irresolution

 

it’s not my resolution
but I suppose I should update this crap

My actual PAID job (you know, the one that provides rent and insurance) has been getting in the way of my volunteer job (blogging). Since there’s a breather in my paid job schedule, I figured I’d run over here and moonlight for awhile. I haven’t done anything notable in the world of pool lately so you will have to be satisfied with a few vignettes which I will sprinkle about over the next few days.

 

 

I can do stuff besides get easily ticked off
like paint sarcastic ceramics

Here is my latest creation. It’s matte because it is still unfired. After firing, it will be shiny (yay! I like shiny things).

The plain mug and Critter.

You can click on the photographs below to see slightly larger versions. I chose to make an all-black mug, and of course, that naturally required that I paint one side to look like a Brunswick Centennial eight-ball…

…and the other side of the mug features adorable Critter with his message of eternal wisdom. The bottom of the mug is signed and dated.

I am thinking of raffling off my creations for tournament funds or go all hard-core PBS telethon and give it as a gift for a donation received. This is cooler than a burlap tote bag any day of the week.

 

 

Last Friday
cutthroat

Last week, I was very busy and so, I didn’t get any quality practice time until Friday. When I got to the pool room, about half the tables were in use, but luckily for me, they were all concentrated on one side of the room. I asked for a table on the deserted side of the room and looked forward to batting balls around somewhat aimlessly. I wasn’t going to do drills this time, I was just going to run balls to relax.

I had my iPod on (of course) and was enjoying the fact that the week was over. A man walked by and drummed his fingers on the table as he walked to the restroom. This didn’t annoy me as I figured it was an unconscious type of fidgeting on his part. When he left the restroom, he did the same thing, and drummed his fingers on the side of the table again. This time, I looked up and met his eye. I gave him a brief but very stern look. It was not quite the Glare of Death, but there was no mistaking that I was not amused.

I returned to my recreation. Not too much time passed before the same guy (we shall name him Bowling Tard — he was wearing a vintage bowling shirt and he resembled a bowling ball himself) walked by again to the restroom. He drummed his fingers on the table as he walked by. Again. Aside from the obvious problem (small bladder, incontinence, too much s— in his system), I had to wonder what was his f—ing problem. This time, he was drumming his fingers not as a twitchy reflex, but to get my attention. Normally, I would ignore this. But he had done it right in front of my face. Without removing my earphones, I gave him the Glare of Death with an unmistakable slow and grim shake of the head. He went to the restroom.

When he emerged from his den of iniquity, he drummed his fingers on the side of the table again. I did not dignify him with a reaction and continued to play. Finally, he stood right in front of me as I was proceeding to the next shot. I took out my earphones and said in a tone of the the utmost politeness, “What. The. F—. Is. Your. F—ing. Problem. You. F—.“ For reasons I am choosing not to elaborate upon, know that I am not allowed to shank this ten-ton s— crammed into a two-pound polyester bag.

Bowling Tard seemed unsettled at my slightly unorthodox words of welcome. “Whoa. Whoa! Uh.” He shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to recover his verbal balance. “You, uh, going to, uh, play by yourself?”

“Yes.” For reasons I am choosing not to elaborate upon, know that I have to maintain at least the merest shred of courtesy for as long as I can towards strangers in this pool room. As such, I have found that the less I say, the better things generally turn out.

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Why? You a good player or something?” When dealing with Darwin’s rejects like this fine specimen here, I knew there would be no good answer to this question. No matter which answer I gave (and there are only two answers), I knew it would elicit some sort of hated response.

“No.”

Bowling Tard visibly relaxed. Inwardly, I said to myself, f—.

“See? That’s why you’re not a good player! Everyone knows you can’t play by yourself and get better! You HAVE to play with other people!” I could see him composing a grand lecture in that dense, resinous waste of atoms he called a skull. I have become more tolerant in my golden years. I decided to let him finish. “See here, what’s this you’re playing? Eight-ball?”

“Ten-ball.”

“What’s ten-ball? I’ve never heard of ten-ball. Don’t you know? There are three games in pool. There’s eight-ball, nine-ball, and cutthroat.” Cutthroat. I almost let out a great donkey-bray of a laugh when he said “cutthroat” but I needed to conserve calories. Taking my silence for wonder and admiration, Bowling Tard said modestly, “If you don’t know those games, I can teach you, you know.”

“Cutthroat,” I said in my best Wednesday Addams monotone. “Is that where you cut the throat of the guy who loses? That sounds like fun.” Bowling Tard started to laugh but stopped when he realized I was not laughing with him.

“Uh, no — no, that’s not cutthroat. But, if you want, I can teach it to you!” The resilience of the ignorant is always to be admired — and cursed.

“If it doesn’t involve cutting throats, I don’t want to play.”

“Oh, well. I can teach you another game!”

“No.” I put in my earphones. “Goodbye.”

“Well, how are you going to get any better if you don’t play with other people?!”

I did not answer.

“If you keep up that attitude, you might never get to be good player!”

I took a step towards him and looked him impassively in the eye. “I ‘might’ never get to be a good player, but I KNOW you are not a good player, and never will be. Do NOT waste my time.”

Bowling Tard may then have noticed a few things: the knife in my pocket, the psycho-bitch gleam in my eye, the grinding of my teeth you all find so endearing, or perhaps the fact that I speak perfect English for a tiny Asian girl. In any case, something horrifying got the message through his phenolic skull and he went into the restroom. Again.

F—tard.

 

 

tune in Thursday
for holiday stories about pool

Yay.

 

 

scientists have a fun job
which includes pouring ten tons of concrete down an anthill

There’s a scientific reason for it, I promise you. Ah, the wonders of nature.