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?

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?