I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Absent a mandate, this week's posts will be titled courtesy of the White Stripes because their last release was called "Elephant" and yesterday I rode a pachyderm. It's all connected, people. There is no Chaos Theory. We're all on one big inter-related string. You need more proof?

Last week was Def Leppard week and my cousin plays on a soccer team in Hollywood with Vivian Campbell, current guitarist for Joe Elliott and Co.

Don't mess with me on this. I can Six Degree myself to anybody in the universe (perhaps tenuously, but you're welcome to give it a shot).

Back to the point, riding elephants sucks. It turns out I'm not quite as limber as I used to be. Despite my body consisting of 70% legs, I did not have the span to comfortably straddle the mammoth's girth. From the instant I was perched, a shooting pain assaulted what I tenatively diagnose as my hip-ular joint-al area, just behind the ball socket in what might universally be called the right buttock. Yes, I had a pain in my ass. No amount of squirming or re-adjusting could relieve this agony, though all attempts provided humor for the dear and patient wife.

The Boy, whom I hope someday reads this and appreciates The Sacrifices I've made for his enjoyment, was utterly ignorant of my plight, as well as the danger this wobbly beast could quite easily toss us to our certain deaths. No, he was giggling and swooning like an adolescent girl at a Rick Springfield concert.

I'd like to extend my thanks to "Kitty," the elephant, and her lesbian handlers for allowing us to live, but perhaps some thought should be put into making the ride more comfortable for those of us lacking Olga Korbut's flexibility. Or, better yet, let's completely abandon the entire idea of Elephant Riding and stick to fucking ponies. By which I mean riding fucking ponies, not actually "fucking" ponies.

Just to be clear.

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That Saturday evening post serves as a road map regarding what you can expect from me in Vegas. When I get drunk, I'm very talkative. And very random. Don't get me wrong, I can manage a conversation. I can even follow the line of thought and make pertinent comments thanks to years of drinking pitcher after pitcher with my friends, all of whom like to get drunk and argue/discuss things. No, not 'things,' issues. Like foreign policy. Endless Pitchers of Newcastle + The Monroe Doctrine = My Idea of a Good Time. It's amazing I didn't get laid more in those days, wouldn't you say?

But I will just as often start pulling unrelated material that pops into my head. My thought-editor takes a vacation after 8 drinks.

The hat, for the record, was a simple Adidas cap.

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Poker's taking a bit of a holiday, as I focus more on reading Harrington (damn it's good) than actually playing (and more on hanging out with the family on the weekend than actually playing). Will probably take a run at another live tourney next Sunday at Pechanga, a local indian casino. The buy-in is a ridiculously juiced-up $35+$15, but the time and location are good. I'll try to take notes this time.

"Pechanga" in the native language means "place where the water drips." Thought you'd like to know. Of course, I went looking for the definition so I could play off it in my in usual clever fashion, but damned if I know what to do with "place where the water drips." I'm sure there's some backstory/legend there which makes the name mystical and worthwhile, but I can't see it, nor can I use it as a pretty little bow to tie up this post.

So much for a kicker.