High Stakes Madness

The last hand on this video, in which Tom Dwan attempts to run a massive bluff against Phil Ivey, is one of the best single hands of poker I have ever seen--on both sides. Enjoy.

The Hockey Stick That Wasn't

A fascinating review of what appears to be a fascinating book. The book, The Hockey Stick Illusion, describes the efforts of one man to double-check the data used to create the (apparently) famous "hockey stick" graph--THE core piece of evidence for those that assert that mean temperature on Earth has risen sharply in the 20th century. Turns out, the graph, as well as most of the subsequent data sets taken from that graph, are mostly wrong. This is a book I would like to read. So, if any of you want to buy me anything, here's your chance.

And while you're at it, I'd also like a credenza. And lawn furniture. And some 1982 Bordeaux.

But I'll settle for the book. Read the review--at minimum because it contains this sentence: "I never thought I would find myself unable to put a book down because—sad, but true—I wanted to know what happened next in an r-squared calculation."

Who The Real Heroes Are

I spent almost a week in Greece about ten years ago and found the country fascinating. Hugely and inexorably antithetical to everything that I, an uptight Anglo Saxon, am and will ever be--but fascinating nonetheless. Maybe that's why I've been tracking the tension between Greece and the rest of Europe (particularly Germany) with special interest.

This article in the Times offers some excellent insight into why the Greek government is so financially imperiled. The opening is particularly noteworthy:

ATHENS — Vasia Veremi may be only 28, but as a hairdresser in Athens, she is keenly aware that, under a current law that treats her job as hazardous to her health, she has the right to retire with a full pension at age 50.".....“I use a hundred different chemicals every day — dyes, ammonia, you name it,” she said. “You think there’s no risk in that?”

“People should be able to retire at a decent age,” Ms. Veremi added. “We are not made to live 150 years.”

Impossible To Resist

I found this here. It's one of the many, many pages on Wikipedia dedicated to explicating all the various ins and outs of Cthulu, the deranged mythic reality created by HP Lovecraft.

Pretty much every entry on this page is similarly awesome.

L'gy'hx

The planet Uranus. It is inhabited by metallic, cube-shaped beings with multiple legs. These creatures worship a minor deity known as L'rog'g (possibly another aspect of Nyarlathotep), whose rituals require a yearly sacrifice in the form of the excising of the legs from a native.

"As For The Fruit, It Had No Taste At All"

I've had this poem (especially the line above) in my head for the last few days. Donald Justice wrote it as a graduate student at Iowa. His teacher, John Berryman, was blown away.

The Wall

The wall surrounding them they never saw;
The angels, often. Angels were as common
As birds or butterflies, but looked more human.
As long as the wings were furled, they felt no awe.
Beasts, too, were friendly. They could find no flaw
In all of Eden: this was the first omen.
The second was the dream which woke the woman.
She dreamed she saw the lion sharpen his claw.

As for the fruit, it had no taste at all.
They had been warned of what was bound to happen.
They had been told of something called the world.
They had been told and told about the wall.
They saw it now; the gate was standing open.

-Donald Justice

Something I Have To Share

So I'm driving home from work yesterday and I end up listening to a radio interview with Douglas Brinkley about a new book he's written about Teddy Roosevelt and his contributions to the American environmental movement. The book (Wilderness Warrior) sounded reasonably interesting, and I'm sort of mildly paying attention when Brinkley lets fly with what I think may be the single greatest bit of presidential trivia ever: Theodore Roosevelt owned a pet badger named...

...wait for it...

...Josiah.

!

!

!

!

After further research I learned Josiah was "tossed on to the Presidential train as it traveled through Kansas in 1903 by a little girl, who shouted the animal's name to the President. Josiah was bottle-fed until he cut his teeth, at which point he started to nip at any legs available."

My estimation of Theodore Roosevelt--already fairly high--just went through the roof.

After searching the web, I've not been able to find any actual photos of Josiah, so instead I'll just put up a picture of a non-presidential badger. (By the way, "Presidential Badger"--fantastic band name).

Wombats and Ends

Little has happened round here of late. That's a big change from the norm; usually very little happens.

Last night we saw Fences at the South Coast Rep. Prior to this, I'd read only one of August Wilson's plays (Ma Rainey's Black Bottom) which did a lot more for me than I thought it would. I expected a doctrinaire, agenda-driven piece of rhetoric, but I got a lot more.

Fences did not live up to Ma Rainey. Acting was excellent but both the directing and the writing let us down. The first act did everything a good first act should, but the second act let it all fall apart.

The moral is: don't ever leave your house.

* * *

There's a new TV show on BBC America that all you need to watch. It's called the In-Betweeners. It's about a group of semi-misfit high school boys and their attempts to find...all the things that high school boys attempt to find. It's crude, and funny, and vulnerable and strangely sweet. Well-written, well-acted--excellent all around. It's on Wednesdays, I believe.

* * *

The wife leaves tomorrow for a medical conference. A week of loneliness is on the horizon. I'll watch Yes, Minister, and finish rereading Vanity Fair and maybe subject myself to Last Year at Marienbad. (Why am I such a Europhile where art is concerned?) The long-awaited movie list is on hold until I cross about ten more names off the list of "Films I Need to See." Marienbad is one (barely). Last week I watched Sans Soleil, which makes a lot of critics' top ten lists for the best ever. Tarkovsky-esque, surreal, poetic and mindbending though it was, I doubt it makes my Top Fifty. (There's not much room on there to be honest--all of the Police Academy Movies take up most of the space).

* * *

The big trip for the year has been planned. In May we're going to Kauai (Hawaiian for "Island." No, not really). Apparently near where we'll be staying served as the Bali Hai in the film version of South Pacific. I am determined to take a surfing lesson while there. Because if there is one single group of people in THIS WORLD with whom I identify, it's surfers.

"I'd Better Go and Have A Bath I Suppose"

I was pleasantly surprised to find this clip on YouTube. It is, I think, one of Python's highest achievements, but it's one most people don't know. It appeared in their fourth season, after John Cleese left--when they were only Monty Python (no Flying Circus).

Shows I Watch

Undoubtedly I watch too much TV. And yet, with the advent of DVR, I have come to feel confident that, at least now, the TV I watch is the TV I want to watch--not just what's on. DVR has also allowed the wife and I to try out shows that are on at odd times, on stations we would never watch otherwise. As a result, I believe I'm something of a connoisseur (sadly) of TV. Here are some shows we watch.

Comedy

30 Rock, Modern Family, Parks and Recreation, The Office
The best episodic comedies on TV. 30 Rock is not as good as it once was. Modern Family is the best new show of the season. The Office gets less funny and more depressing every season. Parks and Rec is hit or miss (but more the former than the latter).

Bravo

Project Runway, Top Chef, Millionaire Matchmaker, Launch My Line

Project Runway's last season (in LA) was terrible, but now that they're back in New York it's gotten back its old mojo. Top Chef continues to be great. (This season's winner, Michael Voltaggio, has a restaurant in LA that the wife and I are trying to go to. It's booked up for months in advance, of course). Millionaire Matchmaker is vulgar and depressing. A great way to remind yourself how lucky you are to be married and no longer going on blind dates. (By the way, I've concluded that blind dates are much harder on women than men. At least, they are on this show). Launch My Line is just horrible, but it's a competition show on Bravo, so by law I have to watch it.

Cooking

Chopped

On the Food Network. Four contestants have to cook a three-course meal. They are given random ingredients for each course and a set time. Example: for the appetizer, they MUST use scallops, goji berries, and pimentos. For the entree: bacon, kiwi, cornish hen, and ramps. Etc etc. After each course they're judged and one of the contestants is kicked off. Surprisingly great TV, especially because at least one of the ingredients in each course is way outside the comfort zone of just about everyone competing. ("I have to make a dessert using kale? What the @#)$*!")

Next Iron Chef

Not on very often, but an entertaining competition in which the winner is added to the Iron Chef cooking pantheon. Far better than the actual Iron Chef (at least the American version).

The Worst Cooks In America

Almost over, but incredibly entertaining. Twelve would-be cooks are chosen for their complete lack of cooking talent. (The first episode, in which each chef has a 'signature dish' evaluated by professional cooks is absolutely hilarious. A woman makes Mac and Cheese using cottage cheese, etc.) Then, the chefs are trained in rudimentary and not-so-rudimentary skills, with the best moving on each week. At the end (coming up next week) the two best chefs compete in a cook-off in front of professional food critics.

BBQ Pitmasters

A new fave, (I believe it's on TLC?) BBQ Pitmasters follows a crew of competitive BarBQue cooking teams as they travel the country facing off against each other in high-intensity BarBQue Cookoffs. The prize money is niggling, but the competitors don't care. Intense people, intense judges--intense food. The unwitting star is a good old boy from Georgia named Myron Mixon, a man constitutionally incapable of uttering a single sentence that doesn't incorporate at least five swear words and one reference to his own status as best BarBQue pitmaster ever. (A claim he can generally back up). Good stuff.

Home and Decor

Before buying a house and getting married, I never imagined I would actually choose to watch shows about buying houses or decorating them, but I have and I do. Most of these are on HGTV and they follow one of three formats:

1) A person tries to buy a house

2) A person tries to sell a house

3) A person tries to redecorate a house

The best of these shows is called House Hunters International, which documents the efforts of people living abroad to buy or rent homes in foreign countries. A couple buying a home in Amsterdam first has to deal with the squatters who have taken up residence there (legal in Holland). A man in Tokyo hopes to find a bathtub large enough to actually lie down in. A couple in Malta debates the hassle of a commute from (some random town I haven't heard of) to (another random town I haven't heard of). Apartments in Berlin do NOT have appliances provided in the kitchen. It's all the little details that suck you in. It's also as close as I'll probably ever get to owning a villa in the South of France (three recent shows have been set there). Or, for that matter, in Uruguay. Strangely compelling.

A Real Problem

Report: Most College Males Admit To Regularly Getting Stoked

A Post On The Last Decade That Changes Tone Abruptly Round About Halfway In

Both my jackass friends have seen fit to reflect on their experience with live, love, and Jeff Beck during the last decade. Being something of a jackass myself, I decided to follow suit.

I started the decade living in the same city I live in now—Los Angeles. Technically I lived, then, in a small suburb on the Northeastern edge of Los Angeles called Sierra Madre. I was there because I’d won admission into a TV Writing “Workshop” run by Warner Brothers. It was, in fact, a glorified audition, one which awarded paid writing spots to top performers at the end of the ten-week class.

I loved living in Sierra Madre; I loved the town; I loved my life. I woke up every day and went to the same coffee shop, where I ate the same breakfast (two lemon poppyseed muffins, eight cups coffee) read the same paper, and came back at the same time every day to write (10:30). Afternoons I read the same book (In Search of Lost Time), played pick-up at the same court, and spent the late afternoon watching the same TV show (NYPD Blue). I was lonely, but happy.

About halfway into the class I found out that I had been accepted into MFA programs in both fiction writing and poetry. (I had applied the previous fall). I had several choices. I could move back to St. Louis where I had been living, attend the fiction program at Wash U and try to patch things up with my then-girlfriend; I could stay in LA, where I was doing well in the TV writing workshop and try to make a lot of money writing crap that no one would want to watch; or I could go to Iowa and attend the poetry program at the Writers’ Workshop.

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow…. I went to Iowa. I don’t know why. It was probably a mistake. I went from a sunny and friendly place, writing something I didn’t care about but could do well—to a dark and unfriendly place (the Workshop, not Iowa) writing something I cared too much about but didn’t seem to do very well. I made one very close friend, read a lot of contemporary poetry, and thought about art. This is not a good place for those (unquestionably profound) reflections, but suffice it to say that I ultimately decided that writing poetry seemed to me to be a dead-end. I have likened it before to learning how to inscribe parts of the Bible onto grains of rice; undoubtedly it’s difficult—but what does it achieve? What does it matter?

I was in Iowa on 9/11. I remember sitting in a bar that night and listening to one of the fiction writers declare with grave certainty that the US would soon reinstate the draft (“they would have to.”) Iowa in toto—extremist, frightened, and wrong. None of us could understand it, and it was all so far away. (Random note: the news source that best captured 9/11 for me turned out to be The Onion. I still remember the article about a Midwestern housewife who, having given blood and baked a cake, worried that she had no other way to help her country.)

This is stating to get long. Let’s speed it on its way. 2002: Left Iowa, went to Boston. Taught my most fulfilling class ever (poetry writing for adults). Hung out with the Harvard Classics Department. Great guys—terrible poker players. Sort of learned Latin. Wrote a lot of mediocre poetry. Turned thirty, had a party (thanks, J!), watched Mirror, Rublev, Passion of Joan of Arc. Left New England never to return (we hope).

Back in Texas, guns-a blazing, tutoring business going good. Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. Played at poker. Reconnected with some friends of yore. Tried to learn to cook. Half-wrote a half-screenplay. Built a web site. Watched the movies I was told to watch. Quoted Master Shake, perhaps too much. Read many things I don't recall. Happy, but in need of song, I set my sail upon the seas of online love. Shipwrecked all at once.

Learned a girl I’d met some years ago was suddenly free. Concocting surreal fantasies of blimp and ficus tree, emailed. Amazed to get reply as funny and bizarre as one I’d sent. Felt stirring, faint yet powerful, deep in the cockles, a there where stirring had not previously been felt. Bought a shirt and had a date. Learned she didn’t eat cheese. Convinced her that a polished rock was actually an after-dinner treat. Had second date. Had tenth. Cockles now a place of swift and steady storm.

Met her family. Got an easel. Watched Tarkovsky once a month at least. Painted now but not in oils. Bought a book on how to buy a diamond ring. Bought a diamond ring. Bought a life-sized teddy bear. Felt the future suddenly change.

Found a chapel, found a planner, found a cake. Well, she found the cake, but I expressed support, checking in from time to time on plans I didn’t fully understand. Many colored folders on her desk. Listened to Sly and the Family Stone. Felt I might not be as funky as I was back then. Wore an eye patch (not for fun). Made sure wedding invitation featured talking box of Fries.

At the chapel, playing rummy in the back, received a rabbit-headed cane. At the service the minister wished not happiness for us, but joy. I understood. The wedding: everybody came, everybody danced. Many vodka shots to those who needed them. (And who did not?)

Went to Austin, went to Cuzco, ate a guinea pig, came home. All the nights when I thought Sal Paradise was right. Moved to Brentwood, bought a sofa, watched The Wire. Did not want a dog. Went to Vegas, hated Vegas, went again. Won and lost enough to almost live upon. Continued not to want a dog. Acquired a dog. Learned how marriage worked. Learned to care for something small and strange. Gave it names to pass the time. Sang to it at night. Began to find a need to go to total strangers and explain the ways my dog was best. Realized I’d lost my hold.

Got a realtor. Got a mortgage. Got a job (sort of). Joined a gym. Found I’d put on weight. Found I’d lost some hair. Found my writing hadn’t gotten me to any place of note. Felt despair encroach. Resisted it, as best I could.

Saw the 10s begin back here, in Valley Glen, in house with wife and dog. Like other friends, I also spent 2000 in Houston, at the same party as my friends. All that’s over now. No more colored alcohol; no more smoke machine (or was that from a different year?) Now it’s time for kids, for work, for middle age. Wisdom just another word for sorrow, in the end. But joy comes also, pushing up through time’s thick sediment, a plume of smoke illumined by the light of those surrounding it, transporting us outside of time as often as we need, almost.