Me: Hey dawg.
Blog: That's blog. Blog with a 'B'.
Me: It's an expression, dawg. It shows my street cred.
Blog: Important to establish when you fake a conversation with an imaginary blog.
Me: Word.
Blog: So, where have you been?
Me: Thanks for asking. I've been away from this blog for quite a while, and that kind of absence demands an explanation. More than that, it demands a triumphant post, celebrating a return to the blogosphere. Thankfully, I have been crafting such a post in my head for days now, a virtual tour de force. This is my "David" post, dawg.
Blog: Blog. Go for it.

What's up with muffins?

I had to go into the office this week, so I stopped by my local cafe for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat on my way down to the south bay. My first instinct was to buy a chocolate croissant, one of my favorite foods in the world, but I'm unable to eat those in a car without decorating my shirt and pants with buttery pastry bits, chocolate smudges, and a dusting of powdered sugar. Since I was going into the office to deliver training, I wanted to try and look professional, which is best faked when one's clothing isn't a collage of their breakfast. Also, I haven't been running much, so I grabbed their healthiest muffin, a bran and raisin monstrosity.

I got about one bite into the muffin before it exploded, spectacularly spraying muffin bits all over my shirt, pants, and car seat. This was no ordinary mess. It was as though the internal structure of the muffin had broken done at the molecular level. From my lap to my chest, I was coated with a fine layer of bran molecules, which immediately bonded to my clothing utilizing the supernatural glue of raisin molecules. It was yet another "screw you" from the world's most evil food.

Touché, raisins. Touché.

Anyway, that's what I've been up to.

I swear I'm going to be a more frequent blogger again soon. Between work, faux baseball betting, and those family members of mine, there's just not enough hours in the day. I could use about 2 more. Yeah, 26 hours.

I've made 16% of faux profit in 8 days though. Go me!

An Open Letter to Everyone in the Universe

Dear Everyone,

I need a favor.

I don't subscribe to HBO. Although I like the show The Sopranos, I've been watching it for years by renting the DVDs. That's worked out pretty well for me... until today.

The series finale apparently aired last night. That means that I'll get to see it in maybe six months or so. Today began my six-month effort to block out all mentions of plot spoilers

Of course, every time I clicked over to a web page, I did so cautiously, wary of Sopranos spoilers. I could not believe what a large percentage of the internet was dedicated to ruining my belated viewing of the finale. News sites, blogs, and even gambling sites were filled with commentary about the final episode. QUIT IT, INTERNET!

Instant message windows have popped up on my screen asking what I thought of the final episode. In the shower, two separate radio presets (NPR and the local sports talk radio station) had a Sopranos update WITHIN 30 SECONDS OF EACH OTHER. Multiple sections of the newspaper have had articles about the Sopranos. Several conversations at a birthday party tonight centered on the finale.

For the last 48 hours, I've been frantically closing windows on my computer, changing stations on the radio, and singing "La la la la" during dangerous conversations, all in a desperate attempt to avoid finding out if Tony Soprano is dead, retired, or gay.

So, can I ask a favor? Would you all mind just sort of shutting up about the Sopranos for the next six months or maybe a year? Please?

Thanks.

Hugs,
Mike

Hey, I suck at this blogging thing! Back soon...

This baseball software is slowly destroying my sanity.

For those of you who aren't familiar with what I'm doing, I've written a computer program to try and analyze the baseball games each day. Then, it looks up the odds offered by online casinos and recommends wagers that it thinks would be profitable. I run this program each morning and it posts the recommended bets to a blog I created.

The end result is that I'm glued to the ESPN baseball scoreboard page each day, anxiously waiting for the next update of the page. Although I'm not actually making bets on any of these games, each game is a critique of my baseball program. Since I wrote every line of that program, each game is therefore a critique of me.

If my program recommends a bet on the Washington Nationals (an atrocious team), then I end up on the edge of my office chair, hoping for an unlikely Nationals victory. Each time a Nationals hitter makes an out, it's an indictment of my baseball knowledge and programming ability. If, however, one of those hypothetical balls gets pushed by the wind two feet to the left, and falls between two outfielders, then I'm a genius.

Did a blister form on the opposing pitcher's hand, causing him to walk a batter? Hooo hoo! My self esteem skyrockets!

Did one of my batters get a crappy night's sleep? Doh! I'm a worthless human being.

Judging myself based on micro events in a 2,430 game baseball season is exhausting work, but I'm dedicated to the task.

Ok, let's play this game. I've set up my little baseball program to automatically post its recommended bets each day to a blog I've set up here. I'll have it keep track of how successfully/disgracefully it works.

Care to watch this train wreck? Check out The Baseball Gambler. Today's recommended bets are posted.

(Don't draw too many conclusions after only a few days. That's my flaw, not yours.)

One of the things that has motivated me to work tirelessly on my baseball program this year is the fact that I have a friend who is making real bets with my data (and losing so far). Every time he has a losing day, I do more coding. I've done a lot of coding.

It's not that I feel bad about him losing money (we're talking about pretty small bets), but rather that there's now someone paying attention to my results. I can't just talk smack. I have to produce. It's a matter of pride.

So, if having my results visible to one person gets me moving, how much more motivated will I be if I publish my daily results TO THE ENTIRE BLOGOSPHERE (or at least the tens of people who stumble by here) ? I'm going to find out. Stand by.

When I was a single man, I eagerly looked forward to any party as a potential opportunity to meet women. Being both socially-stunted and anti-attractive to women (repulsive is such a strong word), it hardly ever worked out for me, but there was always that one-in-a-million chance that kept me optimistic.

On Saturday night the wife and I went to a cocktail party and what kind of person did I hope to meet? Why someone to talk about baseball statistics and gambling, of course!

You see, I've been harassing everyone around me with incessant chatter about my new software program, the Baseball Predictinator 2000 (yes, a new name will be chosen). My wife and Pablo have suffered the brunt of it, but almost everyone I come in contact with has been cornered more than once.

Daisy knows to ask if the software is "rooting" for the Giants to win. Our dinner guests are nearly always "treated" to a summary of my statistical approach, and the barista at my local coffee shop came *this* close to hearing about how I just popped my linear regression cherry. So, when I heard that we were going to a party, I mentally previewed my most fascinating statistical anomaly stories (As though any of them aren't fascinating! *snort*).

So, we got to the party, mingled a bit here and there, and then eventually hunkered down in a couple of comfy chairs. Eventually one of my wife's acquaintances came and sat next to us. We chatted about our kids, and summer vacation, and blah blah blah. At one point the guy asked me what I did for a living. When I sheepishly replied that I was a computer programmer, he smiled broadly and put out his fist for fist-pump. This was NOT the response I expected, but I was encouraged.

Later the conversation somehow turned to sports and when I mentioned baseball, the guy put his hand over his heart and sighed deeply.

"The only thing I don't like about baseball," he said, "Is that they only play 162 games a year."

Hoo hoo! This guy was it! A techy who loved baseball! He was my holy grail of cocktail party conversationalists! I played my final card.

"I think one of the reasons baseball is really attractive for nerds like me because there are so many interesting numbers in the game. I really enjoy browsing the stats and analyzing the game that way," I stated charmingly, leaning forward in my chair in anticipation of his excited agreement.

My companion furrowed his brow and grimaced. "No. That's not it. I don't have any interest in that. I just like watching the games."

It's nice to see that even as I age, parties are no less disappointing. We did have a lovely consolation discussion about Armando Benitez though.

Oh, weekend, I hardly knew ye!

Rather than a spurt-by-spurt description of the entire weekend's debauchery, let's just jump to the last and most wholesome part of the weekend, Daisy's piano recital.

First some background on me (Me me me me me! It's like this whole freakin' blog is about me!). I am a music idiot. I can't play an instrument. I can't keep a beat or a tune. I like barbershop quartets. So, when someone who shares DNA with me actually learns to play an instrument, I am impressed. I generally make perceptive comments like "Daisy! You done pressed the piano good!"

Hank usually pulls me aside later and explains that the tempo was off and the measure was uh... mismeasured? Ok, I don't actually understand Hank's critiques of Daisy's playing, but I nod knowingly when Hank talks just like I nod appreciatively when Daisy plays.

Anyway, so we went to the recital today. Since I couldn't see Daisy's face from where I was sitting while she performed, I decided to take the opportunity to scrutinize her piano teacher's face. These recitals take place in the teacher's living room and are very low-key and low-pressure events. The teacher sits behind the kids, prepared to offer assistance and to remind them to bow to the audience.

As Daisy played her piece, I watched her teacher's expression to see if Daisy was indeed screwing up. Sure enough! A tiny grimace here. Some surprised blinking there. The mistakes that were invisible to my ears, were much easier to detect on her piano teacher's face. (Note to self: invite piano teacher to next poker night).

It all sounded good to me. Mostly I was just happy that I didn't show up in a cape.