I ate lunch with a friend of mine in Midtown today. He's your average 40-something New Yorker. He works in advertising, has a Master's degree, and you could barely pick him out of the crowd in a sea of suits on the subway. He's that average guy in sitting in the cubicle next to you in your office and he told me the funniest story today during lunch. He lives in Manhattan and had been dating a divorced woman from Long Island. Out of the blue, he dumped her because he discovered that life was easier getting hookers.
"Here's my situation," he said. "One, she lives all the way out on Long Island. Two, she's a drug rehab counselor and I like to drag a little weed from time to time and have a bump once a month or so. And three, she has two kids. What does all of that add up to? I'll tell you... it says, 'Hey, fuck you buddy!'"
My friend explained that he recently stumbled upon a local business entity that features in call and out call sexual relief services.
"I get a rub and a tug twice a week, sometimes in my own apartment. I don't have to schlep out to the Island just to get laid. Those girls are amazing. It's like the United Nations of hookers. I got a Ukrainian broad the other night. Last week, I had a Brazilian chick that looked like J. Lo. And you know what? She watched the end of the Rangers game with me. She lathered me up in oil, blew me, and then we watched the Rangers blow a lead against Ottawa."
My buddy was not afraid to simplify his situation. He was honest with himself and confronted the fact that he was only in a relationship for sex and that the time and effort he put into said relationship was not worth continuing what he felt was ultimately a dead end relationship.
Here's where I relate visiting hookers to poker. I came to the conclusion that tournaments were like long term relationships that included an arduous courting process where you put in hours and hours into foreplay without getting laid. Whereas cash games are like those ladies you pick up at the Hooker Bar in Las Vegas. You know exactly what you are getting yourself into and although the pay off down the line is not as big as a score in a tournament, you do get instant satisfaction and gratification. If taking a few bucks off the table and walking away with a freshly fucked glow is your goal, then stop playing and bubbling out of elongated tournaments and hit up the cash game orgy. Short-handed NL tables are like singles bars on a Friday night. Everyone there just wants to score. Quickly.
But always be careful, wear a rubber, and don't forget #20 of my infamous Las Vegas Tips... Don't get rolled by a hooker. That's one tip you can apply not just to Las Vegas, but to life itself.
What I love about having my own blog is the freedom to write whatever I want and when I want. I mentioned blow, hookers, and the Ottawa Senators in the first 300 hundred words and somehow pulled a half-baked correlation to poker out of my ass. Believe me, I could write essays and books on pimps and hookers. Life is a trick. You're either pimping or getting pimped. You're either chugging for a paycheck or paying for a good time. And sometimes in my jaded world, I'm the john, hooker, pimp, and vice cop all rolled into one.
The term "Hooker Bar" is an expression that I use for a specific place but it can also be applied to any drinking establishment where ladies of the night congregate to meet potential clients. The bar at the IP last December was an early morning hooker bar. That's where Daddy offered to show a portly prostitute his "vanilla gorilla" if she paid him. And then there's the Bellagio where 3K barely gets you a lap dance from those top shelf trollops.
At the 2005 WSOP, I spent the majority of my dinner breaks drinking at the Hooker Bar with Otis as he picked up Quads eight hundred and forty-six times on the loosest video poker machines in all of Las Vegas. I ignored all the ladies of the night, those annoying dancing cocktail waitresses, and soaked up every moment away from the madness of media row.
At the 2006 WSOP, I found that the Hooker Bar had been discovered by more media reps and poker people. My time away from work was complicated by the same folks I was trying to avoid. The Hooker Bar became that after-work bar that everyone went to and that wasn't where I wanted to be on my breaks. We could never find a spot to sit so we searched out a new destination to destroy brain cells and add on extra weight due to copious consumption of beer. That place ended up being the Tilted Kilt.
The Tilted Kilt featured a full bar and hot food which was a bonus. The average bar food was served by scantily clad waitresses that may or may not have been strippers in a previous or current life. By the end of the WSOP, we knew a few by name and they loved our generous tipping habits. One even admitted that she read my blog. The best part of the Tilted Kilt was that when you entered, you really felt like you left Las Vegas completely and the entire WSOP nightmare had disappeared, if only for sixty Stella-soaked minutes. You were still in a casino, only thirty feet away from a slot machine, yet you could not help but feel like you were in time's forgotten space.
My buddy JW sent me the sad news in an email. It appears that Harrah's is getting rid of the Tilted Kilt and adding a McFadden's there instead. Rat ass bastards! With the Hooker Bar and the Tilted Kilt no longer viable options for me to get soused during dinner breaks, my future is resorted to hanging out in the parking lot and huffing glue with disgruntled WSOP dealers behind Michalski's car. Oh joy.
Writers and bars have always had an unique symbiotic relationship. I've had a few meaningful moments at places like Dooley's in Atlanta, the Blue Moon in Seattle, and the Cedar Tavern in Manhattan. I spent many hours pontificating the utter absurdities of life while slumped on a bar stool at the end of the bars I just mentioned.
Some days I drank because I was happy. Other days I drank because I was sad. Sometimes I wanted to escape, other days to hide out. Sometimes I drank because I wanted to watch the game with other sports fans and share the highs and the lows. Other times I drank because I wanted to get laid. Sometimes I craved the social scene and wanted to be around people while I drank. Other times I drank alone because I needed time away to sit and think.
And sometimes there's so much stress and you hate what you're working on so much, that it takes a sip of liquor at 6pm to take the edge off. You know you got twelve more hours of that shit to shovel, but at least for a moment, work is the last thing on your mind and your biggest concern is whether or not your waitress is wearing panties or a g-string.
The Tilted Kilt is no longer going to be a part of my life, and that makes me shed a little tear. I actually have some semblance of warmth in my cold black heart. Alas, beer is beer, but I'm really going to miss all that hot ass the most.
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