Bizarro World

The premise: What if Otis had turned the offer to blog a tournament in the Caribbean down, and what if (after presumably checking with every single other blogger) they got to me and offered me the gig? What would those posts have looked like?

By the way, the high school story below is totally fictitious, just FYI…

235AM Local, Thursday

It’s been a long day one. I still have chips, but we’ll get to that. I’m currently sitting in my room, alone, hopped up on Red Bull and adrenaline, watching Trinidad and Tobago play the Dominican Republic in a “friendly” on the one lousy channel I get down here.

I’m also trying to make myself comfortable in a wicker chair, which I think is a fundamental impossibility.

I’d be saddened by the preponderance of wicker furniture in my room if it weren’t so clichéd as to be amusing. My bed’s headboard? Wicker. The two chairs and a love seat? Wicker. The TV armoire? Wicker. Even the coffee table is wicker, and is presumably missing its glass top, which makes balancing my glass of water (glass not made of wicker) that much more of a challenge.

Well, whatever. I’m happy to be here and happy to still be alive in the tournament, despite all the ridiculousness it took to get down here in the first place. Let’s go back a couple weeks to the initial conversation I had with Roger from my sponsor, “All In Magazine.” After receiving the blog-pportunity of a lifetime, I’d assumed, I jumped at it and immediately accepted. However, there were some minor points to work out.

BG: You’re staking me into the tournament, right?
Roger: Yes, your entry fee will be covered, as well as your hotel room and incidentals, for the duration of the tournament, plus one night on each end.
BG: I’m going to need a suite. If you expect me to write, I’ve got to do it while it’s fresh in my head, and in a space where I can sit comfortably and work. I really can’t be sprawled across my bed doing this all weekend.
Roger: OK, I’m pretty sure we can do that.
BG: With a view. (Dead silence) Kidding, kidding… What exactly are “incidentals,” anyway.
Roger: Well, three meals a day, no room service, no in-room movies, and a per diem of $30 for tipping and drinks and such.
BG: $30 US or in Barbadoan dollars?
Roger: US.
BG: Do I get to raid the honor bar?
Roger: For a $12 Toblerone? I don’t think so. I think you can make do for $30 a day if we’re covering your meals. Also, you’ve got to be wearing our logo gear and be available for our photographer in your down time when requested.
BG: I’ve got to wear my lucky hat. I won’t play a tournament without it. It’s green with a white shamrock. I’ll wear a polo shirt, hell, I’ll wear a sandwich board with your logo, but I’ve got to wear my hat.
Roger: I’m not sure…
BG: Check, alright?

I couldn’t be kidding any less when I say that the deal was almost scuttled right there. Then again, who could possibly have been next on the list? Al? I’m not sure $30 a day would have covered the tax on his bar bill.

Roger called back, confirmed my hat selection, and we were all set. So long as I could maintain enough self-discipline to not eat the Toblerone.

The only other thing I tried to press them for, to no avail, was to let me bring a wing man down with me to Barbados. They said no about two hundred and fourteen times, and I decided not to press my luck from there. Although I’m sure I would have probably taken my brother along for the ride ultimately, I thought about taking this in a couple different directions. First, I could have taken Al, who I would have instructed to get as many top players as possible hammered before day one opened. But neither he nor my brother would have been a good one to run down my mistakes at the table in retrospect with at the end of each day. I thought about BadBlood, who I would have put in mirrored shades and one of those Secret Service earpieces right over my shoulder as a fake bodyguard. Then again, that would have probably been funny only to me. Hank would have been lost to the craps table, Iggy would have entered the tournament and busted me out, and Pauly would have just tried to find some local girl to score (Score what? Doesn’t matter…) off of.

Probably best that I’m flying solo.

Speaking of flying, and remembering that I mentioned the general ridiculousness I endured to get down here, “All In,” in their infinite wisdom, had me flying out of Chicago and not Detroit, which is an extra hour’s drive, and a brutal one at that, cutting through the heart of Chicago’s commuting corridor. And they had me flying out at 4AM local. So the day before the flight, the plan was to drive to Milwaukee to go stay at my dad’s new place, and have him schlep me to the airport (we’re not Jewish, but any errand that starts at 2AM is a schlep to be certain) the next morning.

Lo and behold, I get stuck in traffic. Just past Gary, Indiana – which isn’t nearly as chipper a place to pass through as Meredith Willson might have you believe – some manure spreader jackknifed on the Santa Ana or something. You should see my shoes. Whook! I’m dead ass stopped on the freeway, with cars stopped in front of me and behind me as far as my eyes can see. I’m furiously flipping through AM stations trying to find some sort of traffic report to figure out what’s happening, which brings me to one of life’s big irritations…

Why the ever living hell do these traffic reporters insist on calling freeways “The Wilson Northbound” or “The Lincoln Westbound,” rather than saying “I-80 East?” I have no idea where I am, and I have no idea what the hell fucking freeway I’m on, and there’s about, oh, umpteen fucking accidents they’re counting down with backups and delays up the wazoo, and I can’t fucking figure out which one pertains to me.

Whew…

Even when I lived in Detroit for five years and watched Fox2 Traffic Babe Rhonda Walker point to the little 696 shield every morning and call it “The Reuther,” I still was never certain that the radio guys were talking about the 696 I was on when they called it that. You’d have thought that would have sunk in after five years. Yes, I’m just that stupid.

So instead of getting to my dad’s at 5PM, I’m there at 8PM, and I’m all sorts of keyed up from spending three hours crawling along at a snail’s pace somewhere outside of Gary. I get zero sleep in Milwaukee, I get zero sleep in the car on the way to good old ORD, I get zero sleep on the way to Atlanta, and I get zero sleep on the way to Barbados.

But I am wearing a garishly sexy Hawaiian print shirt. So I’ve got that going for me.

I clear customs with my bags (Yes, it’s a laptop. Here, let me turn it on for you to prove it, and no – I’m not bringing any fruit or salamanders into your country.) and miraculously see the driver who’s holding a sign with my name on it, which is the first time something like this has ever happened to me. Short of having someone ask for your autograph, is there any little moment in your life where you feel more like a celebrity than in the “I’m BG, where’s the limo?” moment?

Of course, I would have felt safer bicycling to the hotel. The streets are approximately three quarters of a car wide, and somehow it seems like a good idea to drive around blind curves doing 60. After aging sixteen months in the twenty-two minute drive to the hotel, I tip the guy and hope to never have to ride in a car again.

The hotel is beautiful, and is like walking into the Rio or whatever other tropically themed Vegas casino is out there. Except there’s far more black guys here with those cool-ass Caribbean names like “Winston” and “Gareth.” I really do think that if you want to measure British contributions to society, you can look at bad teeth and awesome names for black guys in the Caribbean. Beats the hell out of trying to decipher how to appropriately pronounce “D’Auendray” or something.

As I’m checking in, I pick up a message from Roger that he wants to meet me in the bar as soon as I get in. Fuck that, I need a shower. Did I mention that it’s January in Barbados, and it’s ninety-fucking-two degrees? I’m not that chubby, but I’m sweating like Brando after eating two pounds of Prosciutto. I head up to the room, and wash up, changing into my second of nine garishly sexy Hawaiian print shirts and a pair of linen slacks for the meeting.

I forgot to mention… as soon as I told my family that I took this gig, they turned Xmas into BG’s Gag Gift Wonderland. Everything I opened turned out to be another Hawaiian shirt. Thanks guys. These’ll be useful five days from now.

I head down to the bar, and manage to spy the guy with the “All In” polo shirt sitting in the middle. Must be Roger. I walk up and introduce myself, and he manages to say, “Nice shirt, did you lose a bet?” as a first impression. Thanks mom. Anyway, we run down the game plan for the week. The tournament starts tomorrow morning, and I’m effectively not “on the clock” until I sit down at the table and the Bruce Buffer wannabe running the show bellows “Shuffle up and deal” into the microphone. I’m going to play in the tournament, and if (when) I’m bounced, I’m going to follow Roger’s direction and be given an opportunity to railbird top pros from the best seats in the house. I’m also going to be attending a couple of dinner meet-n-greets that Roger’s set up with various pros – who I’ll leave nameless for right now.

As almost an afterthought, Roger reaches under the table and produces a box for me. I open it up and pull the most god-awful polo shirt you’ve ever seen off the top. It’s white, has the “All In” logo over the breast, and has that “super cool” checkered flag pattern on the sleeve cuffs and on the collar.

Are you fucking kidding me? I look at my shirt, I look at Roger’s plain black logoed polo, and he just smiles. Right then I knew he was paying me back for the hat conversation. Thankfully, there are three shirts in the box and one of them is actually beige and plain with the logo. “You know, there’s no way I’m wearing that checkered collar. This shirt is going to reek after five days – any chance you’ve got some swag lying around? Toss me a t-shirt or another plain polo or three?” He said he’d find out.

I’m still waiting.

The next morning brings that bright Caribbean sunshine into my room at about 3AM. OK, it’s actually 6AM, but when you’re used to living a lot closer to the pole than the equator, 6AM January sunshine is absurd. Ridiculous. But I’m up.

I get showered, grab some breakfast (waffles are gooooood…), and since I have about two hours to kill until I need to be registered (and three and a half until “game time”), I grab $200 out of my wallet and sit down for some $10 blackjack. Ninety minutes later I look down and count up - $2200. The deck has been clobbering me, which is a good sign for my wallet, but a bad sign for poker.

Why? Well, I believe in card karma. I don’t like to see cards before I play cards, because I’m afraid I’m going to “use up” all my good cards. And with all the KK and QQ and JJ hands I was being dealt in blackjack, I’m officially frightened…

…But even moreso when I see my table draw for the tournament. I’ve got four pros at my table, and, well…

Have you ever seen Eskimo Clark in a floral print shirt? Not as intimidating. I’m in the three seat, with Eskimo to my left, Dutch freaking Boyd two seats to my right, Karina Jett and Phil Hellmuth across on the other side. First hand I’m dealt in, and what do you know, I’ve got the hammer. Yes kids, the thought does cross my mind to go all G-Rob and be a hero to the generations of bloggers who’ll follow me down my dark path, but I fold. Good thing too, as Karina comes over the top of some Moneymaker-wannabe’s standard raise with a healthy fraction of her chips.

The kid is staring Karina down, and she’s doing the patented poker pro poker face (not sold in stores), and more and more she’s reminding me of this girl I remember from high school, who we’ll call J. J had this boyfriend, who was friends of a friend of mine, and we all ate lunch together. Anyway, J was the playful type, and one night we’re hanging out late, and her boyfriend and my friend end up passing out, so she and I are basically drunk and alone, and I offer to raid my dad’s liquor cabinet and pour us some more shots. We get upstairs and I turn around to face the cabinets and she basically grabs my ass and starts nuzzling into my ear. I don’t really give a shit about her boyfriend’s friendship, and so I spin around and start kissing her back, and basically end up rounding second and sliding into third with her for the next hour locked in the bathroom. No one ever found out about this, and Karina’s vacant look just reminds me of junior year and four months of having lunch with this girl trying to not give away that she and I had a wild freaky almost monkey sex makeout session in my bathroom while her boyfriend was passed out.

I digress…

Day one was unbelievably uneventful. Very little happened of consequence at the table (pro makes a tourist pay for a mistake, blah blah blah), and every time I’d get premiums and raise, I’d sweep blinds. No action whatsoever. I treaded water all day and finished the day up T500, which isn’t terrible, but isn’t exactly what I was hoping for.

After they excused us from the tournament I met up with Roger, who had been watching me most of the day. “Not exactly a day chock full of excitement there BG… what are you going to write about?”

“Same thing I write about every day there Roger… I have no fucking idea.”

And with that, half a plate of jerk chicken and fries, and another two hours of blackjack (inexplicably up another $300 for that session), here I am at 345AM, dreading the sunshine in two hours, and eager to try to make Eskimo Clark pay for his fashion crimes against humanity.