"Trapped In A Free Cell"

This coming February, I'll be observing my 15th anniversary of working the road as a standup comic. I chose the term "observing" rather than the term "celebrating" as I have not yet decided if the occasion is to be a festive or somber one. Seriously. After nearly 15 years, I'm still doing standup comedy in nightclubs on the road. Well, and on the seas, doing the cruise ship thing. The money's OK and I still enjoy doing standup, but I just haven't done as well as some of the guys I started out with back in Texas. One of my contemporaries was on Jeff Foxworthy's Blue Collar Comedy Tour, recently taped a sitcom pilot, and is doing real well for himself. Another of my buddies had a pretty good spot in the movie "Latin Kings of Comedy." Not bad. A couple of other guys who got started back when I did are hot shots with Fox's "King of the Hill" animated comedy show. Who'da thought propane was that damn funny? Don't get me wrong, these are all good guys, and I'm happy for them, but sometimes I wonder what it was that they did right and I did wrong. Why are they making so much more progress in the business than I am? Following an age-old American tradition of blaming someone else for your own shortcomings, I have thought long and hard on whom will take the blame for my lackluster performance. After much soul searching, I think responsibility for my non-success can be placed squarely on the shoulders of one of the world's most powerful men. Bill Gates. Yep, that Bill Gates. Of Microsoft fame. How could the high priest of four-eyed techno geeks, someone I've never even met, possibly be held responsible for my underachievements, you ask? Because he's the low-bred son of a virus writer that put that distracting, crack cocaine of computer games, Free Cell, on my laptop computer. For that, I hope some ugly pictures turn up of his wife getting jiggy with some low-level Apple programmer. Even that would be too good for wi-fi vermin like him.

My story begins simply enough. For the first few years I had my laptop, Free Cell lay dormant, and did me no harm. Hell, I didn't even know it was on there, or even what it was. I used my computer mostly for writing and communication. I wrote a book on it, and a screenplay. I used it as a fax machine. As far as I was concerned, a computer was a business tool for me, that's all. But like many a slimy predator, Free Cell's most powerful weapon was patience. Silently, coiled deep within the bowels of my hard drive, it waited. Before long, a girl I was dating introduced me to Free Cell. "It's just a game," she said, as she left-mouse clicked the "New Game" button. Little did I know the death grip Free Cell would use to slowly throttle the creative life from me. At first, I just played Free Cell socially, at home, with the girl who turned me on to it. Then, starting down the classic road to addiction, I began to play alone. A game here, a game there, you know, when I was just bored, but slowly, like a cancer, Free Cell started to take hold. The warning signs were classic. I began to withdraw from society. I would play for hours on end on the road. Locked in my hotel room, sometimes I'd play all night and into the next day. Many a housekeeper screamed herself hoarse and wore her knuckles raw beating on my door while I ignored her cries. "Serves her right" I thought. Stupid broad should have read the "Do not Disturb" sign. Like a junkie addicted to drugs, I was hopelessly hooked. Free Cell, indeed. The damn game should be called "Free Base Cell."

For those who have never played Free Cell, it is an innocent enough looking version of solitaire. Fun and easy to learn, the game is impossible to master. When I checked the statistics (this evil program keeps a running tally of your efforts against it, lest you get cocky) I have won 400 games, lost 635. About a 40 per cent victory record. The game has something like 32,000 possible combinations of dealing the cards. When you lose a game, you are given the opportunity to play the same configuration of cards again. The competitive nature of man forces the player to take the challenge. Classic Man against Machine. Kid Dave Miller versus Free Cell is Kasparov versus Big Blue without all the cigarette smoke and vodka sweat. Should you be lucky enough to actually win a game (Hah!), Free Cell offers feeble congratulations, and extends an invitation to play again. As if it didn't already know the answer. By now, the addiction to Free Cell has seized total command of the decision-making lobes of my brain. Resistance is futile.

At this point, I realize I am totally addicted to Free Cell. Oh sure, I'll tell myself I'm going sit down and write some fresh comedy material on the old word processor, but who am I trying to kid? Once the antiquated Presario gets booted up, I tell myself "Just a quick game or two." Before you know it, two or three hours later, I'm still telling myself "One more game and I'll quit." Just think, 600 games at roughly 5 minutes per game comes out to about 3,000 minutes that I could have spent writing something that might have something remotely to do with my chosen profession. Alas, I am a slave to the game. Hopefully, I can find a Free Cell support group somewhere to help me break the stranglehold this cursed game has on me. Until that blessed day arrives, I say "Deal `em again, vile devil game!"

One good thing is, I can watch TV and play the game at the same time. Who knows, maybe someday I'll be watching the Emmys while playing Free Cell, and see one of my friends win a "Best Leading Actor on a Sitcom" or something. Whoever it is, he better win it soon. Once I figure out a way to run Free Cell through my TV set, I'll have no need for network programming. The way I figure it, I have 31,000 possible Free Cell card configurations I've never even seen yet, and I'm not getting any younger. "Would you like to play again?" Damn right I would. You're goin' down this time, green screen.

See ya on the road,

Kid Dave