The Anglosphere does it again — an inflatable pub. I want one.

Props to Al.

Of course, all this great bidness comes at great cost. I’m forced to fly more often. Flying has become such a soul-sucking, life-force-sapping, ass-whipping ordeal that I simply cannot wait to retire. The TSA is humongo freaking governmental bureaucratic waste of money. The airlines are dropping flights and packing the remaining ones to the gills. Airports pierce your eardrums with announcement after announcement after announcement, and then the tape starts over, louder. Giant lumbering belching buses stop and start up and down the curbs picking up and dropping off the stunned sheep. Passengers stumble around barefoot because the aforementioned TSA want to x-ray every single shoe. You get pitched $5 headphones in the air so you can listen to insipid edited crap from one of the teevee networks or some crap movie. Gate agents let people onto the plane with steamer trunks that wouldn’t fit in a seat, much less the overhead compartments. That’s after they snarl at you if you have the freaking gall to ask about a possible upgrade that you’d willingly pay for.

The TSA is my biggest gripe. Today, they decided to enforce a ban on cigarette lighters. Next week, it will probably be binder clips, or toe rings, or mullets. Who knows? Totally random. Gotta x-ray those boots, but not these. This week, sandals have to come off, too. Next month will surely bring something new and chaotic. The problem is there is no pro-activity and no consistency. I travel for a living, and I (try to) monitor the state of the State Security so as not to upset the apparatchiks’ apple cart. But a belt that sails through the gate at C29 in DFW will set off the klaxons at B5. So now, embarrassingly, I try to get as nekkid as I can. I’m changing clothes in filthy filling station bathrooms so that, where possible, I’m in shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and freaking flip-flops when I roll up to the dimbulbs manning the gates. And they still “recommend” that they x-ray the flip-flops. Please. I also want to know when they’ll be able to identify a freaking laptop that’s still in a backpack. Those are x-ray machines, right? They can see through things, right? What is the point of taking them out and putting them in a plastic bus tub? Boarding passes in your hand, too. What’s the genius reasoning behind that? Making sure I didn’t lose it or change it in the fifteen feet since the last gal looked at it?

I don’t know what the answer is to this mess. It just seems like we’ve got idiots running the place, looking for ways to make people crazy, instead of finding ways to keep us safe. I’m not any safer because they force nice grannies who wear too much jewelry to disrobe, or make the Down’s syndrome kid take off his wristwatch because they set off their dumb metal detectors. Common sense, folks…try it, please, instead of memos from dorks in DC.

Yet another half-week in the Greater Phoenix area, making connections and doing some bidness. Tuesday was a late night with an extraordinarily large global manufacturer. Last night was a late night at the Casino Arizona poker room with a raft of partners, where I got sucked out on at least 100 times to the tune of a lot of dough. Lashed up some moving parts to kind of put together a nice partnership with an up-and-comer, too, that will keep me hopping for the forseeable future.

Casino Arizona was a decent enough room. They spread 3/6, 4/8, and 6/12. I heard them calling 10/20, 20/40, and 30/60, too. The dealer told me too late that they also had a 5-150 spread limit game going most nights, too. I was too far into the Amber Bock at that point to wade into those waters, but I would have greatly preferred that to getting killed in 3/6 no-foldem-holdem. At least four sets got snapped off, I missed a dozen open-ended straight draws, and only had one nut flush draw all night long (of course, that I missed, too). Two of the guys I took out there were total newbies at casino poker. One of them won his first six hands after we sat down and bought in, which made most of the table start talking to themselves. It was pretty funny, as it drove off at least two guys, the last one of which got wiped out on a freaking flopped boat by my pard. I re-learned quickly why I hate limit hold-em, too. I want a hammer to go after the two-out-hitting suck-out freaks. I wanted a real hammer when my Hilton Sisters (QQ) got cracked by 3 Ks, two of which came runner-runner to make a set for the guy in the black hat (starting hand: K5o). Grrrr. That made me talk to my self. Bah…I hate limit. I did avail myself of the $2.25 Country Breakfast of two eggs, hashbrowns, toast, and a slice of grilled ham the size of a hubcap.

I’m sure there are better rooms in Phoenix, but I didn’t have time to go looking for them. I definitely don’t have the gusto to play poker for 7 hours, either. I’ve got a bad case of hold-em knee right now from sitting for so long, and I was getting up every two or three orbits just to take a little walk. But — everybody had a good time, and we got some good solid bidness done, so I’m not complaining . . . very much.