My odd life

I don't know why odd stuff always seems to happen to me; whether I bring it on myself with my mal-normal behavior, or if its just something I project that screams "I'TS COOL TO BE WEIRD AROUND ME, UNLEASH YOUR DARK AWKWARD SIDE, I DONT CARE." Either way, it leads to some fun situations:

A couple nights ago I'm playing the 5/10 game at the Bellagio. I lose a pot to an old woman to my left, who check raises a four way flop and I have to fold queens. She is well over 60 years, short, a bit round, and looks like some blend of Philippino/thai, so basically your typical older asian gambler. The following conversation unfolds (by the way, not enough people talk at the poker table, so I like to put upon myself to meet everyone at the table, befriend them, talk about their occupation, where they live, etc. It makes playing live MUCH more enjoyable, and let's me know how good each player is likely to be right off the bat):
Me: How many chips do you have in each stack?
Old Lady (in a blurry accent): huh?
Me: How many chips do you have in each stack? It looks like 40.
Old Lady: huh?... oh, yes. I hah fouty.
Me: Ok, I was going to ask during the hand but most people don't like answering questions when they are in a pot.
Old Lady: Oh, Yous can ask me anyting you want.
Me: You have any daughters?
Old Lady: Yes, but she too old for you.
(at this point the rest of the table begins to perk up and listen in)
Me: How much older? My mom says I need to stop dating younger girls.
Old Lady: she fouty five. Too old for you. She in the air force.
Me: cool.
Old Lady: Is there anything else you want to ask?
Me: hmmm... does she have a daughter?
Old Lady: No, she in air force!
Me: oh.. too bad.
Old Lady (in a more hushed voice that is not quiet enough because the entire table can still hear her): Is there anything else you want to ask me? Because I have not had sex in twenty two years.

The table explodes.
These days I feel sometimes like I've heard it all. Every time someone says something ridiculous or outrageous, I nod, grin, and add something one step further. This was the first thing in a while that just completely stunned me.

I just got beat at my own game by an old lady.

So I did the only thing one can do in that particular situation: I ordered a gin an tonic, and, as I played, shot her winks and passed her love notes written on napkins. And the table eventually joined in, telling us places to go for our first date (my response: oh we wont be having time for dinner) or suggesting threesomes with the older female dealers who rotated in and out from the table. One dealer even found the comedy in it, and started sending air kisses my way. The name on her tag was "Lucky." I couldn't possibly make that up.

If only I was 70, I would have been in there.

Catharsis

My catharsis is writing. There is something powerful about the pen strokes: the high peaks of the M's, the loops of the B's and R's, the teetering tops of the shaky T's that I always leave somewhat slanted as I rush past them and onto the next word, trying not to forget anything. I like the way a pace looks when its completed; when it swells with ink and couldn't bare another word. The feeling of flipping through an entire book of fresh words, from head to hand to pen, and back to head, and back to pen; it can't be replicated and, at times, is far more exhilarating and provides a greater release than hiking mountains, or riding down rivers, or even jetting across entire worlds. Believe me, I've checked. I've thrown so many experiences up on the scale, and it still tips terribly in writing's favor.

You can climb pyramids all your life, reach the summit just at sunset on your birthday, and you still wont escape your own thoughts.

We are all ships, some in harbors and lakes and some out to sea. And we all drop anchors, some more than others, both knowingly and otherwise, which fixate on rocks, reef, debris, sand and sinkholes, old rusted vessels, lost barrels, junk strewn overboard: pipes, organs, statues, broken masts, lamps, mattress covers, pillows, airports, trains, funeral caskets, day trips, one night stands, three year relationships, misconstrued compliments, georgous smiles, hushed secrets just before sleeping.
These anchors have chains which pull on us. Yank us back as we push so hard forward.
Some people can lose the chains so easily, cut them loose and continue on with their course. The level of ease depends on the strength of the chains, the power of the boat, and the desire of the destination. For some, the destination is of minor importance next to the journey itself, which allows the chains to be all that more invulnerable to being discarded.

It can be difficult sometimes, dragging all those chains behind, drifting aimlessly to intangable destinations. But we are the captains of a fate greater than the plans laid out for us by those left at shore. We will not be forgotten because we will never forget ourselves. Not after the immense strain we have endured to so clearly find us.

How do you cut a chain that doesn't exist? Can the be broken by long walks, or morning swims, or intense conversations once a week? Can they be shocked out of our heads with paddles or melted away by drug after drug? Or is the only way to not cut them at all, but instead change yourself, your intentions, and grow so familiar and accepting of your own chains, that they hardly bear a load at all? Is there really even a choice?
So I choose to write, about the chains and anchors and organs and smiles, day after day. I choose to write because I can't choose to forget them. Any of them. So I give them a metaphysical existence, and I sit and hope that, as they become greater and grander and more ridiculous, their physical counterparts will shatter in their own lack of reality, and something greater will emerge. And we might trudge on with a slightly lighter load.

Mar Del Plata -> Buenos Aires

5:41 in a dirty cafe at a bus station in palermo. Mark the time. That's why every ugly person in Buenos Aires can be found. There aren't too many: I estimate about 84 of them. They all look tired and beaten down by early morning wake-ups. They sag in the chairs or benches and the dark, sooty skin on their faces droop with them. Their hair is heading in all the
wrong directions, not in the cool, movie star maximum-hold-gel way, but more like Tom Waits: all unfettered and peculiar, like gravity holds a grudge against each of them.

And here I come around the corner, not looking so good myself after 3 bottles of wine and 2 hours of sleep on a red eye bus ride (who does that?), and I'm thinking if poker doesn't work out maybe I can get paid to be the 85th. Give me a few more sleepless nights, take all my other clothes, and roll me around in the street for a bit. They couldn't keep me out. And I'm thinking how stupid it is that people hear the word ugly and get all offended. Like its an insult. Like its not just a description, and usually a big, fat, super accurate one. Like ugly people arnt the ones who built the bridges, the buildings, designed the rockets and trains, made the decisions, led the world. Like they arnt driven, out of desire for the pretty ones.

I think, damn, if everyone was hot all the time, we would be banging in caves, eating whichever animal was the slowest and stupidest, three meals a day.

I think, damn, I could use some sleep about now.

Skip back 10 minutes. We're outside. Two Argentinians are throwing bags out the sides of the bus and all over the parking lot. People are scurrying to claim their things. The rest are smoking and looking on. There are speakers somewhere quietly infecting our ears with 80's american pop music. Hans is still doing his Kiwi Impression.
"right, oui've gut no toime far ya toime wastin"
"that's aaaa cintral pack, in new-ack."
I'm laughing furiously. I'm realizing I'm somewhat delusional. I need coffee. I remember there is a dispenser for just that back on the bus. I throw my shit at jamie and run up there. There is coffee left, but only those little shot-glass-sized plasic cups that they use at cheap outdoor bars. I pour a cup, blow on it, wait an eternity for it to cool, and pound it. Rinse and repeat, 8 more times.
I think, damn, they should have rehab for coffee.
"Hello, I'm Jesse, and I'm a liquid crack addict."
Outside the bus, john is smoking, Mike's rapping, Jamie's messing around with his board as him and Hansle talk about Uruguain waves. I'm slowly losing my mind due to consistantly chaotic situations and one very fucked up sleep schedule. But I'm writing more and more. We are all getting our fix.

Skip back five hours. We are sober and loud. People are stairing back at us. Some are smiling. Some are less amused. I imagine what they are thinking:
"what could possibly be so funny the first 15 seconds on the bus?"
They gave us snacks when we boarded. They are cheese sandwiches and peanut butter cookies. The cookies rock. The sandwiches are so much worse than two pieces of bread and cheese should ever be. John throws his at mike, it rebounds off his face and onto his lap. Mike takes a bite, horror runs across his face, and he throws it across the hall at Jamie.
The gringos are making a mess again.
I'm doing my gay german accent. Mike's british. A cute girl flutters by, she is the only person on the bus who has to sit behind us. I feel somewhat bad. We take turns getting water from the back and checking her out. I give her a smile. She does not smile back. I notice a cheese sandwich in the seat next to her. I try not to laugh.
I imagine her wondering why my face looks like its going to explode. And why we need so much water. And why Americans think throwing food is funny after fourth grade. then, slowly, he mouth widens and she giggles. I turn around and move back to my seat.
According to Hans theory, people that aren't us don't think about the things around them or anything other than "who are these mysterious men with their flat brimmed hats and big american penises?"
I don't know if that's 100% accurate, but has to cross their minds at some point.
On some level, it's all we're ever wondering.
I sit down. Jamie is already half asleep. John has his computer out and is looking at pictures from the beach. Hans starts up his Kiwi impressions from flight of the concords.
"Roight, lets do the roll call. Jur-mane?"
I start to laugh. The bus begins to back out. The lights go off.

Skip back 4.5 hours. We are in the terminal, sitting against the glass wall of an Adidas shoe store. We are surrounded by our stuff: 7 big travel bags, 2 guitars, 3 skateboards, 2 surfboards, a churango, 2 symbols and 1 drum, some

random shirts and books, some glasses and hats bought along the way.
Johnny Rotten walks over to us. For the past two weeks, he has decided to make himself our Argentinian father. And, in response, we have slipped into the roll of the kids who are more than a handful to overwatch "I have the bad news, guys, the autobus does not leave until 12."
I look at the clock, It's 7:30.
We start to kick a soccer ball around in the hallway.
I think, what the fuck are we going to do between now and 6am?

50k month and Argentina

January was a damn good start to the year. first of all, I hit a goal that I didn't really ever expect before September of last year: I made more than $50k in a month without a single dollar coming from a tournament. I realized it was possible after one really strong week, and managed to put in the time to get to where I wanted. There are a few reasons why I'm really happy with this accomplishment:

1. It was all from cash games, and a $4k bonus I cleared on the site. Which means, given I play the same amount or more in the future, I can definitely do it again. 50k x 12 months/year = No more money issues for jesse
2. I did it despite not playing the first week of the month, and traveling through Argentina the last two (and making sure I only played during the down time, when not a whole lot of exciting stuff was going on anyways).
3. I did it in under 70 hours of work. In the future, I will be able to put in a lot more hours per week (not saying that I will, I'm a pretty lazy human being).

So thats cool.

Now, for the fun stuff:

-Argentina rocks. Every girl is gorgeous and the people are unbelievably friendly if you are willing to start conversations.
-Han's flight of the Concords impression is one of the funniest things i have ever heard. I laugh uncontrolably every time he does the "a park in Newark" scene.
-Mike said it best: our group has one kryptonite: bunk beds. We are currently looking for an apartment with multiple bedrooms.
-Jamie's brain has two tracks, and surfing just went out the window.
-John got robbed and is still in high spirits despite it. Good for him.


I've actually been writing a lot, in a little brown leather bound notebook an ex gave me years back. But I've been too busy to transfer stuff to the computer. I'll do that soon, and start putting a ton more stories and stuff up on here. Just created my own site as well, so I'll probably be moving everything there soon.