Archive for August, 2007

DEGENERATE GAMBLER CHRONICLES: episode ga frikkin Zillion!!!

I have a long & storied history with the gambled dollar.

So know you know.

There exists an adage; one shared among gamblers in the esteemed know. It must be understood. And it is by some few. Ignore it and you’re doomed. Still, most gamblers do. That’s why most gamblers are dumb bet sluts who will always lose.

It takes a classy & real smart bet slut like me to know: I must Bet To Win.

Read the adage again.

Bet To Win. Linguistic action is wound evenly in to the 3-word phrase’s entirety. Bet To Win. Verb. All go. I must bet to win.

Silent space between each word in the phrase passes precisely measured and too fast to see. Unless you’re hallucinating. Then absolute quietude may wrap in fast moving energy packets around the eyeballs. Whoa dudes; you can taste the silence. Not unlike the way you’ll imagine chocolate tastes when swallowed by your eyeballs. But…can you smoke it? Just then the chocolate silence eye lid whiff shimmies & morphs into an eye of its’ own & winks.

Makes the heart leap that silence; like silence spaced between 1 & 2 in the 1 & 2 & 1 & 2 & in a drumbeat.

The three words in the adage is like popping 3 speed pills at the same time. BAM! All at once. Or more like the cumulative effect of an evening’s first three beers; brilliantly interdependent, their sum greater in a mysterious way than the added worth of each part.

The third beer is when it gets awesome dudes!

Bet To Win. What does it mean — I must first bet in order to win?


I must bet to win.


I don’t always win but I want to. And raw want to win is the key.

Most people bet to gamble. They hope to lose as little as possible. They may not want to lose. But the House Always Wins.

You’ve heard that one right? House Always Wins. Rule.

They used to have a rule at amusement parks. Old ones, like Brooklyn’s Coney Island — which I was fortunate to visit this summer. Is Coney Island still open? Probably for another few days, that’s it. I think after this weekend Coney Island is doomed.

What a bummer. Never even got to ride the Cyclone. Though it has long been on the top of my list of Roller Coasters to Steal.

Anyway back when the wooden Cyclone roller coaster was built They had a rule. Not written. Written rules are much easier to break. You know where to find them!

Who here likes to break the law??


Like how since it’s Expressly Forbidden by law all those illegally downloaded movies are more fun to watch.

But the rule at Coney Island was different; this was a law of Physics. Written? Not precisely. In fact it was considered so obviously true that it was inforced by & large with nary a mention.

Roller Coasters Don’t Go Upside Down. Unless there is a catastrophic accident.

Upside Down? Nope! Not Roller Coasters. They just don’t.

House Always Wins. Same deal. Rule was probably first made up alongside the ancient roulette wheel. The very first casino gamblers were informed that House Always Wins is intractably Truth. The rule has passed virally down, generation-to, from slut custie gamblers to their retard offspring.

That’s me!

But I — a dedicated life long rule breaker– aim to break that one rule above all.


Because I want to win. It’s my passion. That simple. I thus aim to win more than I lose. I must win. As must we all; if not as gamblers then at whatever it is you do.

Plus the rule is wrong. Bogus. Fraud-on its’ face Not true.

The house turns a profit. They are a business. This is America. Profit they should! But every time a bet is payed out the fact is: the house does not win. It loses.

I aim thus to prove irrefutable to anyone who cares that the House can & does constantly lose.

So we can win.

I aim to prove it thus because I am a teller of Truth.

Dosed Holy Punch

“My name is Mike E.” I introduced myself to fellow worshipers after the silence. “I went to a Quaker high school up in New Hampshire called The Meeting School.”

It screwed my head up a bit when I revealed to everyone present that that was 20 years ago. I mean I hated to say it really. I would have inadvertently belted out a shocked “Holy FUCK! This is total bullshit” were I not at a bona fide Sunday morning religious service.

Getting old is way less fun than it used to be.

I rolled my eyes, shook my head bewildered. Laughed nervously. Most gathered in fact were older than me, I mean like Old actually. Some of them laughed. As though they heard my plight yet could offer only helpless sympathy.

A handful of the 50 or so attendees were mid-30’s kids like me. One seated at a pew across from me shook her own head & chuckled empathetically.

“This is just the second Quaker meeting I’ve been to since high school.” I explained. “But I’ve found myself here in Brooklyn & wanting to be amongst Friends.”

What I didn’t tell them: their website said there were tea & treats afterward and I was way down for some treats & tea.

My good & smart friend Galloway is a staunchly confident atheist. I respect him for it and on most days enthusiastically stake my own alongside his unarguably sensible Position. Religion — while not the Problem precisely — is a favorite tool for Earth’s few, yet near overpowering, cruelly problematic inhabitants.

The pews in the Brooklyn Friend’s Meetinghouse are a well padded entity. Excellently comfortable. There was no A/C in the 2nd-story worship space. While not brutally hot outside it was just pervasively July muggy enough to make a long walk totally suck. But wide open pew to-ceiling windows emptied a divinely cooling breeze across the room. Long white drapes flowed. Across the room a woman sat comfortably. Her legs stretched out. Bare feet perched happily on the pew as the service commenced.

To understand the Quakers, aka Religious Society of Friends, one must carefully examine Brooklyn ‘s meetinghouse pews. They’re arranged circularly. The middle of the room greets each attendee’s sight-line. Fellow worshipers face one another.

It has usually been through the love and fellowship of Friends that God has poured out blessings on me. So I’m always always grateful to Friends.

>> from a random Brooklyn Quaker’s blog

No pulpit. No text. Just friends.

There is no pastor at Friend’s Meetings. No sermon. No organ or choir. For an hour no one speaks; unless inspired to.

The one drawback to a Quaker worship? No gospel to belt the faithful ass-first out the church’s back wall in the name of sweet mother Mary. But there could be. Gospel types are free to stand up & sing. Sing for the Sunday service’s duration if compelled by the spirit to.


Bet they’d even respectfully tolerate one of my famous Honky Hip Hop routines! Huh. I wonder…

We’ll see.

No one sang out at the Quaker Meeting in Brooklyn that day. For most of the hour no one said a thing. Which surprised me at first. I seemed to recollect a Quaker crew that was a bit more lively. Had more to say. Why not? Everybody has something to say. All matters on where & when and, more crucially, why we say it.

And why we don’t.

Soon a peculiarly subdued blast of street noise reminded me where I was. I opened my eyes.

“Of course. This is Brooklyn.”

A place where, more than most, what people cravenly need is a bit of quietude & peace.

After the three weeks I’d just lived on the street in Brooklyn that hour of silence was a supremely benevolent thing. I was not hungry. Not homeless. In the company of good folks who gather to worship Friends each Sunday; and friends don’t let friends go homeless & hungry.

I quenched my thirst with silence. Drank it in by the ladle load; as though the silence were a bowl of dosed punch.

Ah yes! Communion.

I felt pleased and closed my eyes again.

A Little Poem To No One In Particular

. . . Much

. Never shut up!!

You talk more
than Morris Day has got TIME

You talk so much I’m about
to go blind.

I ask you please don’t talk too much when I’m
laid back


But you never shut up
So I stole you a Rhyme.

It goes:

You talk too much you

HATES everything!

A common mis-perception I’ve spent damn near my whole life trying to clear up:

They do not say “Give it to Mikey. He’ll eat ANYTHING!!”


That would make no sense.

But that is what everyone has always thought they said.

Yeah, give it to Mike E. HE’LL EAT ANYTHING.

In case any of you Foreigners out there don’t know: this was a very famous commercial back while I grew up in the 80’s; one that made me the butt-end of some rather disgusting jokes.

So once and for all folks — please watch it again. And PAY ATTENTION this time!!

It goes:

“Nah — he won’t eat it. HE HATES EVERYTHING.”

Then it’s a big surprise when he actually does like Life Cereal.

Get it?


I walked down the street earlier today. Ran into a friend. He noticed right away — something was amiss.

“Mike E.” He asked. “Where are your pockets??”

“Pockets.” I explained. “Are for to keep cash in.”

But my pockets got empty

All my money got SPENT

So my pockets up & quit my shorts

Said “We don’t work for LINT!!