Clocks In A Casino

I went to the fights Friday night. It was held inside a casino. The ceiling was made up to look like a starry night sky, presumably to balance off the feeling of being in a gutter looking up at it. Walking through all the tables and rows of slot machines felt like walking through a garden of weeds. For some reason it made me think about the irony of Nick Drake overdosing on anti-depressants. I don't know why. Pretty much the only thing worse than Las Vegas is places aspiring to be Las Vegas; places heavily populated by stereotypes and aspiring-stereotypes. Here's your paint-by-numbers scene: Security guards, roulette wheels spinning, dealers shuffling, slot arms jerking, cocktail waitress heels poking carpet, private poker rooms, 24 hour VIP parking, high roller tables, women dressed up, stacked chips, trays, Wayne Newton signed poster on the wall, fake tits brushing up against elbows connected to a bet doubling-down. I can't handle bets---I like dares.

A boxing student I teach bought me a ticket as a present. His dad was a family doctor who got in trouble a long time ago over some off-label stuff he was giving his patients and the medical board held a hearing about it that ruined his reputation even though he was completely exonerated. First he jumped off the side of a mountain but screwed up and didn't die but shattered his leg and permanently had a limp and a cane as a souvenir. A little while later he took some pills to commit suicide and succeeded when my boxing student was 29, the age I am now.

We watched eight fights in a row after the two national anthems were savagely gang-raped by some 3rd Rate Tone Deaf Scarlett Johansson Wanna-Be Popular Country Star's crumpled notes and sawed off-key embrace.

It was lousy boxing and I felt a little mopey and blue taking it in, but it was still kinda beautiful watching for the reason boxing always is: fighters are always far more afraid of being embarrassed than they are of being hurt. That always gets to me. And that other catch to the whole thing that the cowards and the heros both feel the same and it's just what they do that makes them different. That one does a number on me too. It's good to be a sucker sometimes, if you can afford to.

It made me miss my little gym in old Havana that's reduced to a little postage stamp to this letter.