Raucous and jovial Thursday Poker Night last night. The tunes were cranked, the beer was cold, and The Kell was in the house.
The Kell is one of those larger-than-life characters who has to be seen to be believed. If one had to compare him to a fictional character, I guess he'd be a blend of Homer Simpson (in that some have referred to him as a balding ape) and Ty Webb from Caddyshack for his wicked golf game and his deadpan delivery of one-liners such as "Killer Bee got his wings clipped" and "I turn on the radio these days and can't tell the difference between The Black Crowes, Counting Crows, Sheryl Crow and John Crowe." John Crowe was the investor from Kansas City who backed The Kell's trading efforts, which typically consisted of 45 minutes in the SPX pit, 6 hours on the golf course, and 20 minutes chasing S&P futures over the phone when he'd sprint back to the office.
The Kell is also a benevolent man. One night a few years ago, he hosted a card game at his house. Shortly after midnight, the phone rang. It was a comely young vixen from Oklahoma who The Kell had met the night before, imploring him to come out and meet her for a drink. Only one problem: she had three guys with her. Kell cornered me and told me "tonight Wilkes, you're gonna be my wingman." Only 2 problems: I'd pissed away all the cash I brought with me playing cards (not unusual in those days), and was wearing a tshirt and shorts, which isn't exactly club-worthy attire. But not to worry...Kell loaned me one of his shiny shirts and some much too long pants and slipped me 100 bucks before piling me into his BMW, telling me my job tonight was to get drunk and keep the guys away from his woman.
Well we got to Vision and the guys who were with Kell's little lady had all gone off to work the other ladies in the room. Naturally, Kell got his mojo working and ran off with his pretty young thing, leaving me all alone with nothing to do but drink. So I did. I staggered out of the bar at about 2 am and hailed a cab back to my newly-bought condo on the fringe of the ghetto. I jumped out of the cab, reached into my pocket...and sure as shit, I'd left my keys in the shorts which were back at The Kell's swanky bachelor pad in Lincoln Park.
Called The Kell, who had found his way to the Swissotel and was just about to get down to business. He drove out to my condo and picked my ass up, drove me all the way up to his house and plopped me off there to crash for the night, and then headed back to the hotel. I promptly passed out on his couch and woke up at 6 am with a throbbing head, still sporting some very fine threads. I somehow managed to ooze my way home and shower and change, and made it to the ballyard with plenty of time to spare before a 12:05 Cubs-Sox tilt.
I returned that favor last night, and went all-in on the Kell with a K-3 suited against his pair of 10s, and promptly exited the game. Didn't stick around to see if he ended up winning last night...but I was rooting for him.
The Kell is one of those larger-than-life characters who has to be seen to be believed. If one had to compare him to a fictional character, I guess he'd be a blend of Homer Simpson (in that some have referred to him as a balding ape) and Ty Webb from Caddyshack for his wicked golf game and his deadpan delivery of one-liners such as "Killer Bee got his wings clipped" and "I turn on the radio these days and can't tell the difference between The Black Crowes, Counting Crows, Sheryl Crow and John Crowe." John Crowe was the investor from Kansas City who backed The Kell's trading efforts, which typically consisted of 45 minutes in the SPX pit, 6 hours on the golf course, and 20 minutes chasing S&P futures over the phone when he'd sprint back to the office.
The Kell is also a benevolent man. One night a few years ago, he hosted a card game at his house. Shortly after midnight, the phone rang. It was a comely young vixen from Oklahoma who The Kell had met the night before, imploring him to come out and meet her for a drink. Only one problem: she had three guys with her. Kell cornered me and told me "tonight Wilkes, you're gonna be my wingman." Only 2 problems: I'd pissed away all the cash I brought with me playing cards (not unusual in those days), and was wearing a tshirt and shorts, which isn't exactly club-worthy attire. But not to worry...Kell loaned me one of his shiny shirts and some much too long pants and slipped me 100 bucks before piling me into his BMW, telling me my job tonight was to get drunk and keep the guys away from his woman.
Well we got to Vision and the guys who were with Kell's little lady had all gone off to work the other ladies in the room. Naturally, Kell got his mojo working and ran off with his pretty young thing, leaving me all alone with nothing to do but drink. So I did. I staggered out of the bar at about 2 am and hailed a cab back to my newly-bought condo on the fringe of the ghetto. I jumped out of the cab, reached into my pocket...and sure as shit, I'd left my keys in the shorts which were back at The Kell's swanky bachelor pad in Lincoln Park.
Called The Kell, who had found his way to the Swissotel and was just about to get down to business. He drove out to my condo and picked my ass up, drove me all the way up to his house and plopped me off there to crash for the night, and then headed back to the hotel. I promptly passed out on his couch and woke up at 6 am with a throbbing head, still sporting some very fine threads. I somehow managed to ooze my way home and shower and change, and made it to the ballyard with plenty of time to spare before a 12:05 Cubs-Sox tilt.
I returned that favor last night, and went all-in on the Kell with a K-3 suited against his pair of 10s, and promptly exited the game. Didn't stick around to see if he ended up winning last night...but I was rooting for him.
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