Foreshadowing and Truckin'

Date: Thu, Oct 9, 2008

One can never predict what the future holds, but I'm girding for big fun this weekend. It will feature: a) My favorite city (all-time) b) My favorite band (current) in a GA format at House of Blues c) My favorite mexican restaurant (all-time) d) My favorite traveling companion (current) e) A pimp hotel within two blocks of my favorite mexican restaurant, the venue and smack dab in the middle of

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Vanish

Date: Wed, Oct 8, 2008

She came out, sat across from him in the shadows, crimson glow in her cheeks from the wine, a burning color, same as that which had gone out of her eyes, even in the firelight. Insomnia, she said, which set off alarms in his gut. He's heard this before. Lies to cover lies, grabbing for a branch hanging over the swirling rapids, any one will do. He held his breath and waited. She picked at the

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Processing

Date: Thu, Oct 2, 2008

"I think fiction writers tend to be mullers and grudge-holders and slow-burners and people who go over the same incident over and over again wondering what went wrong."
--Michael Chabon

I'm currently reading Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union and to call it brilliant is not near enough. I've mentioned this before about Chabon: Not only is he a joy to read, he also makes me want to write. I can offer no higher praise. And so it has been again.

He said the above in a 2007 interview, which I read yesterday. I do these kinds of things. I get involved in a book and somewhere in the middle go back and read the reviews.

What he says is absolutely true, of course. Regardless of whether I consider myself a real "writer," this is the process I go through, artistically. You need to know why your characters do what they do, right? So you dig in, dirt under the fingernails, and come at the situation from every angle until it makes sense. Or doesn't.

The problem in this is that I write from personal experience. So these events I describe have some basis, to varying degree, in my real life and while trying to gauge the whys and wherefores, I have to be careful not to pull my day-to-day down into that morass of relentless examination. Must make sure the creative time does not bleed into other areas, that when the writing's done, it's done, and not a looming cloud that blackens my mood. Because, let's face it, I don't write fun stuff. I'm more interested in the shadowy corners than I am in high noon.

And you can't live a healthy life in those corners.

"I don't have that ability, or the desire, to look around me and say, 'Here's how we live now.' I don't know how we live now--and I won't know until we don't live that way anymore."
--Chabon

Therein lies the problem. The present is too crowded. Too close, like pressing your face to another's; they become distorted in that nearness. Circumstances and the emotion of the moment obscure the long view, the big picture. That claustrophobia lends itself to thrashing about indiscriminately, without forethought or finishing purpose. Feeling trapped, so you can't get to the places you want to go.

I look back at what I wrote when X left and a lot of it is wrong. Abject, but wrong. The process, however, of getting all that shit out of my head and heart, was ultimately successful, not just in listing where change was needed and where focus must be trained, but in the stuff that didn't matter a whit out in the harsh light and seeing it for what it was. I was able to leave those superfluous issues to wither there.

The fact remains, it wasn't the spending of all that emotion that saved me. It was logically piecing together the whole sorry affair. Not WHY it happened, but WHAT happened. Once the puzzle was complete, once it made sense to my literal brain, I was free.

And now that I "don't live there anymore," I know what it was, see it with the surety of a detective.

Since, I've been trying, in fits and starts, to discover what my own motivation is for the rest of this life. What it is that I need.

"A mistake has been made; he is not where he belongs. Every so often, he feels his heart catch, like a kite on a telephone wire, on something that seems to promise him a place in the world or a means of getting there. An American car manufactured in his far-off boyhood, say, or a motorcycle that once belonged to the future King of England, or the face of a woman worthier than himself of being loved."
--"The Yiddish Policeman's Union

I've known all along, of course. Resisted my obvious purpose. Fear, stubbornness and weakness being the attending culprits. No surprise one is unhealthy with that trio ruling the roost.

It's not the places I've long wanted to go. That's not the focus. Rather, purpose depends on the shape I'm in when I get there.

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Better Than Most Mondays

Date: Mon, Sep 22, 2008

Me. You (well...not you...reading this...someone, but that someone isn't you). Tonight. The magical Greek Theatre. Jack White. The Raconteurs.

Awesome.

Here's something for you (yes...you) since you (yes...you) are not going and I am.



*

I hope everybody saw the Kings of Leon on Saturday Night Live. That...ladies and gentlemen...is the present and future of rock and roll.

*

Is there anything funnier than faggy Euro golfers complaining about "behavior" after getting their asses thumped?

No, there is not. Ian Poulter? You sir, may choke on a dick.

I've been to Europe. One time, I was served fish and chips with bones in it. Did I whine like a faggy Euro golfer?

No, I did not. I chewed the bones and thanked them for allowing me to have my insides splintered.

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More Giddyup

Date: Sun, Sep 21, 2008

Third Final Table since my Mookie win. Short all the way in this Donk Fest, but doubled up just in time, nearly every time. I started playing Turbos to work on my aggressiveness and I'm gonna have to say it worked. $1100 more for the ol' bankroll, which is coming to resemble something I can play with.

Go me.

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Riding on the Metro

Date: Fri, Sep 19, 2008

First, thanks to all who called or e-mailed (or Twittered) after me this week to make sure I was okay after the tragic Metrolink accident. If was a different train/line from the one I take (San Bernardino line, for future reference). There was another one today. Obviously, I skirted that one, as well.

The trains have been pretty empty this week, especially in the cars near the front. That's where I sit. Have always sat. You'll recall my obsessiveness with finding the right seat, so I'm not about to give it up in a knee-jerk "safety" response. You know what happens when people do that: you have to remove your shoes at the airport.

*

What else is going on in the world? Anything? I heard some stuff about the economy. But I'm sure our vying Presidential candidates are on the case. I mean, they've got a plan, right? It being election season and all. No?

McCain is citing Reagan and FDR, alternating views depending on whether he got his afternoon nap or not. And Obama's all like Si se puede!, which is appropriate, I suppose, since the dollar will soon have the worth of the peso.

My response is to take a position in craps futures. Anyone with me? Press it, Kenneth!

*

Enjoying the football season so far. Spent Week 1 prone on my couch, losing my wagers, but doubling up at Fantasy Sports Live. Week 2 was interrupted by my soccer game, the last for a while thanks to me shredding my quad early in the second half, and I returned home to see my FSL teams hoplessly in the basement and that my 4-game teaster parlay came through. Could have been an even better day if not for Ed Hochuli, as I had a chunk on the Chargers +1. Pushed, but...well...you know. And I'm still alive in Miami Don's suicide pool.

Week 3 will be couch-y. Also, beer-y.

*

In the world of Proper Football, Liverpool beat ManU and Marseille. The Scorpions, AJ's AYSO team, behind one kid who's really good and the strategic brilliance of yours truly, won it's Opening Day match, 4-1. If you like laughing at me as much as I do myself, there's a full report over at Offsprung.

*

Pleasantly surprised by the new Metallica album. The magnificent douchebaggery of Lars aside, I'll always support them (St. Anger excluded) since they were the soundtrack to my youth. Some powerful cuts this time, with Cyanide my current favorite. Riff-tastic. Participated in an online listening party of the new Kings of Leon release and was underwhelmed. Partially 'cause I was distracted. The sound was a bit muddy, too. I'll buy it when it comes out Tuesday. Duh. But don't expect any boners. And I've already got my tickets for their LA show next month.

On Monday, I'll be digging the Raconteurs at the Greek Threatre here in LA. I Stub Hub'd some primo seats. 13th row, front and center. Their tour has gotten rave reviews and I'm really looking forward to it, though I hope I don't have to stand on my shredded quad the entire time.

*

Didn't play The Mookie this week due to prior commitments. Not sure I'll be able to play next week, either, but I'll sign up nonetheless to boost the prize pool. Waffles needs at least 78 players to have a chance to win his prop bet and what's better than dangling a carrot in front of that particular horse's nose, only to pull it cruelly away?

Nothing I say.

And what if he wins? An upset on par with the Miracle on Ice and you can tell your grandkids about it.

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Shrine

Date: Wed, Sep 17, 2008

The sky is white like a straightjacket
and blank, I can see that much behind the blindfold,
sense the heat and glare rising like a fevered assault
of blistering desert words. Stinging sand
raises welts like red ribbons, jeering
the symmetry of weeping dunes, their sway of
arterial waves and I'm alone,
an indignant curator, the steward of stained history
whose artifacts testify in silence,
as even now the crashing whitewater corrodes
like defacing bile and smeared paint.
the air sings with whirring pebbles,
stones cast at mirages and I fall
toward the setting sun, arms wrapped,
pressure on the beating wound. Red raindrops sprinkle
as they watch, arms at their sides
and mute, like my strangled voice, but we know,
our eyes scream, the rain will cease.
Like it did before.

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Running Loaded

Date: Thu, Sep 11, 2008

In the last week, more or less, I've won The Mookie, finished 4th in The Mookie, finished 30th in the $10 Re-buy on FT, a finish that I appreciated, but for the fact I got anally probed late by two short stacks (aka Bracelet-ed) and 7th in the $28K tonight (no screen shot 'cause I sucked at the Final Table).

I also donked out of the 50/50 and another $28K in the interest of full disclosure.

But...

I run g00t. And I have a grand more bankroll than I did a week ago. Come and get it!

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Keep on Truckin'

Date: Tue, Sep 9, 2008

New issue! Me loves new issues of Truckin'. Go support Pauly and the rest of the talented, hard-working scribes listed below.

Or I will fight you.

September 2008, Vol. 7, Issue 9

Welcome back to another issue of Truckin'. We have a six-pack of stories this month.

1. Feline Existentialism by Paul McGuire
You're only one step away from nothingness. Your mere existence is utterly meaningless. What has more value? The zit on the ass cheek of Bono, or a religious missionary that has been burned alive by tribal elders? ... More

2. A Different God by Nick Cantwell
The slow walk along the dusty path was always a time for reflection. Reflection on his life, his family and his standing. But as ever, his thoughts turned to his loss. His daughter had only been nine when the disease had taken her. And since that day, he had walked the same path three or four times a day. Asking questions. And hoping to receive answers... More

3. One Night Out Part III: 120 Minutes in Sodom by Sigge S. Amdal
A show came on and six little dancers brushed past us from the dressing room. Barely legal naked nymphs with eyes too predatory for my liking. Reptile folk with nice legs, ripe breasts and hands long into your pockets. The moment our over-priced beer arrived, in slender glasses akin to lab equipment, my phone rang... More

4. Fatty McLiarson by Bob Respert
Emily and I had been talking for quite some time over an instant messenger on the computer. Her in ski-country and me in the suck-belt. Ugh, the Midwest. What a fucking dump. Nice job basing almost your entire future existence on the American factory worker and his union. Well played, Midwest. I can see the abandoned factories now... More

5. Journey of 35,000 Miles Began with One Bong Hit by Rob Hogan
I was surrounded by a room full of strangers who shared in my pathetic tales of a failed marriage, while enthralling me with their own stories of bad relationships and piss poor decisions. It was an instant camaraderie that connected us on the most basic of human levels. For once in my sad excuse for a life, I felt like I belonged... More

6. The Long by Dan England
The ridge looked like the back of a stegosaurus. It was long and thin, yet it also had many long, technical towers about three times our size that we would have to climb over. And once we got on the ridge, there was no getting off. No wonder many climbers considered it the toughest ridge in all of Colorado... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Thanks again to everyone for wasting your precious time with Truckin'. This issue marks the debut of two new writers, Dan England and Rob Logan. And, several of your favorite writers are back such as Sigge from Norway, Nick Cantwell from the UK, and Bob Respert from... ummm, I have no idea what planet Bobby is from. I also penned something about existentialism that did not involve a stripper.

It takes only a few seconds to tell your friends about your favorite Truckin' stories. The writers definitely appreciate your support.

Also, if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list, well, please shoot me an e-mail.

Before I go... I can never thank the writers enough for writing for free and exposing their guts, blood, and soul to the universe. Their art and dedication inspires me and I hope it inspires you too.

Be good,
McG

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Proper Football, Fantasy Football, Fantasy Politics

Date: Mon, Sep 8, 2008

The mercury was at 102 for kickoff of my soccer semifinal yesterday. A little warm. Did I mention we play on Field Turf, which is awesome, but also given its cushion by small rubber pellets (think ground-up tires) which are black and just below the surface. My boots and socks are also black. Black absorbs heat. It's a little like playing Proper Football on a hot plate. First thing I do when coming off for a sub is take my shoes off and souse my feet in water. Cue cartoon steam coming off them.

We won handily, despite giving up a goal in the third minute. We scored the next seven, at which point the refs called the game with about about 20 minutes left, presumably because it was a blowout and fucking hot, but also, possibly, so they could go back to their spot in the shed, the same place they went during a 15-minute halftime, where I've got $100 says they had multiple beers.

My team is populated by late-30 and 40-somethings but we play in an all ages league. It's possible we're in denial about aging. Yet, here we are in the Final next week. Experience rocks. Generally, the teams we play are young and fast, but we end up running them ragged because of superior ball movement. Remember kids, the ball moves faster than you can ever run. I suppose it also helps that one of our central midfielders is Cle Kooiman, who played professionally in Mexico (Cruz Azul, where he was the first American to ever captain a Mexican first division team) and MLS, and was also on the US national team in the '94 World Cup.

He was not the only "professional" on the field yesterday, however. Though our opponents (mostly) wore classic Arsenal jerseys, one of their strikers turned out in full ManU regalia, complete with number and name of Ronaldo on the back. But that's not all! He wore Ronaldo shoes and styled his socks in the same way. He had Cristiano's haircut and aped his pigeon-toed, prancing gait. His teammates called him "Cristiano" and every time he got the ball, he went right to stepovers. Except he sucked. And was dispossessed routinely. In his defense, he never threw himself to the field turf or screwed his face into that massively aggrieved cry-baby face like his hero.

Aside from the heat, the only drawback of the game was having to leave the comfort of my plush bachelor couch, remote control and NFL Sunday Ticket on the big screen. I was sweating my wagers on the day (some of which missed as poorly as the Lions tackle). I still ended up for the day, thanks to a pair of money finishes at Fantasy Sports Live, the only contest where I was an also-ran being, naturally, a Joe Speaker Special, so named because of the lower "salary" cap in honor of my legendary frugality. Star of the day for me was Willie Parker. Bust was Braylon Edwards (and Derek Anderson, for that matter). Nothing good is ever Brown. I also cruised into Week 2 of Miami Don's suicide pool with an astute selection of the Eagles, a victory I could chalk up by the end of the first quarter. We lost quite a few Chargers, Colts and Lions(?) fans in Week 1. What's worse, betting on the Lions or the Browns?

I suppose I should count the Niners as another team that would make a football purist ill. Six turnovers. Nice. Aside from that, they played pretty well. I TiVo'd the game and watched when I got back from soccer. It takes no time at all to watch a football game when you can fast-forward the commercials, halftime and replay challenges. JT O'Sullivan wasn't half bad. Maybe we can trade him to the Pats.

Poor Timmy Brady. Poor Tommy from Quinzee.

Biggest asshole of the sporting weekend? That ref in the Washington-BYU game. Dick. Best ref of the weekend? The guy doing ASU-Stanford who proclaimed, "If there are more instances of blowing whistles from the stands, there will be consequences." Consequences? Like black helicopters and water boarding (which is not torture, by the way. You know, if GWB were in charge of the Viet Cong, what those fuckers did to John McCain wouldn't be "torture.")

Oh...alright...I know you've been clamoring for my political take. Here it is. Change? That's a joke right? There's not going to be any change. Any real change. Special interests will still rule Washington. The tax burden will continue its decades-long shift to the working class and away from the ownership class. Our income taxes are not the problem. It's the lack of taxes we take from corporations that fuck us. And don't give me any supply side bullshit. I was weaned on that philosophy and it only works if corporations reinvest in employees and capital improvement. Alas, they rathole with record profits while laying off workers and cutting benefits and, at the same time, play games with their accounting numbers to avoid taxes. The only Trickling Down is CEOs pissing on my leg and telling me it's raining.

The politics of campaigning bear no resemblance to the process of governing. Everything you hear is a lie, from little to massive. The government is crooked. The only way we can achieve real change is to go back to a representative democracy. Which won't happen. Citizen apathy and the lawmakers and insiders always protecting the status quo. Sure, Obama is an inspiring public speaker. Fantastic. I know guys who give real good wedding toasts. I don't expect them to improve my quality of life. McCain's sloppy job of VP vetting doesn't exactly bode well for his future decision-making. I'm waiting for the old man to fall asleep in his soup.

Cynicism? Or realism? Call it what you want. The government is bad at its job. If it was a private corporation, it'd have gone under long ago. Sure, everyone will go ahead and vote their ideology and argue about who's better, but that ain't gonna pay the bills. You will have to, though. Just wait 'til you get your Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac remittance letter.

*

Happy Monday! Get yer asses over to FSL for some Monday Night Goodness. The site should be especially attractive to those of you who used your first Fantasy Pick on Tawmee Brady. The season's NOT over. It's just beginning. Wagering on football is, at least, still The American Way.

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Ma-ma-ma-ma-Mookie, Musings and Fantasy Sports Live

Date: Fri, Sep 5, 2008

I had no intention of playing The Mookie the other night, much as I've not had any intention of playing poker at all these last few months, aside from a trip or two to the local Indian casino. As I was driving home from the train station, I was mentally lining up my tasks for the evening and one of them was that I had to transfer Pauly some cash. And then it hit me: It's Wednesday! I've got nothing going on! If I'm to take the time and trouble to actually log on to Full Tilt, I might as well play The Mookie!

I'm pretty sure that's how Moneymaker got started.

Anyways, there was an early reminder of one of the reasons I've put online poker and blonkaments in my rearview, a snide comment on the way I'd played a hand (which I won) from one of the many experts that populate the field and who have never taken a wrong step on the felt. I indulged in what I thought was a clever and benign retort and left it at that.

I know this. I never got all my money in wrong. I made one or two small-ish mistakes, but had the good sense not to compound them. I felt like I knew what I was doing, which is a far cry from the way I'd played before taking a break. I was aggressive with the re-raises. I didn't shy on the bubble. I didn't allow myself to get run over by bigger stacks. Maybe I forgot how shitty I was.

My withdrawl from both poker and blogging has been nice. For a while there, my days revolved around both. The realization that I was a) never going to have the time, interest or the natural ability to pursue poker as anything more than a recreational thing and b) spending too much brainpower on blogging, brainpower that I could use more wisely in the writing arena (and what I do have to spare, I try to use at Offsprung, though my output there has faltered, as well). The unintended consequence of both those was more free time to reconnect. There's the exercise, which is good. Playing soccer on Sunday, also good. I'm coaching AJ's U8 AYSO team and loving nearly every second of it (except when they space out on me and when they do, it's like a team-wide thing, not individual, the very essence of herding cats). Heck, there's even the possibility of dating.

And I have been writing. I entered a story in a contest last month. I don't have high aspirations for it, simply considering the publication and their preferred style, but I like the way my story came out, especially since I started it almost a year ago and it's gone through several incarnations. I've tried to make writing a ritualistic thing. Again, like poker, I'll always see writing as an interest, rather than a vocation, and, ultimately, I think blogging is a help to that, if one is possessed of the requisite amount of discipline. So, that's what I'm trying to achieve and then I can hopefully come back here more frequently.

*

Okay, good. Congratulations to me. I suck less now that I did 8 months ago. Very proud of ya.

Now onto important things. I am so totally ready for the National Fucking Football League. Last year was the first time in my life (I'm serious) that I had free Sundays. No all-day church, no weekend shifts, no soccer games. I immensely enjoyed my NFL Sunday Ticket and my sportsbook.com account and my fantasy teams and...of course..



That's right...Fantasy Sports Live is back with a wide range of daily options, including the Blogger Battle (money added!) and Sundays With Dr. Pauly (prizes galore). I got killed last year in these games (so look for me), but had a blast nonetheless. Bonus code: Speaker if you're not already signed up and if you are, tell your friends. Tell everyone in your fantasy league that they don't have to wait the entire year for the thrill of victory or a cash payout. It's just a few clicks, people, half as many as you'd go through for new porn.





So, do me this one favor: Sign up! Play! Win! And maybe I'll be around more in order to show my appreciation for you. Or less, if you prefer. Your call.

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Giddyup

Date: Thu, Sep 4, 2008

I couldn't have done it without my professional railbird. Ask her.



Grace, appreciation and thanks, as always, to Mook for hosting.

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For Those of You...

Date: Mon, Sep 1, 2008

...who don't follow me on Twitter and missed my almost completely live-blogging of the Pepsi 500 NASCAR race which I attended today with AJ, my brother, his girlfriend and her son, I present to you the almost complete transcript of my impressions (with postscript editorial notes).

First impression: White and trashy. 3 hours to the flag

Bloody mary count: 2 (I was out very late drinking on Saturday night.)

Chris Cornell playing in the concourse. Spooman. Hunger Strike. Doesn't Remind Me. (We were sitting in the grandstand eating and drinking when a live band obviously started up behind us. AJ says, "That sounds like Chris Cornell" and they were very obviously playing "Spoonman," but I figured "nah," and then the announcement came over the loudspeaker that it was indeed Cornell, so we scurried back out into the Fun Zone and holyfuckingshit they sounded great, "Hunger Strike" in particular. Took things to a whole new level).



Heavy on the Audioslave. Like a Stone. Be Yourself. (Chris Cornell is a handsome man.)

Burden in My Hand. Weeeeeee! (Amazing. My 2nd favorite Soundgarden song and they blew the emeffer out)

Outshined, obligatory Blk Hole Sun and Rusty Cage. NASCAR is awesome. (End of set list)

Bloody Mary count: 4. Its beer time. 15 minutes to racing. NASCAR a solid 8 so far.

They pray before NASCAR races. Amen. Bo Bice with the anthem.

Caution after 3 laps. Ghey. My money is on Kenseth @ 15-1. (I laid $10 on him at sportsbook.com.)

Drunk. And wearing earplugs.



I'm shirtless. Totally redneckin'. Next I knock out a front tooth.

Kenseth up to 17th from 37th starting pos. Good value play but Jimmie Johnson is dominating the proceedings.



AJ has to pee. 75 people in line. Potential emergency.

Emergency averted. Other Dad, ushering son into stall, "Dont touch the seat."

Kenseth up to 5th. Im good @ NASCAR.



Sun going down. Nice breeze. Still drunk and shirtless.

107 laps to go. Kenseth 9th. AJ asleep.

Kenseth back to 11th. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? (I'm hooked on "Generation Kill" And I'm Oscar Mike)

(And here is where it all went wrong.)

Home. Why no tweets in 3 hours? Lost my cell phone. Idiotic but true.

(Sigh)

(Kenseth finished 5th, but was never a threat to the winner. I continued drinking. Now, I want nachos.)

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If I Posted Conversations With Random People Omitting the Other Half in the Inimitable Style of April

Date: Fri, Aug 22, 2008

Hi.

What's new?

Not much. Same ol', same ol'.

No, I haven't.

I can't.

I just finished something I started nearly a year ago and entered it in a competition.

Yes, I still hate people. And am starting to be suspicious of capitalism.

176 pounds. Lean and mean. Biceps like tomahawks.

The camera adds ten inches.

Dutch field hockey players are my new screen saver.

No, the women's team.

I'm going to a NASCAR race next week.

Of course I'm going to bet on it.

Is it fucking December yet?

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