The end of the month is always a big deal at my office (note to agile nerds: it's the end of our monthly iteration), and I usually don't want to Goulash by the time I get home. Today is no exception, btu I'll give it a whirl anyway.
A brief scene about Major League Baseball. This scene takes place on Tuesday, August 29, 2006.
Jason Schmidt: Hello?
Jered Weaver: Schmidty!
Schmidt: Tis I, Schmidty.
Weaver: Yo, it's Weaver.
Schmidt: The good Weaver or the crappy one?
Weaver: The good one. I was calling because I heard you were on Cody Powell's fantasy baseball team.
Schmidt: Well, I'm a star baseball player, so I'm probably on a million teams. Luckily for you, I memorize each one so I can say with authority that yes, I am on Cody Powell's fantasy baseball team.
Weaver: Me too. Listen, I'm supposed to start tonight. You're supposed to start tonight. What do you say we stick it to Powell by getting really boozed up before the game? Then we'll give up like 10 runs each and complain about our arms being tired.
Schmidt: Why would we do this?
Weaver: Lots of reasons. He has a dumb team name. His trade requests are laughable. He has an irrational love for Nick Punto.
Schmidt: He did forget to play me for like 6 starts in a row.
Weaver: What do you say, Schmidty?
Schmidt: Let's do it. Let's screw this bastard. I've got 24 Bartles and James Pina Colada wine coolers in my trunk, just calling my name. If that doesn't do it, I'll tell Barry Bonds to headbutt me.
Weaver: Oh, hang on, it's call waiting. *beeps over to the other call* Hello?
Ryan Dempster: Hello, fellow baseball player, it's Ryan Dempster!
Weaver: Dempster! You're on Cody Powell's fantasy team too, right?
Dempster: *giggles like he's in a tickle fight* He's the only guy in North America who still plays me!
Weaver: Tonight, Schmidt and I are taking him out. Are you in?
Dempster: I'm several, several steps ahead of you.
And that's all she wrote. (Don't worry, haters of baseball: my fantasy football league is about to begin.)
My dad reminded me of something that I omitted during all of my Pluto fist-shaking: my grandfather was actually born in a town called Pluto, Texas. Once I recalled that, this whole saga went from an intellectual curiosity to a point of family pride. In fact, when I was a little kid, I used to tell people that since I had a grandparent from Pluto, I was 25% extraterrestrial. And I guess I can still say that, since I said extraterrestrial, not from another planet. But just imagine if I'd used those slightly different terms! A precious memory from my youth would be smashed to bits by those fatcat astronomers. First they take my planet, then they take my childhood; leave it to scientists.
Speaking of that particular grandfather, I have another story of my youthful precocity that relates to him. I remember I was in second or third grade and we were learning about the Civil War. My teacher explained that one effect of the war was that slavery was abolished. I then raised my hand and told her that, oh it pains me to recall this, that she was incorrect because, in fact, my grandfather had a slave. My grandfather had a big ranch and the fellow who worked it for him happened to live there. Since I never saw him go anywhere, he lived in the barn, and he'd been around for as long as I could remember, I suppose I just classified him as a slave. I feel bad about it now, but how's an 8 year old supposed to know about the division of labor?
We argued about it for a bit and when I left class, I felt a little confused. "Where are they getting these teachers? It takes a 7 year old to explain the ways of the world to this lady?" I'm not really sure what happened next, although it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that she went out into the parking lot and burned her teaching diploma. It's not too often you get stupidity, alleged human rights abuse, and a surly attitude all in one class, but that's the way I like to learn.
So: my bad on that one, everybody. This changes nothing about Pluto, however.
Well, they did it. Those fatcat astronomers killed Pluto and perhaps, in the process, the universe. I hope that, during the next galactic war, we don't hang all of our hopes on Pluto being our ally; Pluto has already probably removed Earth from its cell phone directory. The next time we call, Pluto will say, "Unknown number? Probably a telemarketer."
I get into stuff like that because I really like space. When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. Then I got older and realized all of the work involved in becoming an astronaut; from then on, I aspired not necessarily to become an astronaut myself, but to read and watch movies about them, and to support astronauts if I ever saw any in my neighborhood. Have I succeeded? Beyond my wildest dreams.
I guess the reason that I like space is because it puts us in our place. Sure, it's impressive to write a great book, win an important court case, or cure some deadly disease. All of those have been done many times over, for many years. Outer space, though, is our chance to escape the antfarm. Since we've had eyes, we've looked up and wondered, "I wonder what the hell is going on out there." Now we're figuring it out and exploring it, and I find it all tremendously exciting. And then we had to ruin it all by demoting Pluto. Astronomers? More like astromurderers!
Alright then. I've seen a few movies lately that I feel qualified to recommend. Little Miss Sunshine: Powell Scale rating of a Slip n Slide party. I really enjoyed that one. eXistenZ: Powell Scale rating of a rabid squirrel bite for the dumb spelling of the title, but a rating of Slurpee machine in your car for the actual movie. The ending really surprised me.
I also had my first day of class today. Maybe I'm an old fogey, but in my collegiate days, I couldn't go to class in my underwear while watching Sportscenter. The people at the University of Illinois had no problem with this, though. Kudos to them, and kudos to the Internet for making my dream a reality.
Have I mentioned yet that I'm going back to school this fall? I'm doing it because the last time I attempted post-baccalaureate education, I had such an amazing time. You may think the phrase "giggly as a school girl" as somewhat ridiculous, but for that semester, I truly did giggle constantly because I was once again a school girl/man/person.
All of that was a blatant lie. I tried to go back to school at the University of Texas during the spring of '05, and it was a total catastrophe. I didn't know this at the time, but that place does not cater to people who happen to have jobs and also want to learn things. Well, maybe they do cater to those people, as long as they have a night-time job, such as participating in sleep studies or working as a Ghostbuster. In order to make any classes, I had to rejigger my work schedule. Then, once I had done that, I discovered that I, the man with the fulltime job and thus not entitled to any financial aid, had to register after every other group of students. Talk about bang for your buck; hello, classes I'm not particularly interested in, I'm glad I'm making so many financial and personal sacrifices for you!
The end result of me rescheduling my working hours, paying a lot of money, and making a herculean effort to balance my job and my weirdo, borderline useless classes was great unpleasantness for me and everyone around me. It wasn't pretty, and once I was done with it, I thought, "Screw THAT." Clearly that experience didn't take, as it's now a year later and I'm starting it up again.
It's my sincere hope that it won't be as bad this time. First, I'm doing it all online, so I'll be spending much less time on hobo-filled buses. I won't have to interrupt my work schedule, which is great. Also, since I'll be taking my classes online and not occupying an actual chair in the classroom, the university in question (this'n here) has had a much harder time throwing me into bizarre and terrifying classes. It's a good school, it's reasonably priced, and I attend class whenever I want; the only downside is that I won't be able to buy school spirit items at the local Walgreens. (In Austin, you can buy UT items pretty much everywhere, including Pep Boys, pinata stores, and the Army/Navy store. Very strange.)
School starts tomorrow. I have my supplies, and my brain is keyed up to learn. All that remains is for my new school to pull a fast one on me. Subsequent reports to follow!
I hate mowing the yard for multiple reasons. First, it aggravates my allergies. If you come up to me and shove a handful of grass up my nose, I'll probably sneeze at you. Second, I never get to mow in a pleasant environment. The very best case scenario for mowing the yard is that it's hot, the mower keeps flinging rocks at my legs, and I'm covered in St. Augustine. The worst case is all of the above, plus neighborhood ruffians throwing hubcaps and rotten cantaloupe at me.
Also, it's such a futile act. No matter how many times I mow or how well of a job I do, I know that I'll be out there, a couple of weeks later, mowing it again. I am Sisyphus, the lawn mower is my boulder, and the mountain is the approach of Winter. However, my mountain isn't as useful as a regular mountain, because Winter lasts approximately 45 minutes in Texas. Somewhere in the afterlife, Camus is kicking himself for being born too early to document my absurd fate.
I always thought that when I had a house of my own, I would kill all of the grass immediately. I'd place a classified ad that said I had a great, free dumping ground for toxic waste, and one or two dumptrucks later, my problem would be solved. Also, I'd probably die shortly thereafter from the radiation; I've weighed mowing vs. death several times and I'm comfortable with the choice.
Now, Laura won't let me do any of that. I talk about it a lot and she likes to bring up the fact that she pays half the rent. Well, I pay the other half, so half of the lawn should be mine to kill however I want. I can keep the vegicide to the back yard, I tell her, but I've yet to sway here.
This year, it's been awfully dry here in Austin, as any old man could tell you. As a result, all of our grass is dead. This pleases me, but not as much as I thought. I completely forgot just how brittle dead grass is; I have dainty feet so it's hard to run around bare foot. Also, without the lush cover, it's a lot harder to hide the dog manure in the back yard. I've dreamt of a dead yard for over a decade now, and while it's good (Actual Powell Scale Quotient: month's supply of Nutter Butters), it's not great (Idealized Powell Scale Quotient: army of wizards at my command). Camus would have something to say about all of this.
Brendan asked a good question on his site the other day: do you own any albums on which you never skip a track?
I can think of one genre of music that no one would volunteer as an answer: rap. Now rap is all fine and good, but it seems like rappers are obsessed with stuffing skits onto their albums. Without exception, the skits are terrible, 7th grade talent show material. I always skip them.
What I don't understand about this is that rappers don't write any music to begin with; how can they resort to these filler skits? Which part of the record creation process is sapping their creative juices? Is it the talking into the microphone part? I don't think so, because they're doing the same thing on their skits! Yes, I am getting irrationally wound up about this. Allow me to conclude on a high note: Kayne West, you're no Soupy Sales.
I wondered if perhaps some recognized classics could be the answer to Brendan's questions. I don't own many of these, as I usually only listen to Turkish house music, which is still establishing itself. I do, however, have a few classics and I don't think they fit the bill.
Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band - nope, due to "For the Benefit of Mr. Kite". You can't tell me people actually listen to that song.
Blonde on Blonde - nope, due to "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands". I realize that's heresy to some, but I have no patience for 11 minute songs.
I tried it with as many albums as I could think of, and still no luck. What I've found is that the more passion I feel for a particular album, the more likely I am to skip tracks. If I like it a lot, I skip anything that isn't excellent. If I dislike it fiercely, I skip straight to the non-crappy stuff. I am certain this says more about me than it does about the music I possess.
Do any such albums exist? What am I missing here? Crazy concept albums with one song don't apply, nor do Greatest Hits releases. I am excited to hear any possibilities. If nothing fits the bill, then I fear we may have another great paradox on our hands along the lines of "Can God create a taco so big he can't eat it?" That question will be, "Can God create an album so impressive, no one skips a track?" Based my samplings of the Christian rock stations, that answer is no.
I've probably shared this story before, but I had a long day of work and I can't come up with any of the usual brilliance. (Yes, I am truly weary when I refer to Goulash as the usual brilliance.)
Bit of trivia: Paddy was not my first roommate. Residential Life actually assigned me to someone else, another freshman who happened to be battling a few different forms of cancer. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but my mom wisely realized that after a few dozen Natural Lights one random night, I'd probably collapse on his heart monitor and go to jail for involuntary manslaughter. I got reassigned before move-in day, and thus the Lioi/Powell dynasty was born.
We lived in a dorm called Winn, which was right in the midst of the freshman quad. When we looked out the window, we saw some lawn area and then a bunch of other dorms. Well, one night, I was sitting right by that window, typing away. Was I working on an assignment, or perhaps writing a sternly-worded letter to the New York Times about the East Timor situation? Unlikely; I was probably playing Ken Griffey Jr Baseball on my Super Nintendo emulator.
There I was, computing by the window. Patrick happened to be in the shower, and he was a late showerer so this was definitely sometime in the later part of the evening. With no warning whatsoever, the window right next to me exploded and something whooshed past my face, slamming into the desk. I turned on the light to get a look at the projectile and I couldn't see anything. Did the window just explode? Is that something that windows do?
Thinking quickly, I said, "Stay in the shower, Patrick." I paused. "I don't understand what's happening out here." That was much more succint than actually explaining the scene as I saw it.
Broken glass be damned, I continued to look for the projectile. It was dark under the desk, and I resorted to crawling under it and grasping with my hands. There at the very far corner of the desk, I found it: a giant rice krispie treat that had been rounded into a ball. That sum'bitch was big, hard, and it had clearly been molded just for window breaking.
I marched across the hall to the RA's room and flung open his door. "Somebody's busting our windows with rice krispie treats," I said.
He didn't even give me a chance to explain. He ran out the door, then to our room, threw open the door to the balcony, leapt it, and ran out into the quad. Standing before him was the Krispie Chucker, just laughing and pointing at our window. Our RA grabbed him by the neck of the shirt and tackled him. It took our RA all of 12 seconds to do this; he was like a gazelle, motivated by the fury of vengeance. Halfway to the ground, the Krispie Chucker stopped laughing and instead gaped his mouth into a half frown/half sob. As he hit the ground, I heard a mournful "Owwwwrrrrfffff". It was one part "ouch", one part "I was only goofing around", and one part "I now respect the destructive power of rice krispie treats".
Unfortunately, Paddy was in the bathroom the whole time so you'll just have to believe all of this.
Pluto's not a planet? PLUTO'S NOT A FRIGGIN PLANET? What's next, these fancypants scientists say that the platypus isn't an actual species? That they messed up the gravitational constant and we all should be floating around in space right now? That alchemy does, in fact, exist, and since the scientists made all of this gold already, we're now expected to be their slaves? The whole thing stinks!
I've had the above conversation, well really just the first two lines, with a few people lately. It seems to me that everyone has a soft spot for Pluto. Why? I came up with a few reasons. First, it's tiny. Small things are cute (eg, Emmanuel Lewis from Webster). Second, it's really far away and we don't know very much about it. Distant, unknown, exotic objects are also cute (eg, Pygmies, which are also tiny). Third, and perhaps the most obvious reason, is the cartoon character, who is also cute. You combine those three, and Pluto is the most adorable thing in the universe; it's the astronomical equivalent of a monkey dressed up like a cowboy. Issue settled.
Wait, issue not actually settled. Remember the Powell Scale? Pluto's rating on the Powell Scale is -50 urinary tract infections. The preceding statement shows a recent breakthrough I had with the scale: just like in real math, when you subtract negative things, you get positives. Just thinking out loud here, but perhaps one day, the schools of the world will use the Powell Scale to teach about the number line. Not bad for a website with 2.8 regular visitors!
I was thinking about doing a whole, whiney thing about the ban regarding carrying on liquids to planes, but I'll skip it. It was a load of hippopotamus feces, both literally and in terms of the Powell Scale.
Speaking of other loads of hippo feces, I have nothing to do with the email from my email address that's advertising mail-order doctorates. Trust me here, Internet; if you want a doctorate from Goulash U, you're going to earn it the hard way. And by the hard way, I mean you'll just have to pay me a little.
We were at the beach this weekend. I'm a big beach fan. When I become rich and crazy (odds of first: 5%, odds of second: 98%), I'm going to buy a compound on the beach and spend my days kicking it by the water. That explains the rich part. While sitting there, I'll be holding a harpoon gun and screaming about Freemasons, which hopefully explains the crazy part. Also, I'll be dressed like Santa Claus. I'm still working out this whole rich and crazy idea, we'll see how it plays out.
I guess the next part is to figure out how I become both rich and crazy. Ideally, I could do both through one thing, like moonshine. If you're a big moonshine baron, you've probably sampled the goods pretty often, thus becoming at least a bit of a lunatic. That's a little depressing. wait, what if I become Mel Gibson's publicist? That's got to be lucrative and frustrating enough to accomplish both. Hey Mel, AIM me.
Now, on to some reviews. It seems like everyone has their own way of rating books/movies/music: two thumbs up, 8 out of 10, three stars, etc. Well, I'd like to come up with own way of rating these things, and I want it to really capture some mindshare. I've decided to rate items using random objects from real life that correspond to the quality of the item. Yes, you know exactly what I'm talking about with that vague, confusing statement.
Here's what I mean: if something's good, I can say it's 20 cupcakes. If it's mediocre, it's a bowl of slightly warm Malt-O-Meal. If it's unsatisfactory, it's a werewolf locked in your closet. And then I can change the rating scale around on a whim. See where I'm going here? No? Me neither. How about some examples?
I just finished a book by Margaret Atwood called the Blind Assassin. Sometimes, books grow on me; this one did the exact opposite. I'll give the beginning 3/4 of a pony ride, and the end 60 seconds of shampoo in the eyes. I've also been listening to the new Grandaddy release, which is maybe 2 boxes of Hot Tamales. (In case that one confuses you, two box of Hot Tamales are enough for the following thought progression: "Oh man, these things are good. And look how many I have; my life is truly a celebration... Yeah, just eating these Tamales. My mouth is getting a little warm now... Why did I buy so many of these damn things? I should feed these to the dog... Screw it, dogs don't appreciate candy. I'm eating these anyway... Those were surprisingly satisfying.")
Okay, I've got a little work to do on the rating thing. If anyone has any better ideas, please share.
I've got a softball game tonight and I'm not very optimistic about our chances. According to traditional metrics, we're 0-2 and we've been outscored 39-11. However, according to patent-pending Powellometrics, we've actually earned pi/2 win units, with a calibrated run quotient of 12.87 lambda 90 degrees arcsin teddy bear (yes, this has been adjusted for the use of the designated hitter). I'll have to doublecheck, but I may've missed the natural log in there. Whether I missed it or not, numbers don't lie: we're clearly a very bad team.
Our problem this season is the problem our team encountered earlier this year: the other teams in our league are very, very good. It's very reminiscent of the Little League World Series, where a team of Hondurans come in and destroy everyone. Then, a month later, it's revealed that all of the Hondurans are actually 23 years old and juiced up with bovine growth hormones. I can substantiate these claims.
Last week, we were playing the other team in last place. We thought we had a chance. These thoughts were dashed in the second inning, where they rang up 18 runs on us before we could make the third out. That's right, 18 mothereffin' runs in half an inning and this was the last place team.
One of their guys was wearing a Derek Jeter jersey. When I saw him before the game, I began preparing a few good "Jeter sucks" comments I could hurl as I ran the bases. I changed my mind after his first at-bat because I realized that guy, in all likelihood, was the real Derek Jeter. These are the kind of thoughts you instill in an opponent when you go for 15 RBIs in three innings. At the best, recruiting major league is dishonest; at the worst, IT'S TREASONOUS!
Alright, I forgot my point. Maybe it's that athletic competition is moronic, which I already took to heart as an adolescent. Maybe it's that the softball assocation should perform some sort of skills test before allowing teams into the Novice league, and if anybody cheats, they should be shot immediately. And maybe it's that Derek Jeter really does suck. All I really know is that tonight, we'll get destroyed.
Here's an obvious statement: Passion is important in life. Without passion, everyone in the world would sit on their couch all day long, watching Matlock reruns, drooling, and peeing their pants.
Here's another obvious statement: passion can be good, or it can be bad. A lot of great works require passion; I'm thinking of something like the Sistine Chapel here. At the same time, many terrible acts also demand passion, like that whole Holocaust thing.
I bring all of this up because I happen to live right next to some of the most passionate beings on this earth. Unfortunately for me, these particular organisms aren't passionate about music or painting or horticulture, but about pooping. Even more unfortunately, they're passionate about pooping on my stuff.
We have these trees that hang over our driveway, and a family of birds inhabit those trees. I would say that these birds love to crap on my car, but the word 'love' isn't nearly strong enough. An illustration might help here.
I love milkshakes. If I could have one every day, I would. If someone offered me ten milkshakes a day, I probably wouldn't go for that, however. I just need more than milkshakes in my life. I couldn't, for example, install a milkshake machine in my kitchen, cement my mouth to its spout, and then drop out of society so I could have a milkshake orgy all day, every day. That's just absurd. If I wanted to do that, no one would say I love milkshakes; they'd say that I'm a milkshake fanatic. Well, in much the same way, these birds are car poopin' fanatics.
I don't park under those trees too often, but when I do, the birds really put on a show. Let's say there are 5 birds in that nest. According to the hood of my car right now, each one had to have unloaded roughly 4 times last night. I don't know much about bird digestion, but that seems outlandish. I can only think that these birds have such an unnatural passion for this act, they lie in wait for days at a time, storing their ammo. Or maybe my neighbors are encouraging this act by feeding these birds bran and refried beans. I won't know for sure until one finally dies from exertion and I get to perform an autopsy.
How will this happen? I have a plan. The next time I pull into the driveway and I see them ready the artillery, I'm getting out a slingshot and with it, flinging my cat skyward. I've seen her look at those birds; she hates them as much as I do. I'd like to let the whole neighborhood know that feces fever will soon be over.
To anyone who's read the news about BP corrosion catastrophe, associated that with my line of work (I write software that focuses on pipeline corrosion), and concluded that was step 1 in my plan to destroy Alaska: you are mistaken. I would never attempt to destroy Alaska because, while I haven't been there, it seems like a fun place (this statement is completely derived from those Coke commercials with the polar bears). Also, Snow Dogs takes place in Alaska, and I happen to like that movie; I'd really undermine that movie's legitimacy if its one adult, male fan happened to destroy its setting. For the love of God, where would they film the sequel?! Cuba Gooding Jr, your legacy is safe in my hands.
If you're wondering why I've watched Snow Dogs, it's because, for a reason only known to Time Warner, my cable box receives Black Starz. Now I certainly wouldn't go out of my way to avoid that channel; no, it's just a little strange that the only premium channels I get are HBO, Wam! (which is some sort of kids movie channel), and Black Starz. The people at the cable company probably think I obsess over nudity, cartoons, and Danny Glover.
One might think with a lineup like that, I'd watch a lot more HBO. Sadly, I can only watch Blowback and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantaloons so many times. I probably end up watching all three channels equally, and I think it was on a Black Starz night that I ended up watching Snow Dogs. And there you have it, an exhaustive explanation for one line reference of Snow Dogs.
Do I have other news? Well, the Rangers are killing me in painfully cliche fashion. If it's accepted protocol for the team to die in the second half of the summer, why not play it up a little bit? You know, something like 'First 5 fans to enter get to switch off at DH' or 'Drunkest guy in the stands gets to pinch run'.
This is why I've given serious thought to just giving up on all sports entirely. Why waste energy rooting for a bunch of millionaire wankers to triumph over another group of millionaire wankers, who just happen to be wearing a different uniform? If I want to have an effect, I need to direct this energy towards something closer to home. I'm giving serious thought to staying home from work tomorrow, setting up a lawn chair in the driveway with a cooler of beer, and booing the garbage man. You call that working the recycle bin? I've seen better moves in a U-Haul!
Awwwwright, it's back to business here. I've been doing a lot of traveling lately and I'm happy to be done. I don't think I could ever be a matador of international renown, simply because I hate to stay in hotels. The cups in the room are too small, the quality of toilet paper is abysmal, and the TV channels are hard to remember. Also, it's much more expensive to stick to the Powell Eating Plan when I'm not at the Manor. The Powell Eating Plan is turkey sandwiches, bananas, granola bars, and bags of salad, which is maybe $9 a week when bought at the grocery store. When bought at a restaurant, it's like $20 a meal because I have to order all kinds of crazy crap a la carte. A la carte? More like a la crap! (Take that, service industry hyenas.)
Laura's redecorating the house, which is an adventure. My style of interior design, if you can call that, could be deemed Evolutionary: let's wait for stains to appear on the walls and carpet, and then see if they eventually join with other stains to make interesting shapes. It's kind of a fractal thing, and very cerebral. She's eschewed that, going for lots of fancy carpets and Purr Pads.
Yes, I said Purr Pads. Those are little fuzzy pads you put on your couch so that your pets can sit on the furniture without fuzzing it up. I agree, it sounds completely absurd. However, we've been Purr Padding it for nearly 30 hours now and the pets can't stay off the damn things. Millionaire idea: furniture made solely out of purr pads, made exclusively for pets.
We watched Match Point last night, Woody Allen's latest entry into his "Can we forget about what a creep I am?" sweepstakes (no matter how creepy he gets, I still love him). I liked it, but as I watched it, I kept thinking, "This is just like Crimes and Misdemeanors!" And then the ending happened, and it sealed the comparison: Match Point is a British Crimes and Misdemeanors without the Jerry Orbach character. It would've been really cool if Jerry Orbach swept in right at the end with a bad Cockney accent, although that may not happen since Orbach died, I believe. Maybe just a guy who looks like Jerry Orbach who can do a Cockney accent. It strikes me that he'd be a lot of fun to hire out for birthday parties.
Clearly I didn't strike it rich in Vegas, as I'm still posting to Goulash. Actually, that's not true. If I did strike it rich in Vegas, I'd still post to Goulash, I'd just be a lot more libelous. I mean really, really, really libelous. Random strangers would read it and file a lawsuit against me. And that'd be just fine because I'd allocate a large portion of my fortune to lawyer fees. Then, I'd segment that into two large subportions, one for Libel lawsuits and the other for the forthcoming Powell v. the Vatican saga. (All I'm saying is, the Da Vinci Code was REAL.)
I went into Vegas a wounded man. I had a cold and then some stitches in my foot (boring story, stepped on glass). Vegas lunges at the lame like a blood-crazed panther and I knew this, yet I decided to injure myself further by reaching into my shaving bag and grabbing a hold of my razor. It did hurt, but for just an instant, I wondered if the blood marks could help me count cards at the blackjack table. Boy, that'd be some inconspicuous card counting as I used my wound to mark signals on the back of the card. Perhaps luckily, I had no time to create such a scheme as Vegas stuck it to me early.
Early, but not often, as I staged a meager $60 rally over the rest of the trip. Whatever. I don't go to Vegas to make money; no no, I go to the blood bank to money. I go to Vegas to do other things, like breathe cigarette smoke, get treated poorly by Eastern Europeans at the roulette table, and of course, to hang out with Fat Elvis. I could devote a whole post to seeing Big E on Tuesday, but I'll keep it to this for right now: he's more of a Portly Elvis now. He's big, sure, but he's a good deal slimmer than he was in the picture on the front page. You know what, I'm going to support that. Even if Fat Elvis isn't really breathtakingly fat anymore, he's still big and now he can get up to wiggle a bit during his songs. He's Portly, Wiggly Elvis, which is more of a mouthful, but still worth watching.
Anyway, I'm back and we all had a good time.