What the fuck am I doing?

The whole idea of winning seats in major tournaments was so that I could travel the world seeing interesting venues under unique circumstances. Of course there was the underlying notion that I might actually win some scratch along the way, but mostly it was about the sightseeing. And for the most part – on both fronts – it has worked out all right. I’ve gotten to go, all expenses paid, to Copenhagen, Monte Carlo, Paradise Island, and Las Vegas. And on my own dime, I’ve travelled to Uruguay, Vegas a bunch of times, and Los Angeles a few times to play. And while I’ve cashed in a few of the minor ones, so far the major ones have managed to escape my grasp. But still, I went, I saw, I sometimes conquered. And now I get to go again.
What is the exotic locale this time, you ask?

Ritzy Paris, France s’il vous plais? Non, non, Nanette.

Tony San Remo, Italy? Fuhgettabouttit.

Spicy Bangkok? Uh-uh, no tickee.

Way down under to Australia? “G’day mate”.

Wrong, wrong, wronger, and getting colder. Destination revealed?

Uncasville, Connecticut.

You did ask, didn’t you? What’s that you say? You’ve never heard of Uncasville? Really? I guess that’s not surprising SINCE YOU CAN’T EVEN FIND THE DAMN PLACE ON THE WORLD WIDE WEB! Seriously, I could google my left butt cheek and get more information than they can give you about Uncasville Connecticut. Go ahead, try it. (I meant Uncasville, not my butt, you knuckleheads!) In fact I urge you to Wikipedia it, where you will find that Uncasville is resigned and re-categorized as the poor cousin to the much better known, and no-doubt bustling metropolis of Oxoboxo River. (I wish I could make up names like these, I truly do).

Here, I’ll save you the trouble. This from Wikipedia:

“The name of the statistical area is from the river of the same name running through the CDP. The U.S. Postal Service includes the entire area of the CDP in ZIP code 06382. Mailing addresses for this ZIP code use “Uncasville” as the place name. In addition to the Oxoboxo River CDP, the Uncasville ZIP code additionally includes the Mohegan reservation (including the Mohegan Sun casino).”

And that’s the whole story. You’d think SOMETHING must have happened there, some wacky anecdote along the way to distinguish this rickety popsicle stand from the others – General Custer caught a fish, Al Capone took a dump, Hilary Clinton got an emergency alteration on her pantsuit – SOMETHING! ANYTHING? Apparently not.

So what about these Mohegans, the noble tribe of Natives that lends its name to these hallowed grounds on which the holy temple they call the “Mohegan Sun Casino” now stands? Surely, there are some stories there. I’m sure we need only ask the chairman of the tribal council, Bruce “Two Dogs” Bozsum. Hold on a minute. Seriously, Bruce? “Two Dogs”? Isn’t that like the oldest joke in the world? That’s really the best you could come up with? Already, I don’t trust this guy.

Well, what about the rest of the tribal council? No doubt, one of them could lead us down the (war)path of traditional Native folklore that lay beneath this sanctified space. For instance we could ask James Gessner Jr., or Allison Johnson, or Kathy Regan-Pyne, or Thayne D. Hutchins. Wait a second. Thayne? James Gessner Jr.? What is this, the head office staff of Toronto Stock Exchange? The board of directors of the Granite Club? Where are the REAL Natives? I don’t trust these guys either! I’d sooner talk to “Two Dogs”!

In any case I did find one good story on their website. Since I don’t really type very well, and you probably don’t really care that much, I’ll just cut and paste it here, and you can skip right over it if you like. But I suggest you read it. It’s a poignant, albeit pointless tale that will serve as no less than my inspiration to win the tournament.

The rocks of Mohegan Hill are the home of the Makiawisug, or Little People. After nightfall, the call of the Whip-poor-will signals their arrival. They are good spirits, but the Mohegans know they must be treated with respect, according to tradition. It is important to leave baskets of food, such as corn cakes and berries, or even meat in the woods for them. Wearing moccasin flowers for shoes, they gather the gifts at night. In fact, Makiawisug means “whip-poor-will moccasins.”

They have their own rules of etiquette. Those who see the Little People should not look directly at them, they think it’s rude. If they catch you staring, they might point a finger at you, rooting you to the ground, while they take your belongings. Another rule is don’t speak of them in the summer, when they are most active.

But in return for kindness, they taught the Mohegan people how to grow corn and use healing plants. They keep the earth well and grant favors for those who honor their ways.

When the English settlers came and disrupted the traditional way of Mohegan life, many forgot to help the Makiawisug. As a result, many Mohegans and Makiawisug fell ill. At this time of Bad Spirits, there lived a medicine woman. One night, during a terrible storm, she heard the whip-poor-will. When she looked outside, the bird wasn’t to be found, but a small boy stood in the rain on her doorstep. It turned out he was a grown Makiawisug named Weegun, who told her to come help someone who was sick. Though the storm was fierce, he led her through the woods a long way.

Suddenly, the storm seemed to stop as they began to descend into the ground. They were in the realm of the Little People. Weegun led her to a beehive shaped chamber of rocks. Inside, a very old woman lay in bed, very ill. The Makiawisug told the medicine woman that this was Granny Squannit, who must be made well. Granny Squannit is very powerful, and she is known to cause storms when she argues with her husband. Her illness was the reason for this storm. Worse, healers often look to Granny Squannit when the need is dire for help in healing, and here she was the one who was sick. The medicine woman treated Granny Squannit for nearly a moon before she got better. In return for restoring Granny Squannit’s health, the Makiawisug gave the medicine woman a basket of gifts and told her to remember them. She was blindfolded and taken back home.

Only when she returned did she open the basket. Inside were quartz crystals, painted skins and bunches of herbs.

Good story, although they lost me somewhere in the middle there. I mean really, if you look directly at the little people, they take your belongings? Couldn’t you just squash the little fuckers? And the medicine woman healed Granny Squannit “for nearly a moon”? Isn’t that like one night? What’s the big deal? Ohhhhh. Maybe “a moon” is a month. I don’t fucking know.

There’s another good one that I won’t bore you with, about “Moshop, The Giant” who when building a bridge from Martha’s Vineyard to the mainland, is bitten on the toe by a crab and is so irritated he wreaks havoc on this Godforsaken little pisspot of a town. Then he turns into a whale, and because he also seems to have the ability to spew bad weather at will, is often blamed for the rough seas. They seem obsessed with the weather, these Mohegans.

For inspiration, I see myself as the crab in that story. So I’m gonna go there, and bite me some toes! Look out Uncasville!

I leave for Boston on the night of April 8th and the tournament starts on Saturday the 9th at noon sharp-ish. I’ll keep you posted.