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Monday, June 29, 2009

Procrastination is keeping me waiting

I'm a big procrastinator.

The good thing is that a lot of my life at home is the complete opposite at work. At work, I'm pretty organized, efficient, and get stuff done.

At home, all I want to do is play online poker, eat, and sleep. For me, "online poker" is one of my primary levels under Maslow's hierarchy of physiological needs.

Like being a functional gambling addict, I'm a functional procrastinator.

Now I have to clean the apartment because it's being shown tomorrow, which is why I'm delaying by writing this. (I'm busted again from Full Tilt, but I've made Iron Man for the month so Maslow can suck it.)

I have less than a month to find a place. I want something in walking distance or at least a short bus ride to work, and I want a nice kitchen and a nice bathroom, so I can maybe invite people over for a nice dinner and a nice shit.

That would also require furniture, which I still haven't purchased after 3 years because I still feel like I could get fired at any moment, and I need to be able to pick up and move easily. I've always marveled at hobos or The Incredible Hulk, who could fit all their belongings into that little bindle as they traversed the railroad tracks to a sad piano tune. The Hulk had even less belongings, as he always busted through his clothes anytime anyone made him angry. A couple Anger Management classes would've saved a bundle on his clothing budget.

A new apartment near work goes for roughly double what I'm paying now for my squat studio -- and the neighborhood would be considerably worse than my current one. Go figure on that one. Why can't I stay another year and put the extra money to a monthly car payment (plus furniture, even), and still have enough left over to blow on gambling?

Beats me. Could've asked that last year as well. Procrastination again. I like not having to worry about a car, particularly when dealing with the brutal 16 months of winter every year. My car was totaled by a snowplow on the first midwest snowfall I experienced (I later blew the insurance money playing online blackjack), so I wasn't subjected to the horrors of winter driving that I left behind in D.C. when moving to Vegas.

Car problems aren't what I'm eagerly looking forward to, either. But can I deal with trudging through the snow to wait for a late bus, getting fatter by not eating healthy (my kitchen consists of an untouched oven/stove and a refrigerator storing Ben & Jerry's), and squashing dozens of ants every day for exercise?

We'll see. The physical act of moving my ass at all surely takes the top spot on the procrastination list.

Monday, June 08, 2009

How not to flirt

It was a beautiful summer night in Chicago, made even better by just being Friday in general to kick off the weekend, and I joined some friends for martinis and shots at my local bar.

This is one of two local bars that has Coffee Patron, which the bartender keeps handy because it's her favorite tequila. I like this bar because they have a $3 burger with fries on Mondays, $5 martinis on Fridays, and all the waitstaff drink throughout their shift.

And not just any drinks but Jameson.

Our server Lacie said when she interviewed, they asked what her favorite drink was. She was hired on the spot after she said Jameson, and shots were poured to celebrate.

Lacie doesn't have the hardcore redneck vibe going for her that the other servers do, but she seemed sweet and friendly.

I brought up my standard prop betting on the server -- pets, birthplace, tattoos, etc.

The rules: we each make a bet and collect the pot if we're correct. If none of us are right, the server gets the whole thing.

"What kind of car does she drive?" I asked the group. I took out a $5. They said "no car" but didn't look willing to play. I reduced my $5 to a $1, but it wasn't enough coaxing.

The girl in my group said that it was somewhat degrading and not at all flirting by wagering on the waitress.

Even though I've moved from Las Vegas, it hasn't moved from me. But I have to remember that not everyone is in a gambling state of mind.

My friend also said she thought Lacie liked me because of the mutual flirting she picked up, and I shouldn't spoil it.

We were one Zombie, two martinis, and two Coffee Patrons into the night, and I asked Lacie what the girliest shot on the menu was.

The fallback was going to be a Chocolate Cake with the backup of an Oatmeal Cookie.

Lacie instantly said both with no hint of derision, particularly since she was a Jameson woman.

We went with the Chocolate Cake (Frangelico, vanilla vodka, sugar around the rim, and a lemon), and as always, it was delicious.

I tried to get the group to go for a Jameson so I could buy Lacie one too, but it was too soon and we had to let the liquid settle.

When Lacie returned, as a conversation starter, I asked her if she knew the song "One Night in Bangkok."

We had been talking about David Carradine's death in Bangkok, and the song kept whirling around my head. Particularly the song's lyric: "One night in Bangkok, and the world's your oyster."

"And the world's your oyster?"

My friends said that couldn't be right. I began doubting it too -- that's a pretty ridiculous lyric, even for ABBA. Chess is one of my favorite musicals, I've seen it three times and wore out the two albums I had, but I never cared for that song. And even so, could I be humming the wrong lyric the entire time?

My iPhone wasn't getting reception, so I put the test to Lacie, who knew the song, but didn't recognize the lyric.

She said she got lyrics wrong all the time, which I do too when I can remember them.

"Sometimes," I said, "you're singing along with the lyrics and you don't even know what they mean."

Lacie nodded excitedly and agreed.

"Like that Kenny Rogers song," I said. "You know the one about the guy who was called a coward and told to always run away from bad situations or else end up like his father in jail?"

I was met with a blank stare, including my friends who didn't know the song.

And I knew where this was heading as my foot moved to my mouth.

"So you're singing along to this nice little country song," I said, "and then you realize that the guy's girlfriend was gang raped."

Lacie literally took a step back from the table.

On poker sites, you can self-exclude yourself to prevent donking off your bankroll. You can self-exclude yourself from casinos too, which then even makes you guilty of trespassing.

I need to self-exclude myself from my rapidly degenerating conversations.

"I mean, gang rape!" I emphasized in a joking way, not helping matters by repeating it loudly.

I tried to recover the moment, saying how it was nice Kenny Rogers and that the guy in the song finally stood up, and...

Lacie walked away.

My friends stared at me incredulously as I said what happened? We were having fun.

"I don't know, could it possibly have been because you kept mentioning gang rape?"

Lacie later appeared one more time with the check, and didn't say anything more to us.

Afterwards, I returned home, put on "Coward of the County" that was missing the gang rape lyrics and wondered if I imagined the whole thing (I didn't -- check the other YouTube videos).

I then launched Full Tilt with no self-exclusion and entered a few sit-n-gos before passing out during the first orbit (while asleep, I placed 4th in both -- always the bubble).