I am Poker Champ.

That Guy

I’d like to take a moment to talk about bowel movements. Mine, specifically.

Fine, I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, since our arrival I’ve become the poster boy for The Clean Getaway.

The stupid and disgusting can be worth talking about. Why, just today I caught my little dog Stella eating a turd as big as her head. This is no big secret or surprise concerning dogs, but the difference here is you could tell she was seriously enjoying it. Why the hell do I even buy dog treats? All I could do was sigh as I also thought of her penchant towards going for the French kiss whenever she decides Rachel or I need canine affection.

Delicious. (Dinner ended up being sans meat and may be for the next few days as I struggle to forget.

**********

I realized something today. It came to me that, right now and for the next couple of weeks, I’m going to be that guy. But which guy? There are a lot of those guys, ranging from “I’ve done whatever you’ve done, except that I’ve done it before you, it was cooler and I got it cheaper, oh, did I mention it was also bigger” Guy, to “I’m a slimy, creepy, up-and-coming sex offender but I can still have any woman I want, I’m THAT awesome” Guy. (It may seem too amazing, but these two guys can actually be the same guy on occasion.)

Which guy did I realize I am (albeit temporarily)?

I am now “I haven’t had a decent relationship or a relationship at all for a very long time but I just got this really great chick who I’m enamored with and given the dry spell I’m in I’m not sure how to handle it so I’m gonna talk about her constantly to all of my friends and, while they may still like me, are becoming very annoyed with me” Guy.

But with cities instead of chicks.

I just wanted to let everyone know that I know who I’m being as I force readers to listen to me be this guy for the next couple of weeks. You have my apologies for what will become, over time, a little more annoying each day it happens. Still, knowing this, I’m unable to stop myself.

Being out of the Midwest is fucking awesome.

Nuts.

On the high volume right now, this post is being brought to you by The White Stripes, Elephant. During the 17 hour trip here, I was able to spend a lot more time with their albums. Each time I give a listen, I gain a new appreciation of their depth. A tip of all my hats to you, Jack White, you are a rock god.

April Fools should come around more often; my fiction quite obviously needs the practice. I really did almost hit two separate and wandering crackheads, though. One was a seriously narrow miss. I thought the guy was timing it so I’d be past him by the time he got to my lane. This fucker speeds into my lane and then slows to a lethargic saunter. It was probably slower than that, but I find I’m unable to summon the proper words. Do they give crack at the hospitals here? Maybe that’s why the various (insert drug, malady, or condition here)-heads are collectively trying to get maimed—they can get effed up for free at a medical establishment. If that (or some form thereof) is the case, then damn, what a shitty state of affairs to be at that point. (It’s right here, in this spot, where I’m feeling the distinct urge to ramble about my theories concerning drugs and the “War” on them that has been so wholly ineffective for such a long time. However, I’m holding strong and cutting myself off. Shit, I’m rambling right now)

Before we left Wichita, Rachel and I had a quasi-estate-ish sale--way better than a garage sale, but not quite an estate sale. There was also the bonus that no one died, the ultimate prompter of the “estate” portion of the term. It was during those exhausting two days that I discovered a whole new class of crazy that I wish someone would have warned me about: The Estate Sale Traveling Early Sickfucks, or TESTES.

Good Lord, these people.

We planned on doing the sale on a Friday and Saturday, from 9 to 5, and stated as much on signs and in the paper. Thanks to an ever-burgeoning OCD, I had everything planned. We would rise at 6:30 or so and get everything set up and finish some pricing we still needed to do. Then came the TESTES, a miserable experience to be sure. Some of these fuckers began coming up and knocking at 6 AM and, well, let’s just say it was jarring and leave it at that. Rachel told them we weren’t opening until 9 and shooed the TESTES off of the porch. Since this gang of numbnuts obviously couldn’t decipher newspaper print (must’ve been too small, or I wasn’t using the King’s English, or something), we had to take drastic measures and make a warning sign with the hours posted in kindergarten-Big Chief script for any that happened to follow. Maybe TESTES can’t see paper. I don’t know, but these goddamn sunsubitches were still fucking knocking!

We just stopped answering the door.

Not to be deterred from junk, trinket, and tchotchke satiation, these vampires began circling the house and peeking in windows. Dawn of the Dead, but with TESTES (think zombies with small bills and a penchant for unreasonable and infinitely idiotic haggling. Will you take a dime for that?). After 45 minutes of this idiocy I had my gun in one hand and a broom in the other, ready to implement Survival Plan Alpha (not really sure what I hoped to accomplish with a broom, but there ya go. What can I say; I had reverted to a more primitive frame of mind). Once we finished all of the pricing and arranging, I peeked out of the window, making sure that I was far enough away to avoid whatever Mad Consumer disease these freaks may have had. I noted to myself that I needed to find all of the antiseptic stuff in the house and keep it nearby in case I was bitten. Hydrogen peroxide, iodine, whatever kills germs and kills them quickly. Tired of waiting, we finally acquiesced to the TESTES camped on our porch, yard, and curb. We unlocked the door.

I thought the parade of TESTES might never end. God help me, it was horrible.

We did, however, sell a bit over 2/3 of our stuff in about three hours, further lightening the load we would be traveling with. By the time the rush ended, my pockets were fat with wads of small bills, far outnumbering the more preferable large denominations. I stood there feeling like a crack dealer who is bad at math and just had a seriously unexpected run on product. For three solid hours it was like working drive-thru, but without the option of spitting in people’s food if they got out of line.

Meet Amateur Antique Dealer, a tall and pencil-thin mustachioed sort wearing stiff, super-blue denim with gleaming tennis shoes and an ancient IZOD polo that’s three sizes too small and tucked in with the braided leather belt that somehow managed to slip past cool police patrols so many years back. Rachel and I had a gorgeous (can I be completely gay and say “divine” or “stunning”? I won’t, but I’m thinking it.), antique dining room table with six chairs from the late 30’s-early 40’s, old modern style. We were selling it for 400 dollars (too cheap) because we needed to ensure the sale. There was just no way to bring it with us. This brain dead stick figure laps the table for 15 minutes solid, circling and circling, running his hands all over it and checking crevices. To be sure, if it continued any longer I would have begun to fear that something perverse might go down in my dining area, driving the other TESTES away. He finally wandered over all casual-like and offered me $250. I just laughed and he looked shocked. I asked him if he was kidding and then informed him that I would be selling it for $400 or would burn it. After an extended blank stare, he walked back to the table for some more laps. Amateur Antique Dealers must not get a decent morning constitutional very often, because he was lapping for another 15 minutes, this time on the phone, trying his best to speak in official and low conspiratorial tones. Figuring I had sufficiently gotten my point across, I smiled as he walked over for a second time. Show me the money. “Will you take $350?” Now I was mad. I stood there silently and the guy looked at me eagerly because he thought I was considering the offer. I wasn’t. I was simply trying my damndest to figure out where the ambiguousness resided in my first response to his amateur, wholly retarded, and useless haggling. He started to pull out his wallet. “$350?”

I replied, “Same price as 15 minutes ago. Same price for the foreseeable future.”

He walked away looking dismayed, but was gone only 5 minutes this time before coming back and ponying up the dough. Show me the money. Fucking TESTES.

Meet Bulbous Elbow Lady, named for the unfortunate and scary looking, bulbous (did I mention bulbous?), multiple growths protruding from the pointy parts of her arms. She has crazy, fraying hair in several decorator shades and a witch looking nose that looks as though it came right off of the pages of Hansel and Gretel. She shuffles to no particular destination in mind and enjoys scratching various inappropriate places on her body (TESTE with an infection, perhaps?). Making her way through the house one slow shuffle at a time, like a crusty beetle, Bulbous Elbow Lady likes to pick up every single item available for sale. Every. Single. One. If it requires electricity, it must be turned on and demonstrated, be it fan, lamp, or electronic device. Fifteen minutes or so made it crystal clear that she wouldn’t be purchasing anything. I don’t even think she knew what a lamp was. She did ask if I’d take a nickel for one of my 25 cent paperbacks, though. I told her no. Seriously, if you don’t think a book is worth a quarter, then I don’t want you in my house. Stop touching my stuff.

I love lamp.

All is well that ends well, though. We sold nearly everything we set out to sell, even if we had to put up with an inordinate amount of ridiculous and annoying TESTES along the way. If I see any in the future, it will be too soon.

Day Four. What Day?

I don’t know what the hell the guy was thinking. More than likely he just wasn’t. The state of mind that is “not thinking” is something that is common to all of us, even if it does happen to some more than others. One could certainly have asked the question of me 12 years ago when, as an 18-year old I decided that I could indeed break that cinderblock with a forceful twin dragon fist strike and no practice beforehand. It seemed like a good ending for my routine in the breaking contest at the time. Exclusively breaking boards would have been so very ordinary. What was I thinking? The question ran through my head on repeat as I stared at the open fracture on my hand. This was quickly followed by the thought, “Goddamn, it’s really starting to hurt. Am I still standing or am I passed out?”

What was I thinking? In hindsight, the answer is obvious. I wasn’t.

Now, in the wake of what is probably going to be a giant lawsuit and a huge insurance mess, all I can do is wonder what the guy was thinking. I didn’t mean to clip him, but I seriously didn’t think he would actually walk in front of my car as it bore down on him at almost 50 mph. As I reached the point where it was too late to do anything I could finally see that his head was turned in the opposite direction, just staring the wrong way (obviously) down the street as he jaywalked across four lanes of traffic + middle turn lane.

The brain is wildly amazing in its ability to actually think whole thoughts in fractions of a second. Now that I’m sitting at home awaiting multiple unpleasant phone calls from various entities I never wanted to speak with, I’ve been able to pick apart and illuminate what I thought in that split second before the fender made contact with his right side.

Didn’t his mother teach him to look both ways? I guess the answer seems obvious, but that would be shifting blame. His mother may have made monumental efforts to teach the basic lessons of modern life, but perhaps her son-now-crackhead-bum was just a retard off whom all lessons ricocheted in search of more receptive ears. One could ostensibly blame the crack, but I’m also uncomfortable with blaming that which is inanimate by nature. Perhaps he just woke up on the wrong side of the overpass and was too late camping out at the prime panhandling location near the Circle K gas pumps.

Seriously, who the fuck decides to take a leisurely, eyes-closed stroll across five lanes of traffic? Ummmm, crackheads, duh. (I really have to quit this terrible habit of asking the most obvious of questions.)

Here are some odd tidbits about the incident—It was surprising to me that he wasn’t screaming. He just sort of lay on the ground twitching and moaning, eyes all a flutter. Kneeling over him trying to wrack my brain and help while calling 911, I was taken aback by flood of intense and conflicting emotions. I felt horrible and sad because the guy was obviously in terrific pain. His leg was completely askew, and it looked as though he had lost part of his buttcheek. The reason for that, as it turns out, is that his hip was crushed and dislocated. The leg isn’t even worth talking about, and even if I were so inclined I don’t think that I could since the thought of it re-inspires a surge of intense nausea. I was also angry, to the point I wanted to kick him repeatedly for throwing a severe dampener on my recently acquired, new-and-oh-so-cool, location-based joy. As people gathered, some very close and others hanging back, a rush of embarrassment and the need to defend myself also rose up. It wasn’t vehicular assault with malice, it was unintentional vehicular assault with incredulousness.

That THE FUCK was he thinking.

Before? Who knows. After? Something along the lines of “Ouch”, no doubt, but more the extreme version, sponsored by Mountain Dew and shit.

It should all wash out in the end. The cops actually seemed sympathetic to my unfortunate position, and the insurance company hasn’t said “You’re fucked.” Not yet, anyway, and that’s really what is worrying me right now. I can just see myself obsessing about this, finally beginning to get over it after a couple of weeks, and then getting the “You’re fucked” phone call. D.A. takes humanitarian pity on homeless crack addict and decides to press charges on unrepentant guy with home. (I’m already whipping myself into an ulcer-ific frenzy)

My fourth day in the big city and I almost kill a crackhead. I’m all for excitement and high notes, but this is ridiculous.

The Heads Have Landed

The changes over the last month have been so drastic, where should I begin? There’s always the option of a chronological tale, but that’s often much less fun so I’ll regale you with the things that seem most important.

First up….we’re in Phoenix and it is awesome.

We knew it would be fantastic, but now that we are physically present in our new home things are really starting to sink in. It’s like being a kid set loose inside an infinitely wonderful candy store. Guess what I ate last night and the night before? I’ll give you a minute….Done guessing?

Jack in the Box. Wonder of Fast Food Wonders, oh how I missed thee.

While stranded in the Midwest for the last three and a half years there has been nary a whiff of Jack’s over-the-top caloric goodness and now it’s at my fingertips once again—all you can eat, baby. I’m seriously considering filling up one of the bathtubs with Ultimate Double Cheeseburgers and bacon and then commencing to jump in and not surface until I am thoroughly sated (and at least 300 lbs.). I rediscovered old and venerable Jack in the Box wisdom called “Unlocking the Magic” which brought a measure of joy not unlike that which comes with rediscovering a cherished piece of one’s past.

For those not schooled in advanced fast food tactics, I’ll explain.

Although it could conceivably be applied to many different sandwiches, “Unlocking the Magic” is primarily for the Ultimate Cheeseburger or Ultimate Double Cheeseburger aficionado. When you get this beef and cheese delight to your preferred consumption destination, the true fast food warrior does not immediately begin eating; to do so would be heresy in the extreme. This fat ass ambrosia is lovingly crafted and one should take the time to carefully unwrap and admire the thing beforehand. Now, take the beef and cheese loveliness into the palm of your dominant hand, placing the off hand on the top bun. The fingertips of each hand should be pointing toward the opposite elbow. If they aren’t then you need to adjust. Once properly positioned, press down on the top bun with your palm (not too much, you mustn’t damage it!) and rotate in a clockwise motion and back again. Repeat as necessary until the bun is smoothly rotating and all topping are spread evenly. Once complete, enjoy the new addition to your artery blockage.

There is one optional addition to this. After unlocking, I enjoy peeling away the top bun and hitting it up with a bit of sweet-n-sour sauce, it goes well with the copious mayo. Any other additions are at your own risk.

**********

It’s funny, we’ve gone from a population of 325K to a population of several million and my stress level has never been lower, even while still in the middle of moving and unpacking. At first I didn’t understand, but credit goes to the aforementioned Jack-delicacies for the brain fortification that helped illuminate the reasoning behind this state of affairs.

I finally live somewhere that I don’t have to qualify. I can tell someone where I’m from and not get that bewildered, forehead-crinkle stare that I’ve had to deal with my entire life. The look that says, “I want to ask you where or what the fuck that is, but I’m trying to be polite right now.” Oh God, I’ve always hated that look. No more trying to minimize the shitiness, stupidity, or general backasswardness of my location.

I’m here, I’m gloriously happy, and I’m not going anywhere. Not for a very long time if I can at all help it. Prepare yourself for a newly optimistic and jovial outpouring of stupidity, bitches.

I am so fucking back.

Almost there

Hello boys and girls, ladies and gents, Herr’s und Frau’s. Greeting and warm salutations.

Finally posting again is making me nervous, like when you’ve been out of touch with that sort-of-friend for a while. You finally decide to call (or write, as the case may be) before the already tenuous link decides to break completely. Using a technique gleaned from “polite” society the only thing I know to do is forge ahead as though I haven’t been away for two weeks and pray that you join me in my charade.

So what have the last two weeks been like? Unabated craziness, but the good kind. My Bloglines are black as night with unread posts, which is really a good thing since it will be a few days before our stuff catches up with us. I foresee plenty of time to play catch-up during the later stages of next week.

Once again, I must express my thanks and appreciation for all of the concern regarding my mum. At this time, the doctors (in all of their doctorly wisdom) are completely baffled. Turns out she doesn’t have Wegener’s, even though she has every single symptom. Since no one even has a hypothesis at this point, they are simply treating her symptoms and keeping a close eye on things (with the oh-so gentle prodding of my parents’ figurative whip). I find myself lately wishing for the Wegener’s because not knowing anything definitive is unnerving. However, the treatment that she is receiving seems to be providing some relief, so I would say that, at least for now, we are out of the imminent doom zone.

There was a bright spot amidst all of the stress. Maudie came and visited! We had a wonderful evening eating and hanging out, and even got to bother some folks via the tried and true dial-a-shot. Apologies to those recipients of dial-a-shot voicemail, the details of said voicemails are a bit hazy as I was ridiculously altered.

You should see my little black book. It’s full of notes and goings on for the last two weeks to the point of bursting. Two days ago, I finished the last of my schoolwork and now can lay claim to being one of those that possesses a “higher” education. Yipee, now I can take a break before jumping onto the next hamster wheel.

Expect an outpouring when we land in Phoenix on the 29th or 30th. I envision posts rife with grandiose idiocy to the point you’ll be begging me to go on hiatus again because you can hear your brain liquefying :)

An Extra Chip

Split pots. I hate’em.

Sitting there in the low-limit cash game, the drunken fellow has been donkey slinging his minimal $40 buy-in all over the place and built it up significantly in a run that you can only see as the umpteenth attempt of a rogue poker god trying to crush your spirit. After waiting patiently, you finally get that feeling that you know your ace middle-kicker is vastly superior to his A2 and that you’ll now be the one that deals the killing blow to the rest of his ill-gotten stack. In the grand poker tradition of things never going quite how they should, the board had a lot of problems helping you out, resulting in a split pot. As the dealer arranges the chips all you can do is reflect on your own lost moment of glory which, even in fruition would have been small but welcome. The chips are stacked and there is an extra dollar sitting on top of what would otherwise be two even stacks. Who will it go to?

**********

After long last, and as you already know, I finally got the news that will enable me to leave this current bleak Midwestern existence. Over the last week, I won a large battle of wills over those that are constantly seeking to hobble the smooth transition to this happier situation. This quadrant of my life is certainly trending upwards. Of course, yin cannot live without yang, as this universal truth bore itself out in a more personal quadrant.

Good must be balanced with bad. Up must balance with down at some point. A big part of my existence looked as though it would be cut away in short order.

The news came from my father. My mother has had “asthma” for many, many years. She has always had trouble breathing, and yes, she’s out of shape and obese. Has been for years. She is (and has been for some time) caught in a vicious circle now where her “asthma” won’t let her get the exercise she needs to get the weight off. This is a woman who, quite literally, has never touched a single alcohol or tobacco product in her life. Why can’t she breathe? Can asthma be this bad and getting worse over time? The trip to the emergency room a few weeks back said, “No.”

Tests, tests, and more tests.

It seems my father overstated, but I can’t say that I blame him. While the diagnosis is only 99.9% right now, and the advancement is officially undetermined (this will be resolved on Monday, I hear), it turns out my mother has something called Wegener’s Granulomatosis. Yeah, I could barely say it, too, let alone remember it to tell others. It’s pretty rare. Early on, my Dad stated that it was pretty advanced which would only mean a short time to live. Now, it seems, it may not be as advanced as they previously thought, meaning that it should be treatable, meaning no abrupt deathbed scenes.

**********
I’m sure that there is a method or rule by which the dealer determines who that lone extra dollar chip goes to. On many occasions I’ve considered trying to find out what that rule or method is. Someone that reads here would surely be able to tell me if I asked. I can’t imagine that such knowledge would be a closely guarded secret. For me, it has always been more entertaining to feel like it was luck rather than method or rule, perhaps simply an indication of which participant in the hand the dealer favored. It may be relatively worthless, but it’s some sort of consolation in the face of disappointment at the split.

The extra dollar just went my way. Sweet.

Technical Difficulties

It is said that if one is to improve one’s writing, then one should write every day. I’ve been writing every day, unfortunately it hasn’t been here. Plus there’s the added bonus of all the writing being schoolwork, so I’m not really improving anything. This week plus two more will finally end college and what has essentially been two years of constant and useless regurgitation.

Then I will finally have the coveted big size piece of paper with lots of cursive writing on it. People say congratulations, and I loathe myself for acquiescing to the bullshit that says I need it to be worthy.

Okay, maybe that’s a little angsty, but you get the idea. I am slammed with a double load of schoolwork so I can be finished when we leave here, plus working and trying to get all of the little things lined up for the move makes posting nearly impossible, which sucks.

Plus I found out my mother may be dying, and quick. This sucks much worse. I figured I should explain why the writing for the next few weeks may be spotty.

Be back when I can grab some moments.

Herroooooo.......

Boy, who knew getting ready to move 1100 miles away would take such a toll on writing crap in a blog? The major stuff is slowly working itself out of the way, so hopefully the toll won’t be too annoying as I had a nice, every weekday rhythm. However, it’s hard to be too dismayed at the general hubbub when things are moving along nicely.

Last Saturday we put a For Sale sign out in the yard ourselves because the punkass realtor we had in mind wouldn’t call us back. She finally called on Monday claiming wrong number woes (translation: I would rather be fucking off than listing a house that might make me some money) and I sent her the info she needed with the promise that she would get over there as soon as possible so we could sign a contract. Nothing and Nada is what I got, all the while showing the house myself. Yesterday I got an offer, and after a bit of haggling we agreed on a favorable price and today the contract was signed. Sold in approximately 5 days. Suck it, you poor excuse for a fuckup realtor, but thanks for the extra 7 grand I no longer need to pay you.

As I’m sure you can tell by now, it’s a big load off.

In other amusing news (if you find “shake your head in a sad sort of way and smile” situations amusing), I found out that they are going to do away with my position when I leave. Penny wise and pound foolish to the end, these people. It seems that they would rather look a few dollars better on the budget sheet than to actually have equipment and operations running smoothly. Whatever. What do I know? After all, I don’t really do anything except walk around all day and fix that computer stuff I like, which really isn’t like work at all. So Fucked. I put the over/under at two weeks before the employees are screaming and clawing their eyes as everything implodes because nothing functions.

It's inebitable. INEBITABLE!!

I'm fantasizing about taking a plane back for the sole purpose of standing around and gloating when it finally happens. (This is my entertainment until we reach that glorious moving day)

Thanks for the real food

Okay, I know I’m biting off Bob when I harp commercials like I’m about to, but I’m gonna do it anyway because I just watched a disturbing commercial and you need to know about it.

Arby’s now has 100% Real Chicken Sanwiches.

Seeing this caused me to remember that I’d recently seen the same thing on a McDonald’s commercial, qualifying this trend as being a spate and quite possibly a rash. So let me get this straight….

I can pay you more money, and if I do so, you promise not to give me fake food?

Sign me up immediately. This unilateral fast food move is magnanimous beyond all measure, and what I’d like to do is pay you double the already increased asking price to properly express my thanks for the opportunity not to eat breaded plastic.

Yup, this is the product of a late and exhausting day. See you tomorrow.

Adrenaline Decline

The massive adrenaline overdose is finally winding down. After languishing in this pit of despair for so long, good news had the effect of sending me higher than I would normally be, hence the previous title. I was on natural smack.

I wonder if this is anything like how Mandela felt when he was finally released? (wow, someone is feeling grandiose and expansive)

My evenings and weekends are certainly going to be less relaxing for a while, that’s for sure and that’s cool. As it works out, I’m to report for work on April 3^rd which means that I get to wave goodbye to this place every single day for the next four weeks or so. Thanks to every single person who threw some mojo this way, it is and has been much appreciated.

The reason it took so long, it seems, is that my soon-to-be boss was busy fighting with the higher powers about salary (which ended up in my favor, sweet). As miserable as it’s been waiting around it’s hard to be mad with news that good.

The only thing that would make it better would be if Rachel can get into a satisfactory position so we both leave here with jobs. Either way, after a miserable 2005 when every obstacle seemed to jump in our path for no apparent reason, it’s nice to finally feel the winds blowing in a favorable direction.

Thanks again to all for the vibes. Now I’ll shut up and get the fuck over it already :)

I'm on my way to Phoenix so Jesus blew up a truck just for me....

.....you know, to celebrate and stuff. (oops, I accidentally put the pics in reverse order)







I'm way pumped and making a ton of phone calls. More after the jump...

Thursday Night Live Blog: Thoughts as they come to me.

7:23—Home now. Dogs fed. Dinner Cooking. Bowl of tobacco ready. Let’s get this show on the road.

7:30—An announcer just said, post human interest story and as the girl went out on the ice, “This may be another Olympic moment.” Aren’t they all Olympic moments? Call me too literal, but come on. Speaking of annoying constant streams of human interest crap, do you think one day we might have an Olympic scandal where the athlete fucks up their otherwise normal and ordinary life in some way just so NBC will do a human interest piece on them so they aren’t left out?

7:37--Girl dedicates race to her late future mother-in-law while sniffling. Am I just faded when I think that's about the strangest thing I've heard in a while?

7:39--We have a news anchor lady (news anchorette?) named Anita Cochran. Every time I'm not looking and hear the commercial announcer say her name, it sounds like "I need a cock ring" and it makes me laugh. This has gone on for three years and I'm still laughing.

7:43--Now that I'm considering what I just wrote, for some reason I'm starting to wonder a bit if I need (or want) a cockring. The more I try not to, the more I wonder. You probably didn't need or want to know that. Never mind.

7:50--I had this thought last night, but what the hey...You know what is completely awesome and makes the Olympics tolerable at the same time? Break out the iPod. Insert headphones. Wait for figure skating. Turn down TV. Turn up gangsta rap (Young Jeezy is a good one to start with). Thank me later.

7:58--Trying to pay attention to typing, cooking, keeping tabs on Pauly's live-blogging (or, waiting for it to start), and the TV while trying to actually think is getting hard. I'm multi-tasking myself into an oblivious frenzy.

8:30--Where the hell did that half hour go? Rach just got home and we're gonna eat. Back after another short bit.

8:58--The addict has spoken. American Idol has begun at the Head household.

9:01--Jesus, Paula is squeezed and taped tonight.

9:03--Christ Almighty, they've begun the group singing. That's another thing I despise on this show I had forgotten about. Sooooo variety show cheese.

9:06--Good Lord (why am I invoking the names of God so much?), yet another recap.

9:10--That Taylor Hicks dude kicks fuckin ass. He should win, too bad it'll never happen. Well, not unless he gets some nice tits--and quickly. It seems that tits are the one thing that runs common through all the American Idol winners. I guess the public just likes tits....

9:17--I figured Becky would have made it past the first cut based on looks alone. Not that I'm unhappy at the accurate cut...just suprised. And why do we have to hear a person re-sing what was previously a suck performance?

9:23--Looks like mini-BadBlood, Chris, is safe for another week. Quite good.

9:30--Byby Patrick. I'm sad we won't see more of atomic collagen mom, even though it's another accurate judgement. What the fuck he was thinking when he chose to sing Melissa Etheridge I will never know.

9:32--Thirty-four minutes. The Norhern Bath Tissue of television. I'd say that's pretty accurate considering the show makes me feel like an ass that just got wiped. Heehee...I have no idea if that's a patently bad or good thing, but goddamn it makes me laugh.

9:41--Carolina Kostner from Italy just skated. Too bad the performance wasn't any better than other Costner's.

9:52--Here's one of my referrer's tonight--Look upon the youth and rejoice, people.

9:56--Visa asks us, "What does it take to be an Olympic athlete?" I'll take that one for free, Alex. Money. And some drugs. Wait, I mean "What is money and what are drugs"

10:07--Damn this is fun. Here's another referrer. Read the Stupid, Smelly, Hippies post and rejoice. Funniest . Post. Ever.

10:17--Rachel just informed me, via Freakenomics, that Cody was the #1 low income name. Now tell me this guy isn't real, bitches :) (while I realize the picture is not him, I believe it has the simple explanation of there being a bit of a weight problem, as in "I'm abnormally embarrased by it", behind the scenes)

10:30--Word to the Wheaton, ya'll. Way up on the chipcount. Thank God Pauly keeps us up to date.

10:50--Did I just lose time? Sorry bout that--NBC-induced coma. Kind of like the nods from doing too much herion. Where was I?

10:54--Aww, fuckit, I think I'll just close up shop for the night. Gonna chill and watch The Boondocks. Gaze upon this waste to time and virtual space and rejoice.

Wunderbar

What a day. It’s just nothing but annoying when work gets in the way of nonsensical blogging activity. A new phone uplift project is ramping up which means more days like this over the next month.

Wunderbar.

Do you like to watch American Idol but can’t stand watching American Idol? Me too. There’s no good explanation why it took me so damn long to do this, but due to extended hours yesterday I had to record the show for Rachel who is the AI addict in the house. DVR’d is the only way to watch the show. We didn’t start watching until the show ended at 9 PM, and after fast-forwarding through all of the fabulous and innovative Ford commercials and informative recapping, the show wrapped at 9:50. That’s 70 full minutes of nothing but pure fluffy SHITE. Clouds and Northern Bath Tissue have nothing on these folks, and looking back at all of the times I’ve actually sat through show it makes me wonder why I’m not suffering from a Coma of No Return.

It is fun to watch and expunge any snark that may have built up throughout the day, though.

Who else noticed after the first guy sang when they flashed to his parents? Holy atomic collagen bomb, Batman! Trust me, it’s worth finding the show just to witness the horror. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Waitaminute, yes I have….on the Discovery Channel—Plastic Surgery: Before and After and Horribly Awry. Plus, it’s on again tonight! I’m tying to decide between watching again and drinking all of the cleaning products in the house.

Wunderbar.

Tonight is going to be Thursday Evening Live Blog: Thoughts as They Come To Me, so stay tuned. Guaranteed to be the heezy or the worst thing you’ve ever read. Ironically, these guarantees may actually be the same thing.

Kind of like American Idol. Extra Wunderbar.

Linking to Goodness

I’m trying to catch up on my missed Bloglines reading and holy hell there’s some good pokery content out there.

Scurvy’s post, Know Thy Equity, was awesome even though I made my way through it at approximately the speed of a small child learning to read. Always huge portions of pokery goodness. Posts that make you to think are always a great thing, unlike most of the empty drivel spewed here. Reading here just might make you dumber. Be careful is all I’m saying. Much like the high-five, no thorough scientific studies have been done on the effects of blog silliness.

The innovative and groundbreaking work just keeps on coming. (Hey, if Ford can say it with a straight face, then so can I)

Then there’s Nerd, my personal SnG Jesus. His recent posts have an underlying tone of surliness and “I’m lovin’ it” (just had a McD’s sausage and egg and I can’t not say it). I’m also pumped that he is willing to give away nuggets from his massive warehouse of SnG’s knowledge at such a cheap price. I just hope he still wants to do it when I finally get the time. If you don’t know about Nerd (and I can’t imagine how such a thing would be possible), get over and start going through the archives to counteract some of the stupidity on these here pages.

DoubleAs. I don’t really need to say anymore. His pages constantly drip with epic amounts of advanced knowledge.

And of course, the best uber-posting still springs forth from the diminutive Blogfather. The last couple have been especially good and destroyed copious amounts of my already declining productivity.

There you are. I figure if I’m not writing about poker myself I should be linking to those who are and at least try to maintain the appearance of a poker blog until that future day when I decide to start pontificating about the game again.

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

Thanks for all of the comments on the last post dealing with my pansy-assedness concerning kids. It’s been kind of fun to think about, at least to the extent that I’m trying to come up with t-shirt ideas for when the day comes. Something along the lines of, “I knocked up my wife and all I got was this stupid kid” (only to be worn till the kid can read) Or how about this one for the kid? “Loin Fruit.” or “Fruit of the Loins”. I can see the nasty looks I’ll be getting already.

Any and all ideas for other t-shirts welcome any time.

Scared Bejesus

Four days away, guess I oughta write something, eh?

Wallowing in alternating pools of self-pity, anger, and anxiety, while normally loads of fun, just can’t be sustained. So I’m out of the pool and ready to dry off, at least until the urge to swim takes hold again. Hmm, it appears I’m a four year-old. I did get a little something accomplished, spending approximately two solid days researching a couple of investments. Even if they don’t pan out I can at least say that I learned quite a bit.

Oh yeah, and Rachel scared the living and the dead bejesus out of me this weekend.

I was bitching about other people’s little shitheads at the time. Or maybe I was yelling at the dumb parents of little shitheads on the television, I forget. Regardless, I had sounded off another round of a phrase often heard around the house, “See? Yet another reason why kids are a bad idea.” I forget now exactly why the hell I said it. I think it was news of some demon seed kid burning down a school and then stabbing the family dog to death while flipping off his parents and teabagging his neighbor. Or something like that. You know what I mean.

“I think the urge to have you knock me up is getting bigger.”

Now, never let it be said that I don’t love doing all the knocking that is humanly possible. It’s the “up” part that is utterly frightening. I find “boots” to be infinitely preferable to “up.”

“Really? REALLY? For realies and for trulies? Get out of here. You’re just messing with me.”

The look confirmed that the biological clock was indeed in the first stages of rising from what I had previously hoped was a permanent state of dormancy. Ruh-Roh.

You know that sound you make when you burn yourself? That sound where you’re sucking air through clenched jaw with an attractive grimace on your face? Yep, that was about all I could do at that point.

There aren’t too many things that frighten me. Snakes have the power to render me vaginafied, but that’s about it, unless talks about pregnancy begin. If that’s the case, give me a snake. Kids are an exponential degree more frightening, and we really don’t mix too well at all. Typically they’re rendered speechless at the sheer size and odd shape of my head. I’m frightened of their sheer lack of size, their constant toddling and whatnot, the incessant noise, and sometimes, the odd size and shape of their head, as well.

Kids and I are the definition of awkward. Lot’s of blinking and not much talking, just ask my 6 month-old nephew.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a small up-tick.”

I appreciated her saying so, but I still made the noise a couple more times for good measure. I don’t feel like my life is together yet, why compound the difficulty? Leave the lovely degenerate lifestyle behind? Pfft. Not yet. Maybe later. Just not yet.

It will happen sooner or later, I’m pretty sure of that. After all, her happiness is my ultimate concern, and if that means spawning our own little shitheads then so be it. Just let it be on the official record that I’m going to have to approach that particular ledge with some serious baby steps and cajoling, not unlike the cajoling necessary to get me off of the diving board for the first time.

See? Told you I was a four year-old. A four year-old that loves knocking.

High Stress

I picked a helluva week to quit Quaaludes. Still no job news, and I’m about to go gangsta on some of these fools. Fuck. Not cool. Not cool at all.

At this point if I get called back with a “no” I’m spending the dough on the next flight out to Phoenix to stomp someone into the ground for being so unbelievably inconsiderate.

I’m just saying.

Hopefully the weather isn’t an indication of how it will go. Sixty degree swings day to day increases the surreal quality of this continually scattered Midwestern existence. Hey, at least there’s no ice or snow here yet. Check me out, Mr. Positivity.

**********

So who’s gonna win tonight, Mosley or Vargas?

I keep going back and forth and would be interested in your thoughts.

*********

Great music that I picked up last night

John Legend, Get Lifted—Been meaning to pick this one up for months. The Grammy was definitely deserved. Straight up classic repentant soul.

Talib Qweli, Right About Now—One of the few rappers out there that actually says something (thanks Joaquin). Hard hittin’ and good to listen to while the NBC airs a constant stream of super-ghey ice dancing.

Antony and the Johnsons, I’m a Bird Now—Altogether strange and strangely compelling. It’s like listening to Thom Yorke in a drag show with the vabratto of that Spanish guitar playing lady in Rick’s Café in Casablanca. Good stuff.

*********

And that’s it. I’m so damn scattered and stressed at the moment I can’t put two decent thoughts together, so go check out someone who can.

I think I'll pop in the headphones and do some smokin'. Might be back later.

Now blogging
live

Serenity and Cardrooms

Last night brought a most pleasant surprise in the form of a horribly marketed movie. For once, I’m not speaking in a negative light about an over-hyped piece of cinematic tripe that, when the end finally and mercifully comes, finds you in the shower trying to wash off that “fresh rape” scent, ala---(I was going to try and cite a specific movie, but just insert any movie title in recent memory, that should do just fine.)

Serenity.

The ads for this movie when it ran in theaters were nowhere even close to what the movie actually was; they were horrifically cheesy and made the movie look terrible. Take that marketing team and throw them in the Gulag. If there exists even a small part of your being that enjoys sci-fi, you owe it to yourself (and the folks who actually had the temerity to make a decent flick) to go grab it and watch at your earliest possible convenience. Hell, even if you don’t like sci-fi it’s worth the watch. Rachel, who normally begins searching for tools that facilitate timely wrist-slashing whenever my Alien or Matrix box-sets are in view, enjoyed the flick. Not-too-Cheesy CGI, a good multi-layer story and plot that left few to no loose ends, and an ending that didn’t make me want to douse myself in gasoline and run into a burning building. I’ll even go a step further and say that this is a movie where I would enjoy hearing news of a sequel. Alas, it was a good movie though, which means my wish will likely never come true.

Instead, I can look forward to such hits as Big Momma’s House III, IV, V, and VI, Elektra vs. Daredevil, and GW: How I found God at the end of a line of coke and saved all the children. I hear tell that one is a harrowing documentary of passion, power, payola, and heroism in the face of monumental illiteracy.

Great.

*********
Felicia asks the question—What will poker rooms be like in 10 years or so? Since this question involves my favorite activity, wild speculation, I’ll take a shot.

I think this question hinges on just how much Harrah’s and their ilk can dominate the casino world, which is already a considerable amount. They are the ultimate embodiment of all that is corporate, evil, and soulless. Of course, one could make the argument that this holds true for any casino in that it’s their mission to fleece as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time with the highest profit margin. I do think that there are distinctions, however. After winning the bowling tourney in Kingpin, Big Earn is jubilant at the fact that “I’m above the law! I can finally buy my way out of anything!” This is Harrah’s, WPT, etc., where the line of thought is that the coffers are so damn full and the organizations so big and dominant that they can run over anyone and everyone willy-nilly, carving ever more pound heavy loads of flesh from the playing base.

Then there are the Wynn’s of the world, also huge conglomerates, but in my view are somewhat the anti-Harrah’s in that they give some semblance of a damn about the consumer that throws money at them hand over fist, or at least takes the time to provide a convincing illusion that a damn is given. The poker room at the Wynn actually has the thoughtfulness to have comfortable seating, nice tables, fantastic service, good tourney structures with juice that is actually reasonable (considering the alternatives), and more. Few of these things can be found in a Harrah’s run joint, where the rake is as large as the pot, drinks never come, juice on tourneys is higher than Cheech and Chong put together, and few employees give a good goddamn about the people throwing chips around. I swear this is going somewhere.

The cardroom of the future will be a lot like today’s cardroom, only more so.

I’m too lazy to search out a link, but I’m sure that many of you have heard about the computerized Hold’em casino tables, which basically bring online poker to the casino. A bunch of people actually sit together and look at a screen instead of doing it at home on a virtual table. Of course Harrah’s is hot to trot on bringing out these tables. Less dealers to pay, faster game, more money (plus, I’d bet the monumental rake is less noticeable, as well). The cardroom in ten years will be full of these tables, and the prospect makes me awfully sad. If I want to play PC poker I’ll stay at home. The Wynn’s of the world will continue much as they are now, I believe. There will always be that portion of players that will insist on a “real” game replete with the time-tested comforts and amenities of said “real” game. We can already see the bigger players and the bigger money give the finger to the likes of the WPT and their “above the law” hubris. The question then becomes, how much more still will it cost to play in the “real” cardroom when it isn’t ubiquitous anymore?

Good question. Like I said when I started out, I think it all depends on whether the Wynn’s of the world can keep the Harrah’s monsters at bay.

Hello..

….and welcome to another profanity-laden post about nothing.

Why nothing? Because that’s what is happening. Still. If the phone had a some junk or a face I think that at this point I would be abusing it in both places. Since it doesn’t possess any of these abusable (that’s not even a word, is it?) qualities I sit and stare and continue dealing with the everlasting anticipation-induced heart attack.

Fuck me, this sucks, and not just a little. We’re talkin’ big giant donkey balls here. All of my money is in the middle, there’s one card to come, and no one can find the dealer.

So here’s the deal. I was supposed to know something one way or another by last Friday. With a few hours left in the day, I left the guy a message and heard nothing. There had been intermittent Exchange problems earlier in the week (duh, isn’t MS Exchange just a Spanish euphemism for “nothing but fucking problems from bloated software?”), and when I came in on Monday and caught up on email I found out the problems were more serious than normal. That would explain the lack of response I got. I decided to go for broke and sent an appropriately toned email inquiry. Here is the response…

Interviews are over at this time, and I’ve submitted an approval for hire. I can’t make any official offer until I get word, but that shouldn’t be more than another day or two.

This made me feel more positive. I figure that if I didn’t get the job he would have told me so since I gave him the easy out with an opportunity drop bad news through an email instead of a phone call. Thoughts?

I hate waiting.

**********

There were no forts last night—I forgot to consider the hardwood floor angle. I didn’t have nearly enough soft blankets and it made the logistics of the thing a comfort impossibility. Disappointing, yes, but I’m still planning an alternate strategy in my pursuit of escape from adulthood.

The Shield, however, continues to be a triumph this season and was a nice consolation prize in lieu of my fort-building aspirations. Each episode sends me on a fresh tear of wondering why Forest Whittaker doesn’t get more consistent props and loudly speaking about the collective crime that is his underratedness (that’s two non-words and counting). The guy is simply awesome.

**********

I had a dream last night about a Christmas present Rachel and I received this year from her grandparents. It was a foil lined bag with some sort of god-awful country décor design on the outside. I had no idea what it was or what is was for. Then I read the card inside..

“Enjoy a nice baked potato cooked in this bag.”

Huh?

While I’m not searching for any deeper meaning in the dream and trying not to wonder why the hell it appeared there to begin with, it did get me wondering. When you get to be a grandparent, do your gifts become strange because of advancing age and senility or because you just don’t give a shit any more? I imagine that when my time comes it will definitely be the latter. What? You don’t like your gift? Whatever, I’m oooold.

See? I told you today would be a bunch of nothing. To make sure that I fulfill my profanity promise, I leave you with this quote:

“Shitfuck”

Hey, the guy had Tourette’s, what can you do?

Forts for all!

I’m a big believer in omens, even though I know I probably shouldn’t be. After all, what are they really but random events translated to reflect one’s hopes or fears? Nonetheless, I pay attention to omens. The problem comes when I can’t decide how one or the other should be translated, or if I should be paying attention at all.

In the land of chain restaurants, Ya-Ya’s was one of the few good ones (I don’t know if it’s a chain or not, but I think it is). Never mind that the name conjures thoughts of a lame sisterhood trying too hard to grasp onto invented Lilith-goddess powers. There was always a problem in the back of my mind with the name, but the good food inspired such great relief I put it to the side. Last year Rachel and I went there for Valentines Day and had a wonderful three course meal. Each course had its own wine, and the whole thing only cost $90 for both of us. I was flabbergasted, and since I’m Mr. Positivity I foolishly expected the same this year.

Oops.

We called and Valentines Day was booked. That’s cool. Neither of us really wanted to be out on a weeknight anyway, so we made some reservations for the weekend. A nice meal was just what the doctor ordered since I was still in job news limbo, and everything seemed just fine as the hostess took us to our table. Until I saw the chairs, one of which was a folding chair of white persuasion. A white folding chair in a restaurant full of brown leather, in an environment where the word “folding” should be never be said aloud. Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as an omen. Both of us were so initially shocked we simply sat. I recovered quickly as the server came and was appropriately indignant as I asked just how long it was going to take to correct this disgrace. The server just looked confused as she walked off to find a decent seat—another omen I should have paid attention to. It would be one thing if they had squeezed us in on short notice, but we had reservations for Chrissake.

I ordered a Guinness to drown the steam that was steadily building.

The lamb pot pie with the rosemary crust sounded good. When it came out, it looked even better. When Rachel broke through the top, her face told a story exactly the opposite as she took a tentative bite. Without a word, she speared another piece and gave it to me. Oh, HELL. NO.

Mutton.

I tried remaining calm. A small part of me thought it was funny as I wondered just how many silly Wichitans (Wichitanians?) they had successfully passed this shit off on. The server stopped by to see how everything was and Rachel conveyed her dismay about being served mutton. The face of the server told us everything we needed to know--she had no idea what the difference was. I tired making the comment that Taco Bell serves better quality meat in the hopes that some light would dawn, but to no avail. She took the shitty 4^th-class meat dish back and Rachel ordered the pork chop. It finally came as I was finishing my own dish, a steak of negligible quality.

Another omen I shouldn’t have ignored.

The pork chop looked great when it came out. It was huge and I had high hopes, especially since the manager (who looked suspiciously 19) had been by our table three different times and was very solicitous. Rachel and I thought that everything would be properly corrected and taken care of on the check. When a good establishment makes a mistake (or multiple mistakes in our case) it’s reasonable to assume that something will be comped on the bill. Rachel took one bite, it was okay. Then she cut a little deeper, only to find another in a long line of travesties for the evening. The chop was raw in the middle. You’ve got to be kidding me. Thanks for trying to give my wife worms.

Time for the bill.

We didn’t get charged for the mutton, but nothing else was comped either. Evidently, they didn’t think that comping even one or two of the cocktails was necessary. I mean, after all, coming to a restaurant to eat our meals separately is something every couple looks forward to. This wasn’t the biggest problem, though. Under the “lamb” pot pie was the word “dislike.” While that was true, it wasn’t the reason. IT WAS FUCKING MUTTON, YOU TWATS! The server still couldn’t understand the difference. At this point I was simply tired and wanted to leave, so I just paid the bill. What a damn waste. I should have gone Jesus vs. The Temple Moneychangers on their ass.

Mostly, I’m pissed at myself for not walking out when I saw that folding chair I don’t care if they’re real or not. From now on, omens will get my full attention.

Touchy-feely just doesn’t seem appropriate this year, so here’s what I propose. It should work regardless of your personal situation. Gather your toys, build a fort in the living room, and don’t come out.

It works for kids, why not us?