Same old, Same old (tired) situation

A post seen too often lately from friends followed for almost eight years.  "Where have you been?", "why haven't you been posting?", "is this place getting dusty?".

The first one, school has kicked into high-gear, combined with no weekends off for over month plus trying to get up to the cabin every weekend, equals zero time to jot inane markings of my boring suburbanite married life.  Busy does not equal exciting, at least in my world, to others flying around the world in exotic lands and less-than-safe hotels and airports, my path is pretty straightforward with the same 8.7 miles commute in the wee hours of the morning, same return trip and maybe spice it up with a stop at the Holiday gas station, then back home to become either daddy or that one parent trying a little too hard to remind his five year old daughter to keep her hands together while swinging the bat playing T-ball.

Add in the Swedish sauna-like heat over the past three weeks, plus an annual guy's weekend trip that included passing out next to a bottle of Pliny the Elder and getting stacked in a $20 buy-in NLHE game by a chick that had her chair crying for mercy, and you've got one tired blogger.  Hell, Saturday night there was me, myself, and I slumped on a tan sectional all alone when I should have been downtown having a beer on a rooftop with good friends.  But the sirens of the afternoon nap called and four hours later I woke up to Parker Bonn Jr. trying to close out a bowling match on ESPN 26.

Lack of posting is both the above excuses, which really are lame, and lack of desire.  Since my advanced composition professor has decided to make our fingers bleed while banging out long drawn out analytical thesis,  10 to 1 arguments, scouring academic papers for the true meaning within, and becoming conversant while penning the next Moby Dick, my fingers and whatever is left of the magical pixie dust of creativity within my rum-soaked fingers is dried up from the effort.  The challenges are awesome, I mean who wouldn't want to learn how to draft a cost summary for a processing plant while derviving the meaning from a paper that compares tommy girl perfume commericials and corporations exploiting nationalist pride for profit?

Again, exciting life I lead.

The film of non-use on this writing shelf?  Since this is my shelf to place trophies, kids stories, and bitch about when the missus and I have not had sex for weeks, it will be used, abeit sparingly during the summer.  Much like the golden ages when Americans could play quasi-legal online poker for more than points towards a t-shirt or brass bracelet, my fun time online takes a big dip in the months filled with baseball, sweaty boxer briefs, and tall, cold pours of Surly Furious on the deck.  Drunken poker Thursday are no more, as my degeneracy has been diluted to playing slots on Facebook.

See DOJ, you make me cry, turning my hobby night of blank thoughts into an evening of Mark Zuckerberg sponsored pokes and pop-up windows to remind my friends that I'm playing Slot-O-Mania past midnight. No worries about that five page paper and 30 different general ledger entries due by Sunday before getting the low-down on the final two tables of the PokerStars Sunday Warm-up.  Yep, NO FUN FOR YOU! /Soup Nazi

No drawn out rant today as tonight I'll be thumbing through 20 pages of academic writing penis pumping (or titty enlarging?), as the author's of the textbook seemed more concerned with the amount of 50 cent words they could cram into paper-filled vacuum than trying to teach a point to improve my writing skillz (or lack thereof).  Reading while taking my son and 10 other kids to something called "SkyZone" to wear them out playing dodgeball on trampolines. Actaully looking forward to this as we had a blast the first time I took him here, something that the recent stock market roller coaster, riots in London, or moral online gambling zealots won't touch.

And times like these will get my pen here for a few minutes each week.

Spaceballs: The Vacation Recap

$369 Round-trip from Lindbergh Terminal to McCarran on December 8th.

This pricing is courtesy of Orbiz.com *start deep announcers voice* where our price assurance guarantees you never pay more than the lowest stated fare! 

Or plan degenerate gatherings too far in advance.

Wow.  Didn't take long to hop off one vacation think about the next now did it?  If I were to reach into the DSM-IV to reach a prognosis for the past month Manic-Depressive would leap from the couch and bill me $200 for the hour with a handful of happy pills.

First I didn't get a promotion, then won an employee of the year award, then went on vacation in a shitty mood, got drunk several times, shitty mood did not improve, finally resolved shitty mood, enjoyed remainder of vacation, came back to work in zombie-state, got yearly review, received a mark reserved for the top 1% of employees, and got to play with kids.  I think avoiding the PLO Rush ring games for the next month will prove to be wise.

If anyone could find normal out there lurking behind mediocre, I'd appreciate if he'd drop around for a chat because my handle of Captain at home is going to take a hit unless someone quieter days come without group-think level existentialist discussions about life, marriage, and parenting bouncing around in my head. Throw in this new pressure with school and being the BMOC at work (while still in the pint-sized cube of course) and there’s something that has to give.



But, it doesn’t. Stretching is something mentioned in this blog more than once and I’ll continue doing so until Reed Richards leans back and says “DAaaaaaaaaaaaamn!”. Oh, I’ll also be using my annual poker reporting card to join the PokerStarsBlog crew once again for full coverage of the 114 events (!) of the 2011 SCOOP tournament series.



Sleep? For pussies. Luckily, I find an extra tank of natural Red Bull when musing about the scary turn card, so weaving some rather interesting workdays into the normal routine shouldn’t hurt.



Well, nothing that a caffeinated drink and bowl of Fruity Pebbles can’t solve. Yes that’s a double negative, but my blog is a grammatical train wreak anyway and nothing that Denzel Washington or any college professor of the verse could solve. Or hope to repeat for that matter.

Ok, vacation. The Spaceballs short-short version.

Flew to San Antonio
Drank.
Mexico.
Cards.
Mexican strip club (seriously, $100 gets you all the syphilis you could want to gather up with an endless bottle of Sol in your hand).
Mexican bathroom video (may post, may not, definitely don’t remember doing this)
Golf (windy and humid but struck the ball well including several drives that did not anger the local's roofs and windows)
Pouted, then pouted again
Hashed things out with wife
Happy again
Drank
Drove to San Antonio
The Alamo (awesome history lesson wish I had more time)
Riverwalk (tell me why there are no rails next to the river with $2 beers and Sangria specials?!!?!?)
None of your business
Twins lose to Yankees again
Raising Cane’s chicken strips at 10am (I’d gain 30 pounds if this place was near me)
Read Falstaff’s Hard Day’s Knight vol. 1 on the flight home (well done again sir)
Hugs from two kids and promptly pass out after tucking them in

Word.

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).

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.

The gift that keeps giving

Image credit

When I finally looked up there was a 30 foot floodlight post with chipped brown paint standing tall hovering over me.  The sounds of the skating rink were a little different than I remembered growing up even if the little warming house still remained the same.  Sure the vending machine changed a bit from a quarter to $.75 with one of those new fangled dollar acceptors connected to it.  But the wood benches, puke spackled rubber floor and multi-colored brick interior with a lingering smell only hockey players could enjoy (or tolerate) still made up the hexagon shaped building.

I laid back for several minutes listening.  To the wind which brought a sharpness to an otherwise tame Minnesota early evening.  To the skaters which I could hear every c-cut and snowplow stop in the ice and could tell if they should be running down to Dave's Sport Shop on the other side of I-94 for the best skate sharping in town.  My kids were directly ahead of me but half of a football field length ahead of me on the "practice rink" on which if a hockey stick appeared the husky lady would don her Maple Grove Park and Rec jacket and give a few shouts until the heathens put away their warrior spears made by Reebok instead of Christian Brothers now.  The slap of the puck sounded differently as well, the wobbly mis-fires much different from the shots that rattled the back of the make-shift red pipe and fence goals.

My hearing aids have brought new sounds and experiences into my life since dropping a third of a Honda Civic on the Paparella  Ear, Head, and Neck Institute in exchange for those noises heard above.  Some people stuff a pipe and smoke its contents to feel, hear, and smell different things, I have molded plastic in my ears so I can do the same.  The crunch of the snow while extracting my body from the snow bank to join my kids on the pleasure rink and pick one up to hear "go faster daddy!" as I go a little slow than I did as a lanky 130 pound center who spend plenty of time avoiding goons who were, well my size now but probably didn't have the 10 years of bar fly experience in high school.

We would visit the double-sided hockey rink twice last weekend and both times the new music of the place gave me the pause to sit back and let the sounds come in.  That and I found out quickly my 36 year old body can't take more than three rushes up and down the opposing red lines without being completely wiped any longer.  Even nearly two years after shedding a tear inside my car after receiving this wonderful gift, the present still gives and will continue to do so. 

I'll wipe that smile right off your face

Is it time for Wilson Phillips yet?

No?

Sigh.

It's the home stretch to the 2010 WPBT Winter Classic where smiling is actually encouraged and won't get you a press conference beat down by our many illustrious poker writers for many different outlets.  Seriously?  Smiling?  I understand one question about the smirk, he answered cordially but to keep needling the guy and a team who just played awful football for 60 minutes is akin to having TMZ on your press pass.  Yep, just like those "reporters" who walk up to random celebs with hot-button questions "So OJ how's the right hook coming along?" "Paris do you prefer to use the left or right nostril?" "Hey!  Mr. Gibson could you tell us how you REALLY feel about Jews?".  Report, don't become part of the story.  Of course I did not attend J-school and since my poker reporting is done in the comfort of a Snuggie with a laptop and a Cap'n Coke sitting aside from the couch, I can't completely know what was going thru the mind of that reporter after last night's Monday Night Football game.

Photo Cred: ParkThoughts

Update to the last post:  I finished 12th in the PLO8 MTT after I was unable to keep my eyes open and opted for sleep.  Bad degen.  A decent shot for another small score but this week's schedule is brutal.  A full financial analysis of PartyGaming is due which was taken on due to being curious about the aftermath of leaving the US player base.  Profits down of course, but not as bad as you think.  I'll publish the numbers here after handing in the assignment.  Then, a 5-6 page essay comparing two short stories, along with normal weekly assignments, and trying to work ahead for next week since I don't feel like doing anything related to school in Vegas.  Oh, and there's taking the kids to see Santa at the Mall of America all day Friday
where I have two all-day passes to Nickelodeon Universe readied as a gift for daddy going away to spend a few days with friends.

If you see a spare me currently wandering around the back bank of slots at the Gold Coast or giving away money at the Flamingo's $2/$4 game at 5am nursing a hot chocolate, send him back to Minnesota, I could use my clone for this week. 

In case this is your first or fifth WPBT Winter Classic, is it imperative you read Dr. Pauly's guide to surviving the weekend.  Leave passing out on an off-strip Pai Gow table while Xi is trying to collect your losing bonus bet to overworked parents and veterans of such degeneracy.  We're used the five second naps and snapping awake with zero consciousness and appearing to function normally when the four year old is asking for help after turning the sink into a giant tub of cherry flavored kool-aid and playing Barbie's beach house from the sides.

8 days folks.

Now where are my orange wedges

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



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

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

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

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

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



You Make the Call!

Safe or Out? (Photo courtesy of Neal Anderson)

The thing is I was more interested that kept his eye on the ball while catching it.

Steps in Parenting: Sports

Getting to the office a few hours before most people show up gives a chance to stroll thru a mostly open parking lot and a few moments to take in scenery without glares of possible mental health problems from another corporate drones.  No cars zooming thru the front road, sprinklers saturating the bits of grass between the concrete dividers, and a smoke monster waffing thru the edges of once sizable marsh that now has a center of ledger balancing for an unnamed retail store standing in the middle.  It's a scene out of your favorite zombie movie, 28 Days Later sticks out in my mind despite my horrible attempts at a British accent.  The pavement is calm, no other walks of life within an corrected eye-sight radius just morning calm before the storm of deadlines and deciphering emails from people who speak English as their second or third language. 

Its the quiet walk that allows 10 minutes of reflection, breathing the fresh air before stuffing one's self into a cubical with pumped in freon to battle the near-summer humidity.  Before retiring last night I got to watch my son's first at bat from a thrown ball on the camcorder we had purchased around Christmas time but have only used sparingly and looked in disgust.  There he was holding the bat a little bit differently than practiced in the backyard over the last couple of years, knuckles not making the straight line, knees looking a bit stiff, and eyes more focused on the pitcher rather than the softened red-stiched ball they use. He would swing a total of ten times, feebly fouling off a few like Nick Punto having to face Mo Riveria but mostly finding air.  No stomping, no throwing the bat, just continued patience of trying again and again to get one between the chalk.

But, that wasn't my source ire watching the video.  It was the little figure in the polo shirt on the third base line behind the fence.  It was the father of that kid with gestures of WHY, turning around not understanding the seemingly smooth swing not connecting with the ball, embarrassed with his child's lack of skill as other parents tried to watch and wait for their little tikes turn. 

The embarrassment was on me.  I hated that person for not encouraging his son more, the fact that the much more mature baseball player wore the number three on the purple shirt with gold lettering that cost $5 more.  The player who could have packed it in after five whiffs instead gutted it out until he was directed to the bench and told to try again the next loop thru the numerical order was the man on the field not that selfish s.o.b. wincing in the background. 

Maybe it's due to this new parenting step of seeing my little athletes run around outside my body with my last name and wanting success before years of practice, wanting the natural home run swing and dedication to the sport laid out on a particular day.  The horrible feeling of becoming "that dad" when all I wanted to see was a smile on his face made me wonder if showing up for the games is a good idea.  My negative presence could not have helped in the least, only damaging the passing of the love of the diamond on to my son and daughter.  Time will tell if the asshole in the stands can take his son at face value and encourage what is there instead of trying to force what isn't.

Good thing there's a blog to talk to myself without worries of a doctor trying to cram Clonazepam down my throat.  And being able to reflect on a short walk is more therapy than that $250/hour master of the DSM could offer.  Now the part will reside in the father growing up to be the nurturing parent versus heckling fan.  

Opposite of sleep

If this were a poker post, I'd throw in a thought about lucksacking my way to a win with the bloggers this weekend.  No, not in the BBT 5, as the talented pen of Jeremiah Smith erased me in the long line of bad luck I've had in these tourneys with another bad beat.  Thanks again to Al Cant Hang and Poker From the Rail for their great set up in sending a few bloggers to the WSOP on their dime once again.

Instead I spent the weekend that was supposed to be "let's-let-daddy-catch-up-on-sleep-weekend".  Well, everyone who said life slows down after marriage and kids can lick my humidity induced sleep-deprived taint that does not feel quite as bad as the adolescent shown below (thank you Olivia Munn and Attack of the Show for providing some laughs but damn that sounds painful):



The humidity did not help my "day off" in which I got to play parent for four kids from 6am - 1pm at my parent's home which still employs the "open the freezer door for air conditioning" standard.  Fine for persons with access to pouring themselves a drink every 15 minutes, not so good for a 6 month old toddler or persons who had to calm said screaming toddler. 

Not fun.

Continued fun on the day consisted of watching my daughter "play" t-ball for the first time.  Still dazed and confused like a med student forced to take their MCATs from a reflection on a funhouse mirror as "Paradise" is blown thru 5 18-foot speaker towers, I was a looking forward to watching my baby tune up for her future ticket to college via softball.  Instead, of some Pete Rose-esque hussle I got to watch this:



Except Ramirez actually keeps his cap and glove on and doesn't demand his hair be put up in a different pony tail every five minutes.  Sit on the infield?  Check.  Throw glove?  Check.  Pout?  CheckCheckCheck.  Need a drink?  This one I don't really her because it was hot, but the kids did get a break every ten minutes while she took one every five.  Thanks to the Patti LaBelle diva showcase on the field, daddy and the family did not get the promised dilly bars from Dairy Queen on the ride home, instead we were treated to more crying and whining. 

But, like any responsible parent after tucking in the offending child, a loooooooong pull off a handle in a relaxing chair made the silence sound like a peaceful orchestra playing a sweet, airfilled melody to let the torn body heal up for June which is shaping up to be just as crazy as May.  If anyone has a handy replacator I could use about three of myself next month.

 

Vegas Turns Four

Cheers to you honey.  May your Tinkerbell pinata be filled with candy and money and your screams be muted for just one day because daddy is a bit tired this week.

This is how you start off Saturday

If you need me, I'll be hiding out in this awesomely made fort until Sunday night's $4 million guaranteed Sunday Million

Ciao

Looking Up From Coming Down

At bottom of a small hill on Friday there was nothing but clear blue sky with a wisp of clouds hanging for decoration. Laying face-up on the frozen pond after my seventh run with the midnight blue rocket sled on my left and a very happy daughter whose little legs couldn't negotiate the sharp drop off between our land and the reedy pond on my right it seemed right to try to nap.

Until of course the other sled in use did a snowplow stop just short of my head causing a mini-avalanche of frozen white stuff over my already fridge face.

It was perfect.

Not too cold, not too warm, the laughs were genuine, and there were no pulling rank of parent to child, just smiles.

I'll remember that short hour in the backyard as the holidays roll on which is sure to bring more tantrums from lack of sleep, lack of treats, and lack of patience as we truck between various relatives and greetings.

Speaking of lack of patience, WTF Minnesota Vikings?

Three weeks ago the "on paper" Vikes were mirroring the "on field" ones for the first time since those years before Chris Gamble ended Culpepper's career (aside from some horrible bloated attempts to regain form) and Randy Moss was busy showing off his ass to a stunned Lambeau Field crowd. On Sunday night versus the Panthers you were the epitome of people's perceptions of this franchise.

Great names with poor execution and worse results. You were Peter North needing a roadmap to a vagina. You were Louis CK killing the crowd and suddenly trying out a knock-knock joke better suited for your kids' preschool class. You were Scarlette Johansson on a bad hair day (which actually now that I think about it, sounds kinda sexy). But, damn you guys for making me believe.

Lets start with the big "schism" talk first since people who follow sports much better than I (and someone I owe a poker post to in the near future), think this isn't a bunch of blown smoke and its ready to ignite a sizable flame in that media circus tent that surrounds Favre. As you know the Vikes newly signed coach tried to yank a 100% first-ballot Hall of Fame quarterback from the game with THEM LEADING for unknown reasons. Now another starter did get the hook and it was well-deserved as Bryant McKinnie was doubling as a blocking sled made of sugar and spice and everything nice against a resurgent Julius Peppers. But aside from injury concerns or possible injury from Mr. Peppers mistaking Favre's head for a slab of Carolina's best BBQ, why would you even broach the idea of taking the leader of the team out of a tight game?

So Coach Chilly isn't doing this team's cohesiveness any good what else is going on? Purple Jesus having to shake off hits in the backfield is a major downer for an O-line that was supposed to be one of the NFL's best. Can't reel off those highlight film open field breakaways or plowing thru cornerbacks if the 350 lbs. fat-ass nose tackle is sitting on your franchise player two yards behind the line of scrimmage. Pass blocking until a few weeks ago has been solid but even that went to pot on Sunday as Favre went down several times, not helped by the fact PJ only rushed 12 times.

The defense gets a little ribbing here as well for not exploiting what was a cobbled together O-line from Carolina. Our front four has been excellent in getting pressure on the quarterback all year and came up limp, especially in the fourth quarter with tackling better used during a 8th grade flag football P.E. class as Stewart became the first 100 rusher against the Vikes in 36 games thanks to several second and third efforts to take a two yard loss into a seven yard gain.

I wasn't able to watch the whole game, just peering up from the laptop as the Sunday Warm-up folks thought it would be awesome to bust out in clumps versus spacing it out a bit as the steam rose from my typing fingers :) But, I got the gist of this team's effort that is/was a Super Bowl contender, it smelled like defeat before the final gun, and its rotten carcass is now prepping for a trap game in Chicago against an awful Bears team with nothing to lose and everything to gain by taking a flailing playoff team down another peg.

Will the Brett Favre that dazzled us earlier in the season return. Most likely not, a case of the "olds" is creeping in, and unless the O-line gets their collective heads together and starts plowing the road for Purple Jesus and the defense knocks up Sulkathor (wrong Jay Cutler sorry) like they did in the Dome win, Viking fans will have to wear their 2009 NFC North Champs T-shirt from Target with spite as they lose the bye to the Eagles and a probable 1st round bomb from the playoffs.

I still expect victory at Solider Field, but how they get the win is more important.

Sulkathor You Are Next

Holiday week means quick hits since everyone looked my calendar and said: "hey let's schedule everything for Monday morning since we know Dave is a bright and chipper morning person!"

Bright? Not so much. Chipper? Despite finishing up the Sunday Warm-up wrap up around midnight I could say my step has a certain bounce to it. Why? Doing those write-ups and various blog posts (paid or unpaid) gives a certain satisifation that after five plus years (I guess I missed the five year Nickleanddimes "anniversary", guess I'll treat myself to some Nordic dominatrix porn that takes place in an ice hotel and involves Swedish meatball vendors and hockey sticks). The fire to write about this card game won't ever go away, it may simmer at time underneath a layer of ash and kindling, but there will always be a spark to chroncle that last river card coming out.

Or writing in general for that matter. Whether the subject is my kids (as seen by Kyra's game face), being a homer for this "fly-over" state's teams, or a pissed off rant about people at Costco who can't calculate the force neccessary to push their jumbo sized cart in a manner that doesn't ram them into my ankles. I know my ass is becoming a thing of beauty better enshrined on the pages of GQ but please keep your distance.

You could quote Denny Green's "they were who they thought they were" line yesterday as the Purple broke out of their slumber after the first quarter to put away the anemic Seattle Seahawks 35-9. After the 0-0 tie, someone got Favre out of his afternoon nap time by turning off the World War II synopsis on The History Channel just in time to go out and tear down the SeaChickens' defense for two quarters and get back to the 52" Tobisha during the fourth quarter just in time for the D-Day invasion complete with milk and cookies.

The old man jokes won't fade here, but good grief he looks someone playing Madden 2010 on easy mode. 22 of 25 and four scores, including another cartoonish catch by Sidney Rice in the back corner of the endzone (to those who selected Mr. Rice in your FFLs and dropped him after a few weeks, I point and laugh in your general direction). The talent was always their since this Gamecock arrived a few years ago, but injury and T-Jack's wounded ducks limited his potential. The receiving core has fed off the 40 year old number four, and vice versa. Combined with seemingly unlimited time to throw and giving himself time to throw, Favre alone with Purple Jesus have given the team the balanced offense they've been looking for.

The real shut out was on the other side of the ball as the defense locked down the Seahawk's offense with a parade of three-and-outs and limiting their running game to four yards. Four. Not forty, not five, just four on 13 carries. Which was to be expected since Hasselbeck has been called on to throw more than 50 times a game throughout the season.

The Vikes did what was expected of them unlike the team who gave the Purple their only black mark this season. The Chiefs? You let a team led by a backup quarterback, suspended All-Pro receiver, banished All-Pro running back, and all around asshole coach, win? Not good was seeing Big Ben taking a smack upside the head as the Steelers will need the oversized quarterback if they want to defend their title against the Vikes this winter.

Another WTF goes to the resurgently retreating Bengals who have scored several big wins this year only to lose to Oakland yesterday? Who Dey, not OK. Which team is going to show up at the Metrodome in three weeks? The one that beat the Steelers and Packers on the road, or the one that laid an egg yesterday against a squad better suited for the soon-to-be defunct UFL. I know the promising season of Cedric Benson was curtailed by injury but Palmer has a decent crew of receivers to go with a top five league-wise defense to overcome this.

T. J. Houshmandzadeh might be contemplating his career choice as he been on the opposite side of the sidelines yesterday, but another high priced free agent that was rumored to land here will get his shot this week to prove he made the right decsion. Sulkathor Cutler threw passes to various green-tinted jerseys last night much like the week before when it counted and lost the game for the Bears who come into town in a game that would wrap up the NFC Central divsion with a Vikings victory (yes, I'm aware that is fuzzy math go have another triple latte and smell the over priced coffee). Jay was also rumored to be coming here and had this author rather giddy at the prospect, except its Favre throwing touchdowns like Cutler, while Cutler throwing interceptions like Favre was supposed to. The pick by many NFL talking heads at the beginning of the season to win the NFC Central is one toenail away from going over the cliff into non-playoff territory. Lovie Smith will have even more on his gameplan plate as Winfield should be healthy enough to start this week and will benefit from Cutler's ability to hit cornerbacks in the numbers versus having to dive or annoyingly cut in front of receivers to obtain interceptions.

Tomorrow: Team Wheelchair is born for the Up for Poker Winter Classic poker tournament and a few tips about the upcoming WPBT trip. First tip, don't ever become a story about being wheelchair drunk in Vegas.

Handy Discoveries

If you were expecting me to rush to the computer after Sunday's victory over the Lions for a gloat post punish yourselves with watching a complete replay of the Monday Night Football game last night between Baltimore and Cleveland. We won, didn't play well, Lions were the Lions, move on to the SeaChickens. Due to my wife's newly found need for all things athletic, she was playing volleyball late into the night and after the kids were down I found myself playing online poker like it was 2006.

(Sidebar: Last week I went to watch and a rather tall, built in feminine shape that makes guys do a double-take and get slapped for woman was playing the team opposite of my wife. She had, um, consistant wardrobe malfunctions that left an unmistakable view of odd tan lines, one regrettable tramp stamp, and some piece of floss that doubled as panties. The thing I didn't get is she spent the entire night pulling her shorts up knowing that said drafty view was out there. Since this is an all-womens league, who is she trying to show her fake-bake bikini lines to when her husband was there picking her up at the end of the night?)

The weekend with the kids was adventurous to say the least. Yes, normally that is parenting code for OH WILL YOU PLEASE STOP CRYING FOR THE LAST TWENTY HOURS BECAUSE YOU LOST YOUR HAPPY MEAL TOY!!!1111 But this was a good adventure as we trekked to our state capitol for the Minnesota Children's Museum on Saturday (I found out after reading the huge sign with a certain company's logo on the front that every third sunday of the month admission is free, you'd think someone who is familiar with the inner-workings of the aforementioned corporation would have such knowledge).

I never claimed to be smart.

As can be expected on a Saturday afternoon other parents had similar ideas to creatively expanding the minds of their offspring and brought their wunderkinds to a place that will see my children dancing with the exhibits in the future. I thought there would be a magnetic ball that makes your hair stand up and maybe some distorted mirrors to make funny faces at.

Not so.

Everything was hands on for sure (note: load up the purell that is provided). There was a loading dock complete with a two-tier receiving and shipping area so kids on the top could send the blocks they tackled for like the Ray Edwards hit on Stafford this weekend (shown below NOT IN THE HEAD), down to the below receiving area which in turn spun a crank to send the blocks back up a belt.

Fierce children at play

There was a "water world" exhibit that thankfully did not include horrible Kevin Costner movie-lines but rather soapy goodness with bubbles warbling in every direction and more competion for playthings. This time the object of desire were little wooden boats that floated downstream while passing thru a canal complete with locks. Kyra needed a little side discussion of how to throw an elbow properly without the refs seeing it.

After moving thru the wonders of light there was a complete grocery store and Korean restaurant for the kids to grab various plastic items and pay for them with plastic money. I received some kimchi and about five bottles of Dawn dishwashing soap while attempting to brush up on Korean geography with the map provided on the mini-me table set.

In all a good day minus my daughter's ability to spill anything liquid within minutes of being handed those McDonald's milk jugs and Subway's inability to make bread. Really Subway? No bread? It was like going to a strip club with no strippers for the $10 watered down Cokes and 80's hair metal being pumped out at exactly 3:30 minutes a pop. Even the free cookie peace offering was stale as the kids were left to fend off their dad from robbing their chicken nuggets.

Match that with a fairly profitable weekend at the virtual tables of Full Tilt and Waffle-like play at PokerStars, there's a little extra fundage going towards a certain trip in 23 days that I have a few words about later this week. Since this will be my fifth WPBT Vegas trip, there's an excitement I can't explain fully to see all my invisible internet friends once a year but will try.

Measuring the Tenacity of a Three Year Old

This story I told briefly thru a twitter-like status update on Facebook (okay that sentence sounded 15 degrees of social media gone wrong). It sounded better than posting about poker but to keep my card-carrying poker blogger membership I'll write about that latter this week especially after watching my first night episode of the 2009 WSOP Main Event last night.

Me and wife made the executive decision midway thru the kids' grab for candy known as Halloween to split the kids up as she would take little Optimus Prime (sadly my wife turned down the suggestion of going as Megan Fox) back to our place while I would guide the four-layered fairy princess around the short block back to my parent's place. Last year this was a neccessity since the doe-eyed two year old morphed into some kind of Dungeons and Dragons sub-level middle earth creature Wil Wheaton might describe as a dungeonmaster with unlimited hit points and could not be contained without the +8 Pacifier of Rage.

But this year after picking up not one but TWO full-sized candy bars from good friend's parents that still lived in the area since I stopped attending the elementary school four blocks up the road years ago, me and the princess had a nice cool jaunt around the block.

"Can we go to that house Daddy?"

Politeness is something I'm still getting used to as daddy's little girl is growing up a bit (yes, I'm full aware this will change again but I'm going to soak it up while I can). Trying despirately not to trip on her overflowing dress, she approached every lit house alone to give a quick "trick or treat" with a pigtailed smile. For the most part after the first houses she remembered to say thank you eye-to-eye versus a fleeting salutation once the goods were handed over.

Lawn-side bonfires seemed to be in vogue this year as many parents had a spot for a quick warm-up and no driveways to lurch up to retrieve those bite-sized Snickers bars. But for the houses without flames, she would try desperately to reach the doorbell. Unfortunately, despite being tall for her age, she couldn't quite reach the button and would resort to banging on the door even if I could see a disorted shape approaching from the end of the driveway.

On to the last house before reaching nana and pa's home base her $.50 plastic pumpkin is nearly full and I've taken to carrying it before sending her up the last concrete slab pathway to one more piece of candy that will be going to my co-workers the following week. After climbing two steps to the front door she would try again to reach the doorbell to no avail...

... but this time she would have a plan

After three quick hops to hit the button she put down the candy holder and began climbing the lit jack o' lantern in hope of getting the attention of the people inside. Instead she got my attention as I shout to her "NO KYRA, that pumpkin is lit you're going to burn yourself!".

She would give her father an unapproving look and began studying the pumpkin.

After a couple of seconds, the solution appeared.

Just blow out the candle.

So, my daughter went into a squat position and made like a birthday cake presentation and blew out the flames. Since fire was no longer a detour, she promptly took the jagged top of the pumpkin, twisted it, and made an extra step to reach the doorbell to Oz.

After regaining my senses after my jaw dropped at her innovation I told her "No, just knock on the door". This time I was met by my wife's scowl like I just got home covered in stripper glitter smelling like an opened handle of Captain Morgan. Complete with hand on hip, facing me I calmly informed her that there was someone at the door waiting to hand her candy.

This melted the icy stare as she grabbed the bite-sized M & M's thus completing Trick or Treat 2009.

The Outgoing Plumber

Jerry came by yesterday.

He held an oversized work belt around his Rio World buffet-sized waist that sort-of shifted with each labored step. A kind yet saddened smile of someone working for the man versus getting a true paycheck of a professional plumber. He spoke softly while resting the clipboard on top of the stretched Roto-Rooter uniform of jotted down actions he would take upon our clogged water lines. His handshake was firm as the hand dwarfed my own feeling calloused from years of hauling the various seemingly heavy equipment up and down the steps of homeowners who had no choice but to bend over the knee of a stuck piece of PVC tubing and leave a blank check.

Houses do not run well without flowing water unless your the Ingalls family.

While Jerry wrote down a number that I was comfortable with on the order form filled out in triplicates, I solemnly signed away $400 that was necessary to get the boy back into his bedroom without fear of slogging though backed up sewage on the way upstairs. The corporate plumber dig thru the muck that could have left by the previous owner of the home who built the place back in the 70s but allowed time and divorce to rot away some features that our family have brought back. Then again, my daughter's amusement with watching a half roll of squeezable Charmin swirl down the porcelain whirlpool with each flush was a more likely suspect.

When asked about future clogs after his seemingly professional job (and expensive 1.5 hours of work), Jerry just shrugged and tried to come up with a sell up to various company sold product descriptions and "add-on" services but instead stuck with pointing his workmen fingers at the glossy brochure laced with "yeps" and head nods. One thing about living with a hearing disability has forced me to do over the years (and its a BIG thing while playing live poker) is to pay close attention to non-verbal clues. Granted my bionic ears allow to hear more words and cute "Go Mi-Kings!" from my little cheerleader, I still find myself pouring over hand and eye, shoulders, stance, feet, and face movements as if I was a human lie detector.

From my brief moments speaking with Jerry, I could tell he wasn't comfortable trying to up-sell me on additional products that he was not full knowledgable about yet could perform if I opted to allow the stammering description. Granted, I'm sure he an honest guy as he gave no tells of being a corporate huckster looking to make a bonus for selling twenty gallons of Super Industrial Drain-B-Gone, just very careful about trying to cross-over into salesmen territory as I peppered the first questions at him I'd had about my piping since getting the snip.

*shudder*

His out was "someone will probably call you about getting a camera down there to see if there's a bigger problem beyond the 25 feet I cleared". The cue was to let Jerry off the hook as me and the wife flushed the toilets at the same time while running bathtub water and nary a drop hit the laundry room floor. Job complete, let the man go enjoy the evening lineup on CMT and wait for the dreaded sales call.

Backed-Up Victory

While watching the incredible game on TBS (in HD of course, truly a gift to watch sports again) and reading Otis' short fiction story on a booze-runner in South Carolina (go read about Lettuce and Libertyville here, I suggest having a beer or slow high ball glass with your favorite alcohol neat while reading to soak it in) while the see-saw battle between the Minnesota Twins and Detroit Lions Tigers played to a bouncing single between first and second base with Carlos "I'm too fast for these shoes" Gomez scoring well ahead of the throw, my wife who was supposed to be leaving for a short night work shift was yelling from the basement...

... which had a bit water on the floor

Several months ago my princess of a daughter, cute, funny, smile that makes you melt, decided the toilet was a solid choice to drop her plastic Happy Meal toy from McDonald's (OMG THERE'S MONOPOLY TO PLAY GO NOW GET FAT FOR THE PURSUIT OF BOARDWALK!!!!). Flushing sometimes gave a groan of dropping out a 42oz Porterhouse steak the next day, but the pipes seem to make peace with the 14 cent toy.

Until last night.

When the carpeting in the laundry room got soaked as we shop-vac'd our little hearts out as the sewage backed up in the adjacent shower and washer, dumping out said contents with rain beating down outside. Fun. Taking a verbal beating from a frantic wife while she's supposed to be serving senior citizens sugar free cookies and strong coffee at a virtual tour of lower Zimbabwe, there was the throwing out of the carpeting in the mud while it held a lovely stuck on scent of mystery liquids to its duPont microfabrics.

Instead of a point and laugh post at the Tiggers excellent job of reviving the 2007 Mets, or describing Favregasm II with Jared Allen co-staring as the stunt dick to beat down that colander-like Packers front line and give Aaron Rodgers (who I thought was the better quarterback that night considering the .4 seconds he was given to throw the ball when he wasn't on his back) another beat-down, you get a very short story of where my "extra" paycheck will be going this month.

Cuteness: I got a "sowwy daddy" this morning (I was ready to buy that camcorder this weekend to record stuff like that but not now...)

Maybe Roto-Rooter has a preschooler apology discount they can slide over to the parents while the Happy Meal toy gets extracted to the tune of a two-week paycheck.

Capturing the Milk Spills

Dance to your own music, but make sure others can hear the song.

Don't know why that quote or thought rolled in my head this morning while negotiating Hwy. 169 and its labyrinth of uncapped steel and half-finished concrete structures which is a year out from being finished. But, there's one guy (or Guy) that is waltzing with life and currently orbiting the earth as a result. Familiar to Vegas show go'ers and high stakes poker fanbois, billionaire Guy Laliberte founder of Cirque du Soleil blasted off from inside Kazakhstan to orbit until Friday according to this Yahoo article.

The one thing that caught my eye in the post was his age:

Williams, a two-time space traveler who recently became a grandfather, and Surayev plan to stay in orbit for 169 days. Laliberte is to return to Earth after 12 days in space.

Laliberte, 50, has a 95 percent stake in Cirque du Soleil, a circus arts and theater performance company that turned 25 this year.

Really? He's only 50? After watching High Stake Poker the last few years I would have put him the solid upper 50s/low 60s catagory.

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After watching the kids for the past two evenings while the wife gets her stress relief from pounding volleyballs, there's too many things I'd like to capture on film before the days of dating, parent hating, sexual confusion, and teen angst settle in. My little spider monkey daughter's iron grip while waking her up and carrying the Strawberry Shortcake clothed form to the car every morning, is something that refreshes the batteries quicker than any new product from Starbucks would ever do.

As soon as some dollars flow from online poker and reporting picking up a cheaper but decent camcorder/camera is on the list of fun money spending after the red ink is chipped away from a meager summer.

Any suggestions from the tech-heads out there? I don't need fancy settings, just something that doesn't completely blur out while trying to keep up with the kids.

A Thought Is a Terrible Thing To Waste

I thought when I didn't make the 3rd grade hockey traveling team, life was over.

I thought when I learned I would never hear as well as a normal person, life was over.

I thought when my ex-girlfriend was found face down eating gravel, life was over.

I thought when I broke up with my college girlfriend, life was over.

I thought when our firstborn did not get the chance to live, life was over.

I thought when my wife was pregnant on bed rest with bills piling up, and I was disabled, life was over.

I thought when we fought to the point of not being able to be in the same room, life was over.

I thought when my kids took my words for air, life was over.

I realize more and more each day life is to be enjoyed and not weighted against some bad breaks no matter how loud the yelling or how intense the euphoria of the good times. Reading Otis' post yesterday made me reflect a bit on the recent speed of all things parenting and marriage. The summer is heading towards Labor Day and all fried things on a stick await at the Minnesota State Fair with the first day of school shortly behind. The boy will be eating his first official school lunch as a first grader as Kyra will terrorize her first teachers in preschool after the roads get slicked with salt and ice.

The signs they are getting older are heard with every question, seen with every new batch of clothes some Children's Place, but with the daily 4:45am wake up call and seeing their little bodies wrapped up in clutched blankets; the brain's camcorder switches to record and freezes time for awhile as soon they will be arguing about getting enough money and staying over at someone's house that I don't approve of. Soon the immediate hugs and screams of "DADDY!" after work each day will segue into teenager's hormones and possible distancing of the uncool parental units. My thoughts will go back to those mornings and let their current rage drift by.

Someday is now today, as life has opened up for me where it seemed closed in the not-so-distant past. Thanks to friends far and near, my five senses have been opened up to the world (especially my broken ears). Thanks to my kids I have a reason to live for the future. Thanks to my parents for providing the soft mattress that enabled me to get back up after every fall. Thanks to my wife there's someone to live with for today for tomorrow, and although I'm far from the easiest person to live with and understand she is there to ensure waking up is a far better option than become a statistic in a newspaper.

Now that the sappy stuff has flowed to the page, poker will be played this evening with a fine beverage after watching sweaty women play volleyball at Mama G's tonight. Life is good.

When Stress Turns Into Fun

Today I have been married for nine years, I'll reserve judgement and comments on my partnership with my wife until tonight where I'll be expecting a show only seen in Amsterdam's red light district in the bedroom.

Kidding.

Actually, a quiet dinner at Pittsburgh Blue without dashing a three year old to the bathroom while catching a thrown mini corn dog mid-flight before it hits the blue haired lady behind us would surpass five seconds of naked fun.

A sappy marriage post may be in the works, adjust your internets while clicking here accordingly.

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I hope if StB ever takes a journey south to see his beloved Cowboys that he's holding a winning Powerball ticket.

Original story from Lincoln Journal Star:

Tuesday’s tour took our group into a suite that can be leased for $800,000 a year — which doesn’t include the price of game or event tickets but does offer a large pizza for $90 (no toppings), 12-packs of domestic beer for $66 apiece and a four-pack of Red Bull for $22, among other ridiculously priced items.

The beer price isn't horrible, actually cheaper than most places if you think about it but $90 for a cheese pizza and $800K for suites without being able to get into the stadium? Are these prices you want to trot out during an economically unstable time for the US of A? I wonder if Mr. Jones' merchandising director is Gordon Gekko.

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Yesterday I got a rare reprive as what stressed me originally actually became a blessing. The US Bank saga continued as I was told 8:30am sharp there would be a super important inspector guy at my doorsteps waititing to take a fine tweezer to my abode that was recently sealed with lavish mountain gray siding to procure a simple signature of a bank that has no rights to the insurance check that holds a final payment to the contractor sitting beneath a pile of coupons and Mr. Potato Head parts on my kitchen counter.

8:30 rolls and my daughter decides that its a good time to see just how much toilet paper our commode can handle after making into the bathroom on time (a win or a push?). But, no Dickies-dressed bank rep.

Call comes a few minutes after with apologies that he'll drop by a little before noon. Now, I'm torn. All dressed up for work but a beautiful day out and two kids that I don't get to spend enough time with. Quick thinking, I check with work and they're covered so Kyra got a daddy to play with for a few hours outside while collecting 67% of the dirt of the backyard on her "Catch Me If You Can" pink t-shirt. And Wyatt got to see Transformers 2 for next nearly three (really?!?!) hours.

(Sidebar about the movie: First film I've seen in a theater in over a year, hearing aids made the action pop out which rocked, but words were still a little difficult to follow. Megan Fox's ass shots however were very easy to gaze at, but they seemed to try too hard to get those shots and it didn't blend with the movie that well, not that I minded the skin of course and what was with that metal tentacle tongue thing coming out of the hot chick's blue lace panties trying to strangle Sam, me thinks the writers spend too much time in Japan recently.)

What started as another bitch-fest at a bank I will never do business with again if I can help it, turned into a day of fun for the kids and a night that would end with me meeting my father-in-law and my wife's half-brothers out at Running Aces for cards and ponies. The poker part I'll probably post here in the next few days. Sadly the $4/$8 w/half kill O8 game was not running so I took my six racks of whites to a $2/$4 LHE table and watched various people with $20-$60 stacks get pissed versus having fun with the overdressed guy in the seven seat seemingly giving away money and drinks.

I made $13 beyond tips, drinks (which you had to pay for), and playing 95% of the hands some blind some not. Entertainment for one I guess despite my efforts to play the part of the drunken gambler in front of an audience that was more suited up emotionaly for a funeral.

Le sigh.