No Wilson Phillips.
Sorry.
That's reserved for the same special day out of the year before I come see my fellow degenerates in Vegas for stories that shall remain in a small, tucked away pocket of my 20 year old blazer (which finally got replaced because you never know if another interview might come up).
No new job unfortunately but last week's rollercoaster ended on a pretty big high as our annual full department meeting gathered for a wrap up of closing the books on 2010 and an award ceremony.
Foreshadowing here. Subtle as a Blake Griffin dunk on a midget.
Yes, I won an Employee of the Year award out of 400 people, seven of us walked away with a silver star which if it was pure silver, according to Tao of Fear, I could melt it down and take over the island of Togo with my own badassed all-female volleyball playing assassin group ala Gaddafi. Near tears and shaking after the applause and the requisite reading of my accomplishments for the year. They chose to leave out my four- to-five hour Pai Gow bender at the Monte Carlo and walking away $5 down after consuming my weight in greyhounds, CapN'Cokes, and professing my love for Frank Caliendo.
Instead, a dinner after work at my favorite restaurant (Three Squares) with two well-behaved kids who did indeed eat all of their veggies, snacking on a curious "Minnesota" styled crab cake (shrimp and walleye, don't ask me but it rivaled the ones I had at Rick Erwin's while in G-Vegas last year) and washed down with two Surly Furious. Of course.
Then despite flushing some more bankroll cash down the drain, I won the tptpoker weekly tournament after finishing second the previous week. Yet lost money on the night because, I play dum. Also, found me on top of their monthly leaderboard which will most likely go to waste since I'm 95% sure this next paragraph's activity will kill any reason why I'd want my laptop with me.
Vacation time in Texas. It's near 90 there. Here? Not so much, as the dash read 18 degrees with the landscape still glossed over by a sheet of snow/ice and blades of brown grass fighting for air. Mexican mojtios which contain creme de minthe, Malibu, and vodka with sugar (no mix) will toted around the border town of Nuevo Progresso for a dollar. Golf will be played with minimal skill, and maximum usage of the beer cart chick. And anything resembling work or school will be left in my porch outlooking the frozen backyard as I'm off this week at the PokerStarsBlog as well after an interesting night which Comcast decided to pull the plug on my connection with six players left in the Sunday Warm-up and as the Turbo Takedown was down to just two tables.
McFuckers.
Luckily a Fonzie-like move of banging the router and shouting enough four-letter words to get applause from Sam Kinison got the connection back in time before the possible dash to my parent's house to write the rest of the story with four left, and close the books on the weekend around 2am.
And now, I bid adieu with without Carnie, Wendy, and Chynna, instead with my vacation arrival point in song: San Antonio Rose.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Home Game Full Moon
It was not 75 with a cool breeze sitting off the front porch being served cold cervezas. There was no newly minted news anchors or like-minded degenerates sitting on my left and right. Instead, my left foot was near frozen after coming back in from taking the garbage out and two kids needed tucking in after watching an Animal Planet special on desert animals.
The laptop was on to check my school email account and sign up for next quarter's classes and run through the personal accounts to delete messages from Adam and Eve and other companies who don't share my wife's opinion that my dick is long enough. Twitter came on for a debate by various poker friends over the Two plus Two forums and their utility in the poker universe. It is a great tool, vast amounts of information on just about any topic you could think of within the 52 cards in play. But, it is also bloated to the point that non-regular users without a direct link to a certain article would be lost to find information on. The last time I went diving into the forum without a link, I was searching for others having issues with Full Tilt/Stars check cashing problems. 30 minutes later I finally found a thread, despite trying to use the search function which normally I would feel fairly competent at, or even would brag that only the Cray-5000 supercomputer known as KevMath would be a faster researcher than I. Great information, needs a slim-fast weight loss program.
Moving on.
While the virtual spittle was flying The Mark hopped on to catch a fish looking for some home game action. The G-Vegas degens above such BadBlood and GRob were enjoy a peaceful southern evening under a half moon while I worried about catching frostbite thanks to a state that doesn't know it's almost April and decided to dump a half a foot of snow on the three million of us already suffering from cabin fever and quashing my plans of testing out my new disc golf set this weekend.
Thanks to PokerStars and their Home Game set-up I was able to sit at The Depot in G-Vegas to play some six handed PL Hold Em'/Omaha. While I'd rather be downing a half bottle of Captain while losing music prop bets to the table, this filled in nicely regardless of outcome.
The outcome of course was brutal for one table member as I was logging in, BadBlood was all-in after a flop gave him an around-the-world wrap versus Grob's two pair. Ship buy-in #1. Happened a short while later with another big, favored draw against Grob's flopped set. Turn, makes broadway for BadBlood, River ships quads to your new G-Vegas news anchor quietly awaiting his new desk. Ship buy-in #2.
This went on for the ~2 hours of play with Grob of course giving several words of encouragement for the run-terrible heavy metal fan. Then after dropping my son off in bed for the third time after the shadows spooked him again, I came back to BadBlood open raising the button for the 10th out of 10 time on my blind while I held 9-6-6-7 and Grob in the small blind making the call. Badblood had a fresh $50 stack while I luckboxed into a little under $70 and Grob was over $200 with $.25/$.50 blinds.
*puts on reporting cap*
Why don't you take those quads and shove em' up your ass!
The laptop was on to check my school email account and sign up for next quarter's classes and run through the personal accounts to delete messages from Adam and Eve and other companies who don't share my wife's opinion that my dick is long enough. Twitter came on for a debate by various poker friends over the Two plus Two forums and their utility in the poker universe. It is a great tool, vast amounts of information on just about any topic you could think of within the 52 cards in play. But, it is also bloated to the point that non-regular users without a direct link to a certain article would be lost to find information on. The last time I went diving into the forum without a link, I was searching for others having issues with Full Tilt/Stars check cashing problems. 30 minutes later I finally found a thread, despite trying to use the search function which normally I would feel fairly competent at, or even would brag that only the Cray-5000 supercomputer known as KevMath would be a faster researcher than I. Great information, needs a slim-fast weight loss program.
Moving on.
While the virtual spittle was flying The Mark hopped on to catch a fish looking for some home game action. The G-Vegas degens above such BadBlood and GRob were enjoy a peaceful southern evening under a half moon while I worried about catching frostbite thanks to a state that doesn't know it's almost April and decided to dump a half a foot of snow on the three million of us already suffering from cabin fever and quashing my plans of testing out my new disc golf set this weekend.
Thanks to PokerStars and their Home Game set-up I was able to sit at The Depot in G-Vegas to play some six handed PL Hold Em'/Omaha. While I'd rather be downing a half bottle of Captain while losing music prop bets to the table, this filled in nicely regardless of outcome.
The outcome of course was brutal for one table member as I was logging in, BadBlood was all-in after a flop gave him an around-the-world wrap versus Grob's two pair. Ship buy-in #1. Happened a short while later with another big, favored draw against Grob's flopped set. Turn, makes broadway for BadBlood, River ships quads to your new G-Vegas news anchor quietly awaiting his new desk. Ship buy-in #2.
This went on for the ~2 hours of play with Grob of course giving several words of encouragement for the run-terrible heavy metal fan. Then after dropping my son off in bed for the third time after the shadows spooked him again, I came back to BadBlood open raising the button for the 10th out of 10 time on my blind while I held 9-6-6-7 and Grob in the small blind making the call. Badblood had a fresh $50 stack while I luckboxed into a little under $70 and Grob was over $200 with $.25/$.50 blinds.
*puts on reporting cap*
Why don't you take those quads and shove em' up your ass!
With the fixed blinds at $.25/$.50, resident table pinata, BadBlood44, made the raise to $1.50 as GRobman and Drizztdj in the blinds both called to see a coordinated 9c-6d-6c flop. GRobman, sporting Trey Anastasio's mugshot, made a quick check as did Drizztdj who was fighting connection problems. BadBlood44 followed through with a $4 bet as both the blinds found the courage to make the call. Turn card came the Kd as again both blinds turtled up to the muscle bound man on the button as BadBlood44 shoved out $7 and was quickly called again.
River card was the Kc completing a potential stack busting flush, as GRobman starting listening to some Phish bootlegs he picked up at Langerago and checked, Drizztdj came to life and shoved out a pot-sized bet and BadBlood44 equally as quick shoved in the rest of his stack as GRobman said "whatever dude" and folded quickly while grooving to "AC/DC Bag". Drizztdj holding 6-6-7-9 for the flopped quads quickly called and the half-moon outside may have really been a full one as BadBlood revealed not only the second nuts, but the second nuts made twice showing the flopped top full and rivered top full K-9-9-T and had to watch yet cooler and another buy-in ship outside of his reach.First drink on me next time we meet sir.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Candidate
The rain would hit the hood of a ski jacket that had seen its better days. A cigarette burn just below right second pouch, a reminder of the last time the garment actually saw a slope of snow other than its front yard. The dark blue color fading sightly, but not so much to match Tar Heels baby blue. The crackle of rain off the hood amplified by hearing aids sounded similar to the omnipresent fresh popcorn maker which was used last on Sunday night as the family has taken to watching "Family Game Night" on Hub network while munching on the freshly popped corn with too much cheddar seasoning.
Its rough coming back after rejection, walking through puddles towards the office. If you followed my Twitter feed yesterday knowing that another candidate was chosen for the promotion I applied for. Knowing from the first syllable and tone of voice with the recorded message that it was not positive, then listening to a very ambiguous HR rehash of the reasoning left me more confused than hurt. While at the time my plans were to punch a few kittens to alleviate any inner-pain, sorting through the interview and whether or not it was worth the feline violence seemed better for the Meow Mix crowd and any karmatic retribution.
Luckily I have an awesome supervisor and friends who offer their experience as mine in this situation is extremely limited. She offered a few explanations that fit the mold of how the interview went without even being there. As you know, I am very excitable, something I try to can at times but it's me and well, not gonna happen. I may have been too knowledgeable, too eager, too much for the job which was a small promotion, but nonetheless, one that would mark another step towards overcoming the darkness that plagued me for years.
Couple that with nearly dusting off my online poker bankroll on the weekend and you've got two days worth of suck. But these are VERY minor, personal problems (well, not the dusting because I'd never done that before in such a I-dont-give-a-shit way). But, this is a personal blog not a news outlet, a political sounding board, or a place that cures hunger, just me and a boring suburban life that takes enough twists and finding a few words along the way to enter on the Internet.
Will I be applying for another position? Yes.
Regrouping first to get the details and next time not coming off as used-car salesman trying pawn off a Pinto as a Maserati Quattroporte while interviewing. The first equation that came to mind was best qualifications = best candidate.
Wrong.
If my personality doesn't jib with those who work in the department, it doesn't matter how productive my cube may be if the rest of the time sits there seething. Just its their petty problem, but one the supervisor doesn't need if it can be easily fixed by finding someone who fits the need both talent and personality wide. Keeping an open mind to that rather than finding an excuse an hour to belittle the deserving person who did get hired will keep petty jealousy next to the stapler in my middle drawer.
The hearing aids will continue to pick up new sounds, and I continue to pick up experience until my name is called. Now, the poker issue, that's a different post, maybe one for a place for such things.
Its rough coming back after rejection, walking through puddles towards the office. If you followed my Twitter feed yesterday knowing that another candidate was chosen for the promotion I applied for. Knowing from the first syllable and tone of voice with the recorded message that it was not positive, then listening to a very ambiguous HR rehash of the reasoning left me more confused than hurt. While at the time my plans were to punch a few kittens to alleviate any inner-pain, sorting through the interview and whether or not it was worth the feline violence seemed better for the Meow Mix crowd and any karmatic retribution.
Luckily I have an awesome supervisor and friends who offer their experience as mine in this situation is extremely limited. She offered a few explanations that fit the mold of how the interview went without even being there. As you know, I am very excitable, something I try to can at times but it's me and well, not gonna happen. I may have been too knowledgeable, too eager, too much for the job which was a small promotion, but nonetheless, one that would mark another step towards overcoming the darkness that plagued me for years.
Couple that with nearly dusting off my online poker bankroll on the weekend and you've got two days worth of suck. But these are VERY minor, personal problems (well, not the dusting because I'd never done that before in such a I-dont-give-a-shit way). But, this is a personal blog not a news outlet, a political sounding board, or a place that cures hunger, just me and a boring suburban life that takes enough twists and finding a few words along the way to enter on the Internet.
Will I be applying for another position? Yes.
Regrouping first to get the details and next time not coming off as used-car salesman trying pawn off a Pinto as a Maserati Quattroporte while interviewing. The first equation that came to mind was best qualifications = best candidate.
Wrong.
If my personality doesn't jib with those who work in the department, it doesn't matter how productive my cube may be if the rest of the time sits there seething. Just its their petty problem, but one the supervisor doesn't need if it can be easily fixed by finding someone who fits the need both talent and personality wide. Keeping an open mind to that rather than finding an excuse an hour to belittle the deserving person who did get hired will keep petty jealousy next to the stapler in my middle drawer.
The hearing aids will continue to pick up new sounds, and I continue to pick up experience until my name is called. Now, the poker issue, that's a different post, maybe one for a place for such things.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Shamrocks and Blogger Shenanigans
In 2008 Carter "ckingusc" King was just about to take down the WCOOP Main Event for a lump sum that rivals what I may make for the next 20 - 25 years. The WCOOP that year marked my first foray into actual poker reporting, the live blog we did had two shifts. The first one was fairly easy as you'd work six hours and stop to be relieved by a second crew in the evening. The second shift lasted much longer and required you to find some wit at 9am the next morning for the wrap. I remember working a solid week and a half going to bed often at 8 or 9am and waking up a handful of hours later if slated for the afternoon coverage.
It was exhausting.
And I loved every minute of it (especially when the prize at the end was meeting up with the equally tired boss man for Al's Bash and a for a sample of a Bash go to the master's site). For the first time I felt a part of something that required some skill, some creativity, something other than plunking numbers into spreadsheets and formulas. There was a huge sense of pride regardless of the number of readers because it represented doing something I loved and getting paid to do it!
Fast forward thru my daughter exiting her crib and now demanding to be rocked to sleep by Big Time Rush (sigh) and a decision that leaves me in a similar state of hallucinations and confusion about what day it is it. No, its not REX MANNING DAY, but rather March Madness which I've taken a preemptive strike and torn up my brackets while burning a few twentys that will make their way Otis' son's pocket before Wofford and Richmond break my heart (and wallet).
Yes, yes we do
As of tonight after one more exam, I will have completed my first full year at college sans bong hits and 1800 Tequila Shot races that end with a body shot off a tri-delt (and with me finding a balcony to puke off of with two people making sure I don't flip over the edge because I'm smooth like that). Granted it IS St. Patrick's Day and being a quarter of Irish blood I do owe a little bit to celebrate my Eire heritage with drink this evening. But, instead of stumbling from The Local to Kierian's downtown among the ladies stretching the words "STARE AT MY TITS, I'M IRISH!!" across their chest that's covered with beads, LED-light shaped shamrocks, and plastic hats from Jameson.
No, instead I'll opt to losing my wits at home since this Anatomy and Physiology exam will most likely wipe whatever will power that is keeping this body upright at the moment because I can't feel a goddamn thing and while drunk women with bouncing chest distractions and friends is always a good time, a quiet whiskey on the back porch (with sweatshirt on, it's not that warm out) seems more approps today.
As of right now, I feel like I'm sitting behind my laptop in the basement as I did three years ago, hitting "publish" one last time and feeling good about what was being sent. Much like those long hours behind the keyboard writing about future poker millionaires, it's about pride and a future as I still love writing about poker three years later and I will have that college degree on my desk in two years.
It was exhausting.
And I loved every minute of it (especially when the prize at the end was meeting up with the equally tired boss man for Al's Bash and a for a sample of a Bash go to the master's site). For the first time I felt a part of something that required some skill, some creativity, something other than plunking numbers into spreadsheets and formulas. There was a huge sense of pride regardless of the number of readers because it represented doing something I loved and getting paid to do it!
Fast forward thru my daughter exiting her crib and now demanding to be rocked to sleep by Big Time Rush (sigh) and a decision that leaves me in a similar state of hallucinations and confusion about what day it is it. No, its not REX MANNING DAY, but rather March Madness which I've taken a preemptive strike and torn up my brackets while burning a few twentys that will make their way Otis' son's pocket before Wofford and Richmond break my heart (and wallet).
As of tonight after one more exam, I will have completed my first full year at college sans bong hits and 1800 Tequila Shot races that end with a body shot off a tri-delt (and with me finding a balcony to puke off of with two people making sure I don't flip over the edge because I'm smooth like that). Granted it IS St. Patrick's Day and being a quarter of Irish blood I do owe a little bit to celebrate my Eire heritage with drink this evening. But, instead of stumbling from The Local to Kierian's downtown among the ladies stretching the words "STARE AT MY TITS, I'M IRISH!!" across their chest that's covered with beads, LED-light shaped shamrocks, and plastic hats from Jameson.
No, instead I'll opt to losing my wits at home since this Anatomy and Physiology exam will most likely wipe whatever will power that is keeping this body upright at the moment because I can't feel a goddamn thing and while drunk women with bouncing chest distractions and friends is always a good time, a quiet whiskey on the back porch (with sweatshirt on, it's not that warm out) seems more approps today.
As of right now, I feel like I'm sitting behind my laptop in the basement as I did three years ago, hitting "publish" one last time and feeling good about what was being sent. Much like those long hours behind the keyboard writing about future poker millionaires, it's about pride and a future as I still love writing about poker three years later and I will have that college degree on my desk in two years.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Swirling in the void
To watch a person with an internal struggle is both horror and entertaining. To be that person is both horror and entertaining.
For the past few months my self-doubts and insecurities have bubbled up more than my mouth or the words I type on various websites would like to admit. To the point of letting depression grasp what I have worked so hard to attain. A loving relationship with my wife, two kids who want daddy to play with them at any given moment, gaining professional status and praise for jobs well done. All good things.
Depression isn't really ever defeated in the sense of never coming back, more like pushed down a drain by medication, friends, family, and using the garbage disposal for several minutes to churn it into fine particals to be sent into the sewers. But, it always comes back. How much a person lets those dark, rabbit hole thoughts invade depends if others can see how much you're hurting.
We've all watched the Charlie Sheen live-action "mental illness" episode for the past month or so, and its a testament to those who let themselves go just how creative and entertaining such a thing can be. His drug of choice is an eight-ball off a Brazilian hooker's ass, mine sits above the charcoal black stove with the words "spiced rum" across the label. Granted for the most part, I am an upstanding citizen, I don't show up for work blitzed, never getting hammered around my children, choosing to sink into my rabbit hole of a couch a few times a week hoping the strength will be there to climb out the next day.
Robert Jordan (real name James Rigney Jr.), author of several very long books of Fantasy genre on the "Wheel of Time". It's main character, Rand, struggles throughout the series with battles of the mind in a classic good vs. evil sense. He enters "the void" to calm himself, and make the magic within to come alive. Jordan can describe that "void" much better than I could ever hope to, it where creativity has no bounds, no social or moral eraser, just a continuous flow of words and ideas that leave others to marvel at its output. If I ever took myself seriously as a writer, a bottle of Captain would sit right next to my black Toshiba with the power cord that looks like its been chewed by a hampster and pen whatever exits that void and it would be ten times better than the sober words you're reading right now.
I skipped out on a social gathering last weekend due to this. While I didn't pen a thing, it was to be alone, with no noises to embrace the quiet. Sure I had hair metal blaring in my ears and the ping of online poker on the screen, but they were hardly heard, barely a whisper to where I was really at. Standing alone with no worries of final papers, getting a promotion, or pleasing my family. Just is. Breathing. Stepping outside of all the petty, little nuisances of listening to ignorant people at work or in the line at Dunn Bros. Coffee. No need for sex, or money, just is.
Would I go on another wheelchair ride if I had the means? I do, but I wouldn't. Something catches me now that didn't before. People like Sheen don't have that proverbial safety net and society bashes him for abborent behavior just because its public. If he blew those rocks where papparazzi lens couldn't reach he'd be an regular out-of-work actor bumming for a waiter job at TGI Friday's instead of the fountain of entertainment that he currently expells.
People who don't give a fuck fasinate those who choose to live by society's rules. I for one just spoke to a law enforcement officer yesterday for just the second time in the my life (the first time was when a small cub wandered through our neighborhood and sounded like a drunken burgular looking for my Millano cookies.
School is still important (finals week!), I still adore all of my friends, I still love my family and give my life to them, but for now my body is tired to the point of passing out at any given moment, tired of fighting physically and mentally. Maybe a good bender would allow for the rest needed to refuel, but as I've found since this page was started seven years ago, releasing words from my rum-soaked head onto these non-edited pages is better than any bottle of lithium or an army of self-help doctors could do.
For the past few months my self-doubts and insecurities have bubbled up more than my mouth or the words I type on various websites would like to admit. To the point of letting depression grasp what I have worked so hard to attain. A loving relationship with my wife, two kids who want daddy to play with them at any given moment, gaining professional status and praise for jobs well done. All good things.
Depression isn't really ever defeated in the sense of never coming back, more like pushed down a drain by medication, friends, family, and using the garbage disposal for several minutes to churn it into fine particals to be sent into the sewers. But, it always comes back. How much a person lets those dark, rabbit hole thoughts invade depends if others can see how much you're hurting.
We've all watched the Charlie Sheen live-action "mental illness" episode for the past month or so, and its a testament to those who let themselves go just how creative and entertaining such a thing can be. His drug of choice is an eight-ball off a Brazilian hooker's ass, mine sits above the charcoal black stove with the words "spiced rum" across the label. Granted for the most part, I am an upstanding citizen, I don't show up for work blitzed, never getting hammered around my children, choosing to sink into my rabbit hole of a couch a few times a week hoping the strength will be there to climb out the next day.
Robert Jordan (real name James Rigney Jr.), author of several very long books of Fantasy genre on the "Wheel of Time". It's main character, Rand, struggles throughout the series with battles of the mind in a classic good vs. evil sense. He enters "the void" to calm himself, and make the magic within to come alive. Jordan can describe that "void" much better than I could ever hope to, it where creativity has no bounds, no social or moral eraser, just a continuous flow of words and ideas that leave others to marvel at its output. If I ever took myself seriously as a writer, a bottle of Captain would sit right next to my black Toshiba with the power cord that looks like its been chewed by a hampster and pen whatever exits that void and it would be ten times better than the sober words you're reading right now.
I skipped out on a social gathering last weekend due to this. While I didn't pen a thing, it was to be alone, with no noises to embrace the quiet. Sure I had hair metal blaring in my ears and the ping of online poker on the screen, but they were hardly heard, barely a whisper to where I was really at. Standing alone with no worries of final papers, getting a promotion, or pleasing my family. Just is. Breathing. Stepping outside of all the petty, little nuisances of listening to ignorant people at work or in the line at Dunn Bros. Coffee. No need for sex, or money, just is.
Would I go on another wheelchair ride if I had the means? I do, but I wouldn't. Something catches me now that didn't before. People like Sheen don't have that proverbial safety net and society bashes him for abborent behavior just because its public. If he blew those rocks where papparazzi lens couldn't reach he'd be an regular out-of-work actor bumming for a waiter job at TGI Friday's instead of the fountain of entertainment that he currently expells.
People who don't give a fuck fasinate those who choose to live by society's rules. I for one just spoke to a law enforcement officer yesterday for just the second time in the my life (the first time was when a small cub wandered through our neighborhood and sounded like a drunken burgular looking for my Millano cookies.
School is still important (finals week!), I still adore all of my friends, I still love my family and give my life to them, but for now my body is tired to the point of passing out at any given moment, tired of fighting physically and mentally. Maybe a good bender would allow for the rest needed to refuel, but as I've found since this page was started seven years ago, releasing words from my rum-soaked head onto these non-edited pages is better than any bottle of lithium or an army of self-help doctors could do.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Stacking Papers
Today the pen came down and wanted to draft something about disabilities and lowered standards while over-cheering for someone like Corky from Life Goes On.
Or myself.
But, then the positive half of me said "shut the fuck up and have a drink you little bitch".
So I did.
Turns out there's good advice found underneath the self-wallowing, as in accept what people say, not what you perceive to be a participation medal.
Yesterday, I shoved all self-doubt out the window for a period of 1.5 hours in order to chat about a job with three different individuals of separate corporate importance. The results of the chats are not important, as we're not talking about a life-type changing position such as Craakker hammered down recently. More of a Q*Bert disc to float me away from the purple snake of immobility and stasis while continuing this revival of all things progressive in my life. (*side note, damn you Doc, I played that game for almost two hours last night really wished I knew what Q*Bert says behind the !@$$#!@ when the snake gets him). Q*BERT4ROLLZ?!?!?!
An interview something my monkey suit and tie have not seen for seven years, perhaps overdue, and certain during a time this body could use less stress not more. But, neccessary. New blood was needed, is needed, and just the attempt yesterday gave a much needed transfusion in my "career". The word "career" sounds pretentious when referring to the types of jobs held by myself up to this point, perhaps after I stand in front of my family in 2013 with a cap and gown there will be a reason to take down the quotation marks.
For now, I hoist The Mystical Cup of Collating Papers to Mr. Wil Wheaton, for showing that we're all human no matter what degree of "celebrity" one has attained and some of us can make other's day just by sitting at a desk with a devious smile and neatly alligned 8" by 11" pieces of paper in hand.
Mr. Wheaton, stay awesome.
To the rest of my readers, I thank you for your continued support and don't make it too long until we drink together again.
Oh, to celebrate my lets-wait-for-a-month-before-hearing-if-I-got-the-job-and-cant-sleep-until-I-know Grand Casino Hinckley was kind enoughbecause I spent too much money there last time to offer free lodging and side cash for my family to head up there tonight since the school district is intent on giving days off for Middle Name Pride Day and Johnny Appleseed Day? *facepalm*
(Yes, I know it's the beginning of Lent, but my kids do not attend a Catholic/Christian school)
Or myself.
But, then the positive half of me said "shut the fuck up and have a drink you little bitch".
So I did.
Turns out there's good advice found underneath the self-wallowing, as in accept what people say, not what you perceive to be a participation medal.
Yesterday, I shoved all self-doubt out the window for a period of 1.5 hours in order to chat about a job with three different individuals of separate corporate importance. The results of the chats are not important, as we're not talking about a life-type changing position such as Craakker hammered down recently. More of a Q*Bert disc to float me away from the purple snake of immobility and stasis while continuing this revival of all things progressive in my life. (*side note, damn you Doc, I played that game for almost two hours last night really wished I knew what Q*Bert says behind the !@$$#!@ when the snake gets him). Q*BERT4ROLLZ?!?!?!
An interview something my monkey suit and tie have not seen for seven years, perhaps overdue, and certain during a time this body could use less stress not more. But, neccessary. New blood was needed, is needed, and just the attempt yesterday gave a much needed transfusion in my "career". The word "career" sounds pretentious when referring to the types of jobs held by myself up to this point, perhaps after I stand in front of my family in 2013 with a cap and gown there will be a reason to take down the quotation marks.
For now, I hoist The Mystical Cup of Collating Papers to Mr. Wil Wheaton, for showing that we're all human no matter what degree of "celebrity" one has attained and some of us can make other's day just by sitting at a desk with a devious smile and neatly alligned 8" by 11" pieces of paper in hand.
Mr. Wheaton, stay awesome.
To the rest of my readers, I thank you for your continued support and don't make it too long until we drink together again.
Oh, to celebrate my lets-wait-for-a-month-before-hearing-if-I-got-the-job-and-cant-sleep-until-I-know Grand Casino Hinckley was kind enough
(Yes, I know it's the beginning of Lent, but my kids do not attend a Catholic/Christian school)
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Natural Caffeine
"... the solid ace became a solid pair of aces on the flop [5c][Kc][Ac] and a winning pair of aces by the river [5s][2h] as FlipFlopUK collected the remaining 17.5 million chips from the pot winning the entire $187,207.92 first prize after defeating the 6,153 player field!"
And scene.
Damnit Raiders of the Lost Ark had to start up now? It's like the pool scene with Phoebe Cates or watching Andy Dufresne break out of Shawshank. The Hovitos poisoned tipped darts, the gate of metal piercing Indy's "friend" as he tried to run off with the gold statue, being chased by a concrete snowball, and diving thru a spider web out of the tomb just in time to hand over the artifact to Belloq.
Will power finally turned up while finding the power button to turn off Indy's race thru the forest as the natives chased him. The article finally published as the Windows updates kept me up for another five minutes but that was ok because despite my utter hatred of snow there was a fresh three inches falling outside.
All of the lights in the house were off and not needed to view my little corner of the neighborhood which was rightfully sleeping at near midnight on Sunday going into Monday. The brightness of the powder illuminated the townhouses across the street, covered the black ice which showed for the past couple of weeks as Mother Nature can't decide if its time to thaw or hit our state with another icy blast. It was sort of a ground level aurora borealis with a many layered orangish hue swirling around my kid's snow fort down the street that I would be traveling in five hours for work.
Pretty.
A quick few minutes of reflections on a busy month, interrupted by a sleepwalking seven year old grasping the black and orange oversized gorilla he won at Dave and Busters during our guy's day. Picking up the not-so-little one and carried him and the primate back to the safety of his faded Transformers sheets. Noticing he's getting bigger and requires two arms to grasp him down the stairs, yet still involuntarily squeezes tight as a side hug before tucking him back in.
You want to know what fuels my schedule? Those squeezes. The feeling of being needed without reward. The feeling of not being viewed as disabled. I'm just dad to my son and daughter, someone who provides and takes away. Someone to cuddle with (for now). Hopefully when the cuddling stops we can still be friends when school drama enters the picture.
When its late and the glare of the computer screen informs me of two more pages of discussing the pros and cons of a Flat Tax system are due, those squeezes, those looks of adoration pack more caffeine than a six-pack of Red Bull. They won't always be there, but the memories will.
And scene.
Damnit Raiders of the Lost Ark had to start up now? It's like the pool scene with Phoebe Cates or watching Andy Dufresne break out of Shawshank. The Hovitos poisoned tipped darts, the gate of metal piercing Indy's "friend" as he tried to run off with the gold statue, being chased by a concrete snowball, and diving thru a spider web out of the tomb just in time to hand over the artifact to Belloq.
Will power finally turned up while finding the power button to turn off Indy's race thru the forest as the natives chased him. The article finally published as the Windows updates kept me up for another five minutes but that was ok because despite my utter hatred of snow there was a fresh three inches falling outside.
All of the lights in the house were off and not needed to view my little corner of the neighborhood which was rightfully sleeping at near midnight on Sunday going into Monday. The brightness of the powder illuminated the townhouses across the street, covered the black ice which showed for the past couple of weeks as Mother Nature can't decide if its time to thaw or hit our state with another icy blast. It was sort of a ground level aurora borealis with a many layered orangish hue swirling around my kid's snow fort down the street that I would be traveling in five hours for work.
Pretty.
A quick few minutes of reflections on a busy month, interrupted by a sleepwalking seven year old grasping the black and orange oversized gorilla he won at Dave and Busters during our guy's day. Picking up the not-so-little one and carried him and the primate back to the safety of his faded Transformers sheets. Noticing he's getting bigger and requires two arms to grasp him down the stairs, yet still involuntarily squeezes tight as a side hug before tucking him back in.
You want to know what fuels my schedule? Those squeezes. The feeling of being needed without reward. The feeling of not being viewed as disabled. I'm just dad to my son and daughter, someone who provides and takes away. Someone to cuddle with (for now). Hopefully when the cuddling stops we can still be friends when school drama enters the picture.
When its late and the glare of the computer screen informs me of two more pages of discussing the pros and cons of a Flat Tax system are due, those squeezes, those looks of adoration pack more caffeine than a six-pack of Red Bull. They won't always be there, but the memories will.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Billy Madison to Drizz: YOU BLEW IT!
My daughter's new favorite stuffed animal is a small shaggy purple dog named Barky. Thanks to the good, quality people at Dave and Buster's the wife has performed minor surgery on Barky several times in the past month but some tears could be attributed to my daughter's not so sugar and spice and everything nice way of getting through the day with those toys.
"Barky could walk around like Funky!" she exclaims.
The thought of an overweight shaggy purple dog with a belly swishing around like a half drained keg does seem amusing but impossible outside of Mary Poppins dropping in to make the medicine go down and utensils dance.
While her dreams are personal and not probable, mine focused too much on the real yesterday, making my attempt at rising up a rung on the corporate ladder end like this (couldn't find Billy Madison's clip which would have fit the bill better).
Yeah, I blew it.
My normally silver lispy tongue decided to not function yesterday as I stammered thru the HR interview with the wit of a contestant on Hillbilly Jeopardy. Answers swirling in my head, taking the time to prep for the questions that I knew were coming, and instead approached some epic corporate fail with all the smoothness of a Jersey meathead trying to cold-call a one night stand at a country club. Maybe the fiscially elite go for that sort of approach, but regardless I sucked, I sucked bad, and if by some small mircle I get the position it will solely on the fact that I'm tall because that's about the only message to cross the room yesterday standing a foot and a half over the lithe HR rep.
Concession on this position, not on the goal however. That's a good thing.
What's on tap this weekend? $5 million and a Lambo at PokerStars? Much like Astin's point on twitter yesterday, I may take half my bankroll on Stars and give a shot at a guaranteed $1 million payoff and finish agonizingly in 13,271st place. It's not every day a Lamborghini could be parked in the lower-middle income area of surburban Minneapolis. A plus would be zooming out to Palo Alto for an epic race with Doc's Ferrari. I'd need a Space Racer helmet and my lucky PokerStars monkey for props.
See it's ok to dream, even if its winning a poker tournament, having sex with (insert obscenely hot actress/porn star here), or having a stuffed animal down some Puppy Chow and piss all over your new iPad2. It's the real ones that you bank some emotion on that hurt. Throwing virtual money at cards carries nearly zero emotions at it. Regardless of how high (like last weekend's drubbing of the Rush PLO fishes) or the lows like the previous three weeks of dusting cash like Dan Shak chasing gold futures, poker carries emotion only when friends are involved (again I apologize for my excitement at the WPBT but it will happen again so ply me with another drink and I'll lose some silly prop bet to you).
"Barky could walk around like Funky!" she exclaims.
The thought of an overweight shaggy purple dog with a belly swishing around like a half drained keg does seem amusing but impossible outside of Mary Poppins dropping in to make the medicine go down and utensils dance.
While her dreams are personal and not probable, mine focused too much on the real yesterday, making my attempt at rising up a rung on the corporate ladder end like this (couldn't find Billy Madison's clip which would have fit the bill better).
Yeah, I blew it.
My normally silver lispy tongue decided to not function yesterday as I stammered thru the HR interview with the wit of a contestant on Hillbilly Jeopardy. Answers swirling in my head, taking the time to prep for the questions that I knew were coming, and instead approached some epic corporate fail with all the smoothness of a Jersey meathead trying to cold-call a one night stand at a country club. Maybe the fiscially elite go for that sort of approach, but regardless I sucked, I sucked bad, and if by some small mircle I get the position it will solely on the fact that I'm tall because that's about the only message to cross the room yesterday standing a foot and a half over the lithe HR rep.
Concession on this position, not on the goal however. That's a good thing.
What's on tap this weekend? $5 million and a Lambo at PokerStars? Much like Astin's point on twitter yesterday, I may take half my bankroll on Stars and give a shot at a guaranteed $1 million payoff and finish agonizingly in 13,271st place. It's not every day a Lamborghini could be parked in the lower-middle income area of surburban Minneapolis. A plus would be zooming out to Palo Alto for an epic race with Doc's Ferrari. I'd need a Space Racer helmet and my lucky PokerStars monkey for props.
See it's ok to dream, even if its winning a poker tournament, having sex with (insert obscenely hot actress/porn star here), or having a stuffed animal down some Puppy Chow and piss all over your new iPad2. It's the real ones that you bank some emotion on that hurt. Throwing virtual money at cards carries nearly zero emotions at it. Regardless of how high (like last weekend's drubbing of the Rush PLO fishes) or the lows like the previous three weeks of dusting cash like Dan Shak chasing gold futures, poker carries emotion only when friends are involved (again I apologize for my excitement at the WPBT but it will happen again so ply me with another drink and I'll lose some silly prop bet to you).
Son's mangled digit
The work dream will continue on another day, for now its back to the grind which isn't so bad if you look at how it could be sitting on a couch wondering where that next paycheck is going to come from, or how am I going to pay for my son's double fractured pinky. Instead I sail on even waters, turning the sail in every direction until some wind catches it just right to start in a new direction.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Ginsu > Drizz
Ginsu knives.
The one standing made me its bitch, ow
They cut through cans and STILL slice a tomato with the sharpness of Louis CK discussing father's day. Human flesh does not mesh with Ginsu knives however as the human flesh loses the battle. Badly. And that person being a parent of two children ages four and seven with four boxes of band-aid cannot find out that does not have Dr. Doofenshmirtz or a Disney princess on the front. So to save face and the embarrassment of reaching for a sharp blade and forgetting my recent anatomy lesson that while skin does amazing things (especially on Marissa Miller and she got to hang out with Captain Morgan! So jealous) does not withstand a blade that if you call RIGHT NOW, you can a five-piece blade set AND no shipping and handling for just $19.99! What they don't add are the band-aid costs as they are needed when a half-sleeping dolt reaches into the soap covered sink and splices his digit.
Despite Agent P battling the evil doctor on the same finger that holds a $10 wedding ring found in the back alley of Nuevo Progresso, Mexico, I bleed for my tens of readers who drop by. You're welcome :)
Yesterday I did something that was put in the back closet with my Playstation 2 and sex toys nearly seven years ago. Actually, that's my real closet this one was proverbial and at work and I doubt corporate rules allow anal beads in the workplace.
I went on two interviews.
Informational only but this employee, this father, this mix of degeneracy and hard work finally decided another piece was missing and trying to obtain a job that matches my new found drive to make something more of myself but it wasn't to seek a bigger paycheck. In the two interviews one paid more, one had a good vibe. Vibes are good, money can be replaced by people who don't understand four card poker (quick poker tip to those trying to beat the Rush PLO games... to beat the monkeys, you need to play like one to some extent, I suggest alcohol and a lot of buy-ins because my graph, while it ticks upward looks like something you'd go dashing for a defibrillator to correct). The hiring manager looked beyond my obvious rust in this setting and spelled out a job description that fit my plans, and while the pay is about the same, the opportunities to advance and get to where I'd like to go (Australia, Key West, Keeley Hazells's cleavage) are there. The second position paid more, fit my skills, but had the personality of bed lint.
The thought of coming in and not talking to my co-workers on a strict 9-5 Monday-Friday schedule much like a cubical prison did not appeal. I'd go back to being a collector if more cash and high-pressured job contained in three walls sounded sexy. Cash is sexy, pressure causes acne and 50 page rants about parking spaces being too small at the Mall of America. Plus like my job on the weekend, and similar to doing recaps I will feel like I'm contributing to something. A small part, just like at the PokerStarsBlog, but a part that fills a need for readers nonetheless.
I'll never be the phoenix, the BMOC, the lead actor, but rather I enjoy plugging in my two cents worth of sweat and watching something or someone become successful as a result. And to further my recent revival without hymns or born-again retreats its time to make it happen at work as well.
Oh, a quick personal note.
Actually this has been all personal but the sentence came out and so it be.
MR. APA managed to find enough right with my final paper after I researched the perfect APA-formatting template to fit my unneccessarily neatly crafted eight page research on job retention and I aced it. A third straight Dean's List and 20 free tokens at Chuck E. Cheese IS MINE!
They cut through cans and STILL slice a tomato with the sharpness of Louis CK discussing father's day. Human flesh does not mesh with Ginsu knives however as the human flesh loses the battle. Badly. And that person being a parent of two children ages four and seven with four boxes of band-aid cannot find out that does not have Dr. Doofenshmirtz or a Disney princess on the front. So to save face and the embarrassment of reaching for a sharp blade and forgetting my recent anatomy lesson that while skin does amazing things (especially on Marissa Miller and she got to hang out with Captain Morgan! So jealous) does not withstand a blade that if you call RIGHT NOW, you can a five-piece blade set AND no shipping and handling for just $19.99! What they don't add are the band-aid costs as they are needed when a half-sleeping dolt reaches into the soap covered sink and splices his digit.
Despite Agent P battling the evil doctor on the same finger that holds a $10 wedding ring found in the back alley of Nuevo Progresso, Mexico, I bleed for my tens of readers who drop by. You're welcome :)
Yesterday I did something that was put in the back closet with my Playstation 2 and sex toys nearly seven years ago. Actually, that's my real closet this one was proverbial and at work and I doubt corporate rules allow anal beads in the workplace.
I went on two interviews.
Informational only but this employee, this father, this mix of degeneracy and hard work finally decided another piece was missing and trying to obtain a job that matches my new found drive to make something more of myself but it wasn't to seek a bigger paycheck. In the two interviews one paid more, one had a good vibe. Vibes are good, money can be replaced by people who don't understand four card poker (quick poker tip to those trying to beat the Rush PLO games... to beat the monkeys, you need to play like one to some extent, I suggest alcohol and a lot of buy-ins because my graph, while it ticks upward looks like something you'd go dashing for a defibrillator to correct). The hiring manager looked beyond my obvious rust in this setting and spelled out a job description that fit my plans, and while the pay is about the same, the opportunities to advance and get to where I'd like to go (Australia, Key West, Keeley Hazells's cleavage) are there. The second position paid more, fit my skills, but had the personality of bed lint.
The thought of coming in and not talking to my co-workers on a strict 9-5 Monday-Friday schedule much like a cubical prison did not appeal. I'd go back to being a collector if more cash and high-pressured job contained in three walls sounded sexy. Cash is sexy, pressure causes acne and 50 page rants about parking spaces being too small at the Mall of America. Plus like my job on the weekend, and similar to doing recaps I will feel like I'm contributing to something. A small part, just like at the PokerStarsBlog, but a part that fills a need for readers nonetheless.
I'll never be the phoenix, the BMOC, the lead actor, but rather I enjoy plugging in my two cents worth of sweat and watching something or someone become successful as a result. And to further my recent revival without hymns or born-again retreats its time to make it happen at work as well.
Oh, a quick personal note.
Actually this has been all personal but the sentence came out and so it be.
MR. APA managed to find enough right with my final paper after I researched the perfect APA-formatting template to fit my unneccessarily neatly crafted eight page research on job retention and I aced it. A third straight Dean's List and 20 free tokens at Chuck E. Cheese IS MINE!
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