“I try not encourage people to play. It’s good when you win, but it’s horrible when you lose. Hey, want me to teach you?” -Michael Camden
Hey, GreenDizz…I don’t know if you’re username is supposed to intimidate me or make me dizzy with green, but I don’t care. Stop calling everything I’m laying down!
I’d like to say thank you to my good friend and mentor, Michael Camden. Otherwise known as the Asian Sensation or Mary Camden. “M. Camden” took me to my first casino at age 16. I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I am a bad girl. Sometimes, though, if I didn’t have my fake I.D. on my person, I would stay on the non-carpeted trail that only led to the 24 hour buffet or to the farthest away bathrooms. Those go hand in hand you see. Mike and I used to switch off driving responsibility to the Indian Reservation casino in Toppenish, Washinton. Did I mention I was also license-less? I think I still hold the record for fastest arrival in 14 minutes from Yakima. Boo-yah.
Those were the good old days when I was mildly addicted to blackjack. I use the term mild because it was only the oxygen pumped through the air vents that kept me going, and the cocktailers with free Diet Coke’s a plenty. Throughout my BJ career, I pretty much broke even. Maybe losing a paycheck here and there , but for the most part, it was well-spent. Those stolen paychecks would soon be paving my road to a bigger and brighter future in making it to that final table in the World Series.
“Boop-boop-boo-ba-doo-ba-boop” goes my Skype on-line telephone. Also goes my dignity. With that phone call approximately two weeks ago, started what I like to call Skypoker Revolution. It was Mike calling, and he wanted my soul. He forced me to observe the table he was playing on PokerStars.com. Now, I know the game of poker, and have had my share of after-closing furniture store tournaments (that was scary/dangerous). But mostly, I have always won because of luck. I was calling things like six-two offsuits and was coming up with a straight on the flop. I‘d fold as big blind and go all in at the drop of a hat. Observing Mike play for approximately six hours that lonesome night, I began to understand the strategy behind poker.
And so an account was made, a deposit was made. Now, you will find me as KTjack45. I know what you’re thinking. It’s an intimidating name and yes they all think I’m male. I keep my profile picture blank to throw off the female scent. I'm like the Mona Lisa of poker. Can't tell either way if I'm a guy or girl.
I admit it. I am not in denial. I am and always will be addicted to poker. Whoever honestly thinks that they don’t have an addictive personality, should come and take mine away.
“When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.” -Megan Lemley
I completely and utterly and fully enjoy flying. However, I end up wanting to sedate myself every time. Not because I get anxious, but because I feel like I need to have some fun while wasting two hours of my life in a nothing sky while staring at a wing that helplessly holds me above a dark abyss.
“There’s someone on the wing! Some….THING, I’m sorry what were you saying?“ Pardon me, just a little quote there from my favorite Pet Dick.
Anyhow, I’ve got some honeymooners to my RF and some D-bags to the LF. I have World Series of Poker in my LR (which I don’t mind) and CNN in my RR (which I sincerely mind). Sorry, I am using car lingo today. My right front tire and all the others were 2/30 seconds away from some stupid standard, hence 600 dollars added onto my car lease damage for a brand new set of wheels. FML. With all these fine folks around, it makes me miss JP. JP is my airport buddy. Two years ago almost to the day, JP and I met at a bar in terminal 2. My second trip to New York had been delayed I don’t know how many times. I was going to be turning 21 in a few days but I decided to go ahead and try out my still very fake-as-usual ID. It worked. In the first hour of sitting at the bar, snacking on a salad, and sipping on beer, I overheard some fellow stragglers start a conversation about the heavenly substance. BEER? I love BEER! The topic was Stella and how they thought it was so very cool that they were both Stella-lovers. Yes, it’s an entire class of people. Because I was keeping to myself, which includes eavesdropping ever so slightly, these boys had no idea that the number one fan of Stella was sitting right next to them. They were either so consumed by man-banter or assumed that because I was a girl I was drinking some form of American Piss water such as Coors light, that I had to make the first move to join the Belgian Beer Brigade. Wrong, boys, very wrong.
=====Which brings me to my favorite joke===== “What do American beer and having sex in a canoe have in common?-----They’re both fucking close to water. “ HA. That was a popular one with all my American beer drinking regulars back in the bartending days. Anywho, I finally chimed into this conversation which led to books and music but always found a way back to beer. As the conversation circle grew and time went on, the more beers that were drunk. After a couple hours, flights finally came around as I’m sure the more than likely drunk pilots finally showed or the mechanical difficulties miraculously solved themselves. So the circle went from many to just JP and I. I needed a smoke. As far as I knew, my flight was still hours away so going through the security line again was the least of my worries.
Outside of LAX, JP and I shared iPods’s, discussed music, made favorites of each other. JP isn’t a smoker but didn’t mind trekking in and out of security anytime I wanted a cigarette. Onto the next bar, the next, the next and the last. After about five hours and multiple shots of my man Jack accompanied by many a beer, we became best airport buddies. Sadly, JP went off to London, and I off to New York. He was meeting some friends for some soccer game….I don’t know, Chelsea against Manchester something or other. I was headed to my 21st birthday present to myself to visit the “Man from Maui” in New York. Don’t worry, that’s another story in itself that you shall one day hear. Hopefully, he’ll (Man from Maui) never get a hold of this blog site. That would be to my own dismay. Anyhow, JP and I will one day get married or something I’m sure (any objections JP?) and we’ll drink Stella as we toast our very open and rockin’ marriage on a softball field and celebrate with a go-round of Karaoke.
Speaking of men, I recommend checking out this extremely hilarious guy on Current.com which apparently “is not only showing on headrests but also on digital cable” . His name is Brett Erlich and he is my newest odd love since Emile Hirsch and Joel McHale entered my life. And speaking of headrests, I highly recommend flying Virgin America next time you fly, and every time you fly for that matter. As I boarded the plane, but what really seemed like a nightclub, a very gay man flamboyantly flaunting his fake teeth welcomed me. No lie, this man’s teeth were glowing in the black light. Neon pink walls and purple ceilings surrounded my shrinking claustrophobic head, but I instantly felt like dancing. Which, I did almost bust into the Cha Cha Slide and was this close to ‘getting jiggy with it’ but was impeded by the crying child ruining my mind music.
The point is: driving in traffic to an airport could be a task, a dueling one. Checking in at the counter and finding out you owe a multi-billion dollar company 20 more dollars even though you emptied out all you could out of your check on baggage while standing in line to hopefully weigh in at 50 lbs or less, is not the best news to receive. Hauling numerous carry-on items, dealing with tourists/foreigners, walking barefoot and contracting god knows what diseases….These are all not fun things and definitely not glamorous things. However, everyone gets treated the same at the airport whether you’re white, black or purple, famous or not. So grab yourself a beer or a glass of some nice Franzia boxed Chardonnay and put your stunna shades on. Get ready to have a blast while traveling. Meet new friends, contract some diseases, and forget about life. Because “When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.”
(PS I can’t help but feel like a really important person right now. I am sitting at Gladstone’s, an inside restaurant, wearing my shades. It’s a very sad seafood restaurant in Terminal 3 and the only one around at that. Hence me sitting at this very sad and lonely bar that overlooks the entire restaurant. My laptop is open and to myself, I seem super important. )
Editors Note: JP and I are still friends and I consider him to be a very good friend and we talk every day. Just goes to show that you should always look your best when traveling, you never know who you’ll run into.
LAX
“When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.” -Megan Lemley
I completely and utterly and fully enjoy flying. However, I end up wanting to sedate myself every time. Not because I get anxious, but because I feel like I need to have some fun while wasting two hours of my life in a nothing sky while staring at a wing that helplessly holds me above a dark abyss.
“There’s someone on the wing! Some….THING, I’m sorry what were you saying?“ Pardon me, just a little quote there from my favorite Pet Dick.
Anyhow, I’ve got some honeymooners to my RF and some D-bags to the LF. I have World Series of Poker in my LR (which I don’t mind) and CNN in my RR (which I sincerely mind). Sorry, I am using car lingo today. My right front tire and all the others were 2/30 seconds away from some stupid standard, hence 600 dollars added onto my car lease damage for a brand new set of wheels. FML. With all these fine folks around, it makes me miss JP. JP is my airport buddy. Two years ago almost to the day, JP and I met at a bar in terminal 2. My second trip to New York had been delayed I don’t know how many times. I was going to be turning 21 in a few days but I decided to go ahead and try out my still very fake-as-usual ID. It worked. In the first hour of sitting at the bar, snacking on a salad, and sipping on beer, I overheard some fellow stragglers start a conversation about the heavenly substance. BEER? I love BEER! The topic was Stella and how they thought it was so very cool that they were both Stella-lovers. Yes, it’s an entire class of people. Because I was keeping to myself, which includes eavesdropping ever so slightly, these boys had no idea that the number one fan of Stella was sitting right next to them. They were either so consumed by man-banter or assumed that because I was a girl I was drinking some form of American Piss water such as Coors light, that I had to make the first move to join the Belgian Beer Brigade. Wrong, boys, very wrong.
=====Which brings me to my favorite joke===== “What do American beer and having sex in a canoe have in common?-----They’re both fucking close to water. “ HA. That was a popular one with all my American beer drinking regulars back in the bartending days. Anywho, I finally chimed into this conversation which led to books and music but always found a way back to beer. As the conversation circle grew and time went on, the more beers that were drunk. After a couple hours, flights finally came around as I’m sure the more than likely drunk pilots finally showed or the mechanical difficulties miraculously solved themselves. So the circle went from many to just JP and I. I needed a smoke. As far as I knew, my flight was still hours away so going through the security line again was the least of my worries.
Outside of LAX, JP and I shared iPods’s, discussed music, made favorites of each other. JP isn’t a smoker but didn’t mind trekking in and out of security anytime I wanted a cigarette. Onto the next bar, the next, the next and the last. After about five hours and multiple shots of my man Jack accompanied by many a beer, we became best airport buddies. Sadly, JP went off to London, and I off to New York. He was meeting some friends for some soccer game….I don’t know, Chelsea against Manchester something or other. I was headed to my 21st birthday present to myself to visit the “Man from Maui” in New York. Don’t worry, that’s another story in itself that you shall one day hear. Hopefully, he’ll (Man from Maui) never get a hold of this blog site. That would be to my own dismay. Anyhow, JP and I will one day get married or something I’m sure (any objections JP?) and we’ll drink Stella as we toast our very open and rockin’ marriage on a softball field and celebrate with a go-round of Karaoke.
Speaking of men, I recommend checking out this extremely hilarious guy on Current.com which apparently “is not only showing on headrests but also on digital cable” . His name is Brett Erlich and he is my newest odd love since Emile Hirsch and Joel McHale entered my life. And speaking of headrests, I highly recommend flying Virgin America next time you fly, and every time you fly for that matter. As I boarded the plane, but what really seemed like a nightclub, a very gay man flamboyantly flaunting his fake teeth welcomed me. No lie, this man’s teeth were glowing in the black light. Neon pink walls and purple ceilings surrounded my shrinking claustrophobic head, but I instantly felt like dancing. Which, I did almost bust into the Cha Cha Slide and was this close to ‘getting jiggy with it’ but was impeded by the crying child ruining my mind music.
The point is: driving in traffic to an airport could be a task, a dueling one. Checking in at the counter and finding out you owe a multi-billion dollar company 20 more dollars even though you emptied out all you could out of your check on baggage while standing in line to hopefully weigh in at 50 lbs or less, is not the best news to receive. Hauling numerous carry-on items, dealing with tourists/foreigners, walking barefoot and contracting god knows what diseases….These are all not fun things and definitely not glamorous things. However, everyone gets treated the same at the airport whether you’re white, black or purple, famous or not. So grab yourself a beer or a glass of some nice Franzia boxed Chardonnay and put your stunna shades on. Get ready to have a blast while traveling. Meet new friends, contract some diseases, and forget about life. Because “When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.”
(PS I can’t help but feel like a really important person right now. I am sitting at Gladstone’s, an inside restaurant, wearing my shades. It’s a very sad seafood restaurant in Terminal 3 and the only one around at that. Hence me sitting at this very sad and lonely bar that overlooks the entire restaurant. My laptop is open and to myself, I seem super important. )
Editors Note: JP and I are still friends and I consider him to be a very good friend and we talk every day. Just goes to show that you should always look your best when traveling, you never know who you’ll run into.
