When we last left Otis, he had just survived a meeting of Robin Iggy and his Merry Men at the Sherwood Forest. Otis awoke after a 45 minute power nap to repeated kicking in his ribs and stomach. Weary, but invigorated by the possibility of playing against some of the top poker bloggers and professionals, he rode the elevator ten floors and returned to the scene of the morning’s crimes
The bar didn’t look much different than when slot hoki I left it less than an hour before. A few more people had shown up and the pre-tourney buzz was tip-tapping through the assembled bloggers and their friends.
This is not how I’d planned it. My plan was originally to sleep a little late, roll into the meet and greet around 11am, then play with a fresh head in the tournament.
Instead, I was going to be on time, bouyed only by a power nap and the excitement of the day’s events.
I wore an Otis elevator work jacket and a custom O…tis hat. Later, I’d run into Felicia and she’d remark, “I liked you better without the hat.”
I couldn’t disagree with her. I was a mess and the hat wasn’t doing anything to obscure my increasingly green face.
But that comes later. There’s the matter of getting to the tournament, courtesy of Big Mike’s Chariot Service.
***
If there had been a slow motion camera mounted outside Tower 1 of the Excalbur Hotel and Casino, it could’ve captured the next promotional advertisement for the Vegas Convention and Visitor’s Bureau. The motliest of crews strode through the door, drinks in hand, eyes wild with excitement and adrenaline. In the commercial, each of them would exclaim in slow motion as they saw the bohemoth stretch Excursion, white like a good cowboy’s horse, as long as the night we’d all just survived.
I was among the first to climb in. I crawled to the front of the passenger cabin and plopped into the seat. I had MapQuested the distance between the hotels before I left. I thought I remembered that it would only be a six mile journey. I figured there wouldn’t be time for another good power nap, so I settled in to enjoy a few quiet laughs along the ride.
I’m not exactly sure what happened next. The Excursion seemed very full. Someone passed me a CD and told me to give it to the driver. I passed the disc through the portal and asked the driver to give us some privacy. The ensuing ten minutes are something I still haven’t completely been able to get my head around. The CD had been a gift from BadBlood to Al. Though I don’t have notes on this, I’m fairly sure it was titled the Devil’s Greatest Hits (All Lucifer’s Love Songs).
I don’t think I talked much during the ride. The rest of the trip is just a few mental exclamations, psychic warnings that I was entering a level of debauchery that even Bacshus himself never envisioned for 10am.
Computer generated disco ball lights swam around my head, death metal pounded from the speakers, someone asked for Sinatra, Al hung from the windows and threw the goat to a state patrol officer, and somewhere in my professional head something screamed, “There are cameras in here! Someone is taking pictures! Jesus, there’s a video camera! Damage control! We need damage control! Somebody get Major Tom on the phone because ground control just asploded!”
And then it was quiet. The ride–seemingly endless–continued. I pulled my hat over my face and acquiesced.
Whatever will be, will be.
Ill-equipped to meet or greet
After disembarking from the chariot, we stood and waited for Al to sign autographs (I guess this is true. It’s what I’ve read). Like a line of school children heading to recess, we made our way to a ballroom where Dick Gatewood and the men from LasVegasVegas had put together a fine spread of food and drink for the weary travelers.
I found myself getting a little sad. I looked around the room at the famous faces, heroes who I’d intended on engaging in meaningful, thought-provoking conversation. Charlie Shoten was there and offered a fine line of philosophical thought. Tom McEvoy was there with his uber-strategic mind. Marcel Luske was there, his personality in tow. Ron Rose, the man who can’t fail at anything, was signing copies of his book and ripping out pages that didn’t meet Felicia’s approval.
It was more than I’d hoped for and I was in no condition to engage anyone. For several minutes, I hated myself. What a degenerate I had become. I felt like apologizing to the Joes, but decided I wasn’t in any condition to do that either. Instead, I poured myself a glass of juice and drank it on one drink. A glass of ice water met the same fate.
As I stood along the food table, trying to decide if I felt like eating (I hadn’t had a bite since the non-gumbo off the buffet in the poker room), an angel appeared in the form of Mrs. Can’tHang.
She stood in front of me, her eyes awash with understanding and empathy. She pulled a bite from her coffee cake (it might’ve been a muffin) and directed it into my mouth. When she did it again, I decided I was going to be okay. Though I hated my degenerate side for ruining a good opportunity to network and learn, I felt at ease. I owe the Mrs. for that.
I saw Daddy sitting across the room and decided that a brief sitdown would be good for the soul. As I made my way in his direction, I found myself nearly running into Marcel. It felt as though a conversation was unavoidable. And before I could stop myself, I found myself talking.
