The Playground Bully

When I was ten years old a family move meant that I joined a new school. As is the custom in London, my status as the "new boy" combined with spectacles meant that I was the natural target of the playground bully. Given that the school employed individuals whose primary responsibility was to prevent such activities, it puzzles me how, two or three times a week, I would spend "playtime" having my hair pulled and arms twisted into pretzel-like configurations.

But the English are a confusing people, particularly when one has the benefit of looking back at that Sceptered (septic?) Isle from the left side of The Pond. Their capacity to talk about the weather is particularly remarkable for the simple reason that, in England, there isn't any. Not real weather. It's true that, every now and then, a "heatwave" will scorch London as the temperatures rocket into the 80s for a week. And crippling winter storms will dump a couple of inches of snow on The Smoke thereby rendering all travel by road, rail, sleigh and foot totally impossible. But for three hundred and twenty days or so every year you will not be far wrong if you predict the weather to be upper 50s and overcast.

In North East Kansas we have weather. And the winter of 2009/10 is going to go down in my personal record books as one of the nastiest five months ever. The weather is a sensible topic of conversation here not only because there is some, but because it changes so rapidly. Most winters will include brutally frigid episodes, but usually we get a few weeks relief with warm days and clear skies. Not this time. Week after week the temperatures stuck rigidly below average by twenty degrees. On the rare occasions when the slate-grey sky gave way to sunshine, it got colder still. I stopped counting the number of winter storm warnings and the total snowfall accumulation in mid-January. It was around that time I went to bed.

Last week the flowers began to bloom. Crocuses, early dwarf irises, and the daffodils just about ready to open their petals on the Vernal equinox when...



Yes, I know the snow will melt. And while half my daffodils appear to have been wiped out I specifically plant a second wave extra deep for situations like this. There will still be a radiant yellow explosion in my yard welcoming the longer days.

But it seems to me that Winter was making a point. The playground bully was walking away, but noticing that his victim was rising unsteadily from the ground, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and sneered. And then the playground bully kicked his victim in the balls to underline his timeless promise.

"I'll be back in November."

The Birds: Part II

The first interior bird of the season was no great surprise. And now that Zoot has ceased to be a killing machine and Rufus... Well, Rufus has issues and poses no threat to birds partly because he is afraid of them. So after much waving of towels with the front door and numerous windows open to the 9F December day, the winged visitor returned to the wild relatively unscathed.

I assumed that the bird had, as in previous years, fallen down the chimney. I usually leave the flap in the flue open because Zoot likes to pee in the fireplace and it airs it out, but preventing further intruders became a priority so I closed it. Thus the arrival of the second bird a couple of days later was something of a curiosity.

I have noticed in the past that birds that fall down my chimney typically do so in pairs. Given that there was no obvious alternative point of ingress for bird number two, I suspect it fell down the chimney at approximately the same time as the first one and had somehow avoided detection. (If you're wondering how I could overlook a bird in the house for two days, you probably haven't met me. In addition to my usual limitations in the noticing-things department, I was living mostly upstairs over the winter to reduce heating bills.) After some banging of pans and arctic air from the door and windows, the second bird was also evicted.

Bird number three still remains a bit of a puzzle. It turned up a week after the others left, although it is quite possible it was one of the first two making a repeat visit, perhaps because my house is slightly warmer than 9F and the kitchen has readily available food.

Despite the lack of an "obvious" means for the third bird to enter the house, the latest evidence compelled me to study the situation further. I should explain that The Kattery was built in stages, with the original structure making up about one half of the current edifice. As a result it is replete with novel and probably dangerous architectural innovations, such as dropped ceilings to accommodate heating-cooling duct-work, twin basements linked by a bizarre maze of crawl spaces, and so on. The duct-work alone is a fascinating labyrinth that a few years ago inspired me to attempt to create an Aeolian pipe organ. By modifying the lengths of the ducts through the installation of gates to create segments appropriate to a harmonic scale, I determined that, in principle, when the furnace or air-conditioning sent air through the ducts a pleasing sound would be produced. Unfortunately, part of my testing of the system involved dropping a speaker down one of the ducts in the dining room and playing The Ramones through it. Half way through "Sheena is a Punk Rocker" some kind of resonance must have formed, because after a few seconds of an E-flat that grew from fortissimo to tornadic, the duct-work in the smaller of the two basements exploded.

I carried out a brief inspection of the duct-work, but found no bird-sized holes to the outside world. Further, I knew at least one bird had come down the chimney by the flecks of soot that had mixed with the bird shit that was now liberally spread around much of the house. The Kattery smelled like the bottom of a parrot cage, and once pots, pans, towels, open windows and the rest had seen bird number three leave the premises, I decided it was time to use the evidence provided by the soot and take the battle to the enemy.

I was now confident that the birds could not get in to the house via the chimney, but the soot evidence strongly pointed to them living in or near it. Due to the Kansas weather and the height of my roof, I have a complex chimney cowling that resembles a medieval torture device. Somehow this prevents 70 m.p.h. winds being blown down the chimney. It also, I suspect, provides an Art Deco apartment for birds.

I rarely use my fireplace, partly because Zoot pees in it and more importantly because I suspect it is far from safe. Its intrinsic danger had been increased the winter before when the handful of fires I had were fueled by pine and bits of my fence. This is exactly the kind of wood you do not want to burn, of course, but it was the pine tree and my fence that the most recent tornado had chosen to destroy. I therefore re-opened the flue and built a fire using the remainder of the fence.

My first concern was that a family of birds in the chimney may block the air-flow thereby filling The Kattery with smoke. However, on lighting the fire a good draw rapidly built up. So good, in fact, that the furiously-spitting fence sent large sparks shooting upwards. Consequently I immediately instituted first-fire safety procedure. This involves checking the temperature of the walls in the various rooms adjacent to the chimney, including secondary areas linked by the aforementioned duct-work. Phase two requires going outside to ensure that flames are not shooting through the chimney or conceivably from holes in the wall.

Remarkably all that was burned in this process was the fence and pine. At least that is what I thought initially. However, the next day I was in the kitchen when I heard a clattering, tumbling sound followed by a thud. The flue was still open, since the embers take a while to cool down. I therefore approached the fireplace expecting to be confronted by a pissed off bird. Instead I found in the grate a badly charred object about the size of a pound of butter. With a beak.

Donning rubber gloves I recovered the deceased bird from the ashes and threw it out the front door. Unfortunately it appears that Rufus is only afraid of living birds. He ran out the door after it, captured it, and ran back inside before I could stop him. And then pulled off one of his remarkable vanishing tricks. He turned up again a few hours later sans dead bird, but despite a thorough search of his favorite closets and cabinets the unfortunate creature was nowhere to be found. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to wait a couple of weeks when the smell of decay would reveal its location.

The next morning I came downstairs to make coffee wearing my hat. It wasn't until I'd got through the second cup that I noticed there was a note on the fridge door. It read:

TAIST LIEK CHIKKUN. THX. ROOFUS.

Interview With The Black Wizard

I arrived at the residence of The Black Wizard at the appointed hour and, as arranged, sent a text message to his personal number. I received an immediate reply to enter the building. In the hallway, pink cardboard arrows pointed towards a narrow, steep stairway. Following the arrows up the stairs and along a landing, I reached a door and knocked.

The Black Wizard: Come in. Please sit down. I am told the floor in the vicinity of the gardening magazines is quite comfortable.

The Black Wizard was sitting up in bed wearing a leather biker jacket, sunglasses, and black stetson. He was flanked by two cats, one black and one orange, curled up on velvet pillows. The room was dark and it was difficult to determine where the Black Wizard ended and the tangle of comforters and cushions began. The bed itself was listing at least twenty degrees to port. From where I sat it appeared that one corner was sinking into the floor.

Feline 9ine: Thank you for agreeing to this interview. How would you prefer to be addressed?

TBW: Clearly and concisely, please.

F9: No, sir, I meant by which name? Over the years you have had many. "The Black Wizard," "Magister Ludi," "Jeff."

TBW: They aren't really my names. They are the labels placed on me by others. I always refer to myself as "me."

F9: Quite, but if you had the choice...

TBW: I can choose anything? How fun! How about... "Sagacity?"

F9: Sir Gass...

TBW: I have a better plan. Let's assume that whenever you speak you are addressing me rather than one of the cats. That way you needn't call me anything at all.

F9: Very well. May I first ask about your health?

TBW: Yes. [Long pause.] Oh, I see, you just did. For a being of my age, species, diet, exercise habits, and previous medical history, I am in perfect health.

F9: So you are not confined to this bed?

TBW: Quite the contrary, I am liberated by it. May I offer you something to eat? There are some tinned sardines behind the red boots.

F9: Thank you, no.

At this point in our interview, the orange cat to the left of The Black Wizard rolled off the bed and landed on the floor where it remained motionless. The Black Wizard glanced downwards and from deep in his throat a low, guttural growl emerged. The orange cat stood up, shook its head, and jumped back onto its pillow, where it curled up and went back to sleep.

F9: You are no doubt aware that certain allegations have surfaced...

TBW: Yes, they always do, don't they? I live in hope that one will fly through the window or be delivered in a wooden crate, but instead allegations insist on "surfacing." And one wonders from whence? The fact that they surface demands that they form underwater, then rise like bubbles. But bubbles need an object on which to nucleate, before growing and detaching and negotiating their perilous trip upwards. My current theory is that the fine hairs on the languid leg of a daughter of Achelous act as nucleation centers, then when she moves her leg in order to more easily scratch an itch, the allegations detach and eventually surface. I assume we are talking about Volumes IV and V of the autobiography of The Red Siren, or whatever she prefers to be called these days.

F9: Yes, Madame Seirena Thunbergii.

TBW: Oh how catchy! And such a rare talent to compress, or perhaps I should say "mangle," Greek, Latin and French into such a tiny space.

F9: Returning to the allegations...

TBW: Actions speak louder than words.

F9: Excuse me?

The Black Wizard sighed, lit a black cigarette with a gold filter, and directed a column of smoke at a brass owl that was suspended from the ceiling. He rested his hand on the black cat to his right and smiled faintly.

TBW: Given the target audience of your publication, I imagine you are referring to Her assertions about this cat. Specifically, that I proposed that She and I return to Europe to play Red and Black House. And that, in order to do so, I offered to return this cat to the streets where I found him, this being necessitated, She asserts, by her allergies.

F9: That is the actual cat mentioned in Volume IV of...

TBW: Indeed it is. And as you can see, he is neither homeless nor destitute.

F9: But wasn't this over twenty years ago?

TBW: Was it? I have no idea. I have discovered, over the years, that my experience of their passage is different to that of people who do not share my... talents. I find it quite likely The Red Siren enjoys a similar affliction. I am also convinced she is not allergic to cats.

The room brightened suddenly as the Sun emerged from behind a cloud and sent a shaft of light onto The Black Wizard's left shoulder. Noticing the direction of my gaze, The Black Wizard ran his index finger over his jacket, then showed me a discolored finger tip.

TBW: Dust. Dust and ash. The origin of the ash is obvious, of course, but the dust is more interesting. Most of it is me. Dead skin. The cats make a contribution, and I am told that plaster from the walls of this fine dwelling also crumbles and eventually settles, but a fair fraction of this dust is me. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The Black Wizard frowned, and dug around in the blankets apparently searching for something. With a sudden look of triumph he held up a walnut which he proceeded to throw at a computer in the far corner of the room. The screen came to life and "The Man Who Dies Every Day," began to play.

TBW: Ultravox. John Foxx is the vocalist. He left and Midge Ure became the vocalist. And the band was still named Ultravox. But was it the same band? A large chunk of the thing that was Ultravox had been removed, and grafted in its place was an irritating Scotsman with a silly mustache. Bits of me, in the form of this dust, leave my body every day. To be replaced by new stuff generated through a bizarre process that begins with ingesting sardines and goes through countless biochemical reactions until I have new skin that can again fall off me as dust. I suspect the fact that the passage of time is puzzling to me is somehow connected to this process. Are you sure I can't interest you in some sardines?

F9: Quite sure, thank you. But staying with the culinary theme, your reputation as an accomplished if radical chef is also challenged by Madame Seirena Thunbergii.

TBW: Ah yes, Volume V. In which my dinner party guests suffer through burned parsnips, soggy tempura and loud, lesbian drummers. Well I suppose it's all a matter of taste, isn't it? I prefer my parsnips crisp. In much of Louisiana they would have been devoured without dissent. I will allow The Red Siren that tempura is not one of my strong suits, but I fail to see a problem with the lesbians. Although... Yes, the contrast with The Red Siren's own dinner parties provides a clue to Her dislike of mine. For reasons I could never comprehend, the food at Her soirees was invariably served three hours after the time indicated on the invitation. Dead animals would bubble interminably in the kitchen as the guests sat in complete silence. The only entertainment to be found was in placing bets on which of the twitching, highly-strung violinists on the couch would snap first.

F9: So you stand by your cooking?

TBW: With a spoon.


To be continued...

The Birds: Part I

I am not a morning person and for the last few weeks my dislike of getting out of bed has been intensified by the prospect of being dive-bombed by birds.

The problem started soon after the heavy snowfall we enjoyed on Christmas Eve. Following my usual routine of staggering downstairs to make coffee, I was greeted in the kitchen by a bird sitting on my coffee-maker. The bird and I exchanged puzzled looks, then the bird swooped in my general direction and flapped into the living room where it bounced off a window, squawked, and settled on the ceiling fan. I loaded the coffee-maker and returned upstairs to get my hat.

This is not the first time The Kattery has been infested by wildlife. A possum appeared in the basement a few years ago. It turns out that "shoo!" is completely ineffective when attempting to evict possums, so I called Animal Control. I was informed that possums were not included in the list of animals they controlled, presumably because possums are bad-tempered, ugly, disease-ridden beasts and Animal Control is far more interested in controlling small, affectionate puppies.

My next phone call was to my neighbor who is a Kansas native and part-time organic farmer.

"Hey Jake, there's a possum in my basement."

"Uh huh."

"I'd like it out of my basement."

"You got a gun?"

"No."

"Tire iron?"

Realizing that Kansans and Londoners had markedly different approaches to possum removal, I decided "trapping" was more my speed. Armed with a dog carrier and organic sprayer filled with soapy water I returned to the basement.

Note: I don't own a dog, but the size of my cats necessitates a dog carrier rather than a cat carrier.

The possum played into my hands at this point by running behind the furnace. Placing the open dog carrier at one end of the space between the wall and furnace, I took up position at the other end behind the possum and started dousing it in soapy water. The plan worked almost flawlessly. The possum ran forwards in the direction of the waiting trap. And got stuck. At least it appeared to be completely filling the available space and its forward progress had ceased.

Note: One cannot rule out the possibility the possum was faking being stuck and just remaining very still. I have been told they do that.

Not to be deterred I switched the dog carrier from one side of the furnace to the other and started spraying the possum from the opposite direction. The results again have a bearing on whether or not the possum was genuinely stuck. After a few good shots of soap to the face the possum began backing up. My instincts tell me that its renewed ability to move was the result of the now drenched possum being sufficiently lubricated by the soap.

Much to my amazement, some more spraying saw the possum retreat into the dog carrier. I ran round the furnace and slammed the door shut. It was at this point that I discovered possums are only slow-moving when they choose to be. The dog carrier began bouncing across the floor of the basement following a trajectory that physicists would immediately identify as a random walk.

After a few minutes the motion of the dog carrier had subsided to occasional jerks, so I decided it was time to return the possum to the wild. Picking the carrier up produced a new round of high-speed possum activity, but for the first time in our relationship I finally felt confident that I was in charge of the situation and got the possum outside. I unlatched the carrier door with a broom handle, eased the door open, and ran indoors.

The whole procedure from possum discovery to possum liberation took seven hours. But once complete I felt a sense of accomplishment, particularly because I had neither shot nor clubbed to death the possum, as is apparently the tradition in this part of the world.

I imagine there are Kansans who can recognize individual possums. Indeed some in the heartland probably keep them as pets. I confess that, to my eyes, one possum is indistinguishable from another. Consequently I am in no position to say whether the possum I found squashed in the street a couple of days after this episode was "my" possum or one of its cousins, and whether I simply imagined that it was emitting a faint aroma of soap.

Third-Graders Behind Nationwide Extortion Ring

When I lived in London I dated a girl who had a couple of uncles. They were well-dressed men with heavy East End accents whose line of business was not discussed in polite company. Their main income derived from visiting pubs and inquiring if the landlord had fire insurance. When, as was usually the case, the landlord replied that he had, the uncles would recommend that he got more. From them. Now. Because, well, you know John, these old pubs, bloody tinderbox, know what I mean? All these cigarettes, right, mean to say, one match, whole place could go up, couldn't it?

It turns out that this particular method of selling fire insurance is regarded as illegal in most countries, including the United Kingdom. I was under the impression that extortion was also a crime in the U.S., but there appears to be a loophole. Specifically, every October 31st hordes of heavily-disguised children, aided and abetted in the conspiracy by their parents, extort candy and assorted novelty items from anyone owning or renting a home.

"Trick or treat?"

Or as the uncles might have put it "Fire or money?"

I have never been fond of Halloween since the year my ex-wife decided we would stick a rotting pumpkin on the front steps and stock the shelves with candy. I felt it wise to feign enthusiasm for the project and thus, when the doorbell was accompanied by the sound of young voices, I opened the door with a bucket of treats.

I should explain at this point that on this particular Halloween I was considerably lighter than my usual 140 lbs due to a recent jaw infection. At just over six feet tall the term "thin" didn't come close to describing my build. As a heavy smoker I also have sunken cheeks. My usual attire in the evening is a three-quarter length tux, shades, and black hat. I think I look pretty cool. The trick-or-treaters apparently did not. One boy screamed, a second ran away, and the unfortunate girl dressed as a cat peed her pants.

Their parents, who were sitting in a heavily-armored SUV a few feet away, were absolutely furious. As mother comforted her distraught offspring, father stomped up to my door and in a menacing tone asked me "what the 'H' 'E' double hockey sticks" I thought I was doing. When I realized that I could shut the front door before he could get his foot in it I told him to fuck off.

It still baffles me that trick-or-treating maintains its nationwide popularity despite razor blades in Twinkies and people like me. This year I was considering putting out a pumpkin and leaving the light on. And when the brats mumbled "trick or treat" I was going to say "trick, please," mostly out of curiosity. What cunning trick would they play on me? I abandoned the project because I suspect even a third-grader has enough of a grasp of risk-reward and hourly rate that performing a trick is, for them, a negative expectation value proposition.

But I'm still going to put out a pumpkin or three.

Happy Halloween.

December 1st Doomsday?

The first freeze hit the U.S. Midwest last week reminding us that this could be a long, cold winter for online poker. UIGEA is scheduled to be enforced on December 1st and while the ramifications of this are still unclear the poker world is more than jittery. So what are the best-case and worst-case scenarios when we wake up on the first day of Advent?

To address this question, recall the scope of the UIGEA. This act demands that banks prohibit transactions that place wagers (or deposit funds) on internet gaming sites. Horse racing is, for obvious reasons, excluded. [1] An important point that is often overlooked is that there is nothing in the legislation about banks accepting winnings from online wagers and gaming. Thus, based on the actual content of the UIGEA, the often-expressed fear of winning poker players that they will not be able to access their funds is unfounded.

With this in mind, how bad could the situation become in December? The complete Doomsday Scenario is that PokerStars, Full Tilt, and the other major sites decide they no longer want to deal with Department of Justice stormtroopers and withdraw from the U.S. market. Is this likely? I feel that it is not. Multibillion dollar industries are not in the habit of throwing up their hands, dismantling their operations, and opening a chain of casual dining restaurants instead.

What about financial institutions? Will they feel sufficiently intimidated by the UIGEA that they decide to block incoming funds that have been withdrawn from online sites? Again, we feel this is extremely unlikely. First, historical precedent indicates that banks rarely say "no thanks" to money. They have, as it were, a self-interest in the interest. Al Capone had a bank account. Second, with withdrawals from poker sites being processed via third party intermediaries there is no obvious way that banks can distinguish between poker winnings and proceeds gained through the sale of garden gnomes.

This second point also pertains to the ability of players to deposit funds at poker sites. If this, the only limitation imposed by UIGEA, actually occurs, the ramifications for winning players are clearly serious. But with third-party processing and the vested interest poker sites have in keeping fresh money flowing in, can such a law be enforced? It is difficult to see how.

With all these factors in mind, the best-case scenario for December 1st is that nothing will change at all. However, it would be foolish to assume that this will be the case. Even if the legislation proves to be unenforceable in principle, it seems inevitable that fear of UIGEA will decrease the amount of money deposited at poker sites. Simply increasing obstacles to deposits at sites will reduce action from losing U.S. players. This is a sufficient reason for poker players to continue to protest and fight UIGEA in any way they can. A broader reason is that the U.S. has a written constitution that protects its citizens and residents from this kind of bullshit.


[1] The most obvious of the obvious reasons being that assholes who have been in the Senate for decades and who are about to step down can pass whatever bizarre, inconsistent, flawed legislation they please, and thus trample on the constitutional rights of American citizens and residents before putting their feet up and living off the fat pension being paid for by the aforementioned American citizens and residents.

It is what it is

I have long held the opinion that interviewing sportsmen and women immediately after they have completed a match, round, race or game is as useful as asking your cat what it would like for breakfast. Why, for example, do we need a quarterback to describe the winning touchdown when we have seen nineteen replays of the event from twelve different angles? "I threw the ball to a wide receiver in the back of the end-zone who caught it." Right. We knew that already.

Lucrative sponsorship deals have compelled many athletes to develop their public speaking skills with varying degrees of success. The Peyton Mannings and Michael Jordans of the sports world have an easy, polished delivery. Occasionally they even say something interesting. But many athletes employ a mode of speech that seems to have evolved in an environment free of natural predators, so that redundancy flourishes like a bizarre marsupial. Semi-rhetorical questions such as "you know," "know what I mean," and "you know what I'm saying," are used as commas and periods. We are told by announcers "that's a wonderful golf shot," presumably to eliminate any confusion in our mind that we might be watching hockey.

Even the most engaging speakers are frequently forced to sound like total twits due to the aforementioned sponsorship deals.

"Jeff, a great race today. Tell us about the closing laps."

"Thanks Rusty. I'd like to thank God, my crew, Ricky-Raccoon-Racing, Goodyear, Chevrolet, Castrol, Viagra, Pepsi, Branflakes, Southwest Airlines, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Tampax, Slim Jim, Joe's Laundromat and Bait Shop..."

Perhaps because I am older than most such interviewees I tend to attribute these "sportsisms" to a disease of youth. Two hours ago, however, I was forced to revise that opinion thanks to an in-game interview with Detroit Tigers' manager Jim Leyland. Leyland, now in his early nineties, is old school in every sense of the term. I was therefore horrified when he responded to one of the announcer's questions with "It is what it is." My first reaction was that I must have misheard him. The Metrodome is notoriously noisy and Leyland had added to the problem by choosing to position the microphone on his headset directly over his nose. However, a few sentences later he repeated the phrase.

"WHAT IS IT?" I screamed at the screen. At some level I think I just felt left out. Apparently everyone other than me knows what "it" is.

I suppose if one is generous one can view "it is what it is" as a modern incarnation of the once popular "que sera, sera." The latter, however, in employing the future tense at least offers the hope that we may at some point discover what it is (or, to be pedantic, what will be). Further, despite being fundamentally self-evident, the phrase does communicate the concept of kizmit and has the added benefit of being foreign and thus sophisticated.

For reasons that defy my understanding, the directors and producers of televised poker events have concluded that the ideal time to interview a poker player is immediately after he or she has busted out from a tournament. At such times the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone about anything. But even fellow players can be staggeringly oblivious. Immediately after I busted out of the 2006 WSOP Main Event and was heading through the Rio labyrinth to find an exit so I could kill myself through chain smoking I was intercepted by a poker-playing colleague. He offered a few brief words of condolence about the $10k that I had yesterday but didn't have today, then asked me if I wanted to split cab fare to go to the nearest Office Max so he could get a new battery for his laptop. I haven't spoken to him since.

One of the advantages of being a low-profile poker player is that I have never been confronted by Norm Chad stuffing a microphone under my snout and asking me how I feel about suddenly being poorer. There are players, of course, who provide wonderful TV on such occasions. Hellmuth's rants about the stupidity of his opponents and his abysmal luck are invariably entertaining. I could listen for hours to a David "Devilfish" Ulliot interview as he meanders effortlessly from how his aces got cracked to the fact his girlfriend is the third most attractive woman in China and that his uncle was rescued from a desert island by the Titanic. It is a great shame that less than five per cent of Americans can understand more than a few words of what David says.

Alas the ipso busto facto interview can also unleash the phrase that I dislike above all others. It is our equivalent, I suppose, of "it is what it is," but irks me far more for the simple reason that I dislike a representative of my profession sounding like a complete asshat.

"So, John, tell us about that last hand."

"Well Norm, I picked up AK under the gun, shoved, got called by Annie in the big blind with AQ, and she flopped a Q. But... You know... That's poker."

Indeed it is.