pull me a Stella. I sit down with Olivier and proceed to have the same awkward, incomprehensible conversation that I end up having with everyone I meet in this town. Thank Christ he leaves after he finishes his beer.
When Hugo gets done with work we bang back some key hits then head someplace to go "mee sum peepil". This is what we end up doing every night. We go from bar to bar to "mee sum peepil." It's at our first stop that I meet the broad that will possess me for the rest of my stay here in hell. Her name is Pilar... and she is fucking gorgeous. She's not Giselle, but she's pretty fucking close. She seems actually sweeter... nicer than Giselle... and I like that. Giselle can be kind of a bitch sometimes.
Pilar... Pilar. I like them cute and nice Pilar. She may be just what I had in mind back in the 4th grade when I got that first nut out. The problem with Pilar is she speaks very little English and is always with this musician dude she may or may not be fucking. How am I going to make contact? After racking my brain the best idea I can come up with is to buy a notepad and scribble in Spanish, "Are you fucking this loser? If not would you like to fuck me?" That's what I'll do. I'll go get a little moleskin and a pen tomorrow.
This is the business we have chosen...
We go from bar to bar while this asshole hustles for free drink and drugs and while I follow, consumed by anxiety and nausea, taking in whatever's put in front of me. The last stop of the night is always this bohemian cafe-- Cafe Nostalgia. It's located underneath an old abandoned hotel. It's owned by this "soopa bohemian guy" Pepe Horta. Pepe is this badass Cuban motherfucker who came over to the mainland in the early 90's, at least that's what I put together from the ten minute character study Hugo just gave me about the guy. There is a little stage at the end of a small rectangular room. The bar is on the opposite end the stage, with the middle being occupied by small circular tables with red candles. I spend half of my time in this room drinking and listening to this bullshit Cuban music by the house band-- Grupo Cafe Nostalgia. The lead guy is Rico-- the guy who is most likely fucking Pilar. The rest of my time is spent either in the hallway or bathroom snorting cocaine and waiting for Hugo or one of the bohemians to pass me the bag.
Fuck Hugo. Fuck Pepe. Fuck me. I spend half the night in this cafe trying to understand what the big deal is with this music (all I hear is "Fuck Castro" over and over again) and staring at Pilar trying to figure out how to fuck her without a moleskin.
We leave the cafe and go over to the Rico's. Fucking Rico. Fucking Charlie Mansons. He sits there holding court as he whiffs a line of cocaine off one of his CD's then wipes up the blow and rubs it all over some chica's teeth. Pilar is watching and she has perked up. Yes! This is it! Maybe I have a shot here. She's got to get sick of this asshole bangin other broads all the time.
Round and round in my head. Pilar... Hugo... Evil... Death. What am I doing here and how the hell do I get out? Talking talking is Hugo with his IDEAS-- "De philosophicical" "De Esthetica is dis" "We do sumtin in Noo Yoke then take it back here"... More Words-- "Poetik" "Ediology" "Meetephisical"... on and on. Fucking Rico is playing the guitar squinting and shaking dandruff of his head. There is Pilar, quiet, alone. She's like me. She has no idea what any of these people are talking about. I've noticed all along she's said little this whole evening. A deaf, mute Pilar. How wonderful that would it be! Fuck. My heart is pounding. Perfection. Pit of nausea. Fuck. I'm having a fucking heart attack!
I tell Hugo we have to go... STAT! He recognizes my situation. In times such as these Hugo always steps up. He actually doesn't want me to die-- which is not a bad trait in a friend.
We get back to the hotel room. Hugo wants to go back out to this bar around the corner that's open 24 hours. I give him the key and tell him not to bring back any whores. He eventually reconsiders and decides to go to fucking bed. I get in bed and lay there, heart pounding, for what seems like days. I wonder. I wonder. How did I get here? I try to retrace the steps. I find no path. There is no how or why. There is only this. There is only me scared for my life. There is only me and this profound discomfort. There is only me, in this hotel room, with fucking Hugo snoring and picking coke balls out of his nose in the bed next to me.
Pre-paid debit cards...
I have in my possession five or six pre-paid debit cards from companies such as Accountnow... Western Union... and Netspend. I opened all these accounts to have checking accounts to write echecks with to offshore, evil, sportsbooks and poker rooms. None of them are loaded, or even activated for that matter.
Eventually, after a bit over a week, Hugo and I run out of cash. I gave the hotel manager a debit card to hang onto and convinced him to let me stay an extra couple nights. After two nights I go downstairs in the morning and the guy tells me he tried to run my debit card and it was declined. I'm quite aware of this. I tell him it's not a problem and that I'll go get the cash and come back and pay him. He's slightly pissed and tells me he needs cash for the last two nights and then I have to go.
My plan is to come back and tell him I'm waiting for a wire, then sneak out of the joint. When I try this he tells me I can't leave the hotel unless he holds onto my luggage and if I do try to leave the hotel with my luggage he's calling the police. I head back up to my hotel room to contemplate.
Over the next few hours I go downstairs repeatedly to see if he's there. All this time he is calling the room breaking my balls. I finally realize that this bastard is not leaving the fucking lobby until he gets his money. I need a plan B.
I go downstairs and ask him if I can use the phone to call my friend who's bringing me the cash. I call Hugo. I tell him to come over here and I'll be waiting for him. I tell him when he walks in the door I'm going to run past him and when I do to grab my suitcase--which I tell him will be on the top of the staircase that I came from--and to get the hell out of there. We come up with a meeting point which is a bar on the beach 2 miles away. I figure the guy is either going to react by running after me or he'll get on the phone and call the cops, then go outside to wait. He laughs and says, "soopa Mike es crazy... ok... ok... i be there in 20 minotes."
So I wait fifteen then head down to the lobby. I leave my suitcase at the top of the staircase, walk down, and wait. I can see the door, but the bastard manager cannot see me. When Hugo walks in all smiles and says, "hey how u doin man?", I immediately start running and hang a hard left as soon as I get through the door. There's an alley that get's me off the street and out of sight. I head straight for the bar and don't look back. It turns out the guy's initial reaction was to come after me. I could hear him yelling fucking "policia!" but luckily I didn't see any fucking policia. Hugo walks upstairs, grabs my suitcase, and walks out of the hotel. Fucking Ghost Dog. He meets me fifteen minutes later and we head up to mom's to drop it off on her floor.
This is Saturday. We go out that night same as other nights and sure enough I end up sleeping on that fucking floor. After three hours tops I get up and tap Hugo on the shoulder. I'll see him later.
Debit cards cont...
It's Sunday and at this point I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with the next week of my life. I'd like to avoid the institution, or the davenport, but things just aren't looking good. I still have a hundred dollars in my sportsbook account so my only other option is to run it up to a thousand and get another hotel room for the week. Thank God for the NFL.
So I spend all day bar hopping. I hit the first bar at noon and give them my debit card. These bars always take these fucking things without asking for a licence. It's pretty genius. Now time for the fucking games. I get a burger and drink a half dozen pints of Stella while I watch myself win a few hundred on the early games. Then I walk out. I go to the second bar for the Four O' Clock games and do the same thing-- sans burger. I drink another half a dozen beers and when the games are over and my account is a bit over $500 walk out. I go to another bar for the night game and do the same thing-- fucking burger. Another half a dozen beers and when I've lost it all I walk out to go meet Hugo.
The davenport...
It's eight in the morning and I'm sitting in a recliner, alone, in some guy's house who I just met a few hours ago. He and Hugo just went out to the 24 hour bar to try to find some whores. I declined and told them I was going to sit this one out and get some sleep. I grab my phone and call my parents. "Hey Dad... can you a... drive to Miami and get me the hell out of here?"
Hugo comes back and I tell him the deal. We go back to his mother's and wait for my folks. They arrive and are happy to see me. I didn't tell them anything about anything. I just told them Miami wasn't for me.
We grab lunch and head back. I sleep the entire ride back. I dream. I plot. I plot while I dream. I see my next bet. I see $10,000 in my account. I see a fucking 2000sf loft in Brooklyn. I awake a few miles from home... a few miles from the green davenport. I check my phone and see I have a new message. It's from a girl I just met in Los Angeles. It's from Annie. She asks... How are you?
