Know when to fold'em.

Texas Hold'em is hard. The game has entirely too many human variables--i.e. is he bluffing, does she have a set, and the thought most frequenting my mind, I am hungry. Also, I have a complete inability to calculate hand permutations; math is for losers with future prospects. Friday night I went against my better judgment and attempted to play in game with a few friends. Nine people were involved and forty-five dollars was at stake. My goal was to not finish in last place, like my mom always said about competition: you will probably always be a loser, but at least you can strive to not be a total bitch.

The game consisted of two women, six guys and one homosexual. I started off slow, my strategy was to bide my time until I managed pocket aces, apparently that wasn't a reasonable idea. A half hour passed and nary an ace had come my way. Inspiration, in the form of pocket kings, struck. It was now or never, my time was literally in hand.

I started off strong; I raised five-hundred chips and saw the flop. The highest card showing was a ten, three suits were represented and a straight draw was a fanciful feat. I raised another five-hundred chips, only three people remained and I had a two thousand chips left. The next card was a five, which matched the other five on the board; I figured no one was chasing a trio of fives and decided to raise the bet one-thousand chips. My two opponents, who happened to be married, were still very much game. Fear boiled in my gut, sweat drenched my unibrow; however, I was pot committed, reason no longer played a part in the hand. The next card was a deuce, it was lonesome on the table, so I knew my Kings were high pair and straight or flush was impossible. Three fives would beat me, two pairs could always happened, so I decided to raise five-hundred more chips and let logic be damned. The married duo called my bet and we all showed our hands. The wife had a five, the husband wouldn't show, I had two kings and nothing else to show; my prayer to Che Kung had went unheard.

Even with fewer than five hundred chips, I managed to stay in play for over an hour; I rebuilt my chip stack, lost it once again and eventually ended up sixth. I accomplished all of this without looking one person in the face. Reading people is difficult and I had trouble enough deducing when to bet. Next time I am going to stare into the eyes, gaze into the portals of their souls; who knows, I might just manage fifth place.

Oh, and least you feel too sorry for me, I was only out five dollars and was able to eat an entire pizza, she who perpetuated three fives has cheese and pepperoni connections galore. All in all, it was a good night’s work, though it ended up causing a long morning on the porcelain throne.


Go To Hell

Another reason to stay in bed

I came into work fairly late. It seems that fourteen hours of sleep just doesn't do it for me. At approximately 10:00 am, I heard a knocking at my door. I acknowledged it for a moment then drifted off to slumber. An hour later, due more to a lack of gastral constraint than anything else, I woke up and called mom at the shop. She seemed genuinely upset, I feared the worst: she had run out of cigarettes. Low and behold something much worse had happened, mom shared the following harrowing story: a crazed auction consignor, actually the boyfriend of said consignor, stormed into the store and threatened my mother and father. He bellowed, "I will get even...trust me...I will get even. You will regret fucking me out of money." This was troubling but my sleep-addled senses failed to recognize the true horror, this crazy fucker knew where we--in particular me--lived. What if he was the one knocking at my door? Also, it bears mentioning that I am paranoid about home assassination in general, so this turn of events only fed my usually unreasonable fears.

I showered with the curtain open, water spilled all over the floor. My hair remained unwashed; I couldn't risk closing my eyes, not even for a single second. So, yea, I overreacted a bit. Thus far the only thing I knew was that an unknown auction consignor was extremely dissatisfied with their check and decided to vocalize their displeasure. Cursing does not necessarily mean homicide. I put on my brave face and drove to the store.

Let it be said that paranoia has some benefits, most notably being the fact that once in a while it turns out to be justified. My mom was nearly in tears, I could hear the terror in her voice--this from a woman who fought men in bars and thought her labor pains were a mild bout of gas, she is/or-at-least-was one tough bitch. The police were taking her statement when I being to quiz my father as to what happened. He said that a crazed middle-aged man, who happened to be sporting a mohawk, threatened each of them and stood within an inch of his face. It wasn't exactly the vague threats that scared them--yes, even my dad was scared--instead it was his deranged behavior and inability to stop shaking. Complicating matters further was his reason for being insanely angry: I auctioned off an item two months ago, it brought several hundred dollars, his girlfriend--the actual consignor--expressed disappointment in the amount but didn't seem overly upset after we explained that several dozen people inspected and were present at the sale, it brought fair market value. We haven't heard anything since, at least not until earlier today. So he was spouting off threats and shaking like Michael J. Fox over something that happened to be settled two months prior. He claimed the item in question was worth $1,400.00, which was unsubstanited conjecture, or as I like to call it--BULLSHIT. The piece did sell cheaper than expected, I know the actual buyer and he eventually sold it for $700.00 on EBay, however that is fairly common in an absolute auction; some items bring less while others bring more, it is the nature of the beast. My father stated he tried to reason with him but it was to no avail, in order to prevent further escalation and keep my sixty-five year old father out of a physical altercation, she called the police.

Later, after the police had left, my mom shared some interesting tid-bits about the man; she had been close friends with his sister and knew of him, which I later remarked would have been helpful to know as we wouldn't have dealt with the crazy bastard or his girlfriend. One former friend affectionately referred to him as "Charlie Manson," another associate had told mom a story involving her sons and "Charlie" chasing them down with a wooden chair, apparently he wanted to test how many headshots it took to get to the center of the cranium. Another neat factoid about Charlie: he had once kicked a man to death but escaped jail time by allowing his older brother, who had blacked out, to take the fall--this story came directly from his sister who happened to witness his human soccer hijinks.

My dad was actually caring a loaded pistol in the store, which didn't alleviate my fears; all I could picture was him shooting off his big toe or accidentally winging me as he mistook the pistol for his cell phone. I convinced him that it was unwise to carry a loaded weapon, especially while operating a motor vehicle. I sort of lied about our local conceal and carry gun laws, though I am sure the NRA wouldn't mind, not this one time.

Anyway, long story short: It appears that a homicidal lunatic is angry with my family, most likely this includes me since I actually auctioned the item in question; furthermore, I am probably going to be murdered in my sleep, assuming I ever rest again. Who knew that auctioning antiques could be so dangerous? I bet they don't share stories like this on the Antiques Road Show.

Go To Hell

Park Place Antiques Theater

Presents: The case for femicide

Woman: Can I see that pin.

Me: This pin?

Woman: No, not that one. I want the one shaped like butterfly.

Me: Ok, here you go.

Woman: Could you take less? (The pin's price: $2.00)

Me: I can't really discount items below $10.00.

Woman: Well...I don't want it then. How about I give you $1.00 for it.

Me: I thought you didn't want it.

Woman: I don't want it at $2.00, though I will definitely take it at $1.00.

Me: It costs $2.00. If you buy more costume jewelry, I would consider giving a discount on the total sale.

Woman: Well...I don't want it then. Can I see the bar pin?

Woman's Friend: Leave the poor boy alone. He doesn't want to bother with us.

Woman: What? He doesn't have anything better to do. We are the highlight of his day.

I contemplated bludgeoning her fat head in-- the problem was that I couldn't find a construct large enough for the task. In lieu of criminal assault, I opted to help the insipid bitch. She spent over thirty minutes looking over costume jewelry, none of which was priced over $3.00. Eventually she-who-justifies-assisted-homicide walked out with $5.00 in merchandise, her purchase consisted of two pins, one ring and a not so small part of my dignity.

Go To Hell

Two posts in one day. Wow, I must be really bored.

I am a digital voyeur. Trust me the title sounds a lot more interesting than it really is. I don't place cameras in women's restrooms, I don't peek through windows at the neighbor's teenage daughter, if only my disorder was so visually fulfilling. Real voyeurs (Did I just write "real voyeurs," it is a sad day when you can't even claim the title social deviant) watch actual life being lived, I get my kicks off reading what others write about life. I don't like watching sports, but I am all for reading sports columns. Bedding a woman is too much effort, rather I read about it on erotic stories websites (at the very least, I am still a socially recognized pervert.) Interacting with friends and family takes away from my me time, instead I opt to read online blogs and journals. I like to call it the vicarious life.

My high speed connection was terminated a couple months back; this has severely limited my voyeuristic opportunities. Thank God for the newspaper, cable news and imaginary friends, most notably Richard Irksome and Bethany Gonealltheway. Though, I am seriously considering leaving my tin-foil roof abode and venturing out into the wilds that is Newark. I will need to start slowly, perhaps a trip to Wal-Mart is in order.

Simply put, I need to get a life and/or laid--of course, I am assuming one doesn't precipitate the other.


Go to Hell

This rambling mass of text contains a ton of errors and isn't worth reading--Guaranteed!

A lot has happened in the world since my last post, here is a rundown of the relevant events: Bush created a hurricane that only targeted poor black folk, which is even more extraordinary when you consider that Bush was the cause of all black poverty in the first place; I gained another fifteen pounds and took one more step towards premature death caused by heart disease; Chicago won a World Series Championship, of course it was by the other Chicago team, the White Sox, and no one gives two shits about them; my little brother made a traveling basketball All-Star team, in nine years he has already eclipsed the sum total of all my athletic achievements--I feel like Danny DeVito in Twins; USC defeated Notre Dame, which actually lead to Charlie Weiss being offered and subsequently signing a ten-year contract, you don't have to win the big game but it does help to keep it close, words to live by, TY; George W. nominated a woman to the Supreme Court, she was instantly referred to as unqualified and stupid by Republican pundits, most notably Ann Coulter, this proves that even vivacious blonde mega-minds can't overcome the absolute common denominator in all women...cattiness/being-a-colossal-bitch-towards-all-other-women; after Harriet gracefully--much to her credit, all things considered--withdrew, Bush nominated a qualified and well versed Supreme Court nominee, too bad he is a white male; father started building a new home and it looks to be finished by Thanksgiving, too bad I am not allowed to live there, he mentioned something about no unemployed twenty-something allowed; I took the LSAT and did better than the great majority of people, sadly I didn't do nearly well enough, though with my stellar GPA my list of potential law schools numbered between 0 and 1; and finally, the Muslims decided to take over France in a bloody revolution--who says being poor, uneducated and breed to hate doesn't result in anything good, then again they are rebelling against France which is akin to revolting against a paper bag, albeit one containing fine wine, cheese and a pack of cigarettes. (this is truly painful to read, isn't it? Somewhere my middle-grade English teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, is slowly shaking her size-too-small head.)


Anyway, enough about pertinent world events, instead I wanted to share a couple good reads, both being in genres that you probably don't read exhaustively, unless you count the walking literary abortion Stephen King and that daft whore who writes about a thick-rimmed girl named Harry. Each is part of a larger trilogy, which is to their detriment, but they manage to be entertaining enough to overcome the curse that is the modern-day obsession with series--remember when a stand-alone book or movie was commonplace, now everything is created with a series in mind, though their are usually barely enough ideas to fill one project, more less three. I digress; the point is read the following books because they are enjoyable and most likely much different than your usual selections.

The first book, Writ in Blood: Serenity Falls 1, is a horror novel, though it isn't particularly terrifying or demented--the two staples of modern Horror. Don't expect heavy-handed & adjective-laden prose (see Stephen King if that is your cup of piss) or demented imagery (Bentley Little and Jack Ketchum are the talent-challenged, albeit enjoyable, hacks you seek); instead, it is one part supernatural detective story and two parts historical narrative concerning a town that burned witches, murdered carneys & made unknowing deals with the devil.

It was originally published as a single novel encompassing 700+ pages, which was only available in a severely limited fashion, a couple years later it was expanded and turned into a trilogy. I never read the stand-alone novel, though I would bet that great majority of the first book didn't require much clarification or expansion. Like I mentioned earlier, it doesn't work so well as a trilogy, but as a stand-alone book it is an enjoyable and fast-moving read. If you have the free time, the final two books are not completely devoid of value, they are just relatively, for lack of a better explicative, shitty by comparison.


My second recommendation, Whisper of Waves, is a fantasy novel published by Wizard's of the Coast. If you know anything about fantasy or geekdom in general, you understand that this is the company that publishes Dungeons & Dragons material, this includes tie-in fiction novels, which this is, at least ostensibly, an example of. Generally, these types of novels require a cursory understanding of D&D and some background in the actual fantasy world they take place; this work is no different, however, one would require ignorance of all fantasy archetypes--which is hard to find in today's world dominated by Lord of the Rings & Sherry Potter--to have trouble following this book. Put simply: the story takes place in a world where magic can alter the very fabric of reality; where dragons roam the skies and sometimes even the don the shape of man; dwarves work as shipbuilders, not as hand-maidens to Snow White; a universe where anything is possible, especially when it's convenient as a literary device. There, you are now prepared to read the book.

The actual novel is fascinating story, where every major character is morally ambiguous, this is not a story about defeating an evil wizard, or good conquering evil in any real sense; it is the story of a engineering genius who seeks to build a canal, even though it is apparently impossible, due largely to political interests. This character could just as easily be the protagonist in an Ayn Rand novel, or as an example of Nietzsche's Übermensch. Obviously, this novel is not a thought out philosophical dissertation, but it does contain quite a few pages of intellectual discourse and debate--which is exceedingly rare in any fantasy novel, especially one that comes in well under 400 pages. Also, the interactions of the major characters, each falling more into the category of anti-hero than either hero or villain, is entertaining, thought-provoking and perversely endearing.

Sadly, this book serves as a set-up for the next two in the series, it does not come to any sort of reasonable fruition, which means if you enjoy the story, it then becomes necessary to read the final two stories. And, since thee next two books won't be out for a couple years, you are in for quite a wait. Bearing all this mind, not to mention the tendency for the quality of trilogy to be uneven, I still heartily recommend this book. Remember, it never hurts to get in touch with your inner nerd, assuming you do so in private and never mention it to anyone else.

Go to Hell

Duh, doh, chocolate is like an enzyme enhanced mouse

Earlier tonight, I watched Forrest Gump. It made me cry and reaffirmed itself as one of the greatest motion pictures ever, at least in my mind's eye. Again, I am not sure why. I could have a fetish for retarded protagonists, really, would that be too suprising? It is a much better line of rationale than the alternative: I am a bit retarded, therefore I have a strong inkling for those like me, especially those who still manage to live grandiose lives.

Mommy always did call me a retarded fat-ass, and mommy does know best.

gth

Retarded People Have Feelings Too

It is 6:06 am and I am crying between bouts of laughter. I just finished Flowers for Algernon, and, to say the least, it had quite an impact on little ole me. It isn't the best book ever written, nor would I qualify it as a personal favorite, but for whatever reason, it moved me like no other book. In the last year I have read Siddhartha, Confederacy of Dunces and Flowers for Algernon, each reaching me in such a personal way like no other books before. I have read well over a thousand novels, countless short stories and a few too many novellas, yet these three works stand out to me, not because of genius, but because they are applicable to me the person, not bob the disinterested reader.

Siddhartha spoke to me on a spiritual level, like Flowers for Algernon, it stirred great emotion within my being; I felt better for reading it, as if the world finally made sense if only for 150 pages. Confederacy of Dunces could well have been my life story, it was a character study of who I am and most likely will become--thankfully, I am equipped with a keen sense of humor, especially in reference to myself, otherwise it would have eclipsed Charlotte's Web as the most depressive read of my life.

Flowers for Algernon is different from the other two: the book resonated with me, the story spoke to me, the words beckoned me, but I don't know why. With the exception of much of this blog and my affinity for Sailor Moon, I am not what one would call mentally retarded, and still keeping in mind I write this blog and have a Sailor Moon doll, I am not genius, either. I have nothing in common with Charlie Gordon; his trial and tribulations are not my own, his cross is not one I have had to bear. Yet upon reading this story I found myself empathizing with the unknown, crying for the alien spectrum found between retard and genius and back again. In other words, I am at a total loss.

I could barely finish the remaining journal entries; they hurt to read. Maybe it had to do with his longing for love, which is, after all, a universal fallacy, something found throughout the human condition. The thing is, I can't say if that is it, leaving me to believe that isn't it. I have no tangible reason to be touched by Keyes work, I don't know retarded people--unless you count Democrats--and I am not averse to mocking someone for being a dullard, just as I am apt to mock someone for having the audacity of knowing more than I do, therefore I am an equal opportunity intellectual elitist. I just don't know the why about my feeling but the how is readily apparent, e.g. my tears and giggling bordering on the insane.

Maybe mom is right, I am just a little bitch.

gth

When Critics Attack

I am slowly developing quite the affinity for Roger Ebert. He might be a pompous ass, but the man can, at times, be fucking hilarious. Read the last paragraph--OWNZD.

gth

Death by zerg rush

My uncle's cousin-in-law's father's brother died in Korea for this.

gth

Touched

God, in the form of a discarded box of plastic forks, spoke to me. The Almighty wasn't pleased. Apparently, much to his chagrin—and yes, God is capable of both chaing and grinning, mankind has failed to live up to his expectations. The following is an excerpt from that conversation. The entirety of our exchange is too much for humanity to grasp, it would ruin us all, so here is the cliff notes version.

Midgetry, Faggotry and Muscular Dystrophy are evil; Adultery, Symmetry and Mimicry are not so bad.

Sex before marriage is often awkard, uncomfortable and painful; sex during marriage is much worse.

Men are superior to woman in every way save for one: women have multiple orgasms--God called this an even trade.

Aliens are amongst us, they all are referred to as Canadians.

Menstruation is unnatural; your 9th grade health teacher is a fucking liar.

Love is dead, your parents killed it.

Sometimes it isn't the fight in the dog; it is the year, make and model of the car he is driving.

Penguins are the spawn of Satan; they should be cooked in their own innards and sold to the Slavic people as New Spam.

Sarah Michelle Gellar kissing Selma Blair is the single greatest moment in the history of creation--this is the only absolute, irrevocable truth besides the existence of God.

All peoples less than 4'10" are non-persons fit only to make chocolate and perform in the circus. Children under the age of 15 are exempt from one of these acts; you pick which one at birth.

Insanity is one step from divinity, thinking one is one step from divinity is insanity; see Bob for case in point.

Hamburger helper is good only when cooked with hamburger or pig feet, no exceptions.

These are the abridged words of God as spoken by a box of discarded plastic forks to me, heed them well.