The last time that I was in Las Vegas, in July, I made a ton of money playing poker. Tragically, though, I had gotten stomped in April, so I'm still running a defecit for the year. But I just got three weeks off from the time-stealing/soul-destroying gig, and I take off in about seven hours for five days of poker to see if I can get back at least to even. So, if you're in Las Vegas this week (and it turns out that the hotels are amazingly cheap the week before Christmas), come on out and we'll hang. It'll be cool.

But my life isn't all about shiftlessness and dissipation (only, like, ninety percent [ninety-five, tops]); when I get back, I'm going to try to finish writing the last six Poker Reports (and those bad boys are pretty much done; I just need to go back in and insert the stupid jokes), respond to my homegirl's incisive and vicious (but in a good way) response to my Logan Post, and then work on a little essay about the Drive-By Truckers' Goddamn Lonely Love, one of the best love songs that I've heard in a really long time. The title, just by itself, was enough to kick my ass.

Then, if I have some time left over before I go back to work, I'm going to try to invent car speakers that won't blow out (because, man, that is a drag, bro), help fix this little global warming thing, and then come up with a cure for excessive happiness.

Or, Plan B, I'll get stomped again in Las Vegas, come home utterly depressed, and then not do a goddamn thing but sit around staring at the ceiling until I have to go back to work. We'll see.