a heartrending journey to the center of the publishing house

Your name

2007-05-18T18:35:42Z

I have to do this now. Number 8 said so.

Leave your name and:
1. I'll respond with something random about you
2. I'll challenge you to try something
3. I'll pick a color that I associate with you
4. I'll tell you something I like about you
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of
7. I'll ask you something I've always wanted to ask you
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on yours

A rejection slip

2007-01-10T06:27:25Z

I got a rejection slip a little while ago. It doesn't bother me in some ways. I sent out hundreds of those during my literary career. Many of them were on works I absolutely loved and would have accepted if I had the sway. A rejection doesn't mean anything in terms of quality like a grade, not really. I guess everything could be better somehow, but at some point you have to finish it for better or worse. Some works are just better, some judges just have different taste. Shit happens.

What bothers me is that I don't have a stack of rejection slips already. I should be looking at a pile of these on my desk right now. Even if I am not being published anywhere but the school magazine, a pile of rejection slips will still serve as evidence that I am at least doing my job.

See, I have been using school and work as an excuse not to do my job. I have made certain resolutions to correct this, let's hope they work out better than the "healthier diet and exercise" ones.

Happy new year.

The Show

2006-08-03T00:35:05Z

Tom Waits was the fucking fire! Yeah man. If you weren't there, you were definitely someplace worse. Go see him in Chicago, Detroit or Akron. Hurry.

He's just a really funny guy. "Yeah, I came to Atlanta to see your panda. He's really something. Speaks Spanish, juggles. We've become quite close these past few days. We email back and forth." and "You know every city has its bad neighborhoods...you leave though for a while. Ten years, fifteen years...thirty years, and these bad neighborhoods? Well, you can get yogurt there now."

There was a great crowd, too. I've been to about a hundred punk shows back in my younger days, mosh pits included, that couldn't touch the Tom Waits crowd's intensity.

He left out the back door after two encores with a very purposeful quickness. My group made it outside just in time to see him jump on the bus as it pulled away. I overheard a security guard chuckle, "That was the quickest escape I've ever seen." I think Atlanta left him with the impression that if he didn't leave then, he might never escape. I say Atlanta but I believe it is fair to say that there had to be representation from the bulk of at least the southeastern states in the audience.

Now what can I look forward to?

New Job!

2006-07-31T10:07:45Z

I started waiting tables at an expensive restaurant in Dunwoody last week. The food is so good. I have tried the salmon, the tuna, the pork chops and the chicken picatta and each is better than the last...except the tuna. The tuna is the clear winner so far lightly blackened and seared almost rare served with wasabi and ginger. I've also been making my way down the wine list. It is the best thing ever. I had been meaning to start eating like a grownup because you can't live off chicken fingers alone your whole life and this job is exactly what I was looking for in that regard. The money's good too. The commute sucks, but I get to see my parents more now which is actually kind of non-shitty now that I don't live with them. I also like that I am required to be constantly polite at work. There is something kind of cool about that which I just can't put my finger on. Who would have thought that I would dig wearing all black and never swearing? I just really appreciate and respect the company, an independently owned and operated restaurant in the middle of commercial Dunwoody.

School's out for a few weeks. I'll finally have more time to write but I will probably end up just playing games with my roommates, indigo occupying colonists that they are.

My dream has come true

2006-07-10T06:19:01Z

No, not one of the oddly Freudian ones about being chased through a submarine by a bunch of bananas, the one where Tom Waits comes to Atlanta and plays at the Tabernacle on August 1st! Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Hell yeah

2006-06-28T03:27:34Z

I'm officially published now. I need more of that.

The new issue looks great.

Writing

2006-06-22T03:37:07Z

I gave my aspiring film maker buddy the first draft of the film story. We talked about some revisions, and I think it looks promising. I also wrote a ghost story for class to get out of having to fuck around with WebCT. Also I wrote a story about frotteurism, because my roomate challenged me to write a happy story. I think I failed again somehow.

The issue of the campus literary journal with my story in it is supposed to arrive Friday.

Someone backed into my driver door and now it won't open. I'm mad now.

I got in a fight.

2006-06-18T18:44:08Z

"I love SEC football," she declares as if that will somehow make her more attractive. "Do you like football or baseball or...what do you like?"
"No I don't watch much in the way of sports."
"What! Are you gay or somehing?"
"What kind of conclusion is that to jump to?"
"You don't like sports...Well what do you like then...ballet?"
"Yes, I simply adore Swan Lake."
"I'm kidding, really, what do you like?"
"Ok," I am about to rattle off a list of hobbies and interests, "I like fighting and--" I don't even know why I said fighting first. Maybe I was thinking it would sound manly.
"Fighting? Like boxing?" she interrupts.
"Yeah, and--" I try to continue.
"Can you teach me how to fight?" She asks as I roll my eyes. We are both too drunk for this.
"Well, not really but I guess I can show you a few simple things." I'm thinking very basic footwork and defense and maybe two punches. Five minutes. I really don't want to be doing this, I'm trying to relax.
"Ok. Look, let me hit you." She demands.
I hold up my hands and she throws some sloppy punches at them.
"Ok, look, you're wasting a lot of energy winging out like that--"
"What do you mean winging out? That was pretty strong for a girl right?"
"Yeah it was a hard punch but it isn't just about hard punches. You have to focus your force along a single line and retract back to a solid guard. Your guard is way too open."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you aren't covering your face."
"I can still block."
"I can still hit you."
"No."
"Yes. Now this is your knockout zone right here." I say, motioning over my nose jaw and around the back of my neck.
"You want to protect this--"
"Let me punch you again."
"Ok but--"I stammer as I raise my hands again. She throws the same sloppy punches without protecting herself. This time her wedding ring really hurts my hand though.
"Was that better?"
"It was the same. Now pay attention, you want to put your rear hand close to your cheek with your forearm perpendicular like this--"
"No one will hit a girl."
"That's a dangerous attitude."
"No. If I swing first a guy won't fight back. I was in an abusive relationship." She adds that last part as if to demonstrate her authority.
"If you hit me and mean it, we are in a fight then, do you understand? If you put me in a position where I need to fight back or get my ass beat, then guy, girl, whatever, I will beat the unholy shit out of you if I can. That's what equality means to me. Now look at me, you want your lead fist out front like this--"
"Let me punch you again."
"Ok." I am really frustrated by now. She isn't paying attention, or letting a complete sentence of instruction go by uninterupted, but she also won't let me go enjoy my beer either. Every time I try go back to sit down and join an interesting conversation, she whines, "I thought you were gonna teach me how to fight."
So I go back.
"Ok, once you have a guard up you want to crouch down like this and tuck your chin.--"
"I know all this, I played softball for two years, and I'm a natural athlete."
In response, I slap her in the face as fast as I can. Not hard really, but enough so that she definitely felt it.
This is some dude's wife at a party and I just slapped her in front of a crowd of mostly strangers. Haha, I'm probably in some kind of trouble now.
"What the fuck dude, you just hit me. Damn dude! What the fuck!?" she is shouting as she starts to pummel me, I slip, catch and cover most of the incoming blows.
"That's why you want to learn a solid guard!" I shout. "We recognize pain as a perfectly legitimate teaching tool where I train!"
I take a nasty blow in the neck right below the ear. When she pauses for a second, I lunge at her, grabbing her with both hands behind the head and pull her down to my waist level applying firm pressure to her carotid arteries with my forearm muscles.
"This is called the clinch. In this position, I can control my opponent's head, and therefore all of her movement, your body follows your head wherever it goes, see?" I am making sure to keep a running commentary so that the casual observer will get the idea that I am teaching her and not, as the case may be, defending myself.
She starts reaching below my belt trying to grab and squeeze my testicles. I anticipate this and tuck all my junk between my legs and she can't get to it. I start pulling her around by her head, all the while lecturing.
"From here I can either toss you this way and take your back or I can pull your head into the range of my knees." I raise my knee up to about an inch or two from her face. "I can also hold with one hand for a few seconds while striking with the other." I am not hurting her, but I am rendering her mostly helpless and I can tell she is dramatically uncomfortable with this. She is grabbing for every spare flap or fold of flesh she can get a hold of. She has already twisted my nipple and tried to grab some soft underbelly. I'm not letting go through all that pinching, but when I feel her reaching for my earring I do panic a bit, usually I take that out for training. I let her go as I push her forward so that if she tries anything I will have the distance necessary to react. But she doesn't do anything at all, she is literally shocked to a still silence. When I go back to my safe, single, unmarried beer, this time she doesn't protest.

Spooooooky

2006-05-30T20:21:20Z

I got into the 19th Century American Literature class focusing on the development of the ghost story. This class includes field trips to haunted places as well as guest lectures from psychic investigators. Cool.

Gained a level.

2006-05-06T02:56:36Z

I am now the director of Share's open mic nights. I will be coordinating event locations and schedules, working with other student organizations and promoting their events along with my own. New issue of the magazine will be out probably in September.

Since I passed math class, I have filled all requirements for an Associate's Degree from GPC. Once all my new grades are in, I will send my transcripts to GPC and see if I can't get them to toss me a diploma.

Driving

2006-04-21T04:38:49Z

Driving is the best thing ever. How did I stand not doing it for many years?

Invention

2006-04-17T01:46:44Z

"Wanna help me make an invention?" My eight year old cousin asks me.
"What do you want to invent, [Cousin]?"
"I dunno."
"Well, first remember that necessity is the mother of invention. If you want to invent something really great, you have to address a problem that you feel needs to be solved."
"Um. Mail is too slow." The kid doesn't miss a beat.
"Ok. So how do you want to fix it?"
"Make a flying machine to deliver mail."
"To replace the mail truck?"
"Yeah."
"Well this is where we have to consider a cost-benefit analysis. Mail costs 35 cents or so to send and it takes about 3 days to get there. Will this flying machine be worth it?"
"I think so. We could make a machine that can deliver mail in 23 hours."
"Less than a day. Thats ambitious. You know, airplanes already go about 500mph."
"We can make it go faster. A thousand miles!"
"Lets ask your dad if that's safe."
"It should be safe. Astronauts go faster than that." he answers rolling his eyes.
"Oh yeah. I forgot about astronauts. Well, in that case, lets use hydrogen. Its supposed to be combustible if you can isolate it. It also burns cleaner, but its very unstable."
"How do we get hydrogen?"
After a lot of thoughtful chin stroking, I answer, "I got it! We don't have a lab so we'll have to do it the old fashioned way. We'll get a bucket and a sieve and pour water through it! That should separate the oxygen from the hydrogen."
[Cousin]'s eyes light up. "That might work! Let's try it!"
I go to get a sieve after I first check with [Cousin]'s dad to make sure its safe for him to have a bucket of pure hydrogen. He just wants to be sure that we aren't playing with matches. By the time I get back [Cousin] has already found a bucket.
"We need a smaller bucket otherwise the oxygen will just mix with the hydrogen again because the sieve is too small." [Cousin] is a very smart eight year old.
"Son of a--uh--preacher man." I hadn't sworn in over an hour but there were a few close calls.
"Well let's try something else. Maybe we could make a smaller invention and work up to the flying mail machine."
We sit there for a long time talking about how to save the world. He wanted to make a vacuum that sucked all the germs out of the air. We decided it was just easier to treat people individually at the end of the day. He wanted to make a machine that pulled up stumps and rocks so people wouldn't trip, but I eventually convinced him that people tripping isn't the stump's fault.
"Stumps come from trees that are dead." He pauses, "Trees die because of lightning." He pauses again. I am reminded of Adam West at the Bat-Computer. "Lightning! That's it!"
"What's it?" I ask.
"Lightning is made of electricity."
"And..."
"We could trap lightning to make electricity."
"Ok. Lightning strikes the highest point, so we need a tall tower to catch the lightning. We can take wild, untamed lightning and turn it into a quiet, well-behaved energy source." I draw a tower getting hit by lightning with a cord and plug at the bottom.
[Cousin]'s mom comes out to put sunscreen on him.
"How do you store the electricity after it hits the tower?" she asks looking at our notes.
"Hmmm. How about batteries?" I answer.
"Big ones like 200 volts!" [Cousin] cries enthusiastically.
"We aren't talking about the kind of batteries we put in your toys, [Cousin]." His mother, my cousin-in-law says.
"Ok, I got it. Check this out, [Cousin]. I'll show you the biggest battery I have." We walk out to my car and I pop the hood. After telling him not to touch anything, I point to the battery.
"It says 80 Amps. That's a really huge battery."
At this point I am sure my family is curious about what I'm teaching this kid. After telling [Cousin] about Alfred Nobel and how he invented dynamite, I had to go ask my aunt and uncle if they had any nitro-glycerin under the sink. I will probably hear it from somebody when he starts talking about how only 5 Amps can kill a person.
"This is gonna be expensive." he muses looking at the battery. I close the hood and draw a bunch of batteries attached to the tower.
"Yeah it probably will. Maybe we can get a grant from the government."
"Or we could win Mega Millions!"
I laugh at him.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing, You just sounded exactly like one of my roomates then, that's all."
"We could find money on the ground. When I was at the mall I found 76 cents."
"There is also money in couch cushions, under vending machines, in change slots of payphones--"
"Wow! There's free money everywhere!"
"You must never ever take money out of a fountain, even though it looks like free money." I say, looking gravely into his eyes.
"I won't."
"I'm telling you though, we should write a grant proposal to the government."
"The government won't give us money." He responds skeptically.
"Why not?"
"We're just kids."
"This will take us years to plan anyway." I answer thinking about how nice it is to be just kids.

Writing

2006-04-14T17:19:22Z

I am working on a script for my friend's short film application to a new film school, and I wrote a short story that is almost a prose poem called "Id, Idiom, Idiot." I'm not married to the title. Also, "Is There Anybody Out There?" has been revised a number of times for its upcoming apearance in Share. It has been renamed as well to "Music Of A Farther Room." I do finally feel that it is done. One down, eleven more to go and my book will no longer be a first draft.

I am revising others when I have time between school work. "First Love" is being overhauled now.

Also

2006-04-07T04:06:51Z

I helped a lost kitty find his way home, and I got an A on my math test. I am a super human being.

Positive aspects of relative anonymity

2006-04-06T20:00:50Z

Let's discuss being cool as it relates to art. It is frequently posited that "cool" is built on exclusion. The idea is that "cool" is something that not everyone has, and to an extent everyone wants. The Fonz is cool because he snaps his fingers and the two nearest girls twirl under his arms. He punches the Jukebox and it starts playing his favorite song. Everyone at Arnold's wants to be him, or at least be like him because he possesses something they can't exactly grasp. The Fonz though, he isn't talking. If everyone who looked like him could pull that much trim just by wearing a leather jacket and a silly pompadour, then he would no longer be unique. Everyone would look act and talk just like the Fonz and the Fonz would no longer be a trend-setter, he would just be trendy.
Here is where the major contradiction comes in. Everyone who thinks they are cool, wants everyone else to think they are cool too and that is a steep hill to climb when no one else seems to get your idea of exclusionary elitism. If you are too exclusive no one cares about you at all, so sometimes we desperately try to get others to come to our world and acknowledge how unique and special we are inside.
Take, for example, the Gullah culture. This is a community of African Americans descended from former slaves who have built out a unique living in the Sea Islands of South Carolina. Each community within the islands centers around a Praise House where everyone comes to worship by performing the Ring Shout, a rhythmic shuffling step that evolved from the restriction of dancing their ancestors' masters had imposed on their ancestors. They weave elaborate baskets from sweetgrass. They have a spicy Creole cuisine that incorporates a lot of fish, shrimp and locally grown vegetables. In fact, they survive by fishing, shrimping and subsistence farming. For the most part they keep to themselves. Other communities in the area didn't think much of the Gullah culture. They criticized its people as being lowly and uneducated because they survived by manual labor and didn't speak "proper English."
A few proud Gullah decided to take offense to this perception and formed a dancing choir that travelled around the United States to educate others by performing spiritual songs with the Ring Shout. They taught little children how to weave baskets from sweetgrass. They held plays and skits in the Gullah Pidgin dialect. They allowed everyone to taste their spicy cuisine. Consequently everyone finally recognized that the Gullah people did indeed have a unique, fascinating and rich cultural heritage.
The next thing the rest of the poor unsuspecting Gullah people knew, there were tourists coming to their Praise Houses, and taking pictures of them on their fishing boats. Retirement communities sprang up in the Sea Islands as well. Property taxes rose significantly. The fishermen, shrimpers and farmers had to find new jobs.
Now the proud custodians of Gullah heritage have been forced to be bussed miles away to enter the hospitality industry. Instead of maintaining their unique and fascinating culture, they are cleaning semen off of hotel bedsheets because a few upstarts couldn't stand it when ignorant people said ignorant things about them.
This is why it is important to maintain a delicate balance with all artistic endeavors. If your audience is too narrow, you are irrelevant, if your audience is too broad, your art is processed and whitewashed by the mainstream.
Just remember that all of the insistence that punk rock is indeed an art form eventually gave rise to Avril Lavigne.

Gambling makes sports fun.

2006-02-26T08:24:59Z

"I'm not saying I wouldn't like to talk to her, but what would I possibly say that she hasn't heard? 'Hey, do you come here often?'" I asked.
My roomate laughs. "Thats perfect! That will work. It's funny and unexpected."
"Dude, she will just say, 'Yeah, I work here.'"
"Whatever, I think its funny."
The announcer comes on over the PA. "Are you ready to see a savage beating?"
The rest of the crowd screams their assent, but since he has been asking this every fifteen minutes for the past hour, I shout, "No I'm here for the wine and cheese tasting, am I at the wrong bar?" No one can hear me except my roomate over the roar. My wit is so often unappreciated.

Four beers and about as many fights later, I am way in the hole. I can't pick a winner for anything.
"Fighting out of the red corner, fighting for [a gym] in [a city], Georgia, [a fighter]! In the blue corner, from [a different gym], in [a different city], Georgia, [a different fighter]!" shouts the announcer.
"Ok, in addition to the standard bet, the loser gets the next round, and has to ask the beer tub girl if she comes here often." My roomate offers.
"Ok, are you ready to go make a fool out of yourself? I'm pretty sure my guy can beat your guy's ass. I'll take blue." I say as I raise my bottle to his to seal the deal. I can't decide if I want to win or lose this one because if that stupid ass idea works, I want it to work for me. It was my stupid ass idea after all.
The fighters touch gloves and start swinging. My guy is a striker, mostly fists and legs. I'm hoping the fight will end without going to ground. A nice clean knockout punch.
Just as I'm thinking this, Red sweeps Blue's legs out from under him and drops to a sprawl. My guy tries to pull a guard position but he isn't really much of a grappler. Red puts his arm under Blue's shoulder, links his hands around Blue's wrist, and puts his legs over Red's face and chest. I'm a little pleased with myself that I recognize it, even though I am about to be out another [standard bet], a beer and some dignity.
"The referee has called the match at one minute and thirty three seconds in the first round due to submission by armbar. The winner is [Red]!" shouts the announcer.
My roomate smiles at me.
"I'll be right back." I sigh.
As I approach the beer tub, I see my roomate watching intently from the balcony and grinning.
"Hey, hon, what can I get'cha?"
"I'd like a [beer brand] and a [different beer brand]."
"Ok, is that all?"
"I was wondering, do you come here often?" I say throwing in a sexy wink.
"Yeah, I work here." she replies, genuinely confused.
"My name is Mike."
"Ok, Mike." She says rolling her eyes.
"Hmmm. See you around." But she doesn't hear me, she's already up dancing on the tub selling the hell out of some beer.
I look up and my roomate is laughing hysterically.
I walk up the stairs and sit down.
"What did she say?"
"'Yeah, I work here.'"
Uproarious laughter from my roomate.
"Whatever, if she can't appreciate irony, she just isn't my type."

Many more beers and many more fights later, my roomate has discovered the poker table. There were no cash prizes or anything, people were literally paying just to play. He had become too distracted to watch the fights too closely after he had seen someone fold a top set. He's just a helpful sort of guy that way. Every time he sees bad poker playing, he gladly buys in to offer some instruction. This is good for me because now I get to pick all the fighters. I was talking to the people around me and found out that many of them knew people who were going into the octagon. Together, we would get the entire section we were in cheering for a particular fighter. I damn near blew out my vocal cords raising some morale.

At the end of the fights, my roomate and I are even once again. Balance is restored, and harmony once again governs our lives.

The more you know...

2006-02-11T08:42:13Z

My ex-neighbor has described four categories of combat: survival, restraint/submission, social confrontation and match fights.

Survival covers anything from a carjacking to being deep in the bad bush behind enemy lines. Evasion is as important, if not more, than engaging your enemies as you are likely to be outmatched.

Restraint and submission combat basically describes situations in which one pulls a person off of another and subdues them. This is most commonly used in situations that involve bouncers and orderlies.

Social confrontations are like bar brawls and things of that nature when one party starts a fight with another in a public place. There can be many environmental variables in these cases.

Match fights include everything from lacing up gloves and stepping into a ring, or drawing a line in the sand and daring someone to cross. In these cases, both parties have agreed to fight.

General Update

2006-02-11T08:26:29Z

Writing:

Crap. Wednesday night at Share's open mic, I exhausted my supply of essentially complete short stories. In the midst of everything else I've been doing, it is very hard to write anything other than all the short essays and close readings and article summaries and shit for class.

I got a new computer though, so I can work a little more easily on...well...everything. I finally seem to understand a little bit of math so I can work on writing in class until math stops making sense. I made a lot of good progress on my novel while learning the intricacies of linear functions.

School:

School is drawing to a close. I have two more required semesters after this one ends. Three, if I decide to get a minor in professional writing. More than that if I try to get a Master's in English or a second Bachelor's, probably Communication. Its a lot easier to work hard at school now that I can see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Life in General:

Learning how to fight is some groovy shit. The discipline I have been learning is a combination of Greco-Roman wrestling and the sweet science of western pugilism, boxing. My ex-neighbor and I went to Tennessee last weekend to train with the author of several books and instructional videos on how to fight for extreme self-protection. I learned a bunch of new submission holds yesterday in addition to some easy body conditioning exercises I can do any time. My roomate and I are getting a heavy punching bag tomorrow. We are also shopping around for membership at a gym that can accomodate our recent racquetball fixation.

Poker class has been a bit difficult to find time for now that my roomate has a new job, but I still play every chance I get. Last time we had a cash game, I busted out going all in with a set of queens against a set of kings. A so called "bad beat."

Share editorial business is treating me well. I'm trying to take a more active role in the editing process in order to earn that good line on my resume. I feel like I've been learning a lot in that office.

First Publication

2006-01-18T18:17:50Z

I managed to get a story published...in the campus literary journal that I work for.

Now I just need to get people who I am not already friends with to recognize my genius.

My Island

2006-01-15T04:59:41Z

I think Survivor bought Isla de Coco.

Cash Game

2006-01-07T22:01:25Z

"Can you afford to play tonight?" My roomate asks.
"Nope, too rich for my blood." I answer. With money problems like mine, it isn't a good idea to start gambling on top of it.
"Do you want me to loan you the buy-in or do you want me to bankroll you for 60% of your winnings?" Stay home and play computer games is not on the list of options.
"I'm ready to play, but I'm not ready to play with someone else's money."
"I'll consider it an investment in your continuing poker education. I've lost money on investments before."
"Ok then. I'd rather not bust out and be in the hole with you. Bankroll me for 60%."

Its the second hand of the night. The flop is King, Queen and a rag, rainbow. I bet, a few people call, a few more fold. The turn is another inconsequential card so I check, the guy in the coat and ballcap bets. Everyone else folds and I call. The river is 10. I bet $10, a big bet for this early on. I slam my chips down with authority and smile like I'm begging him to call me. Ironically, this is an obvious show of weakness, especially from a rookie like me. The ballcap sits there for a minute playing with his chips pretty sure I'm holding garbage and trying to make a fancy play. My roomate is rolling his eyes at me. He just recently got back from a tournament in Vegas where he was sharing tables with big names in poker like Hachem, Nagraenu, and Greenstein. At home games, that qualifies for some serious credibility. He taught me almost everything I know about No Limit Hold'em, and right now, he thinks I'm making a big mistake.
After a while, the ballcap says, "I've never played with you before so I don't know if I should call or fold." He eventually folds and I take the pot. Everyone at the table asks to see my hand, convinced I was bluffing, but at the insistence of my roomate, I muck my cards.

Three hours later I'm up about $200. My roomate looks over at my stack, confused, and asks, "Did you buy back in?"
"No."
"Well, you're doing a lot better than I am right now." he sighs looking down at his stack, "Just think: If you took the loan, you'd be up by that much."
"Funny isn't it? Looks like I bet against myself and lost."
I'm thinking this is pretty clear sailing. No. Easy sailing. Full sails, steady winds and following seas. The fat guy is a calling station and when you are only playing the good hands, calling station is usually another term for easy money. The guy with the scar is a tight player. He only gets into pots when he's holding the nuts. His raises force me to correctly fold a lot of good hands. The ballcap and the bald guy are hotdogs, they want to put moves on everyone. I'll go all the way to 5th street with anything decent. I busted the bald guy out a few hands ago when he went all in against my pocket Queens. Everyone else had been losing their money getting sucked out on a draw by the fat guy, bluffing the guy with the scar, and folding good hands to the ballcap and the bald guy.
While the cards are being dealt, the ballcap quietly asks, "What did you have earlier, when I folded to you?"
"I forgot, man. That was a like a minute ago." I reply, grinning.
"Liar, you didn't forget." he correctly asserts.
"You can tell him when we leave," my roomate quickly interjects.
"I'll tell you when I leave." I calmly tell the ballcap.
I'm thinking I could do this all night, every night.

Twenty minutes later, the action is on me at the river. It's a huge pot and I'm holding King, Jack of clubs. I already missed my flush draw. The only help is a Jack on the board. I've got elevens with a King kicker and that's it. The bald guy, he bought back in, raises me the amount of my remaining stack, which is about the amount of my original buy-in. I sit there for a minute wondering how I let myself get in so deep with such a marginal hand, and I fold--too quickly. He reveals a 3,4 diamonds. All he had was a pair of fours.
I pick up my few remaining chips and say, "I'm out of this game." I pull my hat low over my eyes, fold my arms across my chest and politely refuse to be talked into playing another hand. I am on full tilt and I know that playing any more would be literally throwing money away. My best move is to pull out while I'm at least even.
My roomate sees that I'm steaming and says, "Except for those last few hands, you played perfectly. At least now we know your time limit. I tried to think of some excuses to leave when you were up, but after I took the rest of [the fat guy]'s money, I had to stick around for a few hands just to be polite."
"Do I look like I give half a shit?" the fat guy says, but everyone likes winning better than losing and he's obviously no exception. Serves him right for farting so damn much.

When we do leave, I'm about halfway out the door when I turn around and call out to the ballcap, "Ace, Jack...the nut straight." He'll never know for sure, though. The only solid truth is on the cards themselves, and the cards are long gone. I fucking love this game.

Yay New Year

2006-01-05T21:37:22Z

New resolutions, new home, new classes (Monday). It's a little like Christmas only later, so I guess its more like Hannukah. Almost had a new job but I just had some new "We're definitely going to hire you and work around your school schedule." for a week which eventually became some new "We've decided to hire someone with more flexible hours, and I am a complete waste of living organic components for wasting so much of your time leading you on, even using such phrases as 'welcome aboard' and 'call me in a day to get your schedule.' Oh well, it doesn't affect me much, I am already living large on a middle manager's salary. I occasionally wish my life had more meaning. Do I dare, do I dare...," instead.

In writing news, I'm in a state of flux right now that dramatically affects my ability to work consistently on any writing projects, and with school looming on the horizon, scheduling will be tight. I have been nickel and dimeing the revisions for my anthology though and tentatively starting some new short works. One even has a mermaid.

I am reluctant to work on my own PC though, because I sincerely fear it is on the verge of locking up for the last time and I need a new place to store my intellectual property before my poor computer finally lets go and recieves its final reward. I believe it does deserve to be rewarded. It has stuck around way longer than it should have just to help me do my my homework and entertain hopes of becoming a respected peddler of fancy words. My computer will walk forever in the kingdom of the Lord, or continue to reincarnate as something better until it can achieve the blissful nonbeing of Nirvana, or become so much inert landfill space. It really depends on what my computer believes. We have respectfully avoided any ideological discussions of that nature as they tend to lead to unspoken discomfort or dogmatic proselytization.

School's out for now

2005-12-09T22:28:38Z

And for the first time ever I can't wait to get back.

Rough draft

2005-11-24T03:43:16Z

I think the first draft of my book of short stories is done. I still have several revisions to go through and some research couldn't possibly hurt to round out some settings and concepts, but its still pretty cool to look at a pile of paper and be able to say "Hey, this could be a book."

The novel that I started seems to be rolling along somewhat nicely. This will end up being a very research intensive project, but I like the concepts involved very much.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Finally

2005-10-26T18:58:03Z

I stayed up until 7am last night writing and I think it is really good. I think I might have started a much longer work. I don't know where its going yet but it has a strong start.