Again, didn't we do this just a few minutes ago?

Like begging the significant other for seconds the morning after...  Drizz did it again, after final tabling a small PLO tourney on and then this on the site that I've been donating my second paycheck to all year...

Ok I didn't get Megan Fox but in my current state WHY NOT!  I'm f'in hot dammit!  Yeah, I'm suburbanite making shit per hour with two kids and going to school but hey I knows how to play the pokers!  Ok, again maybe not but I do bust thru once in a while.  Like below (boring brag below, no more titties for you!)

Don't tell you love me, I. don't wanna knoooooooooooooooow.  Sorry I'm in my 80's hair band mode and Night Ranger hit my stick becaus they rock EVEN THOUGH YOU MAY DISAGREE!  You want to see my name up top right?  Ok then.  Without further adieu, or Favre's average sized penis...  here's we go:

ME-FUCKIN-OWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!  That's right I don't suck at poker for one whole night!  Kids are getting up in an hour and I need to go retrieve an energy drink because I'm screwed if I don't since I agree to read Hooper Humperdink at my daughter's pre-school in a few hours.  Speaking as a degen should wake up the kids?  Good grief I think I'm just a bit lame for staying up this late BUT DONKEY WISHED TO GIVE MONEYS AND I TAKES IT!

I'm done.  For now.  No more penis.  Or carpet cleaner.  Need an energy, or some spare meth.  Otis talks about such things, maybe I should inquire.  Or not. I like pie.  Good morning VIETNAM!    Yeah, I'm screwed.

Darkness Day 2010

Last year about this time me and three other fellow beer enthusiast decided a week prior that we would make an effort to get to our favorite brewery a little early for their once-a-year, limited edition beer called "Darkness".  Surly Brewery where Omar and Todd put their collective hop heads together and spawned a home in Brooklyn Center around 2005.  Since then the following of this beer has steadly grown since the days we would drop by on cold Saturday mornings to wait in line to swap out empty growlers for fresh product which sometimes included a small batch of speciality beer that the owners have been working on. 

Growlers (2006-2008) R.I.P. my dark glass encased friends

After the city put the kaboooosh on selling directly from the brewery due to city ordinances, growlers ceased to exist except for nice trophy cases above refrigerators across the state of Minnesota.  But, that didn't stop the flow of microbeer lovers from worshipping such finely mixed beverages.  No, the reaches of the songs of "Darkness Day" grew despite the release timing of the annual brew being in late October into November as Minnesotans know that despite what other states call "fall", winter's onset usually takes place while shuffling kids around the neighborhood in their Power Rangers outfit bought at Target along with 542 other things you didn't need there but bought just because.  Much like a casino, you can't walk inside a Target without spending money.

Darkness label 2010 style

After dancing around severely underdressed last year, showing up like amateurs at around 8:30am with bellies full of Sausage McGriddles, our group decided to kick things up a notch this year since the lines were getting noticeably longer at even earlier hours. This year it was no impromptu journey to the warehouse district in Brooklyn Center, we planned our attack to be at the brewery at 6:00am with folding chairs (unlike last year where we sat our posteriors on a nice, cushy ass-frozen curb), a cooler filled with beers that a long-time friend filled with a yummy selection from his gate of beer heaven, and of course bean bags! Six hours is a long time to wait and chat about just beer although the subject has conversation power and less likely to invoke religious or political backlash because beer is fuckin awesome unlike Glenn Beck.

7:36am - Do you know where your beer is?

Just an hour and a half since we parked ourselves on the corner with shots of hot cider and Sailor Jerry, the line started to inch out towards the highway already and would hit the end of the block by nine am.  Fanatic much?  People were setting up grills and one had a full open tent complete with 24" TV with an XBox360 running while our neighbors in line toyed with a iPad and of course playing "Angry Birds".   I inquired politely if he bought the tablet computer just for the game, he snickered just like I was his mother asking why the ceiling tile was off-center after hastily putting away a 6 month old Playboy and went back to demolishing those nasty pigs.

The corner bar

After eight am and the above picture I retired the camera to its resting place because batteries are a bitch and everything electronic should have the ability to be willed to life (yeah, I suck, NICE PREP WORK IDIOT).  After sunlight approached and the weatherman's prediction of rain thwarted (take THAT Sven Sundgaard!)my friend B grabbed a bottle of beer that had it's own box and was wax capped to something called an offering table.  I have a shitty cell phone pic of it, but it was literly beer porn laid out for anyone with a glass to sample some of the finest beers around the world (but mostly from the US).  It was here that I started observing license plates from Tennesse, Illinois, Wisconsin, Dakotas, and New York?!?!?  To think my commute to the brewery was a whopping 10 minutes these guys took toll ways and mostly likely started their trek on Thursday. 

Advantage:  fly-over state

After sampling a few of the beers (as you can tell I am not expert on the subject matter to expound on the savory tastes within, I just consume, a lot, because I enjoy something better than Mich Ultra while watching Brett Favre's ankle tank my beloved team's last chance at a winner for the next 10 years), there were two food trucks set up for noshing and one had these donuts with a seemingly ring of incased butter on the inside that made me moan like the time my wife...  ok I'll stop right there, but honestly, AWESOME.  I had two bags because one was an insult.  I think it was this one "Chef Shack" feel free to correct me of course.  But, after being recognized in line as "that cornhole champion from SurlyFest" (yes, my abilities known state wide people) it was time to hop in line for wristbands as my wife joined the crew to up my purchasing power to two six-packs.

What $200 in beer might look like

And fin. The beer is now sitting in the cellar with one bottle marked for a Chicago fan who will probably try to a take bath in the bottle and other things that should only be seen on chatroulette. The rest I'll figure out as tonight marks the first night I'll be able to sit and enjoy what will hopefully become a yearly journey to that small brewery that made it big.

See beernews.org for another recap and more photos of the event.

Walking Scared

Walk with a careful step down Sanguine Court with Otis' short story titled "Walking Gray".

And do it with the lights on.  Not sex you perv, the reading.  Do it now.

Couldn't get the photos from Darkness Day loaded so tomorrow I'll muse on spending $200 for beer.  Until then, enjoy one of the best twisters of the English language I've ever had the pleasure of sharing a Pai Gow table with.

Champions on Paper

In the shower, along highway 169 with the tidal wave of road construction during the wee hours of a rainy morning, sitting with friends in an industrial park waiting for a brewery to open its gates like Willy Wonka.  So many things to say, so little time, so my musing go buried into what's left of my head after a 10 hour work day, followed by impromptu wrestling matches with the kids, and finally lessons on Plot, Setting, and Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" until my eyes can take no more and the cycle begins a new.

To paraphrase a certain poker brat "if it wasn't for time, I'd do it all".  My interest in things outside of this self-inflicted schedule have a gray-ish layer over them.  Even my beloved Purple and Gold have seen the decibels lowered with every Favre penis story and pick-six that would normally have me firing off a 1,000 word volcano that would be invoked even if Tarvaris Jackson lined up behind whatever center they throw along the line since the departure of Matt Birk.  Instead of the gladiator that was the scourge of the Twin Cities and football demi-god to he legion of fans, Brett Favre has turned into a circus sideshow.  Injuries, passive-aggressive tangles with a coach that shouldn't be there, Jenn Sterger's tits popping up unwillingly according to most reports right behind Ed Werder's mustache.  In what was supposed to be a reincarnation of last year improbable run to banish the ghost of the Purple People Eaters of the 70s and the near-perfect 1998 season.  But, as Dallas Cowboys fans are learning as well (Romo going down last night was a painful metaphor for their season), the only things favorites on paper win is lining the bottom of a bonfire on a chilly November day. 

Sure it's easy enough to say "Brett should have packed it in" while the team is 2-4, and like most NFL teams a few plays would have reversed that record (Purple Jesus unable to plunge into the end zone against Miami and extracting Favre's head from his ass during the Packers game).  He's throwing the ball with the zip of a young quarterback while moving like one that is better suited in play $5 Euchre tournaments after steak night at the local VFW.  It is my hope he puts aside this quest to "go out in a blaze of glory" *cue Bon Jovi guitar riff* and does what's best for the team.  If Favre is healthy and believe he can do more than add another tick to that game-streak, by all means chuck all the TDs and INTs us fans can handle. 

I'll be there to watch 2-14 or 12-4 with my jersey on (except apparently during the WPBT which I'll be donning some Green and Gold of the dreaded Green Bay Packers again due to a text message I believe was pre-written by The Wife just waiting for Favre to toss the last ball over Randy Moss' head) just make it entertaining Mr. Favre regardless of the outcome, I'm sure you will.

Tomorrow or Thursday I hope to have my post up about Surly Brewing's Darkness Day.  Really, driving from New York to get a bottle of beer?  They were not the only ones.

Your table is ready Mr. Pappagiorgio

I want to be Rusty Griswold.

Photo cred: dvdbits.com

You wake up and roll over to the digital alarm clock that reads "TOO DAMN EARLY!" in bright red robotic font.  The muscles don't move as well as they used to even after just strenuous activities such as "golf" and "drinking too much" on the weekend.  Yes, a day of a 40 minute commute in heavy traffic with Mike and Mike giving point counter point commentary on the sports world where the athletes make your yearly salary while taking their morning piss.  The work day isn't much better as you toil within your cube like a caged cat while the scent of catnip whistles by in the form of Krispy Kreme donuts that you can't touch because your supporting your wife's decision to lose a few pounds and just one frosting fleck would be the same as banging a mid-priced hooker in the Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom and her finding the used condom in your Docker's left front pocket.

You avoid the temptress while buzzsawing your way thru a dozen Blazin wings and buffalo chips with cheese and a tall Guinness and make it home in time to read a Scooby Doo adventure to the kids while the four year old manages to kick you in the balls three times because sitting still isn't in her vocabulary daddy.  A deep sigh comes after picking up the Monday Night Football game in the third quarter as the Titans have already put this one to bed and your wife takes a quick sniff of your polo shirt to make sure hot sauce was the only thing that splattered on it.

But, there's hope Mr. Pappagiorgio.  In several weeks there's a plane ticket with your given birth name on it for a round trip to VEGAS!  Yes, you can grab a fake ID, lay $5 on a craps table, roll it up to several thousand impressing the Mirage enough to sport you a three bedroom suite with hot tub filled with European models and wise-guys who take you in as part of their crew without asking you to whack someone.  Yes, you could be snorting coke off Paris Hilton's ass in the TAO VIP lounge while playing heads-up $10K/$20K with Doyle Brunson after getting backed by the New Jersey mafia.  No Dora the Explorer to be found within a 500 mile radius of the Spearmint Rhino rooms with women of questionable morals grinding on YOU.

It's amazing that several millions Nick Pappagiorgio's visit Vegas every year toting $10 plastic replicas of the Eiffel Tower with dreams that they will be magically plucked from obscurity and placed into the life of a high-roller.  But isn't that the whole point?  The chase, the dream, the alternate reality.  It's not a concrete goal like running a 10K, or losing 20 pounds, it's slipping thru Alice's Looking Glass and seeing a different side of life.  Parents like myself love their kids and wouldn't give them up for all chips in Bobby's Room at the Bellagio.  Nor their spouse for all the fake tits and perfectly toned legs that line up nightly at the strip clubs, because the wife gives you something that baby powder and glitter can not. 

You can read Lost Vegas by Dr. Pauly and get a peek at the Vegas facade as the Nick Pappagiorgio's of the world pile into the World Series of Poker every year.  Most will go home with pockets emptied by fellow card sharks and hooker bar denizens after rolling up the stakes and going to Vegas like Mike McD and getting busted on a two-outer by some 21 year old Scandi who's bankroll online would cover your yearly household expenses with enough left over to buy two brand new Benzs and slap a new roof on your 30 year old house. 

Reality isn't why we go or get excited about Vegas, it's about the trip, the anticipation, and for this guy meeting with friends and co-workers in a way that degenerates should instead of on their respective couches wrapped in a lavender Snuggie with an internet connection.  It is 50 days until I get to become Nick Pappagiorgio for five days straight and I can't wait.

Jenn Sterger's Meal Ticket

"I slipped one past the goalie!".

Now that statement would wake up a few people if said in a bubble or shouted over the top of several conversations at a recent party like my annual Oktoberfest shindig that 30+ people plus their kids drop by for bier and spatzel.  My super-sperm however is unable to even get out of the equipment room and is as cold as a puck in a bucket of ice after having my wang flipped about by the Lara Croft assistant while high on Xanax.  When you're married you remember such things vividly as penis touching by female other than the one who yells at you to stop playing poker so late or ask why you bought the salmon instead of the rainbow trout because she had a coupon for buy one get one free.  Now I doubt Brett Favre got his junk grabbed by one Jenn Sterger (as seen here when she was first "discovered" as a FSU student).  Like my naughty nurse who was probably thinking about where to have a nice pasta bowl after work, Sterger got an upfront view of a married man's unit that was attached to a very popular football player.  A player who many see as iconic but flawed which shows on the field with brillant performances and equally heart-breaking defeats.  You could play the old "Wide World of Sports" music in the background while Vinko Bogataj takes a tumble off the ski ramp and Favre throws an interception late in the fourth quarter of a playoff game.

"To be great you take risk that no one else would",  a quote stated in many different forms since the time of Socrates, most likely this wasn't our quarterback's line of thought while texting dong shots to a woman who has already lined up her second Playboy photo shoot (pending as I received an *ahem* email with pictures of a future shoot, it's NOT MINE I swear honey!).  Not to be sexist and it will come off as such, but Sterger is not Millie "Auntie May" Babbs, 74, from Council Bluff, Iowa who enjoys a rousing game of a tournament Euchre after the Knights of Columbus Fish fry at the Christ the Redeemer church following five o'clock mass.  Did Streger deserve unwarranted post patterns?  No.  Is there probably more background to this story that will never come out?  Yes.   As someone who used her road block sized chest to obtain jobs and cash do you think a pics of a man's member really upset her enough to wait TWO YEARS before talking about it after getting fired by Sport Illustrated and timing the coming out party for maximum *insert Bevis and Butthead laugh* exposure while the folk hero took the field as an opponent during a MONDAY NIGHT game against the team she represented at the time of the pictures.

But, but ,but she shouldn't be subjected to such barbarism!  True.  I'm not in the "she deserves" it for wearing such lack of loincloths.  No woman should, but there's a place of common sense here that Sterger comes off as opportunistic in this case over and over.  If she wanted to be taken seriously or was truly appalled like I'm sure the millions of Favre fans out there are, then those photos should have been produced days not years after receiving them.  Because now it feels like a sports bettor who goes to the casino window after the game is done and says "I want my money because I totally would have bet on the Hamilton Tiger-Cats to upset the Argonauts today".  No statute of limitations?  This wasn't rape, he didn't grope her after a Thursday practice, or try to dry hump her leg while doing body shot at Hooters, it was a picture.  One that seemed to have stayed on her phone for two years...  do you have many pics on your phone from two years ago?

Creditability of the witness is something lawyers use to shed their opponents in court.  Flaunting your tits in public should not subject you to unwanted cock shots, but since there was no immediate reaction from yourself or public outcry of such phallus phunny talk and the timing of the story, why should we care? 

Answer:  let it go, move on, nothing some eye bleach won't solve, and hope the future Hall-of-Famer can throw on some pants and not throw a pick-six late in the game the next time.

Last to the party, still leaves with the hottie

I final tabled a tourney last week (possibly, maybe, don't know) anyway after watching Lady Gaga for the 16th time today while eating a box of Cheerios with hopes of soaking up my party for one last night I fired up Full Tilt after a running my mother to Grand Casino Hinkley as an upcoming birthday present.  Why yes I played slots next to women chain smoking Virgina Slims while wearing enough make-up to paint my son's second grade class as clowns for Halloween in a few weeks.

Won at slots, won with kids who enjoyed their $15/hour babysitter which included Skid Row's reminder that she ooooonly seventeen SEVENTEEN working the desk and asking if I'd like her to put my penis someplace around that severely stretched polo shirt.  After remembering that my mom was five feet away and I'm married and don't wish to go to jail or be that creepy old guy who hits on high school chicks with their mothers sitting in close proximity, I took the wristband with my children's name on it without further incident as there was some gambling to do.  Slots, slots, and more slots after seeing a sad dealer with no players at the Pai Gow table.  Pai Gow normally a degenerate activity goes to level 23 if you play alone, besides my mom needed me to needle her by winning on every other spin while she plunked down twenty after twenty while chasing Mr. Cashman.

After padding the WPBT trip roll a bit, being disappointed that Ms. Jail Bait had been replaced by a cross between Velma and Grimace, and taking down the prime rib buffet that actually doesn't suck it was time to bring the kids home and straight to bed.  "No, no booze tonight" said my body so I jumped into a play chip PLO8 game with Bluff's newest all-star KevMath and TheKeyLime.  Needed little something, I spotted my new favorite $3.5K guarantee Rush PLO8 rebuy tourney in late regs.  I almost missed the cut off but managed to plunk down two shiny dollars in time. 

Three hours later I walked a lad through the ropes of making a three-way deal...

I wonder if this is the other side of variance that I haven't seen for a couple of years.  Any how, happy.  Much.  Still not going to drink anything heavier than cherry flavored kool-aid. 

Lady Gaga loves drunks

Found my computer still on from last night/this morning:  Me + Alcohol + $25 Rush PLO =

Where's the too drunk button?  Kid's with the degen for the weekend and its freakin nice out so....  we're going to hit up the casino for my mom's birthday then some frolfing but we all know that Poker + Alcohol = the below video for me. 60 days till WPBT time to train those livers kiddos.

Now where are my orange wedges

Up above a world so high, Orion's Belt held in the sky.  And you're welcome for the earworm this morning.  Last night with weather that could only be described as Utopian-like, low 70s, a breeze light enough to hear to make that Snuggle fabric softener teddy bear giggle, a man stepped onto a playing field.  That man was me, the playing field was a jigsaw puzzle of sod with outlines of a soccer pitch and some worn down goals thrown behind two football goal posts. 



Soccer was a sport that never caught on since its season meshed between the end of baseball and the start of hockey and perhaps due to the fact that my lanky body threw the ball much harder than I could kick one.  Sure, deep in my parent's treasure trove of little Drizz baby and bath pictures are faded photographs of the moppy-hair-turn-sideways-and-he's-invisible elementary school kid in soccer gear with kids from the neighborhood that I could name to this day despite having trouble recalling one memorable moment playing the sport. 

Last night wasn't about playing, it was my first of many parents vs. kids games of which I assume there's a graph of parent's age/ability that crosses over kid's age/ability for the perfect game when neither side has to "let" the other team win.  Since my son is seven and three of the dads actually PLAY the game on a semi-regular basis complete with shin guards, 25 yard rockets, and touch passes light enough for the rank amateur in the Surly beer t-shirt to put one past the sprawling second grader.  The parents played position while trying to spread the mob of purple jerseys with their first names imprinted on their backs. 

Before the window's down ride to the field after a long day at the office and having to check my email at home, my son had to make a choice if he would like his mom or dad to join him.  "Daddy's always super-busy and needs to work".  Ouch.  Instantly I was set back to 1985 where my father wouldn't get home until it was too dark yet again, but just in time for a meal because of working overtime so his kids could play those sports and we could continue our lower middle income existence with a few much appreciated extras.  A lot of self-practice that involved a tennis racquet and wall, of course later on "self-practice" would be better served by a Penthouse or wavy porn on a 13 inch TV after the parents were asleep but that was far out of mind for the geeky kid who just wanted his father to play catch with.  Before I took on going back to school full-time, before I took on the gig with PokerStarsBlog on the weekends and during its big tournament series, I sat down with my wife and kids and told them, no matter how tired I may be I will always make time for them.  Period.  Exclamation point.  Signed, sealed, and delivered with a lisp.

My wife gracefully bowed out claiming a need to get ready for a trip (which she did, but not for two days), as I set down the laptop and peeled out of the work clothes for more suitable attire.   The old man held himself well remembering how to curl a ball inside the posts, and make a few passes that would turn the head of Victoria Beckham (actually... she needs a steak dinner) and the rest of the WAGs of in my direction. That's right babe, bring that 70 pound body and 50 pounds of tits my way, I got orange slices, lines of blow, and 80's metal waiting in the truck.  The boy's spirits seemed lifted with a genuine smile as we traveled back home in time for me to start up my new quarter school with the Wadsworth book of too many frickin English grammar rules that I'll never learn.

I may be busy.  I may be tired.  But, I've learned that if I don't spend my short time here enjoying all the people around my existence what's the point of sitting in front of that monitor at 11pm learning about literary canons and contra-accounts.  None.  There's no reason to work yourself silly for money unless you know the real value are those you spend the money with.  I work full-time so we have a home/food/Sportscenter, I go to school make sure I keep my current and future work positions, I work at the PokerStarsBlog so I can see my friends both far and near along with some selfish reasons.  And that's enough I's for the day because the Twins are on tonight and WE will be watching them take down the Yankees for once.



Jack Frost hiding behind the pine tree

Growing up it was easy to justify calling October the beginning of winter.  There was the infamous Halloween Blizzard in which a 17 year old me was working at the store which will probably become his only place of employment until its time to wear trifocials and oversized suspenders while flagging down the sympathic high school waitress at a $2/$4 table in Arizona.  Shoveling snow for two hours AFTER my shift of stocking toilet paper and 12-packs of Coke products for the weekend dollar days sale, just to get my multi-colored 85' Nova hatchback on Bass Lake Road and home to two worried parents since the wonders of cell phones were left for those who earned slightly more than my $3.25 an hour.  The beginning of the month however is best that this barren Nordic land can offer.  A breeze with a slight nip tickles the senses just enough as the sun does its job by keeping you warm like a blanket during a bonfire.  A last call for frolfing and taking the garbage out barefoot at anytime of the day.

October used to be a resting time, time to recoop from the summer's go-go-go schedule and September's month of work-work-work.  But, now since some "friends" woke the sleeping academic bear inside of me, I am in my third quarter of studies which include an Introduction to Lit course.  My previous exposure to such lofty writing was back in high school with an English teacher I admired but unfortunately his demands at the time and my already stacked class load which included HP Calculus and Physics along with the rigors of two-a-day baseball practice and part-time job, I took the easy way out and slid over to a different English course whose final consisted of watching Blade Runner as Harrison Ford battled the replicants.

This time there is no such option and nor would I take it, while I don't take my "writing" seriously, I do appreciate the chance to pick up a few pointers from those long dead and maybe mesh their works into my posting here for extra buttery flavor.  And as the leaves fall on a daily basis and 15,347 trips to the county compost site become a weekly occurrance, its one more step in the direction of obtaining that degree.  The steps are getting steeper at this point which more advanced Accounting terminology being introduced and again the Lit course with its 900+ page tome of Shakesphere, Keats, and Plath.  All this as the breaths are starting to show during my son's soccer games and hot chocolate on the sidelines becomes more of a hand warmer than a belly one.

We'll see if the college dream implodes now that the subjects are brand spankin new and if the 35 year old freshman is up to the challenge of juggling school with family, work, and play.  My only hope is to come out of this with a little more knowledge, little more tolerance, and a little more self-awareness in finding out just who am I besides some goofball that enjoys an adult beverage or seven at a card game.