Just a quick note about watching the Olympics from a different perspective--from that of a small country whose individual accomplishments make those athletes long remembered in New Zealand sports history (almost any Kiwi can tell you their Gold medal distance runner in 1976). Of course, any heat, semifinal, or final with a Kiwi athlete participating automatically meant viewers here sat on the edge of their seats rooting for their compatriot and by virtue of that participation meant they were often the centerpiece of conversation in idle time. New Zealand won nine total medals and each one, including the bronzes, were cherished, which, I think as an American we too often lose sight of in light of the fact that in many instances we feel a bit let down if we don't win Gold. For these Olympics, the U.S. takes solace in the fact that although we didn't win the most Gold medals, we once again won the most overall and this despite some obvious disappointments in track and field (Michael Phelps notwithstanding).
However, though I think China put on a well-run games and demonstrated an organizational efficiency that comes with the idea that society comes before individual, I can't in good faith celebrate either their attempts to put lipstick on the pig (with great facilities and visually stunning opening and closing ceremonies) or their athletic success, which you just know comes at a price for the individuals involved in it. I really hate making this about politics, but the games struck me as remarkably disingenuous as one of the most elaborate facades of modern times. Until China leaves behind its hold on systemic corruption and state-sponsored athletics, its nearly perverse insecurity before the eyes of the West, and its submission to government control from cradle to grave, I will continue to hope that Taiwan beats it in ping-pong.
For a good synopsis of the Chinese definition of athletic success, this link is a must-read:
http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/news?slug=dw-medalcount082208&prov=yhoo&type=lgns
Oh yeah, go U.S.A.!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Poker derelict
So, I managed to grab a seat at the National Pub Poker League Bottom of the South Regional Poker Final this past Saturday, alongside 149 other players from cities like Invercargill, Dunedin, Queenstown, and some smaller towns in between. The top 25 finishers got an automatic entry into the New Zealand National Poker Championship in Christchurch in October. I finished 32nd--the last of the seven alternates. I may have been able to hold on through some big blinds to finish in the top 25, but figured I probably won't be here in October anyway, so what's the point? I played okay, but definitely would have made the cut had I won my last hand, when someone put me all-in pre-flop. I put him on Ace-King to my pocket fours, which, as it turns out, is exactly what he had. It was a good call by me and a good push by him. He caught a King on the turn to win and take me out. By that time, the Jack Daniels girls who were selling drinks in the room had left, so there was nothing to look at except a bunch of dudes with serious attitudes and dreams of poker riches. I would have happily exchanged the 4.5 hours of play for a drink with one of the girls.
There are two roving poker companies in town who host the Sunday-Thursday poker tournaments at the pubs. About three weeks ago, one of them had his final at 11am on a Sunday morning for the 50 or so who qualified. I started well but blew a big hand and went downhill pretty quickly from there, finishing maybe 15th or so. The other company has their final this Sunday, so I'm looking forward to being sucked out on again like I was last night, by a first-time player who had no business at the table. So says the bitter vanquished. I've managed to win two tournaments and make a bunch of other final tables, but the one enduring lesson from this is an appreciation for professionals who sidestep landmine after landmine in daily tournaments to make a living at the game. It really is quite an accomplishment just to make the final table at a 50 person tournament, much less a 1,500 player tournament or 4,000 player tourney. The one built-in advantage of the pub tournaments is that a bunch of the players buy raffle tickets for $5 or $10 and if their card is drawn receive 5,000 or 10,000 in extra chips. For doing nothing, essentially, except contributing to the revenue of the poker company staging the tournament. So, I don't put too much stock in winning these tournaments because I'm opposed to buying the raffle, while others could be short-stacked, win the raffle, and be in good position to make the final table. Anyway, the moral of the story: poker is about luck, yes, to some degree, but it's just as much about betting, and that's the reason you see the professionals finish consistently higher than you do amateurs, keen on winning a $500,000 tournament and then vanishing into the ether.
I'm soliciting for a sponsor. And a Jack Daniels girl.
Not necessarily in that order.
There are two roving poker companies in town who host the Sunday-Thursday poker tournaments at the pubs. About three weeks ago, one of them had his final at 11am on a Sunday morning for the 50 or so who qualified. I started well but blew a big hand and went downhill pretty quickly from there, finishing maybe 15th or so. The other company has their final this Sunday, so I'm looking forward to being sucked out on again like I was last night, by a first-time player who had no business at the table. So says the bitter vanquished. I've managed to win two tournaments and make a bunch of other final tables, but the one enduring lesson from this is an appreciation for professionals who sidestep landmine after landmine in daily tournaments to make a living at the game. It really is quite an accomplishment just to make the final table at a 50 person tournament, much less a 1,500 player tournament or 4,000 player tourney. The one built-in advantage of the pub tournaments is that a bunch of the players buy raffle tickets for $5 or $10 and if their card is drawn receive 5,000 or 10,000 in extra chips. For doing nothing, essentially, except contributing to the revenue of the poker company staging the tournament. So, I don't put too much stock in winning these tournaments because I'm opposed to buying the raffle, while others could be short-stacked, win the raffle, and be in good position to make the final table. Anyway, the moral of the story: poker is about luck, yes, to some degree, but it's just as much about betting, and that's the reason you see the professionals finish consistently higher than you do amateurs, keen on winning a $500,000 tournament and then vanishing into the ether.
I'm soliciting for a sponsor. And a Jack Daniels girl.
Not necessarily in that order.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Queenstown
I've been blog-negligent lately. So I thought since I do the blog primarily to satisfy my personal need to have a record for a later time, when my memory is even more clouded than it currently is, I had better update that record before I forget I was even in New Zealand. In like three weeks.
After three months in Queenstown, it's not hard to imagine why the town has such a pull to it--quaint, young, scenic, and alive, it hit its stride in July just as the snow settled on the tops of the surrounding resorts. Winterfest has come and gone, that 10 day festival with Mardi Gras, live music, and crowds eager to drink the nights away in preparation for the following days' descent on snowboards and skis. The weather is predictably cold, but not that cold, which is saying something because I'm a native Atlantan, which is a euphemism for "I like it hot." It was much colder in Prague, which I can't really understand because I looked at a globe in the library the other day (a globe with pre-1991 USSR on it, North Yemen, South Yemen, etc--their books are on rolls of papyrus and their history books stop after the Industrial Revolution. I made that last part up. And the papyrus part, too.), and Queenstown is at 45 degrees South, which is really freakin' south. If you trace the latitude all the way around the planet, only the very southern part of Chile and Argentina stretch further south than that. The air is remarkably dry, however, which might explain the dearth of snow in town and the relative abundance of sunny skies during the winter. Relative because, of course, after building an ark in Russell during the summer, I'm kind of disappointed that my new wood working and animal husbandry skills won't be needed down here. I'd say that even Atlanta is as cold as Queenstown, generally speaking, which either speaks well of Global Warming--which I'm all for-- or speaks poorly of Global Cooling, which most scientists were warning us about 30 years ago. Basically, it's a win-win situation down here.
Before I paint too rosy a picture of our quaint little ski town, I should mention that I've been sick quite often down here--from sore throats and juicy coughs, to a recently conquered fever and dry cough that made me long for the days of those juicy coughs. I don't know if it's the dry air, the dampness inside the house, or the incessant marijuana smoke that hovers in the family room as my roommate punishes a bong all day long. It may also be the incestual poker tournaments that I've been known to frequent a few days a week--essentially, 50 walking incubators coughing on their hands and then molesting a playing deck, which in turn gets manhandled by yours truly. I'm going with a combination "weed-damp-card" excuse for my new octogenarian immune system. I've gone from a vitamin-popping, gym-addicted, young-looking 34 year old to The English Patient in three weeks. No wonder they have Universal Healthcare down here--between the cigarettes, weed, and Bangladeshi-like dampness, half the population would be addicted to various cold-flu medications with homemade meth labs in their basements if they had to pay $250 each time their doctor told them to "rest."
Yes, a lot of marijuana in New Zealand...but very few Mexicans and Colombians. Which means that the proverbial "New Zealand ingenuity" of which most Kiwis are proud, extends about two inches and requires feats of engineering including packing, rolling, and lighting.
Speaking of my inveterate gambling addiction, there is a thriving poker culture in town, one in which I get to see the same 40 people every night, five nights a week, playing no-limit hold'em for 4 hours trying to win a $50 bar tab and pride. I've managed to win two such tournaments and finish second or third at a few others, which basically means that I'm considering a playing career in Vegas in the near future and am only one sponsor away from listing on my resume under 'Hobbies,' "hitting on cocktail waitresses and 9-3 off-suit." Poker is my girlfriend, which is both bad and good. Bad, because I'm now quite intimate with a biological weapon--a deck of cards, and good because the poker tournaments are free and I don't know of any girlfriend that's free.
By the way, if I ever got a tattoo, it wouldn't be Aces up the sleeve, it'd be far more appropriate--9-3 offsuit. One of my roommates just got a tattoo yesterday and it looks rather trite, if you ask me. And bloody. And painful.
At what point do tattoos become passe, you ask? I'm glad you did. I say they've reached that point already. But with the plethora of Maori tribal designs on Maori and Whitey skin alike, I'm sure NZ will continue to pump out inked-up Kiwis as more people strive to assert their individuality by conforming with everyone else.
Did I ever mention that I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. No, I don't think I did. Okay, so I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. I was both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Chinese diplomats showed up to try to get me to acquiesce to citizenship, but I deferred, citing the whole Communist thing. They wanted me to train with their top ping-pong...excuse me, table-tennis Olympians, but I told them my future included walking pneumonia, early-onset emphysema, and a touch of bacterial meningitis down in Queenstown. Seriously though, I was so good up there in Russell that I will now type about it in the third person. CT played several hundred games all told, and lost but twice. CT believes he has a natural athletic gift in his ping-ponging and is proud to be revered in the hall of Russellian history as 2008 Champion. Sadly, CT realizes that once he turned down the Chinese, his ping-pong future became rather limited...where does CT go next? He has yet to find a table in Queenstown and, even if he did, what else does he have to prove? Do you climb K-2 after climbing Everest? I don't think so. The thrill is gone for CT, so he has decided to instead to invest his time and emotional energy into a game with far more probability, luck, and indeterminism. We wish CT nothing but the best.
I was teaching three Korean girls how to speak English. That gig has run its course, however, so I will most likely soon be looking to book a return flight back to the States, so as to catch the end of summer and the beginning of football season. With no plan, I hasten to step into the abyss once more. Plus, it's been nearly 11 months since I left and, being fairly satisfied that I've seen a lot of what New Zealand has to offer, and hence have come closer to understanding why the country is so naturally beloved, I feel like George W. Bush as he stood on that aircraft carrier in May 2003 with a banner overhead proclaiming, "Mission Accomplished." Which means I probably should spend the next 5 years wandering around the wilderness before asking for directions to the airport. In any event, the easy part, in retrospect getting on the plane, is coming to a close. The next chapter becomes, once more, difficult to write..."What's Next?"
After three months in Queenstown, it's not hard to imagine why the town has such a pull to it--quaint, young, scenic, and alive, it hit its stride in July just as the snow settled on the tops of the surrounding resorts. Winterfest has come and gone, that 10 day festival with Mardi Gras, live music, and crowds eager to drink the nights away in preparation for the following days' descent on snowboards and skis. The weather is predictably cold, but not that cold, which is saying something because I'm a native Atlantan, which is a euphemism for "I like it hot." It was much colder in Prague, which I can't really understand because I looked at a globe in the library the other day (a globe with pre-1991 USSR on it, North Yemen, South Yemen, etc--their books are on rolls of papyrus and their history books stop after the Industrial Revolution. I made that last part up. And the papyrus part, too.), and Queenstown is at 45 degrees South, which is really freakin' south. If you trace the latitude all the way around the planet, only the very southern part of Chile and Argentina stretch further south than that. The air is remarkably dry, however, which might explain the dearth of snow in town and the relative abundance of sunny skies during the winter. Relative because, of course, after building an ark in Russell during the summer, I'm kind of disappointed that my new wood working and animal husbandry skills won't be needed down here. I'd say that even Atlanta is as cold as Queenstown, generally speaking, which either speaks well of Global Warming--which I'm all for-- or speaks poorly of Global Cooling, which most scientists were warning us about 30 years ago. Basically, it's a win-win situation down here.
Before I paint too rosy a picture of our quaint little ski town, I should mention that I've been sick quite often down here--from sore throats and juicy coughs, to a recently conquered fever and dry cough that made me long for the days of those juicy coughs. I don't know if it's the dry air, the dampness inside the house, or the incessant marijuana smoke that hovers in the family room as my roommate punishes a bong all day long. It may also be the incestual poker tournaments that I've been known to frequent a few days a week--essentially, 50 walking incubators coughing on their hands and then molesting a playing deck, which in turn gets manhandled by yours truly. I'm going with a combination "weed-damp-card" excuse for my new octogenarian immune system. I've gone from a vitamin-popping, gym-addicted, young-looking 34 year old to The English Patient in three weeks. No wonder they have Universal Healthcare down here--between the cigarettes, weed, and Bangladeshi-like dampness, half the population would be addicted to various cold-flu medications with homemade meth labs in their basements if they had to pay $250 each time their doctor told them to "rest."
Yes, a lot of marijuana in New Zealand...but very few Mexicans and Colombians. Which means that the proverbial "New Zealand ingenuity" of which most Kiwis are proud, extends about two inches and requires feats of engineering including packing, rolling, and lighting.
Speaking of my inveterate gambling addiction, there is a thriving poker culture in town, one in which I get to see the same 40 people every night, five nights a week, playing no-limit hold'em for 4 hours trying to win a $50 bar tab and pride. I've managed to win two such tournaments and finish second or third at a few others, which basically means that I'm considering a playing career in Vegas in the near future and am only one sponsor away from listing on my resume under 'Hobbies,' "hitting on cocktail waitresses and 9-3 off-suit." Poker is my girlfriend, which is both bad and good. Bad, because I'm now quite intimate with a biological weapon--a deck of cards, and good because the poker tournaments are free and I don't know of any girlfriend that's free.
By the way, if I ever got a tattoo, it wouldn't be Aces up the sleeve, it'd be far more appropriate--9-3 offsuit. One of my roommates just got a tattoo yesterday and it looks rather trite, if you ask me. And bloody. And painful.
At what point do tattoos become passe, you ask? I'm glad you did. I say they've reached that point already. But with the plethora of Maori tribal designs on Maori and Whitey skin alike, I'm sure NZ will continue to pump out inked-up Kiwis as more people strive to assert their individuality by conforming with everyone else.
Did I ever mention that I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. No, I don't think I did. Okay, so I retired as Russell's ping-pong champion. I was both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Chinese diplomats showed up to try to get me to acquiesce to citizenship, but I deferred, citing the whole Communist thing. They wanted me to train with their top ping-pong...excuse me, table-tennis Olympians, but I told them my future included walking pneumonia, early-onset emphysema, and a touch of bacterial meningitis down in Queenstown. Seriously though, I was so good up there in Russell that I will now type about it in the third person. CT played several hundred games all told, and lost but twice. CT believes he has a natural athletic gift in his ping-ponging and is proud to be revered in the hall of Russellian history as 2008 Champion. Sadly, CT realizes that once he turned down the Chinese, his ping-pong future became rather limited...where does CT go next? He has yet to find a table in Queenstown and, even if he did, what else does he have to prove? Do you climb K-2 after climbing Everest? I don't think so. The thrill is gone for CT, so he has decided to instead to invest his time and emotional energy into a game with far more probability, luck, and indeterminism. We wish CT nothing but the best.
I was teaching three Korean girls how to speak English. That gig has run its course, however, so I will most likely soon be looking to book a return flight back to the States, so as to catch the end of summer and the beginning of football season. With no plan, I hasten to step into the abyss once more. Plus, it's been nearly 11 months since I left and, being fairly satisfied that I've seen a lot of what New Zealand has to offer, and hence have come closer to understanding why the country is so naturally beloved, I feel like George W. Bush as he stood on that aircraft carrier in May 2003 with a banner overhead proclaiming, "Mission Accomplished." Which means I probably should spend the next 5 years wandering around the wilderness before asking for directions to the airport. In any event, the easy part, in retrospect getting on the plane, is coming to a close. The next chapter becomes, once more, difficult to write..."What's Next?"
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