teh Mexigogue

I had intended to blog primarily about politics, economic theory, and religious commentary chok full of polemic dialectics and angry diatribes, but I found that it’s more fun to blog about pool. So dammit, here we go.

My mortal enemy Dave Marion took a 3-1 lead in the chicken wars the other day (I didn’t blog about that. When I lose I blog about international affairs or something). Last night was not his night at all. He couldn’t win a damn thing. The way things were going I woulda had $50 he couldn’t have won a Dave Marion lookalike contest. I know the feeling of an off night so I kind of felt bad for him, but looking at him sit there looking mad as hell made me crack up. The pool gods must be Mexican because he had me on our first game but he scratched on the 8.

I don’t remember a next game but Dave seems to think it’s 3-3. If we didn’t play a next game then he’s up 3-2. I’ll leave it up to his memory (mine is pitcher of beer fuzzy) because I trust to our integrity. The chicken war race to 100 is beyond cheating. This is death and life, not to mention I’m certain that the loser will move out of the contiguous United States from humiliation. I’m checking out the cost of living in the Phillipines just in case.

At some point I’m going to add a link to Ramiro Sanchez can’t play pool and make up all kinds of ridiculous and untrue stories for him to find when he googles himself (and you know he will, as all pool players are egomaniacs, it comes with the territory.) Dave told me not to make the page but that’s like daring me not to run into the tunnel to see if I can get to the other side before a train comes. You know I gotta do it. Anyway let me go, the kids want to use the computer. Chicken wars WILL be continued!

I’m not opposed to materialism. I’ve just never been one for wanting to have all kinds of stuff (nice car, fly gear, etc.) Therefore I’ve never had a 20 year financial plan, a five year plan, or even a one month plan. As long as I had enough money to do the things I wanted to do I’ve generally been all right, but now that it’s coming back to bite me I actually have to make some moves to get some stuff accomplished. How annoying.

Chicks generally don’t dig dudes who take their paycheck, divide it by the 14 days until next payday, and say “Here is how much money I can spend at the bar.” They’re funny like that. So I’ve tried not to have to deal with them for a while, not chasing women, just doing my own thing. I’ve been repressing for some time but that’s starting not to work anymore. If you try to buck your instincts, they have a way of making their way back to the surface. Suddenly that chick in the wheelchair at the end of the bar starts to look pretty damn good. A doctor’s assistant grabs your arm to put the blood pressure cuff on and the touch is electric. You wanna know what’s really fucked up? You dream you’re making love to a midget, you wake up, and one of your kids is in bed with you. That can be bad news.

Last night I was feeding the mind and not the body (shooting pool but not drinking beer.) I was getting all edgy but I was going to prove to myself that my will can overcome my desires so I kept declining to order beer. After a while though the karaoke girl was leaving and she offered me the rest of her beer which I was glad to accept because I’m secretly in love with her (ha! that’s the good thing about the net, I can say what I want. The only people who know about this blog are the INTJ lists, my homie Phelps in Texas, the blog pages, my pool buddies Dave and Ken, and the karaoke girl. . . . . oops). Anway once I had some beer then I was balancing body and mind (albeit with a wobble).

Life requires a balance and you gotta feed both parts of the dichotomy. You can’t ignore the body and live only in the mind because before you know it you’re shaken out of your philosophical reverie because you’re half starved and freezing to death. You can’t focus only on your physical desires because then you’re not much different from a farm animal. It’s like Mr. Miogi told the karate kid once, “Kiss my wrinkled yellow ass Daniel-san. Kiss my wrinkled yellow ass!”

I’m losing my point. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I don’t think I had a point. Work is stupid. I can’t wait til 9 o’clock.

The MexiMuslim is undergoing a metamorphasis. Beer drinking mode is set to ‘off’. Cue stick attatchment will not be enabled. Exercising and reading of computer manuals and literature classics is set to full steam ahead. Negativity vanishing, replaced with Truth, Justice, and the Pursuit of. . . . of. . .. .. damn. Here’s where it gets tough. I need a mission. . . a long term goal.

Maybe to get a pet monkey. That seems relatively attainable. And it’s a lifelong dream. No, that’s not noble enough.

I don’t mean noble in the sense of ‘the greater good’. I mean something befitting the real me. i, oh wait. . the phone.

OH shit, that’s Ken. I have to go shoot pool and drink beer. I’ll check back in tomorrow.

The Bucket’a Chicken Wars have begun! Last night, unbeknownst to the rest of the free world, but beknownst to those of us at Leroy’s, my sworn enemy Dave Marion and I began a marathon race to 100 game pool contest for the highest of stakes: a bucket of Popeye’s Chicken (Dave, if you’re reading this, I like my chicken spicy). It is a grudge match to end all grudge matches. The winner will go down in Lansing pool history, while the loser will live the rest of his life in ignominy (no, that’s not a small town, it’s a word, look it up.)

The series started with a packed to capacity crowd anxiously awaiting the break. It was so quiet you could have heard a drunk woman’s beak hit the table. The action was intense from the first break ’til the last 8 ball went down. The masses were not let down, streaming out of the bar in wonderment and awe last night as the series stood tied 1-1.

The pressure is definitely on. After the first night’s play, Dave had this to say:

“I knew I shouldn’t have took this bet. If I was ahead like 97 games to zero I would begin to think I had a chance. Now that it’s 1-1 I can cancel Christmas.”

Other quotes are as follows:

“Goddammit I tried to talk him out of it.”
- Rever

“I don’t know what Dave was thinking. Mike can miscue better than most people can shoot.”
- Ken

“I barely even come into Leroy’s anymore. Sometimes I wait in the parking lot and pay somebody to stroll through there to make sure Mike’s not there cuz I’m too a’scared to play him.”
-Lex

“Fuck you! Bank the 8!”
- Gaylord

“Look at me, I’m Mike Ryan.”
- Mike Ryan

These ominous statements aside, it is certain that every game will bring more blood, shrapnel, and smoke than. . . . than something with a lot of blood, shrapnel, and smoke in it. We’ll be fighting over this bucket’a chicken like Michael Jackson and a Catholic Priest fighting over. . . . . . never mind, that was gonna be bad. To be continued. . .

Michael Bernard Davis Leroy’s team 12 Quincy Briggs Aaron Wilson

I have a question. Why is it that whenever some corporation or multi zillionaire individual decides to invest in some megabucks business venture, you’ve always got some clown on the sidelines saying ‘oh with that kind of money you could have set up a soup kitchen to feed the homeless!’ ?

Two issues actually. I’m not big into acts of altruism myself (there is no selfless motive) but as long as you’re talking about helping the homeless, wouldn’t the logical thing be to house the homeless? Why do people presume that homeless people have no food? Go observe them sometime. This nation’s homeless population probably packs more pounds per capita than any other demographic I know of except maybe white women who exclusively date unemployed black men. Missing meals doesn’t seem to be an issue, especially since they’re not spending 30% of their income (or whatever the percentage is) that most people spend on their rent or mortgage payment.

Two, you can feed people for a season but what happens when the money’s gone? These people are back at square one except maybe now a little bit worse because they’ve become accustomed to being tossed some bread so now they’re gathered expectantly with the idea that it will happen again. Now they feel entitiled. This sounds like a recipe for class warfare.

Why not instead skip altruism, build that ballpark or swanky hotel which will require construction workers to be paid, hotel staff to employ, food to be brought in, and it will ultimately bring paying customers into the area, business to flow, and money to keep changing hands. This brings dollars into the area, not for a season, but until it ceases to be profitable which might be dozens of years. It’s more efficient than altruism, you get to satisfy your own motives (make money), and who knows, maybe even some of those homeless people will get jobs out of the deal.

Supporting children? That sounds like a good thing, doesn’t it? That’s one way of putting it. Or you could call it “Government sponsored stealing to encourage divorce and reward people who break up families by giving them money they didn’t earn in order to subsidize single parenthood because apparantly there aren’t enough children who are being raised in fucked up single parent homes.” I think they would have called it that but “child support” has a nicer ring to it. Or “slice open the daddy so everyone else can feast off his entrails for a season: a study in short term solutions.” No, that’s too long too.

Given that child support formulas punish people who earn more and reward people for earning less, maybe we can just call it “socialism.” I like the term “stealing” but I don’t think many of these pigs feasting at the trough of somebody else’s work product are going to go for that. How is my mood today? I don’t know and don’t care. I used to feel motivated to do a good job in hopes for a raise. Now I’ve got a soviet-like kind of resignation about it. The State of Michigan just hiked up the cigarette tax yet again. Maybe I’ll become a cigarette smuggler.

Evil Leroy’s team has been vanquished. Good Leroy’s team (my team) prevailed 3 rounds to 1 settling once and for all who is the better team. That is unless we play them on position night in which case it will be settled once and for all again. My team’s female player wore the “Nice Rack” t-shirt. Indeed it is a nice rack. Life is good.

After the match, the opposing team captain, Tom Symonds, had this to say:

“But. . .”

Every thing after that was pretty much irrelevent. I showed my sportsmanship by putting money in the jukebox, playing “We Are the Champions” by Queen.

Huh huh! I said “Queen”.

It is grudge match day as my pool team, Leroy’s team 12 plays againt the evil Leroy’s team for our only scheduled match against each other this season. A lot is at stake, not only because our teams are right next to each other in the league standings but also bragging rights and my own personal vendetta being that the Evil Leroy’s team stole two players who had originally committed to my team before the season started. This is a day long awaited.

This will be a match for the ages, especially for me since I’ll be playing the other team’s pool captain. If we are victorious, details will follow tomorrow. If we lose I’ll write a post about something else completely. Right now, adreneline is pumping (and it’s only 10:30 a.m.)

Lansing Michigan must be the Mixed People Capitol of the World. I’ve spent the past week hanging out with this biracial girl (black and white). The other night we were hanging out and ran into my half brother’s half sister Marissa (black and Mexican). Then things started going kind of wrong so I was commiserating with my friend Damion (black and white). The biracial girl didn’t go to the bar last night but I did see her ex boyfriend Steve from high school (black and white.) Today I’ve been just maxing out at home with my biracial kids (black and Mexican.) Oh plus I’m upset because I lost a $100 bet in pool. The guy who won was a black guy. So that was different.
(They guy who he beat was mixed, black and white.)

This lesbian couple was just married Thursday in San Fransisco, the first time that gay couples were ever issued marriage licenses. This marriage is just wrong. They’re too old to be married.