Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Pimp My Ride

I will be freerolling The Mookie tonight--barring catastrophe--thanks to my award-winning and predictably juvenile caption last week. I will endeavor not to slow-play my flopped top two into a losing hand like I did last week. You'd think with my "luck" on the river that I would learn not to do that. You'd be incorrect.


One person who has no such issues with his game is Absinthe. Let's see, take six months off--give or take--from the game, reacquaint oneself with the denizens of Commerce for a few days and make another LAPC Final Table. Appears from the updates he's shortish, which means he's right in his comfort zone. Nobody manipulates the shortie (not a euphemism) like Ryan.

Good luck, Daddy-o.


Speaking of riding the little stack (still not a euphemism), I did just that in the $28K Guarantee this past Sunday. I was dead last with five tables left and managed to keep my chin barely above the water line all the way until 12th. And had I won a race there (AJs NOT Gold vs. The Drizz), I'd have given myself a good chance to take it down, based on the passivity I'd seen in that last hour.


The Good Reverend, Sir Al Can't Hang has reached an enviable milestone. He demurs, but anyone who's been around the blogger block knows Al can not only write in an engaging and entertaining manner, but also that those skills are far surpassed by his humanity, altruism and the countless, selfless hours he's spent in service to our community.

Al was literally the first blogger I met in person and within seconds he treated me like an old and cherished friend. The feeling was, and remains, mutual.

Congratulations, sir.


What more needs to be said about this? Lazy Saturdays? PLO? Pauly? the potential to play against some Fucking Swedes?

I'm so there. You will be too, if you know what's good for ya. Saturdays with Dr. Pauly is like the Malt-O-Meal of Poker Tournaments.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Hittin' to the Oldies

I hadn't watched this in a while. I've watched it 8 times in the last half-hour.

Good, old fashioned, C-Lister fun.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Freerollin' Wednesdays

I'd like to thank The Mookademy and photoshop.

Friday, January 18, 2008


The day was flat and gray at first glance. The sky and sea both a monochromatic slate so that you couldn't precisely tell where one began and the other ended. But there was a vibrancy behind the lack of color, a pulse. Shadows that may or may not have been there. Unexpected hues that brightened against the drab backdrop.

Kool Breeze and I sat on the rocks as the sea spray misted on us. Tide was coming in, slowly, so it must have been late in the day, though you couldn't tell, didn't care to know. Our jagged perch was well-populated. Tenacious barnacles, purple-infused crabs, the occassional seagull. The small ecosystem throbbed with life and we stared, transfixed, our observations randomly broken by shouts. "Jesus! Look at this!" and we pointed and tried to describe what we saw, though odds were we'd not see the same thing.

Kool Breeze was eating a banana and when he tossed the peel on the rocks, it beat like an animated heart, the bruised brown ridges swirling with the yellow, no less alive than the creatures which scurried around our feet. These sights seemed to rise and greet us, on display for our personal show before the waves covered them.

The ocean plowed into the shore. The sound was thunderous and we had to shout to be heard over its gray insistence. White foam bundled against the rocks with purpose and we'd cast inquisitive eyes toward the vast depths. Once, we thought we saw a ship out there, shrouded behind the wall of mist and if we imagined it, we imagined it exactly the same. That's the way it was. You'd go off on your own, but eventually our minds would return because there was nobody else like us at that moment.

I don't know why Kool Breeze looked up that time. He doesn't either. But he saw it and cast a calm warning. I scoffed. Inperturbable. The wave was big and it was coming for us. I turned back to the crabs, one of which seemed to grow before my eyes, into something important.


Hours earlier, we were laying down on park benches as the poison worked its way through our system. The benches were back-to-back, so I couldn't really see him and talking was difficult for us both. We'd grunt something, checking in, waiting for the moment. I pulled my knees up to my chest, trying to flatten out my lower back where the nerve endings battled against a thousand pin pricks. Just within earshot, a street performer was working his act in front of the tourists who'd gotten to the boardwalk early. He was funny, but we couldn't laugh, content with exhaling bursts of air when something he said tickled.

We'd dressed optimistically in shorts, knowing the marine layer and how it could peel off to reveal a hot sun, even late in the year. It was cold, but still, and whatever discomfort we might have felt was slowly being melted away. "I think we need to go," Kool Breeze said finally. I was in no position to disagree.

We started to walk. Only it didn't feel like walking. We were being propelled, widgets on an assembly line. Conveyor belt, we both agreed, pushing us forward without any exertion on our parts, as if in a dream. We laughed without pause, could not contain, and randomly shouted out words like infants just learning how to speak. "Flotilla" was one and the way it ran off our tongues was enough to make us stop and sit. Too much happening and that guy in the second floor window looks like a horse.

We hadn't gone far, made it to the paddle ball courts and tried to take stock. We were whizzing down a tunnel, demon train, River Styx, but without the fear, only the wonder. The courts were packed early and the slap of wooden rackets and shouts were like the most important sounds on Earth and I became lost in them, the competition, reading their faces and flying sweat and bending limbs trying to find the essence of them and when I snatched some truth, I turned to Kool Breeze and called his name. Once. Twice. Several more times, but he only stared forward. I cracked him one on the shoulder and he turned, blankly. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Far, far away," he said.


The wave hit us full force. Drowned rats. I slipped on our barbed purchase, frantic but calm, trying to find a hold as the rocks ripped bloody ribbons into my bare arms. I shouted a mouthful of salt water, closed my eyes against its sharpness, the sky, the ocean, which was which and the shore was where? It was over before I could answer and Kool Breeze and I could only stare at each other.

We were soaked. The tide ran out over our shoes, our ankles and calves, and we watched with curiosity turning to amusement and finally, laughter. Deep and honest but with the trembling undercurrent of relief. We fumbled our way to the soggy sand and began to feel the wind bite our wet skin beneath our now useless clothes. Kool Breeze's backpack leaked sea water and he opened it up to pour out more excess. We shrugged and started to trudge toward the boardwalk, to the car. We couldn't stay. Already we shivered and warmth was blocks away, though we didn't want to leave, didn't want it to end.

I'd driven this way before. That one time when I crossed the Pass in the foggy dark of 4 a.m. Going home to her, again. Actions repeated. Away while she stood indignant sentry. I'd made that drive countless times, could do it in my sleep though sometimes shocked when I pulled into the garage at the end, like a movie you love that seems to be over too quickly. I saw stars on the road guiding me and tentacles coming from the hillside.

No matter how many times, she always woke up. She started in as soon as I entered our bedroom. I lied to her casually as her words pinged off me like hopeless rain drops. I laid wrong, feet where my head should be, chin hanging off the bottom edge of the bed and I fell into the swirling mass of our carpet, a shifting blacky swamp, where her voice couldn't get to me.


We kept seeing the guy and every time, he looked more and more equine, his face getting longer with the power of suggestion. There by Muscle Beach, in the poster shop, behind the basketball courts where the runners threw barbs and dodged fights.

We took wrong turns and ended up in somebody's apartment because of the Escher halls and Dali colors we followed because we had to, like on the beach where we talked to people walking by, complete nonsense which caused us to fall back into the damp sand laughing. I stayed in the bathroom for too long, mesmerized by my throbbing legs and the way they turned into people I didn't know. We sat behind a band and watched two guys juggle fire and machetes and said "flotilla."


Megadeth was on the tape deck when we drove east, just a few miles to the campus. I was living with Kool Breeze then. She'd kicked me out or I left or some of both. I'd never go back, except to get my stuff when the semester ended.

I peeled off my wet clothes and got in the shower while Kool put on The Doors and made chicken pot pies. The water coated me in armor and I sat on the warming tile and let it wash over me. Just sitting there, aimless and cheerful, and feeling perfect. Embryonic, I suppose.

That's how it felt.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Spank Bank

I, like most boys, learned about nekkid girls from my father who, despite strict opposition from Mom (Southern Baptist-style), managed to keep a Penthouse or a Playboy hidden somewhere around the house (how she never found them when I easily did is a mystery). Sadly, though I could sniff out Dad's collection with relative ease, I did not have the ability to hide my own growing interest in the genre, artistically speaking.

One afternoon, I sat watching TV when my Mom answered our ringing phone. I paid no mind until I heard her fairly yelp "What?!?!" I turned from my La-Z-Boy and she fixed me with a stone glare. It was the video rental store on the phone. She lowered the mouthpiece and asked me, "Do you know anything about an overdue video called, 'Open Up, Tracy?'"

Not a good moment for Young Joe Speaker. Though I can say I've seen a Tracy Lords porno.

Why am I telling you this? 'Cause there's porn on the internet! Excellent photos of the AVN Convention in Vegas by my (and your) hero FlipChip.

You will want to check these pics out. You will want to do it when nobody else is in the house. And won't be for at least 90 minutes.

Bravo, sir.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Snip Snip

Go give The Drizzle your love and support today. Tomorrow, he will need your semen.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Thought For the Day

"My standard for verisimilitude is simple and I came to it when I started to write prose narrative: fuck the average reader. I was always told to write for the average reader in my newspaper life. The average reader, as they meant it, was some suburban white subscriber with two-point-whatever kids and three-point-whatever cars and a dog and a cat and lawn furniture. He knows nothing and he needs everything explained to him right away, so that exposition becomes this incredible, story-killing burden. Fuck him. Fuck him to hell."
--David Simon, creator of The Wire

The first journalism class I had, one of the first things they told us was to "write to a 10th grade education." I always hated that idea. Perpetuates stupidity. A barrier to challenging readers/viewers.

(Read the full Simon interview with Nick Hornby here.)