anyday now, you'll wake up...

Before and After

2008-07-23T00:21:00.002-04:00

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!)...

-------------

"She'll hold together... hear me baby? Hold together."

And The Moral of That Story Was...

2008-07-19T23:19:00.002-04:00

... I can't take a compliment.

"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.

Guess What? I'm Finally a Winning Poker Player

2008-07-17T23:55:00.004-04:00

... 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.

Thank You (pt. 3)

2008-07-12T03:20:00.003-04:00

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).

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...

More on this later...

2008-07-09T00:25:00.000-04:00

(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

Thank You (pt. 2)

2008-06-22T02:08:00.004-04:00

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."

Thank You (pt. 1)

2008-06-17T22:42:00.004-04:00

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.

Top n Reasons I Suck at Poker

2008-05-06T03:11:00.005-04:00

(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)

Honesty

2008-04-21T03:43:00.003-04:00

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.

How Do You Know If You Really Know What You're Doing?

2008-04-09T04:01:00.004-04:00

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.

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I know the only one for me can only be you.
My arms won't free you, and my heart won't try.

Good Weekend, Sigh

2008-03-30T23:47:00.007-04:00

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.

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If someone would buy me some 2-cent stamps, I'd be eternally grateful. A little late already, but for the future...

Doing Stuff that Doesn't Need Doing

2008-03-28T00:08:00.002-04:00

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)

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I'm hooked on multi-v Vitamin Water. I figure I have to be missing some vitamins at least.

The Big 150

2008-03-26T03:08:00.002-04:00

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.

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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.

Almost

2008-03-25T01:13:00.004-04:00

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.

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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.

Always Relative

2008-03-23T22:34:00.003-04:00

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.

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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.

I had an idea the other night

2008-03-21T00:38:00.002-04:00

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.

Awake

2008-02-29T02:47:00.005-05:00

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."

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Wow. That was like a spontaneous diarrhea of piss-poor blog material, especially after a month-and-a-half long hiatus. Jesus.

A Break in the Action

2008-01-12T21:17:00.000-05:00

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.

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Currently listening to:
I'll String Along with You, Diana Krall, from the soundtrack to The Cooler

Lame

2008-01-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

"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.

Runout

2007-11-11T05:04:00.000-05:00

"You ever wonder how these terms come about?"

BAM, BANG, BANG, bang, and then a softer plop as the 13 caromed off the 9 and into the bottom right corner pocket. The cue ball bounced sharply off the left side pocket point and came to rest 2 inches from scratching in the opposite side.

"I mean, why would it be called a runout?"

He strode around to the right side of the table, carefully placed his left hand in front of the 7 to form an open bridge, and leaned down, down until his chin stubble gently grazed the familiar warmth of the well-used cue his right hand was gripping. The 12 was not quite resting against the end rail, and the 3, 8 cluster meant he didn't have as much angle on the shot as he would have liked. A little right English should do the trick.

"Where is there running involved, honestly? You get to the table, you break, you shoot, you shoot, and you keep on shooting."

A soft clap, as the cue ball kicked quickly off the rail after contacting the 12. The English took it all the way around the table, hitting 2 rails and coming to rest 2 inches from the left rail. The 12 exited stage left, just like it'd been told to.

"And it's not like you're in much of a hurry really. The table ain't going nowhere. You just have to focus on every shot, make sure you get position on the next."

This one seemed a little easier. There wasn't anything really in the way. The 15 was less straight on, so he could use that angle to follow off one rail and come back into the center of the table.

"But then again, walkout wouldn't make much sense either, would it now?"

Like clockwork, the cue ball rolled lazily off the 15 and into position behind the 10. There was the 3, 8 cluster still, but he couldn't do too much about that right now. Something to put on the to-do list.

"I mean, I guess there is a certain ring to the term, running balls, or running out balls. It makes sense in a way a fella like myself can't really explain too well."

Head down, eyes forward. Blink a couple times, get those eyes focused on the right spots. It was uncanny how he could see the object ball and the cue ball with equal focus. Smoothly, slide the stick back and forth. Keep that arm fixed, and just let the elbow bend back and forth. Back and forth.

"Maybe it's about winning, you know, like a race. Racing has got to be one of the oldest forms of competition. And winning games, running racks or balls, it's all about racing that other guy."

Like watching a replay stuck on loop, that elbow just kept swinging the stick back and forth. Back and forth. He needed to roll the ball up and follow this 10 about 3 inches. The margin of error was about half an inch either way. He had to go get this just right.

"I'd call this more of a marathon, myself. I ain't a sprinter, no sir, not anymore. Maybe back when I was young like yourself."

He allowed himself an inward grin that nonetheless crept into his face a little. Once more the cue slid back and slid forward sharply, the motion identical to the last dozen or so. Except this time the blue-chalked tip struck out a little further, and seemed to prod the 10 along. The cue ball would have stopped on a dime, if there had been one there.

"Anywho, running out, shooting out, winning, it's all the same, right? You just gotta do things the way they need to be done."

He walked back to the bottom end of the table. The 9 rested against the left rail near this end of the table, just under the edge of the shadow cast by his head standing in front of the bleak wash of fluorescence coming from the ceiling. The 11 and 14 were frozen together, back up table. Although...

"You know what's funny, now that we're talking about running and racing? I used to be able to run a 5 minute mile. No bullshit."

With that 2 near the left edge of the top left corner, it seemed the 11 was on-line to carom off into the pocket. He hadn't seen that when he was shooting. He just figured he needed the space to play a safety and snooker the cue ball into the jaws of the right corner pocket, behind the 8. But now, he figured what the hell. It was like finding $5 on the sidewalk.

"Yup, those were the good days back in college. Only really started playing this game then. Actually had good grades too, at least for a couple semesters."

A little left English was in order, to adjust for the off-angle carom. No big deal. If it goes, it goes. He leaned down again, carefully tucking his shirt in first. That 1 ball sitting by the side pocket was like a land mine. This was no time for a foul on a wardrobe malfunction. Two, three practice strokes. Then he just shot it. Shots like this, shots that were 20% vision, 20% execution, and 60% luck, he couldn't see the point of extra strokes. Get down there and shoot it for Christ's sake. With a firm hit, the 11 sped smartly, smack, off the right side of the 2 and straight into the pocket.

"Of course, then I got hooked on pool like you might on heroin. My roommate and I pooled our money and bought an $800 stick our second year. We both played with it, and just used house cues to break. My God, I treated that baby better than I would have my girlfriend."

The cue ball had gotten a little loose on him. He could still see the 14, but this was going to be tricky to make it into the same corner as the 11. Maybe a bank, rail-first, into the right corner. Probably not with the way these rails were playing. He'd made maybe 3 bank shots all night, and none of 'em had been rail-first. So that left a masse then.

"Of course, there was never actually a girlfriend. What sort of woman would be interested in a pool bum? At least a surf bum ends up with a nice tan. We ended up playing pool instead of going to lectures in the morning. Sometimes I'd bring a textbook or two, to read while I was waiting and he was at the table. Got more work done there than anywhere else."

It was sharp alright; these short-ranges masses were never fun, especially with cue ball so far from the rails. Not only did he have to lean his body precariously out over the table, but he also had to strike down on the ball from an almost vertical angle. No practice strokes this time, even less point. Just pull the trigger and pray a little. He almost chuckled at that, praying. God was not all that fond of pool players, in his experience. BANG, the stick drove down like a jackhammer, and the cue ball squirted just barely around the edge of the cluster of solids and squarely into the 14. Another soft plop as the 14 drooled slowly into the pocket.

"Graduated with a miracle of a 2.2 GPA and this feeling in my legs like I couldn't stand still anymore, so I turned down the internships and put the grad school applications in a box, and grabbed the cue and called my roommate. Yeah, why the hell not, we could try our luck on the road, for a few months at worst. Shits and giggles, you know?"

The problem with that kind of masse shot was, he had almost no control over exactly where the cue ball would end up. And he was now stuck all the way uptable, a veritable sea of aquamarine felt between the cue ball and the barely visible 9 lying propped against the left side rail. Well, it was definitely going to be a squeeze.

"We didn't know what the hell we were getting into, but we both had a little money left over and figured we couldn't lose that much over the course of a summer. Hell, it's the sort of thing you do once in your life at least, and hopefully when you're young. Those guys that hit the road in their 40s, with a mid-life crisis and 2 ex-wives in the rearview mirror, man those guys are just pathetic. But us two? We were just being dumb."

He wasn't 100% sure the cue ball would fit between the 5 and 6. It was what he liked to call a "Straight of Gibraltar" shot. Elevate the cue about 15 degrees... a little bit of curve would help the cue ball reach the 9 at a better angle. Softly now, this didn't need to be too hard. The softer the better, since a lot of times that ball will just get slowly sucked into the pocket.

"Anyways, we lasted about 3 weeks, before we realized we had just barely enough gas and food money to get home. We actually won a little that first week, but that didn't last too long. Maybe they were all in on the hustle, guys throwing games so other guys could clean up. Sometimes the whole world seems to be in on the joke and you just don't get it."

Tap. That was all, was a tap, as the cue ball gently, ever so slightly bent through the narrow opening, crawled across the table, and touched the 9. It was like a pat on the back. The 9 ball took the hint, and obediently, deliberately, slowly, was guided by the rail down, down into the pocket. The cue ball even came back off the side rail, giving him a little breathing room.

"So, there went $3000 bucks towards our hustling education. I mean, looking back, it was probably worth it. I learned a hell of a lot about adjusting to different opponents, different tables, different cues, different anything. We even played this chick who offered to blow us instead of paying us the $200 she lost. My roommate took her up on that. Me? I wasn't in the mood for leftovers."

Compared to the last three of four shots, the 8 ball was easy. The 3 blocked it off from a large portion of the table, but he had managed to find an angle from this end of the table. Just a straightforward shot, keeping that 8 on the rail for about 3 feet. He made these shots about 94 out of 100 times. He didn't want to say 95, because multiples of 5 seemed to represent distinct levels of confidence, and he didn't want to be pretentious.

"So how'd I get here, still playing pool and not working a real job? You know, it's kind of a long story."

Four, five, six times the cue slid back and forth, even paced and methodically. It could have been a wire, for all its precision. His muscle memory was photographic. Then, firmly, smoothly, inevitably, the cue ball jumped out ahead of the stick, clapped the 8, and kicked off a few inches. The 8 ball meanwhile headed towards the pocket with a sort of resolute certainty. He didn't know why he gave the balls personalities. But the 8 ball was one he would always treat with a little more respect than the others. His glance shifted towards the stack of forty Jeffersons and Grants sitting on the top of the light fixture hanging over the table. $1400. Half of those had been his, and the other half would now join them.

"Rack 'em up, and I'll see if I can't tell ya most of it."

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Well whaddya know, it's that time of year again. When I dust off the old blog and pretend I can write things. Fun.

Instead Of or In Spite Of

2007-11-03T02:48:00.000-04:00

So. Why do conversations start with "so" so often? I dunno.

So... what else is there? Well, there's the ELE lab I should have written up 2 days ago when I had the chance, the Kant that I could have been reading the past 3 or 4 weeks that leads into the midterm paper that's due midnight Sunday when it's actually Monday, the get-rich-quick-by-winning-an-algorithmic-investing-competition which I should be working on since it's something I'm legitimately semi-interested in, the card room 2 miles down the road where $220 fell out of some senior citizens' wallets and into mine because Joey was 2 hours late and that's how I spend free time, the $219 pool cue I got as an early birthday gift from my parents (on Halloween, strangely), the ~$300 trip to Boston to watch the Red Sox play Game 7 of the ALCS, the Bartending 101 class I just paid $100 for, the "I'd Eat That" t-shirt I designed with a picture of a cute puppy dog waiting for me in a mailroom in Princeton, NJ, the erratic sleep cycle I'm working on which is why I'm awake at 2:56 AM, the (second) trip to Gainesville in a week that I got back from yesterday morning which included $26 on dinner as my way of celebrating my poker exploits, a half-baked birthday party, stealing 2 cases of beer from the birthday boy, a drunken/hookah filled poker game, and napping in fits on the loveseat while scrunched into a W-shape, and ... what am I missing? Oh yeah, the sobering realization that this is not the life I really want to be living.

It's not all bad though. It's not even a little bad. In fact, it's pretty much 99.99% good. What do you call it when you start complaining about something that for all intents and purposes must seem like a pretty damn good life from what you might call an objective point of view? Ungrateful? Spoiled? Unappreciative? Crazy? Depressed? Doesn't everyone wonder what would happen if instead of lazily piloting their cars along the black asphalt, following the straight and narrow yellow line to my left or the intermittently existing whiteness on my right, they just hooked the steering wheel hard right and the car with it into that truck coming up alongside? Maybe you really can pass under the trailers of those things, just like in the movies. What the hell, it'd be a bloody good show either way. Well, bloody at least. Good? Why not?

Maybe the problem is not in the 99.99% that's good. Methinks I hear Captain Obvious waiting in the wings. Show yourself! Never, he shouts from the shadows, and slinks back into the recesses from whence he cometh. Is my English get worse?

What I would not give for that last 0.01%. She has no idea. If I ever get to meet her though, I'd want to know if she of all people knew what I meant.

Never (or Always) Go on Air Tipsy / Someone Out There Cares

2007-09-30T04:07:00.000-04:00

I believe the first part of the blog title is fairly self-explanatory... Well, we went on a beer run tonight, picked up 4 six-packs of varying beers (hey broski, two Heinekens!), including some kickass Victory Stouts (at least I think that was the name). Then my roommate Sam and I decided we absolutely had to see the new Resident Evil movie. Why? God knows, but Milla Jovovich is reason enough for me.

The movie was not all that great, typical RE stuff, and like many reviews had mentioned, it played out on screen much more like a video game than an actual movie. This may or may not be a problem for some portions of the movie-going public, but hey, it's Milla FUCKING Jovovich. Still, the movie did leave a lasting impression on me. I mean, going to the radio station at 2 AM and staying in a lonely basement for 2 hours is fun enough already, but when your mind is focused on fucking flesh-eating zombies, well, that's just infinitely more interesting. If there had been any kind of sudden noise, I swear I would have shit my pants.

However, the couple beers I knocked down right before going on air (which by the way is like a huge deal or something... apparently intoxicated people won't make good, professional DJ's?) did manage to take the edge off, and luckily I found a shitload of hip hop material I had not noticed before. Namely, "La di da di."

Apparently I was not the only one who found my show thoroughly enjoyable tonight/this morning. Granted I was above the legal limit, but my listeners are always fair, experienced judges. Anyways, just as I was getting ready to pull my last track and sign off for the night, the phone rings. Actually, the phone doesn't ring in the studio (duh) because that would be terrible for our sound going out over the airwaves if phones began ringing while DJ's were on the mic speaking. So technically, the phone begins flashing, because instead of ringing we installed this giant fucking strobe-light like mechanism. To be entirely honest, I debated whether or not to pick up the phone, but my conscience won out in the end (the same one that managed to not feel any guilt about drinking in the first place), and I picked up.

"Hello, WPRB."
"Hi, umm, which DJ is this?"
"Hi, my name's Cody."
"Cody? Hi. I just wanted to call in and say, well actually I used to work at WPRB, but anyways I was working tonight in Philly, and I just had a really bad night at work and it was really depressing. But on the way home I started listening to your show, and I don't know but it just really really cheered me up a lot to listen to your show, so thanks."
"Aww, well sure, glad to help."
"Yeah, it actually made me cry a little, I just, I dunno, but it was really good. I love your show."
"Thank you, that's sweet."
"Ok, well, goodnight, bye."
"Bye."

And that is why, the world is a good place. Thank you, anonymous girl working in Philly, for that little reminder. :-)

My $1,000 Jersey

2007-05-18T14:59:00.000-04:00

Looking back on that last post, I wish only one thing.

That I had quit.

Still, it's not all bad. I finally cashed out, and today got my check in the mail and took it to the bank. The story of the 3 weeks or so after that last post isn't pretty though. I took that $3.4K, ran it down to $2.8K on a standard downswing (granted, it was my first one at this level), straightened myself out and floated up to $3.2K, but I still hadn't had enough. Oh no. At this point, I realized I was about 5,000-6,000 Frequent Player Points away from earning myself a custom order Full Tilt Jersey, as seen on ESPN and all that bullshat. Why? 'cuz if John f-ing Juanda has one, then I need one...

Well, in my last 2 weeks that I had to cash out using my school address before I had to go home, I realized I would need to 7-table the $0.50/$1.00 NLHE game. Yup, SEVEN TABLES. Suffice it to say, I did not yet have the amount of multi-taskitude and focus needed for this. With a combination of below average luck and above average donking, I managed to drop $1,000. The good news is that I did get to 25,000 FPPs, so the next time you see me at a poker table, I'll be proudly wearing my new custom Full Tilt jersey, which cost me $1,000 basically.

Oh, and I just found out, there's a guy on eBay who's selling them for $69.95. Apparently he's racked up enough FPPs to make a business out of this. Although, if he had 400,000 FPPs he could get himself a plasma TV instead. Meh. I still think my one grand was a good price/deal.

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Princeton, New Jersey. Hey, that's funny God, thanks... Fucker.

Playing poker over the last 6 months: $2,046.84
Stamp for the envelope that safely brought the check to my mailbox: $0.14
Waiting for the bank to actually cash this check: Priceless

Y'all must be sick of hearing nothing but good news...

2007-04-21T23:44:00.000-04:00

So here it is, and first of all, lemme just say, FUCKKKKIIINNNNN AAAAAAAAA

Hehehe, so now you have a general idea what this is all about.

Well, given the recent success in poker, it was time to move up in limits. I decided to try out the $1/$2 NL game today. Started off, nothing special, then somewhere, I bluffed a medium sized pot off of a guy, so I had $270 at one table (bought-in for $200).

Then, this hand comes up... 9-7 of spades on the button, middle position raises to $8, two players call, so I call. Four to the flop, which was 9-7-3, with 2 hearts. Original raiser bets out $30, one guy calls, and I move all-in, trying to force an overpair like QQ, KK, or AA to call. Well, it worked, the first raiser folded, and the second caller thought for a while, then called, and flipped up QQ. I knew I wasn't a huge favorite (on the flop: 74.6% favorite), and I got ready to sweat the shit out of this hand. Turn was an offsuit 4, a complete blank. Now I only need to sweat 8 outs on the river (on the turn: 81.8% favorite).

And the river is the fucking Queen of hearts, and believe me when I tell you, that HURT LIKE A BITCH.

It's not like I've never been outdrawn before, but that was a fucking $570 pot I just lost.

(total is still in the mid $3k range, nothing disastrous, but winning that pot would have been fucking sweet, not to mention, well-deserved)

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Just needed to vent, time to jump back in the fray...

More of the same

2007-04-18T20:28:00.000-04:00

Jesus, variance is soooooo trying to catch up to me. I've been starting out the last two days all on some horrible downers for the first hour. Again, down about -$350 in the first hour. At one point, I was up $400 from the initial 100BB buy in of the 4 tables I was on, and was barely even. Still, just grinding it out. I don't even know how I do it. Hope I'll be able to keep on dodging any negative variance. This last month has been a pretty good run of cards, but I hope even if the cards level out, I'll be too enough to fake it till I make it.

Yeah, I said it.

Net total: +$3,070.75

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I just noticed... since my post on April 11th, it's been 7 days. And I've made $2,000 in profit. QUIT SKOOOOL, PL4Y P0K3R 4 LYFE!!!!!

Know How to Win Big, Know How to Win, Period

2007-04-18T03:04:00.000-04:00

So, as amazing as winning $1.2 grand in 4 hours was yesterday, today started out almost the exact opposite. Whereas that averaged out to an hourly win rate of +$300/hr, today started out more along the lines of -$300/hr. No kidding, in the first hour, I'd either bluffed off, or called off, at least $300, playing 4 tables of 100NL.

No worries. Part of it was advertising, part of it was variance. Hey, I know what I'm doing now. Hunker down (only a little), and start hitting a few hands. I did just that, took down a big pot with a set of 10's, got lucky to hit a combo-draw on the river, called down a few bluffs, etc. Soon enough, that -$300 deficit was mostly gone.

And after 3 hours of solid, disciplined poker, I dug myself completely out of that early hole, and would up with a small profit (small = < $50, I know, I'm greedy). So, you have to know how to win big at times, but more importantly, is knowing how to grind it out, and play focused and disciplined poker even when you start off in a deep hole. Lesson learned, and applied.

Net total: +$2,976.85

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This poker thing is alright.

Dude, so I just finished 4th in this tourney...

2007-04-16T22:34:00.000-04:00

... 4th place, 613 entries, $24+2, Fulltilt $11k guarantee.

Prize money: +$1,287.30

What I really can't believe, is I actually lasted this deep in an MTT. MTT's hate me. Guess not today... biggest hand, 88 vs. KK, but I hit an 8 on the flop. Gave me 22K in my stack, and let me stay alive.

Final table, pretty standard, came in as 8th out of 9 players, outlasted the other short stacks. Got dealt AK, doubled against AJ, then later got 88, and beat out AQ on a coin-flip. Even my bust-out hand, I'm fairly proud of. J-10 of spades, called a raise preflop, flop came A-10-9, two spades. I open-pushed all-in, and guy made a gutsy call with A-7. 51% favorite on the flop. But I bricked out. Grrrrr. First place would have been $3,600... Anyways.

Net total: +$2,935.60

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JESUS H. CHRIST!

Steady, steady...

2007-04-15T19:09:00.000-04:00

A good two hours of solid poker. 3-tabling the 100NL HE tables on FullTilt is so freaking automatic for me now. So long as the luck factor stays minimized. Example, biggest hand today, AA v KK. Guy limps from UTG, UTG+1 limps, fold to SB, he calls, and I raise to $5 with AA in the BB. UTG reraises to $15. Everyone else folds to me. Basically, with his limp-reraise, UTG has defined his range to basically be QQ+, AK, maaaybe JJ once in a blue moon. Against that range, I see him having a hell of a hard time laying down QQ or KK preflop, and hell he might even call with AKs. So I just push, $80 more back to him, insta-call, yup KK. Board bricks out (no funny straights to chop either), and if my 80-20 hands keep holding up, life will be just gravy.

Net total: +$1,575.85

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Maybe when they fixed my laptop and replaced the hard drive, they updated my luck chip...

Alright, This is Fucking Scary...

2007-04-14T00:34:00.000-04:00

That I can be running this good/lucky for this long at poker? Jesus H. Christ, think of the eventual downswing... it's gonna be apocalyptic.

Played another couple hours today, 450 hands, made another $230. I don't think it's 'cuz I'm good anymore, I just think this is setting me up for something bad later on in life.

Still, have to ride the hot streak for all it's worth.

Net total: +$1,460

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I've been trying to play the $19K and $26K guarantee tourneys on FullTilt ($24+2 buy-in), but apparently I just can't outdonk these guys. Not playing optimally, and not getting any breaks in the tourneys either. Oh well, I can live with dropping a few buy-ins in these MTTs if that's the price for keeping my cash game skills extra-sharp.

Live Update

2007-04-12T18:06:00.000-04:00

In the span of 60 short minutes, I made $220 today.

The best moment of the day? I busted a guy (let's call him, Poor Bastard) when I had AA, he had AK, and the flop came A-K-8. I took down the very next hand with a big bluff with 7-6. Then, on the immediate hand after that bluff, I got AK of clubs in the big blind. 4 players called a raise to the flop, and it came Q-10-3, with two clubs. I checked to Poor Bastard (who rebought in for another $100), and he bet out for $9 (about a 2/3 pot bet), and I check-raised to $30. He pushed all-in, and I had an easy pot-odds call getting 2:1 on my money with 12 outs and two cards to come. He showed Q-10 for top two pair, but fortunately I hit my flush on the turn.

So, I took $200 from the same guy, in less than 2 minutes.

Ouch.

-------------

Poker, poker, it's all skill, start with the worst hand and go uphill...

Net total: +$1,250

My Long, Tormented Journey

2007-04-11T19:16:00.000-04:00

To commemorate the milestone I achieved today, I've decided to chronicle for you, very briefly, the details of my long, tormented journey through the bowels of online poker hell...

Midnight, 11/12/2006: I turn 18.

15 minutes later: I deposit $200 onto Bodog, using their checking account deposit service.

About 1 week later: I deposit another $300 onto Bodog, after already having lost the first $200.

Late-November: After haggling with a Neteller customer service rep for about 10 minutes, I set up an online account to transfer money from my bank account, through Neteller, to other poker sites (besides just Bodog, which at this point, I have decided is rigged). I have also withdrawn the $200 remaining in my Bodog account back into my bank account. Net total: -$300.

2 minutes later: I deposit $600 onto FullTilt Poker, in order to collect the 100% bonus (up to a maximum of $600), which the site gives to new players. By a conservative estimate, I need to play about 24,000 hands of poker to earn all of this $600 bonus.

About 2 days later: I have a local maxima of $940 in my account, after winning about $300 in the first 2 days after I deposited. At this point, I've earned back the money I lost on Bodog, and look to be on my way to a successful poker career. Note, I'm playing mostly $0.25/$0.50 NLHE (no limit hold'em) full ring games, and $10+1 STT SNG (single-table tournament, sit'n go's). Net total: +$40.

A month later, in mid-December: After that initial streak of wins at $0.25/$0.50 NLHE, I get a little greedy, start playing 4 tables simultaneously, and also venture into other games, like $2/$4 PL Omaha, $4/$8 Stud, $4/$8 Stud H/L, and $4/$8 Razz. After losing a few hundred dollars at these games, I move down to the $2/$4 limits, and continue to lose. By the day after Christmas, I have exactly $86.45 in my account. This represents a total loss of: -$813.55. Meanwhile, I loaned $40 to Mike G., and in the span of about 2 weeks, watched him make a profit of $700. Jesus hates me. Net total: -$813.55.

Fast forward, late-February: For some strange reason, I've refound my footing at this point, and am hovering around $600 in my account. By now, the original bonus of $600 is completely gone, meaning that had I been playing without it, I would be broke. From winter break, I've been playing almost exclusively $.15/$.30 NLHE 6-max deep tables (meaning you can buy in for 200 times the big blind, i.e. $60, instead of the usual 100 BB). Also, I've finally managed to get "good" at the $10+1 STT SNGs, and begin to actually show a net profit from those. Also, I was forced to deposit another $100 solely for identity/account verification purposes. I also withdrew $100 of winnings during this period. Net total: -$300.

Mid-March: I get a random email from FullTilt Poker, which says I've qualified for a new $300 bonus, but that I only have 14 days to earn it. I decide to play 4 tables of $0.25/$0.50 NLHE full ring, to try and earn the bonus as quickly as possible. After some experimentation, I realize I need to play about 16000-17000 hands at this level for me to earn the bonus. Given the time restraint of 2 weeks, this is deemed impossible unless I play about 4 hours every day... With no other choice, I decide to jump up to $0.50/$1.00 NLHE, and play 4 tables. This means putting most of my bankroll ($400 of my $600) into play. I've also moved up to playing the $20+2 STT SNGs, and they seem easier to beat than the $10+1 tourneys. And surprisingly, I don't lose.

2 weeks later: Because of the interruption of Spring Break, I am unable to earn all of my $300 bonus, and only manage to earn about $180. Still, at the end of the 14-day bonus period, I find myself with roughly $800 sitting in my account. Net total: +$0 (or, -$0, if your glass is feeling half-empty).

Present-day: Deciding that I've improved enough (based on the latest run during my bonus collection), I settle down to playing $0.50/$1.00 NLHE exclusively, with the occasional $20+2 SNG thrown in for variety. In fact, I earn about $300 from these SNGs. I also seem to have figured this cash game business out, and go on an incredible winning streak that is so far still holding up. Right now, I have $1,832 in my account. Net total: +$1,032.

That's right.

I have earned an overall profit of $1,032 for my last 5 months playing poker. And it was fucking painful. In fact, that $1,000 has come entirely within the last 2-3 weeks...

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Live update: Playing the $11K guarantee on FullTilt, I just busted out, holding QQ. Villain in MP min-raises to 240, I raise the size of the pot for a total of 900 back to him, and he calls. Flop J-7-6, all spades, and Villain open-pushes all-in. I call, holding the Q of spades, and wondering what the hell is going on. Villain flips up 2-3 of spades... I miss my redraw outs.

Here's to donks (myself included at times). Cheers.

I Would Write Some Commentary...

2007-04-02T19:24:00.000-04:00

... but stuff like this is just too perfect on its own. I'm pretty sure that any extra social commentary on my part would only detract from the awesomeness.

What follows is excerpted from a NY Times article on an online sexual predator sting operation in Polk County, FL:

A videotape of the scene, posted on The Sentinel’s Web site, shows Jonathan K. Thompkins, a 19-year-old food preparation worker from nearby Melbourne, Fla., being arrested after he appeared at the house, apparently expecting to go skinny-dipping with a 13-year-old girl.

When he was met by investigators at the front door instead, Mr. Thompkins is heard on the tape saying, “I knew it.”

Mr. Thompkins told reporters that he went to the home with plans to meet with the girl and “just to go into the pool, and whatever happens, happens.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he told them. “My mom raised me better.”

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Poor mom.

Things I Didn't Plan on Doing but Ended Up Happening Anyways Over Spring Break

2007-03-25T23:12:00.000-04:00

In the interests of keeping things simple, here goes:

1) Wait in line, a hell of a lot
(a) flight canceled Friday, waited in line for 4 hours, ended up spending two extra days in Princeton and flew out Monday
(b) waiting for a shuttle bus in the rain for an hour in Miami, at the Sony Ericsson Open
(c) extra-long security at Tampa International Airport on the way home... ergh, back to school
2) Be in a car, traversing all of the freakin' state of Florida
(a) Oldsmar to Gainesville, Gainesville to Tallahassee, Tallahassee to Gainesville, Gainesville to Oldsmar, Oldsmar to Ft. Lauderdale, Ft. Lauderdale to Miami, Miami to Oldsmar
3) Make a drunken ass of myself
(a) well, maybe that was to be expected, but not exactly in the way that it worked out being
(b) 7(?) consecutive vodka shots = loss of all basic common sense and decency
3) Play tennis
(a) my parents' fault, they made me
4) Not play poker
(a) I wanted to, but I never got around to it
5) Get myself sunburnt to a red crisp like a bloody Indian
(a) not the gas station kind, the last-of-the-freakin'-Mohicans kind
6) Take a zillion photos of Maria Sharapova
(a) she's a hottie
(b) my God, the legs on that woman, they just go onnnnnnnn forever
(c) perfect skin tone too
(d) so photogenic
(e) not to mention, being kickass at tennis

Yay Spring Break!

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I apologize profusely for hitting you with my car Wednesday morning. Really, that was completely unintentional. I was just a little drunk still, and I didn't think you were crossing in front of me.

Beating (or Dodging) Expectations

2007-02-21T20:50:00.000-05:00

Though a Part I generally implies the existence, or at the very least the imminent existence, of what is usually known as "Part II," I've decided to buck the system. To you, the disappointed reader, I say, "Nuts."

For the sake of completeness, here's a summary of what happened after that last post... got to Chinatown, walked 5 blocks in a random direction, found out from an irritated traffic cop that my random direction happened to be the right direction, bought a ticket using Chinese with the ticket lady, shivered for 30 minutes waiting on the sidewalk and eating my $0.92 hot dog which for all I know may have been more literal than usual, got a front seat on the same sort of bus we used for Mu Alpha Theta competitions, dozed off (and on), listened to my iPod, stopped at a gas station in CT and bought dear Dinah an "I <3 NY" piggy bank, got to Boston, and navigated by way through the mass transit system known as the "T" with some navigational assistance, and found myself waiting outside a Bed, Bath, and Beyond to see one of just a handful of familiar faces here in the North (the capital "North," i.e. the Union in the Civil War). Spending a day at an all girls school was less awkard than I imagined (except for the part where I went to the bathroom, by myself; I'd never been in a girl's bathroom before, and it was strannnnnge). We (Dinah, myself, and her roommate Emily) had a lovely time freezing our butts off walking to the U.S.S. Constitution, but the ship did not disappoint (Dinah I think, was the most satisfied). We also hit up the MFA (Museum of Fine Arts, dummy), which was phenomenal. To cut things short, after a delicious dinner at Brown Sugar Cafe (my favorite Thai place in the world), the return journey was much the same, except I found myself waiting at the Grand St. subway station for 45 MINUTES for a train, and yes... it was colder than the proverbial witch's teat.

Anyways, I just came home from my Wednesday night precept for POL 240: International Relations, and the stimulating discussion has left my brain buzzing and in the mood to write a long, sexy essay... sadly, I don't need to write an essay for Politics. I have a 5-7 page essay due for my Writing Seminar, but as you can plainly tell I'm writing here instead, and it does not seem very likely that this blog post will somehow mutate into that essay, especially given the severity of the run-on-ness of this sentence.

Besides, I see it as an incredible compliment to myself that I feel like I can write this essay in less than 11 hours (yes, that makes sleep optional), when other kids might use a month, a week, or 12 hours. Oh yeah, I'm just that good.

Life's a busy blast. I barely have any time to pee.

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In other news tonight, a Princeton student was found dead in his dorm room yesterday. The cause of death was unknown, though roommates say pride was probably what caused his fatal fall from the top bunk bed.

Running Away from a Final Exam (Part I)

2007-01-31T00:32:00.000-05:00

Last week, Tuesday. Wake up, check the clock. Around 1:30 PM, pretty standard for a non-class day. Doze off for a bit; again, pretty standard. Wake up again, this time to loud conversation in the living room. Something like, "Hey, is the power out for you too?" Lovely.

3 hours and the longest heads-up match of poker of my life later (my roommate Keith won, and now I owe him my pride... shucks), the power was still out. It being 5:30 PM now, and it being New Jersey where the sun doesn't like to linger in the winter, it was fast getting dark out. The funny thing about power outages? No WiFi, and no email. So I packed up my bags, got my laptop, and decided to head to the Frist campus center to set up my new office/home away from home. Before I left, I decided to make a few phone calls, to let people know how miserable a condition I was in with my lack of electricity. Among them was a call which was inspired by a random idea I'd had: with my one and only final coming up Saturday morning, I was going to have nothing to do for the rest of the week but maybe possibly glancingly study on Friday. Therefore, it seemed a perfect opportunity to call up dear Dinah all the way up in frigid Boston, and suggest a visit. She agreed it would be a mah-va-lous idea.

12 hours later, after spending the entire night in the campus center playing online poker (down $250 at one point, finished down $20), I headed back to my dorm after receiving a "Hey, power's back" email. Napped from 8 AM to abou 12 PM, at which time I woke up to take a shower, and then pack some clothes for my trip to Boston. Luckily, I ran into a friend who was going up to NY Penn Station too, to catch a train home to Connecticut. We left campus at 1:30 PM (cue travel time clock).

Coming out of Penn Station around 3 PM, we ran into two guys wearing jackets with "ESPN" and "Cold Pizza" lettering on them ,and one of them was holding a camera. Yup, an ESPN camera crew. The guy approached us and asked if we wanted to do "a little trivia game." Of course, why the hell not? Getting on ESPN = every boy's dream, even a Chinese boy's. Anyways, my friend went first, and I wasn't allowed to look. Then came my turn.

"Ok, I'm gonna show you two pictures, and you're gonna try to tell me who they are, ok?"
"Yeah, sure."

First up, some non-descript, athletic, football player looking white male, mid 20s. No idea who he could be, but the guy kept pressuring me to say a name.

"Come on, just say a name."
"I have no idea who this guy is."
"Just guess, come on, you gotta say something."
"I dunno!"
"Say a name, just say it!"
"... Mike Piazza."

Of course it was not Mike Piazza. I actually do know who Mr. Piazza is and what he looks like. I knew that was not Mr. Piazza. But the guy just kept pressuring me and pressuring me. I can tell right now I would not stand up well under torture or interrogation.

The second picture was, obviously, Peyton Manning. After the two of us had left and walked a couple of blocks, my friend suddenly turns to me with an epiphany (he had guessed Eli Manning for the first guy, a much more reasonable assertion).

"Oh my God, we're such fucking idiots... the second guy was Peyton Manning, right? I'll bet you anything the first one was fucking Rex Grossman!"

But really, who would recognize the Bears quarterback's headshot like that? I mean, it's Rex fucking Grossman, who the fuck cares? Still, I felt like an idiot, like somehow I should have been able to preemptively guess that based on predicting the second photo was going to be Peyton. Didn't help that I was caught on ESPN film, wearing a Princeton sweatshirt, loudly proclaiming to the world, I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT SPORTS AND THINK THAT REX GROSSMAN AND MIKE PIAZZA LOOK ALIKE, oh, and I GO TO PRINCETON.

Still, I had to trudge on, even burdened with the knowledge that my first time on national TV, I would come off as a geeky looking Chink who knew nothing about sports or about the upcoming Super Bowl. Beautiful. It was 3:25 PM by now, and I was planning to catch the 4:00 PM Chinatown bus (Fung Wah, not Lucky Star, because Fung Wah was the one with the bus drivers who couldn't speak English, the buses that caught on fire on the interstate, and even the one bus that flipped and killed a few dozen people... me, I like adventure). I found my way from Penn Station to 34th St. and Herald Sq. station, and after studying a subway map for quite some time (HEY EVERYONE, LOOK AT ME, I'M FROM OUT OF TOWN), decided I could safely take either the B or D line train down to Grand St. Lo and behold, within 5 minutes, the D train came, and I sat down by a window so I could look out and check the walls of the upcoming stations, cuz you know, you can never trust the subway guys on the intercom, who could either be too drunk to know what's next, or could just be messing with people like me.

Sadly, I found Grand St. with no problem, and when the doors opened up, a flood of Chinese faces rushed in (I'm not being racist, I know how we look, they were ALL CHINESE). Yup, I was in Chinatown.

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In next week's exciting installment, I eat a $0.92 hot dog made out of God knows what kind of meat, and manage to not die. Yay!

It's been so long I wonder if they've changed it...

2006-12-26T02:12:00.000-05:00

For the sake of the double avian kill with one stone, I won't write anything new. I'll just recycle things that have already been said before. If you think about it, once you know someone long enough, you'll never have to say anything new to him/her, and you can just repeat the things you've already said. Rinse and repeat my friends.

Lmiah531: do u kno what time new episodes of scrubs is on
Lmiah531: err what day
FreshPokerOrange: like thursday nights?
Lmiah531: is that it?
Lmiah531: cus i watched thursday
Lmiah531: shit wasnt new
FreshPokerOrange: yeah i know
FreshPokerOrange: that was disappointing
Lmiah531: hell yeah
Lmiah531: what wasnt dissapointing thou was our bowl win 2day
Lmiah531: u watch?
FreshPokerOrange: nah i didn't
FreshPokerOrange: my bad
Lmiah531: lol its all good
FreshPokerOrange: i think season 6 is a little break
Lmiah531: ?
FreshPokerOrange: the next one is also an old one
FreshPokerOrange: of scrubs
FreshPokerOrange: it is supposed to be thurs, 9 pm though
FreshPokerOrange: on a break, i mean
Lmiah531: ohh
Lmiah531: fuck christmas then
Lmiah531: no new daily show till like the 8th either
FreshPokerOrange: yeah, pretty much santa's fault
FreshPokerOrange: or jesus's

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"I'm Santa Claus."
"No, I'm Santa Claus."
"We're also Santa Claus."
"And I'm his friend, Jesus!"
...
"My God, the real Santa! Get him, Jesus!"
"I help those who help themselves!"

Things overheard on AIM when I'm not there

2006-10-16T00:23:00.000-04:00

sunshinadinah: cosy!

sunshinadinah: I mean.. cody!

sunshinadinah: wow

sunshinadinah: that's an awesome typo

sunshinadinah: not only do I approve of cosy things

sunshinadinah: I also approve of british spelling

sunshinadinah: way to have a name that can so easily mean something else accidentally

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Fall break in 2 weeks, can't wait for warm-ish weather (and awesome-ish people).

I hope this is not what I sound like to my Chinese professor...

2006-10-09T00:42:00.000-04:00

Below I present the machine translation to English of my most recent Chinese essay for CHI 403, provided by Microsoft Word courtesy of WorldLingo:

"King

CHI 403

2006 Year10 Month 9 Date

（6) Is intervenes the sex compared to the unbalanced time

pg. 83 V. 2) Can the economical situation improvement change the view which the people tradition regards men as superior to women?

The economical situation improvement not impossible to change the Chinese over a thousand years tradition completely in the short-term. Regards men as superior to women in the society in China, the economical influence is only a question part. Looked from Chinese several thousand old histories and the culture that, woman's status falls behind by far man's status. Several dozens year economical development are unable to impel this Taishan.

This said but actually that, the economical situation improvement does not have the help to woman's status. The economical development the new opportunity which brings for the woman is obvious, moreover has given them many before wants not to dare the new life choice continually which thought. In the new open market, the woman can find own work, but does not need to depend on a man's income completely. Like this gave the woman to pursue oneself happiness and the free opportunity. To the modern woman, the divorce or the regard single mother, does not certainly have before was so fearful.

But in a very basic foundation, the Chinese always all is thinks a man compared to a woman “well” to the present. No matter is said the man is more competent than the woman, the man is stronger than the woman, the man can have prospects compared to the woman, the Chinese is in brief thought takes a boy to take a girl to be better than. Although this idea does not have the truth completely, but is similarly very difficult to change. The economical situation improvement only can cause the minimum influence in people's thought, but the true change needs to wait for the society accepts the woman slowly with the man equality idea."

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I would just like to point out, my name at the top of the document was literally translated to "King." Thank you and good night, my subjects.

Adventures in Taking the Road Less Traveled By

2006-09-25T21:21:00.000-04:00

I have recently come to the very simple conclusion that walking on foot is for chumps. For example, walking to the Friend Center Tuesday and Thursday mornings for a 10:00 AM computer science lecture is entirely unreasonable, when said walk has to be made in less than 10 minutes because of an overpowering desire to ingest some food items in the morning that consequently leaves me not much more than that amount of time for walking. Likewise, in order to maintain a healthy record of promptness, when the aforementioned lecture ends on time at 10:50 AM I am forced into making another long pilgrimage across campus, to Fine Hall for a deceptively simple-looking number theory class at 11:00 AM. Of course, computer scientists rarely like to end lectures on time, what with being the cool, crazy programming muthafuckas that we are.

Henceforcewith, I deduced that a simple, two-wheeled mechanism might be invested in, in order to more easily accomodate my transportational needs. Inquiries were made at various reputable shops around the township of Princeton; however, these shopkeeps were entirely unreasonable, demanding a minimum of $260 for the most base of these new-fangled "bicycles." Thusly was I coerced into joining that most hated of fraternities of men upon this earth, the brotherhood of those who cannot avoid the ever-present darkness that is Walmart.

Possessing no adequate means of transport at that point in time, I sought out the services of a driver of these new, miraculous horseless carriages. A most unscrupulous character thus baited me into his mechanized monster, who immediately proceeded to shamelessly fleece me for the princely sum of $15 for transport to the nearest (oh how my very soul shudders when I contemplate this-- this abomination) Walmart. So brazen was he that when I finally arrived at my destination, he demanded what in his native tongue he called a "tip." This I take to mean in proper English, "ransom."

Nonetheless, I was arrived at the one location left to me in this strange country wherefore I might acquire a "bicycle." It however being not the most opportune of times for such a purchase, a clerk in the store who looked to be of Jamaican descent, kindly informed me that the most affordable wares had long been dispensed to buyers less tardy and more attentive than myself. I was thus left with the uncomfortable yet necessary decision to purchase a more gentlemanly-priced model, in hopes that such a hefty investment might prove futurely rewarding in terms of quality and ease of maintenance.

When I proceeded to mount my new steed and direct myself homeward, I found the thoroughfare that the knave of a driver had chosen to transport me on proved too constricted to allow passage of an inexperienced rider such as myself. Concisely put, the way was too dangerous a route to be forayed into, given that it allowed passage of only one lane of vehicles in either direction. I considered this a final insult from the evil driver.

As luck would have it, Fortune presented a solution to this impossible riddle of mine, in the guise of a small, gravel path off to the side of the main roads; I might never have noticed this route, were it not for the predicament I thus found myself mired in. Knowing not which way the path led, I followed it with not much more than a vague hope and a vaguer sense of being in pursuit of what may have been something approaching the right direction.

Several miles later, I found U.S. Route 1. Oops, turn around, ride ride ride ride ride, BAM: Princeton University, next right. Thank you random road sign for saving my life. The bike definitely did not look brand new anymore, after this little adventure.

I hate Walmart.

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Reading too much Edgar Allan Poe too fast will fuck you up.

10 Easy Steps to Growing Up

2006-09-01T02:13:00.000-04:00

Step 1:
Nice suit.

This one is actually not that hard to accomplish, and will earn continual dividends for you over the years. A good suit automatically affords you some style, elegance, class, and charm. If you're color coordinated, so much the better; a good shirt, stylish tie, and matching shoes will put you quite far along down the road to success.

All it takes to acquire a fitting piece for your wardrobe is some time, a little patience, some comparison shopping, and a good chunk of change (be prepared to spend at least $200, but you'd be better off at around $300 usually, or $400 if you just happen to fall in love with a piece). Be sure to try on as many suits as you can at each store, and make sure the fit is good for your physique. Each designer has a different size template, so 40R does not always mean 40R. Also, if you don't know your measurements yet, make sure you get yourself measured at the first respectable suit shop you visit (I know suit shop isn't the technical term, cut me some slack... get it slacks? oh God please don't let me do stand up any time soon).

Find a color that matches your skin tones, and that expresses a little something about your sense of style or your personality. Beware of overly gaudy or flashy pieces, no matter how fancy they might be. Pinstripes are cool, only if you can pull them off. And if you have to pause and think about it, then you probably can't. White suits are reserved for movie stars and Kanye West; I have never seen a normal person wear an all-white suit and look good. Greys and browns may work for you, but beware of looking too old-fashioned or boring. Black is always in style, but don't get anything too formal or stiff. The cut of a suit is also important, as a more stylish, slimmer, fitted cut can give off an air of... whatever it is that cool people give off an air of.

Keep in mind some rules about wearing suits:

1) NEVER button the bottom button. This applies to two-button as well as three-button suits.
2) Ties should have something in common with the suit or shirt. Complementary or matching, should be one or the other.
3) Black pants, black belt. Wear a brown belt with black pants, and be prepared to face the consequences. Specifically, the world will end. I'm not kidding. Please don't try it.
4) Black suit, white shirt, black shoes, and conservative tie for job interviews. If you don't know what a job interview is, don't worry about it. In fact, save yourself the money for buying a suit, you won't need it. Go buy yourself a nice trailer home.

Next time, Step 2:
Social Skills

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Do I have any idea what I'm talking about? God no. But we'll see where my advice gets me at Princeton.

(fingers crossed)

I Think I'm in Love with my Dental Hygienist

2006-08-22T10:42:00.000-04:00

"Hey, tell Angie her patient's here."

I guess the "patient" was me, and I guess "Angie" must have been the gorgeous blond who came to greet me.

"Hi Cody," she said. I think I said "hi" back. Or maybe I just imagined I did; I know I did imagine what my suave/charming/articulate alter ego, who is far more versed in the art of conversing/flirting with females, would have said. Well, I didn't actually know what he would have said, but it would've been something good, something that would have earned a sexy smile that would have shown off her brilliant teeth. I didn't actually see her teeth, but being a dental hygienist, one assumes that that is true. Plus, she was one of those girls that you just know has an amazing smile, the kind that you wouldn't mind being the last beautiful thing you saw on God's green earth before you died.

"Follow me please." Like she had to tell me to. I would have followed her anywhere, to the ends of the earth if she'd have asked me to.

She led me to a room in the back of the office, and pointed at the standard chair. "Have a seat, Cody." I loved the sound of her voice. It wasn't too girly, too high pitched. It was sexy, but not too sultry. I could almost imagine what it must be like to hear her laugh, the sort of laugh that would make you feel good about yourself too just for having made her laugh. I considered cracking a joke, to test this latest hypothesis. There was nothing funny going on or in sight however, not to mention there's always been some truth to my email address, strugglingcomic@gmail.com.

"So how've you been? Have you had any problems recently?" Wow, not only was she gorgeous, but she also genuinely cared about me. She was it, the perfect girl.

"Umm, not really. Everything's been pretty good," I said. Things had gotten a helluva lot better though since she'd walked into my life. Or had I walked into hers? She was after all, my hygienist; she had a job to do still, and I wouldn't want to get her in any trouble. Our feelings for each other would just have to wait.

"That's good. So it looks like today we'll just be doing a cleaning, ok?" As she spoke, she draped the blue dentist's bib across my chest, and her hand gently brushed against my cheek. I felt it, and I'm sure she did too: the spark of electricity. Her hand was so smooth, so gentle, yet firm as well when she got down to work.

"Sounds good." Anything she said would have sounded good. She could have told me to jump off a cliff, and I'm sure it would have sounded like a brilliant idea.

She sat down herself, and slid her chair behind mine. She reclined my chair down, down, until my head was squarely in her lap. I looked up, and the light illuminated her golden strands of hair perfectly. Angie must be a nickname for Angel.

She looked down at me intently, caringly, passionately. As I looked up, our eyes met, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. Love at first sight. Her eyes were an azure blue, a sharp blue that reminded me of France, of golden sandy beaches, and of swaying to some beautiful jazz on a moon-lit boardwalk. God, she smelled great too.

We didn't say anything else for the next half hour. It would have spoiled the perfection of our time together. We knew it without having to say it to each other. What little time we were allowed to share with each other, we treasured.

"You're going away soon aren't you?" she asked as she finished cleaning up. She was already missing me. Jesus, I was going to miss her too. Maybe it was the spray from the water jet she was using, but I could swear there were tears on her lovely cheeks.

"Yeah... I don't know when I'll be back."

She seemed to sense the sorrow that crept into my voice, and tried to cheer us both up.

"Well, you'll probably be back over Winter Break right? You could schedule an appointment then."

Yes, she was right. I would see her again, in a few months.

When she said "Bye," I almost blurted out "I love you." Instead I nodded, and looked at her with what I'm sure must have been very obvious longing.

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Goodbye Angie, my love.

This is so dead, I don't even want to talk about it...

2006-06-26T00:24:00.000-04:00

Do you ever just sit back and take the time to truly appreciate the ironies of life?

I mean, what if one day, you help a nice, semi-senile old lady across a busy intersection, bid her good day, turn around and walk away, and promptly turn around again just in time to see her get deep fried by a bolt of lightning? Thinking about shit like that is what keeps me from ever walking old ladies across streets.

Really though, irony will fuck with your head. Another example: there exists a certain Facebook group at Princeton, namely "Asian Guys Who Don't Date Asian Girls." I assume it's in protest/competition with the other (and much larger) Facebook group, "Asian Girls Who Don't Date Asian Guys." I am one of only two members of the former, and ironically, the only other member of AGWDDAG (wait a second...) is an Asian girl. I won't even begin to pretend to understand what the fuck God is trying to tell me here.

In China, a 1.25 liter bottle of Pepsi in a moderately-priced restaurant costs a little over (12 yuan) one-third of a fairly good Chinese-English, English-Chinese dictionary from a large (i.e. Barnes & Noble-type) bookstore (32 yuan). Imagine what you could buy in America for a third of a dictionary... Well actually, B&N.com lists the Pocket Oxford Chinese Dictionary (English/Chinese, Chinese/English) for only $17.95 USD. One-third of this amounts to $5.98, which is about equivalent to the price of a large Whopper combo meal at Burger King here. Strangely, a Big Mac combo at a McDonald's in China will again also run you a little over one-third of that same dictionary back in China (this time, 15.50 yuan).

What a fucked up world this is.

Oh, Look Who's Cool Now...

2006-05-28T05:53:00.000-04:00

'cuz I am writing this blog from China.

Allow that to sink in for a moment. Bask in the miracle of the Internet. Hooray for the most oppressive goernment on Earth (not).

(Your job, is to figure out which thing I just said "not" to)

This place is freaking amazing. Every city block is simultaneously being torn down and built up. You can't look around without seeing either rubble, construction cranes, or donkeys. Oh, and there's bicycles... lots of bicycles.

Pedestrians here have no sense for self-preservation. They cross the streets like they own it. Bicycles and cars, everywhere. Everytime we drive around, I fear for other people's lives. No one ever stops honking. It serves more as a way to let people know you're there than for anything else. It's like New York traffic, only not as romantic.

Everything smells. Bad.

I love this place.

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I love you too.

This May Be the Last Thing that I Write for Long

2006-05-23T19:43:00.000-04:00

You see, there's this little place called China. It's just a Mickey Mouse head-shaped country 10,000 miles from... well, here.

12 years. Have you not done anything for 12 years? If it's been 12 years since the last time you did something, then by most accounts you've just given that something up haven't you?

Strange then, that tomorrow feels like the day I come home. Is it still family, when you don't recognize any of them and they don't recognize you? I guess it has to be. It'll always be family.

Oh I am going to miss the Bill of Rights. The Internet. My cell phone. Video games. Microwaves. The Simpsons. Fresh air. Clean water. My Corolla. Privacy. English. Oh boy oh boy, how I am going to miss English.

I'm planning on bringing two bridge books (Bergen for the Defense, and Challenge Your Declarer Play), Hofstadter's Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid, and Feynman's Six Not-So-Easy Pieces. Hopefully, by the time I come back, I'll be good enough to join the Princeton Bridge Club team, understand the universe a little better, and also relearn enough physics so that not taking a class in the fall won't hurt as much.

Wish me luck. Have a marvelous summer.

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Wo ai ni.

They Might Have a Point

2006-04-17T22:01:00.000-04:00

You know, I've always thought legal age limits were silly. Let anyone take an aptitude test, for driving, for drinking, for voting, whatever. If they can do it and do it well, without risking harm to others, let them, no matter how young they might be. Such was my attitude towards gambling, as well. If I can be a good gambler, let me into a casino. Hell, I'm still fiscally more responsible than most of the old folks, who range from recently retired to recently deceased, that you'll find in most casino crowds.

And yet, recently I've been thinking. Maybe I'm not such a responsible gambler. After all, I have flipped coins with Randy for anything up to $10 a flip. And I've played 9-ball games for up to $30 a game as well (thank God I won that one). I know, it's not that impressive. But when you manage to lose $80 in the span of 2 hours, you have to ask yourself, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE DOING? GET A FUCKING JOB." Ok, so maybe that last part was not a question.

"How much do you make at your job?"
"Oh, $7.50 an hour."
"Oh that's good."
"What about you?"
"Anywhere from +$90 to -$80."
"..."

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"Oh, Son," my mother said, "why don't you be sensible and go to Harvard or Princeton."

An Inspiring Sight

2006-04-05T00:02:00.000-04:00

7:02 AM, and I'm going to be late to class if I don't hurry up since it takes forever to walk up the stairs and holy crap what the hell is this car accident doing in the courtyard?

It took me a moment to adjust to this new addition to my morning landscape. I stopped walking. Part of me thought I was dead, that that was my car all smashed up and broken, and that I was having some sort of out-of-my-dead-body experience, where my soul was stopping to survey the scene before passing on to heaven. Then I realized, I wouldn't be going to heaven, so odds are, I was probably still alive.

No, it was just the obligatory prom death car. Week before prom, homecoming, and any other activity where students are liable to have fun, the death car is always rolled out, to scare you into driving 30 miles under the speed limit. I mean, yeah, I get why you would do this, but still... somebody somewhere is just bitter they didn't get to enjoy their prom, so they're trying to rain on our parade.

I'll have you know, things like this, I take as a challenge.

Missed Opportunities

2006-04-03T22:08:00.000-04:00

It's too late for an April Fool's Joke isn't it? Blast. You know what's worse? I missed my blog's birthday...

That settles it doesn't it? I am a horrible person. ::sigh:: It has been a really long year, since I started writing this. There's probably about 5 or 6 posts I really like. And a couple drafts that still aren't ready to see the light of day/people's eyes/the internet. A long, long year. Funny, there's only about 5 or 6 memories I'm really fond of too. Life, in 2 month intervals. A higher dosage would probably be lethal.

Today was the transition day. I got all my learning done for the day in chem, first. Then I skipped the last 20 minutes of English after an assembly (I think the 3rd one I have ever been to), so +7 cool points for that. Went to lunch, which was technically not accurate since I didn't eat lunch so it was more like, went to that room where other people have the option to eat lunch if they so choose but me I prefer not to kill myself using chicken patties. For some as yet unexplained reason, I was happy for the most of the day. That went away, which is good, because I'm not ready for Happiness. I'd like a little bit more time with my current mistresses, Confusion, Complaceny, and Complaint. A funner orgy was never had by anyone. Yes, I know, that last sentence would not make a good SAT question on the Writing section.

Wow. I have nothing to write about. Or maybe I expect too much in the way of estimating what you might like to hear. Maybe you'd be content with discourses on why Burger King is slowly killing me.

P.S. I am fat.

P.P.S. Yay greasy foods, no exercise, and stress. The over/under on my developing diabetes is 2010. Takers?

I am such a liar

2006-03-31T21:43:00.000-05:00

... but I am also an excellent poker player, so I'm neutral. Come to think of it, the former accounts for the latter.

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We now present the following as the first part in what may become a continuing series, featuring conversations between my mother and I... (except where obvious, what ensues happened orignally in chinglish)

"So, who did you hang you out with today?"
"You know who my friends are, mom."
"I know the guys that you're friends with."
"Oh come on, you've met some of the girls too."
"I know... Ernie, Terrorist, and Cheney."
"... excuse me?"
"Did I say those wrong?"

Swear to God, that's what she said.

Sorry, Erin, Taryn, and Channing.

... we saw...

2006-03-22T22:12:00.000-05:00

(under construction)

We Came...

2006-03-20T21:12:00.000-05:00

3:45. My alarm clock doesn't have AM or PM symbols. Instead, there is a little dot on the left side that lights up when it is AM. Yes, that dot was burning silently away into the darkness. No, I didn't want to believe her.

My alarm clock must be a girl. Rather, a woman. Her name is Bee, because of the noises she likes to make at me. We have a wonderful time, Bee and I. Especially when I am pounding the top of her head with my drowsy fist trying to find her snooze button. All women should come with snooze buttons. I meant that in the most non-sexist, non-chauvinist way possible, which is still a good deal of both, but who's counting?

3:46. Time crawls when you're two-fifteenths awake. I got up without quite knowing which direction was up. My feet found the floor while my head found its way out of a pleasant little dream involving my winning the 2010 WSOP main event championship, with a first prize of 15 million... not dollars, but Mu Alpha Theta trophies I think. They looked an awful lot like the ones I got at the 2003 State Convention. You know, when life was good and so was I. At math anyways.

A low groan escapes from somewhere within my throat. I wish I had some more normal fantasies.

It's 4:15 when I go to get dressed. Blue jeans, white undershirt, and my trusty old Mu Alpha Theta t-shirt from freshman year. "Divide and Conquer" with Einstein on a horse. Einstein wasn't even a mathematician. I ponder this for about as long as I would ponder who I would save if terrorists kidnapped my entire family and all my friends, and I could only save one person. I've concluded that it would have to be... Xiao Jinyu. She's just too cute to let die. Most of the rest of you believe in heaven anyways, and for those of you that don't, well, I'll make sure you fertilize something nice. She's my tortoise, by the way.

A cup of hot chocolate for breakfast. My life is complete as long as I have hot chocolate. At this point, keeping the previous statement in mind, I think the sole reason I came to America was for hot chocolate.

4:19 and my clock in my Corolla -- my brand new, very underpowered, very ironically white, and very sexy-in-a-demure-Asian-way, Corolla -- does say AM. I'm glad. Even though we've only just met, I think I'm really going to enjoy getting to know her, and handle her. She's... amazing. A little skinny, and a little on the weak side, but I still think she's really gorgeous. She lets me sit in her lap and stare at her perfect, round, smooth instrument panels.

I am a sick, perverted human being I tell myself. I am also late. 4:32 AM, which means I needed to be there two minutes ago. There is something extremely but vaguely malicious about the universe, embodied in this going to school at 4:30 AM on Saturday morning. There is no God because God would not let something so evil happen to me, one of His children whom he loves very much even though I have never gone to church and don't really believe in Him but then again maybe I do. There is a God because He has given me math, hot chocolate, and a tortoise who loves me very much. I am still a sick, perverted human being.

The bus ride is long and dark. Breakfast is preceded by waking up with a bad taste in my mouth, a neck cramp, and the realization that I have a bruise on my head at the spot where my head kept falling and hitting a bolt on the edge of the window whenever I fell asleep. McGriddle. Yum. I would almost rather lick the dirt and piss off the bathroom floor. The coffee tasted like my aforementioned half-wish had come true.

I got a little bit of studying done on the rest of the bust ride. I arrived at Stetson knowing about two BC Calculus homework assignments more than when I left my house. I almost prayed for myself to do better. Almost.

... in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Nimish, amen.

-------------

"The truth seems to be, however, that when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him better than most of his schoolmates or lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more than this, and indulge themselves in such confidential depths of revelation as could fittingly be addressed only and exclusively to the one heart and mind of perfect sympathy; as if the printed book, thrown at large on the wide world, were certain to find out the divided segment of the writer's own nature, and complete his circle of existence by bringing him into communion with it."

- Nathaniel Hawthorne, "The Custom House - Introductory," The Scarlet Letter

Me <3 Princeton

2006-03-19T23:33:00.000-05:00

Obviously, but here's something to tide you over, while I write up a decent post from Stetson...

-------------

Princeton University, Math 214 (Numbers, Equations and Proof), Fall 2004-2005 Midterm, Administered 20 October 2004

Extra Credit:
In his book The Road Ahead, Bill Gates wrote:

"Because both the system's privacy and the security of digital money depend on encryption, a breakthrough in mathematics or computer science that defeats the cryptographic system could be a disaster. The obvious mathematical breakthrough would be development of an easy way to factor large prime numbers. Any person or organization possessing this power could counterfeit money, penetrate any personal, corporate, or government file, and possibly even undermine the security of nations..."

Why is the sentence beginning "the obvious mathematical breakthrough...?" unintentionally funny? What did Gates actually mean to say?

-------------

I didn't know what love was, until I met you, Princeton.

Dawn of the... Not-quite-dead?

2006-03-14T20:46:00.000-05:00

Well, after all of the fat lady's singing (actually, there were four of them, they were called Fourte, and they were all very attractive, talented young ladies from FSU), the gift-bag giving (courtesy of Micro-"we own you, your computer, and everything in between"-soft, Casio, and Maplesoft), and the trying to eat lobster with fork and knife, I'm home.

Home, Sweet "omg, i have to go to school again" Home.

Suck it up.

Dying, Dying, ... Dead!

2006-03-07T21:30:00.000-05:00

You know, at this point, if I could be any more exhausted, I would be. But I have only myself to blame, blah blah blah. I don't even blame myself anymore. This is just how I operate:

"Hey Cody, big project due next month."
"Awesome."
...

"Hey Cody, how's that project coming along?"
"What project?"
...

"Hey Cody, you sure you don't want me to go over that big project of yours with you?"
"I'm still working on it."
"It's due in 5 days."
"Wow, 5 whole days? Gee, thanks!"
...

It's just not fun until your ass is on the line.

Things Fall Into Place

2006-02-16T00:07:00.000-05:00

(coming soon to a computer near you)

...

Edit: February 26, 2006
(ok, so "soon" means something different when life comes at you like a hail storm of sharp screwdrivers falling from the sky... oh, and uh just for kicks, you're naked)

(ouch)

-------------

Instead of a new post, this will be a "best of" show. We bring you "A Cup of Juice From the IB Coffeehouse," dated April 19th, 2005:

While it's fresh in my mind, let me bring you a snapshot of my night at the IB Coffeehouse.

Leaving home at around roughly 6:02:17 PM, I'm kinda jittery walking out the door. Of course I'd never tried to do anything so cool in public ever before. I weaved through the evening traffic like a madman, getting to school in 10 minutes flat. About the fastest time ever for me. I guess I drive faster when I'm nervous.

First things I notice walking towards the gates in front of the courtyard are the three cars parked there. Unloading drums, amps, speakers, etc. I half-wondered if I was supposed to bring my own mike. Nahh, these were IB kids, heck we share Extended Essays, who cares about a mike?

Walked into the cafeteria to kinda get a feel for the place. Yes I've been in the cafeteria before, but this was different. The air felt different. Made a few casual greetings, checked with Ms. Lowry to confirm that I could use different material than what I had auditioned with, and then proceeded to a bench in the courtyard to write up the aforementioned new material. Oh man, I'd been so busy with everything that I hadn't had time to go over my act at all since auditions 2 weeks ago. It sucked. It didn't even sound funny to me anymore. Eh, I still had time. Busted out the ITT Tech clipboard and my trusty notepad plus lucky blue pen (yes I believe in lucky blue pens), and started writing.

Oh God, writing feels comfortable. I've had some ideas floating around my head for a few days, and now I had a chance to straighten them out and deliver them to myself. I reworked my opening, added a new joke close to the beginning, and changed up the order of the rest of my material. I also decided to forego the "prime telephone number" joke, on the sole advice of one J. F. Kregler, a.k.a. Sir Sucksalot. I'd only gotten through half a page before my watch hit 6:30 and I walked back inside.

Boy, there sure were a lot of people in that previously empty cafeteria. Now I started getting a little more nervous. I found a seat in a corner (maybe you haven't noticed, but I like corners) and scribbled away furiously as friends seated themselves around me and made casual remarks to the effect of "IT'S CODY-TIME, WOOOO." Do you have any conception how hard it is to write anything when the person next to you is screaming "GOOOO (your name)!!!" once every 7 seconds? I was done with about a page's worth of material when Madamoiselle Zebrowski opened the night. And as rock music blared through the air and filled my ears, I tried my best to find the sense of humor I had lost along with my sanity and a good pair of safety scissors when I entered IB.

Time flies when you're waiting for your name to be called. I'd barely finished writing down the basic sketch of how my act was going to go when Madamoiselle Zebrowski's voice reentered my consciousness.

Showtime.

And when you finally get up there, and grab the mike in your hand, and look across that sea of faces, you know it's time. You know this is what you've been waiting for. And once that moment hits you, you're ready, whether you know it or not.

I didn't even know what the word "nervous" meant anymore.

Oh and by the way, everybody else rocked like the neolithic age. You guys have got some real talent, and you have no idea how amazing I thought everybody was. Saying that I was impressed would be far too condescending. Let's just say that if there was a word for "amazed beyond the capability of the English language to express that amazement," I'd use it right about now.

Also, I am no good at taking compliments. So thanks to everyone who told me good job. I appreciate it. Mucho. Tonight has completely made my day/week/month/existence.

Growing Up

2006-02-07T23:23:00.000-05:00

So, differential equations. Exactly as hard as it sounds. I made two dumb mistakes on my first Diff. Eq. test. Probably got something in the mid-70s. Nice temperature. Not so nice grade.

But there is one thing I really like about the class. I'm not treated like a kid anymore. I don't need to feel guilty when I miss class, or don't do homework, or bomb a test. Hey, it's my life, my responsibility, and I do enjoy it so much when other people don't feel the need to try and tell me what's best for myself.

Welcome to being your own reason.

-------------

Now for something a little more light-hearted.

I wore glasses today, for the first time in never. I also dressed up a little bit for the IB and senior pictures. Yeah, call me old-fashioned but I still like to look just as bad even as I try not to. But apparently, when I do both of these things ON THE SAME DAY, I turn into a different person. According to some sources, my dad.

Even Mr. Burton asked me if this was my new look, or just something he hadn't seen before.

Yeah, that's it. My new look is to look like my dad.

-------------

-- Homer opens his fortune cookie and reads his fortune.

Homer: [reading his fortune] "You will find happiness with a new love." [out loud] Aw, even the Chinese are against me. [sigh] What's the point? I can't fight fate.

[In the kitchen...]
Man 1: Hey, we're out of these "New Love" cookies.
Man 2: Well, open up the "Stick With Your Wife" barrel.
-- Controversial fortune cookies, "The Last Temptation of Homer"

Happy Chinese New Year!

2006-01-29T17:24:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't smelled it coming yet, yes folks, this is the Year of the Dog.

"Experts warn pet-owners to shoot all Chinamen on sight"

As part of my anti-anti-sociality training, I took Erin and JFK to the Chinese New Year Festival at C-Side, this past Saturday. Erin, because she's undertaking to learn Mandarin. John F. Kennedy, because he's dead and hasn't been to a good party in a long time. I wanted to keep that streak going for him.

Ok, so Joseph Francis Kregler also works. (Attention all Internet child molesters: if his full name is not enough, email me at strugglingcomic@gmail.com and I will forward you his home address and phone number.)

Things we learned:
1) The Chinese Communist Party leadership wished us all a Happy New Year, c/o of the Chinese Consulate in Houston.
2) The cute Chinese children flanked us on all sides and began their bombardment.
3) Box dinner means what it says.
4) Raffles are not meant to be won, especially not by the cheap tickets, and especially not by white people.
5) I have no conman-skills, yet...
6) There are no attractive Chinese females around my age.

Then we hit a Blockbuster (that hurt), and couldn't decide what to get. The Aristocrats was unavailable for rental, so me being the smart business man that I am, I go and find the last and only copy for sale. And "for mature audiences only" apparently now means, "for 17-year-old Chinese boys who aren't too good at trying to look older than they are."

Did I mention Erin was still there? She watched Moulin Rouge on my iPod (wait, how'd that get on there?) while JFK and I watched Billy the Mime tell the joke in pantomime.

Seriously, that was even cooler than it sounds (pun totally intended).

At this point, Erin refused to vacate the premises, even at the request of the manager/owner, and so it was deemed necessary to throw her out. Literally. By the time we got to her house, it was 9:52 PM, and I was dangerously close to missing the new episode of Hustle. Even at my most reckless, there was no way I would have made it home in 8 minutes (Later when I did go home, I cut the trip to 14 minutes flat, running 2 red lights and scaring the hell out of 3 pedestrians. Speed limits are only half of what they should be anyways.)

Phone calls were made, smooth-talking was talked, and I introduced Erin to the magic that is Hustle:

Danny Blue: "What do you know about alarms?"
Ash Morgan: "I know about everything."
Danny Blue: "Oh, you know about everything, okay, if you know about everything, what's the capital of Luxembourg?"
Ash Morgan: "Luxembourg City."
Danny Blue: "...You're good."

Somehow, I also have to take dancing lessons now.

-------------

Our collective resolution for 2006?

Get the world to drop the "Chinese" and have ours be the New Year.

Time for you know what

2006-01-20T00:42:00.000-05:00

There really is no better time to blog than 12:43 AM. Holy crap, it's frozen. Seriously, my clock ain't moving. Hehe, I broke time, yayyyyyyyyyyyyyy... never mind, there it goes.

So, I've been pretty much incommunicado for the last 2.5 days, and by now the math teachers probably have a bounty on my head. Hey, guess what's not happening on Saturday at our high school? What, not an Invitational competition, with 1200 students or so expected to come? Oh no, no way.

I've panicked before. It's not new. It's more fun this time though. Panic, panic, panic. I should take up biting my fingernails. Or professional procrastination. Where you get paid to not do things.

Oh man. I need to stop. STOP.

-------------

You will wake up and fall out of bed tomorrow moring. Don't land on anything sharp.
- Practical fortune cookies brought to you by, Cody "Look it's 12:48" Wang.

Addendum

2006-01-16T22:24:00.000-05:00

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Taryn is great,
but I'll leave the end-rhyme to you.

-------------

That's as close to an ode as you're ever going to get from me. :-)

And I thought this would be easy

2006-01-16T20:59:00.000-05:00

Disregarding the last, super lame comment on my blog (Karan, are you serious? Why do I need gas?), I seem to have one and only one faithful reader.

And when I say faithful, I mean she likes to goad me into writing more and working less. And when I say working less, I mean not at all.

I'm sure you all know her quite well by now; her own xanga was quite famous in its time, and her current blog, though less profilic, is nonetheless well-appreciated by critics Internet-wide. Ok, so the only comment she's gotten in the past 2 or 3 months was from a spamming Forest Ranger's blog, but what the hey? We still love her.

... By the way, I wouldn't actually click that last link if I were you; we're fairly certain there will be worms and trojans and automatic porn-downloading viruses involved.

Perhaps she trolls my blog because we're kindred spirits. Perhaps she's awed by my wonderous command of the English language. Nah. She just likes to poke (yes, poke) fun at me, and there's nowhere better than here to load up on ammunition.

Good luck with that English presentation.

-------------

T.D., I hope you appreciate this shout-out. It took me 45 minutes just to log in.

By Popular Demand

2006-01-11T23:00:00.000-05:00

Now, context is a very important thing. Things that are fine when said in context become capital offenses in an inappropriate setting.

Example: the three little words "I love you." When uttered in the middle of a good laugh among best friends, it is a great way of showing affection. No one takes offense to it, and everyone loves each other all the more for having said it. However, if you so much as whisper these three little words on say, a first date... boy oh boy, are you in a world of hurt.

Why the little spiel? Well, popular means different things to different people. When used in the title of an otherwise unspectacular blog, "popular demand" really just means one person happened to mention that I hadn't blogged in a while.

Yay for low expectations and being easily influenced. Actually, it's more like, I felt flattered that at least someone noticed I hadn't blogged, and so I'm really doing this to sort of show off. Excuse me while I go polish some Mu Alpha Theta trophies too, by the way.

One thing I've been wondering for the past few weeks, and I don't know how to find out the answer to this either... would Princeton rescind my admission if I got straight B's second semester? I think if I got more than 2 C's, they probably would... but exactly how badly do I need to do before they say, "sorry kid, you ran out of gas." Boy, talk about a kick in the crotch, that doubles you over in pain so that you don't see the pile of dog shit that you're about to fall face first into as you collapse in pain, and when you do realize your face is covered in dog shit, you jump up and run blindly trying to find water or something, only you end up running across some busy intersection and instead of just falling face first in excrement, you also fall face first into a speeding semi-truck loaded with (oh the irony... wait for it, wait for it) horse manure.

It seems like that should be a Darwin award... only not.

-------------

You will soon realize fortune cookies are meaningless.

Kicking off the New Year with an Old Tradition...

2006-01-01T21:30:00.000-05:00

Haha, time to get back to work.

"Boy, I haven't done this in ages."
"Done what?"
"Blogged instead of doing IB homework."
"Man, you're right."
"Wicked."
"Shut up."

Chemistry IA, you say? Why the heck should I, when I've got so many better things to do? Sarcasm, you say? Damn well right sarcasm.

It's ok, I can afford it. I like having a positive balance in the emotional bank account from which I can draw upon. How did it get there? I'm not sure. It just sort of... materialized.

Don't you love it when things come together like that?

-------------

Love. She's a funny word she is. I meant it though. As far as I know, I meant it.

Let it be

2005-12-29T23:41:00.000-05:00

I don't ever delete posts. Even the bad ones. The really bad ones. I figure I've already said it, and deleting it won't make it disappear. It has already existed, that thought, and nothing I do can make it un-exist.

Still, there is something to be said for regret.

I think I remember beginning a story once, one that seems to have just the vaguest of connections to me right now. The first few lines went something like this:

"Other people liked Deck. That wasn't the problem. Deck's problem was that he didn't like himself. It went farther than that actually. Deck absolutely loathed himself.

Strange then that the barrel of the gun which Deck was holding was not pointed at someone whom he really hated, like himself, but rather at a man whom Deck had not known until thirteen minutes ago. Deck was sure that the man regretted meeting Deck even more than Deck regretted being born..."

Ok, I lied. The first two lines were kind of the same. I ad-libbed the rest. Interesting story though. Man holds up a convenience store, while in a drug/alcohol induced daze. Rest of the time is spent figuring out who he is, and how he got there. Short term and long term answers to both parts of both questions, of course.

Maybe I'll get around to writing it out someday.

-------------

Don't take me too seriously. For the love of God, please don't ever stop shooting me full of holes. I need it. I need to be reminded of how ridiculous I am.

Thank you.

8 Months

2005-12-28T17:33:00.000-05:00

I've been pregnant with words on this blog for over 8 months now.

And all of a sudden, I haven't got a thing to say anymore.

Well, a lot of things have been happening, all-of-a-sudden-like. It's as if the universe knows when high school is going to end, and she's picking up the pace as we rush towards the finale. Just me and my universe. In this train. Going... well I don't know where my universe is taking me.

She told me it was going to be a surprise. I told her I didn't like surprises. She told me to go to hell.

Surprise!

-------------

I'm sorry for the things I said.
I'm even more sorry for the things I didn't say.
I can't take back the former,
And I can't make up for the latter.

Farewell then.
May this memory rest in peace.

Bridge > Poker

2005-12-18T03:17:00.000-05:00

I pulled off a squeeze!

Dummy (North):
A-x spades
x-x hearts

Declarer (me, South):
x spades
A-x hearts
Q diamonds (squeezing trick)

Led Q of diamonds, squeezing West who was defending spades and hearts. West discarded a spade, I discard a heart from dummy. Play the Ace of hearts from South, transfer to Ace of spades, last spade is good as well, for 3NT on the nose. Of course, the beautiful part of the squeeze play is that when it's set-up correctly, it's failproof. Had West discarded a heart, I would have discarded a spade from dummy, transfered to the Ace of spades, and played out the last two winning hearts in South. (West had something like 9-x of spades, K-x of hearts, for his last four cards.)

90+ duplicate MPs.

Best hand of bridge I've ever played.

-------------

Ok, it's 3:17 AM, cut me some slack.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2005-12-16T13:59:00.000-05:00

Dear God,

I take it back. You rock.

Sincerely,
Cody

-------------

I wonder if anyone saw the haggard, unclean, and unshaven Chinese boy as he walked out to his mailbox today. I wonder if anyone saw the expectation in his face, the fear in his eyes. I wonder if anyone heard his heart pound when he saw the oversized envelope leaning lazily against the inside of his mailbox. Maybe someone heard the fleeting joke that ran through his head:

"God, they sent me the deferral in a big, fat envelope just to mess with me."

He didn't want to open it. More than anything else in the world he did not want to look. He didn't want to lose that comforting blanket of not knowing. He'd been wrapped in it for so long, and the world without it was so bare and cold.

Jack Burden looked. Well, he looked too.

-------------

I still don't believe it. How the hell could I? After the initial shock and amazement, the most predominant feeling now is one of immense gratitude.

No matter how much I may have complained about my so-called problems, my runs of bad luck in cards and in life, right now, finally, I see how damn lucky I am.

God is the only one who can really know whether or not I deserve to be as lucky as I am. God knows, but God doesn't like to intervene. Princeton, for some reason, thinks I deserve it. You have no idea how grateful I am to them. Not just for accepting me, but for believing in me, especially when I had no way of believing in myself. Heck, they're willing to put up $29,000 a year for that belief, in someone they've barely even met.

But they're not the reason I've come this far. Princeton is the next step in my life, but you guys have helped me and pushed me along for every single step of the way up until now.

Thanks to my parents, for putting up with me, and for being there; maybe you didn't always want to be there, but you had to be, and you were.

Thanks to my friends. You know who you are. For being smarter than me, in life if not in school. For believing in me when I know I didn't deserve it. For being some of the most generous, good-hearted, and caring people in the world. For keeping me firmly grounded when I needed to be, for making me listen when I didn't want to, and for shaping me into the person that I am.

Thanks to my teachers. A lot of you have told me that I make your jobs easier by being a good student, but the truth is, I'm a good student only because of the great jobs that you have done. Thank you for caring about my education, oftentimes more than I did about it.

I have come this far because of all of you. Now it is my turn to show you that your faith in me has not been unwarranted. I can let myself down at times, but I refuse to let other people down. I don't have that right, to waste something that's not mine to begin with.

-------------

Dear Cody,

You're welcome. Do us proud. We know you will.

Sincerely,
Everyone

Lucky

2005-12-16T00:10:00.000-05:00

Dear God,

Not to question the whole grand plan and what not, but dude, wtf?

Sincerely,
Cody

-------------

I don't think I can handle more than another day of this waiting for my ED letter. I wish I bit my nails or something. When you don't have any nervous habits, like me, you just kind of sit around and wait for something to happen. Me, I'm waiting to explode.

::sigh::

I can't get in. I wouldn't freakin' deserve it if I did. I am still absolutely convinced that I have yet to do a single thing in my life that would merit something this good happening to me. Way to not find a cure for cancer, asshole.

Deferred. Deferred. Deferred. The word just rings out with a silent boom inside my head. More hurried applications. More making things up and catching up at the last second. More last minute and half-baked. More being the same old lazy and pretentious me that I've been for the past two years. More not living up to myself. More dashed hopes, ruined chances, missed opportunities, and silent screams into smothering pillows.

I want to pray, but like I said, God probably has better things to do with His time, even though He sorta is timeless.

-------------

It's the same feeling in poker. You wake up in the BB with aces, get raised, reraise, and the other fellow pushes in preflop. You call, a little reluctantly, since this is your entire bankroll right here. It's not as much as it should be; you haven't played as well as you could have. Too late to change that now, and for whatever it's worth, it's there sitting in front of you, but a little out of reach now since it's in the middle of the pot. Your man flips up kings, and you want to close your eyes before this flop but you can't.

2-5-7, rainbow.

You begin to hope, not daring to believe just yet, but with each passing second you want it to be so, you want it to be true, that you could actually win this pot. The sheer audacity of the thought shocks you and scares you. You're still stuck in awe when the turn card comes.

A blood-red King of hearts.

And before you even knew you had hopes, they're crushed. Into a fine powder that's blown away with the wind. What's left is nothing, and that is the worst feeling in the world. Pure emptiness. When you can't even see the glimmer of a hope. But there's still one more card to come.

This time you really don't look.

...

Determination

2005-12-06T22:30:00.000-05:00

Red light. Damn. I'm not even in a hurry to get anywhere, but damn anyways. I hate being stuck in traffic. I feel my life just wasting away, with every monoxide-filled breath I take. Plus, it's enforced idleness. I like being lazy; I hate being made useless.

A flicker of movement. Something in the bottom corner of my left eye. That's my better eye. One of the most memorable things any medical professional has ever told me was what my opthamologist (he may have just been an optometrist, actually, but the difference escapes me now) told me during an exam two years ago.

"That right eye has gotten a lot worse."

And everytime I put my contacts lenses in, I think of that statement. It doesn't even mean much, but it's stuck. I'll be eighty years old and blind, but I'll remember that line. Wonder what else I might remember.

I turn my head now to look. Remember that scene from 2 Fast 2 Furious when Paul Walker drives while staring at Eva Mendes and not the road? I've been practicing that. Why, sane people ask me? Why not, I retort? Do you have a deathwish, they come back with? Not if I get good at it.

There's a tiny little fly on my window. The inside of my window, after I close in and notice his feet are sticking outward onto the glass. I lower my window ever so slightly, and perhaps tasting his imminent freedom, he crawls slowly up to the edge of the window and flips himself over. I close my window, expecting him to find new and more exciting company than I soon enough. But he sticks around though, there on the outside of my driver-side window. His little orange fibers that passed for legs somehow hold him there.

Green light. Go. Go. GO. There is this evolved sense of urgency attached to green lights; suddenly life starts moving again. He's still there, my new little insect friend.

Like a lizard, I keep one eye on my speedometer and one eye on him. Five miles per hour. Nothing but a slight breeze for him, and I imagine that he's probably pretty comfortable out there. Ten miles per hour. Still leisurely enjoying the wind in his... antennae? Fifteen miles per hour. I can't believe the car in front of me is going so slowly. Twenty miles per hour, and I see that his wings are getting tickled now by the wind. Twenty-five miles per hour. Thirty. Thirty-five. He's really holding on now. Fourty. Fourty-five. Why didn't he just let go already? What the hell is so important about holding on, to something which could not possibly have any significance for him? Fifty. Fifty-five. The wind must howling at him now, tearing at his feeble grip. Maybe it's like a roller coaster. Maybe he's out there holding on for dear life and having a hell of a time doing it.

And all of a sudden, he's gone. Flicked off by the unsympathetic hand of the laws of physics.

Maybe he's got himself a good story to tell his buddies now.

Maybe he knows why we hold on to these things, these things in our lives which one can never tell if it's worth holding on to or not. Maybe he knows something of loss, of pain, of sorrow, and of regret. Or maybe he is just a fly.

And maybe we are just fools.

La Vie est Belle!

2005-12-06T00:00:00.000-05:00

(under construction)

Ok, no really that was the whole post.

-------------

Brevity, thou art my goddess.

If at first you don't succeed... ah hell who cares?

2005-11-29T21:56:00.000-05:00

Who cares?

It's a very dangerous question to be thrown around. Once it starts, it's also very hard to stop. However, there is hope. There is one form of the question which can be asked without incurring any of its ill-fated side-effects.

Buddha taught that all suffering in this world comes from desire. Fundamentally, even if one wished to end suffering in the world, that desire to end desire is itself a desire. What we need then, is to stop caring.

Sounds horrible doesn't it? But drop some of those negative connotations your parents and your society have shoved up your ass. You don't need to care. Worrying, even about important things, is one of the most useless ways to use your time and energy.

Yoda was a Buddhist. A damn good one too.

"Do or do not, there is no try." The significance in that statement is not the usually misunderstood interpretation that you only get one shot so you better do it right. Rather, the emphasis is on the actual act of doing. Shut up and stop bitching. Or, shut your mental bitching if you're not doing it aloud. Nike sucks, but "Just do it."

Don't just have a desire to do something. Desire leads to the dark side, if we wish to continue this Star Wars analogy. All types of desire. Even a desire to do good. Instead, the only way to do good is (rather ironically) to just do good. Do not think about it. Do not plan it. Do not desire it. It should happen naturally. Just do it.

I'm writing this because I had a rare little bit of spiritual enlightenment last night. Oh the things you'll start thinking about when the lights are off and you're alone. I began to worry about all the things I had to do in the next few days, all my obligations, all my college applications, all the Mu Alpha Theta things, just... everything. And just when it became almost too much, too much to think about, I had a... well I'm not sure what. A moment. Nothing happened. That was what was special about it. I had a moment of... nothingness. And I became very peaceful, the type of peace that comes about only in complete emptiness. And the very next thought that popped into my mind was very simple: whatever I had to do, I would do.

Ponder that if you wish. I have. It is enough. Enough for any challenge, any clamor for your attention, any incessant nagging doubts in your mind, and any voices of disquiet. All those "but what if?"'s that used to be barriers, they will become like sand on a beach to the ocean of your existence. Existence is enough. Whatever it is, do it. Every moment is so rare. Treasure it by using it.

-------------

Maybe this isn't heaven, but it sure as hell beats where I was before.

80th Birthday... Sort Of

2005-11-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

Well, it's post number 80. But to call it a birthday would signify that each post was somehow so far removed from the adjacent ones that it deserved to be accorded its own short-lived era of time.

Or perhaps I'm just schizophrenic enough to divide the past 8 months into roughly 80 different episodes. With all the mood swings I've had I might as well be a woman. Wait.

:: takes a piss standing up ::

Nope, still a man.

Just a very... erratic man.

I remember from some ancient piece of an otherwise long-forgotten vocabulary lesson from an English teacher of mine who by now is most likely dead that very phrase. Actually, it had been part of a test, one of those fill in the blank with one of the given choices type dealies, where it was "... was a very _________ (erratic / eccentric) man." I remember this question so vividly because I was the only one in the class who got it "right." The teacher was so frustrated that no one else had put "eccentric" that we spent a whole day going over this single question. I spent the whole day smirking and napping at everyone else.

Later, I learned that erratic was acceptable, just not "good English." Well damnit, who cares about "good English?" I have friends who find it difficult/amusing to say they are doing good at everything from school to relationships; I don't mind them and they don't mind me when I do mind them enough to correct them.

-------------

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Blessed are the SL's for they shall inherit the 7's

2005-11-27T23:41:00.000-05:00

mozismyquarry: God wrestles ib gods?
mozismyquarry: since when?
FreshPokerOrange: well you have to ask first
FreshPokerOrange: and when He wins, ask Him to do us a favor
FreshPokerOrange: or, if He doesn't win, we can always worship a golden statue of dr Y or something

-------------

I suppose I could be a little more productive right now.

Bah, as a friend once said to me.

Bah.

Can't Stop Falling on My Ass

2005-11-17T21:29:00.000-05:00

I can't do this anymore.

It was easy at first. Oh so easy. One wasn't enough. Two, still nothing. And before you can stop to think, you've already committed yourself in a thousand different directions. Mu this, IB that, and somewhere in between, I have to squeeze out enough time to fail Calc. III tests.

I bet Rain $5 that I got less than 50% on our latest test.

I'm already spending that money in my head.

I didn't know what I was getting myself into. How the hell could I know?

So now life is nothing more than one continuous exercise in crisis management. I have just barely enough time to deal with each urgent problem that comes up. My life feels in many ways like one big rolling blackout; some parts get ignored when momentarily more important things come up. And it doesn't seem like much of a problem, but it is. There is nothing more painful than being ignored. In the long run, the damage may be irreparable.

But I can't admit it. Not really anyways. Whining here doesn't count. It isn't resolution. It isn't freedom. It's a quick loosening of a few chains. Fleeting feelings of responsibility-less-ness.

-------------

Grit your teeth, put on your best dogged grin, and get your ass back in the saddle.

You're not done yet.

Not to Steal My Own Thunder but...

2005-11-14T21:48:00.000-05:00

Who needs to do Chem IA planning (a)'s anyways when you're 17?

Hell, I should be watching an R-movie or something.

-------------

"I wish you'd come with me."
"Busy busy busy."
"I know, but couldn't you just spare two little hours for a movie?"
"Busy busy busy."
"Fine, I don't like you either."
"Did I say that?"
"You sure as hell never say the opposite of that either."

-------------

Do these little dialogues make any sense? Anyone? God, are you there? It's me, Cody.

Of course You're there. The real question is, am I here? Hard to tell really. If I were here, wouldn't I be at least slightly more attached to here, wherever here is? Truth is, I'm better than just a chameleon. I don't just fit in to one place at a time. I'm a teleporting chameleon. I will fit in everywhere all at once. How do I know I can do this? Because I fit in so well that I disappear. Right out of sight and out of mind. I've been looked through and looked past so many times I take eye contact for granted.

-------------

I see you and you see me, but it's really just a terrible misunderstanding.

Happy 16.99178644763860369609856262833676th Birthday!

2005-11-09T23:17:00.000-05:00

For all you super clever people, the trick now would be to figure out what day my birthday is on, given I posted this the night of November 9th, 2005.

Oh man, this will either be the greatest, or worst Mighty Mu ever. I hate mediocrity. Either do a damn good job, or crash and burn.

Entropy would say, eventually, I'll crash and burn.

Mom would say, eventually, I'll crash and burn.

You would say, eventually, I'll... you get the picture.

Do you really need people to believe in you first, before you succeed? Or should you have to give them a reason to believe in you first? I think a little blind faith at certain times can go a long way. Buddha knows I'd like some right now (ok, no self-respecting Buddhist anywhere would ever make that sort of statement, just so you know).

Life is like a box of chocolates. A box of some good, some bad, some surprising, some disappointing, some that make you want to cry for joy, some for sorrow, some for regret, some for redemption, and also some poison chocolates. There might even be a little piece thats covered in chocolate but is really a small bomb that will blow up once you put it in your mouth, after which you'll have a beautiful collection of straight and pearly teeth... in your skull.

Ok, maybe Rush Hour 2 wasn't THAT great...

-------------

And now the purple dusk of twilight time
Steals across the meadow of my heart
High up in the sky the little stars climb
Always reminding me that we’re apart

You wandered down the lane and far away
Leaving me a song that will not die
Love is now a stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by

Sometimes I wonder why I spend
The lonely nights dreaming of a song
The melody haunts my reverie
And I am once again with you

When our love was new
And each kiss an inspiration
But that was long ago
And now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song

Beside the garden wall
When stars are bright
You are in my arms
The nightingale tells his fairy tale
Of paradise where roses grew

Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain
My stardust melody
The memory of love’s refrain

My Advice: KISS

2005-11-01T20:55:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not telling you to go out and randomly kiss people.

Would you listen to me if I did?

You never listen to me.

I never listen to me.

Therefore, you and I, we're the same person.

Logic.

Terrific.

-------------

Keep
It
Simple,
Stupid

Advice that goes a long way. And it's cheap. Not entirely free though. What should I charge you for it? A few moments of your time is enough I guess. That's all I can reasonably assume that you'll be willing to pay me. Hey, you're here already aren't you?

Don't you wish things were different?

Misplaced Urine

2005-10-27T20:50:00.000-04:00

Let's just get one thing straight. Chinese people are not a minority. We are the plurality of the world's population. One out of every five babies born is Chinese. With all that being said, I attended Swarthmore College's Discovery Weekend 2005 this past weekend, as part of a minority recruiting program.

Hey, I can't complain too much when someone's willing to go all-expenses-paid on my ass.

Saturday morning, 10:30 flight. Get to the airport and get to my Southwest gate with an hour to spare. Bust out the SL History IA primary source: Communist China & Arms Control, A Contingency Study, 1967-1976. Awesome reading, nuclear weapons and such. A few minutes later, a young Chinese woman sits down across from me. A few minutes after that, she asks me if I'm going for "the college thing." Teenagers, we can't express ourselves in anything but vagaries. Specifics terrify us. I didn't even ask her her name until we were almost on the plane. Guess who was sitting a row behind us? Young Hispanic man from East Lake H.S. World's a little too small for my tastes, but everybody turned out to be super cool.

Read/napped on the plane ride. I can do both at the same time. Get to Philly, walk through the world's longest jetway, and find that we have to hoof it two terminals over from E to C, where the Swarthmore reps were. Wait maybe 10 minutes, most of which I spent wondering whether or not I have enough time to find a bathroom. Too late, van is here. I get to ride in the front seat, since I was the last person to get on. Best view in the house, not nearly as crowded. Not much to see though, mostly highway traffic and off/onramps until we get to the campus. Beautiful place, lot of greenery, lot of nice houses, lot of cloudy skies and mud as well. Checked-in, got acquainted, and felt rather stood up as my host didn't show. He was in Philly visiting an aunt (actually his cousin's mother's sister, but English doesn't work too well with relationships). A friend of his finally did manage to find me, and we trekked to the dingiest dorm building on-campus. Put my bags down, and could finally relax.

The people in the hall were all super awesome. My host was an international student from Peru; his roommate was a tall, redheaded American. They have a weekly radio show, Sundays at 2 AM to 4 AM, on WSRN Swarthmore radio, playing jazz. I can honestly say that the consensus among us "specs" (prospective Swarthmore students) was that the host- and roommate-matching at this school was amazing. The dynamics between everybody just clicked, beautifully. Everybody was completely at ease with one another; hell, even I fit in pretty well. Anyways, we sat in the small little double, drying off and soaking in the sweat and the dirty laundry. Dinner was in Sharples, the only dining hall on campus (Quakers had this thing about wanting everyone to eat together). Let's just say, the grub was far from mediocre. But I was hungry, so a cheeseburger and some bad imitation curry chicken managed to win a minor victory over the forces of my hunger.

Post-dinner activities were better, though this was not apparent to me at first. At first we just sort of sat around, my roommie spec and me. He was from Miami actually, so best of luck with Wilma's aftermath. Around 9:30, we headed over to a charity "Casino Night," sponsored by the African-American student organization. Ironically, this was to benefit victims of Hurricane Katrina. I made a $5 donation, and played Bingo to begin with, since all the other tables were full. Yeah, I felt old too. Craps was ridiculous; all bets paid 1:1. I just alternated between Odd, Even, 1-18, and 19-36. Lost 1 chip, out of 15, after a handful of spins. Finally managed to get a seat at a blackjack table, thinking I'd be able to recoup something at least (there was going to be an auction using the play chips we earned). Lo and behold, this wasn't the sort of normal casino blackjack I was expecting. We didn't play individually against the dealer and get paid our own bets back; we each anted up into a pot, and the overall best hand won. I could live with this, only the anteing wasn't even consistent. In the end, I just gave up. Never trust other people to run a casino, Cody.

Well, one good thing did come out of that whole episode. Actually, whether or not you think it was good will depend on who you are. As it so happened, our dealer was headed over to a frat party then, and my spec buddies and I, with nowhere better to go and no desire to go to bed, decided to follow. No one stopped me at the door (they stopped the other specs I had gone with; for some reason, I guess I look more mature or something). We got downstairs, and the bar was flowing pretty damn freely. Large 16-oz plastic cups of beer, plus smaller cups of Blue Stuff (that's the name we'll use for now). When I asked the Asian guy at the bar what they were serving, turns out the Blue Stuff was equal parts vodka, Blue Gatorade (yes, Blue is a flavor), and Sprite. Pretty damn good stuff, I'd say. I had 2 cups of that while my roommate had a few beers.

The place was pretty crowded, and everyone was more drunk than they thought they were. Some girl bumped into us, and spilled her Blue Stuff down her blouse. She started freaking out, claiming we had hit her and knocked her drink over. I think I offered to lick it off of her. I think her boyfriend heard her yelling and led her away. My memory is somewhat hazy on this part of the night; what can I say, I was drunk.

"From two cups of Blue Stuff?" you ask.
"No, I had a beer too."
"That was enough to get you drunk?"
"Well..."

We decided to leave soon; a fight had semi-broken out, and things were getting somewhat too rowdy. A junior Swattie had been telling us his opinion of Swarthmore for the last hour or so. Every other word was "fucking."

"This school is fuckin' awesome fuckin' yeah... fuckin' all the fuckin' chicks fuckin' so desperate... fuckin' so much fuckin' booze... I FUCKIN' LOVE IT HERE!"

Yup, that was enough to convince me.

Meanwhile, for some reason unbeknownst to myself, I had gone up to the bar, jacked the bottle of vodka, and started downing cups of the stuff. Let me tell you, nothing is better for a sore throat. Also, nothing keeps you warmer. I don't know why I like vodka; it's one of the few alcoholic beverages I've developed a taste for. Anyways, I don't quite remember walking back to our dorm room. I do remember my roommate relieving himself in a bush from the sidewalk.

Personally, I pissed on the floor when I woke up two hours later and went to the bathroom, because we all know how small urinals become and how hard it is to aim when you're having difficulty standing.

But I slept great.

Progress

2005-10-10T20:45:00.000-04:00

How eager we are to grow up, and forget our childishness.

How soon we would like to forget who we were, in the name of who we'll become.

And maybe you stop to think about what you're leaving behind. Maybe it strikes you, for however brief a moment. Maybe everything freezes, for that instant.

And then life throws another punch at you, and you'd better be ready.

So when will it all stop? Do we ever get to call the whole thing off? Do we ever get to say, "Look God, just give me five damned minutes without having to think about where I have to go afterwards, ok?"

It's not His fault, I guess.

Reap what you sow. Goes around comes around. Maybe you never made time for other people. Or, maybe you always made time for other people. Either way, maybe no one will make time for you.

Existence is selfish. The urge to cling to life. To get everything that's coming to you. Socialism doesn't work because it violates the basic nature of man.

Progress.

New is better than old. What you might have will always be better than what you had. How can you beat possibility? How can memory stand up to hope, however distorted or misplaced they might be, respectively?

The past, a memory. The present, a reality. But the future...

... the darkness full of dreams yet to come.

-------------

Live to see the end.

Are You Giving Up or Letting Go? I Dunno, Let's Move On

2005-09-21T22:30:00.000-04:00

"What's the difference?"
"Between what?"
"Between giving up on something for whatever reason, and letting go of something you know you can't hold on to."
"Giving up implies you're not willing to do whatever it is that you would need to do to hold on to something."
"And what if you are willing to do it, but you don't know how?"
"Well, if you really did want to do it, then you'd figure out how."
"Ok, so what if I figure out how to do it, but it turns out that what I'm trying to hold on to doesn't really want to be held on to?"
"May I take it then that we're speaking about a certain person?"
"I guess I shouldn't have said 'what.' "
"It's ok, we'll just take it to mean the relationship you have with that person."
"So what do you think?"
"It's a toughie, but I think you need to tell that person exactly how you feel."
"What if you don't think she'd understand?"
"I see now we've progressed from a 'what,' to a 'person,' to a 'she.' "
"The magic of evolution."
"Touché."
"I'd really like to hear what you think."
"I think you need to put your trust somewhere external to yourself. You've gotta either trust her, or trust fate, or trust your voodoo gods, or whoever. But you can't control it yourself. You'll kill yourself trying to."
"And what if what happens isn't what you would have wanted to happen?"
"Then you'll have to learn to deal with disappointment. But you're a poker player; what's another bad beat, even if it is about some broad?."
"She isn't just some broad."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. I just didn't like it."
"Tough."
"Thanks."

-------------

Aimlessly

2005-09-19T21:50:00.000-04:00

He hated looking at his watch. He couldn't avoid it, but he could hate it. He hated staring at the thin, inconsequentially thin figure of the second hand marching grimly around the face, ticking off the moments which came and would never come again. Time was a bitch, Deck thought.

He tried his best to look at his watch less and less. He tried to avoid being seated anywhere within view of a clock. He tried to ignore the ticking of the watch of the guy seated next to him at the table, whether it was real or imagined.

He got better at it gradually. He started waking up at 12:47 PM on the nose every day, and decided to donate his alarm clock to Goodwill. He ate dinner everyday at 5:15 PM sharp, since Subway's 2 footlong sandwiches for $8.99 deal started at 5 PM and that was how long it took him to walk to the restaurant. He saved the second sub for breakfast, which he usually ate at around 4 or 5 AM. He went to bed as soon as he finished eating his breakfast sub (usually a sweet onion chicken teriyaki on honey oat bread, with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, pickles, and jalapeno peppers). Sometimes, he would brush his teeth. Most of the time, he just comforted himeself with the fact that nobody ever came to see him anyways, so no one would ever notice or care.

-------------

Online poker was not the occupation Deck had gone to MIT to prepare for. But he didn't know why he went to MIT anyways, so it really didn't matter. The whole thing had been very accidental, and Deck felt like he had somehow just woken up one day, and found himself living in Boston. He remembered half-heartedly filling out his application, and turning in some sort of generic essay (or maybe a couple of generic essays) beginning with the words "I wasn't really sure what to write for this essay, so..." Apparently, somebody at MIT was trying to get fired, because Deck soon found out that he wasn't the only one in his class who didn't really belong there. It wasn't that he wasn't smart. He just wasn't brilliant. He had no outstanding traits whatsoever. He did nothing better than anyone else. Everything was easy for him, but he wasn't especially good at anything. Oh, he ended up graduating, but neither he nor MIT felt like either had gained anything of value from the other after four years.

And so it was that after he left the most prestigious technical university in the world, he found himself profoundly and utterly without direction. He had no overwhelming desire to do anything. The few truly brilliant folks he had met in school did nothing to inspire him; they had dismissed him as being just another bright young fellow who lacked the extra something special needed for success, and so he had dismissed each of them as being just another asshole who didn't and couldn't give an honest shit about him. But even if he wasn't inspired or motivated, he could still be hungry. The question of what to do for money led him naturally to the solution which kept him fed and occupied now.

Poker came as easily to him as everything else in his life had. His temperament was especially suited to the game. Natually emotionless and introverted, he couldn't give off tells if he tried. Some of the more overzealous types took this as a sign that he was trying too hard, and in trying to take his money, lost considerable portions of their own stacks before they realized that Deck really was as dead calm and serious as he looked. The other guys just didn't notice, or if they did, didn't know what it was they had noticed. He was just as calm when he took his bad beats. They were inevitable, but he didn't mind them all that much. Probably because he didn't mind anything all that much, an attitude which had gotten him pretty far in life thus far by most peoples' measures, and would probably have carried him even farther had he never met her.

...

-------------

If a certain friend tells me he wants to rape a certain other acquaintance of mine, am I obligated to tell her?

Poker, Because There Really is Nothing Else

2005-09-18T15:00:00.000-04:00

Cash game.

$0.10/$0.20 NL texas hold'em.

8-handed most of the day, 9-handed at some points.

Randy to my right, Raj to my left, with Mike one seat behind Raj. All that means is that I get to pick off Randy's calls (at one point, he had called preflop for about 30 consecutive hands), but also have to avoid being super dumb.

Started off pretty well, I guess. First hand, A-4 suited on the button, call one raise of $0.50 from Raj with about 3 other guys. Flop is A-J-2, with one card of my suit. Raj checks, Mike bets $0.75, fold to me, and I call for $0.75, on the button, with backdoor flush and straight draws. Raj calls too. Turn is an offsuited 3, Raj checks, Mike checks (he regrets this now), and I check, pretty sure my Ace is outkicked, if not worse. River is the 5. I have the second-nuts (the "peanuts" as I like to call it), save for 6-4, which I can only hope no one was fucking around with. Raj checks, Mike bets, I raise, Raj folds, Mike calls, and I turn up the suck-outed straight against his top two pair. About a $20 pot total.

Fold mostly for about 2 rounds, when I get back on the button with 8-5 offsuit. 3 weak calls after the big blind enticed me to make a play at this one, using my position and my image. "Raise, 50 cents more," I announce. To my chagrin, 3 calls total. Flop is Q-5-3, two spades, and all is not lost apparently. Check, check, Vince bet out $0.50. Vince can get creative at times, and he'd bet out here with a lot of hands that can't stand much pressure. I make a value-looking raise for $2 more. Vince folds, saying how he knows I'm going to come over the top of him for a lot of chips on the next card anyways (hehe, it's working, it's working!).

Life is pretty darn good, eh? Fold fold fold fold, and then, bam! K-10 offsuit under the gun. Maybe I was getting bored. I'd folded K-10 twice before in early postion, so I guess I wanted to change it up a little. Standard raise for $0.50, and I pick up 3 or 4 callers (I don't remember, there's always a lot of dead-money calls where they fold after the flop to any pressure). Flop is K-10 (first two cards off, both spades, so I was praying for a nonspade next) -9, all spades. Randy checked to me, and I bet out $2. Mike called, and Vince called (he regrets this now). Turn is my bingo card, K of hearts. Slowly check, pretending as if my A-10 with the A of spades was not so hot anymore. Mike checked, and Vince checked. River was the J of diamonds (Mike regrets this now). I check again, confidently in my mind, and Mike comes out firing for $5, and before the fireworks even start going off in my head, Vince CALLS. Oh boy oh boy, life sure as heck is REAL good. I ponder for a moment, checking my cards again slowly. I have no idea how they'll react to me, but I don't really care. Slowly, deliberately, I raise it, $10 more. Actually, I announced the $10 raise before I even checked my own stack. Turns out, I only had a buck left anyways after that. Mike calls pretty damn quickly, and Vince flipped up his Q-J as he thought about it. Wow, how awesome would it have been for him to call me too? Instead after several seconds, he makes the tough but correct decision to lay down the flopped straight. I turn up K-10 for my full house, Mike, in shock I guess, flipped up A-Q, for the nut straight. In hindsight, I guess he must have thought I was trying to buy the pot, maybe with 3 kings, maybe with a K-high straight trying to avoid a split (he had the A-high straight), or maybe I was pure bluffing. I guess I am capable of it. I'm just crazy like that.

So, that was about a $40 pot. I was up to roughly $46 at one point in my stack. Then the cards stopped coming, and I couldn't shake anybody off of anything. Notably in my memory, my J-J got, among others, a call from K-6 suited, and the flop came K-6-3; later 8-8 got, among others, a call from Randy with 10-7 offsuit, flop came 10-10-3, he bet out $2 (should have noticed and made the weird laydown here) but instead I raised $5 just to make sure, as he went all-in and I folded.

Final hand (by now the cards had gone completely dead), I limp in with J-8 to an almost-family pot (Raj folded), and the flop was J-8-3, two diamonds. One bet of $0.75, Vince raised all-in for $3.40 total, and I reraised another $7 to make sure. Heads-up between us it went, and he flipped up 10-7 for nothing but an inside straight draw. Sure enough, the 9 on the turn (and another one on the river) cost me about a $9 pot.

Oh well. I cashed out for $34, up $24 for the day, and went home shaking my head, certain I could have hit $50 easily if my quality hands had just held up too.

-------------

Joe Sebok, son of Barry Greenstein, on playing online poker:

"There is also something to being able to say, 'Fold, fold, fold, fold, fold, damn it, for the love of all that is sweet on this earth, FOLD!' out loud during a bluff, which is very freeing."

Momentary Sigh of Relief

2005-09-14T20:05:00.000-04:00

I had been operating (ok, maybe not operating, more like, living in a state of intense dread) on the assumption that Princeton early admission was due postmarked by October 1st. However, I've suddenly discovered a whole new month, the one they call, "November." Still, I am not left with much leeway, as something known as an Extended Essay second draft is due in mid-October.

Ah, but nothing beats that feeling of having some long-carried burden suddenly disappear. To look up and see the sun again.

It's been a slow news day folks, for me at least. Hence, we present some more Rain-isms. Sorry Rain, but you just make it so easy for me.

"Damnit, that gas pump was leaking on me. I got gas all over my fingers Rain."
"Go home and wash it with soup."
(oh, he definitely said "soup")

-------------

Game over. Insert 2 tokens to continue.

I'm Addicted to You

2005-09-12T21:11:00.000-04:00

What? I can't rip a song title once in a while?

I was so desperate on my National Merit application that I wrote about this blog. Now I live in constant fear that someday someone will come asking about it.

Guess I better stop cussing and shit.

Oh but this is fun to keep up, isn't it? Besides beating the heck out of doing IB homework, I also get to practice sounding and writing like an idiot. My God, I've just realized, this blog is the reason for my decline in language skills. Soon, I will begin drooling and whistling incoherently, even though I don't know how to whistle.

I can't keep up with everything. I just can't. It's like putting George Bush into a ghetto.

"Like the black people, damnit!"
"I can't! I just don't know how!"
"We'll shoot your father if you don't hug at least one black person."
"No daddy, NOOOOOO!!!!"

Now, let's all take a moment to pray for those affected by Hurricane Katrina, especially that guy who made off with about 37 Ecko t-shirts. Lord have mercy on them.

Amen.

Comment-Whoring

2005-09-07T21:47:00.000-04:00

I wonder where all these little scripts posting comments come from...

Did the digital stork just decide to drop them on my blog's doorstep? If so, well, let's just say Mr. Stork needs a bullet up the ass sometime soon.

In other news, I assert control over my life by choosing to waste my own time. It's really pretty nifty, but I don't recommend it for everyone. You really have to be able to take a lot of mental punishment, because you know in your own head that you're just watching the seconds tick by, waiting for something to happen. Waiting. Waiting. And waiting.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

And pretty soon, you'll wake up and be dead. Oh, but it's not all bad. No one's going to hold you responsible for anything after you're dead. So really, the trick is to die without dying. To die inside, and still keep on breathing.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in...

Sprechen Sie Englisch?

2005-09-06T21:45:00.000-04:00

Thank the powers that be for in-flight movies... Madagascar being one of the many, many movies played back-to-back on my flight back from Hawaii.

Skipper the Penguin: Hey, quadruped, sprechen sie englisch?
Marty the Zebra: Yeah, I sprechen.
Skipper the Penguin: What continent is this?
Marty the Zebra: Manhattan.
Skipper the Penguin: Hoover Dam! We're still in New York! Dive! Dive! Dive!

Well, at least a few lines of that movie were funny.

But it does bring me to my next point (does "next point" imply I had a first point? either way, I lied), which is the plight of non-well-speaking-English folk in America. You know, dem kids who don't talk good American. I used to be one of them. Until I realized how ridiculous I was. Never again will I mispronounce anything.

Except maybe the word "Bono."

But I digress.

Many of you (how many is many of one person?) know my friend Rain. Well, Rain has a dilemma over at Countryside High School. He is currently ranked 3rd in his class. He's taking quite a few quality-point classes this semester, and so by all reasonable estimates, he should overtake the #1 ranking by Christmas.

So, what's so horrible about becoming valedictorian?

The speech he'd have to give.

I won't try to explain the situation much further; those of you who know Rain also are well familiar with his language limitations. Perhaps he can explain best in his own words:

"Aww, I sucks at speeching."

-------------

I bid you all goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.

Shh!

2005-09-05T20:19:00.000-04:00

Don't tell anyone but, I don't have a copy of the Mu Alpha Theta application. I gave mine to Channing, but then I forgot to go get another one. This presents us with a choice then:

A) I can go get one tomorrow from Linder (without telling her why), then fill it out and forge some signatures, and turn it in tomorrow, or

B) Since Channing has "my" application technically, I've already told her that she gets to be Mu President for me.

Personally, plan B seems more ethical than A. Plan A involves a lot of deception, lying, sneaking, etc.

Sadly, Channing has refused this position.

Fortunately, I am an expert forger, lockpicker, safecracker, and card counter. There's probably a few other criminal skills I should brush up on. Another day perhaps.

We're So Not Addicted

2005-09-02T19:45:00.000-04:00

Look. If there's anyone out there around the ages of 16 to 17, and who's interested in gambling, I'm here to tell you, you're a fucking idiot.

Yes, this means I'm a fucking idiot.

Friday afternoon, and I have the bright idea of having a poker game at my house. Six people total, and yes, even Bromar showed up (he was lost for at least half an hour, driving in circles on the CIRCULAR road around my house).

About 45 minutes in, after I had busted out, I suddenly had the bright idea of making it a rebuy tourney. Randy was pissed. But that's ok, because he's not a real person.

Amid jokes about Omar's undying love for a certain girl by the initials of R(achel) B(I can't spell her last name), and Randy's inability to speak either passable English or Spanish, we somehow found ourselves holding the short end of a stick that Randy was holding on to as the winner. No worries mate, we had a plan.

First, we played 6 way high-card, $1 and later $2 a hand. Joey managed to draw an Ace three separate times, but on the third time, after Max had flipped up another Ace (after he'd lost), both Randy and I looked down to find ourselves holding the last two Aces in the deck. Sadly, the three-way tiebreaker went to Randy. I did manage to win one high-card game, drawing out a K to beat a Q.

Having tired of playing high-card, we moved on to blackjack. $5 a hand seemed to become the norm, and Randy was probably up in the nieghborhood of $80 at his high (later after they left my house, Joey told me that Randy was at one point in debt for $40 when they played some more at Joey's house). I played a total of three blackjack hands, losing two for $10 each and winning one for $20.

Sadly, at one point, Randy and Joey began playing rock-paper-scissors for money, $1 a pop.

Joey wound up up $5 total.

The moral of the story is:

we are some fucking bad gamblers.

(15 minutes ago, Joey also told me that Randy thought he had lost the $50-dollar bill he had won gambling; later when Randy called Joey back, he told him he had found it...

in the toilet,

after having been urinated on by his younger brother.)

-------------

Yeah, we suck that much.

Tomorrow

2005-08-31T20:25:00.000-04:00

He'd lost everything he had. He'd put all of it on the goddamned line, and he'd lost.

Was that the way it was supposed to happen? Was it meant to be this way? Was that asshole that runs things around this planet trying to teach him another fucking lesson?

Goddamnit, he'd done all he could. Goddamnit, even if he could have seen that fuckface's cards, he wouldn't have wanted anything to be different. Except for that goddamned queen on the goddamned river.

He didn't remember how he got out of there. Didn't remember the stunned looks around the table when the queen came up. Didn't remember any of the mumbled apologies and commiserations that they'd half-heartedly offered him.

All he remembered was the queen, smilingly like it'd been a fucking surprise party.

The one line from Rounders kept ringing in his head:

"It happens to everyone, from time to time, everyone goes bust. You'll be back in the game before you know it."

Fuck that. Fuck this game. Fuck all of it.

But Deck also knew he wasn't going to get a regular job any time soon.

He stumbled out into the predawn morning. The sky was the color of the red $500 chips they'd been using. A few stars lingered stubbornly in the sky, daring the sun to rise.

He felt sorry for them as he watched the sun climb lazily over the horizon.

-------------

Ugh, remind me to compile all this stuff soon. Poor Deck is so disjointed. He deserves a nice stable life.

I wish somebody would write me a nice stable life too.

Well, I haven't exactly been kind to him either. But I write what I know about, and bad beats... let's just say I know 'em pretty well by now. Besides, who the fuck wants a happy ending anyways?

Really, this post was just so I could come up for some fresh air, before I dive back into this little septic tank happily labeled "IB, Senior Year, 1st Semester."

Tired

2005-08-29T21:00:00.000-04:00

Maybe Deck was right. Maybe if he could have asked God, He would have told him to do the same thing.

It didn't matter a damned bit though.

It'd taken him a long time to learn that particular lesson, but he finally had. Sometimes, being right just didn't matter.

Poker is probably the only game in existence where one player can do all the work, figure out all the angles, make all the right moves, trick his opponent into making a horrible decision, and still lose.

He'd been doing all the work for years now. He'd gradually moved up, from $0.05/$0.10 NL tables online, all the way to this, the $50/$100 NL game that went on in the basement of his regular cardroom 2 or 3 times a year.

He'd paid his fuckin' dues. He'd watched the donkeys river their miracle outs, and he'd taken it all without saying a fuckin' word. He just shook his head, and waited for the dealer to deal out the next hand.

And it had paid off. Little by little, his $1000 bankroll (borrowed from a friend whom he'd long since paid back) had grown. And when he finally heard about this game, the game, he didn't hesitate for an instant. He collected his little over $30,000, and he jumped in.

At first he'd been scared to death. Played a total of 3 hands in the first hour. Won the blinds once and folded on the flop the other two times.

He sat and he watched. He observed as the other players made their moves, seasoned veterans who didn't give this upstart a second glance. But he was watching them. And they introduced themselves to him slowly, through their actions and through their cards, if not through words. And so it was that after about two hours, he knew these guys as if he'd known them all his life. He discovered the shy, quiet one, the one who never had a lot of friends in high school, the one who was still a virgin. He found the loud, boorish guy, overaggressive and not afraid to show it, the one who had been picked on a lot when he was a kid and was now compensating for it at the table. It was crystal clear, to anyone who could observe the way he could.

So it was no surprise really when after about 12 hours, Deck looked down and found almost $70,000 in chips in front of him. And it wasn't much of a surprise either when he looked down to see two black Aces in the hole. It was about time, he figured.

"Make it $350," he pronounced.

Folded around to the button, who was what passed for the "table captain" here. He looked at his cards as slowly as if he was casually playing a nickel/dime home game. Deck stared unobtrusively at the empty green felt in the center of the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Deck caught the barest stirring of excitement. But the guy was as nonchalant as ever when he finally acted, after some choreographed meditation.

"Alright, I'll gamble wit ya'," he said as he splashed his chips into the pot.

Both blinds folded and the flop came down like an angel from heaven for Deck,

A-Q-3, the most beautiful rainbow Deck was sure he had ever seen.

He didn't let any hint of emotion leak through the iron mask of indifference on his face. He paused ambiguously, and decided to bet out into this $850 pot. The other guy wouldn't give up his Captain status without a fight.

"Bet a grand," he announced with an evenness that gave away as much indication of strength as it did of a bluff.

Captain didn't even blink. The raise was instantaneous.

"Pocket kings no good, I'll make it $5,000 more," he boasted with a grin.

Deck knew what he was trying to do. Captain had put him on a premium hand alright, but he didn't suspect pocket Aces. The guy was exuding more confidence by the minute, and he knew it. He wanted Deck to see it. What Deck had noticed about this guy was, he was good, and he knew he was good, but he just didn't think anyone else at the table was better than him. He knew there were some guys here that could make a good read, that could sniff out a bluff and reraise with the worst hand themselves. That's what he wanted Deck to pick up on. He wanted Deck to think that he was showing as much confidence as he could, because he was trying to run Deck over with nothing much himself.

So what would Deck do if he thought the Captain was muscling him out?

"Call," after several seconds from a pretense of deliberation.

Call, because it showed that he suspected something was up. That maybe this Captain was trying to run him over, but that he wasn't sure. Deck knew that's what the guy would think.

Turn was a useless 7, with four different suits on the board.

"Check," he said, while adding the slightest tinge of weakness to his voice by seemingly trying to accomplish the rarely successful strong-check.

"No free cards, it'll be 10 grand to see that river."

Damn, he was even cockier now, getting more carried away with himself.

Deck knew he had him. He couldn't read his cards, but his confidence was the type that was borne of having complete information. He knew more than the other guy, plain and simple.

He decided not to stall anymore, afraid to spoil the perfect act so far by dragging it out longer than it had to be. The hand Captain thought Deck had would most likely be A-K, he told himself. So if he felt like Captain was muscling him, he would raise, right here, right now.

"I'm all-in," he said, trying to mask his omnipotence by acting more confident than he should have been, as if the confidence itself could shield the A-K that the Captain thought Deck had.

And Captain counted his chips, and had Deck's last $51,650 covered by a grand. He called, not because he had thought through the hand and reached any sort of decision, but because the entire hand had played out exactly the way he had envisioned it.

Two plus two makes four, but just because you got four doesn't mean you added two plus two to get there.

The Captain flipped up two Queens as if they were a foregone conclusion.

As Deck turned over his cards, his gaze was squarely on the Captain's face. He would've laughed if he hadn't seen the same thing so many times before. There is no greater humiliation than having a hand play out exactly the way you wanted it, and then finding out you were so utterly wrong from the beginning. It's worse than any other feeling in the world, because the other guy did everything you wanted him to, but somehow you were still dead wrong. The Captain's face twisted, from what had been amusement and self-righteous smugness, to something unrecognizable. It was the face of a man who doesn't even know he's sick when they tell him he has a month to live.

Still one more card to come.

And wouldn't you know it?

The Queen of diamonds looked Deck square in the eye, and laughed.

Nothing Special

2005-08-28T21:25:00.000-04:00

Good title... now I just need a story to go with it.

I'm thinking... kid in high school in middle of nowhere, valedictorian, wants to get the fuck out of there as quick as he can since he thinks it's nothing special, leaves his friends behind, goes to Harvard, finds out it's nothing special either, then regrets leaving his friends behind...

Throw in some alcohol, some poker games, a hooker or three, maybe a car accident, and bam!

Literary crap still.

::sigh::

Back to the goddamned drawing board.

Things You'll Find Out About Yourself while Filling Out an Application

2005-08-27T17:50:00.000-04:00

"Name?"
(translation: what do you want on your death certificate, since you didn't have all that much say about your birth certificate?)

"Why did you consider volunteering here?"
(who exactly will be responsible for your death should you not work enough hours here?)

"Previous employment?"
(what do you know how to do?)

"Hobbies, interests, and skills? "
(what do you think you know how to do, and what would you like to pretend to do?)

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"
(if yes, then you're a menace to society; if no, then you suck and have pretty much never done anything cool in your life)

"Please provide two non-family references we may contact."
(who do we call to find out what you did to whose cat when you were how old?)

I think completing applications is one of the most introspective activities I ever undertake. I mean, here's a chance to finally figure out who you are, written on a sheet of paper. Stop pretending; now's your chance to make it official.

Maybe you'll find out how many awesome things you've done already. Or maybe you'll find out how useless your 17+ years on this green Earth have really been.

Enjoy!

Don't Panic

2005-08-24T20:20:00.000-04:00

(Doug Adams will save my life yet...)

These days, life is filled with nothing but worrying and pancking. Deadlines missed, phone calls unreturned, conversations and relationships left hanging, and a million and seven other things to do that I will never get around to. I don't have spare time; I spend it worrying about what I should be doing.

Live each day afraid that you'll fuck up the next, and odds are you will. Such is the irony of our existence. Really that's probably the best available evidence that God exists; life would be too much of a goddamned coincidence to just all happen by accident. Nature can't have a sense of humor, but whoever is in charge of the show obviously does.

Live each day remembering what you forgot to do yesterday, and odds are, you'll never run out of things to remember. So far as us mortals are concerned, time flows linearly. Hence, the past is just like a handicapped parking spot: don't even think about it.

Learn what you can from what you have (or have not) done, and then let it settle into the muddy depths of your mind. There's no need to stir it up everyday. It serves no purpose, other than to muck up everything else until you can't see straight.

Prepare for the future, but don't stress about it. What will come, will come. It's like trying to predict what you're going to get dealt next hand; just play the cards you get, whatever they may be. You can't change them. All you can do is be ready, and know what to do with them.

Don't panic.

Don't look back.

Don't look too far ahead.

Make each moment mean something. Focus on what you can control. Fold your trash hands, watch your opponents, and stay sharp.

The cards will come, in time.

Keys to Success: (1) Redundancy

2005-08-21T14:30:00.000-04:00

I downloaded Blogger for Word yesterday. It was one of those moments where you see something and you think, "gee, wouldn't that be nice to have?"

-------------

"Well I dunno Cody, would you really use it?"
"Well yeah Cody, I would. See, now I won't have to fire up the old Firefox browser everytime I want to blog."
"But Word is so ugly."
"Gee Cody, maybe you're right."
"No Cody, I think you're right."

-------------

Anyways, I convinced myself that this was something that I really absolutely must have. Just like my Google Desktop Search, my Gmail account, my Paradise Poker account, and maybe my Life in general. I fear boredom more than I fear Death. Which is why I have taken up the habit of doing everything more times than I should even have considered doing in the first place.

It's also a fun habit to have for conversations. Just ask the other person for confirmation of everything they just said to you, even if you heard it the first time. Redundancy. It will save a lot of marriages where the couple believes that they have nothing to talk about. Look:

-------------

"Hey Cody, what's up?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, 'what's up?' "
"Oh, uh, not much, how about you?"
"Same, same."
"Did you say it was the same for you?"
"Uhh, yeah, I did."
"Was that a yes?"
"Look, I'm gonna go... over there... now... to talk to... uhh... bye!"

-------------

That's right. Run.

Real World: Palm Harbor

2005-08-18T22:25:00.000-04:00

Six IB students. One house. See what happens when we stop being polite, and start being real.

-------------

"Oh my God, have you looked at this Spanish homework yet?"
"No, why?"
"Well, it's... it's... disgusting."
"You want to talk about disgusting? There are actually blood stains in my HL Math book, from the kids who've committed suicide over it."
"You wuss, HL Spanish is definitely harder!"
"My ass!"
"What, you want a piece of this, bring it on!"
"What are you going to do, shove a burrito up my ass?"
"And what about you, are you just going to throw equations at me?"
"That's it bitch, I'm gonna beat your ass so hard, you'll wish you were a null set."

-------------

Lost and Found

2005-08-15T21:55:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, our pet gopher tortoise Moz disappeared from the backyard of our residence in Oldsmar. Moz had been relaxing in the backyard, and had been left alone for about five minutes before it was noticed that she was no longer visible. A frantic search was mounted, with no immediate results. Several days earlier, she had been accidentally thrown out with the trash when no one noticed that she was occupying one of the boxes to be discarded. Perhaps she had decided to run away for good.

Or perhaps not.

She was discovered again this afternoon. You see, gopher tortoises are so-named for their burrowing habits, much like a gopher's. Well, she had taken up residence, in our backyard. A little mound of gray dirt stood adjacent to an entrance almost exactly in the shape of her profile. Apparently she's grown accustomed to this clime.

Welcome home, Moz.

(Note: All you folks with the "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, its yours. If not, it never was."-thing, this just goes to show that, tortoises are people too.)

There is More to Life than Poker

2005-08-12T18:20:00.000-04:00

"Did you know Cody, there's more to life than just poker?"
"Oh, and what makes you say that?"
"Are we going to argue this just for the heck of it?"
"Only if you're ready to get your ass kicked. Mentally speaking."
"Bring it on ya dirty chink."

......

"Far, far below the belt."
"Withdrawn."
"So let's do this, seriously. Name me an example."
"Meeting new people, getting out and seeing the world, making new friends, those are all big parts of life."
"They're also things I can do in a cardroom."
"You do this solely to kill me by annoying me."
"I'm not kidding. Spend 20 years in a cardroom, and you'll meet people from all over the world. You'll meet people from all walks of life. Amateurs, pros, donkeys, sharks, flounders, rocks, you'll see 'em all. Some of them you might like, some of them you might not. It's tough, but you can make a few friends if you're honest about it."
"I don't like it, but I might have to give you that one."

......

"You have anything else left?"
"Hmm, what about love?"
"I love aces in the hole."
"You know what I mean."
"Play this game long enough, you'll know what I mean too."
"It's just that though, poker is a game. You can't tell me the only thing you love in this world is a stupid card game."
"And what do you love? Your stupid pet dog? Your stupid car? Your stupid boyfriend? Your stupid career? Your stupid friends? Everything is stupid, if you want to call it that."
"So what are you saying, that life has no meaning and poker is as good as any other thing we might do?"
"No. Life will take on whatever meaning you want or need it to have. Poker is just one medium of expression, in that sense. It's one of those few opportunities for you to completely control the kind of person, the kind of player, that you are. Life is a million little things added together that you never take apart and change, but a poker player can change whatever it is that he needs to. Tighten up, loosen up, raise, fold, bluff, value bet, it's all up to you."
"And the cards?"
"The cards are just tools. What you do with them is up to you."
"Do you believe in luck, then?"
"Luck is a test. Good or bad, you have to test yourself each time you're given either one."

......

"I can't say that I agree with you Cody, but I can understand what you mean."
"Thanks."
"I'm glad you believe in me."
"Of course, Lady Luck."

The Value of not Looking Up

2005-08-11T21:07:00.000-04:00

Just put your head down and trudge onward.

Looking up will often strain your overextended neck, hurt your squinting eyes, and tire your buzzing mind, if not worse. Often the too-long awaited dream ceases to be a dream, becoming only the ghost of one. One is haunted by the things that one sees, when one tries to look up and look too far.

The pots will come. You know they will. Put your game on autopilot. Don't get impatient. Don't get stupid. And it'll come. Sooner or later, it'll come. The one beautiful pot. K-K vs. A-K. Flop, A-9-K.

It'll happen.

"Rolled up aces over kings. Check-raising stupid tourists and taking huge pots off of them. Playing all-night high-limit Hold'em at the Taj, 'where the sand turns to gold.' Stacks and towers of checks I can't even see over."

You won't even have to try. When the time comes, it'll be just... perfect.

Until then, you just have to put in the hours. Just wait. Pay your dues. Do what they tell you you have to do. Somebody up there is keeping tabs. Trust me.

It is what it is

2005-08-09T22:40:00.000-04:00

Worst Beats of the 2005 National Convention (all played at $.10/$.20 NL hold'em):

1) K-K vs. 8h-2h
I raise on the button with K-K, for $.50 more. Mike "Peaches" Ge calls from the BB, and everyone else folded. Flop is 8 high, with one heart. Check, I bet out, $1.50 (pot was $1.50 at that point). Call. Turn, 5 of hearts. Peaches bets $1.00, I raise, $3.50 more. Called, which was about 70% of his stack. Needless to say, the river was the ace of hearts.

2) A-A vs. 10-10
John "Chalky Queens" Bavlsik raised in early position, for $.50 more. Wake up with Aces in the cutoff, and reraise $2 more. Called, flop comes K-9-3. He bet, I call. Turn is, another 10. All-in, and I guess I could have laid it down.

3) combined, K-K vs. A-Q, twice against Peaches

My personal favorite: twice, everyone folds around to me in the small blind, and I fold as well, to A-A in the big blind (once Rain had it, once Peaches).

Oh yeah, we all got poker nicknames now.

I'm "Peanuts."

3999 is My Lucky Number

2005-07-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

I don't think I need to say anything more about it.

(click to enlarge)

There are Those Blogs that are Meant to be Read...

2005-07-27T02:30:00.000-04:00

... and there are those that are meant for nothing more than soul-searching and thought-jotting.

This falls into the latter.

As such, I shall no longer attempt to establish contact with the outside world.

:: cries of "nooo, don't leave us!" arise from the crowd of fans camping outside my blog ::

Oh, I guess I was dreaming again.

:: cricket ::

-------------

I'm almost down to the felt again. Every time I let myself get on a hot streak, I always find a way to lose it all away. I find a way to turn my own good luck into bad. I find a way to make donkey calls with hands like A-J-9 and a two-flush, finding a way to convince myself that I'm playing with guys who are so bad that I don't need good cards to crush the game. 3-betting with K-K-8, representing rolled-up 8's, when the other guy doesn't even know what the hell "rolled-up" means. And who's the bigger donkey, the guy who thinks the other will respect moves he's never even dreamed of, or the guy who just plays the only way he knows, and all your fancy moves be damned?

Persistence. When you don't have any money, that's the only thing you'll have left. How many hours I could have spent on so many more rewarding things. Finishing the EE, organizing Mu Alpha Theta under the gloriously efficient, opulently magnificent, brilliantly managed presidency of a slacker like me. A mental sigh, and life moves on.

These are not hours wasted, they are hours spent, hours invested. Wasting time is for the fool who knows not how little time he has left to waste. I know. Am I still a fool then? Perhaps. But the fool who knows that all around him are fools, is king among them.

Forget this game. Forget this part of my life that so far has done nothing for me but alienate and disappoint. It's not worth it. Goddamnit, I can wait till I'm 21 and unemployed. I've still got plenty of time to gamble the rest of my life away. Fuck this 0.04/0.08 crap. Fuck what I'm doing right now. Chasing the flush street after street, like some twisted detective story, only the hero never catches shit.

Why can't I just be happy? I know what I want. I know how to get it. I know how to play good poker. Damnit, why the fuck don't I play like I'm supposed to then?

Deep breath, says my brain.

Fuck you, says my ego.

But it's never been just about poker. No, although everything else is the same. Poker is about belief. Trying to manipulate other people's beliefs. Trying for yourself to believe the truth. The real truth. To see through the back of the cards and know. Just, know.

You never know though. Poker, and life, is about not knowing. It's about what you do with what you're dealt. What you do with what you know. What you try to learn. What you try to become. What you end up being. And what you think of yourself afterwards. Every good poker player will have that one morning when they wake up and cannot stand to look in the mirror. Disgusted by the way they blew through half (or more) of their bankroll the night before. To the sucker who they lost 3 hands in a row to. Tough (but not horrible) beats like K-J vs. Q-Q, 7-6 vs. A-K. But the one that sticks out most in their minds will always be the hand they went out on. The hand where they tried to force it. Tried to take charge of the game, take charge of that one moment, and make back the money they'd lost. Where they went for broke, and went broke. K-K in the BB, and grinning wolfishly inside as the fish on the button raises an exorbitant amount. Stupid ass, you comment to yourself. But outwardly, you're impassive. You stop, and ponder for as long as you deem appropriate. Reraise. Stall some more, as if you half-regretted it. All-in. Reluctantly, but not too reluctantly that it seems fake. Oh no, you're much too good to give something that stupid away. And quicker than lightning, the call comes. Even quicker, your vengeful glee turns to horror as the fish flips up two red aces, red as blood. But what's bleeding from you isn't blood though. It's pride. It's experience. It's the hours, days, months, years, you've poured into this game. The books you've read. The tips you've followed. The lessons you've given to show off. The tournaments you've won that now seem so inconsequential, so meaningless. You couldn't even beat this damn fool of a tourist, in a game at a level you've supposedly mastered. Goddamnit, people actually respected you.

Who's the bigger donkey?

I've come to that point in my life where I don't think I can look myself in the eye (in the mirror) anymore. I'm not the person I want to be. I'm not even close. And what's really frustrating, what really keeps me up at night sweating and uneasy, is that I know exactly what I'd want to be different about me. I know exactly what I could do. It's a cash game, there's no damned need to push all-in with the queens preflop. Call the donkey's raise, and fold it when he bets with a K on board. It's that simple. This isn't the goddamned WSOP. And you're not Phil-fucking-Ivey either. It's that simple. It really is.

And after all the whining and complaining is done, after all the overdramatic and hyperbolic is gone, I'm left with the simple fact that I have come to a defining moment in my life. There are two doors. Funny how the choice is always that simple.

Go big or go home.

Put up or shut up.

It's also not a coincidence that these schoolyard taunts ring so true now. Life has always been that simple. And all that acting, all that parading, all that bullshit you like to coat yourself in, it's not going to save you. It can't change a damned thing. You're either going to make it, or you're going to bite it.

You either got it or you don't.

I'd like to think I've still got it.

Everything New is Old Again

2005-07-15T16:09:00.000-04:00

About the only new thing I can tell you that I've come to face as a senior so far is this: I got a keychain. It says Class of 2006. It came with the senior pictures.

And that's it. This year feels the same as any other year. And while I should get cracking on college apps, I haven't even gotten cracked (look, I'll do my best to change idioms to past tense) on my EE. Done a hell of a lot of reading. Found a lot of interesting subjects. Decided to go with my backup EE topic. Which it turns out, I don't know as much about as I thought I did.

Everything new that comes up falls right back into place in the old patterns. I am who I am, and that guy is a lazy son of a bitch (no offense mom), whom I'd like to give a piece of my mind someday.

Look kid, I'm gonna give you a valuable piece of advice.

Don't ever take any advice from anyone.