Thursday, August 31, 2006

Post Number Five Hundred and Three

A number caught my eye this morning.

Posts = 502

For a kid/man-child who hated English class enough to switch teachers in High School so he could get credit for this class by watching Dirty Dancing, Hamlet (with a sober and less anti-Semitic Mel Gibson), and having a take-home final exam which Indiana Jones battles replicants in LA 2019. It was also a great time for a nap considering 1.5 hours of baseball practice before school, then three hours after school, a part-time job at Tar-Zay Boutique and honor classes in Math and Science.

Did I mention my single digit scoring on the English ACT section? I've never cared much for writing or being creative in any form that didn't require throwing a ball or hitting a puck.

I still wonder today why I continue this page and dump my vanilla thoughts about poker, parenting, and people who make your brain die a little from their stupidity. Like the lady who asked a smiling, red polo shirt wearing Target employee at a store yesterday while standing in middle of the "One Spot" (just for those two people who don't shop at Target, everything is a dollar in the One Spot and its clearly marked) for a price check. I walked away shaking my head like the duck in the AFLAC commerical with Yogi Berra getting his hairs snipped. People like that should be locked in a padded cell and have their license to breathe air revoked before they impose their drool cup intelligence upon some 16 year old McDonald's trainee to ask why there's cheese on his cheeseburger causing him to abandon his job and live in his mother's basement for the next twenty years chain smoking Camel filterless and mumbling about the Twins losing two straight to the lowly Royals in the middle of a playoff race.

But this isn't about me, its about pimping a group of gonzo writers who's ability to paint a picture thru words about strippers, country fair workers, and past loves gives a true meaning to the word "writer".

Pauly's Truckin is back with another issue this month. Enjoy!

I'm heading to the cabin again this weekend, but will be up all night tonight to try desparately to keep my money from the PartyPoker O8 idiots while clearing their latest bonus. Lost some big pots last night due to their ignorance towards the four cards in front of them, I'm still searching for the leak but after looking over the hands I can't see playing them any other way. Or maybe I just suck. I'm leaning toward suck.

Enough about poker... on with the show!

Truckin' - August 2006, Vol. 6, Issue 8
1. The Menagerie of Tweakers in Puerile City by Paul McGuire

Las Vegas is a magnet for the absurd and peculiar. I don't know too many places where you can order a Mai Tai at 4am from a bartender named Sully or find a hooker to take a dump on your chest for $300. Sometimes you can find both at the same bar... More

2. Root-Man and the Eleven Foot Rattler by Craig Cunningham

Will Percy, was a local eccentric and legend whose cavernous home was a revolving door of all things my father was not. Writers, gamblers, vagabonds, philosophers, and well-to-do intellectuals came and went like a Greek gypsies... More

3. The Album by Mella

I look at her now, carefully slicing through a long brown onion, still beautiful - despite a toothless smile and soft cheeks that sink in around her lips. Her eyes are the same sparkling green, but lined at the corners with delicate crows feet... More

4. Fairbanks by Dr. Chako

I look up over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of chestnut hair and a leopard tattoo on her right arm. I give her my best one-eyebrow-up look, yet she is already moving down the aisle, perhaps embarrassed by the audible hmmm-ing... More

5. Hangover: A Bukowski Poem by Sigge S. Amdal

A short-haired dog with contractions on its rear part,turns his ass to me and shits a large turd right there on the street.This does not make me hungry... More

6. Salt by Falstaff

I can still taste the salt on your lips –Sun-kissed blonde and sweet, sweet seventeenGraduation week daiquiris, sand surf... More

7. Training Camp, the Cleveland Browns, and My Father by Sean A. Donahue

I remember the games like they were yesterday, 70,000 fans packed into old Cleveland Stadium. What a lousy stadium, falling apart and just pitiful... More

No comments: