KaiShares AVAILABLE ONCE AGAIN! BE A 1%ER!

Be in the 1 percent!  Don't be a 99%er!

So, the New Orleans WSOP-C is right around the corner, and yours truly is looking gleefully towards it.  Hungry for final tables, more cash, more rings, more blood, more victories.

Hungry.

However you add it up, roughly thirteen days of poker in the Crescent City.

And I've decided to open up my services to the general public.  Just a little bit.  Quite simply put, it's the best deal in poker. 

Let's call it "OPERATION: OCCUPY KAI'S PANTS."

Can you imagine the smell of these "99%ers?" Ughhh!

One percent at a time.

This is a limited time offer.  (drumroll)

$35 buys you 1 percent of Kai's action in the WSOP-C New Orleans May 10-21, 2012..  This will be for 1% of ALL my action in (4) $355 events and one $1600 main event. 

For those of you who are skilled in the art of mathematics, you will notice that this earns me a whopping $5 profit for each shareholder.  Since the buy in for all these (five) events adds up to $3,020 and I'm charging $35 for each 1% share. 

Essentially, in these five events, I'm looking to play with $1,795 of my own money and $1,225 of KaiShare holders money (35 shares at $35 each).

"I am a 1%er!!!"  Yes, friends, that can be your chant to the unbathed, quasi-militant, malcontent, dusgruntled Jacobin mutant-comrades and their zombie like quest for "free love."



This angry mob is protesting that
"KaiShares is too good of a deal!!!"



Say it loud and say it proud to the 99%ers as you adjust your monocle pompously!  "I am a winner.  And you are a loser. For I backed Kai in a 1% stake of his 2012 New Orleans WSOP series.  Behold, sir, for you live in a commune of dead ideals and live in a trailer with your eleven kids in need of orthrodontic care and a wife who looks like Tom Petty.  Go back to your 99% of dissent, sorrow, and ingratitude."

I'll now proceed with the rest of this KaiShares presentation in a question and answer forum.

Q n A forum.

I don't know about all this.  I kind of feel like gambling is a sin.

You're right, astute reader!  Gambling is a probably a sin.  Next question.

Can I buy more than one KaiShare? 

Sure you can, eager reader.  But be aware that Kai does not wish to sell more than thirty-five KaiShares for these five events in New Orleans.  I wish to play with 60% of my own money.

Hey, I looked at the WSOP-C schedule in New Orleans, and there's like twelve ring events.  How come you're only letting people buy in for four $355 events and one $1600 main event?

Good question, reader.  It's because I'm giving myself room to make a few "day twos," which overlap into the next event.  Also, I'm planning on a good run in the main, which overlaps the last two events.  To answer your next question, I'll be posting here on this blog ahead of time (probably a day ahead of time) precisely which events I'll be playing with your investment.  It's possible I may play more events with money outside of KaiShares shareholders investments but this would be posted ahead of time in this blog.  All that being said, I'll certainly be playing event #1, event #6 (the six handed max event), and the main event with KaiShare holders money, with another $355 event TBD.



Absolutely the wrong way to deal with the "burning building" problem

What happens if you win the main event?

Well what do you think happens, stupid?  You get paid 1% of that amount.  If the main event  victory is $200,000, and Kai wins it, then you get $2000.  Plus whatever I gross, if anything,  in the three smaller tourneys.

I live in Brazillian slum known as a "favela."  Sometimes father throws me out in the street to beg for spare change.  Can I buy KaiShare for cheaper?

No.  Hard work breeds character.  Maybe sell some pencils.  Don't be a hippie and beg.  Maybe learn ultimate fighting skills and get out of the ghetto.  Isn't that what you Brazilians do?  Or become trannys?  Look, I'm getting off track here...it's only a $35 investment and even you international people can pay through PayPal.  Just do a person to person transaction and there's no fee!

Oh, shit...did we just burn down Harrah's?

I've done the math on this and it looks like even if you dont cash, you'll still make $175 from your "1% backers."



Um, let's not, and you go home and occupy your bathtub, hippie.



Yep.  That's right.  Big profit.  Goodbye mortgage.  Goodbye overseas paternity lawsuit from Bangkok street walker.  Also, I can buy my way to the front of the line in the "liver recipient" list.  All the problems in my life solved.  Oh, wait, no...I'm also investing $1795 in myself for this series.  Looks like I better cash.

So, if I buy one KaiShare you would need to gross $3600 in wins for me to receive a profit, right?  But if you only gross, like, $1700 in wins I'd sitll get $17 back right?


Yes and yes.  All very simple math.  If I cash $10,000, you get $100.  If I cash $50,000, you get $500.  No makeup, no weird percentage splits, just simple 1% = 1% in these events.

What's the endgame for your hair?

That's my secret.

How can I pay you?  And why are you so awesome?

Let's just say I'm doing this for people who read my blog and want to gamble vicariously.  It's fun for everyone.  I'd like to make some readers and friends some money if I can.  If you want to play, it's $35.

Do you run good in New Orleans?

Yes.

Email me discreetly at KaiSeven@hotmail.com or at my facebook acct. before this Thursday to get in on the action.  :)   (This is also the address to send $$$ to via PayPal).

TAKE THAT, HIPPIE!  YOU SHOULDA BOUGHT A KaiShare!!!

IOWA UPDATE! PURE EXCITEMENT!!!

Nightlife!!! They call Iowa the "Miami of
Middle America."  Who knew?

Every now and then you just have a series where you can't get anything going.  For me it's about once a year.  Last year it was Chicago.  This year, it's Council Bluffs.  Started off this trip with a fizzle, and it's been a slow, monotonous fizzle-out ever since.  No bang.

I remember the first time I ever won a tournament and one of the dealers asking me, "So are you going to Council Bluffs now?"  I just looked at him quizzically.  Where the hell is that, and why on Earth would I ever want to go there?  

This rabble rouser speeds down the
hall in Council Bluffs
lookin' for trouble!  Slow down!  Let
me get a good pic,  oh elusive one!!

Sure couldn't find that spot on a map I bet!  And it didn't make any sense.  In the higher order of early human tribes, they just don't go chasing the Caribou around wherever the herd goes, nomadically.  The more evolved tribes learned to fence-in and herd in the animals and keep them on a farm.  That way, they could have nice things like houses and farms, instead of weathered teepees and tired legs.  So chasing the circuit around never made much sense.  But there's a lure to the howling whistle of the circus train off to parts of the world you've never seen I suppose.  No matter how mundane the spot the train stops at is.  Before the circuit hits New Orelans, it goes through Iowa every March/April.

Beyond poker, people keep asking me what the people are like here in the casino.  I hope my pictures in this blog paint a pretty accurate picture for you all.

But the lure (and my mistake) of smaller fields and worse players seemed to be my best shot at getting another piece of WSOP bling-bling, and I couldn't resist the idea of not being in contention for a fish-in-the barrel chipfight.  Note to self:  you were wrong.  Somehow, the fields out here have been pretty large.  In Iowa?!?  I think much larger than in New Orleans.  I know.  I can't figure that one out either.  Same great staff as always, Westside Bob, Troy the Enforcer, Boz the Shrimp, Punchdrunk Charlie and Violent Chris always run a good event.

Popsicles in Iowa make the unbearable springtime
climates of 74 degrees somehow temperate.

There are some really good players out here.  Let's call them the "sharks."  Well, essentially there are two specific groups of players out here.  There's the "sharks" and  then there are also some really, really, really....well let's be kind.  Let's just call them "Group 2."  Between the two groups, I feel like I've been tied down naked with barbed wire and spun around onto a merry-go-round all week in a hailstorm of ninja stars and pus.

Electric carpet-speeding indoor
roadsters are all the rage in Iowa!
They're zippy like Luke Skywalker's
land-speeder, but with wheels.

The "Group 2" players out here seem to play poker much like a chicken plays tic-tac-toe.  On meth.  Everything is randomly aggressive or totally passive.  They like to go all-in at totally random spots. Trying to win against them seems tantamount to having an argument with the insane.  You can't win.  You can only sit back and play A-B-C poker, which really puts a damper on your creativity itches.  Especially when you're card dead.  Then they call off their entire stacks pre-flop with hands like A-8, A-10, A-7, and wind up winning against your highly favored hands.  I know luck is bunched, but these past two weeks have been like nothing goes right.  Just two weeks?  I consider myself VERY lucky.  In fact in some ways, I'm still one of the luckiest people I know.

Potato sack races?  That's child's play, bro!
Out in "the Bluffs," it's all about
turning that "walker" into a "runner!"

These bad asses loiter and
protect their "turf."  Crips?  Bloods?
Hell no, G!  We the
Shuffleboard Mafia!!
Betta recognize, playah!

Takes over an hour to order liver
and onions, but that's just
because it's so popular!
TOTALLY WORTH THE WAIT!

Bobby "Sticks" McEvoy takes the lead!
The crowd goes wild!!!

So going into day two of the Council Bluffs Main Event tomorrow with just over half an average stack doesn't bother me that much.  I consider myself fortunate for even surviving yesterdays asylum snowcone shakeup.  I'll need a couple of double ups within the first two levels, or I'll lose any real shot of cashing this thing.  Fifteen hours back home on the road to Biloxi with Monkey's smelly feet and infected oozing facial hairs.  That should be motivation enough to make day three!

Haute Coture in "the Bluffs."  The Michael
Jackson germ-mask.  "Hoooooooo!!!"

Before I forget, big congratulations to my Mississippi boys Tim Burt and David Nicholson for chopping the PLO re-buy ring event.  I know Tim was looking for his fourth "official" ring, and David for his third.  But they'll just have to be content with second and third place today.

Of course we're all trying to catch up with the venerable Mark Smith who set records with his FIFTH ring this year.  I have to admit, I would have thought the WSOP ring record would have been higher.  But then again, winning these things is incredibly hard.  I'd also have to assume Tim will surpass five rings within a couple of years at the most.  He's too agile and experienced in every different form of poker game out there; and the right age to pull if off.  So watch your back Mark.

  

Vince Vaughn makes a celebrity appearance
in Council Bluffs, Iowa, dressed for
comfort and anonymity.

In fact, it's kind of weird that I had to wait this long and travel to Iowa to pick up on one of my Mississippi buddys' crafty tricks of success.  A defense mechanism of Tim and David's, when they're bluffing is to blow up --  puffer fish style -- to intimidate their opponents into folding.  I caught on to this just a couple of days ago.

David Nicholson usually prefers plaid,
but often sports a hoodie on days when
"puffing" at a big pot might be
necessary.

Tim Burt often sports well-starched Polo
shirts, but sometimes,  dresses for
expansion.

So, basically, not much to report here from Council Bluffs.  Just getting ready to go to bed and try to play my best tomorrow, despite my small stack.  Not the size but how you use it?  I guess I'll test that theory tomorrow.  

Oh, well there is this one story; really an ongoing series of stories about the local gas station here called "Sapp Brothers."  Monkey and I usually crash in the place right around 3 a.m., when all those living at the outer edge of society decide to get a bite to eat.  Lonely truckers with voices like Wolfman Jack.  Renegade truckers with zombie-like stares, and usually strapped with a knife and sporting a faraway, hopeless stare.  Picture the Star Wars Cantina.  But without the bouncy music.  Just replace that with the scent of desparation, loneliness, and a few mumbles of stagnant conversation and dissent.

Staring contest!!!   Aaaaaaaaand.......GO!

Sapp Brothers' gas and diner is stacked, for some reason, with an entire cornucopia of items no trucker should reasonably need or want.  LOTS and lots of dolls.  (Creepy!!!)  Exotic Samurai swords.  Fireworks.  Plumbing equipment.  The kinds of items that in no way go together.

What every trucker wants.  Southern Belle dolls to
have a tea party with.  Notice the little
doll sitting all by herself in the upper left corner.

So we couldn't help but notice Iowa's take on who wears what.  All the little dolls looked alike.  Hundreds of dolls with elegant gowns with fancy...I don't know...what do you call this stuff?  Victorian era dresses?  Southern antebellum ball gowns?  Whatever.  Well, we saw this poor little doll sitting in the back of the selection.  Like the sad little Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  The only one of her kind.  Really, Iowa?   That's how you see the world?  Seriously?!?

Rosa Who?

So, the dolls alone creep you out so much, you don't even notice the "lot lizard" activity going on at the diner counter or at the fill up tank.  Maybe that's why they're there.  As a red herring so you totally miss the horror show going on right before your eyes.  Maybe that's what the Horseshoe casino needs out here.  Some dolls spread throughout the casino so you don't notice the huddled masses of old people throwing away their retirement money.  More tales from the scandalous "Sapp Bros." later.

All right, you insatiable jackals, that's all for now.  Hope you all had a happy Easter filled with joy and...stuff.

This old person thinks he can make Michael Jackson
dance moves, but totally needs some jive ass threads.

LET'S PUT A BOUNTY ON GOODELL.

1633

The punishment hasn't fit the crime so incongruently since Galileo exposed the universe the way it really operated.



2012

Coach Sean Payton, standing before Grand Inquisitor Goodell, having lost his job for a year now stands to lose upwards of $8 million dollars.

The team, the best in the NFL, obliterating several longstanding NFL records this year, who could only lose to themselves (588 turnovers vs. a scrappy San Francisco in the NFC Championship) now finds themselves stripped of their head coach for the year, GM and linebackers coach for half the year, their second round draft picks for the next two years...and the firing squad may just unload a 21-gun "salute" at the defense).

Seems pretty arbitrary doesn't it?  Know why it's unprecedented?  That's right.  Because there's no precedent.  

Only arbitrary punishments can be inflicted by someone with absolute power.

Journalist Tim Kowlishaw, in shock, says the penalties the NFL imposed on the Saints go beyond severe.

Dave Zirin, a columnist who says he is "shock-raged" about the over-the-top crippling of the Saints put's Goodell's sanctimony in a clear perspective:

"...But this fails the most basic of smell tests. If Goodell cared about player safety, he wouldn’t be pushing for an eighteen-game season. He wouldn’t have spent last off-season fighting the NFL Players Association on expanding health benefits or limiting “voluntary” off-season workouts. He wouldn’t be promoting Thursday-night games, which will accelerate injuries by giving players a shorter week to heal."

By the end of his column, Zirin encourages Saints season ticket holders, like me, to sue the NFL. 

And it's not as if Sean Payton can just take his talents elsewhere this year and coach in the competing AFL this year...he can't.  The NFL is a monopoly.  In a way it's all the Saint's fault. 

BFF!  OMG!  LOL!  XOXOXO!

Back in 1966, Louisiana wanted a professional football franchise.  Badly.  The NFL and AFL wanted anti trust merger exemption (read: monopoly).  Pete Rozelle winked at his friends in high places. Super-powerful Louisiana Senator Hale Boggs attached the NFL-AFL antitrust exeption rider onto a bill in fellow Louisiana Senator Russel Long's Senate Finance Committee (of which he was...the Chairman).  This kept the anti-merger bill out of the hands of voracious anti-trust Senator Emanuel Cellar of New York, chaiman of the Congressional Subcommittee of Anti-trust, where the matter deserved to be heard.

The NFL was suddenly blessed with a monopoly.

Only eleven days later, the state of Louisiana was granted an NFL franchise.  Suprise!  That's the way the universe works.

And in doing so helped to create an all powerful football Pope to which they would be subject.  Sometimes very much to their benefit (2006) sometimes to their apparant destruction (2012).

Remember in 2006 when Saints owner Tom Benson confused his actual liberties of private ownership of an NFL team with someone who actully owned something real -- something you had a say so in -- confused the New Orleans Saints with someone like Terrell Owens, who just moves around whenever he wants to?  When post-Katrina he wanted to high tail it to San Antonio, TX?  The San Antonio Saints?  Well he was told by the NFL that, no, the New Orleans Saints were not a "free agent" to move about as they wished.  They were staying put.  Case closed.  I'm sure Benson was seated down and explained the situation. 

"Look, Tom, we can't lose viewership in the entire Gulf Coast region.  That's a lot of money.  we've already gotten a black eye with that whole Art Modell moving the Browns to Baltimore overnight stunt, and we can't have that again...Look, we're running an illegal monopoly, and we're trying to APPEAR ethical and full of all the American virtues they teach in school...But since we're all friends here, let's work something out.  So how about if the NFL kicks in $15 million, and help with having our friends at FEMA kick in $115 million to repair your stadium at a record pace.  So you take this money, STFU, stay put, and we'll get you back in business, maybe even with a good team.  How about we whisper to the Houston Texans to pass on Reggie Bush with the first pick as a personal favor?  He's the kind of guy that sells tickets. We did give Houston the Superbowl just a few years ago and they owe us a favor or two.

For those of you who think Dallas is "America's Team," think again.  FEMA paid the Superdome and the Saints huge amounts of money to stay put.  I'll let those of you who are Atlanta Falcons fans take a little time to absorb that factoid.  All of you Falcoholics have paid taxes to the New Orleans Saints so the NFL could retain the Gulf Coast market.  From the view of taxation, their your team too.  How's that ruffle your feathers?

But something happened after 2006.  The Saints didn't just get a new spit-shined multi-million dollar Superdome and become competitve.  They became really, really good.  Conspiracy theorists might argue that the NFL referees even helped the Saints beat the Vikings in the NFC championship to create a feel-good story.  And by conspiracy theorists, I guess that means ESPN analysists.  Result:  a Superbowl that had the greatest viewership worldwide out of any event -- ever.


View from :45.

If Brett Favre did take some illegal hits in that game, did the NFL turn a blind eye to it?  Looks pretty clear to me.  If the Saints were guilty in that game is there any doubt the NFL were co-conspirators?

So what's the problem?  The Saints became too good, and wouldn't go away.  And like the Patriots, they were becomming a nuisance.  With free agency, the best players gravitate towards the best teams with the best coaches and quarterbacks and avoid playing for the ugly stepsisters of the league.  Let's call this the Free Agent Law of Gravity.  Do you think this causes a problem for the NFL?  What if on top of that, your organization has mastered the art of cherry picking pure nuggets of gold from the draft seemingly year after year after year?

Back to the bounties.  If they really wanted to take someone out of the game, these gigantic monsters would have done it.  I'm 40 years old and 172 lbs soaking wet, and I bet if I were so inclined, I could run into Bret Favre's knees at my own personal full speed at the proper angle after a whistle had blown and cripple the guy.  I guarantee I could do it.  Just hit his knees directly from the side.  Did Kurt Warner get the ever living snot licked out of him?  Yep!  Were all these hits legal?  Very.

The NFL apparantly has the means and the motive in the prosecution, but they're missing something crucial.

BFF!  OMG!  LOL!  XOXOXO!

There's no body.

No one went out on a stretcher -- on a hit that was illegal in this game.  In these three inquisitioned years.

Again, give me $10.000, Jonathan Vilma, and I will show you how to destroy Bret Favre's knees when he's not looking.  

Do you remember the Tonya Harding --Nancy Kerrigan tragedy from way back in 1994?  The infamously homely and ill-proportioned Tonya Harding couldn't compete with the much more talented and relatively cute Nancy Kerrigan on the ice and had her boyfriend break her kneecap with a lead pipe.  Now THERE'S an ACTUAL COMPLETE CASE with means/motive/illegal hit/broken kneecap/body on a stretcher complete case easy to prosecute!  

The way any good bounty is SUPPOSED to work.
Nancy Kerrigan, 1994.

You mean to tell me 27 absolute physical beasts of men under the direction of a supposedly bloodthirsty defensive coach couldn't do IN THREE YEARS, IN FIFTY-FOUR GAMES, to one kneecap/ trachea/ neck/ spine what Tonya Harding's boyfriend did properly in one afternoon?  Take somebody out in a stretcher with an illegal hit?  The Saints clearly had the twenty-seven WORST HIT MEN EVER in the history of the world. 

If "300" was an action film about how three hundred Spartans slaughtered and defeated 100,000 Persians, maybe Hollywood could make a comedy called "27."

If anything, the NFL should grant the Saints an additional first round pick as their "punishment."  Maybe they can draft someone who knows how to properly send someone out in a stretcher.  Or they can hire Roger Goodell as a consultant for the other teams as to how to continually send players with concussions back into games.  Roger Goodell handing down sentences for someone violating player saftey is akin to a ku klux klansman representing someone in a Civil Rights dispute.

At it's very worst, the NFL has a case against the Saints of a conspiracy of poor behavior and locker room bravado with unwilling conspirators who really knew better and refused to actually do the truly unthinkable.  Money got passed around, tough guys talked tough, the culture inside the locker room behaved like a culture inside a locker room...but it looks like at the end of the day, the culture on the field stayed pretty damn much within the fair lines of play!  For three years!  Yes, some people took a few really hard hits.  Occasionally they looked Baltimore Ravens scary.  Your point?

Mr. Goodell, your culture of nasty, legal, viscious hits was already well grandfathered in. It would take someone with a concussion not to remember this. You can't go back and punish what you've instituted.  But I understand...you found the technicality...the money that exchanged hands as a reward. Percentage wise, for what these the world's most physically imposing helmeted millionaires on the planet make, it would be tantamount to my employer offering me a $2 Best Buy gift card to beat the crap out of one of our competitors.  I too would talk smack, and take the gift card, but I wouldn't really do it.

The commissioner of the NFL has the power to make or break a franchise.  With the New Orleans Saints, he will be the first commissioner of any sport, ever, to do both.  And all within six years.

Remember when the NFL stepped in a couple of years ago ordering T-shirt shops to stop selling "Who Dat?" shirts because they felt they "owned" the phrase "Who Dat?"  I wonder if they'll have the huevos to issue the same cease-and-desist order to local t-shirt makers who are now profitting selling "Free Sean Payton" t-shirts, with the much more honest plea that they OWN Sean Payton.  They do.  They actually own him.

And "Free beer tomorrow!"

So let's say the NFL's side of the story is true and their auto-de-fe' of Sean Payton is 100% accurate.  Is it not self-implicating enough that the NFL quietly asked the Saints after 2009 to stop it?  No penalties then.  Then quietly again after 2010?  No penalties then either.  Then finally after 2011 they step in.  Why?

Do you really think the Saints were the only ones rewarding players for "big hits" or fumble recoveries?

Do you really think Bill Belichick of the Patriots dynasty was the only one spying on another team in the NFL?

Let's put it this way.  Nobody cares if the Browns spied on the Bengals anytime in the last three decades.  Not even the Bengals.

This whole punishment is all about TWO THINGS.  The one thing Roger Goodell can control -- money, and the one thing he absolutley cannot -- lack of parity in the NFL.  I'll guarantee you the phrase "Free agency ruined the game" originated in the NFL headquarters in New York.  Free agency and the desire for winners to play on winning teams with winning coaches create superteams; eventual dynasties that generally turn off the rest of the public and their hard earned money.  Everyone wants to play pitch and catch with Brees or Brady.  And Belichick and Peyton.  The homely, ill-proportioned Tonya Hardings of the league?  Not so much...

The way the rules are written now, your Jacksonvilles and St. Louises have no chance in this league.  And it's a league that yearns ideally to fill all thirty-two markets as close to full stadium capacity as possible.  In Roger Goodells ideal make-believe universe, he has thirty-two teams all going in to the final game of the season with records right around 7-9, 8-8, and 9-7.  Maximum viewership.  Maximum ticket sales.  Maximum profit.

There's also the rumor that the NFL does not want the Saints to be in the Superbowl (hosted in New Orleans this year) because it would stand to lose a lot of money.  A lot.

If the Saints were guilty of anything they were GUILTY of not following advice from cult hero, former Louisiana governor from the 1950's Earl Long.  Earl's advice on staying out of trouble?

"Don't write down anything you can phone.  Don't phone anything you can talk.  Don't talk anything you can whisper.  Don't whisper anything you can smile.  Don't smile anything you can nod.  Don't nod anything you can wink."

Brothers Huey and Earl survived all their inquisitions.

Apparently, the NFL has enough people talking and enough information that was written down.  They don't need an actual body to prosecute, apparantly.  And it only took 50,000 documents.

And as I'm writing this...I'm thinking...surely...surely someone in the NFL front office must have heard an internal affairs report that was whispered in their own headquarters.  About how to maximize profit.

Or maybe enen talked about.

Hopefully phoned and recorded.

Ideally a clandestine financial report that was written and you have copies of on why the best bottom line for the league would be to cripple the Saints (or earlier on, the Pats).  To artificially induce some parity by sanctioning from time to time your two best teams.  One in the AFC, one in the NFC.

Did your employers in the league headquarters specifically target the Saints and Patriots, the obvious perennial juggernauts in each division to assist with creating parity in the league -- a goal which cannot be attained under the current legal system of free agency -- with it's Free Agent Law of Gravity?  Was there a goal to equilize the records of all teams as much as possible by only investigating possible dynasties...with the goal of maximizing profit for the league?

Did the NFL try to keep the Saints out of this year's Superbowl held in New Orleans because research showed the NFL would lose a boatload of money if this were to happen?

If you work in the NFL head office...let me know!  Snitch!  Give us these documents.  I want Goodell hit hard.  If your documents lead to a winning investigation against Roger Goodell should a lawsuit come about that Saints season ticket holders win, I'll kick in $1,500 to the pot.

40

It's one of those trite, played out cliches from the movies.  The coach going into the locker room of the downtrodden team at halftime, telling the team that "Nothing matters less than the score at halftime!  Nothing!"

I guess that's got some merit to it...but it's human nature for us all to measure everything isn't it?  Maybe more so for guys.  The competitive streak.  All the measuring.

     

To take stock of where we've been, what we've learned...and -- well, the "score" at halftime.

To compare ourselves to others, to measure our wallets, our friends, the richness of all our experiences?  The number of  friends, the distances of our travels, the things we've acomplished... Am I where I wanted to be by this point in my life? 

So I hit a milestone birthday a few days ago (lie: this is another late blog) in a very DELIBERATE, non-descript, quiet ceremony.  Good way to hit middle age.

Thanks again to everyone out there for not throwing me a surprise birthday party for the 40th year in a row.  A**holes.  Could I have dropped any more hints?

So...um...yeah...    middle age.

And you know what?  It's not so bad!  I don't feel forty, and on a maturity level I'm not a day past twenty-five!



Dork-boy at 40.
Photo cred: the Nororious BNC



Which is pretty nice considering I can recall how very depressed I was about turning thirty a decade ago.  That odd insufferable rut of depression that lasted a month.

So while I'm in a measuring mood, the past few years has given me more volitile peaks and valleys than I ever thought possible in my otherwise ordinary life.  Had lots of amazing things happen.  Had a lot of truly awful things happen.  Lost a lot of people in my life.  Crucial people.  The ones you can't replace. 

Really big highs and really big lows leading up to this halfway point. 

Lessons learned?  Lots.  Hope I'm the wiser for all my mistakes.  I really do.

But come to think of it, this might not be my halftime pep-talk at all. 

I've had a sister that died at 50.  Another amazing sister died just recently at 52.   My dad died at 60 and my mom just over a year ago at 63. 

So I've got a good idea on what Vegas's "line" on my own personal over/under is for my personal return to quiet-time inside the Earth.  Mississippi has the lowest life expectancy of all the states, and it looks like if I were a betting man, I'd STILL have to take the "under" on that number when it comes to myself.  It just looks like things are lined up that way genetically.

So instead of a halftime speech, this may be my own third quarter commentary leading into...well, let's hope its a hell of an exciting fourth quarter!  Hey, I'm not too thrilled about it, but on the flip side, I don't feel compelled to save for retirement.  You gotta play the odds you know.  Besides, if I do accidentally live to a ripe old age, social security will always be there to take care of me, right?!*

I did think about marking the occasion with my first tattoo. There's an activity that screams mid-life crisis, huh?!  I've always shied away from tattoos because I could never think of any one design I'd never get tired of.  But I did consider getting that recycle symbol put on my butt with "Organ Donor" written underneath it.  Pretty responsible, and it would have been a good giggle for the undertaker; not to mention a good cause which I'm very fond of.  We're all just made of parts and we should be willing to give these parts to whomever needs them once we're done with them. 

The local place I considered here in South Mississippi has a picture of a young Brett Favre getting a tattoo on his butt.  Ever wanted to know what's tattooed on Brett Favre's bottom by the way?  The correct answer: a leprechan chugging a beer.  It's true.  Bet you could have gone without knowing that.  Try removing that thought.  How's that workin' out for you?



There he is!  Right next to the bounty on his ass!  Get him!!!



Now the reason I decided not to get my first tattoo to mark the halfway point occasion is because, as some of you know, I have daughters.  And at some point, many years down the line, they're going to want to get a tattoo.  So when they approach me with this very impassioned everybody-else-is-doing-it plea, I'll tell them that that's actually great idea and that I'll go along with them to get my first one too!  This idea of their wrinkly old bastard father getting a tattoo should mortify them just as much as the idea of my daughters getting a tattoo horrifies me.  I call this reverse-psychological trick "tattoo leverage," and look forward to springing that mind game on them in another decade or so. 

The Patrick Swayze Chippendale/ Minotaur/ Rainbow calf tattoo.  A popular choice as well.  Daddy's gonna get this on his calf!  C'mon!  Let's go!!  Wait...why aren't you coming?  You changed your mind?  Really?  Awwwww!  That's a shame!

So, back to my actual birthday.  Here's how it went down on the actual MINUTE I turned forty that morning.

I'm driving three miles an hour outside of my kids' school.  I drive slower than any other parent because I have a fear of not being able to see a kid and hitting him/her.  That's about the speed at which I crept through the stop sign everyone ignores, because there is really never any imminent danger or traffic anywhere.

Captain Safety (pictured below), and I don't think I'm prone to hyperbole, was zooming into the adjacent police station at about 735 mph and attempts to cross over my lane on two wheels, Dukes of Hazard style.  In a flash he ignites his super high strength police lights at me and blares his siren.  Great.



"F...................e...................b...............r..............u....................a.............................
45 minutes later, I'd get my ticket. 

"

...at birth?



Separated...



I was still just waking up so I'm sure my total lack of early morning smooth talking got me nowhere.  Up until now in the new vehicle, I've gone 6-0 against the po-po, having diplomatically dodged six tickets by getting a personalized license plate from the NRA.  Cost?  $35/year. Why did I choose an NRA license plate?  Well, it's no secret that every police officer is a gun freak and has a 90% chance of being a member of the NRA.  When they see the plate, they associate with you immediately, and assume you're a pretty good guy.  Also, when they ask you if there are any guns in the vehicle, it gives you a chance to talk a bit with them and divert the subject of your infraction you've just been pulled over for.  Result:  no ticket.  I've blown more stop signs, red lights and speeding ordinances in several states and gotten away with it because of my special plate.   The way I see it, if it were prorated, I'm probably really paying only $0.02 for every time I've blatently broken the law in so many states since getting this one ticket.  Not to mention the plate in your driveway sends out a clear message to potential burglars:  You might prefer trying to rob my neighbor instead. 

But apparantly with Captain Saftey here, my Jedi mind trick was an epic fail.  He burst out of the car, lept into the air and over his truck's hood, sliding down it dramatically with a pen in one hand and ticket pad in the other.  For a second, I thought I heard theme music.  The NRA license had no effect.  My birthday on my driver's license had no effect.  My polite explanation fell on deaf ears.  Maybe, just maybe the only thing on my car that would have changed his mind would be a bumper sticker that said, "I F*CKING LOVE SKOAL CHEWING TOBACCO.  IT IS AWESOME!!!"

Seriously, if I can tell from twenty-five yards away that you're chewing tobacco, you have a serious problem.  Officer, that wad in your mouth (see picture #2) looks about as thick as a 16 oz. sirloin steak, but, hey, it's your preriodontal concern, not mine.  And, yeah, I realize I'm appearing now to be a "tough guy hiding behind a computer screen writing this."  But just let me say there's something ironic about getting a $185 ticket from a cop who's obviously more buzzed than a space monkey. Why doesn't he just crack open a Pabst Blue Ribbon while he's in his comfort zone?  Lawnchair?  I mean how many government employees get to chew tobacco on the clock? 

What would your reaction be if you went to your surgical appointment and your doctor was spitting a wad into a plastic cup?  How about your chef?  Or your insurance agent?  Would you take them seriously?  Can you think of any profession where chewing tobacco should be considered ok?  Ok, baseball.  So...he should wear cleats next time he writes a ticket I guess.

He slaps the ticket in my hand and tells me to have a good morning.  It really felt like, "welcome to the age of defeat."  But that feeling...went away.  And out of pure stubbornness, enjoyed the hell out of the rest of my day.

So how am I doing?  What's the measuring stick say? 

Well I'm nowhere close to retired yet, but I'm not quite a drooling ward of the state. 

I'm not quite satisfied with where I've been, but excited about where I'm headed.

I'm not doing as good as the guy with the greener grass on the other side of the hill, but I'm not concerned at all with him either!

Just somewhere in the middle. No need to measure; just happy to be here.  So what else matters?  :)

And finally ready to start playing a full series of tournaments again.  As the ignominious Chad Burns would say...IOWAnt to play Texas Hold 'em!!!

See ya soon in Cedar Rapids, tough guy!

Being thrity-nine isn't so bad after all!!!

And when you turn 89, you get to make out with Paris Hilton!  Can't wait!!!

*Research shows that by 2037, the Social Security trust fund will be entirely depleted.  If you're forty or younger and reading this today, you are 100% screwed.  Also, your entire country will be insolvent.  But thank you for contributing payments all your life to the world's greatest pyramid scheme!  The US government kinda makes Bernie Madoff look like an insignifigant Bourbon Street Three Card Monte hustler, doesn't it?