web tracker

Monday, June 27, 2005
"Good Luck, [Mr. Glory Hole]."*
The gods of Good Fortune have been smiling on me. Last Thursday, I sat in on the “realest” poker game I have access to. And I tripled my money. It was every bit as awesome as I could have hoped. I’d detail some of the more memorable hands but, really, no-one would care. Well, maybe Melman.

The bigger paradigm-shift-esque happening was that I cut off a full two-thirds of my motherfucking hair. For serious, CW. There is really no way that the word “floppy” can be used to describe my hair. I’ll work on getting a picture of it. Really.** Nag Michelle if you wanna make this happen faster.

In other news, the ‘ju and I found a baby possum while playing disc golf yesterday. It’s currently on its way to some branch of the Wildlife Refuge (or some-such agency).

* Early on in the night, I jokingly said this to Mr. Glory Hole as the cards were being dealt. Because I went on to win that hand (big), and Mr. Glory Hole had an awful night, this quote became the running joke for people wanting to change their luck. Mr. Glory Hole didn’t think it was funny, but fuck him. He’s in Paris for a week.

** I keep thinking about starting a Flickr account because that’s what all the cool kids have done. Y’know, you have a blog, a My Space page, an iPod, and an account on Flickr. And it makes me feel all empty that I can’t post comments on all these girl-on-girl pictures I’ve been seeing. Michelle has the digital camera most of the time and is really more savvy about digital-photograph management. Really, she should have the Flickr page, but I feel that I need to propel us into the 21st century.

Thursday, June 23, 2005
Too Write
I had a brief moment yesterday when I felt lighter, like the pressure of the World wasn’t on my shoulders. Like, “I’m finally getting caught up. Time to relax, enjoy life.” Anyway, it was brief.

It’s nice that the creative stuff, like playing in a band that has made exactly zero dollars for its past two shows, is so rewarding. Seriously, the band stuff is very therapeutic. And the writing, well . . . it’s going.

It’s funny how I go through phases with the poetry. I won’t write anything for a while, and then I’ll slowly start doing it again . . . coming up with a couple mid-grade poems. And then I get it in my head that I need to go through all of my poems since before college (we’re talking over 15 years of poetry, here, people) and make lists of possible chapbook/collection ideas and/or poems I need to submit for publication. Then I’ll churn out another poem or two, nothing spectacular. And then . . . nothing. In the current run-through, I just completed the “list” phase and I’m preparing to send out several batches of poems. (To put it in perspective, I’ve published maybe a dozen poems in 15 years . . . most of those in local presses where I had some kind of “in.” And quality? While listing the poems, I assigned semi-objective ratings to them [on a scale of 1 to 5]. No poem got a 5 and two of the three that got 4.5s were written last century.) It doesn’t help that when I read other people’s poetry, it’s very black and white (“How the fuck did this get published?” to “Man, I suck ass”).

So, we’ll see how my domination of the poetry world (note the lower case) goes.

Also in the world of writing, it should be noted that the ultra-secret “political” blog finally had an unexpected birth. I’ll post a link to it when it hits its stride. Y’know . . . in a few weeks months years.

In other news, nothing helps heal the wounds of losing lots of money in poker to your family quite like playing with the "big boys," which I will do tonight. Pray to Little Baby Jesus Tom's Newbie Scientologist Girlfriend Fiancee that I get a lot of pocket pairs and suited face-cards.

Monday, June 20, 2005
How Do You Put a Pseudo-Gay Craddle-Robbing Scientologist in His Place? WITH A LIST!
Even a squirt gun. Or, hell, just get up and leave.


We had a show over the weekend, opening for a band that I’ve long revered but, now, having lost some key personnel, I think the band is going to shift into “more electronic” territory. So, I’ll probably stop listening to them. Because, as everyone knows, God hates techno.

As a humiliating aside, we pulled about six to eight (depending on whom you ask) people to the show. There were three people on the guest list, one of whom never showed up. I don’t think there’s any doubt that we’ll be bigger outside our “hometown.”


The poker losing streak continues. I think I’m playing scared. I’ve done statistical analyses of four different games and my hands-played vs. hands-won percentage is dropping. Meaning I’m playing too many hands and/or I’m not betting effectively enough to win the hands I’m playing. Yesterday, I managed to avoid losing everything, but still. I'm down for the year.


Continuing to roll the dice here at Kamikaze Central, we’ve decided to have my mother discharged back to her house this weekend. The hope is that this will end the four-month ordeal that began with her fall. There is talk of a legal action. Being very anti-litigious in nature, I’m advising caution.

She’s feeling much better (physically and mentally), so I’m fairly confident that she can make it on her own (again). Of course, I’ll be checking in with her regularly.

Thursday, June 16, 2005
I think I’ve hinted here before that Michelle and I are somewhat antisocial and/or mildly misanthropic. We’ve lived for four and a half years in the same house and we don’t know our neighbors. We’ve never even met them. Not really.

On one side, we have the African-American “family;” I really don’t know what the exact configuration is over there. I’ve seen the same guy (I think) mowing the lawn several times (with an electric lawnmower). And the same woman getting into her police car. (Yes, there is a police car parked next door 75% of the time, which I’m convinced cuts down on our home-invasion potential.) Anyway, I’ve said (or waved) hellos to them a few times, hardly ever even exchanging banal pleasantries (like, “Wow, hot day,” or “Looks like rain”). They have an annoying little dog that yips at me whenever I go into the back yard with Mia (prompting the usual, “What’s that noise?” to be followed by, “It’s that shit-assy little dog from next door.”). Do they have kids? I’ve seen one or two on occasion, but it’s usually when there are several cars in the driveway . . . maybe a post-church get-together.

On the other side, there’s a white couple. Who have a kid. Maybe. Our yards are separated by tall, bushy trees (on our property and I’m too lazy to trim), so we don’t see them a lot. Just when we’re pulling out of our driveway every once in a while or driving by their house. The husband sits on the front porch and smokes. We don’t wave. Oh, and they have a couple pit bull-ish dogs in their back yard.

Now, the neighbor across the street . . . that’s the interesting one. Actually, he’s not that interesting. See, he used to have a wife. I’d see her out working in the yard, or jogging down our road. And then she disappeared. Her Trooper was never in the driveway. Sure, she’d pop up every once in a while, usually leaving within a few minutes of arriving . . . sometimes when he wasn’t there. His little red Nissan is there all the time. On weekends, there’s a maroon Taurus, but I’ve never seen who drives that. My money’s on casual-sex-partner-reluctantly-transformed-to-girlfriend. I need to make up a story "about" them and then use that as the basis for a tawdry book.

In other news, Mia is 80% potty-trained. She hasn’t had an “accident” at daycare for weeks (even during naps). She still has an occasional accident with us on the weekends and she still wears a pull-up to bed. Sheez. Next thing y’know, she’ll be slamming beers in front of us and telling us to “Fuck off.” Can’t wait.

Monday, June 13, 2005
What's the opposite of "starfucker?" Because, whatever it is, that's what I am.

Okay, so if there are two sides (those who think celebrities can do no wrong and anyone who thinks differently is just trying to tear them down, and those who assume that the celebrities are guilty and are trying to "buy" their freedom), I'm more partial to the latter. But that doesn't mean I wanted Michael Jackson to be guilty, or that I wanted this to all be true. I just thought he was. Or think he is. Maybe not as surely as I felt that O.J. was guilty (of something far worse), but still. This goes beyond the creepiness factor. I really think he did those things. And now he's "free."

Apparently, the verdict was handed down as I was leaving work. I turned on the radio in the car and they were playing "Thriller." I knew that something had been decided.

And y'know what? I'd be willing to bet that Michael's back feels a lot better now.

Thursday, June 09, 2005
Eating In
I haven’t eaten at my desk more than five times in the past three or four months. Really, that is the fuel for this Little Blog That Could. I use that time for “writing” things to post, reading and commenting on many of your blogs, and playing games on Yahoo! Luxuries, I guess.

Every day brings another lunchtime adventure. Okay, so sometimes I eat in the conference room with coworkers. But usually it’s a trip to my mom’s to eat, watch the news, and pick up her mail. Or a trip to the center to see mom and bring her the things she asked me to find. Or to meet with a social worker. Or something else. Yesterday, it was trying to solve the mystery of why the SSA would be discontinuing my mom’s disability payments, and then trying to find my mom’s brown shoes. (I’ve looked all over her goddamn house and there are no shoes that even approach brown-ness. Or brown-ocity.) Today, it was a lunch meeting with my boss and boss’ boss.

It feels good to be catching up with you guys again. On the other hand, I started writing this post yesterday. All three paragraphs of it.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Stats that Shape a Things I Learned This Weekend (Victorious / Rock Edition!)

-- Like white pants after Labor Day, a woman should refrain from wearing tights under her clothes to an indie-rock show in a club that keeps its doors open in a city with a summertime relative humidity above 85%. And men should refrain from wearing tights, period.

-- Sometimes, it’s really hard to maintain a steely hatred for someone in another band under the unwritten rules of inter-band dealings.

-- Admittedly limited reporting reveals that Gulf Breeze is so boring that people visiting there have been inspired to (accidentally) hurl their bodies through sliding-glass doors.

-- “I’m not playing that whole set,” or “You’re the biggest pussy of all of us,” can sometimes mean, “I just want to be left alone.”

-- Sometimes the cards don’t go your way. “Sometimes” can also stretch for a whole two hours of poker. Eventually, all of the chips will be gone. Deal with it.

Friday, June 03, 2005
The Road Ain’t No Place to Start a Family
The band is taking its dog-and-pony show on the road this weekend. Tonight it’s at a bar/venue in town (and near campus) that’s better known for their wet t-shirt contests. And tomorrow night, we’re playing in Pensacola. (Yes, ‘stella, I will totally wave my bottle of Night Train in the direction of Gulf Breeze.)

In related news, I will be very, very tired this weekend.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005
It’s Nice When We Both Win, of Course, but Me Winning a Lot When She Loses $10 is Much Better Than Her Losing $10 and Me Winning 80 Cents
I’m not gonna lie: I was really looking forward to the family game(s) of poker. That wasn’t my primary motivation for trying to negotiate getting everyone (and their sick and/or displaced cats) to the beach house. (I’m not saying that my argument had the most merit or was even the most practical/logical, but I was just trying to make everyone happy. It’s a sickness really.)

Anyway, we played poker with just four of us. It’s really more fun to take money from the in-laws (even if I was planning on giving it back as a gesture for them paying for the beach house), but it’s no fun to lose money to anyone. Michelle plays poker like it’s a sprint; she often starts strong but fades fast. All in all, the group was fairly evenly matched but, in the end, we ended up giving Blondie and Mr. Spaceghost $9.20.

The other attraction at the beach was, well, the BEACH. Personally, I don’t like the beach. But then Mr. Spaceghost and I rented a skim board and, suddenly, I was a 14-year-old boy all over again. Of course, after all the harsh wipeouts and running and jumping, I’m pretty sore. Days later. Because I’m 33 years old. (Luckily, there are no photographs available of me with the 4-inch sprout of hair I’d fashioned to keep the salt-water/sun block out of my eyes . . . and the beach skanks from crowding me. I mean, what could make the obviously too-old guy with the skim board more appealing?)

In other news, after clambering for her “CD” in the car yesterday afternoon and this morning (and getting her way, of course), Mia then said, “Play your CD, daddy.”

“You want me to play one of my CDs?”


So I put in Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights and selected “NYC.” It was raining and seemed fairly appropriate. Mia listened quietly, staring out the window.