Storms Storms

The farther along we get in this year’s World Series the more celebrities I am seeing. I am still getting over being introduced to Robin Leech. His voice took me straight back to childhood to the days I longed for a 26-room villa on the Amalfi Coast. By the time the main event rolls around Shannon Sharpe will be dancing in the aisles and Tobey McGuire will be slouched in a corner acting cool. I’m not all that upset that I’ll be missing it.


So about fifteen minutes ago an average-looking white guy, older and graying, stops by the Full Tilt lounge. “You guys don’t take care of me,” he complains to the model-hot and kindergarten-teacher-cheery woman at the door.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“I play music.”

“Oh, my boyfriend is in the music business.” Blah blah blah. “How much do you guys charge a ticket?”

“About $400.”

“Wow. What’s that come out to for each venue you play?”

“About nine million dollars.”

It was Joe Walsh of the Eagles.

I followed him into BoDog’s lounge and hung on his heels long enough to overhear him say, “I’ve never played stoned, but I’ve played in venues where there’s so much pot smoke I’ve left the stage feeling stoned.”

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