Twelve Inches

And it's still coming down. I've been watching the crawl on the local NBC here, because in lieu of school closings on a Saturday, you get to find out what else in the world ain't runnin' when it gets a little snowy...

Burnips Wesleyan Church Youth fundraiser supper cancelled I just like saying "Burnips"

Fenn Valley Vineyards Chili cook-off cancelled
Salem Township Library No soup or muffin luncheon
Boy Scouts Klondike Derby cancelled Isn't a wintry day just about the right day for a Chili cook-off, soup and muffins, and the fucking Klondike Derby?

Knights of Columbus Free throw contest cancelled Shit, and I had money on this too.

Korean Martial Arts CLOSED All of them? If you're going to pick a day to kick a Korean guy's ass, today's your day. He's defenseless.

DeWitt Public Schools Jr High Musical rescheduled for Sunday at 2pm Yeah, that's a good move. Instead of watching the Eagles/Falcons, I'll be watching my kid doing the box step and singing "I believe the children are our future." I think I just came down with the flu.

West Berlin Wesleyan Church Sleigh ride postponed until next Saturday Because, god forbid we hold a sleigh ride in the snow.

Lowell Moose Lodge Bingo cancelled So the elderly of Lowell will instead eat cat food and watch "Matlock" alone at home tonight, instead of doing the one thing that might bring them joy. Well done Lowell Moose.

Wesley Park Church RACK meeting cancelled So I guess you'll have to bear with me all week next week, seeing as I can't go to Wesley Park and get "How much do I love big tits?" out of my system in my weekly RACK meeting.

Beacon of Hope No food distribution today Irony fully unintentional.

I’m My Own Red Headed Step Child

It really is not my week.

I exaggerated the facial psoriasis thing just a little bit, but not by much. I was red and blotchy, and I am showing the signs of peeling just a little tiny bit, but I don’t really look anything but just a little bit dry at this point. Of course, I know better. This is how it begins.

So I have been aggressively treating it, using the topicals that my doctor had prescribed for the other patches of psoriasis I have, and have added twice-daily head-to-toe moisturizing to my routine, as per my doctor.

Here’s me, Tuesday afternoon in the grocery store, perusing the moisturizer section and feeling like I’m losing just a little bit more masculinity with each passing moment. Whatever, I just don’t want to end up feeling like I look as presentable as John Merrick if I let this get out of control. The peeling is bad enough, if I were to let it go beyond the dryness, it moves from there to “festering lesion” status, unless the dry skin coalesces into a rigid and nearly unpickable scab.

It’s really enough to know that it’s there, and that there’s a possibility that somewhere down the line, despite my best attempts to treat it before it gets bad, that it’ll crop up and decimate my face over a short period of time before I get it back under control.

I really don’t deserve this.

Let me ask you a question, which will segue into my next couple of paragraphs of whining lamentations… Let’s say you’re playing Limit Hold ‘Em online, and you’re dumb enough to cap it pre-flop against a guy from the SB who was the first one to raise the pot, and re-raised your attempt to drive him out. And you’re holding a King and a Ten that don’t match.

The flop brings a Queen, a Ten, and a Four. The guy from the SB leads out, you raise, he re-raises.

Isn’t it about time to lay the hand down?

What about when an Ace hits on the turn. I know you’ve got a straight draw now, and with no flush possibilities you might maybe have the odds for that. But don’t you figure the aggressive SB guy, who hasn’t played a pot in almost 30 minutes at your table sitting right next to you, for something that has to have you beat at this point?

Why are you calling me down with King Ten off?

So I didn’t have you beat. I was on a stone bluff, and you can save me the “you can’t bluff the players at these low limits” comments below. I know. Believe me, I know. His call on fourth street with that Ace when I led out told me he was weak, and probably on a draw. When that blank hit the river I figured he wouldn’t call me again.

No, not the guy who was basically flashing neon billboard size warning letters above his head that read I have a huge premium hand and your third pair is no good here. Not the guy who was regularly folding his BB to two-bets because he didn’t see a goddamn hand worth playing in two hours at the tables last night. Don’t you have to figure that if someone is re-raising your middle pair, and then gleefully leading the charge with that Ace on fourth street, that your goddamn motherfucking third pair is no good?

Embarrassingly enough, I showed down a Six Five of diamonds. No pair. Not even a diamond draw.

This was my last hand in the two hours I sat $1/$2 last night, finishing the session down 8BB. I dropped five of those big bets on that one hand alone, so basically I was just treading water for two hours and getting blinded down.

I’m really at a breaking point with poker online. Well, no I’m not. I’ll be back on, probably tonight, but for the purposes of my venting you’ll have to drink the Kool-Aid here for a second. About three weeks ago I found myself doing relatively stupid things on the 25NL tables because I have no patience. For every solid/monster session I had, there’d be another time where I’d chase TPTK all-in against a guy who was obviously advertising something better.

So I had to back it down a little bit.

I figured I would move back to Limit. I like Limit, actually. $2/$4 especially. It’s just “expensive” enough to allow for a big pot every now and again. But I really am getting frustrated with the cold cards I’ve seen playing Limit across my last four sessions.

Last night I had Abdul’s openers in front of me, and committed myself to “playing properly.” It’s great, in theory, if you can get hands dealt to you that require a peek at the list to see if they’re appropriate to play in whatever spot you’re in. I think across two hours I played two hands, the bluff one included, that required me to make any sort of decision whether or not to see the turn. I did flop a full house with AT once, properly waited until the turn to make a bet, and got the four who chased into the flop with me to fold. I’m not counting that one. That’s a no-brainer.

These are the types of sessions I’ve been having lately. Last Friday I had a two hour BBJ session that ended +$40, and on Saturday my first session of the day was one of those three hour rides on the variance roller coaster where I only ended down about $8 after all was said and done. Since then? Four sessions of at least two hours each, and a long procession of missed flops and cold cards.

I don’t know which of the following scenarios get me more frustrated…

Feeling like I’m folding for three hours straight

Missing every flop with every marginally good hand I’m dealt

Showing down a ton of second best hands and losing big

Watching someone across the table constantly in the mix getting premium cards

Helplessly watching from the sidelines while a fish plays any two cards into three re-buys in twenty minutes while I get nothing playable and everyone else makes a killing.

Let me break this down so that everyone can understand.

Feeling like I’m folding for three hours straight is like going to a bar full of attractive women, all of whom are presumably single, but none of whom seem willing to so much as make eye contact with you.

Missing every flop with every marginally good hand I’m dealt is like going to that same bar and landing what seems to be a prime seat – the one right next to the place where everyone walks up to get their drinks. You try a few lines, get a few polite smiles, some quick blow-offs, and aren’t able to strike up a decent conversation all night long.

Showing down a ton of second best hands and losing big is when your pride gets wounded. Say you manage to actually talk to a beautiful and interesting woman for a few minutes. A few minutes turns into a half an hour. Then she finally cuts to the chase when your quiet and brooding Luke Perry-esque wingman hits the head and she asks what his “situation” is.

Watching someone across the table constantly in the mix getting premium cards is like going to the bar with that friend of yours who wears the shiny shirt and knows exactly how intentionally mussed his hair is supposed to be. You make more money than he does, you drive a nicer car, you’re even a nicer guy than he is – but he’s the one going home with the stewardess, and you’re the one left picking up the tab.

Helplessly watching from the sidelines while a fish plays any two cards into three re-buys in twenty minutes while I get nothing playable and everyone else makes a killing happens when the bachelorette party of drunk aerobics instructors comes in to the bar, takes every guy within shouting distance on to the dance floor with them, and you’re stuck playing wingman for your buddy with some self-absorbed woman who can’t stop talking about her cats.

So that really doesn’t help me answer my own question. Which of those scenarios gives me the most frustration? Well, it’s not showing down second bests, because at least I’m gambling. To quote myself, “I didn’t come here not to play cards.” It’s also not when I see someone else getting “all the good hands.” He’ll get his eventually, and hopefully I’ll be around to sop up the mess.

It’s the inactivity that kills me. But while I might be bored to tears folding on a super-tight table that hasn’t so much as seen a three handed pot to the turn in forty minutes, I get far more frustrated being a spectator to a free money bonanza at that same table. Just once I want to be that guy who flops the nuts on the first hand in the SNG and gets three people who think they’re superstars pushing all-in (and, just to add, I’d like that hand to hold up) against me. I want to be that guy who manages to push a few premium hands on a ring game into one of those dizzying rushes, busting some jackalope with his mom’s credit card into next Tuesday along the way. I want to be the reason someone is rebuying. Again.

It’s been so damn long… At least it feels that way.

I’ve been more than a little grumpy this past week or so. I don’t know what my problem is. I am on week three of a new cholesterol medication that hopefully won’t tweak my “trick liver*” the way the other one did. I think there’s a sincere possibility I’ve got some side effects brewing. No, I’m not growing man-boobs, and my erections aren’t persisting for six hours or more requiring immediate medical attention.

I’m just really, really tired lately.

*By “trick liver,” I’m not insinuating that it can stomp its hoof to answer the “how many carrots am I holding up” question, nor does it jump a motorcycle off a ramp and over sharks. It’s actually more complicated than that, and something the Doc** is watching for me.

**By “the Doc,” I’m not referring to Pauly. God knows there are 249 million people in this country I’d ask for medical advice before Pauly, but less than a dozen I’d lean on as an amateur pharmacist before him.

By “really, really tired,” I mean that there hasn’t been a ten minute period in about a week where I couldn’t have just put my head down and slept soundly for three hours. I’m getting enough sleep too. I’m actually getting plenty of sleep. Save Friday night’s 2AM poker marathon, I haven’t been up “late” in over a week, and on most nights have been in bed before 10 and asleep well before 11.

I’m not sure, however, if I’d trade the “epically tired” feeling for persistent six hour erections. I think that’d have to be filed under the header of “water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”

By the way CJ? Just so I don’t forget to put this up today, my favorite search term that found me this afternoon was “what to expect in aging shih tzu.”

To which I answer, “If you’re going to age your shih tzu, the key ingredient is time.”

Har. Har. Har.

There are a couple things I wanted to talk about, both of which I’ve just been dancing around these past couple of days. On one topic I’ve put the metaphorical pen-to-page no less than three times this week, only to scrap the text a few paragraphs in because in my general grumpy malaise I’m coming off sounding like a conceited dickweed.

And there’s really no need for that.

The other topic I’m having a difficult time putting into words. Sure, I can give you eleventy jillion words a day whining about some guy correctly calling me down with third pair, or why MS Word will spell check “eleventy” but not “jillion,” but when it comes to everything else lately, I’m stuck.

So let’s get unstuck, shall we?

I’m 100% sure where my heart is and where my heart isn’t at this point, by which I mean to say that I’m “over” my ex-wife.

Not that this is news. It’s been a long time now that I’ve felt this way, but this is what we storytellers like to call exposition. Now, regardless as to the timeline as to when this “over” took place, it took me a fuck of a lot longer to feel remotely friendly towards her at all. Actually, let me quote something from a few months back that “tipped the scales” for me and helped me understand that it was actually okay to harbor the grudge and still be friendly at the same time:

And I’m shaking my head at six in the morning that even in dreams I am left alone again. That what was unique and special and intense didn’t seem to matter.

But it does matter. And that’s why I wanted to write about this today. Moments like those aren’t “meant to be,” they simply are. They happen. Moments like these don’t exist as credits and debits, accounting for a sum total of value for the people in your life. What is unique and special and intense lives only in these moments. It’s up to you to decide if and how you want to remember these real and honest times you spent with someone.

I’ve put them away for too long. I’ve been bitter, and still am. What I dealt with was unfair and prolonged, and I didn’t deserve it. No one does. But while I can use that time of my life to justify ending a marriage and destroying a friendship, I realize that I can also remember what was good. One thing doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the other.

Like I said, one thing doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the other.

I think, to some extent, I understood closure at that point. Achieved it? I don’t know. Probably, and possibly at some point before this day. Maybe even well before this day. It’s also a possibility I haven’t claimed it yet, and maybe I never will. I’m not sure anyone can really pinpoint that single moment where clarity hits and emotions balance properly for the first time since whenever. The head and the heart don’t usually understand the direction in which they’re pulling each other.

But I understood.

I haven’t had a conversation outside of email and instant messaging with the ex-wife since the day our divorce went official. Since that time, our contact has grown more and more infrequent, and that’s both a good thing and expected. It took me an awfully long time to cut her any slack at all in those conversations.

Three years solid of yelling at her and demanding justification and truth got tiring.

And then I was done. I didn’t have anything else I needed to scream at her about, she had heard it all a million times anyway. And this brings us back to November of last year and the quote from above, which was typed up just before I contacted her to tell her that I was sorry. Not for what happened in the marriage, that really wasn’t my fault. Rather, I was sorry for not heeding her constant encouragement over the past few years to try for god’s sake to remember that things were pretty damn good at certain points along the way.

For the first time in nearly five years we had a nice conversation that absolutely, positively wasn’t loaded.

Which brings me to yesterday. I sent her an email that contained a snippet from the Bahamas trip about apologizing to the girl in the red dress for sucking out, but playfully telling her I took satisfaction in the suckout because she shared my ex-wife’s name. Normally, she’d send me an email back soon thereafter.

Didn’t get one.

So for the first time in a couple months, I popped online with the IM ID she knows about, and asked her how she enjoyed the story.

We exchanged pleasantries.

I asked her about her family. She about mine.

Then…

…nothing.

I’ll talk to friends on the IM all day long if I can, and it’s lively. We chat, I try to make them laugh, hopefully it works. I’m rarely at a loss for words.

I was at a loss. But so was she.

“It’s funny you caught me today,” she said after a prolonged lull in the conversation, “I woke up a couple mornings ago and realized that we hadn’t talked in awhile, and that it really didn’t bother me that we hadn’t.”

I think about her less and less frequently too, but I can’t deny that it does maybe sting just a little bit to hear someone say that about you instead of vice-versa. What’s funny is that I’m not even really dwelling on that part of the conversation.

Instead, I’m really still processing how someone who was my absolute best friend on the planet for as long as she was could have possibly slipped to the point where I couldn’t even bring myself to make small talk for ten minutes without wanting to wave goodbye and walk away. I’m not sure if I’m bugged by that or not. Chagrined by that or not. Relieved by that or not.

Absolutely done giving a fuck because of that or not.

All I really know at this point is that it has never crossed my mind that there’d be a friendship dredged out of all this mess, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice that it took an awfully long time to die on the vine.

And I’m not really sure how I should be feeling about this.

What’s In BG’s Wallet?

It’s a black leather single fold wallet with an Aladdin Hotel baggage claim sticker on it. What’s in it?

$19 (the serial number on the $5 bill features a full house, threes full of nines)

Gift card ($10) to a shoe store I’ll probably never shop at again

Casino Club Card from Blue Chip Casino in Michigan City, IN (no poker room)

Hooters “Lunch Punch” card – full (they closed our local Hooters months ago)

Friend’s business card (Police Detective)

Voter registration receipt

Membership card, local community theatre group

Old expired ATM card

Driver’s License (expires in June of ’07)

Working ATM card

Eight of my business cards (three “blank,” one with Bahamas flight details, one with Al/Eva Can’t Hang cell phone number, one with my dad’s new number, two with random friends’ phone numbers)

Prescription for blood work to be drawn in mid-March

One postage stamp

Dinner “check” for $22.88, which I think was from Coco Loco in the Bahamas

Business card for manager of local bar

Blockbuster card

Library card

Appointment reminder card/sticker for March Dr’s appointment

Petco PALS card

Northwest Airlines WorldPerks card

Health Insurance card

Draft Preview

“It’s still too early. You can’t do a proper draft preview yet!”

You’re right. But since I’m not going to go past Detroit’s slot at number ten, this isn’t going to be a full-featured mock draft preview anyway. So, without further ado, the San Francisco 49ers are on the clock…

1) San Francisco: New coach, new era. I actually like some of the pieces they have in place on the defense, but that offense is abysmal. It’s hard to imagine they look anywhere but offense with this pick. Since Matt Leinart is returning to school, they’re going to have to swallow hard to take another QB, or try to figure out a way to justify making a WR or RB the number one overall pick. Usually there’s a dividing line that separates the top tier from the picks in the middle of the first round. This year? I’m not sure there is much of a difference between numbers 1 and 10. With this being such a deep draft at RB, I can see them going one of two ways – Aaron Rodgers from Cal or Mike Williams from USC (provided Williams runs the 4.4 he needs to). I think maybe they give the Tim Rattay experiment one more year. Mike Williams, WR, USC is my pick here.

2) Miami: New coach, new era. Where have I heard that before? This is a team with a lot of needs. Probably more than anyone’s willing to admit. They’re pretty solid, albeit old, at a few spots on defense, and they’ve got a good #1 WR and TE. Their big problems are at QB and RB. Nick Saban came out this weekend saying he’d like Ricky Williams or Travis Henry toting the rock for him next season. That’s all well and good, but I can’t see Ricky coming back and I can’t see Buffalo trading Henry in the division. That makes this pick easy. Ronnie Brown, RB, Auburn is Nick’s pick.

3) Cleveland: Jeff Garcia? Not the answer. This has got to be either a QB or a defensive lineman in this slot – the team is OK at WR, RB, and LB, and there’s no other position worth taking this high. Assuming Romeo Crennel takes this job, we’re still in “new coach, new era” territory. This new coach is going to open up with a QB. Cleveland takes Aaron Rodgers, QB, Cal.

4) Chicago: Here’s another gimme. Rex Grossman will be back, but I guarantee you Lovie Smith is not going to be content with Bobby Wade as his #1 WR. Even though the last Michigan WR they picked this high didn’t pan out, Braylon Edwards, WR, Michigan makes too much sense for this young offense.

5) Tampa Bay: Tampa is a wildcard in this slot. They could easily go in a myriad of directions. Their defense is aging, and it couldn’t hurt to get a guy who can spy Mike Vick at OLB. It couldn’t hurt to grab a DE to learn under Simeon Rice. It makes a lot of sense to scrap the veteran RB experiment and get a young gun back there. As a matter of fact, I think that short of WR and QB, they have the luxury of going with the “best available player” on the board. That will be Cedric Benson, RB, Texas.

6) Tennessee: You’ve gotta like what’s going on with your crew if you’re Jeff Fisher. Assuming you can get everyone back healthy, you’ve got a young and emerging DL, a couple of pretty good LBs, three really good WRs, an MVP QB and a capable backup, and a solid young RB in Chris Brown. Plus, you get to take “best available” at #6. I think they probably need to go OT with this pick. That’s Alex Barron, OT, Florida.

7) Oakland: Al Davis has some serious holes he needs to plug to become competitive again. He can’t find a running game, his linebackers are average at best, and he could definitely use some help in the secondary. On the plus side, his receiving game is pretty good, and I think the offensive line won’t need a lot of tinkering. I think this pick boils down to simple questions about Justin Fargas. Can he stay healthy? And if so, is he an answer at RB? I think they’ll give Fargas another season to show-and-prove, and they’ll grab Derrick Johnson, LB, Texas instead.

8) Arizona: Here’s a guarantee. Arizona will not draft a WR with their first pick this season. Take that to the bank. Actually, this is a team that was certainly coming on in spots this season, especially on defense. There are just two spots on this squad that are downright pitiful: RB and QB. Does that mean Denny Green is smart enough to take a player at one of those positions this year? I hope so. They need the help. Denny grabs Alex Smith, QB, Utah.

9) Washington: Between a defense that played pretty darn well last season and a running game that finally found its stride near the end of the year, this Washington team is definitely emerging. While I’m puzzled by the notion that they may trade Rod Gardner in the upcoming weeks, I don’t think there’s going to be a WR left to take in this spot worth the number nine pick. If I’m Joe Gibbs, I think about two spots on my defense that could use a boost – pass rush or DB. Gibbs will add Adam “Pac Man” Jones, CB, West Virginia in an effort to assemble the best young secondary in the league.

10) Detroit: Finally, we get to a pick that matters. My preferred pick, Texas LB Derrick Johnson, unfortunately went to Oakland a few picks prior. I think that guy’s going to be a difference maker, and will be disappointed if/when the Lions don’t grab him. Realistically, there are only three players left on the board that makes sense for the Lions this high. I’m not going to go with two of them though, Erasmus James from Wisconsin and Dan Cody from Oklahoma, because I want to see what James Hall and Cory Redding are capable of at DE across a whole season together. That leaves Heath Miller, TE, Virginia. Miller is shooting up Mel’s big board, and is regarded as a solid top-of-the-second-tier talent at TE. He’s not Gonzalez, Crumpler, or Gates, but he’ll add a threat and dimension this offense hasn’t had in ages. Miller is my pick.

Why You Never Laugh At The Less Fortunate

It was a long time ago that I think I fucked my karma up good.

I remember going to a McDonald’s in early 2003 and having my counter guy be this acne-ridden skin-peeling mess from head to toe, and having a little fun with the co-workers for whom I picked up lunch that day upon my return to the office.

Of course, eighteen months later I’m diagnosed with psoriasis, which is a skin-peeling nightmare, but at least it’s contained to a few areas that aren’t enormously obvious. I’m positive I brought this on myself, regardless of the fact that I’m genetically predisposed to have it anyway.

It’s been cold here lately, and really dry despite the snowfall we’ve been seeing. I’d like to think that because it’s so dry, what I’m seeing isn’t anything but natural dry skin behavior. But I really do know better.

About six or eight weeks ago I noticed some blotchiness on my face. About two days ago I was soaping up my face in the shower and pretty much removed an entire layer of dead flaky skin in the process. My ear lobes look like they were sunburned badly about three days ago, and have been steadily peeling. Today I am on day two of trying to combat this peeling with the topical stuff I have prescribed, and my entire face is a reddish blotchy mess.

By the way, you can only keep psoriasis at bay. It doesn’t ever fully get cured or go away.

I really couldn’t be a whole lot more depressed about this. It’s one of those things that could have resulted in a solid 5,000 word “woe is me” post, but I think I’ll spare you all of that. I had figured I’d be living with a slightly itchy ass for the rest of my life, and had assumed no one would ever look at me and say, “wow, you’re well manicured” either. But to live with the post-sunburned peeling look for the rest of my life? Or worse? It’s enough to make me want to go all Salinger on the world and never emerge from my apartment again.

Just what this hermit needed, eh?

Addendum to the Addendum

The very next SNG (this time a $5+1 three table) and I'm the short stack in the tournament with 20 left, T730 to my credit.

I get QQ in the BB. 25/50 blinds, and I bump the two limpers to 200. They both call.

46T, two hearts on the flop. There's 600 and change in the pot. I push my 530 in.

Both call.

AT and 22 (!). Neither on a flush draw.

The turn is an Ace. Again I get my money in with the best hand after playing tight/patient poker. Again I get callers, and again I get screwed.

Addendum

How about a quick bad beat tale?

$10 SNG. I've folded around into level three, and have 665 for my BB. 89o. I check into a flop with four others.

T76 with two hearts. I've just flopped the nuts.

I'm first to act and check. Pot is 225, and the big stack makes it 150 to go. Two fold to me, and I don't want an easy heart flush suckout, so I push all-in.

I get called. She's got QT of clubs - no flush draw.

Turn pairs the seven, river pairs the ten. Runner-runner full house. I'm out.

It's been that kind of day.

Dispatches from Nassau

This is the last of the Nassau stories from last weekend. I wrote this on an airsick bag on the airplane, and since my handwriting sucks in the first place I basically needed a D'Nealian decoder ring to make any sense of my penmanship to get this all transcribed. Enjoy...

I remember eight in the morning if for no other reason than walking that delicate line between politeness and obstinance with Mrs. Al Can't Hang. I think Friday ended somewhere well into Saturday, so I most certainly wasn't going to get Saturday started until I was goddamn good and ready. And with eighteen hours of drinking, smoking, and ogling the barely attired female tourists at an ostentatiously outfitted Caribbean beach club just behind me, Eva was easily two hours early into my Saturday.

"How'd you sleep?" Eva had emerged from the bedroom, ostensibly for a glass of water and noticed I was a light sleeper. What I wanted to say at that moment, way too early for coherent conversation, was, "I don't know, why don't you ask me when I'm done?" Instead, as I groaned audibly and rolled back to face the wall, she figured I was due for another couple hours rest.

It's not every day for me that ten in the morning becomes the crack of anything, but as the sun rose over the tops of the condo project across the lagoon, I became all too aware of the disadvantages of an east-facing window. I did the quick mental math and counted up a barely adequate six hours asleep to accompany a droning headache and the dull film of tobacco smoke begging to be euthanized from my palate.

I guess I was awake. I did, however, need a joint first.

"You know what would be great?" The sun was shining, and I was getting baked in a couple of different ways out on the patio. "I'd love a French Dip sandwich, a pizza with pepperoni and sausage and extra cheese, and some of those little ice cream sandwiches with the soft chocolate cookie tops." Eva laughed. "How about breakfast? I don't think Al's budging for awhile anyways." Never one to say no to a badly needed meal, I agreed.

One step out the door to the suite, I stopped cold. "I forgot to brush my teeth." Eva wheeled around and flatly said, "I don't care. C'mon." Somewhere in my head I heard my mom's admonishments, and besides, I could probably have given someone CPR at that moment and not only resuscitated them, but would have also satisfied any sort of nicotine craving they may have been having. I hesitated in the doorway, maybe asking more than announcing, "No, I really taste awful right now. I'm going to brush my teeth."

Eva got stern with me, probably after six and a half years of practice steering a horse (Al) from water (the Boat House) before he's done drinking. "Don't be a little girl. We're going. Now." Having seen her emasculate G-Rob about a half dozen times the night before, I knew pressing my luck with the Mrs. Wasn't a good idea.

I had the pancakes.

I Bomb Atomically...

I'm getting absolutely hammered at the poker tables lately. I've got to chalk this up to variance, because (without PokerTracker to confirm this) I don't feel like I'm chasing dubious draws or picking wild unhittable starting hands.

I'm really frustrated by this turn of events. I've been sitting $2/$4, which is a game I feel comfortable in, but have been experiencing those swings that knock me down $50, put me up $40, and have invariably been cashing out down $20 per session or so.

I really feel like I'm a better poker player than this. It'd be easy to blame this on the cards, which I do think share some part of this downswing, but I know better than that. There's some “luck of the cards” involved with Limit Hold 'Em, but I've got to be doing something wrong. It's not absurd suckouts I'm suffering either, I'm just missing.

Well, part of “something wrong” is probably sitting $2/$4 with only $200 (and now well less than that) in my account. Yes, to properly pound my draws and ride the waves of variance I probably do need $1200 to play. But I just can't sit $1/$2, or god forbid $.50/$1, due to the quality of play.

Or maybe I'm the sucker.

I don't know. My poker confidence is at an all-time low for online play right now. I don't need one of those magical +33BB sessions over the course of 42 minutes or anything (well, define “need”), but I'd really like to log off after a couple of hours and feel satisfied that I'm hitting a few hands, making the right laydowns, pounding the draws properly, and actually getting rewarded for my time and efforts.

It's just not happening for me right now.

Everything I Need To Know I Learned From Maurice Chiavone

I know now who the next future ex Mrs. Boy Genius is going to be.

I didn't meet her or anything - no, that wouldn't be like me at all. I actually became smitten about two car lengths behind her on Saturday, and fell madly in love about a quarter mile later when I got to pull alongside her in the right hand turn lane.

She had bumper stickers that said "perfect woman." Militant Agnostic, said one. Say "Yah" to da U.P., read another. Of course there was the predictable Kerry/Edwards sticker, but there was also something in the back window that said "I'm funky and fun without being inaccessibly hot." CandyLand. She had CandyLand in her back window. I saw brunette hair, which I dig, and managed to catch a brief sideways glance and I think she was good looking. Young, but good looking.

I don't know for sure - I was doing about 40MPH when I passed her. If there was some sort of local Craig's List thing here in West Michigan, best believe I'd put up one of those creepy "saw you once and want to pork you" ads. Have those ever worked for anyone, ever?

Saw you at Target on 12-30-04. You - buying pantyliners, wearing green coat. Me - leering uncomfortably, pretending I wasn't following you, Tigers cap.

Yeah, I'm thinking that's a hell of a way to meet a woman.

So I'm mortally afraid of spam. That being said, my curiosity regarding just who the fuck is Maurice Chiavone is at an all time high. If memory serves, he's got an ebay system, or some sort of debt reduction thing. I'm fairly confident that he has no interest in my penis, so for that I thank him. But who is Maurice Chiavone?

I'm really hoping you know what I'm talking about. Every single piece of spam I'm getting in one of my accounts lately - which has an address that does not remotely resemble "Maurice Chiavone" - has had his name in the subject line. I'm forced, yet again, to jump to conclusions and assume that this Maurice Chiavone is a renaissance man the likes of which we haven't seen since Don LaPre. Buying property with no money down? Call Maurice. Want to buy Valium without a prescription? Let Maurice find that back door for you. Horny dirty milfs? You're on your own. But Maurice can help with just about anything else.

Maybe I shouldn't be sharing this, because maybe Maurice is saving these great offers for me and me alone. I mean, I've Googled him, and there's nothing. It's as if he doesn't exist. Actually, one of my favorite things about Google happens when you put Maurice's name in quotes. It then suggests you may have been searching for "Maurice Schiavone." So you think, "well, maybe I could be searching for Maurice Schiavone." So you click it, and nothing. It's as if Google is just taunting me.

Or maybe it's all part of Maurice Chiavone's fiendish plot.