Six Degrees vol. 1

Here's to trying something, to see if more than Keith and Lyndsey read this. Each day I'm going to put up a new pairing for the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game, and you must post a response with the shortest amount of connections. (If you're not familiar with this game, it goes like this: say John Travolta and John Ritter. Travolta was in Primary Colors w/ Billy Bob Thornton, who was in Bad Santa w/ Ritter)

I'll keep a running tally, and whoever wins the most at the end of whenever will receive a mighty prize. Alright, here goes. Link these two:


Connie Nielsen and Wanda Sykes.

AND NO INTERNET CHEATING!

The Lady or the Tiger

Per an unusual phone call today I have been put to the Choice. Now is not the time for elaboration, but I will divulge more on this in the very near future, all. For now, I must weigh my options and wait.

Online poker is once again a part of my life. Played for five hours straight yesterday evening, and walked away up a hefty $35. Sounds pathetic, but I could have been slapping patties at McDonalds to the same result. As long as I stay on those .10-.25 sit and go tables, I think I can be alright. No cowboy runs this time... I'm straight grinding it. As I watched Return of the Jedi last night for the 17th time, I think I played maybe six hands in an hour, and oh, the $15 swing my way when some guy tried to muscle me into folding me full house aces full, it was glorious. I brought him to ruin and the ridicule of my faceless table mates, and he promptly cashed out in exile. Poker is the game of the gods.

At least it will give me something to do in the evenings. Since I am no sans-girlfriend and have very few acquaintances in the central Ohio area, mostly I've been counting the hours in the evening before I have to go back to work. What a horrid way to go through existence. It's either re-watch one of my 600 plus movies, or get drunk, or some gruesome combination of the two. Poker, my friends, poker. My life can go back into blissful stasis.

And I've even ferreted out a live game for tomorrow night! Oo rah, I'm gonna go fleece the boys from our sports department, and if you've ever read any HST, that sort of lot is a prime target for gambling barracudas like myself. Sitting around a smoky basement with a group of semi-strangers, listening to them poke fun at Kobe Bryant and reciting ERA's while I quietly raise from the big blind... bliss.

Life my still hold some meaning. Huzzah!

Less Money, More Problems

I am now officially close to financial ruin. Just got a call from my car insurance people, saying my coverage has been cancelled because they didn't get their payment, which I don't have the money for now anyway. What the hell! I am a poor man on a reporter's salary, these people can take their collection notices and redecorate their bathrooms with them. Whoever it was that said 'Pimpin ain't easy' wasn't joking around.

The karaoke showdown was a bust this weekend. Word on the street is that due to a freak wisdom tooth surgery, the karaoke host was unable to perform her duties, leaving myself and my entourage alone in the cold. No songs were sung, and departing news hound Jack was forced to ride off into the sunset without a serenade. Dark feelings of anger and frustration were the norm of the evening.

And now I go to prepare for an all-night marathon of deadline writing, my typical Monday-night-Tuesday-morning. Do I have money to put gas in my truck? I'm not sure, but dammit if I'm not going to try. I have a small arsenal in my closet, perhaps I could put it to good use and roll some homeless people downtown for loose change. What this boy needs is a sugar mama, people. Anyone know of any good-looking female doctors/attorneys/movie stars/politicians that are in need of some love?

I'm firing on one cylinder. It may be time to hit up the plasma center, and once again open my veins in the name of staying financially afloat in an economy saturated by greedheads and Bush-regime fatcats. I'm trying to sound like HST. I'll stop that now.

Any other ideas for a feasible source of income? Mark, is your pizza route open? Cross your fingers, kids.

Turnover from the Bottom of the Totem Pole

So we're getting ready to send off yet another one of our mercurial reporters in a couple hours. Jack is leaving us for the greener pastures of Cincinnati, far from the flatlands of the central Ohio news front. As I said yesterday, may the wind always be at yer back, Jack.

I haven't been here long, but there's been a lot of faces coming and going in the past few months. Three cheers for me, I don't feel like the new guy anymore! Though new-guy-mentality worked well for me, I had more incentive to do a better job. Now I'm feeling a little more anemic about the whole information gathering process. The stories will come, I suppose.

I have been formally challenged to a karaoke showdown. Being the newcomer, I have boasted of my talents, and office heavyweight Garth has taken notice, and seeks to reassert his dominance. The grounds have been chosen and terms agreed upon, so tonight I go to seek my fortune and glory as the reigning barroom hero of my news room. A quote comes to mind: "It's a funny thing, being taken under the wing of a dragon ... It's warmer than you'd think."

I will have to bust out such tried-and-true songs as Kenny Rogers' Gambler, a barrage of Neil Diamond, and of course if I'm deep enough in my cups, Metallica's 'Whiskey in the Jar.' If these don't leave Garth sufficiently reeling, I may have to drop the acapella-bomb called the Scotsman Song. I am savagely afraid I will get too drunk and do a solo version of the traditional Irish song 'Paddy's Lamentation,' which I once did on stage in a bar for my friend's birthday present, only to be met by a silent, sullen crowd with violence in their eyes. I haven't returned to Casa Cantina since.

Wish me luck, that I might dethrown the king of Journey.

Peruvian Coke Mules, and the Women Who Love Them

I don't know about that, it just sounded like a good eye-catcher. Recently a coworker of Teter and mine picked up stakes and moved off to Peru. Just on a whim. If you asked him the week before he left, he would have told you he had no job there, no place to stay, and only spoke middling Spanish.

I think it's very important to know how to ask questions in different languages. Particularly "Where's the bathroom?" If you think about it, this could be the most important bit of information you would ever need. So far I can ask it in three languages: English, French (Oue la salle de bain?) and the international-potty-dance language. The last one pretty much covers all creeds and cultures, albeit with less pinache.

Kind of like the book I just read, Chuck Palahniuk's 'Choke.' If you haven't heard of the guy before, just think of a shirtless Brad Pitt saying "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fight Club." Anyway, this guy makes himself choke in restaurants on purpose so people can save him, and then send him money in the mail to help him out. He had an international-potty-dance too, just his meant he was going to choke to death.

I hope my former coworker has some sort of international-potty-dance, whatever his may be. Like "Hey look at me, I'm a Peruvian coke mule!" That, I think, would consist of him waving his arms wildly above his head, like the marionette Gary from 'Team America: World Police' when he is supposed to give 'the signal.' I hope this would net him some special treatment down there in the land of the South Americans, and not just funny looks from the locals, muttering about the loco gringo.

Good luck down there Mark. Let us know if the water truly does swirl differently south of the equator, a scientific fact I've started to lose faith in. May the wind always be at your back and the sun always shine on your face, and may you be in Heaven three days before the Devil knows you're dead.

Welcome to the Dessert of the Real

Why does it snow sideways in central Ohio? You'd think that with the standard effect of gravity on all things big and small, standing under an awning to smoke my smoke would protect me from the ice crystals. In a vacuum tube a feather and a bowling ball will fall at the same rate. But they fall down.

Yesterday was supposedly the most depressing day of the year, according to some article I read on the Internet while trying to pretend I was working. I don't think it snowed yesterday.

Oh well. The day is young, I'm calling it quits very early today since I have night meetings the whole week, and the entire day is ahead of me. What should I do with the time? Knit an afghan? Learn fencing? Stow away on a train so I can see what the train-graffiti people really look like?

I had to wait on a train on the way to work today. Written on the side of one of the passing cars was the message "Fuck George Shaw!". Who the hell is George Shaw? And why does someone hate him enough to publicly curse him on the side of a military transport train? It makes me wonder where he lives, and if he has any idea that people in Plain City are thinking about him.

It also makes me wonder if there's any graffiti out there publicly accusing me of some lewd or savage act. How would I know? Maybe there's a semi truck somewhere in New Mexico saying I like to make love to animals. And I would never know.

Off in search of personally-libelous graffiti.

Good Lord I've Gone Metro

Well, Teter talked me into it, and now I've joined the freshly-washed masses of Starbucks-drinking, New Yorker-reading, American Idol-watching bloggites. I have no idea what sort of things I'm going to subject you people to, but it's safe to assume that an erratic sleep schedule mixed with too much caffeine, way too much nicotine and the occasional pop song stuck in my head will make for some hard-pounding, insightful blathering.

I'm not going to do the whole 'my name is Earl and I'm an alcoholic' introduction which is pretty much expected from a debut bloggite. Instead I guess you'll have to figure out who I am and what I do from some careful googling, perhaps some dousing or even playing a Willie Nelson album backwards. I wish you luck and godspeed.

At the moment deadlines are six hours behind me, the awake marathon is stretching into the 30-hour frame, and I'm still boycotting my bed as some random Internet crawlers did the nasty in it this weekend sans my permission. The 12-gauge in my closet has been freshly oiled and sighted in, and it just might be time to go snipe huntin'.

Hopefully I won't lose interest in this after three days like I do with most everything else, but now it's off for a beer and a few quotes from my favorite collection of PR flacks this side of the Ohio River. To channel the spirit of the Dude, Man, I've had a long night, and I hate the fucking Eagles.