Some Highly Entertaining Shit.

I found the below blog a couple days ago:

BetterThanYourBoyfriend.com.

I can’t decide which I want more, for this author to be my best friend for eternity, or if I want to wait for him to pull a replica firearm on me at which point I would be legally allowed to kick the ever loving shit out this guy.

Either way, blogger Tynan is some highly entertaining shit. Tynan is unusually compelling on so many levels. After reading some material on Tynan’s site, I am seriously considering studying the ways of the international pickup artist or possibly polyphasic sleeping. I don’t mean to sound gay or anything, but Tynan is a certifiable genius, like me. Only he’s way geniuser. No shit. Because he doesn’t drink. No seriously, he’s still cool though. Weird, I know.

In other news, I have a few wicked sweet posts brewing and I promise that I will purge them out in the next couple of days.

If you are new here at Pissed&Petty, you should read my most popular articles below:

New York Moment

Dear Malaysia: Are You Retarded?

Me -vs.- Record Label

Poker Tournament: Part I / Part II

Upcoming posts include stories about me swimming the lake in NYC’s Central Park in the middle of autumn for a cash bet, and how I was chased by two kids wielding very dangerous weapons when I was a young aggressive inline skater in Oklahoma City. A reluctant preview of the latter story may mention my can of mace beating their axe and crowbar, respectively.

Otherwise, tide yourselves over with Tynan’s http://BetterThanYourBoyfriend.com for now. He has an absurd amount of quality content.

Beer Is Some Awesome Shit.

I love being fall-down-drunk in the middle of the day.

Seriously.

There is nothing better than being mere seconds away from an alcohol induced coma early on a Sunday afternoon.

***Disclaimer: Readers under the age of 18 residing in the United States of America are encouraged not to drink until at least noon on weekends.

How To Lose $400 in Five Minutes Playing Poker.

The first step is to find an underground poker club in NYC and talk your way in past the extremely skeptical club owner who inevitably thinks you are a cop.

You did it? Great!

Once you’re inside, buy $300 in chips and take them to an available seat at a $1/$2 No-Limit table. Sit down in the seat.

You’re doing well. The hard part is now behind you.

You will be sitting at the table in late-middle position and you will be dealt J-J on your very first hand. Nice. For anyone interested in learning the best methods of losing all your money as quickly as possible, remember this hand. J-J works perfectly almost every time.

Someone before you will raise to $15 and you will then re-raise to $50. Everyone else at the table will fold, and the original raiser will call your re-raise. Aren’t you excited?

The flop will come: Q 10 10

Your opponent will check to you and you should bet out for $100 to try to take it down right there. If you’re lucky, your opponent will then check-raise all-in for your remaining $150. At this point you will have to fold because you know that you’re beat. Nice. You’re off to a great start losing money! Isn’t this fun?

Don’t worry about the fact that you didn’t lose all of your money on that one hand because you will get another chance on the very next deal. Life is awesome.

You know, at this point you should just go ahead and buy another $100 in chips, so that you have more to lose on the next hand. Good idea, right? Hell yeah. Let’s have some fun.

On the next hand, you will be dealt A-Q. I love this hand because its almost as good if not better than JJ for losing all your money, and I fucking love losing all my money. Keep a lookout for A-Q and when you have it you should play in hard all the way. I guarantee you will lose thousands eventually.

When it’s your turn to act, raise to $15. You’ll get two callers.

The flop will come. Q 6 8, two spades.

Since you’re first to act, lead at the pot with a $40 bet. One opponent will fold and the other will raise you to $120 total. Take time to relish in this moment, as you are very close to losing all your money. Re-raise your opponent all in for your last $200 or so. They will call your raise and will turn over 5-7 suited in spades. Your opponent will hit a 9 on the very next card, cinching a straight and taking away any chance you have of winning the pot.

Congratulations champ! You did it!

You just lost $400 in five minutes playing cards. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

The long train ride home will be the best part of this experience as it will give you nothing but time to relive every awesome second of what just happened to you.

Poker Tournament: Part II

–If you haven’t read Part I, read it first.
–If you don’t care about poker, skip this post and the next one. You’ll find something you like.

By the look of the competition I’d already decided that being a bully would give me the best chance of winning this thing. So I went in full steam ahead. Blinds start at 25-50.

I raised the first three hands from middle/late position with garbage and got a couple callers as could be expected. The flop came out, it was checked to me, I fired with nothing and everyone folded. Three hands in a row. Too easy.

The next hand I was dealt 7-5 off-suit and raised to $200 from early-middle position. Don’t tell me this a bad play because I know that it usually is. However, in this case I had already established control over the table and was willing to toss away $200 chips to keep that control. I needed them to think that anytime they get involved with me in a pot, that I would make them play for their entire stack on any given hand. That doesn’t work against solid competition, but I thought this was an exception. Anyway, the small blind called and I’m now going to play a pot out of position with a 7-5. Am I worried? Hell no.

The flop came: Q 6 8 rainbow. Not bad at all. Open ended.

The small blind checks to me and I bet $400 on a semi-bluff. He calls. Ah shit, now I’m a little worried.

Turn card comes a J. Small blind checks to me, I check as well.

River comes with a 2. Small blind checks to me again, I stop to think for sec. I have the feeling he wants to show this down without having to call a big bet, so I figure taking one more shot with a big bluff would earn me the pot. Alternatively, I consider that this guy doesn’t know enough about poker to be able to lay down his hand to a big bet, meaning he might call having paired only his 2 on the river. My instinct tells me to fire another shell. I bet $800 and he folds. I show him my bluff with 7 high and he looks sick. I think he folded a deuce. A-2 maybe.

Next hand. I’m in even earlier position and look down at a suited Jd-8d and I smooth call. Normally I would never play these hands this way, but I figure I can navigate the hand well enough to make these plays profitable against these opponents. I’m pretty sure I can get in the pot and see a flop without having to call a raise. I was right. Four players saw the flop.

The flop came out: 7 9 10 with two hearts. I flopped the nuts. Life is good.

I was first to act and I checked. It was checked all the way around to the button whom I had just bluffed with a 7-5 the previous hand. He bet out $100 and all folded around to me. I moved all in and the button starting sighing and moaning and shit. This guy had already lost a lot of chips to me and was visibly upset that I bluffed him out of the previous hand. He called my all-in bet for all of his chips and he turned over 2-2! I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I turned over my cards. I thought in was hilarious. I showed him one bluff 2 minutes ago and the very next hand he calls off his whole stack with an under-pair to the board. Too classic. Wow. Anyway, he got no help on the turn of the turn or river and he was gone.

I have now taken down the first four hands of the tournament, including busting one player. Not bad for 15 minutes work.

Blinds are going up to $50-$100.

With me in the cutoff seat there was one limper to my right. I looked down at a suited Ad-10d. I raised to $300. All folded around to the limper on my right who called the raise.

The flop came: 8d Ac 7s.

My opponent checked to me and I bet $450. He called.

The turn card came Qd giving me top pair and the nut flush draw.

He checked to me again and I lead out for $500. I wanted to keep him around but I didn’t want to make a small bet as to make him suspicious. Much to my surprise, the guy check-raised me to $1000. Uh-oh. Now I am worried. An argument could be made for me re-raising all-in at this point, but that’s not what I did, so shut up.

I call the raise and the turn card comes out a 6. No diamond. All of sudden my opponent comes alive and goes all in for his remaining $850 or so. I sighed out loud and said, “Well, looks like I got myself into trouble, oh whatever, I call.” He turns over A-9. I flip over my A-10 and clap once with thunderous enthusiasm. Another player busted.

I had amounted a huge chip lead at this point and was throwing it around like the chips would expire if I didn’t get them all into the pot every hand. Okay, not really but you get the point.

I was moved to a new table. At my new table I limped with 2-3 and paired my deuce on the flop against one other player.

The flop was: 10 2 7
I bet $200. He calls.

Turn: A
I bet $500. He called.

River: A
I bet $800. He folds.

On the river I fired for a third time having not improved my pair of deuces. My opponent mucked his cards face up to show everyone his pocket 3’s. I also turned my cards face up as I was collecting the pot to show him my paired deuce on the board. He was livid. I could tell that this guy was going to gun for me the whole night now.

Blinds moving to $100-$200.

This was already too expensive for almost every player at the table because at this point I think I had nearly a third of the chips in play in the entire tournament sitting in front of me. Put it this way, the average stack on my table at this point was $1,000-$3,000 and I had over $22,000. Yeah, it was ridiculous. We hadn’t even gotten through the first hour of the tournament.

A couple hands later the guy that I bluffed with the deuce limped in before me and I raised to $600 with 9-9. The button called and so did the limper.

Flop came: 6 7 8.

The original limper, the guy I just bluffed, bet out first for $600. I moved all-in with my 9-9 and the button folded. The limper/bettor thought for about 2 seconds and called for all his chips. I was sure I had him beat and I said so out loud as I flipped over my nines. He looked completely shocked and turned over Q-J. He got not help on the turn or river. Another player down. He later told me how he was positive that I was bluffing on this hand after I showed him the deuce a few minutes before. He said it himself and still didn’t seem to realize that that’s exactly what I wanted to happen. Even after he told me himself, he didn’t realize he’d been played.

Someone on the rail asked me in a tone that suggested I was stupid, “How did you think you had him beat with just a pair of nines?”

Yeah, that’s the type of player I was dealing with here. Hence my mammoth ass stack of chips. I explained to him why I was sure I had him beat.

“What’s he gonna have? 7-8? 9-10? An overpair to my 9’s? I don’t think so.” The guy still looked confused. Whatever, that’s why he’s on the rail.

Ok, at this point I have so many chips that I can literally afford to put the whole table all-in every hand and I won’t even be wounded if I lose. I look down at AsQs and push all-in, why the hell not? The player to my left immediately calls. Everyone else folded and he flips over KK. Okay, that’s fair. Ya know what’s not really fair though? I caught my fifth spade on the river to make the nuts. Nice. Another player busted.

There was another player at my table that capitalized on a few chances to grab some chips when I couldn’t justify it. He ended up building a pretty good stack fairly quickly, and I was pretty sure he was growing tired of my bullying. It seemed that I was infringing on his territory.

Blinds are now $200-$400.

I open raise to $2000 from early position with 7-7. Everyone folds around to the other big stack who re-raises to $6000. Hmmm, interesting. I have a feeling that this guy is putting a move on me. I think he has something like AJ, KQ, or maybe even AK. He’s seen me rob so many people blind that he figures I’m full of shit and wants to prove it to everyone. The best I give him credit for is AK, in which case I’m still slightly favored. So I say, “Well, let’s just put the rest of in then, I’ll all-in.” He thinks for about half a second and calls flipping over J-J. Oops. No help from the board for me.

I lost about half my stack on that hand. Not to worry, I still had a ton of chips.

Break time.

After the break we drew seats for the final table and I was happy to see that the guy that invited me to the tournament was still in, especially since he’s my boss of sorts. The tournament director skipped the next two blind levels and we went straight to $500-$1000 with $200 antes. What the hell? That’s bullshit! Oh well, it is not my club and I am winning so what the fuck do I care? It actually works out better for me that way. Obviously from this point on it was very rare for anyone to take a flop because of the outrageous blinds. Some players didn’t even have enough chips to cover the blind when it came to them. I continued to play a very aggressive preflop game and took down pot after pot preflop.

I moved all-in preflop with 8-8 and got called by a medium stack holding KdQd. The flop came out and the first card I saw was a K. Thankfully, the second card I saw on the flop was as an 8. Nice, it held up through the river and we’re down to five players.

Blinds up to $2000-$4000 with $500 antes.

Next hand I was on the small blind and everyone folded to me. I looked over and the big blind only had $600 backing up his blind, which is less than pennies at this point. I did not look at my cards because I didn’t need to. I had to put him all in with any two cards in this spot, so I didn’t even bother to look. So, from the small blind I say to the big blind,

“I’ll put you all-in”, as this was a no-brainer.

He confused me when said, “If you’re going to raise, then raise.”

I responded with, “I said I’m putting you all in, that’s all you need to know. I know what I’m doing.”

He said, “There is another player in the hand, if you’re going to raise, then raise.”

Sure enough, he was right. The other big stack at the table had limped in under the gun and somehow I didn’t notice. Shame on me. I’m not sure how that happened, but it was very embarrassing none the less. I sucked up my pride and said, “Well, maybe I don’t know what I’m doing after all.” I still have not looked at my cards but I’m positive that if I make a move on the big stack limper that he will not call without a premium hand, and if he had a premium hand he would have raised from the start, right? I’m sure of this because I’m been pushing him around all day with trash cards. The problem is, the guy had just gone on a wicked run and now has me slightly outchipped. Regardless, I immediately push all-in blind positive that he will fold. Wrong. He called and flipped over KQ. Oh shit, I’m in trouble now. I tell the table that I haven’t looked at my cards because I didn’t realize there was another player in the hand. I say this right as I flip over AQ. Wow, how lucky it that? The guy on the big blind turned over J-3. No one believed me that I didn’t look at my cards because they didn’t understand that I had no reason to, even after I realized the other big stack had limped and was still in the hand. Anyway, I won the pot and put some serious hurt on the big stack and eliminated the player on the big blind. I actually had to dodge a lot of cards on the river, but it worked out.

My buddy from work was still at the table and had less than two blinds worth of chips. On the next hand I knocked out a player, and on the hand after that I knocked out two more players and my friend flew in under the radar and cruised right into 2nd place without enough chips to even cover the blind on the next hand. How sweet is that? We dealt the next hand face-up and I won the pot and won the tournament.

As my friend and I left and were walking down the street to go home we were laughing about how they’re probably never going to let us set foot in that place again.

Poker Tournament: Part I

Poker will be a reoccurring topic in this blog. If you don’t care about poker, you should skip this entry and move on to the next one of my posts about the stupid religious meathead kid or the next one about the huge-hearted junkie. You will like them both. I promise.

Moving on.

I started a new freelance job a couple weeks ago and one of the higher ups in the company invited me to a poker game. It was a No-Limit Hold’Em tournament at a social club, $40 buy-in and optional $25 add-on at the break after the first hour. $2000 starting chips, $1600 add-on. Yeah, a little weird but whatever, maybe they didn’t have enough chips in house. They expected 30-40 players. Does this sound like a soft game to anyone else but me?

I showed up to the game on time after a long commute to find that the tourney would be starting an hour late. No problem. This place had a pool table, ping-pong table, Budweisers for $2.50 and smoking was allowed. Plus, looking at the players waiting for the tourney to start, it was obvious that this was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. I couldn’t wait.

I killed some time over a couple beers and a couple games of pool with the guy that invited me. Great guy by the way. We split the pool games 1/1. I wanted a rubber match but the poker tourney was starting and we had to sign up and pay entry.

The players were assigned their tables and I was the first at my table to sit down. The chip values were strange and I made a mental note to make sure not to throw out a black chip for an intended $100 bet when in this tourney the blacks were worth $500. All the chip values were ass backwards. Whatever, this only supported the notion I had prior that these guys have no idea what they’re doing on a card table. They are in serious fucking trouble. I’m going to be like the hurricane they never saw coming, no shit. They will all be standing on the rail trying to figure out how they got there, with only one thought in common—Ryan did it.

At this point I think I should qualify myself to the readers by saying that I have played thousands of hours of poker against some of the best young minds in the game. I have won or cashed in several tournaments of all shapes and sizes, live or online. I have taken several thousands of dollars out of circulation from the NYC underground poker scene—before the law stuck a corkscrew in its neck.

I believe that the following will ring a bell with a few readers. There was a poker club that sat on the corner of 72nd and Broadway that was a literal goldmine. On any given night of the week, there would be fifteen tables packed full of Columbia University students playing cards on daddy’s credit card just waiting to give their money away. It was a dream come true. All that a good poker had to do was stay awake at the table to make money. I have no idea how much money I took out of that place before it got shut down. How ever much money it was it obviously wasn’t enough, because somehow I’m writing about a $40 tournament right now. Don’t ask.

Back to the tourney at hand, all players are seated.

The cards go in the air.

I feel good about this!

…to be continued.

Part II will discuss the overall outcome and key hands in detail.

Natural Selection

This is an excerpt from a story that was in the news today. Some people are really fucking stupid:

“Officials say that 6-foot-3, 240-pound Mark Stetson (pictured on right) Monday afternoon became embroiled in a heated religious debate with another man at a small strip mall near the campus of Southern Connecticut State University. Stetson, who witnesses say was holding a Bible over his head, and the other man argued for several minutes, then things turned violent. It is believed Stetson may have pulled a pellet gun on the other man, who shot the 24-year-old Stetson in the chest, killing him.”

Well, that’s what you get for being a meathead Nazi, you moron.

Aside from the obvious irony of a fanatical Christian pulling a gun in the middle of a religious arguement, what blows my mind is the fact that this guy is 6’3″, 240 pounds and he feels the need to brandish a replica firearm in order to intimidate someone smaller than himself. Are you serious? What a douche. Seriously.

New York Moment

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The 4 Train.

I had just gotten off work and was walking up Broadway to catch the subway home when I realized I didn’t have any cigarettes. I stopped at a newsstand to see if they had any rolling papers. I roll my own cigarettes now because, here in NYC, cigarettes cost damn near $8.00 a pack, and you can’t even smoke them in bars but that’s another story entirely.

As I’m standing at the newsstand trying to determine if they sell what I’m looking for, a rock star looking guy walks up beside me and asks the nice Indian man behind the counter,

“Hey bro, you got any magazines that tell me where I can find a good rock’n’roll show tonight?”

The nice Indian man looks at the rock star blankly as if to say, “Uh, just look at the magazines and figure it out yourself, tattoo boy.” The rock star picks up the latest copy of “Time Out New York” which is when I turn to rock star guy and say,

“Yeah, that’s the one you want. That will tell you what you want to know.”

He thanked me and began looking through the magazine. I turned to the nice Indian man behind the counter of the newsstand and asked him if he had any rolling papers. He said yes and the rock star that was still there flipping through the magazine turns to me and asks,

“Hey bro, you need some papers? I got some. You can have some if you want.”

“Uh, sure thanks.” I replied. “I really only need one though.”

The guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of those EZ Double Wide monsters. You know, the papers that you never have enough of whatever you’re smoking to require such a mammoth ass rolling paper. Anyway, I gladly took a paper and pulled out my little pouch of tobacco to twist one up when the rock star says,

“Bro, do you just want a cigarette, bro?” And then he extends his open pack in my direction with one cigarette sticking out more than the rest as to make it even more convenient for me.

This guy obviously isn’t from around here.

I graciously accept the cigarette and light it. It was a shitty Parliament Light 100, but whatever.

As we both were about to go our separate ways, the rock star turns to me and asks,

“Bro, do you like beer?”

Ok, any readers that know me know for damn sure that I fucking love beer. I fucking love the shit.

Accordingly, I looked at the guy, hesitated and said,

“Yes.”

“Bro, you wanna grab a brew, bro? Brew-bro. Haha, you’re my brew-bro.” he chuckles.

Again, this guy obviously isn’t from around here. Coincidentally, earlier that day I was thinking of simple things I could do to break up my rhythm a little. Ya know, something besides wake up, go to work, come home, drink beer, go to sleep. I suppose throwing in a little “hang out with a complete stranger” would mix things up a bit. Why the hell not?

We started walking and he mentioned something about needing to stop by his mom’s hotel room and that he hopes she doesn’t have a customer in the room. Huh? Oh well, whatever. This guy was very chatty and seemed to have a few pieces missing from his noodle, like he would ask the same question twice in a row, weird things like that. So we walked into the Dream Hotel on 55th just off Broadway. If you’ve never been to this place, it’s awesome. A very beautiful place indeed.

We walk up the stairs to the third floor of the hotel and stop in front of room 309. He knocks on the door.

“Hey, it’s Derek!” This is the first time I have heard his name. He hadn’t asked for mine, and I didn’t ask for his.

The shockingly sexy young voice on the other side of the door replies, “I’ve got someone in here right now.”

“I just need to grab something real quick,” Derek says. The door opens and Derek slips into the room as I wait outside. Usually this is the point when I would wonder just what the hell is going on. Why does this guy’s mom have a “customer” in her hotel room and why does this guy’s mom sound like she’s a hot 25-year-old chick? What the fuck am I doing here when I could be home drinking beer and watching reruns of King of Queens? Yeah, fairly reasonable questions in my opinion. The truth of the matter is that I was too concerned about the fact that I did not yet have a beer in my face to seriously ponder the aforementioned concerns.

The door to room 309 opened again and out came my weird new buddy Derek with two frosty twenty-two ounce bottles of Corona and two wedges of lime, one of each in each hand. This is not quite what I had in mind when I agreed to grab a brew with rock star man. On the other hand, this was getting more interesting by the second and appeared to have all the ingredients of a true New York moment. The kettle was just waiting to be put on the fire.

Derek hands me my awesome cold beer and wedge of lime and we head down the stairs to the lobby of this immaculate hotel. At this point, I have no idea what the hell is going on and I have dropped the reigns. Derek is running this show now. We get to the lobby and Derek asks one of the doormen,

“Hey bro, how do I get to that one spot again, bro?”

The doorman tells him how to get to that “one spot” and I don’t really pay attention because I just want to drink my goddamn beer. I follow Derek to the elevator bank where we wait for an elevator. I have been living in NYC for several years and have worked in many of the tallest buildings in the world, and I have never had to wait longer for an elevator than I did on this day at this hotel with Derek. It took fucking ages. I guess this was okay as it gave Derek and I chance to talk. By the way, Derek still does not know my name and seems to be content with calling me “bro”. Sure, whatever. He gave me an awesome cold beer so he can call me Sally for all I care.

So there we are, waiting in the lobby of an elegant upscale hotel in midtown Manhattan surrounded by businessmen in incredibly nice suits waiting for the same elevator, twenty-two and lime wedge in hand. As we wait for this asshole elevator Derek begins to tell me his story. Derek is an ex-addict, a junkie. As in, he says he’s been clean for a month right as he pops two OxyContins and washes them down with a swig of Gatorade from his back pocket. The irony was not lost on him because he chuckled and said unprovoked,

“No, no. I don’t really do these anymore. They’re just for the pain. I had to have a tooth pulled a couple days ago. Those opiates really fuck up your teeth, see?” And he opens his mouth as wide as he can so I can take a good long look at his teeth. Aside from Derek’s teeth you could see the business men getting nervous, which in some weird way calmed me down. The elevator finally arrived and I watched Derek push the button to take us to the twelfth floor. When we reach our destination we get out of the elevator and Derek begins to look around in somewhat of a confused fashion, and of course I follow blindly down the hall, unopened Corona and lime wedge still in hand. We finally find a stairwell and I follow Derek up the stairs and out an exit door where we end up outside. Yes, outside on some sort of balcony on the thirteenth floor of the Dream Hotel. This, however, is no normal balcony. This is quite obviously a place in the building where they never intended any human being to set foot. How do I know? Easy. There are absolutely no measures in place to keep you from falling right off the goddamn roof. Seriously, you could just walk right off the edge.

So here I am standing on a roof in Manhattan with a junkie that I don’t know, and no one knows I’m here. Then it hits me. Oh shit. I am about five seconds away from getting robbed or thrown off this fucking roof, or both. Of course. I was a mark from the very beginning when this guy was supposedly looking for a magazine thirteen stories below me about 30 minutes ago. The rolling papers, the cigarette, the beer. It was all just a ploy to get me on this fucking roof so he could steal all my shit and throw me off! That explains the $250 Diesel jeans he’s wearing in contrast to the fact that he didn’t want to pay $3 for a magazine that contained the exact information he was looking for. Those jeans came from some idiot just like me whom he robbed and then fired their sorry ass right off the thirteenth floor.

Fuck me I am an idiot and now I am going to die.

Fuck.

I snap back into reality when Derek starts coming towards me with a bottle opener and says, “Lemme get that for you, bro.” This is where my life flashed before my eyes as I simultaneously shat myself. Derek reached over and popped the top off my beer and did the little snap thing with the cap and we watched it sail all the way down to the street below, which took a really long time by the way. Derek turns to me and looks me square in the eyes and says,

“Bro, that’s a really long way down!”

No fucking shit asshole and I have a feeling I’m about to find out first hand just how far down it is!

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Derek walks around the tiny balcony checking it out and whatnot, or making sure there are no witnesses. I stand there frozen with my back glued to a wall drinking my Corona as Derek continues to tell me his story. In my mind, I am positive that he is waiting for me to finish my beer so that my faculties will be impaired when he stomps me and shows me what it’s like to skydive without a parachute. I actually appreciated that he was letting me finish my beer before he killed me. Seems like being launched off a skyscraper would be less terrifying if I had a little buzz going, you know? Nice guy that Derek.

Over the awesome cold beer and a few cigarettes, which Derek bummed to me, I listened to his story. As we know, Derek is a junkie. Er, ex-junkie who’s been clean for a month and is popping OxyContin as a painkiller for his tooth. Derek is from LA/Hollywood and loves to talk about the wicked smack they have out there and the base heads and all kinds of nice things. Apparently Derek got into a little trouble in LA and got busted with a whole bottle full of OxyContins that he was not supposed to have. Derek told me about the arrest and all the details and shit and about how the five days he spent in jail weren’t that bad because he didn’t get fucked. Nice. It comes up that the woman from room 309 is not his mom, that’s just what he calls her. She is an ex-porn star from Hollywood that got hooked on meth and is now a hooker in NYC. That explains “mom’s customer”. Derek and MethHooker are old friends from LA so when MethHooker heard about Derek’s legal troubles she flew him out to NYC and is letting him stay with her for a while until his problems blow over.

With a proud smile Derek showed me some of the things that MethHooker bought for him like one of those wicked new Motorola phones, you know, the thin black ones, a really sweet Gucci watch, and the really badass jeans he was wearing. And don’t forget room 309. It’s his room for the week as long as MethHooker is allowed to use it to service her customers on occasion.

Dude, hookers make bank!

Obviously it became clear to me that Derek didn’t get all those nice things from pushing people off of roofs. All of this confusion could have been avoided had I not forgotten to factor in the MethHooker part of the equation from the beginning. I will never make that mistake again.

I wish there was a powerful ending to this story, but there really isn’t.

After I realized that Derek had no interest in stealing my jeans and launching me off the roof, I really got to like the guy. We hung out for a while on that roof. He is a really nice guy with a huge heart who just wanted a friend for a little while. Derek went out of his way to make a friend from a total stranger and give them whatever he could give to make them happy. In this case, an awesome cold beer, a couple cigarettes and a breathtaking view of the most beautiful city in the world was perfect.

Cheers, Derek. I sincerely wish you well.

Best regards,
Your “Brew-Bro”