Friends, I have a confession to make.
I get my hair cut at the Beauty Boutique.
This, from what I understand via clever marketing and advertising campaigns, is the LAST place for a REAL MAN to get his hair cut.
My experience at the Beauty Boutique is as follows: I walk in, Christine cuts my hair, I leave. However, it appears I am missing out on some vital components of a proper manly haircut.
The other day I ate at the Schlotzky's in Moore, which is located next to a SportClips. On the window of the SportClips was painted, "Home of the LEGENDARY steam towel."
I don't get a steam towel at Beauty Boutique, but I imagine that if I did, it would be only an ordinary steam towel, as opposed to the LEGENDARY steam towel offered at SportClips. Surely it's not just a regular towel with some warm water on it.
But a steam towel is small potatoes compared with what ManXscape offers. I drove by a billboard for them the other day, and it read, "Home of the Haircut and free beer."
Is this a bar that offers free haircuts or a barber shop that offers a free bar? Either way, it sounds like the best place in the world. I know that when I go to a bar to drink, I am consumed by the thought that my experience would be better if there were a strong smell of formaldehyde and hair product. And it would be even better if there were a 97 percent chance some freshly clipped hair would find its way into my beer.
And surely nothing could ever go wrong if I'm drinking a beer while my hair is getting cut. No way I could tip my bottle back for that last swig of hairy Natural Light and end up with my own blood all over my face.
I sure hope I can hang out and have another brewski while my headski is getting stitchedski. I mean, who likes to drink ONE beer? The ad makes it sound like I only get one free beer with my haircut, but surely I can belly up to the L'Oreal counter and have a few more while I ponder what to do with the newly-created bald spot in the middle of my head. Maybe, over shots of Jeagermeister and Axe Messy Look Paste, the hairtender and I will have a good laugh about how everyone will be having a good laugh looking at my head the rest of my life.
I'm sorry if I sound cynical. I haven't always had the best luck with haircuts.
Lawton was a dreamland for a decent, cheap haircut. Because of Fort Sill, there was a massive supply of guys who needed regular haircuts. Thus, there were about 10,000 barber shops in Lawton, and the ones near the Army post would only charge $5. You weren't going to get a fancy cut, but I didn't need a fancy cut. I like to be in and out in 15 minutes with minimal damage to my wallet, so Lawton was perfect.
I was still living in Lawton when I got married to Missy, but our wedding was in Oklahoma City. When I got to the rehearsal, she said I needed to get my hair trimmed up. Nothing drastic, just a little spruce-up.
I hadn't had my hair cut in OKC in about eight years, so I wasn't really sure where to go. There was an old-school barber shop near my mom's house where I grew up, and I had gone in there occasionally.
I decided to see if it was still up and running the morning of my wedding. Sure enough, the same two old codgers were in there BSing about golf. Seemed perfect to me.
The old barber who owned the place recognized me and asked what brought me in. I told him I needed only a slight spruce-up for my wedding and he was more than happy to help. Turns out, the old man's skills and mouth filter had slipped quite a bit over the course of eight years. First, he told me that the problem with basketball was that African Americans were not smart enough to make sound decisions on the court. He pretty much said everything backwards and offensive you could ever say about African Americans without using the "N" word.
He then proceeded to screw up my hair. Somehow, I ended up with almost a full inch of bare skin above both of my ears, which is forever memorialized in our wedding pictures. You know how brides are supposed to be bubbling with excitement upon seeing their groom for the first time on their wedding day? As I ran across the room to embrace Missy, she stopped me and asked what the heck happened to my hair.
Missy and I lived in Lawton together for two years before moving back up here. When we got back, I didn't know where to get my hair cut. I just knew one place where I definitely would NOT get it cut.
There's a Super Cuts within walking distance from our house. I figured they were convenient and couldn't be that bad. I was wrong.
Somehow I got the craziest son of a gun on the earth to cut my hair there.
The guy seemed friendly enough, and we made a little small talk before he asked me if I knew anything about the town of Paradise, California. "Do you know anything about this province?" he asked.
"Nope, never heard of it."
"My brother is in jail for attempted murder there..." And we're off.
He tells this long-winded story about how his brother got framed for attempted murder because someone else used his guns to try to try to kill someone. But they didn't die, and his brother had nothing to do with it, and now he's in jail for 20+ years because of that three strikes law in California. Yes, his brother used to be a drug dealer and that's how he got the other two convictions but he doesn't do that any more. I'm offering nothing more than "Mmmm hmmm" and "Oh wow."
Our discussion is interrupted when a woman returns to the shop from her dinner break and is ready to resume cutting hair. He yells at her for leaving him alone in the shop. It was supposed to be his dinner break. Nancy had told him so, and if she thought Nancy wasn't going to hear about this, she was dead wrong. He was sick and tired of covering for her sorry behind all the time, and he wasn't going to take it any more. He informed her that he was leaving an hour before his scheduled shift ended and she had darn well better accept that fact.
Now, back to business. We resume our conversation.
Him: "Do you know the judge in Paradise, California?"
Me: "No."
Him: "You don't know his name?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Do you know anything else about this province?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Do you know how long it would take me to drive out there?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Do you know how much it would cost to take a bus out there? I can't afford to fly. This place doesn't pay anything."
Me: "No."
Him: "Well, I'm going to go out there and talk to the judge. And I'm going to bring my gun. I'm from Texas and I think he needs to know how we operate down there. You know what I mean?"
Me: "You did a really great job on this haircut. It's exactly how I wanted it to look. How much do I owe you?"
Him: "You know what? Nobody tips their barber these days. It's ridiculous. They tip those stupid carhops at Sonic for bringing them an iced tea but nobody got a dime to give their barber."
I tipped him $5 for the second-worst haircut I've ever had and got the heck out of there.
I just wore hats for a couple months after that, and when that got too annoying I went into a random hair place in Moore. One of the ladies was free and gave me a good hair cut. She wasn't crazy or racist. She did a good mohawk when I went that direction. I've stuck with Christine since then.
It was convenient when she quit her old store for a new one closer to my house. I'm not thrilled that her new place is called Beauty Boutique, but I won't be trading her in for a LEGENDARY steam towel or a free beer anytime soon.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Poker and My Faith
Disclaimer: The picture at the top is the only funny thing in this blog. And even that will probably be offensive to some people I know. The next blog will be funny, and it won't be another three months between blogs, I promise. So feel free not to read this -- it's kinda long anyway.
I got a Sports Illustrated a few weeks back that included a very interesting story about NFL players balancing their Christian faith with the violence involved in the game of football and the wealth and fame that come with playing in the NFL.
The violence part irritated me -- it made no sense at all. The author implied that you couldn't be a true Christian and deliver hard hits during the course of a game. Because Jesus said to "turn the other cheek", he would never condone the violence that takes place every Sunday between the lines.
To me, Jesus' teaching would apply immediately after the game. After losing a playoff game this season, a Washington Redskins player punched a Seattle Seahawks player in the face when the teams met at midfield. This would be a great time for the Seattle player to "turn the other cheek" and not retaliate when most of the world would call him a sissy for walking away.
During the game, the players are not doing anything to disqualify them from the kingdom of God. They are playing a rough game, but they are all well-compensated and trained men playing against other well-compensated and trained men. Nobody is on the field that doesn't choose to be on the field, and that choice alone doesn't break any scripture. There aren't 85-year-old women wheeling over the middle of the field on a crossing route, getting blindsided by a 260-pound linebacker.
There are lots of times during the course of a game when a Christian player can choose to honor God with his decisions. I'm not talking about pointing to the sky after scoring a touchdown. The words used when addressing teammates and opponents, and the sportsmanship shown on every snap make a difference.
The SI story pretty much said that in order to be a true Christian, you need to be a spineless pacifist pushover. Plus you are automatically sinning by playing on Sunday. Obviously the author hadn't read 98 percent of the Bible.
The wealth and fame aspect of the story, however, definitely got me thinking. How much easier is it for a schoolteacher who makes $35,000 per year to follow Christ than an NFL player making $15 million? It's not hard to think of the differences in lifestyle.
Even if the NFL player gives 10 or 20 percent of his income away, he's going to have a lot of money left over, and it will be easy to put those toys and possessions ahead of Christ. Plus, even if he is married, he will have women throwing themselves at him in every city. Not to mention the male fans and autograph-hounds that can make someone feel like -- hmmm -- like God himself. Also, playing any sport at the highest level is no picnic. During the season, players work six days a week, and many players watch film on that one day off. Doesn't leave a lot of time for anything else.
There's no doubt that it's hard to follow Christ as an NFL player. Jesus himself says as much: "I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." (Matthew 19:23-24)
It didn't take me long to find a bunch of parallels between the story on Christians in the NFL and Christians playing poker for a living.
Just as the author of the SI piece seemed to think you couldn't possibly be a Christian and play football for a living, many people -- including a fair number at the church I belong to -- seem to think you can't be a Christian and play poker for a living.
Just as I believe the SI writer's logic was terrible because he had no knowledge of the Bible, many Christians (especially those one or two generations older than I am) have no knowledge of poker. Or the knowledge they do have is false.
Poker is just as close to 100 percent skill as anything else in life -- chess, football, or any job at all. In any given chess match, a world class player might make a major mistake or a novice might play nearly perfectly. That's luck. In football, a blown call by a ref or a tipped pass lingering in the air might be the difference between winning and losing. A middle manager at any job at all might get a huge raise or get laid off, just because his company was bought or sold by the higher-ups. Those things are all luck, but in the long run the top chess players will win the most matches, the great football players will be recognized as such and the cream of the crop of any profession will eventually rise to the top. (Actually, doesn't it seem more likely that luck plays a bigger role in the real world than in either of my other examples?)
If poker were a game of luck, nobody could do it for a living. The casino gets its cut out of every hand, not to mention the costs of food, gas, tipping, etc. But unlike any other game at the casino (slots, blackjack, craps, et al), the players aren't competing against the house, they're playing against each other.
Of course, on any given night, one turn of the card can be the difference between winning and losing. Obviously that's luck. But over the long term, you will either win or lose at poker based on how good you are. Nothing else. Thus, there are at least a dozen people who play poker for a living who regularly show up at Riverwind Casino (where I usually play) and thousands more around the world.
After graduating from OU with a journalism degree in 2002, I spent seven great years as a sportswriter at the Lawton Constitution. Basically, I was paid to watch games, listen to bawdy humor from other sportswriters and then write about the games.
When people in the church (or my family, for that matter) would ask about my job, they always thought it was the coolest job in the world. When I started playing poker for a living, suddenly the reactions from that group of people split 50/50. Half of them still thought I had the coolest job in the world, but the other half acted like my new job was as a crack mule.
Funny thing is, my job now is almost the same as being a sportswriter. Now I play in the game instead of just watching. I listen to bawdy humor from poker players instead of sportswriters. I make more money -- though that's not saying much (sportswriters at smaller papers like the Constitution are literally at or under the poverty line.) And I don't have to write.
I spent a lot of time praying over the decision. Part of me expected God to shoot it down. But I felt more than just peace about it. I felt this was what I was supposed to do. Not for the rest of my life, but for this season, however long it may last. I felt it was an opportunity to better support my family and make a positive impact on a lot of people. Poker is an intimate game -- you get to know people pretty well after a few years of sitting at a table with them for hours on end.
There is a great opportunity to reach out and be a difference maker. But it's awfully hard. This is where I see the other big parallel between poker and the story on being a Christian in the NFL.
The temptations, at least for me, are different than the ones seen by NFL players. One of the criticisms launched by the anti-poker Christians is that poker worships money. While poker is certainly a cash economy, I have never felt it came anywhere close to being an idol for me. I enjoy giving 10% of my monthly profits to various ministries and I don't cheat on my taxes even though it's kind of stupid not to when the government can never prove exactly how much you make.
I also don't have to worry about women throwing themselves at me like NFL players do.
But although I don't face the same temptations as an NFL player, poker presents unique problems for someone trying to serve God. For starters, it's a self-absorbing endeavor. Unlike football players trying to help their team win (or sportswriters trying to help get a newspaper out), I'm playing an individual game with the goal of beating other people out of their money. I spend 10 or 12 hours constantly thinking about the best outcome for me on a given hand. I eat when I want to. I leave when I want to (most of the time). If the game is really good, I might play all night. If I feel like not playing one night, there's no boss telling me I can't. Lots of reasons why it's easy to get my priorities out of whack, and I really struggle with that.
I'll also be the first to admit that there have been many times when I have been the exact opposite of what a Christian should be at the poker table. Whether it's succumbing to peer pressure or getting irritated at the outcome of a hand, I have made poor decisions and said things I wish I hadn't said.
Obviously I wouldn't be a perfect person regardless of my profession, but I have to think there might be a few less bumps in the road had I chosen something else.
I don't really have a good conclusion for this one. I love certain things about my job, mainly the flexibility and being able to spend lots of time with my girls when most people are working. But I also constantly struggle with the thought that my life is flying by and I am not doing much to serve God or others. I know that someday I will do something else, but I don't know when that is or what it will be. I've always been interested in coaching, perhaps that will be it.
Ultimately, I suppose I just need to make the most out of every day, and be grateful for the grace God has given me.
"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus." (Romans 3:23-24).
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." (Jeremiah 29:11-13)
I got a Sports Illustrated a few weeks back that included a very interesting story about NFL players balancing their Christian faith with the violence involved in the game of football and the wealth and fame that come with playing in the NFL.
The violence part irritated me -- it made no sense at all. The author implied that you couldn't be a true Christian and deliver hard hits during the course of a game. Because Jesus said to "turn the other cheek", he would never condone the violence that takes place every Sunday between the lines.
To me, Jesus' teaching would apply immediately after the game. After losing a playoff game this season, a Washington Redskins player punched a Seattle Seahawks player in the face when the teams met at midfield. This would be a great time for the Seattle player to "turn the other cheek" and not retaliate when most of the world would call him a sissy for walking away.
During the game, the players are not doing anything to disqualify them from the kingdom of God. They are playing a rough game, but they are all well-compensated and trained men playing against other well-compensated and trained men. Nobody is on the field that doesn't choose to be on the field, and that choice alone doesn't break any scripture. There aren't 85-year-old women wheeling over the middle of the field on a crossing route, getting blindsided by a 260-pound linebacker.
There are lots of times during the course of a game when a Christian player can choose to honor God with his decisions. I'm not talking about pointing to the sky after scoring a touchdown. The words used when addressing teammates and opponents, and the sportsmanship shown on every snap make a difference.
The SI story pretty much said that in order to be a true Christian, you need to be a spineless pacifist pushover. Plus you are automatically sinning by playing on Sunday. Obviously the author hadn't read 98 percent of the Bible.
The wealth and fame aspect of the story, however, definitely got me thinking. How much easier is it for a schoolteacher who makes $35,000 per year to follow Christ than an NFL player making $15 million? It's not hard to think of the differences in lifestyle.
Even if the NFL player gives 10 or 20 percent of his income away, he's going to have a lot of money left over, and it will be easy to put those toys and possessions ahead of Christ. Plus, even if he is married, he will have women throwing themselves at him in every city. Not to mention the male fans and autograph-hounds that can make someone feel like -- hmmm -- like God himself. Also, playing any sport at the highest level is no picnic. During the season, players work six days a week, and many players watch film on that one day off. Doesn't leave a lot of time for anything else.
There's no doubt that it's hard to follow Christ as an NFL player. Jesus himself says as much: "I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." (Matthew 19:23-24)
It didn't take me long to find a bunch of parallels between the story on Christians in the NFL and Christians playing poker for a living.
Just as the author of the SI piece seemed to think you couldn't possibly be a Christian and play football for a living, many people -- including a fair number at the church I belong to -- seem to think you can't be a Christian and play poker for a living.
Just as I believe the SI writer's logic was terrible because he had no knowledge of the Bible, many Christians (especially those one or two generations older than I am) have no knowledge of poker. Or the knowledge they do have is false.
Poker is just as close to 100 percent skill as anything else in life -- chess, football, or any job at all. In any given chess match, a world class player might make a major mistake or a novice might play nearly perfectly. That's luck. In football, a blown call by a ref or a tipped pass lingering in the air might be the difference between winning and losing. A middle manager at any job at all might get a huge raise or get laid off, just because his company was bought or sold by the higher-ups. Those things are all luck, but in the long run the top chess players will win the most matches, the great football players will be recognized as such and the cream of the crop of any profession will eventually rise to the top. (Actually, doesn't it seem more likely that luck plays a bigger role in the real world than in either of my other examples?)
If poker were a game of luck, nobody could do it for a living. The casino gets its cut out of every hand, not to mention the costs of food, gas, tipping, etc. But unlike any other game at the casino (slots, blackjack, craps, et al), the players aren't competing against the house, they're playing against each other.
Of course, on any given night, one turn of the card can be the difference between winning and losing. Obviously that's luck. But over the long term, you will either win or lose at poker based on how good you are. Nothing else. Thus, there are at least a dozen people who play poker for a living who regularly show up at Riverwind Casino (where I usually play) and thousands more around the world.
After graduating from OU with a journalism degree in 2002, I spent seven great years as a sportswriter at the Lawton Constitution. Basically, I was paid to watch games, listen to bawdy humor from other sportswriters and then write about the games.
When people in the church (or my family, for that matter) would ask about my job, they always thought it was the coolest job in the world. When I started playing poker for a living, suddenly the reactions from that group of people split 50/50. Half of them still thought I had the coolest job in the world, but the other half acted like my new job was as a crack mule.
Funny thing is, my job now is almost the same as being a sportswriter. Now I play in the game instead of just watching. I listen to bawdy humor from poker players instead of sportswriters. I make more money -- though that's not saying much (sportswriters at smaller papers like the Constitution are literally at or under the poverty line.) And I don't have to write.
I spent a lot of time praying over the decision. Part of me expected God to shoot it down. But I felt more than just peace about it. I felt this was what I was supposed to do. Not for the rest of my life, but for this season, however long it may last. I felt it was an opportunity to better support my family and make a positive impact on a lot of people. Poker is an intimate game -- you get to know people pretty well after a few years of sitting at a table with them for hours on end.
There is a great opportunity to reach out and be a difference maker. But it's awfully hard. This is where I see the other big parallel between poker and the story on being a Christian in the NFL.
The temptations, at least for me, are different than the ones seen by NFL players. One of the criticisms launched by the anti-poker Christians is that poker worships money. While poker is certainly a cash economy, I have never felt it came anywhere close to being an idol for me. I enjoy giving 10% of my monthly profits to various ministries and I don't cheat on my taxes even though it's kind of stupid not to when the government can never prove exactly how much you make.
I also don't have to worry about women throwing themselves at me like NFL players do.
But although I don't face the same temptations as an NFL player, poker presents unique problems for someone trying to serve God. For starters, it's a self-absorbing endeavor. Unlike football players trying to help their team win (or sportswriters trying to help get a newspaper out), I'm playing an individual game with the goal of beating other people out of their money. I spend 10 or 12 hours constantly thinking about the best outcome for me on a given hand. I eat when I want to. I leave when I want to (most of the time). If the game is really good, I might play all night. If I feel like not playing one night, there's no boss telling me I can't. Lots of reasons why it's easy to get my priorities out of whack, and I really struggle with that.
I'll also be the first to admit that there have been many times when I have been the exact opposite of what a Christian should be at the poker table. Whether it's succumbing to peer pressure or getting irritated at the outcome of a hand, I have made poor decisions and said things I wish I hadn't said.
Obviously I wouldn't be a perfect person regardless of my profession, but I have to think there might be a few less bumps in the road had I chosen something else.
I don't really have a good conclusion for this one. I love certain things about my job, mainly the flexibility and being able to spend lots of time with my girls when most people are working. But I also constantly struggle with the thought that my life is flying by and I am not doing much to serve God or others. I know that someday I will do something else, but I don't know when that is or what it will be. I've always been interested in coaching, perhaps that will be it.
Ultimately, I suppose I just need to make the most out of every day, and be grateful for the grace God has given me.
"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus." (Romans 3:23-24).
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." (Jeremiah 29:11-13)
Sunday, December 2, 2012
A Double Shot of Captain
Recap of last 24 hours of my life:
Dec. 1, 12:30 a.m. -- Dust off remaining shreds of my chip stack and dignity.
12:31 a.m. -- Get made fun of like I'm the kid in elementary wearing Jordache jeans and velcro shoes.
1 a.m. -- Order Triple Whataburger value meal, replacing the Coke with a chocolate shake and getting an apple pie on the side. Oh, what the heck, go ahead and give me the large Coke too.
2 a.m. -- Re-organize garage, hang Christmas lights for every house on the block. Might as well write a blog since I'm up.
3 a.m. -- Got tired all of a sudden. Two options: Eat another two pounds of sugar or go to bed. Half a blog is good enough, I'll do the other halffffffzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
11 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. I get to drive to Weatherford to cover an 8-man football game so I can earn 1/30th of what I lost at the casino the night before.
1 p.m. -- Arrive in Weatherford to find the entire press box is taken up by a five-person radio broadcast team from the panhandle. There are five people here to cover a team whose entire roster is literally 14 players. Luckily there's a broken seat in the corner for me, so long as I don't mind listening to three analysts doing what one bad analyst should be doing.
3 p.m. -- The game is delayed because a player got tackled on the sideline, rolled onto the first down stick, and the stick is permanently bent and won't stand up straight. Seriously, that happened. It took 3 guys to lean on it and bend it back.
4 p.m. -- Tipton wins the Class C state championship. I use my field pass to photobomb as many state championship pictures as possible. In 50 years, I want people to say, "Who's that guy next to Bobby Joe with his index finger raised? Betty, you remember this guy?"
5 p.m. -- Write my story and attempt to leave. Luckily, they locked the stadium up. Walk 100 yards to other end of field, hunt down Southwestern Oklahoma State University athletic director, make him walk 100 yards back across field to gate...which has since been re-opened.
5:15 p.m. -- Reward myself for walking 200 yards by getting a 44 oz cherry vanilla Coke at Sonic on way out of town.
5:16 p.m. -- Slam fist into forehead after realizing I just spent 2.56% of my paycheck for the game on a Coke.
11 p.m. -- Might as well go ahead and finish that blog.
I want to introduce you to a guy named Captain. I haven't seen Captain in about two years but I'm going to assume he hasn't changed much. (If any of my poker friends have seen him recently and can offer an update, go for it.)
Captain is an African-American in his early 50s. He exclusively wears Fubu velvet sweatshirts with matching sweatpants. His favorite colors are -- in order -- gold, white, and black. Kangol hats. Sunglasses with no tint. A fair amount of bling. Salt and pepper goattee, always freshly trimmed. He's about 5-foot-8, roughly 275 pounds. Enough muscle to keep you from going nose-to-nose with him but enough fat to know you can win a race to the door if you have to.
And don't worry, he'll give you plenty of chances to fight him. He says lots of inappropriate and offensive things, and he talks a good fight. But mainly he just likes to drink and gamble.
I don't know Captain's real name. He always signed up for the poker games as Captain, and he liked to drink 7 or 8 Captains while he was playing, so it seemed like a good name.
You want to play poker with Captain. The later into the evening the better. And if you write a blog, he is an absolute GOLDMINE.
I have played a lot of poker with Captain. It seemed like he would magically appear wherever I happened to be playing, which was great. He had some ties to Lawton and played there frequently when I lived there, but he also played at Riverwind and Newcastle a lot. If I saw him at one of those places, I didn't leave until he did.
These are my two favorite Captain stories.
Captain's poker winrate hovered right around 5 percent. But when he won, he won BIG. One night at Riverwind (in the old poker room, not the new one), Captain was winning every hand. He was ordering double shots every time he busted someone, which was quite frequently.
As Captain drank more and more, he was being more and more inappropriate with the waitresses, and his distraction with the waitresses was slowing the game to a halt and driving off the players. But I wasn't about to leave. For one thing, Captain had already won a big pot off of me, so I wanted to get my chips back. Besides that, his luck was bound to change, and this was a rare opportunity to win some serious money from a terrible poker player. Usually, Captain would just run $1000 straight into the ground, and one entertaining hour later he would be gone for the night. This time he had over $3k in front of him.
Of course, on this night it was impossible to tell exactly how much money Captain had in front of him, because he was too drunk to stack up his chips. They just lay in a multi-colored mound in an area generally in front of him. He was taking up enough space for two or three players but we were playing short-handed so it didn't matter. When he wanted to bet, he just slammed his forearm on the table and shoved out a random number of chips, usually about $500 worth, whether the pot had $20 or $2000 in it. After winning one pot, he tried to scoop his chips onto his pile, but his pile was too big and some of them went over the rail and onto the floor. One of the poker room managers went over and picked up about $30 worth of chips that had fallen to the ground. For some reason, Captain was convinced there was one more dollar on the ground.
He got so worked up about this single $1 chip that he got on all fours under the table looking for it. That's when I discovered Captain's drunk superpower.
You know how some people have superpowers that only come out when they are absolutely wasted? Well, the guy sitting next to me in the game had gone to the restroom, and he returned to see Captain on the ground looking for this chip. We are on the opposite end of the table from Captain's scavenger hunt. The guy next to me leans over and says, "What is he doing?"
I whispered, "I think he left a drink under there."
Turns out, Captain's drunk superpower is supernatural hearing. He shot up from under the table, stared right at me and said, "You mother******, what did you just say to me?"
I may have crapped my pants a little bit.
I don't remember what I said, but I backtracked and apologized well enough to avoid getting shot.
One night at Newcastle, Captain was in an especially abusive mood. He was mad about losing and was three or four drinks over his average consumption level.
The Asian man on Captain's immediate right was also drinking heavily, so much so that he was almost passed out. This man was probably 45 years old, weighed 110 pounds and could not speak a word of English. He muttered Chinese under his breath and took a long time to make any decision. Captain was not a fan of any of these things.
I'll save all of the racist vitriol Captain spewed that night. Luckily, the other guy couldn't understand a word of it anyway.
I've heard that burping is an accepted thing in some Asian communities. Nevertheless, I was pretty surprised when this middle-aged Asian dude let one rip without the slightest attempt to cover his mouth. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, and let it fly. I remember being seriously afraid that Captain was going to hurt this guy. Captain leaned over, looked right at the guy, stared him down for a good 30 seconds, and even lowered his sunglasses to look him dead in the eye. But Captain never said a word, and after an awkward 30 seconds, play resumed as usual. I was utterly shocked that he didn't say anything. Captain doesn't go 30 seconds without saying something under any circumstances.
A good 30 minutes passed, and Captain was on his best behavior. The Asian man's wife was now sitting behind him. I figured maybe Captain was going easy on him because of her.
Then, out of nowhere, breaking the dead silence, Captain attacked.
He turned, got right in the guy's face, and let out a burp three times as big as the first one. He shrugged his shoulders with his palms up, the ultimate "What you gonna do now?" pose. But the Asian guy was so drunk/tired that his wife was literally having to wake him up to look at his cards every hand. He probably didn't care about Captain's burp and definitely had no interest in fighting him, so he just went back to sleep. Captain stared at him for a good minute or two.
I tried to keep it together but I couldn't. As soon as I realized that no physical harm was going to be done, I burst out laughing. Captain turned to me and said, "You think that's funny?"
This made me laugh even louder and I said, "Yeah, actually I think it's really funny." I couldn't stop laughing for at least five minutes. I have no idea how the rest of the table kept from laughing, but I was the only one.
This incident came after the first one, and after I had played with Captain many times. Because he knew I lived in Lawton, he always thought I was in the military. I probably told him 10 times that I had never been in the military, but eventually I realized that my military experience was the only thing he liked about me. This allowed me to get away with an ill-timed bout of the giggles.
"I like you cause you're in the Army," he said, "but I'm still gonna bust your m************ a** on the poker table."
Dec. 1, 12:30 a.m. -- Dust off remaining shreds of my chip stack and dignity.
12:31 a.m. -- Get made fun of like I'm the kid in elementary wearing Jordache jeans and velcro shoes.
1 a.m. -- Order Triple Whataburger value meal, replacing the Coke with a chocolate shake and getting an apple pie on the side. Oh, what the heck, go ahead and give me the large Coke too.
2 a.m. -- Re-organize garage, hang Christmas lights for every house on the block. Might as well write a blog since I'm up.
3 a.m. -- Got tired all of a sudden. Two options: Eat another two pounds of sugar or go to bed. Half a blog is good enough, I'll do the other halffffffzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
11 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. I get to drive to Weatherford to cover an 8-man football game so I can earn 1/30th of what I lost at the casino the night before.
1 p.m. -- Arrive in Weatherford to find the entire press box is taken up by a five-person radio broadcast team from the panhandle. There are five people here to cover a team whose entire roster is literally 14 players. Luckily there's a broken seat in the corner for me, so long as I don't mind listening to three analysts doing what one bad analyst should be doing.
3 p.m. -- The game is delayed because a player got tackled on the sideline, rolled onto the first down stick, and the stick is permanently bent and won't stand up straight. Seriously, that happened. It took 3 guys to lean on it and bend it back.
4 p.m. -- Tipton wins the Class C state championship. I use my field pass to photobomb as many state championship pictures as possible. In 50 years, I want people to say, "Who's that guy next to Bobby Joe with his index finger raised? Betty, you remember this guy?"
5 p.m. -- Write my story and attempt to leave. Luckily, they locked the stadium up. Walk 100 yards to other end of field, hunt down Southwestern Oklahoma State University athletic director, make him walk 100 yards back across field to gate...which has since been re-opened.
5:15 p.m. -- Reward myself for walking 200 yards by getting a 44 oz cherry vanilla Coke at Sonic on way out of town.
5:16 p.m. -- Slam fist into forehead after realizing I just spent 2.56% of my paycheck for the game on a Coke.
11 p.m. -- Might as well go ahead and finish that blog.
I want to introduce you to a guy named Captain. I haven't seen Captain in about two years but I'm going to assume he hasn't changed much. (If any of my poker friends have seen him recently and can offer an update, go for it.)
Captain is an African-American in his early 50s. He exclusively wears Fubu velvet sweatshirts with matching sweatpants. His favorite colors are -- in order -- gold, white, and black. Kangol hats. Sunglasses with no tint. A fair amount of bling. Salt and pepper goattee, always freshly trimmed. He's about 5-foot-8, roughly 275 pounds. Enough muscle to keep you from going nose-to-nose with him but enough fat to know you can win a race to the door if you have to.
And don't worry, he'll give you plenty of chances to fight him. He says lots of inappropriate and offensive things, and he talks a good fight. But mainly he just likes to drink and gamble.
I don't know Captain's real name. He always signed up for the poker games as Captain, and he liked to drink 7 or 8 Captains while he was playing, so it seemed like a good name.
You want to play poker with Captain. The later into the evening the better. And if you write a blog, he is an absolute GOLDMINE.
I have played a lot of poker with Captain. It seemed like he would magically appear wherever I happened to be playing, which was great. He had some ties to Lawton and played there frequently when I lived there, but he also played at Riverwind and Newcastle a lot. If I saw him at one of those places, I didn't leave until he did.
These are my two favorite Captain stories.
Captain's poker winrate hovered right around 5 percent. But when he won, he won BIG. One night at Riverwind (in the old poker room, not the new one), Captain was winning every hand. He was ordering double shots every time he busted someone, which was quite frequently.
As Captain drank more and more, he was being more and more inappropriate with the waitresses, and his distraction with the waitresses was slowing the game to a halt and driving off the players. But I wasn't about to leave. For one thing, Captain had already won a big pot off of me, so I wanted to get my chips back. Besides that, his luck was bound to change, and this was a rare opportunity to win some serious money from a terrible poker player. Usually, Captain would just run $1000 straight into the ground, and one entertaining hour later he would be gone for the night. This time he had over $3k in front of him.
Of course, on this night it was impossible to tell exactly how much money Captain had in front of him, because he was too drunk to stack up his chips. They just lay in a multi-colored mound in an area generally in front of him. He was taking up enough space for two or three players but we were playing short-handed so it didn't matter. When he wanted to bet, he just slammed his forearm on the table and shoved out a random number of chips, usually about $500 worth, whether the pot had $20 or $2000 in it. After winning one pot, he tried to scoop his chips onto his pile, but his pile was too big and some of them went over the rail and onto the floor. One of the poker room managers went over and picked up about $30 worth of chips that had fallen to the ground. For some reason, Captain was convinced there was one more dollar on the ground.
He got so worked up about this single $1 chip that he got on all fours under the table looking for it. That's when I discovered Captain's drunk superpower.
You know how some people have superpowers that only come out when they are absolutely wasted? Well, the guy sitting next to me in the game had gone to the restroom, and he returned to see Captain on the ground looking for this chip. We are on the opposite end of the table from Captain's scavenger hunt. The guy next to me leans over and says, "What is he doing?"
I whispered, "I think he left a drink under there."
Turns out, Captain's drunk superpower is supernatural hearing. He shot up from under the table, stared right at me and said, "You mother******, what did you just say to me?"
I may have crapped my pants a little bit.
I don't remember what I said, but I backtracked and apologized well enough to avoid getting shot.
One night at Newcastle, Captain was in an especially abusive mood. He was mad about losing and was three or four drinks over his average consumption level.
The Asian man on Captain's immediate right was also drinking heavily, so much so that he was almost passed out. This man was probably 45 years old, weighed 110 pounds and could not speak a word of English. He muttered Chinese under his breath and took a long time to make any decision. Captain was not a fan of any of these things.
I'll save all of the racist vitriol Captain spewed that night. Luckily, the other guy couldn't understand a word of it anyway.
I've heard that burping is an accepted thing in some Asian communities. Nevertheless, I was pretty surprised when this middle-aged Asian dude let one rip without the slightest attempt to cover his mouth. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, and let it fly. I remember being seriously afraid that Captain was going to hurt this guy. Captain leaned over, looked right at the guy, stared him down for a good 30 seconds, and even lowered his sunglasses to look him dead in the eye. But Captain never said a word, and after an awkward 30 seconds, play resumed as usual. I was utterly shocked that he didn't say anything. Captain doesn't go 30 seconds without saying something under any circumstances.
A good 30 minutes passed, and Captain was on his best behavior. The Asian man's wife was now sitting behind him. I figured maybe Captain was going easy on him because of her.
Then, out of nowhere, breaking the dead silence, Captain attacked.
He turned, got right in the guy's face, and let out a burp three times as big as the first one. He shrugged his shoulders with his palms up, the ultimate "What you gonna do now?" pose. But the Asian guy was so drunk/tired that his wife was literally having to wake him up to look at his cards every hand. He probably didn't care about Captain's burp and definitely had no interest in fighting him, so he just went back to sleep. Captain stared at him for a good minute or two.
I tried to keep it together but I couldn't. As soon as I realized that no physical harm was going to be done, I burst out laughing. Captain turned to me and said, "You think that's funny?"
This made me laugh even louder and I said, "Yeah, actually I think it's really funny." I couldn't stop laughing for at least five minutes. I have no idea how the rest of the table kept from laughing, but I was the only one.
This incident came after the first one, and after I had played with Captain many times. Because he knew I lived in Lawton, he always thought I was in the military. I probably told him 10 times that I had never been in the military, but eventually I realized that my military experience was the only thing he liked about me. This allowed me to get away with an ill-timed bout of the giggles.
"I like you cause you're in the Army," he said, "but I'm still gonna bust your m************ a** on the poker table."
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Helpful Comments
All right, jerks. Here's another blog.
Poker has not been good the past month. (If your income is < 0, is it called outcome?) What's worse is that I can't even leave the casino in peace after getting curb-stomped.
There's a portly middle-aged fellow who is a regular player at Riverwind, goes by Blade because he sells knives for a living. His picture is currently atop this blog because I hate myself. Blade is kind, well-meaning, and an absolute pain to play with. He is constantly trying to change seats or decks of cards because he is extremely superstitious. On top of that, he takes forever on every decision and goes to great lengths to avoid putting any money in a pot without the absolute best possible hand.
Blade was not at my table on Tuesday, but he walked past and said hi to me and a few of the other regulars. "Matt, you're too tough for these guys." Evidently, I wasn't too tough for them since they were beating the crap out of me. After I dusted off the rest of my stack, I walked right past the cash-out cage toward the door. "Matt!" Blade hollered as I neared the exit, "Tell 'em where you got it."
You have to know Blade to fully appreciate that story, but I don't even know the name of the fellow who decided to make fun of me on Friday. Again, I wasted eight hours of my life trying to win a single pot of poker, and when that failed I simply wanted to walk to my car, drive to Whataburger and order up the 5,000-calorie pity party.
This time, as I again waltzed past the cash-out cage toward the door, a guy sitting in the waiting area yelled at me. "Bro, it ain't gonna rain in here." I had played with this drooler a couple of times in my life but I don't know his name or why he was talking to me. I gave him a puzzled look.
"Your pants, man. It ain't gonna rain in here, you don't need the high waters. Try some jeans next time bro." Then he bursts out laughing.
I was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I looked down to see that yes, in fact, my pants were a little short. This was likely a combination of the fact that I had gained 15 pounds over Thanksgiving and that I buy generic sweatpants from Target that aren't really made for tall people. Also, I don't go to the casino trying to impress idiots like the guy who was at that moment laughing in my face.
He clarified that he was "just f***ing with you, bro." I nodded, fake-smiled and decided I deserved an apple pie with my Triple Whataburger.
I got another blog coming soon, a couple of poker-etiquette stories about a character named Captain. Was going to put it all in this one but those three orders of Whataburger fries made me tired.
Poker has not been good the past month. (If your income is < 0, is it called outcome?) What's worse is that I can't even leave the casino in peace after getting curb-stomped.
There's a portly middle-aged fellow who is a regular player at Riverwind, goes by Blade because he sells knives for a living. His picture is currently atop this blog because I hate myself. Blade is kind, well-meaning, and an absolute pain to play with. He is constantly trying to change seats or decks of cards because he is extremely superstitious. On top of that, he takes forever on every decision and goes to great lengths to avoid putting any money in a pot without the absolute best possible hand.
Blade was not at my table on Tuesday, but he walked past and said hi to me and a few of the other regulars. "Matt, you're too tough for these guys." Evidently, I wasn't too tough for them since they were beating the crap out of me. After I dusted off the rest of my stack, I walked right past the cash-out cage toward the door. "Matt!" Blade hollered as I neared the exit, "Tell 'em where you got it."
You have to know Blade to fully appreciate that story, but I don't even know the name of the fellow who decided to make fun of me on Friday. Again, I wasted eight hours of my life trying to win a single pot of poker, and when that failed I simply wanted to walk to my car, drive to Whataburger and order up the 5,000-calorie pity party.
This time, as I again waltzed past the cash-out cage toward the door, a guy sitting in the waiting area yelled at me. "Bro, it ain't gonna rain in here." I had played with this drooler a couple of times in my life but I don't know his name or why he was talking to me. I gave him a puzzled look.
"Your pants, man. It ain't gonna rain in here, you don't need the high waters. Try some jeans next time bro." Then he bursts out laughing.
I was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I looked down to see that yes, in fact, my pants were a little short. This was likely a combination of the fact that I had gained 15 pounds over Thanksgiving and that I buy generic sweatpants from Target that aren't really made for tall people. Also, I don't go to the casino trying to impress idiots like the guy who was at that moment laughing in my face.
He clarified that he was "just f***ing with you, bro." I nodded, fake-smiled and decided I deserved an apple pie with my Triple Whataburger.
I got another blog coming soon, a couple of poker-etiquette stories about a character named Captain. Was going to put it all in this one but those three orders of Whataburger fries made me tired.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
I Had to Pee Again
I would apologize for the toilet humor you're about to read, but you are knowingly clicking on a story titled, "I Had to Pee Again," so it's pretty much your own fault if you are offended. Also, I see no need to change the picture of the girl doing the throw up thing, which has been up for the last two blogs. Seems to apply to this one as well.
Last weekend I was covering a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton. I've been having some problems with my laptop lately, so I brought along a zip drive in case worse came to worst and I needed to send my story from someone else's computer.
I had put the zip drive in my pocket before I left for the game, and I had forgotten about it since I don't normally bring it and I wasn't expecting to need it. It was just there in case worse came to worst.
(By the way, where did that phrase come from? Aren't there much more accurate and succinct ways to convey the same message? I mean, if worse really does come to worst, wouldn't you like to save the time it takes to say that? Maybe a simple, "Boy, right now I could really use a saw to self-amputate my right leg which was trapped under this boulder after I slipped while hiking. I tried to pull it out and some other big rocks rolled on top of me and I ran out of water two days ago and now I'm about to die" would work. Then again, maybe "Worse came to worst, could you hand me that flask of whiskey and Swiss Army knife bro?" is the best way to say it. Turns out I was wrong. It is a useful phrase.)
I love how I have wasted several paragraphs talking about my semi-functional laptop, a zip drive and an archaic American English phrase and you are still reading this blog. You got sucked in by my sexy title about having to pee and you just won't give up before I get to the peeing part. I heart you.
So I'm covering this football game and -- guess what? -- I had to pee! OMG I had to pee.
Naturally I decide to check Facebook on my phone while I did this. You haven't lived until you've updated your status while urinating. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "streaming content."
Anywhooo, I take my phone out of my pocket and the ole zip drive does a double pike, three-quarter twist into the toilet with minimal splash. (If I were a diving judge, I'd give it a 1. Get it?)
Anywhooo, this is a good news/bad news situation. Except it's basically all bad news. Bad news #1 is that I have some important tax-related documents on this zip drive and I need to retrieve it. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #2 is that the USB thingy has a protective cover on it, so the drive should work fine when retrieved. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #3 is that I'm about to stick my hand in a toilet.
The only good news is that I had yet to start my business, so at least I only had to plunge my hand into "clean" toilet water to retrieve the drive.
I got the zip drive -- never needed it of course -- and that's the end of the story. I did check the drive later and all my tax documents are still on it, so there's something.
I feel a little bad about wasting lots of space on a story that could have been told in about three sentences, so I'm going to give you another story, free of charge and free of long digressions on archaic American English phrases and pee pee puns.
This is the story of the first football game I ever covered after graduating from college. I got hired by the Lawton Constitution to replace Herb Jacobs, a retiring columnist who had been with the paper forever. I'm 22 and the ink has barely dried on my degree. My first assignment is OU's season-opening football game against Tulsa.
This game was at the University of Tulsa, which isn't used to hosting nationally prominent schools like OU. The press box was extremely crowded, and there were more people than seats. Some members of the media had what amounts to standing room only credentials. They would only get to sit if someone didn't show up, otherwise they had to stand in the back of the press box.
The seats are all assigned. Because newspapers are the oldest form of journalism, they get the best seats at the football games. (Maybe that's not the reason, but I can't think of a better one. I've always thought it was stupid that the Lawton Constitution, with our 25,000-ish circulation, got better seats than any of the Oklahoma City TV or radio stations, who have immensely larger audiences. For several years, whenever Sports Illustrated would send Austin Murphy or Phil Taylor to cover an OU game, they would be seated right next to me -- and I would be the one closer to the 50-yard line.)
So I get to the press box and try to find my seat. Can't find it. Like I said, this press box was quite small, so it didn't take long to scan all of the seats. Each seat has a placard with the name of the organization on it. I saw that papers like Enid and Muskogee, which are smaller than Lawton, had seats, so I knew I had a seat somewhere. I wanted to get to it ASAP so I could set my laptop up, make sure the wireless connection worked fine, etc. I also wanted to eat my free meal there before the game started.
There was a seating assignment list taped to the wall. I go over and see that the Constitution has a seat. It's the first seat on the second row. Easy enough.
I go over there to find that my seat has a briefcase, a notepad, some pens and possibly some hard candy strewn across it. Nobody is in the seat. I walk back over to the assignment list and confirm that this is my seat. I take notice of whichever paper was seated next to me. I go back and confirm that the seat next to the one I think is mine belongs to whichever paper it was supposed to belong to. So I brush aside the pens and notepads to look at the placard noting whose seat it was.
The words "Lawton Constitution" had been marked out by a black Sharpie. Scribbled beneath them, with the same black Sharpie, was "DEAN BLEVINS, KWTV-9. I AM NOT RETIRED."
Dean the Dream.
While I'm trying to process how big of a jerk Dean Blevins is, he walks up with a bunch of food in his mouth. As he starts to sit down, I say, "Dean, my name is Matt Franklin and I'm with the Lawton Constitution. I tried to retire but they said I have to work there longer than three weeks to be eligible." (OK I didn't really say that last line.)
He said, "Oh, I didn't know they had replaced old Herbie." He introduced himself and shook my hand, then picked up his stuff and went straight over to the University of Tulsa people to complain about how he didn't have a seat. I have to admit that it's pretty funny that a rookie reporter from Lawton and some random newspapers from rural Oklahoma got seats in the press box, but not the #1-rated television sports anchor in Oklahoma City. Then again, maybe he was being penalized for trying to play God with the seating assignments.
Two things happened as a result of that encounter.
1) At every OU football game, press conference, or on any occasion I would run into Dean Blevins, he would greet me the same way. An overly enthusiastic, "Hey bud! How you doing?" I was always bud.
2) One of my friends in the sports TV business hated Dean Blevins with an unquenchable passion. He had a couple of similar Dean the Dream stories. I told him my story the night before an OU/Texas game in Dallas. He got so worked up after hearing my story that he texted someone from KWTV and found out which hotel room Dean was in, and ordered a 4 a.m. wake up call. That prank got quite a few laughs, so he continued it every time we were on the road and they had a media hotel (Big 12 championship games and bowl games, mainly).
This guy did a really good Dean impersonation, and this is what the wake-up requests would sound like:
"Hi, this is Dean Blevins, room (whatever the number was). I'm on TV so I'll need to wake up really early to put on my makeup and my suit. Could you give me a wake-up call at 4 a.m.? That's 4 a.m., right on the nose. Please don't be late. Thank you so, so much."
Was waking Dean Blevins up at 4 a.m. three times a year cool or just mean? I'll put up a poll, but I'm not sure I trust the opinions of anyone who just spent 5 minutes reading a blog about me having to pee. :)
Last weekend I was covering a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton. I've been having some problems with my laptop lately, so I brought along a zip drive in case worse came to worst and I needed to send my story from someone else's computer.
I had put the zip drive in my pocket before I left for the game, and I had forgotten about it since I don't normally bring it and I wasn't expecting to need it. It was just there in case worse came to worst.
(By the way, where did that phrase come from? Aren't there much more accurate and succinct ways to convey the same message? I mean, if worse really does come to worst, wouldn't you like to save the time it takes to say that? Maybe a simple, "Boy, right now I could really use a saw to self-amputate my right leg which was trapped under this boulder after I slipped while hiking. I tried to pull it out and some other big rocks rolled on top of me and I ran out of water two days ago and now I'm about to die" would work. Then again, maybe "Worse came to worst, could you hand me that flask of whiskey and Swiss Army knife bro?" is the best way to say it. Turns out I was wrong. It is a useful phrase.)
I love how I have wasted several paragraphs talking about my semi-functional laptop, a zip drive and an archaic American English phrase and you are still reading this blog. You got sucked in by my sexy title about having to pee and you just won't give up before I get to the peeing part. I heart you.
So I'm covering this football game and -- guess what? -- I had to pee! OMG I had to pee.
Naturally I decide to check Facebook on my phone while I did this. You haven't lived until you've updated your status while urinating. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "streaming content."
Anywhooo, I take my phone out of my pocket and the ole zip drive does a double pike, three-quarter twist into the toilet with minimal splash. (If I were a diving judge, I'd give it a 1. Get it?)
Anywhooo, this is a good news/bad news situation. Except it's basically all bad news. Bad news #1 is that I have some important tax-related documents on this zip drive and I need to retrieve it. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #2 is that the USB thingy has a protective cover on it, so the drive should work fine when retrieved. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #3 is that I'm about to stick my hand in a toilet.
The only good news is that I had yet to start my business, so at least I only had to plunge my hand into "clean" toilet water to retrieve the drive.
I got the zip drive -- never needed it of course -- and that's the end of the story. I did check the drive later and all my tax documents are still on it, so there's something.
I feel a little bad about wasting lots of space on a story that could have been told in about three sentences, so I'm going to give you another story, free of charge and free of long digressions on archaic American English phrases and pee pee puns.
This is the story of the first football game I ever covered after graduating from college. I got hired by the Lawton Constitution to replace Herb Jacobs, a retiring columnist who had been with the paper forever. I'm 22 and the ink has barely dried on my degree. My first assignment is OU's season-opening football game against Tulsa.
This game was at the University of Tulsa, which isn't used to hosting nationally prominent schools like OU. The press box was extremely crowded, and there were more people than seats. Some members of the media had what amounts to standing room only credentials. They would only get to sit if someone didn't show up, otherwise they had to stand in the back of the press box.
The seats are all assigned. Because newspapers are the oldest form of journalism, they get the best seats at the football games. (Maybe that's not the reason, but I can't think of a better one. I've always thought it was stupid that the Lawton Constitution, with our 25,000-ish circulation, got better seats than any of the Oklahoma City TV or radio stations, who have immensely larger audiences. For several years, whenever Sports Illustrated would send Austin Murphy or Phil Taylor to cover an OU game, they would be seated right next to me -- and I would be the one closer to the 50-yard line.)
So I get to the press box and try to find my seat. Can't find it. Like I said, this press box was quite small, so it didn't take long to scan all of the seats. Each seat has a placard with the name of the organization on it. I saw that papers like Enid and Muskogee, which are smaller than Lawton, had seats, so I knew I had a seat somewhere. I wanted to get to it ASAP so I could set my laptop up, make sure the wireless connection worked fine, etc. I also wanted to eat my free meal there before the game started.
There was a seating assignment list taped to the wall. I go over and see that the Constitution has a seat. It's the first seat on the second row. Easy enough.
I go over there to find that my seat has a briefcase, a notepad, some pens and possibly some hard candy strewn across it. Nobody is in the seat. I walk back over to the assignment list and confirm that this is my seat. I take notice of whichever paper was seated next to me. I go back and confirm that the seat next to the one I think is mine belongs to whichever paper it was supposed to belong to. So I brush aside the pens and notepads to look at the placard noting whose seat it was.
The words "Lawton Constitution" had been marked out by a black Sharpie. Scribbled beneath them, with the same black Sharpie, was "DEAN BLEVINS, KWTV-9. I AM NOT RETIRED."
Dean the Dream.
While I'm trying to process how big of a jerk Dean Blevins is, he walks up with a bunch of food in his mouth. As he starts to sit down, I say, "Dean, my name is Matt Franklin and I'm with the Lawton Constitution. I tried to retire but they said I have to work there longer than three weeks to be eligible." (OK I didn't really say that last line.)
He said, "Oh, I didn't know they had replaced old Herbie." He introduced himself and shook my hand, then picked up his stuff and went straight over to the University of Tulsa people to complain about how he didn't have a seat. I have to admit that it's pretty funny that a rookie reporter from Lawton and some random newspapers from rural Oklahoma got seats in the press box, but not the #1-rated television sports anchor in Oklahoma City. Then again, maybe he was being penalized for trying to play God with the seating assignments.
Two things happened as a result of that encounter.
1) At every OU football game, press conference, or on any occasion I would run into Dean Blevins, he would greet me the same way. An overly enthusiastic, "Hey bud! How you doing?" I was always bud.
2) One of my friends in the sports TV business hated Dean Blevins with an unquenchable passion. He had a couple of similar Dean the Dream stories. I told him my story the night before an OU/Texas game in Dallas. He got so worked up after hearing my story that he texted someone from KWTV and found out which hotel room Dean was in, and ordered a 4 a.m. wake up call. That prank got quite a few laughs, so he continued it every time we were on the road and they had a media hotel (Big 12 championship games and bowl games, mainly).
This guy did a really good Dean impersonation, and this is what the wake-up requests would sound like:
"Hi, this is Dean Blevins, room (whatever the number was). I'm on TV so I'll need to wake up really early to put on my makeup and my suit. Could you give me a wake-up call at 4 a.m.? That's 4 a.m., right on the nose. Please don't be late. Thank you so, so much."
Was waking Dean Blevins up at 4 a.m. three times a year cool or just mean? I'll put up a poll, but I'm not sure I trust the opinions of anyone who just spent 5 minutes reading a blog about me having to pee. :)
Saturday, September 22, 2012
I Had to Pee
This is like half a blog. A bl.
I covered a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton tonight. At halftime, I had to pee.
The press box is located about 3 stories up from the field. There's a one-holer in the press box. I try to enter the one-holer, but alas, occupado.
I patiently wait, making a couple of Words With Friends plays and reading a few pages of a book with my phone's Kindle app. After a full 10 minutes, nobody has come out and I'm hearing nothing. I start to question whether I pulled the handle the right way. It's one of the horizontal ones. So I gave it a good tug the other direction. Still locked. Tried the originial downward pull just to be safe. Still locked.
Whatever, I got nothing else to do and it's not an emergency. I'll wait. After another five minutes, I am now worried that this person will not come out before the end of halftime, and I know I can't hold it for the whole second half. I also reckon that if this person does come out soon, I probably don't want to walk in right afterward. There's only five minutes before the second half starts.
There are two levels of the press box. I'm on the lower level. Having taken the elevator up the first three flights to my floor, I decide to take the stairs up to the top level and use their restroom. Luckily, the door to the top level of the press box is locked. I guess nobody takes the stairs anymore. I knock but nobody answers (The top level of the press box is usually used for coaches, and the coaches go down to the locker room to talk to the team at halftime).
So I decide to go back to my floor, check my restroom again, and then take the elevator to the ground level to use the regular restroom if that fails. Luckily, the door to my level of the press box is also locked from the outside. My fury vaults my feet down the three flights of stairs in about 5 seconds, and I am not a happy customer as I exit the press box and look for the restroom.
Of course, the press box is in the middle of the field. I don't see any restrooms nearby, but there are a lot of people around a building in the North end zone, so I rush over there. Only three minutes until the second half. Luckily, that was the concession stand. I now see that the restrooms are by the South end zone, 100 yards away.
By far the fastest person in the stadium, I get over there in 8.5 seconds, TCOB and get back into the press box 45 seconds before they kick off. That's what we journalists call working on deadline.
I covered a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton tonight. At halftime, I had to pee.
The press box is located about 3 stories up from the field. There's a one-holer in the press box. I try to enter the one-holer, but alas, occupado.
I patiently wait, making a couple of Words With Friends plays and reading a few pages of a book with my phone's Kindle app. After a full 10 minutes, nobody has come out and I'm hearing nothing. I start to question whether I pulled the handle the right way. It's one of the horizontal ones. So I gave it a good tug the other direction. Still locked. Tried the originial downward pull just to be safe. Still locked.
Whatever, I got nothing else to do and it's not an emergency. I'll wait. After another five minutes, I am now worried that this person will not come out before the end of halftime, and I know I can't hold it for the whole second half. I also reckon that if this person does come out soon, I probably don't want to walk in right afterward. There's only five minutes before the second half starts.
There are two levels of the press box. I'm on the lower level. Having taken the elevator up the first three flights to my floor, I decide to take the stairs up to the top level and use their restroom. Luckily, the door to the top level of the press box is locked. I guess nobody takes the stairs anymore. I knock but nobody answers (The top level of the press box is usually used for coaches, and the coaches go down to the locker room to talk to the team at halftime).
So I decide to go back to my floor, check my restroom again, and then take the elevator to the ground level to use the regular restroom if that fails. Luckily, the door to my level of the press box is also locked from the outside. My fury vaults my feet down the three flights of stairs in about 5 seconds, and I am not a happy customer as I exit the press box and look for the restroom.
Of course, the press box is in the middle of the field. I don't see any restrooms nearby, but there are a lot of people around a building in the North end zone, so I rush over there. Only three minutes until the second half. Luckily, that was the concession stand. I now see that the restrooms are by the South end zone, 100 yards away.
By far the fastest person in the stadium, I get over there in 8.5 seconds, TCOB and get back into the press box 45 seconds before they kick off. That's what we journalists call working on deadline.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Working that Franklin charm
I took Addison to the Great State Fair of Oklahoma, where our state's best (products) and worst (people) are on display for two straight weeks.
We were in one of the buildings when Ads suddenly took a right turn down a random aisle while I was trying to navigate us out of the building.
"Come here baby," I said.
Suddenly a tall, fairly attractive woman turned from the booth directly in front of me and said, "Hey, how you doing?" and walked toward me.
I'm not going to act like this was the hottest woman on the planet, but she warranted a 6.5 or a 7, which makes her a 9.8 at the Great State Fair of Oklahoma.
She quickly became embarrassed and turned around when she realized I was talking to my daughter. I just pretended I didn't hear her and walked past her, but on the inside it was nice to know I still got it. Evidently, all I need is the lamest pick up line in the world. Never in a million years when I was actually single would I walk up to someone and say, "Come here baby." Guess I missed out.
Anyway, my mind wandered to the fact that I haven't tried to "pick anyone up" in 7 years. Then I started thinking about some of my funniest dating experiences.
By far my most embarrassing dating incident occurred during my senior year of high school. I was kissing my girlfriend and my nose starting bleeding. And not just a little. Blood was all over both of our faces. That'll put a quick end to the festivities.
After college, I was probably one of the pickiest daters in the world. (I had some funny ideas about dating, I realize now.) I dismissed candidates for the following reasons:
My two best dating stories only involve a total of one date.
My sister set me up on a blind date. My sister said this woman was pretty and was a really strong Christian woman. Which is what I was looking for. And my sister wasn't lying.
About five minutes into dinner, I make a Seinfeld reference. She said she didn't watch Seinfeld. I didn't expect my dates to be Seinfeld fans, it just earned them a lot of bonus points with me.
So I explained the episode and the joke. She's sitting there stone-faced and says, "I don't think that's a good show to watch."
I tell her it's my favorite show. She says, "I don't think you can be a Christian and watch that show."
I press my tongue against the edge of my mouth and say to myself, "Well, I think we're done here."
I decide to have a civil dinner and then part ways. But evidently she's willing to allow me to repent of this sin. And she's thinking pretty far into the future.
She starts grilling me on a variety of topics -- politics, doctrinal Christian issues, my ten-year career plan, etc. She asks about where I went to school and I tell her Westmoore -- the best Moore, of course. This is her response.
"Our kids WILL NOT be in public school. They will be home schooled, like I was."
Okay then. I guess her evaluation of the date's first 20 minutes was wildly different than mine. I decided to go the classy route and tell her that my kids would DEFINITELY be in public schools. That made her mad enough to tell me that she didn't think this was going to work out. I said, "I guess not. It was nice meeting you. Bye."
My other story involves someone I never dated at all. I apologize in advance for the foul language, even though I will censor it.
Back in the Lawton days, my cell phone plan was extremely limited, so I had a home phone. My number was listed in the phone book (remember those?). I didn't have caller ID. I worked from 4 p.m. to midnight at the paper, so it wasn't uncommon for me to get a phone call at 1 a.m.
One night I got one. I answered and a gruff-sounding country boy was on the other end.
"Are you Matt Franklin, the one that works at the paper?"
"Yeah."
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I laughed out loud, assuming this was one of my friends playing a joke on me. There was silence on the other end.
I said, "Are you serious?"
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I wasn't sleeping with anyone, so my conscience was clear. "I don't know who your wife is, but I can assure you I'm not sleeping with her."
He says her name. It doesn't ring a bell. "She's about 5-foot-10. Dark hair. Big boobs. Really big J-Lo-type a**. Are you sleeping with her?"
"No, I promise you I am not sleeping with your wife."
At this point I'm getting pretty nervous. I look out the window of my apartment. It doesn't matter if I'm sleeping with this lady or not. If her husband thinks I am, he sounds like the kind of guy who might put a bullet in my head before giving me a fair judicial process.
I reiterate. "Sir, I don't think I've ever met your wife and I absolutely promise you I am not seeing her or sleeping with her."
There's a 15-second pause.
"Well, that figures. She's a lying b****."
Then another pause.
"I don't really care if you are sleeping with her. I'm kicking her out of the house and I just wanted to see if you wanted to come get her stuff. You can have her."
"No, I'm good. Thanks for the offer."
"We were in a fight the other day and she pointed to your picture in the sports page and told me she was sleeping with you. If you are, that's fine. If you want to come get her stuff just let me know and I'll drop it off or you can come get it. I'm through with her."
"Sir, I really don't know her and I'm definitely not sleeping with her."
"Well, like I said, she's a lying b**** so that makes sense."
"I'm sorry for your trouble, but I don't think I can't help you. I have to go now."
"So, you really don't want to come get her stuff?"
"No."
"OK, take it easy bud. I'm a really big fan of yours. You're about the only guy in that s***ty sports department that knows what he's talking about."
"Thanks. Bye."
I was pretty nervous that this guy would call again or come knocking on my door, but luckily I never heard from him (or his wife) again.
We were in one of the buildings when Ads suddenly took a right turn down a random aisle while I was trying to navigate us out of the building.
"Come here baby," I said.
Suddenly a tall, fairly attractive woman turned from the booth directly in front of me and said, "Hey, how you doing?" and walked toward me.
I'm not going to act like this was the hottest woman on the planet, but she warranted a 6.5 or a 7, which makes her a 9.8 at the Great State Fair of Oklahoma.
She quickly became embarrassed and turned around when she realized I was talking to my daughter. I just pretended I didn't hear her and walked past her, but on the inside it was nice to know I still got it. Evidently, all I need is the lamest pick up line in the world. Never in a million years when I was actually single would I walk up to someone and say, "Come here baby." Guess I missed out.
Anyway, my mind wandered to the fact that I haven't tried to "pick anyone up" in 7 years. Then I started thinking about some of my funniest dating experiences.
By far my most embarrassing dating incident occurred during my senior year of high school. I was kissing my girlfriend and my nose starting bleeding. And not just a little. Blood was all over both of our faces. That'll put a quick end to the festivities.
After college, I was probably one of the pickiest daters in the world. (I had some funny ideas about dating, I realize now.) I dismissed candidates for the following reasons:
- Too much hair on her arms
- Too much eyebrow hair (different woman)
- Too short (The post-date hug was incredibly awkward)
- Said she didn't like to play board or card games
- Said she did like playing board and card games. Then we played a card game, and she was terrible.
- Being too politically liberal
- Having a messy car
- Having a roommate who smoked
- Ordering wine on our first date (she knew I worked at the newspaper, for goodness sakes. I'm on a budget!)
- Being a bad cook
- Being a bad kisser
- Having an awkward hand-holding (our hands didn't seem like they fit...she kind of had "man-hands")
- Backing out on our first date without a good reason. (I put the shoe on the other foot when she tried to get a rain check).
My two best dating stories only involve a total of one date.
My sister set me up on a blind date. My sister said this woman was pretty and was a really strong Christian woman. Which is what I was looking for. And my sister wasn't lying.
About five minutes into dinner, I make a Seinfeld reference. She said she didn't watch Seinfeld. I didn't expect my dates to be Seinfeld fans, it just earned them a lot of bonus points with me.
So I explained the episode and the joke. She's sitting there stone-faced and says, "I don't think that's a good show to watch."
I tell her it's my favorite show. She says, "I don't think you can be a Christian and watch that show."
I press my tongue against the edge of my mouth and say to myself, "Well, I think we're done here."
I decide to have a civil dinner and then part ways. But evidently she's willing to allow me to repent of this sin. And she's thinking pretty far into the future.
She starts grilling me on a variety of topics -- politics, doctrinal Christian issues, my ten-year career plan, etc. She asks about where I went to school and I tell her Westmoore -- the best Moore, of course. This is her response.
"Our kids WILL NOT be in public school. They will be home schooled, like I was."
Okay then. I guess her evaluation of the date's first 20 minutes was wildly different than mine. I decided to go the classy route and tell her that my kids would DEFINITELY be in public schools. That made her mad enough to tell me that she didn't think this was going to work out. I said, "I guess not. It was nice meeting you. Bye."
My other story involves someone I never dated at all. I apologize in advance for the foul language, even though I will censor it.
Back in the Lawton days, my cell phone plan was extremely limited, so I had a home phone. My number was listed in the phone book (remember those?). I didn't have caller ID. I worked from 4 p.m. to midnight at the paper, so it wasn't uncommon for me to get a phone call at 1 a.m.
One night I got one. I answered and a gruff-sounding country boy was on the other end.
"Are you Matt Franklin, the one that works at the paper?"
"Yeah."
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I laughed out loud, assuming this was one of my friends playing a joke on me. There was silence on the other end.
I said, "Are you serious?"
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I wasn't sleeping with anyone, so my conscience was clear. "I don't know who your wife is, but I can assure you I'm not sleeping with her."
He says her name. It doesn't ring a bell. "She's about 5-foot-10. Dark hair. Big boobs. Really big J-Lo-type a**. Are you sleeping with her?"
"No, I promise you I am not sleeping with your wife."
At this point I'm getting pretty nervous. I look out the window of my apartment. It doesn't matter if I'm sleeping with this lady or not. If her husband thinks I am, he sounds like the kind of guy who might put a bullet in my head before giving me a fair judicial process.
I reiterate. "Sir, I don't think I've ever met your wife and I absolutely promise you I am not seeing her or sleeping with her."
There's a 15-second pause.
"Well, that figures. She's a lying b****."
Then another pause.
"I don't really care if you are sleeping with her. I'm kicking her out of the house and I just wanted to see if you wanted to come get her stuff. You can have her."
"No, I'm good. Thanks for the offer."
"We were in a fight the other day and she pointed to your picture in the sports page and told me she was sleeping with you. If you are, that's fine. If you want to come get her stuff just let me know and I'll drop it off or you can come get it. I'm through with her."
"Sir, I really don't know her and I'm definitely not sleeping with her."
"Well, like I said, she's a lying b**** so that makes sense."
"I'm sorry for your trouble, but I don't think I can't help you. I have to go now."
"So, you really don't want to come get her stuff?"
"No."
"OK, take it easy bud. I'm a really big fan of yours. You're about the only guy in that s***ty sports department that knows what he's talking about."
"Thanks. Bye."
I was pretty nervous that this guy would call again or come knocking on my door, but luckily I never heard from him (or his wife) again.
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