Saturday night's alright, but Friday night works just as well

Good Times
Originally uploaded by JaseMan
"Don't give us none of your aggravation
We had it with your discipline
Saturday night's alright for fighting
Get a little action in"
- Saturday Night's Alright by Elton John & Bernie Taupin

Hear ye! Hear ye! You can get plenty of action on Friday nights as well if you play your cards right. I nearly got more than I bargained for last Friday at a friend's "friendly" poker game.

The email stated that the poker tournament would start around 8PM and would be winner-take-all. The game didn't start until 9ish and was morphed into two tables of winner-take-all at each table. No big deal. The crew was composed of a bunch of rookies and organizing the tournament would have been pretty difficult.

I should have seen the warning signs. One guy, we'll call him Cheech, started giving me shit about being a ringer just because I suggested an effective way to divvy up the chips. Clearly he's never seen me in action. I'm far from Phil Ivey, but Cheech didn't let it drop. I stayed put.

To top it off, I got dealt pocket sixes on the first hand. I limped and let the rookies dictate things pre-flop. I picked up a six on the flop and another on the turn. Nice. Solid bets, callable bets yielded some decent change on that pot, but I probably also didn't do myself any favors with Cheech.

Fast forwarding to 2AM finds me roughly even on the night after a bad beat and some lucky suck-outs from the rookie contingent. Cheech pushes his neatly arranged chips toward the guy nearest the chip/money tray and says, "Cash me out for $20. I have to take my pregnant wife home."

"Sorry, but you can't do that. It's winner-take-all," I said calmly as I didn't want to make a federal case out of this, but rules are rules. Plus, Cheech was good buddies with the host. Honestly, I didn't care, but I wanted him to know that he was breaking the rules.

"C'mon, man. It's 20 bucks, and my wife is pregnant."

"I've got no problem with it if you don't care about the rules."

It should be noted that the host and other friends of Cheech were telling him the same things as me. Rather than get pissed at himself for being a drunk idiot, he got pissed at me.

"Fine. I'm all in," says Cheech pushing his stack into the pot. He was first to act so the pot was $21.50 due the blinds. The next two players called and folded respectively.

A quick check of my hole cards revealed 6S 9S. Great - a horrible hand, but I called since I was embroiled in the confrontation. I put my cards down and pushed in my stack in one fluid motion proclaiming my all-in-ness. As I look up, I notice Cheech's beady eyes drilling holes through the back of my skull.

"What? Is there a TV back there?" I inquired.

Cheech made got up and took of his visor. Yeah. He was wearing a visor. Anyway, I guess he was trying to intimidate me by dragging his very solid, but less than intimidating, 5'7" 180 pound self out of the chair.

I guess he hadn't heard the story about Toups' roommate pointing a gun at me after our poker game, in which the roommate had participated, woke up his girlfriend. Oh, how I miss college.

Cheech didn't have a gun, but did look like he could break me. However, I am not one to get out meatheaded. I attempted to defuse the situation by calling him stupid. Fortunately for both of us, the host and posse intervened by re-focusing Cheech on the fact that we were playing out the hand and that he could kill me later if he saw fit.

The two guys behind me had folded and called leaving four of us in on the pot which now totaled about $40. All four of us flipped our cards. Cheech showed pocket sevens. The other guys had some sort of face cards with shitty kicker, and I had my suited sex trick.

The flop came up. The only card I could see was a seven. The jackass hit a set on the flop. I started laughing my ass off. Cheech yelled something like, "Shit! Now I can't leave." Wrong.

The pregnant lady had gotten up off of the couch during our little ruckus and had been watching the entire ordeal.
She must have given him some sort of sign that only he could see or whistled some sort of siren song. In any case, it was clear that they were leaving.

The host tried to pay Cheech his 40 bones, but the elation of winning must have snapped him out of his stupid ass trance. He declined the cash and apologized to everyone at the table - including me.

He felt like an idiot. He probably felt like a bigger idiot since now he was leaving $40 on the table instead of $20.
But at least his pregnant wife wasn't about to killing him or send him out for ice cream in the middle of the night.

Here's to you, Cheech. It was a rough night for all of his. I just hope you bring your weakass game to a poker table near me soon. Daddy needs some new shrubs at the crib.


Please adjust the fame clock to 14:59:52

Please adjust the fame clock to 14:59:52

Blogging New Orleans used one of my photos. WOO HOO!

In fact, a bit more digging revealed that they've used a few of my photos before.

+ NOLApic: Time To Run on 2007-07-10
+ NOLApic: Dome from I-10, pre-first home game on 2007-01-13
+ NOLApic: Half the Stash for Mardi Gras on 2007-01-06
+ NOLApic: Bead Mosaic limo on 2006-11-30


It'a been worth his doin' it, if I coulda just caught 'em

A few Mondays ago I returned from a weekend trip to Chicago. The trip kicked butt, but what I found upon my return did not. My car had been keyed, very thoroughly, up and down both sides. Thanks, degenerate.

I was starting to get bored with a normal paint job. I really appreciate the pin stripes. Couldn't you have at least made them straight? I guess not since it was perfectly centered between those yellow lines on that legal parking spot. Who knew it was reserved for you? You should have written "Reserved for Asshole" in neon green on the parking stopper.

I'll defer to Pulp Fiction on this one.
They should be fuckin' killed.
No trial, no jury, straight to execution.

I just wish I caught 'em doin' it, ya know?
Oh man, I'd give anything to catch 'em doin' it.
It'a been worth his doin' it, if I coulda just caught 'em,
you know what I mean?

It's chicken shit.
You don't fuck another man's vehicle.


Recent survey shows politicians are as full of shit as ever

The Democratic candidates were really entertaining tonight on the CNN YouTube debates. It drives me up the wall that they don't directly answer the question. So much bullshit in such short time.

The BS meter was off the chart for Clinton and Obama. Minimal BS from Edwards and Gravel. Biden seemed to answer the questions most directly, which is why he likely won't get elected; not enough ass kissing.

They're all so full of it. In fact, they out bullshitted many of the consultants that I know. And, everyone knows that we're totally full of shit.

Another round of Buzzword BINGO actually sounds refreshing.


TicketMaster should burn

Single game Houston Texans tickets went on sale today. The Saints are coming to Houston on November 18th.

I have been salivating about today since the schedules were announced a few months ago. My weekly ritual on Mondays has been: 1. get plans working for the next weekend, 2. put the trash out and 3. investigate buying tickets for Saints v Texans.

Here's how my day shaped up:

9:45 AM: should I stay and buy tickets on the phone or web. Or, should I go to TicketMaster at Fiesta?
9:46 AM: Internet connectivity issues encountered. Looks like I'm heading to Fiesta.
9:47 AM: scramble to find clean clothes and my wallet.
9:50 AM: buckle belt as I'm walking out the door to my car.
9:51 AM: get pissed off again about the key marks on the side of my car.
9:52 AM: peel out heading toward Fiesta
9:53 AM: call everyone who may have potentially to be interested in going to the game to offer to buy them tickets.
9:57 AM: slide around the final corner; Fiesta is in sight just on the other side of traffic.
9:58 AM: dial up TicketMaster on the phone to hedge against a long line.
10 AM: screech to a halt, exit the vehicle, slam the door and wog to Fiesta.
10:01 AM: enter third and last position in the TicketMaster line; overhear first position lady asking for Saints tickets.
10:02 AM: enter the voice prompt menu for ordering tickets via phone.
10:03 AM: FPL says, "That's too expensive" and leaves. Number 2 assumes the position
10:04 AM: No. 2 begins asking about every section in Reliant Stadium for the Colts game
10:05 AM: nearly throw my phone across Fiesta after I get booted from the voice prompt system. At least I am still in line.
10:06 AM: call TicketMaster back.
10:07 AM: voice prompt system puts me back in another loop.
10:08 AM: I would be sleeping through his interrogation of the one ticket seller, but I am too pissed off about him and the phone. The steam would scorch my eyelids if I shut them.
10:09 AM: voice prompt system tells me that I have successfully nailed down two tickets together for the game.
10:10 AM: I am able to clearly visualize virtual tickets to the Saints game flying out of a cash drawer type dispenser. My return to reality yields the interrogator still in action.
10:15 AM: voice prompt systems informs me that my total for two tickets is $656 and asks me to enter my method of payment
10:15:01 AM: I hang up the phone and shove it into my pocket.
10:22 AM: No. 2 finally leaves after saying: "Well what do you have in this section? Nope. That's too much" and repeating.
10:23 AM: I reach the window and ask for four seats on November 18th for Saints v Texans.
10:24 AM: "We only have single seats left, and none of those are in the same row" comes the reply.
10:25 AM: I head straight for the automatic doors and am behind the wheel before the lady can finish asking me if there's something else she can help me with.
10:30 AM: arrive back at FPR anxious and stewing about the debacle that just unfolded.
10:35 AM: confirm that it is not a dream; this did just happen.
10:36 AM: check HoustonTexans.com for any sign of a pre-sale, which may have led to only single seats remaining for the general sale, as the ticket lady suggested.
10:39 AM: begin counting to 1,000 in an attempt to lower my blood pressure
10:40 - 11:56 AM: replay the scenario in my head again and again just to be sure that there was nothing I could have done differently.
11:57 AM: decide that it's time to get medieval on the backyard
12:30 PM: the backyard flowerbed has been annihilated in lieu of beating the crap out a TicketMaster executive or anyone who happened to be able to buy a pair of tickets to the game.

I didn't get any tickets, but I got some chores done. "So, I've got that going for me..."


Adios, Los Pedros!

What happens when your default setting is no longer an option? I do not know. I am about to learn.

Los Pedros migrated their family unit to Dallas on Saturday. I have not been home since.

OK. That reads more dramatically than it should. I haven't been home because of work not because I hate my house or the hood.

That's not to say that the neighborhood hasn't lost a lot of luster since you know who did you know what. But, I am not planning to move anywhere in the near future. Part of the rationale for buying a house was to not move for a few years. Of course, those plans could change should I meet a candidate for the missus. Whole lotta candidates up here in Toronto. The EJBA has been howling constantly.

I still can't believe they won't live next door to me when I get back to town. Their stuff will be neatly staged around the house awaiting a buyer to choose their crib like a teenager choosing a puppy at the pound. My mental image conjures up memories of the life sized Tomorrow Land dioramas at DisneyWorld.

Let me explain what I mean by default lest you get the wrong idea. Default does not mean that hanging out with Los Pedros was a fall back plan only to be exercised in the event that all other options were duds or involved microfiber Midtown duds. Default, in this context, meant that spending time next door was my first choice. Don't believe me? Ask The Bolivian.

Our exchanges about going out used to go like this:
"Yo, JB, we're going to [fill in the blank with a cheesy "Midtown" bar]. You in?"

The "nope" was usually because eating dinner, drinking White Russians and playing with KP are laid back no fuss options that I really enjoyed even if I did get my ass kicked at Monopoly last week. Thanks for increasing my therapy bill, LP.

Now the exchanges will probably go something like this:
"Yo, JB, we're going to [fill in the blank with a cheesy "Midtown" bar]. You in?"

"I guess so," sighed an exasperated JB into the phone as he realized that he would have to endure crowds of posing $30,000 millionaires.
Yo, Pedros, is it too late to reconsider your move to Dallas? I'll mow your grass for six months!


Just paid for my great great grandchild's baby rattle

Sorry. What I meant to say was that I just pre-ordered the Harry Potter box set. All seven novels in hardback in some fancy box. Of course I don't plan on opening it when it comes so that it'll be worth tens of dollars 80 years from now. It'll just collect dust on the shelf next to my comic book collection which is slated to pay for the future mini-me's first trip to El Rey.

I feel like the Andy in 40 Year Old Virgin, but I'm not either. Excuse me while I go box up my Aquaman action figure and wait for Catherine Keener to come home.

Top Ten Things You Need to Know Right Now

10. I'm not paying attention in training class right now.
9. This will bite me in the ass on my next project.
8. My ass is still purple from getting beat down by the Bulls.
7. Preliminary word on the skreet is that a Pamplona paper will be
running a story on San Fermin Nueva Orleans.
6. YouTube is a blessing and a curse.
5. My NOLA weekend lag is worse than my Toronto jet lag.
4. You will experience turbulence if you sit behind me on the airplane
with your three singing toddlers and let them kick the back of my
3. I will push you down if you walk out of a door and stop two feet
outside of the threshhold.
2. Toronto chicks are hot.
1. My desire to take pictures that I can blow up to wallpaper size and
my desire to be a cheap bastard are tearing me apart right now.


150+ Evade Bulls in The French Quarter

A wisp of an idea on Mardi Gras day was realized on Saturday. San Fermin en Nueva Orleans sprang to life in the French Quarter at the crack of dawn as 150+ participants huffed and puffed their way along a half-mile route between bars.

The story goes something like this. The Mic ran into acquaintance on Mardi Gras who'd dressed up like a bull runner. The two had a chat during which The Mic commented that San Fermin should be recreated in NOLA. Mix in a hot bride, a TDO, a Kurt & a Tracey and it was a done deal.

Plans were made. People were contacted. Outfits were designed. Locations were secured.

Runners, or participants as they are more accurately called as few resembled runners, started to gather at The Three Legged Dog on Conti at 7 AM on July 7, 2007. The Mic, Bef & I got there just after 6 AM so that they could iron out last minute logistics there and at the end point, Sidebar. Anxiety began to set in after only a few folks had trickled in by 7 AM and most were folks we knew. We were all going to feel pretty silly if only a dozen folks were being chased by a dozen "bulls" portrayed by Big Easy Roller Girls.

Then it happened; a non-familiar face dressed from head to toe in white accented with red sashes pushed open the saloon doors - then another and another. The trickle of participants turned into a deluge. The three bartenders were having difficulty keeping up with the throng of Sangria-craving customers inside. Los Pastores were having trouble containing the crowd outside.

A second batch of sangria was mixed on the fly as the first five gallons waned. The second five gallons were nearly depleted as the 8 AM start time grew closer. The barker yelped instructions through a megaphone inside the Dog before delivering an invocation to the kneeling participants outside the bar.

And then they were off.

Ten minutes later most participants had reached the finish and were ordering their next sangrias. The party rolled on into the afternoon, but what happens in New Orleans stays in New Orleans. You'll just have to make the next one.