Papi Chulo and that freaking 6

Well, it just wouldn't be Monday if I didn't put together a good "here's-what-I-did-this-weekend" post, so in the interests of consistency; here you go.

Just as I sat down to write a little something other than what I'm about to write, I got the call from the 5 Dog. The first words out of his mouth were, "big money... can you believe that fucking 6?" The funny thing is I told this story once today to Janell, but again, in the interest of consistency, yada, yada, yada.

This past Saturday, I found myself in a limo with Noah and a few other friends. Now, I have to elaborate on the "few other friends" part of that. The limo was supposed to take me, Noah, and a few other guys up to Niagara Falls to the casino, and see the world renowned Canadian ballet. For those of you that aren't familiar with the ballet, ask someone. Actually, ask someone that was single when you met them, and then got married and hasn't left the house since. You'll soon see their eyes light up with the fond memories of glitter, neon, and eight dollar beers. You'll see them go back in time with their mind, and rewind that mental camcorder that we all store back in that place where our significant others dare not dwell. You'll see them cast their eyes skyward and think about their bachelor party with a limo full of drunken friends (at least one of whom vomited outside the amphitheatre of the aforementioned ballet), and being called upon to enter the stage themselves and revel in their last night of freedom. If you could crawl into that little space of cerebral consciousness and look over the valley that is, in fact, their life, you would be able to see where the wave finally broke, and then eased back into the dark reality of mowing the lawn, bringing your lunch to work instead of the afternoon matinee at Hooters, and Saturday trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond. They may even shed a little tear and say, "yeah (sniffle), I've been there... a long, long time ago." After that little interlude, you'll see them slowly turn, walk away, and wallow in a dark, shallow pond that is their life. But I digress.

Anyway, as we piled in the limo, I found myself surrounded by Noah, a couple other people I knew, and 5 other guys that were friends of a friend, to whom English was a second language. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. For one, I don't know these guys. For two, I don't know what they're saying. And thirdly, because I don't know what they're saying, the suburban Park Avenue white boy is automatically thinking that they're talking about me and where no one will find my body. I must admit, and probably for the first time on this blog; I was dead wrong. There, I said it. Happy? Me too. Let's move on.

These guys were some of the nicest guys I have met in a while. Even though I was a total outsider, they completely accepted me, and embraced the Rychkid as one of their own. As a matter of fact, by the end of the night, they were jokingly calling me, "Papi Chulo." Which, as I understand it; Papi is daddy or big daddy, and chulo is the equivalent of if you were to call someone "big guy." Good stuff.

Anyway, after a couple hours at Niagara Falls's finest ballet, it was time to go. You're probably not going to believe what you read here, but I do not particularly enjoy the ballet. When I go out with my friends, it's for the camaraderie and the fact that I enjoy their company. The ballet is a little annoying in that you can't talk, you're constantly pestered by dancers that want to give you a dance to the tune of $20, and drink prices are outrageous. Anyway, as we were leaving, there was a minor altercation outside the club; not with me or any of my new amigos, but with a couple clowns outside that apparently were disgruntled with the doorman service. Wanna know how I found this out? Lemme tell ya. Let me preface this with the fact that I was wearing distressed DKNY jeans, HD biker boots, a white tab collar tuxedo shirt, and a black Hugo Boss blazer. The emphasis on that previous sentence should be "white tuxedo shirt." One, they're really white. Two, they're really expensive. Having said that; paragraph.

I walked out of the ballet and found myself face to face with some dude that just got popped square in the nose at a point-blank distance of about six inches. Now, bear in mind that I didn't go seek this dude out; I must have been looking elsewhere. Niagara Falls has beautiful scenery as I'm sure you know. Regardless, this poor guy's face looked like something that you would see in one of those post-mortem pictures on CSI. One of the bouncers had punched him in the face... hard. So here I stand, six inches from this guy, and my caring nature magically surfaces. I immediately find myself in my BA in Psychology mode. "Jesus, are you OK?" Now, here's where the really white and really expensive tuxedo shirt comes into play. "Yeah," he says. "One of these assholes just punched me in the face for no reason." He says this statement with emphasis on the word, "punched." Quick sidebar here; before you read on, take a big sip of that coffee or bottled water that you have sitting beside your monitor, leave a little on your lips, and say the word, "punched." Yeah, that's right. This clown's outstanding diction and my giving a shit about this random fine art fan resulted in a spewing of blood all over the front of my really white, really expensive tuxedo shirt. All I could do was look down, say, "ah shit," and slump my way back to the safe confines of the limo. I think I care too much. What a swell guy I am. My parents should be proud.

Well, after that little episode, off to the casino. Apparently we were in desperate need to hemorrhage additional money that night. Well, at least some of us. While Noah and I and a couple other guys headed in to play a little blackjack, the remainder of our party took a well-deserved nap in the aforementioned limo. In their state of mind, it was probably for the best. Besides the alcoholic influence that had overcome them, I don't think the pit boss would have let them sit at a table while they were as "aroused" as they were. Again, it's probably for the best that they stayed in the car. Sorry to paint that rather obscure mental image, but again, it's my blog, and I'll write what I want. So there.

Anyway, because neither Noah nor myself are independently wealthy (at least not until that rich, unknown billionaire relative dies and leaves me with a cattle ranch or oil rig somewhere), we went in search of a $15 blackjack table. We wound up finding one after we sat down at a $25 table, each lost the first hand, then asked the pit boss if they had any lower stakes tables open. Luckily, he pointed us toward a few, and we found one and sat down. Concentrate now, here's where the phone call comes in.

We played a few hands, and because there was an empty seat next to Noah, he was playing two hands at once. He wasn't doing badly at all. He and I pretty much know what we're doing on the felt, and we usually come out ahead... at least a little. Well, as we keep playing, the 5 Dog gets dealt the dream hand. The dealer has a 6 showing, and Noah has a 10 on one hand, and a pair of eights on the other. He doubles the 10 and gets a 6 (I think). Good there. He splits the eights. Good move. He gets 18 on one hand, and I can't remember what he got on the other... I think it was 17, but at that point the cards were getting a little blurry. So now, he's in good shape. One hand doubled with a 16, one hand with an 18, and one hand with a 17. The dealer has a 5 showing. He couldn't have played the hand more perfectly.

Let's remember here that blackjack is a game of odds and a game of chance. It is, however, the only game in the casino where a smart player has a mathematical advantage over the house of about 2%. The odds are definitely in his favor. The dealer complimented him on his play as she turned over her down card. Queen of diamonds. That I remember clearly, because at the moment of truth on that table, you become extremely focused... regardless of the 17 Budweisers you may have consumed at a ballet recital an hour prior. Back to the story. All we need is a 7 or higher and everyone at the table wins. My hero, the 5 Dog, at this point has $90 stacked up in $5 chips just drooling because he knows that he played it right and he's about to clean up on this one hand. I don't think that I even need to write another word to tell you what card came up and fucked us all. That's right... a 9, and we all won. I'm joking, you knuckleheads. If you didn't know that dealer pulled a 6 after the amount of buildup for that story, go find someone, anyone, and ask them to give you a good smack in the chops. A freaking 6. What are the odds. Well, I'll tell you. The odds of that are 13:1. Doesn't that just suck? Don't answer that. Yes, it does suck. That was rhetorical. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we hate to see our heroes fall. It was like watching Superman find a hotter Lois Lane than Margot Kidder and finding out that she has kryptonite fillings in her teeth... or something like that. Needless to say, we were personally offended and left the table. Well, actually, I played the next hand and won, and then left the table, but it was a bummer nonetheless. Another sidebar here... I wound up +$100 for the night... but I didn't feel good about it. Sorry, that was a lie. Thank God, I won some money.

Anyway, we piled back into the limo, and headed for sunny Rochester. We got back around 4:30 A.M., and after a quick stop to pick up a garbage plate at Gitsi's, I hopped in my minivan and headed for my beloved Park Avenue. As much fun as it was, it's always nice to come home to a couch that has my name written all over it. Thank God that there's a dry cleaner right up the street. My blazer smelled like stripper. "Yeah, uh, can you guys get this stripper smell out?" They assured me that they could. Again, it's not that I did, in fact, get a private dance from one of these entertainers... it's the fact that every freaking one of them had to come over and put their arm around me or sit on my lap and tell me how cute I am and that it's only $20 for a dance. Uh, yeah... I'm going to pass... and I'm sure you never, ever tell anyone else how cute they are. Next time I go to one of those joints, I'm going to not shower, dress and smell like a hippie, and chew garlic for the entire ride up there. Still think I'm cute, Destiny? I love stripper names. By the way, if you're with child, and you're kicking around names for your newborn (providing it's female, of course), I'd encourage you to stay away from Destiny, Diamond, Jade, Fantasy or Sweetness. Odds are that they're going to wind up wearing a g-sting with a few dollars crammed up the business side of that thing. But again, I digress.

I think that it goes without saying that I spent the majority of Sunday on the couch. After waking up around the crack of 2 P.M. and pretty much resigning myself to a prone position for the rest of the day, I finally roused myself just in time to check and respond to some emails and catch The Simpsons and Family Guy... two of the best shows on television. If you don't watch either, you're missing out. Just make sure that you change the channel after The Simpsons. Fox's new show, The War at Home, is about the worst thing on network television.

On that note, I hope you heed my advice and I'm going to log off. To be honest, there's a couple other things that I wanted to write about tonight... like how I've been blown off by someone, and at what point is the juice worth the squeeze, but those will both have to wait for another night. For now I'm going to log off. I've got some brushing up on my Spanish that I have to do. Anyone know what cerveza means?

Until next time...

R