Help me out here

Dear blogsphere friends,

Rachel and I are fighting, you must help us.

She is convinced that this is a hoax I keep telling her it's real. I'm trying to convince her that folks this good do exist. Please comment your opinion and prove one of us right.

(it's a vicious fight, she even punched me :))

Strange Searchers

I don’t normally talk too much about the search terms that people use in somehow ending up at this site, mostly because everyone and their Mom already write posts of the same nature, but some of the keywords I’ve run across lately are compelling me. I would say that approximately 40% of them are searching for stats on “size of the human head” or “how much does a human head weigh?” For these people I say watch Jerry McGuire and you’ll have all the info you need from the spectacled little kid.

Then there are the depraved of our race that find their way to my doorstep (not literally, thank gawd). For whatever reason, these seem to run in peaks and valleys. “Big head cock” seems to be a favorite, along with “picture of” the same. One of the strangest was “human head inside an ass.” Good Lord, I’ve seen more than my share of the freaky, deviant, and disgusting, but I have a hard time believing that any variation of this is physically possible. Even if it is possible, why the hell are you tying to find it? Never mind, I don’t really want to know.

In the not-really-creepy-but-but-maybe-just-a-little category, we have “steeler dessert plates.” Why a little creepy? Ever since I was a kid I’ve been a creeped out by collectible utensils. I’m not sure why this is, but if I see collectible plates or silverware when I walk into a house my first instinct is to run right back out again. I think the root of this one is that my evil whore of a grandmother (don’t be so shocked, she’s one of the most evil people I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing) collected commemorative spoons, but I digress. No plates or spoons or anything commemorative on this blog at this time. Move along please.

(That just gave me an idea. Maybe I could bring these creepy demographics together and have plates featuring big head cocks of the world. A lot of strange cats would get their particular fix and I would profit! Not only that, but when people ask what I do for a living I can say, “I sell commemorative penises.” Goddamn if that isn’t almost as cool as being a Nougat Farmer.<--I think that is G-Rob’s but I can’t find the post—if anyone can help me out this lazy time-crunched guy would appreciate it)

I would certainly be remiss if I didn’t wind down with “I hate my big head.” For this sad soul I can only offer the following advice: Learn to love it, because you’re stuck with it, my friend. If you can’t do that then bone up on your head-butting that way you can teach people to respect it, at least. Besides, you know what they say about guys with big heads…

(Oh man I wish I had a funny penis joke here—I’m fresh out)

They fall down a lot as children.

Re-Inquisition

Yesterday I forgot to mention my weekend discovery, which I’m sure most anyone else reading this already knows. After doing well at the $10 SnG’s for the day I decided to hop into a $20 to round out the day. I have enough of a bankroll to play these, but given that I’m ultra-conservative with it, it’s not to the point where I feel I can or should play them exclusively. I think that mindset may be shifting, however, as I discovered that play at the $20’s is as bad or worse than the $10’s and even lower. I’ve only played a couple, so my discovery may not be indicative of the norm, but damn the play is terrible. Rampant hyper-aggressive idiocy. Can someone that plays this level SnG let me know if this is accurate? I was shocked because I figured I would encounter a better level of play and thus far it’s been quite the opposite. If my impressions are indeed reasonably accurate I may just have to jump out of my comfort zone a bit sooner than I planned.

*****

I desperately need this sickness to go away. Walking through every day is much like slogging through mud, and class last night didn’t make things any better. Four hours of pure drivel. I thought that my degree classes were dumb, but slogging my way through the last couple Gen Ed’s that I need is pure torture. Thank God I can get on FullTilt (Bonus Code: HHEAD) during class; it keeps the things to a dull buzz in the background and I can turn a dull experience into a profitable one.

It certainly beats trying to dream up inventive ways to kill oneself with various unlikely objects, such as eating my battery pack, trying to suffocate myself with my laptop bag, or perhaps impaling myself on one of the legs my chair. Is this mechanical pencil sharp enough for me to give myself a lobotomy? I really think that in the not too distant future we might see the emergence of a new phenomenon called “Death by PowerPoint.” Thanks Microsoft, for giving the world this wondrous software and making poor speakers even more teh suck. Meh.

*******

Warning: If you don’t like political rants, stop reading here.

I was helping out one of my users yesterday who was having problems with their VPN and noticed that this person had NPR on. I really like NPR (not sure where that puts me on the huge nerd scale, but it must be pretty high. Probably somewhere in between huger and hugest) and had forgotten about it, and it made working a bit nicer, until…..

My ears perked up at the mention of Manhattan, KS, home of K-State. It’s beside the point, but I find whoever it was that gave the town its name to be pretty audacious, considering that it’s neither a city nor is it metropolitan in any way. Like I said, beside the point. Evidently, G-dubya was speaking by phone to some rally or another on the campus, trying to gain support from the people to help him and his administration in their efforts to overturn Roe v. Wade. Then, I heard uttered a most frightening turn of phrase, one that I’m sure the Pres has stated before, but this was the first time I’ve heard it. (This quote may not be word for word as I’m recalling it from memory, but it is definitely accurate enough—pull the transcripts if you have a penchant for exactitude)

“We need to overturn this law in order to bring our Culture of Life to the world”

Dear.God. He did not just say “Culture of Life”

It’s like waking up every day and finding that we’ve regressed a bit further into a medieval age, where religious fervor reigned supreme. Isn’t this exactly the thing that this country is supposed to be founded against, religious fanatacism? Why have we forgotten this? Those three little words chill my blood, it’s fucking scary. What next? Start giving people suspected of a crime the drowning test? If they don’t drown they must be in league with an insidious foreign terrorist devil and if they die then they were innocent, its God’s will, right? Hell, let’s just officially revive the Inquisition. It worked really well for all involved back then, why not now?

Here’s the thing. I don’t really care what your personal opinion on abortion is, my own opinion on the subject included. It’s not important because it’s a personal belief/opinion. If you want one, fine. If you’re against it wholeheartedly, fine. We must stop efforts to legislate dogma. Separation of church and state is in place for a reason. We were founded on freedom, and within this freedom is the right to make the choices we think are the best for us in our pursuit of happiness.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that. For now, at least.

A sporting weekend

Friday I was feeling a bit stir crazy, and after having made myself stay away for so long, I figured that it was high time I jump on the WPBT IRC channel. Why did I wait so long? Well, it may sound silly and stupid, but the primary reason for doing so is the addictive power of hanging with the blogging bretheren. I have a giant fear that hanging out in the channel will end up monopolizing too much of my time. Yep, definitely silly and stupid, but hey, it is what it is.

I was also flattened by sickness Friday evening and it continued through the entire weekend. Hey waitaminute….Gracie was hanging out in the channel on Friday….then I got sick. Could it be that she has contagion powers over the ether? Further investigation may be warranted.

Many thanks to April for the great HORSE tourney, it was great fun even though I played like a complete donkey, lemur, fucktard, asshat, barely functioning retard, (insert you’re your favorite poker adjective for poor play here). Can someone please explain for the love of God why in the hell do I constantly get the greatest Stud hands on the planet whenever Razz comes around, but when we’re back to Stud I’m dealt a never-ending stream of premium Razz holdings? A rigged conspiracy, I tell ya. (I keed)

I stayed in line with things I never do this weekend by watching some football, as well. Sort of. I watched the tail end of the Steelers game and was easily bored because it was just a massacre and waited for the Seattle game. No excitement there either, as Seattle treated Carolina like its bitch the entire time. I watch football approximately four times per year so when I do I want the game to be close and exciting, dammit. Let’s hope the Super Bowl gives us a better contest.

I cleaned a couple of $10+1 toilets this weekend, so I decided to spend a portion of the profits on the Morales/Paquiao fight. I’m pretty much against sports betting in general because I know little about it save the fact that people lose GOBS of money doing it. However, I was tempted more than once to put money on Pacquiao. Of course, the fight was every bit as fantastic as the first and Pacquiao beat Morales down quite efficiently. Yet another case of not going with my gut and being poorer for it. Don’t be like me.

That’s all I have time to scratch out today, kiddo’s. I am slammed at work and have school tonight so I’ll catch ya tomorrow.

Booya!

Murderer's Row has a new serial killer. Head over and show some love for the biggest blogger score to date.

Simply amazing.

Crappy Action Classics

Go check out Absinthe, currently in the top 18—another blogger is about to make a rockin’ score, I can feel it.

Also worth a mention is Garthmeister J, who seems to be tearing up the Stars 180’s. Just great, more tough competition in the WPBT tourneys.

April’s HORSE happens tonight, get signed up if you’re not already! (that reminder was mostly for me)

*****
A few weekends ago, when we were cleaning and getting rid of our useless crap, I found myself working my way through all of our stored videotapes and was again struck by just how much we change over a relatively short period. So many movies that made me exclaim “What the fuck was I thinking?” Time and time again. Sleeping with the Enemy? What? Night at the Roxbury? Who? I’d say that most of my tapes are about 7 years old, and I’ve kept them simply because I planned to transfer all of them to DVD. Of course, this still hasn’t happened.

I hate all of the licensing and IP shenanigans that seem to be taking us all on an insane bullet train to hell, where all of the media conglomerates would like nothing more than to force us to pay multiple times for the exact same thing. The big boys are using the “Death by a Thousand Cuts” method to slowly kill fair use and it makes me kind of nuts on a daily basis.

BUT…

I did pay for a second time this weekend. I have tapes of all the episodes of Mr. Show with Bob and Dave, and this weekend I found the box set of every season on DVD for $40, so I bought it. I think that the time and effort saved was worth it, and now I see one of my favorite sketch comedy shows all over again with much better quality. All of it has led to a personal quandary, however, because I feel like I just caved on a principle that I think is pretty important.

Or, did I just make a decent logical choice? I don’t want to be (or become) one of those people that spend too much time and effort traveling to the other side of the city just to save .01 on a gallon of gas, knowhutimean?

I’m also considering upgrading my Jean Claude Van-Damme collection of classics if I can find them cheap enough. Someone (marketing execs, listen up here) should develop a line of crappy action cinema box sets. Price them to sell and I’ll likely buy, if for no other reason than simple nostalgia. A Stallone set, with all of the classics like Over the Top and Cobra? Sweet. There would probably be a lot of hate mail from wives everywhere, but hey, we have to put up with the E! channel. Fair is fair.

And I’m still wondering why I have so much pr0n. Oh, I remember. Never mind.

Time for a Smackdown

Bad weather on the way this weekend, guess that means I have to hunker down and play some poker. Best of luck to everyone playing in the big live tourneys this weekend in Tunica, I’ll be thinking of everyone whilst I absorb a plethora of pixilated beats.

Drizz had a post today got me thinking that I just might try to step it up a bit on the tourney side this weekend. Go check him out.

******

I had to put the smack down on another fuckin’ ass today—shit is gettin’ old. Some people enjoy such things (and there are plenty of times that I do), but when you are constantly having to put punk bitches back into place it becomes a job, and we all know how annoying those job thingy’s are. Here’s the rundown…

I get the call that a certain individual is coming in to get assistance signing up for the first time on a particular website. The fact that I’m going to have to take time away from more important things (like what I’m doing at this very moment) is already boggling my mind. All you have to do is click on the “New User Signup” and then fill in the blanks. Not too difficult—I even had one of my dogs do it once just to be sure, and I don’t have a smart dog like a Jack Russell or anything. I’ve got mentally unfit toy schnauzers.

I asked just who the heck this guy is. Turns out he’s a cousin of one of our illustrious PhD’s and the fire chief of one particular substation or another, which explains an awful lot. Not the fire chief part, the cousin of the PhD part. Can someone please tell me what the fuck it is about the process of getting a PhD that fucks a person up so much? In my lifetime, I’ve met one and only one PhD that wasn’t a complete idiot and/or pompous jackass. For the sake of my little tale, we’ll just call the PhD in question “D.”

When D started his job, I overheard him say to a girl in his department (who has been there forever, and who the entire department would be lost without) that he needed her “two-bit opinion.”

Oh, hell no.

It never ceases to amaze me the amount of shit that people will take, right to their face, even. If anyone ever refers to my opinion as “two-bit” when my assistance is necessary in an area they know nothing about, you can best believe there’s gonna be some furniture movin’ around. This is the same guy who took over 30 days to comprehend the difference between his PC logon and his website logon. Good Christ. While he has never been so blatantly snide with your’s truly, he has been an ass on a couple of occasions, resulting in a proper and always politically correct bitch slap. I’m happy to report that he now fully respects my authoriteye.

Pardon me; I got a bit off track there.

WOOOOOGAAAAAA! WOOOOOGAAAAA!

(that’s my douchebag alarm immediately dialing up to full-out mode)

I usher D’s cousin into the little anteroom we have set up for general PC use, or more accurately, room where the idiots can get on a computer and break it without really damaging anything important. Ever the accommodating gentleman, even when I really don’t feel like it, I pull out a chair for the guy and wait.

And wait some more.

He’s just standing there behind me with this look on his face, somewhere in between a confused “What?” and “Aren’t you going to do it for me, serf?’

Oh, hell no.

(Aside: I think that if I’m ever obscenely wealthy, one of the things I’m going to do is hire a very large, very black, very loud and obnoxious woman to follow me around at all times. I will give the high sign when necessary and she will bust out with some serious attitude in my place. Dammit, that would be a lot of fun. Someone make me rich and we can do this, by god.)

I just looked at him. Still nothing. Still that fuckin’ look. Christ, time for the smackdown yet again.

“You wanna take a seat there, Shooter?”

Boy, he didn’t like that, not one bit. But he sat, dammit. Respect my authoriteye.

I directed him to the correct place to click, and once the signup page loaded, I went for the kill shot.

“Now just read and fill in the blanks. Pretty simple stuff. Think you can get it from here?”

“Yeah.” It was more like a whisper and his voice cracked a bit.

And the lesson for today is: If you have absolutely no knowledge of something and need assistance with it, be appropriately humble in doing so. Having position or title doesn’t automatically make you all knowing or all powerful.

Bitches.

Is ignorance truly bliss?

Is it?

I’ve been pondering the question for most of today. I did something today that some might call “ethically questionable.” I had no qualms doing it. I felt it needed to be done, but looking at my actions with technicality glasses on would likely render me guilty. Because of previous missteps on the part of another who came before, I didn’t get exactly what I was looking for, but I got enough. I knew that what I was seeking would be there, but now that I know…….now what? I wonder if it might have been better to not really know.

*****

My brother has a guy working for him that he pays $5.50/hr, only slightly over the Federal minimum wage, to do the shit work that needs done around his shop. There is one, and only one, good thing about this Midwestern hellhole, and that is that it’s pretty cheap to live here. But cheap though it may be, it’s still goddamn difficult to make it on wages that are that low. I’ve been there, I know. The strange thing about it all is that this guy is okay with it. He’s not a crackhead, he’s a good worker, and he’s a few years older than I am. Nice guy, but completely ignorant. IG. NUNT.

Speaking about him the other day, my brother said, “…and he’s happier than a pig in shit. I’ve never heard the guy bitch or complain. He always works hard and is always in a good mood. I’m going to give him a raise just because it’s starting to make me feel bad.”

My bro mentioned that the guy told him that he and his wife went to the movies a few weekends back. It was the first time that they had ever been to a movie together, and they’ve been married for over five years. All I could muster was, “How is that possible?”

He has no idea that there is something better out there and has no inclination to go after anything more than what he has at the moment. The guy is like some kind of unintentional Buddha, completely and tranquilly disassociated, and a small part of me is jealous. Would he be better off if he knew the real deal?

*****

A scary board is on the table. You look down at your middling hand as first to act throws out a bet that will put you down to the felt. Goddamn that board, there are at least three ways you could be beat. You have to lay down the hand, and your opponent (in a fit of fairy tale quality graciousness) offers to let you see his cards. You’re pretty sure you know already. If you’re right, you know you’ll be on tilt. If you’re wrong, you learn something valuable and continue on.

Do you stay ignorant or do you seek the concrete truth even though your frame of mind will be the cost?

I want to know, even if the cost is high, but some days I question whether this is the right answer. Blissful ignorance sure looks nice, but it also brings to mind that the grass is always greener.

I think I just talked myself into the right answer, for me at least.

Bouchon Review

“Have you guys ever been here before?” asked the older man, as his smaller wife looked on in silence.

“No, but I’m very much looking forward to it,” I said.

It was true. The anticipation was so great it must have been some kind of trigger for my lurking OCD, because I made the reservations six weeks in advance. I’ve only been to California twice in my life, and neither trip found me anywhere close to The French Laundry. In fact, I can admit (although not proudly) that at the time I didn’t have the slightest inkling what The French Laundry was, let alone have the sense to point myself in its direction.

Thanks to the constantly improving one-stop shop that is Las Vegas, our last night in town would bring me a step closer to rectifying such a missed opportunity. The rest of the elevator ride to Bouchon was spent discussing with the nice couple the various places we’d been during our trip; standard conversational fare for happy Vegas tourists who manage to avoid the dreaded financial hole people are trying to describe when they use the word “down.” As the doors opened, the man mentioned that they hadn’t made reservations. I thought perhaps that they were simply victims of their own short-sightedness, and feeling a sort of kinship with those that seek out something better than standard fare, I offered to check and see if it would be possible to get them added to our reservation and they could dine with us. The man looked genuinely surprised and pleased at the offer.

“No, thank you. We mostly just wanted to get a look around, sort of scouting for our next trip. But thanks so much for the offer, it was very generous of you.”

“No problem at all. I just wanted to make sure that no one misses out on a great meal,” I said as we stepped up to the hostess and quietly but amicably ended our brief acquaintance.

Looking around while Rachel sorts out reservation business with the hostess, I don’t feel badly saying things about the upcoming “great meal” as though I know all about it, even though I don’t. Such is my confidence, equal to that of my anticipation.

***************************

The restaurant was packed to the rafters, and I breathed a silent thanks to my OCD for making the reservations when I did. I had no real evidence that it would have made too much of a difference if I reserved only a week out, but the fact that it was our scheduled time and there would still be a small wait left me relieved at my over-preparedness. We were offered a seat at the bar until our table was ready and my internal pressure gauge slid a few bars to the left. A couple of cocktails before our meal would keep it sliding until it reached zero, just what the doctor (or hostess, in this case) ordered.

The Foreign Legion kept catching my eye as I scanned endlessly up and down the drink menu. It was an odd name for a drink, quite obviously the reason that I kept stopping on its description; Grey Goose, Tanqueray 10, Drambui, and Amaretto. As I kept going over the ingredients, I couldn’t stop recalling that movie that I liked, Legionnaire, with Jean-Claude Van Damme. Being a sucker for crappy action cinema makes me odd, I guess, and the odd drink with the odd mix of ingredients seemed a perfect match, plus I was happy that I managed to break my normal standard of the “very fucking dry” martini.

“The Foreign Legion is an odd drink. Are you sure that’s what you want?” asked the tiny bartender with short blonde hair.

“Define odd.”

“Well, it has Drambui and Amaretto. I mean, c’mon….that’s odd. And a lot of people don’t like it.”

“Sounds good. I’m gonna go for it. And I’ll have a French Margarita”

With a tiny shrug she was gone, leaving me wondering what this odd concoction would taste like. I was sure of one thing; the first sip was sure to leave me feeling either bold or extremely foolhardy. What made it “odd”, for god’s sake? I just hoped that it wasn’t anything near to its namesake, as any similarity in taste to that of a multinational group of soldiers would be understandably unwelcome.

I took my first sip as the bartender eagerly looked on. My face must have given away crucial intel, because she took on a distinct “I told you so” look. Odd was really the only word for this taste, coming in somewhere between leather and a spicy cologne, if either of those things had any ability to taste good. And make no mistake; it did taste good even though it was truly unlike any other drink I had ever consumed. But what’s this? Pickles? In my drink? I took a bit of the pickle, then another sip. My drink had completely changed, leaving me with the feeling that I was the unwitting victim of some devious switcharoo. The pickle was the key.

“How come you didn’t say the pickles were the trick to this?” I asked as the bartender came back our way.

“It’s more fun to see people figure it out.” she said matter-of-factly.

The tiny shrug again. I couldn’t argue though, it was more fun this way. The pickle discovery improved Rachel’s outlook on the drink, bringing her opinion from the depths of “not so much” back up to “not too bad, but I wouldn’t want more than a couple of sips.” She was happy with her margarita, itself a good choice with its ingredients of Grey Goose, Hornitos Reposado, Cranberry, and fresh lime and sour. If I was a margarita kind of guy, I imagine would have had about seven of them.

Finishing the drink and congratulating myself once again for breaking with my initial standard, I determined that further straying was in order. I decided on The Bouchon, the signature cocktail. The bartender’s face lit up a bit as she went off to mix the drink, and I wondered why. She came back with the drink and a bit of lemon and orange peel on the side.

“Check this out. Take a sip without the peel.”

I did. It was very good, like a kind of a sweeter martini.

“Now, taste what the natural oils from the peels do.”

Holy hell. As was the case with the Foreign Legion, this drink had also done a complete 180, though it’s hard to describe just how, exactly. It was as understated as the Foreign Legion was bold. Sweet, but not enough to make a person tire of it or lose sight of the fact that it was very much an adult drink. Citrus without being too much so. Everything it was supposed to be without being too much. I could keep going, but I still don’t think I would get it as right as I should.

Make it a point to order any or all of the above, you won’t be disappointed.

***************************

Shortly after receiving my second Bouchon we were seated. While I know that it is probably a bit disappointing to some, I enjoyed the fact that the menu was printed on simple, unpretentious paper wrapped around the napkin. We concentrated on the selection of appetizers while the waiter recited the featured items and asked us if there were any questions. We had none and decided on the Huitres (oysters) and Pate de Campagne (country style pate), and then fretted endlessly over our choice. We didn’t want to miss anything great, but these thoughts soon fled as the bread arrived, sans plate.

I asked Rachel, “Did they just serve the bread directly on the table? Is that right?”

She was too busy doing the “I’m so happy I can’t talk right now” seat dance, so I decided to let it go and join her (in eating, not dancing). I quickly found that, like her, one loses the ability to puzzle over such trivialities with a mouthful of perfect bread. If I had the ability to make bread like this for myself, I would be very fat and very happy for the rest of my days.

The arrival of our appetizers distracted us from the sure dismay that was creeping in as we finished the last of the bread. Both of us knew that tonight would take a certain manner of iron will; we would have to stave off the desire to consume one delicious item exclusively throughout the evening. Our gastronomic future was much too enticing to get cripplingly distracted at this point.

I started on the oysters and made an effort to concentrate, but my knife kept on like a divining rod, pointing itself insistently towards the pate. I should have known; as a resident of the restaurant, the knife obviously knew what it was doing. Any pate I ate previously in my life paled in comparison to this masterpiece. The temptation began asserting itself more forcefully. I wanted to keep ordering and consuming the pate until I burst, forsaking all other menu selections. I was now locked into my own mental happy dance.

As I returned to the oysters, I noticed that three of them (half of the order) were pure shite, not even large enough to be properly called “small”. This wasn’t too upsetting, as I wrote it off to what must have been a generally overwhelming crush experienced by the kitchen. We would just tell the waiter and he would correct it. Speaking of, where the hell is the damn waiter? My spidey-sense began tingling from the moment he initially appeared, but I had wrote it off which was obviously a mistake. I’ve spent enough time at the tables by now to know I should trust my reads. My water was nearly empty and my cocktail had hit bottom long ago. Rachel was getting low, as well, and I realized we hadn’t seen him in almost 20 minutes. As we waited, I tried to remind myself again that the place was crushingly busy.

With the 20 minute mark a healthy distance in the rearview, our waiter finally reappeared, and as Rachel related our small problem with the oysters, along with the larger problem of the drink situation, the waiter got a look. The look. As lowly consumers, we were inconveniencing him. Taken aback, I noticed that it was the same look he adopted when we decided to stay on our already defined path of cocktails in lieu of a bottle of wine.

You pretentious little asshole.

Remaining calm, we ordered our entrées and waited to see how this would be handled, although his abrupt manner the entire time pointed to “not well.” A few minutes later, our water was again in good standing and our replacement oysters arrived—two of them. Contrary to what Meatloaf may have sang in days long past, two out of three in this case is bad, and making the problem worse, nearly another 15 minutes had passed without a cocktail resurgence. Our waiter, who looked like the product of a Cary Elwes/Charlie Sheen/Midget fusion, standing there with that damnable look on his face, finally sent me over the edge.

I headed to the bar to have a smoke while I tried to think of some way to accomplish what does not come naturally—complain without carpeting an undeserving recipient with f-bomb’s. Rachel, having worked in fine dining for some years and knowing my difficulties with diplomacy in such times, relieved me of the task. Our entrees arrived and on the way back to the table Rachel informed me that it things should be getting better shortly.

Thanks to Olivier, the assistant general manager, we didn’t see the waiter very much after that.

***************************

Rachel had the Gigot d’ Agneau (roasted leg of lamb) and I went with the Steak Frites. The simplicity of the presentation was the very reason that some may require a mental reset, as it was a sharp departure from the decorative “fusion” plates that permeate the modern restaurant scene. Mr. Keller doesn’t beg for attention with these dishes. He knows their value and seems content to leave it at that. Like many of the best things in life, you never see this food coming; there is wonder contained in the simplicity and elegance.

The lamb tasted as it would in a perfect world, and the steak was such that it commanded all of my attention and added blissful fuzz to my periphery. Then there were the fries, which were the evening’s biggest surprise. Through various periods of my life I have carried around as many erroneous assumptions as the next guy, including the assumption that there wasn’t much anyone could do with fries once they reached a certain height. As I took the first bite I found myself pleasurably shocked at the fact that my previous assumption couldn’t have been more wrong. The humble fry had indeed been elevated, and after another few bites the “how” of it all ceased to matter.

Throughout our entrée, a cadre of wait staff ensured that previous mistakes were rectified and then some, a testament to the management. They returned the service to expected levels and kept going, reaching a point that seemed far, far away from reality. It became service heroine. Imagine the best service you’ve ever had, double it, and you still wouldn’t be close. Their goal is to make sure you have the best dining experience possible. If it’s not you need only let them know; they will take care of the rest.

***************************

Dessert is something I don’t normally partake in, but asking me to leave Bouchon without dessert would be akin to asking that I leave my house without cigarettes. Such a thing should never happen, and yes, I am aware that I am a hopeless addict. However, in a departure from my thus far long-windedness, I will be sparing with my words about the tail end of the meal. After all, if I haven’t convinced you by now to make Bouchon your highest priority, you’re not going, no matter how much drivel I spew concerning their sweets.

While all of the desserts are wonderful (yes, I said all), if you’re only going with one item it must be the Fromage 3-piece tasting portion, and request that the sommelier pair you up with a dessert wine of his choosing. I promise you it will be worth every penny and every moment.

Thomas Keller and Bouchon are leather-bound classics in an MTV sodden world. If you’re tired of the gloss, bright colors, and superficiality of it all, come take refuge in this haven of the real.

***************************

Rereading these words, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve spewed forth too much gush. Whether I have or haven’t is pretty irrelevant at this point, I guess. I can’t help myself.

Going in, my anticipation was great, and my confidence matched it. It’s very possible that my expectations far exceeded what was appropriate. Leaving Bouchon, my satisfaction dwarfed them all.

With regards to our next meal there, I left the same way I entered.

“I’m very much looking forward to it.”

Welcome Back, kiddo.

My game is rusty, which is not news. Spend a few weeks not doing something skill-based and you’re bound to be lacking at least a bit in that something, whatever it is. It helps that the players at the low limits are typically are so bad they could be outplayed by a comatard (oh truly, I really might be going to hell for that term).

And so it was last night, but poker is very touchy. She doesn’t like her men (or women) to stray for very long, just as she doesn’t like to have company 24/7. I’ve stayed away for the last weeks in an effort to maintain discipline and not bleed away my roll by playing in a sub-optimal mindset. With all of the junk we’ve been dealing with here at HEAD-quarters (I kill me), I’m ripe for drop-of-the-hat tilt so I stayed away. I played a couple of cheap SnG’s last night while dealing with the insomnia monkey, and I didn’t cash in either one.

The first one was on Stars, where I went in worried about the rust. I should have been worried about that nasty fickle bitch that is poker herself, who proved yet again that holding a grudge is no problem. I played, quite literally, as perfect as I could. I even pored over the hand history post-tourney in an effort to find something wrong. Every hand I bet, I was ahead. Every bet I called, ahead. It mattered not. From chip leader to bubble out in three hands, all courtesy of one amoeba with a penchant for bluffing on the turn with three outs.

Cue 3 AM mini-tilt.

It’s a little known fact that when you’re awake at 3 AM, you’re actually smarter than you are during the day. Case in point, since poker was busy wiping junk blood off of her steel-toe boots at Stars, I decided to take the opportunity to head over to neighbor Full Tilt’s house while she wasn’t looking. The less said about that smart move, the better. Great poker was definitely not played. In fact, I don’t even think I can honestly say that a mediocre game was played. Bad, bad, bad.

Then I read BadBlood this morning. He’s not the first to post on the subject, but it was a good confirmation that I was doing the right thing by not playing for so long, even though it didn’t feel like it. I played simply because I thought I should, even though I knew it wasn’t yet the right time. I was putting completely unnecessary pressure on myself. Yet another case of what can (and likely will) happen when you ignore your instincts.

As I logged off, I swear I could hear poker around the corner, chuckling. I realized that it wasn’t the derisive laugh of someone who takes great pleasure in another’s pain. I noticed for once that it was the laugh of someone who actually does know it all, amused at the person who just thinks they do. Poker doesn’t hate me and it doesn’t hate you, its place is simply to remind and teach whether we think we need it or not. If poker was actually a living entity, it would probably be just as annoyed having to constantly remind us of our shortcoming as we are of being reminded of them.

“Good to see you again, kiddo.”

Whatever. I’m going to sleep.

Mon Ami Gabi Review

On Sunday, after a very rough all-nighter, we spruced up and decided that a nice lunch was in order. Paris was on the way to the Aladdin (where some serious shopping would be in order, my husbandly duty for the trip), and since it’s a casino we rarely spend much time in, we decided some dining exploration was in order. Enter Mon Ami Gabi. (geez, could I say "in order" just a few more times?)

Since the weather was nicer than anyone expected, the patio was packed and I questioned whether we would be able to get a spot. I also internally questioned whether or not I actually wanted one. The looks on most of the faces dining there said that these people thought they were seriously upper-crusty because they were out on the patio. The restaurant was obviously nice, but from the outside looking in, the vibe I got from the clientele seemed pretty unwarranted. However, the attitude of a few customers shouldn’t be a primary dissuading factor, so in we went.

Time for some cocktails! If I’m going to endure a shopping gauntlet, I’m damn sure going to have a drink or two in me. Looking at the cocktails made me a somewhat apprehensive as they seemed a bit expensive, more so than usual. $11 for the Gabi Martini, which was just a Grey Goose martini with bleu cheese stuffed olives. I figured that if nothing else it had the olives going for it. Per usual, I stressed very fucking dry, and the Mrs. decided on a Sidecar.

The Sidecar was very good; it wasn’t amazing, but still delicious nonetheless and properly made. I wish I could say the same of my martini. Starting off the litany of things wrong with it, it was very small. Was there a shortage of Grey Goose that I missed? Was there a sudden wild fluctuation in the vodka market that shot the price up to $75/bottle? I’ve been in many finer establishments where I received 50% more drink for about 15% less money, and thus begins the Mon Ami Gabi stock plummet and I haven’t even tasted anything yet. Let’s do that, shall we?

Well, that could have been better. Obviously, swearing during my order didn’t properly communicate how seriously I take the “dry” quality of the martini’s I order. Perhaps next time I’ll bring a sign and hold it as though I’m attending a sporting event, or I could have it painted on my torso and rip my shirt off in a Hulkamaniac rage when I order. Maybe then I can get the point across. I suppose I could have just told you that there was entirely too much vermouth, but this was a serious fuck up for such a pricey drink. Stock is plummeting, folks. I simply sighed and tried to enjoy my bleu cheese stuffed consolation prize.

Our wait to be seated having been surprisingly short, Mon Ami Gabi finally scored its first points, post martini debacle. The sun was such that, at our table, it was shining directly into my eyes. I know, that’s what sunglasses are for, but even so, it was annoying and I began looking for a way to remedy the situation. Like a true sign from above, the couple at the table directly behind us left and I quickly grabbed the server to see if we could hop tables. I expected at least a slightly annoyed look, as this request was going to be a bit of a pain in the ass. Without blinking, she informed us that it would be no problem and began transferring our bread and drinks. Nice.

Speaking of the bread, our baguette also helped Mon Ami Gabi make up a couple of lost points, at least to the point where I wasn’t raving pissed. It was better than average if one is considering the big picture of bread, but when the focus is narrowed to establishments that purport to be finer, it was only slightly above par. Pleased, but not excited would be the best way describe it, I suppose.

In odd contrast to the pricey cocktails, the food was reasonably priced. Craving meat, I decided on the Hamburger with Brie and Mushroom, while the Mrs. went with Croques Monsieur, a sandwich with ham, jarlsberg, gruyere, and béchamel (a white sauce, made by adding hot milk to a roux of butter and flour). My burger, much like my drink, was far south of where I thought it would be. The Croques Monsieur was quite good, and I tried to rest easy in the fact that at least one entrée lived up to the “fancy” factor that Mon Ami Gabi was obviously trying to give off. It was perfectly warm and soft, and the flavors of the sandwich melded together exactly as I had hoped.

Service during the meal was very good, and given the ease of the table changing situation earlier in the meal, we were very pleased with this aspect of the restaurant. In fact, I would say that it was the only thing that was consistently great. By this time, you surely must have noticed a theme running throughout this piece, and if not, I’ll take this opportunity to lay it out for you. Don’t worry, I was going to anyway.

Good, but not great. Worth the time, but lacking the power to encourage me to make a second trip unless it’s wildly convenient. Throughout this entire review I’ve been trying to think of something more summarily specific as to the “why”, and I think I’ve got it. I could have cooked this meal. Since I’m approximately a million miles away from being any kind of professional chef, I expect better from a place like this. If you’re looking for a number, I would give it a 6.5 out of 10, overall. Severely underwhelming.

If you’re looking for a really nice lunch, head over to Olives in the Bellagio instead.

More Insomniatic Drivel

My mom’s cat died yesterday, and the world didn’t end. And I’m surprised. Not because I was so attached to the cat (in fact, I hated the thing), but because my mom was. Attached. Big Time.

The family got the cat, our first ever, when I was 13. It’s been around for over half of my life. I was always tempted to call it the Regis or Dick Clark of cats, in spite of the fact that it was a female. She never looked old, yet one would need carbon dating to ascertain her true age. She was approximately the world’s largest wimp of an animal, comparable only to my current dog, Stella. Once, when I was around 16, she got out and no one could find her. After four hours of my mother’s end of the world freak-out we finally found her. She was lost and almost frightened to death….hoooooooolllllld……waitforiiiiiiiiiit…….in our front flower bed. **slaps forehead** Ever since that day I have looked forward with dread to the day that my mom’s cat would finally give up the ghost.

Inexplicably, my mother is remaining on a shockingly even keel.

We spoke for a while today, and I felt bad for her. Having had pets of my own for a few years now, I completely understand and feel bad for her. I think I’m actually happier and more proud that she didn’t have a complete meltdown than I am sad about the death, though.

She mentioned that they were going to bury her in the backyard, and I asked why they didn’t just take her somewhere and have her cremated or have whoever those people are do whatever it is they do with animals that are no longer of this world. In my mind, it would avoid any potentially messy problems, but I tried to understand.

Then she commented, “I know that’s what you want done when you die, and I hope I’m already gone, because it would kill me to do that.”

Now certainly, humans and animals in general are very different, well, animals. But when I asked her why that would be so hard, she couldn’t come up with an actual reason no matter how hard I tried to coax one from her. She said it just didn’t feel right. She’s the type I’m always suspicious of, a person who bases most every decision on feeling alone (something I believe to be largely responsible for the current strange state of affairs in our society today, but of course that’s a completely different tangent for another time). From my end, feelings are all well and good, but they need to be tempered with reason and logic, and shouldn’t be used exclusively to make most decisions. I want to be cremated mostly because I simply think that cemeteries, by and large, are a waste of valuable space on this already crowded rock. When my time is up, don’t forget about me, but brush my physical presence aside to make some room for those behind me. After all, what are we really using to serve as a remembrance of the deceased but a piece of stone or a plaque? We mourn and remember the person or animal in question, and I can’t get how having a plot of space in the earth makes either of these experiences more quality than space in a mausoleum, an urn, or on the wind. Why is burial considered more “proper” than playing a song (or, insert your own thing here) every now and again to induce the sought after remembrance?

If anyone can advocate burial over cremation without citing only feelings or “my religion strictly dictates it”, I would enjoy hearing it. Seriously. The “feelings” argument is driving me a little batty. Who knows, one day I could be persuaded to come over from the “take what you need, then burn me” camp.

Sad as it may be, I still think she ought to be (and hope she comes around to being) happy that the cat had as long as she did. If I have even 2/3 of the equivalent lifespan the cat had, I’ll be overjoyed, and I hope that those who knew me will be, too.

Enough insomnia talk for now. Good night.

Just a little story

It kind of sucks coming into work on the weekend, but I’m seeing myself take more of a shine to this oft cited, miserable quality of IT work. Sort of. Kind of. I’m not sure. Sitting here trying to un-jumble some thoughts, it seems like I do. But that’s not right, because I hate work, even when it’s work that I enjoy.

It’s the solitude of the off-hours. I fucking love it.

Work gets done faster and more efficiently, leaving me time to think without the din of sub-40 IQ’s ringing in my ear. I wonder how long it’s going to take before I cloister myself up in the hills or down in the desert and start churning out manifestos full-time. Actually, scratch that idea. I think I may be more suited to being a city hermit due to the fact that I need a good internet connection. How the hell else am I gonna get that poker fix during a manifesto break?

By the way, this rambling, incoherent tripe is brought to you by System of a Down. I particularly enjoy their music because it lines up nicely with how I think, never staying too long on one thought or tone. Kind of like trippin’ balls in a candy store; all you want to do is flit this way and that, grabbing a taste of everything. Too much of any one thing in such a condition leaves a person grossed out.

That’s what I hear, anyway. It also brings to mind a story of something odd but also pretty great. Just remember that even though it may be written in the first person, it wasn’t me, okay? Just make like I’m pulling some kind of insane writing shenanigans.

So.

I was 18 and working at the box factory. Yes, you heard right. Box. Factory. Terrible place, but not too much different from other places in that the sub-40 IQ’s are still the same, they just come with beards, bad smells, and a lot less political correctness (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing considering the inherent nature of the evil beast that is being politically correct). Boot camp for learning what you DON’T want to be doing with the rest of your life. I simply consider it one of the many necessary steps in preparing for world mindshare domination.

It’s December 22, and everything in my little shitty space in the world is covered in freezing, blowing snow. My friends and I considered what to do. In a couple of days all of us would be shackled to spending time with our families, which at the time was an awful thing. What in the hell were we all going to do if we couldn’t hang out for three or four days? New Years Eve? Oh hell, you can’t bring that up, it’s a lifetime away. Let’s trip.

The last of the Alice in Wonderland on Humpty Dumpty. Merry Christmas to us.

After a few hours at my apartment, we decided to head over to Doug’s, because he had the high end surround sound that would provide an optimal Pink Floyd listening experience. Doug’s parents were rich, and oh yeah, he was good at selling drugs. A perfect picture of the entrepreneurial spirit alive and well in the heartland. I was working third shift at the time, and for the life of me I can’t recall exactly why I had off. I think it was comp time, or something along those lines. Who cares, really, it’s inconsequential. But for anyone that’s been there, you know what I’m talking about when I say that one can get confused on certain issues when under the influence.

It was the annual tradition of the company to give each and every employee a Christmas turkey or ham. They even let you choose. How’s that for magnanimous? They always handed out the free food to the coal faces on the 23^rd. For some reason, I got it into my head that I had missed my free turkey that I would never actually cook, and began obsessing about it as though it were a crucial cog in the cosmic gears of my life. What the hell was I going to do? I certainly couldn’t spend the next 9 hours worrying about this. (Yes, 9 hours was about what we still had left on the ride, since we had previous confirmation by experience attesting to the potency)

Doug and I jumped into the car and headed out to get my fucking turkey (that I would never cook).

In our brave little metal bubble of a Camry, we braved the storm and finally arrived at the factory. Calling the 15 minute drive wild would be the understatement of the century. It would be kind of like calling Liberace “sort of gay.” WILD. Doug tried to learn to play on the giant rolling conveyer belts while I sought out my boss. The turkey I would never cook was going to be mine, come hell or high water.

“What the hell are you doing here,” he asked. “You don’t work till after Christmas.”

I stated matter-of-factly, “I came for my turkey.”

“We don’t give those out till the 23^rd.”

“Yeah, I know, but c’mon man, I came all the way here.”

The look on his face confirmed that he indeed thought this was pretty odd. I think he may have been waiting for some sort of confirmation on facts that he must have intrinsically known, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Then, through breaking brain clouds, there was a moment of clarity.

“Well, it’s 3:30 AM, so technically it’s the 23^rd, so you can go ahead and give me my turkey now. You won’t have to bother later this way.”

My cold and unerring logic had fucked him up enough that he just mumbled “OK” and went to get my free shit. Doug was really trying hard to learn how to balance on conveyers, so I decided not to bother him and head down to the break room and try to find one of the two or three cool folks there to talk to for a bit.

What I found was much cooler than any people I may have been looking for.

3^rd shift holiday pot luck. All laid out nice and pretty for everyone to consume in, ummmm, welllll, geez, I figured about 30 minutes. It dawned on me that I was starving, having eaten nothing since about 9 PM. The mental stress of the journey there had really taken it out of me. There was sure to be more stress on the way back. Seeing no sense in stressing on an empty stomach, I had my excuse.

I went on a tasting frenzy.

When the smoke cleared and I was sated, it occurred on me that I had just done something I’d always wanted to do but never really thought I would. However in the process, I made a huge mess and fucked up a lot of food. I was a bit frantic and tried to remain calm as I headed back out to the main floor to see if my boss rounded up my stuff yet. If he didn’t, I was afraid I might have to bail. Being around when they discovered the war zone buffet would not be a good idea.

And there he was, holding my frozen bird, looking for me and looking stupefied. I muttered a giant thanks and no further explanation as I grabbed the swag and my fat friend and got the hell out of there. On the way back to the apartment, I related my tale of wonder, and while he agreed that it was kickass, Doug just shook his head.

“I can’t believe we just did all this for a frozen turkey that you won’t even cook.” Then he just laughed. “Never mind, yes I can.”

The album is over and so is my tale. Time to go home. Nice talkin’ to ya.

I have no idea what to title this...

Today is going to be very nerve-wracking, as it is the first day of “late this week or early next” when I hope to be getting a phone call with news that will liberate me. I hate waiting. I used to be fairly good at it (I was never great), but that particular talent seems to be waning ever more as the years tick by.

I blame the internet.

If there is something I don’t know and want to find out about, there’s Google. I would have to take off my shoes more than a few times to tell you how many side bets have been immediately resolved and won in the last six months alone. If there is a random movie that comes to the forefront of my monkey-brain, I no longer have to worry about remembering it the next time I head to the video store, I just put it on the NetFlix queue. Set it and forget it! (not sure why I channeled Ron Popeil right then, but there ya go)

I still haven’t been able to decide if these things have freed up mental effort for other things or are slowly making me dumber. It really depends on what time of day you ask me, I guess. I can say that at this point either one would be very difficult to give up.

I just saw on the news that some of those miners that died left notes such as, “I went in peace” on their own dead bodies. I think when I die that this is one of the last opportunities I would like to have. The way I see it, in a horribly unfortunate situation these guys were fortunate. It sounds kind of awful, but wouldn’t you feel better having the chance to just say one more thing on your way out? The question that’s worth thinking about is, what would you say on your note?

It’s a tough one, for sure. I’d be torn between trying to say something as meaningful as I could and spouting something completely retarded as a statement on the absurdity of it all. I guess a big determining factor would be, how much time and space do I have to write? If I had the time and space I’d probably just try and do both, hopefully accomplishing something in death that I’ve been unable to accomplish thus far in life. I wonder if those who love me would understand if my final note was, “Set it and forget it?” (Damn you, Ronco!)

It would have people puzzling, and dammit, it would be funny.

Side thought: Would I go into my final sleep with my hand down my pants similar to my condition upon waking a majority of mornings? Waitaminute, I don’t wear pants to bed, not that it keeps my hands away from my junk. Shit, I guess you didn’t really need to know that, did you? (shut up, Head. Just shut up now)

How about some more Tales from the Darkside? I feel like telling them, so I guess that means you get to read them. I don’t really know what is prompting all this as of late. Perhaps it’s my need, as I strive to make an exit, to tell tales that serve as warning to others to stay as far away as possible (as if they needed any more warning).

Here is a quote from someone. It may or may not be a co-worker. Due to the furtive manner in which us corporate monkeys must blog, that’s all I’ll give for the specifics.

“Have you ever had rotisserie chicken?”

Yes. Yes, I have.

Know what else? Just last night I also had this new-fangled fish called salmon that was pretty weird. I think it’s Asian, or something.

Welcome to my personal hell. I just gained a new level of understanding for people on ledges.

And in local news (the 6AM variety), yet another gem has been mined. It seems that KSN (the local NBC station) will not be airing the new show The Book of Daniel that is coming out. A brief summary for those unfamiliar:

“The show focuses on an Episcopalian minister and father. He finds himself conversing with Jesus - his mentor and friend - who helps navigate family problems, church politics and even his nagging reliance on prescription painkillers. The pilot was written on spec by "Titus" co-creator Jack Kenny. NBC took the rare step of buying his finished script even though it was not developed through…”

When the commercial advertising this show came on, I quipped to Mrs. Head that I though it actually had possibilities, but since it was NBC, it was likely over hyped garbage. Nevertheless, if it was convenient, I would check it out because I thought it had potential. Fast-forward to this morning, where the local news informed us that the show would not be airing since so many people in the area (see: final refuge for God-fearing folk) were duly offended and filled with a fiery, righteous indignation.

I’m sure most, if not all of you, have already heard of the traffic ploys of Save My Finger. I’m seriously considering starting a charity for myself that is in this vein combined with a bit of The Human Fund from Seinfeld.

I’ll call it Save Me From Insanity dot com. Hell, I just bought the domain name, I might do it. Anything to get me away from the heavy-handed Bible beating. Maybe I can get some celebrity endorsements, and a portion of my proceeds could go to an actual charity!

Hmmm, I think I just may spend part of the day trying to flesh out this idea a bit more….

From Positive to Pissed

Am I addicted to crack?

If by crack you mean Civilization IV, then yes, I am hopelessly addicted. I feel like Mike Renton, “Just one more fuckin’ hit!”

But, like Lindsey Lohan, I’ve recognized my problem and speaking out about it in the hope that I can be a better role model for my teen fans. I’m expecting a call from the Today Show anytime to schedule a tearful and heartfelt interview. I made Mrs. Head hide the game from me until such time as I can learn to control myself, but I still have Rise of Nations. It’s my methadone.

So, how’s 2006 so far for everyone?

From my perch, things are going pretty well so far. I had an interview on Tuesday that I think went pretty well; I should know something by the end of this week or early next. If I don’t get it…well, I’ll probably cry, or something. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts, positive thoughts. ’06 WILL be better, goddamnit.

Either way, something needs to happen. I’m tired of the stressful waiting game, and all of the bullshit is beginning to retake its stressful hold on our house. Mrs. Head’s MBA is doing her absolutely no fucking good thus far. It seems that every single door that cracks open just slams shut again for some undetermined reason.

Must. Leave. Midwest. Existence. Sinkhole.

Shit. I was planning on being positive today, but instead have somehow talked myself into being pissed and annoyed, yet again.

I have today off because I have to go in this weekend to install a pay-for-print system, which won’t be very fun. Actually, that won’t be so bad; it’s the fallout from the people that are going to have to use the system that I’m no looking forward to. The main reason?

You have to use a credit or debit card.

In a normal place, this would be a pretty big non-issue, but this place is most definitely NOT normal. There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

“What?!! .05 per page? I can’t pay that!”

What I would like to say: Why? Did you spend all of your nickels on scratch tickets?

What I probably will say: ……..**shrug** I’m not sure what to tell you.

“I don’t have a debit card or credit card!!”

What I would like to say: We were going to get the computers that accepted greasy , wrinkled wads of disparate cash, but they were on back order for approximately forever.

What I probably will say: “Perhaps you have a friend that you can give the cash to that will let you use theirs? (more shrugging because I cannot perform otherworldy magic)

“We used to be able to print for free!!”

What I would like to say: That’s right Dumbfuck. Until you and your shockingly ignorant fellows decided that printing off entire reams of paper for things you’re going to throw away in two days was okay to do on a consistent basis. Because you can’t seem to handle reading an electronic document that’s not on paper, and even then it’s fucking questionable. Find me a school where you can print anything and everything for free whenever you please and I’ll buy you a printer that you’ll have no idea how to use my damn self. No? Buh-bye.

What I probably will say: We’ve had flyers notifying you of this change for months. I’m sorry if you feel inconvenienced.

I just want to look around and see one person who’s not a full-on tard. Help me, please.

Okay, enough of all that. I have to do some more schoolwork and try and make a bit of progress on finishing the book. Are you sure there isn’t some way we can add four more hours to the day?

New Years, New Days

Welcome to the New Year, everyone.

With every New Year comes new goals, and in that vein this post will line up with all the rest of the same flavor. But what the hell is this blog? It started out as a poker blog, and it still is, but to a much smaller extent. It’s always strange to look back and see how things change over the course of a period that’s as short as a year. In the coming year there will still be some poker, but I imagine that it will continue to be relegated to the background. There are so many more knowledgeable players out there with much more to say about the game than I’ll ever have. I’m sure I’ll mention any lightbulbs or drastic swings up or down, but it’s pretty obvious at this point that poker, while remaining an intoxicating hobby, is not the passion for me that it is for so many others.

Then what is the passion? What are the goals for the future?

Skimming back over the archives has provided a glimpse into what I’m struggling to accomplish with this hodgepodge. I want to improve my writing. I want to tell a better story. Get a bit deeper into some of the weird shit that runs through my brain. Figure out a bit more what it is to just be part of the teeming throng on this rock and relate it well. In the parlance of a boss from many years past, keep looking for “what’s life all about.” Get the book finished. Keep taking steps forward, even if they are plodding rather than the infinitely more desirable running kind.

See things as they are and go from there, instead for worrying about how I think they should be, which is likely going to be the toughest of these things to accomplish.

So where to now? Good question. We’ll see tomorrow, and then we’ll see the day after that. Another day, another dollar. One level up, one level down. Another blinder off, an eye opened a little wider.

Here’s to each and every one day at a time in 2006.

Just a few more days....

…and we’ll all get to kick ’05 the fuck on out of here. With that in mind, I’m going to be partying like its 1999, which was way better. Ummm, minus the puking, that wasn’t very much fun, but you get the idea.

Mrs. Head didn’t get the job. I suspect she’s being blackballed by the local demon management, but to find out for sure I’d have to do something altogether unprofessional (and maybe even illegal) myself. Life kinda sucks that way sometimes, always throwing shitty choices your way. It’s so overused that I know I’m possibly inviting a mob to come after me with pitchforks, but what the hey, I’ll say it anyway. Poker makes me a lot more comfortable with the shitbox situations of life. After almost two years I have a much better idea of what to do with my middle pair (both literally and figuratively). A question to be dealt with another time, then, is why am I still kind of tight-passive at the tables, when I’m not that way in general? Cuz let me tell ya, right now I’m being an aggressive sonuvabitch.

More interviews to come for the Mrs. on 01/03. Time for ’06 to show and prove. If it doesn’t, I may just have to take it outside and get into some gangsta shit.

That’s right, I’m totally gangsta. OG, even. Word is born.

We’re going to hang out with Performify for the holiday, so this will likely be it until we get back from KC because tomorrow I will be spending the day doing obligatory post-Christmas tech support for most of my family. Somebody kill me with a dull spoon. PLEASE.

Happy New Year!

(put that tequila down, it is not your friend)