|random thoughts and thoroughbred selections|
|"All life is 6-5 against" - Damon Runyon|
Friday, September 30, 2005
If any of y'all didn't get that I was kidding with the "Didn't Get The Email" post today, I don't know what to tell you.
Tongue. In. Cheek. I'm supposed to be irreverent over there, remember?
Monday, September 26, 2005
I Remember Hal Linden
Sometimes I wonder how unique I am, really. I mean that in the abstract, this isn't going to degenerate itself into the same brand of wallowing self-pity that y'all have come to know and love. On my drive into work this morning, my iPod shuffled in the theme from Barney Miller, and that's from whence this question comes.
Who else has the theme from Barney Miller on their iPod? Show of hands? Who else was whistling the final sax line as they walked into the front door of their office this morning? Anyone? Anyone?
Yeah, that's what I thought. There's a lot of things about me and the way I'm wired that aren't the least bit unique. Plenty of people carry with them the curious combination of a crippling inferiority complex with a joker's approach to self-flagellation. Of that, I'm sure.
But do they have the Barney Miller theme on their iPod?
The Princess and I talked this weekend about a myriad of things, but this stuckedness within these lines was one topic she's pretty sure she's right on. Of course, I'm 100% certain she's wrong.
It's interesting up in this head of mine, really. I told The Princess part of why I was stuck was that I had written a few things in recent months of which I was really proud, and I'm having a hard time creating the spark again in my head that will produce anything as good as those posts were. She thought I was concerning myself too much with what y'all thought of this stuff, and that I ought to create a private site where I could just start spinning my wheels again, and soon enough I'll find something else worthwhile I want to say, and will come back to Gambling Blues guns a' blazin'.
That's probably what would be a good antidote for some people, but not me. The above paragraph's statement does sound like I'm stuck in a self-conscious place, right? That part is true. But the self-consciousness has nothing to do with what any of you think of anything here. It's all in my own head. I've written enough self-revealing crap that I don't worry too much what anyone thinks. I've written enough boring-ass crap that I don't worry too much what anyone thinks.
See, it's really peculiar up in my head. I go through one particularly creative spurt, and all of a sudden I don't want to riff on bullshit banalities anymore. I want what I do to be good, even though I'm absolutely certain some people are going to tell me I'm good even when I'm just goofing around. I don't believe my press clippings, really. Whether or not I'm any good at this blogging thing isn't even important, at this point I'm stuck in my own head and want everything I type out for this space to be GOLD.
Not for you, for me. I'm selfish that way. Well, I'm selfish a lot of ways, but this is the one we're talking about now.
Anyway, the short story is that I'm trying too hard, that effort has caused vapor lock, and it's all in my own head, really having nothing to do with trying to win your approval or anything like that.
By the way, while The Princess was irretrievably wrong on that count, she did offer the best piece of advice I've heard about a dozen times in the last two months:
"Get over yourself."She's a funny sort, by the way. Much like me, she absolutely hates not being right, and much like me is absolutely willing to dig into the technicalities of an absolutely nothing statement to make sure you don't err in her presence. For example, take this conversation, which was repeated whenever I saw rain coming down. The preface to this is that we're in Chicago, and I'm not an idiot:
BG: (gesturing towards rain) Mmm... Hurricane RitaOr, take this one from Sunday breakfast:
BG: So, my first on-campus job interview was with NBD Bank, which was National Bank of Detroit, which was bought by First Chicago, then became Bank One, and is soon to be Chase.It's all quite endearing, really. And Princess? Until I can walk into a Chase-branded bank and have them pull up my account information on their computers, I'm a Bank One customer. And former employee. And a guy who wrote papers on bank mergers in college, not to mention having gone through one as a bank employee, and knows a little about how egregiously slow the transition is between brand names, despite the actual merger having occurred. "Soon to be Chase" isn't wrong, because the signs aren't up yet.
Yeah, I don't like being wrong much either.
I also don't much enjoy having some fucking jackass call a big re-raise pre-flop with T6s and luckboxing his way into a hand. Especially when said jackass celebrates by slamming his cards down on the table after calling my semi-bluff (I turned top pair, and read his hand right, gambling he didn't have the suited cards to make the call) and turning his flush. Called getting less than 2-to-1 on my re-raise pre-flop, and called getting less than 2-to-1 on my flop bet. Congratulations, now sit your ass down and if you pump your fist one more time I'm going to key your car.
I didn't do too well in the tournament The Princess brought me to on Saturday. Dude would have made that call (those calls) with QTo or ATo, both hands I could beat. I gambled and lost. I did get into a side game, and got down to heads-up with about a 4-to-1 chip deficit. I asked for a chop and was denied. Guy was loose as hell though, and I managed to catch enough dominating hands (AKs vs K4s, for instance) to double up a couple of times. Soon enough, I had about a 1.5-to-1 chip advantage, and Karl gladly took the chop. He won a few hands later, but by then I had a $27 profit on the night. Add another $3 worth of dealer's choice profit to the mix (nicely disguised monster in 7-Stud), and a $30 profit was definitely agreeable to me.
Paid for my conveyor-belt sushi ($22) and almost all of that next morning's breakfast ($13). Oh, and a note on the sushi... The very first thing I grabbed off the conveyor belt (first time in one of those joints, it has to be the best restaurant gimmick of all time) was the cold baby octopus salad. Whole, intact baby octopus. I got three down no problem, but had to avoid the head of the fourth. The legs are fine, especially due to my history with calamari, but the heads have a slightly different texture with which I wasn't that comfortable. It's kinda like my love of oysters. I can eat two, maybe three, but then I start thinking about how they feel going down, and I just can't grab a fourth. I got oonagi, shrimp, snow crab, and fried calamari nigiri to round out my experience. Good stuff.
The Princess and I ambled over to Ikea for a couple hours, where I purchased a rolling cart with six baskets (three vinyl, three wire) for my bedroom (needed somewhere to put my sweaters), a stool for my kitchen, four rags, three ash trays, and two cutting boards. She then took me over to ColdStone for some ice cream, which was a decision I'd live to regret. Being lactose intolerant sucks, but having horrific gas in a room full of people you don't know is even worse. I hit the can for a sit-down probably eleven times that evening (seriously), but after the first six it was just about pushing the pressure that was eating me from the inside out. I was about a half-step from wanting to go outside and yak into the bushes, which meant I was as physically uncomfortable as I could have been short of actually saying, "I'm sick." The poker was good, the people were pleasant, I had a good time, but it sucks that an ice cream cone (caramel and Twix bars folded into sweet cream base) can fuck me up that hard.
Yes, yes... Lactaid and/or Immodium. I left the Immodium in my backpack, clearly not thinking ahead.
Regardless, it was good to get out of town for a weekend, and despite what I'm sure was a good time at the Boathouse, none of y'all got to hang with a real live Princess.
Oh, that's right. Eva was there, wasn't she...
Bill Simmons @ ESPN
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