Back in the dark days before Erin, a frequent topic of conversation in my Think About It column was my utterly inadequate performance with women. It was therapy in the worst way. Another topic which has stayed with me over the years are the various ways I find to relax on those rare occasions I find an opportunity to relax. This classic column, from May 21, 2003, combines both of those topics in one dandy package.
How the Men Recharge
I don’t know how you women out there do it, but when the time comes for men to recharge their power cells, there’s one thing that works better than everything else — time with the guys.
Every so often we need a male bonding, testosterone-inducing, estrogen-free atmosphere in which we can kick back, relax, and spend a preposterous amount of time talking about women. I did such a thing last weekend when I joined two of my best friends, James and Jason, for a weekend in Biloxi, Miss.
Jason is a member of some long organization with lots of initials that was having its convention this week, so he conjured up the plan to go a couple of days early and have James and I hang out with him. I’ve been to Biloxi many times in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever driven there myself, and consequently, the first time I’ve ever really been able to take in the scenery. I’m not talking here about the blue, cresting ocean or the white, sandy beaches or even the scantily-clad women prowling the two. No, I was amazed by the number of giant fiberglass animals that adorn storefronts there. You want to buy beachwear? Take a walk through the enormous shark’s mouth! Need a Biloxi snowglobe or painted pet rock? Right under the giant alligator, my friend. Want the best Italian food on the beach? It’s right under the sign with the gorilla on it!
After driving past this menagerie and approximately 17 billion Waffle Houses (the good people of Biloxi evidently really like their waffles), we arrived at the hotel. After recuperating from the drive, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that it was somewhere around 105 degrees outside (rough estimate), Jason suggested we hit the casinos, which I knew had secretly been his plan all along.
I’m not a gambler, my friends. I am cursed with a strange affliction, a combination of horrible luck and incredible timing. This means that bad things happen to me, but only at the funniest possible moment. I could walk underneath a ladder with a paint can 13 times holding a black cat and nothing would happen, but the instant a brown-eyed lass I’d been flirting with walks by, the paint will fall and I would match the side of the building. Games of chance are not for me.
But we went into the casino anyway and, not wanting to look like a dork while my friends played, I relented and slipped a ten into one of the slot machines. I pushed the button a few times, a little disappointed that the lever is apparently obsolete, then the machine started making weird noises. “What happened?” I asked Jason.
He leaned over and looked. “You just won $75,” he said.
I got worried immediately. There are things going on in my life right now that will require a certain degree of luck, and I’d hate to think I blew my allotment on a slot machine.
Fortunately, none of us felt like gambling for long and we retreated to the restaurant in the casino for dinner. I’m not a beer drinker, but Jason is constantly giving me advice as to which ones I would like. Thus far, he has always been incorrect. I tasted one such beverage that I hated, so he told me to try something called a “Biloxi Blonde.”
“That’s one of my favorites,” said our waitress, a redhead named Cassie. Trusting Cassie’s judgment more than Jason’s, I ordered one. I took a sip, looked at her and said, “Yeah, this is better.”
She smiled and left, at which point I turned to my friends and said, “This tastes terrible.”
“Then why did you say you liked it?” James asked.
“Well, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings…”
The bill arrived, and for all three of us, the size of the tip is directly proportionate to how cute the waitress is. I don’t know what we think is going to happen — no waitress has ever chased Jason down in a parking lot and screamed, “You gave me a $5 tip on an $11 tab — I must bear your children!” Still, we do it anyway.
James gave up trying to calculate an appropriate tip first and just announced he was giving her $7. Jason, who is afraid of math even when the credit card company has to do it, rounded the tip so he’d have an even number, which resulted in him giving her $7.02.
I would not be defeated by those two.
“Gimme that check,” I said, grabbing my own bill and, under gratuity, proudly scribbling, “$7.03.”
“I won,” I said to the others.
I wish I could have been there when Cassie saw her tip. “Look at this, this guy left me $7.03. No, the chubby guy, the one who lied about liking the beer. You think I could still catch him in the parking lot?”
So in all, she made $21.05 off three guys who were out for a weekend to hang with the boys, which somehow seems like it bears a degree of cosmic justice. Overall, though, it was fun. We should do it again sometime.
But I’m only going to the slot machines again if my life, at the moment, happens to suck.
Blake M. Petit was fully recharged until he got into his car to drive home and realized it was hot enough to bake bread in there. So he got a wad of banana nut dough for the ride home. Contact him with comments, suggestions or the number of that gambling help-line just in case at BlakeMPetit@gmail.com
This weekend, as you may have heard, I darted off to Maine for the wedding of some friends. Erin and I had a wonderful time with old and new friends alike, and except for the gargantuan hassle that I went through trying to get home (by the way, US Airways is horrible), I couldn’t have been happier.
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