Evening two of the last weekend in January should’ve been some sort of revelatory experience. After all, things are moving fast in this new year. Well, guess what people? January might have come in like a bum at the Mapco on Jackson, but that motherfucker went out like the party you used to dream about having in high school. So much happened yesterday, it’s a little hard to pump out the words to accurately depict the events of the evening — however, I will certainly give it the old college try since you’ve been kind enough to actually read this much.

The evening began at Midnight. Yes, I am totally serious, things did not even begin until Midnight last night, mostly because I was exhausted and napping. Rachel, Helen, Jason and myself departed the Vinsims residence headed for what Jason kept referring to as “some old school punk rock yard party”. This kinda upset me because just the night before, we had done the punk rock dance party. I love punk rock, I love dance parties, but I don’t love them two nights in a row all the time. See, I happen to be an adult now with a life and responsibilites to other people. I can’t show up in my life with two teeth missing and a black eye because I decided to go cruster for a night.

The party was actually Midtown’s welcome home party for Jeremiah Trotter, someone whom I can’t say that I even remember, though after seeing him I knew we had met somewhere along the way at some hardcore show. On the drive to the party, I began feeling this sickening panic, fearful (thanks to DJ Ron Dezvous a.k.a. Jason running his yap at me) I would be slipping and sliding through crusterville once more, twisting to records by Cop Out and Man With Gun Lives Here in a mud pit in the backyard. I hadn’t really revisited that era of my life in a while, so I figured tonight was as good of a night as any. Unfortunately, I thought, I just put on my dopest old school Nike’s for this party. I’m so screwed.

To make matters more bizarre, Rachel had come to the plate with a 12-pack of Miller High Life Light (yeah, I know…Light?!?!), proving once and for all that hipster beer can taste great and be less filling. I was rolling deep with my crazy double sized energy drink that tasted like a warm Orange that someone poured cough syrup into.

As we are pulling up, I get a knot in my stomach. Suddenly I just don’t want to be there at all. I don’t want to hear punk rock, I want my mommy.

We get to the party and lo and behold, half of the music community of Midtown is rubbing up in the joint. Lauren, Brooke, and Aurora are right up front dancing, and I see practically every bloody hipster in the tri-street region getting ripped on the free kegs. Aaron is at the turntables, and the second we walk in he was throwing down some totally crazy old school, bumping-assed hip hop track. Immediately, I dropped my guard, shot Dezvous a look that said, “Is this the right party?” and proceeded to get into the mix!

In the many hours of partygoing, the crowd increased by twofold. The otherwise roomy house suddenly became a complex maze of drunken, dancing Jescos and Janes wearing some kick-assed Luchadero masks. The music was obviously put together by people who loved music, because all three DJ’s spun a wide mix. I heard everything from Aretha Franklin and Al Green to some ESG, The Sweet singing “Little Willy”, and back into a few really cool tracks I’d never heard before. Eventually, that compacted itself into a brief full-blown 1980′s extravaganza, complete with The Cure, The Cars, Blondie, Gary Numan, and what appeared to be the climactic moment — the entire jam-packed house singing along and dancing as Queen & David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” skipped on the turntable from all the dancing.

Amongst the singers and partygoers, Greg Faison, my buddy Darren O’Brien (complete with cigarette burn scar on his face, sorry bud), Scotty “Too Hotty”, Jeanine, Aaron, Lunchbox, Jordan, Corey Welch, Jeff Hulett and Brad Postlethwaite (of Snowglobe), Tommy Pappas (from The Glass), Nick Ray (from Viva L’American Death Ray and The Limes), so many beautiful girls I couldn’t keep track of names (Emily? Sarah? Lindsay? oy..), and John, a known heterosexual who came to the party fully dressed but, within moments of arriving, was being undressed by another man who nearly got all of his clothes off before the joke was ended. We saw your “turtleneck”, John. Nothing to be ashamed of, but I want the dollar back that I stuffed down your boxers, k?

Right about that time, Mark Richens rolled up in that piece with Jill from Nashville. Poor Mark had just gotten off work, which meant he would have to play catch-up with all the drunks spinning the bottle and dropping trou. I reminded him that you don’t need alcohol to have a good time all the time, after all, I said, I do fine without it. Nevertheless, Miller High Life Light was in full effect mode like some Al B. Sure record that kept skipping whenever people would put down their good foot.

That would have been enough excitement for one evening had the vibe not suddenly turned distinctly more hip hop (or should I say hip-pop) when Aaron decided to bust out the jams. Like some crazy house party in Compton that all the white kids decided to crash, the speakers were cranking out tracks from Snoop Doggy Dogg, Notorious B.I.G., Puff Daddy and Ma$e, Wu-Tang Clan, Eightball and MJG, Shawty, Jay-Z, Ludacris, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Cam’ron, Doctor Dre, and Digital Underground. Dig if you will the picture of an entire house full of punk rockers and hipsters singing along to every song and quoting everything word for word. My mind, folks, has officially and unmistakeably been blown once and for all time.

It was at that time that I decided hip-hop was the new punk rock here in Memphis, and there were none more in the groove than the people I knew all along.

Somewhere in the 3:45 a.m. region, the Al Chemical Rhyme Circus bus (with Helen driving) rolled out of South-South Midtown and headed to XY&Z to check out Buck Wilders and the Hook-up. Any time these guys are spinning, I am there. They are always spinning songs that only people who dig for records would know, and last night was no exception. Some folks had trickled over to XY&Z from Goner Fest, others from the party we had just left. After an hour or so of switching up grooves, waiting for food that never came (“kitchen’s closed”), and watching the parade of punk rock prime rib and porterhouse steak trying to pretend they were briskets and ribeyes, it was time to head home.

Be sure and stop by Rachel’s blog to see a few pictures from the evening, including one of yours truly pimping the Lucha Libre style.

I will only say this once and I’ll never say it in this blogspace again. I promise. I need just two more people to click my iPod Referral Link, complete one offer (by complete, I mean pay for the offer using your credit or debit card to pay for it or whatever the offer requires), and that’s it. Then you can refer 5 friends and do the same thing I’m doing, getting a free iPod.

If you have a credit or debit card with $6.95 available, sign up under my link and use an email address that you don’t mind getting spam sent to. Go ahead and complete the Video Professor offer and give it to someone as a gift. If just two people do this, I will get my free iPod, something I both want and need. Any two people who want to step up just go for it. You have my eternal gratitude.

If you’re one of the people reading this, then you’re likely to be one of my friends anyways. This takes like 5 minutes and since you’ll get a lot of spam, use an email address you don’t mind getting spam sent to. Just click this link, and complete the Video Professor offer after you sign up.

Hey, thanks. Now I am going to go take a nap and dream of an iPod.

UPDATE!! Would you do it if I just went ahead and gave you the $7.00 for signing up and doing the Video Professor thing once the credit appears in my Free iPods referral? Would that work? Comments?

Thanks To Rachel for letting me leech this picture

I swear this life gets more and more bizarre the longer I live it. Last night, I walked the fine edge between a pioneering moment in Memphis underground hip-hop and a punk rock dance party to end all punk rock dance parties.

I would love to tell you how I managed to do this from the comfort of my computer chair; but when 22 stairs seperate you from the outside world, there is no excuse for staying home.

First, Brendan coerced me into going back to Central BBQ again. I say ‘coerced’ when, perhaps, I should say ‘lured me with the promise of favoritism in later events of the evening’. Every good boy deserves dessert, and after wrecking shop on a slab of ribs & four side dishes, we headed to Republic Coffee on Madison for a couple of slices of justice and some coffee. I must report that the Strawberry Cake (hand made somewhere in Mississippi according to our barista) and the Wild Berry Pie were both so good, I was afraid I may have felt the presence of wings, halo, and harp shortly after the ingestion was completed. Both desserts melted off of our forks, and we headed home shortly thereafter.

Unsuccessful in convincing Brendan to join me for either hip-hop or punk rock (or both), I decided to brave the Tunnel Clones’ CD Release Party at the Hi-Tone. Now if you have been following the underground hip-hop movement in Memphis for a while, you know about the Memphix label, Tunnel Clones, Conscious Physics, scatterbraincasanova, and a whole lot of other family deep in the groove for the past umpteen years. If you haven’t, you might have been one of the people who don’t really consider themselves fans of hip-hop who helped Tunnel Clones & the Iron Mic Coalition tear down the fucking house last night. TC brought the pain last night with a show driven by passion, vision, strength, dynamics, flow, love for the crowd, love for their friends, and straight-up skills. Redeye Jedi, Hope Clayburn, Sam Bomar (did I spell that right? if not correct me), and a cast of characters straight out of the jungles of Memphis and Little Rock brought down the house, wrecked ’nuff shop, and let everyone know that this thing was for real. I know, I know…everyone always talks about hip-hop shows saying they were “off the chain” and blah blah blah; but I mean this quite sincerely when I say that I think last night’s show changed shit for everyone. People who weren’t sure, who might have thought the new Tunnel Clones CD Concrete Swamp was some sort of fluke, now realize what a lot of people knew all along. This thing is about to blow wide open. The Memphis underground hip-hop scene came out and showed a unity that can only be described as “infectious”. Catch the disease, people. Seriously. Catch the damn disease and spread the love to ears everywhere. Respect is here given and respect is due.

Now the night could’ve well been over, but Rachel, Mark, and Helen wanted to go back to The Buccaneer where Goner Fest is in full swing (I decided I would rename it ‘Gonerroo’ just as my own private joke, but it seems to have caught on with certain ‘neer-do-wells among us). They, instead, told me to head to XY&Z. As I was driving, I noticed a car following me no matter where I turned. I thought it to be peculiar, especially considering the route I was taking. When I pulled into the parking lot at XY&Z, I realized it was my friends Carlos & Jason. Carlos looked at me and was like, “We were mad bored looking for where people were, so I decided to stalk you for a minute.” Good thing I don’t drink or hit the solids, I might have soiled my nappies wondering who was behind me. I walked into XY&Z for about 10 minutes or so. I didn’t see many (if any) familiar faces and, with not being able to reach Rachel by phone, decided to go home.

I got back out to the parking lot and sitting there next to my car, as if they knew what would happen, were Carlos & Jason just waiting for me, laughing at my cluelessness. “You weren’t in the loop, kid,” Jason told me. “They’re at the Buc.”

We stopped at the Young Avenue Deli for a quick bev and, by that time, everyone had arrived at XY&Z. The place was, literally, wall to wall with Antenna Club veterans, the Cooper-Young Cookie Factory cronies from way back when, and besides a kick-ass mix of jumping punk rock we were also treated to a performance by The Limes.

My friend Darren O’Brien was so shit tanked when I got there that when I reached out to shake his hand, somehow we ended up in an arm wrestling match of sorts. He managed to twist my arm and nearly snap my wrist off, screaming at me “SAY IT! SAY IT! SAAAAY IT!” As I was screaming “UNCLE! UNCLE!”, he mumbled something unintelligible about how that wasn’t the phrase I was supposed to say. Worried that I would lose the use of my arm and not be able to type, and being quite pissed off, I used an ancient Chinese technique taught to me by a wise and brave teacher: I put my cigarette out on his face. His friend Rachel stared on, jaw dropped as if I had just stubbed out a cigar on the Venus de Milo. Though her face displayed shock and surprise at the mess we had caused, we let it go and all three had a good laugh about it.

I ran into at least two people I have known for 20 years or more, one of whose sister April used to carpool with me to grade school years ago. Kelly and I have known each other forever, but when she kept referring to me as “Jeff”, I couldn’t resist the urge to call her “April” for a while. We settled out-of-court and all was well.

Among those whom I ran into waiting a minimum of 15 minutes to get a beverage (VERY slow bar service last night) were Tim Regan (whom I can’t seem to escape seeing all week since I knocked him out of a Texas Hold’em game), Alicia Scott, Paul Taylor, Andy Grooms, Piper, some dude named Keith visiting from Austin (wearing a damn cool baseball cap I might add), and hundreds of other people slammed into the tiny bar.

The high point of the night was when some girl was talking to my buddy Greg Faison and she had the audacity to complain about people smoking. Ok, I know it’s all “punk rock” to be anti-something or whatever, but to just keep bitching about it and making faces in a bar FILLED with people smoking shows no brains whatsoever. If you want to complain about it, go someplace where smoking is illegal like New York. Go to the City Council and have a good yell about it. During her attempt at punk rock vanity, she actually looked at us and said, “If I can kick heroin, you can quit smoking, and I’ve kicked heroin.”

For the remainder of the night, I (and everyone else I knew who heard this comment) would stop and glare at her with eyes that were meant to transmit this message: “When you’re at the bar, try to be friendly. You can always act like a bitch when you get home…if that’s asking too much, why don’t you go ahead and go someplace where you can be accepted for being yourself? Like…home?”

We wound down the night dancing to some more great punk rock from The Limes and eventually, even the most virile among us had to head to our personal bitch castles to look for the little house that exists in your mind where the highways meet inbetween half awake and sleeping peacefully.

Last night, Brendan and I were about to opt to stay in and watch the movie Sideways, but his friend Belinda had a friend visiting from Denmark who wanted some BBQ. They were trying to convince me to go to Corky’s with them, and like a needle scratching across a record grinding a party to a halt, I was forced to intervene. Real Memphians know there are only like 3 places to get BBQ and neither Corky’s nor The Rendezvous are the ones, I don’t care how much money they throw at advertising — WE KNOW, OK? Sorry, It’s not like The Rendezvous or Corky’s are bad. They’re fine ribs, particularly The Rendezvous (which I would eat before I’d ever eat at Corky’s again). But they offer the average visitor to Memphis decent BBQ at over-inflated prices. If you’re going to eat BBQ in Memphis, go where the locals eat, ok? I protested that if they did not either go with me to Neely’s/Interstate BBQ or to Central BBQ, they might as well go and have a McRib sandwich and kick it with the red-headed clown.

My ploy worked. We headed over to Central BBQ and met up with Belinda, her friends, and two of Brendan’s other friends, Russell and Shelly. Once inside, were greeted at the register (as always) by Steve Gross, a long-time friend of my family and the backbone of the Central BBQ team. We were served enormous slabs of lip-smacking ribs that were so tender, the meat literally fell off the bone. The BBQ Turkey was a slice of sin so heavenly, my mouth waters with the recollection. If you are ever visiting Memphis, RUN AWAY, FAR FAR FAR AWAY from Corky’s or The Rendezvous (unless you have thousands of dollars to burn, then by all means, The Rendezvous before Corky’s). From there, the crew wanted to head to Sidestreet Grill/RedBar Martini Emporium, where they enjoyed cocktails and I had something “fruity and non-alcoholic”.

After long conversations, the crew splintered and we went to the Young Avenue Deli to enjoy the Benefit for Tsunami Relief. I have seen The Lost Sounds many times, but I really wanted to see the other bands last night. I had expected to walk in and catch just the last half of, perhaps, The Lost Sounds. I was anticipating a chance to see Snowglobe, The Glass, The Pirates and, of course, Harlan T. Bobo. To my chagrin, Brad Postlethwaite, Snowglobe and Harlan had already played. It was just barely 10:30. I was very disappointed. The explanation, given to me by someone in the crowd, went something like this: “Well, those other bands might have been supposed to headline, but notice that Alicia Scott isn’t in one of those bands.” Oh vile hipster egos, can you not control yourself in the name of charity? Nonetheless, I had a wonderful time — The Glass, The Lost Sounds, and The Pirates were all in rare form. It was good to run into a bunch of people last night, too! Seen at the show, in no particular order, were Jeanine, Lauren Goler, Annigurl, Ro-Ro, Jen, Neal, Darren O’Brien, the ever lovely Rachel, Bayne Whatley (“Yo, WHATLEY!”), Aaron, Greg Faison, Mark Richens, and even my sweetheart Pat Mitchell (who came out for the first time since having her baby) and about 360 other friendly faces showing their support for a great cause.

Brendan and I actually did end up back at my place watching Sideways, but strangely enough, he never managed to open his 2002 Hedges Columbia Valley Blend of Cabernets, Merlot, and Syrah — a wine that would have perfectly complimented the movie.

Ok, first off, thanks to my friends who came to my show at the P&H Cafe last night. I know it was a tough call, being that the hipster-bo-bipster crew were being seen at Cory & Ben’s Hi-Tone gig. Cory, you should’ve called me to play that one. But you know, I understand, really dude. Lemme know how that New York City thing works out for you. Best of luck and all. Rachel, Mark, Brendan, Helen, and the innumerable patrons of the P&H, you have my heart.

Now on to other matters: Carl Cox released a Back To Mine compilation in October, and it’s turning me out. I just added it to my Radio Blog, so peep it why dont you? Carl Cox, I think I love you…

Carl Cox-Back to Mine

01 Ramsey Lewis – Spring High
02 Diana Ross – No One Gets The Prize
03 Harvey Mason – Grooving You
04 Sounds Of Blackness – Everything is Gonna Be Alright
05 Black Science Orchestra – New Jersey Deep
06 Bill Summers – Feel the Heat
07 John Handy – Hard Work
08 Loose Ends – Stay A Little While
09 Timmy Thomas – Why Can’t We Live Together
10 The Style Council – Long Hot Summer
11 Leftfield – 21st Century Poem
12 Jodeci – You Got It
13 Groove Armada – Dan Solo
14 Coco Steel & Lovebomb – Summer Rain
15 Carl Cox – Mission (Give Me Your Love)
16 808 State – Pacific (Justin Strauss Remix)
17 Jesus Loves You – After The Love

Be sure and check out his site, carlcox.com and get your hands on this monster of great music.

I spent most of yesterday hanging out with my new friend Brendan. How he came sweeping into my life is one of those bizarre coincidences I can only chalk up to some forces in the universe looking out for me. We went to Otherlands for $5 cups of coffee and good conversation, we went for a walk in Overton Park, then we came home and watched the new Mike Nichols movie vehicle, Closer. It’s an extremely quirky film about people who can’t have healthy relationships. I think I need to watch it again in order to figure out what all the hullaballoo was about, it didn’t really grab me. After having yet another incredible meal at Saigon Le, clearly the best Vietnamese restaurant in Memphis, he wanted to go out to Dan McGuiness for pints with friends. I abstained, and decided to call it a night for all intents and purpose.

As I sat here thinking of what to do, I made up my mind to really just do nothing at all. I called around to several friends, nobody was doing anything specific. I settled in and prepared to go to sleep nice and early.

It was almost midnight, and I had curled up with a pile of books ready to put myself right to sleep. Then I was hipped to the fact that Justin Hand, one of the best DJ’s we have in the Mid-South, was starting a new Saturday night residency at one of my least favorite clubs, Club 152 on Beale Street. It’s never been so much that I didn’t like the club, really, more that I was never hip to the clientele and, since the City of Memphis had run roughshood over the whole of downtown with the new FedEx Forum, parking can’t be fun anymore. The locals tend to either flock to Beale Street or avoid it entirely, depending on the weather, the mood, and what is really going on. It’s for visitors to our fair city, many think. But a trip to A. Schwab’s never hurt any of us, now did it?

The clincher was this: Justin’s residency occurred on the 3rd Floor, a V.I.P. area which required special credential to enter. The 3rd Floor has been completely redesigned with a new look that suits a V.I.P. Room at any class nightspot — comfy couches, very cool lighting, a seperate dancefloor with plenty of room, gothic candle-style chandeliers, curtained-off rooms to allow for a modicum of privacy for their well-to-do clientele. Most importantly, it caters to the city’s growing late-night crowd, only becoming open from Midnight until 6 AM. Wilbur Hensley, Bud Chitham, and Kevin Kane have a lot to be proud of with the renovation of the upstairs space, and the addition of Justin to the mix should make this a place to watch once again. The plan for the V.I.P area of the club is to eventually make it membership only. Patrons will pay either a nightly membership charge or, if they so desire, may purchase a yearly membership. The cost is still TBD, but I can assure you it will be intentionally prohibitive to provide clientele with a break from the tourists and the bridge-and-tunnel crew.

I spent a good 5 hours there listening to a fantastic mix of old and new house, techno, and assorted dance mixes. If anything, Justin performs consistently above par, and last night was no exception. I ran into Kevin Kane, head of the Memphis Convention and Visitor’s bureau; Donald Leadbetter, former Memphian and now working in the upper echelons of the cruise industry; and my dear La Lola Bella (aka Lauren) looking as lovely as ever. I was fortunate to be joined by Mark Richens and the lovely Jill who was visiting us from Nashville, Emily and Jen from Cooper-Young’s perennial hotspot Dish (formerly Melange), and later in the evening by Brendan and his roommate Fabrizio. We danced, talked, and laughed the night away.

My favorite moment of the night: staring at the neon sign over the women’s restroom was so distorted at times it made me think someone had slipped me a Mickey Finn.

All in all, I think I can safely recommend the 3rd Floor experience at 152 because of what I know it will soon become.

From Mr. White’s Xmas Party, this may be the funniest picture of me ever taken.

OH GOD, PLEASE MAKE HIM LOG OFF OF ME….

Jimmy Griffin, a Nashville-based songwriter who was co-founder of a group called Bread (along with David Gates), has passed away due to complications of his cancer. He was a dear friend to my family, he worked with me when I was an up-and-coming songwriter trying to figure out my way in the world, and I am going to miss him. When my mother called me yesterday to tell me about his passing, I couldn’t believe it. I’m still a little bit stunned, but seeing this article in the news was a cold reminder. Godspeed, Jimmy. My condolences to your friends & family members. You were one of the good ones.

I am a damn good poker player. I’m good at reading people’s tells, I can spot a bluff a mile away, and when I’m in my groove I’m good.

The problem is when I quit being on point, I forget to walk away.

Last night, in an attempt to repay a debt to a friend, I took a very small amount of money down to good ol’ Tunica with me, the biggest poker spot between Atlantic City and Las Vegas. I usually sit at the 3-6 table and play 3-6 Limit Texas Hold’ Em at The Gold Strike. Normally, if I sit with you, that’s your ass at some point. Now, whenever I plan these trips to Tunica, I always do the same thing: I eat before I go, I get a BIG cup of coffee, and I prepare to settle in. This time was no different. I don’t drink, and generally the people around me are enjoying the free drinks so much, they eventually forget they are giving me (or the other players) their money.

But I really need someone to go with me to drag me away when I’m doing good.

Yesterday’s trip started at the Pai-Gow table. Now, for those who don’t know, Pai-Gow is a Chinese 7-Card poker game. It has the best odds of any of the carnival games (Blackjack, 3-Card Poker, Craps, Roulette). You can take $40 and play it for hours without ever losing or winning very much. It involves a lot of pushes and very few real losses. In order to get a free meal, I usually start by playing this for an hour or so just to get the comp meal. Yesterday was no exception — I played for about an hour and walked away from my $40 only $2.50 richer. The floor manager comped my meal, and I was off to the poker room.

Once I got a seat, my table was a lot of REALLY drunk people. On my right was a very well-known studio musician from Nashville named DeRay Harris. He had never played poker before yesterday, according to him. Further down, a couple of what I call “Tunica regulars” sat, making literally all the noise at the table. As the day wore on, they got drunker and drunker.

Two students sat with us, so lily white and fresh you’d swear they had never been kissed. I couldn’t tell half the time whether they were checking me for tells or flirting with me. I think that’s just my ego playing with my head.

In any event, I sat at that table for about 5 hours playing Limit Hold’Em, and I eventually turned my $100 into a whopping $220. I would come back from dinner, I thought, make that other $80 and call it a day! When I absolutely couldn’t take the hunger any more, I decided to go and have a bite to eat. They held my seat for me while I left.

I went downstairs and gave a big hug to my friend Von Mitchell, enjoyed an enormous plate of non-buffet goodness, and we had a nice long talk about things.

Here’s where things get a might tricky, though. I think, after dinner, all the food started to get to me. When I came back, the students were gone, DeRay had given me his well wishes and parted company with the table. But the table suddenly became filled with regulars.

The one guy making all the noise in the place had completed his 10th Crown & Coke, and he was so loud, obnoxious and drunk, that every single hand he would holler out “RAISE!” or “RE-RAISE!”, even if he didn’t have a hand. Nobody could tell what the hell he was playing, and even when someone had good cards, he was so unpredictable that people started losing. I started losing. The whole thing really threw my game off, put me on tilt. He and his friend, clearly working together, were screaming random things at the table — nothing offensive, just stuff like “Doyle’s Super System don’t seem so super now does it, boys?”

After another six hours had gone by, I was down to a paltry $12, playing against nothing but Tunica regulars. I short circuited. I hit a brick wall. I dragged one last pot, and walked away from Tunica with a miserable $40.

As I was strolling out of the casino, I walked by the Pai-Gow table. It had filled with high rollers, playing huge amounts on each hand. One guy played $10,000 on a single hand of Pai-Gow, $5000 on the main spot and $5000 on the bonus. I became, literally, sick to my stomach when he got a straight and a pair, beating the dealer. That single hand paid him $15,000 on his bonus spot and $5000 for beating the dealer. Total take: $20,000 for one hand.

If you’re ever in Las Vegas, it’s never like you can escape — you’re on the strip, and unless you live there you don’t drive home. You walk to your hotel room, you pass out, and start over again the next day. The long drive from Tunica is much different if you live in Memphis. Unless you’ve won, which I normally do, the depression that can set in when you’re staring at a four-lane highway that is flat as a pancake is crippling. All I wanted to do when I got home was pull the covers up over my head and cry.

But then I realized that at the end of the day, this is just money. I didn’t lose EVERYTHING. I still left with money in my pocket. It’s not enough money, but I have so much to be thankful for in my life right now, the money will come back to me.

“Scared Money Don’t Make None” goes the old saying. Next time, I’m not taking any “scared money” into Tunica with me. That’s something you can bank on.