You know what’s Crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!™
Throwing your wallet a piano player. That is crazy!
It’s 10:30 Saturday night. The casino is rocking. Crowds have filled the gaming tables and people are moving slowly across the casino floor. Women are wearing the latest in tube sock cocktail dresses. Men are wearing collared dress shirts hanging out of their snug jeans.
Sex appeal is thick in the air like a seductive perfume filling a neon flavored insance asylum.
After a full day of aquatic enjoyment, the Crazy Crew™ is downstairs, just outside the bank of elevators.
We’re tanned and lubed, ready to take on the night.
The problem is there are now 11 of us. Getting everyone to agree on a plan of action is like getting Israel and Palestine to agree on throwing rocks or shooting rubber bullets at one another.
As we stand aimlessly on the casino floor, a group of girls eye our crew.
“That’s right ladies,” I shout to no one in particular. “That is Ocho-Cinco.”
You can see the enthusiasm of the young women shift gears from curious stare to probing query.
I watch as the girls tap each other on the arm and point at the handsome black man in the crew.
Are we with Chad Johnson of the NFL’s Cincinnati Bengals? NO. But we might as well be. Our Ocho-Cinco looks just like the real Ocho-Cinco. He’s got the shaved head, and big diamond studs. He has at least a four pack of abs and from what I’m told, a “hot ass”. Our Crazy Ocho-cinco says he could run a Z route, but I’m not so sure he could even get off the line after a day of consuming a dozen vodka – red bulls.
We laugh and move away from the elevators.
“What do you fellas feel like doin?,” MacGruber says in his crap ass Scottish Brogue.
“How long are you going to keep that up?” Dale asks.
“As long as it takes laddie,” MacGruber says actually believing he is naked under his make believe plaid skirt.
“Lavo,” the laconic Dillon says.
As if being guided by a celestial Magic Eight Ball, the young guns focus on the night club theme.
The Young Guns are in their thirties. According to these studly bastards, the Lavo Night Club is where all the ladies will be.
I can also promise you it is going to be crowded and expensive and hard to get Lavo. On this night, the line is around the block.
People will easily wait for an hour to get into this super heated sardine can. They will pay top dollar to be blasted with music so LOUD it can render you sterile.
“You all go,” the Godfather says with a wave of his arm. “We’ll be in the piano bar.”
Piano Bar?
The Young Guns laugh at us like we are going to spread out blankets and have a picnic.
The Godfather doesn’t have to say another word.
If you want to see good looking women, they aren’t just in the clubs. They are everywhere. They’re on the escalators. They’re on the casino floor. They’re coming out of the bathrooms. They’re in disco cages spinning from the ceilings.
They are wearing dresses so short, so clingy, you can see under the hood, if you know what I mean.
When did that come into style?
I guess I’ll have to ask Gonzo next time I see him. He is our resident female.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, our group seperates. The Young Guns go to the club, while the senior members of the Crazy Crew hit the piano bar.
Led by Godfather, Big Pat, Double-A and I take a table in the front row. I laugh out loud. There’s no doubt women will be wall to wall, wearing clothes so minuscule, so stretchy, you wonder if they dress from the Barbie Collection.
10 feet before us is the stage. There are two pianos, attached nose to nose, like Siamese twins joined at the forehead.
The pianist sitting to the left is a man. His partner, a woman is seated to the right.
They are accomplished musicians, changing songs with the flick of a key.
Billy Joel Piano Man suddenly becomes Layla by Eric Clapton, which becomes Brown Eye Girl.
The entertainers have two large tip jars on the pianos stuffed with dollars.
As they play, a steady procession of patrons walk to the piano and place tips into the jar, and drop notes requesting songs.
Around this time, the woman pianist shouts out; “this is for all the ladies in the house. Let me hear you scream.”
There is a group of Asian people just behind us, and apparently in their home country screaming is how you clap, because they scream so fervently and so regularly, even the piano players have to ask them to chillax.
So the woman pianist begins playing a song about women’s rights, or it’s great to be a woman, or my breasts are my badge of courage.
I’m not really sure what it is, but we need it to go away.
The man screams out; “Come on guys. Are we gonna let them play this crappy song. For 6 dollars, we can shut this down.”
The woman keeps smiling and playing; something about burning your bra and wearing high heels.
“Come on men. Six dollars and we can make this pain stop.”
The man is looking into the audience, begging the men to donate to the cause.
Suddenly something strikes the piano player in the side of the shoulder. It is brown and about the size of a baseball. It comes out of the darkness and lands on the floor.
The piano player seems shocked and a little nervous as he looks at his partner with large, saucer like eyes.
The moment is unplanned and the woman’s face reveals she has no idea what just happened. She keeps playing.
The man composes himself and looks down at the object now lying on the floor under the piano. He reaches down and picks up the item. He holds it up and smiles.
“A wallet,” he says with a laugh. “Never had anyone throw a wallet before.”
The Asian people are screaming as if their loins have caught fire.
“What the ….”
I look around and I suddenly put two and two together.
Big Pat is leaning back in his chair. He is relaxed but also on edge.
Big Pat apparently took out his wallet and threw it at the piano player.
I burst out laughing.
“No F***ing Way!!”
The man opens the wallet and starts fingering through it.
Pat looks a little embarrassed, but remains cool as the piano player pulls the wallet wide open.
“Who the hell throws their wallet at another human,” I yell, wiping tears from my eyes.
The crowd is howling with laughter and I feel all eyes on our front row table as the piano player makes the most of the moment.
I see a gold card and some green backs in Pat’s wallet. I am hoping he doesn’t have anything embarrassing in there.
In a few moments the man takes a five and a one out of the wallet and throws it back to Big Pat. He shoves the money in the jar and thanks Big Pat for the awkward if not unique moment.
The crowd goes berserk. It’s doubtful they have ever seen a person throw their wallet at a piano player’s head before either.
“OK,” the man shouts to his female partner. “Quit playing that garbage.”
And with that six bucks the piano duel moves in a more masculine direction that brings the house down.
Getting your song played in Vegas by throwing your wallet at the piano player?
Now that is crazy!
As it turns out, the Young Guns made the bad decision. They waited in line and greased the palms of bouncers who got them in, but from what I hear the club was wall to wall armpits.
Hours later we are in another lounge and a rock band is tearing it up.
I know it’s all going to hell when MacGruber is dancing with a young woman, and he forgets he began the conversation in Scottish.
Apparently the young lady is a die hard St. Louis Cardinals fan. MacGruber is a Scottsman. Instead of talking about throwing stones at the Highland games and referencing his preference to go “commando” under his kilt, he breaks brogue to tell her he is a Cubs Fan.
Wooops!
Not only does he look like a big fat liar, but the girl hates the Cubs.
She gives him a look like he is a child molestor and stomps off the dance floor.
I watch his mouth drop wide open
“Way to go MacGruber,” I shout, as he dejectedly walks off the dance floor like a beaten dog.
He walks up to the crew where the Godfather puts a shot of something soothing in his hand.
The night goes on, moment by moment, story by story.
And taht is crazy!