Friday, June 16, 2006

June 16, 2006
Am at computer 9.

Last night, rode with Biddle to the beach, drinking hard cider on the way. We explored some areas which I had pre-designated as being suitable for camping, but found them to be unaccessible. The property values and the demand for real estate out there make it so that each acre is carefully watched. We failed to walk down the beach and check out the dunes.

Then, after eating, we spotted the dog track on the way back to Sunbeam, and decided to go in and fetch some fun by each playing one dog and then leaving. I decided upon #3, and Biddle was going to play #8. We got in the place and it was a beehive of gambling activity. The second floor was all poker. I looked and saw people sitting in what I guessed was their "signature" attire, or their "lucky" wear; hats, weird vests, some in sunglasses, feathers in hair...the garb of The Losers. We went and found a race which was to kick off. I played 3, Biddle, 8. The race went off and #3 took off like a rocket and lead the field by about 7 lengths. "There goes your #3, you're gonna win," said the man to my left, who had been guiding us in deciphering the wall of monitors, which showed races from all over the world; all bettable. Dog number 3 lead untill the last 100 feet of the race, at which point he acted as if he had been shot. He finished about 6th. I think the pundits would say that he "faded." Biddle's dog didn't have to fade, because he was never that vivid. "One more race?" said Biddle, and I realized that I knew we were going to play one more race, even as #3 was "fading," and probably because of the fact that, for about 25 seconds, I was a winner, and only turned into a loser at the very end of the run. I played #1 to win.Biddle played a 3-8 quinella, or whatever they are called. (He took my "lucky" dog, and paired it with his "lucky" dog, to arrive at the combination.) I wouldn't be writing this if Biddle's quinella didn't come in, netting him $38.80. I guess I thought that I was lucky for him, or that I was the one who suggested that we stop and each play one dog...I guess I expected him to at least flip me a five-spot to cover my loss on dog #1, who came out slow and then tapered off...but, Biddle pocketed the money and, to his credit, didn't say "One more race?" Now, I try to be productive. I am supposed to meet the Oriental girl who works at the check cashing place to "help me with my homework." She hasn't shown up yet.
June 17, 2006
Today, Biddle and I went down to the Sulzbaucher Homeless place, in the van, to eat the free meal offered at high noon to all the "needy." One needy guy must have weighed about 280, whom I saw. We did this for psychological reasons; to tease those that have not found their way out of that institution, to prove that there is a way out; to flaunt the van (all '93 Expedition of it)...I wasn't sure. The lasagna was alright.
The only guy to beat me in the last year on the chessboard was sitting there, playing chess. I remember the game. I made a rare mistake and lost my queen (and the game) very early on. I continued to play (which is an insult to the opponent; kind of like the knight in Monty Python who, after having his arm severed, continues to taunt the foe, merely switching his sword to the other hand) and the game actually ended closer than it could or should have. He didn't seem to want any part of me on the chess board. We ate, and then Biddle suggested we go out to the beach. I had told him that I wanted to come to the library to blog and to study Java and CSS, so that I will not be so dumb. He started driving towards the bridge which leads to the beach. I had to firmly insist that
I had an agenda, and that I never appreciated when anyone deflects me from the path I have chosen.This is why I am a loner. I think that the more people in a group, the more "watered down" the dynamic becomes.So, Biddle went on his way, feeling kicked to the curb, no doubt. I came to the library. I spent most of my time on my totally private journal, because I don't trust anyone right now. I feel like someone is going to stop me and search my bag; a Jacksonville phenomenon - hard to explain.

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