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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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.
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.
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