Another one of the earliest Poker Reports, from before they were called poker reports. Not much has changed since this post went up over two years ago: Bert and Jesse are still the aggressive players, and they both still scare the hell out of me.
Ours is a tough game. Some new players have come for some action and then have lasted for only one game; they come in, buy in for forty dollars, quickly get down to felt (run out of chips), get this shocked look on their faces—What the hell just happened?—and then never come back. There was this one guy, we’ll call him Nowitzki, whom we had played with at another game. You could tell that he thought highly of his poker skills, and he did semi-bluff me on the last hand of that night with his rags, something like an eight and a four, but that was only because I also had rags, but mine were worse, and I didn’t want to bet on the come (betting without a made hand). It was a bad play on his part, though, because even if I’d only had a single nine, I would have been a huge favorite. He left that game with a profit, but that wasn’t the toughest table to make money on; most of our crew also got paid off that night, but we didn’t act like it was a big deal, like we’d just taken green from Cloutier (his Championship No-Limit and Pot-Limit Hold ‘Em is a must-read) or Ferguson, or Johnny Chan. Nowitzki, though, sure was loving himself when he showed me his 8-4 with a smug little smile on his face.
Flash forward to about a month later, to when Nowitzki comes to our game and brings along his roommate, whom we’ll call Finley. They got to the game a little after it had started and they bought in for forty apiece. They both looked like they thought they were going to run the table and chop into our stacks all night. They took beating after beating after beating and they were both tapped out in about half an hour. Bert, who had paid a little to Nowitzki at the previous game, sought justice and/or redress (i.e. payback), and took just about all of Nowitzki’s money himself. After they left, I joked that they could have saved all of us some time, and themselves some grief, by just driving by and throwing eighty dollars at the house, for all the chance that they had of actually defending it at the table. Nowitzki and Finley have not been back.
But back to the difficulty of our game. While it is tough, the players are all tough in their own ways. When the opportunity presents itself, Ozzy, Ivan, and I will cut you open and take your money, but the surgery is done with super-sharp scalpels and it’s efficient and clean and quick and you won’t believe that it actually happened until after it’s over. Wait a minute, where the hell did my lungs go? Also, didn’t I have a pancreas when I got here? Bert and Jesse, on the other hand, prefer to crack you open by beating you repeatedly against the wall until you're tenderized and terrorized and you just want the whole thing to be over and so you pray for death’s sweet and loving embrace. The aggression is just constant and they put pressure on you the whole night to make good decisions. Last night, it was Jesse who was Boss Hogg. He left with over a hundred dollars in profit, which is the first triple-digit night at our game in over two months. I give Jesse much respect (or props, if you will) because he paid out and paid out for his first two-and-a-half months at our game (at least a couple of hundred dollars, probably closer to three), but he kept coming back, and now he plays a truly brutal game.
Bad Beat of the Night: We’re playing Omaha, I’m just to the left of the dealer (making me first to act), and I have unsuited Big Slick. I make the max first-round bet, and Jesse goes right with me. We’re heads up, and I put him on a high pair or two high singles. If the flop misses me, I will check to him and hope for a free card, or fold if he bets it up. The flop comes A-6-K rainbow, the six being a diamond, giving me top two pair. This would be a nice place to slow play my monster hand (because only a set [a pocket pair made into three-of-a-kind with one of the board cards] could be leading me at this point), and have Jesse bet it for me, but against aggressive players like him, sometimes you want to put the pressure on early, thinking that he’ll call or even raise, even if you come out strong. Jesse calls. The next card is a diamond deuce. No help to him unless he’s now got a gutshot straight draw, which, if he is, is great for me because gutshots are sucker hands. I bet the max and he stays in the hand. The next card is a nine of diamonds. There’s no straight to be made, but there is now a diamond flush, but there’s no way Jesse was on a flush draw, especially not when only one diamond landed on the flop and I made him pay to catch the whole way. I had put Jesse on two pair, either A-6 or K-6. I decide now to slow play and represent that I missed my hand, or that it isn’t that strong, hoping Jesse will bet so that I can come in over the top. Jesse makes the max bet, but I can tell by the way that he moved his chips in that he’s holding something real pretty, something that he is sure is unbeatable, or nearly so. I stare and stare at the board. Was he betting a set the whole way? Maybe, but the only set he could have reasonably had was to the six, and he has to know that there are a number of ways that the low set gets cracked, especially since it didn’t get any help on fourth or fifth. How about middle or top set? Maybe, but, instead of calling, he probably would have re-raised me the whole way. Finally, by his demeanor and his bets, I guess that he’s playing a big slick of his own, in which case we’ll just chop the pot if I stay in. I call, and he does turn over big slick, but it’s suited big slick, and he hit runner runner for the nut diamond flush.
It was the one thing I hadn't accounted for. I never could have chased him out because he had the same draw to a monster boat that I did. Neither of us hit the boat, but it turned out that after the second diamond came on fourth, he had nine more outs than I did, and the four outs that we shared would have led to a split pot. I’m actually lucky that I didn’t bet on fifth (strategically, I could only have bet the max), even though I did pay him off big on the hand. Read last week’s post; you’ll notice that I’ve been getting blasted nearly every time that I have top two pair.
Poker Problem: Why is there so much loneliness in the world?
Monday, September 3, 2007
Amazon.com Reviews
I wrote the following post after my book had been out for a few months, but nobody had noticed. Since then, a few reviews have gone up, most of them tending to be favorable, but one reviewer called me "shallow" and said that I needed to "mature as a person and as a writer." How'd she know?
Amazon.com Reviews: I don't have any, and, at this point, it's a little embarrassing. There are some books on Amazon that one wouldn't think would have sold a single copy, (anywhere, ever) but they have, and somebody has taken the time to write a review. So, you lazy bastards, I thought that I'd help you out by giving you some sample Amazon.com reviews that you can borrow and make your very own.
This book is so beautiful, that if it were sitting at a bar, I'd go up to it, "make my move," probably get shot down, and then go home and weep gently into my pillow.
This book is so hot, that I had to handle it with tongs. I mean, not that you have to handle it with tongs. What I'm trying to get across is that there's some heat involved, and direct contact won't be good for you. Not that I know what's good for you. You're right, that would be presumptuous, and I don't know you. No, dude, I'm not trying to tell you how to live. Okay, forget it, just forget it. I'm sorry I bought the whole thing up.
If this book were the sun, then I would be its moon. (Editor's Note: I have no idea what that means.)
If this book were any lovelier, I'd want to rub up against it in an inappropriate manner. I'm sorry. That was, perhaps, a bit much.
The above is a joke, man; do not post these on Amazon.com. The jokes (or “bits,” if you're in the biz) just keep on coming.
Amazon.com Reviews: I don't have any, and, at this point, it's a little embarrassing. There are some books on Amazon that one wouldn't think would have sold a single copy, (anywhere, ever) but they have, and somebody has taken the time to write a review. So, you lazy bastards, I thought that I'd help you out by giving you some sample Amazon.com reviews that you can borrow and make your very own.
This book is so beautiful, that if it were sitting at a bar, I'd go up to it, "make my move," probably get shot down, and then go home and weep gently into my pillow.
This book is so hot, that I had to handle it with tongs. I mean, not that you have to handle it with tongs. What I'm trying to get across is that there's some heat involved, and direct contact won't be good for you. Not that I know what's good for you. You're right, that would be presumptuous, and I don't know you. No, dude, I'm not trying to tell you how to live. Okay, forget it, just forget it. I'm sorry I bought the whole thing up.
If this book were the sun, then I would be its moon. (Editor's Note: I have no idea what that means.)
If this book were any lovelier, I'd want to rub up against it in an inappropriate manner. I'm sorry. That was, perhaps, a bit much.
The above is a joke, man; do not post these on Amazon.com. The jokes (or “bits,” if you're in the biz) just keep on coming.
Advanced Bertian Theory
This is another one of the earliest posts from www.blasmanueldeluna.com, my months-dead former website. This Poker Report has everything: poker talk, food talk, and plenty of griping.
I’m deeply wounded. About an hour into Friday’s game, we stopped for a food break—I had bought stuff for sandwiches and Ivan had bought some tasty-ass posole that his mother’s friend had made—and I turn on my iBook to show the guys the latest entry on my poker blog. Bert starts reading said blog, and he starts laughing like he’s really picking up what I am putting down. After he finishes reading the post, he says, “This is actually pretty good,” which sounds like a complement when you first hear it. We go back to playing, and I start thinking about the actually, like it’s a goddamn miracle that I can put a sentence together. Finally, in mock-despair, I tell him, “Bert, you sound surprised that my blog didn’t kill you. Dude, I am a professional writer.” Okay, considering that I’m a poet, saying that I’m a professional writer is a pretty huge stretch because it would be impossible to make less money at writing than a poet does.
Really, though, Bert’s surprise that my blog didn’t induce soul-destroying pain or profound sleepiness isn’t that hard to understand. The fact that I’m a writer doesn’t really get mentioned at the game, mostly because it’s hard to instill fear and/or respect in other poker players when the fact that you’re a poet comes up. Who’s scared of a poet? Only a smaller poet, or a really young child.
But let’s talk about the game. The truth: I didn’t want to admit this, but I think my game’s been figured out. I don’t win the big pots anymore (and I used to win some really big ones) and when I do have winning nights, it’s not for a lot of money. There was a five-week period when I was top dog, but those days aren’t coming back anytime soon. I play a pretty mathematical/strategic game that’s pretty much aggression-free, and it worked fine for a while. It is vulnerable, though, to aggression, and aggression is what’s been kicking my ass. First, Bert began to come at us with the Bert Classic, the Bert Light, and the Bert Death Spiral—his devastatingly devastating poker techniques that I’ve taken to calling Advanced Bertian Theory—started scaring the hell out of everybody, and ran the show for a while. Then Jesse adopted some of these techniques, became a stone killer at the table, and he started taking my money. Then last night, Ivan, who designed this website, started using Advanced Bertian Theory and he was pulling green from everybody for a few hours. Ozzy, my big bro, also incorporates some ABT into his game, but he wasn’t there last night. I’m the only one left playing a conservative style, and it will never get me paid off big again.
I did make money last night—actually my best night in months—but it was luck more than anything else. Most of the quan came on a hand of Omaha High-Low. I made the nut straight to my king on the flop, but I was vulnerable to a flush and to a higher straight if a king came down. I checked, somebody bet a dollar, and I, hoping to drive out some players and represent my monster hand, check-raised it to three, but all four of us stayed in. Fourth didn’t hurt me, I bet the max, but everybody stayed in. What comes down on fifth? A king, opening me up to get cracked with an ace-high straight. I check it when it comes to me, but Jesse isn’t having it. He bets the four, Ivan calls, and it comes to me. This one’s a thinker. There’s only one hand that beats me for the high, so it would be hard for anybody to lay down my hand. And one or both of the players still in could be going for the low, but what will Bert do when it comes to him? I’ve got to call because I’d rather lose an additional four than punk out right before the showdown. With three of us already in, maybe Bert will fold, making my hand much, much stronger. Bert calls, and it’s time to declare. To declare, you take one, two, or three chips in your clenched hand and open your hand on the count of three. If you’re holding one chip, you’re in for the low. Two chips: you’re after the high. Three: going both ways. On three, we all open our hands and all of us are going high. I’m sure that I've been caught up to on fifth, even though I had bet it up the whole way. In the micro-seconds before we turn over our cards, I try to get myself spiritually prepared for the brutal ass-kicking that I’m sure is on the way. I say that I’ve got the straight to the king and ask if it held up, pretty sure that, with three other players also after the high, there’s no way that it could have. Everybody else mucks their hands, and I take the pot. How did this happen? Everybody thought that everybody was going for the low, so they all went high, thinking that two pair or three of a kind would be good for the high.
Poker Problem: Death. What is that about?
I’m deeply wounded. About an hour into Friday’s game, we stopped for a food break—I had bought stuff for sandwiches and Ivan had bought some tasty-ass posole that his mother’s friend had made—and I turn on my iBook to show the guys the latest entry on my poker blog. Bert starts reading said blog, and he starts laughing like he’s really picking up what I am putting down. After he finishes reading the post, he says, “This is actually pretty good,” which sounds like a complement when you first hear it. We go back to playing, and I start thinking about the actually, like it’s a goddamn miracle that I can put a sentence together. Finally, in mock-despair, I tell him, “Bert, you sound surprised that my blog didn’t kill you. Dude, I am a professional writer.” Okay, considering that I’m a poet, saying that I’m a professional writer is a pretty huge stretch because it would be impossible to make less money at writing than a poet does.
Really, though, Bert’s surprise that my blog didn’t induce soul-destroying pain or profound sleepiness isn’t that hard to understand. The fact that I’m a writer doesn’t really get mentioned at the game, mostly because it’s hard to instill fear and/or respect in other poker players when the fact that you’re a poet comes up. Who’s scared of a poet? Only a smaller poet, or a really young child.
But let’s talk about the game. The truth: I didn’t want to admit this, but I think my game’s been figured out. I don’t win the big pots anymore (and I used to win some really big ones) and when I do have winning nights, it’s not for a lot of money. There was a five-week period when I was top dog, but those days aren’t coming back anytime soon. I play a pretty mathematical/strategic game that’s pretty much aggression-free, and it worked fine for a while. It is vulnerable, though, to aggression, and aggression is what’s been kicking my ass. First, Bert began to come at us with the Bert Classic, the Bert Light, and the Bert Death Spiral—his devastatingly devastating poker techniques that I’ve taken to calling Advanced Bertian Theory—started scaring the hell out of everybody, and ran the show for a while. Then Jesse adopted some of these techniques, became a stone killer at the table, and he started taking my money. Then last night, Ivan, who designed this website, started using Advanced Bertian Theory and he was pulling green from everybody for a few hours. Ozzy, my big bro, also incorporates some ABT into his game, but he wasn’t there last night. I’m the only one left playing a conservative style, and it will never get me paid off big again.
I did make money last night—actually my best night in months—but it was luck more than anything else. Most of the quan came on a hand of Omaha High-Low. I made the nut straight to my king on the flop, but I was vulnerable to a flush and to a higher straight if a king came down. I checked, somebody bet a dollar, and I, hoping to drive out some players and represent my monster hand, check-raised it to three, but all four of us stayed in. Fourth didn’t hurt me, I bet the max, but everybody stayed in. What comes down on fifth? A king, opening me up to get cracked with an ace-high straight. I check it when it comes to me, but Jesse isn’t having it. He bets the four, Ivan calls, and it comes to me. This one’s a thinker. There’s only one hand that beats me for the high, so it would be hard for anybody to lay down my hand. And one or both of the players still in could be going for the low, but what will Bert do when it comes to him? I’ve got to call because I’d rather lose an additional four than punk out right before the showdown. With three of us already in, maybe Bert will fold, making my hand much, much stronger. Bert calls, and it’s time to declare. To declare, you take one, two, or three chips in your clenched hand and open your hand on the count of three. If you’re holding one chip, you’re in for the low. Two chips: you’re after the high. Three: going both ways. On three, we all open our hands and all of us are going high. I’m sure that I've been caught up to on fifth, even though I had bet it up the whole way. In the micro-seconds before we turn over our cards, I try to get myself spiritually prepared for the brutal ass-kicking that I’m sure is on the way. I say that I’ve got the straight to the king and ask if it held up, pretty sure that, with three other players also after the high, there’s no way that it could have. Everybody else mucks their hands, and I take the pot. How did this happen? Everybody thought that everybody was going for the low, so they all went high, thinking that two pair or three of a kind would be good for the high.
Poker Problem: Death. What is that about?
It Comes, And It Goes. Amen.
This is also one of the early Poker Reports, written over two years ago. I probably haven't read it since shortly after I posted it, but it's nice to see that some things don't change. I complained about bad beats then, and I'm still complaining about bad beats now.
The usual players: My big bro,, Bert, Ivan, Jesse, and yours truly. The game is at Bert’s, and he puts out a nice, poker-appropriate spread: cold cuts, popcorn, chips, soda, uppers, weed, and coffee. No, I’m kidding. Nobody was drinking coffee. Man, that's some high-level comedy; it hurts to be this hilarious.
Seriously, though, have you ever had one of those nights where you feel like you're playing nearly at the top of your game—not chasing, not over-calling, randomizing your game, betting when you should—but you're not winning many hands? It was one of those nights. I started off okay, and I was never down for the night, so that's something. Still, five times I made top two pair off the flop. Usually, this is a situation that pays off, and you bet accordingly, unless you read that you're drawing against somebody who made a set (holding a pair and making three of a kind on the flop), but that’s unlikely. Each time it came to me, I made the maximum bet, but at least one person went with me. Just about every time, it turned out, I was in the lead after the flop with my top two pair, but somebody always caught up to me on fourth or fifth. It was like this: I was standing at the side of the road, expecting to be picked up for short trip to a nice little place I like to call "Profit Land." I waited and waited, but the vehicle (I'm imagining something classy and understated: a gigantic-ass gold Escalade with spinners and a booming stereo. Also, it has hydraulics and somebody is hitting the switches.) never came.
The only time the whole night that my top two pair did pay off was when I hit runner runner for a backdoor straight that wasn’t even the nut straight. Of course, I couldn't bet it up because there were tons of potential hands out there that would have cracked my measly straight.
Poker Problem: Why must God destroy everything that I love?
The usual players: My big bro,, Bert, Ivan, Jesse, and yours truly. The game is at Bert’s, and he puts out a nice, poker-appropriate spread: cold cuts, popcorn, chips, soda, uppers, weed, and coffee. No, I’m kidding. Nobody was drinking coffee. Man, that's some high-level comedy; it hurts to be this hilarious.
Seriously, though, have you ever had one of those nights where you feel like you're playing nearly at the top of your game—not chasing, not over-calling, randomizing your game, betting when you should—but you're not winning many hands? It was one of those nights. I started off okay, and I was never down for the night, so that's something. Still, five times I made top two pair off the flop. Usually, this is a situation that pays off, and you bet accordingly, unless you read that you're drawing against somebody who made a set (holding a pair and making three of a kind on the flop), but that’s unlikely. Each time it came to me, I made the maximum bet, but at least one person went with me. Just about every time, it turned out, I was in the lead after the flop with my top two pair, but somebody always caught up to me on fourth or fifth. It was like this: I was standing at the side of the road, expecting to be picked up for short trip to a nice little place I like to call "Profit Land." I waited and waited, but the vehicle (I'm imagining something classy and understated: a gigantic-ass gold Escalade with spinners and a booming stereo. Also, it has hydraulics and somebody is hitting the switches.) never came.
The only time the whole night that my top two pair did pay off was when I hit runner runner for a backdoor straight that wasn’t even the nut straight. Of course, I couldn't bet it up because there were tons of potential hands out there that would have cracked my measly straight.
Poker Problem: Why must God destroy everything that I love?
A Straight Flush That Doesn't Pay Off
As far as I can tell, this was the first of many Poker Reports, long before I called them "Poker Reports" and they took over my website.
The usual players: my big bro, Bert (the inventor of the Bert Classic, the Bert Light, and the Bert Death Spiral), and Ivan (my web guru and a man who I can never get to fold). Missing in action was Jesse. No matter what, Jesse will show up for a game, even if it means showing up at eleven. You've got to respect that kind of dedication to the life of sin.
A new player named Ruben came in and was taking all of our money. He left ahead, but not that far ahead. Earlier, when he was way up, he had joked that he had to leave early. I said, “Try to leave; see how far you get.”
It was a joke, mostly.
Idiot Move of the Night: We're playing Omaha, and I'm holding two diamonds. The flop gives me an open-ended straight flush draw. Even if I don't make the straight flush, I can make a flush to my nine of diamonds, which isn't that high, but that might hold up if I play it correctly. There's some low betting and, without a made hand, I just call it. Fourth street comes down, and I make my straight flush. Amen.
Everybody checks it down, and now it's my play. I have the nuts (an unbeatable hand), so I could check and hope one of the guys makes a decent hand and he bets it up. Maybe somebody is even slow-playing a flush and is going to try to get paid off on fifth.
Okay, the classic/smart play is to check it and try to represent that I'm on a draw. Fifth street comes and somebody bets, I come over the top, and I get paid off nicely.
Of course, I get greedy, like a dumb bastard, and I make the max bet, two dollars, and everybody folds. No fifth street and no fifth street betting.
Poker Problem: What the hell is wrong with me?
The usual players: my big bro, Bert (the inventor of the Bert Classic, the Bert Light, and the Bert Death Spiral), and Ivan (my web guru and a man who I can never get to fold). Missing in action was Jesse. No matter what, Jesse will show up for a game, even if it means showing up at eleven. You've got to respect that kind of dedication to the life of sin.
A new player named Ruben came in and was taking all of our money. He left ahead, but not that far ahead. Earlier, when he was way up, he had joked that he had to leave early. I said, “Try to leave; see how far you get.”
It was a joke, mostly.
Idiot Move of the Night: We're playing Omaha, and I'm holding two diamonds. The flop gives me an open-ended straight flush draw. Even if I don't make the straight flush, I can make a flush to my nine of diamonds, which isn't that high, but that might hold up if I play it correctly. There's some low betting and, without a made hand, I just call it. Fourth street comes down, and I make my straight flush. Amen.
Everybody checks it down, and now it's my play. I have the nuts (an unbeatable hand), so I could check and hope one of the guys makes a decent hand and he bets it up. Maybe somebody is even slow-playing a flush and is going to try to get paid off on fifth.
Okay, the classic/smart play is to check it and try to represent that I'm on a draw. Fifth street comes and somebody bets, I come over the top, and I get paid off nicely.
Of course, I get greedy, like a dumb bastard, and I make the max bet, two dollars, and everybody folds. No fifth street and no fifth street betting.
Poker Problem: What the hell is wrong with me?
People Are Talking
The below post was one of the first things that I posted on www.blasmanueldeluna.com. I had started that website to pimp my book, but the thought of doing that made me sad, so I instead decided to make fun of myself. I'm great at that.
The book's out there, and it's starting to get some heat. Writers, really famous ones, have things to say.
This book made me want to drink battery acid and sleep with whores.
—Charles Bukowski
This is just to say
that this book really sucked.
—William Carlos Williams
The book doesn't contain multitudes,
but it didn't kill me.
—Walt Whitman
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Blas Manuel De Luna
I
He sucks.
II
Really sucks.
III
We’re talking world-class levels of suckiness.
IV
It must hurt to suck that much.
V
I mean, really, it’s embarrassing how much he sucks.
VI
Embarrassing for him.
VII
Embarrassing for me.
VIII
Embarrassing for poetry.
IX
Probably embarrassing for the world, in general.
X
I’m sure the universe isn’t too happy, either.
XI
Do you think he knows?
XII
Should somebody tell him?
XIII
No, not me. Somebody else.
—Wallace Stevens
Bleak? I can out-bleak this guy with one traumatic event tied behind my back.
—Sylvia Plath
The bitch can't write.
—William Shakespeare
This book made me want to drink battery acid and sleep with whores.
—Emily Dickinson
The book's out there, and it's starting to get some heat. Writers, really famous ones, have things to say.
This book made me want to drink battery acid and sleep with whores.
—Charles Bukowski
This is just to say
that this book really sucked.
—William Carlos Williams
The book doesn't contain multitudes,
but it didn't kill me.
—Walt Whitman
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Blas Manuel De Luna
I
He sucks.
II
Really sucks.
III
We’re talking world-class levels of suckiness.
IV
It must hurt to suck that much.
V
I mean, really, it’s embarrassing how much he sucks.
VI
Embarrassing for him.
VII
Embarrassing for me.
VIII
Embarrassing for poetry.
IX
Probably embarrassing for the world, in general.
X
I’m sure the universe isn’t too happy, either.
XI
Do you think he knows?
XII
Should somebody tell him?
XIII
No, not me. Somebody else.
—Wallace Stevens
Bleak? I can out-bleak this guy with one traumatic event tied behind my back.
—Sylvia Plath
The bitch can't write.
—William Shakespeare
This book made me want to drink battery acid and sleep with whores.
—Emily Dickinson
The First Post, Again
This was the first ever post on www.blasmanueldeluna.com, back in April of 2005.
Let's be honest: everybody has a blog now. There's no real reason to have to read another one. There's hardly a reason to be writing one. But…here I am. Why? Because there's a niche to fill. Since nobody's chosen to write about me, I guess that I'll have to pick up the slack.
Lazy-ass America.
If it were possible to contract out the work—they're doing some nice stuff in India nowadays, and I could low-ball the hell out of some young guy and get an obscenely good deal—then I would. But, really, I'm barely interested in my own life, and I'm sure that my ghostwriter would be bored to tears.
Okay, you've probably noticed the four sad little jokes in the preceding paragraphs. (What? Four? There were four?) Yes, there were four. I'm going to admit now that I have a need to try to be funny. In fact, I think I'm funny as hell. Maybe you'll think so, too. We'll see.
Oh, yeah, I'm also trying to move product. Look over to the right. You might also have to scroll down a little bit. See where it says My Book? See that little rectangle below it, the one with the lovely picture of a peach orchard?
That's the cover of my book. I don't want to brag, but it's probably the best book that I've ever written. It is also, sadly, the only book that I've ever written. Click on it and order my book. Order a dozen. That's what a good person would do.
Let's be honest: everybody has a blog now. There's no real reason to have to read another one. There's hardly a reason to be writing one. But…here I am. Why? Because there's a niche to fill. Since nobody's chosen to write about me, I guess that I'll have to pick up the slack.
Lazy-ass America.
If it were possible to contract out the work—they're doing some nice stuff in India nowadays, and I could low-ball the hell out of some young guy and get an obscenely good deal—then I would. But, really, I'm barely interested in my own life, and I'm sure that my ghostwriter would be bored to tears.
Okay, you've probably noticed the four sad little jokes in the preceding paragraphs. (What? Four? There were four?) Yes, there were four. I'm going to admit now that I have a need to try to be funny. In fact, I think I'm funny as hell. Maybe you'll think so, too. We'll see.
Oh, yeah, I'm also trying to move product. Look over to the right. You might also have to scroll down a little bit. See where it says My Book? See that little rectangle below it, the one with the lovely picture of a peach orchard?
That's the cover of my book. I don't want to brag, but it's probably the best book that I've ever written. It is also, sadly, the only book that I've ever written. Click on it and order my book. Order a dozen. That's what a good person would do.
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