Archive for the 'wizardry' Category

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?

No.

I must bet to win.

Dig?

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??

Whoo!!

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.

Why?

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.

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Spun Short by 2 Lengths

My much touted new favorite racehorse is a bit of a speed demon.

I know I know: what a smashing coincidence!!

Did anyone take my advice and bet smartly on Hard Spun last weekend? I didn’t. Oh I bet on him alright. Just that I didn’t bet smartly.

Whole thing reminds me of 3 years ago when I somehow managed to convince what must have been a dozen or more friends to bet Lion Heart to win the Kentucky Derby. Because Lion Heart was the #3 horse. And it just so happens that my lucky number is three.

“Are you sure this horse is going to win?” They asked.

“Oh shit yes.” I insisted. “Ab So Fucking Lutely!”

Occasionally I will take the time to peer pressure you, good readers, into betting on a particular racehorse. Like Hard Spun. When I do just, you know — don’t be a fool.

Bet more than you can afford to lose!

I’m right every single time.

Can I get a Witness??

It’s true.

They all came out to the Bar to watch the Big Race. Lion Heart led 3-quarters of the way around the track. Everyone cheered gloriously & reeled. I gasped elatedly. I’ll never forget the feeling; that a bar-load of friends would win cold cash plus a beautiful buzz — thanks to me! I felt deeply & dizzily pleased.

Now Lion Heart throws the gauntlet down & opens his lead by three!

So said the Churchill Downs track announcer. With only a quarter-mile left to race! It was all over in my book; nothing left to do but grin wildly & lay back — with my mind on my money & my money on my mind.

Bitchin!

But Smarty Jones is a stalking second as they reach the Quarter Pole.

That’s what the track announcer said next. I wasn’t sure what he meant — was there another horse in the race?

Bogus!

Stalking — I learned a few seconds later — is when a racehorse hangs strategically a few lengths off the lead and waits for speed demons like Lion Heart to tire in the homestretch.

My lucky #3 horse got sacked in the race’s final strides. The once-exuberant Bar din fell to what sounded to my ear’s like a disgusted hush.

Ah, fuck.

We who were once so mighty!

All eyes were on me.

Probably the only people in that Bar who felt more dumb than I did, about our collective loss, were the people who put their money where my big mouth was. I told them I knew for sure which horse would win the Kentucky Derby & their dumb asses believed me!

Why not? Remember — I’m never wrong about these things. Also remember: never believe me when I say I know for sure which horse will win a Kentucky Derby. That’s the fantastically wishful thinker in me talking. I have no clue who will win actually.

But I’ll tell you for sure who wants to.

And any racehorse who wants to win stands a fine chance of finishing In The Money.

Hard Spun likewise commanded a powerful lead at the quarter pole in last Saturday’s Derby. I lifted my NY Mets cap off my head and whirled it excitedly. Hard Spun!! Get it? Like, spun on drugs dude!

Awesome.

Way.

But I knew he would get sacked in the end; all good speed demons meet the same fate on Kentucky Derby Day. But you know what?

It was way awesome anyway.

Here’s why — and this is the secret to a good day of gambling anywhere on planet Earth.

I figure I’ll lose. But I want to win. How to reconcile? Make bets I’ll pat myself on the back for even when I lose. Like last Saturday, when I bet $10 on Hard Spun to Win. It was a bet, at the race’s end, that I felt good about. In large part because my heart wanted Hard Spun to win. And to a lesser, though nowhere near insignificant, extent, because I placed that bet with a $10 spot generously donated to my Cause by Absynth Eve.

It also helped that Absynth Eve had Street Sense to Win. I positively whooped on her behalf when her horse took over at the eighth-pole. And Absynth Eve kindly refrained from teasing me over the her/me won/lost scenario all the way up ’till today.

Not lost on us was the fact that our horses came in 1-2; we had the Kentucky Derby exacta. Not that we bet it but we could have. Shit for $2 apiece we could’ve boxed the fucker — to spare ourselves a quibble over particularly in which order those top 2 horses would run.

Also adding to the fun was the total of 1 friend who bet and won on my solid — if not exemplary — recommendation: My buddy KC bet $5 on Hard Spun to Show. A show bet is when you cash in — albeit at shorter odds than the straight bet to Win — when your horse finishes anywhere in the top 3. KC none-too shabbily banked $17.50 on that piddly $5 investment.

The same $5 would’ve returned $25 had I bet my new favorite racehorse to Place (finish in the top 2). How obscenely dumb of me not to!

Like I said: I picked one fuck of a good horse for this year’s Derby. Shit my bitch ass picked the second place finisher in the greatest horserace on Earth! And failed to win money only because I did not bet smartly.

But what the hell? There’ll be more Kentucky Derbies — end of the world notwithstanding. I’ll win money next time; and if not it won’t be for lack of Practice. With that…I’m off to the OTB.

Enjoy the smashingly good race!

Biochemistry of a Make-Believe TNT Fiend

Want PBR.

Got ATP.

Good 2 GO!!

When I want beer and my hand successfully grasps the Pabst Blue Ribbon can from the bar in front of me, the accomplishment is propelled by chemical energy stored in a molecule of adenosine triphosphate (ATP).

atp.GIFPut more precisely: The “PBR accomplishment” is propelled by the release of chemical energy when a phosphate bond (one of the 2 red lines between the 3 P’s in the above diagram) is strategically cleaved from ATP.

The result: Free Energy, available to do work. Or, that’s what they say in the textbooks. It may be more accurate to describe such Free Energy as available to do anything.

Want. Pill.

POP

Another magnificent ATP-propelled accomplishment!!

ATP similarly propels every energy-requiring act by any organism on Earth – be they whale, plankton, salmon or human; from giraffes to the leaf on a tree. Albeit at some expense; an ATP minus one phosphate (adenosine diphosphate or ADP) is like a cooler filled with beer on a hot day – but no ice.

Must..be...remedied!!

When a salmon swims the act is fueled by chemical energy stored in an ATP molecule. ATP makes it so salmons get to swim upstream & have babies. So they need to eat stuff on the way. To make more ATP. To swim up more streams & propagate their species.

But sometimes salmons get caught in a net & grilled on hibachis. The salmon had other plans. But it is dinner now. Flush with energy it no longer requires, on account of being dead.

ATP waiting to happen.

And what will the human do with his freshly-synthesized Free Energy available to do anything?

People use their ATP to run around like chickens with their heads chopped off mostly.

So they can buy more salmon. To get more ATP. So they can crawl imbecilic across the carpet & pick gruelingly for those fabled crumbs of leftover crack cocaine.

So goes the mass of humanity.

Other creatures keep a better handle their ATP habit. Like vultures; supremely patient hunters, who pick nutrient-rich flesh from the bones of the inadvertently deceased. Whitewinged vampire bats drink blood from the toes of sleeping birds. The birds not only survive the predation — they don’t feel a thing.

The described creatures — salmon, vulture, human — are known as chemotrophs (chemo = of or pertaining to chemicals + trophe = nutrition). Chemotrophs extract their energy from biochemicals (bio = Life); from the carbohydrate, protein & fat molecules in food.

In other words: chemotrophs eat for their ATP.

But there are other ways.

Like so:

Ever wonder: Since the Road Runner always somehow evades him — what does Wile E Coyote eat?

TNT.

wile-e.jpg

Actually he doesn’t eat TNT. But when it explodes inadvertantly in his face, squirts brain from his ears and blasts the top half of his skull through a hole in the sky – that TNT nourishes him. Sure as the rest of us are nourished by a bowl of home-made chicken soup.

TNT, coincidentally, is chemical energy.

Which means Wile E Coyote is a chemotroph. Just like me & you. Except, instead of eating salmon, the coyote synthesizes his ATP with energy derived from ACME brand TNT.

Never underestimate coyotes. Delighted, remarkably adaptable — the daredevil species.

His nemesis, the Road Runner, is just some dumb cartoon bird Wile E Coyote chases for giggles & cash. The chase is perpetually doomed. But what the hell? Doom is Money – at least in the Freelance Daredevil business. And a gig is a gig. Trick to it is get a wild kick out of doom.

Like a gambler who knows how to make a fast buck when he loses.

Eat the Road Runner? But…then there would be no Road Runner cartoon. And with no cartoon that coyote is just another doomed jerk on the street.

So he pulls out all the stops to let the road runner get away.

Play to lose. And when you mistakenly win keep a good excuse handy. Plus a dozen-odd hits of strong acid in case you need to hallucinate hugely:

I know what you’re thinking: But Mike E – does Wile E Coyote really synthesize his own ATP?

Great question!

I don’t know. But I can tell you that the TNT-fed cartoon coyote uses ATP to chase the Road Runner sure as a salmon uses ATP to swim upstream.

When something moves on Planet Earth it does so aided by the energy released when a phosphate bond is cleaved strategically from a molecule of ATP. Movement – deliberate movement by a living thing – requires ATP. Just does. Always.

I ask: can Wile E Coyote move across your TV screen without ATP?

Here is an unassailable illustration of the rhetorical nature of my question:

Can I borrow a few thousand bucks? I’ll pay you back when I get a job…

Preposterous!

Dig?

Nothing moves without ATP.

Not even the trickster.

Wile E Coyote is ATP-dependent. Suppose he lacks the cellular mechanism to produce his own. How will he move?

So easy a crackhead could do it.

to be continued…

Not the Superstar?

Superstar Brown pivoted. Faced the ticket taker he had sneaked passed the moment before. Stepped gingerly back. Behind him a sizable crowd of concert patrons funneled inevitably into the cavernous hockey arena; a crowd with whom Superstar Brown hugely wished to blend.

Positively wanted it in every possible way.

But the ticket taker squarely eyed his every move; he was cold caught; soon two yellow-jacketed goons would Handle my friend & deposit him at the end of the line.

Superstar Brown looked back hard at the ticket guy. Quizzically. Like, “What’re you doing here?”

A ticket taker indeed! At a rock concert? What in the heck for?!

There must be some kind of mistake.

The ticket guy glared. Superstar Brown slipped imperceptibly backward. Nearby a pack of goons drooled. The ticket guy gestured to the goons. Pointed to the intruder.

But the intruder had a Jedi Mind Trick handy.

Like, this is not the Superstar you are looking for.

He seemed to say. Peered deep into the ticket guy’s eye.

Nothing to see here.

This is not the Superstar you are looking for.

“Not the Superstar? No.” The ticket dude agreed readily. “This is not the Superstar I’m looking for!”

Swoosh.

Shit was so smooth it looked inadvertent. The ticket taker turned away. Took tickets.

As Superstar Brown shuffled along heroically.