B & A : Anne Bonny


Badass Babes of History & Legend
don’t bring cheap katanas to a gunfight

A $100 added ladies’ nine-ball tournament was held this weekend. The Hunt for Red November (TMA) continued and my field agents told me she would be docking at this particular tournament. This was good because I had already planned to take my own little Carnival Cruise to call at the same port.

Allow me to get this week’s B&A out of the way before continuing with my report about this weekend. You can skip this section to read about TMA next or you continue along and meet…

Anne Bonny


eat lead

Excerpt from Badass of the Week:

Anne was raised in Charlestown, but from an early age it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t going to be the snooty Posh Spice high-society brain-dead debutante that her father was hoping for.  At the age of fourteen she took over as the primary housekeeper for the estate, and promply got into a heated fight with a maid that resulted in Anne stabbing her in the gut with a steak knife Fatal Attraction-style. A year later some jackass horn-dog dude tried to rape her so she beat the holy living s— out of him with her bare hands before bashing his unconscious body half a dozen times with a tire iron. The dude was so badly f—ed up that he had to be hospitalized for months.

[read the complete Badass of the Week article]


Excerpt from Wikipedia article:

While in the Bahamas, Anne Bonny began mingling with pirates at the local drinking establishments, and met the pirate John “Calico Jack” Rackham, with whom she had an affair. While Rackham and many other pirates were enjoying the King’s pardon in the New Providence, James [Bonny] dragged Anne before Gov. Rogers to demand she be flogged for adultery and returned to him. There was even an offer for Rackham to buy her in a divorce-by-purchase, but Anne refused to be “bought and sold like cattle.” She was sentenced to the flogging, but later Anne and Rackham escaped to live together as pirates.

[read the complete Wikipedia article]



99.68 miles

As I mentioned above, this past Saturday featured a monthly $100-added women’s nine-ball tournament. I played in this tournament before (see “relapse”) and finished second-to-last in a round-robin format. I am, by nature, a stubborn masochist so I thought “why not” and decided to make the trek again.


I get up earlier this time so that I’ll have more time to get to the pool room which, according to the public transit calculator, is 47.84 miles away via bus with a two mile walk at the end.

Off to my local bus stop.

I get on the MTA 720 but it’s late by six minutes. This seems like a small thing, but in the rugged world of public transportation, every minute late can compound into a giant clusterf— of tardiness.

I get off at the downtown stop and just as I predicted, those six minutes of lateness translated into me juuust missing the 10:00 MTA 460. The next 460 doesn’t arrive until 10:25. This is why I leave early.

I board the MTA #460 (towards Disneyland!).

I arrive at Knott’s Berry Farm where I am transferring to the OCTA 29. My goal of getting to the pool room by 12:30 p.m. is safely impossible now.

I jump on the 29 and away I go to Beach & Ball (hahaha, I love that intersection).

Beach & Ball 🙂

My lateness actually results in me being able to catch one of the rarer OCTA buses (only runs once per hour on the weekends), the 46, and I’m saved walking the last two miles.

I’m dropped off near the pool room, quite a bit later than I wanted to arrive, but still well ahead of when the tournament will start. This is good as it allows me recovery time, which, having done poorly at the last event, I realized I needed. Gettin’ up there in years, I guess…

The tournament should start by now, but the tournament director decides he’ll wait a few more minutes in case of last-minute stragglers. So far, there are seven women who will play, including two former winners, the room owner’s sister, two local up-and-coming players, boring-ass untalented me, and… [drum roll, please] …the Sultana of the Self, the Duchess of Douchebaggery, the Maharanee of Madness, the Czarina of Eskrima, the Lady of La-La, the Goddess of Air Guitar…
The Mary Avina (TMA).

This was most excellent.

You see, up until now, my exchange of words with TMA had been extremely limited (not a bad thing, mind you). However, I had been witness to her particular brand of self-aggrandizing sewage that she unhesistatingly shoveled upon those around me (and me, indirectly). As some of you might remember, I made a pilgrimage to her base of operations in the hopes of negotiating a game with her and/or her many backers. Now, I did not find her, and all the information I managed to gather prior and after my pilgrimage were from field agents — thereby, it could only pass as hearsay, and not information I had heard first-hand. Today, I would be able to get the story straight from:

yea or neeeeeeeigh?

So, as we were gathered together to pay our entry fees, I clapped my hands and said, “Mary Avina, when are we going to play?”

The Mary Avina immediately turned and as she walked rather rapidly to a corner of the room, she said in her Tickle-Me-Elmo voice, “Oh no, you scare me.”

This amused me greatly.

This self-proclaimed “warrior” internet billiards badass who takes countless posed glamour shots with pool tables and various weaponry, wears ill-fitting, saggy mustard-yellow plaid pants with reddish-brown shirts (she’s all yours, USC!) who proclaims fearlessly to the entire world that:

Sadly the average fem players is not a looker lol [original post]


I love to see more attractive girls playing pool, yes granted most of them are going to suck but that’s ok i will beat them anyway lol just like i beat the men. But seriously most players suck period,men to. [original post]

A chick who posts all this in public (and don’t forget, she’s including the men in her “most players suck” opinion) is scared of … me?!



I am six inches shorter, probably 30 pounds lighter, and I’m quite sure I fall into her sweepingly generalized category of “average fem players” who is not a “looker” and unfortunately “most of them are going to suck”.

What’s there to be afraid of, TMA? I’m a nobody — just another chick that plays pool and is surely not as gifted as you are.

These are my last words on this matter and I will not post again on this topic unless you decide to instigate something.

You owe all women players, ESPECIALLY the girls you dissed in my local tournament, a SINCERE apology (yeah, your half-assed online “apology” people notified me of was a pathetic attempt to shove the blame elsewhere) and you need to fess up that your statements about your own greatness were completely fabricated. You might be that great someday, but you ain’t that great now. I don’t expect you to apologize, of course, since I am only of average intelligence and even half a rotten turnip could predict the same.

Your verbal diarrhea is dribbling everywhere and although YOU love the way it smells, you should probably stop snorting your own product and/or trying to sell it to others.


[the next few hours]
Since the tournament only got seven players, the house added $50 instead of $100. This sucked for me because I passed up other tournaments in favor of this one because of the added money. Oh well. C’est la vie.

My road to the hotseat consisted of three matches which I won 7-2, 7-1, and 7-3. I was playing better than I did the last time, and that was an encouraging thought. In particular, I adjusted to the speed of the tables (the tables are VERY fast compared to what I am used to) quickly and this, in turn, allowed me to be much more accurate with my safety play. The last time I played in this event, I had good ideas for safeties but bad execution which generally resulted in leaving shots for my opponents.

For those of you who are curious, TMA actually won a match this time (someone told me she went 0-2 BBQ in last month’s event). I observed that TMA likes to dance around the table and do a kind of slouchy headbang during the matches. She beat DVF, a two-time winner of this event on the winner’s side by the lopsided score of 7-3. I was told later that TMA’s nine-ball strategy consists of perpetually riding the nine and s—ing out all over the place. Well, she does have a lot of s— to spare and bulls— can take you pretty far in life in some cases (ie, Bernie Madhoff, Kevin Trudeau, fertilizer industry, etc) so I guess it’s not that surprising.

My downfall this time was not keep warm between matches. After I won the hotseat match, I sat down for a break and, unfortunately, I sat too long. I hadn’t eaten all day so I got an order of eggrolls (yum!) and drank water to keep hydrated. Afterwards, I should have gotten up and hit some balls but I got too comfortable being lazy. As a result, I was cold (temperature-wise, too) when the final match started and I lost it very quickly, 7-3, to the previous month’s winner.

Live and learn.


At this time, the local 46 bus had stopped running completely. Luckily, the night was clear and although it was cold, the two-mile walk would keep me warm.

Back at Beach & Ball.

The 29 is late and, as mentioned before, lateness can compound…

…and it does. I just missed the 460 back to downtown by a couple of minutes. The next one doesn’t arrive until 11:00 p.m.

After freezing for a half-hour (seriously, it CAN get cold — to me, anyways — out here in the land of sunshine, plastic, and oranges) I am quite happy to see the 460 with a working heater.

I’m dropped off at 6th & Grand downtown and I have to haul ass uphill to 5th & Grand where I will, hopefully, catch the last 720 of the evening.

The 720 was supposed to come by at this time but it hasn’t… I have the faint worry that it may already have passed by and I’m waiting for a bus that will never come…

…still no 720 and I really wish I had brought another jacket…

…still no 720 and my fingers are numb…

Hallelujah! The 720 exists!

I get off at my local stop and walk home.




62.76 miles

I think we’re all agreed now that I never seem to get enough of doing things the hard way, yes? Sunday morning I was very, very, very tired — and yet, I decided to go to another tournament. This time, though, I woke up late. This is because there was a part of me (the rational, sane one) that didn’t want to go travel far for another tournament but the other part of me (the irrational, insane one) did the ol’ “why not” and before I knew it, I was scrambling to get my things together and run for the bus.


I’m waiting for the 720 yet again. The tournament starts, at the latest, at 1:30 p.m. I was going to be cutting it extremely close, but I counted on the fact that lighter weekend traffic would make it possible to get there in two hours.

Crap. The 720 arrives but now I know I won’t make it there by 1:30 p.m.

I’m downtown and I go to 6th & Olive to catch the express bus. I calculate that the express bus will take about a half-hour to get to El Monte station. After that, I know the local bus I usually take doesn’t run so I’ll have to walk two miles to the pool room, but I think I can still possibly make it by 1:45 or 2:00.

I haven’t seen a bus in a half-hour and I wonder if maybe there is construction, traffic, a detour, or all of the above. I read the bus signs closely and it seems that a lot of the express buses now only run on weekdays. Arrgh.

I see bus 487 pull up which lists El Monte Station as its final destination. Sweet. Buses in the 400s are local express buses so this was good. I might still be able to make it although I will be quite late.

The 487 goes through a few local streets before going onto the freeway. Unfortunately, there is a lot of traffic on the freeway and the carpool lane, which is also the bus lane, is closed. We spend an agonizing half-hour moving very slowly and the rational side of me knows I’m going to miss the tournament while the irrational side of me clings to a faint hope that perhaps aliens will come in their saucers and vaporize all traffic except for the bus I’m on.


The 487 takes an exit quite a ways before the usual busway exit for El Monte Station. I find this odd, but then, I don’t ride the 487 all that often. Perhaps it takes surface streets the rest of the way…

The 487 turns north — and now I KNOW I’m not going to make the tournament on time. I find a schedule for the 487 on board and look through it and realize that I have gotten on the wrong bus.
The 487 does go to the station — but it goes north through Pasadena and Sierra Madre, first.


Well, I sit back and enjoy the scenic tour through the very picturesque neighborhoods at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains since I know I won’t make the tournament at all. I figure I might as well head to the pool room, anyways, since I have some friends there and there are worse ways to spend a Sunday.

The bus arrives at the station. I am beyond tired, beyond hungry, and I just want to sit down. I take a brisk two-mile walk to the pool room.


[the next few hours]
The tournament is already full and in progress when I arrive. This is a qualifying tournament for a regional event and the organizers did mention that they would try to run two tournaments today. I missed the first one, but I have hopes to play in the second one. I eat some chicken fingers (chickens have fingers?) and take some painkillers to dull the massive headache I have from being completely nuts.

After I ate I felt a little better and one of the local league players asked if I wanted to practice. Sure thing.

We played a few racks of eight-ball and I was playing rather well. I attributed this to the previous day’s competition. When I can compete on a regular basis, my game tends to improve in great amounts, sometimes from day to day, which is a rarity for anyone who is not a beginner.

As we played, my opponent asked me if I was going to play in the nine-ball qualifiying tournament that were also being held. I said, no, that I was just there to play in the eight-ball tournaments.

“Why don’t you try the nine-ball tournaments?”

“I haven’t ever played nine-ball in this league, so I’m not qualified to play in the nine-ball qualifiers.” This was APA, and you had to have at least ten matches before you could play in a qualifier tournament for a higher-level event. I had never played in the nine-ball league as I never had the time. I had only played in the eight-ball league so all I could qualify for was eight-ball.

“Aww, don’t be scared of nine-ball!”

His statement confused me for a second. I paused, thought, and then said, “No, I’m not scared of nine-ball. I can’t play in the nine-ball qualifier because I don’t have the required amount of matches.”

“Don’t be afraid! Nine-ball’s not that different from eight ball. It’s just ONE more ball!”


That was IT.

Here I was, playing some great eight-ball against this guy (rated lower than me on the skill level system, mind you). He’s known of me for at least a few years and in that time, I have accomplished some nice milestones in pool, including some in NINE-BALL tournaments. The way I was playing eight-ball today, most players would automatically KNOW that I was probably not that bad at nine-ball either.

But, THIS DUDE. He didn’t hear a word I said about why I wasn’t allowed to play in the nine-ball qualifiers. He just ASSUMED that since I wasn’t playing, I was AFRAID, because there obviously couldn’t be any other reason — for a girl.

“I AM NOT afraid of nine-ball! F—! I’ll play you some f—ing nine-ball RIGHT NOW! WHAT THE F— YOU WANT TO PLAY FOR?!”

He looked at me, slightly stunned. I walked outside in the ensuing silence before I made him see my point through black eyes.

F—ing idiots.

They’re everywhere.

In the end, the organizers decided not to hold the second eight-ball qualifier and I was S.O.L. It had been a long and semi-frustrating day, but my league operator offered food as a consolation prize and I was consoled.

roast duck!

and trimmings!


I was dropped off at the bus station.

I got on the CORRECT bus, thankyouverymuch.

Headed west on the 720.

Back in my neighborhood.

Drifting off to sleep muttering about how the weekends seem to vaporize too quickly.



stuff I’ve watched lately

Before The Devil Knows You’re Dead (2007)
This movie is not a happy movie. Nor is it funny. Nor is it adventurous. It’s a train wreck and you really can’t stop watching it. As Brian in VA said, it is a very dark movie with very good acting. Two brothers commit a crime and the inadvertent victim is their mother. You watch a family unravel from dysfunction into chaos and you don’t feel that anything was resolved by the movie’s end. In fact, you KNOW nothing’s been resolved and you’re sure there are more psychological horrors but now you have to imagine then. I must note that the soundtrack is very well-suited to the movie. The main theme is eerily ordinary (like elevator music) but it’s broken up by jarring deep piano notes. Creepy.