The $50,000 Epiphany

It has been over a month since I walked down the aisle at Roy Wilkins arena to take home a gold stamped leather binder showing the Rasmussen College school crest (Doctrina, Concretio, Successio with a rockin Moose for a mascot) with a piece of cardboard that set me back around $50,000.  My wife sat in the upper deck besides her dad and my parents of 38 years, all of whom I owe my life to both figuratively and literally.  Sure I opened the padded folder a few times just to see if my name in fancy calligraphy proclaimed that my time as a student has ended and new path would present itself after shaking the hands of an academic dean I never met and would never see again.

Willingly give up 3.5 years of sanity and free-time to break a corporate glass ceiling that might as well been made out of Kevlar wrapped around the insulation used for the Space Shuttle seemed like a much easier task sitting over a bonfire in northern Minnesota.  It didn’t take Toby Robbins or Henry Rollins to shout in my ear that stasis was slowly killing whatever momentum this life had after breaking out of the haze of a head injury.  Sure, work was going in the right direction with accolades and praise for taking on extra work for the same pay while staying in the poker blogging game covering every –COOP tournament series PokerStars could come up with.  Giving up at this point would have been a trout slap in the face to me and anyone who invested even a nice word in my general direction.

There was no need for a life coach or religious schema to tell me that God would guide my rum-soaked soul to the promise land of fiscal and conscious independence if certain rules of life were followed.  What was needed was another complete detachment from day-to-day life, not completely unlike a certain wheel-assisted ride down Las Vegas Boulevard.  Letting go of a secure job for the chance to become that skinny third grader with the bowl cut and bright blue eyes who could shout out multiplication answers so fast some kids didn’t even try to contest.  Until a few weeks ago, that kid represented the last time I felt whole.

Strangled by insecurity despite a good, solid base at home, I let assholes into my head to plant doubt strong enough to grow a stalk to take Jack up into the clouds for his fight with the giant.  Every glance at a mirror was one of pity and pain wondering if life was supposed to feel that way.  There was no Facebook or Twitter back then to seek out a group of like-minded individuals who perhaps were struggling with similar depressive depths.  Maybe for the better as the brutal landscape of social media likely would have been more devastating than a chant during recess about the inability to hear and communicate like a normal elementary school student.  In retrospect it’s easy to look back on such events and blow it off like a flame on a birthday candle.  As a parent it is easy to go “you know what, in [XX] years you won’t even care or remember how kids at recess made fun of you”.  Yeah, 30 years later after the most amazing stretch of personal advancement, I’m sitting on a couch secure with my skin recalling a bunch of fourth graders throwing around a partly chewed up Nerf football not letting me play with them anymore.

I remember being curled up against the brick underneath the newly painted letters proclaiming the building was Cedar Island elementary during most recesses just wishing I could hide in the library despite my love for sports.  Thanks to my bump on the headspot I cannot recall many good times except for a select few that I follow on Zuckerberg’s peep show that allows me to feel good about their new step into parenting, offer condolences to the death of a parent, or question their life choices while posting a selfie with a Green Bay Packers jersey on.

The core of this whole epiphany was not receiving that $50,000 piece of cardboard or what it took to get to that moment that was captured by OverlyPricedGradPrints.com that offers a SPECIAL DEAL of only $50 UNITED STATES DOLLARS FOR A DIGITAL PRINT MUST ACT NOW!!!!  Seriously, the grad is probably strangled by the amount of debt they just ran up for the past four/five years, do you really thing they have $119.99 for the specially embossed 3-D pic of them wearing an article of clothing that will get used the same amount of times a wedding gown does?  Fuck. Off. 

Sorry.  That’s a rant for another time (luckily my father-in-law takes awesome life stills without directing me to a credit application for the honor of possessing one of them).

As I sit here now into my third drink and re-finding my love for writing in non-APA formatted structures, or any grammatically positive formations for that matter, I see a lot of good in my future despite this new debt sitting over porch’s roof.  Just like when entering adulthood, parenthood, or maybe a familiar neighborhood time is supposed to slow down.  No more parties that end up with a threesome in a cardboard box while others are discussing the superiority of grape over cherry Kool-Aid on a deck at 5am while waiting for McDonald’s to open to grab a Sausage McMuffin and hash brown (yes I’m old enough to remember the golden arches when they actually closed for the evening).  The epiphany came down hard yet landed softly into my timeline.  Stop rushing, hug more, accept more, put up with less.  Enjoy yourself or no one else will, stop expect each day will be filled with glowing unicorns blowing rainbows and perfectly distilled vodka out of their asses.  There will be times you will not like your spouse, there will be times a parent will want to take a full roll of duct tape and stick their tantrum-filled kid on the roof of a jet liner bound for Sri Lanka, there will be times that make a person question is it worth it.

It is.

Life may seem like shit if the manager just informed the department of cutbacks, a best friend suddenly goes AWOL from the friendship, or finding out that Axe Dark Temptation body spray really does not turn panties moist from grinding on that very special lady in the navy blue tank top with three visible bra straps and frayed daisy dukes when Blurred Lines takes to the DJs rotation at TGI Friday’s.  I thought like this for waaaaaaaaaaay too long and it hurt my relationship with my wife, my kids, and my friends.  Opening eyes to notice, hey people may seem ok through the veneer paneling they present in public, but likely have the same insecurities and issues about Christian Ponder throwing forward passes that you do.  Yes, I will struggle to upkeep this new direction but its better to state it and point a finger in the mirror call one’s self out on their bullshit versus not realizing it at all.

This scribbling tonight is the result of writing this post over and over in my head for the past month but never breaching the gate of turning on Microsoft Word to bang out 1,223 now 1,224 words.  At first it was a cautionary tale of after-college doldrums of how college students are not prepared for the utter financial clusterfuck they are about to enter (I just got my “guide to paying your student loan” from the college BEFORE getting my official degree).  But, to expound on this when I am relatively better off (married, just got promotion which breach previously mentioned glass ceiling, and no credit card debt) seemed very hypocritical since I’m not in the same fiscal state as a 22 year old trying dig their way out of the well-used county fair demolition derby port-a-potty of bank interest on top of their student loans while job humping LinkedIn, Monster.com, and mom’s good friend who owns a collection agency might hire the bachelor of accounting as a financial relief consultant to those that have not paid their Citibank Student MasterCard in two years or more.   

Instead a few words came out about the stressed yet calm currently in this author’s life.  My kids love the fact that daddy does not need to sit behind a laptop and expound on the different moral viewpoints of Martin Luther versus Immanuel Kant as it relates to a reversing subledger accounting journal entry.  My wife gets her friend back instead of the highly strung, over-sexed husband.  Well, he still wants sex just not at a Bree Olson pacing and enjoying quiet nights together to critique the Chopped contest’s use of pickled deer hooves as a base for the dessert round. 

Personally it’s a new life, one that should have started 15 years ago as a fresh out of college student but I wouldn’t trade my life experiences for anything, except a Vikings Super Bowl win and maybe some MN State Fair cheese curds with Dogfish 90 minute IPA to wash it all down.  But my life is just that my life.  It is not yours, nor should I or anybody tell you how to get to your one of many destinations.  Judging others for not making enough, like the story I heard at work about a young accountant working 12-13 hour days 5-6 days a week at a Big Four firm and being judge for leaving “early” because he actually had a life outside the office, seems short-sighted by most but some are driven to such career aspirations.  Yes, I was initially aghast but know that I should try to learn from both sides of such a situation.  Hey, if you want to retire by 45 and rock your millionaire lifestyle, go at it until those zeros pile up on the bank statement because that person is getting to where their goal path ends.  No different than my route to a bachelor’s degree while maintaining some degree of social interaction with my family and friends. 

And getting the college degree was not my goal.  My goal was to get to this point and being able to see that cute third grader again in the mirror before the glasses, acne, and depression.  I wanted to like myself again versus panning for praise from those around me. Yes, it cost $50K, yes it took almost four years, but I sit on this beige couch in suburbia-land with a sweaty Captain and Coke after tucking in the kids that I enjoy being me and accept the faults and awesomeness that come from it.

116 Days

Recently, I have never begging for normal more in the past two months than even my lowest of lows. If one’s life is past upon experience and stretching the outer reaches of emotions without breaking, I have pulled that rubber band back as far it will go for maximum sling. Or a sharp snap.


Work life, home life, parent life, social life, all-consuming with only brief interludes of silence, just enough to recharge the dead battery so the next step can be taken towards graduation. More work, more involved at home, being a dad instead of dude behind a laptop, and double-fisting Captain and Cokes because there’s no reason to sit on the sidelines anymore.

Be happy scares me more than sitting in a dark corner combing through the day, the week, the lifetime trying to find meaning when I can’t sleep because the constant re-evaluating of my life. Is going through this stressful time worth the college degree? What is my marriage going to look like afterwards? Will I continue to try to be a better dad/husband/friend/son? What is this receipt to SexWorld doing in my pocket?

People don’t understand you. They never will. There’s no book, no psych course, no spouse/friend/parent that will ever understand you and why you’re standing in front of a mirror at 5:13am half-naked with Crest with whitening power dribbling down the right side of your lips. However, they can help pull a person into a better state of mind. At least that’s what I tell myself daily, stop fucking with my own head, and just do. For years and even now, I still believe my disability is the reason why people treat me the way they do. As sort of a loyal dog that will never bite no matter how many times kids pull on its ears or forget to feed it.

Even at work where I do well enough to get praise, it seems fake, only patting my head “GOOD JOB BOY!” because I am an employee tax deduction due to my inability to shape noises into conversation. Just once I would like to kick the piss out of the cynic in me and throw him into the woodchipper ala Fargo. Just once I would like to hear “Excellent job on fixing that dispute!” instead of “I’m only saying this because I need more from you”.

That’s my problem.

Because I sit today 116 days from my unicorn, my Eleanor if you will. My daydreams of held back tears. My piece of paper that cost north of $46K and some priceless sanity to get. And while it will be a grand relief to get free time back, I will need to fill it because that cynic will have more time to think again and open its mouth wider than before.

Then again, I have all the people surrounding me that would tell that cynic to fuck off and buy me a drink to discuss why Taylor Swift should cross her legs more and stop whining about her boyfriends through multi-million dollar screeching.  I hope to see those people again sooner than later.

Getting on the Treadmill

The home stretch.  Start up that Chariots of Fire song.  Well... in six months.

Much like that photo you see below with Otis and his mangled toe crossing the finish line of the Mastodon Weekend half-marathon and the slightly less-blooded foot of yours truly about 30 seconds behind in the orange circle, my time for running is coming to a close end.

No, not the new/old fitness craze that infected more than a few of my fellow degenerate friends, as that form of motion has been moved indoors for the duration of the winter as Minnesota tends to get cold during the time between Santa Claus and leprechaun visits.  Taking 20 minutes to prepare for a run by grabbing three insulated forms of Gore-Tex while staving off hypothermia and frostbite do not excite me.  Instead, thanks to a generous co-worker, I have taken up running on a treadmill for the first time. My humble observation is that the human hamster wheel feels much like having sex with a condom on.  If you’re doing it right you still get sweaty but you miss the extra sensations that outdoor running (and sex?) provides.  At least it will keep me in decent shape to start up again since this summer finishing a marathon seems like a fun thing to do.

Gibbs Rule #29:  Don't Suck (image credit)

Freed up time for training will come after finishing seven classes for my bachelor’s degree and a small bit of time for a celebration worthy of something that has taken over my life and thoughts for the past three and a half years.  At a stop light between Highway 169 and County Road 30 at 5:45am, before sitting down for a rare NCIS marathon with my wife, looking out towards the dimly lit backyard from my porch after a long night of reporting, all spots that usually bring a quick tear to my eye while thinking about a handshake and a piece of paper that will soon come into my possession. 

The dream was supposed to die after hopping on a plane from Sky Harbor airport to MSP.  The dream was supposed to die after getting knocked in the head and becoming an anti-social hermit for eight years.  But, after several drunken and sober fireside chats at the trailer cabin and a leap of faith with my finances six months separate me from that degree and that handshake that is so vivid in those daydreams. 

There is no end however.  The degree is not the end-of-the-road and time to kick up my feet on the L-shaped couch and start up yet another Gibbs versus the system viewing party or drink myself under that same piece of furniture.  Instead it’s just another piece of a second chance on life and making the most of it with self, my family, and my friends.  Definitely will not miss the strict APA formatting, late nights of researching dead philosopher’s thoughts on internet porn, or saying the words “daddy is busy with school right now”, those will pass into the same memories of 2am feedings of kids that are now in 1^st and 4^th grade.  Tough times that add to one’s exterior for the next challenge and one after that.  Much like running a 5K, then 10K, then a half-marathon, and with luck and hopefully no bloody appendages, 26.2 miles in around four hours 30 minutes.

A side note for Felicia…  I looked through 2005 and couldn’t find my deaf notepad, sorry.  But, I did manage to slide out of the house for some poker this past week at Canterbury Downs.  A little over two hours and ZERO drinks later my small entry fee was given to someone else after finishing 7/40 when the big blind woke up with a hand better than mine.  THE NERVES!

Lucky for a reason

There are reminders that surround me daily of who I am, and what I wish to become.  Sure, the tedious studying of the human anatomy is better left to those like Dr. Chako who I'm certain could rattle off the names of the 8 cranial bones and 14 facial bones with no issue and his patients are better off with such expertise.  Sitting across the desk from myself however, I doubt once I gather up my bachelor's degree and hope to continue on to a CPA certification that you would care if I know the three layers of skin and their function beyond recommending a lotion with the cold weather turning your hide into something found at a leather store.

Well-rounded student I GET IT.  Trust me, yes I enjoy learning about the human body (ya'll got some gross stuff going on in there) but is it necessary that a 36 year old married guy with two kids to spend time on electives.  Its not like I'm looking to change majors, rush a different frat house, or have a change in heart about what I want to do in life.  Accounting is where I want to be, spreadsheets and databases get the blood flowing in the right places.  I need to move positions and quickly as currently the walls are closing in on me, feeling like wasted talent that could be doing more but instead forced to listen my career dying like my co-worker's persistent cough.

Phil Mackey, a local sports radio show host, co-creator of the Minnesota State Poker Tour (MSPT) and Minnesota Poker Magazine (where I was left off the recent top online players in the state list despite owning the 91st best player the state ranking by PocketFives HUZZAH!), and someone I had the pleasure of helping out on their poker blog for a bit (until I decided to return to school, still hope to cover an event the right way online) gets a lot of guff for having strong opinions and "getting lucky" to be in the position he is in at such a young age (read his recent post on the matter).  What these rubes don't see is how hard the man worked to get there and gave himself a chance to "get lucky".  Working in sports, getting to travel to the different venues on the company dime, seems like a great gig and it probably is but Mackey had a vision on getting there and went for it. 

Much like the very popular MSPT which is now going online at Bodog for qualifers (see the Minnesota Poker Magazine link above for details) it started with hard work and not much reward.  Look at Otis or Pauly, think they started their poker blogs with grandeur visions of cross-country tripping around the world being paid to watch and record millions of dollars sliding verticial along a poker table?  It's possible.  But it started with a love for the game, the they went out and made the connections to various people and sites and their given talents did the rest.

I was fortunate enough to meet Otis early on at the WPBT tournaments, chat on Yahoo, and share the experience of becoming a newly branded father and continue with parenting stories for years to come.  With some luck, I am able to call the final stretch for the Sunday Warm-up at the PokerStarsBlog and get tapped for SCOOP and the World Championship of Online Poker along side real writers like Shamus, defending PCA Women's Event Champ Change100 (hoping to peek at the screenplay before Universal snaps it up), Otis himself, Dr. Pauly, Writer Jen, F-Train.

Lucky?  Like a (insert worn out poker cliche involving river card here).

My co-worker constantly bitches about her life and her health but does nothing but stare at the retirement clock sitting on top of her PC while browsing thru homes online that she'll never buy.  Think I would be in this position if I'd stayed on the couch after my head injury?  Happy with a revived married life, two kids who can't wait to see their dad, and a side job that I love?  People like Phil Mackey, Otis, Pauly, successful writer John Hartness who despite working a full-time job is cranking out some kick ass novels, and even myself on a much lesser scale get there because they took extra shot, got out of bed when the floor was ice cold and fired up the laptop instead of giving up.

There's saying you miss 100% of the shots you don't take, and you may miss nine out of ten times, but live to hit that tenth attempt.  And if the tenth shot is fouled off your shin, you walk it off and get back in the box for number eleven.  Because no one is going to hand you the career/life you're looking for.  Maybe this is why learning the functions of cilia and endoplasmic reticulum are worth a few hours at night. 

Jack Frost hiding behind the pine tree

Growing up it was easy to justify calling October the beginning of winter.  There was the infamous Halloween Blizzard in which a 17 year old me was working at the store which will probably become his only place of employment until its time to wear trifocials and oversized suspenders while flagging down the sympathic high school waitress at a $2/$4 table in Arizona.  Shoveling snow for two hours AFTER my shift of stocking toilet paper and 12-packs of Coke products for the weekend dollar days sale, just to get my multi-colored 85' Nova hatchback on Bass Lake Road and home to two worried parents since the wonders of cell phones were left for those who earned slightly more than my $3.25 an hour.  The beginning of the month however is best that this barren Nordic land can offer.  A breeze with a slight nip tickles the senses just enough as the sun does its job by keeping you warm like a blanket during a bonfire.  A last call for frolfing and taking the garbage out barefoot at anytime of the day.

October used to be a resting time, time to recoop from the summer's go-go-go schedule and September's month of work-work-work.  But, now since some "friends" woke the sleeping academic bear inside of me, I am in my third quarter of studies which include an Introduction to Lit course.  My previous exposure to such lofty writing was back in high school with an English teacher I admired but unfortunately his demands at the time and my already stacked class load which included HP Calculus and Physics along with the rigors of two-a-day baseball practice and part-time job, I took the easy way out and slid over to a different English course whose final consisted of watching Blade Runner as Harrison Ford battled the replicants.

This time there is no such option and nor would I take it, while I don't take my "writing" seriously, I do appreciate the chance to pick up a few pointers from those long dead and maybe mesh their works into my posting here for extra buttery flavor.  And as the leaves fall on a daily basis and 15,347 trips to the county compost site become a weekly occurrance, its one more step in the direction of obtaining that degree.  The steps are getting steeper at this point which more advanced Accounting terminology being introduced and again the Lit course with its 900+ page tome of Shakesphere, Keats, and Plath.  All this as the breaths are starting to show during my son's soccer games and hot chocolate on the sidelines becomes more of a hand warmer than a belly one.

We'll see if the college dream implodes now that the subjects are brand spankin new and if the 35 year old freshman is up to the challenge of juggling school with family, work, and play.  My only hope is to come out of this with a little more knowledge, little more tolerance, and a little more self-awareness in finding out just who am I besides some goofball that enjoys an adult beverage or seven at a card game.

That Look

There's no neon sign to tell you when thoughts are going to overtake the normal everyday grind.  Nor construction posts to point you in the direction of the next bumpy road to overcome.  Riding down Highway 101 to a previously small town that has exploded with urban growth over the years due to its proximity to the Mississippi and the gateway to the excellent fishing resorts up north, I spent the time watching the sprawl of what was a quiet dirt road one shutter seasonal produce shop with chipped paint, now a full-sized year-round greenhouse with "activities" like a corn maze and pedal car track.

The night was to support a singer, an 19 year old daughter of my wife's co-worker.  She was playing a set list of popular soft country, soft rock songs along with original tunes stenciled down in lavender pen with the torn edgings from a tattered notebook.  The guitar was brand new, a gift from the doting mother and father who sat seven feet away hanging on to each of her notes the filled the 3/4th empty upper-scale bar.  The set up was small, taking up no more than corner as patrons slowly finished their tall Grain Belts hardly paying mind to woman by the smoking exit belting out hand strummed music.

While only a few kids and drink slingers at the bar took most than a few seconds to stop and listen, her parents mouthed the words to each song as they were no strangers to the "stage".  This isn't what one envisions in a day and age "American Idol" and "Coyote Ugly".  Just have a decent voice, nice body that doesn't have people running for eye bleach, and you're on your way to that seven figure contract and private jet flying you around to perform in every Hooter's location until that first album warrants a real tour.  Or maybe that closet-like space to play is the life for these musicians, as I've never been exposed to the local scene found in City Pages filled with bands and singers who are insurance adjusters by day, dreamers of the microphone by night.

When I saw her parents looks I remember getting the same look from my parents only it was a baseball field or a hockey game when their son's lanky buck-nothing frame managed to weave around a defense for a goal.  A sense of pride.  While my dreams of stepping onto Fenway with mom and dad in the stands died with a thud after a mid-80s fastball couldn't impress the scouts enough, a different direction was needed.  For years there was no direction, then the road changed completely with marriage and kids.  No more late-night volleyball and softball benders as they were replaced by mortgage payments and potty training.  No more freedom to just step in another direction and go as there were others to consider before my selfish decisions.

This Friday in the office of a small college with a counselor and cute Mimi Driver look-alike finanical aid rep with the Minnesotan accent (I declined to ask if she was auditioning for the sequel to "Fargo"), a new path will be set with the blessings of those most affected (ok grammar nazis did I use it right?) in the future.  And as Lindsay finished up her first set and my passable tall Samuel Adams Seasonal reached its bottom there's a renewed interest to see my parents in the stands with that look in their eyes but instead of Jofa-branded helmet or Osseo Orioles baseball cap uptop of my head, it will be an overpriced slate of cardboard with a tassle that will hang from my rear-view until my wife tells me to stop acting 18 and take it down.  

Employee Discount Card Secure

For those who know me personally may have read this yesterday:


Discount retailer Target Corp. said Tuesday that it will cut 9 percent of its headquarters staff, close a distribution center and reduce planned new-store openings as it battles the weak economy.

The staff cut includes 600 employees and 400 open positions, mostly in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota where it is based. The company plans to close its Little Rock, Ark. distribution center, which employs another 500 people, later this year.

"We are clearly operating in an unprecedented economic environment that requires us to make some extremely difficult decisions to ensure Target remains competitive over the long term," Gregg Steinhafel, president and chief executive, said in a press release.

I am still gainfully employed, I won't comment further since I do not talk about work here, but I will say yesterday felt like kick in the taint with a cold spiked shoe.

Nothing good comes out of watching friends walk out of your life.

---

Update: On a good note, I will be seeing the ear specialist today to discuss hearing aids and not scooping out my middle ear to replace it with used Wall*E parts. Surgery has been done before, it didn't help, I missed baseball season and lost my high school girlfriend (for the first time of three). While I wouldn't expect my wife to walk out on me while wrapped in bandages for several months, I see no upside to spending five figures and three to six month recovery time to hear the latest American Idol hit some glass shattering high note.

I just want clarity, I want to hear everyone speak and not guess based on facial and body expressions as to what they're saying. If a hearing aid can't give me that, then solidering on with what has been given to me won't sink me into the same self-loathing I had when Cyndi slipped a note into my hallway locker 16 years ago (holy shit I'm old!).

When you have a disability, you find out real quick who your real friends are because they speak to you without pity in their eyes nor pull back punches when joking.

I know of many who read here are those people because you're all horrible bluffers.

Peace.

25 Things While Approaching 35

Mulitabling used to seem easy. Throw on six tables of PLO8 and go to work. Watching and playing 24 cards at any one given time was easy. Last night as on every other Sunday of every month, I cover the Sunday Warm-up at the PokerStarsBlog. But on the end of the month there’s also the two monthly promotional tourneys I cover: Battle of the Planets $50,000 Freeroll for SnG players and $1 Million Turbo Takedown.

At the crossroads between finishing up the wrap up for the Battle of the Planets and the final two/three tables of the Sunday Warm-up I’ll have fifteen different windows going while covering the action and reporting on it.

I love it.

While doing two wrap ups at the same time can cramp the fingers and brain while keeping the action separated on my little 15” laptop, it’s a challenge I enjoy plus I learn a little bit about late stage MTT play every night that I cover these tourneys. Hopefully the readers here enjoy the labor, if you don’t or have some suggestions please fire away.

Heads up play last night:

First hand in the Sunday Warm-up (A8o vs. TT get it all in pre-flop with A8o having almost 20BBs and shoving over the top of a standard 3XBB raise from the chip leader)

Second hand in the $1 Million Turbo Takedown (Top pair-meh kicker vs. flopped straight get it all in on the flop with over 20BBs apiece after both limp in)

I thought both plays were a little rash considering the stacks and prizes (both tourneys had a $40K difference between 1st and 2nd), any MTT savants out there make the same plays?

-------------

Twenty-Five things about me? Hmmmm…

Ok. I’ll try.

1. Despite getting paid to write at times, I came within a re-test of the ACT English portion of having to take a remedial Freshman Comp course at ASU.

2. I switched high school English classes purposely from an award winning teacher, to someone who let us watch Star Trek and Blade Runner for take home exams. Looking back I would have stuck it out and learned something.

3. In middle school I maintained straight As while taking AP Science and Math classes until ninth grade when an Art teacher gave me a C+. I may have cried, and still cringe when my kids ask me to draw/paint with them. And in high school, I no longer cared about getting those As because of it.

4. I worked a total of four days in fast food (Jack in the Box). Tip: Placing a coffee pot under the machine limits your chances of getting burned and might even make a caffeine filled drink!

5. Fear my arm wrestling skills. Unless your name is B.J., then you’d kick my ass.

6. I am embarrassing good at many bar games and have paid several tabs over the years on prop bets. Penthouse Photo Hunt is a winner!!!

7. I do NOT dance. (that was a different person at the Bash, he had very sore legs in the morning and I offer eye-bleach to those who watched)

8. I will also refuse to sing despite being in a choir for several years except to rock out to Metallica.

9. My favorite drink is a Captain and Coke, not rum and coke. Yes, I will know the difference you moron bartender.

10. I’m amazed daily that people read this stuff, and thank people too much when I get a poker writing gig because I just don’t get why I got hired.

11. I got my wife pregnant on the first shot, three separate times. No extra “practice” or “attempts” for me. Booooooooooooo.

12. I do not wish to eat an olive nor drink a bloody mary. I’ve tried several and gagged every time, what is wrong with you people?!?!

13. Wyatt’s middle name is a combination of mine and my wife’s grandfathers. If you can’t figure out my daughter’s I feel sorry for you.

14. I have driven a 400 yard par four with a regulation golf ball and scored a 120 in the same round. My short game sucks.

15. I don’t remember much from 2001-2007 due to the head injury but also I’d like to block out many of those memories.

16. If Red Dawn, Star Wars IV, V, and VI, Bloodsport, Youngblood, or Rounders comes on the TV I physically can’t turn it off regardless of the hour.

17. Its taken me five years to understand why I’m a parent, and learn more every day.

18. I prefer Triscuit with cheese versus nachos.

19. In the last three or four years I’ve become a beer snob thanks to my friend E. Gimme a Surly dammit.

20. I can still remember tossing away A7o in middle position in 2000 at the Stardust thanks to reading Lee Jones’ Winning Low-Limit Hold Em’ book on the flight and watching the flop come out 7 – 7 – 4, three people stayed in to see a turn of 7, all three again saw the river 4. Guy in the one seat turned over quad 4s, I look up to see quads beaten would have won half of the $25,000 bad beat jackpot and 25% would have come to me. Thanks Lee!

21. That ligament that attaches your tongue to the bottom your mouth? I had that clipped in order to give women better oral sex. Or help my speech problems. You can decide on the better reason.

22. I have not eaten a brussel sprout but may do it for $1,000

23. I have only one regret in my life.

24. I am not allowed to use power tools for safety of others as well as myself.

25. Despite hating the cold of Minnesota, I couldn’t picture living any where else (unless I retire that is)

Wanting to Hear What Someone Has To Say

People may have heard Americans are getting a new president today. $150,000,000.00 is being spent by various functions and committees to ring in our Commander-in-Chief, and if packages like these $50,000 Politically Correct one at the Ritz-Carlton or The Fairmont Eco-Inaugural Package at a svelte $40,000 one can could see the money exchanging hands for the record number of security detail needed today.

The ring is moving from the right to the left as Obama’s engagement period is over, and he starts the hard road of marriage today with a speech that is supposed to captivate an economy torn nation into believing in itself again. But, could the spoken words really be THAT good? Aren’t the promises to the American public so large and so grand, its similar to that one ex-girlfriend/boyfriend that you never got to have sex with but had a road map in your head to the three day carnal monkey banging that left you both so sexually satisfied a video of it would become the number one teaching aid to good sex?

Will Obama give that worked-up release today after a year of preaching it as he addresses the nation as its president? He does bring hope, whether the hope becomes action, and action becomes results will be seen over the next four years.

----

I wish I was able to view this historic event but as a personal matter today, I’ll be addressing issues at the local level. For many years I’ve kidded myself due to vanity mostly. But the countless missed words, conversations, and asking for closed captioning to be added to the TV set have caught up to me. My hearing problems is one that have caused humor undo to myself as words coming out of my mouth don’t always match up with the conversation and sometimes with embarrassing results.

Ok, its pretty funny when someone could be talking about their car and I chime in with a reference about the time I passed out on the hood of my white Madza 626 DX at the 1995 Edgefest concert that had nothing to do with their new heated seats and shift-on-the-fly four wheel drive.

But, it’s uncomfortable.

Also, I miss my daughter’s explanation of her elaborate princess get up with five rings on each finger to the big man kneeled down in front of her who just nods approvingly or my son’s latest sight words he has conquered in reading class.

It has probably held me back professionally in many areas whether it is at my current company or possible future gigs in poker reporting. The number of times I wanted to put my head thru some tempered glass after not hearing something is too vast to count and to explain what it feels like think of going thru life with cotton stuck in your ears, you can see the mouths moving, you can catch most of what’s being said but have to guess the other words like some prime time Fill In The Blanks game show.

Today I’ll be visiting Pararella Ear, Head, and Neck Institute to see if obtaining a hearing aid will get the cotton out of my ears. Granted I’ll have to save up the $1,000-$3,000 for the pair should the audiologist believe such a device is worth the cost. Easier said then done, but there's some extra work in the mix that should it pan out, the cost won't strain the house finances.

One of us today will be bringing a nation closer to together with words, the other is hoping to bring his family and friends closer to hear their words. I’m just lucky that I don’t require a custom made Caddy to get to my podium today but sure to feel the same exuberance afterwards.

Rockin the Granny Panties

New era for Twins baseball on the way? RIP Carl Pohlad. But, since his son Jim has been basically running the ownership show for years don’t expect the Twins to whoo Manny being Manny or a slew of other high priced/high risk big hitters into the Twins lineup for years to come. Look for better insight from Twins/Baseball-guru Aaron Gleeman to expound on the Twins future without the miserly Pohlad behind the plate.

“Four year has not yet been charged” (click link to story). Those are seven words that should never been written in any newspaper/news story other then The Onion. Seriously? Granted the reporter was just passing on the information from the sheriff’s office but doesn’t common sense seep into a story in some way? Just the fact ma’am? Four years old meaning, almost done with the ability to wipe one’s ass alone, graduating from Sprout to Nick Jr., and making up fictional stories involving “a coyote, a squid, and his adventures with Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.” I think the fact that the kid one, knew there was a gun readily accessible, two, was able to reach it, and three, was able to fire it, shows the parents were better off to blow off beer, bingo, and blowjobs night down at the lodge and find a Chuck Norris video on gun safety (my suggestion is “Invasion U.S.A.”).

Speaking of 80’s movies, for some reason I’ve found myself watching “Hot Dog: The Movie” (a poor man’s “Ski School” but Shannon Tweed’s granny panties were rockin!), “Bikini Shop”, and last night’s feature “Gas Pump Girls”. No idea for sudden interest OMG-BOOBIES! mixed with vapid-plot-line-return-to-USA-Up!-All-Night-lonely-high-school-evenings, but when needing a void after a day of work and being daddy it adds some humor into the night.

Yes, I know I should be studying for my MBA, learning five languages, and solving for "y", but I’m not that person. There are limits to my life and I recognize them. My hearing and speech problems have defined a line to which jobs I can pursue and how far my professional suit will carry me. After countless rejections, I’ve resigned to the fact that there’s a glass ceiling that will not break no matter how large my penis is, or whether I obtain a four-year college degree or not. My head injury set my life back five to six very dark years in which I woke up in the last year or two with two kids and a renewed love for my wife. But, before the injury I was all set to re-enter the college campus with a Business degree and CPA certification in mind and very little financial/mental penalty. Now, I have a mortgage, two cars, two kids, and five monthly porn subscriptions to think of.

Not sure where the next year or five will take me, but the journey now is more important to me then the goal of a piece of paper or a couple of extra digits in my bank account. Just providing financially, parentally, and husbandly (new word!!!1111oneoneone) for my family and myself is my life. This is probably the most important thing that has come out of a bad situation, and while the daily outlook gets blurred with every argument, the lifelong one doesn’t need glasses anymore.

Passing Go, Collecting 2008

As I move with the rest of the world from Microsoft Word 2003 to Microsoft Word 2007 and the massive new icons that could be confused with a World of Warcraft interface. If I kill anyone during these typed words accidentally using some kind of Ice Lance/Dragon’s Breath combo, blame Bill Gates.

2008.

Many things done, many more to do. There’s bemoaning that 2008 brought nothing but stress and extra creases to people’s foreheads. Sure, with the daughter taking the terrible twos to a level probably seen by a few readers here, it has been a daily struggle to keep up her energy and defiance. But how could you be mad at a face like this:

I struggle to keep a straight face with every "no!" and "I don't do that!" but the parenting suit requires some kind of instillation of order and discipline into her life in case her aspirations in life wish to go further then flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

The boy also gives some trying days but those seem to melt into the week more often as he’s learning the invisible boundaries of mom and dad. My hopes remain that he finds whatever he’s looking for in life and enjoys growing up (but not too quickly). So far he’s following the same path as old man with a love for video games and detest forming the perfect Q or attempts to draw a snowman that looks something different then a metal chain link with a top hat.

I asked my wife for one thing this Christmas, it carries no price tag in the monetary sense but the worth for our marriage is immeasurable. No person should have to give up living and as someone who took five years of his life staring at a blank wall with little reason to lift up the covers in the morning. There are hints that she’s ready to live again, breaking away from the shells of depression and self-doubt with every victory on Scramble and smile after a spilt glass of milk. Being a parent doesn’t have an all-encompassing guidebook for dealing with a sullen husband one second and cleaning up a potty training daughter the next. I’d like my wife back as I have missed her dearly.

As for me, I just had a few requests.

Still have fun. Trips to Chicago, Philly, and of course Vegas help to recharge the batteries with friends I wish we’re a little more accessible then via Northwest Airlines. This year should be no different, anyone up for bar games prop bets?

Be a better husband. Give space. Give hugs. Give encouragement. Give myself.

Learn more. Rosetta Stone, you’re going to get a new customer, habla taco y salsa? I don’t want to show up the genius that came up with that salmon spread at Bouchon’s, but I’d like to progress beyond ripping open some plastic and setting the microwave to 1:45 and remembering to turn over the nuggets half way through.

Poker. I lost my keepyourpokerface.com gig (thank you Google!) but gained a big one when Otis gave me a great opportunity at the PokerStarsBlog and my hopes are people enjoy reading those recaps and live blogs. I realize this isn’t a permanent, career changing gig, but I’ve never been happier that someone had the confidence to take a shot with me. Much like the friendships found thru this silly card game, I hope to ride out the job like a mechanical bull in Key West and hold on for all its worth regardless of possible bruised inner thighs.

Still Not Old Enough To Care

For unknown reasons I was up at 2am this morning tossing and turning with several mirror-gazing moments. Flashes of parties, gatherings, car rides, bar closings, kisses, strolls, tears, those thoughts rolled by before the final bell went off two and half hours later. Freeze ass off while wobbling into the shower, then greeted by my wife after putting on the work wear.

“Happy Birthday”.

For the past four years those words came out while downing unknown amounts of free drinks inside Las Vegas’ various concrete palaces. Eyes glazed over with a tower of chips in front of me, not knowing nor caring if I had more now then purchased several hours ago. Each year surrounded by a group of friends that expands daily, monthly, yearly, that more people step aside from the Yahoo IM chat box and purchase a plane ticket to meet avatars and hacked words from .blogspot.com websites at the Geisha Bar.

Those people will have to wait until this Friday (I refuse to acknowledge the dickheads getting there a day before me). Now, another gathering will be dashing to the MGM mixed game, staying up late to sling alcohol-soused stories, and meeting these strangers again for the first time. It’s why people show up every year. If there was a five mile radius around this group, the owner of the bar in the epicenter of that circle could start plans to build a Key West retirement home after one year. But, because we live so far apart our livers are graceful for real life things like mortgage payments, spouses, and comfty couches for Sunday NFL afternoons without the tax deductions producing another gray hair on the chin instead of wondering how we’re going to pay for detox.

As for myself growing a year older? I’ve gained my independence back, there’s a job I actually give a shit about, and found the people with a similar last name in my house to be more then tolerable again. Walking thru the mud room and upstairs after the work day is done with awe instead of gloom, I love just watching them and being close to them whenever possible. And thanks to the extra work, I’m able to be a little more flexible with money and the guilt factor of shuttling off to Vegas for an extended weekend is packaged into making sure extra hugs are given upon returning.

The Winter Gathering in Vegas is detoxing of the degenerate soul, and those who you’ll see this week are there for similar reasons. Make sure you introduce yourself and imbibe with those of similar minds but don’t forget to take a stroll along the strip yourself and lose everything you have mentally and start anew when opening the doors to the Imperial Palace champagne pit to lay down a quarter on blackjack.

More Weekends Like That Please

If there was ever such a thing as football porn for Vikings fans, minus hot cheerleaders with implants getting plugged by ripped guys with IQs less then Devin Hester, it happen last night. Listening to Paul Allen on KFAN go apeshit so many times I was going to call my brother to offer him a Cap’n Coke or something in the booth before he blew out his voice. It was the first time all season I heard his voice with that extra thump that has made me mute the TV just to listen over the past several seasons.

That and I had a few things going on at PokerStarsBlog last night (yes Falstaff, I’ll take that drink and a chat at the Geisha bar) and looking up from my laptop at the football porn was done in quick spurts (next time guys, please don’t group your bust outs all together in a 30 minute span, my fingers and feeble brain mass would appreciate it). For those inclined on reading the wrap ups (I thank you for your support): Sunday Warm-up, Turbo Takedown, Battle of the Planets

I’d hear P.A. yelling thru my iPod earbuds and watch Berrian streak untouched down the sideline, Allen destroying the Bears offensive line, and Purple Jesus going down behind the line only to go all Lazurus on their ass and blow forward for a first down or even that big scamper down to the five. Even if its just for a week, there’s hope in the Twin Cities and for Vikes fans. If the Purple can take this game on the road, and Chilly can make some sideline calls that don’t make a fan reach for a ball-peen hammer and smash their fingers one by one, playoffs might be short-sighted. All this depends on the quarterback, who will show up? Marmalard throwing Gus, who floats balls for two hours in the air and fall woefully short of the target, or hitting Berrian in stride further then four yards down field like this play (fair warning, you may want to prepare for motion sickness before viewing).



---

Packers Suck. Feel free to mock my indecision to bench DeAngelo Williams last night for Fantasy Football (oops).

----

Does anyone realize that the WPBT Winter Classic is cresting over the hills currently? Sleep outlook for the next two weeks is doubtful, thankfully there’s a few weekend projects and craziness at work that should get me on that plane to Pai Gow goodness with straight faced Asian dealers and W-list Deal-a-tainers with minimal daydreaming.

Can’t wait. 11 days folks, prepare the liver, prepare for the lack of sleep, and for the best WPBT survival guide get Pauly to repost his survive list. Note the wheelchair drunk, do not attempt this, only trained idiots from nordic regions and total disgard for their lives should try this. If I were to pick out a rock bottom time in my life, that was only second to my work injury.

---

The Vikes weren’t the highlight of my holiday weekend however. It was the quiet times with my wife.

The simple act of sitting together on the couch to decompress from two hyped-up sugar laced kids (sappy brag picture to come), Christmas shopping, and preparing for the Tasmanian Devil-like December that’s upon all of us. For a long time (read: years) she’d read a book while I hammered down on the computer leveling up some pixelized figurine or eight tabling the virtual slot machines known as NL/PLO8 games at Stars or Full Tilt.

This weekend we time just chilled out together under blankets, this pumped more life into me then any football team victory or tournament conquer ever could. Along with having a little extra pocket cash and some financial peace-of-mind thanks to the PokerStarBlog, we’re trying to be a couple again instead of just putting on our mom and dad suits while our marriage seeped thru the USB cable or the latest Jodi Picoult book.

My hope is that someday we’ll be able to balance the two.

Virtually Alive

Toby Keith starts singing about slamming a few Budweisers down by the creek on the back of the Ford F-350 after his gal broke up with him last night because he was caught shooting her three-legged dog and day 12,401 of the Drizz Show begins. At first the room weaves a bit as the program still hasn’t loaded to full capacity thanks to Vista and its memory sucking goodness. Unfortunately the mirror in the bathroom has no beauty button and I’m still stuck with this fugly face and ex-athlete body but can upgrade from whiskey soaked stubble to baby bottom smooth after a quick shower.

After reaching my +20/20 glasses of correction the room straighten out a bit as the choice of wardrobe is presented in front of me while the spousal unit literally rolls out of bed in search of hot water. After choosing pants, belt, shirt, boxer briefs, and a sock combination that will elicit the least amount of ire from the half-awake wife and co-workers we’re off to serve up quickie breakfast since the children are most gracious for 5am wake-up calls that are better left for Navy SEALs.

The ride along the pitch black highway is coated with thousand points of lights which seem dour as the same display is shown every morning while the digits freeze against the icicle of a steering wheel. But, today I looked above the lights; saw a canvas instead of a sea of red hurrying off to their economy battered companies, holding out for new presidential and self assurances that the ship will right itself in time.

For a moment I took off those virtual reality glasses we all wear to view and interact with the world in 1080p with the latest plasma and HD technology. There were no cables, no spoon, no wires restricting movement, just factors that push towards that morning destination. Money for the house, for food, kid’s education, your wife’s attempt to win back her body self-esteem, to retain the same game and comforts keep you snuggled up in your favorite life blanket all didn’t matter from the blank black sky.

Sure this virtual reality comes with peripheral vision to check the base runners and extra sensory devices that even the best lesbian double dildo orgy on YouPorn couldn’t fire up enough tingle to match. Its still nothing but a series of actions/reactions to the environment around a person wearing their own virtual reality glasses that you and you alone can see through. Nobody else can force those body movements of yours that resulted in hitting the f’in doorknob with your elbow again, or feeling the tight, spider monkey clutch of a loving toddler after reading the Scooby-Doo step one easy reading book before bed.

Less and less each day I find myself bitching about the “have to” and working for the weekend, and more looking forward to slipping on my personal virtual glasses and taking spin in the un-winnable game while enjoying the little things like a perfectly crafted oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and minty ice cream. Despite no end game and no uber monster to slay that will drop +5 Shield of King Midas, there’s a reason to play and if you stop for just a moment during a regular meeting, commute to work, or as this is a poker-ish blog, look over the top of the felt and just listen and feel the activity going on around the table without burdening yourself with “obligations”. Honestly, there are none in this game, your choice to get married, have kids, not live on the corner of Hennepin and 5th in a cardboard box were all set by playing the game and reacting to the environment presented in front of you.

Tomorrow on day 12,402 and for the future when the program loads again, my only hope is that the comforts I’ve built through work, friends, and most of all family will still be there to provide the little nudge not to give up on the game and keep the ball from draining down the side alley.

Wandering in the Snow Drifts

You know its coming, yet still seemed surprised when the first snow flurries drop on the windshield. Why drop your head on something only the nightly weatherman/woman can control with their state-of-the-art Doppler radar and $4.6 million computer program that spits out pretty blobs of colors for the masses at 5, 6, and 10pm?

Bad things happen; the downtrodden reaction to those snow flurries, seemingly endless cries to not eat that pot roast, and bad river cards that cause $800 laptops to be used as expensive Frisbees and the reaction to those things is how the outlook on life comes about. Do I put on the stern parent mask and rapid fire a bunch of inane threats of jail time in the Transformers plastered bed or resign to the fact that the kid didn’t sleep much since our jobs require him to wake up when its still dark and is acting out from lack of dreamland? Which way satisfies both of us? Should I consult Parenting magazine’s feature on 15 ways to approve parent-child relations or a MBA management book from an author with more initials than I have letters in my name full of buzz words like “bubble up”, “best practices”, and “going forward” with a double viewing of Office Space?

Often the train is coming down the track yet time after time I pick to stand in front of it the same way. The mind says “dude, chill the fuck out”, while the parent says “HE/SHE NEEDS TO BE TAUGHT A LESSON!!!!111ONEONEONE”. There’s no conscious expectation for the kids to act like perfect robots that eat their veggies, sit down when told, and crank out a new US patent every day so we can get extra tokens at Chuck E. Cheese to get the 200 tickets fifty cent neon green colored koosh ball that last about two days before being regulated to the far corner of a toy box. Yet, I find myself getting upset over nothing earth shattering, they’re both healthy, wife is smiling more often, and I find myself staring at the pebbles making up the paved ground trying to solve the mystery of how IKEA’s low costing wares make a profit, and how I got to this point of gravel gazing with the pending snowflakes collect on my Members Only jacket while invading this northern state.

Is there a way to break the cycle of constant introspection and live-to-let-live? Or is it healthy to look at the mirror while gazing thru the icy blues into the person people meet-and-greet with daily over overpriced 20oz. logo’d coffee beans with added $.75 flavor shots or electronic means?

Then again, the story could have ended face down on a dirty floor of a faltering Las Vegas casino, and overpriced center of higher education, or a concert series campground and people wouldn’t have gotten to meet that person. Or gotten tips on how to run back for a fly ball without pulling a Jose Canseco and heading the ball English Premier League style over the fence.

Enduring the cold fingers thru a long winter is worth the few bright spots of friend’s smiles and family embraces which act as gloves that have been sitting next to the heated vent.

Reuniting the Lost 90s

If you were looking for some gloating about the recent Vikings victory, you won’t find it beneath these pages. Sure Shiancoe applied enough Gorilla Glue to his battling gloves to turn a nicely timed pattern into a touchdown. The defense was standard and standard meaning top five in the league. They’re expected to dominate the running game and prevent the big plays deep (which they didn’t in the first two tilts).

Calling a building block game onto the rest of the season, while they are no where near Cowboy-land at this time as a complete team (stop jerking off to nude Flozell Adams pictures StB and Joaquin), look for the Vikes to grind out an NFC North championship (at least) should the cheeseheads stumble over the left-over turpentine cans left by the tailgaters outside Lambeau. They should be thankful Rogers isn’t blossoming into Ryan Leaf, but is looking solid at quarterback.

Oktoberfest at my place? Uns partei lassen! My apologies to the German readers if I just called everyone a jelly doughnut or something as my 2-year teachings of the language have been drowned in more bier then one should consume while celebrating this fall party over the years and nor will the pictures from the party be nearly as sexy as DP’s dirndl of the day
I was only expecting a few close friends to drop by, and well everyone we invited is attending.

That’s a lot of schnitzel yo.

Facebook. Wow. Got a blast from the past as a former girlfriend from college found me (Oktoberfest? Stacie, please drop by bring the hubby and the little ones!), then high school friends, now an invite to a 15th high school graduation party? I’d be the first to tell you that my high school years were spent ducking for cover in my undersized locker from life and wallowing in self-pity versus being a social butterfly. There was no effort, just a poorly dressed string-bean shell that could wildly throw a baseball, taking in the glare from the hallway floors looking to avoid interaction like John Madden avoids being coherent during a non-Farve moment of Sunday Night Football.

Curious, but not so much to shell out the couple of bucks to see people I barely have a passing memory about as the only memories I took away from Osseo High School were painful and have been beaten down so far that I doubt I could name a teacher without cracking open a yearbook. The friends I took away from that place are still friends today, the ones who offered a hand out of the adolescent mixing bowl stirred with drizzled depression and chopped-up self-worth.

The pictures from Facebook did give me a laugh or three seeing some of my teammates from baseball and hockey teams, girls that were (and probably still are) Scarlett Johnansson-like out of my league.

Those folks will have something to chat about, something to remiss, but my reunion -- that’s this weekend in Pennsylvania, Oktoberfest at my place, and Vegas in December.

The group who got to meet the real me, my friends that laughed at me for drafting Peyton in the first round this year (YOU SUCK MANNING!!), and read my bared soul here on a semi-daily basis.

Those are the ones I’m continually counting off days until our next beer together.

And those days are now down to the number drei.

Pinch Hitting With Authority

Still frazzled, not the least bit dazzled by T-Jack’s performance on Monday night. I could rant about buttah fingers Shiancoe or Jackson’s ability to throw a pass at the Lambeau field grass with such authority that the ground hogs in Madison were complaining about the noise. Purple Jesus looked good, but not great for someone who runs like Lawrence Taylor in Tecmo Bowl 87’. Barring injury, look for him to tear up a couple of defenses for 200+, while I have extreme prejudice against the cheeseheads, they have a solid defense and that front four on offense was stellar. Kudos.

Also look for me to be wearing my punishment for pride at the Bash from The Wife. Did anyone else rather her in Viking samba panties? I think a muzzle and leash plus drool cup would be minimum for Waffles to be within 100 yards of her. Actually the Helga hat I had picked out for her will have to go back into storage until the next game :)

SKOL!!

Are you enjoying the WCOOP coverage? Any complaints, praises, rants, suggestions? After coming back to “work” for a 10 hour day, it feels like a day off. Hell, plunking numbers into spreadsheets at my own pace is a little different then scampering for chip counts on 15 different pros while looking at stats for IThinkURdUmB69 all in five minutes during the breaks. Seriously, those are some pressure packed hours which is great for someone who enjoys being kept on his toes.

As stated before this started, my only hope is that I’m not holding back the team of wordsmiths that Otis has (my confidence level rises every night that I don't erase the posts or spell Isabelle's name wrong).

From playing sports all my life I know what it feels like to be both the bench-riding fourth starter who calls the pitches from the dugout while keeping track of RBIs and pitch placement and the MVP who is expected to perform where other cannot or won’t. I’ve been the Captain, I’ve been the Tennille and should the job performance be marked with an above satisfactory mark with comments about “plays well with others” and “doesn’t spend entire meeting staring at Vice President’s MILF-ish back tattoo and lace thong showing from power dress” after Sunday September 21st, I hope there’s another chance to play with the team again.

If you have never been both the starter and waterboy/girl, you’re letting life drift by. I’ve been guilty of this for the longest time, and jumping into something I’ve never done before without water-wingies has been refreshing. Whether its hitting a ball, solving the cold fission problem, or coming up with the next snappy McDonald’s jingle, there’s something out there for everyone to stretch themselves (thanks Kat).

Now that I’m limber as a Cirque du Soleil contortionist, I’m ready for the next two weeks.

Bring it on.

Box of Marbles In My Head

There’s a coldness inside of me that will never be warmed. It comes out some nights when all that can be done is stare out the back window to the unfinished lawn with the highway lights dancing off the maple trees. A flood of muddled thoughts flow through but the clarity for listening to the rants in my head is on par with an 800 number for a credit-card customer service center in Bengaluru. Nothing is understood, deciphered, nor solved. “Fade to Black” running from ear to ear wondering how my ass is sitting on a plush couch instead of worse place where fresh memories are never grown again.

Its not an easy life to go on, to slap on too much Axe musk scented body spray and face the world with a snicker that you get the joke, you understand how pretentious corporate and suburban life can be. Was it a right decision to stick it out, to face more failures, to try and earn the heart of another?

Lost but found, lost again but wandering the streets looking for the right turn for home. One can only hope that once there the smiling faces make the journey back into your skin for tomorrow’s mysteries all worth it. My hope is someday the reflection in the mirror does not hate the person he is looking at.

(don't worry I'm ok, just a little brain and self-loathing dump, can't wait for the 15,000 calorie day at The Fair tomorrow)

What Comes First: The Chicken or The Egg?

Here’s a little curve ball this morning:

What is more important… the right question or the right answer?

My life was pretty much a straight line for the better part of 33 years. Get a little education, find a wife that tolerates me, get the gold watch and 30 year pension at the bullseye and set my manhood down on a suburban street while my 2.4 kids enjoy the Slip n’ Slide on the front lawn. Then something hit my time continuum like Purple Jesus smashing the hole created by the massive front line of the Vikes.

Poker.

In all honesty, there’s a struggle daily to even look at the virtual cards from watching my online bankroll take a dive into the abyss. I’d like to think there are good plays coming forth from my fingertips but the end result does not increase my stack. There’s no joy in Mudville these days as the thoughts of being a decent player and WSOP contender are gone, left is a shell of knowledge from Harrington and Krieger with a sprinkle of Brunson. But, the game isn’t finished with me as playing live is just a shade under as exciting as Jessica Biel turning over in bed and saying “what would you like to do me?”.

That happened last week, I enjoyed all five seconds of it before it was time to make frozen waffles while watching new school Transformers cartoons.

The online game still lures me in, but more towards writing about it versus watching yet another mouth breather catch to split a pot or scoop after getting his money in so bad Bernie Mac leapt out of his grave to call him stupid. Yes, despite the google junta backlashing the free ad moneys and sending this blog back into obscurity (did I ever leave?) there’s quite a bit of blogging for buy-ins out there, I want to do much as my lanky frame can handle.

I don’t know how to phrase the correct question on which path to leap to or even look at, but the answer seems to present itself daily as status quo no longer piques my daily need for stimulation beyond searching for non-lesbian pictures of Lindsay Lohan on the net.

Your Wii Fit Age Is...

I enjoy gambling.

I enjoy drinking (too much if the situation means no kids, and no consequences beyond kissing the floor for cold spots due to a hangover).

I enjoy the rush at work being under a deadline, or necessary project.

I enjoy porn like every married suburban dad who manages to see exactly one female a day his age except at his usual 9 to 5.

Is there an addiction? Men's Health magazine quiz suggest I won't cheat on my wife and not a thrill seeker, yet I'm supposed to avoid Vegas? What could possibly happen there? End up in a wheelchair and black out a couple of miles from my hotel room after drinking too much?

Stupid internets.

This weekend is set for the guys, cards, booze, and golf. No 4:30am wake up calls. No spousal support to tell me that I'm a terrible driver at every stop light for five miles straight. Just eight guys wanting to smoke a few cigars around a bonfire while imbibing upon ice cold drinks and tales of the days before our wives shot human beings out of their vaginas.

Am I selfish for wanting these types of weekends? Am I selfish for wanting sex more times a month then Dane Cook actually cracks a joke worth laughing to? Is it escapism? No, I enjoy the company of my wife, love all of her, despite her obliviousness to my needs (except one, she's awesome about knowing how I enjoy seeing ya'll). My kids I would die for then come back again to protect them from ever learning how to play Pot Limit Omaha.

But there's an itch. An itch that only gets scratched by letting go. Blogger trips scratch this itch better a $250 an hour erotic personal massager with a happy ending. The locales I've been to may seem day-to-day for some, but for a guy in the suburbs that's locked away from life being created on the streets or near a lesbian bar daily, the trips become memories to be recalled for years to come (at least whatever brain cells survive the alcoholic Normandy invasion).

Maybe some day I'll be able to write about perfect balance between the action seeker and dad-of-the-year. For now there's life to be played out wherever my size 13s take me. A departure gate, a bar in a different state, a bedroom with plastic food toys and smell of a needed diaper change, an office with pictures lining the walls of persons close to me, a back porch with a sweating beer in hand outlooking the unfinished backyard.

For now, there's smirk of happiness, mixed with the itch of needing more. Balance could already be here and I don't even realize it.