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)

Freedom, baby.

At the Head household, the 2005 holidays ended up being a bit lackluster (as holidays are traditionally defined), but upon reflection I can still say it was good. I’m looking at it as a sort of “working holiday.” Why?

We are in full-on “get the fuck out of here” mode.

The leading candidate so far is Phoenix and aside from the breath-stealing price of even lower end houses I am excited at the possibility. Mrs. Head had a promising interview before the break, and it looks like I’ll have one or two coming up shortly. Hip Hop Hooray. Cross your fingers, the Mrs. should be finding out something this week.

So with these possibilities in mind, and while languishing somewhere around the fourth level of shitbox-for-neighbors hell, we decided it was time to begin the pre-move paring down process. We started on Friday with our clothes, and by the end of the day I was ready to punch myself in the face for being such a gluttonous fool. There were clothes that I could only remember wearing one time. There were even some that I purchased and never wore. Shameful. When you’re finding things that you didn’t even remember you had, you have too much stuff.

When the smoke cleared I had donated a few shirts over 7 lawn and leaf bags FULL of clothing. Completely ridiculous, and as you can probably tell by now, I’m still beating myself up about it even though it’s probably going to make quite a few families very happy. Finally poor little Johnny will have that Banana Republic jacket with the Eddie Bauer sweater and Abercrombie pants that will get his rich bastard, MTV-sodden schoolmates off his back for at least a little bit. Yes, I had a few things from Abercrombie. Shut up. I mended my fashion ways several years ago, but I do realize that I should probably get an extra punch in the mouth and/or groin for ever patronizing such a god-awful establishment.

What the hell does this random drivel have to do with anything?

I’m glad you asked.

The paring down of many of my material possessions have made me realize that even though I haven’t sunk nearly as far into rampant consumerism as a large portion of the general mouth-breathing masses, I still found myself deeper than I thought. Yes, buying stuff is cool, and having the ability to buy lots of stuff is something to be thankful for, but damn, I can’t believe I fell so far into that hole.

Good God. Is he ever going to get to the damn point?

Yes, dammit, be patient.

When you’re digging yourself out of a mountain of your own excess, you have plenty of time to think. Of course, in such times my mind will invariably wander over to poker. My game needs to be pared down. I realize that this is one of the reasons I haven’t really overcome the tilt that’s kept me away from the game more than I would like. I buried in a mountain of my own useless poker shit that I don’t use (or don’t need to be using), so over the next few days/weeks I’m going to be paring that down, as well. While the more complex principles are at times appropriate, they are little used, especially with the low-limit animal. It’s time to get back to the bare bones foundation and rebuild the poker house with less lackluster materials.

So here is the point. Get rid of the useless crap. I’m not saying lose everything and live like a celibate, threadbare monk, but if you take a step back and look at your life, your game, whatever, you’ll likely find a lot of useless crap hanging around. Chuck the '05 crapola. Lighten the load for '06. Be free.

Ghost of the Redneck Riviera

If there was ever a sign that it’s time to leave this motherfucker, it was this holiday season. In the spirit of Pauly’s Redneck Riviera I give you this heartwarming holiday tale.

Rachel and I were still in recovery mode from the Vegas trip and were easing back from staying awake for two and three days straight to getting back on our normal schedule which is much more conducive to leading a responsible “adult” existence. We went to bed around 1:30 AM on Saturday and just as I we were drifting off to fever-dreamland….

WHAM!
What the fuck??

Now, our house is nearly 100 years old, built in 1910, so we’re accustomed to the strange noises made by the old place. Personally, I’m not altogether convinced that it’s not haunted a bit, but this noise was way too loud to be explained by old age or ghosts. Citing the possibility of pre-holiday vandals, both of us crept downstairs where we were greeted by the situation enlightening, “Darnell, I didn’t fuck my boss and you know it!”

Fucking wonderful, our house is going to be on Cops.

This would be a good spot to explain a bit about our neighborhood. It’s an area called Riverside and is right in the middle of the city. It’s and old neighborhood, populated with bungalow style houses about the same age as our own, all in various conditions (nice for the most part, though). It’s a hodgepodge of homeowners and renters. Well, as the gods of fortune would have it, the house next to us is one of those rentals. For the last three years, our various renter neighbors have been pretty good. It even seemed as though the current renters were decent even if they were kind of strange. Strange, as in, one of us would say hello and they would look at us like we were from outer space. Anyway, for the first couple of months they weren’t any trouble, although the two of us were growing increasingly suspicious of their white-trashiness.

When they moved in, they were driving a 2000-ish Chevy Cavalier. You know, the Chevy’s version of the Neon, and it looked pretty new. Of course, not two weeks later, the rear end was bashed in and it wasn’t getting fixed. Shortly thereafter, a giant white Cadillac, mid 90’s, ghetto cruiser style, showed up in the driveway. Sure enough, once the 30-day tag was close to expiration the Cavalier ended up backed into the driveway, and its plates ended up on the Caddy. Great. The white-trash stock just went up a few points.

So there you have it, a little background. We now return you to the domestic dispute, currently in progress.

Rachel and I are peeking out our back door window at the unfolding drama and I’ll admit that I was a little bit giggly that this guy’s name couldn’t have been more stereotypical. Earl was the only other name I could think of that might have been more appropriate, but Darnell is still pretty good. He’s drunk and crying and yelling, and she’s yelling at him to stop hitting the car (I guess that solves that mystery). He’s doing the tough guy pace and all of the sudden..

WHAM!!! (again)

Good lord, this guy is beating on the top of his new Cadillac with a snow shovel! It would really be laughable iif it weren’t so sad and embarrassing. They yelled for another fifteen minutes or so before finally going back inside. We were getting bored, so we just went back to bed.

Fast-forward one week. Day before Christmas Eve.

BOOOM!!
They cannot possibly be at it again already.

Rachel and I already know for sure this time what the deal is, and with great anticipation run downstairs once again to witness the show. Oh look, Darnell is drunk and angry again because he can’t get over the fact that his baby momma is a whore, and he has to give up some grips to take care of a kid and his job sucks. As soon as we took up station at the back door and looked out we could see that Darnell had really showed his baby-momma who was boss this time. The back window of the Cadillac was busted out. Nice.

“Darnell, stop it, goddamnit! The baby needs that car to get around!”
The baby drives?

That was the mother-in-law. We still can’t tell whether she lives there now, as well, or just hangs around a lot, but now she and her daughter are out on the porch trying to calm down drunk storming Darnell, who is leaving but wants to go inside and get his cash and his weed first.

BOOM! (There goes one of the side windows)

Evidently one busted car window wasn’t worth it, but two is the breaking point where it becomes proper for the mom-in-law to call the cops, and she gets on the horn. Darnell doesn’t like this idea, something he makes known by busting out another side-window and decimating the windshield. 4 out of the six windows are now gone and He takes off down an alley, and of course the cops finally show, walk around, but don’t really do look very hard for him. Way to go Johnny Law. Let the destructive trash keep on keepin’ on, while you treat me like a crack-smoking hardened murderer for doing 4 mph over the posted speed limit.

As I sit here postulating on the inner workings of the white trash mind, there’s still one question to which I can’t even field a partially complete answer.

Why in the hell would anyone destroy their own car? Or, in keeping with the old Tootsie Pop commercials, “How many whacks with a snow shovel does it take to beat your way to the center of a ’93 DeVille?”

And I’m spent. Back at ya tomorrow.

Monkey Tales

On the heels of Mrs. Head’s “I miss you guys” post, this day is compelling me to do something similar, as summed up in this story of a co-worker. For the purposes of my little story, we’ll just call her “M.”

What M lacks in brains, she makes up for in, well, ummm, nothing. I was approximately 0.3 minutes into working with her on her first day when I found myself on google trying to find some kind of results on Affirmative Action for Semi-Functioning Vegetables. My monkey pen is in a separate office off of the main administrative space for our company in the building, and my work luck being eerily similar to that of my card luck, M is seated in the monkey pen right next to me. M rambles on and on, constantly narrating her own existence and thought processes for anyone within earshot. Here are some gems as of late:

• Why can’t I find Nouveau (a local salon) in the phone book? There’s New Horizons, New Point, but no New Voe? Can somebody help me? (**destroys eardrums with dull screwdriver**)
• Women are usually much more meticulant than men, hee hee hee. Meticulant? Yeah, is that not right? Umm, I think meticulous is the word you’re looking for. Really? Nuh-uuuuh. You’re just messing with me, right? (**rips own tongue out**)
• Why won’t this thing work? (referring to cell phone) I dial a number and hit the red call button and nothing happens! I’ve tried it five times now and it still won’t work! I think it might be broken. (No, dear reader, I’m not kidding)
• How come no one is answering me? Is anyone in here? (**shoot self in the FACE. Concentration broken for the umpteenth time**)
• I don’t see how my butt is so big. I walk up and down the stairs at my house lots. (**there are no words**)

And so it is, day after day after day after day. M is one of the faces of our business that other local businesses see. Ordinarily I would cringe in horror but this being Kansas, she does pretty well. This alone is indication enough for me that the apocalypse is truly nigh.

So, fast-forward to yesterday. I’m still getting over the last remnants of Gracie Ebola and am in no mood given the fact that I’m still also mired in an ongoing pitched inter-work battle with “She who will not be named.” M, of course, in her blissful state of full-on ignorance, takes the opportunity to test the boundaries of my patience, yet again.

“Hey, Jeremiah! Are you over there?”
**channels Napolean Dynamite** “Yeees”
“How was Las Vegas?”
“It was good. Best trip ever, in fact.”
“I’ve been to Vegas. I like it. I like playing roulette, but it’s hard to figure out.”
“…..” (**trying to remember the number for 911 because my brain has just locked up due to being completely incredulous**)

I’m drowning in a sea of anti-hope. How many months till the next one? Christ, I miss everyone terribly.

*tear**sniff**hugs*

I’ll try to get in another post or two before the holidays, but if I don’t…

Happy ChrismaHanuKwanzikah!

3950 at Mandalay Bay

After two days that brought increasing physical punishment, Rachel and I found ourselves in the midst of Sportsbook Sunday at Mandalay Bay. Mandalay is a great casino and every time I’m there I wonder why I don’t visit more often. For some reason it just never makes it to the top of my priority list. Because I never seem to have enough time ending up in the “spare” column, sports haven’t been very high on my list for many years, but for a group of folks like this I was looking forward to making the time. I got the crash course on ponies from BG and found myself shocked when, $40 later, I hadn’t hit one single solitary horse and had to accept the fact that I was not the clairvoyant expert I secretly hoped I would be. I missed Al’s gold medal finish on the stairs and quickly learned that, in my case, betting the ponies is NOT where it’s at. Perhaps I’ll surround myself with Al and Iggy for some football bets on the next one.

While looking for lunch that didn’t have a intestine destroying “Mc” in front of it or “o-rama” on the end, Rachel and I scouted out some of the restaurants in the casino. There were several likely candidates for a nice dinner, but I was particularly intrigued by 3950. I mentioned it to BG, and before I knew it a group had formed for a final meal before folks had to leave. It took about an hour just to exit the sportsbook because so many in the group were departing, which I hated. I wanted everyone to come, and rest assured that if I ever win an obscene amount of money I will be taking over a similar establishment for a true “group” meal. Goodbye’s wound up and Rachel and I, BG, Bill, THG, April, and Prof, all set out in search of gastronomical delights. Then we got lost. I blame the exhaustion, but we finally found what we were looking for.

3950

It was the modernity of the place that initially intrigued me. The tables were set in appropriately sleek fashion, replete with a triangular stainless-steel type of plate. Hmmm, definitely unusual. Whereas most restaurants have their menus displayed for passers-by in the usual shadowbox, 3950 has LCD screens. While I prefer the more old-fashioned method of display, this was definitely a departure from the ordinary that grew my desire to see what the place was all about.

As our group walked inside I was a bit worried about our not having any reservations. We were informed that a table could be had in fairly short order, and would we like to have a drink at the bar? Why yes, we would. Can we smoke at the bar? Yes? Jackpot.

Cocktails

BG was nice enough to pick up the first round of cocktails, a favor that I’ll be sure to return on the next trip. Per usual, I went with the drink that is my personal measuring stick for any establishment, a Grey Goose martini, up, bleu cheese stuffed olives if you have them, and very fucking dry. I’m really not kidding here. Very. Fucking. Dry. Rachel also went the measuring stick route, which for her is a Cosmopolitan.

To the bartender, Chris, I must extend my effusive thanks.

My martini was perfect. Only the slightest hint of vermouth rode out on the back end following the first cold swallow, a beautiful thing. I was slightly amazed that they actually had the bleu cheese olives I desired, but the look on the bartenders face said that he would be shocked if it were any other way. I was additionally satisfied at the size of the drink itself, as nothing begins to kindle annoyance quite like paying $10-12 for a cocktail and finding that it’s no bigger than the drinks found at the most middle of the road joints.

I would have to take my shoes off and then some to count the number of times that Rachel has ordered a Cosmo, only to find the resulting drink to be the color of cherry Kool-Aid and the consistency of Robitussin doing its damndest to drown the erroneously included cherry. Ugh. The 3950 Cosmopolitan, however, was a resounding success. Wonderfully light pink in color with a lemon twist, it was deceptively gentle, just as a Cosmo should be.

As an extra bonus, while perusing the wine list BG found a favorite from his namesake vineyard, which the bartender promptly decanted so it had time to breathe before the meal. I don’t think that I was alone when I said a small prayer of thanks for knowledgeable and professional bartenders like Chris.

Try as I might to find something wrong, I just couldn’t. A perfect 10 for cocktails.

Meal

With cocktails winding down, our party was seated at the big round table that dominated the middle of the dining area. The aforementioned stainless-steel plates were promptly whisked away, which was mildly disappointing. I guess I will have to locate my own if I want that particular experience. Our waitress began by asking me what sort of water I would like and commenced rattling off the various incarnations of bottled, inevitably arriving at the lowly “tap.” In the middle of the water litany I heard “Fiji”, a favorite of mine, so I went with that. I thought that I was just ordering for me, but before I could correct anything, it was being poured all around. My apologies to the group for the mistake as I know that name brand waters, both in price and principle, are annoying to many.

I refrained from ordering any appetizers because, generally, I find that I can’t finish my entrée if I do. While everyone else ordered their appetizers, the bread arrived. The bread itself was nothing unusual, the typical collection of differing types of rolls and flatbreads, but one thing stood out. At the bottom of each basket was a hot stone, something that I have not seen anywhere else. While I’m sure that this isn’t the first restaurant to do such a thing, it was a pleasant surprise for someone like me seeing it for the first time.

My normal entrée measuring stick is a steak of some sort, and 3950 had a nice selection available. I went with the bone-in ribeye (as did about half of our party), while Rachel decided on the lamb. Unable to resist any longer, I also ordered the Mac and Cheese w/ lobster and truffles to be brought out with our meal. We paired our order with a middle of the road Pinot Noir, a 2001 Martinelli.

As the food arrived, everything looked and smelled wonderful, as expected, and everyone dug in with little fanfare. Our pinot was medium in body and strength and paired well with our order, although it couldn’t lift the meat above what it was: Okay. That isn’t to say that it wasn’t delicious, I just wasn’t blown away like I had hoped. It was a huge chunk of ribeye, and it was cooked very well, but somehow it still wasn’t IT. Being slightly underwhelmed with the meat, I ventured into combo bite territory, having a bit of steak with a bite of the Mac and Cheese, a good combination that lifted my taste buds off of their even keel for a short while. Rachel reported the same with her order of lamb; very good but nothing absolutely special, which is likely obvious by this point considering the distinct lack of flowery and melodramatic adjectives in the description.

I originally would have gone with a 7 for this meal, but due to the wonderful 3950 Mac and Cheese, I feel compelled to bump it up to an 8. Please don’t read dissatisfaction into it. The meal as a whole was very, very good. I just can’t in good conscience call it the food alone “great.”

Service and Miscellaneous

Our group was about three quarters of the way through our meal when I found myself wondering why I hadn’t given the service any consideration. The answer to my self-imposed question was that I didn’t need to. It was so good that I had failed to consider it altogether. Extraneous silverware was promptly removed, and water and other drinks never even got below the halfway mark in the glass. Appetizers and entrées were perfectly timed and coordinated. Waiters and bus-people were everywhere and nowhere, pulling off the feat of never really being seen but ensuring that everything was in its proper place at the proper time and that an enjoyable meal continued unabated.

Bravo.

I found the red leather chairs to be very comfortable for a long meal such as the one we engaged in, and even though it’s something I never would have considered, the purple velour booths surrounding the edge of the dining room seemed a perfect fit. Being someone that loathes sports bars in general, I found that the (42”?) flat-panel television in the bar area showing the Detroit Lions game didn’t seem out of place whatsoever, even though I would have probably fainted from the horror had I simply heard tell of it. 3950 managed to bring a lot of seemingly disparate things together into one very pleasing décor.

Dessert was about the same as the meal itself; very good but nothing completely stand-out. The presentation of the desserts ordered by the group, however, was absolutely beautiful and more than made up for what it may have lacked in substance or taste. So much so, in fact, I even took a picture, one of only five that I took for the entire trip.

Oh, hell. How did I almost forget the bathrooms? Truly, the word fantastic doesn’t even begin to describe it. The pattern in the black marble tile covering the walls and floor made me feel as though I was encased in some sort of Jackson Pollack bubble, causing me to feel comfortably isolated while taking care of the necessary necessaries (how’s that for dancing around unpleasant bodily function?). Right next to the toilet was a small LCD television also showing the same Detroit game viewable at the bar. The sports bar thing again, but not. It didn’t seem out of place at all. The crowning achievement of this oasis for bodily function, though, was far and away the tooth brush kits. This was another first for me. Boxes containing individually wrapped toothbrushes and paste were stacked neatly on a shelf right by the sink. After eating a rich meal it was the perfect thing to send me on my way feeling refreshed and ready to continue the evening.

Overall, I give 3950 at Mandalay Bay a solid 9. The décor was modern but intimate, providing a welcome respite from the rigors of the hard-partying weekend. The perfect service let us focus on the good company we had along with the meal, providing a perfect segue out of town for those whose time was up. Don’t bother coming here if you’re food budget frugal, but if you’re looking to spend on a really nice meal your money won’t be wasted.

Ooh, ith a lady REDUX

From the desk of Mrs. Human Head

Monday night in the Head Household:

“I want to write a guest post. I miss everyone”

“So write one”

“But I don’t know what to write”

“Sure you do. There’s a million shits to write about”

I guess one truly has no excuse when the existence of a million shits to write about is right there in front of them. I am especially moved to try to write something because, after returning to work and telling the tales (some of them) to co-workers, they SO didn’t get it. I need to talk to you guys. You get it. So here I am, feeling overwhelmed with the things that I want to say to all of you who helped to make this gathering even better (who would have thought) than the last.

If I were to say to Spaceman how great it was to see him again, and to meet his wonderful wife, I wouldn’t really know where to begin. We ran into them before we had met up with anyone else and it was a great pleasure getting to sit down and talk with them before all of the full-on partying began.

At the MGM, many people were instantly recognizable: Maigrey, Gracie, Helixx, and Maudie, to name but a few (this is where the events get a bit fuzzy) and I would like to tell all of them that this was not near enough time together, but I’m not sure I would know how to put it into words. I can’t wait until next time in Vegas, the next gathering at the boat house, or any other excuse to get together.

Some of the other faces that I got to see a little bit more of, though still not enough include Joe Speaker and his lovely wife, Joaquin, Stb and Mr. and Mrs. Can’t Hang (sorry, Eva). I would be especially hard pressed to say how great it was to meet Mrs. Speaker or to adequately thank Mr. Speaker for joining my hubby in a demonstration of faith in my mad roshambo skills.

Getting to sit down for a wonderful dinner with BG, Poker Prof, April, Bill Rini and OnTHG was a definite highlight. Something that we don’t get to do too often ‘round these parts (of hell) is enjoy a nice dinner with others that appreciate something more highbrow than Applebee’s or On the Border.

Also, there were several new faces that I had a great time getting to talk with (and in some cases, take their money): Change100, BigMike, FTrain (thanks), Fact Girl, Poker Stage, Daddy, TrumpJosh, TP, and Phil Gordon (thanks).

Most of all, I really wouldn’t know how to describe the fun I had with those that we spent probably the most time with: Pauly, Derek, Iggy, Spaceman (though not enough time with Rachel) and Jaxia. You guys are amazing and I had more fun than I would have thought possible.

So, there it is. Words are not even remotely adequate for summing up my feelings about such a great group of people that, through the organizational genius of many, and several unseen forces have all found one another. It doesn’t seem possible.

Thanks Everyone!

Two Fevers

I was going to try to do a thorough documentation of the shenanigans of the WPBT event, but now that I’m over the sickness and combing my way through the other accounts out there I don’t really think it’s necessary. Most of the stories are best when related orally or not at all. Four days of “you needed to be there” moments (i.e. meeting Daddy) that make get-togethers like these the place you should be and make them worth every penny you’ll spend getting there.

Calling the last 10 days “A Tale of Two Fevers” would likely be the most appropriate. I started out with the –EV fever. Video poker and Let it Ride were the sickness inducing games, along with a bit of craps at Casino Royale and some slots with Drizz at Excalibur. I knew it was time to just let it go when Pauly and Derek started giving me hell by saying I’m going to start a Let it Ride strategy blog. Seriously, I haven’t had the fever like that since my very first trip to Vegas. Thank goodness I’m normally more under control. Once that fever broke, there was, of course, Gracie’s Championship Fever. The less said about that nasty thing, the better, even though I can’t seem to stop talking about it. That fever is also gone but I still have a nice cough that I’m more than sure has absolutely nothing to do with the cigarettes. Seriously, I smoked enough this last week to make Joe Camel look like the poster child for clean living. Camel should sponsor me if for no other reason than to serve as a warning to others.

It’s been trumpeted a thousand times already, but I’m going to say it again. This event was all about the people and the great conversations. And the partying. And the gambling. For me, that’s the order. 2005 was a nasty whore of a year, and while my body is still broken to an extent, many thanks to all of the fine people in this community that I got to spend some time with. Many additional thanks to all of the people that I met for the first time. I would try to link all of you, but I have to go to work sometime today :) Please know that it was an absolute pleasure. My soul feels rejuvenated, and I’m walking into ’06 with a glad heart and a much brighter outlook.

Last, but certainly not least, the biggest thanks of all should go out to the folks who helped set things up and keep them in order. Bill, Otis, Stars, Fulltilt, the Imperial Palace and staff, and likely a host of others I’m forgetting or never even knew about. Cheers to all of you.

Here are some things on the way:

• A review of 3950 at Mandalay Bay
• A review of Bouchon at the Venetian.
• A review of Mon Ami Gabi at Paris

That’s right, while degenerating for four days I also decided to play restaurant reviewer.

Friday

Mmmmmm, blogger flu, what a wonderful thing. I’m not really complaining, though. It’s my own damn fault for hugging people even though I knew they weren’t feeling well. It also gave me the excuse I needed to stay home today. It’s nice to sit, write, and watch all of my DVR’d Family Guy episodes I haven’t seen yet while running a fever. Before I even get this thing started, just let me say that my sleep deprived and other-than-sober condition the entire time may lead to several omissions and/or miscellaneous story fuck-ups. Feel free to correct me if necessary.

Arriving in Vegas, all signs pointed to good. The line at the taxi stand was short and moving quickly, and after grabbing our bags we were off to the IP in less than 20 mins. Our cab driver was seriously kicking ass, and not one to put up with any shit from the Las Vegas traffic he took us on a ride through a maze of rear casino roads and tunnels that I couldn’t even begin to recollect. Good cabbies definitely have an underappreciated skillset. The entrance to the IP had me a bit worried. The line was long and it looked at if the Harrah’s renovations were no shit underway. However, the check-in staff was friendly and efficient and before we knew it we were off to find our room.

Whoever designed the IP must have been on some kind of Escher bender minus the artistic bent. I have paranoid tendencies and the layout of the IP only served to inflame those, convincing me that the only purpose of the place was to study how people move in a convoluted environment. Our room was one of the non-renovated and was a bit run down, but the bed was serviceable and one can’t really complain for $30/night.

First things first, must find poker room. It wasn’t the greatest, but hell, it certainly wasn’t the worst I’ve ever seen in my life. Relieved that things weren’t as bad as the reviews that I read, Rachel and I headed to the Burger Palace which had burgers but was definitely not a palace. If you are like me and are inclined to being large this may not be the best choice for comfortable seating. I was about an inch away from being actually squeezed into the booth. We spent a bit of time talking to Shelly, and then decided to roam around for a bit and siesta prior to the MGM mixed game get together. Touring the IP floor we spotted BadBlood who looked a little beat sick…again. I was feeling for the guy because he has been kicked in the junk more times in Vegas than one person really ever should be, unless of course it’s Grubby, who has also been on the receiving end of vicious beats for far too long. I predict big wins for both on the next trip—they are both great players who are due. I know that someone can not really be “due”, but I’m going with it anyway.

Once Rachel and I were amidst the clanking, blinging, and general dealertainer mayhem the idea of a nap took a quick back seat. So if we weren’t going to nap, what the hell now?

Cocktails!

Let me back up for a second. Speaking of cocktails, I spent $30 on a (small) bottle of Hennessy at the IP, only to find it at the Aladdin convenience store a couple of days later cheaper by a full third. I’m an impatient idiot, but I know now why they could give us the cheap rooms :)

We settled on a couple of Heinekens and some video poker, and it wasn’t long until I heard, “Look at the size of that freakin’ head!”

Spaceman had arrived with his lovely wife, also named Rachel and good times at the Geisha bar ensued. I was nice to get some quality time hanging out with both of them and talking about the high hopes everyone has for the upcoming year. None of us had any idea at the time how much awesomeness (can I use that word?) was in store.

I was a few (about 10) cocktails deep at the MGM when Rachel tapped me on the shoulder for $10 so she could challenge F-Train to a little Roshambo. I was a little nervous at the prospect-I remembered tales of his Roshambo skills, but whatthefuck, it’s Vegas, right? Rachel-1 F-Train-0. I’m rich, bitch!

High on the sweet combination of alcohol, a free $10, and my lady getting into the gambling spirit, I heard someone mention Phil Gordon being in the poker room. I can’t remember who had the idea first, but I began pushing her to go challenge him. She demurred, as she always does, and I pulled out a C-note to show her I wasn’t kidding. Joe Speaker quickly added the extra necessary backup pressure with a C-note of his own.

“I’ve got some of that action!”

That settled it. No way was I letting her skills go to waste with such an obvious opportunity in front of us. Besides, it’s not like Phil is going to snub a hot blond chick. They say that luck is nothing more than preparation meeting opportunity. We had the opportunity and I dare say the beer couldn’t have had us better prepared.

With Joe and I basically forcing her in front of us, we arrived at the NL table where Phil was playing. I tapped him on the shoulder and upon turning around and seeing us it was too late for Rach to back out. She found her sack and smacked the $200 on the table, uttering one thing, “Roshambo.”

“You want to Roshambo for $200?” asked Phil while swiftly stacking 8 green chips and standing up. He was every bit as tall as you’ve heard.

“What rules are we playing? 2 out of 3? Best of 7? The questions were rapid-fire, designed to intimidate and get in her head. I proudly looked on, as Rachel was having none of this.

“Two out of three, let’s go,” she said while holding out her tiny fist.

1,2,3! Scissors vs. Paper. Rachel-1. I scream out, “Oh, SNAP!”

1,2,3! Rock vs. Paper. Phil Gordon-1. Oh boy.

1,2,3! Rock vs. Rock. Tie. Tension mounting, people are getting quieter.

1,2,3! Rock vs. Rock. Tie. Tension is high now. All I can do is mutter, “C’mon baby. Get this motherfucker…” Joe leaned over, “Don’t worry dude, she’s got him.”

1,2,3! Paper vs. Rock. Rachel-2 and the WIN! Flurry of high-fives and I pick up Rach while screaming something to the effect of “That’s my lady!” I’m sure I made quite an ass of myself, but even as I sit here and write about it in a sober condition I still don’t care. It was beautiful. Joe summed it up best….

“Greatest gambling moment of my life.”

Mine too, sir, mine too. Truly a night for the people.

Hanging on by a thread

We're home now, safe and sound. Okay, safe, but certainly less than sound. I feel like a Yugo that decided playing chicken with an 18-wheeler would be a good idea. I will be spending the next few days perusing the specials at Lungs-n-Livers R Us and hope I can stave off whatever disease that carrier monkey Gracie was incubating.

Upon arriving in Vegas, I believe that a brain will quickly divide its inter-cranial territory up into two regions. One half I’ll call “Reasonable”, and the other I’ll brand as “Ridiculous”. This is always what I think of when I hear someone talking about “R & R” in Vegas. You start out in the middle between the two, but sooner or later the juggernaut of Vegas forces you off the road to one side or the other. This being our Christmas trip after a difficult and annoying year, we went ahead and took the “Ridiculous” exit immediately.

To wit:

Dropping the Hammer on video poker at the Geisha Bar at 8 AM after 8 Heini’s and no sleep. Time. After. Time. In retrospect, constantly drawing to the Hammer Nuts may not have been a good idea, especially considering how difficult it is to hit a Royal Flush when implementing this “they’ll never see me comin’” strategy.

4.25 Days, approximately 14 hours of sleep. Upon waking I will commence documenting what was, in my opinion, the best one yet.

Brief Highlights

All right boys and girls, gather around for a little story. It’s gonna be a great one. You might laugh, you might cry, but most likely you will just be confused. Don’t’ worry yourself, though, you won’t be any more confused than I am at the moment.

The total trip time for the Mrs. and me is about 4.25 days. It is now about 4:30 PM on Day 3 (Monday) and I’ve been up for the last 38 hours, moving for about 30 of those. Sitting here at the wobbly table in our hotel room, I am having trouble coming up with words to describe the whirlwind of the last three days and there is still over a full day left to go. Here are a couple of tidbits…

--(Friday) You knew this was coming, but I found myself Human-Bobbleheaded drunk at the MGM mixed game. Poker played on Friday=0. I did get to meet Daddy, though, a rare and important event. That guy is a role model.
--(Friday) Mrs Head wins a $20 Roshambo match with F-Train (former blogsphere master champeen and all around helluva guy). Joe and I each put $100 on her to challenge and beat Phil Gordon at Roshambo. She does so with style in front of a packed poker room. I vaguely remember yelling “Oh, tits!” or “Oh, snap!” or something to this effect and then carrying her on my shoulders for a small victory lap. I’m a fookin’ reatard. Phil Gordon=Tilted. DonkeyPuncher really is Usher. Thanks, Commish!
--(Saturday) The tornado finally touched down (what other metaphor did you expect me to use? I’m live in fuckin’ Kansas) and the day goes by in a complete blur with all of the tourney festivities. The highlight of my day was taking $5 off Wil when I picked StudioGlyphic for the win. Thank God I actually scratched out a few notes, because the bar was open like a porn star with a deep itch to scratch. Worry not, we beat that thing inside out. The only poker of the day was played in the tournament, where I exited around 63rd. Poorly played on all streets is all I can say about that, but I did drop the hammer on Shelly.
--(Sunday) Betting on horses at the sportsbook and hanging out with the group. There was a lot of pain as, once again, the Chiefs choked and I didn’t hit a single damn horse. Licked my wounds at 3950 in Mandalay Bay with Mrs. Head, BG, Bill Rini, THG, April, and PokerProf. I’ll have my thoughts on the restaurant in a few days, but the one thing I do know is that our waitress made at least $300 in tips from that meal. Brutal but worth it.
--(Monday, 9 AM) I haven’t slept the entire night. Played craps with Mrs. Head, Jen Leo, Biggestron, CJ, Travis, Royal, Jaxia, and Pauly at the Casino Royale after a bender in the AlCanthang Crew Penthouse. Left at around 3 AM (maybe it was later) to continue bending and ended up in a 2/4 game at the IP with Iggy, TP, Pauly, Derek, Jaxia, and later in the early morn, GeekandProud. Ridiculous pots. I counted a total of four hands that weren’t live-straddled and played in the dark. Suckout donkey fun of the highest caliber, with the extra bonus being the extreme tilt of four different 2/4 pro’s who were sitting at the table when we took it over. Left the game at about 6 AM or so and drank Hieneken with the boys until about 11. I have finally earned my degenerate merit badge for this trip.

Of course, this is brief. So, so damn brief. Besides, it’s hard to write much more when all I can do is sit here and hope that at sometime in my life I will see my ultimate dream realized; Hot-swappable feet. Mine hurt so bad I feel like I’m walking around on nubs. If my vision was clearer, I might be able to check. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to head out again to drop the hammer on an unsuspecting video poker machine (I’ve got pics, but I have to wait to post them because I forgot the cable from my camer.). first trip report installment should be sometime Thursday if I’m still alive.

At 39 hours, I’ve got $20 on Death to win.

Last licks

Boy, I sure wanted to do more posts than the zero I have done thus far this week, but ’05 is making sure it gets some licks in before making an exit, which has put me on some serious life tilt. Quite a few bloggers seem to be getting bashed by ‘05’s flailing exit as well, so I won’t complain in detail as is my tendency. Sometimes it’s just your turn to get bashed in the groin a few times, whether you deserve it or not. One just has to suck it up and press on, even if it is easier to say than to do most of the time.

Vegas couldn’t be coming at a better time, and I know I’m not just speaking for myself. Let’s just hope that the poker gods take a sympathetic stance on the collective swollen junk and turn off the universe/luck doom switch for a couple of days.

On to more pleasant things…..

Mrs. Head and I decided to give ourselves a couple fo early presents this year in the form of new mp3 players. No, we did not get iPods. While iPods look fantastic, have a great UI, and are attached to a pretty solid iTunes software package, they are way too encumbered to convince me to fork over the cash Apple wants. I just can’t see why I would want to buy something that has a 20gb drive (or more) that doesn’t give me the option to store data like I need to, so I didn’t. For those that haven’t yet jumped on the iPod bandwagon, here is what the Mrs. and I purchased.

iRiver H10 20gb Player/Recorder

mobiBLU 1gb Player/Recorder Cube.

Both of these bad boys are pretty damn cool. While there’s certainly a case to be made for the iPod, these seem to have more cool features with some better inherent flexibility. Once I get a chance to play with both a bit more I may post a more extensive review, but for the time being I will say that both are money well spent and should serve us both well on the upcoming trip.

And speaking of trips…..

Only one more day till I make my 14^th trip to the beautiful city of dreams (mostly broken) that is Vegas. I was twenty years old and in the military when I made my first trip. I was shitbox broke which meant that I was kickin’ it at the Casino Royale with my fake ID and going to Little Darlin’s with the guys. Looking back it makes me eminently thankful that I’ve managed to climb up a few rungs and am no longer relegated to wallowing in the desperation pool of $2 BlackJack tables. That’s not to say that desperation only exists in the seedier casino’s, but I like my desperation to at least make the effort and wear a bit of cologne, knowhutimean?

9 years, 14 trips. On most of those trips I would spend the entire way there wondering if I would have a good time, wondering if I would regret the decision to go. Because of all the fine folks in this little community, I no longer wonder such things; I only look forward with glee. The things that life throws my way in an effort to tilt me and make me give fade into the background, and I am thankful.

See you all there.

One of those days

First, make sure to head on over to give Otis and Joe their deserved accolades for showing NaNoWriMo who’s boss by successfully hitting the 50K word benchmark. Enduring such a month of writing is definitely a tall order, so heap some praise on what are two of the ‘sphere’s best wordsmiths.

Bob was forced to withdraw from the competition because of an injury caused by carrying too much junk, rendering him unable to sit and type for any sustained period. Don’t blame him, blame Mother Nature and her bountiful gifts.

***
Anyone who knows me at all knows that nearly each and every new day brings a fresh annoyance with which I must deal. The latest?

Cyber Monday.

If you watched any local or national news program at any time on Monday you likely heard the term and saw segments devoted to it at least once per hour. Life is steadily becoming more and more of a waking dream gone wrong, with every dire prediction from sci-fi novels past coming to life right before our eyes, or at the very least waiting in the wings to do so. I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of my tens of readers that there is no such thing as Cyber Monday—some mid-level media douchebag somewhere in some meeting decided to coin the term (because that’s just what we need, more new terms) and media outlets tried as hard as they can to push the hell out of it so that the masses can be primed and ready to stretch the limits of their ever-expanding debt to corporations next year. Never mind that it is there weren’t any online retailers having “Cyber Monday Sales”, they said it so it must exist.

I guess we just add it to the big ball of nothingness wherein the situation in Iraq is going swimmingly and increasing the power of government to spy on its own population is actually good for us. Writing about it really doesn’t accomplish anything other than give me an opportunity drone on about an idiot subject that most have already forgotten about, but hey, some MTV-sodden kid might wander by here, so in the interest of saving the children I throw it out there.

You heard me right; I do it for the children.

What’s the over/under for WalMart Wednesday coming to fruition?
How about Take Your Child to Get a Credit Card Tuesday?
Throw the College Fund into the Economy Thursday? Anyone?

With things continuing at their current velocity I fully expect that in another decade we will have lost the calendar as we know it. Instead, it will be integrated into our TeleScreen360 as a multidimensional data model that will tell us hour by hour what holiday we should be celebrating (and consequently shopping for) and what is the appropriate style, color, and placement of the ribbon that we will wear for said holiday to demonstrate to our fellow patriots that we are not dissenters and/or potential terroristas.

As you can see, the ChristmaHanaKwanzikah season, per usual, is making me holly-jolly as hell.

***
I am, however, very thankful for the few things that do not make my giant head want to explode—

Booze, Bloggers, and Vegas.

Mrs. Head and I will be in town on the afternoon of the 9^th, and a few hours later I plan on being Human-BobbleHeaded drunk at the MGM for Joaquin’s Mixed Game festivities. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll jump into the games because I play each at the level of “barely functioning retard”, but I can guarantee that I’ll be losing lots of money to my bar tab.

Merry Christmas to me (and to you all in a few short days).