Tao of Pauly

Happy 2012; Time to Unplug

2012-01-01T23:11:00.006-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Happy New Year. Wishing you the best because it's going to be a weird year.

2012 is upon us. Tao of Pauly is creeping up to its 10th birthday. Shocker, eh? Hard to imagine that I polluted the internet with my inane internal chatter for almost a full decade.

Over the last few years, I developed a special routine at the start of the new calendar year. I essentially took off for two months -- January and February -- and cleared my freelance work schedule which gave me large chunks of unfettered time to lock myself in my office in the Slums of Beverly Hills, where I'd hone writing skills, read a pile of books (that's four-feet high), and focus on personal projects.

At the start of 2012, I have a similar game plan even though I'm in San Francisco. The plan is simple: hone, read, and write. I'm looking forward to step away from the daily grind life on the internet by drastically reducing the endless hours I waste every day on the interwebs as both a contributor and reader. The most Draconian change in my lifestyle will involve the slithery tentacles of social media -- Twitter and Facebook -- which are two massive black holes sucking up time and energy. I must step away from the chatter because it's become a all-encompassing addiction and pesky distraction.

I'm super-burned out this year on all fronts and need time to recharge my batteries. After a decade of constant web writing, I'm ambivalent about another decade of madness and I'm still searching for answers. In the meantime, I desperately need a holiday away from all things digital and must avoid the "machines" as much as possible. We, as a society, have become too reliant upon technology and this scares the bejesus outta me. I'm doing something about my fierce addiction to the virtual world and seek to ween my utter reliance upon the machines.

My holiday in NYC is almost over. It was a fun, but now it's time for me to return to California to recharge and write and write and write and write and write...

Best of Tao - 2011

2011-12-31T03:33:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Here's the best of the best from 2011... How to Take Over a Politically Unstable Country in Six Easy Steps. That's my favorite post from the last year.

I compiled a larger list of some of my favorite entries from the last twelve months. Here's the best of the rest... pieces of internal chatter, notes from personal head shrinking sessions, and other inane observations that I spewed for your consumption...

January
Breaths of Life Through a Filter
Ass Airlines
Ramblings from the Bahamas: Sweet T'ings
Strike Time
How to Take Over a Politically Unstable Country in Six Easy Steps
Breakfast: Best of Times, Worst of Times
Revolution Thursday
You Are Alcoholic, Yes?
Sticky Floors

February
Random Unconnected Thoughts, Vol. 1: Bacon As a Main Course
Random Unconnected Thoughts, Vol 2: Eight Men Out, Slinging Crack Rock, and Herb/Dorothy
Nine in a Box
Matisse's Chorizo
Buddha Dice, Snake Eyes, and Top Chef
The Lazy Echo
A Prophet
Rubbing One Out; The Last Howl in the Alley

March
Disjointed - Dead Battery, Contaminated Magnolia Tree
Trashy Paranoia
The Metamorphosis of a Horrendous Karaoke Singer
5am Rum, Aliens Invade Santa Monica, and Wake of the Flood
3am Rum and Fallout Fears
Soaked Sponges with Dirty Water
Anxious in the Red Zone
Almost Home
Extra Butter

April and May
Sleepless Solo and Patti LuPone Is Not Just Corky's Mom
First Flashes of Lightning
LAX > Lima
Spiderman in Pajamas
Lima > Cusco: Coca Tea, Alien Stonework, and Saqsayhuaman
Cusco > Ollantaytambo > Aguas Calientes > Machu Picchu
The Conundrum: Wheelbarrow of Weimar Marks or More Rum?
Viggo Jordans
West L.A. Punk

June-July-August-September
Home Sweet Hollyweird
Hills, Dive Bars, and Walking Around San Francisco Streets
The Daily Weirdness in the Slums of BH
Intimidating Pancakes
Empty Shelf
Wake of the Flood; Phish Returns to Vermont for Benefit Concert
Paralyzed Decade

October-November-December
Morning Forums and Guns from Greys
Sleep Prived
Flash Crash and the Now Moment
The Difference Between Hope and Occupy
Torn and Frayed
Scoring Dope in the Ghetto, West Coast Speed Freaks, and a Forlorn German Lesbian
Reduction of Word Flow on the Eve of the Internet Kill Switch
Divisdero Dog Fight

That's it. That's all I have for now. Hope you had a groovy 2011 and wish you're 2012 is safe, productive, and as fun as possible...

NYC Pictures: Ocho

2011-12-30T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Eight images captured on my CrackBerry camera...

Phishy Reports: The Cold Open

2011-12-29T05:55:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Read about my evening with Phish -- MSG 1: The Feeling I Forgot -- which is the first of four concerts at historic Madison Square Garden.

Here's some pics...

And don't forget about my recap from night 1 at MSG.

Catman, Policeman and Pusherman

2011-12-27T14:52:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Mustafa gave me the pills.

One of the benefits of being shot four times, Mustafa explained, was a perpetual prescription to various pain medications and opiates. I can't recall if there's an actual bullet wedged behind his spleen, or if that was part of the urban legend which accompanied Mustafa wherever he went. He was shot for sure. That's no bullshit. If you ever spent time with him, he'd be more than happy to pull up his shirt and show you his different scars. He'd even give you the run down on the ballistics report.

It had been a couple of months since I last hung out with Mustafa. I always see him when I go to NYC. But this instance, when I ran into him last week, he had just gotten out of jail.

"They fast track those Occupy protesters," he said. "There's fucking hundreds of 'em. All processed first. When all the protesters are cleared out and it looks like I'm gonna get called, the fucking cops bring in a new batch. Another fucking hundred hippies. Occupy always gets called before me. They fast track 'em. Easy money for the city. Me? I fucking sat around for three days. Three. Fucking. Days. I didn't take a shit for three days. Not once. I held it for three days."

Mustafa gave me the pills as a gift the last time I was in the City. I left a few behind as an emergency stash, because I can never predict when my back will go out. At the same time, I hid a few at my mother's apartment -- cached in a stack of boxes of old books and Dead bootlegs. Sometimes my mother gets a little out of hand and in order for me to deal with her, I have to be faded to the tits. That's the best way I figured out how to cope with all uncomfortable family situations -- get schwasted and numb to everything around me so I'm able to insulate myself from all insults, critiques, and attempts to goad me into an unwinnable argument. Any kind of discussion with my mother gets twisted and mutilated into a quagmire of circular logic resulting in migraine headaches and the desire to throw myself in front of a bus.

Anyway, Mustafa got pinched for smoking a blunt in the middle of the street. He knew better than to blatantly flaunt behavior like that, but he was wasted and made a terrible mistake. Cops don't care what you do in your own home, but they don't want you to rub in in their faces. That's what happened to Mustafa. He was blazing up at the wrong time and wrong place. When he got pinched, he thought he was being set up or got taken down as part of some vast stake out.

"Are you DEA, FBI? Homeland Security?" he quizzed the cops the moment he was taken into custody. It turned out he was collared by a regular narcotics officer who was looking for someone else but Mustafa happened to walk by him at the wrong time. Let that be a lesson to you kids!

* * *
I didn't come face-to-face with the guy that my brother and I call the "serial killer" -- a weird guy who lives in my mother's building. My brother said he used to see the guy crying in the stairwell at different times. Anyway, I saw the serial killer down the hallway, but purposely slowed down so I didn't have to ride the elevator with him. I lingered when I passed his apartment and it smelled like cat piss. It made me wonder... was he an animal hoarder?

Sure, I've been watching too many hours of hoarding-themed reality TV, but there were a significant amount of old people living in my mom's apartment building. The percentages suggested that at least one of them is an extreme hoarder with a hundred boxes of stuff everywhere and that someone in the building is an animal hoarder, you know, the proverbial cat lady. All signs pointed toward the serial killer as the guy who also doubled as the weird, lazy cat dude who let his cat(s) piss everywhere and multiple towers of crusted cat feces are constructed throughout the apartment.

* * *
It's always mind-boggling to walk around the old neighborhood. Some things change, while others stay the same. The stores that stood the test of time are firm anchors in my fuzzy memory, but then there's new businesses in storefronts that seem strange and out of place to me because that particular space had always been the same thing since I could remember. For example, a local drug store was always in one big white brick building. It was the place to go in the neighborhood for most of the 1980s and early 1990s until the chain drug stores moved in on the racket and the local store was getting squeezed by the big dogs. The had to raise their prices while the chain drug stores undercut everything. I'm surprised the old store stayed in business, but somehow it survived but with a drastic change. The old store had to move a few storefronts down the street to a smaller property. Rents were getting high and they couldn't afford to stay in the same spot. So they consolidated and opted for a smaller store. At least -- it still lives. I wish I could say the same about the book store or the Greek diner.

Yeah, I was bummed out when I saw all the white paper blocking out the windows at the Greek diner. A small hand written sign indicated that the diner had been sold and the new owners would be opening up soon. They didn't indicate a specific date. The place was empty and I was without an opportunity to enjoy the best bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches on the planet.

Man, I expect the neighborhood to change, but I missed the Greek diner. I used to go in there half asleep, mumble my order, and listen to the old Jewish guys in the back booth argue about sports, specifically verbally castrating the quarterbacks -- Eli Manning and Mark Sanchez. For some reason Eli drew the most ire from the old guys.

Without the Greek diner and access to bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, I was rudderless every morning.

* * *
I spent a full day wandering around the Met and meandering through Central Park while listening to music. A visit to a museum is something that I do every time I'm in town. If I have the chance, I'll hit up three or more, but even on short trip, I make an effort to pop into the Met to see a few old friends.

Thanks to Mustafa, I got faded on some of his powerful pills, and stumbled through a couple of special exhibits. The Stieglitz stuff was interesting -- a mixture of photographs and friends of his who were painters, but the subject matter was popular because it included Georgia O'Keefe paintings. The special exhibit gallery was crowded, so I rushed through that show. O'Keefe's subversive vag paintings reminded me of the Rhino in Vegas. Alas, I doubt that was her intention -- but when I see her paintings, I can't help but think of -- strippers.

Although parts of the museum were crowded, I found a few empty places where I could sit down and think. Sometimes I got lost in the art, but mostly, I got lost in my own thoughts -- trying to figure out the long term, dreading the near future of Christmas with the family, and letting random flashbacks of my previous lives in New York City enter my bloodstream. I used to fight the waves of memories, but now, I welcome them with open arms. Sometimes they are too immense and I have to sit down to absorb all of the energy that is jogging my memory. It's never easy to explain how/why we get blasted with memories from two or three decades ago.

I spent all afternoon in the museum juggling the variety of emotions that accompanied decades of flashbacks and got lost in the American Wing, which included all of these period rooms, mostly empty aside from a few curious tourists of the German and French persuasion. I hung out in different alcoves in secluded galleries in the Asian Art section after I got a rare batch of claustrophobia when I tried to check out the newly, refurbished Islamic Art galleries.

After an intense visit to the museum, I cooled off by walking through Central Park and listening to a Phish bootleg. Mustafa said to call him in a few days. I hoped he didn't get into trouble again.

New Kindle User? Buy Lost Vegas and Jack Tripper Stole My Dog

2011-12-26T23:11:00.005-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Merry Day-After Christmas everyone!

Were you a good boy/girl this year? We're you naughty, dirty, and got into tons of trouble? Did Santa Claus hook you up with a new Kindle Fire? If so, you're in luck because the e-book version of Lost Vegas is only a few clicks away.

Click here to buy Lost Vegas for Kindle and iPads.

Click here to buy Lost Vegas for the Nook.

Click here to buy a print copy of Lost Vegas on Amazon.com.

* * * *

And if you're totally bored and looking for a trashy novel, then indulge yourself with an e-book Kindle version of Jack Tripper Stole My Dog.

I recorded a podcast with Nicky six or seven months ago. She asked me questions about the origins of Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. If you haven't heard it yet, well, here it is via SoundCloud...

JTSMD - Episode 1: The 10-Day Novel by taopauly

* * * *
And if you like opera music, then here's the trailer...

Thanks for all of your support, kindness, tolerance, patience, understanding, and gratitude. Oh, and thanks for the cashola. Every book you buy indirectly supports my drug habit, which in turn fuels my passion to write dark, crazy smut like e-book Kindle version of Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. Keep supporting the arts and I'll keep churning out cheese-slathered tripe.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T00:34:00.002-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

37 years ago today

The Annual Re-Telling of "Auggie Wren's Christmas Story"

2011-12-24T23:11:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

One of my favorite NYC authors, Paul Auster, published something many moons ago titled "Auggie Wren's Christmas Story." I re-read it every Christmas. So should you.

Click here to read Auggie Wren's Christmas Story.

Charle Chaplin's Speech from 'The Great Dictator'

2011-12-23T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
New York City

Amazing speech from Charlie Chaplin...

Thanks to the Joker for heads-up on this video.

Poker Scribblings

2011-12-19T23:11:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I've posted a couple of things over on Tao of Poker that I'm pointing out because the content has less to do with poker and more to do with social commentary on popular culture and politics. Check out...

Zombie Poker Apocalypse
The Puppeteers of America

Yeah, that is all.

Advice to Chip Bitch and Recent College Graduates

2011-12-18T12:45:00.006-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

It's a little strange what happened in the poker world the last few years, especially after the Poker Shrink retired, because I became the resident head shrinker at the WSOP. I was the on-site psychiatrist in the press box. It happened because I was one of the veterans in the industry with the most experience (and if I wasn't going through what they went through, I knew someone who was faced with a similar situation) and more importantly -- because I had access to a cornucopia of pills.

On a typical day at the WSOP in Vegas, I usually spent at least an hour talking to different friends and colleagues about a variety of topics. I mostly listened because most of the time, people don't want actually answers -- they just want someone to listen to them work things out in their head. More often than not, I dispatched words of encouragement telling them to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel. Unlike life, when you never knew it would end, the seven-week long WSOP had a finish point. So as long as I could get everyone focused on something positive, I felt as though I did my civic duty.

Part of me felt compelled to help friends and colleagues because deep down I wish I had someone to give me words of advice, especially when I was stuck in a rough spot. I had a few mentors along the way like John Caldwell and Flipchip, but never had a consistent go-to guy (or girl) that I could chat about my woes and fears.

Anyway, over the last few years, I found myself mentoring a couple of the younger writers/reporters that came through the biz. One of them, Chip Bitch, just graduated college. Our little side kick is all grown up now. He's come a long way from the days when he worked for peanuts (literally: zero dollars) and snorted crushed up candy for peanuts (literally: zero dollars). Chip Bitch posted something where he reflected on what it's like to be a college graduate and taking his first steps in the real world. He thanked a small group of my colleagues for keeping him on the right track over the last few years. Check out his post... Thanks.

I wanted to give him some words of encouragement in a comment, but realized I was getting a little too verbose, so I decided to post my thoughts here. Anyway, in honor of Chip Bitch, here's a list of 10 Things I Wish I Was Told When I Graduated College....

1. There is no permanent record...unless you count the Echelon project that has downloaded every single email, DM, text message, and whatever update you posted on Facebook.

2. No matter how much you've drank and no matter what you've ingested, smoked, or snorted... you CANNOT fly.

3. Contrary to what she said, she actually faked 98% of the orgasms.

4. You're professors drank as much, if not more, than you. Many of them we're popping pills... just before class.

5. Dick Cheney shot JFK. Courtney killed Kurt. The "Moon" landings were real.

6. Always wipe and stay off the (crack) pipe.

7. Avoid the shrimp and seafood in any buffet that cost less than minimum wage.

8. Read every day. Just because you're done with school doesn't mean you have to end your education. Your mind is a terrible thing to waste on The Jersey Shore.

9. As Polonious said in Hamlet, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be." Don't loan friends money. More importantly, credit cards are evil. If you can't afford it, then don't buy it. If you really want it, I suggest that you steal it. Whatever you do, don't charge it. Banks/credit card companies are more ruthless than the mafia. Don't become a debt slave.

10. People generally suck and will always let you down. Don't sweat the small stuff. Don't worry... just be yourself.

I hope some of this helps. But no matter what you do, never forget rule #2. Oh, and the ubiquitous Golden Rule of Las Vegas.... don't get rolled by a hooker.

Five Subversive Film Recommendations - Best of 2011

2011-12-17T12:28:00.009-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Here's five subversive films I watched (or re-watched) this year that I encourage you to see:

1. Network
2. They Live
3. Collapse
4. Inside Job
5. Gasland

And here's a longer explanation of each film...

1. Network

If you don't know who Howard Beale is, then you must be re-educated, so see this film. Sidney Lumet directed a masterful piece of social commentary warning us about the negative doping affects of mass media, powerful corporate interests driven by greed, and the fine line between propaganda and mainstream news. Scary thing? Network was filmed in 1976, yet the themes still hold up today over three and a half decades later. Howard Beale's "I'm mad a s hell" rant is the most infamous scene in the film and one of the most compelling rants in all of cinema history. However, it's not my favorite one. The board room scene with Ned Beatty is one of the most chilling, yet honest explanations of how the world and monetary system works today. It's so monumental that the powers that disabled embedding of the video. Click here to see the "money" scene from Network.

So here's the "Mad as hell" rant....

* * *

2. They Live

My brother and I used to watch They Live all the time during the VCR age when it first came out in the late 1980s. It starred my favorite wrestler -- Rowdy Roddy Piper -- but at the time all I cared about were the fact it had a WWF superstar and a bunch of aliens, not to mention the longest back alley fight scene ever recorded in Hollywood! I totally forgot about this campy film until the Joker posted a documentary film on Tao of Fear -- They Live, We Sleep Deeply. I watched the thought provoking analysis of John Carpenter's low-budget sci fi film and was blown away. The themes of brainwashing Americans via the TV are still prevalent today because so many of us are asleep practicing blind obedience and allegiance to consumption. I encourage you to see the They Live, We Sleep Deeply documentary, then check out the actual film.

Here's the scene when Roddy Piper finds the special Hoffman glasses that allows him to see the world for how it really is and not the illusion riddled with subliminal messages that was presented to us...

* * *

3. Collapse

Documentary filmmaker Chris Smith met with Michael Ruppert, a former LAPD cop with ties to the intelligence community, to discuss the CIA running drugs into Southern California. When he showed up for the interview, Ruppert wanted to speak about something else. Smith filmed Ruppert in his basement, chainsmoking the entire time, while sharing his world view on the impending collapse of all of Western Civilization. Smith decided to halt production on his CIA drug running film and began a new project with Ruppert's interview as the centerpiece. The result was... Collapse. I've seen my fair share of Peak Oil documentaries, but this one scared the bejesus out of me because it ties in the financial meltdown with peak oil which will eventually lead to an overall collapse of our fiat monetary system and lead to complete civil breakdown. Ruppert has been labeled a nut job by disinfo agents, but he shrugged it off with one of my favorite tag lines: "I do not deal in conspiracy theories... I deal in conspiracy fact."

This is one of two documentaries that you must see. Here's the trailer...

* * *

4. Inside Job

I've seen a few documentaries on the financial meltdown of 2008, but none of them were as powerful as Inside Job, directed by Charles Ferguson and narrated by Matt Damon. I'm shocked that Inside Job won an Oscar for Best Documentary Film, but then again, it gives me a glimmer of hope that not everything in Hollywood is rigged. Anyway, Inside Job will familiarize with the global catastrophe that triggered a financial tsunami when the sub prime mortage market imploded in 2007-08. Degenerate gamblers running the biggest financial companies in the world went busto and nearly crashed the entire system. After you see the film, you will finally realize how Americans were duped into paying trillions in bailout money to big banks and insurance companies on Wall Street.

Here's the trailer...

* * *

5. Gasland

Filmmaker Josh Fox got offered a nice chunk of change to lease some of his property in Pennsylvania to a natural gas company, who wanted to install a fracking well. Fox is skeptical and starts doing his own research into gas drilling and his results are astonishing including a family with contaminated water that can be lit on fire. Fox exposes how communities have been destroyed by the quest to drill for gas by greedy, profit-driven energy companies.

Here's the trailer...

* * *
So there it is... five influential and inspiring films that I watched in 2011. You might not agree with the themes discussed in each film and I'm not trying to convert you. Rather, my intentions are that the films will provoke you to "think" and ask more questions. Always do your own research.

I encourage to watch at least one of them over the holiday season and make an effort to watch all five.

RIP Hitch

2011-12-16T23:11:00.002-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I think I'm the only writer who did not write an eulogy for Christopher Hitchens. Instead, here's a video compilations of his best zingers in The Best of Hitch Slap...

Tao of Poker Nominated for Best Poker Blog

2011-12-15T11:11:00.029-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

The Tao of Poker got nominated for "Best Poker Blog" by Bluff Magazine's Reader's Choice Awards. Bluff lumped me into a category with four other deserving blogs (Hard-Boiled Poker, Riding the F Train, Subject: Poker, and Wicked Chops Poker) and I'm honored to be included among those amazing sites.

You can vote for Tao of Poker here.

Tao of Poker is what Seth Godin would call a "purple cow." I started it in the summer of 2003 because my friends hated reading about poker on this blog. Tao of Poker reached notoriety during the 2005 WSOP, which propelled me into a viable freelance writing career in the poker industry. Without the Tao of Poker, I never would have been able to visit over a dozen countries to cover various poker tournaments. I got to see the world because I loved to write about all things poker. Tao of Poker instilled confidence in my abilities as a story teller and reporter. Tao of Poker fed me. Tao of Poker got me drunk. Tao of Poker got me laid. Tao of Poker got me hired and subsequently fired from ESPN. Tao of Poker became the springboard for meeting groups of diverse people, many of whom I'm proud to call my friends.

Circa 2004

Circa 2005
Over the last few years, I struggled with burn out from the craziness of the poker industry and nonstop travel. Poker had taken up every aspect of my life and I lost the burning passion to write about the one thing that provided me financial security. My focus shifted to finishing Lost Vegas -- which took me five years to go from the original first draft to publication. Over the last few years, I also took mini-vacations away from poker to focus on writing/editing blogs with non-gambling content such as Coventry Music, Tao of Bacon, and Tao of Fear.

More than a half-a-decade later, I'm kinda shocked that the Tao of Poker is still getting accolades. I firmly believe the overall quality writing is as good as its ever been (e.g. A Day in the Life; Phil Hellmuth Denied, Eight Voices and a Sea of Troubles, Rolling Out the Magic, Down With Diseased Monkeys, and The Sahara Doesn't Live Here Anymore) but unfortunately, I haven't had the desire (nor the time) to write about poker every day like I did in 2005-06. After the horrible events of Black Friday in mid-April, when the government pulled the plug on PokerStars and Full Tilt Poker, I stopped playing online poker completely. It was no secret that PokerStars was my sugar daddy and Tao of Poker's top advertiser. Once the ad money and affiliate revenue dried up, I lost the financial incentive to write daily musings about poker. Prior to Black Friday, I had completely sold out and became a hired "thug" and shill for the online poker industry. I was a whore for the buck, but once the flow of money stopped... I seriously questioned why I should continue to crank out content on Tao of Poker.

I started Tao of Poker of the pure love for the game. I blogged for free and never expected a dime. Everything else that happened was 100% gravy. But right now, the entire poker industry is in the middle of a metamorphosis and my passion for the game has been exhausted. I'm outta gas. If I want to evolve as a writer, I have to blaze a new path.

I'm surprised that Tao of Poker got a nod this year from Bluff considering I took a significant amount of time away from writing about poker in 2011 for several reasons -- a new blog, a new book, Black Friday, trading silver futures, and health issues. Around this time last year, I launched Tao of Fear -- a blog that would cover all things related to fear mongering. I devoted a lot of man hours into developing the site and creating an audience. If you read the Tao of Fear, then you know I have a grim outlook about the global financial system. In anticipation of the collapse of the U.S. Dollar and Euro, I went back to day trading and playing the commodities market. In addition, I went on a hiatus at the beginning of the year to finish editing and eventually publishing my first novel -- Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. Unfortunately during the WSOP Main Event, I was involved in a pretty bad car accident. Luckily, my girlfriend was not in the car with me and I was the only one injured. Even though I stayed in Las Vegas instead of going back to Los Angeles to rest up and heal (a decision I now regret), I was stubborn and forced myself to go to work everyday and pathetically limp around the Amazon Ballroom when I should have been confined to bed rest. I let my monster-sized ego lead me astray and as a result, the quality of my writing suffered. I betrayed myself and my readers with the Tao of Poker's lackluster Main Event coverage. I fled Las Vegas utterly disappointed with my decision to stick around. I felt like a washed up quarterback trying to re-live old glory days instead of embracing my decline and quietly riding off into the sunset.

When the WSOP ended, I took another huge chunk of time away from Tao of Poker for a much needed break. I finally returned to the Slums of Beverly Hills to heal. In August, I hit the road and went on the second leg of Phish's summer tour visiting Seattle, Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, Chicago, and Denver. I even flew out to Burlington, Vermont to attend a special charity concert. At the end of the summer, Nicky and I packed up all of our stuff and moved to San Francisco. I missed living in a real city again.

The car accident forced me to slow down and think about the wild ride I embarked upon ever since I accepted my first WSOP gig in 2005. It's been a whirlwind adventure and I wouldn't trade it for any other experience. However, the negatives of living life in the fast lane and having to spend seven weeks every summer in Las Vegas wore me down. Sometimes I was working so hard, I forgot to enjoy the remarkable, once-in-a-lifetime journey, but more importantly, I veered off path. I originally took a job in poker so I can stash away some money and write a couple of novels without having to work a conventional 9 to 5 gig as a cubicle monkey. Seven years later, I forgot what I originally set out to do.

Now that I've had some time away from the grind, I look back and feel incredibly lucky to have gotten where I am today. Tao of Poker would have never become what it did without the support of my brother, girlfriend, and amazing friends. Oh, and how can I forget about the loyal readers? Without them/you, I'm just another piece of wasted space on the intertubes.

Even though I took time off to reflect on my future, I still have yet to figure out what I'm going to do with Tao of Poker in 2012. The accident taught me a valuable lesson -- I needed to slow down -- which I did. But since then, I've been also bombarded with the overwhelming feeling that I got super lucky with a second shot at life. Yeah, it sounds like a cliche, but it took an almost fatal event to remind me that life is incredibly precious and short. Things happen for a reason, right? After a few months of reflection, I came to the realization that there's still a lot of other things I want to do... I want to write... I want to see. Unfortunately, most of those things do not fall into the poker realm.

I don't know how writing about poker -- both freelance and for myself -- will fit into my agenda for 2012. I strive to maintain a balanced life, but let's be honest -- Tao of Poker will never be what it once was. Alas, since the inception of my poker blog, I always winged it and never had an exact game plan. I wrote from the heart, rarely pulled punches, and always called things like I saw it. I was always flexible with the direction of the blog, and the content reflected my willingness to surrender to the flow. That attitude will never change. I always took chances. I adapted to constantly changing conditions in the blogosphere and the industry's landscape which had been altered due to the shaky political climate in Washington. But every year at the WSOP, I showed up and always tried to create something new and original. I attempted to enhance my coverage by utilizing different technology and aspects of social media. Sometimes I hit a home run. More often than not, I struck out -- but at least I went down swinging.

What will the future bring? I have no idea because I'm being pulled in different directions and have to follow my gut instincts. I will continue to write every day about a multitude of topics but and I don't know how much emphasis I'll put on poker in the coming year. I guess you'll have to tune in over the next few months to find out what my plans are for Tao of Poker.

To sum up... it's been an insanely fun ride in the poker industry and tons of fun while it lasted. I'm damn lucky in more ways than I can ever explain.

* * *
If by chance you enjoyed my poker musings, then I encourage you to vote for Tao of Poker here.

2011 (Partial) Reading Pile

2011-12-14T19:07:00.005-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Here's a few pics of my some of reading pile from this past year.

If I get incredibly bored in the next few days, perhaps I'll compile a complete list of some of the books I read this year, and more importantly, some of the books I started... but never finished.

Writing About Las Vegas

2011-12-12T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I posted a three-part trip report to Vegas titled Ocho - WPBT. I lost some money, hung out with my brother and friends, and did some random shit.

Read it here: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3.

Four Haikus: Lost Vegas

2011-12-07T16:20:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

Photo by Flipchip

Four Haikus - Lost Vegas

Stale cigarette smoke
Boulevard of broken dreams
Cowboys shooting dice

Wafting puke odor
Bright lights of white trash city
Cheap liquor cheap thrills

Porn slappers on post
Hustling cocaine-eyed strippers
Hooker or a ho?

Cougars and hipsters
Desperate degradation
Vast cesspool of filth

Predicting the Future: Week 13 Picks

2011-12-03T00:15:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

I'm writing a new column for Wicked Chops Insider... and sharing my thoughts on sportsbetting. So here's my NFL Week 13 Picks.

Just a heads-up, Insider is a paywall site.

I'm in Vegas for the weekend and I'll be putting my money where my mouth is and betting on the picks I suggested in my column.

Divisidero Dog Fight

2011-12-01T14:22:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Several friends asked me when I was going to write lengthy diatribes about living in San Francisco. I appreciate the interest but I'm in "L-I-V-I-N" mode right now when I soak up as much experience as possible before I sit down, patch my bones, and write about the previous few months.

Soon come. The SF stories will be coming soon. But for now, here's a random tidbit that I acquired wile wandering around the dirty streets of San Francisco...

* * *
I was almost attacked by a cougar carrying a wicker reindeer. I had been holed up writing all morning and afternoon and needed a break. I went outside to grab a cup of hot chocolate from the corner cafe. On my way, I nearly collided with a peeved scion that almost gorged me with a wicker reindeer.

What the hell is wicker anyway? All I know is that you can't smoke it. I gleaned this intel NOT by personal experience, rather from someone I know who once attempted to smoke wicker. Or maybe it was marijuana soaked in PCP? I forget. Either way, wicker will not get you stoned.

Cougars, on the other hand, are detrimental to your health in Lo Pac, which is my nick name to Lower Pacific Heights. It's San Francisco's equivalent to Beverly Hills Adjacent or the Slums of Beverly Hills.

The coug bolted out of one of the many antique stores situated around the corner from my apartment. She was carry a big, white wicker reindeer with a nifty red bow tied around its neck. She screamed into her mobile phone and was too self-involved to see me as she stormed out of the store.

Sometimes, I'm just an invisible peasant.

Cougars abound in my hood. In New York terminology, it's sort of like the Upper West Side meets Park Slope. Plenty of nannies pushing double strollers. Lots of tiny purse dogs shitting all over the streets with owners too lazy to clean it up. The filthy sidewalks are congested with 20-somethings in tight black yoga pants with pastel-colored yoga mats rolled up under their arm. Street parking is non-existent in the LoPac and Nicky is constantly fighting Lexus SUVs and Minicoopers for the last available spot.

I walk everywhere, but had a few close calls -- I was almost hit by a vehicle at least four times. Near misses. One scared the bejesus outta me. I lived in LA for four years and only had once close call in the parking lot at The Grove. But three months into San Francisco, and I've almost got nailed by four different SUVs driven my myopic morons on their phones.

That's nothing compared to the mauling I escaped on Divisidero when two yapping dogs wanted to go at each other. The female owners of the hellions were distracted multi-taskers -- a pair of hipsters: one a member of the brown boot mafia in skinny black jeans and the other was your typical neo-eco-crunchy trophy wife in the ubiquitous tight black yoga pants. Their purse dogs looked like over-sized rats. What have such tiny animals? Why not get a cat?

The women stood on the same corner, backs turned and about five feet apart from each other. The both talked on their iPhones while their respective dogs anxiously clocked each other. The tension thickened as I approached. I wanted to avoid the potential clusterfuck as the dogs snarled and growled at each other. A dogfight was nigh. Blood would be shed on Divisidero. Iconsidered whipping out my CrackBerry to record the fight -- but then I'd get hate mail from PETA for supporting cruelty to animals.

Instead, I foolishly tried to walk in between the distracted women at the same moment their dogs lunged at each other. The brown-booted hipster yanked on her leash and her dog yelped. The woman in yoga pants dropped her cell phone to grab her dog when it attacked the cuff of my jeans. That little fucker almost chewed up my Achilles.

Small dogs in Lo Pac. What's the fucking point?

Our downstairs neighbor has a big-ass dog. BIG. DOG. How big? It bangs up against the front door whenever someone is outside. The big dog scares the shit out of the mailman. Some of them are afraid to deliver mail. I'm convinced my packages are always late because of the monstrous, fear-instilling dog.

Jack Tripper Stole My Dog - The Podcast and Trailer

2011-11-30T23:11:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Six months ago I recorded a podcast with my girlfriend and she asked me questions about Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. I recently re-uploaded it to Sound Cloud. If you haven't heard it yet, well, here it is...

Jack Tripper Stole My Dog - Podcast Episode 1: The 10-Day Novel by taopauly

* * * *
If you haven't seen the epic trailer, here it is...

Jack Tripper Stole My Dog would be a great stocking stuffer! The novel and Kindle version are both available on Amazon.com.

Acquainted with the Night, Pulling the Plug, and Nonplussed Dinosaurs

2011-11-29T23:07:00.004-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I'm having one of those "I can't win" days.

Instead of punching holes through Halli's walls, I went for a long walk through foggy San Francisco to clear my head and get off mega-career tilt. Work stuff shall always be a royal pain in the ass (by definition, all jobs suck camel cock) and for as long as I traverse the path of a writer, I always struggle with art vs. commerce.

As Hyman Roth succinctly summed it up in The Godfather II, "This is the business we have chosen."

The life of a writer is deceiving -- it looks envious from the outside but it's wrought with agony, depression, self-loathing, alcoholism, drug abuse, and trepidation. And that's the fun stuff. You don't want to know about the horrific aspects that keep me awake at night. Hey, let's be honest, if you're not Stephen King or the British broad who writes the Harry Potter books, chances are you're struggling financially as a writer. Even the commercially successful writers have a small window in which they make a ton of money, then it's all downhill until the residual checks trickle to a halt.

When the writing gods chose me, I accepted a vow of poverty. I've gotten lucky so far, so everything else in life is gravy. Alas, in these woeful economic times and politically inept authorities fuck with my livelihood, the few jobs around don't pay much, but even settling for peasant-level wages, the process of writing is the most rewarded occupation I've ever had. That's why I do it to make money. Well, one of the reasons. Outside of Las Vegas and the poker/gambling industry, I'm basically unemployable. Whenever snarky right wingers yell at me to "get a job", I always respond: "Please tell me where these writing jobs are -- because me and a dozen of my friends will be the first ones in line." The media world has been consolidating over the last two decades. Cable TV expanded to over a thousand channels, yet there are fewer writers on the payrolls at studios than ever before. Sad. Very sad. Everyone gets their panties in a twist when a kitten dies, but no one sheds a tear when a writer gets a pink slip.

During my 20s I held shitty jobs all over the country including so many weird part-time gigs that Nicky encouraged me to compile a book short stories from all the craptacular McJobs. for a decade before I stumbled into poker, I scraped by doing anything short of selling my cock/asshole/hand/nostrils for sex in order to earn enough money for food and shelter. I humped shitty dead end jobs so I could spend non-work time on a novel or screenplay, and blow whatever money I had left over on travel and misadventures with Senor. Ah, I missed my 20s. Maybe I should write that book in homage to Bukowski's Factotum? Shit, I would... if I had time! But it's exhausting fear mongering and kicking off a revolution and betting on pro football. Then again, I spend most of my days writing bullshit for the oligarchs in the poker industry, or trying to self-promote myself to get jobs or sell my own books, and the rest of the work time is devoted to chasing down twats who owe me money.

Most of the creative people I'm friends with often work a day job (and/or two or three other part-time jobs) to pay their bills while pursuing their artistic dreams. I saw it firsthand when I worked at museums in Seattle and New York, when most of the security staff were artists/musicians. They answered stupid questions, directing people to the bathroom, while standing on their feet for 10 straight hours -- all in exchange for a min wage and health insurance. The food service industry in Los Angeles basically runs on two groups: illegal Mexicans in the kitchen and struggling actors/musicians/directors waiting their big break in Hollywood working as servers.

I wish I could find a high-yielding skill that pays the bills so I could donate all of my writing time toward honing my craft and nurturing creative endeavors instead of dividing what little time I have between personal writing and work-related writing. I'm stuck where I am knowing there's a lot worse situations out there, and from that perspective, I'm damn lucky. But on a shitty note -- I often write under duress, longing for optimal circumstances. Ergo, the quality of my work suffers. In short, I'm doomed. I always fall short of my expectations before I even begin, which really bums me out because I know I can do better -- if I just had more time.

The hardest aspect of my career is chasing down delinquent clients. Man, fuck you and pay me! The second hardest aspect is settling upon a fair wage. Negotiations tactics are a bitch. I'm fortunate to have a basic business background, otherwise I'd get exploited even more. That's why so many creative people get screwed over and taken advantage of, because their brains are not wired for the business side of the things. I see it all the time in poker -- and some morons are foolish enough to take the bait and hook. Alas, I often spend so much time trying to negotiate a rate and justify what I'm worth.

It's tricky trying to maximize your value when the marketplace is offering a notch above minimum wage. Sadly, I get lowballed left and right for inbred hacks. Sure, it's a cut throat business but there's zero honor against the selfishly hopeless undesirables in my peer group driven by gambling addictions and the desire to stay relevant. It's one thing if I was up against sincere, passionate artists that wanted to write about poker so badly that they'd do it for free. I can respect those people, but getting undercut by a broke-dick who just needs some dough to stay in the game is out right pathetic. And don't get me started on the scensters.

Ah, I'm venting more than usual. I've been around the block a few times to know to hunker down and return to the basic game plan -- work hard, stay loyal to friends, just roll with the punches, ignore the shallow leeches, and write every day. Every day. And more. Sometimes I even write a second daily session at night instead of sleeping because the biggest edge over my colleagues is my motivation to improve while they spend their waking hours in fruitless tasks of gambling, partying, or embarrassingly trying to act cool via social media.

Keep writing... keep writing. That's the best I can do under the dismal circumstances, and pray that someone out there will miraculously offer me a fair wage. Someday. Until that fateful day comes -- I'm back to grinding out a meager income, diligently writing for a few clients, and spending the rest of my time digging up work.

I wrote for a decade without earning a dime and that's gonna be my future as it comes around full circle. We're witnessing the collapse of the media world and the shifting of the entire paradigm in how people acquire information. It's not just poker that's in flux. Hollywood, the music industry, and the publishing world are in the middle of a revolution and civil war wrapped in one giant burrito.

Poker has been the bane of my existence for the better part of my 30s. Poker is one giant blessing and menacing nuisance. In fact, I often think I'd write better if I had less time to worry about petty office politics, chasing down delinquent clients, churning out drivel that's barely more edible to monkeys like fecal-covered bananas. I'd love to wake up and write on my own schedule instead of having to work around industry timetables and client schedules. Dreams. That's my dream. I thought I was working my ass off for seven years so I can get to a point and make my dream a reality? Nope. In a perfect world, I'd be able to take time off and write -- but not the case after a debilitating car accident this summer, shady backroom deal with DC snake oil salesman in April, and ongoing global economic turmoil.

I've always had a dream -- unplug from the enslaving aspects of maintaining a virtual life. I will never be artistically and mentally free until sever ties to the machines (laptops and CrackBerry) and wiggle away from my energy-draining addiction to the internet. Once I unplug everything, I can fully write with limited distractions in a more natural environment, unfettered of a horrible co-dependent relationship with technology.

Man, I almost sounded like the Unabomber with this post, which might someday get used against me in a court of law, so I should probably shut up and end it now. Then again, once Obama signs the internet kill switch into law, the federales will instantly shut down all of my blogs -- except the Tao of Bacon because as we all know, there's nothing subversive about bacon. Bacon keeps the sheeple happy and keeps them in line by stuffing their faces with savory pork products so they won't question their supreme authority.

Let them eat bacon, screamed the Queen before the chopped her head off.

Bacon writing passes the censors, but everything else is bad. The Man doesn't want me to write incendiary rhetoric about internet censorship, nor are the blog police kosher with my attempts to educate friends about the rampant corruption in the financial sector facilitated by the jag-offs in DC with pockets lined with bribes, kickbacks, and other perks of being puppets for the corporate schmucks whom own everyone.

The truth is this -- I can never spend more than a few minutes away from my laptop or CrackBerry. I'm an addict. A tech junkie. Facebook. Twitter. Blogger. Google Reader. You Tube. All evil. We're all tech.info.net junkies these days. I look around at everyone around me that is under 60 years old -- and everyone is hooked. This is dangerous. The machines have won.

Every few months, I grow super paranoid after I watch The Terminator. I go through a stage where I embark on a purging of all things harmful to my artistic soul after an anti-technology rant and sermon. I respond with drastic measures -- I limit answering email time to ONE HOUR per day and limit the amount of web time. During my anti-web diet, I force myself to read books and spend time outdoors. I usually lose weight and get in better shape during those non-web binges. I used to be a TV junkie, so I reduced the number of shows I watch to just a few guilty pleasures like Mad Men, Hoarders, and Ancient Aliens. Oh, and how could I forget sports seasons? That's a major suckage of time. I tried to do a little something different this year and listened to more baseball games on the radio -- that way I could still do other stuff with the game on in the background. The drawback was that the Yankees radio team is atrocious. Sure, they are better than Joe Buck and Bob Costas, but that's not saying much.

My addiction is fierce, which warrants a Draconian response. I must walk away from the interwebs and disappear from social media so I can focus on writing, and then resurface in a few months once I'm done with a new manuscript. Maybe.

I'm full of shit and spout off too many loud, boisterous empty promises. I can't recall how many times I screamed: "I'm gonna walk away and pull the fucking plug!" My bark is bigger than my bite. Some reason, I can never pull the trigger.

How can you have any pudding, if you don't eat your meat?

Exactly. But after a rough today like today, I keep shed the thought... what's the point writing all of this bullshit (on the web) anyway? It's mostly self-indulgent fodder anyway. Sure, I make few people laugh and that's always a good thing, but aside from that, I've probably done as more damage telling half-baked, crude jokes. It's not like I'm saving the fucking whales or something. What continue to pollute the cesspool? Why add more static to the echo chamber?

Maybe I've written too much. Less is more right?

Why was it a bad day? I can't get paid and no one gives a shit. I've written over a millions of words on the web in various forms/topics, but it's never enough to conquer the insatiable appetite of the parasites -- they consume and consume, yet never pay for their free meals and moan like spoiled trolls any chance they can get. I can't take time off different blogs (where I wrote for free) without getting called lazy. If I focus on a different topic/genre or personal project, then I get guff for being selfish. If I write for money, then I'm a sell out. If I refuse to write for slave-like wages, then I'm labeled "difficult" and blackballed.

Alas... I'm ensconced in anguish because of my decisions. Hyman Roth was right. I got myself into this mess. All of this is what happened when I decide to play the game. The Game. I used to live for it. I wanted to beat it. But why am I still playing the game? What's the point? To make a few bucks? To suck the last blood out of a parched stone? For what...fiat dollars that are worthless anyway?

What's the point? I paid my dues, rose to the top of my profession, and made some money. It's been an amazing run and I did it the old fashioned way -- hard work and without missing a deadline. At this juncture, it's all downhill with my career. The next stage is the dreadful decline. I'm embracing the reality that blogging hath become an old art form like the opera. It's probably wise that I go out on top and stay classy.... until I taint everything, pull a Brett Favre and get caught in a wretched penis pic scandal.

I was born a couple of generations too late (and in the wrong country) because America has become a nation of spoiled, mindless consumers that will buy every stupid fucking thing -- except books. Maybe I should move to Paris and write books, have Benjo help find someone to translate them, and then sell them to the French audience that reads more books in a year than Americans do in a lifetime?

Paris? Another piper dream.

The more I soul search, the more I keep running around in nauseating circles. I always reach the same dead end conclusion -- the written word is lying in a hospice. Death is imminent.

The dying medium is the message according to writing is on the virtual wall in 140 characters or less. The time has come to pull the plug, head off the grid, and walk away. Begging the question... do I have the balls to do it?

The Truth by George Carlin

2011-11-28T23:11:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

"They own you..."

George Carlin speaks the truth.

Collapse (Documentary)

2011-11-26T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Some asked me about Collapse, which is a strange interview with Michael Ruppert -- a former cop and ex-CIA turned investigative reporter. In this 2009 documentary, Ruppert shares his world view including peak oil, the financial collapse of 2008, and how to survive the impeding breakdown in every day society.

I found the entire documentary on its entirety on YouTube. Watch it now before it gets yanked.

5 Million Books

2011-11-25T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

What a couple of Harvard geeks learned after reading 5 million books or 5 billion words...

Happy Turkey Day

2011-11-24T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

Circa 1979
It's been a weird and tough year, but I'm grateful to be alive after walking away from a crash in Vegas this summer. So, everything else is gravy, right?

Count your blessings. Try to stay sane today.

Scoring Dope in the Ghetto, West Coast Speed Freaks, and a Forlorn German Lesbian

2011-11-23T16:20:00.002-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Sometimes, it's easy to write a song because life is so weird and yet simple that it can be deconstructed into a catchy song. Lou Reed, Tom Waits, and Jens Lenkman come to mind. They have an uncanny genius-like ability to captured everyday life into song form.

Lou Reed was a junkie and didn't keep his addiction to heroin a secret. His band used to hang out in Union Square at Andy Warhol's infamous Factory. When Lou ran out of smack, he hopped on an uptown subway to Harlem and scored from various sources. As any drug fiend knows, reliable dealers are a rare breed, and most of the time you're dealing with an unorganized flake, or perhaps even a junkie himself. At any rate, Lou was low on supplies and sick as a dog because he hadn't copped in a few days. He wandered around Harlem with $26 and jonesin' to all hell. Yep, only Lou Redd could conjure up a fascinating song about waiting for his dope dealer. The ensuing scene is told in I'm Waiting for the Man...

I'm waiting for my man
Twenty-six dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington, 125
Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive
I'm waiting for my man

Hey, white boy, what you doin' uptown?
Hey, white boy, you chasin' our women around?
Oh pardon me sir, it's the furthest from my mind
I'm just lookin' for a dear, dear friend of mine
I'm waiting for my man

Here he comes, he's all dressed in black
PR shoes and a big straw hat
He's never early, he's always late
First thing you learn is you always gotta wait
I'm waiting for my man

Up to a Brownstone, up three flights of stairs
Everybody's pinned you, but nobody cares
He's got the works, gives you sweet taste
Ah then you gotta split because you got no time to waste
I'm waiting for my man

Baby don't you holler, darlin' don't you bawl and shout
I'm feeling good, you know I'm gonna work it on out
I'm feeling good, I'm feeling oh so fine
Until tomorrow, but that's just some other time
I'm waiting for my man

I had been listening to Tom Waits for a couple of years before I realized he was white. I saw him for the first time on Saturday Night Live and couldn't believe what I saw. Anyway, Tom Waits had an uncanny ability to turn his daily struggles in anthems. I was always fond of Goin' Out West, because I grew up on the East Coast and went to college in the South, so I was longing for a western excursion. The song always reminded me that some day I was going to make the trek. Someone once told me that Waits was fond of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and that the Holden Caufield character inspired the theme of Goin' Out West. I often thought Waits was morphing his own experiences about spending time on the West Coast, hanging out with hooligans, and trying to score speed...

Well I'm goin' out west
Where the wind blows tall
'Cause Tony Franciosa
Used to date my ma
They got some money out there
They're giving it away
I'm gonna do what I want
And I'm gonna get paid
Do what I want
And I'm gonna get paid

Little brown sausages
Lying in the sand
I ain't no extra, baby
I'm a leading man
Well my parole officer
Will be proud of me
With my Olds 88
And the devil on a leash
My Olds 88
And the devil on a leash

Well I know karate, voodoo too
I'm gonna make myself available to you
I don't need no make up
I got real scars
I got hair on my chest
I look good without a shirt

Well I don't lose my composure
In a high speed chase
Well my friends think I'm ugly
I got a masculine face
I got some dragstrip courage
I can really drive a bed
I'm gonna change my name
To Hannibal or maybe
Just Rex
Change my name to Hannibal
Or may be just Rex

I'm gonna drive all night
Take some speed
I'm gonna wait for the sun
To shine down on me
I cut a hole in my roof
The shape of a heart

And I'm goin' out west
Where they'll appreciate me
Goin' out west
Goin' out west

My buddy BTreotch turned me onto Jen Lenkmen. The Swedish musician penned a song Postcard to Nina, which was based on a weird relationship he had with a German lesbian. A lot of people can identity with the sad pitfall of falling in love with a lesbian (or a gay guy for all of your habitual fag hags out there). In his postcard turned ballad, Jens recalls how he got stuck in an awkward dinner at Nina's parents' house.

Nina I can be your boyfriend
so you can stay with your girlfriend
Your father is a sweet old man
but it is hard for him to understand
that you wanna love a woman
Nina I can be your boyfriend
if it puts an end to all this nonsense
First time I see you in Berlin
And you don't tell me anything
Until outside your dad's apartment

Oh God, Jesus Christ
I try to focus on your eyes
we're having dinner with your family now
keep a steady look at your left eyebrow

If it's raised, it means yes,
If it's not it means take a guess
Hey! You! Stop kicking my legs
I'm doing my best
can you pass the eggs

Your father puts on my record
he says: so tell me how you met her
I get embarrassed and change the subject
and put my hand on some metal object
He laughs and says that's a lie detector

he Takes out the booklet and starts reading
So i heard you're moving out next season
I say: Yeah, New York is nice that time of year
almost as green as it is here
He says: I thought you were moving to Sweden?

Oh God, what have I done?
i came to Berlin to have som fun
then it turned into buffalo 66
on your fathers wall a big crucifix
guess that's why he wont let u go
his Catholic heart is big and slow
you know I'll do anything for love
but Nina what were you thinking of?

But Nina I can be your boyfriend
So you can stay with your girlfriend
Your father is mailing me all the time
He says he just wants to say hi
I send back "out of office, auto-replies"

Nina I just want to check in
'cause I think about you every second
So I send you this postcard just to say
Don't let anyone stand in your way
Yours truly, Jens Lekman

Don't let anyone stand in your way
Don't let anyone stand in your way
Don't let anyone stand in your way
Don't let anyone stand in your way

Orwell and Huxley: Amusing Ourselves to Death

2011-11-21T14:34:00.005-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

The Jesuits made a 14 year-old version of myself read books by Aldous Huxley and George Orwell. They were preparing me for the absurdity of the 21st Century.

Anyway, a couple of friends asked me about an illustration that I tweet'd about many moons ago discussing the different dystopian societies that Orwell and Huxley envisioned. So, I found the cartoon and want to post it here because the themes are relevant today...

If you're looking for a book to read during your holiday travels, I might suggest... Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four and/or Animal Farm, and Huxley's Brave New World.

Reality Haikus: Beetles, Lesbian Freezers, and Flattened Kittens

2011-11-19T16:20:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Here's three more haikus inspired by Hoarders...

Filthy stuffed bunnies
Contaminated bedroom
Beetles under bed

Cats hide in ceiling
Ten kittens flattened to death
House reeks of urine

Lesbian hates life
Hides dead kittens in the fridge
Twenty-five sick cats

More reality TV-themes haikus here.

Reduction of Word Flow on the Eve of the Internet Kill Switch

2011-11-18T11:11:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Friends often tell me that they wished I wrote more here and other places on the web about various topics. For that nudge, I absolutely love them. However, the reality that I struggle with is more frustrating than you think.

To publish, or not to publish?

I've gotten bored with writing about poker and gambling, mainly due to the and overwhelming sense of ennui attributed to the shallowness and undesirable qualities of my peers/colleagues. It's an obstacle I've overcome over the last seven years, but these days I'm saying "I'm too old for this shit" instead of joining the echo chamber. Hey, let's be frank here... I'm always willing to whore myself out for the right price. I'd write more if I was paid a fair wage. You'd be surprised how much work I'm offered by shysters who think I'm stupid enough to write for free. I do that everyday... for myself. If you want me to write for you, you have to fucking pay me. That's just how it works.

And shiiiiit, don't get me started on the migraine-inducing process I have to go through to get paid for stuff I've written a few months ago. Alas, I'm reluctant to take on any new assignments for fear of... getting swindled. One former client still owes me a few grand for two feature articles I wrote in 2006. Five fucking years ago. I'll never see that money. Many of my friends have similar horror stories.

Lesson(s) learned. Getting stiffed is one of the many lumps you have to take as a freelance writer. Sometimes you get paid late, sometimes you get stiffed, and it's a miracle if you get paid in a timely matter.

I write everyday. For myself. The compensation, although not monetary, is immediate because my output is exactly what I want to say without worrying about an overzealous editor redlining my sentences, or having some inbred twat with poor reading comprehensions project their personal physiological issues onto me in the form of an unwarranted troll-like comment.

I write every day and by chance I miss a day, I make sure I double up at the next possible moment. Unfortunately, 99% of what I write is not shared in a public forum. I'm getting more paranoid these days and I'm writing the old fashioned way -- pen and notebook. The subject matter is so incendiary that my virtual friends would insta-un-friend me on Facebook, and if the authorities ever read any of it, I'd be hauled off in a paddy wagon and one of three things would happen... I'd be locked up in Gitmo with the Jihadists wearing orange jumpsuits, I'd get committed to a local psych ward, or worse... I'd get hired by Hollywood.

I write for myself. It's a noble yet selfish pursuit, but it's what drives me and keeps the fire inside burning. Without the ability to speak freely, I'd go absolutely insane. I'm already a few cans short of a six pack, because I'm burdened with a severe case of anomie, the cyclical grips of seasonal depression, and the tempestuous mood swings attributed to being stuck in the middle of an eternal struggle of art vs. commerce.

In short, I often feel like an alien trapped on Earth wondering what the fuck everyone is doing, because the majority of it all seems absurd and defies all semblance of logic.

Maybe now you know why I've been selective in sharing what I write, especially with the state of our nation which has been transformed into a police state over the last decade, and accelerated over the last two months. At the same time, web censorship is on the horizon. The kill switch is nigh and the ominous storm clouds are headed this way, so I'll continue to peck and scribble away in the darkness, trying to jot down everything I need to say before the last iota of individuality is beaten out of me by an min-wage agent of the state while the sheeple stand on the sidelines and do nothing about.

HST Interview 1988

2011-11-17T23:11:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I enjoyed this vintage HST interview (circa 1988) courtesy of @TotallyGonzo....

Silver Bears Part 8 - The Gold Rush Currency Wars

2011-11-16T15:33:00.001-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco,CA

I was waiting over three months for the new episode of the Silver Bears. After that long-ass wait, Part 8 was finally uploaded yesterday...

Yep, the Silver Bears have been predicting financial gloom, fiat money collapse and a global precious metals manipulation conspiracy for over a year.

Olberman Rant on Mayor Bloomberg

2011-11-15T23:11:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I love a good Keith Olberman rant and this one might have been one of his greatest benders. Less than a day after the NYPD in riot gear kicked out everyone at Zuccotti Park, Olberman went ballistic on Mayor Bloomberg's inept handling of Occupy Wall Street protesters. Oh, and blocking traffic for a new Batman flick, really seemed to get Olberman's blood boiling...

Torn and Frayed

2011-11-14T14:45:00.013-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

If you were to ask me today... Torn and Frayed is my favorite song off of the Rolling Stones' double album Exile on Main Street.

I know that might come as a surprise to some of my friends because let's face it both Loving Cup and Tumbling Dice are more popular songs from Exile. Plus, at one time or another, both would have been appropriate songs for the soundtrack of my life. It's safe to say that ten years ago, Loving Cup perfectly summed up my nomadic lifestyle seeking out the all-night buzz. Five years ago when I was living in Las Vegas, you could easily point to Tumbling Dice as my personal anthem. I'm really dig both songs, particularly Tumbling Dice, which I listened to nonstop while it played on repeat as I wrote/edited/re-wrote the last chapter of Lost Vegas.

But there's something about Torn and Frayed right *now* that sends a chill up my spine and causes goosebumps. Just listening to the song and visualizing the lyrics sends me into a seizure of emotions -- both pleasant and painful.

Torn and Frayed

Hey let him follow you down,
Way underground wind and he's bound.
Bound to follow you down,
Just a dead beat right off the street.
Bound to follow you down.
Well the ballrooms and smelly bordellos
And dressing rooms filled with parasites.
On stage the band has got problems,
They're a bag of nerves on first nights.
He ain't tied down to no home town,
Yeah, and he thought he was wreckless.
You think he's bad, he thinks you're mad,
Yeah, and the guitar player gets restless.

And his coat is torn and frayed,
It's seen much better days.
Just as long as the guitar plays
Let it steal your heart away,
Let it steal your heart away.

Joe's got a cough, sounds kind a rough,
Yeah, and the codeine to fix it.
Doctor prescribes, drug store supplies,
Who's gonna help him to kick it

Well his coat is torn and frayed,
It`s seen much better days.
Just as long as the guitar plays
Let it steal your heart away,
Let it steal your heart away.

The song itself was written by Mick Jagger circa 1971 about Keith Richards' flirtation with the dark side of heroin. Two decades ago, I honestly thought the haunting lyric was "his arm is torn and frayed"... meaning Keith's arm. The "torn and frayed" title represented the pin-cushion nature of a junkie's arm, riddled with holes from hypodermic needles, and with each prick a little bit of his soul gets released into the cosmos, never to return. Pretty heavy stuff, eh?

It wasn't until the late 90s when I was bored and wandering around a book store in Austin, TX that I stumbled across an anthology of Rolling Stones lyrics. I flipped the pages and noticed I was totally wrong. The correct lyric is... "His coat is torn and frayed."

I had been wrong about the "his arm is torn and frayed" for almost a decade, yet the song still resonated with me, because I knew the ragged "coat" was just a piece of symbolism of the body/soul of the rigorous life of an intrepid rock star always on the move. I'm sure we're all surprised that Keith Richards hasn't died yet -- considering how much junk he shot into his veins and God knows what he ate/snorted/shot/inserted in the last fifty years. He's fucking Rambo meets King Kong meet Count Dracula. He's the Babe Ruth and Michael Jordan off junkies. He may even be a legit vampire, because I really don't know how he's managed to stay afloat over the last few decades.

Anyway, music has this weird thing about invoking an emotional response -- especially when you least expect it. I spent most of this morning contemplating about the last seven or so years of my life, most of which was dedicated to the poker world in some form or another -- living in Vegas for months at a time, holed up in unventilated hotel rooms fighting off maids that can't read the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign, and running through international airports trying to catch a connection to an exotic locale, where I'd pen stories about degenerate gamblers playing cards.

It's poetic in a tumultuous, junkified way that I heard Torn and Frayed pop up on my iPod during today's morning writing session. I halted everything I was doing and listened. Sometimes, the flow of memories can be stopped and plugged up -- like a dam inside your brain -- but oftentimes, those memories are so powerful that the dam shatters, and you're mind is flooded by a raging river of emotions. That's why so many people are fried on anti-depressants -- to keep the flood waters away. Alas, once the dam bursts, you can't control where the flow takes you until the waters recede. During that ride, you're swept up and away in a maelstrom of emotional memories.

During this morning's flood, the lyrics to Torn and Frayed symbolized the struggles (both good and bad, but mostly bad) that I incurred over the last seven years -- whether I initiated them or not. As much as I fought to control my destiny (I know, I know... how foolish to think I can do that), many situations occurred that I had zero influence over like the politicized nature of the online poker industry and the immorality of many of my colleagues. I failed to control how I reacted to those situations. Sometimes I got lucky. Other times things got ugly.

In short, Torn and Frayed reminded me that I spent most of the last seven years chasing a ghost while floating around a circus-like atmosphere, completely restless and never knowing when it was going to end. When I wanted it to stop, I couldn't get off the rambunctious ride, and then add a substance abuse issue to the equation, and you have a recipe for dismal disaster. When I finally thought I escaped the menacing dark side for good, the entire circus showed up on my doorstep and sucked me back in. I can think of three separate instances when I got swept away and sucked back into the echo chamber.

The circus is more dangerous than you think, because after a while, the absurd becomes the norm, and you're entire perspective on life becomes tweaked. It takes me a few weeks, or even months to remind myself that a different set of rules applies to life inside the bubble, and outside.

I still can't figure out how I evaded utter destruction, and I have to re-read Lost Vegas to figure out what I did to escape the first couple of times. I have emotional scars and battle wounds, but I've done what I can to push away the negative aspects of the seven-year sojourn and hone in on the warmth of pleasant times -- good people, fuzzy memories.

Alas, a song like Torn and Frayed shakes everything up and during the four plus minutes the song plays, as each lyric sung by Mick Jagger forces me to deal with the reality of the last seven years from the parasites, to junkies, crooked doctors, the never-ending party, constantly being on the move, and the restless nature of stifled creativity.

It's time to get a new coat, eh?

Before I go, here's Phish performing Torn and Frayed a couple of Halloweens ago at Festival 8...

The Last 2 Weeks in Fear Mongering - 11/1/11 to 11/13/11

2011-11-13T23:11:00.002-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I've been busy fear mongering, so in case you missed it, here's what happened in the last week or so over at Tao of Fear...

Keith Olberman Rant: "First you've got to get MAD!"
Clarke and Dawe: What Is the Greek Debt Crisis?
The Waffles Report: Testing the Emergency Alert System, Or Something Else?
Why War With Iran Is Imminent
4.7 Earthquake in Oklahoma Caused by Fracking?
Clarke and Dawe: How the Financial System Works
Wake Up America - Painting by Jon McNaughton
20 Lies Every American Should Know
Legalized Corruption with Jack Abramhoff
'The Jersey Shore' Exposed As a Fake
Police Beating Berkeley Students at OccupyCal
More Mainstream Media Manipulation
11.11.11: Hysteria, Good Luck or Fate?
Volcano/Earthquake/Solar Flare Watch for Nov. 12-15
Earthquake Watch: Planetary Alignment on November 14
UFOs: Fleet Sighted Over Tijuana Mexico
Money As Debt (Documentary Film)
Sakurajima Volcano Eruption

Here's ex-pat and former trader Max Keiser ranting and raving about the corrupt banking cartels in recent episodes of The Keiser Report...

The Keiser Report: Taking Down Bernanke Gaddafi Style
The Keiser Report: Speculators Win Again
The Keiser Report: Fed, Treasury, and the Holy Troika
The Keiser Report: Cameron and Osbourne On the Run
The Keiser Report: Gold Wars

And there's plenty of juicy nuggets in our link dumps called the "Red Pill":

Red Pill: MF Global Scandal, Ricin Terror Plot Against the IRS, Facial Recognition, and Military Coup in Greece?
Red Pill: Comet to Hit Moon, Mosquito Swarms, Big Brother Monitoring Social Media, and Chinese Pyramids UFOs
Red Pill: G.I. Joe and the Illuminati, McRib, WWIII, French Elephant in EU Debt Crisis, and the Brave New Genetically Modified World

That's it for now.

Don't forget we're also on Twitter. Follow @TaoFear.

Ken Kesey Interviews

2011-11-10T16:20:00.000-05:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Ken Kesey wrote one of my favorite books Sometimes a Great Notion. He's most known for his debut novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but I've always preferred his second book.

Anyway, Kesey died ten years ago today. Here's two of my favorite interviews....

Covering the November Nine and Cranking Out 6 New Podcasts

2011-11-07T06:07:00.004-05:00

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

Man, it's been a while since I logged one of those crazy 15-hour days. But, I had fun for the first time covering poker in... shit, I can't recall when it's been so long. Anyway, if you're interested, check out what I cranked out on Sunday... 2011 November Nine Live Blog.

I also recorded six new episodes of the Tao of Pokerati podcast with Michalski. It's the fastest/quickest poker podcast on the interwebs. We've migrated our podcasts to Sound Cloud. Listen to them here...

Tao of Pokerati Podcast - 2011 November Nine Edition
Episode 1: Evolution
Episode 2: Naming Names
Episode 3: Betting on Belize
Episode 4: Non-Silence of the Lambs
Episode 5: Giannetti Lives
Episode 6: Quad Lambs

I still have one more day of work ahead of me. There's three players left in the WSOP Main Event. First place wins $8.7 million. Will it be an American named Ben Lamb (real name), a Martin Staszko from the Czech Republic, or Pius Heinz aka the German with all the chips? Tune in to Tao of Poker on Tuesday.

What's Wrong With Hollywood

2011-11-05T03:33:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I came across this clip of Dave Chappelle's interview with James Lipton from Inside the Actor's Studio. Chappelle shares the straight dope about Hollyweird...

Ancient Aliens

2011-11-04T00:34:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I've always been skeptical about the program Ancient Aliens because it appears on the History Channel. There's never been actual evidence of aliens in the mainstream media, yet a show about ancient aliens (which if true destroys numerous popular religions) is in circulation on an educational channel instead of a Sci-fi channel. Don't you think that's strange? Some people might take the show as fact instead of conjecture.

I enjoy Ancient Aliens and love to get sucked into random marathons that air on the weekends. I've spent more hours than I'd like to admit completely faded, schwasted, and hammered watching three or four straight hours of Ancient Aliens. It's truly a show geared to stoners.

My only problem with the show is that most of the content has become is repetitive. At this point into the third season, each show fits into a formula.... lots of speculation about ancient gods being extra terrestrials, the handling of bizarre artifacts, close ups of ancient scribblings on caves, a wide shot of outer space, the occasional Ancient pyramid shot, and this guy...

He's my favorite alien "expert." He looks like Dr. Nick from The Simpsons. He even has a slight accent too, which makes his spots even funnier whenever he comes on. If you want to play a drinking game, take a shot every time he's on screen and take another shot when he mentions "ancient aliens." I bet you get shitfaced before the show even ends.

Sure it makes sense that many of the "gods" in Greek and Roman mythology could very well be associated with ETs because the stories are just too freaky and they had tons of mythical creatures roaming the Earth. Then again, I haven't seen any of those weird creatures -- men with dog heads and cat heads (as seen in Egyptian hieroglyphs) or centaurs. How about flying dragons and unicorns? We can't even find Big Foot and it almost took a decade to locate Osama Bin Laden (he was watching cable TV in a lush compound when he was supposedly whacked). So I doubt we'll be able to parade a couple of Greys on The View to be grilled by those crazy cats.

Anyway, if you haven't watched Ancient Aliens, give it a shot. Even if you think it's total horseshit, at least it's an entertaining way to zone out in front of the boob tube and see some cool archeological stuff. And if you happen to believe in extraterrestrial life, then this show is what you've been waiting for.

Epic Olberman Rant and General Strike on November 2

2011-11-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Check out this video of one of Keith Olberman's rant. He channels the infamous Howard Beale...

And if you don't know, there's a general strike on November 2nd to support Occupy Oakland. I am going on strike as well. You'll will have to entertain yourselves for the next 24 hours....

Flashback: Budapest Podcasts with Benjo

2011-11-01T16:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Three years ago today, I was on assignment in Budapest, Hungary. I rented an apartment one block from the Danube with my colleague Dana. One evening, I threw a party for all of my colleagues. We all got schwasted and I even recorded four podcasts that evening with Benjo.

Listen here...

Episode 1: EPT Afterparty (3:39)
Episode 2: Hungarian Hooker Halloween (4:14)
Episode 3: Competitive Apple Eating (4:08)
Episode 4: Euro Core-tossing (3:17)

I re-listened to them a little while and I couldn't stop laughing. Enjoy.

The Seeds of Halloween

2011-10-31T16:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

It's Halloween. Or in my neck of the woods... Halloweed or even Halliween.

This is my first Halloween in San Francisco. My gay friends often tell me that Halloween is "Christmas for gays." It's their favorite time of year. I'm told it's an insane scene up in the Castro tonight, but I'm not going to check it out because I'm a degenerate gambler and Monday night is poker night at my place aka the Ice Palace. Besides, I'm not gay... "not that there's anything wrong with that."

When I lived in NYC, I checked out the Halloween parade in the West Village, which had it's fair share of freaks and costumes (on both straights and gays) that make folks on the religious right wash their eyeballs out with holy water. I can only imagine what Halloween is like in San Francisco, but even Nicky and Halli are skipping out on "Gay Christmas" to play cards because the Castro gets way to crowded and insane these days.

Adults treat Halloween in two ways -- trying to recapture innocent moments of childhood, or they tweak it completely as a holiday to indulge in sex and booze. Hence why so many people get shitfaced on Halloween and girls walk around in the sluttiest costumes imaginable. Just add "slut" to it and you have a costume. Yesterday, I even saw a photo of "Slutty Hitler." Even that left me speechless.

October 31st is the one time of year when "society" doesn't judge you, so folks take advantage of the lax "morality" rules, and they do as they please. And if by chance you have an opportunity to indulge in psychedelics tonight -- then go for it. Everything is so fucking trippy on Halloween anyway, so you might as well melt your mind and cross over to the other side of reality. If you see any aliens, make sure you say hello.

Damn, what happened to Halloween?

As per usual, a religious holiday (All Saints Day) got hijacked by the occultists to do freaky shit the night before, then the holiday got tweaked by big business and re-branded by a bunch of gin-giuzzling Don Drapers as an opportunity to sell candy. Somewhere along the way, the holiday for rogue Jesus freaks and kids, morphed into an evening for adults to purge all psychological demons.

Whatever your poison? Get wasted. Queer it up. Dress like a slut. Yeah, Halloween is a pretty crazy evening any way you cut it.

Speaking of cutting it... I was a kid in the early 1980s, there's was always a tinge of paranoia centered around acquiring tainted candy during the trick-o-treating rounds. I guess that's my first bout with fear mongering. The press actually had some semblance of integrity thirty years ago, but many of the news stations and newspapers ran stories about urban myths. It seemed like once a year, they recycled slanted news articles about razor blades in apples and other jagged things inserted into candy bars. That paranoia quickly spread in our neck of the woods and definitely put a wrinkle in a super fun holiday. I remember one doctor's office even offered kids free x-rays of sacks of candy to make sure the goodies were metal free.

Pretty crazy shit, eh? When you're seven years old and have to smush a Mounds bar to make sure there's no razor blades in it before you eat it, at some point you're going to be just a wee bit paranoid as an adult. Ah, now you see the origins of a fear monger? That's how I got my start and the seeds for the Tao of Fear were planted.

This Week in Fear Mongering - 10/22/11 to 10/29/11

2011-10-30T23:11:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

In case you missed it because you've been too busy or too scared to deal with reality, here's what happened in the last week or so over at the Tao of Fear...

Here's 4 Reasons to Occupy Wall Street
UFO at Sunday Night Football
Documentary Film - The Oil Factor
1970s Anti-Marijuana PSA
Occupy Oakland Gets Tear Gassed by Police
Global Earthquake Review - Increase in 6.0M Quakes
Printing Money: What Is Quantitative Easing?
Video: Banksters, Busts and History - The Facts Driving the Financial Crises by Stefan Molyneux
The Keiser Report: Fecal Alchemy and Clowns Run the World
Bank Transfer Day - November 5th
CIA Ties to Occupy Wall Street
China's Ghost Cities

And don't forget about the morning edition of the Red Pill!

Monday: Running Out of Adderall, EU Bank Failures, U.S. Debt Downgrade, Violence at Occupy Oz, and Tsunami Debris

Wednesday: 7 Billion People, Russian Military Prepares for Armageddon, Dead Ducks, TSA Searching Highways, Moon UFOs, and Earth-Bound Asteroids

Friday: China/EU Bailout, Obama's War on Weed, American Police State, and Top 10 States for UFO Sightings

If you don't follow us on Twitter, we're @TaoFear.

Why Occupy? Here's Four Reasons...

2011-10-27T04:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

What is Occupy Wall Street? Why should I care? This video explains four reasons why you should support Occupy Wall Street...

Dead Flowers - Townes Van Zandt

2011-10-26T22:10:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Speaking of Sticky Fingers, I stumbled upon this soulful cover of Dead Flowers. TVZ's voice reminds me of a our wounded, debt-riddled nation with "cocaine eyes"...

About Those Fifteen Minutes of Fame...

2011-10-25T16:20:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Which docu-reality TV show will you eventually be on sometime in the future?

A) Hoarders
B) Biggest Loser
C) Intervention
D) Locked Up Abroad

Karl Denson and Sticky Fingers

2011-10-22T10:03:00.003-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Karl Denson's Tiny Universe arrived in San Francisco for a two night run at the Independent. The Independent is one of three popular venues that is less than a 15-minute walk from my apartment in Lower Pacific Heights (the Boom Boom Room and the Fillmore are the other two). So, Nicky and I were eager to see a show so close by without having to worry about buzzed driving and finding a parking space. One of the primary reasons we moved to San Francisco was to soak up the juicy music scene -- especially shows within walking distance from our couch. Last weekend we caught Denver's own Juno What at the Boom Boom Room, and this weekend we were pumped to catch a special performance from Karl Denson.

Denson is doing a little something different and very ambitious this tour by covering the entire Sticky Fingers album by the Rolling Stones. His first set is devote to all ten songs, while the second set is regular Karl Denson tunes. During this stretch he has Anders Osbourne sitting in on vocals and lead guitar. The Scandi wook's own rock band opened up for KDTU this tour.

Both shows in San Francisco were sold out. The Independent was super packed with a smattering of hipsters and the usual assortment of neo-hippie types. I had an extra ticket and sold it to a kid a few bucks below face. He showed up at 6:30 hoping to buy one at the box office, but got shut out. He tried to find one for almost four hours on the street in front of the venue -- and came up empty -- until I hooked him up.

Karl doubled on vocals and sax. He opened up the Sticky Fingers' set proclaiming, "This song is about interracial sex!" Then the band launched into an ass-shaking Brown Sugar.

The soused crowd sang along the loudest during Wild Horses. The highlight of the set (and from the "A" side was a smoking Can You Hear Me Knocking. I've heard Trey and Phish tease the ending too many times to count. My only complaint was that I wish Karl and company jammed it out more.

Nicky thought Denson's rendition of Bitch was the highlight of the "B" side of the original album. The jamming apex occurred during a faded-version of Sister Morphine. The dissonant trumpet/sax jamming almost made it feel like I was schwasted on pharmies. Anders jammed out so hard during Morphine that he had to change his shirt after the song.

Crowd definitely perked up for Flowers, and a sultry Moonlight Mile closed the Sticky Fingers set.

Karl Denson is playing again on Saturday, but that show is also sold out. He's heading down to Chico on Sunday then off to Colorado to play gigs in Boulder, Telluride, and Denver. This tour's big moment is the Halloween gig in Denver when KDTU is playing a special themed show -- Halloween 1971. Denson is going way back forty years to perform Sticky Fingers, while local power trio Rose Hill Drive will tackle The Who's "Who's Next." Anders Osbourne is also opening up and will be sitting in with Karl for the Sticky Fingers set.

If you get a chance, check out the Karl's Sticky Fingers project.

* * *
This version of Bitch was not from the SF show, but from last week's gig at the HoB in Hollywood. As soon as find any vids from the Independent, I'll post it here...

I Didn't Know That I Was That Far Gone...

2011-10-20T23:11:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Thanks to the Joker for reminding me something very enlightening...

Economic Collapse: Why It Won't Be Stopped

2011-10-20T04:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Thanks to the Joker for pointing this video out. The collapse is nigh. Brace yourselves.

OccupySF Protest March from Fed Reserve Bank to City Hall

2011-10-16T01:53:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Here's a video I shot during #OccupySF #O15 protest march in San Francisco from the front of the S.F. b branch of the Federal Reserve to Union Square and then all the way to City Hall.

The Difference Between Hope and Occupy

2011-10-14T16:20:00.029-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

What a difference three years makes, eh?

Nothing has "changed" since Shepard Fairey introduced the campaign sign that invigorated a nation and gave the world a glimmer of hope. Yes, nothing has changed. The system, the machine, the Matrix -- whatever you want to call it -- is the same. It's still broken. We can't fix it. The only way to make it work is to bring down the whole fucking thing.

Revolution.

CTRL+ALT+DELETE.

I'm not going to piss on Obama, because I saw him for what he was -- a puppet -- just like every one before him. Obama was a pawn for Wall Street and big business from the get go. I saw right through the charade. I didn't vote for him. I have never voted for anyone representing the two-party system. Republican. Democrats. Repubocrat. Demlican. Same suit, different color tie.

I wanted a radical change in 2008, so I voted for a black woman -- Cynthia McKinney. Yeah, I bet you didn't know that a black woman ran for President in 2008 because the MSM focused on Obama mania and the maelstrom surrounding Sarah Palin's addition to the GOP ticket. McKinney, had she been elected, would've shaken the system to the core including ending the war in Iraq and auditing the Federal Reserve Bank, which has never been audited by the government. Alas, if anyone steps into the White House they know what will happen to them if they cross the folks who put them in power. That reminds me of an old comedy bit from Bill Hicks -- that after the President gets elected, on the first day he moves into the White House, they show him the Zapruder film of JFK getting his head blown up. The threat of you or family being used a target for shooting practice is enough to convince any person to fuck over the American people.

Not too many Americans (even the ones who voted) knew anything about Cynthia McKinney and her platform because the power brokers (the MSM's overlords) do not like the press shining any light on third party candidates, or anything outside the realm of the two-party system. You can't let the sheeple get used to multiple choices, then they'll demand more and more, which in the end means fewer profits for the elites in power.

How come you can order happy meals at McDonald's in three different sizes, yet in politics you have only two?

Your choices are Coke or Pepsi and that's it. But, I never liked soda. I'm an iced tea kinda guy. Big Ass Iced Tea, which is a code for Jeffersonian Anarchist. Thomas Jefferson believed in revolutions every seven years because he felt that anyone (person or institution) in power longer than seven years would become corrupted.

Is anyone else insulted that the United States of 300 million Americans and 12 million illegals live under the illusion of democracy? Because our political needs are met by either the guy on the right, or the guy on the left. If you live in a blue state, you vote for the man in blue. If you're red, you vote for the man in red. Divisive politics. Divide and conquer. Everyone took the bait. Blame the other side while the folks behind the curtain are tugging at the strings controlling the puppets in Washington.

Your choices at the polls are limited to two choices. Red or Blue and that's it. So much for a multi-colored world resembling the Crayola box. And if any third party candidate, like Ralph Nader in 2000, started to appeal to the masses and gain any sort of momentum, the establishment went out of their way to trash him, undermine his platform, or spin some other nonsense using the long, slithery tentacles of the big business-controlled MSM.

"Oh, you voted for Ralph Nader in 2000? You're the asshole who cost Al Gore the election."

You have no idea how many sheeple tried to shove that piece of brainwashed rhetoric down my throat. Um, no my darling, Moonbeam, I didn't cost Al Gore the election. You should blame his inept, out-of-touch campaign staff, or better yet, join the tin-foil hat wearing crowd and pass blame on the Bush Junta for stealing the election in one of the most crooked states in the union -- Florida -- where his brother just happened to be the governor.

At that point during the height of the hanging chad debacle at the end of 2000, I gave up on politics altogether. Sheeple don't want real change, otherwise they would have started a revolution years ago. At this juncture, it's too painful to accept the fact that your entire world view is wrong and you were duped, because everything you've been taught is not quite right because the fix was in before you even woke up in the morning. And even more depressing is the fact when you learn that George Orwell was right in his book Animal Farm... that we're just pigs waiting to be slaughtered.

Simply put, it's easier to ignore reality than to deal with it, or better yet, view reality through the distorted lens of the media (both lefty liberal and righty conservative). But for the angry unemployed, upset masses and anti-war protesters, Obama came along and appeared to be the antidote to all of their problems. He wasn't the almighty cure and instead, everyone swallowed the Kool-Aid, which bought some sinister fuckers in pinstripes more time to finish fleecing America before they ran out the back door with your money. Now those slimy fuckers on Wall Street are railing foot-long lines of the finest cocaine on yachts the size of Walmart somewhere in the Caribbean, and laughing their asses off as they burn your money on fire to light a cigarette for a $2,000/hour, Eastern European call girl.

Obama unleashed a riveting and sensational speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention (a post modern version of speeches ripped right out of Bobby Kennedy's playbook) and from that point on, Obama was being primed for the Savior. The Great Black Hope. Obama embarked on a run for the White House in 2008 because he had millions of Americans desperate for change literally eating out of his palms. They were hopeless souls seeking hope in a hopeless world. Throw in a clever social media campaign (via Facebook appealing to sheeple, and Twitter appealing to tech geeks and hipsters) and a piece of Shepard Fairey's art work that will always be synonymous with Barack Obama, and you have the recipe of a powerful mind control campaign.

The "hope" and "change" buzzwords blinded the truths hidden in plain sight. You should have known Obama's backers were planning a "smash and grab" job the moment he started naming his cabinet -- a transition team of former Wall Street execs -- many of them were former employees or represented the evil empire of Goldman Sachs (whom Matt Taibbi referred to as "vampire squids"). Obama's cabinet choices should have tipped off his hand that his government will cover up the 2008 financial crisis.

Obama's backers pulled off a well-timed financial coup and successfully duped Americans, just like so many of them were hoodwinked on the war on terror during Bush 2.0. Let's not forget that we should have heard the drums of war beating in the background when Bush 2.0 assembled his team -- spearheaded by Dick Cheney (aka the Cigarette Smoking Man) and Donald Rumsfield. Bush 1.0 and his cronies from the Carlyle Group were calling the shots using Bush 2.0 as their bungling puppet, and they carefully selected well-known war hawks, energy/oil execs, and members of the military industrial complex to be the backbone Bush 2.0's cabinet/cabal/inner circle. Before he moved into the White House after winning the 2000 election, the Bush Junta was primed for war.

In 2008, in the weeks leading up to the election, millions of Americans were ensconced in Obama mania, which was a well-timed distraction from the financial pillaging of America's coffers. Billions and billions in bailouts were given to degenerate gamblers at big banks, brokerage houses, and insurance companies. Anyone deemed "too big to fail" was bailed out by the federal government. It took three years for the masses to wake up to the largest theft in the history of the world, but I'm glad they finally did.

Occupy Wall Street sprang up last month. That's the name of the movement. It has a Facebook page and a twitter hash tag (I've been using #OWS but there's also #OccupyWallStreet). Don't be confused with the label. What you're seeing is the Revolution.

It's here. What are you going to do about it? Join in, fight it, but do something. Please don't keep your head in the sand any longer.

The powers brokers controlling the media want you to think this revolution was an impulsive act by a bunch of dirty hippies drugged out of their minds who decided to camp out down on Wall Street and whine about not having jobs. And if the protests ended after a few days, the MSM would have succeeded in spinning the real reason people were so pissed off. But, their plan to demonize protesters with condescending labels backfired. It's been four weeks now, the protests spread across the country, and the protesters are not going anywhere. This really isn't about Occupying Wall Street or being anti-corporations or against Big Business. This is a revolution. This is the Revolution.

If you're still confused about what's going on, then please read this: graphs and pie charts showing what people are so pissed off about.

The Revolution is here and the MSM doesn't get what Occupy Wall Street is all about, which is part of the reason they don't want you to know about it. It started in Zuccotti Park and has spread across the country. It took almost a month before it's flared up across the world.

The MSM is trying to hide the revolution from you. Why? Because those who own MSM outlets don't want themselves, their golf buddies or Ivy League classmates to be lynched by angry mobs, which will have it beamed live around the world via live webcams (like Global Revolution). The protesters are just like you and me. Some of them have long hair. Some of them are bald. Some of them have jobs. Some of them are from the Right and some are original Tea Party patriots. Some of them are veterans from Iraq. Some of them, like me, used to work on Wall Street. We all know the system is broken and Obama will never help us (in fact he's ignoring the revolution), so the only way to bring on change... is to create change ourselves.

The movement wants the power to return back to the people and take it away from a small group of mega-wealthy corporations and powerful families. It's about reinstating the rules to the game to make it more fair, instead of all of us having zero semblance of hope playing in a rigged game.

Life is rigged. Wall Street is rigged. What are you going to do about it?

This isn't a political issue. It's not about red or blue. Or right or left. The folks in power are getting super desperate and will try to turn us against each other. It's a cheap tactic that has been effective for centuries. Divide and conquer. Please, don't fall for it. We're all in this together. One of the most amazing things I've seen about Occupy Wall Street is that it's brought citizens from both sides of the spectrum together in a united front. That scares the shit out of the power base. They maintain power as long as every one is distracted while squabbling over "hot button" issues like abortion and gays in the military.

This revolution is about the haves versus the have nots. If you're reading this, you're a "have not" or in other numbers -- you're a member the 99% against the 1% that control the majority of the wealth. I hate to bust your bubble if you think you're one of the "haves"... because you're definitely not. I actually feel sorry for you if you do. The saddest cases are the ones who think they are "haves," yet they are blindly being used to do the dirty work for the "haves" by suppressing accurate reporting of the revolution.

Read this independent report of Occupy Wall Street (posted last week). That's one of the best pieces of journalism I've seen about the protests.

And kudos to the gang at Mother Jones (and @MotherJones on Twitter). They lived up to their billing as "smart, fearless journalism", meanwhile the titans of the MSM completely ignored, downplayed, or tweaked the real story -- including the so-called liberal outlets like the NY Times and MSNBC. Let's not forget their corporate overlords are a part of the establishment that the revolutionaries want to bring down.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the fifth week of the Occupy Wall Street protests in Zuccotti Park down in Lower Manhattan. Who would've thought three years ago when you saw the original Obama "hope" poster, that the entire world would be on the brink of global economic collapse and the country was on the cusp of a civil war?

Educate yourselves. Do your own research. Stop watching Snooki and start reading books like Griftopia: A Story of Bankers, Politicians, and the Most Audacious Power Grab in American History, or watch a documentary film about the financial crisis like Inside Job, or Meltdown.

And if you've been aimless and wandering around without any direction, well then, there's a good cause out there that needs your help.

This is your wake up call. Time to bring America back to the people.

* * *
Important Video Links:

What is Inflation and Stagflation?
What Is the Federal Reserve?
The Economic Collapse: Why It Won't Be Stopped
The Story of Your Enslavement

Beer-Dinking Rednecks and Pill-Popping Managers

2011-10-13T14:01:00.006-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I first saw the story when Eric W., a friend from Maine who was a Red Sox fan since the moment of conception, had tweet'd the Boston.com article about the Red Sox late season collapse. A couple of hours later, StB sent out the article to the NYC sports email thread. I re-read it a second time and fired off an email about it before my CrackBerry shit the bed.

The article had everything you expected in an expose pandering to Red Sox Nation, millions of blood-thirsty New Englanders seeking someone to lynch including spoiled players, veteran superstars lacking leadership abilities, drunken pitchers playing video games during games, and even a pill popping manager. Shit, although this is a tragedy, just tweak the script a little to make it a comedy, and you have an awesome plot for Major League 4.

Anyway, here's my 8 initial thoughts about the article describing the Red Sox collopase...

1. Red Sox manager Terry Francona is a drug addict after getting hooked on pharmies as a result of multiple knee surgeries. His crazy wife kicked him out of their Brookline, MA home when she got sick of him nodding out on the couch while giving mock press conferences to Boston Globe writers in their bedroom closet. And the powers that be say marijuana is bad.

2. Francona had troubles motivating his players because he was distracted with his son, a U.S. marine deployed in Afghanistan. Cue "Cats in the Cradle."

3. Even a gift like $300 headphones won't solve a chemistry problem. Inviting jaded players to hang out on a billionaire's yacht causes a deeper disconnect from reality.

4. Sox starting pitchers are spoiled, lazy rednecks who prefer to hang out in the locker room to drink beer, chow down on fried chicken and play video games than act like a loyal teammate and sit in the dugout and clap whenever Dustin Pedroia legs out a double.

5. Baseball is a game of stats. If a 45-year old Tim Wakefield wants to break Cy Young's and Roger Clemens' records, then let him do it instead of a Yankees-defector like the juice-riddled Rocketman who "misremembers" if he took roids or not. Shit, anytime you have a shot at breaking a record held by Cy Fucking Young, you have to give a man a chance, even if he's a stat-centric, vain, perverted knuckleballer.

6. Kevin Youklis is old school and plays hurt. But, Youk was pissed that he played through all kinds of pain while redneck pitchers ate fried chicken, drank beer and played video games in the clubhouse.

7. Crawford, Lackey and Jenks were overpaid busts. Players resented that the richest starting pitcher(s) on the team sat around playing video game with fried chicken-eating and beer guzzling rednecks.

8. Some players are acting like spoiled children because their parents (Sox owners) are more concerned with megabuck deals with big media conglomerates and expanding their empire to Europe, where the #1 sport is long-haired hippies and Brazilians with first names kicking around a large spherical object into a net, while a coked-up Mexican announcer screams "Goooooooooooooooooooooal."

Read the original article here.

Twisted World of Ikea - The Video

2011-10-12T04:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Y'all know my disdain for all things Ikea.... disposable Swedish-designed furniture, manufactured in China out of faux-wood, then shipped to the US with instructions in Spanish, for the Mexican day workers who assemble shelving units for baffled and confused suburbanites, who'd rather not bother with the trouble of wasting 18 hours trying to put together a $19 piece of furniture, so they spend $25 to hire a day laborer loitering around the parking lot of Ikea mega-stores.

You should read something I wrote called Ikeaphobia.

And here's the video about the evil and twisted world of Ikea that gives me nightmares....

Reverse Reality Theory

2011-10-11T15:53:00.003-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I have a theory called Reverse Reality: real life and the dream state are actually reversed.

Conscious reality is when you're dreaming/sleeping, while your waking state is actually the construct of the subconscious. Therefore, what we think is real life is similar to a Matrix-type scenario, in which we're trapped in the fabricated reality, which we perceive to be "real life." When we're "sleeping" we're accessing what you would consider the dream world, which according to my reverse theory, is the actual "reality." Our dream state is part of a collective subconscious that everyone in the universe is connected to -- consciously.

To further the insanity of the Reverse Reality Theory, someone like myself with insomnia is imprisoned to live in the waking world for 20+ hours a day, even more.

Sounds like a Philip K. Dick short story -- reverse reality when troublemakers are sentenced to 23 hours a day imprisonment of a "waking state" which means that the only respite is an hour of slumber where you get to leap back into the collective subconscious, before you're zapped back into the horrors of living in the waking reality -- false gods, jackhammers, Snooki, famine, corruption, and the other horrors of the world.

A thought to ponder.

5 Things... In My Refrigerator

2011-10-10T04:20:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Yeah, so here's five random things, three of which are rather strange, that is currently in my refrigerator. Can you guess which one is mine?

So have you figured out which one is mine?

Here's the skinny...

1. Mexican Sprite: At first glance it looks like an ordinary Sprite, but upon closer inspection it's a Sprite bottled in Mexico. That means real sugar. I rarely drink soda, but I like the way Sprite tastes out of bottles. I guess this was a quirky impulse buy that I acquired from living in SoCal -- every once in a while, I'd grab a Mexican Sprite whenever I happened to see one sold at a random gas station or 7/11. Yes, this is the only item pictured that is mine.

2. Prosciutto: There's Canadian Bacon, then there's Canadian prosciutto -- which is way more polite and funnier. Nicky picked this up for me.

3. Random Pill Bottle: This is a wet dream for many of you junkies reading this post. An unknown bottle with a dozen white pills. It could be anything. Uppers. Downers. Sideways. Happy Pill. Sleeping Pill. Allergy pill. Painkiller. The possibilities were endless. As much as you think it's mine --- it's not. It's been in the fridge since Nicky and I moved in. And no, I haven't sampled the pill... yet. I don't think Halli knows who it belongs to or where it came from either. Behold... the mystery pills. We should have a mystery pill themed party on Halloween.

4 and 5. Celery Soda and Vegan Mayonnaise: Two for one deal with the last photo. Both items were next to each other on the door shelf.

I'm assuming the vegan mayo is Halli's. I would never touch the atrocity. What's the point of making mayo if it's vegan style? Mayo is supposed to bad for you. Why try to make it out of healthy things?

The Celery soda is totally random and something I never knew existed before last Monday. It's not mine, nor Nicky's, not Halli. Skye picked it up from a local liquor store, thinking it was a bottle of ginger ale -- which looked very similar in color. Once the mistake was realized, it was too late and we inherited the mistaken celery soda. Oh, and I wouldn't drink any of it for less than $300. It's friggin' disgusting.

The Best of Omar

2011-10-09T19:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

All in the Game is an awesome interview with the actor who plays Omar from The Wire (and currently plays Chalky White in Empire Boardwalk).

Here's a video with some of the best clips of The Wire featuring Omar...

Octopi Wall Street

2011-10-08T13:15:00.005-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Check out this article from Mother Jones.... Octopi Wall Street. It's inspired by Matt Taibbi's usage of "vampire squids" to describe Goldman Sachs. The gang at MJ were inspired by the usage of the octopus and squid in American history to describe evil doers like railroad barons and monopolists of the 19th century.

By the way, if you haven't read Taibbi's book Griftopia: A Story of Bankers, Politicians, and the Most Audacious Power Grab in American History... then what are you waiting for?

And yes, for more information on locations of Occupy Wall Street inspired protests in your neck of the woods, check out this Occupy protest map that MJ put together.

Endnotes with David Foster Wallace

2011-10-07T19:57:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I stumbled upon this BBC (radio) documentary about David Foster Wallace...

I almost felt the urge to re-read all of Infinite Jest... almost!

Flamed by Lady Gaga Sheeple

2011-10-06T16:20:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I got a couple of pieces of hysterical hate mail because of something I wrote about Lady Gaga. I mean, really? Lady fucking Gaga? With all the craziness going on in the world, I expect I'd get slammed for some of my anarchist political views, but then again sheeple ignore anything political unless it involved a Presidential election, however, the moment you rock their boat with blasphemy about Lady Gaga, they get their panties in a twist, or a little sand in the vag, or a baseball bat logged up their anal tract... all over this throw-away article I wrote while crocked to the tits on painkillers.... Lady Gaga the Illuminati Puppet.

For fuck's sake. Lighten up, folks. Lady Gaga is not the savior, unless she can figure out how to bail out Greece and end our multi-trillion dollar deficit.

Never underestimate the stupidity of sheeple. Baaaa.

Superstitions and River Rats

2011-10-05T14:32:00.007-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I'm always afraid to write about baseball because I don't want to be a jinx. No one wants to be a jinx and become a social outcast and pariah, like the weird kid in grammar school who everyone avoided at lunch time because he smelled like cat piss.

Baseball is a game wrapped in superstitions and rituals. Wade Boggs ate fried chicken before every game and if he didn't he was doomed to go 0-5, so he made sure he ate fried chicken -- no matter what. During winning streaks, players won't wash their uniforms or socks. Players won't step on the foul lines when running off the field. And everyone in the dugout doesn't even talk about or recognize a no-hitter when it's happening.

Superstitions are utterly stupid, because once you give in to a superstition, your life becomes ruined because you become enslaved by your biggest fears of breaking whatever ritual you created to make yourself feel less anxious. Yet, I only adhere to one -- I never carry around $50 bills. Grubby told me about it in 2004 when I first got into playing poker in casinos. Since then I refuse to touch $50s and if one crosses my path, I get rid of it as soon as possible.

I used to have another ritual which occurred whenever I traveled. A quick backstory -- I have a recurring nightmare that I die in a plane crash -- so, to assuage my fears, I rap my closed right hand on the outside of the plane just above the doorway before I enter the plane and I'm greeted by the flight attendants. I dunno when that ritual started, but I stopped doing it a couple of years ago. So if/when I die in a plane crash, I don't want that added extra pressure following me into the afterlife because I didn't quell any superstitions before I stepped onto the plane.

I'm supposed to smart enough to know that whatever I do will alter the future, as much as I'd like to think I can affect the outcome of a game or prevent a plane crash. Even though I know my actions, like writing about the Yankees on my blog, won't affect the game, I have been silent for a few weeks because I don't want to be bogged down with guilt that I jinxed the Yanks. No one wants to be a jinx.

Yeah, I won't adhere to any sports-related superstitions, yet I still wear my Yankees visor backwards when they're in desperate need of a hit. Some habits never die, even if it's a silly superstition. Then again rally hats are waaaaaaay more inventive than that fucking insane Rally Monkey that the L.A. Angels of Anaheim uses to fire up the crowd.

As much as I usually don't give a shit what people think about me, I hate to be known as a jinx among my sporting peers, because some of the most random people are slaves to superstitions, especially die-hard sports fans.

There are some personal exceptions because I get more and more superstitious and intense whenever there's large sums of money on the line. Take this summer for example -- I was working in Las Vegas during the NBA playoffs leading up to the Finals against Miami. I had bet big on the Dallas Mavericks to win the entire Championship along with individual bets on each game they played en route to the title. I was kinda forced to watched one game with AlCantHang at McFadden's Pub (formerly the Tilted Kilt) inside the Rio Casino. I never go to that joint anymore, yet we had to watch the game there due to lack of space in the sportsbook and adjoining bar, which were packed with fans and bettors. Alas, I went to the pub with Al because we had no other alternative... yadda, yadda, yadda.... the Dallas Mavs came from behind in one of the most exhilarating games I had seen in a very long time to cover the spread. I made a lot of coin that day and a new superstition was born. For the rest of the series, I wanted to watch every game with Al at McFadden's.

Sweating the NBA playoffs at McFadden's
with AlCantHang and Michele (aka the Cougar)
The one time we broke the streak and skipped McFadden's, the Mavs didn't cover (incidentally, when I watched Game 7 of the NHL playoffs with my colleague Lance, my bet on Vancouver shit the bed because Al wasn't with me!). As much as I know that neither myself, Al, or McFadden's will affect how many three pointers Dirk Nowitzki will drill or how many fouls the refs will call -- I still wanted to cover my ass and placate any potentially superstitions that induce a spike in sport betting anxiety. That means sometimes giving in to superstitions -- whether it's wearing a "rally cap" or watching a game in the same place with the same people.

I guess that's why I've been saving any baseball commentary for an email thread with my brother, Jerry, and the Rooster. The infamous "NYC sports thread" has been going on for a few years now with the topics centralizing on all things sports in New York City -- lots of Yankees, Knicks and Jets chatter with a smattering of Miami Hurricanes football, hockey, boxing, UFC, and English soccer.

Yesterday, no one had faith in AJ Burnett. The locker room prankster is beloved among his teammates, but he's struggled down the stretch. AJ was scheduled to take the mound in Game 4 against the Detroit Tigers with the Yankees down 2-1 in a five-game series. The Yankees were on the verge of being eliminated from the playoffs with all hopes resting in the shoulders and right arm of their weakest link in the chain. AJ achieved perfection ten years ago when he tossed a no-hitter, but his best days were way behind him. As a bettor, I frequently bet the OVER (combined run totals) in AJ's games and never dared betting on the Yanks whenever it was his turn in the rotation. I had no faith in him during the season and had even less confidence in the playoffs.

Even my mother, who is nothing close to being a religious person, knew the writing was on the wall. She all but declared the Yankees dead on arrival at the start of Game 4 and sent me a text message stating the only hope the Yanks had was to "pray for them."

Wow. When a native of the Bronx is looking for spiritual help, you know it's a bleak.

That text stunned me. My mother had not-so-secret disdain for AJ Burnett. I'd estimate that 75% of the text messages she sent me over the last two years occurred on days when AJ pitched and usually resembled something like... "AJ sucks."

No one had confidence in AJ. The bookies in Vegas set the line with Yankees as the dog. Everyone lost faith in AJ. The bookies. My mother. Everyone calling into the Mike and the Mad Dog radio show. The guys in my email thread. Even me.

The wiseguys in Vegas bet the Yankees, because they love betting dogs in the playoffs, especially on the brink of elimination. They knew AJ was on the mound and bet the Yankees anyway. That takes huge balls from my perspective as a fan -- but they viewed the situation differently. They probably knew that AJ would be on a short leash and Girardi would yank him before they got into a real jam, and at some point it would come down to the Tigers bullpen holding off an offensive surge in the late innings. I had similar inklings, which I told my brother yesterday morning -- that I had a feeling that AJ would get rocked early on and eventually get yanked in the second inning after giving up two runs, before Phil Hughes out out the fire and pitched five solid innings in relief as Yanks come from behind to win 7-4.

Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

Curtis Granderson bailed out AJ Burnett big time with the bases loaded. If Granderson doesn't catch up to that long fly ball and chase it down for the third out to thwart a Tigers rally in the first inning, then it's 2-0 or potentially 3-0 Tigers. At that point, the lynch mob would start chanting AJ's name and he'd be dead by the seventh inning stretch.

Right place, right time. Or as Yogi Berra succinctly stated -- "Hit 'em where they ain't."

But the ain't in that instance was Granderson on his horse and running down the ball to center field. That was the first of two sensational catches he'd make in the outfield (second catch is pictured above), solidifying what everyone who watched the Yanks everyday already knew -- Granderson's outstanding catches symbolized the Yankees season, because he bailed them out in more ways than they'll ever know.

After Granderson's first inning heroics, AJ Burnett better be naming his next kid after Granderson or buying him a Lexus or taking him out to steak dinners every time they're on the road, because if Grandy doesn't make that catch -- AJ Burnett gets whacked. He'd go missing for a few weeks, before his corpse was found floating in the East River, with chunks of his bloated face eaten up by river rats.

We're Cattle

2011-10-04T23:35:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

This video kinda scared the shit out of me when I first saw it. Afterall, no one wants to be unplugged from the Matrix, but as soon as they are (after a rough adjustment period), they are glad it happened.

Check out this video created by Stefan Molyneux from freedomainradio.com. Molyneux is an abrasive philosopher who comes off like a smug jackoff, but he really knows his shit when it comes to explaining why we're human cattle living on human farms.

The Exhaustion of Fear Mongering

2011-10-03T16:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Sometimes Nicky walks into the office in the back of the apartment gives me a very condescending snide remark, "Fear mongering... again?"

Yes, it's been an exhausting week of fear mongering over at Tao of Fear. We had a traffic setting week and were very busy with keep tabs on several diverse stories especially the Occupy Wall Street protests, which are picking up steam every day and spreading across the country. We even added a widget to the sidebar so you can view a live stream of the revolution as in unfolds in real time.

If you haven't done so already, check out today's link dump of not-so-mainstream newsworthy items in the Monday Morning Red Pill.

By the way, if you haven't been reading Tao of Fear, here's what you missed since last Monday...

The Revolution Will Be Live Stream'd
Knock, Knock... Who's There?... It's just the Aliens!
Monday A.M. Red Pill: Giant Squids, The Fed Monitoring Facebook and Twitter, Market Collapse, Violent Protests at Occupy Wall Street
What Is a D.U.M.B.?
Keiser Report: Pax Americana Pyramid
Doc Film: Big Bucks Big Pharma
Astronauts Say ETs and UFOs Exist
Doc Film: Meltdown Part 1 - The Men Who Crashed the World
Message from Anonymous: Occupy the Planet
Stefan Molyneux and the Wall Street Protests
Podcast: Clif High and Web Bot Predictions
Message from Anonymous: "Bankers Are the Problem"
Doc Film: Meltdown Part 2 - Global Financial Tsunami
Keiser Report: WW3 Will Makes Us Rich
9 American Cities That Are Going Broke

If you don't follow us on Twitter, we're @TaoFear.

Risky Bizness

2011-10-02T10:21:00.006-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

A lesbian flirted with me.

It's happened before, but never in a grocery store. It had been a while and was so taken aback by the situation that I forgot to smile. Hey, everyone likes to be wanted, right? Especially by lesbians. I assumed this would happen frequently in San Francisco, a city that has become a haven for lesbian activity, but, I was unprepared for any sort of banter over chocolate milk of all things, especially with short-haired lesbians that usually want to beat me up for having a cock swinging between my legs, and not flirt with me.

I blame the special atomic brownie I had ingested a couple of hours earlier. I probably should not have been out roaming around the streets of San Francisco and interacting with the public during those highest levels of toxicity. I probably should've just stayed home and zoned out in front of the TV flipping back and forth between college football and the baseball playoffs. Alas, my sweet tooth got the best of me. I craved two things that we didn't have in the apartment: Joe-Joe's and chocolate milk.

If you have never been to Trader Joe's, they sell cookie product that is crack-like. It's a knock-off version of an Oreo called Joe-Joe's. They taste delicious and are slightly more healthy than the typical Oreo. Sure, if you eat 20 in a sitting, that's bad for you, but one or two Joe-Joe's ain't gonna kill anyone. They also make a second kind of Joe-Joe's with special chocolate covered filling. Yeah, now you know why I'm addicted to boxes of Joe-Joe's. Chocolate plus chocolate. Yeah, those delectable cookies are packaged in boxes which has a cute little toucan on the front. I assume his name is Joe and those are his fucking cookies. I really don't care for semantics when it comes to stoner food stuffs, so I never spent more than two seconds inspecting the box before I tore it open.

An open box of Joe-Joe's gets eaten within a few hours in my apartment. I could blame my roomies Halli and Nicky for devouring the cookies while I'm not looking. Sometimes I have to hide the boxes or they will get devoured by folks when they stop over on Monday nights to play poker.

Or maybe there's an invisible ghost that floats around, or a grey alien colony behind our house that sneaks in while I'm sleeping to polish off the rest of the cookies.

Anyway, with a Yankees game (or moreso the continuation of a rain delay from game 1 which lasted 23 hours) on the agenda, I had to make sure I had a proper snack to keep up my inflated energy levels during the baseball game. Hence, why I actually snuck out and wandered around Trader Joes during a worst possible time -- when it was super crowded, like it always is. Some reason, Saturday afternoons are hell at Trader Joes because hipsters, hippies and parents with strollers converge on the local grocery store in my neighborhood.

Busy super markets were not designed for fucked up people. Yes, those 24-hour mega-stores are perfect for stoners and drug fiends during late night "I got the munchies" runs at 2am when the store is practically empty and you can roam the brightly-lit aisles without fear of bugging out other customers because you reek like weed and eyeballs are bright fucking red.

The Trader Joes in my hood is not designed for intoxicated freaks at 2pm, right around the time the brownie kicked in and minor hallucinations bombarded me as I walked down the street. Whoever made the atomic brownie, specifically designed for medicinal marijuana cancer patients, was right to advise me to only eat half.

I took one step into Trader Joes and was already miserable because I got stuck walking behind a very rotund lady. I was a little slow to "hit the hole" whenever a small gap of space opened up. The New Yorker in me often feels like a running back in a crowded situation, ready to be pounced up by blood-thirsty defensive linemen, so I quickly hit a tiny gap in the crowd to avoid the crush. My quick feet became stumps caught in sand. I hesitated and failed to rush ahead, so instead I kinda slowly waddled through the flower section before I got up the nerve to hit the hole when the next gap presented itself in front of a fruit stand. Instead of a smooth transition, I banged into the lady and she almost fell over into the oranges.

"So sorry ma'am," I half-assed apologized, "I'm here to get Joe-Joe's."

I quickly disappeared into the crowd and remembered to get the only thing that Nicky asked for -- a small carton of half and half for her coffee. While in the milk/dairy section I found the mother load of chocolate milk. But not just any chocolate milk, but Trader Joe's super, smooth special organic chocolate milk, that tastes like silk-flavored chocolate cascading down your windpipe.

I'm not much of a milk guy and I'm very paranoid that any Fukushima radioactive fallout with manifest itself in the US by disrupting milk production, but I put my fears aside and pulled the carton of chocolate milk into my basket. I had to have the chocolate milk. So silky...

I rounded up a couple of total stoner items like graham crackers, Joe-Joe's, and chocolate covered raisins. I got freaked out by a hippie girl arguing with someone over the "free trade" cocoa label and quickly abandoned the aisle. I found myself at the front of the store and assessed the line situation. I had fewer than six items, but usually the "12 items or less" was longer than the regular lanes due to angle-shooting hispters. I stood in what I thought was the shortest line and patiently waited for my turn, hoping that everyone around me didn't notice how wasted I was. That's when it was time for me to get my good scanned and the lesbian hit on me.

"Oh my god," said the lesbian, who looked like Tom Cruise circa Risky Business, "I looooove this chocolate milk. It takes so silky and smoooooth, like I'm drinking a chocolate shake."

She said this while caressing the carton before slowly putting it in a paper bag. She then gave me the gaga eyes. I did a doubletake. Did she really say that? Did she really look at me that way? Seriously, I know I was fucked up, but was a lesbian actually hitting on me?

The only thing I could muster up was... "Thanks. This is the best chocolate milk in the solar system. My kids love it."

Yes, I know what you're thinking... I don't have kids (at least that I'm aware of). And no, I have no clue why I blurted that out. I blamed the brownie and the lesbian really knocked me off my game, so much so that I started talking about my imaginary kids. Lesbians have that strange mystical power, and the ones I've encountered love organic chocolate milk. I better get used to that fact, because lesbians are a dime a dozen in San Francisco.

What I'm Watching... 10/1/11 Version

2011-10-01T14:20:00.005-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Yesterday was Trey's birthday. As you know, I'm more than a fan and consider him an idol. My goal is to write 10% as good as Trey plays guitar. Anyway, I posted a great interview with Matt Pinfield and Trey in 2005.

I saw Contagion last week at a tiny theatre in my neighborhood. It was the last day they were showing it before they switched films in favor of Moneyball. Contagion was better than some friends said, and I enjoyed it, but I actually hoped for something with a bit more spice from director Steven Soderberg. I really dug his last film with porn star Sasha Grey The Girlfriend Experience, but I didn't know how he would handle a germ-thriller like Contagion that featured a some-what all-star cast -- Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow, and the dude who played Morpheus. At least Gwyneth dies in the first act of the film and she's patient zero as doctors try to figure out what the fuck happened. I dunno if I can watch Matt Damon actually act anymore (even the Ocean's 11 franchise) because of the impact that the Bourne Identity franchise has had on me. Bourne really ruined any future film I see Matt Damon in. I mean, if there ain't a car crash or he's not beating the shit out of a CIA assassin using close quarters Brazilian street fighting techniques, I doubt I can watch it. But, I gotta say, I got sucked into Green Zone, which essentially was the Bourne Identity in Iraq.

Speaking of that huge elephant in the room called the Iraq War, I checked out a documentary called No End in Sight, directed by Charles Ferguson, or the same guy who did Inside Job. Fergsuon's film about the financial crisis of 2008 won an Oscar earlier this year for best documentary film. I had no idea he also directed No End in Sight, so I checked it out. His film sheds light on the behind the scenes internal fuck ups after the fall of Baghdad in 2003. Here's a better explanation: "No End in Sight examines the manner in which the principal errors of U.S. policy – the use of insufficient troop levels, allowing the looting of Baghdad, the purging of professionals from the Iraqi government, and the disbanding of the Iraqi military – largely created the insurgency and chaos that engulf Iraq today."

And speaking of the financial crisis of 2008, I recently posted something Tao of Fear about the greed in the housing market that caused collapse and ensuing catastrophe in the financial markets. The four part documentary titled Meltdown pinpointed the root of the global financial meltdown that occurred three years ago. Check out Meltdown Part 1: The Men Who Crashed the World and Meltdown Part 2: A Global Financial Tsunami.

And speaking of Wall Street corruption, there's been a lot of momentum ongoing with the Occupy Wall Street protests. We've even have a live stream of the revolution running on Tao of Fear. Just today, Anonymous posted a haunting video stating that The Bankers Are the Problem. Meanwhile, philosopher and radio host Stefan Molyneux thinks the protesters need to educate themselves much more before they start the revolution.

And you know another cheap segue is coming... speaking of Tao of Fear, I recently watched a documentary about pharmaceutical companies called Big Bucks Big Pharma. It's a couple of years old, but worth a viewing.

Morning Forums and Guns from Greys

2011-09-30T17:55:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

The mornings are quiet at the Ice Palace, except for the gurgling of a bong, and whatever Jazz mix I put on. Most recently it's been a bunch of Coltrane CDs that G-Money gave me a few summers ago, but for some reason I love listening to it as I watch the fog fly over the back of our building.

The Ice Palace is the nickname for Halli's apartment that her friends came up with because it, no shocker here, gets super cold... even in the summers. The mornings are quiet, but chilly, and I often sit in the back of the apartment at the big desk and I embark on whatever I have to do that morning. I used to have to wake up and shill for the online poker industry, by writing mindless drivel about the genius of poker players, but that task doesn't pay as much as it used to with a horrendous economy, the DOJ stomping out online poker in America, and the sad fact that writers who generate web content for decent wages are becoming obsolete because some idiot out there will low ball your rate in a heartbeat. Yeah, my musings about poker have become few and far between these days. I've been writing up stories about my weekly home game, but even then I don't have the heart to publish them because I'm struggling with an internal conflict about publishing anything I write that has to do with poker. What's the point? Whispers one of the internal voices. I've written over a million words about the topic, do we need any more pollution? But another part of me keeps encouraging myself to write because some day I'll look back and be bummed that I didn't do it. Alas, for you the avid reader, you get the shit end of the shit because I've been writing but not publishing. Sorry about that. Then again, I'm probably saving you from wasting valuable time, right?

I hate repeating myself, but that's all I seem to be doing. I've become a derivative of a derivative. The only thing creative I've come up with this year has been tweeting/blogging haiku's about reality TV shows. What am I'm going to have to do in 2012 to top that? Start blogging about the future in quatrains.

Think about how much more money and pussy Nostradamus would get if he lived today and had a blog and weekly podcast?

Instead of shilling for the online poker industry or self-indulging in personal writing projects, I'm spending a couple of hours every morning entertaining myself by sifting through all of the intel, news blurbs, links about all things fear, which accumulated while I slept. Fear mongering doesn't monger itself. It takes a couple of hours of bringing myself up to speed so I can figure out what story I'm going to focus on and scare the shit out of you. Will it be WW3? Or rogue bankers? Or all the fish in the Pacific Ocean swimming in radiation soup?

I've been popping in and out of different forums (some conspiracy, others financial and political) in the early mornings, not to mention the late nights when I can't sleep. All forums are the same -- very little concrete content with a lot of lonely people seeking attention either as trolls or sycophants. But sometimes you find something valuable, which makes you keep going back again and again like a huge rummage sale, hoping to find a Picasso hidden among the Impressionist knock-offs.

I used to jump out of bed to read couple of poker forums (2+2, Pocket Fives, Poker Road)...even though I couldn't stand the majority of retards who posted/flamed others on there...but it was necessary for me as a poker reporter and wanna be "talking head" to monitor the pulse of the forum crowd. Thank God I don't have to do that anymore and I trust a few friends to do that arduous task for me and clue me in on any pertinent info, incendiary gossip or hysterical threads.

There was a time when I felt compelled to read music forums like Phantasy Tour in order to keep up with the daily happenings in the Phishy scene and other circles, but that got a little tiring. For something like music that is supposed to bring people together, the inbred nits still manage to create disruptions and cause rifts in something that in real life is an amazing, loving, community. Just like poker, luckily I have friends like Joker, B Treotch and Jonas who clue me in on any pertinent info, incendiary gossip or hysterical threads on PT.

More recently, I found myself browsing different financial forums, but that too got annoying, because everyone is either Jim Kramer or Warren Buffet. Bunch of fucking know-it-alls, right? Although one of my guilty pleasures is reading the comments on Zero Hedge, because I do appreciate the occasional commentary from savvy and informed investors, but it gets buried underneath lots of jibberish from the tin-foil hat crowd hoarding silver and bullets.

I know what you're thinking... "Pauly, aren't you one of those crazy people who comment on Zero Hedge and hoard silver and bullets?"

Um, yeah. But so what?

Even on the day I moved in, my roommate Halli asked, "You didn't bring your gun from LA, did you?"

I told her no. The one I have is just a fake, you know, one of those Hollywood props that I use to scare off the grey ETs that might try and pick through our garbage for orange peels and coffee grinds, which they use to lubricate their spaceships.

Sleep Prived

2011-09-27T14:41:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I know what sleep deprivation is, but can you be sleep prived?

Is that such a word? Or am I so far gone and exhausted that I can't figure out if I'm making up words, or morphing Latin roots with slang. I have no idea, which is what happens when you reach a point of hideous sleep deprivation.

I don't like this state in between waking and sleeping. My eyelids weigh 20 lbs. each. No one wants to be not to be able to sleep and drift off into slumberland, but sometimes, this odd transitional period can be fun because you start tripping out like you're on a bunch of high potent blotter.

I get auditory hallucinations once I reach the 36-hour mark of being up. Whenever I hit the 40-hour lark, I get dizzy and slur my words and shake like a Parkison's patient. But somewhere around the 30-hour mark, you feel pretty groovy and it's like being completely chemically imbalanced.

The difficult part is reminding yourself not to make an rash decisions once you surpass the 24-hour mark. No one should be held accountable for their actions after being up for a single day, even though that happens to me at least once a week because I simply cannot fall asleep. I'll wake up at 5am and be up until... 6am the next day.

I always attempt to sleep, but most recently I often nod out in a pharmie-induced coma, where I have these lucid dreams about running laps in a swamp with a bunch of redneck albino gator hunters, while being chased by Jim Croce's ghost

Sometimes, I have no control at what comes out of my inner hallways of my mind when I'm this far gone. That's why everyone needs sleep, even insomniacs.

Then again, I clean up the entire apartment this morning because I couldn't sleep. We had a home game last night and lots of liquor was consumed. While Nicky and Halli slept, I waited until the downstairs neighbors went to work before I cleaned house. At least I did something productive other than troll conspiracy forums.

Yeah, I just outted myself as a forum troll. In the last few months, whenever I can't sleep, I'll head over to random conspiracy forums and rattle the cages of a few 9/11 truthers, and poke fun at completely unhinged tin-foil hat wearing freaks claiming they were abducted by aliens, and sometimes trade recipes with Armageddon compound survivalists on how to cook gourmet meals out of canned goods.

I dunno why I started reading those forums -- out of boredom actually -- and some of the threads are friggin' hysterical like someone claiming to be a time traveler from the future. I got a couple of great screenplay ideas for sure, and I'm not what you call a total Sci-Fi geek and can't tell you which solar systems and planets are the source of alien life -- like which planet did the Reptilians came from and where the Greys call home? However, I stumbled upon a few far-fetched conspiracy theories that are worthy of an expanded literary exploration. For shits and giggles, of course.

Flash Crash and the Now Moment

2011-09-26T11:11:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Have you ever had a near death experience?

I was involved in a car accident and for a few seconds after impact, I thought I was dead. I know that sounds spooky and out right scary, but because I didn't see any blood anywhere, I assumed that I died and passed over into the next life. When I climbed out of the wrecked vehicle, I could barely feel my body. It was like I was floating. Of course, that was all from the shock and trauma of the incident, but during that minute or so before I started shaking and had "sea legs" and needed to sit down on a curb, I kept thinking, "Wow... so there's a seamless transition between life and the after-life...like, one second you're alive, then WHAM!!!!!!...an SUV plows into you and you die just like that."

It really took a couple of hours before I stopped asking myself, "Wait, am I really alive?"

That realization coincided with aches and pains all over my body. If you've been in an accident, you know what I'm describing -- how it takes a couple of hours or even a couple of days for the weirdest spots on your body to ache. Once the pain pulsated through my body, I knew that I was still alive. You feel no pain in death right? That's why so many people commit suicide, or so many terminally ill people want assisted suicide -- to get over the intense pain they have in every day life -- to null it, to void it, to become one with nothingness. Of course, the soul is eternal and no matter what, you'll still harbor a bit of pain for eternity until you make peace with yourself.

Then again, the more I thought about the accident, I started to think that maybe I did die and I was feeling pain because I was shipped off to hell. After all, I lived a life that was less than angelic. I called Sin City my home for a while, and heck, I lived in the modern day Gomorrah every summer for two months. I might as well have a Nevada driver's license. Surely those in charge of the afterlife know my vices and proclivities to not-so-pious lifestyle. Maybe I was experiencing hell? After all, it was hot as balls and looked a lot like Las Vegas. Maybe hell is what you despise the most? Sartre thought hell was other people. Maybe hell becomes your greatest fears. For example, if you hate Dave Matthews Band in real life, but when you die, then you get stuck being a roadie for DMB in your alternative hell.

During the millisecond of impact during my accident, I had a strange flash. It wasn't the white light. I want to say I saw sparkles, but it wasn't as cosmic or dramatic like that, rather it was burst of the windows shattering into a million little shards. I didn't have the white light or a have a million warm and fuzzy memories flash before me. It's not how some people describe it -- you know -- "your life flashes before your eyes." Rather, I had a what I would describe as a quick burst of... love.

That's right. Love.

I'm not what you call a sappy person. I respect the past, but I'm someone who lives in the moment. The now. But at the moment of impact in the accident, it's hard to describe that moment which triggered an outpour of deep, emotional feelings of love because I had immediate, almost concurrent thoughts of three people: my brother, my mother, and my girlfriend. I had an immediate memory burst of the people who obviously mattered to me the most, but not so much in the mind, but I kinda felt it all over my mind and body. I guess you can say it encompassed me.

A month after the accident, I had a Reiki Master tell me that I lost part of my soul in the accident because it's a natural thing that sometimes the soul jumps out of your body during accidents or traumatic incidents -- as a means of self-preservation. Whether or not it's true, or whether you believe that hokey spiritual mish mash, it doesn't matter because the person who told me was deadly serious, and I knew something was wrong with me -- I wasn't quite there. Luckily, I was about to see a few Phish concerts, and the band is highly inspirational. I hoped the music or a mind-melting party favors would get me back on track. And yeah, the band and the concerts helped get my soul back. I didn't have to hire a soul retrieval specialist. I just took matters into my own hands.

It's hard to describe that "life flashes before your eyes" moment any other way. It's taken me a few months before I could even begin to write about the accident. And yes, I've been afraid to ask any of my loved ones if they felt a jolt of energy at the precise moment of impact. I don't want to freak them out. The accident was crazy enough and they worry about me as much as is, so I really don't need to be digging into other people's psyches.

Life is strange. The mind is even more bizarre. As I try to find more answers, the more I come up empty handed. But I flirted with the life's razor's edge for a brief moment and walked away with my soul outta whack, my hip all kinds of fucked up, little nicks on my hands and arms, bruised ribs, and a piece of windshield glass that got stuck in my palm for several weeks before I managed to pull it out with tweezers. At that point when the shard was expelled from my palm, I knew it was time for me to mentally heal myself, because I knew there would be a major event happening in the ensuing year or so. I needed to get healthy to help prepare for that defining moment -- whatever it might be.

Now, that defining moment is drawing close. The event is nigh. I can't explain it any other way but the chronic insomnia is as worse as it's ever been. When I do sleep, I'm bombarded with the most bizarre dreams that are too intricate for me to even begin to analyze.

With that said, it's important to take time this week and really figure out what's important in life and stop being irked by the little things. Because when the proverbial shit inevitably hits the fan, you're gonna be kicking yourself in the gonads thinking, "Why did I even waste all that energy on that, when I could have been spending time with the people I care about, or the things that bring me the most happiness."

If I told you a flash was coming soon, what would pass through your mind? Loved ones? Moments of glory? Pangs of guilt on the things you didn't do, or the people you might have hurt along the way?

I know this is a lot to think about, especially from me. Shit, just the other day I posted a video about titties and carrot cake, and now I'm asking you to go hug your kids and step outside and enjoy the moment.

The moment, the now, is all we got.

The City

2011-09-25T04:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

My roommate Halli posted this on Facebook, and I'm snagging it for Tao fodder....

The City from WTK Photography on Vimeo.

This is some amazing time lapsed photography of San Francisco, which visually displays some of the reasons why I bailed from L.A. to migrate up north to the Bay Area.

Soundtrack for the Apocalypse

2011-09-23T08:49:00.003-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I couldn't sleep. Put my iPod on shuffle and "Gimme Shelter" popped up. It really got me thinking about different songs to usher in the Apocalypse.

Here's the half-baked list I came up with off top of my head while scanning through my iPod...

1. Gimme Shelter (The Stones)
2. The Dogs of War (Pink Floyd)
3. Bad Moon Rising (CCR)
4. Ride of the Valkyries (Richard Wagner)
5. Life During Wartime (Talking Heads)
6. Sabotage (Beastie Boys)
7. Along the Watchtower (Jimi Hendrix)
8. What's Going On (Marvin Gaye)
9. Floods (Pantera)
10. London Calling (The Clash)
11. Where I End and You Begin (Radiohead)
12. Enter Sandman (Metallica)
13. The End (The Doors)

Thanks to Chris Tessaro for Track #2!

Fear Mongering

2011-09-22T04:19:00.006-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Yeah, I fucked up Truckin' and haven't published an issue in a couple of months. I'm ashamed and embarrassed about letting that blog project flounder, but it's better to burn out than to fade away. Right?

On a good note, I'm about to ramp up the fear mongering over at Tao of Fear. I decided to ease off the pedal with poker this summer in order to embrace the last quarter of 2011 as a staging point for the 2012 -- which is right around the corner. Yeah, I'm having a balls out time scaring the shit out of the sheeple with subversive videos about the collapse of the U.S Dollar and other random tidbits about the impending apocalypse.

Tao of Fear also has its own Twitter feed -- @TaoFear.

If you have never visited Tao of Fear, or haven't stopped by in a while, then I encourage you to check out a couple of weekly columns -- The Monday Morning Red Pill and This Week in UFOs.

The Monday Morning Pill is a link dump of non-fluffy news stories that give you the straight dope about some of the insanity that the powers to be don't want the masses to know about. This Week in UFOs is self-explanatory. I just started this new weekly link dump of UFO videos and mainstream media reports mainly because the number of UFO sightings have increased at an exponential rate. At this point, it's hard to ignore that something weird is happening.

And don't forget about those adorable, hysterical Silver Bears -- who have been warning us about the collapse of the USD and other fiat currencies for the last year or so.

Here's the first episode (of seven) of the Silver Bears...

If you liked the Silver Bears, check out the other episodes.

* * *
Oh, and if you miss my (derivative) musings about poker, you can read about my reaction to the latest drama bomb -- the U.S. top cops at the DOJ called Full Tilt Poker a ponzi scheme.

Update: Check out Nicky's piece that she wrote Full Tilt Poker's New Brand Identity: Ponzi Scheme.

Titties and Carrot Cake

2011-09-21T04:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Disco Sis wondered if I got any titties and carrot cake for my birthday. I got me some titties, but it was red velvet cake that Nicky picked up and not a carrot cake.

In case you were wondering about the unusual inside joke, this video will catch you up to speed...

The Same Religion

2011-09-17T12:38:00.007-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Some days I'm astonished at what I've accomplished, while other days, I'm befuddled at why I haven't been thrown into jail or why I'm not lying face down in a gutter, like so many other vagrants that I see in my new city.

Crackheads aplenty are strewn in the streets of San Francisco. I often worry about how close I am to actually living in the streets. I'm not trying to be overly dramatic, but all I keep thinking about is that scene in Wall Street when Bud Fox is driving around in Gordon Gekko's limo while contemplating whether or not he has the stomach and balls to delve into insider trading and shoot angles on Wall St. to become uber-wealthy. The limo pulls up to a corner on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and two people are standing there -- a suit with a briefcase and a homeless person digging through the trash. Gordon Gekko points to both men and uses them as an example of free will vs. determinism to Bud Fox.

"You really think the difference between this guy and that guy is luck?" said Gekko before he tells his driver to pull over to let Bud out. "When it comes to money... everybody's of the same religion."

Bums. Suits. It don't matter. We all worship the all mighty dollar, well, what's left of the fiat currency that we have in our pockets. Some of my Wall St. buddies are convinced the USD is going to bust, while others think the mighty greenback will bounce back because the cabal who run the Fed won't let that happen. They'll keep printing money with Ben Bernanke's printing press, which is the exact reason why the USD is worth the same as toilet paper.

The only difference between the America in 2011 and Argentina of a decade ago -- is Ben Bernanke's printing press. Well, that and the fact we never had a soccer player who could carry Diego Maradona's sweaty socks.

Are we collectively doomed? Probably, which is the cause of the underlying layer of malaise that I can't shake. I drank through this tropical depression with rum drinks earlier in the year. I had a brief respite from doom and gloom after this summer when I miraculously walked away from a car wreck. I was so fucking lucky to be alive that my entire perspective changed, but even that fleeting moment has worn off, and now I'm back to roaming this planet with a bit of knowledge that I've been trying to share with friends for a few years now. They won't listen, and that inherently makes me sad. It's not an ego thing -- I don't get off in being listened to -- rather, a wave of melancholy washes over me because some people I love dearly refuse to wake up.

In short, I've been trying to unplug them, wake them up, and pull them out of the sheeple spiral. Alas, it's not working and I'm ready to give up trying to save everyone. The sad part is this fact -- sheep get slaughtered.

Oh well. Dennis Miller snarked it the best, "You can't save everyone, folks."

At this point, I question whether or not I can save myself. Do I even want to be saved? Should I just give up, get microchipped, and zone out in front of the boob tube while embracing Sn00ki,The Situation, and the Kardashians as my new Holy Trinity -- the almighty Lord and Savior?

Religion used to be the opiate of the masses, but now it's reality TV. I have friends in Hollyweird who write for reality TV shows. Yeah, they ain't real. Nothing is anymore, except the searing pain that rockets through my body every time I gaze out into the sea of humanity and see so much wasted potential. No wonder we're going to get stomped in the revolution. It's easy for the powers to be to pick off the troublemakers because they easily stick out as the black sheep in the ginormous fluffy, white herd.

Somedays I think about that scene from Wall Street with the suit standing on the corner with the bum and wonder if I'm headed on a path toward prosperity, or I'm headed toward the street. You'd be surprised at my answer. After all, we all worship the same religion, but then again, the Church of St. Sn00ki seems more and more appealing every day.

I might start drinking again. Heavily.

Wake of the Flood; Phish Returns to Vermont for Benefit Concert

2011-09-15T15:33:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
Burlington, VT

Editor's Note: This originally appeared on Coventry Music.

Photo by Dave Vann © Phish 2011
If you've ever been to Burlington and engage in conversation with the locals, it seems that everyone holds the members of Phish in the highest regard, but more importantly, they all seem to know one of the boys personally or professionally. Vermont is a small state and even though it's a college town, Burlington has a small town mentality -- essentially everyone knows everyone. Trey is still called Trey, and even though we regard Trey as a mythical rock star, in this part of the Vermont, Trey is a local hero similar to a high school quarterback in a desolate West Texas town -- he might go onto bigger and better things, but he's still their "home boy."

I made the journey from San Francisco to Burlington via a red eye from Oakland to JFK, where I switched planes to fly to Burlington. At least 85% of my plane were heads and I was seated to one of the few civilians on board. She was a woman in her 50s and we made some small talk as I buckled in. I told her that I was a writer who is flying out to cover Phish's benefit show.

"They are such nice boys for doing this," she gushed. "My husband is a contractor and he once worked on Page's house."

I snickered. She had no idea about the running inside joke from this summer about "Page's house", so I clued her in. I don't think she fully appreciated it, but she smiled anyway.

My cabbie had nothing but amazing things to say about the Burlington music scene. "Phish is the band that put Vermont on the map, but there's plenty of other great (bands) in town. Grace Potter... she's a sweetheart. I know her parents. But Trey and the rest of the band do so much to promote music. Trey's even a part owner of the Higher Ground."

When I checked into my hotel, the pimple-faced kid at the front desk mentioned that his mom and step-dad were Trey's neighbors who lived "about 35 minutes from here."

* * *
I had frequent flier miles on JetBlue that I stashed away for a special occasion like the Vermont show. I got shutout in lottery, but luckily a cool guy from Minnesota named Trent hooked me up with two extras, which meant I could see the show with one of my closest and oldest friends, Senor. We've seen over 50 shows together including the infamous Japan tour in 2000. He's got a wife, mistress, two kids, and a job that requires long hours so he doesn't get to see as many shows as we used to. The last time we saw Phish together was the New England run last October (Providence, Worcester, Manch-Vegas and Amherst). He didn't have time to see the boys this summer, so he was super stoked when I told him I scored tickets.

"Well if you're flying all the way out from San Francisco to see one show," he said, "Then I can make the trek up from Providence!"

I rarely get to see shows with Senor in 3.0 so any time I hang out with Senor I know it's gonna be a raging time. On a more selfish note, I wanted to see Phish in Vermont to help exorcise those haunting Coventry demons. My friend Molly from Texas and I hiked in three miles to see that shit-stained trainwreck of a last waltz during a mud-riddled clusterfuck with Trey super schwasted and Page crying during Velvet Sea. The band walked off stage at Coventry under a cloud of gloom and misery.

Seven years later, Phish an opportunity to avenge the biggest blemish on their storied career, and at the same time, assisting their home state in a time of crisis by helping raise $1 million. Vermont was devastated by Hurricane Irene which caused severe wind damage and massive flooding. While the alphabet news networks focused on the hurricane reaching landfall in the Carolinas and the hysteria surrounding the clamping down of New York City, little old Vermont was barely mentioned by the mainstream media. Phish has always had a history of altruism and community service, so playing a benefit concert in Vermont seemed the appropriate thing to do.

I caught every Phish show since Super Ball IX and the band was en fuego by the time they arrived in Chicago. Toss in the three sizzling shows in Colorado and the band reached their pinnacle of the 3.0 era. The perfectionists in Phish wanted to collectively erase the last time they performed in Vermont. Plus, the gig was going to be at the Essex County fairgrounds, a mere stone's throw from their hometown in Burlington. Back to where it all began.

If you've seen the setlist or watched the stream, then you already know the benefit show fell into a "greatest hits" category. They omitted a couple of heavy hitters that were skipped in Colorado (most notably YEM, Wilson, and Mike's Groove). They played many of their classic songs and kept the far-out jamming to a minimum (with a few exceptions like Gin, DWD, Carini and Wolfman's).

Senor and I arrived at the lots around 6pm. A mini-Shakedown was set up on the far side of the fairgrounds and a fair amount of extras were floating around. We hung out for a bit before we made our way into the show and got stuck in a slow-moving line to get into the venue. That's when we heard Gordo and Vermont's governor greet the crowd. Gov Shumlin remarked about waiting seven years to see Phish play a gig in their home state.

The venue was a little bigger than the Tahoe set up with a massive grandstand opposite of the stage. The floor was cramped during the first few songs. Lots of drunks barreling through once the lights went down for the Chalkdust opener. Fish sported a special "Hurricane" muumuu for the occasion.

Photo courtesy of Gordo
The boys brought the "cow funk" early with Moma Dance in the second slot, followed up by a bubbly NICU. The crowd enthusiastically responded when Trey belted out, "Play it Leoooooooooooo!"

Everything fell into place with Funky Bitch batting cleanup before a crowd sing-along with Sample in a Jar. The guy behind me in a Red Sox hat was screaming the lyrics off key. We were treated to a rare mid-set Cavern (seems like it's been a set closer or deep into the first set as of late). Even Senor noted the early appearance of Cavern, which lacked the frenzied energy if it ended a set.

One of the jamming highlights of the first set included Bathtub Gin, accompanied by a roaring response from the crowd during the "We're all in this together, and we love to take a bath" segment. They lost me a bit with the jam, but Fish managed to pull Trey and the rest of the jam out of a dead end with a spectacular finish.

Alaska popped up and all I could think about were the rumors floating around the internet that Sarah Palin slept with former NBA star Glen Rice when he played at Michigan. It was a bizarre story for sure and as my mind wandered during the jam, I wondered if Palin ever got backstage during a Phish show in 1991 and gave Fishman a handjob at setbreak.

The crowd's energy level dipped with Alaska, but quickly recovered with Possum. It felt weird to hear a Possum non-show-opener, but the crowd soaked it all up. The last two songs -- Wolfman's > Julius -- might have been one of the more magical moments of the show, which punctuated a 90-minute opening set. At one point I had my eyes closed during the juicy Wolfman's jam and when I opened them I saw Senor jumping up and down with his arms in the air. That's one of my favorite moments at any concert -- when you see your friends getting down and rocking out. Senor and his brother used to make fun of me in the late 1990s when I was all wook'd out with a ponytail and a scraggly beard. They often referred to me as the Wolfman, so whenever we hear Wolfman's in 3.0, we always have a big laugh at the olden days.

At setbreak a drunk girl muttered, "When does Dave Matthews come on?"

"He's playing a solo acoustic set behind the port-o-potties right now!" I blurted out.

At the beginning of the second set, Trey noted that they saw lots of old friends in Vermont with the exception of two -- Pete and Tara. Pete was Fish's former drum tech otherwise known as Carini. Yep, you guess it... Carini opened up the second set. I wondered if they would throw us a bone with a Dicky Scotland Reprise?

The stretched-out Carini had a couple of dark moments before I heard a few teases and blustery notes sounding like the intro to Down With Disease, and sure enough, Carini slipped into DWD. On a random note, I recieved an email during DWD offering me a writing assignment to cover a poker tournament in Medellin, Colombia. Seriously. I saw that as an ominous sign!

DWD was left unfinished as Trey sort of rushed the band into Slave to the Traffic Light, which popped up much earlier in the set than expected. Slave usually anchors the back end of a second set, but I wasn't complaining. It's always a good night when your favorite band plays your favorite song. I always think the band plays it especially for me as a "thanks for making the journey with us."

Senor was a little schwilly by Rock and Roll. He became the "woooooooooohooooooo" guy and unleashed one of his trademarked screams every few minutes. Senor's all-time favorite Phish show was Vegas Halloween in 1998 and the musical costume of Velvet Underground's "Loaded." He said Rock and Roll always gives him instant flashbacks to that epic night. Page always shines on covers and he stepped it up, but just when Rock and Roll's jam got cooking, Trey pulled the rip chord during an abrupt seg into Twist. Trey's ADD got the best of him again and they bailed out of Twist in favor of Backwards Down the Number Line. I remember seeing a TAB show at Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel in Providence with Senor right after Phish announced reunion shows at Hampton. Trey played Backwards that night and I remarked that it'll probably be one of the new songs Phish introduced in the 3.0 era.

Gordo unleashed the fight bell at the beginning to Theme from the Bottom. Senor was pumped because he couldn't remember the last time he heard it. During Suzy Greenberg, a couple of Phishy chicks in front of us were doing dippies and jumping up and down. I thought Suzy would end the set because of the rumored 11pm curfew, because if they were going to play a 20+ minute YEM encore, then they needed to end the show immediately after Suzy. Alas, the boys snuck in a reeling Character Zero to close out the second set.

I wondered if Phish was going to go past the 11pm curfew. After all, the Governor was at the show and surely he could bend the elasticity of the rules for Phish, right? Everyone wondered if the benefit show would also feature guest appearances ranging from Jen Hartswick to Grace Potter to the Giant Country Horns. Alas, this gig was 100% pure Phish. No sit ins. No Santana.

The show ended with a single encore song and a cover of the Rolling Stones' Loving Cup. Sadly, no YEM for all of you YEM-maniacs.

Senor walked out of the venue just like everyone else -- all smiles. Even though he recognized the greatest hits theme, he mentioned, "One of the better shows I've seen since Phish returned."

* * *
I thought I saw my 151st and final show in Coventry, Vermont in 2004. At that point, I was done with Phish and the demoralized scene. By the end of 2004, I stumbled into the poker scene and spent the better part of the last seven years as a gambling reporter following around different tournament circuits in Las Vegas and internationally. It's a different type of traveling circus, but I missed being on Phish tour. Every. Single. Day.

Phish returned to the fray in 2009 and I racked up 89 shows since the reunion shows at the Mothership in Hampton. The Vermont benefit show might not stand out musically (or gimmicky) compared to some of the smoking shows from this summer, but this particular show will always have a special spot in my heart.

Phish is a tremendous source of inspiration. The friends that I met through the band give me hope for humanity. Trey is a personal hero because I also struggle with some of the same (pharmaceutical) demons that he dealt with over the last decade or so. It's not easy being Trey, and it's even a thousand times tougher to walk the line of sobriety while feeding the creative beast within you and trying to entertain and show everyone a good time without being redundant. Despite the deviant obstacles, Trey and the rest of the band continue to share their collaborative musical talents with whomever is bold and crazy enough to follow them along for the ride. Phish was born in Vermont in the mid-80s when a bunch of geeky college students decided to form a band. It took 240 attempts, but I'm fortunate that I got to finally see a good show near their birthplace.

Coventry's demons have finally been exorcised.

* * *
Before I go, I have a couple "special thanks" to two people. I called in a huge favor from my project manager at PokerStars (Otis is the man!) and he got me out of a writing assignment/deadline so I could see the benefit show. Also, thanks to Trent B. for finding me a pair of tickets. He's a good dude, so if you enjoyed the tweets from the show, he's responsible for hook up. If you ever see Trent or Otis in the lot, buy them a beer!

Lastly, Vermont is going to be struggling over the next months during their recovery. They still need your support. If you'd like to volunteer and get your hands dirty, check out Vermont Response website to see how you can pitch in. Also, you can still donate money for flood recovery by clicking here.

Sn00ki Gay for Trey

2011-09-13T13:11:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Jonas posted this gem on Coventry. Kangifrmed... Sn00ki is gay for Trey.

Almost the Routine

2011-09-12T14:33:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

It's been a strange adjustment period.

I have yet to fit into a perfect groove with San Francisco because whenever I develop any semblance of a routine, I'm out the door and on the road for a few days or week or more before I finally stumble back into the Bay Area, and dump my dirty clothes onto the hardwood floor and try to make sense of my life that's in flux.

Since Nicky and I bailed out of Las Vegas at the end of July, we must have spent at least three or four segments in San Francisco for three or more days. It's hard to dig down and develop roots when you're constantly on the move... LA, Seattle, The Gorge, Tahoe, Chicago, and Denver.

I have yet to sit still in San Francisco for a week or more, but I expect that will change shortly. I really thought the bulk of summer traveling was complete but I have one last encore Phish performance to attend in Vermont. But once I'm back from that quick sojourn back East, I should be staying in San Francisco for at least a month, maybe more.

I crave the routine because I'm in the middle of a freelance project and ready to put in long hours writing for myself again. I miss the daily grind of writing in LA. In fact one of the things I actually loved about LA was the ability to close the door to my office or sit at Nicky's grandmother's dining room table and delve into a daily writing schedule for the chance to have two different writing sessions -- early morning or late night -- and depending on which way the wind blew. Well, more specifically, depending on the insomnia, because I always found a groove to write in LA no matter what time of the day. But outside of writing, LA was a tough place for a social life...everyone is so spread out and the average person is someone I have very little to nothing in common with.

At least in San Francisco, I'm usually the least weirdest guy walking down the street. I don't mind being a freak. I'd have it no other way, but sometimes it feels good to just be able to blend into the crowd. In a city of freaks, I'm almost invisible.

Developing a writing routine is going to be a little rough when I'm constantly on the move, so the next few weeks will finally give me that chance to find out when/where I like to write. The back room in Halli's apartment doubles as her office and it's also where we play poker on Monday nights. She rarely uses her desk, so she happily allowed me to set up shop and I have a pair of laptops sucking up power at all hours. Since both her and Nicky wake up super late, I have the entire back of the apartment to myself in the mornings. I can crank up tunes and no one can hear me in the front of the apartment, so it's the perfect spot for me to work.

I've had a couple of random afternoons when I got completely faded and wandered around the city listening to my iPod and soaking up everything around me from street corners, to random stores, and lots of people watching. I can expect more faded wanderings in the upcoming weeks... whether it's hoping on a bus and going to it's last stop and then finding my way back to the apartment, or walking around the neighborhood in random directions, criss-crossing different streets and checking out what's in a ten to fifteen block radius of our apartment. One of my favorite things to do when I visit a new city is to memorize the map, then get totally lost and try to find my way back. That's when you really get a vibe of a city by wandering down streets off the beaten path that are filled with locals and away from gaudy tour buses.

I haven't been brave enough to tackle the monstrous hills to the top of Pacific Heights. Some mornings I can feel the stiffness in my bum hip so I stay to flatter streets. That steep climb will eventually become a morning routine, but only a few brave souls ever dare doing that arduous journey up to the crest of one of the highest points of the city. The view is worth the physical exertion.

In the meantime, I had a wild few days sports betting again with the onset of the NFL season. Halli and Nicky have been more than accommodating but I have a feeling that turning the apartment into a full-blown sportsbook by week 7 of the NFL season is going to wear thin on them. Time will tell. Until then, action is action.

Paralyzed Decade

2011-09-11T12:19:00.008-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I can't write about 9/11.

I lived in NYC ten years ago today and the events of that tragic day are crystal clear. Yet, I'm paralyzed with anger whenever I try to write about the specifics of the day the towers collapsed, and more importantly, the fallout that ensued. Angry. That's what happens when I try to turn on the faucet and write about 9/11. Like "HULK SMASH" angry. I even turn shades of green and get so worked up that it takes me a few days to get off mega-tilt.

A week or so before every anniversary since 9/11/01, I've sat down at my laptop and pecked away at the keyboard and just let everything... every thought, every rant flow out of my brain and onto the pages. My friends that know me well know that I don't believe in writer's block and if you've seen the plethora of scribblings I've regurgitated on the interwebs, you also know I'm not shy about sharing my thoughts about anything... from aliens to poker gods, from aspiring Hollyweird starlets to embeddeding myself with hippies on Phish tour, not to mention strange short stories that I've whipped up on a whim. But when it comes to the events of 9/11, I always hit a snag early on in the writing session and I get so infuriated that I often want to throw my laptop across the room.

Sometimes I think that if I don't write about 9/11, then the terrorists win. Sometimes I wonder if I actually write about 9/11, then the powers to be will think I'm a terrorist. It's really a no-win situation...kinda like 9/11 when you think about it. Those who have been deeply affected by 9/11 will never forget what happened, and there's definitely a lot of bat-shit crazy fuckers out there who wants to see America burned to the ground. But somewhere in the middle lies the rest of us. I just wish we had more people in power who could assess the situation with more logic and less emotion. Maybe then we wouldn't be bogged down in three wars (with a fourth on its way) which is draining the coffers and weakening the U.S. Dollar, while generating billions in Petro-Dollar profits to those manning the pumps. Alas, the fallout from 9/11 is making the U.S government broker than the worst degenerate gamblers I know in Vegas.

It's going to take me a fistful of pharmies and a bottle of rum to fully write about 9/11. I'm going to have to pick a random day of the year and just go for it. But at this juncture, I often wonder -- what's the point? 9/11 is what it is and conjuring up images and emotions from that fateful day only serves fear mongers, politicians waving the bloody flag (to get in office or stay in office), and corporations raking in billions in profits on those who have been able to manipulate the events of ten years ago today. I don't want to be a part of that junta, nor do I want to bring up bad memories for those whom actually lost someone special that day. But it's also not me to ignore the reality of a situation, which is why I'm bombarded with anger and frustration whenever I try to write about 9/11.

Then again, shouldn't I be mourning the death of America? Because that's what happened ten years ago today. The America of my youth is no longer in existence. America 2.0 is a twisted melange of Facebook sheeple, Snookis, Kardashians, X-Ray machines at airports, and bat-shit crazy politicians. These days, whenever I travel in Europe I find myself faking a Canadian accent so I evade any potential (un-winable) discussions on why America sucks, or whenever I'm in South America on business, I'm accused of being a CIA agent, and doing my best not to get kidnapped and tortured.

I haven't even touched the surface yet on 9/11 and I'm already in a bad mood. I told myself I wouldn't fall into the emotional trap of 9/11. I grew up in NYC and used to work in the World Trade Center on the 8th floor. I lived in NYC ten years ago and knew a broker who jumped from one of the top floors. The last thing he ever did was call home and leave a message to his wife and kids. His final words were: "I love you."

I can't write anymore about 9/11. I've already restrained myself from punching a hole in one of Halli's walls in her nice San Francisco apartment, and I fear I'll just end up breaking a few bones in my non-wanking hand. After all, it's typically American of me not to have health insurance, so even if I vented my anger and frustration over the last ten years, I couldn't even get an ER doctor to patch me up and send me home with a Vicodin prescription.

While I'm paralyzed with 9/11 anger, I'll point out that the U.S. Dollar has been tanking to its all-time lows and that U.S. Treasuries are now worth about the same as toilet paper. Silver was only $4.20 an ounce ten years ago and now it's over $40, meanwhile gold was trading at $271 a decade ago and it's now $1,860. Precious metals do not lie.

I'm going to let all this anger and frustration subside and I'm going to watch a lot of football today, because if we don't watch football, then the terrorists win, right? On 9/12/11, I shall get back to writing about more trivial things like poker and UFOs. It's safer for me to do so emotionally, besides the masses really just want to be entertained with mindless humor, and not reminded that the last decade of their lives have been hijacked in one of the most covert coups we have ever seen in recent history.

In the meantime, if you really want to read a few things about 9/11 written by much braver and better writers than myself, then I encourage you to check out...

To the Victims of 9/11... I'm Sorry by Otis
Five Years After 9/11 by Mean Gene
Fear and Loathing in America by Hunter Thompson

That's all I got for now. But I want you to take the time to read Hunter's column that he started on 9/11/01 and finished on 9/12/01. He eerily predicted the last decade of fear.

Opposition to the Machine

2011-09-07T23:11:00.003-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

The wise words of Mario Savio (from almost 50 years ago) about the true meaning of freedom...

Fight the power. Clog up the machine.

Colorado End of Summer

2011-09-05T16:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
Denver, CO

Man, I fucking love Colorado. Living here for at least a year is on my bucket list. I've been coming out to Colorado ever since the Joker moved out there. I also go out every summer after the WSOP because it helps me decompress after two months in Vegas. The hippie-world is the antithesis of the baller, gambler's lifestyle I cover as a poker reporter.

Anyway, I always have a blast in Colorado and party it up like it's 1999. Nicky and I survived three Phish shows to close out their summer tour. The boys from Vermont even played an entire show only with song titles starting with the letter S. Read my recaps and all about the hijinks with the Joker, the Party Bus, and the rest of the Colorado crew...

9.2.11 - The S Show
9.3.11 - Diseasetweeze
9.4.11 - Ghost-Forget

Summer fun has officially come to an end.

Empty Shelf

2011-08-31T14:03:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

About a week ago, I sat in my office and looked at my bookcase. It was almost empty save for three or four books. The bookcase was part of a birthday present from Nicky a few years ago. She renovated the space for me so I had a comfortable place to write. At the time, I only had a handful of books in LA but over the last couple of years, I slowly filled up the numerous shelves, so much so that I created different categories. One "cube" had books from authors I knew in real life (like Wil Wheaton, Martin Harris, Jonathon Schanzer, John Hartness) and another was filled with poker books (from authors Johnny Hughes, Michael Craig, Jim McManus, Amy Calistri & Tim Lavalli). Other sections included music/music writing, fiction (Bill Sytron, Tom Robbins, Arthur Nersesian), and "apocalyptia", which can only be described as books about the forthcoming financial collapse, peak oil, the war machine, and the deterioration of civil discourse.

About nine months ago, I realized I had accumulated too many books because one of the few things I spend money on is... books... especially used books. Amazon.com is an evil genius, but they introduced me to the swift ability to buy a book for cheap and under a buck. The scam was in the postage (up to $3 from third-party sellers), but I must've bought almost a hundred used books for under $5 total (including shipping). With Amazon's free two-day Prime shipping, I was able to get books in under 48 hours, which was a blessing because I hated buying books in Los Angeles. If you ever lived in LA, you know how horrible it is to go to a bookstore in behemoth malls like the Grove or Century City, because parking is a fucking chore and you have to fight the over-consuming sheeple just to get a bit of enlightenment. Plus, the bookstore chains were always located in the shittiest spots in these mega-malls because Americans (especially the vapid denizens in Los Angeles) don't read books. Thankfully, courtesy of Amazon, I steadily filled the empty spaces, cubes, and shelves on my bookcase.

In NYC, I had easier access to books because I made weekly trips down to the Strand to read (yeah, I was that guy who clogged up the aisle) and purchase as many used books as I could for $20 (usually 2 or 3, but somedays I got lucky and scored 5 or more). When I was at the lowest of the lowest in the broke-as-a-joke unemployed wanna-be-writer phase just before I got into poker, I used to spend most of my days wandering around bookstores. Before 9/11, I spent at least one day a week at the Borders on the ground floor of the North Tower in the World Trade Center. The rest of my weekday browsing was spread out between the Strand and different Barnes and Noble locations. I read a lot of poker strategy books at the store on Union Square, then went around the corner to play cards in an underground room.

I sat in my office last week and noticed the empty shelves. That was the first time the reality of the move had sunk in. I was finally leaving Los Angeles and got my wish, but for the first time since we pulled the trigger on moving, I had a tinge of... sadness. I looked around the office and realized I will never write there again. I have no idea how many words I wrote at the desk, but that's where I finished off Lost Vegas and re-edited Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. Love it or hate it, I polished off two books in LA and that's something I'll never forget.

The flood gates opened. The room itself has its own memories. Before Showcase moved out, that's where he lived for a few years as a struggling actor in Hollywood. And before that? Who knows how many people sat in the same room (and while in bed and starring up at the ceiling) and wondered if their dreams were going to be fulfilled or come to a scathing halt.

Me? I was living the dream and reached the misty mountain top. As the saying goes, "it's all downhill from there."

I see dreams shattered every summer in Las Vegas, but the City of Angels has its own share of demoralized souls. Everyone seemed so detached from reality. Maybe it's all the botox and spray tans?

I walked into different parts of the apartment including the living room. It was the cleanest I had ever seen it, but it was just a mere skeleton of what it used to be. The picture frames and the good DVDs were already boxed up and driven to San Francisco a few weeks earlier. Our token poker trophies were in storage at Nicky's parents' house.

We're subletting the place in the Slums of BH to a colleague, so Nicky left all of her furniture in the apartment for the meantime. We moved into Halli's massive apartment in San Francisco, which was fully furnished except a bed. Thanks to Dirk Nowitzki and the Dallas Mavs, I won enough money betting on the NBA finals to fund a new bed, which I need for my aching hip and back. But aside from that, we escaped the headache of moving a shit ton of furniture up North. Besides, whatever Halli didn't have, we could buy disposable Swedish furniture at Ikea.

The only items in LA that I owned -- a desk, chair, and bookcase. All three items Nicky bought me for a birthday-office-renovation-surprise. That all stayed behind for now. Oh, and I forgot about the futon I bought (the only thing in the apartment which I actually purchased), which also served as the guest bed. Benjo used it the most over the last few years when he crashed in my office whenever he came to visit. He even worked on the French translation of Lost Vegas sitting in the same spot where I penned the manuscript.

I guess the real weirdness will happen in four to six months when we have to make an official decision on San Francisco and figure out what to do with Nicky's furnishings and my office stuff. Do we stay in SF and sell all her furnishings on Craigslist? Do we go back to LA? Or is it time to move to Colorado? I won't have answers to that for a few more months of living in our new place and new city.

Alas, LA is in the past, San Francisco is the present.

To Do List...

2011-08-30T16:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

The dawn of a new day...

Intimidating Pancakes

2011-08-26T13:09:00.011-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

The old man with the walking stick glared at me. I paid no attention and eyeballed the betting lines for tonight's baseball games. The bookies set the run total for the Yankees/Baltimore game at 10.5....at least 1 run higher than normal. That meant only one thing -- the lackluster A.J. Burnett was taking the mound for the Yanks.

The old man's wife also glared at me with mean eyes that had not been hugged since the early days of the Reagan administration. I sat in their usual seat and methodically carved through a stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Instead of sitting at a different table or booth, they kinda made a scene, or at least tried to. I ignored them and enjoyed my breakfast. The staff ignored them and continued on with their morning duties.

The SoCal sun battled through the feisty marine layer and shiny rays poker through the clouds. The biggest drawback to moving to San Francisco is the lack of an every mornin breakfast joint, because the closest diner to us is an utter shithole. I'm gonna miss the coffeeshop around the corner from us in the Slums of Beverly Hills.Yes, one of the best things about living in Los Angeles is the local coffeeshop. I eat there as much as 5 or 6 times a week when I'm not on the road and have an extended amount of time in LA. Lord knows how much I've written about the coffeeshop on my blog, but it's truly an essential part to my daily routine.

I'm sure the old couple has been coming into the coffeeshop for much longer than someone like myself, but I betcha I tip better than they do, which is why I get more attentive service than they do. If a server knows they have a good tipper in front of them, they will put forth a much better effort. In short, good tippers bring out top notch service.

I'm a low maintenance customer -- just keep filling up a glass of iced tea and let me read a book in peace and the world is a perfect place. I eat rather quickly and usually never linger because I want to go back home for a smoke and then sit down in my office to write. On some mornings, I've been writing for a few hours before I take a walk and grab grub. But most of the time, I'm thinking about what I want to write about when I walk through the front door. For example, on my way home this morning, the old couple popped into my head.

I didn't like their smug attitude and sense of entitlement. There's a pair of two tops up front. When it's busy, I sit at the counter. When it's not busy, I sit at the tables because it has the best light in the coffeeshop. The cops always sit in the back room or in the last booth. The weird old guys sit up at the counter. The mechanics from the auto body shops in the area squeeze into the booths. They always eat in trios or quartets and two of them are always on the obese side. I never understood how a mechanic could be fat, how the hell do they squeeze underneath cars and such?

The old couple sat up front at a specific table, and I was sitting in their spot, with the other table wide open and a couple of booths available as well. When I noticed they were trying to intimidate me with sighs and glances in a weak ass attempt to speed up my meal, that irked me. I slowed down the consumption of chocolate chip pancakes. I took longer glances at my CrackBerry in between bites. I had over 124 un-read emails for four different accounts and I slowly sifted through them all.

Had the couple been nicer about it, I would have probably would have offered to switch spots. I noticed the staff didn't rush to greet them or say much to the grumps. They served the grumps for over a decade and we not fighting for the right to serve them. The grumps glared at me. Their rude sense of entitlement made me flip the switch from breezy easy-going nice guy, to "fuck you fucktard.... I got here first."

Besides, it could very well be the last time I ever ate at the coffeeshop before I moved on. The least they could've done was suck it up for five minutes and politely wait for me to finish my meal. The last breakfast. Instead, they tried to intimidate me over pancakes.

The coffeeshop is something that I'll never forget about LA, it's something I will miss dearly, and my last visit was soured by the pissed off old couple. Oh well, now I'll have to pop in on a weekend (which I rarely do because it's so fucking busy) to say goodbye to the Mexican cooks and members of the family who owns/operates the joint.

Yeah, I know I moan about the plasticity of LA and the traffic, which everyone from NYC bitches about when they migrate to the City of Angeles, but I do have a few things that I'll miss about LA. In case you were wondering about the list....

1. Breakfast time in LA... both the coffeeshop (daily) and O'Groats (weekly) are among my favorite places to eat in the city. The bacon at O'Groats is a Top 3 all time.

2. Sunshine. The welcomed warmth of the sun as it hits my face, protected my Retro-turtle Ray Bans. The warm weather is why so many people put up with all the bullshit of living in LA and maybe if I was 10-15 years older, I'd welcome the warmth without the sticky, muggy humidity of the East Coast and Deep South.

3. Palm trees. Waking up next to my girlfriend and looking out the bedroom window to see palm trees shooting up out of the ground is how my scatter-brained mind, constantly on the road, helps trigger a reminder that I'm in LA. Sometimes I'm traveling so much for work, I'll wake up in a slight panic because I don't recognize where I crashed and don't know what city I'm in.

4. In-N-Out Burger.

5. Singers singing. Either the violin girl upstairs working on vocals or the waitress/aspiring actress across the alley singing in the shower or practicing harmonies at random times. The waitress/actress had a roommate, who also was in a holding pattern while she waited tables until she got her big break as a singer. Well, she got her first taste of the Big Time and the clock started ticking of her 15-minutes of fame when she finished in the Top 10 of American Idol. Ah, that's the magical allure of Hollywood Dreamers... one day you're bitching about getting stiffed in tips, and the next day you're covering Elton John songs on national TV.

Yep, that's all I got for now.

The Daily Weirdness in the Slums of BH

2011-08-24T17:08:00.009-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

The ebbs and flow of our building. Maybe it's the transient nature of the neighborhood -- the Slums of Beverly Hills -- where very few people stay here for very long. Maybe it's the physical limitations to living in the actual apartment building. It's over 60 years old and it's rundown. Sure, it's in better shape than the bug bed infested slum next door with all of the weird Persian people talking on cell phones at odd hours, and a husky woman hanging out of her window and chain smoking menthols.

The only reason Nicky stuck around as long this in our apartment was because of the price tag. She originally moved here because of the proximity to where she worked in Beverly Hills. Even when Showcase moved out to WeHo and I officially ended my vagabond status and moved some stuff in, I was always trying to get Nicky to think about some place else. Unfortunately, the timing was never right because we were constantly on the road for work, or I needed to stay put to finish a book, and then she lost her steady gig last year. Sure, there were other neighborhoods in LA where I would have rather lived but those places are more expensive, rivaling NYC, and if I was going to pay NYC rent prices to live in a bungalow in the Hills, then I wanted to live in NYC.

Our two-story boxed building in the Slums of BH has seven units: 2 two bedrooms, 4 one bedrooms, and one studio. We have six parking spots (each spot can fit two vehicles) and the last fucker to rent the apartment gets shit out of luck with a space and has to settle for street parking. During Spaceman's first visit, he said the alley reminded him of The Big Lebowski. With the exception of the artist renting out the only studio, we've been here the longest. Yep, long lasting tenants. No wonder the landlord doesn't like us too much because we probably pay the less than he knows he could get if he fixed it up and found some hipsters or rich kids to rent it out for redonkulous prices.

Two of the front units, both single bedroom units, have been constantly changing, shifting, never static. When we returned from Vegas, I noticed that both front units had brand new tenants moving in their stuff -- both were couples renting out one bedrooms. Gone from the first floor was the sad French lady with thousands of cooking books who smoked Virginia Slims. Also gone from the second floor was the ginger hipster with his Asian girlfriend, who looked like she was 16.

The last time our landlord had a pair of vacant apartments, it took him several months to finally rent them both out -- and this was with the assistance of a rental agent. We suspected he was asking too much above market price, especially because the 60-year old building is in a major demand for an overhaul, especially the plumbing, which is absolute shit. But... maybe he finally lowered his price? Besides, times are tough and both vacancies were snatched up rather quickly.

I haven't seen much of the first couple, a pair of twenty-somethings, save for one of them throwing out trash one night. They looked like post-college kids, but I didn't see anything flashy or extraordinary about them. Nicky and I met the other couple when they moved in - a skinny guy in his late 20s who shacked up with an older woman in her late 30s or early 40s. She had the day job and used the solo car, which left him with a skateboard as his only mode of transportation. I've seen him with it a couple of times in the mornings, as he skated away with a bag and a saxaphone case slung around his shoulder. I haven't heard him practice at all. Maybe he smuggles shit back and forth in his sax box?

The hipster couple above us have been mellow this summer compared to the tempestuous and furious verbal jousts we were used to hearing all Spring. The recent newlyweds who were fighting almost nightly before we left for Vegas. I guess their "moving to LA from the East Coast" honeymoon was over, and the gloves came off. Some of the arguments were vicious screaming matches. Stressed. They were both stressed about trying to follow their dreams and trying to deal with the harsh grimness of reality. Jobs are tough, especially in the entertainment world. The pay is horrible and you hump shitty day jobs while everyone else around you lives the good life. The LA grind is demoralizing for anyone, even for the few successful artisans.

Since we got back, I noticed the couple upstairs have been both working a lot, so that means less time to worry about money and more money coming in. Money is a dream crusher in LA, well, either the pursuit of money drags you down, or not having enough money to survive causes intense emotional pain -- both situations are disastrous for dreamers trying to make a name for themselves in Tinseltown.

The hipster couple upstairs must think that Nicky and I are getting along great, because they never hear us fighting anymore, but that's because we've eliminated a main source of our friction -- living in LA. She finally pulled the trigger on leaving LA, and I finally got my wish -- to live somewhere that isn't Vegas or LA. Yep, that's why we don't argue as much, other than the usual bickering that comes with the territory of any serious relationship in excess of five years.

The guy across the way is still bitter suit guy. He angrily leaves every morning and speeds off in his Beamer, then angrily returns at night only to crank up his TV and watch baseball or Sportscenter. He repeats the process on weekdays and I've never seen him with a female visitor. Either he has zero luck with the ladies or he's a sad homo. Either way, I always saw a dark cloud around him and after spying on him over the last year or so, I've come to conclusion that he follows a sullen routine. No wonder he never says hello. I avoid the pissed off guy as much as possible.

I'm not very friendly with the girl who lives above him. The dark haired in her early 20s and is always wearing the typical restaurant garb -- white collared shirt and black pants. She hasn't been around much so I have to assume she's working lots of shifts at the restaurant. I don't think I've seen her with a guy more than once or twice, so assumed that she liked girls and was having a torrid affair with a female friend who often dropped by her place. They'd get super drunk on wine and scream and laugh a lot. I have a dirty mind, so I assumed they also did lots of lewd things to each other. I dunno how a recent USC grad can earn enough in the food industry to pay rent on a one bedroom in the Slums of BH, pay school loans, and a car payment? Unless... she's dealing phramies on the side. Most likely she's subsidized by her country club parents. I think she'll be moving on soon. 20-somethings have short attention spans. She'll finally move out when finds a boyfriend and she moves in with him, or has enough courage to tell her parents she's a lipstick lesbian and move in with her lover. Otherwise, she'll get frustrated with being a waitress with a meaningless degree in Psychology and eventually get into an awful fight with her parents, then sell her car and move to Bali in protest.

In the meantime, the slumlord who owns the join next door has been renovating different ground floor apartments all summer long, which means there's random workers, all non-English speaking illegals, showing up at 7am and sawing shit and running all sorts of power tools. They greet me every morning, but not really because they are afraid I'll call Immigration and they'll get tossed into a secret ICE facility for three weeks before deported back home to Pakistan, Mexico, and Panama.

Every morning, the alley smells like spoiled milk, cat piss, and turpentine. Ah, I'm gonna miss LA in the summer.... but not really.

The actress/waitress who lives across the alley still sings and that's one of the few things I'll actually miss about living in LA -- my office, especially the open window and hearing the melodious sounds of someone practicing their craft. The hipster girl who lives above us, uses the second bedroom as her practice space and I hear her strumming along on the violin frequently. Those sounds also create a mellow and creative environment when I'm below her pecking away at the keyboard. I'm a sponge and soak up the vibe and energy of people around me -- so if I hear sounds that remind me of noble artistic pursuits, then I welcome those sounds into my ears and I'll let my brain feed off it, which in turn will help fuel my own endeavors.

More Reality Haikus

2011-08-23T03:58:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

I watched Hoarders and Intervention, which means I have a few more haiku's inspired by other people's addictions...

Huffing at fifteen
Mom of twins got hooked on smack
Now working the pole

Greek Sugar Daddy
Keeps Michelle drugged up all time
Pays for Xannies

Roi's floor is sinking
Flooded basement full of crap
Impending collapse

Crazy dog lady
Loves her pets more than daughter
Cats ate roach poison

Out the Front Door

2011-08-22T15:58:00.005-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

One week ago, I stepped off a redeye flight from San Francisco and wandered around Chicago's O'Hare's airport bleary-eyed as I struggled to read an email from my French editor, Jerome. I scrolled through my CrackBerry and read about a potential future project. I was surprised and honored because it came out of nowhere. I have no idea if it will even take off, but it was the first non-poker project I heard of in a while that seemed intriguing.

I was supposed to be on vacation and not thinking about work, or more importantly, not worrying about writing because that's what I do 24/7. By the mere definition, a vacation was supposed to be just that -- time away from the grind of the daily activities that cause you grief, heartburn, and insomnia. The hardest part about being a writer is that most of your time is spent connected to a laptop and flirting between real life and the complex, virtual world.

The summer assignment in Vegas always fucks me up both mentally and physically. Two months in Sin City will do that to anyone. This summer was probably the worse in both respects, but at least, I had something positive happen from the summer of hell because I'm finally realizing that I'm the warden who committed myself to live out a life sentence in the asylum. All I had to do was walk out at any time and life would be... different... albeit somewhat normal again.

Sometimes we forget that the biggest obstacles in our lives are the ones we created ourselves, so more often than not we're paralyzed by whatever mental prisons where we sentenced ourselves. It took a couple of painstaking experiences to finally figure a way out -- which is something I had access to the entire time. A way out.

So, now I stand on the other side of life's tunnel....and I feel like the lone survivor in a bad disaster movie. I'm very sore, dirty, and surprised that I'm on this side of things. A lot of folks and dear friends will never get out because they got stuck inside, or they weren't aware of their own demise and got sucked away into the void -- self-imprisoned in the darkened hallways in their minds.

I've been ready to walk the walk. I've been shit talkin' for a while and it's time to really do those things that make a life worth living. For example, instead of bitching about how much I can't stand LA... I'm making the change and moving. That's just the beginning. I'm trying to apply that shift in thinking to my career path. You'd be surprised on how much time I wasted trying to appease others at the expense on my own development. With that said, I've had to make a lot of rough decisions -- sort of rip-the-band aid-off-quickly decisions that hurt no matter what. So, instead of being paralyzed by indecision, it was time to have the courage and balls to make those decisions. Shit, sometimes any decision is better than indecision. The bottom line is that it's not the time to be afraid of making mistakes. Sometimes I have to look like a fool to get to where I want to go.

Hence, the last couple of weeks. Lots of different thoughts rattled around inside my head about projects, places, and the future. So many in fact that I did everything in my power to contain those thoughts to a few trusted people and I avoided posting anything for the public's consumption (on the blogs, Twat-stream, or other tentacles of social media). Sometimes an existentialist crisis is best had in the privacy of one's internal chatter, but at the same time, sometimes it's best to just keep enlightenment to oneself, especially when most people around you don't really want to be unplugged. The herd is always upset by the rogue salmon swimming upstream.

In short, I feel as though I've returned to someone slightly resembling my old self after a couple of months of internal reflection which was both a humbling and frightening undertaking. I've come a long way in a short time and although I've been incredibly lucky in many instances, I also know that I worked diligently to put myself in a position to get lucky. I had a colleague once say, "Never apologize for taking a vacation if you've been working your ass off."

But that's the problem because I've been apologizing to myself over the last few years because I was either working on vacations or felt guilty for not working on them. I learned the hard way that sometimes, a break is a break, and necessary for the future -- both in terms of growth and development, and the necessity of everyone once in a while to stop and sniff the proverbial roses, even if said roses are sprinkled in cat urine.

I took a vacation and for the first time in a while, I really avoided the pitfalls of getting sucked back into the black cloud of conversation that was just within arms reach on the horizon. Some days I feel so far removed from it all that the last few years seems like a daydream. I have to pick up a copy of Lost Vegas and fan the pages to remind myself that all of that actually happened and it wasn't just a dream. Yet other days, when I'm trying to step back to gain perspective, I'm being chased by the dark clouds. No matter were I go, there they are. I can't even ditch my CrackBerry and hide among the hippies without poker rearing its ugly head. Such is life. That's the life I chose to lead and no matter where I go, it'll always be there. Took me a while to figure that out, which is the sad and inevitable result that anyone ever finds when they are trying to flee a problem, places, or a person.

No matter where you go, you can't escape until you finally unlock the doors in your own mental prison.

Snoopy said that I reminded him of Andy, one of the characters from the Shawshank Redemption because I was slowly and methodically plotting my escape one day at a time. Little did Snoopy know, but I could've walked out the front door anytime.

* * *
I finally got some sleep, which I desperately needed after a few months of horrible insomnia. When you're sucked in a pharmie coma for weeks on end due to heavy dosages of medication, you kind of forget what it's like to live every day in the same cloudy, foggy, haze that never goes away. Unless you live in the Pacific Northwest or San Francisco, then you know what I'm talking about when it starts to rain one day and then it's just grey and bleh and drizzly for several months straight before you finally get a bit of sunshine and then summer is around for a while before the depressing cycle repeats itself.

Numb to it all is the best way to describe the daze or the morning after that some friends of mine refer to as "the noon slouch." Shit, I have at least a novel's worth of stories to share about what it's like living in a daze in the City of Angels. Maybe I'll finally sit down to write that book as soon as I leave LA. I always do a better job writing about a city when I remove myself from said city.

Well, for me, I'm hoping this isn't a short-term cycle, and that the most-recent sunshine that has burst through the greyness sticks around for a while. I felt as though I turned a corner in the last few weeks both philosophically and artistically. I've been caught in limbo for a bit and had no idea what was going on, but a sudden wave of clarity washed over me, followed by another and another within a short time. No coincidence that most of these triggers happened on the road, while on vacation, when I'm supposed to be relaxing and not worrying about work. Letting go was the best thing I've done in a while.

Now comes the tough part -- which is implementing a lot of changes I know I have to make, while continuing to adapt/overcome in other areas, while saying goodbye to a lot of things that need to be left behind.

I'm the personification of Aloha. The Hawaiians had it right -- goodbyes and hellos are the same word. It's truly time to be moving along. Hello. Goodbye. Goodbye. Hello.

The King Stay the King

2011-08-20T23:11:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

One of the best scenes (at least, one of my favorite) from The Wire is when Dee tries to teach his underlings how to play chess. The key phrase in his tutorial is... "The King stay the King." Astute knowledge about life imitating art and violent circle of capitalist rule in the drug underworld...

Chicago Heat

2011-08-18T13:53:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
Chicago, IL

I survived three nights in Chicago. I recapped three Phish concerts for Coventry Music. Check them out...

UIC 1 - Monday Night En Fuego
UIC 2 - Chicago Disease, Gimps, and Golden Heat
UIC 3 - Tweaker City

And here's an official video of Undermind released by the band...

S.F. Locals

2011-08-14T23:55:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Another day, another airport. That's what I'm doing as we speak -- sitting in a swanky SFO terminal and super giddy about not being molested by TSA. I guess they know that San Francisco and Bay Area residents are more likely to stand up to the Man and opt out of those radiation machines, so SFO took a proactive approach and minimized their usage. As a result, no cock check!

I'm supposed to fly the redeye to Chicago. It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks ever since I departed Las Vegas. I haven't had a chance to catch my breath and sit down and write properly. I only have a few minutes everyday, and even then, I've been trying to get as much down as possible, but I'm in one of those moods where I don't feel like sharing what I have to say. 95% of the time, I have no shame. But right now, I'm in that strange, bewildered state when I have such little time and so much to say -- that I'd rather wait for a time when I'm not doing anything. When will that time come? Soon, I hope.

We bailed Vegas as quickly as we have ever done so. I did my best to say some goodbye, but even those were rushed. I've been asked numerous times when I'd be back -- and the answer is simply -- I don't know. It's hard for me to think about future trips and excursions when I'm in the middle of one, so it won't be until I stop traveling and sit down to re-work my work/travel/play schedule for the rest of the year and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. Then again, since I'm moving to San Francisco at the end of the month, I have a longing desire to go nowhere for an extended amount of time -- except explore the city.

Nicky and I were home for less than three days before we flew up to San Francisco to check out Halli's apartment. After a couple days in Northern California, we headed back to LA and started throwing out shit and packing up stuff. It took me 4 hours to get everything together. It's took Nicky a week to toss out about half of her belongings -- which I'm proud of -- because I know it was tough to do, not to mention a pain-staking task. Memories are tough to toss, well, at least memories attached to material objects. That's why hoarders have mental issues with clutter -- because they are afraid to throw away memories. Me? I cherish my memories in my head, but I'm one who prefers to live in the moment -- in the NOW -- so it's hard for me to hoard anything.

After a thorough week of packing, we prepped for Phish tour -- 12 shows spread out over a month. It's sort of a west coast tour (Washington state, Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, and Hollywood), but not really because there were stops scheduled for Denver and Chicago.

We flew to Seattle, rented a car, spent two days catching up with old friends, then drove to the Gorge and camped out there for a couple of days for two Phish shows. Human Head and Mrs. Head drove all the way from Idaho to join us for an evening of fun. I wish we had more time to see them! We flew back to LA and caught a show at the Hollywood Bowl. It felt good to have a hometown Phish show because they don't do SoCal very often. The hardest part of the journey was a drive from LA to Lake Tahoe -- a total of almost nine hours -- all of which was handled by Nicky. Yeah, she did the hero drive to Tahoe and saved the day. As a result, we had a shit ton of fun with friends and discovered a new-found love of Lake Tahoe and the casinos of Stateline, NV. I've soured on Vegas, especially after the events from this summer, but Tahoe is more our vibe. It's less than four hours from San Francisco and we are already considering trips back to Tahoe. At this point if you ask me about Vegas, I'd be more likely to blow it off and opt for Tahoe instead.

After two sensational days in Tahoe, we headed to San Francisco for four days. We caught Phish as the headliner at the Outside Lands Music Festival inside Golden Gate Park. We started the week seeing Phish at the Hollywood Bowl for a hometown show and we ended the week on Friday with a Phish show in San Francisco -- our new hometown. It felt great to wake up in our bed (newly purchased and arrived in time for us) and experience both the show and the festival as "locals."

My entire existence in Los Angeles has been that of an outsider. I never fit in. I wasn't good looking enough. I loathed the social scene. I never went out, instead holing myself up inside my office to write and write and write. Sometimes it's easier to hide out in plain sight.

A colleague sent me an email yesterday that said, "I could never figure out why you were living in LA." Another person (friend of a friend in Seattle) who didn't know me very well at all blurted out, "You're too nice to live in LA."

Hmmm...both people summed up what I've been struggling with the last four years. In short, I loved my girlfriend immensely -- so much so -- I was willing to live in a completely undesirable city as the stereotypical grumpy New Yorker. But, no mas.

After a week in San Francisco already this year, I've grown more attached to the city than four years in the City of Angels. Sure, I'll miss specific food places and Malibu Beach and the warmth of the SoCal sun in the winter months when everyone else is freezing their ass off. But I traded warm temperatures to live in a city full of vapid douches and docuhettes. I traded them in for NoCal hipsters. I'm sure they will irk me eventually, but for now, I've welcomed my new city -- home of the plaid shirt (guys) and the brown boot mafia (gals).

On Saturday night, Halli took us to a Peruvian restaurant around the corner from our apartment. I thought it was weird, because Nicky and I rarely ate out on a weekend in LA unless it was a special occasion. Like I said, we rarely ventured out into the City of Angels, especially on the weekends, because we both hated the denizens of Tinsel Town. In just a three-day period, I went to more bars in San Francisco than I did in four years in LA. As you can already tell, we're both digging the vibe of Northern California. NYC will always be my hometown, but with the exception of Seattle, I really never felt more comfortable anywhere else I lived (including Atlanta and Las Vegas).

So, now I'm sitting in an airport waiting for my group to be called so I can stuff my carry-on into the overhead compartment before a horde of angle shooters try to put two or more bags in their allotted space. I've been fighting back the "nods" because I'm falling asleep and forced myself to write so I wouldn't pass out at the gate, slumped in my chair, and miss the flight to Chicago.

I never sleep on planes, especially on redeyes. I'm hoping tonight will be the exception. Three nights in Chicago, then it's back to LA for less than ten days before we migrate to San Francisco for an indefinite amount of time. I'd love to say that I'm not going anywhere for a month, maybe two. Even an intrepid wanderer like myself gets tired of the road and needs some time to patch my bones.

Seattle and Gorge Photo Dump

2011-08-11T12:26:00.007-04:00

By Pauly
Lake Tahoe, CA

Here's a few pics from Seattle and the Gorge from last week's trip to the Pacific Northwest...

Phish in Hollyweird

2011-08-10T12:17:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
Lake Tahoe, CA

Photo credit: Dave Vann via Phish
I went to a Phish show at the Hollywood Bowl with Nicky on Monday night. I wrote a mini-review for Coventry Music. Check out... Hollyweird Bowl.

Quickies from the Gorge

2011-08-08T16:20:00.001-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

I wrote a couple of things about the weekend at the Gorge.... Quickies Night 1 and Quickies Night 2. I don't have anything... yet... about the return to Seattle. I hope to write about that soon... eventually... hopefully?

So much is happening so quickly that I've had very little time to document it all. August is a month of craziness with me constantly on the move. As soon as I settle down, I can write about what has been going on. For now, check out Coventry Music for the Phish recaps.

And here's an official video released by the band...

I'll be on the road the next few days in Tahoe and San Francisco for the Outside Lands Music Festival. Follow @CoventryMusic for updates.

Moving On...

2011-08-03T00:09:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

Yes, it's true. Goodbye Los Angeles, hello San Francisco. I'm trading in the Slums of Beverly Hills for Lower Pacific Heights.

San Francisco was unexpected, yet one I feel more comfortable in pulling that trigger than the other two options (NYC and Denver) that were on the table. Last October, Nicky and I were tipped off on a spot opening up in New York City. The price and location were astounding. The space was small and I wouldn't have an office to write in -- but it's NYC on the cheap. Alas, that fell through earlier this year, which meant our focus shifted on riding out the apocalypse in Colorado. Denver was on the radar and our goal in September was to find a cool Denver neighborhood and apartment to fit our budget. We had ideas already in place but Nicky was hesitant to pull the trigger because Denver is... cold. She's a SoCal girl and it was tough to convince her that Colorado was calling out to me because I couldn't stand living another day in LA. She finally acquiesced and gave me one full year commitment to giving Denver a shot.

But then enter Halli.

Our friend gave us an amazing opportunity --to live in a kick-ass split Victorian for super cheap. How could we say no? A few other things happened along the way that made San Francisco the obvious choice for us. Nicky wrote more about the subject in Totaled.

One chapter ends. A new one begins.

But for now, the move to SF is on hold while we embark upon Phish tour. I wrote a little bit about it for Coventry. Check out Enjoy It While It Lasts.

Illiterate Bums

2011-08-02T02:50:00.003-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

When I was a kid, I used to think grown ups got to do cool shit like eat cake for breakfast or have two chocolate shakes while staying up all night. In case you were wondering if I was trying to recapture a more innocent time of my lost youth -- you're wrong. I had a regular breakfast at the coffeeshop (if you think chocolate chip pancakes are normal but I eat it at least once a week), but I devoured two chocolate shakes in the evening while watching episodes of Intervention.

One of the episodes was about a cokehead alkie that once had a thriving business matching up greyhound owners that wanted to breed their dogs. I mean, holy fucknuts is that a peculiar job, but apparently this guy was pulling in some serious bucks, enough that he was able to drink a handle of vodka, eat 20 Percs, and snort an entire 8-ball -- all in one day.

"He's queerer than a three dollar bill," Nicky blurted out.

She saw right through the addict and pegged him as someone in the closet. He was using coke and booze to hide his real addiction -- cock smuggling. One thing is for sure -- he was blowing lines in one bathroom and used a lot of phallic and sexual references to describe the adulation.

That cokehead drunk closet homo guy was such a compelling story that he had an entire hour-long episode to himself. The other episode we watched weaved two different stories -- a homeless street kid in San Francisco who smokes crack and an 18-year old Canadian rich suburban girl who was addicted to painkillers. She was chasing the Oxy Dragon in several scenes. Yeah, that's fucking hardcore -- smoking Oxy. I thought crushing up painkillers and snorting it was only reserved for Hells Angels and serious addicts -- but smoking it is a whole new level of fuckedupness. I want to smack a selfish junkie like that! She buys around 20 Oxys a day, which could last amateur oxy-heads a good two months of ingesting slivers and nibbles. Shit, crazy Canadian Oxy-girl uses more in one week than an entire NFL defensive line consumes in a season.

I have a morbid fascination with Intervention. I often wonder if I could be one of those people sitting in the circle and acting like a self-righteous dweeb. But most of the time, I wonder which of my friends would show up at my Intervention. Yeah, there's a fine line between an intervention and a surprise birthday party -- for one, there's no cocaine at an intervention and they rarely have cake.

The show that captivates me the most is Hoarders. I'm perplexed at every episode I see because each one of those freaks represents hundreds and thousands of other Americans that have messy homes because... 1) They are physically unable to clean or batshit crazy, or 2) They are simply filthy people who are too fucking lazy to clean up, or 3) They are compulsive shoppers and unable to not spending money on useless shit.

It's one thing to not throw out your own shit and let your house fill up with garbage. It's another to go out an spend money on stuff and then fill your house with stuff, by going broke in the process.

Nicky and I have been the anti-hoarders the last few days. All we've been doing is throwing stuff out. Nicky even cleaned out two full closets worth of clothes, shoes, and purses. I'm impressed with her tenacity to clear out the apartment and her willingness to let go of many material items. She was never even close to being a "pack rat" but after living in LA for over a decade after college ended, she definitely accumulated a lot of random stuff. The only thing I accumulated since I moved to LA were a bookcase full of books and a small collection of DVDs. Earlier this year, I began the process of selling books that were worth selling. It's dam hard to get five-fucking-bucks for any title, but I was happy to send the book off to someone who actually wanted it. I guess I wanted to give the book a good home because it actually had a semblance of hope -- unlike several other titles that would be worth 50 cents -- if I as lucky. I had a few penny books that I didn't even bother asking Nicky (or anyone else) if they wanted them. I tossed them in the dumpster.

The bums in LA are not a literate bunch. Dozens of different homeless guys, can fairies, and other folks hustling the recycle-for-cash scheme poke around the dumpster every single day. Over a week or so, they didn't take a single book. I told ya, those titles were so shitty, bums didn't even bother stealing it to wipe their ass.

S.F. Photo Dump - Bacon and Bars

2011-07-30T16:20:00.000-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

A few pictures of note from San Francisco...

Hills, Dive Bars, and Walking Around City Streets

2011-07-27T21:56:00.002-04:00

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I've been in San Francisco since Monday. I won't gush too much about the change in my post-WSOP routine. In the past, I spent a week on the beach in Malibu decompressing with Nicky. This year, we opted for a few days in San Francisco. It was the wise choice.

Our friend Halli lives in Lower Pacific Heights and has the entire second story of one of those Victorians you see on TV and in the movies. We let her crash at our house in Vegas for a couple of days and she wanted to pay us back with an open invite to San Francisco. It was hard to pass up even though we had to head back on the road only three days after unpacking from Vegas. But hell, it was worth it.

I forgot how much I missed living in a real city. LA is a fake city and Vegas is hardly a city -- it's America's playground and a tourist destination, but it hardly constitutes my definition of real city. Think NYC, London, Tokyo. I've always said that I'd feel more comfortable living in Tokyo than having to live in a small town in Iowa. I'm a city guy. That's just how I am, which complicated my living situation in LA the last few years. Let's be honest -- I was only in LA because it's where my girlfriend lived and it was somewhat close to Vegas, which I had to be for work.

But San Francisco... is definitely more akin to my personality than the plasticity of Los Angeles. Best example is this -- inside of 2 days, I visited more bars in San Francisco than I did living in LA for four fucking years. Yeah, Nicky and I never went out to bars, and if we did it was to see a band at a club or other music venue. We're fans of Stout, but we're really there for the burgers and not the bar aspect of the joint. I think the last time we went out to a different bars was when Benjo was visiting two summers ago and last summer when a couple of colleagues (Remko the Dutchie and Alex the Aussie) stopped by to visit LA. Aside from that, the bars are simply too pretentious to visit. And don't get Nicky started on the annoyance of parking and drinking/driving.

Drinking in San Francisco is a different beast. You can hit up a few bars within a few block radius. Throw in a couple of cabs and some walking, and you can hit up ten different bars in an evening.

Nicky and I have been to San Francisco numerous times so we didn't give a shit about doing nay tourist stuff. We had a chance to stay with Halli and experience the city as a local. We basically asked Halli to do what she usually does and we'd just tag along. Monday night was a poker game with her brother and close friends. Tuesday night included bar hopping -- in the Haight, in Lower Haight, in Lower Pacific Heights, and the Marina. I made a joke that we think Halli's an alcoholic because in two days the only places she showed us were dive bars. In her defense, that's what I requested.

Bars in Vegas are either bars in casinos that hav video poker machines embedded into them, or it's a trendy, chic club with red ropes and long ass lines to get in. Neither are not my speed. I'm not a club guy and I'm not an alkie/degen slots player that I'd spend all my time at those types of casino bars. Alas, I'm not usually drinking unless it's at a Pai Gow table with friends.

In Denver, the Joker introduced us to a couple of cool spots where you could hang out and listen to kick ass music without dealing with the uber-Vegas party scene or stuck-up lounge LA scene. Nicky preferred those bars because she didn't get annoying glances from other chicks judging her on her selection of shoes and purse. Me? I liked Denver bars because you don't have to shout to be heard (no thumping terrible DJ) and you can toke a doobie in the back without being 86'd by a burly security guard.

San Francisco bars have the similar vibe to Denver. Sure, there's a few hipster-laden joints and clubs with ropes that I'd never be caught dead in, but the city has more than its share of places where I'd be comfortable to drink. Halli took us to a few of those places over the last two nights. I'm not much of a bar person, but I definitely enjoyed myself -- especially because I wasn't drinking that much and never felt pressured to keep on drinking. Laid back. That's what I like about going out to have fun. A laid back approach to socializing. Yep, I'm all about kicking back and enjoying life with a small group of people, enlightened and loosened-up by booze but involved in stimulating conversation. The alternative is going out to be seen or heading a specific club to increase your coolness factor, or have pics to brag to your fake Facebook friends.

Then again, I'm approaching 40. You don't go out to bars when you're 40+ unless you're in a mid-life crisis or trying to get laid or an alcoholic. At least, that's how I felt in Vegas and LA. Both cities were blunt about not catering to my needs as a social drinker. That's what I missed about New York City -- because within a ten block radius you could usually find a bar to cater to different groups of people and personalities. Same thing applies to San Francisco. Just a quick jaunt around the San Francisco with Halli and we were aware of so many more fun options.

Ah, enough about bars. How about those hills? Yeah, the hills are tough, especially someone like me with a bum back and sore hip. But luckily Halli lives near the bottom of Pacific Heights so we didn't have any of those monstrous hills to deal with. I definitely enjoyed the ability to walk around the city -- something I never do in Vegas (it's too hot and everything is spread out) and in LA (I'm like the only person walking around sometimes that isn't walking to their parked car). Yeah, whenever I went back to NYC, I also set aside a few hours to just walk around the city and let my mind wander. I always feel as though I write better after those meandering sessions, because it allows me to work out a few things. The alternative is to sit on your ass and nu,b yourself with bad TV shows and handcuff yourself to the machines/intertubes and get caught up in the static stream (Twitter) or wasting hours and hours on random stupid sites like Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Beiber.

Walking around. Hanging out in dive bars. Listening to people make fun of LA. Yeah, it's been a fun few days. I'm actually bummed out that I have to go back to LA, but at least I will return in a couple of weeks to see Phish play in Golden Gate Park. Now, if I can only figure out how to actually stay here longer and ditch the plastic hills of Hollyweird...

Reality Haikus

2011-07-25T10:52:00.006-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

Monday morning's writing session was crudely interrupted by a leaf blower going off at 7:30am. Talk about a super early start for one of the many landscaping crews working the area. That's part of the daily bustle of the city that I didn't have in Las Vegas. I don;t think I saw a single person roaming around our subdivision. Living in a house in a burb-like secluded area was the opposite of a constant flow of people that walk through the alley or wander by in front of our house. LA is not what you would calla pedestrian city, but we experienced more foot traffic in one day than two months in Vegas. No one walks outside in the desert. Why would you?

Nicky liked the house because it was quiet and serene. Aside from two goats that the neighbor had, there was not much noise except hearing the blowing wind -- or something related to the wind,like a piece of paper flapping around or something getting knocked over by a strong gust.

I missed the sunshine, especially the blinding light that rushes through the window in the dining room. That's where I like to write in the mornings when Nicky is asleep. As the sun shifts, so do I around the massive table. On overcast mornings, the sun is blocked by a marine layer until it burns off and the usual California sun punches through the littlest of openings in the sky.

I missed having to squint as I wrote to whatever melodious sounds were flowing throughout the apartment. I missed the excitement of jumping out of bed to write instead of slowly crawling out of bed to see what sort of drama bomb exploded when I was asleep and to finish writing what I never got down the night before. Ah, I always write better when I want to (LA - morning sessions) than when I'm supposed to (Vegas - freelance or covering the WSOP on Tao of Poker). It's the shit you always do for yourself that means the most. I cannot explain it in any other way.

The last few days have been lazy. Maybe it's what most folks do on a weekend -- lounge around on the couch and watch mindless TV shows, movies, and sports -- but it's not something I do very often because I'm always working on something and don't have time to waste vegging out in front of the boob tube. Alas, I forced myself to rest on the couch and not move for hours at a time. I caught up with recorded episodes of Hoarders, along with a few episodes of Intervention and Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. I got a little wasted while watching those reality programs and wrote haikus to sum up the drama.

Here's a few reality TV inspired-haikus:

Hoarders #1
Freaky doll lady
Living in trash heap bedroom
Pissing in bottles

Hoarders #2
Obese nerd buys toys
Shelves and shelves of old used games
Relics of lost youth

Hoarders #3
Lazy old redneck
Raising her ginger grandchild
Dark clutter towers

Intervention #1
Good girl falls from grace
"My best friend is heroin"
Full time working girl

Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares #2
Chef lost his mojo
Avoid the sushi pizza
Empty restaurant

Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares #2
Incompetent chef
No surprise the food sucks ass
Daft owner busto

Inception #1
Juno builds mazes
Dreams within dreams within dreams
Leo's totem spins

Yes, I snuck a Hollyweird flick haiku in there. I watched Inception for the first time (and second time too). I fell into the pitfall and listened to the hype from the critics and my friends. Although not really the same concept, but harping on a similar theme, I preferred how Charlie Kaufman approached the conundrum between reality and non-reality and how it bleeds into one. Ah, maybe I just wasn't fucked up enough to fulling grasp Inception. I doubt I'll have 2+ hours to give it a third viewing. But for now, it sort of let me down.

I caught Super 8 in the theatres with Nicky and her sister. We grabbed dinner at the Pink Taco and got seated next to a hipster b-day party. One of the guys wore a fluorescent orange tank top, jorts (jean shorts) and cowboy boots. I caught him doing blow in the bathroom. Anyway, after dinner we headed to the theatre and I fell asleep twice. Nicky had to wake me up both times. The first time I was snoring somewhat loudly. The second time, I had dozed off more stealthily. The second act had a few lulls that literally put me to sleep. One of my friends added the Chuck Klosterman line -- "Seeing Super 8 reminded me how much I missed watching Steven Spielberg movies." Yes, I too have a longing for Spielberg flicks from my youth. I caught Close Encounters a few months ago and it still held up to Jim Cameron's flying blue people and over-the-top visual landscapes created by a CGI'd sci-fi effects spooge-fest.

Ah, I wish I had more time to just go off on a 4,500-word tangent about the vauge barrier between reality and the dream state, along with a dissertation on Spielberg flicks from the 1970s. Maybe I'll save that for later in the week. For now, I gotta finish packing and head out to the airport. I was home for less than four days before it's time to get back out on the road...

Happy Pills, Sheeple Shuffle, and Closed Library Conspiracy

2011-07-24T13:34:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

I'm not quite done with Las Vegas because when I write the location in current blog posts, I'm still writing "Las" as in "Las Vegas" before I hit the BACKSPACE twice and finish off with "Los" for "Los Angeles." It's sort of like writing the previous year on checks in January of the new year.

The mind is a peculiar thing. Sometimes it's set in the past -- when it comes to dating checks or writing blog posts. Sometimes the mind is focused on the anxiety-ridden future. How many hours a day do you obsess with scenarios that never happen? Yet you lose your mind worrying about them?

It's one thing to mentally prepare yourself for an unexpected turn of events, but it's a whole other to freak out over the smallest things that no one cares about. I guess that explains the reason why pharmaceutical companies are swimming in profits -- because people are obsessed with the quirkiest things which either makes people anxious in social situations or morbidly depressed -- either way, no one wants to leave the house.

That is the main reason why wonder drugs that get people off their couch and interacting with other people are prescribed every day by shrinks. It's an easy way to churn your insurance carrier into paying the drug companies to hand out happy pills, but at the same time, a doped-up populous is important because the wheels and gears of capitalism will come to a halt if people stop going to work, stop buying things, and stop going to social gatherings (where they usually spend money on entertainment, dining, and/or booze).

Happy pills are the lubrication of so many aspects of society, but then again, so is speed when it comes to the manufacturing and distribution of goods, but that's a discussion for another time. Happy pills keep the utterly miserable get back in line and continue with the daily "sheeple shuffle" as the masses go about their daily routines. The bigger the herd, the less disruption in the system.

It's those who go astray that cause the biggest headaches for the Shepard. Sometimes those rogue animals and former sheep wander so far off the reservation they gain perspective on the entire sham. It's a rigged game, life that is, and it's always been a rigged game, but too many people are well aware of it -- deep in their subconscious, yet ignore it on the surface, which is why deep down they can't get out of bed or walk out their front door with pangs of melancholy and utter disdain for the human race. They get trapped, like the unlucky schmucks in the first act of a zombie flick who become infected then spend the rest of the movie chasing around the good guys.

The best happy pills are the ones that life generates itself. You just have to be willing to seek those out in the strangest of places, which are always off the beaten path. But that's the tough thing about our planet these days -- any thing/place dubbed super cool has been overrun by commerical interests who sell those remote beaches in travel packages, or hype up those exotic adventures in extreme travel brochures. You can't even visit Ayers Rock or Machu Picchu without a tour bus of annoying Americans nearby.

The only place you won't find hipsters (trying to be cool) or sheeple (being told what is cool) is the library or bookstores -- because no one actually reads anymore.

I've been in LA for a couple of years and can't even tell you where the local branch of their public library is located. When I visited NYC briefly, I walked past the new branch that was being opened in my old neighborhood. Even in Vegas, we drove by one of the library buildings -- albeit it was rather small and looked like a dentist's compound. But Vegas has a lot of older people and retirees -- those of whom would actually use those free services like the internet and the ability to borrow books.

But in LA, the lack of libraries seem like a bad inside joke from a dystopian novel that the big suits in the Hollyweird studios met in secret to create a cabal to get rid of every book inside the City of Angels, so the sheeple would be forced to watch bad movies instead. And when I say bad movies, I really mean bad re-makes or re-boots of classic films and franchises, or creating post-modern versions of comic book classics, or printing money with watered-down sequels, or other really bad milk-toast romantic comedies with pretty stars and a third act that goes nowhere.

Sometimes I wonder if I have more books in my apartment than in the LA Public Library. Aside from travel, buying books is probably my only vice because I'm constantly seeking out new authors, trying to catch up on huge gaps in history, or constantly trying to educate myself about a new topic. Right now, I have a pile of books next to my desk. The pile consists of titles I started in 2011, but never finished before I left for Vegas two months ago. In addition, I have a brand new pile of books I never got to read before I left for Vegas, along with a few new books that I acquired over the summer. That pile is bigger than the original pile. I also have a dozen new book recommendations (from friends and colleagues) that I'd like to delve into -- but not until I made progress on either of the other piles sitting in my office.

Then again, maybe books are the keys to a more enriched life instead of happy pills?

Give it a shot. Try reading a book instead of zoning out in front of the TV. Instead of drowning yourself in relentless anxiety, why not turn to a book instead and escape into the words instead of being strangled by your own misguided thoughts?

Home Sweet Hollyweird

2011-07-23T14:44:00.004-04:00

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

"You've been gone for two months. It's good to see you."

That's what the staff at the local coffeeshop in the Slums of Beverly Hills told me when I walked inside for breakfast. A couple of the staff members did a double take when I opened the door -- it was like seeing a ghost -- which freaked me out because I had a near death experience in Vegas and I'm not 100% convinced I'm alive which is why I have moments every day when I think I'm dead and my active experience is not life, but post-life so I'm just haunting my friends and girlfriend.

I never said goodbye to the kitchen staff when I departed LA just before Memorial Day. I never like goodbyes anyway, but the staff at the coffeeshop is used to my odd schedule -- sometimes they will see me every day for a couple of weeks, then I don't show up for a week or so because I'm on the road traveling or working. I lived in the Slums for almost four years now, so they know I leave Los Angeles for two months at the start of every summer for a work assignment. Regardless, they still did a double take when I walked inside. After the initial wave of shock, they welcomed me back.

It felt good to be missed. Being a good tipper will earn you that sort of loyalty.

Even the hipsters upstairs missed me and I don't tip them. Well, at the least they missed my belligerent outbursts that I was prone to during basketball games. As one of them said to Nicky, "It was weird not hearing your boyfriend scream at the TV during the NBA finals."

Yes, I reserved the "Hit your fucking free throws!" vitriol for sessions when I was sweating the game(s) in Vegas at a sportsbook or McFadden's pub with AlCantHang. The upstairs hipsters had a calm and soothing two months of quiet. Luckily football season doesn't start for another month or so, and even then I might not be here when it begins. The upstairs couple still has to deal with my morning routine of opening up all of the windows in the apartment while I write and jamming jazz tunes from different iPod mixes as the melodious sounds spill out into the alley. The sounds inside the apartment help drown out any of annoying sounds of the daily grind in the Slums of Beverly Hills -- from eardrum shattering leaf blowers, the woman leaning out her second-story window and chain smoking menthols while conversing on her cell phone in Farsi, the incessant barking dogs, the random old Asian lady across the way yelling at her deaf husband, and the steady flow of dumpster divers rattling around the recycle bins for beer bottles and soda cans.

I missed LA. I missed the perpetual sunshine and swaying palm trees and the soupy smog and even the jackoff texting while driving his shiny Beamer who cut you off on Olympic Blvd. That's what happens when you loathe Vegas so much, but after another arduous summer, I fled Vegas with a new-found disdain. I'm caught up in a rut that's tough to break out of -- I need Vegas as a hub of commerce. It's the only city where I know I can make money because I'm virtually unemployable anywhere else on the planet (well, with the exception of Paris -- because thanks to Benjo's translation and Jerome's PR strategy, Lost Vegas in French is a huge success -- but as much as I'd like to live in Paris someday, the language barrier is too difficult, plus it's too fucking expensive). Yeah, I'm torn because I need some time away from Vegas for an indefinite amount of time before I return, but that's problematic because Vegas is the only place where I can generate money, and that cash is the fuel that funds group projects, personal writing projects, and travel excursions.

I doubt I'll be spending much time in Vegas in the future and I need a new place for me to hunker down for a while to reflect on life and heal my mind and body. Vegas is the last place I want to be. I don't have time to explain everything right now, but the story will definitely unfold over the next few weeks and months. But for now, all you need to know is -- I'm loving every second I'm in LA, which is bizarre because I can't stand Hollyweird.

There's only two times a year I enjoy living in the City of Angels...

1) Immediately after the holidays when I fly back home after spending Christmas vacation with my family and need to get as far away from my crazy mother as possible, not to mention my body is not used to the frigid New York temperatures because the balmy California sun in January is a welcomed contrast to the dreary winter of discontent on the East Coast.

2) When I return home from Las Vegas after I cover the WSOP during a two-month assignment. It's like getting out of jail because covering the WSOP is like a prison sentence. In fact, my favorite day of the year is not my birthday, or Christmas, or the first day of March Madness, or a Phish festival, or some other holiday -- rather it's the day I leave Vegas with my girlfriend and we drive back to California.

I can't describe the happiness, the jubilation, the excitement of leaving Vegas behind in the rear-view mirror of life. It's a chapter I hope to never re-live, especially backwards in Kierkegaard terms. I'm always drained and exhausted at this time of the year, but this summer was as tough as I ever had it with a couple of unexpected twists and turns. The more I think about it -- 2011 might be the worst WSOP I've ever had since I started covering the most prestigious festival of poker in 2005. The 2007 WSOP was sheer hell because I had one day off and was overworked and underpaid. That'll always be my least favorite year but the 2011 WSOP is edging closer and closer to becoming my worst Vegas experience.

So much happened that future trips to Vegas are in jeopardy. I'm supposed to return in November (for work) and again in December (for play) but if I had to commit to going right now -- I'd opt out of both -- especially the December trip because I could think of a lot more other places I'd like to party with friends than Vegas. That's how much disdain I have for that city that almost killed me a second time. I'm not brave or foolish enough to volunteer to return so quickly. It'll take a huge bag of money to lure me back to Sin City and crawl back into the anus of the beast, but in these difficult times, there's less and less money flying around the poker industry, so I doubt I'll be back for a while unless someone "shows me the money!"

This summer had several highlights that matched many of my favorite Vegas experiences of all time. I guess that tells you how awful the lowlights were -- because even my most favorite memories of this summer were tainted by all of the darkness that engulfed me, my soul, and my brainwaves. Alas, I try to focus on the happy, fun memories from this summer in order to quell the negative thoughts and demons that followed me home from Vegas, a city in the middle of the desert that is nothing more than a black hole for souls. I lost a lot a respect for some colleagues, which happens every summer, because you never really know if you can trust people until they are put to the stress test. It's a necessary process, sort of like Friendship Darwinism, when you see which ones evolve and which ones fail to adapt.

I want to end on a positive note, so I look toward the bright side of life (in a very ironic Monty Python sort of way) because I made a couple of new friends, strengthened older friendships, and mended a couple of broken ones. It's going to take a while before I look back on the last two months on think about the fun and bubbly times, but as the saying goes, time heals all wounds.

What a fucked up world it is when I seeking solace in the City of Angels. Such is life, but I'm thrilled to be home, that is, if I'm actually alive. If Vegas is hell, then I hate to think Hollyweird is heaven. Or then again, maybe this is hell, which means I'm equally fucked.