Whine and thou shalt receive.
My kids employ these method on a daily basis and once in a great while through frustration I'll give in. Softy, I know. Mostly because the words "daddy is working" coming out of my mouth while doing homework or describing the seventh place finisher in the Sunday Warm-Up at PokerStars, has a ghastly charcoal taste to each syllable. Last night it was creating invoices and receiving payments for a fictional landscaping company while my son wanted a second knight to accompany him in a game called Castle Crashers on the PS3. For the low price of $14.99 (plus some PS3 add-on cost of a buck and change) these little square-headed knights bop different ghouls and wombats Street Fighter style with a little RPG thrown in as there's leveling, gold collection, and standard strength, magic, dex, and defense add-on to improve your character. For a quick game, well worth the purchase.
As I poured some tears out on these pages way too soon about floating cash at Full Tilt the joy seeing that cash with a bonus enough to cover more than the bank fees (thank you good sirs) was back in my account by the time Michael Vick was in the middle of going All-Madden on the Redskins last night (seriously, if the Eagles played like that, can anyone beat them?). Now with two accounts flush with online moneys, the question is: is it safe to try to withdraw again? One method involves several fees adding up to $60 which doesn't appeal to me but for the sake of "bet more" in Vegas a few less lap dances won't hurt the silicone and baby powder crowd too much. The other method is wait and pray that the check clears, and with three bad checks already in the past few years I don't need my bank getting itchy to close my account that has been open since Ronnie Regan ruled the White House and I was getting my 100 pound skinny ass kicked in middle school.
For those who still drop by and play, let me know if you've had experiences (good or bad) with cashing out, and I'm not talking about getting your aces cracked five times in row while your brand new 100" 3D-HDTV blows up in the background from the cash-out curse. Save those stories for the Geisha Bar.
22 days shopping days till my birthday folks. Get a move on.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Checks and chips
Trying to keep my eyes open on the ice-slicked roads of Minnesota this morning thanks to winter's regurgitation of snow overnight on Friday, there was more than a few odd sights on my ass-crack of dawn commute. The gray with white flecked bunny with ears seemingly lopped off, perhaps from a gang initiation which must have included darting out in front of a tired suburbanite at five a.m.with hopes that his green tea fix kicked in enough to dance his truck around around those short, fast legs.
No squished bunny, he'll survive enough to terrorize the neighborhood by knocking over a few gas stations before meeting his maker by a vigilante Ford Probe's front right tire.
After avoiding animals there was the Stephen King-like mist with a 16-wheeler coming over the top of a narrow bridge that I was attempting to cross at the same time taking up the entire width. Luckily by the time Maximum Overdrive's figure peered thru the fog it became just another commuter that probably had his eyes open no more than me.
Sufficiently awakened by new found alertness, I see its November 15th and we're only 23 days away from the 6th installment of the WPBT Winter Classic which only half of the field has signed up for the biggest giveaway we've had thanks to the wonderful folks at PokerStars. Be sure go to Up For Poker's for the details on the last longer, hammer challenge, and my favorite... bust an original player from the first WPBT tourney. No, I was not one of those folks as my bankroll was in its infancy at the time, marriage was about as stable as Brad Childress' job, head injury still kept me under supervision, and my son was just drawing his first breath so running off to Vegas that year wasn't possible. But, those who survived the first year's drinks at Sherwood Forest will be back and guarding their bust out prizes like a child's stuffed animal.
Lately on the online front things have not been rainbows and perky tits waiting to serve you another Jag Bomb because you're just so darn cute (or probably because you're the only one tipping consistantly). This weekend I had not one but two checks bounce from the major sites. Full Tilt's check bounced after waiting A MONTH for it, offered no explanation nor any forebearing that processors were having troubles. As you know my bankroll isn't big (see: name of blog) and we're talking about enough for a plane ticket and maybe enough money to bring my golf clubs with. It wasn't until I wrote in after my bank informed me of the NSF check that an apology was given. PokerStars however offered a pre-emptive strike telling not to cash the check (which I didn't) and gave a bonus on top of my withdrawl and the funds are once again back in my account (unlike Full Tilt who continues to drag their feet about this...).
In the year of "bet more" since I had been doing not-so-bad at the tables lately, there was a little extra to enjoy an upper crust dinner with good foodie friends, whiskey with a Packer Fan and a husband to a Packer Fan, golfing with a soon-to-be groom, and still have enough for playing 3am Pai Gow with Hong and Dr. Pauly at the Gold Coast. Those things will still happen, but this extra bit was my reward to myself for the hard work over the past year. Going back to school full time with two jobs has been tiring especially when you add a daughter who thinks it's ok to get up at 5:30am on a weekend to climb into the freezer using a chair and phone book to gobble down 2.5 bars of Hershey's then proceed to bounce off the walls for the next five hours on a sugar rush while daddy tries to book a sale of a 20-year bond bought at 102, and sold six years later at 98.5 with an interest rate of 11% and coupon rate of 12% and writing a two-page compare and contrast essay on two poems (seriously, how do ya'll read poems, I'm baffled).
As the king of the deuce-four, PokerGrump, added in a recent post about cashing out at Bodog where he was given an ATM-type card instead of cash with a bunch of loopholes and fees attached to it (read the post as he explains all the fine print). Is this the direction we're going to avoid the UIGEA? Or until the government finally allows us to go back to the good ol' days of NetTeller and wire MY money as quickly as needed?
We shall see as Bodog wrote to me a few days ago telling me I had more than happy meal money in my account to cash out should I not want to play there. Thanks to the cancelled checks I feel like I had just split the uprights for the game-winning 37 yard field goal and as the guys were carrying me off the field Rex Ryan comes over to laugh in my face as he called a time-out right before I was to get in the hot tub with the Dahm triplets and I needed to compose myself for another try.
Neither site has commented on the ability to try again, and the 2+2 threads on the matter do not show much light as to people receiving and clearing a second check. As told, I "need" those degen funds before escaping the sub-arctic temps of Minnesota for the poker felts of Vegas. The question is, will I be on a budget and just enjoy the fact that I'm surrounded by good friends that I only get to see 2 or 3 times a year, or will "bet more" be in play making airplane noises at Excal playing 4am craps?
No squished bunny, he'll survive enough to terrorize the neighborhood by knocking over a few gas stations before meeting his maker by a vigilante Ford Probe's front right tire.
After avoiding animals there was the Stephen King-like mist with a 16-wheeler coming over the top of a narrow bridge that I was attempting to cross at the same time taking up the entire width. Luckily by the time Maximum Overdrive's figure peered thru the fog it became just another commuter that probably had his eyes open no more than me.
Sufficiently awakened by new found alertness, I see its November 15th and we're only 23 days away from the 6th installment of the WPBT Winter Classic which only half of the field has signed up for the biggest giveaway we've had thanks to the wonderful folks at PokerStars. Be sure go to Up For Poker's for the details on the last longer, hammer challenge, and my favorite... bust an original player from the first WPBT tourney. No, I was not one of those folks as my bankroll was in its infancy at the time, marriage was about as stable as Brad Childress' job, head injury still kept me under supervision, and my son was just drawing his first breath so running off to Vegas that year wasn't possible. But, those who survived the first year's drinks at Sherwood Forest will be back and guarding their bust out prizes like a child's stuffed animal.
Lately on the online front things have not been rainbows and perky tits waiting to serve you another Jag Bomb because you're just so darn cute (or probably because you're the only one tipping consistantly). This weekend I had not one but two checks bounce from the major sites. Full Tilt's check bounced after waiting A MONTH for it, offered no explanation nor any forebearing that processors were having troubles. As you know my bankroll isn't big (see: name of blog) and we're talking about enough for a plane ticket and maybe enough money to bring my golf clubs with. It wasn't until I wrote in after my bank informed me of the NSF check that an apology was given. PokerStars however offered a pre-emptive strike telling not to cash the check (which I didn't) and gave a bonus on top of my withdrawl and the funds are once again back in my account (unlike Full Tilt who continues to drag their feet about this...).
In the year of "bet more" since I had been doing not-so-bad at the tables lately, there was a little extra to enjoy an upper crust dinner with good foodie friends, whiskey with a Packer Fan and a husband to a Packer Fan, golfing with a soon-to-be groom, and still have enough for playing 3am Pai Gow with Hong and Dr. Pauly at the Gold Coast. Those things will still happen, but this extra bit was my reward to myself for the hard work over the past year. Going back to school full time with two jobs has been tiring especially when you add a daughter who thinks it's ok to get up at 5:30am on a weekend to climb into the freezer using a chair and phone book to gobble down 2.5 bars of Hershey's then proceed to bounce off the walls for the next five hours on a sugar rush while daddy tries to book a sale of a 20-year bond bought at 102, and sold six years later at 98.5 with an interest rate of 11% and coupon rate of 12% and writing a two-page compare and contrast essay on two poems (seriously, how do ya'll read poems, I'm baffled).
As the king of the deuce-four, PokerGrump, added in a recent post about cashing out at Bodog where he was given an ATM-type card instead of cash with a bunch of loopholes and fees attached to it (read the post as he explains all the fine print). Is this the direction we're going to avoid the UIGEA? Or until the government finally allows us to go back to the good ol' days of NetTeller and wire MY money as quickly as needed?
We shall see as Bodog wrote to me a few days ago telling me I had more than happy meal money in my account to cash out should I not want to play there. Thanks to the cancelled checks I feel like I had just split the uprights for the game-winning 37 yard field goal and as the guys were carrying me off the field Rex Ryan comes over to laugh in my face as he called a time-out right before I was to get in the hot tub with the Dahm triplets and I needed to compose myself for another try.
Neither site has commented on the ability to try again, and the 2+2 threads on the matter do not show much light as to people receiving and clearing a second check. As told, I "need" those degen funds before escaping the sub-arctic temps of Minnesota for the poker felts of Vegas. The question is, will I be on a budget and just enjoy the fact that I'm surrounded by good friends that I only get to see 2 or 3 times a year, or will "bet more" be in play making airplane noises at Excal playing 4am craps?
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Heidi Montag's Tits are the Nation's Financial Problem
Kid Dynamite - Former Wall Street Trader and Vegas crusher (seriously go read ANY of his Vegas trip reports, it's a level of degeneracy I strive for myself but never get there) turned meat grinder/home garden extraordinaire packs mostly financial news with enough layman terms sprinkled in so someone like myself can understand TARPs and other news concerning our government handing out money to those who cry because they had to do away with their third Bentley.
Seriously go read, he's like a Rosetta Stone for finance.
Anyway, there was post on someone named Paul Krugman whom I'd never heard of since my reading and media interactions are mostly poker blogs and watching Johnny Test, SpongeBob, and Literary textbooks for school. Anyway Mr. Krugman apparently slammed people like myself who having been saving versus spending in recent years and trying to be as fiscially responsible as a good degen can be (sorry but the siren calls of Pai Gow bonus bets and Mr. Cashman slots MUST BE ANSWERED! I didn't completely neuter myself after marriage and kids). Me and my wife both work full-time, getting up at 4:30am every day during the week and get home around 5pm, then dinner, taking the kids to swimming/dancing/skating/advanced assassin techniques for ninjas class level three then around eight or nine I start to study since I returned to school full time. Oh, and she also works occasionally at a senior citizen function while I help out with the Sunday Majors coverage at PokerStarsBlog. All this to pay a mortgage that is barely above water (no we did not buy "too much house" it's barely 1,400 square feet and 30 years old so take those arguments elsewhere) but on the good side our cars are paid off and we carry no credit card debt which allows us to live a little instead of going dumpster diving for half eaten ramen noodles.
The reason I mention the above was after reading a story about a chick who is more plastic than my daughter's Barbie dolls "Heidi Montag files bankruptcy after blowing $10 million". My point isn't the money since this nation's elite need to buy rich things and do or have done something to earn that money. It's their prerogative (ok, busting out Bobby Brown since you can't say that word without the song popping in your head)
Ah, ah, ah. THAT'S MY MY MY PREROGATIVE ... Oh welcome back. Montag. The whole irk behind her "financial woes" lies behind her spending something she never earned. "We thought The Hills would be like 90210" was the excuse. Can I please punch her in one of those over-inflated tits please? Why should semi-decent hard-working folks like myself slave over humping crappy jobs when we could be snorting coke off high priced stripper's asses at Cheetah's and playing poker with Doyle Brunson? Just charge it, lose my house because I can't even afford the minimum payments on my 15 maxed credit cards? Fuck you! I'm ENTITLED to my house, you're going to throw out a family of four because I can't pay my obligations? /internet sarcasm
I don't know when or why people in this country got to the point that don't feel responsible for their actions or even try to rectify the issue "I almost stripped for Playboy until my parents took us in!" says Montag. Well, I don't have DDs or a vagina for that matter, so my chances of doing something on a similar last-ditch effort are slim to none, can't even spooge in a cup for cash since not producing another child we can't afford seemed responsible.
Responsiblity has a price, if a little sanity is the cost, I'm ok with paying it so I can look at myself in the mirror in the morning and only hate the fact that I root for a football team which enjoys torturing its fans year after disappointing year.
34 days.
Seriously go read, he's like a Rosetta Stone for finance.
Anyway, there was post on someone named Paul Krugman whom I'd never heard of since my reading and media interactions are mostly poker blogs and watching Johnny Test, SpongeBob, and Literary textbooks for school. Anyway Mr. Krugman apparently slammed people like myself who having been saving versus spending in recent years and trying to be as fiscially responsible as a good degen can be (sorry but the siren calls of Pai Gow bonus bets and Mr. Cashman slots MUST BE ANSWERED! I didn't completely neuter myself after marriage and kids). Me and my wife both work full-time, getting up at 4:30am every day during the week and get home around 5pm, then dinner, taking the kids to swimming/dancing/skating/advanced assassin techniques for ninjas class level three then around eight or nine I start to study since I returned to school full time. Oh, and she also works occasionally at a senior citizen function while I help out with the Sunday Majors coverage at PokerStarsBlog. All this to pay a mortgage that is barely above water (no we did not buy "too much house" it's barely 1,400 square feet and 30 years old so take those arguments elsewhere) but on the good side our cars are paid off and we carry no credit card debt which allows us to live a little instead of going dumpster diving for half eaten ramen noodles.
The reason I mention the above was after reading a story about a chick who is more plastic than my daughter's Barbie dolls "Heidi Montag files bankruptcy after blowing $10 million". My point isn't the money since this nation's elite need to buy rich things and do or have done something to earn that money. It's their prerogative (ok, busting out Bobby Brown since you can't say that word without the song popping in your head)
Ah, ah, ah. THAT'S MY MY MY PREROGATIVE ... Oh welcome back. Montag. The whole irk behind her "financial woes" lies behind her spending something she never earned. "We thought The Hills would be like 90210" was the excuse. Can I please punch her in one of those over-inflated tits please? Why should semi-decent hard-working folks like myself slave over humping crappy jobs when we could be snorting coke off high priced stripper's asses at Cheetah's and playing poker with Doyle Brunson? Just charge it, lose my house because I can't even afford the minimum payments on my 15 maxed credit cards? Fuck you! I'm ENTITLED to my house, you're going to throw out a family of four because I can't pay my obligations? /internet sarcasm
I don't know when or why people in this country got to the point that don't feel responsible for their actions or even try to rectify the issue "I almost stripped for Playboy until my parents took us in!" says Montag. Well, I don't have DDs or a vagina for that matter, so my chances of doing something on a similar last-ditch effort are slim to none, can't even spooge in a cup for cash since not producing another child we can't afford seemed responsible.
Responsiblity has a price, if a little sanity is the cost, I'm ok with paying it so I can look at myself in the mirror in the morning and only hate the fact that I root for a football team which enjoys torturing its fans year after disappointing year.
34 days.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
A Rolling Moss Gathers No Wins
My favorite football team continues yet another epic collapse. This isn't the 1983 season where Les Steckel dropped a 3-13 bomb on this franchise with coaching ineptitude unseen until, well, now. Brad Childress has shown this year that he is a staff accountant trying to do the CFO's job. Last year was an aberration in a few plays that went their way, no injuries to the ghost of a Hall of Fame quarterback and his favorite receiver. No quarrels with star players that will quit on 3/4th of the plays as I'll give Favre credit here as being someone who will put his best effort forward despite a coach with granite in his ears and similar legs for moving in a different direction when the first plan doesn't work.
Then you have Randy Moss. A true Viking, another future Hall of Famer who had returned to the team after a few games to seemingly take the place of Sidney Rice (who took some horrible career advice and delayed his hip surgery enough to take him out this all-star lineup). He caught Favre's 500th touchdown, much joy returned to Mudville as with the unseasonably warm weather up here just kept getting brighter. Since I personally was not eating with the team on Friday, to expound on the catering incident isn't right. I wasn't there and can only read about what happened and offer editorals like Sportcenter ran off for the past 24 hours. It could be a product of the Vikings' PR machine trying to save its battered coach's face, but now that the owner of the restaurant is being quoted:
It's hard to think Moss' return had anything with wanting another shot at 1998. Can we blame the coach? After all it is his responsiblity to manage the talent, as it's the owner's job to make that talent available. Childress didn't sell the program to Moss, or Moss is just an insufferable prima donna bitch, or both. Either way the season that could have been, is mired right now in confusion with a future that has a "must-win" this week, and the next, and the next, and the next. If there's a poker analogy, the Vikings are stuck five buy-ins looking to get even and just mortgaged the house to get back in the game. Playing scared isn't an option, they need leadership in that locker room, they need Jared Allen to rebirth Mullet Nation and find his competitive fire after getting married becoming that guy who says he can't come out with the boys tonight, they need someone besides Brad Childress who can't fire up a lighter soaked piece of wood with a spark hanging over the top of it.
/end rant
In other news, there's 35 days until my birthday party in Las Vegas. I hope a few of you drop by as social media doesn't give what a drink and smile do.
Image from http://www.footballbabble.com/
Then you have Randy Moss. A true Viking, another future Hall of Famer who had returned to the team after a few games to seemingly take the place of Sidney Rice (who took some horrible career advice and delayed his hip surgery enough to take him out this all-star lineup). He caught Favre's 500th touchdown, much joy returned to Mudville as with the unseasonably warm weather up here just kept getting brighter. Since I personally was not eating with the team on Friday, to expound on the catering incident isn't right. I wasn't there and can only read about what happened and offer editorals like Sportcenter ran off for the past 24 hours. It could be a product of the Vikings' PR machine trying to save its battered coach's face, but now that the owner of the restaurant is being quoted:
Tinucci's co-owner Gus Tinucci said Tuesday. "(Moss) he comes in, and I'm helping one of the guys and didn't look up, and all of a sudden I heard, 'What the (expletive) is this? I wouldn't feed this (expletive expletive) to my (expletive) dog!' And he's screaming it at the top of his lungs.
It's hard to think Moss' return had anything with wanting another shot at 1998. Can we blame the coach? After all it is his responsiblity to manage the talent, as it's the owner's job to make that talent available. Childress didn't sell the program to Moss, or Moss is just an insufferable prima donna bitch, or both. Either way the season that could have been, is mired right now in confusion with a future that has a "must-win" this week, and the next, and the next, and the next. If there's a poker analogy, the Vikings are stuck five buy-ins looking to get even and just mortgaged the house to get back in the game. Playing scared isn't an option, they need leadership in that locker room, they need Jared Allen to rebirth Mullet Nation and find his competitive fire after getting married becoming that guy who says he can't come out with the boys tonight, they need someone besides Brad Childress who can't fire up a lighter soaked piece of wood with a spark hanging over the top of it.
/end rant
In other news, there's 35 days until my birthday party in Las Vegas. I hope a few of you drop by as social media doesn't give what a drink and smile do.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Again, didn't we do this just a few minutes ago?
Like begging the significant other for seconds the morning after... Drizz did it again, after final tabling a small PLO tourney on and then this on the site that I've been donating my second paycheck to all year...
Ok I didn't get Megan Fox but in my current state WHY NOT! I'm f'in hot dammit! Yeah, I'm suburbanite making shit per hour with two kids and going to school but hey I knows how to play the pokers! Ok, again maybe not but I do bust thru once in a while. Like below (boring brag below, no more titties for you!)
Don't tell you love me, I. don't wanna knoooooooooooooooow. Sorry I'm in my 80's hair band mode and Night Ranger hit my stick becaus they rock EVEN THOUGH YOU MAY DISAGREE! You want to see my name up top right? Ok then. Without further adieu, or Favre's average sized penis... here's we go:
ME-FUCKIN-OWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! That's right I don't suck at poker for one whole night! Kids are getting up in an hour and I need to go retrieve an energy drink because I'm screwed if I don't since I agree to read Hooper Humperdink at my daughter's pre-school in a few hours. Speaking as a degen should wake up the kids? Good grief I think I'm just a bit lame for staying up this late BUT DONKEY WISHED TO GIVE MONEYS AND I TAKES IT!
I'm done. For now. No more penis. Or carpet cleaner. Need an energy, or some spare meth. Otis talks about such things, maybe I should inquire. Or not. I like pie. Good morning VIETNAM! Yeah, I'm screwed.
Ok I didn't get Megan Fox but in my current state WHY NOT! I'm f'in hot dammit! Yeah, I'm suburbanite making shit per hour with two kids and going to school but hey I knows how to play the pokers! Ok, again maybe not but I do bust thru once in a while. Like below (boring brag below, no more titties for you!)
Don't tell you love me, I. don't wanna knoooooooooooooooow. Sorry I'm in my 80's hair band mode and Night Ranger hit my stick becaus they rock EVEN THOUGH YOU MAY DISAGREE! You want to see my name up top right? Ok then. Without further adieu, or Favre's average sized penis... here's we go:
ME-FUCKIN-OWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! That's right I don't suck at poker for one whole night! Kids are getting up in an hour and I need to go retrieve an energy drink because I'm screwed if I don't since I agree to read Hooper Humperdink at my daughter's pre-school in a few hours. Speaking as a degen should wake up the kids? Good grief I think I'm just a bit lame for staying up this late BUT DONKEY WISHED TO GIVE MONEYS AND I TAKES IT!
I'm done. For now. No more penis. Or carpet cleaner. Need an energy, or some spare meth. Otis talks about such things, maybe I should inquire. Or not. I like pie. Good morning VIETNAM! Yeah, I'm screwed.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Darkness Day 2010
Last year about this time me and three other fellow beer enthusiast decided a week prior that we would make an effort to get to our favorite brewery a little early for their once-a-year, limited edition beer called "Darkness". Surly Brewery where Omar and Todd put their collective hop heads together and spawned a home in Brooklyn Center around 2005. Since then the following of this beer has steadly grown since the days we would drop by on cold Saturday mornings to wait in line to swap out empty growlers for fresh product which sometimes included a small batch of speciality beer that the owners have been working on.
After the city put the kaboooosh on selling directly from the brewery due to city ordinances, growlers ceased to exist except for nice trophy cases above refrigerators across the state of Minnesota. But, that didn't stop the flow of microbeer lovers from worshipping such finely mixed beverages. No, the reaches of the songs of "Darkness Day" grew despite the release timing of the annual brew being in late October into November as Minnesotans know that despite what other states call "fall", winter's onset usually takes place while shuffling kids around the neighborhood in their Power Rangers outfit bought at Target along with 542 other things you didn't need there but bought just because. Much like a casino, you can't walk inside a Target without spending money.
After dancing around severely underdressed last year, showing up like amateurs at around 8:30am with bellies full of Sausage McGriddles, our group decided to kick things up a notch this year since the lines were getting noticeably longer at even earlier hours. This year it was no impromptu journey to the warehouse district in Brooklyn Center, we planned our attack to be at the brewery at 6:00am with folding chairs (unlike last year where we sat our posteriors on a nice, cushy ass-frozen curb), a cooler filled with beers that a long-time friend filled with a yummy selection from his gate of beer heaven, and of course bean bags! Six hours is a long time to wait and chat about just beer although the subject has conversation power and less likely to invoke religious or political backlash because beer is fuckin awesome unlike Glenn Beck.
Just an hour and a half since we parked ourselves on the corner with shots of hot cider and Sailor Jerry, the line started to inch out towards the highway already and would hit the end of the block by nine am. Fanatic much? People were setting up grills and one had a full open tent complete with 24" TV with an XBox360 running while our neighbors in line toyed with a iPad and of course playing "Angry Birds". I inquired politely if he bought the tablet computer just for the game, he snickered just like I was his mother asking why the ceiling tile was off-center after hastily putting away a 6 month old Playboy and went back to demolishing those nasty pigs.
After eight am and the above picture I retired the camera to its resting place because batteries are a bitch and everything electronic should have the ability to be willed to life (yeah, I suck, NICE PREP WORK IDIOT). After sunlight approached and the weatherman's prediction of rain thwarted (take THAT Sven Sundgaard!)my friend B grabbed a bottle of beer that had it's own box and was wax capped to something called an offering table. I have a shitty cell phone pic of it, but it was literly beer porn laid out for anyone with a glass to sample some of the finest beers around the world (but mostly from the US). It was here that I started observing license plates from Tennesse, Illinois, Wisconsin, Dakotas, and New York?!?!? To think my commute to the brewery was a whopping 10 minutes these guys took toll ways and mostly likely started their trek on Thursday.
Advantage: fly-over state
After sampling a few of the beers (as you can tell I am not expert on the subject matter to expound on the savory tastes within, I just consume, a lot, because I enjoy something better than Mich Ultra while watching Brett Favre's ankle tank my beloved team's last chance at a winner for the next 10 years), there were two food trucks set up for noshing and one had these donuts with a seemingly ring of incased butter on the inside that made me moan like the time my wife... ok I'll stop right there, but honestly, AWESOME. I had two bags because one was an insult. I think it was this one "Chef Shack" feel free to correct me of course. But, after being recognized in line as "that cornhole champion from SurlyFest" (yes, my abilities known state wide people) it was time to hop in line for wristbands as my wife joined the crew to up my purchasing power to two six-packs.
And fin. The beer is now sitting in the cellar with one bottle marked for a Chicago fan who will probably try to a take bath in the bottle and other things that should only be seen on chatroulette. The rest I'll figure out as tonight marks the first night I'll be able to sit and enjoy what will hopefully become a yearly journey to that small brewery that made it big.
See beernews.org for another recap and more photos of the event.
Growlers (2006-2008) R.I.P. my dark glass encased friends
Darkness label 2010 style
After dancing around severely underdressed last year, showing up like amateurs at around 8:30am with bellies full of Sausage McGriddles, our group decided to kick things up a notch this year since the lines were getting noticeably longer at even earlier hours. This year it was no impromptu journey to the warehouse district in Brooklyn Center, we planned our attack to be at the brewery at 6:00am with folding chairs (unlike last year where we sat our posteriors on a nice, cushy ass-frozen curb), a cooler filled with beers that a long-time friend filled with a yummy selection from his gate of beer heaven, and of course bean bags! Six hours is a long time to wait and chat about just beer although the subject has conversation power and less likely to invoke religious or political backlash because beer is fuckin awesome unlike Glenn Beck.
7:36am - Do you know where your beer is?
Just an hour and a half since we parked ourselves on the corner with shots of hot cider and Sailor Jerry, the line started to inch out towards the highway already and would hit the end of the block by nine am. Fanatic much? People were setting up grills and one had a full open tent complete with 24" TV with an XBox360 running while our neighbors in line toyed with a iPad and of course playing "Angry Birds". I inquired politely if he bought the tablet computer just for the game, he snickered just like I was his mother asking why the ceiling tile was off-center after hastily putting away a 6 month old Playboy and went back to demolishing those nasty pigs.
The corner bar
After eight am and the above picture I retired the camera to its resting place because batteries are a bitch and everything electronic should have the ability to be willed to life (yeah, I suck, NICE PREP WORK IDIOT). After sunlight approached and the weatherman's prediction of rain thwarted (take THAT Sven Sundgaard!)my friend B grabbed a bottle of beer that had it's own box and was wax capped to something called an offering table. I have a shitty cell phone pic of it, but it was literly beer porn laid out for anyone with a glass to sample some of the finest beers around the world (but mostly from the US). It was here that I started observing license plates from Tennesse, Illinois, Wisconsin, Dakotas, and New York?!?!? To think my commute to the brewery was a whopping 10 minutes these guys took toll ways and mostly likely started their trek on Thursday.
Advantage: fly-over state
After sampling a few of the beers (as you can tell I am not expert on the subject matter to expound on the savory tastes within, I just consume, a lot, because I enjoy something better than Mich Ultra while watching Brett Favre's ankle tank my beloved team's last chance at a winner for the next 10 years), there were two food trucks set up for noshing and one had these donuts with a seemingly ring of incased butter on the inside that made me moan like the time my wife... ok I'll stop right there, but honestly, AWESOME. I had two bags because one was an insult. I think it was this one "Chef Shack" feel free to correct me of course. But, after being recognized in line as "that cornhole champion from SurlyFest" (yes, my abilities known state wide people) it was time to hop in line for wristbands as my wife joined the crew to up my purchasing power to two six-packs.
What $200 in beer might look like
And fin. The beer is now sitting in the cellar with one bottle marked for a Chicago fan who will probably try to a take bath in the bottle and other things that should only be seen on chatroulette. The rest I'll figure out as tonight marks the first night I'll be able to sit and enjoy what will hopefully become a yearly journey to that small brewery that made it big.
See beernews.org for another recap and more photos of the event.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Walking Scared
Walk with a careful step down Sanguine Court with Otis' short story titled "Walking Gray".
And do it with the lights on. Not sex you perv, the reading. Do it now.
Couldn't get the photos from Darkness Day loaded so tomorrow I'll muse on spending $200 for beer. Until then, enjoy one of the best twisters of the English language I've ever had the pleasure of sharing a Pai Gow table with.
And do it with the lights on. Not sex you perv, the reading. Do it now.
Couldn't get the photos from Darkness Day loaded so tomorrow I'll muse on spending $200 for beer. Until then, enjoy one of the best twisters of the English language I've ever had the pleasure of sharing a Pai Gow table with.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Champions on Paper
In the shower, along highway 169 with the tidal wave of road construction during the wee hours of a rainy morning, sitting with friends in an industrial park waiting for a brewery to open its gates like Willy Wonka. So many things to say, so little time, so my musing go buried into what's left of my head after a 10 hour work day, followed by impromptu wrestling matches with the kids, and finally lessons on Plot, Setting, and Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" until my eyes can take no more and the cycle begins a new.
To paraphrase a certain poker brat "if it wasn't for time, I'd do it all". My interest in things outside of this self-inflicted schedule have a gray-ish layer over them. Even my beloved Purple and Gold have seen the decibels lowered with every Favre penis story and pick-six that would normally have me firing off a 1,000 word volcano that would be invoked even if Tarvaris Jackson lined up behind whatever center they throw along the line since the departure of Matt Birk. Instead of the gladiator that was the scourge of the Twin Cities and football demi-god to he legion of fans, Brett Favre has turned into a circus sideshow. Injuries, passive-aggressive tangles with a coach that shouldn't be there, Jenn Sterger's tits popping up unwillingly according to most reports right behind Ed Werder's mustache. In what was supposed to be a reincarnation of last year improbable run to banish the ghost of the Purple People Eaters of the 70s and the near-perfect 1998 season. But, as Dallas Cowboys fans are learning as well (Romo going down last night was a painful metaphor for their season), the only things favorites on paper win is lining the bottom of a bonfire on a chilly November day.
Sure it's easy enough to say "Brett should have packed it in" while the team is 2-4, and like most NFL teams a few plays would have reversed that record (Purple Jesus unable to plunge into the end zone against Miami and extracting Favre's head from his ass during the Packers game). He's throwing the ball with the zip of a young quarterback while moving like one that is better suited in play $5 Euchre tournaments after steak night at the local VFW. It is my hope he puts aside this quest to "go out in a blaze of glory" *cue Bon Jovi guitar riff* and does what's best for the team. If Favre is healthy and believe he can do more than add another tick to that game-streak, by all means chuck all the TDs and INTs us fans can handle.
I'll be there to watch 2-14 or 12-4 with my jersey on (except apparently during the WPBT which I'll be donning some Green and Gold of the dreaded Green Bay Packers again due to a text message I believe was pre-written by The Wife just waiting for Favre to toss the last ball over Randy Moss' head) just make it entertaining Mr. Favre regardless of the outcome, I'm sure you will.
Tomorrow or Thursday I hope to have my post up about Surly Brewing's Darkness Day. Really, driving from New York to get a bottle of beer? They were not the only ones.
To paraphrase a certain poker brat "if it wasn't for time, I'd do it all". My interest in things outside of this self-inflicted schedule have a gray-ish layer over them. Even my beloved Purple and Gold have seen the decibels lowered with every Favre penis story and pick-six that would normally have me firing off a 1,000 word volcano that would be invoked even if Tarvaris Jackson lined up behind whatever center they throw along the line since the departure of Matt Birk. Instead of the gladiator that was the scourge of the Twin Cities and football demi-god to he legion of fans, Brett Favre has turned into a circus sideshow. Injuries, passive-aggressive tangles with a coach that shouldn't be there, Jenn Sterger's tits popping up unwillingly according to most reports right behind Ed Werder's mustache. In what was supposed to be a reincarnation of last year improbable run to banish the ghost of the Purple People Eaters of the 70s and the near-perfect 1998 season. But, as Dallas Cowboys fans are learning as well (Romo going down last night was a painful metaphor for their season), the only things favorites on paper win is lining the bottom of a bonfire on a chilly November day.
Sure it's easy enough to say "Brett should have packed it in" while the team is 2-4, and like most NFL teams a few plays would have reversed that record (Purple Jesus unable to plunge into the end zone against Miami and extracting Favre's head from his ass during the Packers game). He's throwing the ball with the zip of a young quarterback while moving like one that is better suited in play $5 Euchre tournaments after steak night at the local VFW. It is my hope he puts aside this quest to "go out in a blaze of glory" *cue Bon Jovi guitar riff* and does what's best for the team. If Favre is healthy and believe he can do more than add another tick to that game-streak, by all means chuck all the TDs and INTs us fans can handle.
I'll be there to watch 2-14 or 12-4 with my jersey on (except apparently during the WPBT which I'll be donning some Green and Gold of the dreaded Green Bay Packers again due to a text message I believe was pre-written by The Wife just waiting for Favre to toss the last ball over Randy Moss' head) just make it entertaining Mr. Favre regardless of the outcome, I'm sure you will.
Tomorrow or Thursday I hope to have my post up about Surly Brewing's Darkness Day. Really, driving from New York to get a bottle of beer? They were not the only ones.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Your table is ready Mr. Pappagiorgio
I want to be Rusty Griswold.
Photo cred: dvdbits.com
You wake up and roll over to the digital alarm clock that reads "TOO DAMN EARLY!" in bright red robotic font. The muscles don't move as well as they used to even after just strenuous activities such as "golf" and "drinking too much" on the weekend. Yes, a day of a 40 minute commute in heavy traffic with Mike and Mike giving point counter point commentary on the sports world where the athletes make your yearly salary while taking their morning piss. The work day isn't much better as you toil within your cube like a caged cat while the scent of catnip whistles by in the form of Krispy Kreme donuts that you can't touch because your supporting your wife's decision to lose a few pounds and just one frosting fleck would be the same as banging a mid-priced hooker in the Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom and her finding the used condom in your Docker's left front pocket.
You avoid the temptress while buzzsawing your way thru a dozen Blazin wings and buffalo chips with cheese and a tall Guinness and make it home in time to read a Scooby Doo adventure to the kids while the four year old manages to kick you in the balls three times because sitting still isn't in her vocabulary daddy. A deep sigh comes after picking up the Monday Night Football game in the third quarter as the Titans have already put this one to bed and your wife takes a quick sniff of your polo shirt to make sure hot sauce was the only thing that splattered on it.
But, there's hope Mr. Pappagiorgio. In several weeks there's a plane ticket with your given birth name on it for a round trip to VEGAS! Yes, you can grab a fake ID, lay $5 on a craps table, roll it up to several thousand impressing the Mirage enough to sport you a three bedroom suite with hot tub filled with European models and wise-guys who take you in as part of their crew without asking you to whack someone. Yes, you could be snorting coke off Paris Hilton's ass in the TAO VIP lounge while playing heads-up $10K/$20K with Doyle Brunson after getting backed by the New Jersey mafia. No Dora the Explorer to be found within a 500 mile radius of the Spearmint Rhino rooms with women of questionable morals grinding on YOU.
It's amazing that several millions Nick Pappagiorgio's visit Vegas every year toting $10 plastic replicas of the Eiffel Tower with dreams that they will be magically plucked from obscurity and placed into the life of a high-roller. But isn't that the whole point? The chase, the dream, the alternate reality. It's not a concrete goal like running a 10K, or losing 20 pounds, it's slipping thru Alice's Looking Glass and seeing a different side of life. Parents like myself love their kids and wouldn't give them up for all chips in Bobby's Room at the Bellagio. Nor their spouse for all the fake tits and perfectly toned legs that line up nightly at the strip clubs, because the wife gives you something that baby powder and glitter can not.
You can read Lost Vegas by Dr. Pauly and get a peek at the Vegas facade as the Nick Pappagiorgio's of the world pile into the World Series of Poker every year. Most will go home with pockets emptied by fellow card sharks and hooker bar denizens after rolling up the stakes and going to Vegas like Mike McD and getting busted on a two-outer by some 21 year old Scandi who's bankroll online would cover your yearly household expenses with enough left over to buy two brand new Benzs and slap a new roof on your 30 year old house.
Reality isn't why we go or get excited about Vegas, it's about the trip, the anticipation, and for this guy meeting with friends and co-workers in a way that degenerates should instead of on their respective couches wrapped in a lavender Snuggie with an internet connection. It is 50 days until I get to become Nick Pappagiorgio for five days straight and I can't wait.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Jenn Sterger's Meal Ticket
"I slipped one past the goalie!".
Now that statement would wake up a few people if said in a bubble or shouted over the top of several conversations at a recent party like my annual Oktoberfest shindig that 30+ people plus their kids drop by for bier and spatzel. My super-sperm however is unable to even get out of the equipment room and is as cold as a puck in a bucket of ice after having my wang flipped about by the Lara Croft assistant while high on Xanax. When you're married you remember such things vividly as penis touching by female other than the one who yells at you to stop playing poker so late or ask why you bought the salmon instead of the rainbow trout because she had a coupon for buy one get one free. Now I doubt Brett Favre got his junk grabbed by one Jenn Sterger (as seen here when she was first "discovered" as a FSU student). Like my naughty nurse who was probably thinking about where to have a nice pasta bowl after work, Sterger got an upfront view of a married man's unit that was attached to a very popular football player. A player who many see as iconic but flawed which shows on the field with brillant performances and equally heart-breaking defeats. You could play the old "Wide World of Sports" music in the background while Vinko Bogataj takes a tumble off the ski ramp and Favre throws an interception late in the fourth quarter of a playoff game.
"To be great you take risk that no one else would", a quote stated in many different forms since the time of Socrates, most likely this wasn't our quarterback's line of thought while texting dong shots to a woman who has already lined up her second Playboy photo shoot (pending as I received an *ahem* email with pictures of a future shoot, it's NOT MINE I swear honey!). Not to be sexist and it will come off as such, but Sterger is not Millie "Auntie May" Babbs, 74, from Council Bluff, Iowa who enjoys a rousing game of a tournament Euchre after the Knights of Columbus Fish fry at the Christ the Redeemer church following five o'clock mass. Did Streger deserve unwarranted post patterns? No. Is there probably more background to this story that will never come out? Yes. As someone who used her road block sized chest to obtain jobs and cash do you think a pics of a man's member really upset her enough to wait TWO YEARS before talking about it after getting fired by Sport Illustrated and timing the coming out party for maximum *insert Bevis and Butthead laugh* exposure while the folk hero took the field as an opponent during a MONDAY NIGHT game against the team she represented at the time of the pictures.
But, but ,but she shouldn't be subjected to such barbarism! True. I'm not in the "she deserves" it for wearing such lack of loincloths. No woman should, but there's a place of common sense here that Sterger comes off as opportunistic in this case over and over. If she wanted to be taken seriously or was truly appalled like I'm sure the millions of Favre fans out there are, then those photos should have been produced days not years after receiving them. Because now it feels like a sports bettor who goes to the casino window after the game is done and says "I want my money because I totally would have bet on the Hamilton Tiger-Cats to upset the Argonauts today". No statute of limitations? This wasn't rape, he didn't grope her after a Thursday practice, or try to dry hump her leg while doing body shot at Hooters, it was a picture. One that seemed to have stayed on her phone for two years... do you have many pics on your phone from two years ago?
Creditability of the witness is something lawyers use to shed their opponents in court. Flaunting your tits in public should not subject you to unwanted cock shots, but since there was no immediate reaction from yourself or public outcry of such phallus phunny talk and the timing of the story, why should we care?
Answer: let it go, move on, nothing some eye bleach won't solve, and hope the future Hall-of-Famer can throw on some pants and not throw a pick-six late in the game the next time.
Now that statement would wake up a few people if said in a bubble or shouted over the top of several conversations at a recent party like my annual Oktoberfest shindig that 30+ people plus their kids drop by for bier and spatzel. My super-sperm however is unable to even get out of the equipment room and is as cold as a puck in a bucket of ice after having my wang flipped about by the Lara Croft assistant while high on Xanax. When you're married you remember such things vividly as penis touching by female other than the one who yells at you to stop playing poker so late or ask why you bought the salmon instead of the rainbow trout because she had a coupon for buy one get one free. Now I doubt Brett Favre got his junk grabbed by one Jenn Sterger (as seen here when she was first "discovered" as a FSU student). Like my naughty nurse who was probably thinking about where to have a nice pasta bowl after work, Sterger got an upfront view of a married man's unit that was attached to a very popular football player. A player who many see as iconic but flawed which shows on the field with brillant performances and equally heart-breaking defeats. You could play the old "Wide World of Sports" music in the background while Vinko Bogataj takes a tumble off the ski ramp and Favre throws an interception late in the fourth quarter of a playoff game.
"To be great you take risk that no one else would", a quote stated in many different forms since the time of Socrates, most likely this wasn't our quarterback's line of thought while texting dong shots to a woman who has already lined up her second Playboy photo shoot (pending as I received an *ahem* email with pictures of a future shoot, it's NOT MINE I swear honey!). Not to be sexist and it will come off as such, but Sterger is not Millie "Auntie May" Babbs, 74, from Council Bluff, Iowa who enjoys a rousing game of a tournament Euchre after the Knights of Columbus Fish fry at the Christ the Redeemer church following five o'clock mass. Did Streger deserve unwarranted post patterns? No. Is there probably more background to this story that will never come out? Yes. As someone who used her road block sized chest to obtain jobs and cash do you think a pics of a man's member really upset her enough to wait TWO YEARS before talking about it after getting fired by Sport Illustrated and timing the coming out party for maximum *insert Bevis and Butthead laugh* exposure while the folk hero took the field as an opponent during a MONDAY NIGHT game against the team she represented at the time of the pictures.
But, but ,but she shouldn't be subjected to such barbarism! True. I'm not in the "she deserves" it for wearing such lack of loincloths. No woman should, but there's a place of common sense here that Sterger comes off as opportunistic in this case over and over. If she wanted to be taken seriously or was truly appalled like I'm sure the millions of Favre fans out there are, then those photos should have been produced days not years after receiving them. Because now it feels like a sports bettor who goes to the casino window after the game is done and says "I want my money because I totally would have bet on the Hamilton Tiger-Cats to upset the Argonauts today". No statute of limitations? This wasn't rape, he didn't grope her after a Thursday practice, or try to dry hump her leg while doing body shot at Hooters, it was a picture. One that seemed to have stayed on her phone for two years... do you have many pics on your phone from two years ago?
Creditability of the witness is something lawyers use to shed their opponents in court. Flaunting your tits in public should not subject you to unwanted cock shots, but since there was no immediate reaction from yourself or public outcry of such phallus phunny talk and the timing of the story, why should we care?
Answer: let it go, move on, nothing some eye bleach won't solve, and hope the future Hall-of-Famer can throw on some pants and not throw a pick-six late in the game the next time.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Last to the party, still leaves with the hottie
I final tabled a tourney last week (possibly, maybe, don't know) anyway after watching Lady Gaga for the 16th time today while eating a box of Cheerios with hopes of soaking up my party for one last night I fired up Full Tilt after a running my mother to Grand Casino Hinkley as an upcoming birthday present. Why yes I played slots next to women chain smoking Virgina Slims while wearing enough make-up to paint my son's second grade class as clowns for Halloween in a few weeks.
Won at slots, won with kids who enjoyed their $15/hour babysitter which included Skid Row's reminder that she ooooonly seventeen SEVENTEEN working the desk and asking if I'd like her to put my penis someplace around that severely stretched polo shirt. After remembering that my mom was five feet away and I'm married and don't wish to go to jail or be that creepy old guy who hits on high school chicks with their mothers sitting in close proximity, I took the wristband with my children's name on it without further incident as there was some gambling to do. Slots, slots, and more slots after seeing a sad dealer with no players at the Pai Gow table. Pai Gow normally a degenerate activity goes to level 23 if you play alone, besides my mom needed me to needle her by winning on every other spin while she plunked down twenty after twenty while chasing Mr. Cashman.
After padding the WPBT trip roll a bit, being disappointed that Ms. Jail Bait had been replaced by a cross between Velma and Grimace, and taking down the prime rib buffet that actually doesn't suck it was time to bring the kids home and straight to bed. "No, no booze tonight" said my body so I jumped into a play chip PLO8 game with Bluff's newest all-star KevMath and TheKeyLime. Needed little something, I spotted my new favorite $3.5K guarantee Rush PLO8 rebuy tourney in late regs. I almost missed the cut off but managed to plunk down two shiny dollars in time.
Three hours later I walked a lad through the ropes of making a three-way deal...
I wonder if this is the other side of variance that I haven't seen for a couple of years. Any how, happy. Much. Still not going to drink anything heavier than cherry flavored kool-aid.
Won at slots, won with kids who enjoyed their $15/hour babysitter which included Skid Row's reminder that she ooooonly seventeen SEVENTEEN working the desk and asking if I'd like her to put my penis someplace around that severely stretched polo shirt. After remembering that my mom was five feet away and I'm married and don't wish to go to jail or be that creepy old guy who hits on high school chicks with their mothers sitting in close proximity, I took the wristband with my children's name on it without further incident as there was some gambling to do. Slots, slots, and more slots after seeing a sad dealer with no players at the Pai Gow table. Pai Gow normally a degenerate activity goes to level 23 if you play alone, besides my mom needed me to needle her by winning on every other spin while she plunked down twenty after twenty while chasing Mr. Cashman.
After padding the WPBT trip roll a bit, being disappointed that Ms. Jail Bait had been replaced by a cross between Velma and Grimace, and taking down the prime rib buffet that actually doesn't suck it was time to bring the kids home and straight to bed. "No, no booze tonight" said my body so I jumped into a play chip PLO8 game with Bluff's newest all-star KevMath and TheKeyLime. Needed little something, I spotted my new favorite $3.5K guarantee Rush PLO8 rebuy tourney in late regs. I almost missed the cut off but managed to plunk down two shiny dollars in time.
Three hours later I walked a lad through the ropes of making a three-way deal...
I wonder if this is the other side of variance that I haven't seen for a couple of years. Any how, happy. Much. Still not going to drink anything heavier than cherry flavored kool-aid.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Lady Gaga loves drunks
Found my computer still on from last night/this morning: Me + Alcohol + $25 Rush PLO =
Where's the too drunk button? Kid's with the degen for the weekend and its freakin nice out so.... we're going to hit up the casino for my mom's birthday then some frolfing but we all know that Poker + Alcohol = the below video for me. 60 days till WPBT time to train those livers kiddos.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Now where are my orange wedges
Up above a world so high, Orion's Belt held in the sky. And you're welcome for the earworm this morning. Last night with weather that could only be described as Utopian-like, low 70s, a breeze light enough to hear to make that Snuggle fabric softener teddy bear giggle, a man stepped onto a playing field. That man was me, the playing field was a jigsaw puzzle of sod with outlines of a soccer pitch and some worn down goals thrown behind two football goal posts.
Soccer was a sport that never caught on since its season meshed between the end of baseball and the start of hockey and perhaps due to the fact that my lanky body threw the ball much harder than I could kick one. Sure, deep in my parent's treasure trove of little Drizz baby and bath pictures are faded photographs of the moppy-hair-turn-sideways-and-he's-invisible elementary school kid in soccer gear with kids from the neighborhood that I could name to this day despite having trouble recalling one memorable moment playing the sport.
Last night wasn't about playing, it was my first of many parents vs. kids games of which I assume there's a graph of parent's age/ability that crosses over kid's age/ability for the perfect game when neither side has to "let" the other team win. Since my son is seven and three of the dads actually PLAY the game on a semi-regular basis complete with shin guards, 25 yard rockets, and touch passes light enough for the rank amateur in the Surly beer t-shirt to put one past the sprawling second grader. The parents played position while trying to spread the mob of purple jerseys with their first names imprinted on their backs.
Before the window's down ride to the field after a long day at the office and having to check my email at home, my son had to make a choice if he would like his mom or dad to join him. "Daddy's always super-busy and needs to work". Ouch. Instantly I was set back to 1985 where my father wouldn't get home until it was too dark yet again, but just in time for a meal because of working overtime so his kids could play those sports and we could continue our lower middle income existence with a few much appreciated extras. A lot of self-practice that involved a tennis racquet and wall, of course later on "self-practice" would be better served by a Penthouse or wavy porn on a 13 inch TV after the parents were asleep but that was far out of mind for the geeky kid who just wanted his father to play catch with. Before I took on going back to school full-time, before I took on the gig with PokerStarsBlog on the weekends and during its big tournament series, I sat down with my wife and kids and told them, no matter how tired I may be I will always make time for them. Period. Exclamation point. Signed, sealed, and delivered with a lisp.
My wife gracefully bowed out claiming a need to get ready for a trip (which she did, but not for two days), as I set down the laptop and peeled out of the work clothes for more suitable attire. The old man held himself well remembering how to curl a ball inside the posts, and make a few passes that would turn the head of Victoria Beckham (actually... she needs a steak dinner) and the rest of the WAGs of in my direction. That's right babe, bring that 70 pound body and 50 pounds of tits my way, I got orange slices, lines of blow, and 80's metal waiting in the truck. The boy's spirits seemed lifted with a genuine smile as we traveled back home in time for me to start up my new quarter school with the Wadsworth book of too many frickin English grammar rules that I'll never learn.
I may be busy. I may be tired. But, I've learned that if I don't spend my short time here enjoying all the people around my existence what's the point of sitting in front of that monitor at 11pm learning about literary canons and contra-accounts. None. There's no reason to work yourself silly for money unless you know the real value are those you spend the money with. I work full-time so we have a home/food/Sportscenter, I go to school make sure I keep my current and future work positions, I work at the PokerStarsBlog so I can see my friends both far and near along with some selfish reasons. And that's enough I's for the day because the Twins are on tonight and WE will be watching them take down the Yankees for once.
Soccer was a sport that never caught on since its season meshed between the end of baseball and the start of hockey and perhaps due to the fact that my lanky body threw the ball much harder than I could kick one. Sure, deep in my parent's treasure trove of little Drizz baby and bath pictures are faded photographs of the moppy-hair-turn-sideways-and-he's-invisible elementary school kid in soccer gear with kids from the neighborhood that I could name to this day despite having trouble recalling one memorable moment playing the sport.
Last night wasn't about playing, it was my first of many parents vs. kids games of which I assume there's a graph of parent's age/ability that crosses over kid's age/ability for the perfect game when neither side has to "let" the other team win. Since my son is seven and three of the dads actually PLAY the game on a semi-regular basis complete with shin guards, 25 yard rockets, and touch passes light enough for the rank amateur in the Surly beer t-shirt to put one past the sprawling second grader. The parents played position while trying to spread the mob of purple jerseys with their first names imprinted on their backs.
Before the window's down ride to the field after a long day at the office and having to check my email at home, my son had to make a choice if he would like his mom or dad to join him. "Daddy's always super-busy and needs to work". Ouch. Instantly I was set back to 1985 where my father wouldn't get home until it was too dark yet again, but just in time for a meal because of working overtime so his kids could play those sports and we could continue our lower middle income existence with a few much appreciated extras. A lot of self-practice that involved a tennis racquet and wall, of course later on "self-practice" would be better served by a Penthouse or wavy porn on a 13 inch TV after the parents were asleep but that was far out of mind for the geeky kid who just wanted his father to play catch with. Before I took on going back to school full-time, before I took on the gig with PokerStarsBlog on the weekends and during its big tournament series, I sat down with my wife and kids and told them, no matter how tired I may be I will always make time for them. Period. Exclamation point. Signed, sealed, and delivered with a lisp.
My wife gracefully bowed out claiming a need to get ready for a trip (which she did, but not for two days), as I set down the laptop and peeled out of the work clothes for more suitable attire. The old man held himself well remembering how to curl a ball inside the posts, and make a few passes that would turn the head of Victoria Beckham (actually... she needs a steak dinner) and the rest of the WAGs of in my direction. That's right babe, bring that 70 pound body and 50 pounds of tits my way, I got orange slices, lines of blow, and 80's metal waiting in the truck. The boy's spirits seemed lifted with a genuine smile as we traveled back home in time for me to start up my new quarter school with the Wadsworth book of too many frickin English grammar rules that I'll never learn.
I may be busy. I may be tired. But, I've learned that if I don't spend my short time here enjoying all the people around my existence what's the point of sitting in front of that monitor at 11pm learning about literary canons and contra-accounts. None. There's no reason to work yourself silly for money unless you know the real value are those you spend the money with. I work full-time so we have a home/food/Sportscenter, I go to school make sure I keep my current and future work positions, I work at the PokerStarsBlog so I can see my friends both far and near along with some selfish reasons. And that's enough I's for the day because the Twins are on tonight and WE will be watching them take down the Yankees for once.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Steps in Parenting: Try or try not
The bargain bin alarm clock with the red tag of clearance half torn showed a blurry 4:37am as the clock puncher rolled out of bed to start the morning ritual. The schedule returned to watching Sportscenter as the best team in baseball can only draw 17,000 to their home games despite giving away tickets. But, on my mind wasn't the inability to avoid rather sizable obstructions like walls and refrigerators while trying to splice together a quick breakfast. It was another parenting lesson.
Two days ago while still hit hard by the moonlighting as a online poker reporter, there was some fatherly duties to attend to for the precious daughter. Dentist at 4pm proved to be a breeze as I answered questions as to why my eyes looked like I just ran over my dog and decided to knock away the pain by watching Lassie re-runs on Nick at Night while downing a handle of Captain. No, "just some extra work that I'm proud of doing and hope those who read it get some pleasure from the words" was my reply. After the teeth were whitened to an ivory sheen, the Spongebob Squarepants toothbrush acquired, and an extra prize gift grabbed from the long forgotten basket in which she took a piece of twine that was wrapped as a "present".
No idea, I don't claim to understand the female specie. Anyway, she happy with said rope, I was happy she didn't try to spit the industrial strength mint flavored toothpaste all over the 42" flat screen or jerk her head while the dentist was probing her mouth with a metal pick.
Happy would end about two hours later in an elementary school gym where after getting dressed up a leotard and tights it was time for dance class. A see-if-she-like-it type thing put on by the community as I still hold wishes she'll take up volleyball or softball and grab a college scholarship after being named to the all-state team three times (not likely but one can dream). For the first half she performed gracefully as I peered over the top of the new book I got from Lulu the other day. "The Chosen" by John Hartness with the picture of my favorite kilt-wearing blogger on the back, and I got to the part where Adam and Cain reconcile their differences over an AlCantHang-sized bender (side note: Happy Birthday to the original walking party himself) and are heading to New Orleans to confront Eve.
My son's PSP went down due to lack of batteries and the charger was left on the kitchen table as he pulled the book down to inform me that someone was being less than cooperative in the dance line. I didn't need to even look to figure out it would be my purple spandexed spawn refusing to getting up despite plees from the community-ed instructor who was probably getting $25 for putting on a fake smile for 50 minutes while dancing to Kidz Bops 14. Sure enough my daughter with a mix of my stubbornness and my wife's fierceness sat on her ass while the 14 other little girls twirled for their parents.
Since these was not a first offense, she knew what was going to happen. "Wyatt, go politely tell your sister to come here" I said in a calm voice that rivaled The Godfather's right before the violin music came out and someone got whacked. To my surprise she came right over, sparing her the potential embarrassment of going in front of all these parents while I tried to catch her in front of the room. I told her she knew what would happen, and to my surprise she didn't cry as I carried her to the car 15 minutes before schedule.
To tie in as I buckled her to her new big girl car seat booster, I looked back at the boy and told him about his "less than stellar" (copyright Joe Speaker) performance in his Saturday soccer game that made Manny Ramirez look like Pete Rose, if I saw him do the same thing in Tuesday's game I would walk across the pitch and carry him home as I have just about zero shame. Fast forward to yesterday's performance in which the team won their sixth straight game 7-0, he played with a extra kick, challenging balls and not giving up after the first try. Running up and down the field, abeit bunching up as mob-styled play prevails at this age, but showing speed versus the light gait of a snail shown on Saturday.
Nothing makes a parent more proud of their offspring to see them try. Some may force their children to "be the best", and forget those little legs may not have the genetics to become the next AAU all-star, but to allow them to smile and recap the shot on goal that missed by a time zone but to someone who hasn't scored all season got that chance, was a boost to a kid normally regulated to video games. Perhaps this is something to build on, a reason to go outside and practice a bit with the under-coordinated father and maybe build some skills.
Even if he doesn't, he made a dad proud. Now, I just need to figure out the other one...
Two days ago while still hit hard by the moonlighting as a online poker reporter, there was some fatherly duties to attend to for the precious daughter. Dentist at 4pm proved to be a breeze as I answered questions as to why my eyes looked like I just ran over my dog and decided to knock away the pain by watching Lassie re-runs on Nick at Night while downing a handle of Captain. No, "just some extra work that I'm proud of doing and hope those who read it get some pleasure from the words" was my reply. After the teeth were whitened to an ivory sheen, the Spongebob Squarepants toothbrush acquired, and an extra prize gift grabbed from the long forgotten basket in which she took a piece of twine that was wrapped as a "present".
No idea, I don't claim to understand the female specie. Anyway, she happy with said rope, I was happy she didn't try to spit the industrial strength mint flavored toothpaste all over the 42" flat screen or jerk her head while the dentist was probing her mouth with a metal pick.
Happy would end about two hours later in an elementary school gym where after getting dressed up a leotard and tights it was time for dance class. A see-if-she-like-it type thing put on by the community as I still hold wishes she'll take up volleyball or softball and grab a college scholarship after being named to the all-state team three times (not likely but one can dream). For the first half she performed gracefully as I peered over the top of the new book I got from Lulu the other day. "The Chosen" by John Hartness with the picture of my favorite kilt-wearing blogger on the back, and I got to the part where Adam and Cain reconcile their differences over an AlCantHang-sized bender (side note: Happy Birthday to the original walking party himself) and are heading to New Orleans to confront Eve.
My son's PSP went down due to lack of batteries and the charger was left on the kitchen table as he pulled the book down to inform me that someone was being less than cooperative in the dance line. I didn't need to even look to figure out it would be my purple spandexed spawn refusing to getting up despite plees from the community-ed instructor who was probably getting $25 for putting on a fake smile for 50 minutes while dancing to Kidz Bops 14. Sure enough my daughter with a mix of my stubbornness and my wife's fierceness sat on her ass while the 14 other little girls twirled for their parents.
Since these was not a first offense, she knew what was going to happen. "Wyatt, go politely tell your sister to come here" I said in a calm voice that rivaled The Godfather's right before the violin music came out and someone got whacked. To my surprise she came right over, sparing her the potential embarrassment of going in front of all these parents while I tried to catch her in front of the room. I told her she knew what would happen, and to my surprise she didn't cry as I carried her to the car 15 minutes before schedule.
To tie in as I buckled her to her new big girl car seat booster, I looked back at the boy and told him about his "less than stellar" (copyright Joe Speaker) performance in his Saturday soccer game that made Manny Ramirez look like Pete Rose, if I saw him do the same thing in Tuesday's game I would walk across the pitch and carry him home as I have just about zero shame. Fast forward to yesterday's performance in which the team won their sixth straight game 7-0, he played with a extra kick, challenging balls and not giving up after the first try. Running up and down the field, abeit bunching up as mob-styled play prevails at this age, but showing speed versus the light gait of a snail shown on Saturday.
Nothing makes a parent more proud of their offspring to see them try. Some may force their children to "be the best", and forget those little legs may not have the genetics to become the next AAU all-star, but to allow them to smile and recap the shot on goal that missed by a time zone but to someone who hasn't scored all season got that chance, was a boost to a kid normally regulated to video games. Perhaps this is something to build on, a reason to go outside and practice a bit with the under-coordinated father and maybe build some skills.
Even if he doesn't, he made a dad proud. Now, I just need to figure out the other one...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Coming out of my WCOOP shelter
**Warning this gets rambling and make no sense, much like Paris Hilton's existance or my daughter's tantrum at dance class last night which was trigger by UV40 rays and lack of gummi bears in the school's vending machines**
Returning to normalcy.
Or what I once thought as normal, the shower, breakfast, 9 to 5 job, the cube, commute, dinner, ball game, kids, bed. Many stick themselves on this wheel and don't stop to break it enough until the wheel spins too fast and their lives become a really boring reality show that would get worse ratings than a Tiger Woods talk show on fidelity. Every September for the past three years, I have been invited to enjoy sleep deprivation, breakfast at two in the afternoon, and a break in my "normal" routine while playing the part of online chronicler for the PokerStarsBlog along side some of the best in the business (Otis, Dr. Pauly, Change100, Shamus, Jen Newell, F-Train, and a computer program called Kevmath who will take over the world by 2014 or at least break the record for most posts at 2+2 and Twitter).
On most nights/mornings last week I sat on my couch drafting about the latest tournament and trying to find a little something interesting about its players. One was quite easy when Team PokerStars pro Jason Mercier used full-on aggression plus a little run-good at a final table to take down his first WCOOP bracelet. It gave a little something extra to root for going into the wee-hours of the morning. Unlike Otis and Change100 who had to battle labor disputes and roaming dogs on the way to work in Buenos Aires, I just had to pack up the kids, replenish my supply of Wheat Thins or Triscuits, and battle dozing off before the six a.m.final tables hit.
But it wasn't about the poker, it wasn't about the millions being thrown around during the WCOOP or the extra paycheck that will be redistributed in Las Vegas over at Cheetah's, Gold Coast's Pai Gow pit, and most likely the Geisha Bar at Imperial Palace during the WPBT in December (you have signed up for the Up For Poker last longer challenge correct??? Free money people, and you can laugh at G-Rob after busting him!!). No, working the WCOOP is about friendship, its about stepping outside the comfort zone, it's about being called upon to do something that isn't drafted in some dusty 15 volume tome of corporate suck. Here's the story, go write it. That's it (and of course there is some structure but mostly to get the maximum amount of readership and so the good writers of the blog have future work). Unlike every job I've ever held from planting trees at parks, to frying frozen tacos at Jack-in-the-Box, to sitting in a secluded mail room with millions of invoices everything had structure with no sense of creativity. No injecting sour cream in the tacos to make them taste better, or finding a new filing system for the invoice, just do your job like a robot and move on. Granted my career and schooling choice of becoming an Accountant frowns upon "creativity" as seen when Accountants *ahem* use there skill to "find" and "report" debits and credits in ways GAAP does not intend. Nonetheless, I enjoy finding the numbers and putting the in the right places, much like a final table story at the PokerStarsBlog, I have been proud to be a part of the team for the past three years.
The artist formally known as Poker Shrink, now just "The Shrink" talked about "normal" in a blog post that smacked me a bit as I overwork myself to retain my little world of normal, but instead of the upper-middle income family he speaks about in the post "Dis-ease", my world of going back to school full-time while holding down a full-time job, two kids with multiple activities, a wife, and a part-time job that keeps me glued together, I work hard just to survive. There are no real "extras" except the occasional jaunt to meet up with my dearest friends and authors across the nation. Whether it be in Las Vegas, G-Vegas, Chicago, or a $100 cab ride to Philly's airport while still trying to figure out why I craved a TastyKake and a WaWa sandwich, these things keep me "normal". A little hip check to the routine keeps everyone fresh, and without the above, I would sink into the same abyss my co-workers at my "normal" job suffer. They are set in their ways, counting the days to retirement, some even with a little clock that has five years, 345 days, 21 hours and 15 mintues on it.
Why?
Sure they're older but why live to die? Despite the shit hitting the fan yesterday during 24 hours of nothing going right including flushing half of my online bankroll in the toilet, paying for a $48 slab of lasagna then blowing up with the wife as she picked it up when I explained I ordered the single serving and she got the wrong order, then having both kids decide to mimic daddy's deaf ears and filter only for sentences containing: "treat", "play", "movie". My mind went spinning for most of Sunday afternoon into Monday, but I finished up the final write up around 8:30am Monday morning, calmly put together a skillet (no, THAT kind of skillet) and let the crazy wash off before returning to "normal" today.
Hugs were given, invoice for the work sent in, and Excel spreadsheets about to filled by the college student who is now done with 2/11 quarters from fulfilling a hole that I never wanted to admit was there. The degree won't make me "normal" but it will push me to continue being weird by trying something new and giving a reason to not settle for my present cube.
Returning to normalcy.
Or what I once thought as normal, the shower, breakfast, 9 to 5 job, the cube, commute, dinner, ball game, kids, bed. Many stick themselves on this wheel and don't stop to break it enough until the wheel spins too fast and their lives become a really boring reality show that would get worse ratings than a Tiger Woods talk show on fidelity. Every September for the past three years, I have been invited to enjoy sleep deprivation, breakfast at two in the afternoon, and a break in my "normal" routine while playing the part of online chronicler for the PokerStarsBlog along side some of the best in the business (Otis, Dr. Pauly, Change100, Shamus, Jen Newell, F-Train, and a computer program called Kevmath who will take over the world by 2014 or at least break the record for most posts at 2+2 and Twitter).
On most nights/mornings last week I sat on my couch drafting about the latest tournament and trying to find a little something interesting about its players. One was quite easy when Team PokerStars pro Jason Mercier used full-on aggression plus a little run-good at a final table to take down his first WCOOP bracelet. It gave a little something extra to root for going into the wee-hours of the morning. Unlike Otis and Change100 who had to battle labor disputes and roaming dogs on the way to work in Buenos Aires, I just had to pack up the kids, replenish my supply of Wheat Thins or Triscuits, and battle dozing off before the six a.m.final tables hit.
But it wasn't about the poker, it wasn't about the millions being thrown around during the WCOOP or the extra paycheck that will be redistributed in Las Vegas over at Cheetah's, Gold Coast's Pai Gow pit, and most likely the Geisha Bar at Imperial Palace during the WPBT in December (you have signed up for the Up For Poker last longer challenge correct??? Free money people, and you can laugh at G-Rob after busting him!!). No, working the WCOOP is about friendship, its about stepping outside the comfort zone, it's about being called upon to do something that isn't drafted in some dusty 15 volume tome of corporate suck. Here's the story, go write it. That's it (and of course there is some structure but mostly to get the maximum amount of readership and so the good writers of the blog have future work). Unlike every job I've ever held from planting trees at parks, to frying frozen tacos at Jack-in-the-Box, to sitting in a secluded mail room with millions of invoices everything had structure with no sense of creativity. No injecting sour cream in the tacos to make them taste better, or finding a new filing system for the invoice, just do your job like a robot and move on. Granted my career and schooling choice of becoming an Accountant frowns upon "creativity" as seen when Accountants *ahem* use there skill to "find" and "report" debits and credits in ways GAAP does not intend. Nonetheless, I enjoy finding the numbers and putting the in the right places, much like a final table story at the PokerStarsBlog, I have been proud to be a part of the team for the past three years.
The artist formally known as Poker Shrink, now just "The Shrink" talked about "normal" in a blog post that smacked me a bit as I overwork myself to retain my little world of normal, but instead of the upper-middle income family he speaks about in the post "Dis-ease", my world of going back to school full-time while holding down a full-time job, two kids with multiple activities, a wife, and a part-time job that keeps me glued together, I work hard just to survive. There are no real "extras" except the occasional jaunt to meet up with my dearest friends and authors across the nation. Whether it be in Las Vegas, G-Vegas, Chicago, or a $100 cab ride to Philly's airport while still trying to figure out why I craved a TastyKake and a WaWa sandwich, these things keep me "normal". A little hip check to the routine keeps everyone fresh, and without the above, I would sink into the same abyss my co-workers at my "normal" job suffer. They are set in their ways, counting the days to retirement, some even with a little clock that has five years, 345 days, 21 hours and 15 mintues on it.
Why?
Sure they're older but why live to die? Despite the shit hitting the fan yesterday during 24 hours of nothing going right including flushing half of my online bankroll in the toilet, paying for a $48 slab of lasagna then blowing up with the wife as she picked it up when I explained I ordered the single serving and she got the wrong order, then having both kids decide to mimic daddy's deaf ears and filter only for sentences containing: "treat", "play", "movie". My mind went spinning for most of Sunday afternoon into Monday, but I finished up the final write up around 8:30am Monday morning, calmly put together a skillet (no, THAT kind of skillet) and let the crazy wash off before returning to "normal" today.
Hugs were given, invoice for the work sent in, and Excel spreadsheets about to filled by the college student who is now done with 2/11 quarters from fulfilling a hole that I never wanted to admit was there. The degree won't make me "normal" but it will push me to continue being weird by trying something new and giving a reason to not settle for my present cube.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Up for Poker - Luckbox Challenge Act II
Ok, ten or twenty people who drop by my little place here. It's a far reach when this used to be a poker blog that morphed into a personal diary/poker/parenting place to vent. The WPBT Winter Classic is kicking off it's seventh (?!?!!?!?) year of existance with a huge bang. No, some lucky blogger is not getting married way above their means again (looking at you Mr. Buddy Dank).
Instead Otis, CJ, and G-Rob the self-proclaimed Frolf champion of the G-Vegas upper east side past McDonald's but not before Barley's Taproom have put together the biggest promotion yet for our still growing community. Yes, poker is a fad and that fad has faded, except that it hasn't, and barring some heavy DOJ action between now and December, let us welcome the second edition of the Up for Poker/Luckbox Challenge!
You and two other degenerates. Yes, degenerates, we don't take kindly to straight laced white-collar folk around here, leave that shit at home to be a good parent or spouse, come to Vegas to punish your liver and laugh with friends without volume/social graces control. PokerStars despite the WCOOP raging on (I'm on for Friday's O8 tourney and working nightly (morningly?) next week, got together a package for us scribes of the four suits that will have me foregoing any prop bets that involve myself staying awake for 48 hours in Vegas. Other prop bets on bar games will be gladly accepted.
$3,000 prize pool for a team of three to enter (by shipping CJ the cash or PokerStars transfer). My team is pretty much set so you will not have the pleasure of me finishing second-to-last unless you a) like the Vikings and can name at least five Vikings quarterbacks not named Favre (my favorite will always be "Touchdown" Tommy Kramer) b) had the pleasure of going to work while its -10 or below for a solid two weeks c) plan on tilting Yankees fans when we win the World Series this year!
Minnesota homer much? Yes. It's who I am, but I still refuse to eat lutefisk or tell an Ole and Sven joke.
$500 Hammer Challenge! Still play Grubby's hammer like it's 2006? Get rewarded! $50 to the first POST-FLOP hammers to take down a pot. This should lead to some interesting first and second blind level post-flop play which will probably get someone Pauly's copy of Gigli. If you find me sober, please be kind and order me a wine (or a Cap'n Coke is always accepted). I play sober poker like Paris Hilton's cocaine stash and legs, open for all to see.
O.G. challenge - there were 14 original players in the WPBT at Sam's Town, some of which arrived like the rock stars they are in a limo. Knock them out, buy them a drink, tell them to peddle their segway ala Tony G outta here, and take their trinket to CJ in exchange for some more cash.
It's 85 days to my birthday when I touchdown in McCarran that Wednesday and hopefully retain lifeforces without ending up in the Nevada desert as another sad sap tale of degeneracy gone wrong.
I don't know who will be there for birthday shots, I don't know where I'll end up doing my usual disappering act, but come noon on December 11th at the very classy Aria poker room, my presence will be with friends who have given me more than they'll ever know. Check out April's WPBT facebook page for more details on the tourney and buy your damn ticket already!
Instead Otis, CJ, and G-Rob the self-proclaimed Frolf champion of the G-Vegas upper east side past McDonald's but not before Barley's Taproom have put together the biggest promotion yet for our still growing community. Yes, poker is a fad and that fad has faded, except that it hasn't, and barring some heavy DOJ action between now and December, let us welcome the second edition of the Up for Poker/Luckbox Challenge!
You and two other degenerates. Yes, degenerates, we don't take kindly to straight laced white-collar folk around here, leave that shit at home to be a good parent or spouse, come to Vegas to punish your liver and laugh with friends without volume/social graces control. PokerStars despite the WCOOP raging on (I'm on for Friday's O8 tourney and working nightly (morningly?) next week, got together a package for us scribes of the four suits that will have me foregoing any prop bets that involve myself staying awake for 48 hours in Vegas. Other prop bets on bar games will be gladly accepted.
$3,000 prize pool for a team of three to enter (by shipping CJ the cash or PokerStars transfer). My team is pretty much set so you will not have the pleasure of me finishing second-to-last unless you a) like the Vikings and can name at least five Vikings quarterbacks not named Favre (my favorite will always be "Touchdown" Tommy Kramer) b) had the pleasure of going to work while its -10 or below for a solid two weeks c) plan on tilting Yankees fans when we win the World Series this year!
Minnesota homer much? Yes. It's who I am, but I still refuse to eat lutefisk or tell an Ole and Sven joke.
$500 Hammer Challenge! Still play Grubby's hammer like it's 2006? Get rewarded! $50 to the first POST-FLOP hammers to take down a pot. This should lead to some interesting first and second blind level post-flop play which will probably get someone Pauly's copy of Gigli. If you find me sober, please be kind and order me a wine (or a Cap'n Coke is always accepted). I play sober poker like Paris Hilton's cocaine stash and legs, open for all to see.
O.G. challenge - there were 14 original players in the WPBT at Sam's Town, some of which arrived like the rock stars they are in a limo. Knock them out, buy them a drink, tell them to peddle their segway ala Tony G outta here, and take their trinket to CJ in exchange for some more cash.
It's 85 days to my birthday when I touchdown in McCarran that Wednesday and hopefully retain lifeforces without ending up in the Nevada desert as another sad sap tale of degeneracy gone wrong.
I don't know who will be there for birthday shots, I don't know where I'll end up doing my usual disappering act, but come noon on December 11th at the very classy Aria poker room, my presence will be with friends who have given me more than they'll ever know. Check out April's WPBT facebook page for more details on the tourney and buy your damn ticket already!
Friday, September 10, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
From Duluth With Love
With five days of zero work responsibilities and just school to worry about, a refreshing trip to the trailer cabin and North Shore were in order. If someone were from out-of-state and had a few days to putter around our flyover state, I would suggest heading straight up north for the North Shore. Rich in history, the edges of Lake Superior not only offer up gorgeous views but antique shopping and a hidden gem for micro-brew lovers.
We weren’t able to head further up north than Duluth but our friends managed a day at Gooseberry Falls with its over 100 foot drop that blows the Minnehaha Falls out of the water with its surrounding forest views.
For the beer drinkers, Fitger’s Brewhouse (and 4-star hotel) is a must. My suggestion is to try a flight of samplers, and request the Hercules if it’s available. You most likely cannot get a growler of the Herc, but the El Nino Double Hopped IPA or Big Boat Oatmeal Stout will tame your tongue once you return from these lumberjack-esque lands.
We’re working our way from the top down so as you enter Duluth with its taconite loading docks for ships heading out onto Lake Superior be sure to bring an appetite and some cash for shopping. Little niche shops of handcrafted items, touristy Nordic wear, and antiques are spread out along Canal Street. My family and I checked out the tour of a perma-docked ship the S.S. William A. Irvin. Our guide with a group of 20 had a little lack of volume control but was an encyclopedia ship knowledge after spending 30 plus years virtually living on ships like this one. He easily guided us through the captain’s quarters, explained how the crew managed to sleep ten feet from the engine room, and how his girlfriend saved his job as a porter from a fire-happy Chef (she’s the daughter of the ship’s owner). For just $11.50 a piece (kids free!) we got to see an IMAX movie (Dinosaurs, was decent for its archeological perspective) and go on this guided boat tour.
After checking out the pier with huge freighter full of taconite pellets going out, it was time for Grandma’s and its famous cheap pitchers of booze. Back in the day when my legs cooperated and a young volleyball player was able to jump high enough to hit the tip of the end poles, we would meander over to Grandma’s at the end of Minnesota’s biggest volleyball tournament and enjoy $3 pitchers of Kami’s and Long Island Iced Teas. Today they cost $5, still a bargain as they have added live bands and better food to the mix while their staple Bonottas still rule the menu.
After the long day it was time to head back to the Cities for life back on the grid as I started to take in the poker news I’ve been missing like Durrrr vs. jungleman12’s (check here for the scoop from Dr. Pauly's post at Full Tilt’s Poker From the Rail blog) new staple of degeneracy as another Durrrr challenge takes off as Dwan’s first challenge against Antonius winds down (finally).
And of course, yours truly was taking in the news from the WCOOP, which I’ll be on the PokerStarsBlog.com team for my third year of coverage. First assignment is tomorrow afternoon’s Event #13 PLO8 6-Max One Rebuy, One Add-on with a $200,000 guarantee. And that will dribble into Friday’s Event #16 Pot Limit Omaha 6-Max. Hmmmm, it seems I have the degen tourneys maybe I should have snagged a couple more of Fitger’s growlers to bring home.
We weren’t able to head further up north than Duluth but our friends managed a day at Gooseberry Falls with its over 100 foot drop that blows the Minnehaha Falls out of the water with its surrounding forest views.
Image from Nikilynn.net
For the beer drinkers, Fitger’s Brewhouse (and 4-star hotel) is a must. My suggestion is to try a flight of samplers, and request the Hercules if it’s available. You most likely cannot get a growler of the Herc, but the El Nino Double Hopped IPA or Big Boat Oatmeal Stout will tame your tongue once you return from these lumberjack-esque lands.
We’re working our way from the top down so as you enter Duluth with its taconite loading docks for ships heading out onto Lake Superior be sure to bring an appetite and some cash for shopping. Little niche shops of handcrafted items, touristy Nordic wear, and antiques are spread out along Canal Street. My family and I checked out the tour of a perma-docked ship the S.S. William A. Irvin. Our guide with a group of 20 had a little lack of volume control but was an encyclopedia ship knowledge after spending 30 plus years virtually living on ships like this one. He easily guided us through the captain’s quarters, explained how the crew managed to sleep ten feet from the engine room, and how his girlfriend saved his job as a porter from a fire-happy Chef (she’s the daughter of the ship’s owner). For just $11.50 a piece (kids free!) we got to see an IMAX movie (Dinosaurs, was decent for its archeological perspective) and go on this guided boat tour.
After checking out the pier with huge freighter full of taconite pellets going out, it was time for Grandma’s and its famous cheap pitchers of booze. Back in the day when my legs cooperated and a young volleyball player was able to jump high enough to hit the tip of the end poles, we would meander over to Grandma’s at the end of Minnesota’s biggest volleyball tournament and enjoy $3 pitchers of Kami’s and Long Island Iced Teas. Today they cost $5, still a bargain as they have added live bands and better food to the mix while their staple Bonottas still rule the menu.
After the long day it was time to head back to the Cities for life back on the grid as I started to take in the poker news I’ve been missing like Durrrr vs. jungleman12’s (check here for the scoop from Dr. Pauly's post at Full Tilt’s Poker From the Rail blog) new staple of degeneracy as another Durrrr challenge takes off as Dwan’s first challenge against Antonius winds down (finally).
And of course, yours truly was taking in the news from the WCOOP, which I’ll be on the PokerStarsBlog.com team for my third year of coverage. First assignment is tomorrow afternoon’s Event #13 PLO8 6-Max One Rebuy, One Add-on with a $200,000 guarantee. And that will dribble into Friday’s Event #16 Pot Limit Omaha 6-Max. Hmmmm, it seems I have the degen tourneys maybe I should have snagged a couple more of Fitger’s growlers to bring home.
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