I'll admit, my first and final post from the Bahamas was a bit bleak. It was one of those times when I should've just hit delete and waited until I got home. However, I use this blog to help me remember the high and low points in my psyche, so it remained. Thanks to all the people who e-mailed pep talks.

Despite it all, though, there were more than a few interesting things that happened while I was gone. I don't even know if I feel like writing about them. Here are just a few highlights to help me remember that, if anything, this life introduces me to some very interesting and fun people.

***

The lounge is no more than a hotel bar during most weeks. This week, however, it is home to some of the most ridiculous gambling and drinking in the world. I made it my home away from home in the few hours I wasn't working. One night, I sat with my friend B.J. and several other friends. B.J. had been given an uninflated soccer ball and was trying to inflate it with his mouth. I offered him 10-1 on $50 that he couldn't blow it up enough to make it roll across the floor. He didn't take the bet...and then proceeded to blow up the ball with his mouth. In this case, I got lucky to not lose $500, while still seeing the feat performed. I'll just let you guess how he did it.

***

It was going on 2am and I was standing on a balcony overlooking a harbor full of yachts that cost more than my entire neighborhood. I was talking to two guys, neither of whom are American or live on the same continent. As you might guess, the subject of obscene wealth came up. We wondered aloud how we would handle ourselves if we had enough money to buy and maintain one of the yachts. One of the guys said that his aunt and uncle had become unexpectedly very wealthy and later wished they had not.

"If you don't mind me asking," I said, "how did they earn their money?"

"They invented Trivial Pursuit."

***

For the first time in seven days, I was sitting down for a real meal. My wife and I had been invited by a friend and his girlfriend. They were a good couple. I'd known the guy for a long time, but was just getting a chance to chat up the lady. As the conversation wound through every topic you might imagine, the subject of musical festivals and hippies came up. The girl revealed that she had spent the first five years of her life on The Farm, the nation's longest-running hippie commune. I couldn't help but be a little surprised. I might have even been an little incredulous. By the end of the night, however, I was not. By the time the wife and I were wiping the sand off our feet and changing clothes for the night, I felt better about the entire week.

Despite it all--the long hours, thankless work, and obscene disregard for money--I get to meet and hang out with some really interesting people.

And sometimes I think it's all worth it.

Labels: Gambling, Poker, Travel

It was a tight night at The Royale. We'd walked through one of the first chilly nights in St. Louis and the bar and fire-dotted patio were packed with drinkers. I stood in a line of people and could see my friends at the first table inside the door. My beard was graying, my hair was salt and peppery, and the wrinkles around my eyes were deeper than the last time I'd been to a bar in The Lou. When I saw the doorman ask the lady in front of me for ID, I figured it was because she could've passed for 21. I, however, could've passed for 41, even in the soft light.

"ID?" he said to me as I stepped into the warmth.

I probably rolled my eyes as I reached into my pocket and fumbled for my South Carolina drivers license. It's always easy to find, what with the magenta strip of color across the top and bar code on the back. And yet.

"Um," I said, feeling like a 19-year-old Otis using the expired ID of a guy named Steve Ball to get into Shattered or get a drink at The Blue Note. "I guess I don't have it."

As it happened, a friend of mine knew the owner and I was sitting at the table with a hefeweizen in a matter of minutes.

"I think I lost my drivers license," I said over the din.

My brother feigned shock. "No!" he said, mouth wide open and a mocking hand covering it. "How could that happen?"

***

I think that most men have accepted that a wallet is merely a man-purse that can screw up the lumbar region. It's a receptacle for everything that Joe Average encounters in a given day--receipts, small bills, membership cards to the local warehouse store, small animals, and, if you're still single, phone numbers you will never call. The age of the Crackberry and PDA, however, have rendered much of the wallet's utility useless. We can collect things digitally now, and that means the days of Costanza Wallet should be behind us.

I gave up the wallet years ago, remarkably on my brother's suggestion. He carried a money clip and I saw no reason not to do the same. At the time, I wore a suit five days a week and my giant leather wallet had a hard time staying in the pants pocket. Moreover, I slung my jacket around enough that keeping a big wallet in the breast pocket was a no-go. At the time, it was difficult to pare my life down from everything I kept in my wallet to what could fit in the single pocket of a money clip. It took me nearly a year to get used to it. Eventually, though, I was a convert.

That's when I entered the poker world.

The poker world does not operate like much of polite society. One clear difference is the amount of money you have to carry at any given time. In polite society, if you were asked, "How much do you have on you?" you might say, "Twenty." For your future reference, saying that in the poker world means something other than it does standing in line at Wal-Mart. It's a world where twenty dollar bills are cumbersome and fifty dollar bills are unlucky. People routinely borrow hundreds if not thousands of dollars at a time on only a handshake. That is a long way of saying, when you're walking around Vegas, you're likely carrying more money than fits in a standard money clip.

Enter, the rubber band.

Now, maybe I started doing it as an affectation. However, I was carrying a lot of money at any given time and it was true that the amount wouldn't fit in the standard money clip. What's more, it was more money than I was going to carry in my back pocket where any pickpocket could snatch it. Regardless, before long, even when I wasn't carrying much money, I had resorted to using nothing but a rubber band to carry my cash, drivers license, and credit cards.

I liked it for so many reasons. Unlike a money clip, bills never slipped out. The roll fit perfectly in my front pocket and was always secured by the rubber band. If the rubber band broke, I simply got a new one for a cost of around ten cents. When playing poker two or three nights a week, it was easy to just throw my poker roll around my regular cash and be done with it.

My wife, however, hated it. At first, it was because I would often forget to take my poker money off the roll and I would end up pulling too much cash out of my pocket when were out and about. That was justified. However, her disapproval developed into a full-blown disdain even after I reduced my walking around money to a couple hundred bucks at a time. She hated the rubber band, and, if I was catching her drift, everything it represented. She found a companion in my brother, who upon the loss of my drivers license launched into full mocking mode. "How could it happen?" he would say. "You have such a great system going here!"

It was, in a word, disheartening.

***

It may have been denial, but I delayed going to the DMV to get a new license. Every once in a while, I would stretch the rubber band out and peek inside the cards for the tell-tale magenta strip. Of course, it wasn't there. In fact, the last time I could remember seeing it, I was in the line for security at McCarran International. They let me on the plane, so, I guess I had it long enough to make it to the terminal. After that, however, it was MIA and no amount of rubber band stretching was going to change that.

And so, for the better part of two months, I walked around without a drivers license. When going somewhere where I thought there would be a chance some young punk would try to card me, I would carry my passport.

"That is so pretentious," the wife said to me one night as we prepared to head out to American Grocery. She refused to explain herself any further, but merely looked on me with bemusement when I put my passport in my pocket.

After dinner, we headed out to Liberty Taproom for a drink. Sure enough, two guys with a great future as security guards stood sentry at the door.

"ID?" they said.

I handed them my passport and said, "My wife thinks this is pretentious." They waved me in, and I swear, as the door closed behind me, I heard them laughing.

***

Late last week, I sucked it up and went to the DMV for a new license. Technology, such as it is, allows for me to get a duplicate license without having to pose for a new picture. The lady at the counter reached across with a picture of a younger me. It was a guy who still carried a money clip, who didn't have graying hair, and who didn't have as many wrinkles around his eyes.

"Didn't you used to be on TV?" the woman asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I did, but that was a long time ago."

But now, I am the Rubber Band Man, I thought, and walked toward the door. As I stepped into the sunlight, I slipped the drivers license into a fold of bills and protected it with a perfect, soul-soothing snap.

Labels: Gambling, Poker

(Las Vegas, NV) She's an Asian woman who doesn't speak a ton of English, but I imagine her conversation in the housekeeping room of my floor goes like this.

Housekeeper #1: The boy in 012, he sick boy. He have problem.
Housekeeper #2: It's Vegas, everybody has problems.
Housekeeper #1: No, he sick boy! He masturbates! He cokehead! All day long!

I couldn't blame her for making the assumption that I'm a chronic masturbator and hooked on coke. On days when I can't clean up my room before I run out to work, I leave behind at least one empty bottle of lotion and a Kleenex that may or may not contain evidence of a nosebleed. There are days I should just keep the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.

The simple fact is, the evidence is confusing. I'm too tired to pleasure myself, and I don't use cocaine (the one thing I don't need in my life is another addiction). In truth, no matter how much water I drink, I can't stay hydrated. No matter if I drink no booze for 48 hours, I can't stay hydrated. The result is lizard-like skin and frequent nosebleeds. Nothing I can do.

This is not for a great effort to remain healthy in an environment that caters to being as unhealthy as possible. I'm even betting on how healthy I can be.

The main source of food during the 16-hour workdays here is something they call The Poker Kitchen. Cold food involves wraps and salads. Hot food ranges from burgers to stromboli. Last year, I pretty much ate one piece of over-cooked pizza a day. This year, my first day on the ground, I accepted a bet from Pauly that I couldn't last the full seven weeks without eating a slice. To this moment, I'm good. However, this is the first day I have been tempted.

I'm $30 to the good in what Pauly calls "Throwing Things" prop bets, in which one or the other of us tosses something (water bottles, matchbooks, a Milwaukee's Best show girl) into a container. Also so far this year, I have accepted no prop bets that require me eating or drinking anything. Last year, I made hundreds of dollars on those (note: crayons are easier than daiquiris and crackers).

In a dream world, I could set up a staged scenario in which the housekeeper walks in on me, Pauly, and six of our friends from South America. The room would be a snowstorm of cocaine and an oil slick of Jergens.

My first question to the maid would be, "Would you eat two Keno crayons for $400?"

"You sick boy! Sick boy!"'

Labels: Gambling, Las Vegas, Poker, Travel

It's a whirlwind trip from Vegas to home and back. I've done almost as much work from home as I would've done on the road. On the plus side, I've taken my kid to the park, to the movies, out to eat, and for ice cream. I've tucked him in for two consecutive nights and read him a book about pirates. All of these things are better than eating a half-cooked panini while I watch people play poker.

Rather than wax and wane, I figure I'll get back to what I'm doing and pimp Pauly's 'zine Truckin. He was kind enough to ask me to submit something for his fifth anniversary edition. At first, I didn't think I had anything for him. Then I happened across three seemingly unrelated things I've written here over the years. I tweaked them a little bit and realized they sort of fit together. I ended up calling the short collection: Three Men Leaving.

Now, back to the pirates.

Labels: Pimping, Poker

(Las Vegas, Nevada)--I'd just accepted the fact that I wasn't going to eat for another ten hours when the pilot said Las Vegas temperatures were registering at 100 degrees. I was already steaming because the frail young steward wanted to charge me $3 for a bag of chips. What I didn't say--but wanted to--was "You know, I paid $25 for a cheeseburger in Monte Carlo. But, I'm not about to give you $3 for a bag of Lay's."

It didn't make sense to me, either. I'd been up for too long after sleeping too little.

One hundred degrees feels different in a 25 mph wind. It dries out your eyes and nostrils in about 30 seconds. By the time you make it into the cab with the Ukrainian taxi driver, the smell of air conditioned body odor is almost welcome.

"Rio," I said.

"How are you?" the driver said, his accent as thick as his moustache.

"Good. You?"

"Working," he said, like he was Atlas and the world had just borne another billion.

"I'm here to work, too," I said, hoping my empathy would ease whatever pressure he was feeling.

"There is a difference," he said. And then, almost to himself, "Pussies come out for a meeting..."

The Rio is purple, garnet, and blue, set against the Nevada mountains. The haze of scorched air and smog makes it look like a desert mirage. From the back seat of a 90 mph cab, it looks like the only thing on the horizon. And for me, it really is.

This place is the same as it ever was. The waitresses still know what we want to drink. The food in the diner is still the same. The view of the Gold Coast next door is only slightly lower, a product of ending up on the fourth floor instead of somewhere higher.

I didn't bother explaining to the cabbie that, regardless of whether I was a pussy, that I wasn't here for a meeting. I was here for the World Series of Poker.

And that's how things being here...a Ukrainian guy calling me a pussy and me trying to find a way to prove him wrong. I've been awake for 21 hours now, after sleeping for just a few.

I feel, oddly, at peace with my assignment and the prospects of the next few months.

That, friends, is how I jinx myself.

Labels: Poker, Travel

It was midnight when my phone rang. I had just put in a live straddle and was leaned back in my chair waiting for the action to get to me. For those not familiar with the straddle, it is a blind bet you make in a poker game to induce more action and up the stakes a little bit. When putting this kind of bet in, it's usually a good idea the stick around for a while. Otherwise, you've wasted the bet.

I looked at the caller ID. It read, "Home."

It had only been a couple hours since my wife had told me to play without guilt, to have a good time, to not worry about her and the kid. It was the first guilt-free poker session I'd had in a long time. I was losing, but still had several hours to get even and win some money for the night. Hence, the straddle bet.

"Home," it read.

Fuck.

I answered quickly. Before I could say much, the wife said, "I need you to come home now." Apparently the kid was sick.

I looked down at my straddle bet and bid it goodbye. I was wearing my jacket and standing before the wife was done talking.

I calculated the time it would take me to get home. It would be about ten minutes.

"I'll be home in--" I started.

"Now!" the wife said.

Rather than belabor the subject and let her know I was leaving NOW, I cashed out and headed for the house.

***

The surest way to test one's immune system is to become a parent. I spent most of Saturday night serving as a human buffer between various comforters and my son's projectile vomiting. Obviously, it wouldn't be long before the germs worked their way in.

Despite what some people may have you believe, I have a pretty solid immune system. However, becoming a father has introduced me to entirely new strains of bugs and viruses to which I apparently have little to no immunity.

I will not describe the last 48 hours. It's best left to your imagination, a place that--no matter how creative--could not possibly grasp how bad it's actually been. How bad was it?

Well, I'll put it this way. After being pulled away from the game prematurely on Saturday, I was looking forward to playing poker on Monday night. That particular game didn't happen, and so it would be Tuesday night. I had grand plans. It would be drinks and appetizers with the boys at 5pm and to the card room by 7pm. The first round of ugliness started at 12:30pm. I told myself I would be fine. One little nap, I said, and I'd be ready to go.

By 4:30pm, my cell phone was ringing and I couldn't get up to answer it. I moaned from my bed, "Just tell them I'm not going to make it." I didn't know if I meant I wasn't going to make it to the game or that I just wasn't...going...to...make it.

***

No amount of Gatorade, Gingerale, Pepto, or even water can fix this. Even now, almost 24 hours since I last thought I might be dying (or, in the alternative, that my wife had slipped me some hemlock), I am not sure I'm fit for public view. I managed to shower, take a conference call, and finish up some third quarter budgeting. Beyond that, I'm functioning just well enough to watch an interview with Wes Craven. I might watch something else, but I don't have the strength to lift the remote.

Update: At the end of Craven interview, he talked about trying to break into the film business. He said...

"You have to believe in yourself. Usually if you have a passion for something, it will happen. You have to be willing take great risks and put everything else at stake. It's like one big poker game. You have to put it all on the table."

I can't help but wonder whether Craven knew I'd be watching and writing about poker at the same time, or whether poker has become such a popular part of our culture that it was just inevitable that someone would mention poker while I was writing.

Labels: Parenting, Poker

Taking time away from my duties isn't necessarily verboten, but it ain't really the kind of thing a worker bee should be doing on a regular basis. But, with one 17-hour day behind me and another in progress, I thought a few minutes to set the scene was warranted.

I sit in a giant mirrored room with a constelllation ceiling and a purple, underlit dance floor. The Monte Carlo skyline shines through the floor to ceiling two-story windows. Thirty yards from me, a group of ten people are negotiating the start of a $25,000 game in which one of them stands to win about $150,000 for a couple hours work. The room is a mix of French perfume, poker players' body odor, beer, and tension. It's nearly midnight, a good four hours before players will call it quits for the night. The bulk of the people here are competing for a first prize that will eclipse $2 million American. Players range in age from 18 to near 80. Occasinally, a poker wife will push a pram through, a newborn cooing along with the hum of the crowd. Big-busted massage therapists dig into the taut muscles of road-weary players. In this room are people who gamble for $100 at a pop and guys who I have seen with a quarter million in real money chips in front of them at any given time.

Sometimes, in the middle of $25 cheeseburgers, $30 beers, and $35 scrambled eggs and bacon, it's easy to lose sigh of reality. I've fared pretty well so far this trip, hiding in my room when not working, staying sober, and trying to eat best I can. Still, it's a life that can suck you in fast. I should know. I've been sucked in and spit out more times than I can count.

The good thing is, there are a lot of good people and good friends around. Most of them are working harder than they are playing and that usually is a good indication of a person's life ethic. Among those friends is my buddy Pauly. He's running the show over at a poker news site and doing a bang-up job, despite an arm that won't stop hurting (I suggested he start pleasuring himself with the left...hear it feels like a stranger) and a newfound distaste for the extravagance. Over the many months we've spent on the road, I have taken many pictures of the guy. Never, and I mean never, does he fail to put something between him and the lens. And it's always the same thing. I may start calling him Birdman. Or Pauly Fingers.



Note: I avoided the squid and tomatoes at dinner and I'm glad I did.

Labels: Poker, Travel

I was odd to be alone in a place so big. The Atlantis Resort and Casino on Paradise Island in the Bahamas is a sprawling mini-city. It reeks of such opulence and excess that one often will find himself simultaneously wishing for riches and hoping that bastard billionaire's yacht will sink under the weight of his wife's fake breasts.

I'm told the Bahamians view people like me (read: white, average-looking Americans) as all wealthy, and by extension, worthy of a disdain. Taking the non-scenic routes from the Nassau airport to the Paradise Island bridge will help most people understand. A great deal of Nassasu looks like a Third World shantytown. Wrecked cars sit in dirty lots next to Junkanoo floats left over from the last parade.

It's a messed up dynamic. The island survives on tourism dollars. The island's people resent the riches of the people who spend the tourism dollars. The people spending the tourism dollars resent the resentment.

The circle of resentment makes for tightlipped smiles as the waitresses serve your drinks and food that is never really served in a timely fashion. It also, like other island nations I've visited, makes one feel like they are being watched everywhere they go.

And when a large, dark, Bahamian man confronts you when you're alone, the first thing you do is swallow your balls out of your throat and remember you're actually in what at least reports itself as a five-star resort. Chances are you're not about to get rolled.

***

It was one of those nights that are all too common for the media on the poker circuit. The job, by it nature, requires you to witness all that happens and then report on it. Unlike those people who enjoy day's end when the day, in fact, ends, the poker media often spend another couple of hours in some hotel conference room, editing tape, trying to find a new way to write the same old story, or convincing their bosses that they are, in fact, doing all they can do. I'm not even part of the traditional poker media (which means, by and large, I'm viewed with suspicion and, sometimes, animosity). That said, my hours are the same and I often end up in the same bars with the bleary-eyed souls who spend their lives on the road.

You look around the booths and bar stools and you see the same faces you've seen in different parts of the world. There is the guy who always drinks too much, the guy who refues to drink at all, the guy who is showing off pictures of his wife and family, the guy who is cheating on his wife, and the whole assortment of people who have, either by choice or by circumstance, ended up in the traveling circus that is the professional poker circuit.

The people have been around. We've all been around. We've dodged the hookers, hustled the hustlers, listened to the lies, and told a few ourselves. We're the real outsiders here. We're not from the island, we're not rich tourists, and we're not the people fighting for the $1.5 million first prize.

I was on my way to the bar after another 15-hour workday. It was way past the witching hour and I only wanted to remember which of the hallways to take to make it to the casino bar. That's when an previously unseen door opeened and the huge Bahamian came out of nowhere.

"Taxi?" he asked.

I looked around. I was the only one there. And I was nowhere near the taxi stand.

"Not me," I said, assuming someone had called for a cab and this guy was here to pick them up. I kept my pace as I put him behind me.

"Partying?" I heard from behind me.

Now I knew what was up. This guy may have been a cabbie, but he was more. He was one of countless people in places like this who can get you want. A simple query of "partying?" is a quick and subtle way of asking if you need drugs--weed, coke, or whatever else you might want to put in your body.

"Nah," I muttered and gave the guy a goodbye wave. I've been offered drugs from Dead shows, to New Orleans, to Las Vegas. This was nothing new.

I'd made it just to the edge of earshot when I heard the guy's final appeal.

"Titty bar?"

I turned around, said nothing, and then walked away.

No way in hell, sir.

***

This is how people get themselves in trouble. In resort towns, especially those with casinos, people walk around with large amounts of cash in their pockets. I am rarely an exception. It gets to the point that you forget you're carrying more money in your pocket than most people you see will make that month. You lose a little bit of that street sense that has kept you from getting in trouble your entire life.

I remember one night in Las Vegas. I had about $3,000 in my pocket and was bored out of my mind. I'd been staying at the Rio for several weeks and was getting claustrophobic. I decided to take a walk. Before I realized it, I was walking toward the Las Vegas Strip, a walk that would force me to hump 3/4 of a mile through some very unlit areas. The lightbulb eventually lit up in my head with a simple "What in the hell are you doing?" I turned around and walked back to my hotel.

That said, the Atlantis is not a place where you feel unsafe. Despite offers of drug-addled taxi rides to the strip club across the bridge, the chances of getting jumped for your roll are are pretty slim. Even the Bahamian taxi guy didn't spook me. It's just a product of money and vice being in close proximity.

***

As I walked toward the casino bar, I tried to imagine who would have accepted the offer I'd just received. I'd later learn that my wife--already about six drinks ahead of me--had run into the same guy. He'd only offered her the taxi or drugs. Regardless, that meant the dude had been working the same door for the past couple of hours.

So, who then? And what would become of them? I figured the average person walking around this 937-strong poker players convention was walking around with $3000-$4000 in their pocket. If only one of them signed up for the ride, it would make the taxi guy's night. The taxi ride mimght seem cheap at first. And maybe even the drugs would be cheap. But once across the bridge and into the darker corners of downtown Nassau, the price would certainly go up. And by how much? I've never been to a strip club in a foreign country, but my assumption is that they are somewhat less safe than the clubs in America (which, frankly, is not saying much).

The only thing I knew for sure was that going anywhere with that guy--especially alone--would likely end up with me broke in a foreign country and walking back across the Paradise Island bridge...if I could walk at all.

***

My counterparts at the bar were way ahead of me and playing a game based on the American pronounciation of the world "herb." The Brits hate that we drop the "h" and were being none-too-quiet about the audacity of Americans.

I related my tale of the one quiet place in Atlantis where a man would offer you a taxi, drugs, and a titty bar in one short conversation. Suddenly, the Brits were quiet.

"Pray tell, where is this magic door?"

And then they laughed. Because even drunk Brits who pronounced shallot as "shallOUGHT" aren't dumb enough to go across the bridge.

Titty bar or not.

Labels: Drinking, Poker, Travel

I can't remember where I read it, but for some reason I believe that Adolf Hitler was so concerned about potential body odor that he went to extreme measures (I think it was surgery) to alleviate perspiration. Of course, I may be making this all up. All I know is that about ten days ago, I was thinking about Hitler as I walked down the Las Vegas Strip.

It was warm that day and I'd just inhaled some lettuce wraps from P.F. Changs. It was a short walk to the MGM Grand, but by the time we were halfway there, I was sweating.

"Motherfucker," I muttered under my breath. The expletive was fine. Some people may say Vegas is a family town, but, the way I looked at it, if my friends can get rolled by a hooker and wheelchaired back to their hotel suites in this family town without a blink from the Convention and Visitors Bureau, I can mutter a curse word under my breath without fear of reprisal. Hence, "motherfucker."

I have a bit of a paranoia about how I smell. I rarely wear any scent, prefering just to smell clean. The last thing I want, however, is for my deodorant to fail me on any given day. I've spent years finding the perfect antiperspirant/deodorant combination. Without it, I fear that, in short, I might smell bad at any moment.

On this particular day, my hurry to get to the MGM poker room made me forget the third step in my post-shower ritual. Not sure how it happened, but I blame the Transportation Security Administration's 3-1-1 War on Moisture. My Right Guard Clear Stick Antiperspirant Deodorant was in a one quart bag and not right in front of me. It didn't make it to my pits, which, in my estimation, was the pits. Or something.

Now, I was already sweating and my day had barely begun. Walking back to the Aladdin to re-shower and apply the necessary product was an option, but in light of the limited time I had to play that day, I didn't see a trip back to the hotel room as a viable solution. I decided I would stop in at the gift shop in the West Wing of the MGM and buy whatever they had there. As the West Wing is a decent section of the MGM, I had high hopes. Cost be damned, I said.

Well, cost at least be slapped around a little bit, because as I was announcing the problem to my walking mates, they began betting on how much I was going to pay to not smell bad all day long. Somebody set the line at $5.00 (around twice the going rate for my regular product). I can't remember who took what side, but I was hoping whoever took the "over" on the line would trip over a curb and land in a puddle of my sweat.

The sundries shop in the West Wing is right inside the back doors where we normally walk in. Within seconds of hitting the conditioned air, I was looking at the appropriate sundry shelf.

"Motherfucker," I muttered again, this time a little louder and in the direction of the chick behind the counter. "This is all you have?"

She nodded.

The only male deodorant on the shelf was none other than original scent Speed Stick (by Mennen!). There were so many problems with this, I almost walked out and went back to my hotel. First, it was only deodorant and not antiperspirant, which means I was going to be sweating down my sides all day long, the sexy bitch that I am. Second, it was fucking Speed Stick, which meant, regardless of whether I was sweating, I was going to smell like a guy I lived with in college who swore by Mennen products. Third, the container cost $5.05.

"Motherfucker."

By and by, though, I stood in the men's room, at a urinal no less, applying Speed Stick to my pits. The smell hit me like several years of college at once. Anyone standing within a three-foot radius of my arms knew I was wearing Speed Stick. It's one of the most distinctive male products on the market. The only thing that would've been more obvious would be wearing Aqua Velva. Or a toupee.

But, poker player I am, I persevered and made it through the day. Sure, I occasionally muttered profanity and declared to anyone who listened that I smelled like a specific college roommate. But, after five hours or so, I got used to the smell. It was like home. A very, very smelly home.

The unfortunate smell lasted the better part of the afternoon and until I could get back to the room to clean up for the dinner mentioned in the previous post. Finally I was able to smell like I wanted and get rid of the college smell.

Or so I thought.

My wife is the queen of laundry. If I could find a crown made of dryer sheets and clothes hangers, I would put it on her head. She can get get stains out of mud pies. As for smells, something with which the mother of a toddler is quite familiar, she is an expert in stink removal.

Which made it all the more surprising when I put on one of my favorite t-shirts yesterday morning and realized that I just didn't like the way I smelled.

Somehow, through some fucked up quirk of science, the Speed Stick smell had managed to live through Vegas, a plane trip, a week in the hamper, a wash, a dry cycle with a Bounce Febreze Fresh Scent sheet, and a couple days in my closet.

Now, there's a part of me that has to applaud Mennen for producing a product that can apparently survive nuclear winter and the second coming of Christ. I mean, that takes some serious science. Still, there's another part of me, a part that is exceptionally sensitive in the olfactory area, that just wants his shirt back.

I'm not sure I can beat the science, though. Even Hitler would be impressed.

Labels: Hygiene, Poker, Travel