At 4 a.m., on the 51st floor of a swank Vegas hotel, a long-haired man is doing push-ups. One-handed push-ups with claps in the middle. It's 4 a.m., and the long-haired man is determined to sweat out the Coronas. Let's see. Four at the blackjack table. Three more with those chicks. That's seven. Screw it. He's always feeling guilty like this, always doing crunches in the dead of night in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, always waking at dawn to cook egg whites, always trying to remember what got him here, to a 51st floor in Vegas.
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