Clinique de Ka-Ching

I just solved our health care crisis and the economic recession in one fell swoop. Please hold your applause until the end.

According to this news article, gangs in Peru have been harvesting liquid fat from unwilling donors, then selling the fat at $60,000 a gallon to European cosmetic companies. The fat is used in the making of cosmetics. Don't ask me how. It's complicated. And not important right now. Stay with me.

My plan:

Step One, set up clinics in empty store fronts around the country where the average overweight American can waddle in and donate a gallon of their abundant liquid fat under hygienic and comfortable conditions. They are paid in the neighborhood of $50 grand for their donation. The client walks away lighter in the midsection and heavier in the wallet.

Step Two, sell the harvested liquid gold to the cosmetic companies for $60 thousand dollars a gallon. The Clinic makes it's cut on the difference.

Americans lose inches in the waistline, and at the same time make a nice hunk of cash they can use to pay their bills, go see the latest Twilight movie, or buy more pork rinds. Real cash coming into the system that isn't some kind of stimulus. It's real money. And this is a natural resource we're NEVER going to run out of! Hell, maybe we can figure out a way for our cars to run on liquid fat, then we'd all be rich and skinny like that Hilton chick and can go back to our beloved SUV's, thereby injecting life in to the floundering auto industry as well. Damn, I'm solving issues all OVER the place.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just trivializing some very large problems with a flippant and barely-digested two-step process. It can't that easy.

It may be. We'll never know until we hook up the blubber-vacs and give it a shot.

Ok, you can clap now.

Untitled

I was leafing through a magazine which featured student art work, it struck me that large number of works simply labelled as "Untitled". Two paintings, a drawing, and no less than three poems all shared that undescriptive, bland heading.

What is it with the trend of using "Untitled" as the title of paintings, poems or the like? Is it really so difficult to name your masterpiece?

What kind of artist are you, that you can't put a word to your work? Is it really such an arduous task to slap a tag on a painting? It is a painting of something, correct? Even a painting of nothing can be called just that, "Nothing". Still better than the lazy-sounding "Untitled". Or are you so amazingly creative and talented that nothing describes your work? If so, why not just call your work "Einstein"? He was pretty brilliant.

I just realized I used a hell of a lot of question marks in the last few sentances. But they were all good questions. So deal with it.

Poems called "Untitled" not only show what a true moron the author is, but how pretentious. I can just picture the goatee-wearing beatnick getting his jollies at the thought of people discussing their master-fucking-piece and having to refer to it as "untitled".

"Did you see George's 'Untitled'? I was moving"
"No, but did you see the movie called 'Untitled'? Brilliant!"

Just stop it.

Here's a few ideas. If you paint a scene with a dog next to tree. Call it "Dog & Tree". Was that so effin hard? I mean, really.

I even hate songs titled "Untitled". Musicians are a notoriously lazy, yet verbose. Yes even they have trouble sticking a word on their elusive ditties. How tough is it to just name it after one of the lyrics? Or if it's a song without words, call it THAT!

See how easy it is? And you look like way less of a skull-cap wearing couch bum that you no doubt are.

And another thing for you "outragiously ingenious" musicians, stop it with the hidden tracks. That was cool when the first group did it, now it's annoying. If you bother to record it, label it.

By the way, anybody out there needs help titling their works of art, send them to me.

I'll be glad to help.

StinkyPalooza Part 2

Just to recap, things were going well in Vegas. Tim, Rob and I are doing damage down on Freemont Street, in the old part of Vegas. Stinky was reported lounging by the pool at the Mirage, although up until now, only Tim and Rob had seen the elusive man. He had apparently spend a hedonistic 2 days with a woman in nearby Henderson, missing the first 2 days of the gathering, and now he was recovering. The clock was ticking, only one more full day left in this sparkly city..

Tim and Rob were riding a craps table high, having come off an amazing 50 -roll run during which Tim had made lots of people lots of money. The Golden Gate was never so happy to see a seven get rolled. I had luck at Binions annoying a crusty poker guy by playing unpredictably (aka, amateurishly) and taking a chunk of his stack. It wasn't the money, but it was the way he lost it that was sticking in his craw, and he jawed at me for several hands afterwards until his friends warned him he was on tilt. I tried not to look like I was enjoying it. But I was. Immensely. Then, I pulled the ultimate shit move and left the table without giving him a chance to get his money back. Well, sorry. Tim and Rob were calling. Gotta run. Been fun boys!

Tim and Rob roamed off on their own for the later part of the afternoon while I made my way back to the strip and played some poker at Hurrahs, before heading upstairs for a one hour power nap. I was working off of 3 hours a night slumber, and the nap was the only thing holding me together at this point.

Dinner was at the RIO, and we headed over freshly pressed and shined up. Except Tim. He had stayed at the tables all afternoon chasing the dragon and looked like the day was starting to wear on him. The big buzz was on Stinky, who had left me a voice mail in the afternoon, reporting that he has been escorted off the Mirage property for smoking a funny cigarette by the pool. We laughed at the mental image of Stinky being unceremoniously put to the curb. Tim said that Brian had given Stinky his room key so he could crash at the Palms. We would head over there after dinner and meet up with them. Our last night in Vegas, and I would finally get to wrap my arms around that cozy, crazy guy. I looked forward to it. It was like hugging a sack full of energetic puppies.

The Palms was hopping. We couldn't raise Brian on his cell phone (last word was he was grabbing a late nap himself) so we hit the tables to wait for him to wake up. Ten o'clock rolled around and Brian finally appeared. "Have you heard from Stinky?" he asked right off. "No, isn't he in your room?" I asked. "Not any more!" he blurted, and proceeded to tell the story of arriving back this afternoon to a trashed room. Bed overturned, clothes everywhere, toiletries in the toilet. "And he cleaned out the mini bar!" Brian exclaimed. Cleaned out, meaning all that was left was a Twix bar, which he hates. All the alcohol, soda, water and candy (except the Twix bar) gone. Not even empty bottles!

Also missing was his cell phone. He said he searched for 2 hours, finally finding it wedged up inside the mini bar. Who does that?

Stinky.

Or not. I had trouble wrapping my head around the story. I was privvy to more than a few stories of Stinky in action, and when on a roll, he can get into some interesting situations, and usually by his own doing, or by that of alcohol. But cleaning out the minibar seemed beyond him. It seemed MEAN. That was a few hundred bucks all told, and even though Brian was a special guest at the Palms, they might have seen it as very not cool to see his cleaned out snack bar.

It was hard to swallow, and I kept shaking my head. Tim wasn't fazed. "It's totally Stinky." he said. And then rolled off a story about being in Vegas with him years before and something or other occurred. Not near in magnitude to trashing a hotel room.

One rule about Vegas is a man will be left behind. It's a running clock, and if you're not in, we'll try and catch up later, but we keep moving. So, still shaking my head about the actions of Stinky, we alighted the Palms and headed for the Hard Rock. We had not yet won there yet, and it was really sticking in our collective craw. We would win at the Hard Rock.

The place was hopping, tables full and main bar teeming. We hit our games and an hour later, we were all up. But no word from Stinky. Hope that he would be joining us in these waning hours of the weekend began to wane.

Where do you go in Vegas at 3 am after a good night at the casino? Fatburger.

Yum.

But no Stinky, and no further words from him by text or phone. He has disappeared. With the mini-bar. Was he holed up in Henderson with the mystery woman, sucking back mini bottles of alcohol and doing the nasty?

It was almost enough to put me off my Fatburger. Almost.

We walked back up the strip toward the Mirage, the early morning stragglers stumbling past. The ground littered with sex advertisements, little scenes of drunken drama every block and making the walk interesting. By 4 am we were back and ready to pack it in for a few hours.

Final breakfast at Denny's was a few hours later, and quite delicious. At this point, I refused to believe Stinky was, in fact, in town. I began to see chinks in the timeline of events, and how convenient it was that EVERYBODY had seen the little monster but me. I prodded the boys over pancakes, and almost got Rob to coming clean, but he remained strong. They stuck to the story. Stinky was somewhere around.

We parted, off to do our own final things. I had a poker game waiting to occupy my final hours before my flight out. My last chance at prying money from the fist of lady luck.

The next day, sitting at my desk at work, sleep deprived and reliving the glory of the last four days, I sent the gang an email:

"Sooo close. You guys blew it with the mini-bar story. I thought you guys would break down and reveal during Sunday breakfast. I could tell Rob was close to cracking."

To which they came clean:

"Nice going detective. When it did it hit you? I thought the raiding of the mini-bar story was very plausible. He did that last year to us!! "

So, Stinky was calling/texting from the comfort of his home in Vancouver. It can never be just a fun weekend away with the guys. Somebody always has to be fucked with. And this year, that somebody was me. And I can't wait until next year.

StinkyPalooza (Part 1)

I know what you're thinking. The name of our weekend in Vegas conjures up images of unwashed, ill-kept slugs in Hawaiian shirts dragging themselves from one den of iniquity to another, reeking of stale cigarettes and booze. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

None of us wore Hawaiian shirts.

Every year, my brother Tim and I try to get away for a weekend. For many years we would go up to a hockey tournament up in Montreal, mixing intense physical combat with the night life of that city. As time went on, other friends and cousins wanted to join up in our weekend, but they don't play hockey. Last year we gave Vegas a shot, meeting in the desert and spending the weekend playing some golf, gambling, and taking in the night life. It was a hit, because we got to include a variety of people, including our friend Stinky.

Just to be clear on something - his name does not refer to an odorous state. Atone time in our young lives we decided we all needed nicknames, and he got Stinky, and it stuck.

So it was determined that we needed to repeat the event this year. Mostly the same crew showed up, with the added bonus of us having various other friends being there at the same time, allowing for additional hang-out possibilities. And when Tim called to inform me that Stinky had confirmed to the event (albeit last minute), well, it sounded like it was going to be fun.

After arriving and checking in on Thursday, I met with Tim and Rob for the traditional opening dinner, this time at the Hard Rock's "Mr. Lucky's". I won the first bet of my weekend, as Tim was sure the waiter was going to mess up our order, as he wrote none of it down, but had it all in his head. I just knew the guy was a pro. You don't tattoo your head like that if you're at all flaky.

Back to the Strip we played a poker tourney at Hurrah's, which I managed to tie for first (chopped pot), then over to Planet Hollywood to meet up with more people, Cousin Brian and Rob's brother Jason.

Friday was golf, on the beautiful Desert Pines course where we teed off as an illegal 5-some and two caddies. But the place wasn't busy, so we were able to play at our own pace over the Carolina-like course. Talk of Stinky was that he had made it to town late, and would join us later.

Friday night, on the way to dinner at "Texas to Brazil" (wicked awesome food, fyi), my phone rang and it was the Stink man himself. What followed was a confusing, laughter filled call during which he stated he didn't know where he was, and that his male appendage was broken from activities with a local woman. Then the phone went dead. At the restaurant, Tim and Rob laughed as I told them of the strange call.

Later, atop the Palms casino in the club "Moon", we looked out over the twinkling Vegas skyline and mused that somewhere, Stinky was out there. Tim got a message from Stinky about this time that Stink finally realized he was in Henderson (a nearby town), but needed to take a cab back into town because the woman who had brought him there had left for work, stranding him there. Not a cheap cab ride ($70), but it was either that or wait for his girl to return. Now he was missing one of the prime moments of the weekend, our "run of the house" at the Palms, where Brian is a VIP so we can get into any club with no lines or cover charge. Would Stinky miss a chance to hit the Playboy Club? Doubtful, but yet, he was. But Stinky was a man who marched to his own karoke machine.

Even later, I ambled into Paris and found my buddy John tearing a roulette wheel a new hole. The surly dealer was immune to his charms, but the table could not help but give up it's chips to him. It was fun to watch. We made a man-date to play poker the next day. It was actually already the next day, so a few hours later I was back in Paris getting breakfast. Well, trying to get breakfast. The cafe I was in resembled a Illinois Hog auction. Long lines snaked around the wall, with people milling in the middle. Somewhere a voice was yelling out number randomly "51!" "212!" "3!". I paid for a coffee and egg sandwich and joined the crowd. John was there too, and we soon realized that the place was a steamy mess. The two people working the line were mad at each other, and the orders were not being processed as they were received. On top of that, people were yelling at the workers about their order numbers, which would move their order to the top of the list. At that point, more people would yell out their numbers hoping to move THEIR orders up. We had an 11:30 tournament waiting, and no idea how long it would take to get to my number "99". They were calling out numbers above and below mine, and the sheer chaos of the place indicated I had better odds getting awarded a noble prize then getting my breakfast sandwich any time soon. So I demanded a refund from the cashier, and booked.

The Paris stink followed me to the card game and I busted out relatively early after two back-to-back bad beats. I lost with pocket 10's and pocket queens, both times on the river, once with trips to a full boat. John was still hanging in, so I said good luck and headed out. I met Tim and Rob and we headed to Freemont street. Stinky was apparently lounging by the Mirage pool for the day, so Tim said. I didn't blame him, it was 90 degrees and beautiful, but the clock was ticking on the trip and there was more casinos to see.

Freemont Street was dead. We went to the Golden Gate for some grub, and after Rob and Tim took up station at the craps table. I went across the street to Binion's, looking to get in on a game at the mecca of poker in Vegas. I sat in on a cash game with some grizzled poker hounds who spend the time telling tales of amazing games they'd been in with this pro or that pro. War stories of wannabees. I walked away an hour later with more than I started with, and after royally pissing off one of the wannabees by checking on 4th street instead of betting, as (in his words) I was stupid not to. My stupid move forced him to call my bet on the river, putting him almost all in, so he was maybe a little upset some amateur had just raked him. He ranted like Phil Helmouth for a few hands about it, until others at the table told him to relax. I kept a straight face but inside I was really enjoying knocking the guy off tilt like that. He busted a hand later to someone else, and promptly slapped down two hundred more. "You're playing angry." his buddy at the table said. "No I'm not!" yelled in retort.

Tilt!

Tim and Rob called me about this time and said they were ready to move on. Nothing worse than taking money from people then not giving them a chance to win it back, but I tipped my invisible hat and shuffled my cowboy boots in the direction of the door to looks of pure death from my tilting friend. I cashed out (almost doubled my buy-in ka-ching!) then found them out on Freemont. They had their own gambling tale - Tim's amazing 50-roll craps run that caused a ruckus at the Golden Gate and had a table of people winning money for an hour.

Things were going good for us all. That should have been a sign of things to come. I'll finish this in part 2.

Come On, Get Happy

Went for a hike today to Pratts Rock in Prattville, NY. It's in the sticks, near Windham Mountain. The hike is cool because of the rock carvings up on the mountain. It has a nickname of "Mt Rushmore of the East". Well, it was cool, but it wasn't close to Mt. Rushmore. The carvings were almost graffitti -like, as opposed to monumental. But the hike, like the view from the top, was excellent for a 60 degree October day.

The bonus on the day was parked on the side of the road.


Yup. The fucking Partridge Family Bus. How can that not brighten your day?

What’s Going On, I Heard Zoo Noises

More gems like this here.

Hungry Like The

Sweet shirt eh? Yeah. I know.




Amazon dot com has been the source of many hours of entertainment. Certain items get tagged with funny comments, and once that happens, the flood gates open. Take for example, the Wolf shirt.

People get to say whatever they want under the guise of a review of the product.

Pros: Fits my girthy frame, has wolves on it, attracts women
Cons: Only 3 wolves (could probably use a few more on the 'guns'), cannot see wolves when sitting with arms crossed, wolves would have been better if they glowed in the dark.

My favorite ones deal with the false features of the product.

So I got this wolf shirt because of, you know, the sweet wolves on it. However, having owned this shirt for three weeks now and having tried it out in a variety of situations, both formal and informal, I'm beginning to believe that some of the benefits ---- as described by other reviewers ---- are exaggerated. For example, not ONE supermodel has approached me. Some of you may be used to having supermodels approach you on a regular basis but, believe me, I am not: I would notice one should she appear in my vicinity.

Sweet.