Thursday, October 21, 2010

Yell "Free Money!"


At the poker tables, bad beat stories are often shared. In typical big-fish-story fashion, the details are often distorted, allowing the teller of the story appear to be the helpless victim of a complete buffoon who had “no business” being involved in the pot in the first place. In the narratives, the teller played perfectly while the maniac played like a fish. Lost coinflips become lost one-outers. Typically, the teller fails to mention key details such as the maniac having top pair to go along with his flush draw.


It hurts me to listen to these stories. Like, physically hurts. For one,
it is mentally draining to dwell on bad beats. Players often complain, saying that nobody in the world runs as bad as they do. Among other things:

[x] Their opponent’s flush draw always gets there.
[x] Their opponent always hits their miracle two-outer to give them a set on the river.
[x] Their opponent manages to hit a gut-shot straight draw on the river.

Allow me to insert a fact here that most of my poker-playing comrades tend to

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Digital Will

A girl from my high school died. While crossing the street at the Jersey shore, she was struck and killed by a car.

She was one of those girls who had everything going for her. She was beautiful, compassionate, and talented. She was also a far better writer than I will ever be.

We were not friends, per se. She was two years younger than I. We shared one class together (if Choir is even considered a class). We also shared a handful of mutual friends. I did happen to see her a month or so before her untimely death. She came up to the ice cream store where I still worked, after a decade.

“Oh my God, you still work here?” she asked, echoing the words of so many other people I know.

“No, I just wear the uniform and scoop people ice cream for fun.”

She offered a sarcastic, yet cheery laugh, then said “I’m sorry.” It was unclear to me if she was apologetic for asking an obvious question or if she actually felt sorry for my life situation.

The rest of the conversation consisted merely of

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Bob's Son

Apparently, my parents are moving.

They actually announced that they were going to move when I began college five years ago. Our current house is too big for their liking, they say. It is true. With both of my sisters moved out and me attempting to find any possible way to afford to move out, there are too many rooms, too many things to clean. Also, they want a house with fewer stairs because they are getting “old.”

They are nowhere near immobile and I do not foresee them having any issues climbing stairs for the next twenty years.

What is most amusing to me is the fact that their beach house, with which they are perfectly content, requires them to walk up twenty steps just to get into the house, then another fifteen to get to their bedroom level.

The fact that they have not found a new house is something that doesn’t really surprise me. They have two basic criteria for the choice of their next house (at least criteria that they say aloud): it has to be a rancher, because of rancher’s inherent lack of staircases, and it has to have a two-car garage, because of two-car garage’s inherent ability to house two cars. I know that their