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?

Medals on the rearview

I used to love the Olympics when I was younger, especially the Winter Olympics in spite of the fact that I hated winter in the general sense (and still do). Following a very disappointing 4^th quarter in Pistons/Heat game where I swear to great jebus they fucked me out of my 20 spot intentionally, I flipped over the channel in an effort to assuage my dismay and recapture some of that old time Olympic excitement.

Then I saw the medals.

I remember seeing a news report some time back when the committee was announcing and showing off the design of these things. I remember making some offhand comment about how silly they looked and proceeded to promptly forget about it. Yesterday’s trip over to NBC reminded me and proceeded to re-disappoint because they look even worse when hanging off of someone’s neck. How did no one speak out about this? Truly yes-man-groupthink at work. It’s like witnessing junior high all over again, when no one could afford a proper medallion and ended up stealing cheesy household items or hood ornaments to wear.

I stepped outside this morning and thought for a brief moment that every Mexican in my neighborhood scored a rash of second place finishes. I wonder what events they were in? And how did they get back to the Midwest so fast? Oh wait, those are CD’s hanging from the various rearview mirror’s! Of course! They just looked so much like the silver medals…….

With that in mind, I wonder if my neighborhood Mexican brethren are pissed at having their style usurped by the IOC designers? If this keeps going, the next thing we’ll see is the retirement of Medals altogether. All contestants will now receive Old English style decals noting their placing and event to put in the back window of their vehicles.

Stupid Olympics. Get your own damn style and give us a decent medal design.

***********
I still haven’t heard a damn thing about the new job, which doesn’t have me in very high spirits at the moment. I nearing the point where I just say fuckit, drop everything and just go somewhere, let the chips fall where they may. This incessant torture-by-waiting game is goddamn ridiculous.

***********
I guess I’m going to have to rescind my patent-pending wily nilly sportsbetting strategy I was going with, as this weekend proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that such a thing is only fun in the very short term. My parlays were for shit, and I’ll say it one more time…stupid goddamn Pistons. I’m still up, but not by much anymore. Thankfully there’s always the poker to go back to.

The job situation is driving me into over-the-top anxious territory making it difficult to write much, so this is it for me today. My grandfather used to always say, “Tomorrow is another day.” Well, duh. What I really want to know is will it be better?

Lazy Saturday

First things first...head over and catch up with Glyphic if you haven't already. I don't fit the necessary profile, but if you know or are someone that does fit, please lend him a hand.

I feel bad for not linking that yesterday when I had planned, but I spent the entire day wallowing in self pity while the rest of the world has problems of much greater magnitude.

I'm an ass. What's new?

Friday was entirely wasted as I stared at the phone trying using my formidable force of will to make it sound off with good news. It didn't. However, it didn't sound off with bad news either, leaving me with another weekend of stressed out limbo to deal with. Not knowing is truly a special brand of psychological torture. I hate it because the absence of knowledge about where one stands tends to render a person actionless, not knowing which direction to go. The stasis created feels like small death.

I'm trying not to overstress. Purgatory within purgatory. It will happen the way it's supposed to, or at least that's what I'm trying to believe at the moment. This, along with reading the variety of other unfortunate circumstances happening all around, has me questioning my much beloved concept of destiny. More specifically, the concept of just how much control I have over it. I may try to churn out some thoughts on that later since I'm determined to dedicate the rest of my day to less serious pursuits.

I figure the best way accomplish said pursuits is to put some money down on swingy college hoops and just zone out. TV=the greatest opiate of them all.

Last night brought me 4 for 5 on my progressive NBA parlay, which paid a reasonable 3/1, so I'm happy. I'm rolling that over today and taking Duke -6.5 and a twelve game progressive parlay using my patent-pending dumb girl betting strategy, a combination of who is favored and how heavily plus what I know about who has the prettiest uniforms.

It's cold outside, but the inside of the Head household is warm with cocktails and smoke. As the day progresses, and after a proper fading, I may hit these pages with some more nonsense. Best of luck to everyone in their weekend degenerate endeavors.

Sweet Action

Okay, so, not so much with the poker lately. I know, its lame, this is supposed to be a poker blog, blah, blah, blah. Trust me, I want to play but it’s the same old song and dance. I only have snatches of time here and there, and by the time I get home in the evening I’m in no kind of mental shape to play. I stay disciplined and don’t play so my bankroll won’t bleed into nothingness. Of course, doing this causes more rust development on the debatably shiny outer shell of my game, but for me the trade-off is okay. In my case it’s easier to knock off a bit of rust than summon the mental fortitude necessary to rebuild a roll that was decimated due to something preventable.

So where does that leave me? Am I doomed to walk the clean, antiseptic, fluorescently lit hallways of a life without degenerate activity?

I think not.

Thanks to the ever-developing and omnipresent In-Tar-Web I am able to keep my degenerate badge by participating in the other quasi-legal activities it makes available to me.

Namely, sports betting. Oh yeah.

I’ve never hated sports, per se, it’s just that my wide variety of other interests always seem to trump them. However, during the last two weeks I have caught myself multiple times in Kramer-esque body seizures, prognosticating about events of which I have no real knowledge, and declaring, “That’s some sweet action!” I have no idea whether the action is really that sweet or not. Most likely it’s not. But I do love saying it. A lot.

In fact, I’m on the action drip at this very moment. I have a 2-team parlay going on Miami and Sacramento. Looking forward to the games (which I may not even watch) is enough to keep me satiated all day. It’s like the nicotine patch. Just replace nicotine with “Sweet Action.” Sweet passive gambooooling action, yes sir.

Did I mention I’m a fan of Let it Ride?

All of these thoughts coalesced this morning while I was moving funds around and planning wild and baseless betting strategies. When I actually do the betting, it’s normally on more solid ground, but it sure is fun to screw around off the beaten path. Poker is still my game, and thankfully I can summon enough intelligence on a regular basis to keep it that way since it is truly the +EV choice for the gambler who cares, but I believe my seriousness about the game will only be to a certain point. I say this because of emotional tilt factors that come into play when I pass that invisible line, and it’s this knowledge which prompts me to declare the following reevaluation. I’m a poker player, yes, but I’m mostly just a guy who likes to gamble. While sports betting may or may not be a good thing EV-wise, it has helped recapture the sense that there are plenty of things out there over which I have no control, things that worrying and tilting won’t help. In regards to poker this is one of the best reminders I could have come across. Given my personal proclivity towards tilt I think it will only help in the long run.

Now that is some sweet action.

Update: Big oops on that Miami bet. What the fuck was I thinking? What a tard I am.

Doodie Melange

With work running me ragged over the last two days I’m finding it difficult to focus enough to churn out a decent post (although whether any of the posts here qualify as “decent” or “good” is infinitely debatable), so bear with me and today’s scattered mélange of doodie.

--If the big telcos are actually successful in implementing their new “Tiered Internet” model and Congress doesn’t have enough sense to help enforce network neutrality I think I’m just going to completely freak the hell out. As if that’s anything new. I’m always freaking out about something. The linked article above is a nice and simplified version of what’s happening and is a good place to start learning of the issue. And yes, everyone should learn about it because it will affect everyone very quickly if this starts.

--There should be a push to ban teleconferences. Certainly they are necessary sometimes, and god help me, beneficial in rare instances. However, you should have to show cause. I could definitely get on board with that piece of bureaucracy and would lay money that by cutting most teleconferences businesses would actually see a productivity increase along with a corresponding decrease in suicide by office equipment. I think it goes without saying that I have no hard numbers to back up this assertion. I’m thinking outside the box! Give me some kudos! (See what corporate life is doing to me ?! )

--It’s Wednesday, so that means that the office is buzzing with talk of the huge lottery jackpot tonight. Of course, the reigning question is “What would you do with it all if you won?” Here are some answers from real people that actually breathe:

• “I would get liposuction”—If this is your number one goal when you have over 100 million, well…..shit, I can’t think of anything snarky to say to that. It’s really just fuckin’ depressing.
• “I would buy a big place out in the country”—Seems innocuous does it not? When asked “In the country where?” the response was, “Here!” Where am I located currently? That’s right, say it with me, EGADS. Again, too sad for snark.
• “I would go to Mexico”—This one piqued my interest as this is a potentially good idea. I began mentally running over the list of optimal locations for someone with loads of cash until I was interrupted by the follow-up, “If I lived there would I have to learn Spanish? That’s what they speak there, right?”
• When the question was put to me, I was proud of my HR inappropriate answer, “I would have some people killed, I think.” It’s fun watching as they struggle to find a way to respond.

--In one of Al’s recent posts, one of the last pictures featured The Shocker (it’s the one at the bottom captioned “two in the pink, one in the stink” if you don’t know what the hell that is). Lo and behold, one of the commercials for the nightly news plugged an expose they were going to be running about Wichita State Shockers fans. They showed pictured of these fans, composed of parents, kids, old folks and young, cheerleading squads, etc. in pictures giving holding The Shocker hand gesture. The lead-in? Fan support or obscene gesture? We’ll tell you at 9. I love FOX news. Nothing better than scads of bible-belters being unintentionally obscene on film. I could almost hear the cries on the Wichita wind last night….”Oh, I feel so dirty now” or, in the patented denial fashion ala my parents, “I can’t believe they took that and made it dirty.” Good times.

Duty calls, so I must stop the doodie here. Talk at ya tomorrow.

No Resignation

It happens every Tuesday. I fill an inane weekly update slide and then trudge my way into the meeting to present. It’s not really presenting because all that happens is I stand and read a couple of bits of info to people who could care less and could simply read it for themselves but for some goddamn reason require me to be there anyway.

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

I was in the fourth grade when I first came across (or perhaps it was “gave any real thought to”) the concept of idealism. My teacher was of the type that happened to be a constant source for the wellspring of derisive 4^th-grade comedy gold. She had the Asia of moles on her right cheek, which provoked intense speculation from all of us deep-thinking 9-year olds.

“I wonder if it hurts?”

“I bet if she tried she could make it grow at will.”

“If you put seahorses and the little people from Gulliver’s Travels (Lilliputians?) on her mole as if it were a continent, who would win the war for control of it?”

That last one was mine. What a gem it was, and what a shame that none of the other 4^th-graders knew dick about Gulliver or his famous travels. A year later and a year more crude, we would opine about the possibility that might be a giant brown second clit and what would happen if it were actually true and someone slapped her. If 10-year old boys can make themselves shudder, it’s got to be pretty bad. Christ, I’m off on a tangent already.

The subject was history but I couldn’t say exactly what subject within that subject was being discussed. One of us asked the typical “Why don’t we just…(insert topical question)….then?” favored by naïve young folks learning about the world and its history. Her face suddenly took on a very resigned and tired look. She informed us that such ideas were nice and pretty and typical of young folks such as ourselves, and that we should try and enjoy it because it would go away in short order. She told us that when we got older we would lose the idealistic steam that drove us, and looking at her face right then I didn’t have any ammunition to fight the assertion.

Two things happened in that moment. I vowed to begin making fun of her as little as possible and hopefully not at all, because her look stirred feelings of pity. I didn’t get all the way to my first goal, but my intergroup jabs at her expense were drastically reduced. .My second vow was to never have that kind of resigned look on my face. At its core, her look was one of someone who was beaten and would not be returning, and it chilled me to the bone. I saw it on my father’s face and on my mother’s. After seeing the look that day for what it was, the occasion was rare that I could spot someone without it.

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

I never recognized until recently that every time I’m plodding my way into that weekly meeting I think (if only very briefly) of that moment and I feel the same now as I did way back then. I don’t ever want to have that look. I must refuse to take on that look as others continually try and thrust it upon me. As all of the high and mighty sat around sucking each others cocks, trying to ignore the serf in the room, and agonizing over whether the guides we developed were simple enough for their intended readers, I finally interjected.

“Dumbing these down any more would require a lobotomy. Perhaps I should call and make some appointments? No?”

A great deal of silence and blinking followed me as I made my exit. There will be no resignation today. Not today. Not any day.

Save BG Poster

I admit it. I didn't have all that much to do this morning.

Colons and Reposting

Save BG’s colon! I sent mine through FullTilt (Bonus Code:HHEAD, can’t lose an opportunity to shill:)). BG is one of the best bloggers out there, and is someone who constantly inspires me to write better. The phrase “ripped him a new one” keeps coming to mind but it’s too early to try and make a joke out of it, so just hit the transfer button and show the guy some love.

The post below is one I wrote Saturday morning when I woke up, and I swear I posted it, but when I happened to look yesterday after posting it wasn’t there. So the question is, did it post and disappear or did I never post it to begin with?

If it is duplication, my apologies.

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

Four Cox vans, a fire rescue truck, and an ambulance are all parked in a disorganized cluster at 11 PM on a Friday…..

Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, and I suppose in a sense, it is. It’s just another Friday night at Casa de Head.

I was coming off of a winning multi-table session at the micro-limits and just surfing the wave of my buzz. I couldn’t play any more poker, at least for a bit because the pervs on Dateline were holding my attention and Showtime boxing was about to start. Mrs. Head was pre-scouting rentals and houses in Phoenix should we get some good news this week, and I’m pretty happy about that because it means she’s not on Amazon or Ebay or OverStock actually spending (that sentence sounds worse than the reality; she rarely buys anything, but I worry about spending sprees of debauched, Dionysian nature anyway). Then our connection goes kaput.

After doing all of the usual checks to make sure the problem isn’t my modem, router, or any of the PC’s, I call and evidently there’s a service outage in my area and techs have been dispatched. An hour goes by, then two. After the three hour mark comes and goes, I start pacing. This hasn’t happened in over two years, and even when it happened previously the connection was back up in less than a half hour. It really begins hitting home just how dependant I am on this intarweb thingy. It feels like I’m about to come out of my skin. I need info, any info, and I need it now. Who cares how useless it is? I need to be connected. Wired. Plugged in. Switched on.

Of course, the problem is right next to our house. I blame that loud, skateboarding 14-year old across the street. That’s where the ambulance is parked. I also indirectly blame our 55” TV. It seems like ever since we bought that thing the universe decided to run a new season of real life drama right outside of our house. Tuning in simply requires that we look out the window. The only problem is that we can’t turn it off, can’t change the channel, and our programming schedule seems to be perpetually lost in the mail so we never know what is coming or when.

The EMT’s head into the duplex across and up the street and my attention is, for the moment, rapt. What did that loud little fucker do? Earlier I was outside retrieving the last of the groceries from the car while he skated around shouting unintelligible teenager-ese, obviously in an effort to impress some hot phantom neighbor girl that doesn’t exist. Standing there holding the grocery bags I shot him a look that said I would like nothing better than to knock all of his teeth out and then use them as hybrid voodoo bones that would reveal to me the most painful way to break his hands and feet. He saw the look and scooted back inside, but as it is with most teenagers having little to do and even less brains, the fear was likely short lived. So begins my first theory. The kid decided to vandalize something on the pole in an effort to get back at all of the adults in the world who despise his kind, me in particular.

The EMT’s came out of the house empty-handed and all I could see were visions of my tax dollars being lit on fire and then shat on. I can see that damn kid peeking out the window and I want to go take the eventual and unseen cost of this out of his ass right now. No installment plan, no points, balance due upon receipt. I finally resign by giving the finger to events I cannot control and trudge up to bed. Emergency lights flashing through my bedroom windows keep me awake while Stephen King tries yet again to impart lessons on writing, and I drift off coming up with different ass-kicking scenarios should I wake up and find that I’m still not connected. Wired. Plugged in. Switched on. It’s a big world and I need access to it without actually going out in it.

I need to get that connection back.

What a weekend

What a completely sports-sodden weekend it was. Many thanks to Mrs. Head for not stabbing me in the throat because of it.

I decided to take my first run ever at sports betting this weekend. First and foremost, let me begin by saying that (other than UFC) my knowledge of sports, especially football, would fill about 4 thimbles on a good day and this was reflected in my losing Super Bowl bet (I should have know better than to go against a team backed by Gene’s furious passion).

I allotted myself a C-note to play with for the weekend as this would be my first foray, and things began very well on Friday night with the UFC fights. I went 4/5 on my picks, my only loss being the Couture/Liddell fight. I accept full responsibility for that one in betting on who I wanted to win rather than who I knew would win. UFC fans are likely wondering just how or why in the hell I bet against Frank Mir. All I can say is this: Never underestimate a cream-puff with loads of desire. Mir has been out for a long time due to a bad motorcycle accident. Couple that with the pressure of everyone thinking he is a lock and you have the makings of an upset. You could see it on his face when he walked into the Octagon—he wasn’t sure of himself and looked like he was more concerned about taking care of his new titanium leg. That one netted me a nice profit.

Sunday brought a 5-Team basketball parlay that I hit nicely and I felt good going into the Super Bowl. Again, just like the Couture/Liddell fight, I went against the team that I just knew would win in an effort to gain some extra cash on the +150 line. Chalk that one up to simple greed seeing as how I had absolutely no prior emotional investment in either side. Lesson learned.

Please take this opportunity to once again ingest a gigantic grain of salt because I’m about to comment on a game I don’t really know too much about.

The Super Bowl officiating seemed awfully one-sided, especially giving the Steelers that first TD. Of course, Seattle fucked up plenty on their own, but they were also getting the worst of the calls as the game progressed. It seemed an awful lot like the ref’s were given a stern talking to prior to game time about the importance of The Bus’s impending retirement. If I was actually a Seattle fan, I imagine that I would be pretty hot under the collar today. As it stands, I’m simply a bit miffed because I lost my bet.

The Stones looked like a bunch of prancing corpses on the stage, but thanks to an extended pause on the DVR while preparing dinner I was able to fast-forward through most of it. The only commercial that really came out as a winner, IMO, was the Fed-Ex caveman commercial—pure gold. Again, I was disappointed to see Pepsi go the lame MTV pop-culture route this year even though I’m not surprised. Brown and Bubbly sounds a lot like a Hot Karl gone awry to me. What the hell was running through the pea-brains that approved that idea? Monkey and Jackasses deserve an honorable mention, but I didn’t think it was fantastic. I give the Super Bowl this year a solid C-. While such a grade is still a disappointment, it’s a sharp uptick from the Z- I would give for last years dismal event.

I laid a lot of bets this weekend and came out with $25 profit. Not bad for a guy who uses the sports betting logic of a girl, eh?

Thanks for the JuJu

Many thanks to all who were sending good mojo/juju/vibes my way for the interview today. I got drilled pretty hard, but all in all things went very well. There was even a couple of points where the words "That's the best answer I've heard so far" were uttered. I bet he tells all the girls that. My interviewer said that at the very latest I would know one way or the other by the end of next week, but very likely earlier.

The next couple of hours will be spent with closed eyes and Radiohead in an effort to decompress.

And now, we wait.

Alien Expectation

Garthmeister is rocking the house with his storied travails at the 180 SnG’s. Today was a tilt story, and while the blogsphere is riddled with such stories, this one hit home primarily because it is so in line with my own brand of tilt and tilt-triggers. It got me thinking more about why I tilt (yet again), and I feel compelled to expound a bit more.

The core of tilt is loss. When I first began to learn and play this damn game, I never tilted. A win was a win, a loss was a loss, and that was that. With any job I ever worked, I was never content to sit around and just do the job. I wanted to learn and be the best at my job, then start learning outside of that and advance to something better-- it’s part of my personality. So it is and was with poker. I studied and I improved, and while that trend has slowed in recent months, it is still continuing forward. I’m still a completely amateur donk, but I do know for sure that I have a distinct edge over much of the primordial ooze inhabiting the virtual tables.

Enter expectation, snuggled comfortably in the center of my being like something in the Alien movies. Come to think of it, that comparison seems pretty accurate, at least in my own case.

It didn’t take too much poker knowledge to launch myself from terra-firma and begin exploring the vast reaches of the poker universe as fast as I could. Every day brought new knowledge, and nearly every day brought an increase to the bankroll. Bigger bankroll basically means I had a ship that could explore farther, which is when began encountering Variance. It is an odorless, tasteless, formless, completely random, indiscriminate force that can hinder one’s journey at the least expected points. Instead of facing it and learning to co-exist with it, I have many times taken the easier road of ducking down and exploring the planet of Expectation.

What can I say, the trip was free.

The planet is beautiful, full of nymphs that live only for your pleasure, with real high-denomination casino chips that are redeemable anywhere. It’s not all candy and fairies down here, though. Sometimes you run across one of the dastardly face-sucking eggs so familiar in the Alien movies. The nymphs tell you it’s OK to look, so you do. When you wake up with one of them standing over you, sprinkling you with chips, it’s easy to forget what you innately know. Something bad just happened.

So off you go, back out to conquer the wild poker universe and win your never-ending battle with the ever-present Variance. You don’t realize, not for a moment, what’s gestating within. You’ve become an unwitting Expectation incubator.

You play and you battle. You’re pocket Aces are indestructible….. sometimes. You play and you battle some more. Same thing happens. Variance seems like it’s winning at a steady clip, but you are fighting the good fight, no matter it’s seeming personal interest in your suffering. Every time the indestructible is destroyed, the beast inside is fed and it grows.

It will be an adolescent Expectation beast very soon.

With adolescence comes a measure of self-awareness and a yearning for independence, and it is no different with this animal. A couple more meals and it will be ready, but you remain blissfully unaware, despite the nagging pain in your chest. You buy in and wait for your bulletproof holdings. Variance happens by, and once again, the beast gets fed and the pain gets worse until it finally bursts forth, spewing loud profanity and chips.

Upon recovering, all you can think is, “Oh gawd, I had that inside me?”

You take time and heal. You head out again to explore the universe and gain untold riches playing an easy game. As sure as the sun rises, you will be offered another trip down to partake in the wonders of planet Expectation. Do you go?

The above is completely corny, but dammit if it’s not accurate. I’ve been down there too many times already, each time harboring and giving birth to a beast that’s a bit more ferocious and draining than the last one. Stay away from this place, no matter how naked the nymphs, and no matter how many racks of black they offer you. You’ll never win in the end.

Be free of expectation. It’s much easier said than done, but I/you/we must if we are to avoid giving birth to any more ugly, chip-spewing spawn.

The unsolved riddle

Anyone reading this blog has long known that nothing too good comes out of this stinky pile of a city they call Wichita. Anything that I write having to do with this town, city, cesspool, whatever, is usually dripping negativity and pieces of an impending insanity. Not today. Today I highlight something positive being unearthed from the basement of Midwestern sensibility. Head over to AlCantHang and check out the song of the day from a local band, Nutsnack, called Mongolovely. Like Wichita, it is so very wrong, but it is also so very funny—which makes it oh so right. (Thanks for hosting, Al!)

********

Ironically, this story came to my attention while I was…..ummmm…well, click on the story, remember the word ironically, and then put two and two together. Or maybe it’s ironical, I forget--way too much Dubya on the news lately. There is nothing quite like this type of story to make a person feel better about their own shortcomings, which is also the reason I’m around. How ironical.

(/tongue in cheek)

********

While I do work in IT, it is only a section of the company that employs me (duh). I’m out working “in the field”, as they say, instead of being safely insulated by fellow nerds, warm cuddly servers, and the calming manta-like hum of various hardware fans. (Of course, doing well on this upcoming interview will remove me from “the field”, which is the reason I may have the aforementioned breakdown if I fail, but I digress) I have been in one kind of big business, corporate, soulless, idiotic environment or another for just over a decade now. The various fields traversed include popular choices like fast food (read: spat in a few burgers), telemarketing and collecting (are you a highly motivated self-starter?), languishing for a few years in sales (we know our product is crap and we just increased your sales targets, but you are our engine towards the future!), finally getting my head on straight and getting into a field that’s worth a damn. I know, I know, the world wouldn’t run without these various things and a career of substance or worth is relative. Just let me bitch.

I’m not sure why I felt the need to tell the world all of that.

Anyway, throughout all of these things there is one consistent riddle that I have been thus far unable to solve. Why, oh why, are there still so many childish games played at meetings/presentations, stupid “activities” at department birthday celebrations (for that matter, why are there birthday celebrations at work?), and money spent on a constant stream of nonsensical, company-branded trinkets? The only place I didn’t encounter these aberrations was when I was doing an internship with a full-on IT shop here in town, which I miss terribly (if I’m not figuring paycheck into the equation).

It’s like working amongst 4-year olds with PCP-sodden pituitary glands. Won’t someone help me solve my riddle?

I think I just may have graduated from bits of insanity up to chunks.

Recent Favorites

I just got GZA’s Legend of the Liquid Swords and you should too—if you’re into that rap stuff. I’m not sure if my boredom with rap is simply a product of ever increasing age or if it really has been mostly crap for the last decade, but Knock Knock from this album is the first rap to get me excited since Kanye’s College Dropout album (NOTE: The two are not at all similar).

Also, on the must see list, is Jim Gaffigan. This guy does not get the props that he deserves. He just had a special on Comedy Central called “Beyond the Pale” that all people should make it a point to watch. Absolutely hilarious. It shouldn’t be too hard to see since Comedy Central has a penchant for replaying programs approximately 840,000 times, unless it’s My Cousin Vinny, and then you can easily double that conservative number. Gaffigan’s special is on DVD, and I’m not sure if it’s censored or not, but nearly the same routine is on his CD, Doin’ My Time, which is not edited and is pure comedy joy.

UFC: Couture vs. Liddell 3 is this weekend, so if the Super Bowl is a dud all will not have been lost. If you’re not a fan of UFC or know little about it, then Saturday would be a good time to start—this is the biggest fight so far in their history. I don’t think it will happen, but I’m hoping Couture can pull out the win. He’s old (42), but if he doesn’t win this fight that will pretty much be it for him. It’s something he’s acutely aware of, which I think might give him that little bit extra necessary to pull it out. Then again, Liddell loves his title and loves to fight, and he not even close to the type that will get lax just because he’s on top. While good arguments can be posited for both sides, I will do the usual and wait to see the looks on their faces on the way to the ring before I really decide. I was able to accurately call the first two fights with this method, so hopefully my method will continue to be accurate as I just may put some money on this one.

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

Oh happy day! After weeks of tense waiting, I finally got the call for a second interview for the position in Phoenix. I was so pumped I nearly broke out in showtunes, and I don’t even know any—I was just going to make some up on the spot. The interview happens on Friday, and supposedly the guy will be making a decision over the weekend. Then again, he said during the first interview that he planned on having someone in place by the end of the month. Considering how that one went, I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I need a consistent weeks worth of good juju sent my direction, because if I don’t get this thing I just may have a breakdown of some sort. There have been very few times in my life when I’ve invested this much effort into a thing, and on none of those occasions did I fail in my endeavor. Now would not be a good time to break precedent.

Must. Escape. Midwestern. Prison.

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

Apologies for all of the poker complaining yesterday, there was just no avoiding it. While some have the ability to internalize a good beating and move on, I have to let that shit out. If the poisons aren’t released I’ll be on tilt until I finally burst. There needs to be some sort of tilt-spongy tablet. It could be like an Alka-Seltzer, but containing THC, valium, and a variety of anti-depressants. Have a Tilt-B-Gone tablet and stop caring so much about the beats! You’ll sleep like you did before you knew how to play!

Damnable Games

After a good day of writing on Friday I was in a mood to fire up the poker machine. Four hours later, I was no longer in the mood. TILT. Here’s how five consecutive SnG’s went…

Bubble time, 4 players left. This is nice, I am the chip leader. Short stack pushes, I call, short stack is dominated (i.e. AK v A7). Short stack wins, continues pushing with dominated crap, keeps winning. I’m short, push with decent hand, former short stack either calls with pure shite and wins or now has hand that dominates mine and wins. I bubble.

Dominated. Every. Time.

It’s the closest I have ever come to hurling the laptop through the television. I am so NOT immune to tilt and I’m evidently getting no better at it. Hell, I’m not even in the same geographic area as the tilt immune.

I was feeling ugly enough (or on the precipice of) to forget about poker for the rest of the weekend. Will I ever get used to the oftentimes soul-crushing nature of this damnable game? During times like these, I wonder. My intellect tried in vain to sit my emotions down for a talk about numbers and the “long run”, but all the intellect got for the effort was a beat-down, storm off, door slam. So much for that. How much would it cost, do you think, to have my emotions assassinated? Might be worth the expense, methinks.

********

So, it’s nearly Super Bowl time, and I think I’m actually going to try and watch it this year (much to the dismay of Rachel). Here is what I wish for the Super Bowl even though I know it will never happen. I want a football game. JUST a football game. I know that this wish is pie in the sky stuff, but I would be happy to see the pendulum at least beginning to swing back in that direction. If this year ends up being another MTV marketing extravaganza then I am pledging to boycott the Super Bowl in my house for the rest of my time on this planet. I was never a rabid football fan to begin with, but seeing the actual competition become ever more secondary to soulless marketing makes me intolerably sad.

Yes, it’s one of those days, and all signs point to it being one of those weeks.

Live blogging Jerry Springer

Editors Note: Don't ask me what the hell I was thinking because I'm just not sure.

4:11---Ol dude just confessed to sleeping with his g/f's mom for two years. Shocking.

4:13--Oh SNAP! Turns out g/f has been doing it his best friend, "E" for the last 8 mos. "E" looks a lot like QuestLove (the drummer). Neither one can fight. Short white guy and QuestLove, should be quite a matchup.

4:19--Commercials. I love the commercials they show on Springer. Invention Kits, nice.

4:20--Did yo phone get turnt off? We'll get your phone turnt back oun fast. Rent-a-Center, I can get a free month! Fuckin sweet, now I can get that sectional I've had my eye on.

4:23--New people. Now we have Derek. He's gonna tell his g/f he's been sleeping with a transexual for the last 8 mos.

4:25--Rachel comes in, finds Springer and tries turning to Oprah. She thinks just cuz she's a Roshambo champ she can do whatever. I broke out a pimp hand and now we're back to Springer :)

4:28--Shit! Cash AND I get to keep my car? Why did no one tell me about this before!!!

4:30--Brenda is in denial and they are fighting. It's almost tranny time.

4:31--Tranny "Candice" is out on stage. Oddly enough, Candice has a prettier face than the g/f (did I just say that?). Good thing Candice is a man, he's whippin that girls ass.

4:35--The gall of that g/f. She was bugging her man to get a damn job! What the hell was he supposed to do? You can only resist the trannies for so long when your needs ain't bein' attended to.

4:37--Here's some insight into where I live. FOX News was voted as the best news in Kansas. Nuff Said.

4:42--New girl Sherry. Married two months found out hubby was cheating with her best friend before they were married. She's says she'll kick that bitches ass. Well see, she doesn't look very in shape.

4:44--Her friend is even bigger! It's like two dark-haired marshmallows colliding. Uh-oh, they're bringing out Billy Rae. Holy Shit, BR looks like Chris Ferguson, but on a lot more meth.

4:47--Jerry just called one of them beautiful. What a kidder. He was just really drunk it was a one time thing, he doesn't see the big deal. I don't either really (Sorry Rach--poor attempt at scarcasm).
waitaminute--marshmallows bouncing again--nope, commercials
.
4:50--Audience participation time, the freaks are lined up for viewing.

4:52--White girl just said black g/f looked like a man. Oh no she di'int.

4:53--FATTEST. GIRL. EVER. Just yanked off her shirt. I feel dirty.

4:57--Jerry is giving his thought provoking final thought, so I'll give mine. Don't be like me. I just wasted good blogging space doing a stupid thing. I am dumber for having watched that. Thanks go to Gracie, for the idea of copying the Good Doctor :)

Give Pauly a hand, you sonsubitches

Pauly is busy providing live-blogging goodness to the world, so I thought I would help him call out for Truckin submissions. A bunch of you guys and gals out there can write well, so do it. I want to see another issue!

Surely you can eclipse my own meager literary droppings.

Commercial Possibilities

There’s nothing quite like writing a 2,000 word analysis on organizational psychology in the morning to get the creative motors grinding to a full stop. The gross and incessant tedium of schoolwork mixed with a healthy dose of soulless corporate existence really put the kibosh on an excellent story idea I had last night. It gives a good lesson though, somewhere along the same lines of investment advice that states “pay yourself first.” I thought that by being dutiful all morning I would have an easy mind when doing the fun stuff of writing, but the duties sapped everything. Lesson learned. Seize inspiration when it arrives because it’s not a big fan of hanging out.

*****

The pinnacle of intellectual prowess that sits across the wall from me, as opposed to the rest that are scattered throughout the joint, used to sell advertising for Clear Channel. As it turns out, she also knows a lot of the other Account Executives (I love the flowery titles given to the crappiest jobs) at local TV stations. Being in an uncharacteristically good mood that was likely due to the fact I was on my last half hour of work for the week, I decided to be civil and carry on a conversation with her that lasted more than 30 seconds. And while I would normally prefer watching grass grow, paint dry, or find inventive ways to torture myself with various pieces of semi-dangerous office equipment, I’m happy I took the time because I found out some interesting info on television advertising.

I figure that I know about what anyone else does concerning these things, the pinnacle of my knowledge being that a 30-second spot during the Super Bowl costs more than a small war. It turns out that on some of the more awesome stations like UPN and the WB it only costs around five bucks to air a 30-second spot in the morning. Being on the rotation for a certain few hours in the morning doesn’t cost much more. Hell, even prime time on these crappy stations is pretty cheap.

At these prices, the possibilities are endless.

Imagine the demographic that watches the entertainment smorgasbord aired by these stations in the morning hours. Now, imagine creeping these people right the hell out. 30 seconds of me just staring at the camera and blinking. Wait, make that 24 seconds. The final 6 seconds of the spot would be spent tapping on the glass, pointing, and then saying “I see you.”

Next commercial break, I’m reading a book (or whatever) and not looking at the screen. All of the sudden, my head jerks up.

“WHAT?!”
“What did you just say to me?”
(Lean forward, get in the camera’s face)
(really make a concerted effort to act insane and raving)
“If you wanna stay healthy, you'll repeat what you just said to my face!”
(wait, start nodding head, affect creepy calm manner)
“Fine. I’m tired of this shit.”
(throw down the book—break something)
“I’m coming over there and then we’ll see how fuckin’ smart you are!”
(storm off)

If it caused even one person to be completely weirded out for the rest of their day it would be worth it, no?

Fine, you’re right, I’m a retard.