Guns ‘N’ Roses
“…when you were young and your heart was an open book…”
strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream
yay for birthdays at work (and the people who plan the parties)
sleeping in tomorrow
t h a n k s !
To everyone who has donated money for a new digital camera!
I guess digital cameras get cheaper and cheaper every couple of months, so I got a model better than my old camera for a lot less than I paid for my old one.
Once again, thank you all, and I will continue to document the world through my teeny eyes and warped sense of humour for your amusement (and it’s always amusing, I hope).
now hiring : peach jar mercenary
I need a guy to open a jar of Del Monte Sunfresh peaches. I’m fairly strong but I think my hands are too small to get a good grip on the lid. I’ve tried running hot water on the lid, etc., and I think I’m at the point where I have to break the jar, but I’d rather not have glass shrapnel in my food.
Oh, and it’d be nice if you’re single and you play competitive pool as well.
But, it’d be really nice if you could get the lid off the jar.
Sorry I’m behind posting on that one. I’m actually… working. At the moment. I will make sure this ends, soon. I, too, feel the disturbance in The Force when I am not slacking. Balance will soon be restored.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
After such an inspirational trip to the U.S. Open, some would say it is a let down to return to league play. But, not so for me. I love pool in all its forms, just like I love bacon in all its forms.
This afternoon, the captain of my new team called me.
“Hi OMG, how you doing today?”
“I’m doing good. You?”
“I’m doing great! Hey, I just wanted to let you know that we’re really happy to have you on our team and we appreciate you coming out to play every week.”
“Oh. Uh. Cool.” I deal poorly with thank-yous and compliments. Mostly because I rarely receive them.
“I’m really glad you’re playing for us and you play great and we’re all really glad you’re playing with us.”
“Um. Okay. I’m… uh… really glad to play with you guys, too.” I began to sweat. These people are friendly towards me! They like me! What do I do? OMG! WTF? In keeping with my anti-bulls—, no-nonsense, full-disclosure nature, I felt the need to inform my earnest, good-hearted captain of the liability his team had just incurred. “By the way, you’re going to find out that I’m very unpopular in the league. I’m known to have a bad temper, I take pool very, very seriously, I f—ing HATE losing, I drink a lot, and I won’t take s— from anyone, which means there is the possibility I’ll be getting into fights.” Whew. I felt much better. Honesty is the best policy.
“Oh. Well, we don’t care about that! You’re cool in our book!”
“Really?” Is he high? Does he not know he may have to call me a lawyer and bail me out someday? Does he not understand the magnitude of my mental instability?
“Well. Okay. But I DID warn you.”
“Yep, and we’ll see you tonight!”
My opponent at league tonight was a tubbier version of Ricky Ricardo, with Elvis’ gleaming gravity-defying pompadour, and the pencil-thin pervert moustache of Pepe LePew. He was wearing a dress shirt, dress pants, loafers shined to a blinding polish, and an arrogant smirk as he looked down his nose at me. He was one of last season’s top shooters, and I suppose he was incensed at the fact that this petite Asian girl was not trembling in fear or acknowledging his obvious good looks.
Let us name this standard, Government Issue, cocky-ass league pool player, Purple Pants.
He turned to my team and said, “Oh, dees ees your playah? Ha ha ha!”
Slightly piqued, but still sane, I said politely, “Yes, I will be playing you tonight.”
“What I have to geeve you in de race?”
“Nothing. I spot you one game.”
“Oooh. Ha ha ha! You kin do that? You geeve ME a game? Ees tough for you, no?”
“No. Not at all.”
We lagged. His ball just barely made it past the side pocket. I am not going to say Purple Pants lagged “like a girl” because I cannot insult my species. I guess I could say he lagged like an ant, but ants are an important part of nature, can lift up to 80 times their body weight, and I wouldn’t want to imply that they are useless and lame. Purple Pants lagged like the orange slime mold growing on the abandoned sushi in my workplace fridge.
I broke well, but did not make a ball. Purple Pants strutted around the table, made a few balls, and missed. I ran out. I noticed that he did not have much in the way of cue ball control, and he preferred to hit everything at one speed — really hard.
I lost the next game, and the score was 1-1 (Purple Pants only had to get to four games). I figured I needed to change my style of play to suit my opponent. Purple Pants broke and the balls spread out from the rack with a tired sigh. He broke like — an orange slime mold. All bluster and no power. Since the balls were all clustered together, I did not want to break them open unless, without a doubt, I could run out. I played a few safeties, and, as expected, Purple Pants fired away at the stack at every chance he had. He was breaking up the clusters for me. He did not know this.
Frustrated with my less-than-exciting ball-bunting safeties, he fumed, “What ees dees? Dees ees not pool.”
I looked carefully at the layout of the balls. He had the solid set. I observed that the balls in the main cluster were arranged in a particular way. I cut one of my striped balls very thinly and it rolled to the front of a side pocket. The cue ball went up-table, where it ended up a few inches away from the head rail. I had left Purple Pants one open shot.
“Ha! You meest!”
“Oh, I did?” This was just, really, really too awesome.
“You leef me a shot!” Purple Pants bent down and carefully aimed at the seven-ball sitting all by its lonesome to the left of the cluster of balls. It would be very easy to cut the seven into the lower left corner pocket. He made a big show of aiming, then getting up, then strutting around the table, and taking very deliberate warm-up strokes.
Purple Pants finally pulled the trigger and cut the seven perfectly into the center of the corner pocket. I was an excellent shot, and he hit it with some force. He stood up and looked at me in contempt. “Hmmph!” I smiled and looked at the table. Purple Pants looked at the table, and watched the eight-ball trickle into the lower right corner pocket. His cue ball had crashed into the cluster, and the eight-ball, frozen the way it was to the other balls, was wired to fly into the corner pocket. He had made the eight-ball out of turn. Game over.
Of course, I had set him up for this result. His look of contempt faded into a look of disbelief. “This is eight-ball,” I said. “Don’t you love it?”
I won the next game, and I pulled ahead to 3-1, within two games of winning.
“I no worry,” said Purple Pants to his teammates. “I let her play a leetle, she need de practice.” Hmm. Somehow, I would think that if you let me get warmed up, it would be easier for me to beat you. But, if he’s feeling sorry for me and my inferior skills, I don’t mind taking the charity.
I began to run the balls. Purple Pants muttered to his teammates, “Dees ees not a girl. She a fake girl. No girl play like dees. She a pretend girl.”
I said to him, “You shouldn’t have a problem with me being a fake girl, since I don’t have a problem with you not being a real man.” He glared, but said nothing more.
I got out of line on a shot and I played a safety, but did not quite hook Purple Pants all the way, and he ran out. Purple Pants was up to two games, now. “See? I win now!”
In the next game, since Purple Pants broke, the balls were clustered together again. I resumed my defensive style of play. Soon, Purple Pants had cleared off all but two of his striped balls. I continued to position my solids into better spots. Two of my solids were still stuck to the eight-ball and I had to find a way to maneuver them into pocketable positions. I did another thin-cut safe, and sent the cue ball up-table (I like this shot a lot, as you have guessed). Both of Purple Pants’ striped balls were frozen on the bottom rail, with the eight-ball clusterf— in between the two of them, also very close to the rail. There was no shot that Purple Pants could make, as far as I could see. I looked at his two balls on the rail. “They’re frozen.” I stepped back.
Purple Pants rolled the cue ball so it barely made it to his fourteen-ball stuck on the rail. “No rail,” I said. “Foul. Ball-in-hand.”
“What you meen no hrail? Eet heet de hrail. Click!”
“The fourteen was already frozen, you didn’t get a rail. Your cue ball didn’t touch a rail and the fourteen is still frozen.”
“I get hrail! I get hrail!” Purple Pants, you rat bastard. My teammates came heroically to my defense (this rarely happens, that someone ever takes my side in a fight/argument–and I really appreciate the support), and were ready to do battle. But, I am trying to advocate less violence these days.
I said to my team, “It’s all right. I’ll f—ing destroy him.”
“You don’t know what you talkeen about. Hmmph!”
I played a few more safes. The eight-ball remained stuck to my one-ball down near the bottom of the table. Purple Pants’ ten-ball was frozen near it on the rail. He had managed to make his fourteen-ball earlier. I had four other solid balls left and but I could not run the game out because of the tied up eight-ball and one-ball. There was no good way to break out the cluster, either. None of my balls were in a position where I could make them and break out the eight. I certainly wasn’t going to break out the eight on my turn because I didn’t want to give Purple Pants a chance to run out. As long as the eight-ball was tied up, it was safe from both Purple Pants and me. This situation required some consideration.
I’ve often said, and often been told, “Do what you can, with what you have, when you have it.”
What did I have right now? A clusterf—ed game of barbox eight-ball bordering on a stalemate. However, I also had a dumbass opponent who shot at everything without thinking, didn’t know cue ball control or speed, didn’t know position play, and didn’t know not to f— with little angry Asian girl pool players. I thin-cut a ball again, and set him up for an inverted long bank on the frozen ten-ball. Purple Pants looked at me. I looked back at him. He looked suspiciously at the table, and then suspiciously back at me. I tried my best to smile with the utmost sincerity.
Purple Pants, don’t fail me now!
And, he didn’t. He tried the long bank (99.9% impossible) on the ten, ran the cue ball into the eight-one cluster, and sold the f— out.
As the balls rolled to a stop, he looked at me in revelation. I think he just understood that he helped me win every single game. Oh, that look of epiphany is f—ing pRiCeLeSs!
A tear of indescribable joy/hilarity comes to my eye right now thinking about it. Excuse me a moment. *sniff*
Feeling ever-so-slightly guilty over the fact that I didn’t do any work for my wins, I broke and ran the next rack to close out the match.
Purple Pants looked at me with a highly satisfying mix of confusion, anger, frustration, and maybe juuust a bit of fear. I giggled in the cute little way Asian girls are so well-known for, and said solemnly, with absolutely no sarcasm whatsoever, “Welcome to eight-ball, asshole.”
This pleasant departure from my usual suckage brings my record to : 1–1
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tonight was yet another league night. Yippe-kay-yay.
I won my matches without incident. I was sitting quietly in the corner, waiting for the last two matches to finish up when a chubby young dude, let’s name him Jesse Jackoff, sat down RIGHT in the middle of me and my teammates. Huh. We looked at each other, but we didn’t want to be rude for something as small as someone inserting their unknown and unwelcome bulk in our tiny nook. We shifted a little and made room. Jesse Jackoff turned to me immediately.
“So, are you a player or just a fan?”
“Like are you here because you know how to play pool or you just here to clap your hands?”
Jesse Jackoff had been periodically coming to the back of the bar to watch the matches. I remember him watching my match, because I had to move around him at one point when he was too close to the table. I looked at Jesse Jackoff to see if he was drunk, perhaps. He didn’t look it at all. Well, I wasn’t really in the mood to discuss pool with a total jackoff of a stranger, so I said, “I’m a fan.”
“Ooooh, I know you play! I saw you play earlier!”
“If you knew, then why did you ask?”
“Aww, don’t be mad at me! Can I get some love?” He raised his arm for a hug.
“Aww, c’mon! What? You don’t like me or something?”
“No.” I hoped this was the end of the conversation. I was pinned in my chair in the corner by Jesse Jackoff’s chair. I didn’t want to get up or start s— because my teammates were still playing. I moved my chair and retreated further into the corner.
“Okay, girl. I’m sorry. You play some good pool.”
“I don’t play pool a lot and I’m not good at it, but you look like you’re pretty good.”
“Can I get some love?”
“Because I don’t like you.”
“Aww, man! Why you gotta be like that?”
I didn’t answer and hoped the matches would be over soon. Before I stabbed this f—er. In the eye.
“You know that last game you played?”
“What about it.”
“You made all the balls but then the eight was a hard shot.” I had gotten a little straight on the ball before the eight-ball. To get position on the eight, I hit the cue ball firm, and stunned it over as much as I could. The resulting shot that I got on the eight-ball was not bad at all. It was basically a spot-shot on the eight-ball into a corner pocket, but the cue ball was fairly close. It was a routine shot, with no possibilty of scratching the cue ball unless I sent it three or more rails in a show of unnecessary machismo — which I did not do. I made the eight, won, and then sat my ass down.
“It was all right.”
“You know why you got such a bad shot on the eight? Because you didn’t spin the ball. You should have put a lot of spin and then you would have gotten an easy shot on the eight-ball. Don’t you know how to spin the ball?”
“I don’t think you should be telling me how to play. Especially since you yourself said you don’t play very well.”
“Before you tell me how to play. How about we play a few games first? Just to make sure you’re qualified to tell me how to play. How much would you like to play for?”
“Aww, no. I don’t wanna do that. I just wanted you to know what you did wrong.”
To keep the peace, I turned to Jack Daniels, my teammate. “Jack,” I said, “this guy is telling me how I should play pool. Please tell him to refrain.” I understand that my English skills are limited, so when I reach the point where I’m about to deliver a solid right hook to someone’s jaw, I usually have one of my friends or teammates step in, first.
“Don’t do that. She plays just fine, and you’re being rude.”
“No, I’m not, I’m being helpful.”
“You’re being rude. Just let it go, okay?”
Jesse Jackoff turned to me. “Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t know you were so serious about pool.”
“You’ll find that there are many girls who are very serious about pool and they work very hard on their games. I don’t like it when guys are condescending to me about the game. And as for advice, if I want it, I’ll ask for it.”
“So I bet you get a lot of guys bothering you and stuff about pool, eh?”
“Yes, it happens a lot. I try to tell guys how it is for girls who play pool. If I can stop one person from being condescending to girls who play pool, then I feel like it’s been a good day.”
“Oh, okay. I’m sorry.” Much better. I felt like I’d done the community of pool playing girls a nice service. “I still think you should have played better in your matches. Can I get some love?”
OMG. WTF? Jesse Jackoff is obviously messing with me. That’s fine. I hope he is prepared for the consequences.
“No, f—er, you CANNOT get some love.” Enough of this bulls—. I stood and Jesse Jackoff did the same. Jack Daniels saw that there might be a lot of explaining to do in the future, and perhaps some police reports that would need to be filed, and he intervened.
“Jesse, just let it go, okay? Just go away, and leave her alone.”
“Why? What’s she gonna do?”
“Well, for one thing, she’ll have no problems cutting you.” I had my knife with me and it sat discreetly on my hip in my pocket. It’s a nice one. I don’t have to use it very often on morons, but I have before. Those of you who know me know just how many miles my Emerson CQC7 has on it. Oh, and now you all know where the idea for my Psycho Bunny t-shirt came from.
“Oh. Daaamn. Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
I sat back down. Jesse Jackoff remained standing. I could see that Jesse Jackoff’s brain was telling him to go back to the front of the bar, sit down with his friends, and forget the whole incident. Jesse Jackoff’s minute belly-button lint-ball testicles hidden somewhere in the folds of his Michelin Man physique suddenly fizzled to life like an old flourescent lightbulb in the rain.
He turned to Jack Daniels, “I ain’t afraid of her! What she gonna do?”
Jack Daniels said, “She’s on probation. Don’t give her a reason to do anything.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m from DA HOOD! I ain’t afraid of nothin’!”
Jack Daniels said coolly, “Yeah? You’re from the hood? That don’t mean you won’t bleed.”
Jesse Jackoff considered this statement.
This is what happens to me when I’m sitting by myself, minding my own goddam business, and not talking to anyone.
Pretty neat, eh?
My record in this league is now 15–5 after this quiet evening.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The last few days were a little too exciting for me, so I went to dinner with a friend of mine and we discussed the great game of pool and the U.S. Open.
I didn’t play any pool tonight, and it was probably a good idea. I need to reset my Idiot Tolerance Gauge.