Busted!

Well, I lasted about an hour when QQ vs KK took my last 2500. Busted nut flush draw, standard plays, and a terribly overplayed 33 sent me to the rail. I didn't win a single post flop hand. The quick failure really eases the pain of going busto.

So now I'm going to take down dos litros de Imperial cerveza and, once Master P wakes up, we're off to enjoy Costa Rica. Tales of the welcoming party last night will come after my return...along with tales of the country.

If I meet one more kid making $10k a day, I might very well punch him in the neck.

The roulette tables are calling my name and I got a pocket full of colenes burning a hole in mis pantalones cortas.

La temperatura es muy caliente y no hay muchas personas que hablan espanol.

Good Luck and Good Night....

Or is it the other way around?

Fuck it.

I'm outtie. My plane to Costa Rica should be airborne before any of you wake up @ 7:30 am central standard time. I just had a hell of a day finishing up a terribly busy day at work, getting Kid-A shot full of inoculations and dropping her off at the kennel before I started packing all my shit.

Nearly $200 later, I'm pretty sure that my cat would stand a better chance of surviving Costa Rica than I do. Those vets are dirty, no good crooks. I personally decided against getting any foreign country inoculations. If I do get malaria or hep, I'll be back in the states by the time the symptoms start to show...and that is the kind of sound logic that's going to help me go deep in this tournament.

Anyway, poker play begins at noon on Thursday. I am ready to spar with the likes of Daniel Negraneau and Huberto Brenes.

Tournament updates will be provided here:

If you don't see me on the scoreboard when they give chip counts leading into day 2, I have busted out of the tournament and am drunk.

OK, off to Master-P's and tomorrow, sand, open bar, and swag.

I will be at Hotel Ramada Plaza Herradura, (506) 2-209-9800...at least that's where I'll be until I bust.

Suit to Suit Combat


"Do I want to be feared or loved? Both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me."

- Michael Gary Scott

Last week, I finished my one-year contract with the Underpants Project. I am now a minority owner of a small software company with excellent potential and a horrible balance sheet. They can’t afford to pay me a reasonable salary, so I’ll be working there part time, and am now free to pursue full time employment elsewhere.

So I spent some time updating my resume, drafting some cover letters, taking advantage of Prima’s top notch editing skills and insatiable red pen, and looked for jobs on Craigslist. I decided that when I was really, truly serious, I would venture over to Monster, but Craigslist jobs seemed more my style. This one caught my eye:

The job basically consists of weighing vehicles for the DMV. You will not be working directly for the DMV though [sic]. You [sic] are at a booth, you wait for customers to come wanting to get a weight certificate for their vehicle registration, then you place some portable scales in front of their tires, you take the weight, and give them their certificate. That simple [sic]. On average there are maybe 3 to 5 customers a day so the rest of the time you are free to read, write, or study whatever you'd like. As of right now, you would only be needed the following dates to cover somebody else's shift:

I responded, and noted that I had worked a similar job in the past, and thrived in virtual isolation. I was hired. Unfortunately, this was not a full time gig, so I was forced to accept the job and continue looking. Three other jobs caught my eye, such as building a quality assurance team at a small software startup three miles down the street in Santa Monica, a business writing oriented job with (what sounded like) an interesting corporate culture, and then there was a job as “product manager” which was a “gateway to executive management.” I submitted my resume, but didn’t hear back from anyone for a week until Ham1d responded regarding the product manager job. We set up an interview for last Friday.

I studied, and reviewed all the common interview questions I could find on the Internets, got together some good work anecdotes, thought up some weaknesses that could be spun into positives “My lats are really underdeveloped, but that’s only in comparison to my massive triceps”, and some good strengths “I invented the Hello Kitty sweep in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Yeah, that was me.” I dry-cleaned my one and only suit. I dumped some adrenaline off on the step treadmill at Bally’s early on Friday before the interview. I had a couple of pops of gin and grapefruit juice, and washed it down with scope. I drove, sans air conditioning, into the valley on the hottest day of the year picking up some unavoidable pit stains along the way. TNT happened to call with the windows down, sweat pooling all over my corporate blue shirt:

“You are very personable, and shouldn’t have any problems but don’t get nervous. When you get nervous your voice starts to shake, and that will NOT look good, particularly for this position.”

“Thanks,” I responded, “this is exactly the sort of advice I need walking into an interview, sweating balls due to the heat, and coming off a few years of battling anxiety.”

Ham1d had me waiting ten minutes while I drank some water served up by an effeminate African American fellow who thankfully told me that my jacket collar was turned up, and popping the collar might play on an Ivy League campus three years ago, but this is Los Angeles where you probably don’t want to call attention to your cheap Men’s Where house suit, and scuffed shoes. And your hair looks like you haven’t touched it since drying it off after your shower and good God man, why are you sweating so much?


When Ham1d finally sat down opposite me, I felt a sense of calm. A sense that was immediately broken by his rapid-fire questions, to which he gave me virtually no feedback. He asked me a question, I responded, and he sometimes interrupted me to ask me another question, or to argue my response. I fell back on some software truisms, the kind of things that people in the industry say to each other to communicate our depth of knowledge in the field. He stared at my resume steely-eyed and continued to fire away. At one point, things got a little contentious. He questioned my prior company’s use of dedicated user interface designers. I explained our process to him twice. I felt my voice quiver with uncertainty, so I knuckled down and backed our process before he finally agreed that as a B(usiness) to C(onsumer) software company, maybe it made sense for us to work like that.

I felt like I was answering the questions with an appropriate combination of experience, knowledge, and passion. I described my philosophy for firing people. I described my love for Los Angeles, and my intention to stay here forever and ever, Amen. He asked me where I saw myself in five years and I responded, “the CTO of a small to medium size software company, with growth potential.” “How could you be respected as a CTO with no in depth technical knowledge?” I described my old boss, who had little technical knowledge, but was a very effective leader. “Why not the CEO,” he asked, and for the second time in the interview I was caught off guard, and actually thought about my response. “I would love to be the CEO,” I said, “but I lack sales experience, and I believe that to be an effective CEO, it requires the ability to sell an idea to others. I do think I could be successful in a sales position, I just have never put in such a position.”

After about an hour of back and forth, in what felt more like a sparring session than an interview, he gave me some positive feedback.

“Well, obviously, you are a smart guy, you have good experience, you’re young, and you communicate well. This company is my baby. I started it eight years ago, and didn’t take a salary for the first two and a half years. I had a house that I was forced to rent out, and I moved into a one-bedroom apartment to keep the business afloat. I’m looking for someone that will not only do the job well, but will take care of this company, and take ownership of this business. I would love to be kicked out of here someday by someone like you.”

He told me more about his company – they only have seven full time employees, they have been growing 25% year over year, and he is not interested in rapid expansion. He mentioned several times that his company is “solid.” They have government clients, and are not subject to the whims of the NASDAQ.

Then, he told me that we will both sleep on it, spend the weekend thinking about the interview, and he’d give me a call next week. I think it went well. My responsibilities would be well within my area of expertise, for the most part, but Ham1d’s poker face was difficult to read. Oh well, if not, there’s always this.(If you get offended by things on the Internet, do not follow this link)

"My Body is my Own
at least I have always so regarded it. If I do harm ... it is I who suffers, not the state." --Mark Twain

On the drive home after work today I was trying to figure out the stereo equalizer in my new car. I glanced up and saw an orange sign in the distance and people lingering around in the road--a 25 mph road--where we see some of the most gruesome car crashes that occur anywhere in this fine state.

I immediately realized that this setup was organized by the Illinois Seatbelt Sting Squad. I quickly fastened my belt before I was in view of the officer standing in the middle of the road up ahead. Little good that did. Apparently the assholes were using SPOTTERS with binoculars and walkie talkies or some shit now. Officer BitchFace was waiting to step in front of my vehicle and direct me to the side street where I would be issued my ticket. Aren't there underage kids smoking outside of a mall somewhere?

Apparently not, because my nanny just have me my sixth seatbelt violation ticket and another $55 slap on the wrist.

6

Seriously, what the hell? I haven't gotten a ticket for speeding or any other moving violation for almost eight years. Eight years and I still get ticketed for this shit.


Fucking Illinois Nazi's. God help me if I hadn't immediately registered & paid for my new car.











I've thrown some quality quotes about bullshit laws onto the end of this post. I should really memorize a couple of them so that I can have some smart ass lines ready for the next time. Today I chose to remain silent. I was tempted to give my best snotty expression and say, "My father is a lawyer," matter-of-factly as I accepted the ticket and drove away. I refrained.

That would have probably pissed him off more than any of these quotes.

"Rightful liberty is unobstructed action according to our will within limits drawn around us by the equal rights of others. I do not add 'within the limits of the law', because law is often but the tyrant's will, and always so when it violates the rights of the individual." --Thomas Jefferson

"Every actual state is corrupt. Good men must not obey laws too well." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Laws do not persuade just because they threaten." --Lucius Annaeus Seneca

"The more corrupt the Republic, the more the laws." -- Giovanni Sartori

"The more laws and order are made prominent, the more thieves and robbers there will be." -- Lao Tzu

"Useless laws weaken the necessary laws." --Charles Louis de Secondat, Baron De Montesquieu

If a Tree Falls in the Suburbs...

and the houses are 150 yards away from each other, does anyone hear it?













It turns out that there is an answer for this one. T-Ken was working in my parents' basement office when it dropped, I was away at my own office.

He texted me in a panic:

T-Ken: OMFG
ME: ?
T-KenL: Huge azz tree just drpd on your lake!!!!1
ME: Huh?
T-Ken: It was so loud!@!!
T-Ken: I frst think teh bin ladens had hit us again11!
ME: Whtevs...

Now the problem is that suburbanites in our neighborhood will be complaining to the subdivision board within hours about the "unsightly problem" over at 20576.














But that really doesn't matter. There's no way in hell that I'm going to rent a chain saw and break a sweat over this. I can't even fit my arms around the main branch that splits off from the trunk. The thing is fucking huge. Since the parents are in Florida, there's a good chance that this will be here for a couple weeks.














If more than one neighbor stops by our house and politely asks me to remove the eyesore, I'm going to affix a hammock to the fallen branch and lounge around the tree all weekend with a big cooler full of beer, a loud stereo, and every 80's CD compilation that I can find at Best Buy.

Maybe I'll even haul my weight lifting bench onto the yard and do sets in between naps.

...fucking suburban assholes.

Really, though, it looks kind of cool. If hammocks turn out to be too expensive, I may just fell a few more trees around the lake. It would totally start looking like Yoda's swamp.

Totally.

(click images for larger version)
(I haven't heard any complaints yet)

My New Car is Sexy, Kind of Smells Like Wet Dog

As many of you may already know, I have finally rid myself of what should be the last minivan that I ever own.

"Not fucking likely," you say?

You may be right. After all, the old man's new Chrysler Town & Country has a furious beast of an engine, satellite radio, a sun roof, leather seats, and a sleek, jet-black coat of paint. It's a beautiful ride, and when the sun hits it right and the clouds are reflected in the windows, it almost looks like a futuristic speed-zeppelin floating in from Back to the Future II. But I didn't come here to talk about the old man's love affair with large vehicles with loose suspension and his tendency to dump them off on me, oh no. I've come here to talk about my sexy new Honda.

But first, let's take an epic trip back through time and pay tribute to the life and death of my former vehicles. Excuse me while I wax nostalgic.









"Lucy the Lemon" - Ford Taurus - 19xx

Lucy the Lemon was so named because in the three months after purchasing it, the old man put well over $3,000 into it to keep it operating. I believe the parents probably bought it for Mezzo in the summer before I turned 16 with the expectation that once summer was over, Mezz0 would be back at school in Minnesota and I would begin learning how to drive. What they didn't plan on was grounding me for almost the entirety of my 16th year of life. Since I was forbidden to go anywhere, I had no desire to learn how to drive and felt that making my mother escort me to hockey practice/games for two different teams almost every day of the week was a sufficient retaliation against their harsh punishments. I ended up getting my license the following summer. Lucy was a faithful companion for most of the school year, up until I crashed it into a fire hydrant in my own neighborhood on the way to the year-end hockey banquet. I took my eyes off the road to pick up a spilled softpack of cigarettes down by my feet (a groundable offense) and things went kind of shitty. The hydrant destroyed the front end of the car and ended up lodged under the front axle. Despite the hydrant being dislodged, absolutely no water came rushing out from the underground pipes. All of this taught me a valuable lesson about the inability of vehicles to turn while braking in the rain, the inaccuracy of Hollywood action movies, and the poor structural quality of soft packs. Lucy was sent off to a salvage yard. I managed to remove all smoking paraphernalia except one cigarette. Somehow, I escaped punishment.














"The Convertible" aka "The Old Person Car" - Oldsmobile 98 - 1990

Now this was a beautiful, powerful, luxurious machine. Power windows, power locks, power seats, electronic thermometer, electronic trip meter, faux leather seats, a huge fucking engine, and terrible speakers. It also had a maroon fabric top on the exterior. It was the kind of fabric top that Cadillac and Oldsmobile used to make exclusively for their committed elderly drivers. Mezz0 and I had a longstanding joke in which we would comment any time we saw an old man drive by in one of these rides, "Check out that sweet convertible!" As one might expect, I received this car after my elderly uncle died. It carried his unique musk up until the last day I drove it. I still smile when I think back and picture myself cruising around the suburbs wearing an old-person hat, windows down, blasting Beethoven's 9th Symphony with crackling speakers. Goldschlager tucked under the passenger seat, Sherlock Holmes pipe stuffed in the passenger seat pocket…pulling up to a stop light and watching soccer moms roll up their windows ("Fucking kids with their fucking music!"). Once, while driving stoned in a mild snow storm, I ran over a mailbox and a recycling bin in our neighborhood. The bin got stock to the underside of the engine so I tried steering wildly back and forth on my way home, hoping that it would break free. It did not, but, luckily, little damage was done to the car...from then on it did, however, always smell like burning plastic after driving it for a couple of miles. I loved that ride more than I can describe with words and it was a blast to drive. Tragically, before leaving to go to school in Minnesota something happened to the power steering. My parents, for no fucking reason at all, decided not to have it fixed or even to have it looked at. I was heartbroken and still blame this incident for my poor grades and forcible withdrawal from school following my first semester at college.







"The Lizard King" aka "LZDKNG 6" - Plymouth Voyager - 1994

After getting booted from college I had to move back home and save up for a new ride before I could move back out. I ended up buying the old man's van. It leaked a ton of oil. It had a slow leak in a rear wheel. It was green. The rear bench seat inside was removed for a more industrial appearance. It had upgraded Sony Xplode Speakers. It had a 10 disc CD changer. Remarkably, the only body damage it had were scratches on the hood from my drunken attempt to see just how much force it would take to open a locked gate leading into a park. Most of the time there were 10-20 discarded cans of PBR and Sparks littering the back amid empty packs of Camel Lights. I drove it to Vermont. I drove it to Washington state (with only one rear shock absorber on the return trip, which included hilly Rocky Mountain roads). I drove it to Indiana. I drove it to about 18 Phish shows and a handful of music festivals. I spent countless nights sleeping in the back. When I ran out of marijuana, I could usually just do a little digging and find a bud laying around somewhere. I drove it from 130,000 to over 210,000 miles over about six years and the Lizard King lived up Jim Morrison's line, "I am the Lizard King, I can do anything." The only repair work that I ever had done to it was a new transmission at 140,000 miles and I had to have a new rear window installed when the original one shattered. I learned to change brakes and rotors. I replaced the broken shock absorber. I probably spent over $4,000 to maintain a proper level of engine oil. It never failed me once. By the time I gave it to a Children's Charity the transmission was slipping and the rear tire was flat and frozen to the ground. If any vehicle belongs in the Hall of Fame for dependability, though, it was this beautiful green monster.











"Nameless" - Chrysler Town & Country - 2000

I hated this van & was resentful that the old man caught me when I was unemployed, broke, and the Lizard King was on its last legs. This vehicle lacked any personality and I refused to name it. I used it as a delivery vehicle in Minneapolis and have about 6 outstanding parking tickets that I will never pay. It only got 17.6 miles per gallon, the shocks were fucked up, a tire leaked, and a soccer mom hit me once while I was making a delivery (pulling a U-turn from a curbside parking space across 5 lanes of downtown rush hour traffic, passing a stopped bus in the buses/taxis only lane, and getting smacked in the side by a soccer mom making a blind left turn in front of the bus--a beautifully executed move by me if it weren't for the soccer mom--and I had to listen to a crazed worker run across the street after seeing this fantastic maneuver and offer herself as a witness--accusing ME of driving like a maniac) Some fish liquid/oil leaked out during another delivery and two years later is still smelled like rotten fish on warm days. When the transmission started leaking about a month ago I was one happy motherfucker & sold it to a friendly Mexican for $1,000. God, I am happy to be done with that fucking thing.













"The Titanium Donkey" aka "The Donkey" aka "The Donk" aka "Hi Ho Silver" aka "The Silver Stallion" aka "The Stallion" aka "The Wet Dog" aka "Dexie"- Honda Civic - 2000

In trying times such as these, it's an important thing to find a fuel efficient vehicle with a shitload of sex appeal. This, my friends, has a whole lot of both. 28 mpg city. 34 mpg highway. Sleek, sexy and banged up enough to give it a little personality. It has a sunroof, an aftermarket stereo system, a year old transmission, new brakes, new tires, new exhaust, power windows, and a smell that's difficult to put your finger on. 88,000 miles at a cost of $5500. I had to spend almost my entire poker bankroll to buy it, which is why I'm working around a donkey/horse theme for the name. If it ends up having a lot of problems I'll probably change its name to "The Flop".

I've got a few upgrades on the way. Nag Champa incense to try to permanently alter the smell by smoking out the interior. Dual 130 decibel electric disc horns to replace the worthless, dinky stock horn. A replacement keyless entry remote. Plus I'm planning on doing a little body work to remove the rusty part of the driver-side dent. Yesterday I took a plunger to the large dent and managed to pull out a surprisingly large section of the damage, it's a little warped, but it looks better than it does on this picture…I'll have to sand down the rusty outcropping part, get some rust inhibitor, and repaint it...but that shouldn't be too much trouble. And get this, the name of the car's color….Titanium Metallic. Dead. Fucking. Sexy.













After that, all I'll need is a modest spoiler and I'll be good to go. Anyone have any input for the name here?

** Update **
The horns and keyless entry remote arrived today. I managed to program the remote on my first attempt and saved $60-$70 from what a dealer would have charged.

After removing the front bumper, doing a little rewiring, and installing the new horns, I was surprised to find that I had managed to get those working on my first attempt as well...plus the bumper went back on without any difficulty.

Usually when I do this kind of shit it involves terrible frustration and eventual failure and humiliation.

I went to a pilates class at the Y the other day.. I'm not sure who came up with the word pilates, but probably nobody turned up when they just called it torture. some irritatingly perky 20-something self-described "dancer" and "instructor" named Whitney directed us to do increasingly painful things with our bodies, using our own body weight to inflict pain on ourselves. Whitney could afford to be pretty happy about all this because a) she was the only one of us getting paid to be there, and b) she wasn't actually doing any of the exercises. it was painfully obvious that she knew exactly who had the better end of this deal. there was no music, no conversation, no sense of accomplishment, just a collective relieved grunt at the end of each set.. which she frequently delayed by saying things like, "why are you stopping? did I say 10? heehee! oh, I meant 20!" I was there with my two teenage nieces and sometimes I like to think of myself as a role model for others, so I restrained myself from tripping Whitney so I could hold her down and whisper in her ear, "get down here and do this set, bitch, and then say that."

A Hallmark Moment

Over dinner the other day, a woman I know started talking about the experience of childbirth. "All I know," she said, "is that nobody prepared me for the fact that the next day I felt like that baby had come out of my ass."

Happy Mother's Day.

I spent last night with four co-workers, celebrating Miss CD's 26th birthday.. perhaps the best way to put it is that what I can remember is extremely memorable...

at one point, the five of us girls are dancing, having drunk several pitchers of sangria and two rounds of shots, including one of redheaded sluts, which I do recommend, though not as highly as the buttery nipple. men coming into our dancing circle, and Miss CD amusing herself by grabbing the arm of one of the men and one of the women and forcing them together in the middle... and even better if she could arrange to put the hand of one of the women in the genital region of one of the men, with an innocent "who can stay mad at the Drunk Birthday Girl?" kind of a smile... this leads to several misunderstandings.. and for a tall, skinny white girl, she sure has a tendency to "back that thing up" into random bystanders.

at one point, Miss CD actually falls down on the dance floor, lying there comfortably for a moment before allowing me to help her up. by this time, we've attracted a good number of men watching us for entertainment.. one tells me, "your friend is going to pass out any minute now." "oh no," I assure him. "she has great endurance."

later, walking drunkenly down the street at 1:30am, two of us endeavoring to keep Miss CD in a mostly-upright, forward-moving position... she stops two men leaning against a building, smoking a cigarette.. "cigarettes cause cancer!" she tells them, shoving one in the chest none too gently. "thanks for the public service announcement!" his friend jovially calls after us.

I am wearing an eye-catching long white jacket, in contrast to the more traditional style for women of not wearing any jacket to go out at night no matter how cold it is, and at one point a middle-aged African-American man walking past us in the street holds up his hand looking absolutely thrilled to see me, saying, "let's have a high-five for the motherfuckin white jacket!!" I comply.

at another point, we stagger past a club with a lot of people standing outside, and Miss CD inadvertently steps on a very large African-American man with her high-heeled shoe. he starts muttering, "what the fuck is up with that, stepping all over me and shit?" Miss CD turns around, earnestly grasps his forearm, looks him in the eye and says, "look, I'm sorry, ok? I really didn't mean to do it." "yeah," I pipe up, "she is just totally wasted and no longer has much control over her body, that's all!" he nods sullenly as we turn and step all over an even more annoyed petite African-American woman. I breathe a sigh of relief once we finally make it through the crowd. I'd begun to imagine the story I would have to tell my grandkids, "... and that's the time that my friend Miss CD started a race riot downtown."

a group of men stops us, the alpha guy looking like Barney from that How I Met Your Mother show. he begins, "I have a question, for five hot chicks such as yourselves." at that moment, Miss CD whirls around, clutches his sport jacket and begins choking and gasping for air. she seems to desperately be trying to cough up a hairball or vomit.. we thump her on the back to no avail. this goes on for at least a minute before she releases him and staggers away unsteadily. he clears his throat. "okay, I have a question for you four hot chicks," we hear him say behind us. we're already off, keeping Miss CD from inadvertently giving her id away to a homeless person as she flashes it proudly, declaring, "look! look! I am of age!!"

Fail



Ok. La Pesto and Youngest have failed my challenge, so it looks like I am taking over this blog singlehandedly. I'm claiming this territory like the real Johnny Appleseed.

"What's that?" I can hear you asking, "The real Johnny Appleseed? Who is that?"

The real Johnny Appleseed was a man who roamed the countryside ostensibly "improving upon" land by ejaculating apple seeds wherever he could find arable land. He used this ruse to demonstrate that he "improved upon" land, and thus could claim ownership to land that was originally allocated to revolutionary war veterans. Yes, John Chapman, a.k.a. "Johnny Appleseed" was a land grabbing robber baron. By the time of his death, this cigar-chomping, monocle-wearing, thieving man had more paper wealth than Rockefeller.



This man that we celebrate should be denounced stronger than an African American preacher who believes the CIA created the AIDS virus in an underground laboratory in the early 1980's.

OK, I'm outey, as the kids used to say when I was a kid, taking off on the Dirty Whore for a little while now that my year is up with the Underpants Project.

Challenge

I challenge The Youngest and La Pasta Primavera to a 300 word post a day for a week. It's cleansing, not unlike a juice fast on the long Good Friday weekend.

- Posts have to be 150words or less
- Posts have to be daily for one week
- Posts have to draw from the vast oceanic expanse. It's out there like an eternal spring waiting to be tapped. You can't deplete the infinite, no matter how hard you try.