Give It a Name
For one of the few times in recent months, I had a lazy Saturday morning all to myself in which to indulge in nothing more strenuous than lounging on my premium microsuede sofa and gawking at the ridiculousness one can find on the Idiot Box. And I stumbled upon the show with the greatest potential in the history of mankind, "The Flavor of Love," starring the incomparable Flava Flav. Amazingly, it's Season 2 and based on some online video clips, I'm a full season late to the party. Aren't you people supposed to tell me about these train wrecks?
Flav himself is a certified comedic genius, throwing out lines like, "I love latin women. My last three kids have been by hot latin women." Add in the 20 ladies--all of whom appear to exist on the societal and mental health fringe--vying for his affection and you have an unintentional comedy meter consistently topping out in the red. Naturally, the producers see the possibilities here and make sure to interview the weirdest of the candidates as often as possible, so you get multiple viewings of the lisping black girl whose enunciation makes Mike Tyson sound like Winston Churchill. Or the gap-toothed white trasher who talks like she's straight outta Compton. I watched the entire hour with mouth agape, from the almost immediate fist fight over a disputed bed, to the quick-fire drinking session that had one girl "looking but not seeing" after double-fisting shots to the naming ceremony where Flav gives them all nicknames based on their personality or characteristics, mostly because he, in his words, "can't remember their real names." So good luck to Toastee and Bootz and Delishus.
Speaking of naming rituals, last night AJ got his his marching papers for his first season of soccer. I admit to having anxiety over the selection of the team name, hoping it wouldn't be something stupid or something nonsensical from the imaginative mind of 5- and 6-year-olds. Sure, it's hilarious when AJ brings me an eight-legged drawing and says he's created an "Octamonster," but that'd kinda be a mouthful to scream from the sidelines. So, I wasn't too upset when they came up with "Jedi." Not exactly a classic sports team name, but an evocative one, one that certainly has more machismo and strength than my first club lo those many years ago: the Minnows.
I got some poker in over the weekend and it wasn't half bad. My M.O. when running bad has always been to take some time off, clear the head. When I get into trouble is feeling like I "need" to play. Lately, with all else that's been going on, my poker time is limited and I think I benefit from that, because I'm excited to play when I do get a chance and my focus is better knowing there's not another session right behind this one. I made runs in both the Stars Crazy Re-Buy and a $20 MTT on Friday night. Though both ended up short of the money, I played well and avoided some of the pitfalls of my recent game, most notable among them being ill-timed (and ill-conceived) bluffs. I seem to try to take these further than they are warranted and basic logic doesn't support my play. I've also been susceptible to people inducing bluffs against me and I need to firmly grasp when I should be done with the hand, not one (or two) streets later.
I did money in the $9K Guaranteed on FT later in the weekend, though I got reamed down to 4 tables when my AA was cracked by J8o with all the money in pre-flop. I think it's excellent when a guy makes a horrible play with an unsuited 3-gapper and flops the nuts anyway. But that's poker. And that's what happens to horrible players sometimes. Still, it was a rewarding run in light of the fact I began the second hour with all of 880 chips. Was able to keep patient long enough to get some hands, another aspect of my game that has been left wanting.
It's been a rough year bankroll-wise for me. I had to spend about 70% of it on non-poker expenses and my hazy play in the first three months of the year provided another substantial hit. Poker was my escape from reality and neither my standard of play nor my results mattered much to me at the time. Since then, I've become almost unstuck for Aught Six, which doesn't sound like much, but it's better than where I was on April 1st. And if I hadn't given four buy-ins to Nickerson (and one and a half to Garth) in Vegas, I'd be positively ecstatic over the tiny numbers. At least they'd be black.
I love baseball. I love well-played baseball. And I love the Oakland A's (though, like many unrequited loves, they can hurt you). When my team is playing good baseball, I walk around aroused 18 hours of the day. And they've been a blast to watch the last 3 weeks. Even AJ will now sit on the couch and watch the games with me and absolutely MUST be in the room every time "Big Hurt" comes to the plate. As such, he's picking up some of my baseball speech and mannerisms, like last night when Nick Swisher hit a deep fly ball and he screamed, "Get outta here!"
Don't forget the For Peyton auction going on now. Eighteen hours left to leave me in a sniveling heap over my lost Layne Flack jersey.