tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58008903299086192492024-03-05T10:36:20.984-08:00Jeff PrevailsWhere relevance goes to dieJeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-87181183104913079742016-09-20T22:53:00.003-07:002016-09-20T23:04:12.776-07:00Flow<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">"Michael...”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The first
time I ever told my mom to shut the fuck up I felt like a 5 year old who
prematurely let go of a balloon, wishing that I could grab that string and pull
it back, but I never caught that string, watching it float away helplessly.
Once that barrier is broken, there's no turning back. The relationship was
instantly changed forever, and when we looked into each other, it was as
different people than before.<br />
<br />
"Michael?"<br />
<br />
My mom called out to me
from her bedroom. This was where she spent most of her time for the past few
years. She rested comfortably on her bed, watching ridiculous court
television shows and petting our dog, who seemed to be the only one in the
family who wanted anything to do with her anymore. That may sound pretty harsh
to say, but when your mother, the person responsible for teaching you all of
your morals and basically one of your models of perfection, lies to your
face enough times, you become desensitized to a lot. When you’ve seen this same
godlike person stumbling around the kitchen in a drug-induced stupor
enough times, nothing seems too harsh to say.<br />
<br />
My father was busy
working all of the time since my mom had been out of work. Besides that, trying
to get him to talk about his feelings was about as practical as trying to get a
dog to ride one of those Segways that you constantly see douchebags and yuppies
riding.<br />
And at 18 years old, I knew everything about everything. I blamed her for it
all. It was her lack of self-control that lead her down this path, not the
fault of the drugs or even the doctors who prescribed them. It wasn't her
friends' fault who would get her the drugs secondhand and were never looking out
for her best interests. It wasn't that the nature of her job as a cocktail
waitress kept her in pain all of the time, which was what initially got her the
prescription. The very same job she kept for all those years to provide
food for me and put me through music lessons. In my mind none of that had
anything to do with her affliction, and I despised her lack of self-control,
promising myself I would never let that happen to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I was busy
finishing up my latest blog entry. At the time I thought I was doing something
artistic, or at least prolific. I was really just hoping to impress my friends
in a roundabout way. Validation was my drug. I needed it just like my mom
needed pills, and a lot of what I did up to that point in my life was an
attempt to get it. My attempts at brilliance usually ended up looking more like
an amalgamation of clichés and emo garbage. I wanted desperately to sound
clever and sophisticated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">April 2008,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I killed a man today.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The execution was perfect. Every
minute detail of this murder was planned and executed accordingly with
meticulous attention and care. There was no trail of blood left behind his
lifeless body to leave a trace. No hair follicles nor fingerprints for police
to scrutinize. Not even the scent of the victim was left behind. Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">His remains are gone. There is
nothing left of him. His family will not miss him. His friends will not find
him. Scientists will tell you that matter can not be created nor destroyed, it
can only be changed into other forms of matter. I dare scientists to attempt to
find any hint of this man’s matter. With proper planning, science can be defied
too. This man will only exist in memories and pictures. But with time, those
will be gone too.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I killed a man today, and he had it
coming.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I suppose you would like to know why
I killed this man. Such a heartless act, and here I flaunt it with pride.
However, I believe if you knew the all-encompassing story, my side and his side
included, you might find that I am justified in my actions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">This man has spent his whole life
tormenting me. He has done everything in his individual power to tatter my life
with a sick sense of well-being. He has attacked me mentally, physically, and
emotionally. It is because of him that I lose sleep at night. It is because of
him that I am not where I want to be, achieving what I set out to achieve. I
have persisted against him for years, but he is just as relentless as ever.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">He is the nucleus of my problems.
Well, he was. He poked at my insecurities until I believed his every thought.
He conned me in the realest sense of the word. I became nothing but a puppet
for his demented games. He carelessly tossed me around by the strings and I’ve
still got wounds to this day. He wanted nothing more than to see me fail.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Maybe this is what he wanted all
along. His life was agonizing; he needed a way out. Perhaps he knew with his
dark spirit that eventually I would be capable and willing to set him free. His
duty was to test me and ruin me, and he was not pleased about it. He realized
that after eighteen long years, I wasn’t going to give up.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The closer I came to killing him, the
more he pushed. Maybe there’s a person like this inside of all of us. A
fraction of yourself that is specifically designed to test you. You’ve felt
their presence your whole life. The reason you never stick to a regimen or
follow your dreams. The reason you trudge along at a job you hate 8 hours a day
for the next 40 years of your life. The reason you stick with every bad
decision you’ve made and never seem to come across good ones. The
anti-instinct. The path to unhappiness. This person inside you stands against
everything you’ve ever believed in.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I killed myself today, and I’ve
never felt more alive.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
“Michael!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> My
friends were going to lose their shit over that mess of blubbering incompetence.
My writing was always about a change of some kind; a drastic change in my life
that I kept hoping would come soon, but never did just naturally happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“I’m
coming, hold on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">If the
years of listening to anti-establishment stand-up comedians like Henry Rollins,
Bill Hicks, or George Carlin didn't completely tarnish my belief in most
conventional wisdom, it was my mom who was responsible. I hated every single
doctor she had ever seen, without ever knowing them. Prescription drugs became
the devil to me, along with the doctors who irresponsibly peddled them to pay
for their next trip to Rio Fucking De Janeiro at my mom's expense.<br />
<br />
"Michael!"<br />
"I'm coming, hold on."<br />
I finally responded, with a prepared, yet undeniably annoyed tone in my voice.
I knew what was coming next, the guilt trip. 'Why don't you come talk to me more
often Michael?' or 'Don't you still love me Michael?' Meh. I would never have
the balls to tell her that I may be undecided on that second one. Instead I
kept to myself in my bedroom, the only place where I really felt comfortable
anymore. I was already an introvert by nature, and this ongoing saga only helped
push me in that direction more.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I stayed
in my room, and I kept myself distracted.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">At 18
years old, distractions are at a premium. My favorite one was the girlfriend
I'd had who was way too pretty, cool, and just about everything else for me.
And I spent a lot of time taking advantage of that distraction, the neighbors
could attest to that. They heard everything. I've always thought of myself as
an average looking guy. If looks could kill, my looks would just bruise. Five
foot eleven, medium build, with brown hair. I would've been a perfect model for
one of those Back to School ads had I not just had my braces removed and been
afraid to smile without my mouth closed. This girl was starting to bring me out
of my shell though, and a lot of things I'd held back were suddenly bubbling to
the surface, about to hit a rolling boil. I could feel that the tension surrounding
my mom and I was about to hit a high point and maybe result in a complete
falling-out or something equally irreparable.<br />
<br />
I minimized whatever filth I was currently into on the computer and left my
sanctuary. I put on a walk and emitted a general aura that getting up to talk
to her was quite the energy draining task, if not the most annoying thing
I had to do all day. My hope was that this would eventually stop the constant bickering
and requesting of menial tasks, but her resolve was strong. Which is to say,
she could give a shit less how I felt about it.<br />
<br />
I made my way to her room, or her cell as it seemed, imprisoned by sheriff
Xanax. The first thing I noticed in the room was the Gazelle Freestyle leaning
on the wall, one of those elliptical training machines that got about as
much use as good judgement at a metal concert. If this machine was to imitate
the grace and beauty of a gazelle, it certainly looked like one that had
been shot and mounted on the wall, drained of its essence. She laid under
the covers almost all of the time, these poor covers that have taken the abuse
of so many cigarettes burned into them while my mother fell asleep with
one carelessly planted in her mouth. She wasted more cigarettes this way than a
villain in a movie wastes bullets. The first few times I came across her
sleeping with a cigarette in her mouth I woke her up and chastised her as well
as a teenager can to a parent. After that, I figured she would learn after
burning herself enough times.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Her room
was a mess. There was this random pink chair in the far corner, covered in
probably a year's worth of little white dog hairs. I can't exactly say the
the pink chair matched the forest green carpet, or the off-white comforter
stained yellowish from random foods with little black rimmed circles from cigarettes
that the designer certainly did not have in mind when they embroidered the nice
flowery pattern onto it. But the chair was just as much a staple of the
room as everything else. Nothing changed other than wearing down rapidly.<br />
<br />
It was interesting watching her bedroom deteriorate at the same time as her
body and mind. The floor probably got vacuumed once every five months, and that was
only when I had gotten disgusted enough to do it for her. My dad slept on the
couch, every night. He told me it was because the bed hurt his back. He must've
thought I was fucking clueless. I don't blame him, I would have slept on the
couch too. Except it would've been a couch in a different house. But he was
a lot stronger than me.<br />
<br />
The small lamp was there to do the sun's job and keep the room light, as any
natural light had not been able to get around the blinds for months. The dusty television
was playing some Judge Joe Brown, and two giant neanderthals were bickering
about how one of them was too violent while injecting the other one with
steroids and that the fight that ensued was in self-defense rather than a
blatant assault. I wondered if they had a special breeding ground for people this
stupid.<br />
<br />
"Michael!"<br />
<br />
My mom shouted my name again, and instantly I was in distress. I was standing
right there in front of her, wearing the same basketball shorts and t-shirt I always
wore and looking as recognizable as ever, yet she was calling out to me as if I
was still in my bedroom, or even in some other distant place.<br />
"What mom? I'm right here," I answered, trying to remain calm.<br />
"Michael, grab your sled."<br />
What? Utter confusion is the only way to describe what I felt at this point.<br />
"Grab my sled?"<br />
"Yeah, I want you to go down the hill with me. It's our turn."<br />
"Mom, we're in your bedroom. I don't even own a sled. Did you take your
pills without eating again? How many times do we have to do this?" I
swiftly dealt the blow, making sure she knew I wasn't going to let her off
easily.<br />
"Oh," she sighed. Apparently I wasn't the only one who was confused.<br />
<br />
"I thought we were at the mountains."<br />
<br />
I was one or two fights away from being completely done with this battle. How
could she think she was at the mountains? There were beads of sweat on her forehead,
most likely from laying under the covers in the middle of the day in Las Vegas
heat. Her thin, sticky hair that hadn't been washed in a few days showed
the evidence too. I thought of days past where she took care of herself, her
hair beautifully crafted and her bedroom a blueprint for a clean and neat room.
I had seen her fumble words before, and barely be able to keep her balance, but
this was something completely different. She seemed perfectly coherent, yet
it was as if we were two people occupying the same physical space, but we were
in two different worlds.<br />
"Are the people from the internet here yet?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I inched
closer, trying to see what was going on. She never looked at me, just kind of
staring off as if she was watching something happen. All the anger, annoyance,
and everything else went away. The only feeling I had now was one of fear.
Deep, survivalistic fear. It was clear what was happening to my mom at this
point. She was hallucinating. Something must have finally convinced her to quit
taking those pills, and the drugs were fighting back.<br />
<br />
"What people from the internet?" I tried to have a conversation with
her, maybe bring her back to reality. I thought maybe logical talking could
somehow bring her back to the real world. For her the hallucination was
very real. <br />
<br />
"The people that are coming to get Daddy, are they here yet?"<br />
<br />
When you hallucinate, there is no filter discerning what you should and
shouldn't talk about. All of those deep seeded fears will come up along with
other random fantasies and memories. Fear of computers is pretty common in
older people. My mother was old when she had me, so she was already in her
fifties by the time I was a teenager. My dad had gotten into technology
and the internet, but it was something that completely baffled and apparently
scared my mom.<br />
<br />
I shook her a bit, trying to wake her up from the daze she was in. It seemed as
if she could hear me, but couldn't see me or feel me. I shook her a bit and finally
her eyes locked with mine. They were glazed over and seemed to lack the vibrant
greens they once had. I looked at her and saw a confused and scared woman,
unsure of what was happening to her.<br />
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My fear
grew immensely. The first thought that immediately came to mind was 'what if
this kills her?' Suddenly this relationship that I thought had been frazzled
to the very core was strong. Strong enough to give my stomach fits and cause my
palms to sweat. I looked her straight in the eye and said something I had
meant more than anything I had ever said before. I meant it more than every
time I told my girlfriend I loved her. I meant it more than every time I told
my teachers I promised I would start doing my homework because I was better
than I gave myself credit for, and more especially more than every time I<br />
told myself I hated her.<br />
<br />
"Everything is going to be okay. I'll figure this out. I'm here for you.
Just stay awake mom, I love you."<br />
<br />
She didn't say anything for a few seconds. My damp hands rested still on her
shoulders. I wondered how to fix this, how I could help. I had done enough reading
on the subject to know that if hallucinations are serious, they can cause
serious damage and sometimes result in death. She probably needed a hospital,
and strict doctor's attention. But instead she suffered in her cell. She
finally looked up at me.<br />
<br />
"Michael, where is your jacket? It's freezing out here."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-69340775781876774852016-01-11T13:30:00.001-08:002016-01-11T13:30:36.119-08:00Walking the tight-rope
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1/11/16<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes when I write, I find it difficult not to do it
without being cynical and self-defeating. It’s almost akin to walking a
tightrope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He ascended onto the high-wire,
his feet tripled its girth. His balance stick waved to and fro, bending with
the wind like an overloaded barbell. He tried not to look down, but became
consumed with the thought. Not the thought of dying, but of looking down to see
just how deep the sky goes. How long he would have to spend cascading to his
splattering doom wondering, “did I leave the crockpot on? Even if I did, those
things are meant to run forever, right? If there were an electrical problem, it
would just cause a short due to fancy technology and safety regulations, right?
What if it’s on for several days, and the juices have all cooked out of the
roast and the potatoes catch fire..” SPLAT.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Birds didn’t even fly by, he was
so high. His stomach gurgled and he regretted the handle of bourbon from the
night before. Like, he would have never bet his buddies he could traverse a
tight-rope if he wasn’t plowed from Jim Beam. He was a cab driver for Christ’s
sake. Even worse, he would have never eaten all of those greasy tacos in a
drunken stupor, which is also pretty bad for your health. He worried that an El
Nino fart brewing from bourbon and tacos would be just the gust of wind to undo
his equilibrium and send him bobbing for concrete.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get yourself together,” he confided
in himself, “this is exactly like that time you thought you couldn’t stay awake
through another episode of MasterChef, but you did it, damnit. And that Indian
vegan chick cooked a perfect medium rare filet, and it was a beautiful moment.
This will be your vegan filet.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He neared the half-way point,
his knees shook like a white NBA player being chased down on a fast break. He
thought about all of the good things in life he would never get to do again if
he died, like shining laser pens at oncoming drivers on the freeway, or dipping
French fries into milkshakes, cause it’s so wrong that it’s right. Oh how he
would miss the euphoria of executing a perfect handshake with a black guy, the
rare and momentous highlight of some truly memorable days.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he continued he had a slight
hitch, and the two people watching let out a barely audible groan, because
nobody knows or cares when a cab driver decides to walk a tight-rope. I mean,
he announced it on Twiter, but he only had 12 followers despite a ton of witty
and controversial posts. Mostly memes. Even most of his friends who dared him
to do this didn’t show up because they couldn’t call out of work. He considered
his legacy. He would forever be known as an honorable gentleman who didn’t back
down from a bet. Like the time he did the cinnamon challenge, and threw up
profusely. Or the time his buddy bet he wouldn’t ask a girl if she liked cider,
and when she said yes, he said “what about dickincider?” and she punched him
square in the nose because even girls train in mixed martial arts now. He
started to notice a pattern and his fright began to overtake him. What about his
newborn child, growing up without a father? Then he realized it was better than
his son growing up with a fraidy cat for a father.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And just then, as the sun shined
in his eyes, he had an epiphany. The rope was just a metaphor for the fear that
had held him back his whole life. If it wasn’t for that fear, he would’ve quit
his job and became a musician just like he had always dreamed. He would’ve went
to the gym and gotten ripped instead of growing soft and doughy on the couch. He
could have the life of his dreams, and it was the fear of failure that was
stopping him. And then his knee gave out and he fell, realizing that not
everything is a metaphor with a deeper meaning you self-indulgent, pretentious
dummy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-31012472851650160042012-10-16T19:21:00.001-07:002012-10-18T15:12:09.545-07:00SteakUp<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 7.5pt;">
<br /></span></div>
Feeling sad from a break up? Steak up.<br />
<br />
Don't know what to do when you wake up? Steak. Up.<br />
<br />
Amount of time spent listening to Drake up? Steak up.<br />
<br />
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<i>You might be asking yourself: why would he put a picture with vegetables in this clearly steak-biased piece? Doesn't he have the whole world of Google Images at his fingertips and the ability to hand-pick one of six billion pictures of steak available? If you noticed the vegetables, you definitely need to steak up</i>. <i>Brussels-sprout a pair, buddy.</i><br />
<br />
I found myself flummoxed recently. Broken hearted and moping around, I was weak, bereft of all of the power I once felt. My world lacked contrast and seemed to be a collection of grey hues and rain clouds. And then, as if delivered from the dream gods, I woke up and the solution was sizzling on the edge of my tongue. It's not every day that a man comes up with an idea that could change the world. Much less one that is delivered through whatever recent dream-god-technology is out there without any previous prayers or even acknowledging of the existence of said gods. But let us not make this all about them, for they are humble gods, and I'm from a generation of entitlement.<br />
<br />
I got in my car one morning, drove to the store and picked up a pair of Rib-eyes. I slapped them on the cutting board and as I applied the kosher salt and cracked black pepper, I felt a change in my demeanor. By the time the grill had been sufficiently heated I already felt my moribund day reviving.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Did you know that 93% of people aren't getting enough steak in
their diets?<sup>1</sup><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I could just point out with anecdotal evidence
how awesome steak made me feel and offer up testimonial after testimonial of
proud steak eaters, but that would just be too easy. And my friends are taking
their sweet time writing fake testimonials. Lazy writers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Protein. You may
have heard of it. Protein is responsible for things like preserving muscle
tissue, supporting brain function, providing energy, and boosting your immune
system. Another interesting thing about high protein foods is that they
increase satiety and decrease appetite. In short, they satisfy you. But if
things like cell growth and repair aren't important enough to you, steak offers
other benefits.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Steak is a great
source of: phosphorus, selenium, vitamin B12, zinc, iron, niacin, vitamin
B6(yes, that's ANOTHER B vitamin), and riboflavin. Steak is also a great
source of saturated fat, which has a bad reputation but current science shows
is actually good for you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Practical Application<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b> </b>I know this is somewhat mind blowing due its simplicity and you’re
wondering how to get started. Rather than bore you with a bunch of statistics I made up, I'm going to show you how to employ the philosophy in your own life. Don’t hold off, there’s time to make up. Steak
up. Here’s some sample scenarios in which steaking-up can help you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b>Problem 1</b>: You’re attempting to get re-elected as
the President of the United States. In your first political debate against your
opponent, you come out looking soft. Your opponent uses half-truths and some
solid tip-toeing around questions to win the debate in the eyes of the public.
Your supporting group of democrats start losing faith, the country is at risk
of handing the reins to a Mormon. Time to steak up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b>Recommend dosage</b>: <o:p></o:p></div>
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One steak chili sourdough bowl from Claim Jumper. Note the way the
steak is overflowing from the edible bowl. When you're trying to figure out how much steak to eat, some key words are: overflowing, gluttonous, retarded, or Herculean amounts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Problem 2: </b>You’re watching Netflix with your
boyfriend and he gets a text message. You want to look, but you don’t want to
seem jealous. You ask who it is and he says, “oh just a friend.” He announces
that he has to “use the restroom” because after two years together he still
doesn’t feel comfortable telling you that he’s got to take a shit. You see his
phone sitting on the night stand and don’t know what to do. There’s potentially
a bitch out there trying to step on your territory.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b>Recommended Dosage</b>:<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BbEXcDt4P75FD0holGSa9uZ_a58rR3LsvZbb7pSa8slzQZ-4FuJh2yeskZw_lMZ9zX1-sZHjwPuF13LIhzikJOE8p4bZHG6_058_8GTCg5JMRImFnS6-6Zu8W-HqQSTH6hH-EUh8KmD7/s1600/fm039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BbEXcDt4P75FD0holGSa9uZ_a58rR3LsvZbb7pSa8slzQZ-4FuJh2yeskZw_lMZ9zX1-sZHjwPuF13LIhzikJOE8p4bZHG6_058_8GTCg5JMRImFnS6-6Zu8W-HqQSTH6hH-EUh8KmD7/s1600/fm039.jpg" /></a><br />
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5 oz. bacon wrapped filet. That’s right, ladies can steak up too. Jealousy
doesn’t look good on anyone. Chances are you know whether your man is cheating
on you or not. Imagine if Miles Davis was looking down from heaven on your
every move and saw you looking like a sneak trying to check your boyfriend’s
texts? You don’t want to disappoint Miles Davis, do you? Eat your filet and
search your own heart for the answers. And if he’s cheating on you, use those
protein filled muscles to punch him in the dick.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Problem 3: </b>You’re heart broken. You’ve been left in
the cold by a girl you thought was the one. You’ve begged and pleaded for her
to take you back, promising you’ll conform to whatever would make her happy.
You tell her you’ll even stop watching football with the boys and drinking so
much. She doesn’t waver, so you go to the last resort, the mix tape. The first
song you put on there is “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton. The next is “Hey
there Delilah” by the Plain White T’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Recommended Dosage: </b><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_5"
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<br /></div>
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Prime rib. As much of it as you can eat. Listen buddy, she doesn’t
want to be with you anymore. Chances are if you somehow manage to get her to
stay with you for a couple more months, she’s going to be having sex with the
guy she really wants to be having sex with anyways. It’s time to realign your
steak chakras and get back out there. Do something amazing. Don’t even worry
about getting a new girl, just work on your steak intake as well as time
management and following your passion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
As evidenced here, there are many varieties of steak and various
uses for them all. It doesn’t take an expert to diagnose and prescribe, it’s a
trial and error process. But I am here for questions. This is merely an
introduction into the philosophy that changed my life, and could change yours
too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Coming
Soon: The Steak Scale. <br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 7.5pt;">1) lol</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-55015575419921836542012-05-01T15:46:00.003-07:002012-05-01T15:47:30.147-07:00The Experience Pt.3<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This is part of a fictional series of stories based on stuff that I've seen working on Fremont Street. Just think of it like that guy who wrote all those memoirs and got exposed and had to apologize on Oprah, except I'm telling you that it's bullshit at the beginning. I embellished</i>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Climb with me to
the highest conceivable pillars ladies and gentleman. It is time that
we rise above this bureaucratic malarkey and embrace the human spirit
for what it is. Kindness, passion, love, all subverted by the need
for material possessions.” A man preached under the thousands of
flashing bulbs outside of the Golden Nugget. The sweat trickled down
his dark shiny skin and he lifted his tweed jacket to wipe it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It is time for the
end of capitalism,” he said. The midget Elvis impersonator next to
him strummed an air guitar and danced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's time for the
end of war... of nationalism... we must unite as one entity. We have
the resources to ensure that nobody goes hungry, yet we horde them
all to protect our own family and we ignore the fact that we are all
brothers. We are all part of this super-organism that is the earth.
Merely collections of cells built to work symbiotically for the
greater good, but we have been distracted. Oh how we have been
distracted.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I stood against a
pillar watching the old man attempt to save society one drunkard at a
time, occasionally his sounds were outweighed by the screaming
children passing by on the zip-line. This guy didn't have the normal
motives of preachers on Fremont; religious promotion(and of course
donations). His legitimacy intrigued me. Any minute now he was going
to pull out a jingling cup of change.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Quit your useless
job today. Create something. Love somebody. Go somewhere. Love
everybody,” he said with a smile, his rage calming into happiness.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Can I get a picture
with you?” a young girl wielding a three-foot long alcoholic
beverage asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A picture?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah.” She put
her arm around him. He faked a smile and she threw up a crooked peace
sign. She pulled two dollars out of her bra and handed it to him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No, I don't want
your,” he started to try to give the money back, but she had
already found herself in the arms of Captain Jack Sparrow.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yo ho, yo ho!”
they yelled together as the black man shook his head and stuffed the
two dollars into his pocket.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“We are so
transfixed with the idea of being comfortable that we have forgotten
to strive for greatness,” he began. A horn blared as a car almost
ran over a pedestrian text messaging as they crossed the street. The
pedestrian didn't even look up. A chain reaction of horns ensued as
the taxi drivers battled for position on the side of the street. The
man watched the chaos and felt himself jarred when a security guard
on a Segway bumped into him trying to get to the clueless jaywalking
pedestrian. He composed himself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Stop giving your
money to these casinos. We have become so attached to material
possessions that we will risk the money we wasted our precious and
limited time attaining for the small, unlikely chance that we might
double up on Fremont street. Give your money to charity if you wish
to unload it that bad. Donate to your child's school.” I wondered
how long it would be before somebody stopped this guy, dragged him
out by his arms as he preached freedom and peace.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who are you
supposed to be?” a man with a “This Guy Needs a Beer” shirt on
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who am I supposed
to be? I am you, and you are me. I am earth. I am part of one big
cancerous organism and I know the cure.” he replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh I get it, you're
like...Tracy Morgan?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What the hell is a
Tracy Morgan?” The man asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That crazy actor
from that show...the guy who said he would disown his kid if he were
gay. Who are you then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I am the man
standing behind the boulder of change, pushing with all of my might
and suggesting that you might help me push this boulder. Alone I can
not budge it one inch, but together we could throw it through the
window of our corrupt government. In a sense, yes, I am Tracy Morgan.
Just like I am Alexander the Great. Genghis Khan. Their greatness is
in my grasps, as well as it is in yours.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well, you don't
really look like Genghis Khan. Can I get a picture anyway?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Two dollars,” he
said with a sigh. </div>JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-57004779704532218552012-04-29T12:17:00.001-07:002012-04-29T12:17:05.917-07:00The Experience Pt.2<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This is part of a fictional series of stories based on stuff that I've seen working on Fremont Street. Just think of it like that guy who wrote all those memoirs and got exposed and had to apologize on Oprah, except I'm telling you that it's bullshit at the beginning. I embellished. </i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two things that should
not be combined: heartbreak and swing shift. Could there be any more
impetus to make terrible decisions than to be getting off work on
Fremont street at two-thirty in the morning with a fresh wound and be
expected to make logical choices?
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But even I wouldn't
resort to a Fremont street hooker. I was sitting at the bar after my
shift the other night, collecting my thoughts and to be honest a
little alcohol makes it easier to sleep when you have to unwind at
three in the morning. The screen in front of me was desperate for my
attention, pretending to show me straight flushes or four cards to
the Royal. I decided quickly I wouldn't fall in to that trap. But the
free drinks make everything somewhat copasetic. A girl near me
started talking to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You look young, you
just start here?” she asked me. Her tiny skirt did not fit with the
winter weather. It never gets unbearably cold in Vegas, but she did
everything short of having Bruce Buffer announce that she was a
working girl. There's little room for discretion in these matters. Or
need for it, for that matter. The security guards are in on it, they
have to be.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah, it's my third
week.” I told her. I got a good look at her, she had light brown
eyes and a great smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Ah, you spend that
first paycheck yet?” she asked. So blunt and quick to dip into my
financial situation. I don't know if her tactics are subtle to the
average drunk idiot at the bar, but they seemed pretty blatant to me.
But I was bored.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nope, I'm pretty
good with my money. Direct deposited right into the old savings
account. I just try to live off of my tips and save the paychecks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You make pretty
good tips? Usually the cute ones make bank.” I think the biggest
difference between hookers and interaction with normal girls is that
hookers like to center the conversation on you, whereas normal girls
like you to ask them questions about them. Or at least this is how I
felt as I sat heartbroken at the bar. Her ploy was starting to work
on me. For some reason I respected her blatant honesty. We could just
cut through all of the pussyfooting and tact that happens in normal
courting and get down to brass tax. And it was nice having someone
who wanted to talk about me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I do alright. Had a
really good night tonight,” I fibbed a bit. I tried to do the
logistics of the deal in my head. Do I get an employee discount?
Maybe a non-weirdo rebate that I get back a week later? <i>Okay,
don't go down that road. Let's end this now.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i>“Awesome.
Hey this bar is kind of cold, would you want to go somewhere else?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nah,
I'd better get home. Gotta go to the DMV as soon as they open
tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Well,
everybody thinks the DMV is empty first thing in the morning, but
there's always a line. It's best to go around ten after that line
goes away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Thanks
for the tip. Have a good night,” I said. I went home and slept well
that night. I went back to the bar the next night, wondering if I'd
see her spitting game at some other sucker. The bartender set a
napkin down in front of me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So
what did you have to do last night that was so important?” he
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Huh?
I went home and crashed, why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
was thinking you might have had a better excuse for turning down that
girl last night than the DMV, unless you're just a pussy, which is
totally cool.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
working girl?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That
wasn't a working girl you idiot. I work the graveyard shift every
night here, I know the hookers, and that girl is not one of them.
Notice how she didn't look like a meth head.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Vodka
tonic, please.” I folded my arms and put my head down while he
squeezed the lime into my drink until it was a ball of stringy remnants curled into the fetal position. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-17170957669969970852012-04-27T16:45:00.000-07:002012-04-27T16:45:06.736-07:00The Experience Pt.1<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>This is part of a
fictional series of stories based on stuff that I've seen working on
Fremont Street. Just think of it like that guy who wrote all those
memoirs and got exposed and had to apologize on Oprah, except I'm
telling you that it's bullshit at the beginning. I embellished.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i>I
stood in the elevators with two other people cascading down the
employee parking garage when one of them said, “sure is eerie
riding this elevator knowing somebody jumped off the top of the
garage yesterday.” The woman was in her early fifties, wearing a
dealer's outfit of slacks and a vest over a button up. Her hair
looked like it had been sprayed into the same mold for twenty years
straight. It stood in perfect alignment like a Spartan Phalanx, or
freshly mowed blades of uniform grass.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Personally,
if I were to jump off a building, it would be double digits in
floors. I'm just saying, seven stories sounds like if you landed the
right way you might just end up disfigured for the rest of your life.
I swear I've seen a television special where a girl was skydiving
with a baby in her womb she didn't know about and crashed to the
ground and the baby survived. I don't want to take my chances with
anything less than fourteen, fifteen stories.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This
was something like my second week working on Fremont. The Experience.
A microcosm of tortured souls. Alcoholics, homeless, street
performers, power hungry bosses, prostitutes, all lurking around
every corner. Not to mention all of the inconsiderate tourists that
don't look where they're walking.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As
I exited the elevator I surveyed the area where the man committed
suicide the day before. It didn't look clean, none of the pavement
downtown looks clean. But it certainly didn't look how I expected it
to look; ie blood stains, perhaps a dislodged finger that nobody
bothered to pick up. The guy worked there for something like eighteen
years. And that was it, even his blood stain was gone after one day.
Forgotten. We can't have that kind of bloodshed on display so close
to the entertainment.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
think the guy was a porter, which for those who aren't familiar with
the casino terminology, is kind of like a janitor. Some tough guy has
too many shots at the bar, pukes all over the floor, and who cleans
it up? The bartender, right? Nope, the porter. Haven't you ever
wondered what happened to all those cups you left on the floor or
near a machine when you were drunk and didn't care? Some old guy
making a decent wage who has been cleaning up after drunk idiots for
eighteen years cleaned it up. Clearly we see where that can lead.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
had a long day at work. Dealing blackjack can be brutal. My table is
near the craps tables where every five minutes or so some annoying
group of girls yells, “WOOOOO!!!” Blackjack can be a very fast
game where people lose a lot of money before they realize it. People
are always getting angry, sometimes at each other because one guy
doesn't know how to play right. And people are drunk. They think I
miscount and they yell. The pit boss reviews the tape and they get a
free meal even though I didn't miscount.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Stay
after for a drink?” Rick, the craps dealer asked me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
I'm broke man.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The
first one's free, you get a free post-shift drink,” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That's
a thing? No wonder these people get stuck here. I declined anyways, I
had not adjusted to being up so late yet, and I just wanted to go to
sleep. Two-thirty in the morning would eventually become the norm for
me, but at this point it was foreign. At two-thirty in the morning
there aren't many people left on the streets. The performers have
retired their costumes for the night, and most people have either
overdosed or passed out by that time. It caught me off guard when a
guy asked me if I was driving home. As opposed to what? Walking?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yeah,
I'm driving. Why?” I responded.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do
you think I could get a ride man? I'm desperate. It's just down a few
blocks, I lost my friends. I could really use some help man, please,”
he said. He didn't look threatening. Smaller than me, and certainly
less sober. Although I'm not sure what he was high on.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Sure,”
is what an idiot would say. And that's what I said. The guy seemed
genuinely in need of help. We walked to my car and he thanked me a
few times.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do
any drugs?” he asked. Not the kind of question you normally get
within the first five minutes of a conversation <i>anywhere</i>
else.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Not
really, no. Weed sometimes. Why?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
think I got some at the crib I can give you for the ride. I just
really appreciate it man,” he reiterated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'm
good man. Don't worry about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
pointed me the direction to go and off we went. He looked paranoid.
He grabbed his face.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
think my jaw is broken,” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What?
Seriously?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Me
and my homie got into it with this dude over his girl. He hit me
first, but we lit him up real good after that. Dude's face was messed
up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Something
I would have liked to had been informed of before I let the guy into
my car. I think he was full of shit. I haven't been around too many
broken jaws, but I'm pretty sure he would have been in severe pain
and his speech would have been messed up. Either way, he was a dick.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Shit.
See the cop cars over by 7-11? We've got to keep driving a little
bit. Go down the road a little further,” he said. Is this where I
get lured into the middle of the ghetto and get robbed? I watched to
make sure he wasn't itching towards some sort of weapon. I had to
take control of this situation.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Dude
I'm going to throw my hat out the window,” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“No,
don't do that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“They
might recognize the black hat,” he shivered out of frustration.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It's
going to look suspicious if you throw a hat out the window. You're
being paranoid. Nobody's looking at my car. My shit is registered, my
brake lights work, I have no warrants...just tell me where to let you
out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Over
there I guess.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Never
again would I give somebody a ride anywhere near Fremont.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-20936589698020574752012-04-11T11:00:00.004-07:002012-04-11T11:04:18.169-07:00Experiencing the Animal Kingdom in Green Valley<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Although we feel every malicious step the summer takes towards us, the heat has not yet arrived in full force, and the Samaritans of Las Vegas are stuck in between turning on the air conditioner, or opening windows and doors. In a household consisting of three young males, the door stays open.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>There are a few things in our house that might be attractive to a stray dog; scattered Kibbles and/or Bits, a bottle of ketchup on the floor that nobody can explain, but namely my roommates’ dog Megan. Megan is a small Beagle mix with a cute face and personality. She tends to chew on shoes, but she doesn’t have the jaw strength to complete the destruction. It still seemed strange when we heard the non-threatening yelp of a miniature pinscher at our door late in the evening. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>We looked at the dog as he filibustered at our door. By we I mean me, Scotty in one of his trademark pro-rap or pro-weed shirts, and Ken, probably dominating at a video game at the time. The unfortunate thing about a miniature pinscher, or a mini-pin as some lame people I have run into at the dog park refer to them as, is that they have the markings of the powerful Doberman, but none of the pinache. They’re like a little dog with a Napoleon complex, barking at things that tower over them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>We were intrigued by his brashness, although we didn’t like his manners. We stood up and he ran out into the street. We did what anybody else with nothing better to do would do, and followed him outside. Megan chased behind us to watch the scene unfold. It was clear to me that there was a connection. I suggested that the dog was here not for violence, but for reproductive purposes. The idea didn’t catch on quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>“I told you,” I shouted as we looked in the back yard and saw the mini-pin mounting our sweet little companion only a few minutes later. He had slipped his fragile little body through the gate and ran his game. Although the fairy tale of dog courtship is not that cut and dry. Megan was fending him off, she did not want nor need his services. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>“Maybe they already finished, and she just thought it was just alright,” Scotty said, connecting the dots first. It was obvious at this point that we had to intervene. We approached it to eradicate it and the mini pin lunged at Scotty with a bark, but to no avail as he just leaned back, balling his hand into a fist in case of emergency. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>We discussed what a terrible guest this little dog was. You don’t sneak into somebody’s back yard, have sex with their dog, and then threaten them. Then the dog did the unspeakable. He squatted and pooped. Things got out of hand after that. There were scuffles. Names were called. We chased him out and he retreated into the street. We went and watched television, ten minutes later we see him mounting Megan again in the back yard. We chased him back into the street. It took two or three cycles before we realized that Megan was just crawling out my bedroom window by jumping on my bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>By this time we felt like disappointed fathers when their daughter brings home a guy who is way less than what they deserve, and despite what they tell her she just keeps seeing him because, “we’re meant to be together forever” at seventeen years old is really going to happen. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>It was probably a good thing Megan had a little maturing experience, but it’s times like these that I wish my roommates had a Rottweiler for instances when mini-pins roll up trying to act like a boss so we can get some real nature in this house. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "> </span></p>JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5800890329908619249.post-43899351621963853192011-11-01T15:30:00.000-07:002011-11-01T15:38:14.929-07:00Much ado about Nutting<div style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left; "><br />Much ado about Nutting</b></div> <p class="MsoNormal"> <i>Because an eye grabbing headline gets ratings. Irrelevant or not.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.davemackey.com/animation/wb/titlecards/muchado.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://www.davemackey.com/animation/wb/titlecards/muchado.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></p><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><i>Actually a title of a Looney Tunes episode. Turns out I'm not as clever as I thought, again.</i></div> <p class="MsoNormal">I reached into my bankroll with plans on nurturing it. If you live in Vegas and you don’t have a bankroll, then you aint doin’ it right. I had been steadily grinding mine up to one hundred and eighty dollars with some savvy football bets. Basically, I got lucky.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> A bankroll starts as a dream. It’s when you tell yourself, “I’m going to do this right. I’m going to gamble the <i>smart</i> way.” It’s delusional, but it seems like a way to keep yourself from gambling your life away. Most people just lose money until they end up sitting at a slot machine just hoping to break even and drink for free. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> In theory a bankroll is something you should be rigorous and stern about. In practice, a bankroll is very malleable. It can be used like an instrument tuner; as long as you’re in that yellow zone between in and out of tune, you can get by. Any bankroll expert has their own methods, and current theory would dictate that you never use more than ten percent of your bankroll on one bet. Five percent is probably high. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Sometimes though, you must take calculated risks if you ever want to play in the big leagues.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> And if you consider taking a pot cookie and spending about half of your bank roll on a poker tournament with no preparation calculated, then I took a risk just so.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> It was ten thirty in the morning and I was on my way from the gym to the MGM. The pot cookie was delicious, with little peanut butter morsels. I could faintly taste the marijuana, but I could see how one might eat the cookie and never even know. I’d never consumed pot in that manner before. I’d heard it is a completely different experience from smoking. Remember that story a few years back when the two cops ate some kid’s pot brownie and called the cops on themselves saying they were leaving the universe? I figured my odds of winning the tournament were very slim. Then I remembered that a major league pitcher once threw a no-hitter in the throes of an LSD trip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> People started trickling to the tables and the tournament started a few minutes after eleven. I didn’t feel high yet, and I sized up the competition to see if anybody looked solid. Across from us circled around a table there were a bunch of cowboys in town for the PBR event. Somebody asked if they were in our tournament and I made a joke that your hat must be “this” tall to play in that tournament. Everybody chuckled and the host of the room announced that the cards were to be in the air.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> On the first hand a wispy looking old man with saggy forearms next to the dealer asked, “so how does the betting sequence work? This is no limit, right?” The dealer looked at him like he just asked if he could eat his asshole, and a couple people sighed. Everybody wants an idiot at the table, but nobody wants the guy who holds up the game because he doesn’t know how to play. Part of me wondered if this guy was a shark trying to pretend he doesn’t know how to play. I chalked it up to me being jaded from growing up in Las Vegas. Recognizing shady people like that is integral to survival. I wasn’t high yet, so I ordered a screwdriver. It’s free, why not?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> A few hands later this overconfident guy who would play on his phone as soon as he was out of every hand put the old man all in. The old man called and as the lax guy turned over his top pair, the old man turned over a full house and knocked him out of the tournament. He played solid the rest of the day, and my gut feeling was confirmed. This guy probably recited that same line at casinos around town every day, twice a day. That motherfucker. By this point I was thoroughly high, and considering that this whole tournament might be a conspiracy. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">How many of these guys work here?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I was starting to lose my grip on things. I looked up at the clock and the first break wasn’t for another fifty minutes. I could get up and walk around a bit, but I had already lost about half of my stack and couldn’t afford to miss the blinds. I remember thinking about how cool the felt table felt on my fingers, then thinking that I was way too high to be playing for keeps. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> This is just the warm-up game, right?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The blinds kept going up and my stack kept dwindling. I got very low, doubled up, and was still low in relation to the blinds. About twenty minutes before the break our table split up and we filled up the other three tables. They give you this little plastic rack for your chips when you move tables, but my puny stack fit just fine in the palm of one hand. So I meandered around with my chip stack in one hand and the empty plastic rack in the other until the host finally sat me down in my rightful spot. I asked the dealer where to put the empty rack and he said, “just throw it behind you, and make sure you don’t hit anybody.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Dude, can you not fuck with me while I’m this high?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The table laughed. I had no comeback, so I sat the thing under the table in defeat. The lady sitting directly to the right of me cackled. She had a big stack and an attitude. She represented a common archetype of the female player at a casino. She was cocky and insulting on the surface, but it was obvious she was trying too hard to compensate. She celebrated with a high pitched squeal after every hand she won. A few hands later I won some chips, and I didn’t immediately give my cards back to the dealer (you try stacking a pile of chips while high), so of course she was on the ball saying, “you have to give those back, no matter how good they were.” I smiled because there’s no winning in arguing with a girl at a poker table, and hated her internally.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Finally the game went to break. I realized I went to the gym and never ate anything afterwards, but I didn’t have time to wait for food to cook. I figured some Starbucks would hold me over. Maybe it would even bring me back down from the stratosphere. I took a minute to check out the lion habitat, which was pretty much the most amazing thing possible at the time, even though the lions were sleeping. I’d probably seen the lion habitat about twenty times in my life, but never under those certain circumstances. I feared for the lives of the two young guys in the glass with the lions. I felt bad for the lions. My mood was plummeting almost as low as my chip stack. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sat back down and the blinds had grown again. A few hands later I was convinced that it was my time to go home. I got Ace-King and planned on going all-in immediately. The second guy to act went all in, and the guy next to him went all in as well. That’s basically the worst situation AK could be in. It’s the kind of hand you want to go one-on-one with. I called anyways, because I had to, and I was surprisingly far ahead when the cards are turned over. It held up and I tripled up. Things weren’t so bad after all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The next hand a guy went all in against the preachy annoying girl and she had him dominated with two pair until he got a straight on the river. Only she didn’t realize he got a straight, and she did a Tiger Woods fist pump which she actually had to stand up from her seat to perform. Then the dealer said, “straight.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> She sat down and huffed and called bullshit. I smiled. The guy apologized for the bad beat. Some people do that, I don’t. Maybe he apologized in hopes of getting laid. I might do that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The next hand I knocked her out the tournament and she threw her cards in like an angsty teenager and walked off. I wanted to hand her my plastic rack and ask her to hand it to the host on the way out, but I would actually need it with my current chip stack. Justice was already had, no need to rub it in. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I struggled to stack my chips, still very high and my arms weren’t responding correctly to what I was telling them to do as they were sore from the gym and needed nourishment. I knocked over my empty Starbucks cup and the guy next to me said, “I think you’ve had too much coffee.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I’m a writer buddy, there’s no such thing as too much coffee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I dominated quite a few hands after this, and shortly after we were at the final table.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBBP2kwC9oOsix5WPp_6cK50eOUcST0tWbmQdacgx5lIUBCJ0c2YWm5UWkwS8vhVZsq4VOLXt8Ml6QB3QNrU55ABg_NI-eFxx89m6G-Lho_NE3qG8ph6Rhh4hN_h93wi-TpXOqQTsnxyM/s1600/031.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBBP2kwC9oOsix5WPp_6cK50eOUcST0tWbmQdacgx5lIUBCJ0c2YWm5UWkwS8vhVZsq4VOLXt8Ml6QB3QNrU55ABg_NI-eFxx89m6G-Lho_NE3qG8ph6Rhh4hN_h93wi-TpXOqQTsnxyM/s320/031.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670158861431281826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></p><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><i>The red ones are 1,000 and the purple 500. Chip stack: Aprox 55-60k.</i></div> <p class="MsoNormal"> That was my stack upon entering the final table. We hit another break and I spent the whole time text messaging my friends that I might actually place in the money. I was no longer high at this point. I got a bottle of water, put in my headphones and decided to get serious. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> I played the final table aggressively. The top five people got paid, so I knew that a lot of buttholes would be tightening up with people just trying to survive. By the time there were five of us left, I had three times as many chips as the guy behind me. I cruised the rest of the way, even getting pocket Aces for the first time in the whole tournament and wrecking my nearest competitor. By the time there were two of us left, I had about fifteen times as many chips as the other guy and it was only a matter of time. He seemed so worn down and helpless after five hours of playing that he didn’t even attempt to win. He would be content with his seven hundred dollar second place. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> When I knocked him out I immediately took a picture of my chip stack, because I don’t adhere to the phrase “act like you’ve been there before” that coaches preach. I had never won a thousand dollars before. I tipped the dealer fifty bucks(like a boss), bought my girlfriend some flowers, and called it a day. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiZweEyieWB_3vSHy6xioXByhHo9B56xBdO5NIwm3qHP_9_R9XhsCql-CDN3LZU3FPF62HoyQoYxWPQDUvhnN8CZmbfYjuLH4MTzQdegHI5zWJMJTeNfNFnAuFaEywd0etOEl9koTKXEw/s1600/032.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiZweEyieWB_3vSHy6xioXByhHo9B56xBdO5NIwm3qHP_9_R9XhsCql-CDN3LZU3FPF62HoyQoYxWPQDUvhnN8CZmbfYjuLH4MTzQdegHI5zWJMJTeNfNFnAuFaEywd0etOEl9koTKXEw/s320/032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670159228710722530" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></p><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><i>The brown ones are 5,000 and the reds are still 1000. Chip stack: approximately all dem bitches. Todos. 100%. </i></div> <p class="MsoNormal"> Needless to say I learned some things. I learned that pot cookies get you very high, but not interplanetarily high like I had expected. I learned that sometimes you make the completely wrong move and get rewarded for it anyways, because that’s how life, like poker, works sometimes. And now I have nine hundred extra dollars to misuse somehow, because poor people still spend money like poor people even when they have more of it. </p>JeffPrevailshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09443551915658240085noreply@blogger.com0