Ugh. Wanted to hit up Al's new-ish poker site Face Up Gaming this weekend but ran into 6,000 words of homework and a double reporting night at PokerStarsBlog.
There were real words and real bad grammar mistakes to be posted right here as well, but my laptop has been funky and locked out this site from posting as well as not hooking up correctly with Facebook.
Reason for not posting lately? My schedule yesterday:
4:30am - Wake up
4:35am - "Are you going to take your hands off my boobs yet?"
4:37am - "No"
4:45am - 5:15am Get kids dressed, in car, drop off at day care
6:00am - 4:30pm Work, work, WORK, work
4:55pm - Get home, throw clothes off for Mets vs. Dodgers game, put approprite coaching gear on
5:15pm - At ballpark to warm up the pitchers
5:30pm - 7:00pm Mets win 4-1 as they rally in the fourth once again as the other team's pitching staffs consist of 2 or 3 kids who can actually throw it within a city block of the plate, my staff has seven. Suck it Dodgers from rich part of the city
7:30pm - Grab Leaann Chin's to-go (overpriced, under-flavored, but local chinese is already closing up for the night)
7:45pm - Wolf down food and go on a 2.25 mile run, purposely hitting big hills, and keeping a little under 9:00/mile pace. Replace stress with sweat.
8:30pm - After shower, tell kids to head to bed
8:42pm - Physically remove kids from porch place in bathroom to brush teeth
8:46pm - Remind son that toothpaste does not go in sister's hair
8:48pm - Place female child in bed as daughter still requests Black Eyed Peas to sleep to. (walk away dejected)
8:51pm - Place male child in bed with Bomb Bird Angry Bird head blanket, he demands AC/DC Live (faith in my spawns is revived)
9:00pm - Watched "Chopped" Grill Week and muse that unless Ted Allen tells me there's microwavable mac n' cheese or eggs in my basket, Geoffrey Zakarian is probably going to throw the plate at me
9:30pm - Start weekly homework that was neglected yesterday due to having fun with the kids and turning baking myself into the same color of that wild boar the Chopped chefs had to do something with
11:00pm - Body finally gives up as I wake up with my overweight cat staring at me judgementally
11:04pm - "Really??!? Must you?!!?"
Two weeks until summer time, no homework, all fun and maybe a little time for posting.
PlaySolidPoker
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Scribbles From the Writer Formerly Known as Drizz
“Best of the lousiest and the lousiest of the best”.
It is the theme call for a local radio station KFAN’s “The Common Man” who brings excellent wit to his daily sports and off-topic talk show from Noon – 2pm. Growing up this exemplifies my wanderings into athletes as either was picking splinters out of my bony ass on an upper division team or one of the better players on the lower division. After a while and much acne, self-image, and depression issues, the younger version of me just gave in to mediocrity and only played on teams against inferior opponents, not stretching whatever ability my 110 pound frame could muster.
Academics came easier but eventually fell into the same category as the baseball diamond or hockey rink as trying to get laid (and failing like your basic teenage movie about the wonders of growing up as a sulking kid without a stereotype or direction) became much more important. Yes, the conversation with past me would contain several “WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU MOPPING SHITHEAD!”. Instead of going off to a foreign land like Tempe, Arizona with the sole intention of spending tens of thousands of American Dollars on 10-packs of soft Taco Bell tacos and gallon sized under aged marked up bottles of Karkov vodka to spend a year learning that application of one’s self is a direct correlation to how people treat you.
As I watch my boy take the hard turn on a raised go-kart track, cutting off the 34 year old mother who visited the Kalahari bar for the six-shot Grey Goose Green Lantern special a couple of times before sending a few four-letter words in the direction of my little Jeff Gordon, there I saw my motivation. Again while arguing with my wife of eleven years, something clicked, something unlatched like a series of tumblers finally unlocking as for the past years and especially for the past few months a shell of myself turned into asshole-mode (with the except of a certain weekend to celebrate one Bobby Bracelet’s journey to minivan-land).
It was finding the medium between working as hard as possible at the highest level and still retaining the mindset of the child inside of my adult form (which has many lumps BUT I’M WORKING ON IT! ). I probably have drafted some 30-odd kick-ass posts from Twins baseball (suck, suck, but getting me interested with every game they score most than one run and SURLY BEER AT TARGET FIELD!! (it’s not Furious, but the aptly named “Bandwagon”), and yes even a poker post or three as I played a few hours while in Vegas last month (and went home a losing poker player for the first time, RIGGED!).
But, life gets in the way, kids need their pizza cut in exact shapes, and and and and yeah excuses come out instead of pushing yourself to do what you should at the effort level that little person inside your headspot is telling you at least give. The result might not be there like me getting back into the sporting arena with running (28:00 at the Goldy’s Run 5K *flex*) or getting stuffed numerous times playing beach volleyball by people you would normally be wrapping the word “Spaulding” around their forehead but can’t since your vertical turned into more of a horizontal uplift powered by a Yugo motor.
At least I’m in the game again. Parenting, writing, athletics for never-were’s, and even a little poker despite our government’s best intentions on killing a hobby that started this little journey into typing more than 140 characters at a time.
Yesterday I wrote “Life should overwhlem you at times, because if it doesn't, it means you have given up”. It’s time to start earning the quote but this time keeping both eyes open for what I’m missing. And stop being a dick.
It is the theme call for a local radio station KFAN’s “The Common Man” who brings excellent wit to his daily sports and off-topic talk show from Noon – 2pm. Growing up this exemplifies my wanderings into athletes as either was picking splinters out of my bony ass on an upper division team or one of the better players on the lower division. After a while and much acne, self-image, and depression issues, the younger version of me just gave in to mediocrity and only played on teams against inferior opponents, not stretching whatever ability my 110 pound frame could muster.
Academics came easier but eventually fell into the same category as the baseball diamond or hockey rink as trying to get laid (and failing like your basic teenage movie about the wonders of growing up as a sulking kid without a stereotype or direction) became much more important. Yes, the conversation with past me would contain several “WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU MOPPING SHITHEAD!”. Instead of going off to a foreign land like Tempe, Arizona with the sole intention of spending tens of thousands of American Dollars on 10-packs of soft Taco Bell tacos and gallon sized under aged marked up bottles of Karkov vodka to spend a year learning that application of one’s self is a direct correlation to how people treat you.
As I watch my boy take the hard turn on a raised go-kart track, cutting off the 34 year old mother who visited the Kalahari bar for the six-shot Grey Goose Green Lantern special a couple of times before sending a few four-letter words in the direction of my little Jeff Gordon, there I saw my motivation. Again while arguing with my wife of eleven years, something clicked, something unlatched like a series of tumblers finally unlocking as for the past years and especially for the past few months a shell of myself turned into asshole-mode (with the except of a certain weekend to celebrate one Bobby Bracelet’s journey to minivan-land).
It was finding the medium between working as hard as possible at the highest level and still retaining the mindset of the child inside of my adult form (which has many lumps BUT I’M WORKING ON IT! ). I probably have drafted some 30-odd kick-ass posts from Twins baseball (suck, suck, but getting me interested with every game they score most than one run and SURLY BEER AT TARGET FIELD!! (it’s not Furious, but the aptly named “Bandwagon”), and yes even a poker post or three as I played a few hours while in Vegas last month (and went home a losing poker player for the first time, RIGGED!).
But, life gets in the way, kids need their pizza cut in exact shapes, and and and and yeah excuses come out instead of pushing yourself to do what you should at the effort level that little person inside your headspot is telling you at least give. The result might not be there like me getting back into the sporting arena with running (28:00 at the Goldy’s Run 5K *flex*) or getting stuffed numerous times playing beach volleyball by people you would normally be wrapping the word “Spaulding” around their forehead but can’t since your vertical turned into more of a horizontal uplift powered by a Yugo motor.
At least I’m in the game again. Parenting, writing, athletics for never-were’s, and even a little poker despite our government’s best intentions on killing a hobby that started this little journey into typing more than 140 characters at a time.
Yesterday I wrote “Life should overwhlem you at times, because if it doesn't, it means you have given up”. It’s time to start earning the quote but this time keeping both eyes open for what I’m missing. And stop being a dick.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
I Have Never Been to Vegas for a Bachelor's Party
While I have made several trips to a city that I have a love-hate relationship with. One that has chewed my soul like a tough cut of beef and soothed me like a new episode of Big Bang Theory with original jokes of Sheldon being Sheldon, I’m up an hour before work because a swarm of angry bees invaded my headspot with words that needed to make some honey, or at least a piece of dried out honeycomb.
My friend Brad (no not that Brad) chose a life of God and yesterday while on Facebook as he does from time to time while trying to interject on my life of “sin” to bring the word of God to my world. Which causes a free-thinker such as myself to step back and wonder “am I doing it wrong?”.
Then I remembered, that I am unburdened from such thoughts because there is no absolute right and wrong. The person in the mirror is the person’s rules that I follow or choose to live by. He is basically a tape recorder for which every single piece of life has already been drafted in a book containing a hymn, a verse for life’s entire context. And that’s OK. If a man chooses to feel guilty from placing their penis into a woman or a 120 ounce bottle of Heinz ketchup that he picked up at Costco because John 3:19 says so, that’s OK.
My parents still trying to nudge (not push) to get me to “go to church” because they claim my children need it. They are the most caring, loving, unselfish people I will ever know but if I were to ask why and explain why I chose to be human and life my life without knowing what will happen next it may cause a riff similar to a gay man or woman trying to explain their sexuality to homophobe.
I don’t want to be “saved”, I don’t want play a verse when I’m feeling like shit because I got too drunk and yelled at people, I don’t want to be part of the Borg, an un-thinking being of a collective.
There are some religious people who get it right. They craft those words into their own interpretation and go from there. Which is how a human should live. They should be “in sin” and free to meander within their own rules, not someone else’s. Be free to fuck up royally and learn from it. I know I certainly have. Life is not a sitcom as people like Brad would like to believe, scripted with a laugh track unyielding to life’s unknown future. I have no idea what is going to happen this weekend, and I don’t want to know because playing out the future in present time does not allow you enjoy that tingle of sitting at a bar after too many tequila shots talking smack about your favorite football teams with a toothbrush salesman from Ohio and a stripper with a giant ying-yang tattoo emblazed across her ass.
I wish Brad the best on his journey through life as he already knows what’s going to happen. Me? Well, you get to read about those flaws here as I have a blank page and perhaps a couple of front row seats to Thunder Down Under in my future.
One more day.
My friend Brad (no not that Brad) chose a life of God and yesterday while on Facebook as he does from time to time while trying to interject on my life of “sin” to bring the word of God to my world. Which causes a free-thinker such as myself to step back and wonder “am I doing it wrong?”.
Then I remembered, that I am unburdened from such thoughts because there is no absolute right and wrong. The person in the mirror is the person’s rules that I follow or choose to live by. He is basically a tape recorder for which every single piece of life has already been drafted in a book containing a hymn, a verse for life’s entire context. And that’s OK. If a man chooses to feel guilty from placing their penis into a woman or a 120 ounce bottle of Heinz ketchup that he picked up at Costco because John 3:19 says so, that’s OK.
My parents still trying to nudge (not push) to get me to “go to church” because they claim my children need it. They are the most caring, loving, unselfish people I will ever know but if I were to ask why and explain why I chose to be human and life my life without knowing what will happen next it may cause a riff similar to a gay man or woman trying to explain their sexuality to homophobe.
I don’t want to be “saved”, I don’t want play a verse when I’m feeling like shit because I got too drunk and yelled at people, I don’t want to be part of the Borg, an un-thinking being of a collective.
There are some religious people who get it right. They craft those words into their own interpretation and go from there. Which is how a human should live. They should be “in sin” and free to meander within their own rules, not someone else’s. Be free to fuck up royally and learn from it. I know I certainly have. Life is not a sitcom as people like Brad would like to believe, scripted with a laugh track unyielding to life’s unknown future. I have no idea what is going to happen this weekend, and I don’t want to know because playing out the future in present time does not allow you enjoy that tingle of sitting at a bar after too many tequila shots talking smack about your favorite football teams with a toothbrush salesman from Ohio and a stripper with a giant ying-yang tattoo emblazed across her ass.
I wish Brad the best on his journey through life as he already knows what’s going to happen. Me? Well, you get to read about those flaws here as I have a blank page and perhaps a couple of front row seats to Thunder Down Under in my future.
One more day.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Senior Challenge
It was a common Freshman college night. Not getting laid again, getting bullied by the 21 year old from New York who stayed in the Freshman dorm because he wanted to knock around some feeble Midwestern kid trying to make heads and tails of all the sudden freedom he was exposed to. Prior to this, his life was nothing but responsibilities, go to school, take the advance placements courses, play baseball, work part-time job 15 minutes away, pray 85’ hatchback Nova does not break down, do homework, rinse and repeat. 37 year old soon-to-be Senior looks back at the 18 year old Freshman and shakes his head at the kid walking into the two bedroom dorm surrounded by fellow drunks as another tequila race was being set.
Four shots of Cuervo , three Gold, one 1800 at the end. Which after slamming back the last one to “win” the race made the Freshman proclaim victory and defeat all in a span on 15 minutes after receiving high fives like he just hit a game-winner from the top of the key, the Freshman’s body was not attuned to just alcohol normally flipping through a weekend night in Karkov with cranberry juice or making a Keystone Light beeramid.
After a night of projectile puke in nearly orifice of the bathroom, the Freshman was slowly learning about peer pressure. The Senior now more mature (HA!), more experienced would turn down such challenges but still reserves the right to make a fool out of himself at any given time because frankly that is what he does. It took a head injury, near divorce, two children, and life rebirth to figure out that it’s ok to go balls to the wall, it cleanses the soul to let out the person behind the corporate job and loving father and loyal husband just don't try to down a bottle of tequila while doing so.
Pic cred
But, there’s a difference between the Freshman and the Senior. One gave in to peer pressure without an end-game, just throwing his body at whatever, whenever. The other thinks before giving into a rum filled dream-like state or taking on a challenge. Now, it’s the Freshman’s turn to laugh at the elder and shake his head at the quest before him. Old, creaky, numb, the Freshman could spirit past the elder statesman backwards and shout insults normally reserved for Sunday morning AWA Wrestling with Mean Gene Okerlund separating The Animal and Baron Von Raschke’s deadly CLAW.
About a month ago there were whispers of a possible Mastodon Weekend revival but with an event open for those who have flocked to the healthier side of degeneracy and started running. The Senior had been watching the Facebook updates of his friends for over a year shaking his no as the pursuit of a college degree has drained nearly all free-time and energy to workout. “Sally ran 3.9 miles in 28.43mins burning 279 calories! As told by Nike WingTracker!”. This time the peer pressure would come from not booze fueled prop bets but summoning my expanding ass to stand up and carve out enough time to attempt to laugh at The Freshman. Granted he weighed 120 in full hockey gear and could run a sub six-minute mile without breaking a sweat while the Senior takes nine minutes for the same distance and nearly collapses into a slushy salt lick.
So it’s on. Even if the gathering does not materialize, the peer pressure of running has tipped over my last empty shot of tequila, as for the past two weeks I have hit the icy roads six different times in my hometown to find what many of my friends have enjoyed. A quiet cadence of putting foot in front of New Balance-filled foot, watching bare snow-lined tree come and fade as another corner is turned until the legs cannot give anymore.
The Senior looks at the Freshman with a glare that says “challenge accepted”. The goal? To run a half-marathon by next year with no stopping after the Senior become the Graduate.
See you on the path.
Four shots of Cuervo , three Gold, one 1800 at the end. Which after slamming back the last one to “win” the race made the Freshman proclaim victory and defeat all in a span on 15 minutes after receiving high fives like he just hit a game-winner from the top of the key, the Freshman’s body was not attuned to just alcohol normally flipping through a weekend night in Karkov with cranberry juice or making a Keystone Light beeramid.
After a night of projectile puke in nearly orifice of the bathroom, the Freshman was slowly learning about peer pressure. The Senior now more mature (HA!), more experienced would turn down such challenges but still reserves the right to make a fool out of himself at any given time because frankly that is what he does. It took a head injury, near divorce, two children, and life rebirth to figure out that it’s ok to go balls to the wall, it cleanses the soul to let out the person behind the corporate job and loving father and loyal husband just don't try to down a bottle of tequila while doing so.
But, there’s a difference between the Freshman and the Senior. One gave in to peer pressure without an end-game, just throwing his body at whatever, whenever. The other thinks before giving into a rum filled dream-like state or taking on a challenge. Now, it’s the Freshman’s turn to laugh at the elder and shake his head at the quest before him. Old, creaky, numb, the Freshman could spirit past the elder statesman backwards and shout insults normally reserved for Sunday morning AWA Wrestling with Mean Gene Okerlund separating The Animal and Baron Von Raschke’s deadly CLAW.
About a month ago there were whispers of a possible Mastodon Weekend revival but with an event open for those who have flocked to the healthier side of degeneracy and started running. The Senior had been watching the Facebook updates of his friends for over a year shaking his no as the pursuit of a college degree has drained nearly all free-time and energy to workout. “Sally ran 3.9 miles in 28.43mins burning 279 calories! As told by Nike WingTracker!”. This time the peer pressure would come from not booze fueled prop bets but summoning my expanding ass to stand up and carve out enough time to attempt to laugh at The Freshman. Granted he weighed 120 in full hockey gear and could run a sub six-minute mile without breaking a sweat while the Senior takes nine minutes for the same distance and nearly collapses into a slushy salt lick.
So it’s on. Even if the gathering does not materialize, the peer pressure of running has tipped over my last empty shot of tequila, as for the past two weeks I have hit the icy roads six different times in my hometown to find what many of my friends have enjoyed. A quiet cadence of putting foot in front of New Balance-filled foot, watching bare snow-lined tree come and fade as another corner is turned until the legs cannot give anymore.
The Senior looks at the Freshman with a glare that says “challenge accepted”. The goal? To run a half-marathon by next year with no stopping after the Senior become the Graduate.
See you on the path.
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
WPBT 2011: The Attack of the Re-served Fish
24.
image cred
The next day was spent with an itinerary, a mission, and on objective. No, pale, taller Jack Bauer was not going to stop a terrorist plot unless Al-Qaeda was going to hit a golf course, casino, or a wonderfully delicious Japanese restaurant tucked into a strip mall inside Vegas’ adjacent Chinatown.
The only explosions would be coming from a borrowed driver as F-Train was kind enough to pick up three people of Nordic stock in myself, Pebbles, and Bam-Bam along with my now awake and caffeinated roommate Joe Speaker were ready to destroy the course and clubhouse bar (in some cases one more than the other). Not everyone plays slots at 3am half-drunk in their pajamas before golf?
Wimps.
Meeting up with Dr. Chako and friend we split up into a foursome (Doc, Pebbles, Bam-Bam, and Doc’s friend) while I taught F-Train and Joe Speaker on the finer points of the Lebron James outline to perfect golf.
a) Win lots of money performing well in the regular season
b) Shut down like a five year old who didn’t get their naps and refuses to eat the asparagus
Long Drive? Check. Closest to Pin? Check. Skins? Check. Raving Speaker on giving me strokes and shooting near par for the first time in my life? Youbetcha.
However when the second half came and like Mr. James' ability to flop in the playoffs, so did my swing, my shoulder, and my chances of winning as Speaker’s brand of golf billiards using poor, defenseless winged animals as rails would prove to be victorious this day as dusk rapidly approached and many beers and stories needed to be consumes within the spacious bar/clubhouse.
Back to the strip after nearly paying for my round thanks to Speaker’s Taylor Made Burner driver and a lofty 6 iron that sailed with the majestic flow of a seagull about to land on a sea-hardened wooden pier. Quick change and we were off again, this time for what has become a tradition for myself and many WPBT’ers. A nice sit down meal that does not involve 70s rockers, salad troughs, or former Penthouse Pets dancing behind frosted screens (lets make this one a reality, but they better serve excellent hot wings).
A green rectangular sign stating “Chinatown” similar to “Maple Grove” when I drive home was past as this was my first adventure or even knowledge that such a town existed next to the monuments of gambling. Raku meaning “Charcoal Grill House Enjoyment” according to the website has an alternate meaning that would be shared by those who sat down at the very table pictured on the front page of the website.
“Stuffed”
A wave with an undercurrent of food soon graced our table as many pleaded for a second or third stomach as giant pitchers of Sapporo were the only constant along with the banter consistent with just intelligent minds pouring over fish made six different ways and in some cases remade. Personally, there it was only my second time being forced to use chopsticks, the first being a family meal with a Korean friend but his mother was kind enough to take two tongue depressors with a spacer and tape them together as his soon-to-be restaurateur younger sister giggle at the American trying to pick up squid with them.
I will leave the culinary critique to those that actually have eaten or cooked with half the ingredients used on Chopped, and are used to fine dining as my experience with dinners that cost as much as my family’s weekly grocery bill is limited to these yearly splurges. Make no mistake, I soaked in every ounce that I could in conversation, atmosphere, and beer. And despite the lack of a fortune cookie at the end of the meal, Raku is for you. Then again the people surrounding this table could make the buffet at Excalibur seem like a Michelin award winning spread.
My memory is a little fuzzy by this point as the next memory is waking up SOBER (getting old?) for the WPBT tournament at Aria. And that will need to wait for another day.
The next day was spent with an itinerary, a mission, and on objective. No, pale, taller Jack Bauer was not going to stop a terrorist plot unless Al-Qaeda was going to hit a golf course, casino, or a wonderfully delicious Japanese restaurant tucked into a strip mall inside Vegas’ adjacent Chinatown.
The only explosions would be coming from a borrowed driver as F-Train was kind enough to pick up three people of Nordic stock in myself, Pebbles, and Bam-Bam along with my now awake and caffeinated roommate Joe Speaker were ready to destroy the course and clubhouse bar (in some cases one more than the other). Not everyone plays slots at 3am half-drunk in their pajamas before golf?
Wimps.
Meeting up with Dr. Chako and friend we split up into a foursome (Doc, Pebbles, Bam-Bam, and Doc’s friend) while I taught F-Train and Joe Speaker on the finer points of the Lebron James outline to perfect golf.
a) Win lots of money performing well in the regular season
b) Shut down like a five year old who didn’t get their naps and refuses to eat the asparagus
Long Drive? Check. Closest to Pin? Check. Skins? Check. Raving Speaker on giving me strokes and shooting near par for the first time in my life? Youbetcha.
However when the second half came and like Mr. James' ability to flop in the playoffs, so did my swing, my shoulder, and my chances of winning as Speaker’s brand of golf billiards using poor, defenseless winged animals as rails would prove to be victorious this day as dusk rapidly approached and many beers and stories needed to be consumes within the spacious bar/clubhouse.
Back to the strip after nearly paying for my round thanks to Speaker’s Taylor Made Burner driver and a lofty 6 iron that sailed with the majestic flow of a seagull about to land on a sea-hardened wooden pier. Quick change and we were off again, this time for what has become a tradition for myself and many WPBT’ers. A nice sit down meal that does not involve 70s rockers, salad troughs, or former Penthouse Pets dancing behind frosted screens (lets make this one a reality, but they better serve excellent hot wings).
A green rectangular sign stating “Chinatown” similar to “Maple Grove” when I drive home was past as this was my first adventure or even knowledge that such a town existed next to the monuments of gambling. Raku meaning “Charcoal Grill House Enjoyment” according to the website has an alternate meaning that would be shared by those who sat down at the very table pictured on the front page of the website.
“Stuffed”
A wave with an undercurrent of food soon graced our table as many pleaded for a second or third stomach as giant pitchers of Sapporo were the only constant along with the banter consistent with just intelligent minds pouring over fish made six different ways and in some cases remade. Personally, there it was only my second time being forced to use chopsticks, the first being a family meal with a Korean friend but his mother was kind enough to take two tongue depressors with a spacer and tape them together as his soon-to-be restaurateur younger sister giggle at the American trying to pick up squid with them.
I will leave the culinary critique to those that actually have eaten or cooked with half the ingredients used on Chopped, and are used to fine dining as my experience with dinners that cost as much as my family’s weekly grocery bill is limited to these yearly splurges. Make no mistake, I soaked in every ounce that I could in conversation, atmosphere, and beer. And despite the lack of a fortune cookie at the end of the meal, Raku is for you. Then again the people surrounding this table could make the buffet at Excalibur seem like a Michelin award winning spread.
My memory is a little fuzzy by this point as the next memory is waking up SOBER (getting old?) for the WPBT tournament at Aria. And that will need to wait for another day.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Death and Rebirth of a Salesman
I wrote this after reading Death of a Saleman for the first time. Yes, I'm probably the only 37 year old on the planet who has never seen a play or read this masterpiece.
But, it hit the spot.
Here's what I wrote for the discussion in class:
What scared me after reading Death of a Salesman is I saw a little of Biff and Willy in my own life. Willy for the way he works himself to the bone, feels empty inside while grinding out a living because there is no ultimate happiness. Willy: “I know it when I walk in. They seem to laugh at me” (Klinkowitz & Wallace, 2007, p.2341) . No matter how many awards I have won at work, grades achieved, or even the smiles on my kid’s faces, I always think someone is still laughing at me. Despite irreplaceable friendships it was not always like that, it felt forced like I shoved myself into other people’s lives instead of being invited. The grind that Willy was on is similar to what I face. Getting up daily at 4:30am, home after 5pm, and I am typing this around 10pm because after helping with dinner, folding laundry, and tucking the kids in bed I finally get a chance to read a story that touched me a little bit. Sure, my life is nowhere near the mess of Biff or Willy as I have great group of friends, loving wife who does not blindly follow me, but there’s a emptiness, one that make me wonder why I’m still fighting the insecurities of yesteryears and the prospect of not fulfilling the grand life my parents thought their genius son should have (much like Willy talking up Biff too much).
Biff : “I am not a leader of men, Willy, and neither are you” (Klinkowitz & Wallace, 2007, p.2388). It took a head injury, and several years of depression to realize that I enjoy working and that becoming a manager was not the end game, but instead finding work worth doing would keep me hungry to be alive. Writing has a cathartic effect; I can splash my dark feelings onto a page and cast them away like a minnow on a hook ready to hit the lake. Luckily, I stuck with it long enough so I can earn a little coin for my words on the weekends writing about a game that I enjoy due to its social aspect and now after several years at Target there’s work waiting for me in about eight hours that someone cares about, including me.
I could have taken the easy road like Willy, but instead I found the ability like Biff to take stock in who I am, versus who people want me to be and start anew.
But, it hit the spot.
Here's what I wrote for the discussion in class:
What scared me after reading Death of a Salesman is I saw a little of Biff and Willy in my own life. Willy for the way he works himself to the bone, feels empty inside while grinding out a living because there is no ultimate happiness. Willy: “I know it when I walk in. They seem to laugh at me” (Klinkowitz & Wallace, 2007, p.2341) . No matter how many awards I have won at work, grades achieved, or even the smiles on my kid’s faces, I always think someone is still laughing at me. Despite irreplaceable friendships it was not always like that, it felt forced like I shoved myself into other people’s lives instead of being invited. The grind that Willy was on is similar to what I face. Getting up daily at 4:30am, home after 5pm, and I am typing this around 10pm because after helping with dinner, folding laundry, and tucking the kids in bed I finally get a chance to read a story that touched me a little bit. Sure, my life is nowhere near the mess of Biff or Willy as I have great group of friends, loving wife who does not blindly follow me, but there’s a emptiness, one that make me wonder why I’m still fighting the insecurities of yesteryears and the prospect of not fulfilling the grand life my parents thought their genius son should have (much like Willy talking up Biff too much).
Biff : “I am not a leader of men, Willy, and neither are you” (Klinkowitz & Wallace, 2007, p.2388). It took a head injury, and several years of depression to realize that I enjoy working and that becoming a manager was not the end game, but instead finding work worth doing would keep me hungry to be alive. Writing has a cathartic effect; I can splash my dark feelings onto a page and cast them away like a minnow on a hook ready to hit the lake. Luckily, I stuck with it long enough so I can earn a little coin for my words on the weekends writing about a game that I enjoy due to its social aspect and now after several years at Target there’s work waiting for me in about eight hours that someone cares about, including me.
I could have taken the easy road like Willy, but instead I found the ability like Biff to take stock in who I am, versus who people want me to be and start anew.
Monday, January 30, 2012
2011 WPBT: Here We Go Again
Whitesnake firmly in your ear now? Good. Keep it in while reading.
I feel like a smoker having to sneak out behind a building under a rock just to take a drag and bathe in Febreeze before jumping back into cubicallandia.
Yes it’s been awhile, a long while, and like most people my schedule has taken a turn for the busy going on busier after wrapping up Event #48 of the Turbo Championship of Online Poker at PokerStarsBlog Sunday afternoon, there was still a two-hour audit risk assessment memo to write for one of my classes.
A couple of ice cubes in a tall glass with rum and Diet Dr. Pepper cured the nerves enough to sleep. But, nearly two month ago (TWO?!?!?) holy shit time does not stop. Ok, at the beginning of December likeminded individuals gathered once again in the land that Steve Wynn, Fried Twinkies, and $500 Captain and Cokes can be guzzled to your heart’s content.
The 2011 WPBT continued the tradition of meeting fellow degenerates that disguise themselves as people who have their shit together by cloaking their bodies with professional –looking fabrics, massive vocabularies, and college degrees. Yet, we all meet up to take off those things for three to four days in the desert to be people again. Stripped down to a bunch of smiles and real life, no hiding within an Armani suit or perfect hand gestures learned at a corporation’s build-a-better manager seminar.
You get to be you. And if that you happens to enjoy playing slot machines at 4am with a rum and coke in your pajamas, rock the flannels for all they’re worth.
My WPBT started quickly as after I touched down and waited for my roommate to saunter in from California, a little slot play was needed and after losing $50 or so, I was just about to go back up to the room when some magnetic force pulled me to the Rockin Olives bank of slots at the Monte Carlo. While chatting it up with a local who had plenty of cash but chilling after his friend the MLB headed back home, I was more interested in asking questions about his friend. Yes, he has worked a World Series, yes some players are actually pretty cool to chat with, and yes he gets great seats whenever he wants.
Then, my machine started going nutso immediately after breaking the drink seal (since I did not get the 1st class upgrade like last year). JACKPOT! Jumping, overtipping, hand-shaking commenced immediately as I get too excited about these types of things, when working in accounting you can’t too excited about the large numbers in the ledgers since they will never be yours. After filling out my first W-9 it was time for a quick drink at Sherwood Forest.
Quick because the AlCantExperience was bored and needed large drinks and large betting at the Palms for the Pokerati PLO/NLHE game. After a double SoCo/water back for him, usual for me as well and catching up with a friend who’s success I was very happy to hear about (Epic Poker) as we made it into the game for a few hours as one of my favorite reads on Twitter @Alexpokerguy was minding his own business, and politely tapped me on the shoulder when a group of bridesmaids with EPIC ASS gathered in the adjacent high limit slot room. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
After another drink at with Al, it was time to head back to the Sherwood Forest for craps (lost but won because I was surrounded by a table of WPBT go’ers who actually knew what they were doing), and settled in for some PAI GOW with Speaker, Maigrey, Chilly who watched me bet on another guy’s bonus spot and hit a straight flush, then 30 minutes later I hit my own with the seventh card being the same color but different suit and one pip off of a seven-card straight flush. It is my unicorn, and one day I will catch it.
Anything that happened from there to rockin my PJs at 4am before golf is a blur and I apologize if I got 86’d again because you people make this guy too happy just to be there.
I won’t say when the recap on golf, tournament, meeting up with my brother, Raku, LOSING MY VOICE, Rock and Roll half-marathon with several NAKED GUYS and several deep chats will appear on this page. But, I can say.
Thank you for your support. And boobs.
I feel like a smoker having to sneak out behind a building under a rock just to take a drag and bathe in Febreeze before jumping back into cubicallandia.
Yes it’s been awhile, a long while, and like most people my schedule has taken a turn for the busy going on busier after wrapping up Event #48 of the Turbo Championship of Online Poker at PokerStarsBlog Sunday afternoon, there was still a two-hour audit risk assessment memo to write for one of my classes.
A couple of ice cubes in a tall glass with rum and Diet Dr. Pepper cured the nerves enough to sleep. But, nearly two month ago (TWO?!?!?) holy shit time does not stop. Ok, at the beginning of December likeminded individuals gathered once again in the land that Steve Wynn, Fried Twinkies, and $500 Captain and Cokes can be guzzled to your heart’s content.
The 2011 WPBT continued the tradition of meeting fellow degenerates that disguise themselves as people who have their shit together by cloaking their bodies with professional –looking fabrics, massive vocabularies, and college degrees. Yet, we all meet up to take off those things for three to four days in the desert to be people again. Stripped down to a bunch of smiles and real life, no hiding within an Armani suit or perfect hand gestures learned at a corporation’s build-a-better manager seminar.
You get to be you. And if that you happens to enjoy playing slot machines at 4am with a rum and coke in your pajamas, rock the flannels for all they’re worth.
My WPBT started quickly as after I touched down and waited for my roommate to saunter in from California, a little slot play was needed and after losing $50 or so, I was just about to go back up to the room when some magnetic force pulled me to the Rockin Olives bank of slots at the Monte Carlo. While chatting it up with a local who had plenty of cash but chilling after his friend the MLB headed back home, I was more interested in asking questions about his friend. Yes, he has worked a World Series, yes some players are actually pretty cool to chat with, and yes he gets great seats whenever he wants.
Then, my machine started going nutso immediately after breaking the drink seal (since I did not get the 1st class upgrade like last year). JACKPOT! Jumping, overtipping, hand-shaking commenced immediately as I get too excited about these types of things, when working in accounting you can’t too excited about the large numbers in the ledgers since they will never be yours. After filling out my first W-9 it was time for a quick drink at Sherwood Forest.
Quick because the AlCantExperience was bored and needed large drinks and large betting at the Palms for the Pokerati PLO/NLHE game. After a double SoCo/water back for him, usual for me as well and catching up with a friend who’s success I was very happy to hear about (Epic Poker) as we made it into the game for a few hours as one of my favorite reads on Twitter @Alexpokerguy was minding his own business, and politely tapped me on the shoulder when a group of bridesmaids with EPIC ASS gathered in the adjacent high limit slot room. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.
After another drink at with Al, it was time to head back to the Sherwood Forest for craps (lost but won because I was surrounded by a table of WPBT go’ers who actually knew what they were doing), and settled in for some PAI GOW with Speaker, Maigrey, Chilly who watched me bet on another guy’s bonus spot and hit a straight flush, then 30 minutes later I hit my own with the seventh card being the same color but different suit and one pip off of a seven-card straight flush. It is my unicorn, and one day I will catch it.
Anything that happened from there to rockin my PJs at 4am before golf is a blur and I apologize if I got 86’d again because you people make this guy too happy just to be there.
I won’t say when the recap on golf, tournament, meeting up with my brother, Raku, LOSING MY VOICE, Rock and Roll half-marathon with several NAKED GUYS and several deep chats will appear on this page. But, I can say.
Thank you for your support. And boobs.
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