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.

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.

On the Road to Danbury

If you told me four years ago I would still be blogging and sometimes getting paid for it there's a good chance my off-key laugh would have been directed towards your face.  If you told me I would be writing a six-to-eight page research paper for an advanced composition class that I asked to be in, on the path to a bachelor's degree, I'd ask for a hit of whatever you were smoking.

Despite the next four weeks being the most crammed, stressful, busy, in-need-of-a-clone time of the year, this space is needed to let the air out of my belly before everything besides my appendix and bruised liver bursts. This blog feels like a neglected puppy, cowered in a corner from lack of touch versus abuse, just wanting someone warm to cuddle up with and maybe tell him a story while in a lap on the back deck and a late summer's breeze drifts over both of them.

In the mist of this presidental-like schedule there are places to carve out tax cuts for the rich and relief from stress.  "Honey, I'm going into town".  Didn't take much as school provides education and a reason to seek WiFi during our weekends up north.  The drive is under 15 miles and seems too short when the weather cooperates.  A single gas station on the right with a selection of porn better fit for SexWorld in downtown Minneapolis, the family golf cart dealership where the wife has been eyeing half of my scant poker bankroll for a cart with a backseat rigging so the kids could comfortably get shuttled from the cabin/trailer to the pool and the clubhouse for the best dollar ice cream this side of Coldstone. 

Passing the unseen town of Swiss with a sign leaning back like a limbo dancer, probably caused by the straight-line winds that still show their destructive forces in the small town of Danbury that was my destination.  The "Welcome to Wisconsin" is a awesome sight for someone who stupidly ran out of beer and ththankfully the cheeseheads have no blue laws on the books to keep me from enjoying one more day of sun and suds.  As the first turn into town there's "Stubbs Fireworks" which I can't tell if its the proprietor's name or an unfortunate moniker from an M-80 mishap. 

After the bend the new St. Croix Casino (formerly Hole in the Wall casino, which was a dead ringer for what is was, desperate gamblers and slot machines inside of connected trailers) stood tall at the end of road just past the four block stretch of the town. 

Homemade fudge, fresh broasted chicken, an arts-and-craft store that smelled like lavender soap, and a giant Leinenkugel's chair in front of the grocery/liquor store in which some Chardonnay, chicken dry rub, and New Glarus Spotted Cow were on the list.  But, my spot was on the left at a bar named Wild Waters.  Log exterior, comfy interior, sizable enough to move around, not-so-big to miss a person's conversation from opposite ends of the bar.  This was my fourth visit of the summer, and surly owner always corrects my pronunciation of the delicious New Glarus on tap as I take a seat along the wooden tables with change stuck underneath the glass. 

While I am there to figure out the variance between standard and actual cost for an imaginary manufacturing company there's an extra pint or two taken with each visit just to watch the locals filter in.  Some by ATV, by Harley's, and some by foot.  All coming in with smiles on their faces, catching a quick chat with the others while watching the Packers updates on the flat screen hung on the back wall (although this week the Vikes were showing despite knowing I was probably the only Purple and White fan in the joint). 

One or two beers is mostly the cap for these folks, as it is the afternoon on a Saturday or Sunday and not exact prime time to start up rounds of Jagerbombs.  To me there's a relaxing feeling in those pure oak stools, something not found in surburbia-land where corporate heads suck all of the life out of glass before its even poured with flair.  But, it's my time.  And my time does not come over very often with full time school, work, and the upcoming WCOOP at PokerStars next week. 

Yes, I did and do manage to find my way into the St. Croix Casino, much like asking a married man if he finds Minka Kelly attractive, this gambler has some oats to sow that don't involve breaking his marital vows to Deter Jeter's girlfriend.  During these rushed times it necessary to drop your business suit, parenting suit, and even your birthday suit if you're into that sort of thing, and take a few minutes to breathe.  What gives you that air is up to the individual and holding your breath too long will take the life from you.

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.

The family man and the gambler

The walk has changed only a little over the years.  It is one that has been made hundreds of times in my youth.  To the west what was once an old decrepit farm house and adjoining fading red barn with mysteries inside that 10 year olds with nothing to do on summer days used to explore hoping to find something interesting under the various Folger's tins and rotted stairs.  In its place is a brand new elementary school that once housed all six grades but due to budget cuts now splits those students between the older school a few blocks away that the 10 year old version of myself attended.

But the reminder of the landscape hasn't changed at all.  The fields still filled with white and yellow "flowers", fields "1" and "2" still retained their metal bleachers and wooden benches for the various team that visited the mighty Orioles in hopes of coming away with a win.  Several healthy trees spotted the grounds as I lugged sporting equipment home.  Well, what was once my home, now just two people reside there, joined by a gaggle of little grandchildren as the engineer works his remaining days until he can finally enjoy the fruits of his many hard years in the construction business.  The baseball bag on my shoulder wasn't mine anymore, a dull ache from a pitching injury years ago now comes back to life with every step of the black strap pulling down on the bone.  It's a minor thing however as my attention is to the little hand wrapped around my ring and middle fingers happy that her father was there to see her pounce on a ground ball with the grace of a grizzly bear on ice skates.

I was once content to letting my life run its course, never changing like that ball field, the twin white hockey rinks behind it, and the old school to the east.  A moderate income from a job that does not require much effort nor brainpower to complete, a content spouse, but it was watching the two kids that changed that.  They were mimicing my sloth.  Not to the point that it was obvious, but they stopped being curious, stopped asking questions (which some parents would throw a party for at time), stopped growing allowing the lights and advanced graphics of the Playstation 3 or Cartoon Network website to turn them into mindless drones. 

One thing that a person with a hearing loss becomes whether they like it or not is being very observant.  Watching every twitch, every movement, every blink to get those actions to speak so that the words you could not hear or understand would become a sentence.  Hemmingway had a "five finger exercise" to paint a picture for the audience that would bring you instantly to my parent's backyard in enough words that wouldn't have the commentor stating "tl;dr" in the box.  While I hope to bring my drunken ass to Key West again before I die and have another go on the mechinical bull (inner thigh bruises and all), grab a lap dance in a back-alley strip club, and enjoy being surrounded by friends at Irish Kevin's, that will depend on a little luck in the months/years to come. 

Recent I have tried to better my life from a work and academic standpoint, learning more about the profession I am in, and also taking some writing courses which hopefully won't screw up my lispy "voice" too much that some seem to enjoy.  But the pressure from being on the go, to be a good parent, student, husband sometimes gets me staring out my porch window at 2am wondering would it be easier to ditch all this for a life in a hotel room and no responsiblities beyond finding food and keeping a bankroll large enough to live.  The dark specter of the gambler is one that I playfully state "it's for fun" "it's relaxing" but so tempting to dive into a rum and coke while piece of clay sit in front you and cards that randomly hit the felt determine if the night is a success. 

For now and hopefully until I walk my daughter down the aisle or sitting on the porch of my retirement house adjacent to the 16th fairway of an unnamed golf course in Texas or Arizona, the family man who wants that little hand to squeeze a little tighter around his fingers will win out because when I look in the mirror I like that guy, as the gambler can wait as his turn, more specifically until December 2nd, 3rd, and 4th and ya'll will come see him and toast to being able to separate those two and enjoy both for who they are.  

Looking over the walls of Shawshank

Wow, it took awhile to have the creative juices dry up, perhaps all this rest and recouperation from yet another challenging quarter of college has left the guard down and allowed the unspeakable writer's block onto my now seemingly regular day of posting on Tuesdays.  Windows are finally down, air is just starting to get a little thicker outside as both my kids tackle baseball during the summer months with soccer in the fall.  Watching the five year old daughter blossom into the Patti LeBelle of T-ball after a rant about receiving a commoner's drink of water in her Barbie sports bottle.  Refusal to hussle, turning a deaf ear on the high school juniors working for $10 a session with "Park and Rec" emblazed in gold across the baby blue t-shirts like a spoiled Manny Ramirez she pouted until daddy coming straight from the office dropped by with an individual serving of Sunny D.  Soon afterwards she combined the speed of Flo Jo with the defensive ability of Ozzie Smith to show her parents that an attitude adjustment (absent of shock therapy and threats of the removal of toys) would be in her future after returning home.

The boy is the same but different.  His issue isn't defiance or a need for attention but more about trying to find a reason to show what talents he may have hidden.  When prodded he regularly beats out the other boys in races, shows a fluid swing at the plate, and isn't afraid to get a little dirt on the gray pants. 

Likewise for their father during the changeover from quarter to quarter, I try to re-evaluate why am I doing this?  The easy answer is for a better future.  Stability at work, gain of knowledge that I normally would not have had the drive to seek, and the satisfaction of following through on something that was started 16 years ago in a dorm room at ASU.  No, not the quest to get laid, but to finish the bachelor degree that seemed so easy to grab but personal insecurity, financials, and health reasons pushed finishing my education off. 

Image credit


The hard answer is do I want to remain in this corporate setting?  Meet person X, do project Y, get reward Z.  Its a formula learned in a middle school algebra class but also by watching Red speak to the parole board near the end of The Shawshank Redemption.  He talks about normalacy, and how when someone is accustomed to a certain setting that they let go of their individuality, let go of hope, let go of the drive to seek new things and allow themselves to be swallowed into whatever is spoon-fed to them via company email and internal classroom settings.  While I love the corporation, there's a nagging piece of me that wonders what's beyond those walls, what if I took a rock hammer to the soft brick and tunneled into something new? 

Barring a complete meltdown of the company, my employement here is relatively secure since for the most point I keep my head down, work hard, learn everything I can, do extra projects, make friends, in other words exactly the type of suit they like.  But, am I reaching my potential?  Granted my options are not endless as my wife and kids come first before any life-changing decisions are made.  But, when you sit back in your computer chair and gaze across the screen to read about the exploits of friends and seeing yourself sitting on that barstool/typing on the laptop next to them, or see yet another promotion pass you up there's self-doubt that trickles in, feeding the fire that maybe this isn't the right path.  Would happiness be found by tossing away a decade and half of climbing a ladder that seems to be slicked with bacon grease for the unknown?

For now things are stable but just to make sure there's a little sriracha sauce in my life, I've poking around for a new job here with any hope I can put together enough corporate cliches that would get me to a more interesting job and check out the view from the next rung on the ladder. 

Just like Red would say that rehabilitation is a made-up word, and that a person should get busy living, or get busy dying.  Or in my words, stop fucking around and get something done.  Too bad it took me 36 years to finally realize that.

It's what I do

"It's what you do"

I'm not Kobe, LeBron, Wade, A-Rod, never the superstar, never a person who seeks the spotlight.  My father instilled that quality in me, for the past nearly 40 years he has been fixing elevators, getting called at ungodly hours to drive/fly somewhere in the Midwest region because some mechanic kid doesn't know the difference between the blue wire and the red wire and the building's contractor is bitching out the home office something fierce because they cannot complete their $50 million cubical maze without an OSHA sign off on the lifts. He puts head down, gets it done without flair, without demands, without extra needs.  He could expense bigger hotels, better meals, but chooses to pack a lunch/dinner with chocolate chip bars from my mom while staying in a place that's no more than a bed to lay down on after making things right at the job site for 12-14 hours then comes back home to be an on-call help desk.

He missed his kids growing up and just now at the age of 60 as started to get to know them.  I love my father dearly, always have, always will and I see little bit of myself in him.  Just the honor of someone appreciating my hard work is worth doing the job.  Some may call that being naive and those people would be absolutely correct.  But as long as I receive the satisfaction of doing something right, my reward may not be tangible but its worth more than anything currently parked in Paris Hilton's gargage. 

All my life, I just yearn for a chance.  My current employ, where I will probably retire from in the year 2035, has shot me down for several promotions due to a lack of a piece of paper that I currently am in the pursuit of achieving for both personal and professional reasons.  But when one has a disability there is always a nagging itch with each denial.  "Is it because I cannot hear?".  It's an irritation that grows with every rejection, and wondering "am I in the right business?", "should I be taking my talents somewhere else?".  Instead I put my head down and keep churning out productivity. 

I am not a genius, nor do I feel particularly talented at anything but I work harder than most as people who know my schedule get winded just reading it.  While sitting up in the metal bleachers at Field #1 behind my parent's home and Cedar Island elementary school directly to my right where I attended and teachers still asked about me 25 years later, I still wonder what I did to make such a lasting impression besides my unkept hair, ability to say "what?!?" every other word, and do my multiplication tables faster than anyone in the room.  Then I looked up at my boy finally showing some effort on the field, sliding side-to-side for grounders and showing a bit of the smooth batting stroke that got his father a place on a few baseball/softball teams.  Of course in my lap was a copy of Fundamentals of Corporate Finance and a rather dry chapter about WACC, betas, CAPM, and the cost of equity since my time was in short supply this week.  But, cool, nearly windless night made it perfect to sit outside and watch my son finally show some effort that I hope I can instill in him as my father did in me.

Hard work does pay off, it may take longer for someone who doesn't chirp about not getting "his due", but the person who doesn't ask for those extras shouldn't expect them, instead receiving the little satifsfaction like a son's smile after finally catching a fly ball, getting an insignificant grade on a college paper, or working long hours on a blog post that felt good to finish and not caring how many people read it because you were proud of the words put to print.

A good friend told me "it's what you do" and he couldn't be more right. 

And I'll continue to be a parent, a writer, a number jockey, a friend, a husband, a provider, a student until I'm ask not to.  When all those jobs are done and there's nothing left, I'll take myself somewhere to rest with a handle of rum in my hand of course.  But until then its time to get back to work.

Swirling in the void

To watch a person with an internal struggle is both horror and entertaining.  To be that person is both horror and entertaining. 

For the past few months my self-doubts and insecurities have bubbled up more than my mouth or the words I type on various websites would like to admit.  To the point of letting depression grasp what I have worked so hard to attain.  A loving relationship with my wife, two kids who want daddy to play with them at any given moment, gaining professional status and praise for jobs well done.  All good things.

Depression isn't really ever defeated in the sense of never coming back, more like pushed down a drain by medication, friends, family, and using the garbage disposal for several minutes to churn it into fine particals to be sent into the sewers.  But, it always comes back.  How much a person lets those dark, rabbit hole thoughts invade depends if others can see how much you're hurting.

We've all watched the Charlie Sheen live-action "mental illness" episode for the past month or so, and its a testament to those who let themselves go just how creative and entertaining such a thing can be.  His drug of choice is an eight-ball off a Brazilian hooker's ass, mine sits above the charcoal black stove with the words "spiced rum" across the label.  Granted for the most part, I am an upstanding citizen, I don't show up for work blitzed, never getting hammered around my children, choosing to sink into my rabbit hole of a couch a few times a week hoping the strength will be there to climb out the next day.

Robert Jordan (real name James Rigney Jr.), author of several very long books of Fantasy genre on the "Wheel of Time".  It's main character, Rand, struggles throughout the series with battles of the mind in a classic good vs. evil sense.  He enters "the void" to calm himself, and make the magic within to come alive.  Jordan can describe that "void" much better than I could ever hope to, it where creativity has no bounds, no social or moral eraser, just a continuous flow of words and ideas that leave others to marvel at its output.  If I ever took myself seriously as a writer, a bottle of Captain would sit right next to my black Toshiba with the power cord that looks like its been chewed by a hampster and pen whatever exits that void and it would be ten times better than the sober words you're reading right now.

I skipped out on a social gathering last weekend due to this.  While I didn't pen a thing, it was to be alone, with no noises to embrace the quiet.  Sure I had hair metal blaring in my ears and the ping of online poker on the screen, but they were hardly heard, barely a whisper to where I was really at.  Standing alone with no worries of final papers, getting a promotion, or pleasing my family.  Just is.  Breathing.  Stepping outside of all the petty, little nuisances of listening to ignorant people at work or in the line at Dunn Bros. Coffee.  No need for sex, or money, just is.

Would I go on another wheelchair ride if I had the means?  I do, but I wouldn't.  Something catches me now that didn't before.  People like Sheen don't have that proverbial safety net and society bashes him for abborent behavior just because its public.  If he blew those rocks where papparazzi lens couldn't reach he'd be an regular out-of-work actor bumming for a waiter job at TGI Friday's instead of the fountain of entertainment that he currently expells. 

People who don't give a fuck fasinate those who choose to live by society's rules.  I for one just spoke to a law enforcement officer yesterday for just the second time in the my life (the first time was when a small cub wandered through our neighborhood and sounded like a drunken burgular looking for my Millano cookies. 

School is still important (finals week!), I still adore all of my friends, I still love my family and give my life to them,  but for now my body is tired to the point of passing out at any given moment, tired of fighting physically and mentally.  Maybe a good bender would allow for the rest needed to refuel, but as I've found since this page was started seven years ago, releasing words from my rum-soaked head onto these non-edited pages is better than any bottle of lithium or an army of self-help doctors could do.

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.

Just putting a pen down and writing

It's taking out the overstuffed garbage with the last bit of your wife's BBQ meatball grinder tray that fed the dozen or so friends that came out to spend a day trading landscaping work for decent beer and food.  Standing in the driveway with a fading sunset and hues of dark red climbing beyond the wall between your place and those with net incomes that will be attained sometime close to retirement.  The delicate balance between being responsible and giving up is a juggling act that most people lean towards punching their time cards five days a week at the same time or with enough regularity that the in-house Starbucks barista has your triple no-foam mocha Grande espresso  ready before punching up Microsoft Outlook to see the balance of inane meetings and fake smiles for the day.
Getting in a routine is good for goal-setting and attaining.  Each day the work gets done to the point that the pile of dishes are not resembling something you'd see an art museum next to the human vagina project that the state paid $100,000 for someone to simulate menstruation every fourth week of the month inside of glass box.  Routine of sleep, work, kids, homework, sleep gets broken briefly with self-imposed time-outs for imbibing in a few adult beverages without worries that your essay on Anne Bradstreet's "To my dear and loving husband" written with the help of rum and a deep love for my fellow routine task-master.  She's more than that, my friends are more than that, I am more than that, there's needs to be a point of satisfaction and despite having everything I could possibly want, the bottomless hole of want never gets filled.  It's not a bigger TV, house, or cool phone that produces perfectly slow-cooked ribs with a touch of a button, and achievements won't slow this down either.  No amount of "employee of the month" or Dean's List certificates (although I'm a little proud of that fact and hope to continue to carry a nerdy GPA until graduation in 2013) will stop the cold chill feeling like I need more.

More what?  It's dark, shapeless, odorless, tasteless, it's carbon dioxide, there's no stanza to describe the more that is needed to feel whole.  Do you give up the routine that keeps you buckled down enough to enjoy those who are kind enough to put up with your quirks and earn enough monetary funds that society accepts you as a productive member.  I thought going back to school would fill a void, and it does on a resume and more to the fact that the cobwebs upstairs needed cleaning.  But, I've also learned that I will never be completely satisfied no matter the amount of small glimpse of joy like sex, a Vikings victory, or the feeling my kids or wife give me with an unconditional embrace.  The latter keeps me going at 11pm after getting up for work at 4:30am while trying to figure out the present value of a $400,000 bond with a 12% contract rate and 11% interest rate paying semi-annually and how to book it properly. 

Maybe someone at the Geisha Bar or a Pai Gow table while surrounded by my very good friends in one month could sit down with me under similar intoxication explain how they "got there".  Or least how they look at themselves daily in the mirror and say "I'm pretty ok with you today, so don't fuck it up".   I apologize for my usual no structure writing but I've found that my "Nuke" Laloosh form of posting is my voice since that's also the way I threw a baseball for the Osseo Orioles 18 years ago.

In the WPBT news "Team Procedure" captained by BadBlood is looking for a wing-man (or woman) to fill out their feeble attempts to overtake Team SKOL at the Up For Poker last longer portion of the Winter Classic sponsored by PokerStars.  My advice...  don't arm wrestle The Mark left handed, drink whatever is put in front of your with a smile, and if you want to keep your winnings don't join those two degens at the PLO table afterwards.

29 days, get my birthday presents ready folks, I have high demands.  Like smiles, drinks, and tales of Superpanchos while discussing who gets the dragon hand in Pai Gow.

Accounting for thongs

Why I'm writing a mere four hours after finishing up my first leg of ten recaps for the 2010 WCOOP at PokerStarsBlog is beyond me.  Something piqued my interest while getting gas before work and before long I drafted the bestest blog post EVAR!

Yeah, must like my dreams where I'm a stallion in bed listening to Anna Paquin and Jessica Biel scream out my online name and take pots off name branded poker pros half-crocked on Captain and Coke in Bobby's Room at the Belliagio, the post sounded better as the meter on the pump hit north of $40.00 and the cashier who was probably as awake as I, reminded me to pay inside.  But, across two islands of gas pumps was a guy in a non-descript car with overalls and a patch with his name on it.  It said "Steve" in red stitching as he probably worked in the nearby industrial park specializing in putting things together or repairing them for folks like myself who have a comparable power tool dexterity of a zebra.  Steve drove off while I purchased a much needed energy drink after finishing up this morning's Event #13 final table wrap and heading in for a full day at the office with Event #16 awaiting me when I return home in ten hours.

It hit me after seeing Steve as to why I returned to school.  More money from a better job sounds a like a cop-out and it is.  Money should never been someone's driver for lofty aspirations, unless you're a poker player outside of a friendly home thus money is the only reason you should be sitting down.  No, an enlightened bank account didn't get me to go back and learn how to separate partnership's capital accounts with salary and interest when one partner puts up X amount of money and the other puts up Y amount (which is less than X) while Mr. X works 50 hours per week at the business and Mr. Y spends more time at the local rub and tug while claiming to be networking. 

Sadly, it was not for my family and friends.  As I give ever little ounce of myself to my two kids and wife along with dear friends who's followed my sappy tale of woe here for nearly six years, there a little piece of me that is finishing up quarter two of 11 towards my bachelor's.

I want to be able to do something.

Steve the mechanic can probably hop under a car or machine press and fix the problem because of past knowledge and knowhow.  I can tell you in under four seconds how many outs you have with three board cards and if the guy in the nine seat is drunk enough to call you.  I can whip up a simple database or fancy spreadsheet, maybe make a few people laugh with attempts of humor and self-pity while having the writing amplitude of a half eaten Pringle.  No, I wanted more.  And I feel selfish now that it took Steve to make me realize why I'm lugging around those textbooks, staying up late to complete computer lab assignment when my head should be next to my wife's. 

I want people to come to me for help, and I want to be able to sit down with a tax return, or ledger and just let the number flow much like my words seem to do in satisfactory ways while writing about poker.  Note, I LOVE writing about poker, I LOVE the game and will never lose that, but becoming an Accountant or at the very least having an accounting degree means the world to me.  Laugh if you will, accounting is a noble profession in my mind, but it's not going to get the ladies La Perla lacy underthings saturated (I'd plug in "moist panties" here but a good friend of mine says those are the two worst words in the English language).  Some people were built to inspire, others to annoy, and me, I just want to do.  I want to be Steve, minus the grease, better pay, and some stock options so I can retire before my Viagra years kick in.

Nine quarters from now we'll see if that pocket protector with my name etched in midnight blue is waiting for me.

Life with panoramic views

Take one minute to see.

Take one minute to encompass yourself in your current surroundings.

I am a busy person during the summer.  Much of this was my own doing as returning to school and taking on extra work for PokerStarsBlog and Bluff Magazine were a chance to continue doing something that enjoy AND get paid to write in few puns about.  Yes, sitting an sweat bath of a porch at 1am writing about poker with nothing but gray boxer briefs, a muted AVP Women's sand volleyball on the screen (seriously, they have six feet of legs, able to jam a quick set, and are wearing less than your average Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition models, HOT!), all while 80s hair bands keep it real through the Bose headsets and enjoying it seems a little mentally imbalanced.

And even with three hours of sleep into a long day at the office, I love it.  Somehow I doubt corporate America would allow such under-clothed freedoms but I'd work for half of my undersized paycheck for the chance to debug a database or balance a receipt while performing pantless accounting.  

Despite the hurried schedule I took two minutes.  The first was my son's bedroom.  Sitting in front of me was my son's bed decked out in Transformers dark blue motif most of it strewn about since getting poker by his father that it was time to go to nana and pa's for the day.  While on his belly and knees bent, his feet came together to form a perfect triangle while deflecting all urges to take care of business before hoping into the dented Mini-Van.  My daughter to his left, curled up perfection that could do no wrong.  Her oversized K pillow that has retained most of the original sequins over the three years she has owned it, fuzzy leopard-print slippers and a world of dreams opening up now that is becoming of school age.  The back window had my fat cat peering thru carefully, not wanting the half-asleep girl to notice its presence or face getting mauled by the overexcited four year old. 

After managing to not run over Thumper is his 14,562 brothers and sisters, the kids were dropped off at my childhood home where a second minute was taken in.  90 degrees to the right was Muffy Robbins house, my first crush with her golden curly hair and about my only boy-girl interaction innocent enough where it was fun to be around the opposite sex versus coming up with new ways to get rejected.  The basketball hoop that her one-armed father constructed above the garage still hung and looked well-maintained by the new neighbors that moved in after Muffy took for the mountains of Colorado at age seven.  After 28 years I still don't know their names, but remember Jerry the father, her brother Benji, and Muffy's real name of Sarah.  While turning from east to west in a motion like that Sony panoramic camera commerical with Taylor Swift the Cul-de-Sac where I once played football on a daily basis, scuffing myself up, grabbing some TLC from mom only to go right back out there and gain some more scars.   Further to the side of the street is my baseball card collection, dancing in the make-shift stream during a flash flood in which I was attempting to transport from Matt Spitzmuller's house to my own but tripped as Don Mattingly's rookie card moved as effortless as his swing down towards the sewer never to be traded again. 

Reality set in quickly with my wife of nearly 10 years hopped up for quick kiss and a reminder that I had a dentist appointment right after work at 5pm but asked if I could grab a new headlight for her car before I started homework and a softball game at 8pm but not to leave before getting the kids in bed.

Life was a little more simple while playing strat-o-matic baseball and ghost tag into the night versus the cluster of reality that is shoved into a 24 hour day at the present time.  But, it's a good feeling to take the time to reflect and refresh before stepping back to that life you built for yourself.  Try it sometime.

A different kind of redemption

Red: These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That's institutionalized.



Heywood: Shit. I could never get like that.


Prisoner: Oh yeah? Say that when you been here as long as Brooks has.


Red: Goddamn right. They send you here for life, and that's exactly what they take. The part that counts, anyway.

My first day back to cubical land there was an envelope with my name and my mailbox address with cube city.  After plowing thru a mountain of emails of go-ons while I partook in a spring vacation of sorts, the envelope was getting lonely and needed to be opened since the usual plastic toys of de-motivation a rubber binder encouraging you to get healthy, a stuffed animal promoting the new baseball stadium, or a ruler with the words "You Measure Up!" (I know I do, and my wife loves me for it POW!).
 
Inside was a piece of paper folded over hastily twice with black and white lettering stating "YOU ARE APPRECIATED!".  After opening the fold a business card fell out saying I could receive a free health pellet if I rung the bell down at the cafeteria.  Inside the "card" was a "THANK YOU!" written in block 64 sized Arial Unicode font with the copied signature of a manager so far removed from my position I'd met her only thru large multi-departmental meetings. 
 
 
 

My choice of poster:  Jessica Biel

 
Despite my fingers currently moving outside my conscious thought and still struggling to calibrate my body to an upright position after working a string of nights that blended into morning, I yearned to be on my couch eating triscuits at seven a.m. finishing up a piece on how someone took $11 and turned it into $45,000 by flipping over virtual poker cards for 16 hours.  I don't have a poster of Marilyn Monroe or Raquel Welsh laid across my cell.  Instead there's photos of my family that protect my hand-dug tunnel in which I move deftly back-and-forth from when I am called.  Crawling through that tunnel while carefully dragging behind me in a waterproof tarp tied to my foot by a length of rope, whatever stream of pop culture and as many witty remarks one can make as the virutal cards fall the same but different ways.    
 
Red: [narrating] Forty years I been asking permission to piss. I can't squeeze a drop without say-so.



Do I despise "working for the man"?  Not at all, I enjoy the people here, I like the company otherwise I wouldn't still be here after being employed there for almost half of my life.  Heck, I'm going back to school for a better position here. But, there are walls.  Those walls file people into their places of expertise to carve out profit for the collective in the most impersonal way possible beyond the immediate co-workers which you share break times and grazing days of bringing in your mom's freshly baked banana bread for everyone to share.  Beyond that you are an ID number, a slot under which accountants list you as a salary and insurance expense.  Some people live their whole lives under that guise that the company appreciates them by receiving little trinkets and a free fruit cup.  They work their 30 years, draw a pension to pay for cable, and move off to a double-wide in an Arizona retirement community to play bridge at the rec room for a dime a point on Thursdays.
 
But, I wanted more when someone gave me a rock hammer a few years ago.  I wanted to do something that maybe perhaps only a few people read but least it would have my name and my creativity (or lack of) listed under the by-line.  It meant sacrifice of time and a few "no, I need to leave early tonight" but the return on the time investment cannot be measured tangibly.  Getting personal thanks, being able to hoist a beer with those who were up with your in those wee hours and share a story related to the cards or how their daughter managed to paint half the bathroom with fingernail polish after passing out after a long morning half way through Cinderella on DVD (that one happened on Friday).  You feel as part of a team, unlike the emblazment of a serial number connected to several passwords to perform work with zero personalization required nor wanted.
 
Red: [narrating] Andy Dufresne - who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.



I am honored to work with such folks as Otis, Dr. Pauly, Change100, Short Stack Shamus, Falstaff, Jen Newell, and F-Train who bring the poker news daily to your doorstep without possiblity of your neighbor's sprinkler or cutie wittle woof-woof rendering the paper illegible.  These are professionals and importantly friends and for a couple of weeks a year that tunnel opens up for an amateur to slide thru and enjoy the open air.  I hope you have enjoyed the coverage of SCOOP at the PokerStarsBlog thus far as week two is half way thru and I'll be starting up again on Friday.

Self Intervention

In a former life there would have been nothing to do this weekend except attend my niece's third birthday party, eat some ice cream cake, and sit in front of a computer screen yelling at the virtual cards dropping in favor of someone that was not me.  Those days of free-time and want of such mindless time are over, thanks to the awakening of sorts that repeats every day.  Some people hate the fact that they HAVE TO go to work and feel it's an obligation versus a chance or a learning experience.  It took my thick head several years of self-loathing while swimming in depression to see that the numbers on the computer screen are not what a job is about.

It's the people.  Watching, studying, and ultimately learning from their experiences and chatting about their daily lives help me figure out what I wanted to do with my own course.  Was staying in a safe, mindless data-entry job until I hit 65 in the cards?  My past self was ready for that.  No life at home to speak of, might as well stay with status quo and end up with the 14 karat gold watch and retirement cake while 100 people I've barely met sit in uncomfortable chairs spilling over my "career" of plunking numbers into Microsoft Excel boxes. 

Safe.  But not life.  No, life is working 4:30pm to 3:30am on a Sunday (go check that out at the PokerStarsBlog if like such poker recaps) because there are friends to visit in dark casino bars and VIP rooms that momma doesn't need to know about.  Life is playing softball in the rain and mud with co-workers to see them without their corporate masks and fake smiles on, and hoisting a macro-brewed beer after losing terribly but enjoying the day of getting out to the field and being an 11 year old with an oversized jersey and underdeveloped arm hoping dad will decide on treating the family to Angeno's after the game again.  Life is studying to learn more about the work field that chose you so data entry becomes data analysis and the rusty academic gears shine a little light in an otherwise grey economic time. 

There is no end game.  No more searching for June 24th, 2039 to get that sheet cake from Byerly's with "best wishes on retirement" splattered across it and a most likely passed around card with scribbed "enjoy the golf course" notes written within.  Afraid of reaching that point of being shoved along and not striving to make the top tier traveling team as I did in my youth, never chancing disappointment, never willing to say "yes, I'll do the extra work" because of something that happened in elementary school is stunting growth and making excuses for a life path that only one person can guide.  Not control, no one controls their life, many aloof self-important people with titles and lofty egos may think so (see Big Ben Roethlisberger for an example).  No, you can guide yourself to places, much like returning to school may lead to a better, more rewarding job in my field of choice.  It's not your dream job, but it's mine, and I'm happy to the fact that I did not end up like this guy below when my degenerate side could have easily slipped into a black hole of mindless gambling:

Check out this link from Intevention and a child prodigy turned into a $5 blackjack gambling addict that blew thru $500,000 by age 25. 

Watch the facial tics while he plays and the inability to control himself.  This is someone who TAUGHT pre-meds at the age of 18 and was well on his way to obtaining a PhD before I had even thought about doing something other than Cyndi or hitting lead cashier status at the bullseye.  The above video on Gabe's addiction to gambling didn't sway my wanting to sit down with Mr. Pai Gow, Speaker, and Otis this June at the Gold Coast somewhere north of 4am sipping on greyhounds and trying to get the ice queen pit boss to ship some free breakfasts our way.  In fact, it made me want to work even harder toward making that happen. 

Why?

Because watch the casino clips.  Watch the clip at the end with the barren apartment.  Watch how self-centered this prick gets when mommy won't bail his ass out of debt again.

He's alone.

Something I used to be years ago, curled up in a blanket of insecurity and unwillingness to try to stretch.  I may have been married for nearly ten years and a sperm donator for over six but feel like it's only been a few years since I became a husband and father.  If Gabe teaches you one thing, take away this:  talent can only open doors, turning the knob, opening the door, and walking thru is up to the person who poured themselves a bowl of Frosted Flakes and fried up some bacon and eggs this morning because they were hungry.

It's Go Time

I was looking at a slightly larger guy in the mirror last night.  Sweat poured down a maroon t-shirt emblazed with a tacky saying from a particular brand of rum that the author is fond of.  The time was a little after 8pm as my son would be playing with the few kids left in the well-stocked child care area of the gym (seriously, back when I was a kid you were lucky to play with a full inflated ball now you get ball crawls, computers, movies, they probably have live entertainment there too), it is time to pick up the aging, hurting body for parental duties.  On the left was a women in her mid-forties who's sports bra and pant set looked like she ran face first into a cotton candy machine, the peppy lead trainer with short blonde hair, perfectly filling her sleek black warm-up gear was chatting non-stop while massaging her female client on the cushioned tables.

Why was I sitting cross-legged on the green yoga-like mat doing stretching exercising like 17 years ago when the lanky 120 pound kid with zero self-esteem was warming up to throw a few innings for the Osseo Orioles the next day?  Just staring at the guy in the reflection who's grey hairs have started to form on the left side of his chin, why are you doing this?  Well kid, you never tried.  Maybe once, making that leap from the soft, velet blanket of home, Minnesota, friends, parents and shoving off to a college where your economic and social background were so vastly different you never had a chance.  The academic part was easy, too easy that you slipped into a shot glass every other night, and instead of learning the lessons of life you figured out how to cut lime dead drunk without missing digits afterwards.

But this is now.  Now we're going outside that comfort zone again, this time it's not a big-time Pac-10 school surrounded by Sigma Chi alpha males and 22 year old freshman with a chip on their overgrown egos.  We're not sitting on the couch figuratively or realistically, going to the gym, getting an education, doing more at work, and most of all being more active with the kids and wife.  No longer are the ties to staring blankly at a computer screen night after night, but doing so with a purpose.  Like tonight's late-night poker binge that I save for every Thursday, it has a reason.

Stress relief.  Chat with friends unseen except via their blogs and twitter. Hey, maybe even make a few bucks like this guy who won a bracelet race or play Al in heads-up PLO and get swore at for a good half hour while tipping back my favorite beverage. 

No more "I can't" and more "I'll try" or "I'll do", much like accepted the biggest poker writing assignment to date for myself starting May 2nd at the PokerStarsBlog for SCOOP.  This will be a test of juggling school, work, and testing my family how they'll function with a guy sitting in his green flannel pajamma bottoms emblazed with fuzzy dice and four leaf clovers with the broken elastic waistband describing how a check-raise eliminated 5th place for $24,589.31 while the sun creeps up through the porch's windows.  They did it before during the maddness of live blogging the WCOOP when things weren't looking good for a 10 year wedding anniversary, they'll do it this time not for the money, but for better reasons.

Because they like seeing me truly happy for the first time in my life (and I'd be even happier if I get a degeneracy pass to skip off to the WSOP this summer for a weekend of Pai Gow, lifting sullen bloggers spirits, and hang out with those friendships I value greatly...).

[Side Note:  Here's a must read from Big Pirate.  Inspired writing on faith.]

Trading a Diamond for a Degree

Leaving the mound for what would be the last time after throwing hard and impressing no one after having the similar results of a 16 year old taking a drivers test and running the car through an antique store while busting the rare Faberge egg on the high shelf behind the counter with a cracked pane of storefront glass, what was there to do for someone who's hobby was sports.

Hung up the breezers and helmet last year, love for volleyball was still three glorious summers at Mama G's bar and the rusty old Robbinsdale school away, but baseball was front and center for getting my head out of a computer, my only social machine for a recluse stick-figure of a kid with a hearing problem.  Then came a bored night in Champlin at Clyde Andrews Park while I watched my best friend play softball and scoffed at these adults hitting an oversized ball being lobbed to them as if they were swinging from a tee.  "Baseball players don't stoop to this level" I told my overconfident, snobby self.  But it took one feel from my right arm, remembering all the nights of ice packs, stretching, massaging, and of course the pain as my underdeveloped arm never had a chance of going more than seven innings due to the overuse and it would only get worse.

I played in jeans and Reebok high tops that night like a rookie and after getting handed my first softball jacket and jersey, stepping back on the mound would only happen at the State Fair speed pitch game.  Three nights a week, tournaments on the weekend, 2 for 1 pitchers, and a couple in the parking lots, the adult tee-ball game of slo-pitch softball filled the void of needing competition as I would soon find a couple of great girlfriends and eventually a wife thru its social aspect as well. 

After the head injury at work, my life changed, no longer important was making that tournament in Becker or closing down DeLisi's on Tuesdays.  Kids came into the picture while I attempted to get back on the field, seizures be damned.  A marriage was crumbling yet softball was still a consistant, playing a co-ed team was the one way both us were able to get out of the house, away from the blackness that our vows continued to be weighted down by. 

A new home, a new baby, a new start soon came after and softball took a back seat to the birth of another group of friends that showed that my love for cards, gambling, and sarcasm was to enjoyed via writing.  Thus the birth of this page of which I've chronicled the last nearly six years of my life.  Effectively giving both my marriage and my self-worth a big enough boost to live again versus going through the motions of the average.  Working at the PokerStarsBlog for the Sunday Majors along with WCOOP and SCOOP Poker Tournament showed me what could happen if I'd step out of my comfort area of plunking numbers into spreadsheets.

Bringing me to today.  For the first time in 16 years I will not be donning the jersey of a local pub, auto body repair shop, or local construction company on the fields in Crystal, Brooklyn Park, or Maple Grove.  Between school, work, family and friends is were my free time will be this spring and summer.  Playing catch with my son and daughter in the backyard for the past two nights nailed the coffin on my playing days.  Sure, I may step in for a special guest appearance on the diamond like Wil Wheaton stepping onto may different sets including playing Sheldon's neimsis on Big Bang Theory (which I watched the show for the first time on Monday and got hooked).  And if school goes well, I may find myself playing an abbreviated season in the fall, but as for the kid who watched behind Field #3 16 years ago, he might have grown up a bit in the respect of placing what is truly important.

Don't worry, one part of me will never break the Peter Pan spell which I'll hold to till death as becoming a GET  OFF MY LAWN type will have to wait until I'm sitting on my porch on an Arizona golf course several decades from now sipping my morning scotch pelting the country club types with my Daisy BB gun for trying to retrieve their horrible shanks.

Fun With Numbers

Yesterday there was a corporate self-betterment class called "Career Planning".  As in the past, my personal interest in the matter was slim-to-none, however recent enlightment that is not pushed by the economy but rather break some walls down that have drilled me down a ladder climbing hole so deep that I would take less money just to do something that the true minions of advancement would use to springboard to their next promotion.

After pre-taking the Strong Interest Inventory, I learned the following things that I already knew about myself but nice to have it confirmed:

-  Accounting was the #1 fit for likes/dislikes followed by Banker, Credit Manager, and Strip Club jizz mopper



- Conventional learning skills were at the forefront while Artistic ones lagged behind so far most occupations with Artistic backgrounds scored in the negative points on a range from -20 to 80 with -20 being the job most likely to cause one's self to beg for Jigsaw to show up and create an elaborate death trap before reaching your desk every day, and 80 being the job that you'd give up sex, steak, sleep, and Butterscotch Krimpets Tastykakes (available online!!!!!).

- Enjoying to lead by example versus taking charge and delgating the work others hit my personality on the nose.  Learning by doing and learning for a reason versus picking up a book on the French language to read a French Cuisine cookbook and whipping up some five-course meal consisting entirely of words my lisp-filled tongue couldn't possibly pronounce.

The class also made me realize that if I don't make a change soon the resentment of not stretching myself at the regular job versus the one get to show-off some creativity and that I truly enjoy, apathy will seep in deeply enough to kill any chance of moving ahead if/when that four-year college degree becomes real.  As nerdy as it sounds, I do enjoy working with and analyzing data, it's just how I'm built.  Granted the life story of a tall poker playing married accountant doesn't have the ring of a traveling man in quest of the next rush, it is genuine, there are sparks away from the faceless spreadsheets.  Those breaks from linear parenting/married life just come fewer and further between.  But for those who drop here, you will get an honest story if not a dry one at times as there's so much gushing about one's offspring before gagging starts (LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE!!!!)

 A quick aside...  I saw this article about the nth attempt to push through a racino (or two) in Minnesota and once again my lack of understand and gross dislike of politics has me scratching my freshly cut hair.

These are the ideas/quotes I understand but tell me why they happen in a nation where THE PEOPLE'S OPINION is supposed to rule?

Sen. Sandy Pappas, DFL-St. Paul, acknowledged what Day suspects — that the bill, sponsored by Sen. Dan Sparks, DFL-Austin, doesn't stand much of a chance in committee.


"I haven't looked myself at the numbers, but I would doubt it," Pappas said. "There's never been very much support for racino."

O-rly?

Further up the article you'll see these poll numbers:

At issue is not only expanding gambling in Minnesota — something the state's American Indian tribes with gambling venues staunchly oppose, but which 80 percent of Minnesotans in a recent KSTP/Survey USA poll said they support — but also the even touchier issue of the role money plays in politics.


Granted there's nothing noted of the poll size/economic background/ability to somehow drink Michelob Ultra/if they stood outside of Canterbury Park asking if they would like a casino inside but 80 percent with a generous +/- of say eight percent error rate seems like more than a majority.  Now the argument of a saturation point for gambling the state, I can buy that, but for the committee who is partially backed by tribal casino dollars to have the final say on whether or not a couple of fine looking race tracks can't upgrade to having slot machines is like asking an actor if they would like to nominate themselves for an Oscar/Emmy/Golden Globe.

March Calls For Lack of Snow and Stasis

Short and sweet.

Like the next three days are going to go because I selfishly demand it.  The countdown to Mastodon Weekend in G-Vegas is getting tighter and tighter with every email received and the decision to go this year becoming easier and easier.  When I hear a podcast from Gambling Tales or Dr. Pauly's much anticipated Lost Vegas book it stings that my friends come in the form of auditory bites instead of asking the stool next to me if they'd like another round (to the answer is:  duh.).  But, thanks to the awesome planning skills of such friends we get events around North America (that includes Canada of course, unless the border patrol shut things down after that hockey game to end all games.  Seriously, even if you're not a hockey fan per se, the beautiful savage side of this lightning-quick sport should have drawn you your local Olympics carrier to watch in awe just how jaw-dropping the play can be.  Congrats to our Northern friends for Team Canada's victory, may the fans in the U.S. be gracious in defeat as it was more about the nipple raising excitement and less about the color of the shiny metal disks around the player's necks).

Tangents.  I love them.

Anyway, come Thursday I will be knee deep in mid 50s temperatures and bloggers as standing in three feet of snow no longer appeals to me for the reason that sane people shouldn't be subjected to not feeling their fingers for six months at a time **shakes tiny globial warming fist up Al Gore's acai berry colon-cleaned ass**.  Should I see my shadow in a G-Vegas snowdrift, it would take some serious wheelchair-inducing drinking to prevent freaking the hell out.  Not really.  Just a conversation at a local bar with no national presence or handbook on how to sing Happy Birthday in a canned corporate manner.  Bars with local flavors make the beer taste better and liquor flow smoother, as an aside story I remembered Otis posting about "buying local" more often and tried it this weekend:

My wife needed some Mike Light Hard Lemonade and there was a choice between going the same distance in opposite directions for the 12 pack.  In one direction a well-known mega booze store that would certain have what she wanted, the other a smaller literal mom and pop shop that use to sponsor my mom's bowling team back in the days my terrorizing fellow kids for quarters in the Texa-Tonka Bowling Lanes arcade.  With a turn down Bass Lake Blvd. I pulled into Princeton Liquors who's website design this one's ass sideways.  Joel still mans the register, as I walked in with Kyra in tow to make the quick purchase and help set up for my father-in-law's birthday party.  But, the spot where the 12 packs for the Light was empty as they only had 6-packs available which increased the cost $3.  I pointed it out, and while Kyra was snacking on a Lemon flavored Dum-Dum sucker, he said "just grab two of em' and I'll take $2 off each one".

You sir have a repeat customer.  Of course I've gone there several times in the past because their craft beer selection is one of the best in the state thanks his son Bill and because of the willingness to deal, they made an additional sale when I grabbed a bomber of Goose Island Demolition after Bill's suggestion.  But, from now on if I want to grab a 12 pack for the wife I'll be heading north to the "older" section of Maple Grove versus the veener of the "newer" side.

Ok, this isn't going short and sweet despite banging away around 5,000 words at PokerStarsBlog last night.   I took a college placement exam last night which was simple enough except for the fact there was zero study materials and I haven't taken a proper learning course since my final exams at NHCC in 1999.  The grammar section was brutal, as you can tell by my sentence structure here over the years, grammar is not something I incorporate into a post, rather just letting the words stick where they may.  I loathe the fact I may need to re-take Freshman Comp because of my butchering of this simple test.  Not fun, but again neccessary to move forward with the academic return and a need to learn things versus skating by as done in the past.

And maybe that's why I take these trips, love my second job, and find myself one month removed from studying with kids half my age.  The need to stretch, to develop friendship that wouldn't otherwise be possible, to challenge has finally bubbled back up after years of stasis it's time before my kids get into fifteen different activities to have that trampoline of education ready to bounce off of should the economy decide to continue its downward spiral.  And who knows, maybe with a few writing courses you might get more readable junk here and online poker reporting at PokerStars.

Sixty Thousand Dollar Man

Oscar:  "Steve Austin, astronaut; a man barely alive. Gentlemen, we can rebuild him."  

My restoration from head tramatized victim sitting around feeling sorry for himself and dragging those around into my quicksand filled pool of self-pity, into something that can be viewed with a chin up  as the mirror reflects that newly built person.  Each day the hugs are little are a little tighter to those within my albatross wing span.

Oscar:  "We have the technology."

While drugs may work for some people, like my wife, they actually stomped down the kid who was once highly regarded for his charisma and intelligence despite the awful hand his body gave him.  A speech and hearing problem are just asking for it in the schoolyard for the cruel jokes easily come when the target cannot respond.  Instead, years of speech therapy and now hearing aids that make a difference thanks to the advancement of such devices in the past two decades I could enjoy things like conversations in a crowded casino or hearing the exact pitch of my kids' whine to know what tactic to take while calming them down.

Oscar: "We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man."
At this point, there's hardly a recognition to myself five, ten years ago.  Then again thanks to Sir Issac Newton's laws and weighted objects my memories of such dark times fade to nothing more than Iraq's chances for gold in Men's Hockey. 
 
Oscar: "Steve Austin will be that man. We can make him better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

There's no aspiration to come more than a doting parent, a good friend, cruasder of injustice.  But, working out several times a week, heading back to school as soon as Arizona State finds my very expensive one year transcript of study in Tempe, and having a clearer mind on what's important besides yelling at a 15" laptop monitor when virtual cards do not fall the way the heavy percentages have determined.  Better, stronger, faster may sound like description of an automobile, but they can describe the recent events uptop of my head.  The mind will always be rum-soaked dripping with sarcasm at a moment's notice, it will also never release my love for gambling, cards, and nights where "puke and rally" is a theme.  But becoming something different from that death wish the person had while laying out on a puce colored hand-me-down couch waiting for paramedics to arrive after a nasty allergic reaction to medication nearly eight years, is now my new life.  That person could have just allowed the reaction to continue until his throat squeezed life from him, instead he took the phone and choked out some words to 911 which bring me to today in front of all of you as new person.

Well, same person, just rebuilt and ready to kick some academic ass in a two months.

A Walk Through 2009: April thru June

April:

- SCOOP became a big thing around my household. Not as a player (might change this year, as I’m looking to take a shot sometime this year) but as a humble scribe. I would have thought by now reporting on online poker tournaments the lack of human interaction would turn this job into a tedious one.

Exact opposite.

There’s a strange rush I get from watching unknown pros, hoodie/sunglasses WPT-wannabes, and the basement dwelling 30-tabling Supernovas battle it out for more cash than I’ll see in a decade. There’s no resentment of making the “here’s your new SCOOP Champion yaKKaZuMA69 who won $350,000.00 after defeating RubYoMama heads-up for the 6-max Super-Turbo One Card Exposed Hold Em’ Championship!”. It sounds ridiculous but I enjoy my Sunday nights and those big tournament gigs that test sanity with 6-8 hours of work till the wee hours of the next day, then trying to cram a 10-hour day of spreadsheets and invoices all while remembering that Kyra only likes the purple bendy straws in her chocolate milk.

- Had a shot at the elusive Mookie title but vacated the wait

- Got ready for another season of softball after “retiring” for the most part. One of the better decisions as the nights in the parking lot after the games were a mid-week stress relief.

- Minnesota tried to ban online gambling which would have effectively killed my future blogger endeavors since my funds for such trips comes from working on the PokerStarsBlog and the very rare tournament scores.

May:
- The first Brett Favre reports come out. Of course I’m in dreamland now with two games before a possible Super Bowl, but as a lifetime Vikings fan Brett Favre represented the epitome of football hated as the best player on the rival’s team (and even if they go one-and-out I'd thank him for the excitement this year). But, this fan of the Purple couldn’t comprehend the media coverage that follows this guy. Holy shit even Randy Moss, Joe Mauer, Kevin Garnett, and Visanthe Shiacoe’s dong combined couldn’t get more face time on ESPN than this guy.

- There was also quick hit about what your Minnesota sports jersey says about you

June:

- WSOP begins, friends start their long journey thru the Amazon Room’s bad food, strippers looking for tricks on the rail, and 17 hour days for the next 40-ish days.

Personally, I will try to make it out there again this year because I did seemed to do quite well chopping up the O8 event down at the Binion's Poker Classic despite being not in-the-bag, but thru-the-bag-and-searching-for-discarded-hooker-handouts after a 15 hour playing/drink-athon. Seeing Otis, Gene, F-Train, and Al railing me and CK while taking in that couple straight from an HBO special on “What Happens When Psych Patients Don’t Take Their Meds”.

Sadly the guy could have ran over the final table with the chip lead he had but instead watched that mighty fortress of clay reduced to pleading to be included in the 5-way chop. Basically his ego and harpy wife cost him the $5K difference between the chop money and stated first prize.

Next up July, August, and September also known as the only months you won't see three inches of ice on Minnesotan roads.