inherently different

By nature I am a gambler. In fact, at one point one might say my gambling was an issue with me… not a problem, because problem denotes negative experiences. I never lost money I didn’t have. I would fluctuate from being ahead by $50k to being absolutely broke-ass. I never borrowed money, nor did I ever float a balance and accrue a vig.

In high school, I hated math. Not because I wasn’t good at it, but because it didn’t interest me. Unless of course it related odds making, I couldn’t exert the energy to give a rats ass about how two trains traveling in different directions at different speeds mattered. Now if those two trains were racing, and you could bet on it, I could figure it out in a heart beat. While some people may question my musical taste as it relates to punk rock, I seriously doubt anyone could go toe to toe with me over the course of a football season betting the line. I am able, after the first three weeks of the NFL season, to predict scores to within 3 points, over or under, of every game being played on a given Sunday. No lie.

Back in 1998, I made an extra $5k to $10k a week betting on football and an additional $10k to $20k a week betting on baseball. I was on a huge run… almost a 89% win rate and I knew the end was near. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach like a dog knows an earthquake is coming. I went to the horse track (a relatively new gambling challenge for me) and laid out 9 different bets, all long shots, each for over $5k. I lost them all. I would like to say I knew what I was doing, but the truth is I was getting out of hand. I needed to remember what it was to lose big and doing something stupid brought it all back to me. One bright morning not long after my horse racing experience, I woke up early, visited my bookie, collected what I had coming, and quit betting on sports for the most part. I never again bet on baseball and only rarely bet on football.

Notice I didn’t say I quit gambling. Hell, I gamble everyday just by swimming in the ocean. Of course, most people don’t realize how the odds are in their favor every fucking day of their lives. For instance, the odds…

of being murdered: 18,000 to 1 of being struck by lightning: 576,000 to 1 of being killed by lightning: 2,320,000 to 1 of being killed in a shark attack: 300,000,000 to 1

Now, you don’t have to understand math to know that taking chances is part of life. I realized early that every day is a gamble. You can’t possibly know the outcome, but you can be reasonably assured that whatever happens, will most likely not result in death. Even if you take extreme chances, the odds are still in your favor.

So… run with scissors… eat before swimming… have unprotected sex with Nigerian intravenous drug using hookers… don’t worry… the odds are you will live to tell me about it.

NOTE: Odds are generally stated in the form of a ratio. For example, 3 to 1 indicates the odds against a particular outcome. The first number (3) represents the chance of failure in relation to the total number of chances (4); the second number (1) represents the chance of success against that same total.

Chance is represented differently. Using the same numbers as above, the chance of something occurring would be described as 1 in 4.

“Yes . . . F—ING Yes!!! I LOVE MY JOB, it takes everything reckless and deviant and heathenistic (sic) and just overall bad about me and hyper focuses these traits into my job of running around this horrid place doing nasty things to people that deserve it . . . and some that don’t.”

- Deryk Schlessinger

Ahhh… our fighting forces. They are trained to kill on command, live in a constant state of anxiety, and have their hands tied by cumbersome rules of engagement. Of course, once they begin to show signs of actually enjoying their job, there just maybe something wrong with them. Clearly, Dr. Laura, syndicated talk-radio personality, would agree that some of the feelings expressed and images hosted on her 21-year old son’s website border on behavior more commonly seen from a sociopath.

Who knows if any of this is true but if if is, wow. Looks like Dr. Laura has done a good job of instilling in her god-fearing boy a very strong sense of morality, religion, and a level of intolerance unseen since white men owned slaves. I hope it isn’t true to be honest… It would make it just way too easy to harp on Dr. Laura in the future.

[xspf]_start(FALSE, ‘order=12′)[/xspf]

Life is rarely ever what it promises to be. As a child, outside of the incessant worrying about this shadow or that noise, the prevailing thought on a new mind is that the world is big. So big that it can’t all be taken in at once. Every turn of the head, every focus of the eyes brings to light a new object requiring attention and definition. Little minds see this vast expanse of possibility and think, “Holy shit, I’m in trouble now!”

At least that was my first thought upon registering life after the womb. Here, for the first time, I had responsibility. I was now in control of my own destiny, well as far as that destiny involved eating and defecating. Granted all I needed to do was speak the universally understood language of screaming for my bidding to be done, but because I needed to do something (cry) for something else to happen (accessing food), theoretically I had responsibility for myself. This would unfortunately set a precedent that would have lasting impact on my life.

Responsibility is and has always been, overrated. It is a tried and true fact that the more responsible you are the more likely people are to trust you when the chips are down. Of course, in my experience, that sad fact only yields a growing pile of other people’s chips at your feet.

I have always been the responsible one… the one friends and family look to when things go wrong. No matter if the problem is trivial or significant, the line for my insight is often always busy. I am and have always been, an emotional tampon. People spew their problems and I soak them up. While I almost always offer advice that will solve their problem, I don’t think anyone has ever actually taken my advice. I realize this isn’t a slight against me, but instead, an indication of what people are really like. People do not want answers, they only want to be heard. They want someone to listen and pat them on the back and say gently, “It will all be ok!” Of course, I never say that. Mostly because that is a lie, and I never lie.

People are sheep and they tend to want to bleat just so the other sheep know they are still kicking. I have discovered something, which I will now share with you… when you hold a conversation with someone,  few people are actually listening… they are just waiting to talk. I have had my fair share of arguments with people… heck, you can check my comments and find 3 or 4 dozen comment flame wars I have held with people… but I always listen to their position. I do this not because I actually care what they think, but because people will usually hang themselves if you give them enough rope… to find those little verbal or written nooses, you have to listen. What better way to turn people’s words against them than to actually listen/read what they have to say.

I know people will say that I am just an asshole. I don’t mind people labeling me. All that means is that I can more easily manipulate them later because they have underestimated me.

[xspf]_start(FALSE, ‘order=4′)[/xspf]

Ok, now that I have that out of my system, onward and upward. Living in Hawaii has taken a toll on me. I once read an article about living in warm climates and how you should move before you get acclimated because it makes you soft. I thought it was hooey. But, it does. Yesterday, I went swimming and the water was a bone chilling 79 degrees. I just about died of hypothermia.

When I lived in San Diego, I only wore a full wetsuit in December through February, then a Spring suit (short sleeves and coverage to the knee) from March until May. The water was about 58 degrees year round and thought little of it most of the time. When I lived in San Francisco, the water was around 48-56 degrees and I wore a wetsuit only during the darkest parts of winter. Now, after living here on Maui for four years, I am soft and I get cold when it drops below 80 degrees.

I think it is time to move to a glacier for a bit so I can toughen up a bit… get hard, so to speak. Ahem.

My mother is (was? i am not sure, I haven’t spoken to her for more than 15 years) a pathelogical liar. This is a condition that I became aware of rather early. When my father would come home and she would make up stories about how my brothers and I had misbehaved to explain the bruises on our faces and bodies.

She was/is a kleptomaniac, a bully, a manipulator, a cheater, and not a very good mother. What she lacked in patience and understanding, she made up in violence and intolerance. She once beat me with heavy work boot because I forgot to pick up my younger brother’s legos and she stepped on one with bare feet. She beat me also when my brother rode his bike into the street, when I wouldn’t share my candy with him, when I got good grades (apparently I was showing off), when i got bad grades, when I got into fights, when I didn’t answer her quickly enough or when she was feeling down and needed a pick me up.

She once cut off all my hair because I complained that the hair cut she had just given me was too short. Once, when her brother got drunk on my father’s beer, my mother beat me because I didn’t keep him entertained so he wouldn’t have to resort to drinking.

When I was thirteen, I told my mother, after she hit me yet again for a perceived slight, I warned her that I wouldn’t let her hit me again… and if she did, I would kill her while she slept. She must have believed me because she never hit me again. She left for good not too long after that. I never missed her. I still don’t.

I don’t hate her, but I have no reason or compulsion to connect with her. Some people may think their mothers treat them poorly, some of those people may be right… but I seriously doubt their mothers can compare to mine.

Happy Mother’s Day for what it is worth.