A Covert Operation

“Operation is my favorite board game.”

Though this was a miserable pick-up line I used at a Halloween party this weekend on a woman that was dressed as the board game, I’m not entirely denying the truth of this statement. Operation was, and still is, a cool frickin’ game. Remember being huddled around the cardboard patient in anxious anticipation of the tweezers hitting the metal sides of one of the patient’s several open areas of surgery? Remember how hard it was to get that wishbone thing out? I think it was worth about five hundred dollars of fake money and you would feel like a total pimp if you got it out. I wonder if anyone was actually inspired to be a doctor by this game. I bet there is some poor soul out there that forever holds the secret of being driven to the medical profession by the exhilaration they once felt after beating their two little sisters and retarded neighbor in a board game by Milton Bradley.

Not only was Operation a fantastic learning experience in human anatomy, it was also probably my first hands-on encounter with the conduction of electricity. This fundamental milestone in human development came right about the same time I discovered the magical feeling of putting my tongue on a nine volt battery, but I forget which one actually came first. Regardless, Operation and the battery trick made the story I was just taught about Ben Franklin much more personal (did he really do that?).

So do you remember how the big red nose on the patient lit up when you got the yips on the hip-bone? Even though I proclaimed Operation as my favorite board game to this attractive girl at the party, it amazingly slipped my mind that the nose lit up like a drunken Irishman when you would crack under the overwhelming pressure.

“What’s with the red nose?”

Whoops. My obvious brilliance at attracting women was evidently derailed in a moment of awkward conversation. Could she now use her god-given power of deductive reasoning and figure out that Operation was not in fact my favorite board game and that I was just another cheese-ball dressed like a 70’s track star with a huge afro? Naaaah.

It’s amazing how through your life Halloween turns from a night of excitement about running through the streets of your neighborhood with a sheet over your head collecting bags of M&Ms that are small enough to be classified as an insult, to a drunk fest full of superheroes, Pirates of the Caribbean, chicks in 50’s outfits, and one-liners that would normally land a high heel in your crotch.

I was given a 1 by a female friend (I’m assuming out of 10 but it could have been out of 100) on my attempt with Operation girl, but though my luck was less than spectacular on this particular Halloween, I do believe that Halloween has to be the easiest night of the year to throw out wildly pathetic pick up lines - any maybe get away with it.

“Can I hold your sword?”
“What would ever inspire you to dress up like Marilyn Monroe? That‘s soooo cool.”
“Do you want to be a real rock star some day?”
“You’re hotter than the real Princess Leia.”

Ok, they suck too, but with a little premeditation I bet you probably have a better chance on Halloween than any other night - and my experience this year is of course a testament to that.

“What uhhhhh, other board games are you into?”

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.


Share some stories of spectacular costumes and less than spectacular advances at poolejohn@gmail.com.

Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?

I did it again. Every time I do it I tell myself that there is no way in hell I'll ever do it again. It's too much of a strain on my body, too much of a psychological trauma; it's just downright unhealthy. I'm taking years off my life every time I do it.

Yep, you guessed it, I went to Wal-Mart.

For me, going to Wal-Mart is the equivalent of being in one of those torture devices that stretches your arms and legs while someone (Sam Walton) with a sinister grin on their face slowly turns the crank another notch every few minutes. When I pushed my cart that needs some serious alignment work through the aisle that has items strewn across the floor - crank. When I scour the store for a salesperson to help me find the soy sauce - crank. My arms and legs are at the brink of snapping off in unison while I wait twenty-five minutes in the check-out line to pay twice as much as I would normally at a grocery store - granted I shoved three times as much stuff in my cart, half of which I probably don't need. And this is all to save a buck on plastic hangers.

"Bwaaa, haa haa," says old Sammy while he sits in his leather chair stroking his cat.

On this particular venture into Sammy's World, after wandering aimlessly around his land of discount, I grew impatient in the check-out line and my eyes drifted to the far end of the store and the (gasp) self check-out. The self check-out line at Wal-Mart is like a beautiful oasis in the middle of the desert after several hours of grueling camelback travel with no water. Is it real? Will I be able to quench my unbearable thirst at this line of only one or two grocery carts? Yes, yes, yes I can!

I remember being drug around the grocery store by my Mom as a kid watching the check out people run each item gracefully across that laser do-hicky. Beep, beep, beep (after two passes). I used to think how easy it must be to scan the bar codes. Why can't we do this ourselves? I guess I was about ten years ahead of my time. That will certainly go on my list of missed opportunities to become a millionaire along with combined cell phone MP3 players and car starters on your key chain.

I moved like a fresh-water salmon during egg-laying season through the ferocious stream of grocery carts headed for the torture chamber of conventional check-out. They're fools! I've won! Who's laughing now Sammy?

There was only one or two more clicks of the torture wheel before I was controlling my own destiny in front of the self check-out machine.

"Do you have any coupons?"
"Please scan your first item."
"Place the item -(pause)- in the bag."

The beauty of technology was clicking the torture wheel gloriously backward. Until, of course, I had to scan a bag of apples. I guess they haven't figured out how to grow bar codes directly on produce. Maybe that will be the invention that puts me in the millionaire category. Either that, or shopping at Wal-Mart for fifty plus years.

Are they Golden Delicious or Granny Smith? Who the hell knows that? We come to Wal-Mart to save a buck not for a lesson in horticulture (is that right?).

Ok, so I should have known that, but instead I pushed the assistance button several times like you do with an elevator in an effort to make it arrive faster. The friendly Wal-Mart personnel finally arrived and directed me to a sticker on the apple that showed a number I needed to punch in. The wheel clicked one notch forward. Though they've yet to grow bar codes directly on apples, they have figured out that putting a sticker with a number on the apple may expedite the process - provided people see it and know what the hell to do with it.

"Thank you, I can figure it out from here."

Give John Poole some psychological trauma at poolejohn@gmail.com

A Big Bowl of Fun

"Hey Tut, set up those things that look like mummies over there and I'm gonna roll this here stone over in a desperate attempt to knock them down."

"Why?"

"Because it's fun damn-it. Eventually we'll have electronic scoring, parking lot brawls and women on roller skates serving us drinks!"

"What the f**k are you on?"

This is the exact conversation that took place in 5200 B.C. when a game similar to modern day bowling was invented in Egypt. Although the evidence of this being true is not exactly substantial (the game not the conversation), it is true that Dutch in New Amsterdam were bowling at ninepins down a plank that was a foot and a half wide in 1650. Bowling was actually banned in Connecticut in 1841 because of the gambling frequently associated with the game (how could they). There is also some evidence that the modern tenpin format was established to circumvent this law and I don't even care if that is true because I'm going to believe it. [some shady-ass website: 2001]

Though "The Dude" and some weird guy being played by Steve Buscemi failed to make an appearance, a good time was had by myself and some friends at a bowling alley this weekend. Oh yeah, we did some bowling as well, however, my fingers couldn't quite fit in the holes properly so the ball took some wild projections from my swinging hand. And yes, I threw a few gutter balls. I had flashbacks of being about nine years old at some classmate's birthday party at the bowling alley and praying to sweet Jesus that I didn't throw a gutter ball because all the other kids would certainly laugh at me. I threw a few then, but that's to be expected as a nine year old.

There is no reason any able bodied adult should throw a gutter ball - and I threw two. That's right, two gutter balls. I really wish I had my gutter ball tosses on video. It must have been a graceful display of pure athleticism. Certainly worthy of SportsCenter or maybe even that half-assed sports show on Fox.

Is it just me or do you always hear about people getting jacked up at bowling alleys? I guess I can't really put my finger on anything besides Allen Iverson getting pounded by some thug in a bowling alley near Washington D.C. Apparently the result of the shakedown landed A.I. in prison for a while and solidified the stigma of bowling alleys being havens for hoodlums and gang bangers. Maybe it was subconscious fear of getting jumped by thugs that made me throw those gutter balls.

What else could it have been?


Play Rock 'N Bowl with John Poole online at poolejohn@gmail.com

Dear Dow Jones

I wish I had a name as cool as yours. Where the hell did you get that name anyway?

Listen buddy, I know things have been a bit rough for you over the past, oh, six or seven ungodly years, but we're there. We made it back! We clawed, we scraped, we hustled, we bustled, and finally we hit an all time high. And you know what really sucks about the whole situation? No one cares. Oh sure, they sipped their champagne and gave a bunch of sugar coated lip service to the accomplishment, but when the push came to the shove they ripped into your thirty piece puzzle like a lawyer prosecuting the Enron case (don't ask).

It must hurt to read those articles about how you're still 17% below an all-time high after adjusting for inflation (or is it stagflation), or how you're not even a true indicator of the stock market in the first place. But I don't want you getting down on yourself - screw those uppity economist jerks. Who do they think they are - Ben Bernanke? You're kicking the pants off the S&P 500 and the NASDAQ which are down 12 and a miserable 54 percent respectively. You worked hard, and you deserve some recognition damn-it. Maybe you should take a vacation - go ahead treat yourself. Head on down to the Caribbean and throw back a few with the Nikkei index and that wrangled pack of Janus mutual funds. Those hommies know how to party! Maybe you could even pick yourself up a lonely little bond fund. Huh? Huh? Who would turn down a man named Dow?

So I just want to tell you that I'm here for you. You and your thirty buddies can come over and hang whenever you want.

So now that we're holding hands and singing Kumbaya, I need to apologize for my little tirade about five years ago. Go ahead; throw me in the fair-weather category, I don’t mind. I’ll be the first to admit that I was screaming bloody murder during the “dark years” of 2000-2002 when you decided to stop taking your medication and crumbled like a stale cookie. What the hell was that? And who the hell do you think you are? I swear, if you pull that bulls**t again I'll......ok, that's enough of that. The bottom line (hee hee) is that we're back to being buds and from now on I'll be with you through bull and bear. Unless of course.....

Send John Poole some irrational exuberance at poolejohn@gmail.com

Rolling the Dice - Amateur Style

So gambling is an addiction right? What about playing local golf tournaments with small amounts of Pro Shop credit on the line? Do these people have problems?

Though I do enjoy throwing a few bucks on whatever mediocre sporting event is on television, I prefer to blow my whole weekend and often a fair amount of money playing cow pasture billiards with dreams of walking away with my arms full of Titleist Pro Vs, visors, and shirts that will eventually be the reason for hysterical laughter from younger people.

Like most kids who grew up playing golf, I had dreams of playing on the PGA tour. For kids, daydreaming about playing professional sports is the adult equivalent of taking two shots of Jack Daniel's and smoking a Newport. Ok, maybe not that good, but when you're young you're still not certain that your life will turn out to be a stagnant rehearsal of day after day mediocrity.....uhhhhh, I mean a lovely and fulfilling schmorgasborg of exciting employment, wonderful family, and friends that never forget to call you back.

Ok, so we've ended up somewhere in the middle, but there are in fact real people that play professional sports and I can't help but wonder if it's really as fantastic as I dreamed before I realized that I'd be better hitting a keyboard than a nine iron. And as Terrell Owens has shown us time and time again, the truth is that most athletes aren't living in the lap of luxury and perpetual happiness that I so often desired as a kid.

Golf has to be the most difficult sport in which to survive professionally. There are no contracts or guaranteed payment just for lacing up your spikes. Yes, Tiger Woods does rake in about eighty million dollars a year and is married to a model, and most of the top 125 players on the PGA tour are very comfortable financially, but the majority of professional golfers are either fighting to make the coveted top 125 or playing on mini-tours wrestling over minimal prize money.

After playing the Boulder shoot-out I thought about the guys that missed the cut this week at the Something Or Other Classic and walked away with nothing after spending thousands of dollars on travel and lodging. All they can do is get in their Honda Civic and zip on over to the next suburban town, play at some posh club with rich membership that doesn't include them, and then see what special is being served up at Applebees that night. I couldn't imagine being responsible for a family while trying to make it on tour. Marginal players certainly can't afford to have their family travel with them to tournaments. I don't think single players have a much better situation either - meeting chicks at strip mall Chinese restaurant bars may not be easy, especially when you're gonna be on the road the next week and you've got a 7:14 tee time the next day. My father spent a couple of months playing qualifying tournaments for the PGA tour before running out of money and taking a job as a teaching pro. He described the experience as "a lonely existence."

So while I go back to my generally rewarding job and steady paycheck (with Pro Vs in hand, thank you), there are folks betting their livelihood on whether a damn golf ball rolls the right way. I'll root like hell for the little guys out on tour, but in the meantime I think I'll feed my debatable mild addiction and roll the dice in low profile amateur events - and dream about a fresh dozen of Titleists.


Tee it up and fire a stinger two iron to John Poole at poolejohn@gmail.com