Drink, Play, F@#k

by Andrew Gottlieb

  The helicopter whisked us back to Vegas. We said goodbye to the girls. Even in my sexually disinterested emotional lethargy, I managed to make out briefly with the pretty waitress’s pretty friend. Then Rick and I headed back to the Bellagio for an evening of debauched gambling.

  As I got into the elevator to head up to my room to change, three middle-aged women entered behind me. I overheard them complaining about the convention for which they’d come to town. They were not pleased about it.

  The tallest one of the three whose face kind of resembled a schnauzer said to her two friends (whose faces resembled other, slightly more attractive breeds), “What were they thinking, holding this convention in Las Vegas? Ugh—this place is the antithesis of spirituality.”

  Right there I threw up a little in my mouth. Apparently they owned a company that sold yoga DVDs or yoga clothes or something like that. They were meeting like-minded spiritual types to talk about growth and wholeness and finding your center. I’m sure they were also hoping to sell a whole lot of yoga DVDs or yoga clothes or whatever while they were there. All I know is that all three of them were carrying those little rolled-up yoga mats that the yoga people always tote around with them. But these yoga mats were made by Marc Jacobs—it said so right on the label! They probably cost a thousand dollars each. Overpriced, high-fashion yoga mats for snooty, self-obsessed yoga broads. And they were complaining that Las Vegas is the antithesis of spirituality.

  Somehow the world’s fastest elevator took forever that trip. Some little kid got on and pushed a thousand buttons. Then the three ladies couldn’t remember which floor they were each on. The fates were trying hard to harsh my mellow—but I was too strong for them. My beatific day trumped their negativity and small-mindedness. I forced down my rising gorge and pleasantly bid them adieu as they left. Honestly. I actually said to them, “Adieu, ladies!” At least I got a chuckle out of it.

  After I’d showered and changed, I met Rick down in the sports book to implement a bold new plan that we had been talking about recently. Our sassy idea was for one night to bet only trifectas. And we weren’t just talking about horse racing. We decided to maximize our potential profits through the roof by bunching all of our bets into conjoined threesomes. We weren’t just going to pick the Yankees to win, for example. We’d parlay that Yankee win with a Dodger win and a Cubs win. It would be one bet with three outcomes. If any of the teams didn’t win, then the whole bet was off. But if all three teams won, then the three-way bet paid off at an exorbitant rate.

  Rick and I pooled our accumulated information. Then we pooled our accumulated sense of feel. In truth, he added a lot more to both pools. But, by this point, I had become pretty adept at getting the info, and then not letting it get in my way. I had a vibe on some games. And I picked two horse-racing trifectas that I felt good about too. We were stomping around the sports book talking to the regulars and telling everyone who would listen about our bold new scheme. Some of them made fun of us. Some of them jumped on our action. One of them bought us a round of drinks. Then I returned the favor. Everyone was in a good mood.

  As we settled down to watch the mind-numbing multitude of events that were happening simultaneously on the myriad big screens, I felt completely content. I didn’t even care if I won or lost the bets because it was so clear to me that I had already won. In one day I had already shot the low round of my life on a beautiful golf course, I had witnessed one of the most stunning sights on the planet, I had kissed a hot Vegas hoochie, and now I was throwing back shots of Bushmills while a thousand games flashed before my eyes. It had turned out to be a pretty great day.

  The pretty great day turned into an absolutely great night because we won almost every trifecta we played. It was crazy. And it wasn’t because we were so smart or our feel was so powerful. We just stumbled into one of those runs of good luck that has to be experienced to be appreciated. And, believe me, we appreciated the hell out of it. Maybe we laid out a total of two thousand dollars in initial wagers. By the time the evening was almost over, we must have taken in around fifty thousand dollars. We were heroes at the sports book. At one point some visiting frat brothers from Ohio State who had piggybacked a winning trifecta I picked at Saratoga actually lifted me onto their shoulders and carried me around the room.

  Our last wager of the night was our biggest one yet—we had invested our whole trifecta-derived bankroll into one superparlay. We were betting three different events in three different continents in three different sports (American harness racing, Japanese professional soccer, and Australian-rules football). The atmosphere in the room was electric as we won the first two propositions. The crowd was behind us, cheering us on to break the bank. We didn’t even know the rules to Australian-rules football, and we still had a blast watching the action beamed across the planet to the Bellagio’s satellite receptors. Everything was on the line in the final game, and we were about to win. But at the last second, a botched torpedo punt resulted in the visiting team scoring a behind (whatever the hell all that was supposed to mean) and we lost the whole damned bet. All of the night’s winnings were wiped out in a single blow.

  The crowd was stunned. They thought we’d go berserk. We’d been so close to some serious cash, only to see it all evaporate. We had just lost everything—the brutal nut punch that all gamblers dread. It was time to start hurling chairs and cold-cocking pit bosses. But Rick and I looked at each other and just started laughing. We were both thinking the same thing—Vegas math. Sure, we just blew around fifty thousand bucks. But in sheer Vegas math numbers we were still up huge for the day. I’d say that in terms of raw fun-to-dollars, I was ahead at least a quarter million bones.

  The sports book closed, but the party didn’t stop. We all moved to the tables. I was running around making crazy bets with the few chips I had left. I won some, lost some—who knows what happened exactly? I know I did many flaming Apple Passion shots, and I think I did a handstand in between the dancing fountains. By three in the morning, I was so tired and drunk and exhilarated that I could barely walk. I said good night to everyone—about half of them insisted on hugging me—and headed for my room.

  I dragged myself into my suite and collapsed on my bed. I hadn’t closed the Super Shades so the lights of the Strip filled my room. At three in the morning it looked like the universe had been flipped upside down. The sky was black but the ground was full of stars. I could have pressed the button by my bedside that automatically closed the shades, but I decided to sleep with them open. Let the stars shine, I thought. Life is good.

  24

  Just like in Ireland, I somehow sensed that the end of my stay was close at hand. I wasn’t being kicked out of my hotel room or anything. And I still didn’t have any firm plans for what I’d do next. But I could just tell that it was time to move on. I began to contemplate the next phase of my adventure. I had drunk my fill in Ireland. Now I was playing like a blissful, conscienceless reprobate in Vegas. What should I do now? What was I missing?

  For some reason, my first thought was Alicia. But why would I be missing a documentary filmmaker I’d met only once—even if she was extremely cute, funny, and charismatic? I pushed her out of my mind—no point in obsessing over missed opportunities. I forged ahead with my checklist of things I needed to accomplish.

  I still didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, but I had really stopped caring about that by now. Rick had taught me how to play craps, and I was enjoying that greatly. I especially liked pressing all the Hard Ways, playing the Hi-Lo, and hitting a $20 Yo. Seriously, the craps vocabulary is one of the greatest inventions in the history of the universe. Every time I roll the bones now I feel like I’m in a Damon Runyon short story. I may look into changing my name to Nicely-Nicely.

  But I knew there was still something missing—something that needed to be addressed in the remaining four months of my yearlong extravaganza. And then the answer leapt out at me. I suddenly realized that what was missing was sex. Maybe not just sex, but intimacy
, tenderness—you know—girls. I was just about through with this extended bout of celibacy first caused by my wife’s lack of affection, then by her lack of not having sex with someone named David, then by the emotional coma she had left me in.

  It’s hard for people to believe but I really just hadn’t been that interested in sex during my time away. Sure there was a drunken flirtation with Giovanna and a bunch of other sexy, boozed-up floozies in the bars of Ireland. Then there was my mini make-out session with the Grand Canyon girl. And Lord knows that Vegas is filled with stunning women who miraculously appear every time you hit it big at the tables. But I just never had that overwhelming urge to do anything about it. Of course when I was on my own I did something about it from time to time. But that’s a private matter that will never be referred to again. The larger issue is that whatever the hell had gone wrong with my wife had left me romantically shell-shocked. Aside from my afternoon with Alicia, I could barely remember a single significant potentially romantic interaction that I’d had with a woman in the past seven months. Jesus—had it really been seven months already?

  I took it as a good and healthy sign that I was starting to give serious thought to breaking that ugly streak. But how, where, when, and with whom should I go streak breaking? I decided to ask Rick’s advice. If you can’t get an opinion on sex from your personal guru, then what good is he?

  True to form, Rick had many opinions on sex. His primary opinion was that he liked it. Rick had not been in an emotional coma while in Vegas. Frankly, I’m surprised that he wasn’t in a coma-coma while in Vegas because the dude was banging constantly. But he was never sleazy or hypocritical about it. If he met a nice lady and they hit if off, one thing would lead to another. Sometimes they hung out for a while. Sometimes it was just a one night thing. But they were both just having fun and enjoying each other. I could sense that he respected my lack of involvement in this arena. He knew that when the time was right, I’d be ready. I told him that I was ready.

  “It’s about fucking time! I was worried you were turning into a eunuch.”

  Perhaps respect was too strong a word. Still, he didn’t bust my balls about it; he just had some sound advice.

  “Okay, first things first—do not ever go to a hooker.”

  I assured him that I was not about to go to a hooker. That was something I never had even the most remote interest in pursuing.

  “Good. So number one is you’re not going to any hookers. Number two is, you’re going to Thailand.”

  I was confused. This seemed to be contradictory advice. If he didn’t want me seeing any hookers, then why was he suggesting I visit the universal epicenter for prostitution?

  “Bobby, have I ever steered you wrong?”

  I was tempted to mention the time that he accidentally drove our golf cart into a drainage ditch, but I refrained. For the most part, his guidance was so helpful that I wondered why he hadn’t recorded a self-help DVD. I told him as much.

  “Thanks, man. So here’s the deal. What you need isn’t just sex. What you need is to wallow in pleasure for a change—pure, physical pleasure. This Vegas thing has been about fun and risk and play—and that’s great. But you’ve spent your whole life doing the right thing, being the responsible one, taking care of everyone else. Now it’s your turn to just lie back and soak up the things that make us human beings feel the best. I’m talking about sunshine, warm ocean water, soft sandy beaches, hammocks swaying in the breeze, morning dew glistening on a bowl of fresh-cut papaya. And yeah, I’m talking about sex—but only if the situation leads there naturally, romantically.”

  I pointed out that it sounded like he was talking about sending me to Fantasy Island.

  “I am. Only it’s not an island. It’s an isthmus.”

  “Fantasy Isthmus?” I wondered aloud.

  “No, Bobby. Krabi isthmus on the west coast of Thailand.”

  And that was that. I didn’t need any more information or analysis. Rick said I should go to the Krabi isthmus on the west coast of Thailand, and I decided to go to Krabi isthmus on the west coast of Thailand. It sounded right. It felt right. Would I get laid there? Would I find love there? Would I get kidnapped by drug traffickers and forced to work as a heroin mule? Only time would tell. But I was ready and eager to find out.

  Book Three

  Thailand

  or

  “There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

  —Henry David Thoreau

  or

  12 Tales About Chasing Tail

  25

  Rick has spent quite a bit of time in the Far East over the years.

  Rick has spent quite a bit of time pretty much everywhere. Apparently, if you’re a good enough personal trainer, word gets out there and wealthy people who are eager to get into shape will fly you around the globe to whack their glutes. Rick shared a great deal of his knowledge of Thailand—and Krabi in particular—with me. But we didn’t have a lot of time before I left, so my education was incomplete. If you plan on traveling to Thailand there are many things that you should know, things Rick never got around to filling me in on. I will tell you some of these things—even though I had to learn them the hard way.

  1) If you’re in Las Vegas, and you suddenly get the overwhelming desire to visit the Krabi isthmus, prepare yourself for an insanely long trip. I had to fly from Vegas to LA, from LA to Taipei, from Taipei to Bangkok, from Bangkok to Phuket, and finally I hopped on the ferry from Phuket to Krabi. All in all, it took me infinity hours. And that’s not even factoring in the time change.

  2) Just because you’ve been in a hot place like Las Vegas for four months, that doesn’t mean you know squat about hot. Thailand is hot. Thailand is really hot. Thailand is like Vegas if there was a gigantic radiator just outside of Vegas leaking steamy-hot jungle vapor all over town all the time forever. And the air-conditioning is either terrible or nonexistent. That said, after a day or two of the intense moist warmth, it penetrated my whole system and I actually started to like it. That tropical vibe seeped into my soul. I felt like Fletcher Christian when he and the crew of the Bounty spent all that time in Tahiti and everybody “went native.” (For the record, I like to think of myself as the Marlon Brando Fletcher Christian, not the Mel Gibson version.)

  3) If someone wais you, wai them back. For the uninitiated out there, in Thailand the traditional form of un-spoken greeting isn’t a wave, or a wink, or a handshake, or a high five—it’s the wai. That’s where you put your palms together in front of your chest and bow your head in deference to the person whom you’re greeting. I’ll never forget the first time I got wai-ed. I had just gotten off the plane from Vegas in Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok. (Suvarnabhumi is an extremely oddly named airport, but it still runs a distant second to Dublin’s Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath.) As I approached a young man at the information counter, he gently placed his hands together and bowed his head. It looked like something straight out of a Bruce Lee movie. I swear to God, I thought he was goofing with me. Perhaps I was overcome with jet lag and addled by fatigue but I actually made a gong sound and asked to see his Shaolin master. After explaining that kung fu was Chinese not Thai, the young man went on to inform me that in Thailand the wai is a respectful greeting. Not to return a wai is disrespectful. To respond to a wai with racist humor goes beyond disrespectful—it’s a good way to get your ass kicked. I apologized profusely and asked for directions to my connecting flight. To his credit, the young man gave me those directions and chose not to kick my ass.

  4) While we’re on the subject of racism, I have another comment to make that might sound racist but really isn’t: Asians do not like to wait on line. At least the Asians with whom I interacted didn’t. I first discovered this as I crossed the tarmac to board the flight from Bangkok to Phuket, but this observation was later corroborated at every possible instance where line waiting would normally have been called for. In my four months in Thailand, no one ever waited in line voluntarily. As everyone left the main airport
terminal, the narrow doorway created a natural and orderly single file. But as soon as we were outside, there was a mad swarm to reach the bottom of the movable staircase that led up to the plane. The throng was in such a rush to push forward to get on the plane faster that it ended up taking around five times longer to get everyone on the plane than it would have if we’d just kept that single file going. The disorganized melee didn’t upset anyone. No one started yelling or throwing fists like they would have in America if chaos like that broke out. They just had absolutely no intention of waiting in line. In fact, the only people who had any interest in maintaining the line were me and another American guy named Peter.

  While Peter and I hung back and let the lunacy sort itself out, we got to talking. Peter was originally from Iowa but had moved to Los Angeles after college. He was going to go to graduate school, but couldn’t get in, and couldn’t have afforded it even if he had gotten in. Then he decided to be an actor, but he was terrible and couldn’t get any work. He found himself in a strange town with no money, no connections, no plan for the future, and no marketable skills. So he became a writer. As he explains it, he had so little confidence in his ability to actually write anything that anyone would ever want to read that he decided to write TV sitcoms. And, since he had killed off most of his brain cells smoking pot and drinking beer, and had absolutely no interest in literature, art, or culture of any kind, he became an incredibly successful sitcom writer.

  Peter actually created two hugely popular TV comedies that I can’t name here for fear of being sued. As he tells it, he got fired from each hit show. Unlike in the real world, getting fired in Hollywood is, apparently, a wonderful thing. They paid him massive sums of money to go away, and then whoever took over made the shows even more successful. Since he created the shows and owned a big piece of them, he was the one who made the most money when they were sold into syndication. In essence, he got two huge paydays without really having to do any of the hard work.