Archive for March, 2007

I had plenty of time to write about my awesome run after the Capitol 10K on Sunday, but I was le tired. It was also the last day of my Master Cleanse diet, and probably the hardest. Running the 10K in the morning was fine, contrary to everyone’s belief that you’re dead to the world when you’re on the diet. There were just a bunch of great opportunities to eat that day and I was getting antsy. I was also about three servings short of syrup—not enough to go out and buy a new bottle, but enough to notice it’s missing when that’s all you’re eating.

I’m not sure of my exact time because I ran the fun run instead of the timed race, but I think I came in somewhere around 51 minutes. I couldn’t believe it. That’s around eight and a half minutes per mile. Amazing for me, since I generally run at a 10-minute pace. It’s amazing what over 20,000 runners and some hills can do.

I guess I should mention that yes, I am that crazy hill-runnin’ asshole. When the road starts to decline, my body almost automatically decides to use gravity to its advantage and blast down the hill at full speed. I get the most out of my stride that way, and I learned in cross country that it really psysches people out. So does taking fast corners. The only things I remember “learning” about running from cross country involve psyching people out. I guess I’m just wired that way. Anyway, I’m aware that charging down hills on a regular basis can really hurt your shins, but once in awhile is okay. I should have run down the hills doing the jungle cry, “Aaaah, AH-ah AH-Ahhhhhhhhhh!” There’s no good way to write that, I don’t think.

I woke up an hour earlier than I needed to for the Capitol 10K because I’m still on New York time. DER!

Kat: “Damn, it’s late. I need to get started on my chores.”

Gus: “Hahahahaha… you don’t have chores.”

I grew up in a nuclear family. Dad worked, Mom didn’t. While Dad was gone, Mom did chores. Now I’m not working, so I need to do chores. When you stay at home, there are definitely chores. And if there aren’t chores, you make some up! Today, I’m doing the laundry, making the bed, packing my suitcase, playing poker, researching how we came to the modern interpretation of time, dragging a swiffer wipe across the bathroom floor, and making a list of all the delicious Mexican food I’m going to eat when I get my braces off.

Countdowns
Fasting days left: 3
Braces days left: 5
Until April Fools’ Day: 10

This weekend I returned to Atlantic City for another bout with the gaming gods. My experience was markedly different from my first visit for two reasons: no Gus and no drinking. I usually don’t drink when I play hold ’em because I love the the game a lot and want to be able to concentrate. However, I’ve recently become quite taken with the game of craps, and you almost need to be drinking to be good at that.

Gus took a long weekend to attend SXSW, so in addition to returning to AC, I decided that it would be a good time to do the Master Cleanse again. To recap, the diet consists solely of a tea made of lemons, real maple syrup, and cayenne pepper. No drinking, no smoking, no eating, no social life (pretty much). This time, I’m doing it for 14 days. Today is Day 10.

Traveling while on the diet is not the most convenient thing in the world, but I managed, as people in general should do when they have special dietary needs. I really, really don’t want to be one of those girls (I should say “people,” but it’s usually girls) who make a big production of announcing what they can and can’t eat and making the entire group bend to their whim and eat somewhere lame because they just cannot eat seafood/steak/Chinese/whatever. So I brought the stuff I needed with me and tried not to make a big deal of it. At that point, I wasn’t missing food terribly, and I actually didn’t mind foregoing alcohol, but it made trips to the bar to meet and greet some of the other poker bloggers less exciting.

So, I spent a lot of time at the craps table, and a little (far less lucrative) time at the poker table. Craps is a pretty simple game (you put chips in certain places on the table and depending on the roll of the dice, nothing happens, you get more chips, or your chips get taken away), so instead of sucking down cape cods, I looked at people. I will tell you about some of them now. (A lot of these snippets are from different tables, sometimes on different nights. If you want linearity, read a novel.)

Crazy Old Guy with a Gray Ponytail
This guy brought excellent energy to a table that needed it. He had a good roll and every time he rolled something particularly excellent, he made a really loud rooster noise. Not “cockadoodledoo,” which is not what roosters say at all, but the actual phonetic sound a rooster makes. More like “er-ER er-ER er-OOOOO.” I like making that sound too, so I joined him. Soon our table was packed and there was much rejoicing.

After his stellar roll, Crazy Ponytail Guy pointed out his wife sitting about 15 feet away. He told us that she’s not allowed to talk to him until he’s done shooting because whenever she does, his roll ends. He motioned to her that it was okay to come over. She reiterated his story and said that one time she came over while he was in the middle of a roll and he said, “Hey CRAPFACE!” And when you’re 70, that’s a joke. I laughed.

Amazing-Shooting Biker Dude
I’m told this guy started with maybe $100 in front of him and by the end of his roll (see below), he had over $1000, mostly as a result of his own shooting. Pretty sweet. He had a pleasant demeanor and helped me make lots of money. But then came…

Fucking Yuppie Scum Suburbanites
Let me just start by saying, “Fucking fuck you cocksucking fucking shit-fucking ass motherfuckers.” Figured I’d just get that out of the way.

So the table is enjoying a decent roll and I have some bets down and these two white-bread, relaxed-fit jeans and sweater-clad, faggoty-ass married couples saunter up to the craps table sucking on nine-dollar Bud Lights and start talking. One of the females, a short, high-strung twit with unremarkable features squeals, “I totally don’t get this game! Oh my God! What are they doing! What’s happening! Why did the dealer do that! I’m a fucking spaz who should be shot!”

Okay, she didn’t say the last line, but I would have been happy to help out if she had. I may be from Murray Hill, but I’ll still whack a bitch.

Her equally obnoxious, dutiful husband begins explaining what little he knows about the game. As they engage in their little discussion, rife with inaccuracies, the shooter rolls a seven and everyone’s fucked.

I asked the man if he was planning to play, as he and his field mouse were taking up plenty of real estate at the table. The man was flabbergasted that one of “those people” was talking to him and asked me to repeat myself. It’s like I had alerted him to the fact that he and his yup-schlup were actually at the table and not watching us through a glass cage at the zoo.

He said, “Um no, no, not right now” (and probably not ever because he’s a coward) and I should have replied, “Fuck you, asshole. You’re killing a perfectly good table.” But instead, I said, “That doesn’t work for me. I’m leaving.” And he stammered some retarded apology that made me wish even more that I’d told him to fuck off.

The Happy Couple
This young couple was so adorably excited about being there that I was thrilled to play next to them. They had that breathtaking force occurring between them that seems reserved only for new couples, maybe only those truly in love for the first time. I could tell he was already giddy about what he’d be fucking later, and she was giddy about having a good time with a nice boy and feeling all around gorgeous. Their shooting fell a little short, but I’m sure their energy did something to help out the rest of us. I made money regardless. They were quite young, so they obviously hadn’t played the game much and needed to ask questions. Just to clarify, this is fine with me. They were playing the game and learning as they went along. I’ve never seen that alone kill a table.

The Pissing Contest
But on the topic of killing tables, what’s worse than yellow-bellied cockroaches discussing the game without playing is people fighting while playing. As we learned last weekend, negative energy can kill a table fast. I was at a somewhat cold table when a black guy a little older than me stood next to me and bought some chips. He was in a really bad mood from the beginning, so a few minutes later when an older Indian man (dot, not teepee) interrupted a roll to buy some chips, the black guy lost it.

“What the fuck, man. You’re messing up the game!” he said.

The Indian guy said that he was just buying chips and told the man to settle down (agreed). The black guy retorted that he plays the game more than the Indian guy so he should shut up. The Indian guy responded by pulling out his VIP Super-Awesome Premium Gold Free-Blowjob Card and in so many words said, “Respect it.”

And of course the black guy scoffed at it and proceeded to bitch and curse all the way into my roll, which was the shittiest roll ever. (Point established, seven out.) Then the black guy swore again, kind of at me, so I thought, “Fuck this” and left.

If you’re that miserable, go play blackjack. Or in moving traffic. Or something.

Belligerent Drunk Douchebag at the Poker Table
During the five minutes that I played poker, I had the pleasure of sitting next to this stupid asshole. He was a preppy guy in his mid-twenties, the kind of douchebag who would hit on me in clubs, back when I went to clubs…

A few minutes after he sat down, the dealer asked him not to hold all of his chips and told him that he needed to set some of them down on the table. This makes sense because it shows the dealer and other players that those chips are i
n play. He made a huge fuss and swore at the dealer.

Lesson for newcomers: Don’t fucking swear at the dealer!

Dealers will put up with lots of crap, and as I learned in Aruba, some will even let you sexually assault them, but don’t swear at them. They didn’t do anything.

The dealer threatened to have the young man removed and he retorted, “Fucking do it then. I’ve been kicked out of better places than this.” I’m sure that sounds really cool in your head when you’re drunk, but to the rest of us, it sounds like you don’t know how to conduct yourself in any environment and are too stuck up to realize it.

The dealer called the floor manager, who should have kicked him out then, but didn’t. So the floor manager pretty much gave the drunk asshole carte blanche to repeat his behavior later. He did, and was then asked to leave. He left without arguing.

Before he left though, he began to engage in unwanted conversation with me. He noticed me making my tea and started asking a bunch of questions about it. I explained that I was on a cleansing diet. In a predictable fashion, he said that I was skinny and I don’t have to do it, etc.

“My diet is probably worse than yours. Just eat better, that’s all,” he said.

How nice! A cross-eyed donkey lush giving a distance runner nutrition advice. I’m continually amused by the fact that some people think that just because they can’t imagine doing something, other people must not be able to do it either. Guess what buddy, we’re not talking about you. This type of guy is the reason I dated men so much older than me before I met Gus. Boys in their twenties really are at the center of their own universe.

At the same table were two more people at the centers of their own respective universes (universi?).

Obnoxious Old Man
This septegenarian was sitting way on the other side of the dealer, but for some reason, despite all the other people at the table, he felt the need to talk to me… repeatedly. He told me to smile, which I’m beginning to learn is how men must have conversed with women back in the olden days. Although my first reaction is to say, “Fuck off” or “Blow me,” I think the best response is to completely ignore them… for good.

The way I see it, these asshats are the douchebags from the days of yore, all grown up. They simply want to make contact with an attractive woman to help validate their existence. But since they’re douchebags, they have nothing interesting or intelligent to say, so they bark an order. The best thing for a girl like me to do is deny that they exist at all and send them further down their pit of idiocy and despair.

Not that I like to see random strangers suffering, but come on… “Smile”? That’s the best you can do?

The Family Reunion
Next to Belligerent Drunk Douchebag sat an older black man with like 50 people standing around him. Okay, there were only four, but that was a large enough group to substantially remove attention from the game. I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk, drink, and be merry while playing poker (especially at a low-limit table), but if it gets to a point where you’re more concerned about Aunt Bea’s foot operation than the cards you’re holding, maybe you should just lay them down for a few hours until you’re ready to play. He had to be reminded that it was his turn every round and then he had to look at his cards again each time. I actually found this more annoying than the drunk and the old man put together, so I left to play craps again.

In conclusion, those are the people of AC. Vile, rude, and contemptable for the most part, and usually not so fun to look at either. I often carry around a weighty sachel of self-loathing, but after spending some time in AC, I feel like I’m a really good person. A really, really good person with an extra 500 bucks.

Public cell phone usage is really obnoxious, but a necessary evil in today’s society. I’m used to seeing people on the street, in stores, on the bus, in movie theaters, and in restaurants using their phones with reckless abandon, talking loudly and flamboyantly about things that can obviously wait and could probably be tabled forever without making a difference in the world.

To me, there is one sacred place where I feel cell phone usage should be off-limits: the gym. I don’t care how important you are, the stationary bike isn’t your fucking office.

So some old man sauntered into MY gym this morning and mounted the stationary bike. His large gut suggested he may not be familiar with the unwritten rules of gym etiquitte… or simply the gym.

Anyway, he was quick to open his phone and begin yakkin’. This had to stop. I coughed loudly a few times. I could hear him talking over my music with the volume all the way up!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I began to sing.

Have you heard me sing? Probably not. I only do it in the car by myself and in the shower… by myself. I have no musical talent whatsoever, and that’s okay. I’m happy with being an avid listener. So, luckily, when Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy” started playing, I knew all the words. I’ll post the lyrics below, but it really doesn’t quite capture the magic of shouting them like a cheerleader on crystal meth while running full speed on a treadmill.

He got off the phone. :-)

I’m too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love’s going to leave me

I’m too sexy for my shirt too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts
And I’m too sexy for Milan too sexy for Milan
New York and Japaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

And I’m too sexy for your party
Too sexy for your party
No way I’m disco dancing

I’m a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk

I’m too sexy for my car too sexy for my car
Too sexy by faaaaaaaaaaaaaar
And I’m too sexy for my hat
Too sexy for my hat what do you think about that

I’m a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little tush on the catwalk

I’m too sexy for my too sexy for my too sexy for my

‘Cause I’m a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little tush on the catwalk

I’m too sexy for my cat too sexy for my cat
Poor pussy poor pussy cat

I’m too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love’s going to leave me

And I’m too sexy for this song

I downloaded the new version of AIM recently. Then I woke up this morning, turned it on, and found a new group on my buddy list called MyNiggaz. I have Niggaz, y’all! And one of them is… Jack Levy??

There are actually 27 in all. Twenty-seven niggaz! Mua-ha-ha! I didn’t recognize most of the names. They’re probably porn spammers or something. I don’t know how or why someone would program a bot to throw those in there, thinking I’d just say, “Oh yeah, AOL gave me some niggaz. That’s cool…”

The idea of my having niggaz is almost as funny and absurd as Tokyo Breakfast.

“If nigga no go to school, nigga no get a job. If nigga no get a job, nigga no make no money. If nigga no make no money, nigga no be able to afford no BMW 7 Series, niggaaaaaaaah!”

I was headed to the Whole Foods at Union Square to pick up some “supplies” when I got a wild hair up my butt and decided to take a long-cut down 23rd Street and then head down to 14th whenever I got bored. As I walked down 23rd Street, three things happened:

1. I went in a store called Shoegasm. All the shoes were ugly and I didn’t buy anything. I guess you could say the experiece was anticlimactic. Bwahahaha!

2. I watched a domestic dispute between two crackheads. As they staggered down the street, disgusting white woman with messed up hair and sweatpants yelled at her black boyfriend, “You would do that!? After all I’ve done for you!?!”

You’re starring in your own daytime drama, lady. Except the characters are disturbingly grotesque and no one cares what happens but you (and me I guess, since I’m writing about it). They looked just like Mo Collins and Aries Spears in those Mad TV sketches. Funny how one goes 26 years without seeing a regular crackhead-fight and upon doint so, compares it to an imitation of one. Kind of like eating fried sliced potatoes and saying, “These taste a lot like french fries.”

3. I came across the Whole Foods on 7th Avenue. It’s a little smaller than the Union Square one, and much less of a clusterfuck. Sweet.

…and the whole time before this, I thought it was shitty.

My first visit to Atlantic City was fun and successful. I was prepared for a completely run-down hell hole and was pleasantly surprised to find that it’s just a half-way run-down hell hole. Like Vegas, AC has its share of sad, decrepit old people, but instead of also being filled with sexy strippers and Colombian drug lords, there are a bunch of thugs and ho’s. Since there are quite a few East Coast poker bloggers, someone decided to plan a gathering there, which is great because I needed an excuse to go.

Gus, Heather, and I stayed at Caesar’s, which isn’t as nice as the one in Vegas, but more than met our needs for beds and a bathroom. I booked a room there because we were planning to play their $300 + $40 NL event at noon. Gus ended up having to work Saturday morning and due to scheduling conflicts beyond our control (e.g., our bus driver stopped in the middle of the trip to use the bathroom), we arrived in AC around 6:30pm.

We met up with Heather at the Borgata where she’d been playing hold ’em. The poker room is nice and apparently, full of fish. Noted! The nice restaurants were already packed with the Saturday night dinner crowd, so we headed downstairs to the cafeteria, which could have only been made better by adding the slogan, “You’ve emptied your pockets, now fill your fat, nasty body.”

We ate some greasy Chinese food, read our fortunes, and then played some craps. I had a terrible roll and just wasn’t feeling the table. I lost half my bankroll and decided to sit out before I lost the other half. Heather had a great roll, and Gus made money, and I convinced them to meet up with the other bloggers for the happy hour at 10.

We reached the Showboat where we found the I Had Outs girls, who took over arranging the gathering for Jordan. A bunch of other East Coast bloggers were there, including SoxLover, who I mistakenly thought was Jordan for a good portion of the evening, perhaps because I’d had a bit to drink. While a bunch of people played craps, I totally Van Goughed F-Train.

Then Gus, Heather, SoxLover, and I went back to Caesar’s to play craps some more. Heather and Gus went to do something responsible, or maybe we just got lost, but either way, SoxLover and I went off to find a bathroom and then a craps table.

“Crap” seemed to be the word of the day. After walking for what seemed like hours looking for a bathroom, we decided to ask someone. My new friend was almost ready to explode, so I interrupted two ladies talking at the Information desk with, “Excuse me, my friend here needs to take a mad crap. Where can he do that without getting in trouble?”

They laughed and pointed us to a bathroom. I guess it’s okay to interrupt as long as you have something entertaining to say.

Somehow, we made it to the craps table before Gus and Heather did. We started playing and I, of course, started yakking with the people around me. For some reason, rolls go better when the table is positive and enthusiastic. Yeah, I’m a fucking hippie for saying so, but that’s how it’s been in my experience, and it’s about as incoincidental as bacteria growing faster with prayer.

But I digress.

I started talking to the guy next to me, and then the girl he was with, both of whom were about my age. He was a pretty quiet guy, which kind of sucks because a quiet table is a losing table. I think the girl was annoyed because she thought I was hitting on her boyfriend. Although he was a pretty attractive guy, I had my own on the other side of the table, so I wasn’t really interested in taking hers.

But instead of also being quiet, after awhile she started being really rude to me. She mimmicked me a little and then started mocking me for making $10 bets. We were at a $10 minimum table. Had I been more sober, I would have suggested she move to one of the many openings at the $25 or $100 minimum tables, if she was such a high roller.

As it turns out, she was not much of a roller at all. Neither was her boyfriend. To making things worse, he was also a poor player in general. As I’m listening to his girlfriend shower me with her insecurities, I’m watching him lose $100 on the Don’t Pass Bar in the middle of a decent shoot, then another $100 on the field, then again, and again… It was sad, he looked like he was trying to compensate for something. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to leave. Don’t let the revolving doors hit your asses on the way out!

Once they took off, the table mojo greatly improved. We ended up having a good night and a good trip overall. Things were going well so we stayed a little later than we planned yesterday. We multiplied our bankroll several times over and I got to see the beach. (The weather was gorgeous!) The bus ride home was faster and less eventful, although I really need to come up with some fun things to do on the bus if I’m going to start visiting AC regularly.

I’m going back again this weekend with Heather and April, who will escape the noisy, swirling vortex known as South By Southwest. We’ll probably play more poker than craps, which is good because I’ve been wanting to play a live game ever since the Toronto trip. Good luck, me!

I haven’t done one of these in awhile. This one is certainly worthy. I was looking for a short paying gig to keep me busy before I return to Austin and I came upon this ad:

Need Dyslexic Unicorn Tutors ASAP (Upper West Side)

I would absolutely love to apply, but there’s just no good way to get to the Upper West Side from where I am.