Pretty self-explanatory. Now, if it were't for the dumb tourney shit that I've been doing, I'd actually show a profit (+$0.60/hour baby!)...
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"She'll hold together... hear me baby? Hold together."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Before and After
Pretty self-explanatory. Now, if it were't for the dumb tourney shit that I've been doing, I'd actually show a profit (+$0.60/hour baby!)...
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"She'll hold together... hear me baby? Hold together."
Saturday, July 19, 2008
And The Moral of That Story Was...
... I can't take a compliment.
"Poker, poker, it's all skill. Start with the worst hand and go uphill."
--- Mike Matusow
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In totally unrelated news, having recently stumbled across Blurb.com, I've semi-decided to start compiling all my stupid little "Deck" shorts into Blurb-book form. Get your pre-order in now. Or don't.
Please don't.
I'll also try my hand at writing something longer... say 10,000 words? Fingers crossed realll hard.
"Poker, poker, it's all skill. Start with the worst hand and go uphill."
--- Mike Matusow
-------------
In totally unrelated news, having recently stumbled across Blurb.com, I've semi-decided to start compiling all my stupid little "Deck" shorts into Blurb-book form. Get your pre-order in now. Or don't.
Please don't.
I'll also try my hand at writing something longer... say 10,000 words? Fingers crossed realll hard.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Guess What? I'm Finally a Winning Poker Player
... at $0.02/$0.05 6-max NLHE on Stars at least (4,000 hands = not a large enough sample to be sure, but Icanhazgoodfeeling about this one):
Now, contrast that to my sordid history on FullTilt, over roughly 19,000 hands of $0.05/$0.10 6-max NLHE, and 2,000 hands of $0.10/$0.25:
So now do I qualify as a micro-stakes grinder... maybe?
-------------
Nathan, I'm assuming you're still ahead in our little poker vs. stocks bet.
Now, contrast that to my sordid history on FullTilt, over roughly 19,000 hands of $0.05/$0.10 6-max NLHE, and 2,000 hands of $0.10/$0.25:
So now do I qualify as a micro-stakes grinder... maybe?
-------------
Nathan, I'm assuming you're still ahead in our little poker vs. stocks bet.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thank You (pt. 3)
Last week, he'd been running colder than the broken freezer in his apartment. There were two days where he was 0 for 12 in preflop all-in coin-flips. From both sides, he'd taken it: QQ vs. AK (flopped top set, then came runner-runner straight), AQ vs 99 (rivered the last 9 after the big blind had exposed 9 4 offsuit), 22 vs. Q9s in a 4-bet pot (nobody's fault, they'd been shorthanded and playing 100 BB deep, and the guy on the button had been punishing his cut-off opens a helluva lot), and even AK vs. 33 twice against the same donk (one of them Deck had AsKs, and bricked out on the river even when the board had come Qs10h8s10s and half the deck would have been winners). How the hell the guy had ever managed to call a 5-bet shove with 33 while sitting 225 BB deep was beyond Deck, maybe even beyond the realm of human understanding entirely; it was probably only something a guppy could explain to you.
He still hadn't fixed the freezer yet (it was leaking cold air somehow, and it'd gotten to the point where he didn't need to turn on his AC anymore, even in the middle of the day), and yet, today, for some reason, he had been winning coin-flips. Plural.
Focus you broke fuck, he thought as he slapped himself back into the here-and-now. You're still fourth out of four, and the big money's only in the top two spots.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out a bit, and tilted his head up and over his shoulder to glance at the payouts again, glowing on a soft blue TV screen: heavenly white letters spelling out what each place was worth. What he would be worth, if he finished there.
Ninth had been a measly $154; the guy who had finished there seemed glad to have the seventy-some-odd extra dollars in his pocket, even if it had cost him over four hours to get it.
First place was $3,072. Right now, in fourth, he was worth $538.
Not too shabby, was not the thought running through his mind right now.
Goddammit, forget about her. Now is not the time, do you hear me? He could hear himself thinking those words, but he didn't give a damn.
"Need your ante bud," the dealer mumbled and nodded towards Deck, as he swiveled around from left to right and dealt out the next hand.
Deck absentmindedly tossed a couple of yellow chips into the pot. He made himself think back to the payouts. They'd been published on the flyer now crumpled in Deck's pocket with the percentages of the prize pool for each place, before they knew how many people would register (minimum of 36 players, capped at 180).
Now, on the screen, it said,
He was pretty damn sure those numbers couldn't have come out all whole like that, so he let his mind start wandering, trying to figure out which places had been rounded up, and which had been rounded down. It seemed like, if he did finish fourth, he'd at least be picking up a few extra cents than he could have expected from the strict percentage payout. Not that it mattered.
Of course it doesn't fucking matter, you idiot. It was just a damn kiss.
Two damn kisses, he offered up weakly in a sort of stubborn protest against that part of his mind that was trying and failing to slap him out of his reverie.
"Action's on you mack," the dealer said and tapped the table at Deck.
He sat up, looked around in confusion for a moment, and found the two not-so-shiny pieces of plastic floating on the green felt in front of him, the two cards that held his fate. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at them.
Pondering this point, at the same time Deck's hands had already reached out across the felt sea, and were bending back his fate just enough so that he could at least take a peek. Even if he didn't want to know for sure, he still had to peek.
The first one was... a diamond. Nothing across. And the second... a heart. Also, nothing across.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've tossed a deuce-trey off, he told himself.
Whatever or whomever was supposed to respond, didn't. Instead, all Deck heard was a silent plea that seemed to fill his brain and his body. Wistful, earnest, sincere, and pleading. Wordlessly, he felt it inside himself. An indescribable urge, an urge that stopped him from mechanically tossing this red, nothing across hand back into the muck for the millionth-and-first time.
Ok, so now what? You want me to look again? It's not like they're gonna change, he quipped back to whatever had just caused him to hold on to... to what he was holding on to, he didn't even know.
Again, silence. But now a different urge emerged. His hands reached back down to the table, and this time, instead of picking up his cards, they picked up a stack of black chips. 1000 each, so the 20 his left hand was counting out was a raise of 20,000. Deck wasn't sure, but he thought he only had about 60-or 70,000 to begin with. This was not going to be pretty.
"Raise, 20,000 to call," announced the dealer, who was growing a little impatient. Whatever this guy was doing, he should just go ahead and get it over with, he thought. For Chrissake, he only had 60-something left. With these blinds at 4,000/8,000 with a 1,000 ante, he wasn't going to last long anyways. It was a miracle he'd made it even this far. And besides, he was already working three more downs than he'd been planning to today. Just knock the poor bastard out, so I can go home sooner, he thought.
The button and the small blind both folded, and the big blind peeked down at his cards, glanced over at Deck's dwindling chip stack, and announced "all-in" with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.
Great, now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Deck wasn't sure he'd get an answer from himself. Instead, to his own surprise, his hands started reaching for the rest of his chips, and before he could stop himself, before he could even get a chance to look at his cards again, his right hand had pushed the last of his chips across the thin white pass line.
"All-in and a call," announced the dealer, giving the floorman on the other side of the room a heads-up, that it was time to start counting out the fourth-place money.
"Turn up your hands gentlemen," the dealer asked the two players.
The big blind was so excited, he had trouble picking his cards up off the felt. "Two queens," the dealer announced for everyone's benefit, but Deck barely heard him. All he could do was stand up, already feeling like he was falling further and further down, down, and away from this final table, this final chance. The dealer irritably stretched out and grabbed Deck's cards and threw them down, face-up, on the felt, and Deck finally saw his fate revealed.
"Two red aces," the dealer grumbled, annoyed that it seemed this tournament wasn't going to be over any time soon...
He still hadn't fixed the freezer yet (it was leaking cold air somehow, and it'd gotten to the point where he didn't need to turn on his AC anymore, even in the middle of the day), and yet, today, for some reason, he had been winning coin-flips. Plural.
Focus you broke fuck, he thought as he slapped himself back into the here-and-now. You're still fourth out of four, and the big money's only in the top two spots.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out a bit, and tilted his head up and over his shoulder to glance at the payouts again, glowing on a soft blue TV screen: heavenly white letters spelling out what each place was worth. What he would be worth, if he finished there.
Ninth had been a measly $154; the guy who had finished there seemed glad to have the seventy-some-odd extra dollars in his pocket, even if it had cost him over four hours to get it.
First place was $3,072. Right now, in fourth, he was worth $538.
Not too shabby, was not the thought running through his mind right now.
Goddammit, forget about her. Now is not the time, do you hear me? He could hear himself thinking those words, but he didn't give a damn.
"Need your ante bud," the dealer mumbled and nodded towards Deck, as he swiveled around from left to right and dealt out the next hand.
Deck absentmindedly tossed a couple of yellow chips into the pot. He made himself think back to the payouts. They'd been published on the flyer now crumpled in Deck's pocket with the percentages of the prize pool for each place, before they knew how many people would register (minimum of 36 players, capped at 180).
| 1st | 40.0% |
| 2nd | 25.0% |
| 3rd | 13.0% |
| 4th | 7.0% |
| 5th | 4.6% |
| 6th | 3.4% |
| 7th | 2.7% |
| 8th | 2.3% |
| 9th | 2.0% |
Now, on the screen, it said,
| 1st | $3,072.00 |
| 2nd | $1,920.00 |
| 3rd | $998.00 |
| 4th | $538.00 |
| 5th | $353.00 |
| 6th | $261.00 |
| 7th | $207.00 |
| 8th | $177.00 |
| 9th | $154.00 |
He was pretty damn sure those numbers couldn't have come out all whole like that, so he let his mind start wandering, trying to figure out which places had been rounded up, and which had been rounded down. It seemed like, if he did finish fourth, he'd at least be picking up a few extra cents than he could have expected from the strict percentage payout. Not that it mattered.
Of course it doesn't fucking matter, you idiot. It was just a damn kiss.
Two damn kisses, he offered up weakly in a sort of stubborn protest against that part of his mind that was trying and failing to slap him out of his reverie.
"Action's on you mack," the dealer said and tapped the table at Deck.
He sat up, looked around in confusion for a moment, and found the two not-so-shiny pieces of plastic floating on the green felt in front of him, the two cards that held his fate. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at them.
Pondering this point, at the same time Deck's hands had already reached out across the felt sea, and were bending back his fate just enough so that he could at least take a peek. Even if he didn't want to know for sure, he still had to peek.
The first one was... a diamond. Nothing across. And the second... a heart. Also, nothing across.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've tossed a deuce-trey off, he told himself.
Whatever or whomever was supposed to respond, didn't. Instead, all Deck heard was a silent plea that seemed to fill his brain and his body. Wistful, earnest, sincere, and pleading. Wordlessly, he felt it inside himself. An indescribable urge, an urge that stopped him from mechanically tossing this red, nothing across hand back into the muck for the millionth-and-first time.
Ok, so now what? You want me to look again? It's not like they're gonna change, he quipped back to whatever had just caused him to hold on to... to what he was holding on to, he didn't even know.
Again, silence. But now a different urge emerged. His hands reached back down to the table, and this time, instead of picking up his cards, they picked up a stack of black chips. 1000 each, so the 20 his left hand was counting out was a raise of 20,000. Deck wasn't sure, but he thought he only had about 60-or 70,000 to begin with. This was not going to be pretty.
"Raise, 20,000 to call," announced the dealer, who was growing a little impatient. Whatever this guy was doing, he should just go ahead and get it over with, he thought. For Chrissake, he only had 60-something left. With these blinds at 4,000/8,000 with a 1,000 ante, he wasn't going to last long anyways. It was a miracle he'd made it even this far. And besides, he was already working three more downs than he'd been planning to today. Just knock the poor bastard out, so I can go home sooner, he thought.
The button and the small blind both folded, and the big blind peeked down at his cards, glanced over at Deck's dwindling chip stack, and announced "all-in" with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.
Great, now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Deck wasn't sure he'd get an answer from himself. Instead, to his own surprise, his hands started reaching for the rest of his chips, and before he could stop himself, before he could even get a chance to look at his cards again, his right hand had pushed the last of his chips across the thin white pass line.
"All-in and a call," announced the dealer, giving the floorman on the other side of the room a heads-up, that it was time to start counting out the fourth-place money.
"Turn up your hands gentlemen," the dealer asked the two players.
The big blind was so excited, he had trouble picking his cards up off the felt. "Two queens," the dealer announced for everyone's benefit, but Deck barely heard him. All he could do was stand up, already feeling like he was falling further and further down, down, and away from this final table, this final chance. The dealer irritably stretched out and grabbed Deck's cards and threw them down, face-up, on the felt, and Deck finally saw his fate revealed.
"Two red aces," the dealer grumbled, annoyed that it seemed this tournament wasn't going to be over any time soon...
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
More on this later...
(12:06:28 AM) cody: anyways, what's a non-sperm topic we could talk about
(12:07:01 AM) jluva45: ...we could talk about my sperm
(12:07:07 AM) jluva45: oh wait, oh wait, non-sperm
(12:07:21 AM) jluva45: umm, we could talk about...other sperm
(12:07:40 AM) cody: got sperm on the mind huh
(12:07:01 AM) jluva45: ...we could talk about my sperm
(12:07:07 AM) jluva45: oh wait, oh wait, non-sperm
(12:07:21 AM) jluva45: umm, we could talk about...other sperm
(12:07:40 AM) cody: got sperm on the mind huh
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Thank You (pt. 2)
The clock was almost done counting down, but Deck was the only one who noticed. Everyone else left in the tournament had gotten up, taken a walk, or smoked a cigarette, or went to make a call, or whatever. He was still in his seat though, watching the break clock tick down. He was afraid that if he got up, he would lose it, whatever it was that had happened to carry him to the final 18 players.
Whatever it was, it seemed to be running out. He was 17th in chips out of 18th, with 12,475 chips left. The next level was going to be 1,000/2,000 with a 300 ante. He was actually kind of pissed about the ante being so high, but what the hell, it wasn't going to matter now. And only the top 9 got paid.
"Hey Deck, you still in this thing?"
He swiveled around in his chair, to see Carrie walking over towards him -- he'd heard someone else call her that, which saved him the embarrassment of asking. For a moment, he forgot about the tournament and his now completely-empty wallet, as he watched her cover the length of the card room with her long, smooth strides. He felt a little a tingle down his spine as the thought crossed his mind that she was walking over specifically for him, seeing that she had changed back into her streets.
"Barely Carrie, just barely." He immediately regretted the inadvertent rhyme.
She cracked an easy smile, her eyes a little brighter now too. Maybe it was because she'd finally gotten off work. He allowed himself the fleeting pleasure of thinking maybe it had something to do with him.
"Well Dr. Seuss, I'm bone-tired and ready to crash, so I can't stick around to watch you kick some more ass," she joked. She stood next to him, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "So don't let me down." She gave him a light squeeze.
He was still frozen to the chair, unable to move, but now for different reasons. He almost couldn't believe how light and tingly and strange her hand felt on his shoulder. He convinced himself he'd probably been born with ridiculous amounts of extra nerve endings in his left shoulder.
"I'll uh, I'll do my best, but you know what, it's gonna be tough, with my chips." He gave a half-hearted wave towards his unimpressive chip stack.
"Oh come on, you gotta have a little faith in yourself. Here, how about this," she said as she smoothly put both hands on his shoulders and pulled him up out of his chair, "since that last kiss seemed to work pretty well for you, how about another?"
Without waiting for a reply -- and he was too nervous to say anything anyways -- she took a step forward, and with one hand on his cheek and the other tickling its way up his back, she tugged him in close and kissed him. This time, she let her full, soft lips linger on his for a few, devastating seconds. Somewhere behind him, the tournament director was announcing that the break was over, and telling dealers to shuffle up and deal. He couldn't have cared less.
She pulled back slowly, letting the gentle pressure of her lips ease off ever so delicately from his. In his mind, he could almost feel her there still, and he tried his damnedest to hold on to the feeling.
Pausing for just a second and smiling to herself as she saw the effect she'd had on Deck plainly visible on his face, she reached into her purse, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbled a few digits on there.
"Call me," she said, "and let me know how it went."
Whatever it was, it seemed to be running out. He was 17th in chips out of 18th, with 12,475 chips left. The next level was going to be 1,000/2,000 with a 300 ante. He was actually kind of pissed about the ante being so high, but what the hell, it wasn't going to matter now. And only the top 9 got paid.
"Hey Deck, you still in this thing?"
He swiveled around in his chair, to see Carrie walking over towards him -- he'd heard someone else call her that, which saved him the embarrassment of asking. For a moment, he forgot about the tournament and his now completely-empty wallet, as he watched her cover the length of the card room with her long, smooth strides. He felt a little a tingle down his spine as the thought crossed his mind that she was walking over specifically for him, seeing that she had changed back into her streets.
"Barely Carrie, just barely." He immediately regretted the inadvertent rhyme.
She cracked an easy smile, her eyes a little brighter now too. Maybe it was because she'd finally gotten off work. He allowed himself the fleeting pleasure of thinking maybe it had something to do with him.
"Well Dr. Seuss, I'm bone-tired and ready to crash, so I can't stick around to watch you kick some more ass," she joked. She stood next to him, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "So don't let me down." She gave him a light squeeze.
He was still frozen to the chair, unable to move, but now for different reasons. He almost couldn't believe how light and tingly and strange her hand felt on his shoulder. He convinced himself he'd probably been born with ridiculous amounts of extra nerve endings in his left shoulder.
"I'll uh, I'll do my best, but you know what, it's gonna be tough, with my chips." He gave a half-hearted wave towards his unimpressive chip stack.
"Oh come on, you gotta have a little faith in yourself. Here, how about this," she said as she smoothly put both hands on his shoulders and pulled him up out of his chair, "since that last kiss seemed to work pretty well for you, how about another?"
Without waiting for a reply -- and he was too nervous to say anything anyways -- she took a step forward, and with one hand on his cheek and the other tickling its way up his back, she tugged him in close and kissed him. This time, she let her full, soft lips linger on his for a few, devastating seconds. Somewhere behind him, the tournament director was announcing that the break was over, and telling dealers to shuffle up and deal. He couldn't have cared less.
She pulled back slowly, letting the gentle pressure of her lips ease off ever so delicately from his. In his mind, he could almost feel her there still, and he tried his damnedest to hold on to the feeling.
Pausing for just a second and smiling to herself as she saw the effect she'd had on Deck plainly visible on his face, she reached into her purse, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbled a few digits on there.
"Call me," she said, "and let me know how it went."
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Thank You (pt. 1)
Staring down at the beaten-up brown leather of the wallet he was holding between his dirty, sweaty fingers, Deck Winters realized something.
Well, one of either two things, really: either this wasn't his wallet, or -- and this latter option was much more likely -- he was actually down to his last $78. Counting the $6.83 sitting in his checking account and the seven pennies underneath his dad's old '96 Corolla's passenger seat, his entire net worth as of this moment stood squarely at a thoroughly unimpressive $84.90. Of course if he had actually let himself think about his overdue rent checks and his piled-up credit card bills, he might have even -- no, he chose not to go there.
Where he did choose to go was up to bar, craning his neck over and looking left and right, trying to find the red-headed waitress to whom he'd just tipped away 3.4% of his net worth. God, what was her name? Sherrie? Sheryl?
"I'm sorry, you wanted a regular Coke, right? I think I gave you a diet," said a soft, tired voice from over his shoulder.
He turned around and grinned awkwardly at her. Usually his main concern when talking to the waitresses here was just to keep his eyes focused on their faces and not on their chests; with the "uniforms" they had to wear, it was always a losing battle.
"Oh yeah, hey, I was just umm, just looking for you." Jesus, how was he going to do this?
"Hang on one sec sweetheart, lemme go grab you a fresh one." She brushed right past him, giving him a chance to breathe in her fragrant, fruity aroma. Peach, was it? Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from the smell of dirty chips, sweaty fat guys sandwiched together, young college kids nervously fumbling their tuition money just before they surrendered their wads of bills to the dealer for yet another buy-in. In a room filled with the stench of desperation and disgust, the smell that Deck himself was drenched in, she was able to somehow keep a bubble of freshness around herself.
"Sorry, it's been a really long day for me. A friend of mine asked me to cover her shift, so I've been here 12 hours already," she called back to him, as she went behind the bar and grabbed a fresh glass. "Here's your Coke, sorry for the mix-up." She smiled as she slid the glass across to him. She looked tired, rushed, but that wide, warm smile was always there. It was there to greet every sob story story, every bad beat, and every bust-out. It greeted Deck now, and he somehow felt just a little less broke.
"Well, I was actually looking for you to ask you for something... else," he started saying.
"Oh gosh, you're not going to try and ask me out too, are you? I mean, you look like a nice enough guy, but I'm really not supposed to--"
"Oh God no, no, I wasn't going to- no, sorry, I wouldn't put you on the spot like that. I was just going to ask if -- jeez, there's no good way to say this -- I was gonna ask, if you could, ya' know, maybe, uhh, give me back that tip I just gave you?"
One of the other girls at the bar looked up, probably just catching the last part of that sentence. She froze for an instant, getting caught off-guard.
"Nononono, it's not about the Coke or anything. God, this is so embarassing... it's just that, I need the money. See, I've got $78 bucks here, and this next tournament is $80 to buy-in, and I only got $6 or $7 bucks left in the bank so I can't use the ATM, so I was just wondering if maybe I could get those last $2 bucks back from you, maybe... ?" Deck tried to explain as best he could. He was babbling. She was listening intently, giving him not her full, gorgeous smile but a quiet, sympathetic grin.
Seeing that he was losing his nerve, she quickly jumped in. "Don't sweat it Deck, really, it's not a problem at all." She pulled two crumpled dollar bills from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt, which was quite a feat considering Deck didn't think the thing was long enough to have any pockets. She held the bills out to him, which he shyly accepted. He mumbled something about "thanks," his cheeks red with shame, and tried to disappear into thin air. When that didn't happen, he made himself tear his eyes off her skimpy skirt, only to run them up to her skimpy tank top, and finally just gave up, closed his eyes and tried to turn around as quickly as he could.
She reached out, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Hang on, you forgot something."
"Oh. Sorry... what is it?"
"How about a good luck kiss?"
(to be continued)
-------------
Huzzah for snapping the recent losing streak, all thanks to my own personal Lady Luck. With the help of a big-ish tourney cash and some adventures at the $5/$10 NL table, not to mention playing 6-max $0.10/$0.25 NL well (now that I'm actually rolled for it), I've finally turned a -$602 loss for the summer into a +$116 profit in the past 24 hours.
Ms. Luck, I owe you dinner and a night on the town.
Well, one of either two things, really: either this wasn't his wallet, or -- and this latter option was much more likely -- he was actually down to his last $78. Counting the $6.83 sitting in his checking account and the seven pennies underneath his dad's old '96 Corolla's passenger seat, his entire net worth as of this moment stood squarely at a thoroughly unimpressive $84.90. Of course if he had actually let himself think about his overdue rent checks and his piled-up credit card bills, he might have even -- no, he chose not to go there.
Where he did choose to go was up to bar, craning his neck over and looking left and right, trying to find the red-headed waitress to whom he'd just tipped away 3.4% of his net worth. God, what was her name? Sherrie? Sheryl?
"I'm sorry, you wanted a regular Coke, right? I think I gave you a diet," said a soft, tired voice from over his shoulder.
He turned around and grinned awkwardly at her. Usually his main concern when talking to the waitresses here was just to keep his eyes focused on their faces and not on their chests; with the "uniforms" they had to wear, it was always a losing battle.
"Oh yeah, hey, I was just umm, just looking for you." Jesus, how was he going to do this?
"Hang on one sec sweetheart, lemme go grab you a fresh one." She brushed right past him, giving him a chance to breathe in her fragrant, fruity aroma. Peach, was it? Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from the smell of dirty chips, sweaty fat guys sandwiched together, young college kids nervously fumbling their tuition money just before they surrendered their wads of bills to the dealer for yet another buy-in. In a room filled with the stench of desperation and disgust, the smell that Deck himself was drenched in, she was able to somehow keep a bubble of freshness around herself.
"Sorry, it's been a really long day for me. A friend of mine asked me to cover her shift, so I've been here 12 hours already," she called back to him, as she went behind the bar and grabbed a fresh glass. "Here's your Coke, sorry for the mix-up." She smiled as she slid the glass across to him. She looked tired, rushed, but that wide, warm smile was always there. It was there to greet every sob story story, every bad beat, and every bust-out. It greeted Deck now, and he somehow felt just a little less broke.
"Well, I was actually looking for you to ask you for something... else," he started saying.
"Oh gosh, you're not going to try and ask me out too, are you? I mean, you look like a nice enough guy, but I'm really not supposed to--"
"Oh God no, no, I wasn't going to- no, sorry, I wouldn't put you on the spot like that. I was just going to ask if -- jeez, there's no good way to say this -- I was gonna ask, if you could, ya' know, maybe, uhh, give me back that tip I just gave you?"
One of the other girls at the bar looked up, probably just catching the last part of that sentence. She froze for an instant, getting caught off-guard.
"Nononono, it's not about the Coke or anything. God, this is so embarassing... it's just that, I need the money. See, I've got $78 bucks here, and this next tournament is $80 to buy-in, and I only got $6 or $7 bucks left in the bank so I can't use the ATM, so I was just wondering if maybe I could get those last $2 bucks back from you, maybe... ?" Deck tried to explain as best he could. He was babbling. She was listening intently, giving him not her full, gorgeous smile but a quiet, sympathetic grin.
Seeing that he was losing his nerve, she quickly jumped in. "Don't sweat it Deck, really, it's not a problem at all." She pulled two crumpled dollar bills from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt, which was quite a feat considering Deck didn't think the thing was long enough to have any pockets. She held the bills out to him, which he shyly accepted. He mumbled something about "thanks," his cheeks red with shame, and tried to disappear into thin air. When that didn't happen, he made himself tear his eyes off her skimpy skirt, only to run them up to her skimpy tank top, and finally just gave up, closed his eyes and tried to turn around as quickly as he could.
She reached out, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Hang on, you forgot something."
"Oh. Sorry... what is it?"
"How about a good luck kiss?"
(to be continued)
-------------
Huzzah for snapping the recent losing streak, all thanks to my own personal Lady Luck. With the help of a big-ish tourney cash and some adventures at the $5/$10 NL table, not to mention playing 6-max $0.10/$0.25 NL well (now that I'm actually rolled for it), I've finally turned a -$602 loss for the summer into a +$116 profit in the past 24 hours.
Ms. Luck, I owe you dinner and a night on the town.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Top n Reasons I Suck at Poker
(in no particular order)
1. 4- and 5-betting light/badly against players who can't fold and aren't bluffing when they 3- and 4-bet
2. Calling down with ridiculous hands after 4-betting light and then getting 5-bet
3. Running too many large, multi-street bluffs in raised (and reraised) pots
4. Only winning 50% of all coin-flips
5. Winning 50% of all dominated all-ins
6. Using the word "winning" when I'm not
7. Not varying bet sizes properly for differently-sucky opponents
8. Assuming people are 3- and 4-betting as lightly as you would
9. Not understanding what "weak/tight/passive" actually means
10. Not flopping the nuts often enough
11. Not coolering opponents often enough
12. Getting coolered more than enough
13. Calling too often on turn and river/not folding enough, since raising is dumbtarded
14. Bad karma
...
15. Getting runner-runnered by A2o on an A-9-5 flop holding 99.
16. Getting bored with money.
...
(to be continued)
1. 4- and 5-betting light/badly against players who can't fold and aren't bluffing when they 3- and 4-bet
2. Calling down with ridiculous hands after 4-betting light and then getting 5-bet
3. Running too many large, multi-street bluffs in raised (and reraised) pots
4. Only winning 50% of all coin-flips
5. Winning 50% of all dominated all-ins
6. Using the word "winning" when I'm not
7. Not varying bet sizes properly for differently-sucky opponents
8. Assuming people are 3- and 4-betting as lightly as you would
9. Not understanding what "weak/tight/passive" actually means
10. Not flopping the nuts often enough
11. Not coolering opponents often enough
12. Getting coolered more than enough
13. Calling too often on turn and river/not folding enough, since raising is dumbtarded
14. Bad karma
...
15. Getting runner-runnered by A2o on an A-9-5 flop holding 99.
16. Getting bored with money.
...
(to be continued)
Monday, April 21, 2008
Honesty
I've definitely heard of Sex and the Ivy before, but it wasn't until I took the time to read the post that I just linked to that I really felt... well, I don't know what I feel right now, considering I just finished reading that post 2 minutes ago. My first reaction is basically shock, the dull thud of a realization that seems distant and unfamiliar because it's been so long since you've felt those kinds of dull thuds that used to be feel like sharp knives.
I mean, first and foremost, I have to get past the insta-crush I develop on any girl who's capable of putting together coherent words on a page. And just so you know, the level of crush (from "kindergarten crush" as Will on Real World XX: Hollywood put it so aptly - dear God, why do I watch trashy reality shows, all the way to full blown "leave your husband and run away with me Tina Fey, pleeeeeaaase?") is in direct proportion to my perception of the writer's skillz. Without going into too much detail, Sex and the Ivy is about as close to that Tina Fey-love level as Hillary is to Obama in pledged delegates (close, but almost impossible that she would ever match it).
All my many issues with women aside, it's the writing that cuts to the quick. Maybe I'm just imagining, but reading the stream-of-consciousness in that post felt so much like being inside someone's head, able to predict the answers to their own rhetorical questions, that I almost lost myself there for a second, forgetting whether those were her thoughts or mine. I don't really want to intrude on her privacy, so I won't say anything else about her, but from reading something so honest and at the same time so aware of the impossibility of its own, full honesty, I could start to feel that nervous itch in my fingers, that urge to strike a keyboard and pound out the vagaries of thought and emotion (in that order or not) swirling from the back of my brains to the tips of my fingers. They're like tentacles that know precisely what they're looking for, and before I can even form the rest of the next word they should be spelling, they are already on the next sentence.
But what I'm getting to is this: I don't think I'm capable of the sort of honesty that she at least tried for. It feels beyond my grasp to even try that hard. As much as I think of humility as a virtue and am disgusted by those who fail to display any, in the domain of my personal thoughts humility has never been present. I mean, it doesn't seem to be a question of right and wrong, when you ask yourself what sort of person you think you are. You are what you make of yourself. But to frame the discussion (but who am I discussing with, myself and I?) in such a way precludes the possibility of change. By which I mean, if I thought that what I thought/did was always and forever the one and only true and absolute representation of myself, than for better or, more likely, worse, I would never change. Everything new or previously undiscovered would be amalgamated into the existing sprawl, swallowed whole into the dark mess of self that offers in explanation of this acquisition only that it was there all along and I had better get used to it.
Honesty (in this particular sense of self-honesty) implicitly acknowledges that the whole damn thing is a multi-party (or at least, two-party) system. If honesty is to exist and have meaning, it must entail a choice between two things, one of which is presumably what they call, the truth. In my current conception of self, there is no truth or falsity, only a kind of unquestionable, existential being. I am. But at least in my mind, that isn't so much a definitive statement, as it is question-begging -- I am... what?
The objective facts that I can offer up to that question seem woefully inadequate: I am 19-and-a-half, I am Chinese, I am an Ivy-Leaguer, I am single, I am a Computer Science concentrator (as of last Tuesday), I am a mediocre writer with delusions of grandeur, I am essentially CFO of a corporation in a dying industry, I am nocturnal, I am a poker player, I am a gambler, I am procrastinating. The next set of responses offer slightly more insight, but they mostly run as adjective editorializing of the first set of responses: I am immature, I am simultaneously too Chinese and too un-Chinese, I am a lucky bastard who doesn't deserve this curse of a gift, I am lonely, I am indecisively and hopelessly lost on whatever path of life this is, I am a whiny/neurotic bitch with a blog that might as well be a LiveJournal or worse - my old Xanga, I am a deceptively sincere but ultimately inept cog in the leadership of a rotting machine that no one has the manual to fix, I am anti-social to the point that I prefer the solitude this late-night/early-morning activity affords me over the bombardment of daytime interactions, I am a bad poker player, I am an addicted gambler, I am a lazy slacker. But it still sounds hollow, even though it seems all to be true.
Honesty is more than just the truth, then. If it does indeed involve a choice as I stated earlier, then the choice means something too. The choice to be honest involves something else, something not captured in the bare appeal of reality. For me, it probably is a choice made by my urge to know, and what's more, to be known. It isn't fame or notoriety though, but it is understanding that I seek, that I need. And before this gets too sappy, I admit freely that rarely do I return the favor, that most often I make no effort to understand other people. Not only is there hypocrisy in this, but there is also active deceit. Call it stinginess, but I want to get the most I can while giving the least. The way national intelligence agencies trade secrets, I trade half-truths and yesterday's news for gems of real value. It's a re-gifting of things I've already given out and won't miss, in a greedy bid for something new.
Or, in stronger moments when the urge for self-deprecating, emo bullshit doesn't choke me so tightly, I will admit that there are still things that I believe in absolutely about myself. I believe in the value of doing the best that you can, and I believe in the damnation of ones such as myself who either don't do their best or lie about what their best is. I believe in love, strangely enough of all things. I believe in love at first sight still, even if you don't know that that is what it is at first. I believe nothing can erase those first impressions of meeting someone. I believe that people are most honest to strangers and close friends. The ones in between are the ones you lie to the most, and the most often. I believe the hardest thing to be in this world is honest.
Especially when it's gotten you burnt in the past. Fried, roasted, and set ablaze. Burnt to a painful crisp and left in a pile of ashes. Too bad you weren't born a phoenix. Of course, the fact that it was really self-inflicted arson will often conveniently slip your mind as you go on angry/frustrated rants against those things that make you feel good that it wasn't your fault and was beyond your control.
So, as Turk once said, "lay some truth on him baby." Here's some honesty: I am a dried, shrivelled-up little ball of a person (and it'll be a long time before I'd use the word "man"), with all the outward appeal of a raisiny-looking old person like you'd find on Clearwater Beach in the summer, who's one and only hope for fulfillment rests in an avenue in which I am both unwilling and unable to pursue. Oh, and before I forget: it's gonna get worse before it gets better.
-------------
Nothing groundbreaking really. Still falls victim to that same tendency of over-analysis that distances him from the possibility of real, effective action. He seems to be very caught-up in the drive to explain and interpret, with little room or desire for "doing" anything. He never writes about what happens, what he's thinking, or what he's feeling; instead, he writes only about what he thinks about what has happened, what he thinks about what he thinks, and what he thinks about what he feels. Sometimes, it's even another layer (or two or three or infinitely many) up, of what he thinks of what he thinks of... what he thinks. Like right now.
I mean, first and foremost, I have to get past the insta-crush I develop on any girl who's capable of putting together coherent words on a page. And just so you know, the level of crush (from "kindergarten crush" as Will on Real World XX: Hollywood put it so aptly - dear God, why do I watch trashy reality shows, all the way to full blown "leave your husband and run away with me Tina Fey, pleeeeeaaase?") is in direct proportion to my perception of the writer's skillz. Without going into too much detail, Sex and the Ivy is about as close to that Tina Fey-love level as Hillary is to Obama in pledged delegates (close, but almost impossible that she would ever match it).
All my many issues with women aside, it's the writing that cuts to the quick. Maybe I'm just imagining, but reading the stream-of-consciousness in that post felt so much like being inside someone's head, able to predict the answers to their own rhetorical questions, that I almost lost myself there for a second, forgetting whether those were her thoughts or mine. I don't really want to intrude on her privacy, so I won't say anything else about her, but from reading something so honest and at the same time so aware of the impossibility of its own, full honesty, I could start to feel that nervous itch in my fingers, that urge to strike a keyboard and pound out the vagaries of thought and emotion (in that order or not) swirling from the back of my brains to the tips of my fingers. They're like tentacles that know precisely what they're looking for, and before I can even form the rest of the next word they should be spelling, they are already on the next sentence.
But what I'm getting to is this: I don't think I'm capable of the sort of honesty that she at least tried for. It feels beyond my grasp to even try that hard. As much as I think of humility as a virtue and am disgusted by those who fail to display any, in the domain of my personal thoughts humility has never been present. I mean, it doesn't seem to be a question of right and wrong, when you ask yourself what sort of person you think you are. You are what you make of yourself. But to frame the discussion (but who am I discussing with, myself and I?) in such a way precludes the possibility of change. By which I mean, if I thought that what I thought/did was always and forever the one and only true and absolute representation of myself, than for better or, more likely, worse, I would never change. Everything new or previously undiscovered would be amalgamated into the existing sprawl, swallowed whole into the dark mess of self that offers in explanation of this acquisition only that it was there all along and I had better get used to it.
Honesty (in this particular sense of self-honesty) implicitly acknowledges that the whole damn thing is a multi-party (or at least, two-party) system. If honesty is to exist and have meaning, it must entail a choice between two things, one of which is presumably what they call, the truth. In my current conception of self, there is no truth or falsity, only a kind of unquestionable, existential being. I am. But at least in my mind, that isn't so much a definitive statement, as it is question-begging -- I am... what?
The objective facts that I can offer up to that question seem woefully inadequate: I am 19-and-a-half, I am Chinese, I am an Ivy-Leaguer, I am single, I am a Computer Science concentrator (as of last Tuesday), I am a mediocre writer with delusions of grandeur, I am essentially CFO of a corporation in a dying industry, I am nocturnal, I am a poker player, I am a gambler, I am procrastinating. The next set of responses offer slightly more insight, but they mostly run as adjective editorializing of the first set of responses: I am immature, I am simultaneously too Chinese and too un-Chinese, I am a lucky bastard who doesn't deserve this curse of a gift, I am lonely, I am indecisively and hopelessly lost on whatever path of life this is, I am a whiny/neurotic bitch with a blog that might as well be a LiveJournal or worse - my old Xanga, I am a deceptively sincere but ultimately inept cog in the leadership of a rotting machine that no one has the manual to fix, I am anti-social to the point that I prefer the solitude this late-night/early-morning activity affords me over the bombardment of daytime interactions, I am a bad poker player, I am an addicted gambler, I am a lazy slacker. But it still sounds hollow, even though it seems all to be true.
Honesty is more than just the truth, then. If it does indeed involve a choice as I stated earlier, then the choice means something too. The choice to be honest involves something else, something not captured in the bare appeal of reality. For me, it probably is a choice made by my urge to know, and what's more, to be known. It isn't fame or notoriety though, but it is understanding that I seek, that I need. And before this gets too sappy, I admit freely that rarely do I return the favor, that most often I make no effort to understand other people. Not only is there hypocrisy in this, but there is also active deceit. Call it stinginess, but I want to get the most I can while giving the least. The way national intelligence agencies trade secrets, I trade half-truths and yesterday's news for gems of real value. It's a re-gifting of things I've already given out and won't miss, in a greedy bid for something new.
Or, in stronger moments when the urge for self-deprecating, emo bullshit doesn't choke me so tightly, I will admit that there are still things that I believe in absolutely about myself. I believe in the value of doing the best that you can, and I believe in the damnation of ones such as myself who either don't do their best or lie about what their best is. I believe in love, strangely enough of all things. I believe in love at first sight still, even if you don't know that that is what it is at first. I believe nothing can erase those first impressions of meeting someone. I believe that people are most honest to strangers and close friends. The ones in between are the ones you lie to the most, and the most often. I believe the hardest thing to be in this world is honest.
Especially when it's gotten you burnt in the past. Fried, roasted, and set ablaze. Burnt to a painful crisp and left in a pile of ashes. Too bad you weren't born a phoenix. Of course, the fact that it was really self-inflicted arson will often conveniently slip your mind as you go on angry/frustrated rants against those things that make you feel good that it wasn't your fault and was beyond your control.
So, as Turk once said, "lay some truth on him baby." Here's some honesty: I am a dried, shrivelled-up little ball of a person (and it'll be a long time before I'd use the word "man"), with all the outward appeal of a raisiny-looking old person like you'd find on Clearwater Beach in the summer, who's one and only hope for fulfillment rests in an avenue in which I am both unwilling and unable to pursue. Oh, and before I forget: it's gonna get worse before it gets better.
-------------
Nothing groundbreaking really. Still falls victim to that same tendency of over-analysis that distances him from the possibility of real, effective action. He seems to be very caught-up in the drive to explain and interpret, with little room or desire for "doing" anything. He never writes about what happens, what he's thinking, or what he's feeling; instead, he writes only about what he thinks about what has happened, what he thinks about what he thinks, and what he thinks about what he feels. Sometimes, it's even another layer (or two or three or infinitely many) up, of what he thinks of what he thinks of... what he thinks. Like right now.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
How Do You Know If You Really Know What You're Doing?
There is something strangely unsatisfying about describing my life in the first person here, as if it is too easy to merely relate the things I did or thoughts I thought, and that if I were any good, I'd figure out a way to write something that wasn't directly about me but would remind anyone who reads it of me in some subtle yet illuminating way. I've come to terms with the fact that I do not possess that gift for writing that allows one to capture every minute detail of a moment that happened; now I am faced with the sad realization that perhaps I can't even inspire a mere brief flash of illumination of something more real. Maybe the only thing that ends up being captured within these words is the profundity of my confusions.
Two things come to mind right now, for no reason in particular. Both fall under the general category of musing about the path I've taken, the path I'm taking, and the path I'll take. One thing has to do with school, and the other has to do with my father.
The one that has to do with school, more specifically has to do with the third grade, which for me was really the fourth grade. As much as I hate trivializing an entire human being down to a few childhood events, skipping the third grade (technically, fourth grade), while obviously being something that put me where I am today, is also important because of the effect on my psyche. Not that I was ever all that social a child, but to be pulled up bodily out of the third grade class and placed into the combined fourth/fifth grade class is something at least as traumatic as transplanting a tree. But at least the tree doesn't feel younger, (and consequently, inferior) to all the other trees. It really is strange how even children recognize the importance of a year's worth of experiences, or even just a few months. Or perhaps it makes sense, when a year is so much of one's young life; what's the difference between 46 and 47? I remember learning the word "yeblow," from a fat Hispanic kid named Julio; I have no idea what "yeblow" means now. I remember buying my first football card for $1, a ridiculously high price for Chris Slade, a fairly mediocre linebacker with the Patriots. I remember lying to my parents about what I did with that $1; perhaps that is where the seed of my poker-playing/lying was planted. I remember the Miami-Dade County Geography Bee, where we took 4th. I remember people paying attention to me, because at least in a geography bee, I had more useful knowledge than they did. Life on the other hand, was an entirely different story.
And wouldn't you know it, after a year spent frantically alternating between hiding in social corners and scavenging for knowledge about the new world I was thrust into, we moved. Now, had we stayed in Miami another year, had I gotten the chance to stay in the same school, and stay in that combined fourth/fifth grade class with my old classmates from the fourth grade, who knows? Maybe I'd actually be a decent human being right now.
Move we did, to Pinellas County, to Larghetto, to Ridgecrest, to Mrs. Wall and Mrs. Smith, to my first D on a test, to my first-place essay in the Public Library's Writing Contest (whose topic was "The Far Side of the World," and since that's where I came from, it made sense to me that my story was a little more authentic, a little more detailed, a little more fake). Then to Seminole, to MEGSSS, to MATHCOUNTS, to Chicago, to missing the bus to walk her home, to detentions for cursing and awards for... for being me. And the whole time, I was an outsider trying to hide, trying to learn enough about the way this world worked so that I could wash away the marks of my foreignness.
Then it was high school, IB and TOK, HL, SL, and AP, dances and poker and skipping lunch and socializing in French and staying after-school and going to State's and ... and then it was over. And then 4 years of non-stop effort, of working my way into a hidden little niche of this world where I would not stick out, where I could belong, all that went out the proverbial window.
Then it was summer, it was China, and it was being alone. Alone like I'd never been before. If I thought I was alone before, it was only because it fit the pure dictionary definition of being just one person by myself. But now, now I knew what it was to not be alone, that when things fell apart, I finally saw how deep that particular hole went.
The other thing, the one about my father, I would really like to say it was about my parents. But it was something that only my father ever really believed in and talked about; my mother's responsibilities lay mostly in keeping my ass in line, for whatever a proper Chinese line was supposed to be. For as long as I can remember having my own memories, my father always told me this, that he trusted my judgment. His parenting, his teaching, his nurturing and his scolding, they were all supposed to generate in me an independent faculty within myself, to judge externally and internally. He didn't so much as tell me what was right, as let me decide what was right. In this, I now fear I've failed him.
I've failed myself.
I can't judge shit.
I want answers. I said that once, at a conference on gifted kids where they invited us "gifted kids" to participate. I said my gift was for curiosity. I wanted answers.
I would rather someone give me the answers.
I would rather cheat.
And somehow I'm here, still. Somehow I haven't fucked myself too hard, yet. But it has certainly been a mess. Looking back, the last year-and-a-half/two years have been nothing short of the beginning of a muddled, blind, half-stumbling, half-groping face-forward fall. My face has yet to make contact with the ground in that metaphor (though ironically, the same could not be said for my physical face and the physical carpet in the current Joline game room).
It's like slowly forgetting how to walk.
It's like waking up.
I ask myself what I'm doing. The answer I get, the only one I can get, is what I think I am doing. It is impossible to actually know. I think I am slowly choking myself. I think it's already too late.
I think it is already too late.
I will salvage what I can.
-------------
I know the only one for me can only be you.
My arms won't free you, and my heart won't try.
Two things come to mind right now, for no reason in particular. Both fall under the general category of musing about the path I've taken, the path I'm taking, and the path I'll take. One thing has to do with school, and the other has to do with my father.
The one that has to do with school, more specifically has to do with the third grade, which for me was really the fourth grade. As much as I hate trivializing an entire human being down to a few childhood events, skipping the third grade (technically, fourth grade), while obviously being something that put me where I am today, is also important because of the effect on my psyche. Not that I was ever all that social a child, but to be pulled up bodily out of the third grade class and placed into the combined fourth/fifth grade class is something at least as traumatic as transplanting a tree. But at least the tree doesn't feel younger, (and consequently, inferior) to all the other trees. It really is strange how even children recognize the importance of a year's worth of experiences, or even just a few months. Or perhaps it makes sense, when a year is so much of one's young life; what's the difference between 46 and 47? I remember learning the word "yeblow," from a fat Hispanic kid named Julio; I have no idea what "yeblow" means now. I remember buying my first football card for $1, a ridiculously high price for Chris Slade, a fairly mediocre linebacker with the Patriots. I remember lying to my parents about what I did with that $1; perhaps that is where the seed of my poker-playing/lying was planted. I remember the Miami-Dade County Geography Bee, where we took 4th. I remember people paying attention to me, because at least in a geography bee, I had more useful knowledge than they did. Life on the other hand, was an entirely different story.
And wouldn't you know it, after a year spent frantically alternating between hiding in social corners and scavenging for knowledge about the new world I was thrust into, we moved. Now, had we stayed in Miami another year, had I gotten the chance to stay in the same school, and stay in that combined fourth/fifth grade class with my old classmates from the fourth grade, who knows? Maybe I'd actually be a decent human being right now.
Move we did, to Pinellas County, to Larghetto, to Ridgecrest, to Mrs. Wall and Mrs. Smith, to my first D on a test, to my first-place essay in the Public Library's Writing Contest (whose topic was "The Far Side of the World," and since that's where I came from, it made sense to me that my story was a little more authentic, a little more detailed, a little more fake). Then to Seminole, to MEGSSS, to MATHCOUNTS, to Chicago, to missing the bus to walk her home, to detentions for cursing and awards for... for being me. And the whole time, I was an outsider trying to hide, trying to learn enough about the way this world worked so that I could wash away the marks of my foreignness.
Then it was high school, IB and TOK, HL, SL, and AP, dances and poker and skipping lunch and socializing in French and staying after-school and going to State's and ... and then it was over. And then 4 years of non-stop effort, of working my way into a hidden little niche of this world where I would not stick out, where I could belong, all that went out the proverbial window.
Then it was summer, it was China, and it was being alone. Alone like I'd never been before. If I thought I was alone before, it was only because it fit the pure dictionary definition of being just one person by myself. But now, now I knew what it was to not be alone, that when things fell apart, I finally saw how deep that particular hole went.
The other thing, the one about my father, I would really like to say it was about my parents. But it was something that only my father ever really believed in and talked about; my mother's responsibilities lay mostly in keeping my ass in line, for whatever a proper Chinese line was supposed to be. For as long as I can remember having my own memories, my father always told me this, that he trusted my judgment. His parenting, his teaching, his nurturing and his scolding, they were all supposed to generate in me an independent faculty within myself, to judge externally and internally. He didn't so much as tell me what was right, as let me decide what was right. In this, I now fear I've failed him.
I've failed myself.
I can't judge shit.
I want answers. I said that once, at a conference on gifted kids where they invited us "gifted kids" to participate. I said my gift was for curiosity. I wanted answers.
I would rather someone give me the answers.
I would rather cheat.
And somehow I'm here, still. Somehow I haven't fucked myself too hard, yet. But it has certainly been a mess. Looking back, the last year-and-a-half/two years have been nothing short of the beginning of a muddled, blind, half-stumbling, half-groping face-forward fall. My face has yet to make contact with the ground in that metaphor (though ironically, the same could not be said for my physical face and the physical carpet in the current Joline game room).
It's like slowly forgetting how to walk.
It's like waking up.
I ask myself what I'm doing. The answer I get, the only one I can get, is what I think I am doing. It is impossible to actually know. I think I am slowly choking myself. I think it's already too late.
I think it is already too late.
I will salvage what I can.
-------------
I know the only one for me can only be you.
My arms won't free you, and my heart won't try.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Good Weekend, Sigh
Let's start with pool. We played today, the roommate and I, a real game, for the first time in, let's see, three, four, nine and half, carry the one, integrate with respect to y -- 2 months, maybe? First to 11, 8-ball, alternating breaks, random rack for the opening break (we get the tray of balls and just scatter them over the table, replacing balls that go in). I was up 8 to 5 when Sam went to get a sandwich, and I went to try and get an Arnold Palmer. I came back with a Peach Orange Nantucket Nectar, and from that point on, I went on a 1-6 hot streak. Sooo good. On our way back, we tried to corner a rabbit, but even though he looked pretty obese, somehow he managed to elude us. We've completely fucked evolution, as a species.
Rewind a little, and we were having dinner at the best Applebee's in the state of New Jersey/anywhere. We got there around 6-ish, the place was almost full, and by 8:30 when we left, it was bloody packed. The 12 oz New York Strip steak obviously wouldn't measure up at an actual restaurant, but for Applebee's, it was pretty bleedin' good. I asked for medium, and the chef kept it just a shade under, something like medium-medium-medium-rare, which was perfect. Everyone raved about the grub, the buffalo wings we had for appetizers hit the spot perfectly, and the Steak Quesadilla Towers were apparently just divine. Drool. The $26 I ended up paying didn't even hurt too much at the time, since our server was so cool.
Rewind a little more, and we played something like 4-5 hour session of 拖拉机／捉汉奸／升级. I guess they must think I play pretty good, but the scores didn't reflect anything to that effect. I was stuck on 3 forever... but I managed a respectable 4th place finish out of the 7 of us, getting to 10 before we called it a night. Good times, good times. Sigh. Laundry did get wrinkled. Sigh.
Oh my god, but if you keep rewinding, you'd find us at the Szechuan Maiden, or 川妹子. Probably the greatest Chinese dinner I've had since leaving Beijing. Spicy as fuck too. I forget the name of the Szechuan place in Beijing we loved, but this was as worthy a second place as you could expect to find in the Garden State. $28, also another good server (man, we were lucky this weekend), and also a stomach so full it was spherical.
Fast forward to right now. Monday will be the suck, while right now is the pre-suck before the main event suck. Sucks.
Sigh.
-------------
If someone would buy me some 2-cent stamps, I'd be eternally grateful. A little late already, but for the future...
Rewind a little, and we were having dinner at the best Applebee's in the state of New Jersey/anywhere. We got there around 6-ish, the place was almost full, and by 8:30 when we left, it was bloody packed. The 12 oz New York Strip steak obviously wouldn't measure up at an actual restaurant, but for Applebee's, it was pretty bleedin' good. I asked for medium, and the chef kept it just a shade under, something like medium-medium-medium-rare, which was perfect. Everyone raved about the grub, the buffalo wings we had for appetizers hit the spot perfectly, and the Steak Quesadilla Towers were apparently just divine. Drool. The $26 I ended up paying didn't even hurt too much at the time, since our server was so cool.
Rewind a little more, and we played something like 4-5 hour session of 拖拉机／捉汉奸／升级. I guess they must think I play pretty good, but the scores didn't reflect anything to that effect. I was stuck on 3 forever... but I managed a respectable 4th place finish out of the 7 of us, getting to 10 before we called it a night. Good times, good times. Sigh. Laundry did get wrinkled. Sigh.
Oh my god, but if you keep rewinding, you'd find us at the Szechuan Maiden, or 川妹子. Probably the greatest Chinese dinner I've had since leaving Beijing. Spicy as fuck too. I forget the name of the Szechuan place in Beijing we loved, but this was as worthy a second place as you could expect to find in the Garden State. $28, also another good server (man, we were lucky this weekend), and also a stomach so full it was spherical.
Fast forward to right now. Monday will be the suck, while right now is the pre-suck before the main event suck. Sucks.
Sigh.
-------------
If someone would buy me some 2-cent stamps, I'd be eternally grateful. A little late already, but for the future...
Friday, March 28, 2008
Doing Stuff that Doesn't Need Doing
If only there were some way I could turn this posting into an English paper on the significance and interpretative role of photographs in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale... well I'd pretty much be in Heaven already, no? What the hell kind of Heaven is it where I'm writing English papers in my spare time? Oh that's right, the kind where I don't have this take-home Comp. Sci. midterm to finish.
I swear to God, it must all be one big conspiracy. For Christ's sake, they're both due at the exact same time tomorrow...
In other news, I did miss a posting yesterday, but no one noticed, so ignore what I just wrote, because we should just pretend what I just didn't write didn't happen.
My roommate today pointed out that this week, he has been so busy that he has only been able to watch about 1 hour of television, for the entire week. Myself on the other hand, I have been watching roughly 3-4 hours of television per day, counting the games of Madden that I play. My fuckin' Giants are 2-1 so far for the regular season, after a heart-breaking loss in their last home game against the Steelers, where a Brandon Jacobs fumble late in the 4th quarter resulted in a Steelers touchdown return to give them the tying score at 17-17, followed soon thereafter on the ensuing drive by an Eli Manning pass into triple coverage that was picked off and led to a game-winning field goal for the Steelers. Sigh. Story of my life.
This week's writing exercise:
The tall windows in front of me reflect an empty corridor, stretching out into the distance, a solitary girl walking in the darkness, floating hauntingly above the ground outside. Streetlights give off a muted, yellow glow, a sickly light, like the aisle lighting on a red-eye flight, submerged beneath the reflected floor. Two figures sit, hunched behind boxy frames of monitors, directly across from us, as if we are all sitting here working hard together. The girl two computers down from me can't quite contain her giggles. Her image in the glass laughs too, but silently.
Overhead, the line of ceiling lights go off in an unwavering line, reminiscent of a hospital corridor. After all, this is the building that's supposed to be Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. But the darkness outside swallows all this, as the hallway behind me stretches out in front of me in the window and fades, into the cold night air. Lifeless halls, fed by the mechanical churning of the printer, producing page after page of another junior paper, or God forbid, a senior thesis. Then it stops. The sound of the keyboard is all that is left, and even that drifts off slowly, into silence.
Excellent blog posts I wish I could emulate:
Tao of Poker (March 26, 2008)
Poker in the Weeds (July 12, 2006)
-------------
I'm hooked on multi-v Vitamin Water. I figure I have to be missing some vitamins at least.
I swear to God, it must all be one big conspiracy. For Christ's sake, they're both due at the exact same time tomorrow...
In other news, I did miss a posting yesterday, but no one noticed, so ignore what I just wrote, because we should just pretend what I just didn't write didn't happen.
My roommate today pointed out that this week, he has been so busy that he has only been able to watch about 1 hour of television, for the entire week. Myself on the other hand, I have been watching roughly 3-4 hours of television per day, counting the games of Madden that I play. My fuckin' Giants are 2-1 so far for the regular season, after a heart-breaking loss in their last home game against the Steelers, where a Brandon Jacobs fumble late in the 4th quarter resulted in a Steelers touchdown return to give them the tying score at 17-17, followed soon thereafter on the ensuing drive by an Eli Manning pass into triple coverage that was picked off and led to a game-winning field goal for the Steelers. Sigh. Story of my life.
This week's writing exercise:
The tall windows in front of me reflect an empty corridor, stretching out into the distance, a solitary girl walking in the darkness, floating hauntingly above the ground outside. Streetlights give off a muted, yellow glow, a sickly light, like the aisle lighting on a red-eye flight, submerged beneath the reflected floor. Two figures sit, hunched behind boxy frames of monitors, directly across from us, as if we are all sitting here working hard together. The girl two computers down from me can't quite contain her giggles. Her image in the glass laughs too, but silently.
Overhead, the line of ceiling lights go off in an unwavering line, reminiscent of a hospital corridor. After all, this is the building that's supposed to be Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. But the darkness outside swallows all this, as the hallway behind me stretches out in front of me in the window and fades, into the cold night air. Lifeless halls, fed by the mechanical churning of the printer, producing page after page of another junior paper, or God forbid, a senior thesis. Then it stops. The sound of the keyboard is all that is left, and even that drifts off slowly, into silence.
Excellent blog posts I wish I could emulate:
Tao of Poker (March 26, 2008)
Poker in the Weeds (July 12, 2006)
-------------
I'm hooked on multi-v Vitamin Water. I figure I have to be missing some vitamins at least.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Big 150
Whoopdeefuckingdoo, as I like to say to such occasions which are more coincidences than meaningful events.
I cannot get this one hand out of my head. The contract was 5 Spades, doubled, declarer was East, and the salient features of declarer and dummy's hands are a 5-3 fit in trumps with the AKJxx and 86x respectively, a 6-2 fit in the diamond side suit with Kx and A-10xxxx respectively, one club loser, and xx and AQJ in hearts respectively. After the opening club lead to the Ace with North, the second round was a low trump. Here a safety presents itself, which allows for all 4-1 and 5-0 combinations where North has the long trumps (the most likely scenario, given that North doubled in the first place), by playing low to the first trick. Assuming we can set up diamonds, or that the heart finesse is on (both options can be explored in due course, with plenty of entries), we have no other side suit losers, so we can afford to give up one trick in trumps.
Goddamn I suck balls at this game.
Of course, if I really did suck balls, I wouldn't be able to appreciate how much I suck. Idiots don't know they're stupid, as it were.
Nothing much happened today; I had my usual individual session with Prof. Liu in the morning, spent the intervening period of time finishing up the reading and doing homework, attended my regular 2:30 PM drill class, then finished up the last part of the weekly homework (the 800-word+ essay), and turned everything in at 5:00 PM exactly (the due time, of course).
Then, it was TV watching, some Ba Jin-reading, and a few hours of bridge playing, comingled with a few AIM conversations. Sometime soon, I'll also have to check out the warranty on this laptop, and either break it in hopes of getting a new one, or do something else fun with it.
Oh yeah, I also had buffalo wings. There is a God after all; in His benevolence He saw fit to answer my prayers for more chicken wings. Amen, and God Bless. One more thing, I steal cakes now, chocolate ones, from the dining hall. Bitches.
Old man blog, he just keeps rolling along.
-------------
For my 150th post, I would like to point out that I've done everything I needed to do classes-wise in the past 2-3 days. Huzzah.
I cannot get this one hand out of my head. The contract was 5 Spades, doubled, declarer was East, and the salient features of declarer and dummy's hands are a 5-3 fit in trumps with the AKJxx and 86x respectively, a 6-2 fit in the diamond side suit with Kx and A-10xxxx respectively, one club loser, and xx and AQJ in hearts respectively. After the opening club lead to the Ace with North, the second round was a low trump. Here a safety presents itself, which allows for all 4-1 and 5-0 combinations where North has the long trumps (the most likely scenario, given that North doubled in the first place), by playing low to the first trick. Assuming we can set up diamonds, or that the heart finesse is on (both options can be explored in due course, with plenty of entries), we have no other side suit losers, so we can afford to give up one trick in trumps.
Goddamn I suck balls at this game.
Of course, if I really did suck balls, I wouldn't be able to appreciate how much I suck. Idiots don't know they're stupid, as it were.
Nothing much happened today; I had my usual individual session with Prof. Liu in the morning, spent the intervening period of time finishing up the reading and doing homework, attended my regular 2:30 PM drill class, then finished up the last part of the weekly homework (the 800-word+ essay), and turned everything in at 5:00 PM exactly (the due time, of course).
Then, it was TV watching, some Ba Jin-reading, and a few hours of bridge playing, comingled with a few AIM conversations. Sometime soon, I'll also have to check out the warranty on this laptop, and either break it in hopes of getting a new one, or do something else fun with it.
Oh yeah, I also had buffalo wings. There is a God after all; in His benevolence He saw fit to answer my prayers for more chicken wings. Amen, and God Bless. One more thing, I steal cakes now, chocolate ones, from the dining hall. Bitches.
Old man blog, he just keeps rolling along.
-------------
For my 150th post, I would like to point out that I've done everything I needed to do classes-wise in the past 2-3 days. Huzzah.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Almost
I was on my way to bed when I literally stopped in my tracks, changed my mind, turned around, and sat back down on this couch to write an entry for today. In the same vein that I almost mustered up the energy to go to my first class this morning at 11 AM (MAT 201, which is basically multivariable calculus), I almost didn't write today. A curious comparison of almost did and almost didn't, but dichotomies seem to be my new thing.
As it was, I did still manage to swing by 3 out of my 4 scheduled classes today, and in a bout of guilt/determination, I also attended a lecture entitled "Managing Sino-U.S. Relations: the Chinese Way" given by a visiting professor from China Foreign Affairs University, a Prof. Qin. This may have in some obscure way made up for missing my morning math class with Prof. Chen, but more likely it was just the first time that I can remember actually going to one of the many, many special lectures/talks/conferences/seminars that happen on campus and which for brief moments capture my attention. Wednesday, there will be a discussion with Chinua Achebe, author of Things Fall Apart of IB English fame, at Nassau Presbyterian Church I believe. The jury is still out on whether I will be there or not, as my current interests don't really run much into issues facing the pan-African diaspora, but then again, why the hell not?
Because really, there's only so much dilly-dallying one can do before even that becomes boring. How about a little structure? Upholding one's promises, both the ones made to oneself, and the ones implicit in one's functioning in society, should be a nice change of pace. And maybe eventually I shall find the good sense to drop this English butler act. Mr. Stevens, really, I must protest.
I even wore a collared shirt today, put on a belt (damn you non-beer-belly), and moussed my atrocious haircut. For those of you who have yet to have the distinct horror of viewing it, imagine if you will, wetting your hair so that it sticks straight down flat across your forehead, then cutting it with a laser beam that runs precisely along the horizontal axis of your forehead. I have not the means to describe the precision, the skill, nay, the very art which it must have required from my barber to manage such a straight horizontal line. In any case, I look ridiculous, and even with the generous application of mousse, the best I could achieve was apparently quite a comical effect, as the entire classroom burst into cheerfully good-natured (I hope) laughter, when the first question of my Chinese literature class was directed towards me. Not being one who is unused to being laughed at and with simultaneously, I responded with gusto, but unfortunately the professor seemed quite confused by my ramblings and shrugged off my wayward comments, leaving my colleagues in stitches yet again. One teacher whom I'm quite fond of described my appearance as that of a local county official in China, dressed up and on a tour of the province. My roommate called me quite "studious," as if I had the look of one who had spent many hours buried in the labyrinthine corridors of Firestone library.
Regardless, the manner of dress which I chose this morning was dictated not by comedic concerns, but by a desire to look decently presentable at the special lecture that afternoon. Not that there was any particular dress code, but one does feel the need to fit in, with the 90 year-old professors and the cheery, preppy grad students. Anyways, the talk itself was rather long and laborious, and I got the distinct impression that our speaker Prof. Qin was not really saying anything at all. Rather, the amused half-smile he maintained on his face all the way from Prof. White's awkward introduction to the last question posed by an ancient husk of a gentleman who went on and on about how China should not forget the charitable support of the U.S. during World War Two which turned out not to be a question at all but a tired admonishment, Prof. Qin seemed to be spending his time trying to explain very simple (in his mind, simple at least) concepts to the audience of stupid, lazy, American pig capitalists and Western bourgeoisie intellectuals, as it were. His attitude was appeasing but disdainful, however only subtly so, so that it was only really identifiable by one who knows these Chinese mannerisms, especially the signs of false hospitality presented under duress or because of the necessities of etiquette and politeness. I should have very much liked to know what he might have said at dinner, in Chinese especially, in less formal settings, but I did not have the fortune of such an opportunity.
Instead, I watched TV for the rest of the evening, pondering Hustle and melting my brains. I watched most of an episode of Intervention on A&E, this time about a meth addict and a heroin/cocaine addict. The meth addict I thought was pretty special, as he had managed in his senior year of high school to impregnate both his girlfriend at the time, and her best friend. What a virile guy... and now both young mothers, who are no longer best friends, live together under one roof in their baby's daddy's parents' house, each taking turns berating him for his addiction and his consequent failures at fatherhood, each with a young son.
Interventions are for people with problems. Serious problems, I might guess, since they are not so common. At least only the serious ones make for good TV. But for one who has never faced such problems, what can Dr. Phil offer? If there is nothing wrong with your life, is everything alright by default? Even if we are kind enough to allow for an answer of "no," then how hard could it be to make things right? Whatever we may think otherwise, we know that someone for whom nothing has gone wrong can't possibly have all that much on his plate. That inference may not be correct at all; for I ask you, who has the easier choice to make: a man picking out a suit out of the 5 good ones which he owns, or a man choosing between rehab and likely death.
But certainly, we don't need to devote too much energy to the guy with too many suits; at least, not until he becomes a meth addict anyways.
-------------
One day at a time is the only way time happens. Like you have a choice. Or maybe what you do with that day that is given to you makes a difference in how quickly or how slowly it passes. We'll find out, tomorrow.
As it was, I did still manage to swing by 3 out of my 4 scheduled classes today, and in a bout of guilt/determination, I also attended a lecture entitled "Managing Sino-U.S. Relations: the Chinese Way" given by a visiting professor from China Foreign Affairs University, a Prof. Qin. This may have in some obscure way made up for missing my morning math class with Prof. Chen, but more likely it was just the first time that I can remember actually going to one of the many, many special lectures/talks/conferences/seminars that happen on campus and which for brief moments capture my attention. Wednesday, there will be a discussion with Chinua Achebe, author of Things Fall Apart of IB English fame, at Nassau Presbyterian Church I believe. The jury is still out on whether I will be there or not, as my current interests don't really run much into issues facing the pan-African diaspora, but then again, why the hell not?
Because really, there's only so much dilly-dallying one can do before even that becomes boring. How about a little structure? Upholding one's promises, both the ones made to oneself, and the ones implicit in one's functioning in society, should be a nice change of pace. And maybe eventually I shall find the good sense to drop this English butler act. Mr. Stevens, really, I must protest.
I even wore a collared shirt today, put on a belt (damn you non-beer-belly), and moussed my atrocious haircut. For those of you who have yet to have the distinct horror of viewing it, imagine if you will, wetting your hair so that it sticks straight down flat across your forehead, then cutting it with a laser beam that runs precisely along the horizontal axis of your forehead. I have not the means to describe the precision, the skill, nay, the very art which it must have required from my barber to manage such a straight horizontal line. In any case, I look ridiculous, and even with the generous application of mousse, the best I could achieve was apparently quite a comical effect, as the entire classroom burst into cheerfully good-natured (I hope) laughter, when the first question of my Chinese literature class was directed towards me. Not being one who is unused to being laughed at and with simultaneously, I responded with gusto, but unfortunately the professor seemed quite confused by my ramblings and shrugged off my wayward comments, leaving my colleagues in stitches yet again. One teacher whom I'm quite fond of described my appearance as that of a local county official in China, dressed up and on a tour of the province. My roommate called me quite "studious," as if I had the look of one who had spent many hours buried in the labyrinthine corridors of Firestone library.
Regardless, the manner of dress which I chose this morning was dictated not by comedic concerns, but by a desire to look decently presentable at the special lecture that afternoon. Not that there was any particular dress code, but one does feel the need to fit in, with the 90 year-old professors and the cheery, preppy grad students. Anyways, the talk itself was rather long and laborious, and I got the distinct impression that our speaker Prof. Qin was not really saying anything at all. Rather, the amused half-smile he maintained on his face all the way from Prof. White's awkward introduction to the last question posed by an ancient husk of a gentleman who went on and on about how China should not forget the charitable support of the U.S. during World War Two which turned out not to be a question at all but a tired admonishment, Prof. Qin seemed to be spending his time trying to explain very simple (in his mind, simple at least) concepts to the audience of stupid, lazy, American pig capitalists and Western bourgeoisie intellectuals, as it were. His attitude was appeasing but disdainful, however only subtly so, so that it was only really identifiable by one who knows these Chinese mannerisms, especially the signs of false hospitality presented under duress or because of the necessities of etiquette and politeness. I should have very much liked to know what he might have said at dinner, in Chinese especially, in less formal settings, but I did not have the fortune of such an opportunity.
Instead, I watched TV for the rest of the evening, pondering Hustle and melting my brains. I watched most of an episode of Intervention on A&E, this time about a meth addict and a heroin/cocaine addict. The meth addict I thought was pretty special, as he had managed in his senior year of high school to impregnate both his girlfriend at the time, and her best friend. What a virile guy... and now both young mothers, who are no longer best friends, live together under one roof in their baby's daddy's parents' house, each taking turns berating him for his addiction and his consequent failures at fatherhood, each with a young son.
Interventions are for people with problems. Serious problems, I might guess, since they are not so common. At least only the serious ones make for good TV. But for one who has never faced such problems, what can Dr. Phil offer? If there is nothing wrong with your life, is everything alright by default? Even if we are kind enough to allow for an answer of "no," then how hard could it be to make things right? Whatever we may think otherwise, we know that someone for whom nothing has gone wrong can't possibly have all that much on his plate. That inference may not be correct at all; for I ask you, who has the easier choice to make: a man picking out a suit out of the 5 good ones which he owns, or a man choosing between rehab and likely death.
But certainly, we don't need to devote too much energy to the guy with too many suits; at least, not until he becomes a meth addict anyways.
-------------
One day at a time is the only way time happens. Like you have a choice. Or maybe what you do with that day that is given to you makes a difference in how quickly or how slowly it passes. We'll find out, tomorrow.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Always Relative
The one bad thing about a long-running (and generally inconsistent) blog is the wealth of past posts which remain semi-permanently buried in the intricate tubings of the intarwebs. Lost to most, they are nevertheless uncover-able by the avid researcher/determined stalker/nostalgic author. Of the aforementioned categories, I have had the distinct pleasure of being all three at one point or another in my career. In truth, this ease of looking-back is only a bad thing for the last of the three; the other two probably find those past entries quite helpful in their own way.
Nostalgia is a dangerous thing however, and in most cases is best avoided. One risks looking back on things which no longer are, and wishing for things which never were. Not that the past is such a terrible thing, but to sacrifice present experience for past remembrances and/or fantasies risks creating a future when such activities are all which fill one's days and nights. Truth be told, "moving on" in no way implies that anything was wrong with the past; one "moves on" because nothing is wrong with the present, yet. Failure to "move on" rectifies a situation that hardly needs rectifying, thus creating problems where there were none to begin with.
Or is that the case at all? Peter Singer once raised the example of a man who comes across a child drowning in a lake; his purpose was to describe a situation where it was plainly obvious that the man had a moral obligation to save the child, since the benefits of him doing so (i.e. saving an innocent life) far outweighed the costs (i.e. getting his clothes wet, possibly catching cold, ruining his iPhone, etc.). Ok. Now imagine the world 5 minutes after the man first comes upon the child; during this period of indecision as he pondered his moral obligations, the child has since drowned. Maybe the man should just "move on?"
For indeed, nothing is left to be done, nothing can save the child, and no amount of guilt or recrimination will redeem the man. What possible purpose could it serve for this man to dwell on the child's death? One may suggest that such reflection will lead the man to recognize similar situations in the future and act accordingly then, but such an improvement to his character (if it can be called that) requires not a lengthy period of self-blame or torment. He may simply acknowledge to himself that should he come upon struggling children whose lives he can save with simple actions on his part, he will endeavor to do so efficiently, confidently, and without delay in the future.
But were this man to keep a blog of his daily thoughts, we may not find it strange if he were often to return to that fateful day and read and reread his thoughts, his torments, his nightmares that night after he returned home. We would likely find sympathy in our hearts for this troubled man, and not begrudge him this indulgence. For it is like watching a train-wreck as the saying goes; one cannot avert one's eyes. And he cannot forget, nor can he avoid poking that sore, open wound, the deepest of cuts upon his heart, which he keeps fresh each day, week, or month, as he reopens the torn flesh and feels the pain anew.
It is a delicate balance that must be struck. Much like a child who learns to ride a bicycle, who grows into an adult, embarrassed at the occasional and perhaps accidental falls, we learn to balance our way through the intricate tubings of life. And when we fall off that bicycle, it is not that we have forgotten how to ride which prevents us from getting back up immediately, it is that we fear another fall. The choice then, is between lying broken and bloodied on the ground with our vehicle lying askance and wheels spinning idly, or to right the thing, pick ourselves up, and ride on. This latter choice carries with it the burden of a distinct risk of future failure; the former, certain defeat.
"Audentes fortuna juvat," as they say.
-------------
There's a green poker chip, with a design of the 6 different faces of a die along the rims of the chip's two faces, lying next to a wooden bench on the carpet in this computer cluster. I have nary a clue as to its origins, lying as it is in such an ill-suited location. Perhaps it is a sign.
Nostalgia is a dangerous thing however, and in most cases is best avoided. One risks looking back on things which no longer are, and wishing for things which never were. Not that the past is such a terrible thing, but to sacrifice present experience for past remembrances and/or fantasies risks creating a future when such activities are all which fill one's days and nights. Truth be told, "moving on" in no way implies that anything was wrong with the past; one "moves on" because nothing is wrong with the present, yet. Failure to "move on" rectifies a situation that hardly needs rectifying, thus creating problems where there were none to begin with.
Or is that the case at all? Peter Singer once raised the example of a man who comes across a child drowning in a lake; his purpose was to describe a situation where it was plainly obvious that the man had a moral obligation to save the child, since the benefits of him doing so (i.e. saving an innocent life) far outweighed the costs (i.e. getting his clothes wet, possibly catching cold, ruining his iPhone, etc.). Ok. Now imagine the world 5 minutes after the man first comes upon the child; during this period of indecision as he pondered his moral obligations, the child has since drowned. Maybe the man should just "move on?"
For indeed, nothing is left to be done, nothing can save the child, and no amount of guilt or recrimination will redeem the man. What possible purpose could it serve for this man to dwell on the child's death? One may suggest that such reflection will lead the man to recognize similar situations in the future and act accordingly then, but such an improvement to his character (if it can be called that) requires not a lengthy period of self-blame or torment. He may simply acknowledge to himself that should he come upon struggling children whose lives he can save with simple actions on his part, he will endeavor to do so efficiently, confidently, and without delay in the future.
But were this man to keep a blog of his daily thoughts, we may not find it strange if he were often to return to that fateful day and read and reread his thoughts, his torments, his nightmares that night after he returned home. We would likely find sympathy in our hearts for this troubled man, and not begrudge him this indulgence. For it is like watching a train-wreck as the saying goes; one cannot avert one's eyes. And he cannot forget, nor can he avoid poking that sore, open wound, the deepest of cuts upon his heart, which he keeps fresh each day, week, or month, as he reopens the torn flesh and feels the pain anew.
It is a delicate balance that must be struck. Much like a child who learns to ride a bicycle, who grows into an adult, embarrassed at the occasional and perhaps accidental falls, we learn to balance our way through the intricate tubings of life. And when we fall off that bicycle, it is not that we have forgotten how to ride which prevents us from getting back up immediately, it is that we fear another fall. The choice then, is between lying broken and bloodied on the ground with our vehicle lying askance and wheels spinning idly, or to right the thing, pick ourselves up, and ride on. This latter choice carries with it the burden of a distinct risk of future failure; the former, certain defeat.
"Audentes fortuna juvat," as they say.
-------------
There's a green poker chip, with a design of the 6 different faces of a die along the rims of the chip's two faces, lying next to a wooden bench on the carpet in this computer cluster. I have nary a clue as to its origins, lying as it is in such an ill-suited location. Perhaps it is a sign.
Friday, March 21, 2008
I had an idea the other night
The other night before going to bed I had what I daresay was one of the most intense literary dreams I've ever had, where the idea for a novel that might actually be interesting to people outside of my own imagination came to me. Sadly, said idea was lost upon awakening the following morning, as most good dreams are wont to be.
If I'm not entirely mistaken, there was definitely something involving poker. Of course. And a girl. Of course. Let's see... what might have inspired me in the last few visits to the local card-room. A dealer perhaps? No, I don't believe so. They're nice enough, but none have really made too much of an impression on me, nor I on them. In fact, I'm probably quite invisible at a poker table. I'm not one for idle conversation, nor am I all that demonstrative with my actions or words. It's a card game after all, one which I may forever remain embarrassingly atrocious at.
Something reminiscent of classic literature? Man vies for poker trophy that would validate his existence, to the exclusion of the girl who loves him. Girl sacrifices self to man's arch-rival, using her body to win his salvation, by making a deal with the rival to throw the match. Man wins trophy, loses girl. Gives up trophy in search of girl? Too little too late, appropriately tragic demises all around. Fin.
What a load of crap.
The problem is, this writing has never reached beyond the level of distraction. What it lacks is a soul. For one who's own life as yet remains unfulfilling (or perhaps not "as yet," but more along the lines of "currently remains"), it is rather to be expected that the literary products of such a life shall want for some animation, some of the breath of life which made all the difference for Adam. I write to ake my mind off things, but where that mind settles is both arbitrary and meaningless. I may as well write about the bloody weather.
Fuck the bullshit British butler-speak. Not only can I not pull that shit off, it's fucking embarrassing to throw it out there after just having read The Remains of the Day. Jesus Christ, have an original thought you fucker.
It's true though. All I've ever wanted out of life is to be distracted. And the irony of that overstatement is something only two people are now privy to. One of whom I'm no longer sure shares the sentiment, as I once did. I don't really know if I still feel that way. Maybe I will always feel that way. But don't I have a say in how I feel? Sure, you oversensitive little pussy. Shut the fuck up. Fuck.
And that's what a book I might write will end up sounding like. A ball of tears and shit on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and pissing his pants. God bless the souls who find that appealing.
If I'm not entirely mistaken, there was definitely something involving poker. Of course. And a girl. Of course. Let's see... what might have inspired me in the last few visits to the local card-room. A dealer perhaps? No, I don't believe so. They're nice enough, but none have really made too much of an impression on me, nor I on them. In fact, I'm probably quite invisible at a poker table. I'm not one for idle conversation, nor am I all that demonstrative with my actions or words. It's a card game after all, one which I may forever remain embarrassingly atrocious at.
Something reminiscent of classic literature? Man vies for poker trophy that would validate his existence, to the exclusion of the girl who loves him. Girl sacrifices self to man's arch-rival, using her body to win his salvation, by making a deal with the rival to throw the match. Man wins trophy, loses girl. Gives up trophy in search of girl? Too little too late, appropriately tragic demises all around. Fin.
What a load of crap.
The problem is, this writing has never reached beyond the level of distraction. What it lacks is a soul. For one who's own life as yet remains unfulfilling (or perhaps not "as yet," but more along the lines of "currently remains"), it is rather to be expected that the literary products of such a life shall want for some animation, some of the breath of life which made all the difference for Adam. I write to ake my mind off things, but where that mind settles is both arbitrary and meaningless. I may as well write about the bloody weather.
Fuck the bullshit British butler-speak. Not only can I not pull that shit off, it's fucking embarrassing to throw it out there after just having read The Remains of the Day. Jesus Christ, have an original thought you fucker.
It's true though. All I've ever wanted out of life is to be distracted. And the irony of that overstatement is something only two people are now privy to. One of whom I'm no longer sure shares the sentiment, as I once did. I don't really know if I still feel that way. Maybe I will always feel that way. But don't I have a say in how I feel? Sure, you oversensitive little pussy. Shut the fuck up. Fuck.
And that's what a book I might write will end up sounding like. A ball of tears and shit on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and pissing his pants. God bless the souls who find that appealing.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Awake
2:57. I bet that fucking washing machine is a lot more sane than I am.
The only thoughts that sonuva' bitch is having is how fucking fast he needs to spin, and how goddamn warm the water should be.
Or maybe, he's laughing his ass off at the idiot freshman who missed his girlfriend's red thong hidden in his pile of whites, and has to go to his next summer internship interview with Citigroup in a fucking pink shirt. Either that or the Asian fuck is so neurotic he gets his ass up at 6 AM to go down and wait for the GAP to open so he can buy a brand new fucking shirt. And all the while he's freaking his ass out and pissed at his girlfriend, the poor bitch. And he forgets that he's only fucking 18 and that nothing really fucking matters until you've hit 27.
Or maybe he's pissed at the dryer, that lazy fuck. Least he gets to stay dry all the fucking time. Plus he gets to sniff that Bounce shit all day and night, fucker probably gets baked off his boxy, spinning ass from that crap.
Jesus, you need some sleep.
And why would Jesus need sleep? The Son of Fucking God needs to sleep?
You're at the point where you're confusing yourself with Jesus, and not that ugly fucker John Turturro plays in The Big fucking Lebowski, you're actually going for our Lord and Savior. Go to fucking bed.
Fuck you.
---
3:41. Come get your fucking clothes dipshit.
Fuck off, I was just about to doze off. Was having a nice fucking dream too. Angelina Jolie, strip poker, she had this thin-ass nightie on, and I was sporting a massive fucking hard-on. She had the fucking sexiest fuck-me look you could ever imagine... You'd better promise me I get to have that dream again when I'm done with you, asshole.
I'm the fucking washing machine, ask the dryer.
---
10:27. Forget me, go to class. I'll keep your shit warm for now.
Fuck that, this math class is bullshit anyways. I can't fucking handle the fucking idiot Asian chicks in the back, chattering away about their goddamned boyfriends. And the fucking professor doesn't have the balls to tell them to stop, he just asks "Do you understand?" over and over, as if he's trying to tell them a fucking message with that weak ass shit. And the cunts don't get shit, 'cuz come next Thursday before that quiz, guess who'll they'll come running to for fucking answers? And you know what's worse, the last time I could only get that one slut to give me a handjob for all my trouble, can you imagine that? Fucking whores.
You need to chill man. Talk to the washer, he knows some people. Could probably get you some Prozac that someone left in their pockets.
Ah fuck drugs. My crap's gonna get wrinkled if I don't take it out now anyways.
---
3:40.
"WAKE UP, FUCKER!"
"Fuck off jackass... I need some damn shut eye."
"I know, I was just messin' with ya', you're a fucking mess dude."
"Yeah? So's your mother. At least when I left her last night, she was."
-------------
Wow. That was like a spontaneous diarrhea of piss-poor blog material, especially after a month-and-a-half long hiatus. Jesus.
The only thoughts that sonuva' bitch is having is how fucking fast he needs to spin, and how goddamn warm the water should be.
Or maybe, he's laughing his ass off at the idiot freshman who missed his girlfriend's red thong hidden in his pile of whites, and has to go to his next summer internship interview with Citigroup in a fucking pink shirt. Either that or the Asian fuck is so neurotic he gets his ass up at 6 AM to go down and wait for the GAP to open so he can buy a brand new fucking shirt. And all the while he's freaking his ass out and pissed at his girlfriend, the poor bitch. And he forgets that he's only fucking 18 and that nothing really fucking matters until you've hit 27.
Or maybe he's pissed at the dryer, that lazy fuck. Least he gets to stay dry all the fucking time. Plus he gets to sniff that Bounce shit all day and night, fucker probably gets baked off his boxy, spinning ass from that crap.
Jesus, you need some sleep.
And why would Jesus need sleep? The Son of Fucking God needs to sleep?
You're at the point where you're confusing yourself with Jesus, and not that ugly fucker John Turturro plays in The Big fucking Lebowski, you're actually going for our Lord and Savior. Go to fucking bed.
Fuck you.
---
3:41. Come get your fucking clothes dipshit.
Fuck off, I was just about to doze off. Was having a nice fucking dream too. Angelina Jolie, strip poker, she had this thin-ass nightie on, and I was sporting a massive fucking hard-on. She had the fucking sexiest fuck-me look you could ever imagine... You'd better promise me I get to have that dream again when I'm done with you, asshole.
I'm the fucking washing machine, ask the dryer.
---
10:27. Forget me, go to class. I'll keep your shit warm for now.
Fuck that, this math class is bullshit anyways. I can't fucking handle the fucking idiot Asian chicks in the back, chattering away about their goddamned boyfriends. And the fucking professor doesn't have the balls to tell them to stop, he just asks "Do you understand?" over and over, as if he's trying to tell them a fucking message with that weak ass shit. And the cunts don't get shit, 'cuz come next Thursday before that quiz, guess who'll they'll come running to for fucking answers? And you know what's worse, the last time I could only get that one slut to give me a handjob for all my trouble, can you imagine that? Fucking whores.
You need to chill man. Talk to the washer, he knows some people. Could probably get you some Prozac that someone left in their pockets.
Ah fuck drugs. My crap's gonna get wrinkled if I don't take it out now anyways.
---
3:40.
"WAKE UP, FUCKER!"
"Fuck off jackass... I need some damn shut eye."
"I know, I was just messin' with ya', you're a fucking mess dude."
"Yeah? So's your mother. At least when I left her last night, she was."
-------------
Wow. That was like a spontaneous diarrhea of piss-poor blog material, especially after a month-and-a-half long hiatus. Jesus.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
A Break in the Action
24 hours until my computer science final project is due, another 40 or so hours after which two further final papers (one in history and one a lab report) are due, and 24 hours after that, a final exam in... something. I can't quite recall which class my first exam is for, but I can always look that up.
It seems like a lot of time, when you put it like that.
I won't dilly-dally too much here, but I just needed to get this thought off my chest in the middle of this maelstrom of mismanagement. Forget the "woe is me" shtick. But it is only in times like these when the pressures both real and imagined seem to pile on and on, that I find my own, Zen-like calm. Perhaps it is because when all the chips are down and all your clichés expended, you really are only left with one path to follow. I can procrastinate all I want, but when push comes to shove (these clichés just don't stop, do they?), there's not much left to do except... what needs to get done. It's not hard to see why I've come to be so used to such behavior, when the end result is so single-mindedly simple. Life is perhaps never so easy as when you have only one thing you can do. Explanation is still a long way off from justification, but the truth is a start.
P.S. There is a letter that I can't really say I've been meaning to write, since the idea to write it only just popped into my mind about 30 minutes ago. Yet, it is not unexpected and perhaps overdue. Even though the idea has only existed for the last half-hour, I've been fighting the urge to start writing it on my computer. That is not the way, and would likely defeat the purpose of writing in the first place. A few days more, then I'll have time.
-------------
Currently listening to:
I'll String Along with You, Diana Krall, from the soundtrack to The Cooler
It seems like a lot of time, when you put it like that.
I won't dilly-dally too much here, but I just needed to get this thought off my chest in the middle of this maelstrom of mismanagement. Forget the "woe is me" shtick. But it is only in times like these when the pressures both real and imagined seem to pile on and on, that I find my own, Zen-like calm. Perhaps it is because when all the chips are down and all your clichés expended, you really are only left with one path to follow. I can procrastinate all I want, but when push comes to shove (these clichés just don't stop, do they?), there's not much left to do except... what needs to get done. It's not hard to see why I've come to be so used to such behavior, when the end result is so single-mindedly simple. Life is perhaps never so easy as when you have only one thing you can do. Explanation is still a long way off from justification, but the truth is a start.
P.S. There is a letter that I can't really say I've been meaning to write, since the idea to write it only just popped into my mind about 30 minutes ago. Yet, it is not unexpected and perhaps overdue. Even though the idea has only existed for the last half-hour, I've been fighting the urge to start writing it on my computer. That is not the way, and would likely defeat the purpose of writing in the first place. A few days more, then I'll have time.
-------------
Currently listening to:
I'll String Along with You, Diana Krall, from the soundtrack to The Cooler
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Lame
"Since when do you know how to grow weed?" The look on her face said she was not as amused as he had hoped she'd be.
"Since Google stock crossed $400. You helpin' me or not?" No matter. Stick to the humor. He'd win her over eventually. Hell, she smokes more than I do, he thought.
"Seriously though, how the fuck do you expect to get away with this?" She walked past him, towards the door out of his recently-christened nursery. When he had brought her in here, blindfolded and giggling, he imagined this going a helluva lot easier.
"Get away with what? I'm growing a freakin' plant here... " She turned back and shot him a glare. Her normally relaxed, deep brown eyes were now a fiery auburn. At least, he'd call it auburn. How the hell would he know, he was practically colorblind. Red-green deficient to be precise. Whatever it was, she really was angry. "Ok, ok, plants."
She started putting her hands on her hips, then realized how clichéd she looked. Instead, she settled on crossing her arms and jutting an angry foot out towards him. It wasn't just her lips that were doing it, her whole body was pouting at him. Kinda cute actually. Really cute.
"What's so funny?" He couldn't help the smile that she was eliciting from him with her ridiculous pose. Really, she was too short to be intimidating, and too tall to be an angry midget. Blessed mediocrity. He could kiss her for being so average.
"You are. And don't tell me you don't want a piece of this." He waved his left hand across the room, gesturing towards the as of yet non-existant plants. But really, he meant himself.
"Oh don't get me wrong. I wouldn't mind a piece of... this." The words dripped slowly out of her full lips. She took a step towards him, letting her arms drop slowly down beside her lovely figure. Her eyes were burning still, but with a different sort of flame. He could see a glimpse of the tip of her tongue licking the roof of her mouth as she stretched out the last syllable of "this." Oh God, she was in his head.
"Then what's the problem?" He tried to put on his sexiest come-hither look, but even he knew it was more than likely just a dumb, "I'm gonna get some" half-grin, half-dumb drool sort of face.
"The problem, unfortunately," she paused as she took the last steps to reach him, standing so close he could feel the light touch of her chest gently grazing his torso, "is that we really shouldn't." Maybe he couldn't do it, but she definitely had that come-hither thing down. To a freakin' T.
"Since when has that ever stopped you?" He reached up, putting his arms around the small of her back, one hand reaching up into her soft, dark hair. She responded ever so slightly to his touch, leaning more into his body and stretching her face up to look into his.
"Since the minimum mandatory sentence became 3 years in prison with a fine of up to $25,000 dollars for 25 lbs of marijuana plants in the state of Florida, honey."
The grin on her face was positively evil.
"Since Google stock crossed $400. You helpin' me or not?" No matter. Stick to the humor. He'd win her over eventually. Hell, she smokes more than I do, he thought.
"Seriously though, how the fuck do you expect to get away with this?" She walked past him, towards the door out of his recently-christened nursery. When he had brought her in here, blindfolded and giggling, he imagined this going a helluva lot easier.
"Get away with what? I'm growing a freakin' plant here... " She turned back and shot him a glare. Her normally relaxed, deep brown eyes were now a fiery auburn. At least, he'd call it auburn. How the hell would he know, he was practically colorblind. Red-green deficient to be precise. Whatever it was, she really was angry. "Ok, ok, plants."
She started putting her hands on her hips, then realized how clichéd she looked. Instead, she settled on crossing her arms and jutting an angry foot out towards him. It wasn't just her lips that were doing it, her whole body was pouting at him. Kinda cute actually. Really cute.
"What's so funny?" He couldn't help the smile that she was eliciting from him with her ridiculous pose. Really, she was too short to be intimidating, and too tall to be an angry midget. Blessed mediocrity. He could kiss her for being so average.
"You are. And don't tell me you don't want a piece of this." He waved his left hand across the room, gesturing towards the as of yet non-existant plants. But really, he meant himself.
"Oh don't get me wrong. I wouldn't mind a piece of... this." The words dripped slowly out of her full lips. She took a step towards him, letting her arms drop slowly down beside her lovely figure. Her eyes were burning still, but with a different sort of flame. He could see a glimpse of the tip of her tongue licking the roof of her mouth as she stretched out the last syllable of "this." Oh God, she was in his head.
"Then what's the problem?" He tried to put on his sexiest come-hither look, but even he knew it was more than likely just a dumb, "I'm gonna get some" half-grin, half-dumb drool sort of face.
"The problem, unfortunately," she paused as she took the last steps to reach him, standing so close he could feel the light touch of her chest gently grazing his torso, "is that we really shouldn't." Maybe he couldn't do it, but she definitely had that come-hither thing down. To a freakin' T.
"Since when has that ever stopped you?" He reached up, putting his arms around the small of her back, one hand reaching up into her soft, dark hair. She responded ever so slightly to his touch, leaning more into his body and stretching her face up to look into his.
"Since the minimum mandatory sentence became 3 years in prison with a fine of up to $25,000 dollars for 25 lbs of marijuana plants in the state of Florida, honey."
The grin on her face was positively evil.
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