Pimpin'

If you don't read Truckin' every month, than you're missing out on some of the finest writing on the intertubes, especially in the months where I have a story in there. Like this one! Really, there's some fantastic writing happening here, so if you haven't been there already, go check it out. If you've already been, go back. I'm always honored to be included in this fine company, and this month is no exception.

Stuck

When your project manager asks you to put gangsta rap on the iPod, it's probably not going to be a good day. When he needs a little old school NWA to get in the right mood to respond to an email, the job just isn't going well.

Stuck is really the best way to describe my mood lately. My friend Amy just got a great new job after being with the same company for almost ten years. She's really excited about moving, new opportunities, and all that jazz. I'm really happy for her, and a little jealous. I've been with this job for better than ten years, basically all my adult life, and I'm feeling stuck.

I like my job. don't get me wrong. It beats the hell outta digging ditches, and they pay me well, so it's way better than most things I could hope for, but after ten years, I'm at pretty much the top of my field, advancement-wise. I'm middle management, with no real prospects for any other jumps in pay grade or promotion, so I'm stuck. At 33, I've reached my own glass ceiling. Brilliant.

So what do you do when you get stuck? How do I get unstuck? I'm not exactly ready to chuck it all and live in a van down by the river and try to get by on my poker and writing income. Good thing, since I can't really survive on $.75/month. So I'm not sure what I'm gonna do, or how I'm gonna keep motivating myself, but at least for a little while I'm just that guy, punching a clock at the office to get to leave and go do the fun things after work and on weekends. Which isn't a terrible life. I guess it bears a striking resemblance to what most people do. It's just not real thrilling, and the prospect of being in my same position in the same place for the next 20 years or so is kinda chilling.

I think my Congressman may be a douchebag, but we'll give him one more chance to reply.

This was the letter I got from my Congressman's auto-mailer, then my reply, then the bounceback. I just printed all those emails and faxed them to Congressman Hayes, since my email wasn't going to go through. So far, he seems like a douchebag. If he responds in any reasonable fashion, then I will perhaps rescind my assessment of douchebaggery.


On 6/23/06, Representative Robin Hayes


Dear John,

Thank you for contacting my office regarding H.R. 4777, the Internet
Gambling Prohibition Act. I appreciate hearing your thoughts on this
important issue.

I am proud to support and cosponsor this important legislation. As you may
know, H.R. 4777 was introduced by Representative Bob Goodlatte (VA-6) on
February 16, 2006. This legislation would expand and modernize the
prohibition against interstate gambling. When battling terrorist
organizations, one of the most effective measures is to reduce the number of
funding sources. Internet gambling has been identified as a way for
terrorist organizations to "launder" funds that will later be used to attack
innocent Americans both at home and abroad.

Currently, H.R. 4777 is pending in House Judiciary Committee, of which I am
not a member. Rest assured, I will keep your thoughts in mind should this
legislation come to the floor for a vote.

Again, thank you for contacting my office. It is an honor to serve as your
United States Representative, and I look forward to tackling the issues 8th
District constituents sent me here to address. Please know that I have
assembled what I believe is the most responsive and courteous staff in
Congress. Your suggestions are always welcome, and if ever we may be of
assistance, please do not hesitate to call.

Sincerely,

Robin Hayes
Member of Congress

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: john hartness
To: Representative Robin Hayes <robin.hayes@mail.house.gov>
Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2006 13:53:14 -0400
Subject: Re: Responding to your message

Thank you for sending a form letter that shows that you didn't even bother
to read my position on the issue.

At this time, I, as a member of the Poker Players Alliance, am not looking
for a vote against this legislation, although you have to realize that
online gaming is not as easy a method to launder money as you may think, and
that your legislation places onerous restrictions on the banking industry,
something that should be near and dear to the hearts of NC representatives.
What I am looking for is a carveout allowing internet poker to be exempted
from this legislation, much like online horse races and state-sponsored
lotteries are expempted. Internet poker sites have monitoring systems in
place to make moving of large sums of money from player to player without
actually playing poker very difficult, so internet poker sites are not a
good place to launder money. If I wanted to transfer $100, 000.00 from my
account to some random terrorist, it would be very difficult to do this
through internet poker, but simple enough to do it through Ebay, and I don't
think your bill has any provisions in place to attack Ebay's business model.

Please explain to me exactly how it is that internet gambling is used to
launder money for terrorist activities, I would appreciate being educated on
this issue.

I also recently saw that you have voted against Net Neutrality, going
against both the leftist nutjobs at Move On and the right-wing nutjobs at the Christian Coalition. Since people from all walksof life have opposed the revocation of Net Neutrality, please explain to me,Mr. Hayes, exactly who you are representing in that endeavor? The big
business folks at AT&T didn't get you elected, it was the small people in
North Carolina. Please pay attention to what we are telling you we want,
rather than what some party wonk is telling you that we want.

Here it is in simple terms. I, as a citizen in your district, want from you,
my elected representative, the following things:

1) The time of at least a staffer to actually read my email on an issue
before you send me a form response in direct opposition to my personal
position. If we disagree on an issue, at least acknowledge that and address
it.

2) That you listen to the people, not the heads of big business with deep
pockets. You come from a poor state, and one that does not cotton to big
Yankee business people messing with our lifestyle, especially when it comes
to directly affecting how we live our lives, download our music, and get
paid for our internet writing.

3) That you really think through an issue before spewing some talking-head
policy BS that some yahoo told you was good for the "war on terror." A war,
by the way, that we have at least as much a chance of ever winning with
current policies as the war on drugs.

That's what I, as a voter in your district, want from you. Isn't that
esentially what you swore to give me when you took office?

Now I dare you to actually read something and reply in a cogent, non-form
letter fashion. Go ahead. I dare you.

John Hartness
Charlotte, NC


Your message

To: Representative Robin Hayes
Subject: Re: Responding to your message
Sent: Fri, 23 Jun 2006 13:53:14 -0400

did not reach the following recipient(s):

Representative Robin Hayes on Fri, 23 Jun 2006 13:53:17 -0400
The recipient name is not recognized
The MTS-ID of the original message is: c=us;a= ;p=u.s. house of
re;l=IMS100606231753NPMNPTQX
MSEXCH:IMS:U.S. House of Representatives:U.S. House:IMS10 0 (000C05A6)
Unknown Recipient




Fortunately, Mr. Hayes' fax number is online
FAX (202) 225-4036

So here's my cover letter as I faxed off my reply to his form response.

Dear Mr. Hayes,

Or whatever staffmonkey gets stuck reading this,

Attached please find the retarded form letter you sent showing me that you read nothing of my original email regarding my opposition to H.R.4777, as well as my reply to your retarded form email, which was bounced back to me since the auto-mailer you used to send the retarded form email is not set up to accept replies. Fortunately, your fax number is on the website.

Sincerely,

John Hartness
Charlotte, NC

Do you think staffmonkey might have been a little much?

Tags: Robin Hayes, Gambling, Poker, HR 4777

Boogie of the Week: Sam Bush - Laps in Seven

There aren’t many artists that I actively pursue information on when they’re coming to town, or really anticipate their new album releases. Usually when I’m checking out new releases on iTunes or at Manifest, I just see what comes out and if it seems cool, I check it out. Sam Bush is an exception to that rule. If Sammy’s playing anywhere within an hour of home, I’m there, with my sister/SammyStalker Bonnie in tow. So when we heard most of his new album in his set at Merlefest, I knew that less than 48 hours would pass from my release to acquisition.

So Wednesday, June 14th I manufactured a reason to be on the right side of town to get by Manifest, and sure enough, there sat Laps in Seven, Sam’s newest release on Sugar Hill. Lest you think I was slacking to wait until the say after the disc was released, I did in fact try iTunes on Tuesday, but the album wasn’t available online yet. So I bought it, along with Led Zeppelin II & IV (also unavailable on iTunes, dammit), and slammed it into the CD player in the PT Cruiser, with my Pavlovian slobber starting to puddle up in the floorboards.

This might be his finest studio album ever. Period. I think it does a phenomenal job of crossing the genres, something Sam does so well live. It’s got straight up high-octane bluegrass (Riding that Bluegrass Train, Bringing in the Georgia Mail), great cover songs (Hartford’s On the Road, Darrel Scott’s River Take Me), great original songs like the Emmylou Harris duet The River’s Gonna Run and fantastic instrumental numbers like The Dolphin Dance and New Country.

The bluegrass numbers really show what the addition of Scott Vestal on banjo has done for this band. It’s like the missing piece that finally clicks into place, you never really knew it was missing, but now that it’s in place it completes the whole picture so eloquently you can’t imagine hearing those songs without it. The songs are great, Bush’s vocals are solid, and Emmylou always sounds like an angel, but for me the top two tracks on the album are instrumentals, where these incredible musicians get a chance to stretch their musical legs a little.

New Country with Jean Luc Ponty is a standby of Ponty’s sets, but adding Sam’s great bluegrass band to the mix gives it a hotter energy and more vibrant life than I’ve heard in other versions of the song. The Dolphin Dance is a lighthearted romp that takes me back twenty years, to standing on my cousin’s dock in the Gulf, looking out at the dolphins playing at the sunset danced across the water, while I reeled in supper.

So I start the day as a huge Sam Bush fan, but this album is such a something-for-everyone feast, that I can’t imagine anyone who loves music not finding at least one track on here that they’ll love.

Stacked - up and down

I find myself stuck a lot lately. I seem to sit down at a table, ready to play, and for the first fifteen minutes, misplay everything that I’m dealt. Even as the action approaches my seat, I look at my cards and think “yes, 79s is playable in late position, but NOT to an UTG raise, wait for a better hand.” Then, like Thing, or some other possessed body part, my hand treacherously clicks the “Call” button. And I’m stuck for two bets with a marginal hand and nothing but position to back me up.

Now occasionally, I can pick off the heehaws who find it morally repugnant to lay down AKo on a 6-high flop by firing bullets on every street, but usually I end up down three small bets right off the bat, and find myself quickly down 5-8BB and struggling to make up the difference. Last night was a prime example. I signed up for Interpoker (Scurvy, if you get the signup bonus, buy me a beer, I did hit it through your link), fired up a $2/4 table with $100, and found myself down to $30 within 40 minutes. That’s a retarded >15BB loss in less than an hour. I ratcheted down, played my premium hands, caught a set or two and finished up 20BB by the time I was done, but that’s not the point. I’m not playing optimal poker when I first sit down, and the same thing has translated into my live play as well.

I wonder if I’m getting stuck on purpose, subconsciously, to make myself work harder to win money. Silly, huh? But that’s what seems to be happening. So my plan tonight is to start off very slowly, only opening one table at first, then adding one or two more as I get my game on, rather than rushing into things with 2-3 tables of 2/4 open immediately. Maybe that will help me keep my idiocy in check. I’m still profitable for the month, but I feel like my bad play early in my sessions is costing me serious EV.

On another note, I got my preview copy of STACKED the other day and fired it up yesterday. The graphics and audio are smoking, and the ability to customize your character is pretty badass. I don’t have Xbox Live, so I won’t be able to comment on those aspects of the game, but so far it’s pretty cool. If I were going to play poker for no money, I’d be much more likely to play this shit than the play money games online, even though I’m playing against the computer instead of real live donkeys. I’ll put in some more time on it this weekend and give more info next week.

Capital Punishment

Some dear friends of mine have a blog that they argue on. This week they’re debating why the Justice system can’t deal with violent sex offenders, citing the case of Jerry Buck Inman, the sick fuck that murdered a Clemson student by strangling her with a bikini after he was released early from prison in Florida.

My niece went to Clemson, and lives in Anderson. She’s 25, beautiful, and lives alone with her two dogs. She called me last weekend to chat, and she mentioned that she was scared. They hadn’t caught this guy yet, and didn’t even have a good idea what he looked like yet.

“Come home.” That was my immediate response. Not only would she be safe from this nutball, I would be removed from any opportunity to be incarcerated should anything happen to her. I have to admit, I’m kind of a peaceable fellow, more of a lover than a fighter, but if something happened to any of my nieces I would happily pull a Jack Ruby on the motherfucker and call it done.

My family was touched by horrible murder before I was born. I had a cousin, a young lady in Columbia who was riding in a car with her fiancé when they were both abducted, raped, murdered, sodomized and raped some more. The men that attacked them took pictures as they stubbed out cigarettes on her naked body.

I became familiar with these occurrences when I was in middle school, when the men who were convicted of these crimes began to be executed by the state of South Carolina. I felt good about that, because they had done horrible things to someone who would have been my friend had she lived. Since then my opinions on the death penalty have flickered back and forth from support to opposition to grey. I’m hanging in grey right now.

I firmly believe that if Jerry Buck Inman (like Sondheim says, why do all the nutjobs always have three names!?!) did murder this young woman then he should never have the opportunity to hurt anyone again, and I’d rather not pay for his upkeep and cable bill for the rest of his life. But right now, he is an innocent man. Until a jury of twelve South Carolinians or his own confession tells me that he is guilty, he is innocent.

And there have been far too many cases lately of people being innocent regardless of the jury’s verdict, either through manipulation of evidence or simple lynch mob mentality. I cite the case of the West Memphis Three as one where the preponderance of evidence points away from guilt, yet three young men are in prison, two on death row, for a horrific crime. So I can’t quite be a hardliner on this issue yet. I stay grey.

But Jess is okay. And when it gets dark at night in Anderson, that’s all I care about.

Another blog that's better than mine

If anybody ever reads here and doesn’t have the Tao of Poker on their must-read list, fix that shit immediately! Pauly is quite possibly my favorite writer, period. He’s definitely my favorite writer that I’ve ever been fucked up with. He’s working his way through his Born to Gamble series right now and it’s simply goddamn amazing. His writing inspires me to work hard at my own.

SC Governor's School, class of 1990

It was a summer unlike anything I’d ever known. I was, as the song goes, sixteen going on seventeen, learning to live life on my own. On my own in a state-sponsored summer camp for geeks and overachievers, but on my own after a fashion nonetheless. I was selected to attend the South Carolina Governor’s School for Academics, in Charleston, SC, 1990 edition. Like so many things in life, it came as a result of a missed deadline. Thinking myself something of a poet, I had intended to apply/audition for the Governor’s School of the Arts, held each summer in Greenville. But I screwed around and missed the deadline. This would later be a theme in life, as my college choice was predicated upon acceptance and scholarship eligibility of late applicants, but anyway.

I was selected to attend a six-week intensive college preparatory learning experience on the campus of the College of Charleston. Fifteen year later I still have no idea what that means. But my mom dropped me off in front of the St. Phillips Street Dormitory in downtown Charleston for my first extended stay away from home, my first time living with a roommate, my first time avoiding getting busted for missing curfew, my first blowjob, my first time being one of the cool kids and my first time getting laid. Mom did not expect it to be a summer of that many firsts. Shit, neither did I.

We were assigned roommates and suitemates alphabetically, and I had a corner suite, so there were six of us sharing two bathrooms and three bedrooms, with a common living space in between. Actually pretty sweet digs for high school kiddies. We weren’t allowed to bring TVs, and this was long before Al Gore invented the internets, so we were forced to socialize and actually communicate with folks. We were assigned two classes, one in our topic of study, and one general issues course, where we learned about granola shite like global warming, pollution and the kinda thing you’d expect overachieving high school braniacs to learn about.

My course of study was called “The American Autobiography.” I got stuck in that when I missed the cutoff for the Creative Writing course. We’re kinda back to that missing deadlines thing, aren’t we? We read autobiographies of Americans from multiple different cultures and studied how their American experience was different from our generally lily-white one. I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X, I know why the Caged Bird Sings, and all sorts of other eye-opening material for this cracker from Bullock Creek, SC.

But what I studied was irrelevant. What I learned was far more important than that. And I’m not only talking about the fact that our Global Issues instructor was a sex therapist and drew us detailed diagrams of the female genitalia and told us how to find and properly treat the clitoris, knowledge that my girlfriend and I promptly went back to the dorm and practiced.

What was important to me was being somewhere new, somewhere that I had no baggage, where no one knew me and I could reinvent myself. Somewhere that I didn’t have to be weird or geeky (I still was), but somewhere that I could be and do whatever I wanted. It’s the most free I’ve ever felt, and the group of people I surrounded myself with that summer are still dear to me, even though it’s been a decade or more since I’ve seen any of them. Funky Cold Adina, Ryan Hauck, Ken Shabel, Angela Hansen and the rest are all warm memories to me. Memories of the summer when I realized I didn’t have to be what anybody expected me to be. I could be whatever the fuck I wanted to be, and if that was “cool,” so be it. If that was “weird,” so be it. Whatever I was, that’s what I was gonna be. So be it.

That was the first time I ever felt like I was accepted. I had always been the brainy geek kid, but there, surrounded by a fuckton of people smarter than me who gave way more of a shit about school than I did (I had officially the lowest class ranking and GPA of any Governor’s Scholar that year, a fact that I am inordinately proud of), I was accepted for myself.

That summer changed me as much for the positive as the heartbreak in yesterday’s post changed me for the worse. It’s interesting to look back every so often at what I think are turning points, times that helped make me who I am, or at least who I might be if I ever manage to grow up.

If you were there, I'd love to hear from you.

Wife got a new cell phone

Wife: My new phone smells like a Barbie.

Me: Which part?

Wife: The whole phone smells like a Barbie, you know, that new plasticy smell…

Me: No, which part of the Barbie?

Wife: Goodbye.

June, 1994

So I sat there, knees pulled up into my chest, long hair spilling down over my face, resting my head on my kneecaps. I was sitting in the pantry of our apartment on the floor, looking across the room at our Salvation Army dining room set, where a black felt box sat on a pink receipt, bright and cheerful. Mocking me.

I didn’t even have a good song playing in the background. There wasn’t any cool rotating jib pull-out to reveal the visual depths of my solitude. I didn’t punch walls or flip over furniture or go into a good “Hulk Smash” routine where I pull a Van Halen and send my TV crashing into the parking lot one floor below. Too many bushed down there for a decent crash, anyway.

There was just me, and the fast beeping of the telephone telling me get up off my ass and hang up the phone. But I couldn’t do it. Not only could I not move, but I couldn’t think about hanging up the phone. Because that would be admitting it was over. That my idea of a perfect little life was down the shitter with one call.

It sucks getting dumped. It sucks more getting dumped via telephone. But I’m pretty sure  get some kind of prize for the level of suck involved in getting dumped via telephone by your fiance’s best fucking friend that called and said “Sherry called me. She told me to tell you not to buy the ring.”

And just like that shit became really fucked up. My roommate came home an indeterminate time later and found me in the pantry. She didn’t say anything, just sat there in the pantry with me and held while I shook, cried, cursed and begged for answers. She didn’t have any, either, except to say “I’m here.”

Eventually I got up off the floor. Eventually I put all her shit in a box and when she got back from digging up relics in the Middle East for her summer internship I gave all her crap back to her on a lunch break from working a concert. Eventually I met someone else, fell in love and got married. Eventually I started to write again. Eventually I reconnected with some of what she ripped out of me, poured gasoline on, burned to a crisp and then salted the earth from where it sprung.

But that night, while I looked across my kitchen at the engagement ring I had bought for her that day, I couldn’t see eventually. The world had gone monochrome for me, and I sat there remembering changing her tire for her after freshman Western Civ class, catching 3AM Taco Bell after sitting in the amphitheatre on campus talking until past 2AM on our first date, eating Little Debbie Star Crunches naked on my bed while her red hair trailed over her breasts like a modern day Godiva with ringlet curls. All those memories went from vibrant to sepia in a second while I felt something deep within me die.

It took ten years for me to write anything again, and two more to write that story. She burned out something inside me that took a long time to grow back, but there are a few buds beginning to sprout in that wasteland lately. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with my life, but some hurts take a long, long time to heal, and the scars last a long time, no matter how great the condition of the rest of your body. Or soul.

This blog sucks, go read one that doesn't

Really if you don't read jesus' favorite on a regular basis, you're missing out on some of the best writing on the interweb. Brutally honest, bitingly sarcastic, and painfully real.

Boogie of the Week - Edwin McCain

Boogie of the Week – Edwin McCain, Lost in America

So I like Edwin McCain. Not only was he funny as ever-loving hell on the couple of times I caught him in The Pam Stone Show on WBT radio, he’s a helluva songwriter,too. Now I’m not crazy about his overplayed radio pablum like I’ll Be, but there have always been some pretty strong lyrics in his stuff.

So I bought his new album on iTunes. Really, that’s about the only way I buy music nowadays. Aside from the convenience of buying boogie in my underwear, it’s also way cheaper, and I’m not lining some Best Buy or Wal-Mart (The Great Satan) exec’s pockets. Okay, I’ll admit to putting money in Steve Jobs’ pockets, but at least he’s a big geek instead of just a corporate schmuck.

Lost in America is his latest album, and I don’t care what number album it is or what label it’s on. If you want to know that crap, read Rolling Stone, not my cheap-ass blog. It’s more rock-centric than previous stuff I’ve heard from Edwin, and I dig it. The first number, Gramercy Park Hotel, is almost guaranteed a spot on my end-of-year mix CD. I think it’s strong lyrically and musically. I like songs that paint pictures and tell stories, and this one does both. And how can you go wrong with a song that says “Babe Ruth was a drunkard, just like me?” I probably misquoted that, but I can do that. See, I’m not a real journalist. (

The Kiss is the song that follows, and as much as I travel for work, I can see him sitting in the airplane, looking out the window for something to connect to. I loved the song, again with the strong visual imagery. Great stuff, beginning to end. A touch poppy, but not bad. Songs like Welcome to Struggleville and Bitter and Twisted are never gonna be arena-rock anthems, but they do a good job evoking a little bit of Steve Earle, a little bit of Robert Earl Keen, and a lot of Edwin’s softer Southern sensibilities.

For me, the real winner on the album, and one I hope gets a wide release, is the title track. A vicious shot against the stupid soulless consumerism that we’re all trapped in, its catchy hook and bouncy beat has you bobbing along while you think about what he’s saying. We are a little lost in America, and maybe with enough good music, we can be found. Buy the record. Either go to iTunes like I did, or go to Edwin’s website and order it.

plus ce change...

So I was driving south for Easter, and as I wound my way through the hills between York and Sharon, SC I was hit with a moment of melancholy. You see, Thomas Wolfe, he’s a bit of a motherfucker. Stupid prescient motherfucker, to be specific. Because I can’t go home again. I love my family, we for the most part get along great, but I could never live in rural SC again. Aside from the  fact that I can’t fathom living somewhere without high speed internet access, it’s just not who I am.

As I’ve grown older, and especially over the last year with the deaths of my grandmother, uncle and a close neighbor, I feel increasingly alien in this world that I grew up in. It’s not like this is a new thing, the feeling first hit me my freshman year of college when my grandfather died, closely followed by three elderly people from the community I grew up, a neighbor, my friend’s grandmother and an elder in our church. I remember a feeling of detachment from my surroundings, and thinking “Is this what it means to grow up?”

Now I think that it’s not exactly what it means to grow up, but it is a part of growing older. The attachments we form with people, no matter how strong, are transitive. My closest friends from college are people I have hardly seen since then, and many of my best friends now are people I’ve seen face to face once or twice, and we mostly communicate on the internets. Interesting.

I guess it’s just a little melancholy tinge to my trips home because of the changes in the past year, but that’s the only constant, isn’t it?

More on embedded reporting

When I heard the explosion at 11 a.m. Monday morning, I had no idea I was listening to my colleagues being killed.
The blast sounded just like the two other blasts - booming, rumbling,
base sounds like claps of thunder – I’d heard before 9 a.m. From Richard Engel, NBC News.

I can't imagine. I'm glad my friends cover poker tournaments. The most I'm worried about is Pauly passing out in the fountain at the Bellagio and drowning (not an unreasonable fear). But what fascinates me is not the pain that these writers are feeling, but the responses to this blog. The comments range from supportive to retarded, from the praising God for these brave journalists to slamming reporters for not paying enough attention to the deaths of soldiers.

These guys lost a friend. Let them mourn. Don't take this as an opportunity to slam coverage of the death of troops, or to say "you shouldn't have been there in the first place." Let them honor their fallen comrades.

Fuck Karl Zinmeister and his lack of integrity

NEW YORK Karl Zinsmeister, the new chief
domestic adviser to President Bush, while embedded as a reporter with
the 82nd Airborne in Kuwait in 2003, declared that "many of the
journalists observable in this war theater are bursting with knee-jerk
suspicions and antagonisms for the warriors all around them. A
significant number are whiny and appallingly soft." From http://www.editorandpublisher.com/.

Fuck him and the high horse he rode in on. Two more journalists died in Iraq this week, bringing the total killed to 71. Soft? These people ride in Humvees with troops wearing the same body armor, but instead of guns, they carry cameras and micropohones, putting their asses on the line to bring the story home. It's true that they don't have to do that, but they can stop reporting as easily as I can give up writing or performing. It's who they are, it's what they do, and a lot of these guys are friends of mine. We've got a Pelican case in the shop with airline and customs stickers from all over the Middle East where a customer of ours went over to shoot, and he fortunately made it back safely.

But fuck Zinmeister and his "soft" journalists. These guys didn't have to go back and edit their own copy after it was published to cover their asses. They're real journalists, not professional kiss-asses.

WTFF?

From CNN.com

The day after USA Today broke the story that the National Security
Agency (NSA) aimed to "create a database of every call ever made"
within the U.S., as one of the paper's sources put it, a Washington
Post-ABC News poll found that 63 percent of those who were asked said
they found the NSA program to be an acceptable way to fight terrorism,
and 44 percent said they strongly approved of it.

Still, the news
comes at an inopportune moment, given that Senate confirmation hearings
are expected to begin this week for General Michael Hayden, the former
NSA director whom Bush has nominated to be director of the Central
Intelligence Agency.

No, really, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!?!? I don't really give a shit that the NSA may be watching me, I expect it after all with my left-leaning liberal hippy-ass blog-writing tendencies and the fact that I think GW Bush is a fucking draft-dodging war criminal without the cojones to fight in a war himself but plenty of stones to send a bunch of poor kids and weekend warriors to die in a desert, but why in God's name (or whoever else's) does the NSA need a record of "every call ever made?"

Orwell called this one, boys. This shit is really starting to get scary.

Mr. Burns Comes Out

Harry Shearer put out a new CD and DVD. He's Mr. Burns. That's Cool.

This is a performancing test. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog reading.

State of the Sheehan

Let me lay a few things out there before I get into the meat of this.

1) I think G.W. Bush is an awful President, a puppet of a group of scary individuals that are taking this country down a road into a theocracy that I can't abide. I don't actually think that Dubya is an awful person, I think he's an idiot, but an idiot in the hands of truly dangerous people.

2) I think the war in Iraq is a mess we should never have gotten into, and will now find ourselves mired in for years to come. We cannot pull out immediately, no matter how much I would like to. But I hate the fact that we are there.

3) I think war is the ultimate failure of diplomacy. I don't remember who I stole that phrase from.

4) I think freedom of speech is one of the foundation blocks of our country and should be mostly inviolate.

All that said, Cindy Sheehan deserves to spend the night in jail. Or three. While she was in a publicly owned facility expressing her free opinion, she wasn't in public. She was at a private event for lawmakers and other invited persons, behaving in a manner that the people hosting the event felt was inappropriate, and she was escorted out. Period.

Worse, she has now made a public mockery out of everything she was accomplishing. She became famous not for badgering Dubya, but for sitting patiently, Gandhi-style, outside his ranch. She earned my admiration for sticking to a set of principles and for NOT going over the top with a big splashy stunt. Like last night. All she managed to accomplish was piss off the middle, the swing vote 20% that will decide the next election. With less than 50% voter turnout at the polls, we're looking at increasingly close elections until the person comes along that can really galvanize the country. PS - Hillary ain't it. So when the opposition (Dems, liberals, whatever) does anything to make the sitting party/group look like they are in the right, they lose.

Cindy Sheehan did no good for her son's memory last night. In my less than humble opinion, because, after all, this is a blog and everyone who writes a blog must be an arrogant genius, she betrayed the methods of her movement and destroyed her strength and credibility by her antics.

There, my political post. Don't hold your breath for the next one, cause I'm pulling for McCain/Obama in '08 on the Independent ticket.

Heh. They pay people for this crap?

So I was bouncing around the stupidest word in my vocabulary today, and came across Bill Rini's post that not a single poker blog got nominated for a Bloggie, despite our efforts at ballot-box stuffing for Pauly, Al, Iggy, the Up4Poker boys, etc. and flipped over to see who did get nominated.

They didn't nominate anyone I like, they don't get a link. Google 'em.

So I bounced around some of their nominees and found an interesting post from a NYC stripper who wants to be a writer and is doing some columns for the Village Voice (is "the" a part of the title? I can never remember), and she's doing a column for the Voice on several women who have gotten book deals based on their blogs, one of them for some ridiculous amount of money like $500K. So I bounced over to see what was worth a cool half-million in the blogging world. And no, I can't really remember the chick whose blog I was on, or what the links were, and didn't care enough to save the urls.

Wow. Just like movie stars, financial success of blogging is sometimes inversely proportional to writing ability. I had silly business cards printed up with my email, blog address and cell number on there (vistaprint.com, free for 250 color cards and a few dollars for shipping, you gotta ask whythefucknot?) and my title I listed as Director, Designer, Degenerate, Scribbler. These folks don't even rate scribbler. There are blogs out there that I read for funny stories (is it BoozeDay again, yet, Al?), blogs that I read for news of the poker world, blogs that I read (and usually have to read 2-3 times) for strategy on the game, and then there are blogs that I read for the sheer damn literary quality of it.

Tao of Poker
The Obituarium
Up for Poker (you also get a fair number of entertaining stories, but these guys can ALL throw down the writing gauntlet)
Anything Daddy is guest-posting on
Boy Genius

These guys are writers. First, foremost and last, these guys are writers, and damn fine ones. I'll measure the work of these guys against these new novelist/bloggers any day. But the common thread I saw in my admittedly incredibly limited viewing of these blogs?

Boobs and bitching.

The few of these new novelist-bloggers that I visited, and there may be some that don't fit this mold, all seem like they must own the Sex and the City box set. Between the relationship drivel and bra pictures, I found very little writing that impressed me on any level.

Actually some of the imagery on the stripper's blog was pretty good, I thought. I think it was Mimi in NYC or something? I found her images to be much stronger than the crap on the booblogs. Yes, I chased it down. The one I liked was the stripper blog. She's got some serious moments of good imagery there. But the others? If I want to read about a hot chick, I'll go read the Blonde. And I do read The Blonde. Because she's a no-BS blonde, she just lays the truth right out there for you, and screw ya if you can't handle it. I respect that.

So I'd much rather read Pauly's as yet untitled Las Vegas novel than anything by this Jessica Lacy Bra chick. Not that I don't love lacy bras, but I do find them itchy under a dress shirt. But it looks like blogging for dollars is going to be like becoming a movie star - the talent (Steve Buscemi) gets the bit parts and the talent free lummox (Bruce Willis) gets $20 mill per flick. Hopefully somebody somewhere will read the folks I mentioned above and see that the are of writing is alive and well in the stupidest word in my vocabulary. Good luck, guys. It ain't a half-million dollar book deal, but you inspire me to keep plugging away.

Peace.

Coach

I was never an athlete. Not even close. Cut from Little League twice in elementary school, my athletic career was effectively blown at age 7 with the first of many sets of Coke-bottle eyeglasses. So I never had a coach when I was a kid. Until my senior year of high school.

Will Clark was one of my best friends, and had been since 6^th grade, when we met in the Gifted & Talented program (geek squad). Will wanted to go to the Air Force Academy more than anything, and had spent his entire high school career gearing up for it. So in January of our senior year, I was a little baffled when Will came up to me asking me to join the track team.

“Huh? What would I do that for? (the grammar of a future English minor)”

“I need somebody to run with me.”

“I suck at sports.”

“Doesn’t matter. I suck, too. But if I go through the whole season again this year, I get a varsity letter, and I can’t get into the Academy if I don’t letter in a sport.”

“You think of this now? And why me?”

“Who else would I ask?”

“I’m an idiot, but okay. What do I have to do?”
“Meet me at the track Tuesday after school. Bring sweats.”

This does not begin the tale of a gloriously undiscovered athletic drive, love for competition, or Olympic fire. I did a favor for a friend, and ran the 4,000-meter race for a track season. Poorly. Well enough to make the Upper State Championship team for our school, but only because we only had 4 guys running that race, and we had to field 3 for Upper State. I was marginally (and really only marginally) faster than Ricky, the sweet but brutally slow Special Ed kid who also ran the mile. Come to think of it, I think Ricky may have been our third guy, behind Will & me.

But somewhere in there, I got myself a coach. Now let’s not lump Durham Smith in with Bobby Knight, Bill Parcells, or even that Russian guy that carried Kerri Strug to the medal stand. Not to say that he wasn’t a great coach, but the competition wasn’t really the key to it with Coach Smith. Ricky the aforementioned Special Ed kid got every bit as much attention from Coach as the guys who actually placed in or won their events, because Coach Smith knew that we were all there for different things. Some guys were there to win races and get varsity letters. Some guys were there to hang out between seasons of football or basketball. Some guys were there for completely ridiculous reasons, like their best friend needed moral support to get into the Air Force Academy.

But Coach Smith encouraged us all to be our best, win or lose. It never mattered to him that I never ran the 5-minute mile that he believed I could. It only mattered to him that by the end of the season my 8-minute mile warmup pace was actually measurably different from my competition pace. I did manage 5:20 in the mile before we finished the season. Coach never once yelled, never expressed disappointment in us, not even when the scrawny white kids from Fort Mill actually lapped me and Ricky during the 8,000-meter race. Now, really, was it absolutely necessary for a 15-year-old kid to shave his legs and rub Afrosheen on his legs for aerodynamics? This kid sat still faster than I ran, I think all the other shite was just window dressing.

And you know what? I never felt like a loser. Not once in that spring did I feel like I couldn’t do it. Like I couldn’t succeed. That’s what a coach does, and it’s why I will run to the theatres and watch every lame-ass high school sports movie, or pick up every copy of Miracle of St. Anthony or My Losing Season that I run across. Because I do believe in the power of athletics to mold kids. I do believe that a coach is the second most important man in a kid’s life, and in too many cases, the single most important. I was fortunate enough to have a great coach for one spring, and I’ll never forget him.

I don’t run anymore. It’s been 15 years and 100 lbs. since I ran the mile in 5:20, or ran the mile at all for that matter. But I still bump into Coach Smith once in a while, and I still call him “Coach.” And I’m proud that once, for a little while, I was an athlete.

Will got his letter, and he got into the Air Force Academy. I haven’t seen him since right after graduation, but I know he’s somewhere – flying high.