Like Lines

Live poker in the state of California is unlike anything I have ever seen. I was grinding (playing) while eating a mediocre breakfast plate consisting of two cold sausage links, two pancakes, an orange, and ham when an Asian gentleman around my age tapped me on the shoulder and tugged on the cord to my noise canceling headphones. I was playing 9/18 with him earlier in the night, the highest game that was running through the night at Lucky Chances in Colma, CA, where the dead outnumber the living 1,000:1.

Asian Bro: "Hey man. I just lost $550 playing blackjack. I feel awful."
Richard: "That sucks man. Table games are evil."
Asian Bro: "Do you play here often? Is there any way you can let me borrow a hundred bucks? I can leave you my license if you want it."
Richard: "This is my first and last time here. Sorry."
Asian Bro: "Yeah, I'm probably better off."
Richard: "Probably."

It's comforting to know that you are the most skilled player in the entire room. If the rake wasn't astronomical and if the dealers weren't on par with the worst I've ever seen, I'd try to grind it out there fairly often if they were to offer a higher game.

There was one fairly interesting hand that I was berated for. It was a standard hand on my end, but the shit that went on from other players was mind blowing. It was 6 handed and I open in the cutoff with Q9sd. Button, SB, and BB all call. Flop comes Jd Td 5s giving me license to mash on my opponenets, heck of. I continuation bet, button calls, SB raises, BB folds, I announce that I would like to enter more of my money into the pot, button calls, SB calls. Turn comes the 8 of spades and SB elects to donk where I then raise and the button 3 bets. Sb calls. I cap. All call. The river comes a king of clubs. SB donks again, I raise, both players call.

The button shows Jc9c and SB shows KhJh. My mind exploded.

Sorry for the gibberish to any non-poker playing chillers that may read this.

When I'm Asked if I'm Okay, I Don't Know What to Say

I find it pathetic that something as simple and casual as a text message can aggravate buried feelings so severely that I dwell on memories (good, bad, awkward, fulfilling, whatever) for an entire day while staring into my phone.

I had a friend back home who was the most caring and purely beautiful person I have ever met. I hear from her now and then, but she serves as a constant reminder of my flaws and mistakes.

It kills me that I'm incapable of communicating with the people I care for. I find it to be a steady issue.

I'm going to see Bon Iver perform with Megafaun tonight. I've never been to a show by myself before.

I wish I was 18 again.

After free-writing 20+ pages in a Mead notebook, I've come to the realization that I have many potentially interesting things to write about. That excites me.

"I was teased by your blouse.
Spit out by your mouth."

I don't mean to sound self-deprecating in any way. I'm not depressed. I'm not anything. I just float. I'm happier than I've been in the past few months but I wouldn't say that I'm ecstatic for the future. I have no idea where I'll be in three months and that leaves me with a strong sense of unease.

To my mother and my brother(assuming that there's a slight possibility of you reading this), I love you both dearly and the thought of seeing you within a month makes any day much easier.

PDX Take 2

Moments after my plane lands in Portland, Oregon (at around 8:20PM on Thursday) I get word that I should hustle down to a ritzy downtown bar. A friend of a friend had just finished a book reading on the first stop of his book tour and was invited by Phil Knight for drinks and appetizers paid for by the child labor employer/CEO of the Nike Corporation.

I recall having fine whiskey swishing around in my mouth as I ordered another drink from the waiter.

My favorite moment of the entire trip was watching Noah Mendel stick his entire fist in his mouth. About 25 feet beyond him was Phil Knight, a billionaire, sipping gazpacho. Both were in my vision.

What a lovely trip.

Sometimes, when sailors are sailing, they think twice about where they're anchoring in. I think I could make better use of my time on land. I'll drink less because God knows I could use a warm kiss instead of a cold goodbye.

I'm writing to folks back home to tell them, "Hey, I'm doing alright."

I wrote out this deliberately vague late night post and spent close to 15 minutes laughing at how incoherent and hilariously lame/corny/confusing it is. Instead, this post will serve as a reminder for my time spent feeling like I should never write anything on the internet again.

Cheers.

Whatever (Folk Song in See What I Mean Bros?)

Taking an analytical approach to the "play count" on my iTunes library, I have noticed some distinct trends and have since developed some theories.

While browsing through my library, I noticed that Edan and El-P, both indie hip hop artists, get more play than they probably should because I hardly ever listen to them on my iPod.

The artist directly after El-P (in alphabetical order) is Elliott Smith. Some of you know this about me. Some of you don't. Never in my life have I been able to listen to one Elliott Smith song and move onto something else. Playing one song of his usually expands into a week (or more) of non-stop "XO," "Either/Or" and "Figure 8" play and, as a result, I become considerably less happy.

I compare my Elliott Smith problem to a section in the beginning of "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace. One of the characters cannot smoke weed casually and, instead, needs to shut off to the entire outside world in order to use it. He turns his answering machine off, stocks his cabinets and fridge with snacks and locks his door, segregating himself from any social contact. Pretty close to exactly what an Elliott Smith bender is like for me, minus the snacks.

Once I see El-P appear on my library list, I subconsciously choose to listen to "I'll Sleep When You're Dead" instead of testing my self discipline (e.g. passing through Elliott Smith's discography without giving it a listen). Ignoring Elliott is difficult when his printed name is staring you in the face. That and the week of my life that I'd need to devote to him helps with ignoring the temptation, but I usually succumb to his frail voice.

If I re-read this for errors, I'm going to want to delete it.

All Aboard

I walked outside of Fuse, a bar in North Beach, to look for a purse that was stolen off the back of my friend Mandy's chair. I figured that it was possible for someone to take the wallet out and ditch the bag. A 15-20 person brawl was underway in front of a club across the street. As it ended, men were tearing off their shirts and flexing their muscles. I wondered what the fight was about. There was no lack of passion.

The bag wasn't found. Everyone at the bar seemed to know each other, since it was a vampire themed party and that type of thing tends to draw a similar crowd each time a bar decides to host bands such as Vagabondage and Vagiant. It doesn't draw a threatening "I'm going to come to steal a purse" type of crowd.

The music was horrible.

2 abandoned PBRs later, I find myself in the most fascinating social realm, the late night San Francisco bus. I could write a book on my interactions while riding this bus. My favorite conversation from last night's ride was the cross-bus yelling type, a rarity. A SF via Memphis transplant announces to me that everyone on the bus is crazy and that he has "yellow fever," a term that I later learn to mean an attraction to Asian women.

Like any beautiful, invigorating moment, the bus ride ended. I stayed up until 6:00AM watching Sportscenter and infomercials while drinking into an oblivion.

I needed a pleasant night.

On Being Blindsided

Bon Iver is playing on the 22nd. I'm looking forward to it.