Of Mice and Men

to New Years Eve revelers,

If you don't want to kill your joy, avoid Steinbeck's novella of insight on this last day of the year. Avoid Grapes of Wrath too; that ending was more than a bit weird. I'm all for depressing novels, but they can sometimes be a bit too much at the wrong moments or the wrong moods.

According to Wikipedia (which is still asking people for donations when all it needs to do is add one small little adbar to reap beaucoup revenue), Steinbeck took the name of the novel from a Robert Burns's poem, To a Mouse. Which makes perfect sense, and I've used that tidbit of information to inflate my ever large hubris many a time to the right people. The original line from the poem reads--

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,

Reversioned into coherent English by a Wikipedia author who, supposedly, doesn't get paid--

The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,

But I much prefer my version: The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry. 'Schemes' has a bad connotation, and I don't consider myself much of a 'schemer'. 'Oft' sounds kind of sexy in an archaic way. It's a word that most people can define using context clues skills they learned in 5th grade, but still adds a mystique to the conversation. That or they'll start considering you a pretentious ass who uses thesauri or Google to make yourself sound [even] smarter than you are. Either way, it is a win-win.

Though I confess I do use thesaurus.com and Google plenty of times to clean up my diction (poorly, I might add), the bit about 'go oft awry' dates back to 12th grade when I was still confined to rules of proper English in order to vanquish the English Literature AP test. On a tangent, I like blogs because the sheer amount of daily writing involved almost excuses wordiness, my prime offense.

English Lit class involved reading dry, supposedly wry texts from masters whom I wished the editors modernized to something readable. Not dumbed down to Jersey Shore level, but at least to a style you might see in Times magazine. Being in class also meant being a complete failure at trying to impress girls with my use of the English language. Besides the relatively large but slowly shrinking size of my savings account, my command of this mutt-language is the best thing I have going for me. Pretty sad, I must admit.

Anyway, it probably happened like this, the 'go oft awry' bit: We read stuff in class, probably pieces like the Burnsian poem. The teacher in a more optimistic mood asks a bunch of seniors 2 months from graduation, what a particular line means. After being beatdown with glares and sneers through most of my pre-adolescent and pubescent life, I'd learned not to raise my hand as often. But since the guy was in such a pleasant mood, I threw him a bone.

'That's nice, Mr. Nguyen. Though would you really choose to use "oft"? It's a bit archaic, isn't it?'

It's a peeve of mine when teachers address students by their last name. They try to elevate you to their level, yet this oddity (since every other teacher calls you by your first name) reminds you that they hold the superior position in the relationship. It is utterly condescending. Don't pretend I'm not your b--, smiley face.

'Yes, I'd rather stick with my choice of "oft", though I very well know that it is likely an old-form of "often" and though my classmates probably don't know that, I do, and I'm kind of the only person that matters to me.'

Okay, the story went nothing like that. In my lukewarm quest towards complete Advanced Placement domination, I deferred learning the important material by reading pleasurable stuff. Before this potent Netflix addiction, my past vice was reading for hours on end until the wee hours of the morning. And when I got to a particularly savory bit of writing, I'd write it down to pwn for my own use later. So was born the 'go oft awry bit'. Mr. Optimistic assigned us texts to read, and sat down to whatever he wanted to read, and if you wanted to learn, he was there to teach. Those teachers were swell.

Excuse the long, pointless story.
--

Last New Year's Eve, I was stuck in Dallas, down and out with a cold for the nth time. And I did nothing but attempt to console myself with largish quantities of cough syrup (sadly, it wasn't purple). In my drug- and cold-induced stupor, I thought about resolutions I had made. I was going to start setting down, find a nice girl, have her try to change me for the better as girls are wont to do, etc. Probably that summer, I would start looking at condos in the Addison area and join some book club or something. Start to put down true connections and such. My friends would have started their rotations by then in the Dallas area, and I'd have some people to help me meet new people. It was going to be all good and swell.

Then a month before Easter, the 'go oft awry' bit happened, and I was informed I would be 'displaced' which was the HR-approved term they used. Though it put me in a tailspin, I thought I was pretty well qualified to try to do non-retail stuff, like hospital or long-term care.

No dice. I spent the better part of three months depressed that employers refused to acknowledge my existence simply because I didn't have the 'experience' they were looking for. So I gave up going for hospital/clinical jobs.

Shortly after that decision, I landed a job doing the same work with more pay (the rate was pretty sick) and closer to home. The first cut is the deepest, as Sheryl Crow croons. I worked all the extra shifts possible since I felt the job wouldn't last all that long. And sadly, I was right.

So this is where I am today, chillaxing, figuring out my next move, wondering how many hours of Netflix I'll watch tomorrow when I'm hungover from tonight's festivities. I say 6-8 hours, and that's probably an underestimate.
--

Recently, I gave some advice to the newest brothers in my pharmacy fraternity. The first bit when like this:

Firstly, ‘things fall apart.’ Things Fall Apart is a book written by Chinua Achebe about a tribal leader in Africa who resists the change in his community by the white men. But by being so steadfast in his ideals, he eventually becomes frustrated and commits suicide, which is one of the chief sins in his belief system. It is a very sad irony. What does this have to do with...pharmacy? Things will change, for better or for worse. You must learn to cope and deal with all types of circumstances. Things will not always turn out as you expect them to, but if you realize this early on, it will not be as hard to handle when things do not go your way. Bend, but do not break. [end]

I thought about titling this post 'Things Fall Apart', but that's such a dreary opener. And it's not completely encompassing of my life this past year. I'm not dead, and I'm very much the better for my experiences this past year. I've paid off all my debt, and I finally have a virtual tabula rasa, a clean slate. I can do or not do whatever the hell I want. It's like ice cold lemonade sweetened with real sugar on a hot summer day when you're inside with the AC blustering hard to keep it a cool 68 degrees, after you've spent 2 hours mowing and edging the lawn of a house on the corner lot. Utterly magnificent.

Though I won't go so far as to say 'Things Fall in Place', I will say this past year has been more constructive than destructive. The most fitting epitaph for this year is, therefore, 'the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.'

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Never.. 2010, what a wondrous year!

Job Search Begins in Earnest

To the pharmacy job-seekers,

Would you mind ever so nicely to forward me your contacts? Especially the really good sounding ones with hefty pay and minimal stress? Thanks in advance!
--

The Vegas chronicles can get a bit dreary for the non-poker folks, so I'll intersperse them with the regular dreary stuff. I promise at the end of the Vegas posts, there will be something about a 5-10, 6-4 in stripper heels, platinum blonde 'exotic dancer'. But it will likely be at least a week before then. I can be a tease, I know.
--

After getting back from Sin City, I reconciled my losses and partitioned my poker bankroll from my regular cash stash. Both were dismally low, so I supplemented with a drive-up ATM withdrawal which took more than 10 minutes because some lady in an SUV was having a pleasant conversation with the machine which included about 10-15 hand motions. Honestly, if you need more than 5 minutes at a drive-up ATM, do everyone a favor and go inside. There are actual human beings paid to service you when you need that many transactions, and they won't be snide and say stuff like, 'Did you know you could deposit your check at the ATM outside?'

When I got to the machine, it took me less than 2 minutes to get my dough, even without the quick-cash option.

With that little windfall, I paid back my bankroll for the night at the Spearmint Rhino, then paid my parents for the DSL and phone service. And then my cash was once more depleted. Though my credit cards, bank & saving accounts are relatively solid, it's the cash that makes me happy or depressed; if I had a $1000 in cash in which to roll around, I'd feel momentarily richer than if I had $10 with $10,000 in the bank. It's pretty stupid, my sense of wealth, but I digress.

On the last night in Vegas, I had come to a conclusion (more on this later), that poker would be, at best, a side-gig for me and that I should suck it up and go find a real job with a 401(k) and benefits. Because you can work an entire week as a poker player making all the right decisions and still lose money, whereas the worst pharmacist in the country is pretty much guaranteed at least $50/hr. But I still think poker is my lottery ticket to the big-time, especially tournament poker. I found out that cash game poker isn't my cup of tea since it can be static and boring, eventually shifting my play to autopilot which isn't winning poker.

I checked if this job in Houston was still available and it was. Reposted after a month in fact. That's always a good sign. Unlike poker, second-best is still pretty good if it treats you right.

But sleep can cure insomnia and cause amnesia, so I sequestered all the icky job seeking notions as soon as I touched down in H-town. You know, because I had to clean up and stuff, and reconcile bills, and wash clothes, and play on my PS3, and finish up the Battlestar Galactica series, and start on the X-Files, etc. And it's not like I wasn't still completely solid. The way I lived my life as a college student, I could go 4 years without seeing another red cent in earnings. Old world Asians are the camels of the money world--there is no such thing as interest and credit because we can do without. Except those degenerate gambling ones; they're like reverse camels, 'Spend it if you got it!'

So after initially planning to submit my resume on Sunday night, here I am on Wednesday, still messing around, wondering if I'm up to scratch to start a brand new career, preferably non-retail. A few years back, I had deluded myself into thinking it was a fear of success (if I succeeded, then there would be a longer path ahead) that handcuffed me from doing what I really wanted. Most assuredly it is a mortal fear of failure. Perfectionism, ironically, is a major flaw.
--

The PS3 game I've been playing lately is InFamous, a sandbox-style game where you take the reigns of Cole MacGrath, a guy with newly donned superpowers courtesy of an electrical explosion that wipes out half a borough. Funny how you never play the role of a Dwight from the Office. You choose to be good or evil, and the storyline progresses depending on the path you take. It's a pretty novel concept, I think, perhaps one of the first of its kind to take it that far.

The cool thing about the game is that there is almost no penalty for dying. You start off at the nearest checkpoint, and progress with a full energy bar to boot! So much for those Contra days when you had 3 lives to beat a near impossible game without the cheat code (or use a computer emulator with save states). After the first couple of missions, I got over my fear of simulated heights, being shot, and dying multiple times. And it's pretty fun to electrocute, sticky-bomb, and fry your enemies with lightning storms.

I would say that's the new culture of video games. Continue where you left off, with perhaps a slap on the hand. Even on hard difficulty. And that might be the new culture of this era. It's okay to fail, so long as you try. It's the quitting or not trying that's punishable by mediocrity.
--

And so this old dog (at heart) must learn some new tricks, must put aside all those messed up thoughts of superiority and/or inferiority, don the devil-may-care attitude of the new generation, take some lumps, and keep on moving towards less imperfection. Because perfection is a false idol and prophet which will lead all souls to mire in their illusions of grandeur.

But my resume/CV will still be grammatically perfect!

This time will be the last time
That we will fight like this..

Vegas Day 1, Part Deuce: The Donks Come Out At Night

To the donks who call to the river with middle/bottom pair,

Thanks!
--

So the soul crushing began at the Wynn poker room, a nice little place adorned in leather and wood and lace and sugar and spice. I really could care less as long as the action was good and the players next to me didn't smell. According to the Poker Atlas, the Wynn has a swank 26-table room that treats lower-limit players like crap (in terms of chip runners & cocktail waitresses, etc), which wasn't really a problem. It's not like I wanted some fruity 4-ingredient cocktail. Anyplace can pop the cap off a cold Heineken.

I look at the LCD screen at the entrance displaying the games available and found one to my liking: 1-3 NL, no limit with a $1 small blind and $3 big blind. Kind of strange since usually the big blind is twice the small blind, but Vegas is trying to appeal to lower limit players while still making a profit.
--

Session 1.0: Know When The Relationship Is Over

'Do you have your red card sir?'

I hand the dealer the red Wynn card I got an hour earlier. He scans it right there using a machine that sits on the table itself. Vegas is advanced with their comps.

My chips arrive, 40 reds, $200, the standard amount in a 1-2 NL game if you're looking to limit losses while still getting good implied odds to stack* another player. I figured a 1-3 NL game would be similar.

I toss away the first couple hands without a second thought. In cash games, one has to play super-tight, only staying in with the nuts. For new players, if you don't think you're absolutely good, toss that mess away, even if they're two face cards--you'll save yourself a lot of misery. The third hand of the session I would receive the second best hand in holdem: KK, which I like to refer to as Action Jacksons, since those old fellas look a lot like dead President Andrew Jackson on my favorite US bill. The cutoff had raised to $15, and I re-popped it to $45 to go. I get a caller and the initial raiser calls: 3 to the flop. Good start, playing against 2 players with a monster hand and an already monster sized pot over $130.

Flop comes Ad, 6c, 4d. F-- the Ace.. I remain nonchalant, and check to one of the two aces that were sure to be in the hands of my opponents. The first bets, the second calls, and I get out of the way, folding my monster pocket pair which I was certain was no longer good. Two more diamond rags come on the turn and river which would have made me the nut flush with my Kd, but I couldn't have stayed in. They turn their cards: 66 (flopped a set) and A6 (flopped 2-pair), the 66 won with the diamond flush. It sucks to be right sometimes.

The players to my right and left automatically read my hand from the action. 'You had Kings, right?' I laugh, 'Am I that transparent?' They also read me as a dangerous player since I laid down Kings without hesitation knowing it wasn't good. It's nice to have the good opinions of others, but it's nicer to have their chips.

A few hands later, I called a small raise with K9 on the big blind against 2 players. A king and some rags came on the flop to which I bet out on the flop, turn, and river. The guy to my left called me twice, but folded the river.

'I think you have the king, but I just can't call it.' I looked shocked as it dawned on me that there was a draw on the board, and I had given the guy good odds to draw out on me. It's not whether you're behind or ahead, it's whether you're getting a good price to draw.

After the fact, I put the guy on a medium pocket pair, maybe 9s or Ts with a 4-flush** to the hearts. I got lucky there even with my bad play. I stack the chips and came out about even. About 10 hands later the table broke since only 4 of us were playing and the action was literally raise, fold, fold, fold for a whole orbit around the table.
--

Session 1.5: Hand Caught in the Cookie Jar

Myself and another player were relocated to an uber-aggressive, uber-action table, playing automatic straddle and 7-2. The straddle is when the person to the left of the big blind raises blindly in order to get position preflop; the net result is that it's $6 to call instead of $3. The 7-2 game is if a player wins with 7-2, the worst hand in the game, everyone will award $5. Myself and the player from the last table refrain from their chicanery.

'How much will it take for you to take a 20-minute break?' one of the action-junkies ask. The players there didn't quite like our aversion to risk. I pretty much ignored them, passed the buck to the player from my table ('I'll take whatever she wants'). But eventually I start to straddle as well since the action wasn't too hot to handle, and I wanted to loosen up my image so they wouldn't auto-fold when I'm in a hand.

But I get nothing good, and I pretty much fold every hand dealt except my small and big blinds. On one of the big blinds, I get the Doyle Brunson***, T-2, to which I thankfully checked. Flop comes T-8-3. I check to see where I am. I flopped top pair but someone could have me outkicked. Two players check behind me, and the button makes a weak $20 bet at the $24-30 pot.

A semi-bluff if I ever saw one. Maybe he flopped middle pair or had a small pocket pair. With that much hesitation when betting, my Ts were definitely good.

'Raise..' I take a few seconds to calculate how much it would be to punish this guy for his lame attempt at my pot. '$50 more to go.' I casually lay out the chips in front of me in neat stacks of 4 and 10. He takes a Hollywood half-minute, and lays it down. I think to myself, 'That's right punk! That's my pot!' But outwardly, I breathe a fake/genuine sigh of relief, stack my chips, and tip the dealer. It was the epitome of the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar situation.

That pot left me about even, +$2 for the session. I stick around for another orbit and get up right before I had the play the big blind.

On a sidenote, I think there was a good loose-aggressive (LAG) player at the table. This player will be an action junkie but has supreme hand-reading skills and post-flop skills to bet with the thinnest of edges. He won quite a few small pots and seemed to know when to get out of the way when his hand definitely wasn't good and he couldn't force the other players out. Needless to say, I got the hell out of his way.

Session 1, Wynn, 12/7, 5-630p, 1.5hrs, 1-3NL, +2
--

Penn & Teller started at 9p, but doors opened an hour early, and there was the Mike Jones Jazz Duo, unfortunately not the Mike Jones from H-town though. Plus I needed time to record my notes from the action at the Wynn and reflect on my play. I think it was solid, leaning towards the conservative side. There's nothing wrong with that style, but you can feel like you're not doing anything for a long time while waiting for those premium hands.

The flaw I could see in my game was that the money definitely mattered to me, and I was under-bankrolled for that limit. When I considered making a move, I couldn't because I was handicapped by the weight of the chips in my hand. The nagging thought in my mind was, 'This is real money you're betting!' And so I might have played sub-optimally. Oh well, I came out $2 ahead, that works out to be $1.33/hr. A few dollars more, and I could be making minimum wage!

The Jazz musicians were good and my seat was even better. It was about 6 rows from the stage on the aisle seat of the left hand section. Penn & Teller were pretty cool, like their specials on TV. There was something very clean and crisp about their illusions, though their libertarian soapbox-ing got a little tedious. They debunked a lot of the cold-readers and other magicians and assured us that there is no such thing as real magic. Their magic reminds me of my teaching style: practical yet elegant.

I definitely would recommend the $100 price of admission. Totally worth it that close to the stage! The recession is good for some things.

The show ended at 1030p. Most Vegas shows are 1.5 hrs long. The trip back to the strip from the Rio was a bit harrowing. It was late at night, and I had to cross a couple of big intersections. I thought more people would be around walking back to the strip, but no dice. The solitary walk with only street lights to guide my path was disconcerting, and I kept my hands in my pockets, touching the several hundred dollar bills in my wallet.

I got to Caesar's Palace, the closest casino to the Rio, stepped to their poker room, and asked if there was a 4-8 Limit game available. 'There isn't, sir, but we can start an interest list for you.' 'Thanks, and could you put me down for 1-3 NL as well?' I hang around the sportsbook area looking at the pretty LCD screens with the multitude of sports. When that got tiring, I ogled the fine women walking in and out of Pure, the casino's nightclub. Somehow that 1.5 hrs at the Wynn made me immune to the bevy of skin that's endemic to the Vegas strip. I'd rather see some other ladies, QQ, that is.

A half hr later, I glanced at the wait list which hadn't moved. And so I moved out of the casino and to the Venetian. The Venetian is the second northernmost casino of interest for my poker playing. 'Do you have 4-8 limit available?' She looks at the computer for a moment and says, 'We do, that table over there.'

The chair had a premolded ass-print and was made of that fine material you'd see on furniture in Buckingham Palace except these were used by degenerates like me. It was remarkably comfortable, and I pulled out my cash to dominate this limit game. I figured since this was limit, I would have less problems playing under-bankrolled, since you can only bet a certain amount each round anyway. But the game is entirely different than no-limit. It is perfectly acceptable, even correct, to chase draws all the way to the river given sufficient odds. I can adjust, even though this is my first time playing limit holdem.
--

Session 2: The Donk Tipper

Donk, short for donkey, is a pejorative term for bad poker players who make the wrong plays frequently usually using aggressive bluffs with second or third-best holdings. Which is fine by me because these are the players who make poker profitable.

In limit holdem, the bets are structured. Pre-flop and on the flop, you can only bet/raise the small bet amount. On the turn and river, you can only bet/raise the big bet amount. In 4-8L, it is $4 and $8 respectively.

A guy had a couple of racks**** ready to leave the action, so I just buy my chips off of him. 'This money is good, right?' I respond, 'Of course, you can always trust a poker player.'

First hand, KQs with 4 callers to my raise. Good start. Flop comes Q, rag, rag. Even better, top pair, with second-best kicker. Nothing scary comes on the turn or river, and I get 2 callers all the way. Man, I love these donks! I flip over the goods and rake in the ~$50 pot. The guy whom I bought the chips from leaves, saying, 'Did I mention those chips were lucky?'

The guy to my right is drunk off his ass with a nice Irish red glow. Needless to say, his chips flowed my way more than a few times until he left, down probably a couple of bills but happy nonetheless. I suppose that's what Vegas does to you, even to the locals.

I managed to donate ~$30 twice to this lady 2 seats to my left when she caught trip queens on the turn (AQ starting hand) to my pocket Kings and once again when she hit a draw. It's not like I didn't respect her play, but I was playing loose surrounded by a sea of money ready to come my way. But I quickly fixed that chip leak.

Another player across the table, Middle Eastern or Indian, called me several times with second best holdings just to 'see what I had.' Bless his soul and his chips! For some reason, I thought he knew what he was doing because of his ethnicity, but after he bought in a second time, I figured him for what he was, an ATM. I kept the fish happy, and said stuff like, 'Man, you had to call with that,' and 'that was a really good draw, it was a gutshot but to the nuts!' But he left too around 330AM citing that he had a convention meeting that morning, 'I'm going to be sleeping on the desk..' That may be me as well in less than a year.. We'll see.

And then my luck started to turn south. My loose play caught up with me as I tried to part this other fool from his money, a Hispanic man who looked like a mustachio'd Edward James Olmos. Even after being told 5 times that he couldn't string bet, he still couldn't raise properly, and had to be reminded that the turn and river are $8, not $4.

The good Dutch player to my left and I marveled as he sucked out about 5 rivers against the varying decent-good players at the table. And after losing most of his $100 buy-in, he was now up a chip rack. And then he racked up again after he caught a miracle 4-outer to boat up (full house) against my top 2 pair. It's a good thing the price of tilting in limit holdem is cheap, since I called a preflop raise from the small blind with J2s, just to see if I could bust the guy. But when the flop missed me completely, he continuation betted. I folded and started to fume even more.

After the remaining bad players called it quits, I took up my chips and left too. Down $132 on a table rich with donks. How does that happen? So about $60 was just my bad play calling to that lady with my inferior holdings, but that meant I lost $72 somehow to horrible players. My goodness that river was beastly at the Venetian.

You're taught to grind when you have the best of it, to prop up your eyelids with toothpicks when there is money to be had. My friends, Mr. Olmos who racked up over $300 in profit was dying to give it all back, but the cards just wouldn't do it for me. Poker is a b--!

Session 2, Venetian, 12/8, 12-430a, 4.5hrs, 4-8NL, -132
--

That morning was the mass of the Immaculate Conception, so I had to get some rest to not sleep through service. I trudged the 10min back to the Imperial Palace, dumbfounded at how the cards had turned so bad. I showered only to discover that the drain was stopped up, so I MacGyver'ed by rinsing off my feet as I got out of the tub. It's a damn good thing this trip was solo!

Day 1, 6hrs, -$130
--

*go all-in, win, and get a stack of chips from your opponent
**4 of the same suit, 1 more for the flush
***He won 2 World Series of Poker with that hand, but that was in heads-up tournament conditions. In cash games, you throw that mess away with no doubt in your mind.
****A rack is 5 bays of 20 each, so a rack of $1 chips is $100.

Vegas Day 1, Part 1: Objects Are Farther Than They Appear

to Vegas Strip map-makers,

Vegas was fun, not amazing or great, just fun. Like the Wii which you play around with for a few months (if that) but inevitably put away because the novelty wears off and the graphics are subpar compared to the PS3. I seriously needed a vacation even before the job loss, and this had been planned for one of my off weeks.

But like the procrastinator I am, I didn't cram and memorize all the poker theory from the 9 poker books I have (no joke). And so the night before the flight out to sin city, I was still washing clothes and figuring out what to pack. I did take Caro's Book of Poker Tells, Sklansky et al's Small Stakes Holdem, and Jones' Winning Low Limit Holdem. They did help take me off tilt a few times during the trip and might have plugged some chip leaks, but weren't the boon to my small-stakes game as I thought they would be.

So thus begins Day 1 of 4, part 1 of 2, the chronicles of the destruction of my poker bankroll...
--

The flight out of Houston was at 10:30AM. Mama dropped me off at 6:30 on her way to work, so I had a good couple of hours at the airport with my poker books. But I didn't want to be a cliche, the hapless fool who thinks he can beat Vegas with his 'How to Win at Blackjack' or 'How to Count Cards', so I refrained and caught up on some NPR podcasts. Like the day before the big test, I normally defer all studying to the absolute very last moment. As a sidenote, poker is a beatable game since you're not playing against the house but against (as I would find out) idiots, who should hemorrhage chips your way but don't, and cause you to tilt even at limit holdem.

The flight was nice except for this one lady who kept recounting her story of her trip to Houston for some Catholic retreat with her sister. Along the way, she told me about how expensive her Lantus was (after I let slip that I was a pharmacist). I let her know about Victoza and Byetta since she asked, but wondered silently why she wouldn't just try something cheaper instead of the regimen of metformin and Lantus. Patient assistance programs are like drug dealers: the first hit is free.

Looking out the window at the vast shades of brown of sand, rock formations and canyons, I wondered who in their right minds would build a city in the middle of a desert. And then again once more in Dubai. Oh well, don't question, just enjoy.

The plane touched down shortly after 11:40AM. Walking into the airport terminal, I was greeted by the siren sounds of slot machines--sorry babes, you're not my type. McCarran is a thoroughly confusing airport, but I eventually made my way to the entrance where the prepaid shuttle sat outside. My plane ticket, shows, and shuttle were all prepaid online, which is nice not to shell out any dough but they all made it distinctly clear that gratuity was not included. I prepped a $3 tip, which was 50% of the $6 ride, but didn't give it to the driver because I had taken care of my own two small bags. Would you tip a carryout place? Perhaps I should've tipped considering the lukewarm luck that ensued.

Becky at the check-in counter at Imperial Palace was nice enough. She seemed like Harlequin from Batman except with dirty blonde curls. Most of the Vegas employees I met had this affected smile plastered on their faces, just glad to have a job. But I don't care if people fake it so long as they have the decency to fake it. As she handed me the room cards, she pointed the way to the elevators with her off-hand.

I passed by some cocktail waitresses on the way to the lifts (there were quite a few Brits there). Damn, black thong underneath see-through negligee! I lament, 'I'm just here to play poker, but they make it so hard..to keep focused!' Vegas is most assuredly not for the weak-minded..

The digs were nicer than I expected. Imperial Palace is a cheap place smack in the middle of the strip. Room rates for weekdays with all their deals can be cheaper than a motel in Victoria, TX. I flipped through the coupon books and trashed most of it, unpacked, washed up, and got ready to walk to the Rio to pick up the ticket for Penn & Teller.

If you've never been to Vegas, just be aware that all strip maps should include a disclaimer, 'objects are much, much farther than they appear!' I knew this since this was my second time, but I figured I was going to sit down to a buffet later that afternoon, so I'd need some exercise. A mile and a half later, I was at the Rio, navigating the maze of a casino to the theater, which was closed. Apparently I could've gotten the tickets at the front desk which was right at the front entrance. Great.



I trekked the 1.5 miles back to the strip and thought, 'Hell, might as well go to the very north of the strip and get it over with on the first day!' As far as I'm concerned, the very north is the Wynn, since I'm pretty sure the poker action at Riviera, Sahara, or Circus Circus would not warrant the time spent walking there.

So after 45 minutes from the Rio, I got to the Wynn. It's really good this was a solo trip because my friends would have been hating me at this point. I signed up for their club card to get the comps I would never use this trip (just for practice), and headed my way to the buffet.


As would happen frequently during this trip, I was just 2 minutes too late for the lunch price. It was 3:32... Oh well, it's Vegas baby! What's another $10?

The menu was exotic. There was some amazing Mediterranean dishes. I figured out that the yellow type of Indian curry was pretty much the same as Vietnamese curry (I think we borrowed that one). Everything was good, but nothing spectacular. As I would find at other buffet places, the sushi is seriously lacking. Midway through, I discovered that after walking a 5k, you really shouldn't sit down at a buffet. But for $35, I packed away the one meal of day in the mythical second stomach.

I tipped the lady $6 for having a less fake smile and headed to the poker room, satieted and ready to crush some souls.

The CAGE Test

to alcoholics, again,

In school, they teach us about the treatment for alcoholism, which is (long story short) to stop drinking. Acute and chronic alcoholism can lead to liver failure, heart failure, and other things which I wish I had a pharmacist-intern to look up and do a report for me.

Once the liver is affected, there's not much treatment except to stop drinking, take some meds that may or may not work (pentoxifylline, steroids) and pray for the best. If the person has been clean long enough, they may qualify for a liver transplant, but I think most people feel shady for giving a liver to someone who lost the original of his/her own free will. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy mimics symptoms of traditional heart failure where the patients can feel like they're drowning when laying down. They're both crappy ways to go. If it was up to me, I'd want to OD on this new street drug called 'cheese'*.

So after a casual wondering and joking about my own drinking habits, I remembered there was a questionnaire to see if a person may have a problem. When I first learned about it in 1st or 2nd year of school, I answered 0 out of 4, but let's see how the hands of time has corrupted this once innocent soul:

C - Have you ever felt you should cut down on your drinking?

Sure, because it gets damn expensive. When you start your alcoholic career with the top shelf stuff that costs >$35/750mL, it adds up. And these single malt scotches, which are my new drugs of choice, are even more expensive with age. But the 18yrs are so smooth and leave the most delicious lingering vapors on the tongue long after the first dram.

A- Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?

Not really, because I usually beat them to the punch by telling them jokingly that I'm an alcoholic. And alcoholics of a feather flock together, so there would be some serious pot-calling-the-kettle-black action going on if that were to happen.

G - Have you ever felt bad or guilty about your drinking?

Only the two times when I woke up still drunk from the night before. Oh, and the time I 'redecorated' my friend's digs...twice..

E - Eye opener: Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?

I can honestly say never to this question. I believe in rehydration, bland carbs, and non-thought-provoking comedies like Scrubs or Chappelle's Show. And I never like having the same food or drink two days in a row, so I couldn't possibly imbibe the same vile poison the morning after.
--

So in short and honestly: yes, no, yes, no. But one must factor in the healthy dose of guilt that is cultured in every non-doctor** Asian male who is almost inevitably considered a failure in the eyes of his parents, myself not excluded.

But no, I don't truly consider of myself an alcoholic. I am a binge-drinker with a weak will, a hardy liver, and a short memory. And if I am to die anyway, I might as well die having a good time never feeling like I was deprived of anything again. [A higher power] knows I've long lived a life engineered for the joy of the progenitors and not the progeny.

--
*You must go to that link--I couldn't stop laughing the first time I heard it on This American Life!
**Only M.D. counts here. D.O. need not apply, so forget about my Pharm.D. meeting my parents' expectations!

Radio Silence

to unanswered/unresponded comments, etc,

This will be my second day in Vegas, and though I have an internet capable phone with a relatively full-service web browser, it is surprisingly difficult to do anything with notes on Facebook or comments on Blogger.com. It may be my failing as an Asian male to know all things computer-related, but I'm simply not that guy. And if I am to answer this question of playing poker for a living (or as a side gig), I must devote time to the tables and not complain about how some programmer hasn't solved the issue of the missing scroll bar in a frame within a webpage*.

When I come back, I will boast... ahem, fill you in on all the details of my victories for your poker edification. And if I lose, I will gently sweep that fact under the rug as former President W. Bush tried to do with 'Mission Accomplished.' And hopefully noone will call me out on it. But if they do, it will be good for me to motivate me to hone my skills further or push me off the precipice of the 'this is a really stupid, inefficient way of making money' cliff.

--
*A real issue on the default browser on the Moto Droid. It won't display anything to scroll within a frame, and I haven't been pissed off enough to Google for a solution.

Vegas (and work) manana!

to the gamblers,

If you've never read the Theory of Poker, please sit at my table and buy in for the cash that you would have lost at the blackjack table anyway. If you can explain and apply 'reverse implied odds'*, then kindly look for your fish at other tables, because mine are spoken for. And I sure do hope there are plenty of fish in Vegas this week (in contrast to 'sharks' which is really a mispronunciation of 'sharps'), because I'd like to pay for this vacation I planned before my job loss.

During the 20+ straight nights of work a few weeks back, I had booked a trip to Vegas for one of my off weeks, and this is that off week. I had a show planned for each night to reward myself for the many hours of Hold'em I was going to play. And if I totally killed at the tables, I would go support some students and single mothers at the Spearmint Rhino, against my rule of never going to a strip club alone**.

But things change, and so if I do win, I'll put it towards my bankroll to support my second (and possibly primary career). If I lose, the experience will let me know if this plan to play cards for a living is a pipe-dream or if it is a truly serviceable option for making a decent wage.

Because I do think I have the potential to be a winning player. My mathematical skills are still prime, when I tilt*** it is almost always to the conservative side, I have a reserve of cash on hand, I can augment that cash if necessary by working crazy shifts, and I don't particularly need the money which would allow me the time to develop the textbook tight-aggressive style.

The question is if I can sit and grind all day long, no sexual innuendo intended. To play poker until the point of physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. Can I do it? This trip will tell.

Poker, shows, poker, eat, poker, sleep, poker, poker, poker...

Don't ask me if I planned to go to Pure, Jet or any other exotic nightclubs on the strip. First of all, I don't have any arm candy to get through the door. Secondly, I'm not going to Vegas to f-- people, I'm going to f-- them over, which is a subtle but important difference. The first instance generally involves hemorrhaging money (if not on escorts, then on the insane cost of drinks at these clubs), while the second involves parting fools from their money.

And I very much would like to be the hand of destiny which fulfills that proverb. Wish me good decision-making and a run of good cards. Or just luck--luck works too!

--
*A real concept: When the odds appear better than they really are and your hand can only get worse as the play progresses, which should generally lead you to fold since you won't be getting sufficient odds.
**Never have gone solo because late one night, at almost 2am last call, my friends were at the bar getting drinks, and about 3 'dancers' came by one after another to asked if I was alone and if I'd like their services like I was a defenseless mark in a dark alley!
***When emotions take over after a bad run of cards.

Good Old Times

to the alcoholics,

There are two signs you need to look out for if you want to know if I've reached my 'buzz point': 1) I start getting real philosophical and honest to the point of political incorrectness, and 2) I start using the F-word as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, and even conjunction, preposition, and interjection. It's really quite extraordinary as I try to use correct grammar as I modify all the different forms of the F-word. In high school, my peers used to ask me calculus questions after I polished off a fifth of a fifth of Patron, and yes, I could still do calculus after all that. Now that I forgot all that calculus nonsense (which is good for nothing except telling people who know or care that you 5'd the Calculus BC AP along with 7 other tests), all I can do is tell you random stuff that doesn't really matter all that much but makes you think that I kind of know a little something about something.

But since I'm still slightly inebriated, I'll be a bit honest with you: Truth is I don't really know all that much about stuff that really matters (in my opinion). And it scares me. It is a wholly unsettling feeling that I'm not the badass I pretend to be at the important sh--.

At the 'buzz point', the next alcoholic beverage will send me straight to the porcelain god or passed out with a future trip to the aforementioned god (which likely has more followers than the traditional Dude whom* people praise). I feel completely honest with myself which is sad considering it takes a foreign substance to make me face up to my most protected thoughts. It is a precariously golden moment of [false?] enlightenment.

I tell people the honest truth about how my latest job got cut, and how I kinda expected it to happen and how I kinda wished it would happen.

I tell people that my job made me feel dishonest while I smiled and told customers I wished they'd come back when I secretly deplored them for ever gracing my sight.

I tell them that I have done absolutely nothing in the past 2 weeks and how it feels absolutely amazing to not have to work, disregarding the fact that they have to cram for finals in the next couple of weeks.

I abhor and then console myself for assuming the professional pharmacist role while giving a mini-speech to pharmacy students: I mustn't tell the kids that Santa Claus and the Easter bunny aren't real--they will find out for themselves soon enough if they don't suspect already.

Because who the f-- cares! I've paid my dues in time and money and mental health. It is the time for rebirth into the new me or the old me or the better me (or worse me).
--

Sometimes I think of myself as a broken man with no purposeful intention except the innate desire toward self-preservation through food, shelter, water, and sex. And is that all life amounts to for a young adult male? Food, shelter, water, and sex, and not necessarily in that order?

It is abysmal sometimes when I go out and get to that wasted, veritable state where I look at other guys and think that if they could get with that one girl they were staring at the whole night that their life would be magically cured, that somehow the other flawed human being would make them perfect. But sadly it likely isn't true. Two wrongs don't make a right, and two imperfect persons do not make a perfect one.
--

'I had a good time tonight.'

'Yea, it was kinda like old times a couple of years back when we were in school, when I was driving you around from place to place.'

'Yea, kinda like the good old times, bro..'

With that, my friend exited the car at the University parking lot. I checked the door locks manually to make sure it was secure (can't be too careful in the ghetto), made a semicircle out of the parking lot and onto the road to the freeway..

Cruising down Gulf Freeway, I activated the cruise control at 60 mph to take the speed variance out of the equation for the Friday night copper. But the folks in the right lane were moving at an even slower pace, so I disabled the crutch and took over completely.

And I started to think about my life and how it isn't really all that bad in perspective and how I can really start digging the person I am or will be. So after all the years in between high school and now, I've arrived at the same point where I've started, just a little different, hopefully a little more grown and a little less green. And you know what? That's okay..

With that, I cranked up the pathetic speakers in my ride and faded into suspended consciousness while navigating the miles of concrete, passing the familiar food dives and sleazy strip joints, past one of the adult video stores where that priest got caught for 'public lewdness' for touching himself, to mi casa in the suburbia boonies..
--

Don't live life on autodrive; don't live life like your choices don't matter. Because

'lately I, am beginning to find that I,
should be the one behind the wheel.'

..and when you feel inspirational (through natural or chemical means), write it down, because you'll forget it the next day when you're looking at the receipts and wondering how the f-- you spent so much the night before..

..but I suppose you got to pay tuition for those life lessons..

--
*yes, that is the correct use of the word 'whom', so I think..

Juiceless

to the exhausted,

'Juice' has a variety of dirty meanings, none of which I will reference any further than this point. If the title had been related to those dirty meanings, then this post would have been more appropriately named 'Juiceless & Happy'. But as it is, it is more like 'Juiceless & Even-Keeled' or 'Juiceless & Eh..' or 'Juiceless & I-could-go-for-some-lunch,-but-I'm-not-all-that-hungry.'
--

My first memory of 'juice' being anything other than fresh-squeezed* and pulpless** was when my older brother first described to me the intricacies of sports betting. In most sporting contests, there's a favorite and an underdog. If given even odds (1:1), most people would bet on the favorite and would therefore win more than 50% of the time. Bet enough money (or cycle your cash enough times), and you wouldn't have to work.

This would, however, bankrupt sportsbooks and bookies. So somewhere down the line, someone invented the idea of a spread, where you give points to the underdog to make it fair. In theory, the number of points or 'line' should match the final score. A line (or spread) might read 'New England vs Houston, Houston +5' which would mean that if you bet on Houston, you get 5 points toward the final score: NE 20 - Hou 21(26 with spread), win; NE 20 - Hou 14(19 with spread), loss; NE 20 - Hou 17(22 with spread), WIN. In the last case NE wins, but 'did not cover the spread'. A few years back in their nearly undefeated season, NE was crushing opponents, covering all kinds of ridiculous spreads like -14 (when you bet on the favorite, points are taken away, which is the same as giving points to the underdog). In football, anything over 6 points is likely a lopsided game.

In actuality, the sportsbooks don't care what the final score is or if the line even comes close to it. What they want is a line that will induce bettors to bet both sides equally, so that in the long run, they'll break even no matter the score. But how do they get their money then? One word: juice. The odds may seem close to 1:1, but it's usually 110:100 against. In order to win $100, you have to bet $110 and the $10 difference is the juice money which makes sportsbooks profitable in the long run.

In order to get even betting on both sides, the line or spread will move to entice future bettors. So if the line was initially Houston +5, and a lot of people like Houston, then the line might decrease to Houston +4.5 and so on until the bets balance out, but at whatever line you place your bet, that's the line you're stuck with.

There was a whole movie called 'Two for the Money' devoted to sportsbooks starring Matthew McConaughey (who shirtless for a good part of the show, which may qualify it as female porn) and Al Pacino. It's a horrible movie, except if you know about sports betting and want to impress a girl while she's mesmerized by a sweaty, ripped Matt. I've never tried, but in theory it should work.

So juice is that little extra bit at the end that might make a whole venture worthwhile when the initial work seemed arduous, awkward, mostly unpleasant***.
--

In non-jargon use, 'juice' usually refers to energy or electricity and the like. And I am wholly drained of all juice at the moment. And I've been drained for the past two weeks. The R&R hasn't spiked my energy or motivation one bit. There was that one Black Friday morning where I waited about 15minutes for my gaming system, but since then it's been all Netflix and shifting around to different parts of the sofa so the ass print doesn't become permanent. All this is actually pretty great, but I am concerned that I haven't grown tired after 2 weeks which is normally the breaking point.

It is like when the non-replaceable battery in my iPod nano gets entirely drained, and I plug it into the USB port of my computer (because it doesn't come with a wall charger****) and for about 5 seconds, nothing happens. Then the white apple with the bite mark comes on (for how much it costs, can't we get a whole apple?), followed by the little flashing green battery icon to which I greet with a sigh of relief.. and shame that I'm an addict to Apple juice*****.

--
*,**,***,***** - okay, I lied about the dirty meanings thing :)
****Seriously Steve Jobs-- $160 and you can't include the wall adapter which costs another $30?

Face Down

Smartphone users,

It's hard to imagine that I've only had my Moto Droid (original) smart phone for just under a year. Before that, I was still pimping the Verizon Moto Razr which after 3 years could literally only make 2 calls or 10 text messages before the battery would alert that it was near dead (but would make a ding sound for a day before it would actually die). And just forget about accessing email or the internet on the minuscule pixelated screen, let alone pay Verizon for access to their crappy VZW Navigator program.

And I wasn't going to get into the whole phone craze (maybe just a newer, thinner clamshell), but my uncle kindly commented/insulted that my swag didn't quite match my salary. And so began this unholy tethering of myself to a 3.7 touchscreen device.

For a reasonable price of $200 for the phone and $50/month paid out to my parents on or around the first of the month (they comp my minutes, but not my data plan), I get unlimited internet and email pushed to my phone via Google's relatively seamless system. Which would be great if it hasn't turned me into a email-seeking fiend.

The Droid alerts me to my Gmail messages with a windchime-like noise (I couldn't find a decent copy of the Razr default windchime) and a fluorescent green, blinking LED light in the top right corner. The green, blinking LED light also alerts me to weather alerts, alarms, Facebook stuff, and a variety of other things. Sometimes when I don't see that green light for a few hours, I start to get depressed* and wonder why the world ignores me.

But then I just force the world to pay attention by posting random status updates and updating my blog (sorry for the long absence, but I have my reasons). Or I read Ball Don't Lie or poker articles or check stock quotes. All the while waiting for that little green light to turn on to signify that someone in the ether has initiated contact and wants to talk to me. Pretty sad, I know.

Most of the time, it's just Overstock.com or Southwest.com, but it's still nice to know you're appreciated, even if it's just for your money.

So this morning, when I woke up at 4:30AM to take care of bodily functions, I noticed my favorite green, blinking light sitting on the desk. Though I passed it up the first time, I couldn't resist the second time upon returning from the bathroom: it was nowhere in my line of sight, but the temptation of its sitting there waiting for my response was irresistible.

After two random emails and a few minutes of Facebook newsfeed, I was wide awake and lusting for more contact with the outside world even though I only had 6 hours of sleep after being awake for over 24 hours.

In the subsequent 4 hours, I set up my old DSL modem/ wireless router combo only to learn that AT&T has LoJacked their DSL service to possibly only allow their current hardware to work, saw my parents off the work and harassed them for the new hardware that was sent in the mail, set up the new modem/router device, used up a week's worth of 4-letter words when the 'easy to follow instructions' were easy to follow but just didn't work, got the easy to follow instructions to work after a cooling off period, got on the internet using WiFi instead of PDAnet, forgot my password to my email account because I don't type it anymore since I get my email through my phone, used some more 4-letter words, remembered the password, saw that there were no new messages because I had seen them all on my phone, and finally composed a long-winded blog entry.

And now I think I might go back to sleep with the rising sun, which I'm used to since I work nights. But before I do that, I think I must turn my phone face down so the green light can tempt the wooden desk, which has far more staying power than me**.

--

*Not really, because that would be sad.

**Ever so subtle double entendre :)

Wasting My Time

Procrastinators Non-Anonymous,

There's only a few people I know who aren't major procrastinators. I'm sadly not one of them. And I would bet even they are closet procrastinators and are simply good at putting up a diligent front. Or they're aliens. Yes, either they're closet procrastinators or they're aliens. There's no other logical reasoning. Book it!

However, there is one defense for procrastination: if your problem may go away by itself in the future, then it is logical to put off addressing it now. One application of this is to wait out the common cold. There's no cure anyway, and the doctor to justify a copay will just prescribe some new formulation you could get over the counter anyway (yes, this particular formulation of a decades old antihistamine and decongestant is sooooo much better than Claritin-D or Zyrtec-D). If you can't tell, I have a serious aversion to drug companies.

But for the most part, procrastination is a vice that many of us try to purge ourselves of and frequently end up unsuccessful. But we manage, either by the carrot (incentives) or the stick (punishment). The problem grows fierce when there's no carrot nor stick, as in my case now.

On my work week, I delay everything to my off week because it's direly important that I get enough sleep so I'm alert and focused so I don't make a misfill and get my pants sued off of me. On my off week, I go out carousing and making jolly, killing brain cells and spending 5-10 hours straight reading fine literature. All the while the to-do-list piles up in the corner, ignored the like red-headed step-child, who is soulless and therefore undeserving of love. And then the end of the week arrives, and the bill comes due.

And so here I am scrounging about for Form 4868 to file an income tax extension*, to do more work than is necessary if I had done it right the first time around.

Oh, I'll never change.
--

During school, there were reset switches. Let me explain: When making the most of life not studying for a test, the elapsed time until the test doesn't change. The test will still be in 2 weeks whether you like it or not. And I really don't understand why people assumed that I studied all night and day for stuff. I didn't and I don't. It's a gift to guess between A-B-C-D-E a little more than 90% of the time.

So the day before the test like every other super-studious student, I crack open my notes to page 1 of 1,000 and curse the day I was born into this world which has tests and isn't just a whole Montessori-it's-okay-just-try-your-best-you're-all-winners delusion. But my test-taking skills prevail, and the procrastination is reinforced instead of punished: if I can study just a day before a test and still make the same grade, then what is the point of studying in advance. Hate me; you know you want to.

But then the situation is reset: that test is over, and then there's the next one which you have 2 weeks to study for. It's like a 2-player Halo game: when your partner gets to the next checkpoint, you get to go along for the ride even though you hardly did any work. And at the end of the year, there's a giant reset button and you get the summer off to do whatever the hell you please.
--

When you beat the game (grade school & college), however, the resets and checkpoints mostly disappear. That same task you wrote down to clean out your notes and have a huge, purgative bonfire will remain there until you actually complete it. Your dumbbell set stares at you condemningly when you don't work out ('I worked out yesterday!' 'But you didn't work out today...FAIL'). The stuff you said you'd sell on eBay remains unsold. Etc, etc ad nauseam.

Okay, so today, I'm going to listen to some music, reconcile some receipts, and clean out my room. I predict I will complete just 1 out of 3, and that would be the listening to music task.

Queue Default's Wasting My Time.
--

*Not really--the government owes me a fat check every year since they take out 1/3 of my income, and I file my taxes as early as possible so those bastards can't get more interest off of MY money.

Pre-Filled Flu Syr

Dear new techs,

The bad part about working at a brand new store is that you can hardly find a pharmacy technician with any experience. All those AIU, Remington, ITT tech places promising thorough training and career placement have fine print saying jobs aren't guaranteed. The reason being that employers want people with real-world understanding of the job. But when you open in a brand new market, those trade school grads are the ones you can find with some exposure, however minimal.

Though you can find a truly remarkable individual once in a while who ends up being really great but didn't have any experience initially, that is the exception. Experience matters, period.

But luckily for me, the techs at my store have a good attitude towards learning, which is really the most important characteristic in my opinion.

With new techs, you do see some pretty funny situations such as a tech saying that we were out of stock of albuterol MDI ('Dude, there's ProAir, Proventil, or Ventolin...pick one') or ordering Indocin suppositories because that's all that was pulled up in the computer when they typed 'Indocin' (brand for Indomethacin, which we had 10 bottles on the shelf).

But the one that took the cake, which I could see myself doing if I had a brain fart, was this:

I came in one night and noticed that we had low-dose heparin syringes, the kind that they used to clear out or push through medicines in IV lines in hospitals. It's pretty common in hospital pharmacies which usually carry several cases of them. But not in a retail pharmacy--if you have an IV line, you should probably be in a hospital or a long-term care facility. And IV drugs are probably not going to be covered under prescription insurance anyway.

Anyway, I laughed at it, chalking it up to ordering error, which happens a lot. The syringes came in white boxes with about 50 in each. In turn, the 4 white boxes fit inside a large cardboard box, which had the label: BD Pre-Filled Flush Syringes.

My goodness, so that's the reason! BD Pre-Filled Flush Syringes. I guess one of the techs thought that the 'BD Pre-Filled Flu Syr' in the wholesaler catalog was the pre-filled flu syringes that we've been using like warmcakes*.

And we can't return it because it's 'generic', but at least it's cheap. So if you need some flush syringes, get a prescription and then holla at yo boy.
--

*Flu shots haven't exactly been flying off the shelf. Maybe 10/week if that?

The Ambien Prior Authorization

Dear new RPh's and techs,

A post for my retail pharmacy people and those insomniacs whose insurance refuses to pay for sleep pills.

Just about the middle of last year, I started to notice that refills for zolpidem, generic Ambien, was being rejected for a prior authorization. This means that the insurance company wants to talk to the doctor to make sure that the patient really, really needs the medicine. What it really means is that insurance companies are the spawn of the devil and don't want to pay for anything.

A quick note about insurance companies: their business model is to take regular premiums from their customers and find ways to NOT pay out claims. One of the sneaky ways they do this is to send out brand new cards every year so that they can expire the old ones and hopefully not pay for a refill. In doing so, they make my job sucky for a few months out of the year, even more than usual with having to deal with insurance.

Most of the time though, their prior authorizations (PA) are well founded: rejecting an ADHD med for a kid who is 4 years old (my goodness, are we going to pump 1 year-olds with Ritalin next because they cry too much? wait a minute, we do! *sad face*), rejecting Cambia(R) because it's glorified ground-up diclofenac*, and rejecting Nexium(R) because it's basically rehashed omeprazole whose patent had run out**.

To these situations, I must say to the insurance co's, 'Nicely done. If I had more time to talk to the doctors to convince them to use medicines judiciously, I'd do the same. But since I'm here to dispense drugs pursuant to a prescription, I'd really wish that you'd make my life easier and just approve the medicine for a $200 copay so I can tell the patient to take it or leave it or take it up with their insurance/doctor. Because a PA makes it look like the pharmacy is being withholding, when it is in fact, you who are the angry wife (who is withholding of the marital obligation). Thank you.'

But I just don't understand when they reject meds which are comparatively dirt cheap (in the $40 range). Branded Lamisil tablets used to be prohibitively expensive, but the generic isn't too bad. Come on, guys! Let the old dude have it for his onychomycosis! Or when they rejected generic zolpidem when they had paid for it the first couple of months.

But then I remembered the lecture I gave on sleep disorders shortly after I graduated***: Ambien is FDA-approved for 'short-term treatment of insomnia characterized by difficulties with sleep initiation. Ambien has been shown to decrease sleep latency for up to 35 days in controlled clinical studies.'

Bingo! The resident medical 'expert' at the insurance department picked up on the little bit of important information (the package insert that accompanies the drug bottle), and found a great reason to reject refills of Ambien. 'Dear Dr. so-and-so: As you can see from the package insert, Ambien (Zolpidem) is not approved for treatment lasting longer than 35 days. Thank you.'

Anyone with any bit of reason (even insurance companies) knows that Ambien doesn't simply stop working after 35 days because the drug isn't approved for long-term treatment. It simply meant that Sanofi-Aventis didn't have the money to run the trial longer or were afraid that the sleep-inducing effects would wear off after 35 days and would lead to not-so-good-looking clinical results. As such, the drug is FDA-labeled for short-term treatment and now insurance companies have a perfectly valid reason to reject a claim using a prior authorization.

They could run longer trials now, but they won't because Ambien is generic, so they couldn't re-coop their expenses.
--

So why know all of this? Because it is always better to explain to customers how it really isn't your fault. When you pass the buck to other folks, preferably drug or insurance companies, customers can get angry at them instead of at you. By the way, don't pass the blame to their doctor, because they may really like their doctor or their doctor may call and chew you out.

'Why is my insurance not paying for my medicine?'

*Smile* 'Well, sir. Ambien is not approved for long-term treatment of insomnia. Though I realize that you've been using it for years now, the original studies approving the medicine was only for short-term treatment. I think the insurance company wants to run this by with your doctor and make sure that there isn't a better way to treat your insomnia.'

Congratulations! The customer is no longer angry at you, and thinks you're pretty swell for your insurance knowledge. He shakes your hand, happily pays the ~$40 for the cash price of Ambien, and will take it up himself with his doctor/insurance.

Based on a true story.

Incidentally, you could also recommend the customer to get a prescription for Temazepam (generic Restoril) which is only about $20 per month without insurance.
--

*I wanted to tell the patient to get a prescription for diclofenac 50 mg, buy a mortar and pestle, grind the pills up herself to put in water, and save $200 for 5 friggin packets!

**Please explain this to me: Omeprazole 20 mg and Nexium 40 mg are the most commonly dispensed strengths. We are made to believe that the S-enantiomer is supposedly the more active (or only active) component of the racemic mixture, and/or that it has less side effects. Therefore, if Omeprazole 20 mg contains 10 mg of the S-enantiomer (Nexium) and 10 mg of the R-enantiomer, wouldn't the equivalent strength of Omeprazole 20 mg be Nexium 10 mg?

So why does AstraZeneca market Nexium 40 mg which would be in essence, a four-fold increase in strength vs Omeprazole 20 mg (Prilosec, which they made)? Don't give me some BS about how there are fewer side effects so you could give a higher dose--show me a person who was taken off omeprazole for side effects and I'll show you a hypochondriac.

***Excuse the not-so-subtle reference to my genius :)

Death of AIM

Dear harried folks,

The truly wonderful thing about being done with school is the freedom to do and not do whatever the hell you want. If the only thing I do besides work is to sleep all day and night on my 7 off, I could very well do that. It's not at all productive, but who cares? Sleep to me is akin to another activity that starts with 's', which is to say it's immensely pleasurable.

And being virtually stress-free, I've begun to understand the ideal of single-tasking, that you do best when you focus your entire attention on a single task at a time. It is a luxury that I daresay few people have in the workforce when most have to bring their work home. At the pharmacy, you multitask for your whole shift, but when you leave, you get to leave everything there. And thankfully your salary isn't tied into your performance (there is incentive pay, but it pales in comparison to the base salary and for the most part isn't worth stressing over*). That's one of the greatest perks of my job: when I leave, I leave.

Related to this myth of multitasking, which you can read a review of the book here by Dave Crenshaw, is that I've pretty much stopped using AIM, or AOL Instant Messenger. I found that the people I really wanted to chat with aren't on there, and the ones that I don't want to chat with would annoyingly pop in ('hey wats up?' 'nothin much, chillin' ...5 minutes pass, aZnHaVoc04** has signed off ) when I'm reading my favorite blog, Ball Don't Lie, which introduced me to my favorite NBA comic-strip blog, Garbage Time All-Stars***. I think most of the screen names I had on there were from high school when instant messaging was the rage.

The last time I signed on was probably over 6 months ago, and that was because I was helping a friend shop for something and we needed to paste links to websites. People whom I talk to on a regular basis have my phone number and they have phones which are capable of making phone calls and sending text messages. Some also have the ability to send email on their devices, which is even better. When I do get messages and calls, I know that the person on the other end really wants or needs to communicate with me and isn't simply bored and I'm 'available' because I'm signed on.

When I talk to someone now, I try to put effort to connect to what they are trying to say as much as possible (but I can't help it sometimes if I'm distracted because they're hot). Because no one really listens anymore. Not really. But everyone wants to talk.

My feeling is that all this new media has created more noise instead of more communication. We cannot decide what is important or we waste too much time parsing through all the nonsense.

It'd be cool if we were to write letters using quill pens and inkwells on unlined parchment and sealed our letters with hot, red wax using our crest and gave the mailboy a shilling or shekel to hand deliver to our closest friends and mortal enemies. And we'd wait patiently the next day and wonder ever so heartbreakingly why she hasn't responded yet to our latest sincere behest. To only receive a note two days later from the fair maiden's womanservant that 'the lady has gone out riding (horseback, not bareback) with Sir what's-his-face and won't be back for a fortnight.' To which you'd respond with, 'Ah, the tiresome wench! How she irks me so!'

I swear I haven't been watching the x-rated remake called Mr. Prejudice's Pride. These are some of the random thoughts that float through my head on a daily basis.

But the point I'm trying to make using a poor metaphor of Victorian novels is that people really cared and put thought into what they're trying to say (at least I would hope so). They had writing desks, a piece of furniture designed for just writing! They didn't use crackberries to tweet while on the john in 140 characters or less.

So along with eliminating all the empty calories in my diet (with the exception of tasty single malt scotch, which no one should define as empty simply because it is alcohol), I am eliminating the empty communication in my life.

It reminds me of one of the closing lines from a Supernatural episode: 'You're all so connected...but you've never been so alone.'

How true.
--

*Imagine if bonuses were large like those finance CEOs: there might be misfills everywhere when pharmacists are pressured to increase numbers. But corporate execs would never do that because retail pharmacist salaries are insane as it is.
**Not the actual screenname, but pretty close. Not mines of course. I'm too classy for that.
***This was when Tracy McGrady was out with 'back spasms' and Von Wafer was actually a decent stand-in.

Po-po Predicament

Dear 5-0,

I have to think that the only people who love (traffic) cops are friends/family of cops. And even they only love the cop(s) that they know. Because people usually dislike those who have authority over them.

And cops can pull you over for any reason, and are in fact pressured to pull you over to increase their numbers/metrics. That's not cool, but This American Life is cool, liberal-ish cool. This 'cold front' hitting the Gulf Coast is mildly cool, but Ira Glass & crew are uber-cool. Anyway, check out their weekly podcast.

Not like it matters to me much. Since I hardly speed because I find my Corolla sitting on 14" starts to creak and shake above 70mph. And I find the gas mileage is insane when put on cruise control at 60mph (yes, I'm the jerk in the right hand lane chilling at 60mph, listening to podcasts on long drives because I like to not have to be on the lookout for cops sitting under bridges or just over hills).

But when I start to hit the greater Houston metro area, I turn off my cruise control and start driving attentively aggressive like everyone else. Because if you're doing 60 on a Houston freeway and it's not rush hour, you're bound to almost get slammed by some large truck bearing the flag of Texas and/or Mexico. Or an old caddy driven by grandma. Or a Lexus LS driven by Asian grandma. Or Charger/300 driven by middle-aged African-Americans. Or Infiniti Gs/Nissan Zs driven by Asian males. Of which, the latter two groups are rolling on glimmering dubs or dubs+.

But at least you don't have to worry too much about the nicer sports cars because the drivers care too much about their whips to get into accidents with your jalopy. When they cut you off, they know that they're not in any risk of messing their paint job--if you get distracted/pissed and wreck your car, then that's your fault. That's just my take, since I'm hopefully going to be upgrading my vehicle soon.
--

So when US-59 turns into 3 lanes somewhere around Grand Parkway, I turn off the aforementioned cruise control, because [stuff] starts to get stupid with these idiot drivers. I caress and careen the steering wheel and the car, respectively, to avoid the speeders and the tortoises. I check out the cop sitting under the bridge in his light-grey 'POLICE' on white cruiser--Impalas (and moderately priced American cars) without rims are dead giveaways. I take the Beltway exit and check the rearview to make sure the 'Scalade behind me slows down a bit while he's checking out his shades in the mirror. Some people can be so narcissistic, not that I'd know anything about that (end sarcasm).

Then I take the first exit off the Beltway because it's the last free exit. I still haven't gotten the EZ tag yet, which I really should, considering I'm not poor anymore and can afford the couple bucks to avoid those atrocious Beltway feeder lights (which are synced so that you hit every damn one no matter how fast/slow you drive). My parents paid upwards of $10 to cross a bridge in NYC when we lived there; I should feel thankful to pay a buck-fifty to avoid some traffic lights.

And then just after the Hwy 288 intersection, I get a bit of amusement. Just some background about this tollroad: the Beltway 8, aka Sam Houston Tollway, completely encircles the greater Houston Metro. It costs about $1.50 to make it through an 1/8 of the circuit which is around $12 to make a complete revolution, which would take you a couple of hours (though I don't know why you'd do that except if you were a Nascar fan). The feeder, or frontage road, which runs adjacent to the tollway, is completely free, but depending on the section can have a crapload of lights. With the exception of going over the Houston Ship Channel and some other spots (I assume), you can use the frontage road and just pay with your time wasted on the lights. That is, it's free if you've got some time to kill.

Houstonians have made it a habit of killing time and the environment to save some coin. So the Beltway feeder can be packed at times. And it's only 2 lanes which wouldn't be a problem if people followed the generally accepted rules of a 2 lane highway, which the Beltway feeder mimics: slower traffic to the right, left lane for passing only.

I think in smaller towns and country roads, left-lane-for-passing-only is a law and you can get ticketed. But not in Houston of course. So all the time I see jerks driving the speed limit in BOTH lanes next to each other, not letting people pass for a good couple of miles. I've decided that it's usually because they're not paying attention to their surroundings, and not because they're vindictive a-holes. Chalk it up to my naivete or hope for humanity.

So when it happened this time around, I wasn't surprised. I just turned up Katy Perry's Teenage Dream on the radio ('yea girl, I think you're pretty without any makeup on, now can I put my hands on you in your skin-tight jeans? ;)') to turn down my frustration. But then I noticed the cause of this vehicular rudeness: a cop car.

I pass by a speed limit sign: 50 mph. I look at my odometer: 50 mph. I look at the cars: 50 mph, deduced by using relational physics. In redneck speak: 'He goin 50 cuz I'm goin 50 and I ain't passin em like Dale Earnhardt.'

And the cop just tailed them for a few miles, and finally got to his turn off the feeder. He seemed pissed because he got halfway into the left lane, but then decided that the other car wasn't going to speed up or slow down either. And it's not like he could pull them over for any moving violation: they were obeying the law--50 mph. But the cop knew and the two cars in front of him knew and I knew that everyone drives 65 on the feeder if they're under 65 (years old).

That's that. I guess this would be a Seinfeld-like post, an episode about nothing.

Esquire Survey of American Men

Dear the metrosexual,

A shorter post today.

A couple of years ago, I had a discussion with a good friend of mine about which magazine subscription to get for general manliness (as in how to be man, not how to get men). In a way, it reminded me of the Superbad opener where Michael Cera and Jonah Hill describe the perks/downsides of subscriptions to particular porn websites. Except ours was a serious discussion and not a debate between the post-pubescent absurd. (Since we all know that [website expunged] has the best stuff for free!)

We narrowed down the choices between GQ, Esquire, and Men's Health, all very nicely put together magazines. Maxim et al did not make the cut since we're classy guys.

'Men's Health has articles on workout regimens and stuff. It also has some nutritional primers in addition to how to dress.' 'Yes, but GQ and Esquire go into more detail about fashion and accessories.' As you can see, the conversation was graduate level in its complexity and simplicity.

I'm not quite sure how we manage to not drown in the reflecting pool while admiring our Narcissus-ine qualities. He got married, and it's working for him. I drink, and I guess that helps.

Joking aside, those magazines really have some good articles in addition to the stuff pandering to men's baser instincts. There was a Fall guide in GQ I recently perused about the closet essentials. I knew most of the stuff on watches (I prefer slim and elegant vs the cheap, chunky monstrosities that some guys choose to sport), but the guide on mixing & matching colors and textures was truly enlightening. It takes confidence to fly in the face of the color wheel once you've learned what colors work and don't work together.

And at least for guys, you can get a few essentials in high quality and then mix everything else in. There's almost no need to redo an entire closet; just pick a staple, add some flair, and walk confidently knowing that you're worth a million bucks. Because at least to some girls in the world, you are worth that or even more. Excuse the hopeless romantic. -5 man cards.

--

This morning on the Today Show, there was a segment about a survey done by Esquire of 20 and 50 year old men. Of course they hyped it up and advertised it for about 2 hours before actually getting to the interview with the editor (or whomever), and it was almost kind of worth it.

On the segment, they played up how it seems that 20 year olds may have a more conservative lean towards relationships and such. They cited 2 survey questions in which more 20 year olds than 50 yo said that 'divorce was never an option' and that they (20 yo) preferred their wives to be stay at home moms. After reading through the survey myself, I think the subtle difference was overdone. People love to cite proof which contradicts common opinion/knowledge (that 20 yo are out sticking their members in anything that moves).

But weak evidence aside, I've noticed personally that in my generation of early 20 year olds, there seems to be a higher frequency of commitment vs the dudes in their late 20s. Five of my friends are married, and more are dropping like flies. One of them is even having a kid. (This is a sample size of college graduates or soon to be college graduates in the South). If this trend continues, the CDC will have to get involved.

It is all quite a bit upsetting to me, as you can well imagine. Even if one feels that one is making a good decision by being promiscuous (or, more accurately, having the option to be promiscuous), when one's friends are all enjoying (or succumbing) to the married life, one starts to reconsider one's lifestyle.

Don't hate me, but I think the only mistake Tiger Woods made was to get married when he wasn't ready. If he was single, who would care about his multiple sex partners and his slight deviance towards sadism? And it's not like he had to get married to get action--this dude's going to be worth a billion bucks by swinging at a stationary object.

So I'm guessing commit if it works for you? Otherwise, hold off until you're sure? I am Catholic so there's the whole if-you-divorce-you're-going-to-hell-because-of-the-hardness-of-your-heart thing.

Anyway, read the survey if you're bored. Chime in if you're irate at my Tiger Woods' comment.

Luxury of Portability

Dear pocket pooch owners,

There is something to be said for being so portable that you can carry all your life's possessions on a handkerchief tied to a pole set on your shoulder, like in those old cartoons of Tom & Jerry.



In the modern era, there's so much that is put on possessions. I fantasize that in the olden days, people didn't have much stuff so they could literally pack up like the guy in the picture and move on to the next town to work for their daily bread.

But it has become almost impossible to do that comfortably in the latter part of the past century. You have to have identity documents, Social Security number, birth certificate, a mailing address, past references, more than a couple of outfits, etc, etc. Then there are the computers and TVs and other creature comforts to bring along.

But in this century, everything has been downsized to the point that it has become almost practical to live off the clothes on your back and your smartphone in your pocket. I would know: I live out of a suitcase with just my dress clothes for work and my trusty Droid smartphone which has me eternally linked to the outside world.

Most of the furniture I had bought for my apartment in Dallas sits disassembled in various closets at my parents' house. The only recurring bills I have are that of the extended stay hotel I frequent every other week for work and the $50 I give my parents monthly for being on their phone plan. Everything else has been virtually distilled to online access, like email, work stuff, banking, investments, etc. Pretty much the only physical mail I get comes from my alma mater asking me for money. (Sorry school, now that I've crossed the economic chasm, I'm trying to widen it, not close it!)

This past week, I didn't use my laptop once since I didn't have to. The web browser on my phone is capable enough to do pretty much everything I need except play Flash* videos and print documents. And I can even track my fantasy football team! If the next iteration of the iPad is good enough, I may even be able to dispose of my laptop (though it would be hard to touchtype reliably on a non-physical keyboard).

And it is so refreshing to have become so portable since I've always hated to move. My parents and I moved around so much as a kid that I've grown to despise the sight of Uhaul and Ryder trucks. It meant that we'd have to pack and carry all the junk we've accumulated to another place, unpack the junk, accumulate more junk, and rinse & repeat. And it would always be stupid stuff like an old mattress that would give me back problems or a pieces of scrap wood and tubing that Dad thought might be useful in random situations. In our garage right now, there are about 15 motors from old scrap washing machines that my parents thought can be sold eventually, dozens of boxes from old appliances of which some of the appliances are gone, medical textbooks from the 1980s that Dad thinks might still be useful (as if there have been zero advances in the last 30 years), and several pieces of broken lawn equipment among many, many other things worth hardly nothing. I'd estimate that everything sitting in the garage right now would be worth less than $500 altogether. But they refuse to let it go, and they pawn it off on each other: 'It's your mother who wants to keep all the stuff.' 'It's your father. If I throw it away, he'll be mad.'

I think it is because they're packrats that my brother and I became anti-packrats. My brother was first--he boasts he can put everything he really needed in his car and would be good to go in a day or so, and I believe him. And I think I can do the same now. I have realized the error of my ways when I unwittingly and prematurely committed myself to living in Dallas.

It took me 3 trips with my car and once with a friend's pickup truck to move all the stuff I'd accumulated in my 6 months there, and I honestly didn't think there was all that much to bring back. But there was. And it was all very depressing to see the trophies of my independence being raked back to pile up in my parents' house.


The dining/living area during my last week in Dallas. Not usually this messy! Notice empty bottles of Patron and Goose sitting by the fireplace :)

But that's life I suppose. The original title of this post had been, 'Have Gucci and Prada, will travel,' but that's not true. I don't travel with them (watch & wallet, respectively) because I'm afraid I might lose them or attract the wrong attention. Instead, I have my keys, a Slimmy wallet with bare essentials, phone, a Citizen Eco-Drive, and a suitcase with just enough clothes. On longer trips, I bring a laptop, but that's pretty much it.

I go in, do my work, get out, and get paid. Almost like a professional mercenary. And it is so liberating not to be tied down to physical things.

If the job goes south and I lose my job again, no worries. It will take me less than an hour to pack up and go. I'm already torn. (Excuse my penchant for female pop ballads. I promise I'm straight!). And I don't believe in the born-again movement--Innocence once lost can never be reclaimed.

--
*seriously, what's this deal with Flash not supported on most smartphones? Is it the phone OS programmers or Adobe that's holding up progress?

Practicing Scared Pharmacy

Dear poker degenerates,

About a month ago, I was playing 1-2 No Limit Hold Em at Winstar, a casino just a few miles north of the Texas-Oklahoma border. The Winstar poker room happens to be one of the few redeeming things about the Okie state*. The deck was hitting me in the mouth that night, meaning I was catching everything. On one hand, I flopped a boat, sixes over jacks, when my opponent flopped trips (6-6 vs J-9, flop J-J-6), and I proceeded to take the guy’s money. On another, I flopped top two-pair and made a really stupid all-in move out of turn, raising an additional $160 on a $100 bet ($260 total). Fortunately, the guy behind me folded a flopped straight because he respected my tight-aggressive play, and the initial raiser didn’t hit his draw. That sent the folder on tilt, and he berated me with stuff like, ‘I really hand it to you…not many people would have had the guts (sarcasm for ‘stupidity’) to raise all-in with two-pair.’

Then a few hands later, I completed a nut straight draw (Broadway) against the tilter’s flopped set and took the rest of his stack, sending him out the casino door. I had started the night losing my initial $200 buy-in, but scrambled up to $560 with my last bill. But with the cards I had that night, a better player would have made so much more. I was playing scared poker, and it cost me additional winnings.

This was the microcosm hand for the night: I was dealt J-9s on the button with two horrible players sitting to my left in the blinds. The first guy played loose-aggressive slop poker, pretty much continuation betting with any 2 cards after the flop. He bet and folded out of turn, insulted the dealers, and even folded a few hands when he could have checked his cards. The guy to his left was pretty much an open book: he bet his made hands, called his draws, and folded his mess. Easy pickings: I raised to $7 pretty much every time I had the button, and this time I had my favorite hand.

They both call as I lick my chops. The flop comes, and it takes all my power not to drool all over the cards: Q-10-8 rainbow. I flopped the nuts with my J-9, which is the best 5-card hand given the cards on the table. My brother calls it the hon bi, which is literally translated from Vietnamese as ‘the marbles’. They both check, and I make a sizeable value bet, about three-fourths of the pot, hoping that one of them would call. They both do, which made me a little anxious. I put the loose guy on a draw, and the tight guy on top pair, overpair, or a set. A 5 came on the turn. They check, I bet more this time, and they both call again. Now I’m thinking that one of them likely had a set on the flop. The river came. Another 5, a scare card for me. Again they check in front of me. Amateurs love to slowplay. They love to reveal the winning hand and rub it in your face. And I had a belief that at least one of them had turned his set into a boat with the river 5, and this was enough to make me check behind them.

I turn over my flopped straight, and they both muck their hands. Though I don’t know what they truly had, I’d probably say the loose guy had a busted draw (K-J) and was paying me off, and the tight guy had top pair, top kicker (A-Q). And somehow I didn’t make more money after flopping the nut straight. While I was replaying the hand in my head, reviewing all the action, the guy on my right, a solid 19-year old Asian (it’s an Indian casino with a lower gambling age) with a diamond stud in his left ear, needled me with, ‘Dude, why didn’t you bet the river? You had it!’

‘The 5 was a scare card. I thought at least one of them made a full house.’

He considers, agrees silently to himself, and then tries to set me on tilt, ‘So what? Are you playing scared poker?’

I shrugged and smiled. I was winning, and I didn’t care. Looking back, I realize that I had given them odds (at least one of them) to draw out on me. And the odds of them having the boat were slim since they both would have raised (or check-raised) me if they had flopped a set.

Scared poker is my current M.O., and I'm working hard to change that. To triple barrel your nothing against an opponent's something; that is mostly genius and sometimes gross stupidity.
--

Poker is simpler than life in that poker boils down to the chips in front of you. A correct decision nets more chips. A correct decision could also mean less lost chips, which is equally as important. Like life, it is a game of incomplete information; we have to make decisions based on what we know, however little that is. And if we consistently make good decisions, we will make more money in the long run. It is a game which rewards good play and punishes bad play. Therefore, it is a just game. People who complain about bad beats and others' poor play are just not applying themselves.

But life is far more difficult than poker, which is itself an extremely complex game. And it is fraught with injustice: how is playing professional sports worth 100x more than teaching kids how to read and write. Or how is rapping/singing about degrading acts which are performed with semen rewarded better than doing research which paves the way for the cure for HIV/AIDS?

And to set ‘justice’ even more off kilter, we have allowed frivolous lawsuits to dictate our lifestyles. It’s common sense that your coffee should be hot; do you need a warning saying that it could cause you injury if spilled?

What affect me personally are all these inane commercials with ambulance chasers asking people if they’ve suffered injury from medicines. If people read the warnings, there really shouldn’t be anything to complain about: there are risks inherent with any medicine. If Accutane(R) can cause DEATH (suicidal ideation), why are people suing about upset stomachs and diarrhea? As such, there is tremendous risk of not covering your backside as a healthcare professional.

And for myself at least, there is little upside to exposing yourself to liability. In the past 10 years or so, there was some study done in some pediatric journal which purported that common over-the-counter remedies were useless for kids under 6 years. Since then, most manufacturers have removed the dosing for kids under 6. Some pediatricians will swear at you up and down for recommending those medicines while other peds docs will call you an idiot for refusing to recommend them. PharmDs are technically doctors and self-proclaimed ‘medication experts’, and so I guess we do have authority to supersede drug manufacturer labeling. But it's not like I get paid any extra when I make a recommendation which might expose me to a lawsuit if something bad happens.

I know if I recommend common OTC remedies for kids outside of the packaging recommendations (which is ill-advised), most kids will probably end up fine. Their parents will have the placebo effect of giving their kids something to help with the sniffles even though those medicines may not have any effect at all (so the study says) and has absolutely no effect on the curing the true sickness. But heaven forbid if one of those kids decompensates and croaks. Then the parents, their lawyers, and the late local news will be on my ass for recommending the damn drug.

‘We have here ‘doctor’ Nguyen who had recommended a medicine which specifically said not to be used in children under 6. ‘Doctor’ Nguyen, what do you have to say for yourself now that this innocent child is irreparably injured?’

‘You are all absolute idiots. Thank you malpractice insurance for covering my behind. You asked for my professional opinion, and I gave it, and now you're suing me for it. Next time, go Google it, and then sue yourselves.’

No thanks! What do I say on a daily basis? ‘There is nothing labeled for kids under 6 (or 4 or 2 years, depending on the medicine). You can ask your physician about it, and if they recommend it, then I can show you where it is. But I cannot recommend anything outside the package recommendation as I could lose my license.’ If you’re not comfortable doing something, say that you could lose your license--that works pretty well.

One of my friends says that I’m being a coward, that he’d rather help 100 people in need while exposing himself to potential liability, than intentionally being unhelpful like myself. And that’s fine. To each his/her own. I personally like having a license. And it’s far less likely that I’d be sued for refusing to recommend something than for recommending something off-label.
--

In real poker played in casinos, you can only bet and lose what is in front of you. If some guy bets $1,000, and you only have $200 on the table, then you can go all-in to win the $200 part of his $1,000 bet. You don't have to fold or throw in your car keys as they do in the TV shows and movies. In the case of my flopped straight, it would have been the right move (in hindsight) to go all-in as those players had a history of calling with second best hands. In the unlikely case that one of them had the full house, I would have only lost a couple hundred.

In life you can lose so much more, your entire livelihood depending on the lawyer who's suing you. My friend can go ahead and bet all-in with his weak straight. Eventually, one of his opponents will have made a boat and take away all his money, the clothes off his back, and the food from his kids' mouths.

Me? I got bills to pay, and so I practice scared pharmacy.

--
*Why is it that neighbors are so mean to each other or are deemed ‘rivals’? Is proximity like when your bro/sis invade your personal space while in the backseat on long roadtrips?