and the tap drips . . .
I just got back from an ACME meeting, where my sketch (a hyper-reality sketch about poker "tells") totally killed!
Last time I pitched, I died horribly. I mean, I sucked out loud. I was that great big sucking sound Ross Perot talked about in 1992 . . . so it was great to get up there and give up some funny. Actually, just about everyone gave up some fantastic funny tonight, and I remembered why I tough it out even when my sketch writing sucks: I'm fiercely proud of the ACME, and I love being around the creative people who make up the company.
I'm currently crushed under deadlines, and trying to spin a thousand plates in exciting patterns, but I'm keeping notes on the numerous cool things that are happening right now. I'll write them up when I get some of these deadlines behind me.
Until then, here's a little bit of a poker story I'm working on in my "spare" time:
The small blind folds, and it's folded to the button, who calls. The turn is the 4s. I think about all the hands I've had recently where I got killed: I can't remember the last time AA held up for me, and I've had AK, KK, KJ —pretty much every starting hand from Group 1 and 2 — cracked so many times in limit games, I'm starting to hope for The Hammer. When a draw starts to look good, you know you're in trouble . . .
From a far away place, someone picks up my hands, and shoves all my chips forward. At the same time, he opens my mouth, and says, "All-in." The second mistake.
Gotta go. Morpheus is calling . . .