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?
Back from my morning jog. It's a beautiful day here in New Orleans. Fucking beautiful. The girls are out in the park with their books and canvases. Fucking dogs. Babies. I'm jogging my ass off. Shirtless. Sweating bombs. I took an extra loop, two fucking miles, just to get another look at a few of these broads. They're always less attractive on the second loop. There are few exceptions, very few. One broad actually held up today. She made me stop and take a break. I sat my sweaty ass in a bench ten yards to her left. She was painting a landscape, some bullshit in the trees across the pond. Wavy hair. Beautiful, pale legs. I love the pale. Fuck it's good to see the broads back in shorts. This girl is down. I know it. Painter broads. Especially the landscapers. They paint all pretty shit but deep down they're dirty dirty. The only broads in this park right now that are more ready than her are the broads doing yoga over by the quarter mile mark. Yoga broads are most most down. Stretching, breathing, contorting. They're pretty much banging themselves. You catch them right after a class and it's over. Hang em' up on the wall. This painter with the landscapes. All I have to do is go sit down next to her. I know this. But I can't. I never can. I just can't bring myself to play the creep. I'm too much of a gentleman. But one of these days... One of these fucking days I'm going to go sit down next to one of these broads, breathing heavy, sweat dripping from my beard, and look them in their pretty little eyes and say... "What's up?"
Fucking coffee. I pop a Provigil and head to Whole Foods. After 2 years, yesterday I made the mistake of striking up a conversation with the Barista. For two years I say nothing but "yes" when they grab the 20oz cup and fill it up with medium roast. Yesterday I made the mistake of asking her if she liked her job. Does she like her job? Two years and that's all I can come up with? Fuck. Now she's gonna expect me to make small talk with her every day. This makes me very anxious. Fuck it. I'm not saying shit. If she tries to talk to me I'm switching to CC's--which will suck because then I'll have to pay for it. I got it! I'll be on my phone. I'll be on my phone for the next fucking month until she forgets we ever exchanged words. Genius. Free coffee again. All is well in the morning.
Shit. Ramble Ramble. So It's Championship Week in college hoops and The Madness has begun. Championship Week! This is where it begins. This is where you find teams with the heart and character that you can ride into the Tourney. This is where you find the "2003 Cuse" that rode the back of that silly little irishman Gerry Mcnamera during one of the greatest Big East Tourney performances of all time (at the time). This is where you find one of these bullshit Butler teams and see how "Good" they are and know... know that God is gonna let them cover at least a few games in the big dance. And this... this is where you find the greatest team in the history of basketball. This is where you find the "2011 UCONN HUSKIES"--who rode the back of "The Greatest" college basketball player of all time... "Kemba Fucking Walker"... and the sweet stroke of the "Iceman"... Jeremy Lamb... and the big bastards they had down low--all the way through the Big East Tourney and all the way through the Tourney field to the Championship Game where they took care of those nice little kids from Butler and were crowned National Champions. This was the greatest three weeks of my life at this point (soon to be surpassed by the NBA playoff run of my Dallas Mavericks). UCONN... oh sweet UCONN. The joy you gave me with those victories! With every win a beam of light pierced my soul and filled me with glory... filled me with belief... filled me with the confidence that I could do anything in this life, just as long as I Loved The Right Team! Sweet Revelation! All I have to do here in this world is find the right team and fall deeply in love with them and then I will know true happiness. True happiness and true wealth... spiritual wealth. I felt the power of Christ... of Siddhartha... Krishnamurti... all those fucking guys. With every UCONN win I moved closer and closer to my true self... to NIRVANA... to the absolute knowledge that Kemba Walker was indeed my God... that Kemba Walker was my savior... that it was Kemba Walker--not that fraud book "The Secret"--that made it fucking rain and rain and rain and gave me riches beyond my wildest dreams just as long as I let him into my life. And so it was. After the National Championship game--while I watched UCONN cut down the nets--I looked at my Crookmaker account and there it sat with $14,000. It was only a few weeks ago that I deposited $500 for this fucking Tourney. I took a walk out to my front porch and clipped the end of a Tuscano that I'd had been saving for this occasion... and as I pulled from this fucking cigar I was indeed my True Self... this was my Nirvana... and as I pulled from this fucking cigar I was filled with the Absolute Knowledge... the Absolute Knowledge that I would be lucky if I got through the fucking week without losing it all because I couldn't stop and would never stop because whatever I won would never... never be enough and this was never... never... never going to fucking change............ But fuck it at least I got here!
Alright let's get on with it. I'm going to take a break before getting into my winter of 2006-2007 on the davenport to give you a recap of my March Madness greatest hits while reporting on agony and the ecstasy of the coming weeks. So here it is... bang bang........ Let's fucking go!
2006... Hudson, NY
Heartbreak and the search for endorphins...
I was living at my grandfather's house for the winter. My parents had just moved to Florida and Florida had yet to become a apart of my migrations, which were at this time limited to New York City, Martha's Vineyard, and Hudson. I was recovering from an excruciating break-up with my girlfriend of four years, which I had up til that point been smothering with a combination of alcohol, anti-depressants, idiot... immature friends, bench pressing, broads, Ingmar Bergman films, and constant, insistent gambling.
It's was noon on Tuesday of Championship Week and the beginning of the Big East Tournament. My entire Winter up to that point had been consumed by sports betting, horse playing, and poker. Every waking moment of my life. If I wasn't at the gym or watching Ingmar Bergman films, contemplating my eventual disappearance from planet earth, I was gambling.
Perhaps gambling was not the right word, as I didn't really have anything to lose. The only question was how much money I was going to win, as the cash that was deposited into these sites was all on credit.
Interlude on the acquisition of many bank accounts...
Most these sites would approve a transaction with just a legit routing number. I could use 1234567890 as a bank account number and it would be approved. This was fine with me because the cash from that check would be dumped on the poker table. If we needed to cover a deposit if we won... so as not to lose our winnings... we would use a legit bank account. I accomplished this by bombarding a bank account with bullshit deposits and then going to the bank and telling them I didn't know what the hell the transactions were. They'd close the account immediately and give me a new one. There were a lot of branches and a lot of banks, so there was never any problem finding a bank account for these transactions.
Optional...
I feel like I need to clarify this deal for those that don't quite understand. It goes like this. You open an account at a sportsbook. One of the methods of deposit is echeck. An echeck is just like a real check only it's electronic (no fucking paper). On your first deposit there will be a limit, as it will be given to you immediately to play with. So you write a check for $500 and you're account is credited stat. So if you run it up to say $5000, you simply make sure the $500 is in your bank account before it hits. Now some sights will just take the $500 out of your winnings if the echeck bounces. Back in the day most sights would do this. If you're dealing with 3rd party processors you really never had to cover the echecks. If the echeck bounced, the processor would notify the sportsbook and your account would just be frozen, winnings intact, until you sent in the money to the processor--usually by money order. Then you're account would be opened and you'd be free to cash out. Now with some sights you could just make up shit and be given money to play with. For example you could set up unlimited accounts using fake names like "Shakes McCullar" and a bullshit bank account like mentioned above. Now there was no way to cover these echecks obviously, so your account would never be legitimized to cash out. So you dump the fucking money on the poker table to someone with a legit account. You need to make a quick $500?... you dump it asap. You want to go for a hit?... you bet a 3 team parlay and hit for $3000 then dump it. Fuck the scenarios. Now as far as the fake names... you usually had to validate your identity somehow, which I would always find a way to do. We'll address this later but. So it was possible for Shakes McCullar to open an account with a processor and deposit, run it up, send a money order, then cash out... usually by check (you just have the fucking check sent to you and deposit it 3rd party). In some instances you would have to cash out moneygram or western union, in which case you had to find some seedy mini-mart or whatever who didn't ask for ID or in emergency situations have a fake ID made. In any case I'd always find a way to get the fucking money out of the account. So this is the fucking gist of it. Let's go here.
Chip Dumping and probability theory...
To carry out my scheme I had to have a crew. So I put together a skeleton crew to help me. We referred to ourselves as The Network (I preferred Mikebook but that was shot down). The other players were Max in NY, Jimmy in Utah, Billy in Boston, and Vinny on the Vineyard. Together we poured as much cash as we could, into as many sportsbooks as we could, by hitting every 3rd party processor in existence, as well as the sportsbooks and poker rooms directly. The processors were Webteller, Flamepay, Intacash, Midas, Trueline, and others I can't recall. The sportsbooks in play were Eight, Betless, Crookmaker, BDG, Bulldog, Actionsports, Pokerlights, Partytime, Big Tilt, Gametime, and others I'm sure. The scheme was simple. I would set up legit accounts with the sites and the crew would deposit into these sites and dump chips to me in the poker rooms. The thing was we had to make it seem legit so hours and hours of playing was required to make it work. This could get quite complicated. Jimmy was in college, Max worked 60 hours a week as a chef, Billy was a bartender and an alcoholic and would disappear for weeks at a time, and Vinny had a wife and 4 fucking kids. Getting someone on the table could be fucking exhausting at times. The whole deal was a full time job really. Sometimes there were months when the only time I could get someone on a table was 2-3 in the morning. My routine was usually betting horses and playing poker all day, betting basketball and playing poker at night, and waiting to Billy or Jimmy to get on the table and win back all the money I'd lost that day. Now I know this may sound like very questionable behavior to y'all, but I saw myself as a modern day Robin Hood, stealing from rich--these fucking crooks that I knew were running Ponzi schemes and depleting the bank accounts of the good people in this country with fixed poker games--and giving to well... Me... and my crew... and their loved ones. The Network... Fucking Mikebook!... We were the shit!
March Madness and the heart stopping beauty of echecks...
note: all the sportsbooks had poker rooms, thus the reference to the sportsbook itself when discussing poker...
By the time Championship Week rolled around I had a few accounts with a nice number--around 3k each. Up until this point we were well under the radar, and had yet to have any trouble cashing out. I was pumped up to bet the games.
A couple days before March Madness began it occured to me that these books might be loosening up on their echeck deposit limits... that they might be bumping up the Ponzi scheme a bit--as this was the time of year that the most money is wagered on sports. So I called up Crookmaker. I got someone in customer service and I could hear chatter all around in the background. It was like a fucking boiler room in there. These fucking guys were bombarding the great people of this country to get their hard earned money in their sportsbook. Fuck these people. I hope you the reader understand this.
So I was feeling pretty good. I asked them what their echeck deposit limit was. Sure as shit they tell me $10,000. Hilarious. I thank them and immediately begin to map out the next couple of weeks.
At this time my boy Max was in Italy visiting family. So The Network was down to 4 heads for this gig. I decided to do it like this....
I had Jimmy write a check immediately and we played with it throughout the first round. I did this for two reasons. One... I was travelling to Florida over the weekend and wouldn't have the time or desire to dump chips. Two... these echecks would generally take at least a week to clear, so if we were up at least 10K after the weekend we'd deposit the 10K to cover the echeck--just in case they took our winnings away from us because the echeck bounced (which was about 50/50).
Then I would have Vinny open an account the following week and depending on what happened with Jimmy we could actually dump some chips into Vinny's account as well as mine. This would make it look a lot more on the up and up. The idea was to have a few accounts to dump chips back and forth with--my account being legitimized--and only cover the 10k echeck if it was worth it.
What happened? Fuck I went nuts on the opening round and blew through the first 10K. I figured we'd try to make 100K the first weekend. I bet $1000 three team parlays and anywhere from $500 to $5000 a game. After running up and down all weekend I lost our last 4K on one play...... Time for fucking Vinny.
Vinny's 10K was excruciating. We could do nothing on the poker tables and couldn't hit a fucking game to save our life. On the tables we just couldn't seem to not only get a legit hand to dump some chips into my account, but we couldn't win any hands against the table. If one of us had a flush draw and the other the best hand after the flop, some asshole would always call us and catch something to beat us both. It was awful. As far as the games, we didn't even make it to the Sweet Sixteen. I blew through it all on the fucking NIT. Not only did we blow the 10K, but I lost a couple thousand out of my legit account. A big shitshow. Fuck it. It happens. It had happened before and would happen again. The good news is we still had another 10K to work with. At this time I was confident we could still make 100K on this fucking tournament.
It was time to bring Billy into play. I call him and he immediately opens an account and deposits 10K. It's the first Thursday of the Sweet Sixteen. Now Jimmy's echeck had yet to hit his bank account so I figure we had at least a week and a half to cover the echeck. So the strategy is to relax with the games and play it conservative. We wanted to get at least 10K out of this whole thing to make it worthwhile. Once we got the 10K in my account we could re-evaluate. So we went small through the Sweet Sixteen and went light on the poker tables throughout the week. The Friday before the Final Four we had a big night on the tables. The hands were legit and I felt like we played everything super cool. In one hand Billy had an Ace high flush and I pulled a full house when the board paired on the river. He bet out and I pushed him all in. At that point he was too invested and had to call. An easy 4K dumped in one hand. The rest we dumped after that hand, as it appeared as if Billy was on tilt and I was fucking around with him. It went down real nice and now--with the other accounts we had working--The Network had nearly 20k to bet that fucking tournament with.
Twenty five electoral votes...
The next morning I flew to Florida to see my folks. My plan was to call in the morning and cashout a few thousand by Western Union--just to have some cash in hand by the weekend. After I arrived my folks took me to some seafood shack off the thruway. I got I fish sandwich and a Budweiser and tried to figure out how I was going to sneak away and put in for the cashout. It was quarter to one and I had to have the cashout in by one. I ate the shit out of that sandwich and told my folks I needed to make a call. I was always sneaking out to make calls when they were around to make bets and doing bullshit like this. Whether I told them I had to make a call or I went to the bathroom for 20 minutes they never said shit. Looking back it's clear that they knew all along what I was up to and just didn't really know what the hell to do about it.
I called up Crookmaker. When I told them I wanted to cashout they told me that unfortunately my account had been "frozen" pending a review of my play in the poker room. I was livid. I asked them if I could at least play with the funds for the weekend and just have no ability to cash out. They told me that the account would remain "frozen" until my play in the poker room was reviewed by an "expert" who they use in such situations. Fuck me this was bad. So I made the only move in this situation... I went absolutely nuts. I asked for a manager. I got a manger. He told me to fuck off. I told him to fuck off. I told him I was going to post on the online forums about what crooks they were. I told him that I'm going to call and harrass his staff all weekend if he doesn't open up my fucking account. I told him that he didn't know who he was fucking with and that I was coming after him and everyone involved in Crookmaker. I told him whatever I could think up until he told me once more to go fuck myself and hung up the phone.
I went back to the table. My beer was piss warm. My parents simply asked me if everything was Ok. My fucking parents. God love them. They were just happy to see me and hoped to Christ that I'd figure this shit out soon... before it was too late.
Now I wasn't worried about losing the funds in Crookmaker at this point. This had happened once before, and even after they came to the conclusion that we were chip dumping, I was so persuasive with are defense--which included emails and Oscar winning performances on the phone to not only the sportsbooks but also to the sportsbook watchdogs (who were people that graded the books on integrity)--that the sportsbook gave us our money and apologized. This time would be no different.
The problem was the Final Four started that afternoon and I wanted to put 5k each on UCLA and George Mason. Thankfully I would have had a split, so there was nothing lost. This would not be the case two weeks later, when after an extensive review, Crookmaker determined that I was involved in chip dumping and that I could indeed go fuck myself. They did analysis of the time we spent at the table and all of the hands we were involved in together. They straight up told me that I had someone write a phony check and dump the funds to me. They waited a couple weeks to freeze the account, so they must have waited to make sure the check bounced. After a valiant battle I was indeed defeated. This was the first loss for The Network and it was painful lesson to us all. But we would learned from it and in the future we would win much more than we lost.
I ended up losing pretty much everything I had in all the accounts on UCLA in the Championship game. Fucking Farmar. The Network was pretty pissed off at me for that one. But we regrouped and pushed forward. The fucking Madness. I don't need March to get it. The fucking Madness is always with me. And so it goes. I end this blog rolling into this years Tourney fully armed. I've been scouting these teams for the last few weeks. I'm absolutely ready to crush it. I'll keep you posted on my progress as we move forward toward the Final Four... right here in the greatest city in the world-- fucking New Orleans!
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!
