Friday, May 29th, 2009, 11:43 pm
When I returned home from the World Series last year I planned on making two major purchases. Number one was a new car, as my 11-year-old Cavalier was on it’s last whitewalls and wasn’t much help in dragging chicks. And after about six weeks of tire-kicking I made the kill, buying my beloved Altima (I weep to think I won’t pilot her for seven more weeks).
The other big-ticket item I needed was a bed. My current bed is a hand-me-down from my ex-wife’s aunt–a word to the wise, when your soon-to-be-former spouse magnanimously offers to let you keep your marriage bed, heads up, ’cause you’re getting played. She bought a brand-new bed, while I got stuck with a shot mattress and a box spring that creaks in anguish if I so much as toss a magazine on it. Yeah, she was always a lot quicker on the draw than me.
Anyway, for some reason I never bought a new bed. Found one I liked, tried it out, even cleared out the stuff I stored under the bed for that happy day when the delivery men carted it away. But I never made the kill. I always found an excuse to keep the old one–it wasn’t THAT lopsided, it didn’t list THAT far to the left, my back and hip problems hadn’t landed me in a wheelchair YET. I bought a couch instead, figuring that my nocturnal comfort was less important than keeping my guests from having to sit on the floor. Unselfish, that’s me.
ANYWAY, when I got back to the MGM last night I was draggin’ ass. It was around 2am (5am Pittsburgh time) and I still had that tickle in my throat and a slight headache. I hauled my gear down the endless hallway to my room and dumped it on the floor as soon as possible. Pulled out the contacts, pulled on a T-shirt, pulled back the covers and slipped into bed.
And, Jesus, said bed was just INCREDIBLY comfy. “Aw, (expletive deleted) yeahhh!!!” I groaned as every ache and pain in my dilapidated body floated away. Sleeping on a firm mattress, a mattress that doesn’t have the same topography as a Scottish golf course, has been heavenly. And fantabulous beds are one of the little benefits of this strange gig of mine. I remember the bed at my hotel in Costa Rica was fantastic, and the pillows were encased in a silky golden fabric that both felt and looked like one of my favority ties. My bed in Aruba was had one of those adjustable air mattresses, press a button and you could go from sleeping on a pool table to a big pile of squish, and every stop in between. Heaven. And the bed at the MGM has treated me right so far–heck, it’s only 8:30pm and I’m half-tempted to bolt and stock up on some serious rest.
So when I get back home I’ll conduct a rigorous financial review and then hopefully go out and get myself a bed. I like the idea of waking up in the morning and not feeling like someone threw me off the roof. These are the pathetic dreams that get me through this interminable WSOP marathon. Like today, I had to run out take some photos out in the Rio parking lot:
The Sapphire gentleman’s club sponsored the car wash and with my newshound instincts I rushed out to record it for posterity. I almost missed them, as I ran into the latest incarnation of the Milwaukee’s Best Light girls:
It’s a tough job, somebody’s gotta do it, blah blah blah. If you told me five years ago that I’d have a job that required me to rush about taking photographs of hot chicks in costumes, I would’ve said, “Thank you. Thank you so very, very much”. If only every day was like this one. One can dream.
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