Collateral damage.

Since I’ve been here at the Riviera, there have been at least four fights, with one KO in the Action Pit and one shooting at the Cue Club. In other news of the world, I managed to cut my thumb open with a frickin’ steak knife and spill a nice large cup of scalding coffee in my lap.

I did manage to win one match, so I’m officially happy that I’m not DFL (Dead F*cking Last) in this tournament.

And here are some fun things my radar ears picked up.



“I won’t play you, but you can give my dad the eight.”– unnamed son of famous Las Vegas player


Justin Whitehead comes over to the Action Pit at the Riviera in his preferred choice of mobility (old-man scooter) and woofs at the entire room in general. One Guy agrees to play him last-pocket eight-ball. The following exchange ensues:

“Play for forty?”

“Play for a hundred.”


“Bet a thousand.”


“Umm… NO! I’m not going to play you because… YOU’RE A NIT!” [zooms off in a huffy cloud of dust on his cherry-red scooter]



And, some of the various responses received when asked to play for money:

“No, I just got here.”

“No, I was just leaving.”

“No, I just got off of work.”

“No, I just played for six hours.” [then the guy goes and asks everyone else in the room to play for five dollars a game, and is still there–six hours later]

“In a little bit.” [little bit = never]


Then, there was this SPECTACULAR exchange:

“I only play ten-ball, with different rules, like you can only break from the box, and no jump cues.”

“Okay, I’ll play that.”

“Umm. And one-pocket.”


“Well, I only play girls.”



Talk to you all later…