Not knowing what to do with himself, Bilzerian joined the Navy and began training for the Seal division, now well known for killing the al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden. Bilzerian says he was there for days, including two so-called "hell weeks" - the first of which he completed with a broken leg. America is rioting in the streets over the election, in other news, weed is now legal in Nevada.
A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Nov 10, at Three quarters of Seal trainees don't graduate, however, and Bilzerian was no different: Indeed, some Navy veterans have questioned just how close Bilzerian ever came to being a Seal. Bilzerian himself has admitted that one of the officers took a dislike to him. And although his dad had distinguished himself in Vietnam with a Bronze star, being the son of Paul Bilzerian was also a liability.
Especially when news got out that his old man, while technically bankrupt was still living in his Xanadu-like mansion in Tampa. Eventually, after an FBI raid, the ex-corporate raider was thrown back in jail. First snowmobile trip of the year. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Dec 14, at 6: As for where Bilzerian Sr's fortune had actually gone, or whether it was anywhere near the half a billion dollars that some have estimated - it's anyone guess. According to reports, the family house was eventually sold in a series of Byzantine transactions, ending up partly owned by a charity named after the family's cat.
Other assets found their way to the Cook Islands in the South Pacific. There was one holding, however, that Bilzerian Sr made sure to diligently report to the authorities: As of the last filing, it was precisely 23 cents. The younger Bilzerian has never denied that he has trust funds in his name. In fact, while he was still in Seal training, the government pressured him into putting up a third of one of them to get his dad out of jail - an act of generosity that didn't go down well at home.
Happiness is a warm gun. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Nov 2, at 3: By his second year, he'd gone broke, apparently with no access to the assets of which he was a beneficiary. Forced to sell his guns, Bilzerian returned to the poker table with a near-pathological focus. With this sizeable bankroll, he then went back to university, more determined than ever, and resumed his studies while continuing to hone his skills in "cash games" after classes. The potential winnings in cash games are essentially unlimited, whereas tournaments have fixed buy-ins and fixed prizes.
Bilzerian never did finish his degree. Bilzerian was 27 when he first came to the attention of the high-stakes poker crowd. Wet w steveaoki aquaamarina missyolivares laurenblakeee mariatuleeva. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Oct 9, at Not surprisingly, the game stayed tight, and he finally got up and left. Bilzerian's first attempt to win a big tournament - where exaggerating your wins is impossible, due to the very public nature of the proceedings - was similarly disappointing. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Oct 3, at 2: Nevertheless, the tournament's broadcaster, ESPN, took note of Bilzerian's charisma and gave him plenty of on-screen time, which led to a sponsorship deal with Victory Poker, a now-defunct online cardroom.
That, in turn, led to some of Bilzerian's first public stunts. He swam through an alligator-filled lake at midnight. He fired a caliber machine gun at an RV in the desert until it burst into a flames. Meanwhile, in private cash games, Bilzerian became known for playing "loose aggressive" - in other words, betting big and betting often, to the delight of his ultra-wealthy fellow players. David Williams. Before long, Bilzerian had gone from high stakes to so-called "nosebleed stakes" at games hosted at his Los Angeles home with an assortment of billionaires and celebrity friends, including the Spider-Man actor Tobey Maguire, the film director Nick Cassavetes, and the action star Mark Wahlberg.
He was voted "funniest poker player" by Bluff magazine in And in one blow-out trip to Cannes, he allegedly slept with 16 women in 12 days. And when Victory Poker chose to shut down its US operations, Bilzerian moved his antics to his newly opened social media accounts. Summer is coming. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Mar 26, at Today, Bilzerian lives in a gated estate in the Hollywood Hills, where his neighbours include the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio and the nightclub impresario and billionaire's son Sam "Sammy Boy" Nazarian.
The house has a sunken living room, degree views over the city, a pool that hangs out over the hillside, cash-counting machines, poker tables, and a garage for his chrome-plated AC Cobra vanity plate: He shares the place with his cat, Smushball, and Zeus the goat - plus a new goat, Beatrice, to keep the former company. New toy. A post shared by Dan Bilzerian danbilzerian on Mar 19, at 3: The year-old poker player is said to have another home in La Jolla, a beach town near Mexico, which resembles Tony Stark's headquarters in Iron Man.
And then of course there's his crashpad in Las Vegas, which at one point was an apartment at the Panorama Towers, developed by Britain's Andrew Sasson. As for women: Bilzerian is no longer in a relationship with Playboy playmate Jessa Hinton, who told a reporter that she slapped Bilzerian when she read a tabloid account of drugs and prostitutes at private Hollywood card games.
Meanwhile, Bilzerian's sometimes cruel depictions of women elsewhere "Ugly girls hurt my eyes," he has tweeted, attaching a picture of several females with one of their faces scribbled out in red pen have led some to accuse him of misogyny. It's the money that continues to provoke the most debate, however. I want to hide, to be anywhere else other than here, to go back in time and not have said anything to anyone. The prosecuting attorney goes over my testimony quickly.
For the first time in my military career, I get the opportunity to speak out publicly. Then the defense attorney begins his cross-examination. To my disbelief, he doesn't go after my meager involvement in the case. He doesn't try to dissuade the jury that the defendant made threats against my life.
He doesn't even go into the hearsay quality of what I know about my ex-boyfriend's victimhood. His voice is calm and direct. He asks, "What is your relationship with the other witness in your testimony? The faces of the jury sharpen into focus.
I had vaguely feared I would be kicked out for my testimony because of "don't ask, don't tell," but there were more important issues at hand, like serial sexual assault. It hadn't occurred to me that "don't ask, don't tell" would become the central focus of my testimony. The Southern California sun was something I'd been dreaming of since I was a child. Now I was I went to grab some frozen yogurt with one of the guys while the rest of the crew went to get some burgers at the other end of the food court.
My buddy said he needed to buy something, so I sat alone. The perfect embodiment of the California surfer walked up to me. His smile set me at ease. He was warm and friendly, an athlete in incredible shape. His shirt sat on his body like a jersey on a football player's shoulder pads. The surfer didn't look away from me.
I saw you from across the way. Couldn't keep my eyes off you. Damn, dude, you're hot. I was so flattered, I didn't know what to say.
I felt the urge to kiss him. My stomach fluctuated. This was the first time a man had ever hit on me, and a guy of his caliber was beyond my daydreams. I got lost in his blue eyes. I felt a little light-headed. Then the alarms bells started going off. I looked around for my friends.
Were they watching this? He was about to put his arm around my shoulder. Too far, too fast. Something was not right.
I backed away without saying a word. I walked fast. I walked until I could see my cohort standing in a group on the other side of the food court. They were laughing among themselves. I walked up and stood outside the circle, not sure what they were laughing about. I didn't saying anything. I was trying desperately to figure out what had just happened. At that moment, the mystery man, the surfer with the tan and the perfect teeth, walked toward the group.
This was not good.
What would I say? How would I explain this? He got closer, and one of my closest friends in the group said, "I want you to meet my friend Nate. Total confusion. I had no words. His friend? Why on earth would his friend want to take me out to dinner and say all those things? Accepting an invitation like that could be enough to get me kicked out of the military.
Nate reached his hand out to mine, grabbed it, and shook it. He pulled me into his huge chest and his slightly musty odor. The group laughed again, but I still didn't get it. Didn't say anything. Nate kept his arm around me, as if in some strange form of protection. He was still smiling. Looking deeply at me. The warm dampness of his armpit was like a cave I wanted to recede into.
I didn't say a word. Back in the courtroom, the defense attorney raises his voice to grab my attention, to force my words. The faces of the jury are like floodlights on me. I'm sweating profusely. As the accused's defense attorney highlights all the ways I am depraved and out of line and not to be trusted, as he stokes hatred of gay people into fiery expressions on the faces of the jury, I realize that Danny was right.
I never should have spoken up. My witnessing is a failure here. Not only is the story I thought I was coming here to tell not being heard, I am being attacked for something I cannot change about myself. I stare at the faces of the jury, as if trying to memorize them, because I sense that they contain something, a secret, a truth that I will need later as I try to make sense of this whole debacle. They look like a mob of vengeful faces—except for one.
I come across one kind expression. It is as if he is filled with shame over what he is here to do, what he is now a part of. He's unable to offer anything other than this apologetic look, but at least it's something. After all of my insistence on telling the truth about what happened to Danny, it never occurs to me to lie. The next day, Danny disappears into the courtroom to give his testimony. I try to lie with my facial expression, to encourage him and send some positivity his way.
We're not allowed to talk about my testimony, but now I know what he is up against.
And for him, the courtroom will be so much worse. After he leaves, I sit there filling with anger—an anger that will take years to diminish. My inability to cope eventually leads, years later, to seeing a therapist. We had to depend on the periscope and radar, which is useless in that bad of a storm. A third of the crew was throwing their guts up. As such, he was pretty much a zombie. I spent six hours straight on the periscope scope walking in circles. We took one roll to starboard so bad I was hanging from the scope handles, feet off the ground.
Imagine climbing the first hill at 30 degrees, cresting the top, and then riding a soft dip. It looks pretty cool from afar though. The only chance is another submarine. The general idea is stay quiet and listen. If you find one, try to maneuver into its baffles where you will be harder to counter-detect.
Then you might be hundreds of miles away on a mission off some port, or tracking a surface contact of interest. There is nothing our submariners do that is outside the capabilities of women. There are some logistical issues as far as the berthing and bathroom situation, but the fleet has come through with some solutions. The Ohio Class replacement is being designed in all aspects to account for female crew, from the berthing situation, right down to making sure even the shortest women can operate the equipment.
Light duty if necessary, or send her home once in port if you have to. The dudes involved with that got the hammer. You can imagine what things devolve into when men get together. Hey man, grow the fuck up. There are plenty of guys onboard that get offended by salty language and tales of debauchery during port calls. This is no different.
Just like the rest of the world, watch your mouth unless you know someone is cool with you being a pig. These guys who foam at the mouth about how this is ruining the submarine fleet and the military in general need to get over their male chauvinism. The U. Military is still a part of the good old USA and everyone should have the opportunity to serve and protect their country. The fact that it has taken this long to get women deployed in front line rolls is a testament to the crotchety old guys at the top of the government and military who have this outdated notion that women are fragile little flowers who need to be protected from harm.
My first deployment we went around the Mediterranean, and all those ports are great. The ports in the Middle East suck. Leave your stars and bars wife beater shirt in your suitcase. Be polite and respectful and stay in busy areas. Maybe that sounds paranoid, but look at what ISIS is doing to people right now and several years ago a bunch of guys got jumped in Greece.
In port you still have to stand duty a few times a week, and there are still normal business hours to do work. Force protection on the surface is scary. Someone with a cal on a fishing boat could hurt a lot of people. I remember going through the Suez and trucks were just following us along the banks of the canal.
The capability of these plants is so impressive. A commercial plant could take a full day to do the same percent change. Given commercial plants are an order of magnitude larger in power output, but something similar of a commercial variety would break fuel doing what we do if it attempted it even once. The designers do an amazing job making these plants durable, reliable, and easy to operate for the sailors. Very little of our design is automated. The sailors control everything.
Every valve, every power change, every pump is specifically controlled. Going back to power school, you learn just the basics in that year of training. Once you get to the ship you are qualified to do nothing. Then again, see the next answer. People think we must get a lot of radiation due to nuclear power.
The truth is we get less because the reactor compartment is so well shielded. Someone once told Admiral Rickover he could save millions of dollars by reducing the shielding. He refused to because the health of the sailors was his number one priority. Commercial pilots get more radiation from the sun in the cockpit than sailors get on submarines from the reactor. Submariners learn to sleep like the dead, but wake up on cue. I could sleep through people having a loud conversation right next to me.
But if someone whispered my name I would wake up. If I heard the emergency announcing circuit down the hall faintly calling a report I would be up immediately. If I felt the ventilation stop I would wake up because I knew electrical power had dropped. The rack, which is coffin sized, has a three inch deep pan underneath. That is basically the extent of your storage and personal space. I could fit everything I needed for six months in there. My wife loves this because I sleep on a sliver of bed and she can sprawl out.
There are not enough racks for everyone onboard so some people have to share. Usually three people junior personnel will share two racks. There goes your personal space. They call it hot racking because the rack might still be warm from the last guy. The worst thing on a submarine is a thief. You need to be able to trust everyone with your life.
We found a thief. He was off the boat and sent home at the next port call, reduced in rank and out of the sub force. They returned all the shit he stole to the rightful owners, and in the middle of the night a bunch of guys kicked the shit out of him and took all his shit. He left the boat with little more than one set of uniforms, his wallet without cash, and his orders. People in California could learn a thing or two about water conservancy from submariners.
Subs only make so much fresh water each day. Get wet, turn it off and lather, rinse off, done. Some people solve this problem by rarely showering. Almost as bad as a thief is someone who smells like a rotten ballsack. Some foreign submarines rarely shower at all. Sponge baths and baby wipes is their method if any. I saw the crew of a South Korean boat at Fleet Week.
They were lined up topside and took turns getting blasted by a fire hose. Tip of the cap to those guys.