9.14.09

I've been sitting here staring at a blank screen for about twenty minutes. I'm unable to find anything witty, cute, or even mildly amusing to write about. Instead, I can only ponder the events of the past week and the nothingness which still envelopes me.

Biloxi is a beautiful city. It is situated on the shores of the gulf of Mexico. I suppose it was at one time a sleepy fishing village before the casinos arrived. Once the casinos were built could a major hurricane be far behind? I think not.

Biloxi is being rebuilt. Slowly, but surely, new buildings and gambling halls are being constructed in the shadows of the carnage that is left following the the hurricane which nearly destroyed New Orleans. As you drive up and down state road 90, along the ocean, it becomes obvious that the south survives on grits and waffles as a Waffle House is located on each block.

My life revolves around the hotel room, the poker room, and the buffet of the Beau Rivage Casino. I did not once visit the gym, which is astounding I am told. I did not once visit the swimming pool, even though I had packed my swim suit. I did not once venture outside of the casino, except one night when I and two of my traveling companions visited a Hooter's Bar. The power had gone out in the casino and the poker room was closed. Hooters seemed like a good choice.

I played mostly cash games the past week. No-Limit Hold em is my game, and I think I must have no idea how to play. To Prevail Takes Apathy certainly does work, but I am too impatient. I have no discipline.

I took to wearing a rubber band on my wrist after I was reading a magazine article. The premise is to snap the rubber band really hard anytime that you realize you are having negative thoughts about anything. I think I may have to visit the doctor soon if my right wrist is infected, as I suspect it is, from the swelling and redness caused by repeated snapping of a rubber band against the exposed skin. My daughter says this action is one step away from cutting yourself. She is wise for her years.

It is odd that only a month ago I felt like I couldn't possibly lose at the poker table. I'm not sure how one's psyche can be changed and remolded into an aberration of it's former self, but change it can. I feel like a full fledged nut job. Constipation is a bitch.

Ex-Lax did not work. Soft Fruit is an old wives tale. The best way to fight the blockage is to never get blocked up in the first place. It is too late though.

Another magazine article that I recently read said that you should start each day by publicly announcing five things you are thankful for. It says it has something to do with getting your mind in a more positive place, which will then free you up to make good decisions. Sounds plausible, and honestly I could use something. So, here goes..

1. My Family
2. My Lifestyle
3. My Health
4. My New Found Marriage
5. My Improved Putting on the Golf Course.

There, that's five. It took me a while to think of those five things. Why is it so difficult to think of five things I am thankful for? I swear, something is wrong with me.

I played in a tournament while in Biloxi. There were 370 entrants, and they paid 36 spots. Well, actually they paid 37 spots because everyone decided to take $600 off the winners share of 27k and award it to 37th spot, or the bubble boy as he, or she, is affectionately known.

I finished 36th.

This is not too bad, really. I should be pleased that I was able to play solid, sound poker and wade my way through 90% of the participants. If you've never played in anything like this, and come that close to getting there, than I can't explain the disappointment I felt when I busted out in 36th place.

I wanted to die. I had my rubber band on, and I had been telling myself the entire day that I was going to win. "You're going to win", over and over I would repeat this to myself throughout the tournament. It began at noon, and I busted out at 12:30 AM. We had an hour for dinner at 6:30, and various ten minute breaks every couple of hours, but let me tell you, it was a struggle.

No one should have to do anything for twelve straight hours. It is inhumane. Even Micheal Vick's dogs only had to fight for a few minutes, at most. Ok, that probably wasn't a good analogy.

The cash games were brutal. At one pint I stopped looking at my hole cards. Yes, that's right. I played the hands out without looking at what I had. If I sensed weakness, and I thought the opportunity was right, then I raised. If I thought he had it, then I folded. I made money that day. Everything is Topsy turvey.

Have you ever met a multi-millionaire who brings a small mattress to the hotel so he doesn't have to get his own room? I have. It's all upside down and backwards.

Have you ever seen a man running out of a casino, with another man close behind yelling "stop him he stole my money!!", and the casino security doing nothing? I have. It's all whack.

For all of the freedom my job allows, and for all of the gorgeous hotels I get to visit, these are the days that make poker seem like a dirty word. These are the days that make me wish I had a normal job, with normal working hours, and a normal boss, and maybe a normal secretary with abnormally long legs.

If I had that normal job then I could be bitching about today being a Monday, and how I have the whole work week ahead of me. But that paycheck would be there on Friday, whether I did anything at work this week or not. That would be nice.

I could talk about the past weekend's football games, and tonight's football game, and whether Derek Jeter is the best baseball player in the game, and whether Obama's plan for health care is viable or not. I could discuss all of these things and still sit at my desk, in front of my computer, reading e-mails from friends concerned with the greenhouse effect and it's validity in todays socioeconomic world. That paycheck would still be there though, come Friday.

If I lived in that world, the normal world, then I could find many new things to be miserable about. It's quite possible that humans are meant to suffer, that it is our destiny, our purpose for life. Some would argue that our purpose is only to reproduce and ensure that our species prospers and lives on. But, maybe were are meant to suffer, and then die.

Like that old quote "Life's a bitch, and then you die". How prophetic of whomever wrote that one.

Yup, I'm miserable. If you see me, and you notice my wrist is red, please understand I am trying very hard to think positive thoughts. I don't wish to be morose. I don't wish to be negative. I sincerely want to upbeat and have fun at everything I do. It just doesn't seem to work. There is always someone, or something, which leads me to the dark place in my mind. Once there, deep in the pits of my thinking machine, it is like a vice. The dark place in my head does not like to let go. It grips me and pulls me ever deeper into the depths of despair, until I am sure there is no way out.

There is one thing that is generous and benevolent enough to allow me to see the light. Pocket Aces, you are my God. I bow to you and all of your glory. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil as you, pocket aces, are my companion. Amen.

Beware of stray lightning bolts. Codsey out.