The Obituarium

Friday: Cocktails? Cocktails.

2009-12-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up feeling 38% better than I thought I would, although not well enough, or early enough, to take a shower, a fact I withheld from my playing partners. I put on three layers of clothing, including some freshly-purchased spandex tights that not only did the job of keeping me (relatively) warm, but are also quite sexy. I've taken to wearing them, and only them, around the house, much to Emet's delight.

I didn't think the weather was too bad as I waited for my car at the valet, though I was even happier when I got in and the attendant had turned on the seat warmers and heat, the latter perched at a balmy 85 degress.

"85 degrees!" drizz screeched when he grabbed shotgun at the IP. drizz was wearing a polo shirt. The 38-degree Vegas temperature was like Minnesota Spring. Then Schaubs jumped into the back seat and one-upped drizz. Schaubs was wearing shorts. They make 'em hardy in Canada.

We made it to Las Vegas National without getting lost, though I instantly regretted making drizz the co-pilot when I found out he hadn't slept all night and had made a prop bet with GRob and Otis that he could not sleep for another 18 hours, meaning his first 32 hours in Vegas would be REM free. Personally, I'd be dead if I tried such a thing, but drizz seemed pretty chipper at that point, as well as driven to pocket some of that GRob money. Later, I would implore him to sleep (while he was in one of his less-lucid states) and give up the $20, which I pointed out was a relatively piddling amount.

"I WILL NOT GIVE MONEY TO GROB!" he bellowed. So I dropped it.

LVN was ready for us when we arrived (if not "prepared," if you know what I mean), a marshal meeting us at the car and taking my clubs. We hustled to the range for some warm-up swings, then hustled to the snack bar for a bloody mary. I was paired with Schaubs and Astin's friend M. The group in front of us was Fuckin' Katkin, DrChako, Astin's other friend N and a Ringer. Right behind us was F-Train, Pebbles, Astin's other friend E (I feel like I should be calling them all "Larry") and AlCantHang.

Haha! Kidding. Jason rounded out that foursome. The final group was BamBam, drizz, jjok and ck, who we were all happy to see got to play after doing all the legwork to set up the outing. Thanks so much to her and BamBam for doing the cat herding.

Schabus is an ace, which was great, but also a little nerve-wracking, since, even though I suck, and I know I suck, I didn't want to suck for 18 holes and have him get frustrated at having to carry my sorry ass out and in and be tempted to take hard left turns in the cart so I would tumble out. Fortunately, I hit the ball pretty well most of the day. That didn't prevent me from almost falling out of the cart twice.

I got off to a good start, hitting fairways (or close enough) on four of the first five holes, preventing a mental meltdown. By the time we were through five, the beer cart arrived and...well...giddyup.

We played the front in even-par with two birdies and two bogeys, our main problem being unable to sink birdie putts (while Team Ringer in front of us was apparently draining 30-footers). We loaded up our coolers at the turn (hey! What's that water doing in there!) and shot a scrambling two-under on the back. We had some fun moments, like the hole where M and I both hit the same tree in successive shots, a tree that was only 10 feet in front of us, causing us all to duck quickly as our balls came ricocheting back. And the par three where one of us duffed it to the ladies tees and two of us hit into the water. Amazingly, we got up and down for par from the ladies tees.

Then there was the 18th, a par-5, where I yanked my drive into the adjacent neighborhood and both Schaubs and M found water. We dropped lakeside and had trees in our path to the green. I took out a 3-wood and decided I was going left, around the trees. Jokingly, I said, "I'm going with a power fade here," which is really what I was trying to do but the chances of actually performing it were around 8%. Yet, BAM! one power fade, coming up. The shot left us about 70 yards to the pin, with a good lie, so Schaubs could go ahead and swing for the fences.

Which he did. A beautiful arching draw over the other set of trees. The only problem was it headed right for Team Ringer still kibitzing greenside.

Dear Team Ringer, he did yell "Fore!" I swear. In addition, I was screaming for the ball to kick left off Katkin's cart.

Again, we got up and down for par for a round of 69. Two shots behind Team Ringer, but good enough for second place and my first ever round of golf under par.

Cocktails!

You probably heard that F-Train won the long-drive contest--big hitter, the F-Train--and Pebs and ck grabbed the closest to the pin honors, which sets up the obvious joke that nobody missed, but is still so funny that it bears repeating:

All the girls got a prize!

We slay us.

Again, thanks to Bammer and ck for all the organization and to my fellow hackers for making it an absolutely great time. Even bigger shout-outs to Astin and CaApril for braving the elements. I know, from pretty much everyone I talked to who wasn't playing that the idea seemed absurd, what with the cold and the early wake-up call, but it was enormously fun and you'd not regret it if you drag your ass out of bed and play next year. Which is not to say I didn't relish coming back into the clubhouse for warmth.

*

From the course, drizz and I went to Nine Fine Irishmen for some pints and sausages, a payoff for a bet earlier this season on Niners-Vikings ("Enjoy your Sausage Fest!" chuckled Schaubs). It was at this point that drizz, who finished his round in a spiffy new jacket he had to buy at the turn to cover his bare, blue arms, was at his most faded. We sat there mumbling into our Harp like we were on an awkward first date, both of us tired (honestly, I couldn't imagine how badly he felt, considering I was operating with a needle poised just above E). And while we were both famished (I'd eaten only a microwave breakfast burrito the size of my thumb; well..and the bloody mary), we barely consumed half the pail of delicious sausages.

Sausage Fest consummated, we made our way across the bridge to the MGM where I ran smack dab into Table 16.

I've never seen its like before and perhaps never will again.

*

I was contemplating a nap (I'm old), but couldn't resist watching. I hadn't seen The Mark yet, and he was his typical garrulous self (I mean that in the best possible way). He had a mound of chips in front of him. Yes, mounds, not stacks, and when he bet, he'd just shove a pile, or most of what he could bulldoze in two hands, into the pot. After relentless prompting from the floor, he did finally stack his chips. In stacks of two, a rainbow which covered one end of the table.

Cocktails?

In the meantime, I couldn't resist playing. Alan racked up and I took the seat to The Mark's right (oh joy). So this is what a G-Vegas game is like. Pretty much how it's been described. Tilt of equal importance as dragging the pot. I'm not one with the skills (or sack) to play that type of game, so I stuck with the cards, winning a little (for a while), doing my part in tipping Tip and others, donating to stb, standing for the National Anthem ("What are you, Canadian?!?!") and throwing away the idea of a nap before Emet arrived.

It's not really possible to recount the shenanigans. It was all cutting remarks and degen vibe and, oh yeah, some poker. I do know I was lucky to get out with just losing my initial buy-in (when diamonds didn't get there against BadBlood's Kings), but also wishing I had the energy and bankroll to sit there for much, much longer or until, you know, the whole table got cut off.

But Emet did arrive, instantly falling under The Mark's charms. He ferried her to the bar straightaway, queried her why, on God's Green Earth, she'd stoop to be with me. She sat behind me for a bit, and then I went broke (cooler), so we headed upstairs to...um...nap.

*

Up and showered at 10:30 (two nights in a row, I make my comeback at 10:30; these sorts of things don't happen in real life), Emet and I went back to the scene of the crime, but Table 16 had already been sent to the penalty box. drizz was standing right there, like a big tree ready to be felled. He was in worse shape than I'd left him, counting on that fourth wind to kick up any time now, but I didn't have time to give him a cursory physical exam, because we were late meeting the crew for Steel Panther.

Now, this kind of thing is right up my alley. I love the metal. Hair bands are pure nostalgia. Live music rules. But I was non-committal to the hordes of folks demanding my attendance because I knew it was over-the-top and vulgar and concerned that Emet might not dig the scene. I needed to get a better overview of the show, so I asked BadBlood.

"How vulgar is it?"
"Very."
"Do they use the c-word?"

He paused, combing his memory banks. "No," he said finally. "But anything and everything right up to that."

Oh.

Regardless, I convinced her to go (helped by the fact she was delighted by Table 16 and they were all going) and we cabbed out to Green Valley Ranch after missing the group by scant minutes, which had me on a little tilt since I hadn't RSVP'd to Nickerson, but my tilt was nothing compared to that of The Rooster, who missed Emet and I by mere minutes (hey dude, when you're gonna get thrown out of a poker room, do it earlier!) meaning he had to foot the cab fare all the way out to BFE by himself.

That's foreshadowing.

Nickerson had snagged us a couple booths (thanks partner) and we killed time before the show started talking to everyone. Emet met a lot of new people whose names she won't remember, but talked long enough to most that she'll at least be able to recall the face/conversation. Talked to DrChako about the real estate market, to Peaker about how Skid Row is underrated and to a late-arriving drizz about the symptoms of renal failure (let's just say I was happy Dr. Jeff was close by).

As for the show...eh. I liked it. I really did, as my sore ribs would attest the next morning. At times, I laughed in spite of myself--Cocktails!--but ultimately, my preference would have been for them to play more songs, rather than repeating endless variations of the "lady parts" jokes.

Regardless, a great time (complete with a couple episodes of drama that need not be repeated here but to say that if you ever get into a shoving match at a Steel Panther show, Emet's got your back) and worth every penny.

*

Afterwards, Emet and I watched a table-full of donks was playing 2/4 as drizz approached the Witching Hour with seven racks of singles stacked up in front of him. He'd finally found his closing speed at some point during the show and was cruising toward the finish line.

Nice hand, sir. Buy yourself something pretty.

We then went to get assaulted by a Pai Gow dealer, followed by what was at least misdemeanor battery at a craps table. Green Valley Ranch is a cooler. I'm not sure I won a single hand or collected on a single point. In fact, at this point of the trip, I'd taken exactly $90 profit off the combined table games I'd played against about $600 worth of buy-ins. So sleep seemed like the good play.

It had to turn around. That's more foreshadowing.

Up Next, Saturday: WPBT Winter Classic

Thursday: It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint

2009-12-15T10:38:00.000-08:00

I bolted into the start of the Winter Gathering Aught-Nine like a speed horse trying to steal the race at a mile-and-a-quarter. This can be a sometimes effective strategy, if one can earn a lonely lead and manage the pace, leaving something left for the stretch run. If, however, you are pressured on that lead, the legs go tired, quickly and suddenly, and you can find yourself stumbling about the MGM six hours later with the single-minded purpose of eating chili cheese dogs.

Driving in, I was caught between easing into The Gathering, like my brain insisted I do for the betterment of the rest of my internal organs, and putting the pedal down just because I was so damn excited. Wanna guess which one won out?

I sprinted right out of my car, onto the monorail, into the IP and ran smack into AlCantStopBuyingShots, though the SoCo he soon put in front of me could oniy be called a "shot" in an ironic way, like calling a fat guy "Tiny." It took me three or four healthy swallows to toss it back, all the while sharing beers with Derek, Pauly, Gnome and stb (and others, which means this is where I put the disclaimer that all omissions of you, person reading this, and going, "Hey Jipperbrains! I was there, too!" are purely unintentional, owing to my poor memory and the slight bleeding in my brain and not at all indicative of race, religion, creed, you sucking out on me or your poor taste in domestic beer), which is starting the weekend off drinking above my weight class.

This became abundantly clear in short order as I stared down Alice Cooper at a blackjack table.

I actually took some profit off Alice (School's out for the summer, bitch!) and ratholed with it, in the process resisting the charms of Reba, who was brought in as a twanging cooler. This was necessary as I'd already dropped a chunk at craps and I knew I was in that dangerous place where you might wake up and wonder where all your money went. I was also surprised to look down at my watch and see I'd been there six hours.

Uh oh.

I slipped out the back door of the IP and made my way back to the MGM. I still hadn't checked into my room, which I did first, before I went in search of food for the first time...er...all day. I ended up with two chili cheese dogs, which I ate hurriedly because I needed a nap before starting Round Two.

Round Two came much later than anticipated as I a) set my alarm for 9 a.m. instead of p.m. and b) was unable to put the phone back in the cradle to receive the wake-up call anyway and that's how you wake up at 10:30 wondering where the hell you are and why do I smell like a tour bus?

I rallied up to get back to the IP to see everyone (see?!?! There, I just mentioned you!) and was drunk again after one beer, the good drunk, I thought, the easy, straight-line buzz one hopes to curate over a long period of time. I was under this mistaken impression until about 4 a.m. when I realized I couldn't hardly stand and that I had to be up soon for the golf outing, which I was damned if I was going to miss, even as I opined that signing up for something that began north of noon...outside in the frigid temperatures...requiring motor skills...was not the brightest idea I've ever had.

I got to talk to lots of folks that night, however (Falstaff, Michalski), took some grief about my hair (The Wife, maigs), had someone stand up for my hair (Maudie!), watched drizz pull quads on Let It Ride and go into an impromptu celebration that woulda drew a flag for being excessive anywhere but the IP where it merely frightened people and even got in some mildly profitable Pai Gow action (despite replacing Derek in what appeared to be the Eff You Seat) with Pauly, Otis (riding high on a straight flush and throwing stacks of green willy-nilly into the circle...and winning), Marty and...um...you.

On the cab ride home, I'm feeling less than stellar, trying to do the math on how many hours of sleep I'm going to get and calculating how much Gatorade I should pound (enough to offer some re-hydration, not so much that it makes you have to get up in the middle of the night to pee) and I start to get woozy. The bad kind of woozy.

Yes, it got a little pukey in Room 4-526, though I was proud to point out to others later that I made it all the way to the room before evacuating the remaining chili cheese dogs in my stomach, which is respectful to cabs and Pai Gow tables and casino floors, if you think about it. I instantly felt a whole lot better and when the (successful!) alarm went off at an ungodly hour, I rolled out of bed in better shape than I could have hoped for.

Then I went out in the cold to hit that stupid little ball.

Up Next, Friday: Booze, Bloggers and Golf Balls, Table 16 and Steel Panther.

Crash Landing

2009-12-14T14:16:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna write up the whole darn weekend. But first, I'm going to sleep.

I did things I'd never done before in Vegas. I did the same things I do every year with the most amazing group of goofballs on the planet. And I feel the same as I do when I always get home afterwards, a mixture of relief at walking in the door still (somewhat ) intact and disappointment that the gathering has ended again. I can't thank everyone enough for their generosity, good will and great company.

As I walked through the MGM about 1:30 this morning on my way to bed, I was stopped first by Falstaff, banging away on a penny slot (and he lost all $9 of profit in the five minutes I stood there cooling him) and then April, taking a break in front of a video poker machine (where we were soon joined by a VERY drunk girl with a bit of a conundrum, which we proceeded to solve in a sympathetic and clever manner). I delight in those moments, though I was completely knackered and desired nothing but sleep. But I think those brief snippets encapsulate what I feel when I leave, because we all live apart, and I don't have the luxury in my every day life of hoping to run into a dear friend at random, to be able to spend five minutes catching up.

So we cram a year's worth into four days, which makes for an awesome four days (my internal organs might quibble), but leaves me wanting. As I said several times this weekend about others, "Seeing (them) just makes me happy!"

I suppose knowing I will see y'all again will have to suffice until the next time. In the interim, take care, hug your families, get some rest and be prepared for me to totally embarrass you in the trip report.

Vegas A-Z

2009-12-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

A -- Aqua. Restaurant at Bellagio. This was my first ever, official, fine dining experience. It had been, previously, unthinkable for me to drop $300 on dinner (for two), but I did it here and am proud to call it the site of my first foodgasm.

B -- Bobby Blackjack. Our bankroll-spewing hero will not be making it this year, but having (barely) survived a few trips--even non-WPBT ones--with him, I will say everyone should lose $400 in and hour with Bobby at a blackjack table. There is something about the experience that is life-affirming and vital. And one never forgets the feeling of walking to a casino ATM.

C -- Circus Circus. Though I only stayed here once (more on that in a bit), this gaudy property was the casino focal point of my first few trips to Vegas. Of course, I was aged 9-12 when that happened. We played an annual soccer tournament there (in January, forcing us to play one year in the snow) and once the games were over, we all wanted to go win stuffed animals at Circus Circus. It was like gambling training wheels.

The one time I did stay there--as an adult--was because it was the closest casino to the auto repair shop where my car was towed after breaking down outside of Baker. The cost for said tow was nearly $500, an obscene sum for me at the time, especially on top of the fact my car never did return from the desert due to the cost of replacing the blown head gasket being roughly equal to what the vehicle was worth. In the Happy Endings Dept., I won a shitload of money playing craps at Circus Circus, enough to pay for the tow and a flight home, but not quite enough for a new car.

D -- Dealertainers. Normally, I avoid celebrity impersonators like AJ avoids brussels sprouts, but there's something about the IP's unironic worship (and lackadaisical attitude toward actually looking like the celebrity) that I find appealing, much like how I used to chew the skin off my fingers and eat it when I was a child. The comfort can't be explained, only enjoyed.

E -- Excalibur. Site of my first-ever casino experience as an adult, my first-ever casino poker experience (7-card stud) and my first-ever Hold 'Em casino poker experience (where I thrashed the $2-$6 game for $200). However, my biggest win ever here (speaking spiritually, not monetarily) was all those singles shipped by G-Rob on the wheel spin prop bets.

F -- Frontier This perpetually downtrodden property was marked by its friendly dealers and the constant striking union workers at both ends of its circular driveway. It was also my favored gambling spot in the early- to mid-90s because of its low-stakes blackjack and craps (bankroll management!). As with most casinos that become "favorites," I won there with better-than-average frequency. My tipping skills when winning are quite solid, which occassioned one of my greatest Vegas moments. I walked into the casino with two skeptical buddies (their first time there) and as we approached the craps table, one of the dealers shouted, "Kenny!" (which is my actual name, sorta), having remembered me--and my tipping--from a previous trip.

G -- Guy's Getaway. That was the name of a package offered one year by Bally's. A bunch of my baseball friends and I purchased the weekend (free booze in the suite, free dinners, VIP club admission) in order to watch the A's in the playoffs from decadent Vegas. Except the A's folded down the stretch, so we just drank and made fun of Hawk leaving the club with the ugly girl, who used the line, "Do you want to go see the most beautiful girl in the world?" who did, in her defense, turn out to be a smoking Brazilian stripper, albeit one totally disinterested in Hawk.

H -- Hockey. This has nothing to do with Vegas (though the Los Angeles Kings have an annual pre-season weekend in Sin City), but I saw something last night in the Kings-Flames game that just illustrates why I love hockey so much. Two players got into it, light shoving, kit-grabbing, and were jawing back and forth, presenting their opposing points of view. Unable to come to a suitable agreement, one of them kind of shrugged his shoulders and said (expert lip-reader that I am), "Let's just go then," at which point they dropped the gloves and traded delicious and viewer-satisfying blows.

Contrast that with, say, football. How many cheap fucking shots do you think Flozell Adams would get away with on the ice before someone cleaned his fat fucking clock?

I -- Imperial Palace. Gosh. What else can be said about the IP. Yellow police tape at the entrance, moldy-smelling rooms, dealertainers, Pimps and 'hos and "Top Slut" tattoos, Dealertainers and the Geisha Bar. I once found myself at the IP on a list to sing Karaoke. But the list proved too long and I left before I could regale the crowd with Slayer's "War Ensemble."

J -- Jorginho. Had a very memorable Vegas trip one time with peerless Scribes defenders Jorginho and Big Head. It was a last-minute jaunt, arranged over post-game beers. Big Head had met the acquaintance of four young girls from the sticks of Wisconsin (Vegas was the first time they'd seen a taxi), all cute, all with requisite Fargo-esque accents, which provided much hilarity. Jorginho and I stayed up all night gambling, while Big Head tried his luck with the girls. We did well, but as we were heading to bed after breakfast, I fell down a short flight of stairs at the restaurant, nearly toppling into a family seated nearby. "If I wasn't so tired, I'd be laughing at you right now," Jorginho deadpanned.

K -- Katkin. Murderer's Row regular and, at the time, a Full Tilt employee, felt the full weighted wrath of The Hammer, when wielded by a drunken idiot who was already stuck four buy-ins. Yes, me. Late in a 1/2 NL blogger session where I was throwing money away like it was on fire (mostly to Nickerson), I live-straddled. bdiddie raised (with 99) and Katkin re-raised. Naturally, I looked at my cards and pushed (though almost lost them when the dealer tried to pull them into the muck). bdiddie folded and Katkin called with KK.

Flop? 654

At which point a roar went up from the assembled masses and a crowd formed, frothing like spectators at the Roman Coliseum. There was never any doubt at this point.

Turn: 8

And the roar went up. I am not a nice man.

Next day, I stopped by the Full Tilt suite at the WSOP and Katkin, seeing me across the room, pointed and shouted, "That's the guy!"

L -- Las Vegas National Golf Course. Ah, the WPBT Shootout at this legendary layout. Let's see, drink most of (all) night and then venture out into 30-ish-degree temperatures to hit a stupid little ball around for five hours or so. And pay for the privilege! What a great idea, especially for someone of my skill level, the aspects of my game ranging from decent to disgraceful. Regardless, I'm very much looking forward to this, especially to see if I can make a backswing with eight layers of clothes and break the record of most times puking in 18 holes, currently held by BG.

M -- Morgan, Seth. Author of the Greatest Book Ever, "Homeboy," a copy of which was the first bounty I ever gave to a wpbt-er and which features the protagonist, Joe Speaker.

N -- Nugget, Golden. (Yeah, yeah, you try doing one of these lists sometime without cheating a little.) Site of a blogger mixed game in June 2005 that put me on tilt. Just like you never want to get in a land war in Asia, you never want to get between a raising war in Razz vs. The Brothers Nardi.

O -- O. I'm told this is/was a Cirque de Soliel show in Vegas. I wouldn't know. I've never been to a show. Cuts into drinking time.

P -- Peppermint Lotion. The bounty of the non-discerning masturbator.

Q -- Quantitative Analysis. You will be tempted to call the clock on me in the tournament, because I will be doing so much math in my head, which I'm not very good at, that time will stop. Or I might just be thinking of boobies. Either way, I will call and you will suckout.

R -- Rio. The first place I ever made a $100 wager on a single hand of blackjack. I was dealt two face cards. the dealer had 21. I haven't gambled there since (poker not being gambling, you know).

Also, Roshambo. I'd like to think I made that $100 back when Mrs. Head easily and summarily dispatched Phil Gordon in that epic match in 2005.

S -- Spearmint Rhino. Good gracious I nearly killed myself with scotch (at $12 a pop) here one night/morning, but it was totally worth it on multiple levels. Ask Div.

T -- Too Drunk to Call. What happens when you have a Mandalay Bay sportsbook filled with hungover poker degens and a horse running with that name? You all bet on it, despite its previous inability to hold leads as tiring speed. And when the sonofagun comes in at 14-1, you have a mini-riot on your hands.

We'll not mention the performance of one Mr. Otis.

U -- Underwear. At some point in Dec. of 2006, a poor unsuspecting janitor at the MGM walked into the bathroom and was confronted by the sight of my ripped and urine soaked underwear, an accident caused by my devotion to a craps table.

V -- Venetian. My favorite poker room and the site of perhaps my favorite meal ever, not because it was the best food, but because I was sick and went with Falstaff to the Noodle House where I got CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP WITH A FUCKING PORK CHOP IN IT.

Try to top that, Volt brothers.

W -- WPBT. You're all sick and depraved and I love you.

X -- Xanthos. Meaning yellow, or yellowish, like my jaundiced skin on Monday morning after my liver stops working.

Y -- Yugoslavia. Prior to the breakup of this Baltic state, the US played the Yugos in World Cup '98, a forgetable tournament for the Yanks as they went into their final group game 0-2 after losses to Germany (reasonable) and Iran (completely, totally unacceptable). They lost this game, as well, which I watched from mostly the fetal position in my Flamingo hotel room with a handful of others suffering similar hungover fates.

Z -- Zicam. There is something about a looming trip to Vegas that makes my immune system take a dive. I've been sick for at least the last two December WPBT events, spending the week leading up to arrival jamming Zicam swabs up my nose and mainlining Naked Juice. Somehow, I always seem to come through it, despite showing up ill. Greyhounds, a clutch beanie purchase and the greatest head massage ever have contributed in the past. By the time the weekend is over, however, the adrenaline is gone and I'm still sick.

This year (knock on effing wood), I'm in fine fettle. Ive been taking liberties with the anti-bacterial dispensers in the office and on the train. I've refused to touch ANYTHING on my morning commute. And every time AJ sneezed, I locked him in the closet.

So, about 24-hours 'til I begin the giddy slog through the desert. Another day to dodge germs. I will not be Typhoid Mary this year.

See y'all soon.

Big Ticket Items

2009-11-27T13:02:00.000-08:00

I know people like to go shopping on Black Friday. I shudder to think who these people are, of course. Stores in my area were touting how they were going to open at midnight or 5 a.m. and I can't think of a single circumstance that would prod me to be anywhere near these establishments ever.

Then, of course, I went and bought a house today.

Go big or go home, I say.

I should say, Emet and I bought a house and, we really haven't bought it yet, escrow and large cashier's checks and all (she's the one with the bulk of the cash; I'm just the guy with the enviable credit score and a certain inalienable charm), but we found out today our offer was accepted.

It's been a huge pain in the ass, this house-hunting. Despite what you read in the papers, the recession is not over and the real estate market is not rebounding and buyers are not snatching up cut-rate deals. The truth of the matter is that inventory is ridiculously low, an artificial tightening of the market thanks you your favorite local bank, which is using every trick at its disposal to keep prices stable. There's a huge shadow inventory of bank-owned homes the finiancial sector is holding onto, for a couple major reasons.

1. If they release all the homes in their stead all at once, prices will plummet due to over-supply.
2. Until they release them (or, more properly, buy them at foreclosure), they can still use the last sale price as the actual price of the home on their balance sheets. Since these paper shenanigans show the asset as worth $300K more than it's actually worth, they don't take a hit on the bottom line or from their shareholders.

The best part of all this is these are the same folks who've gotten billions in bailout money for these toxic assets.

Guess who wins? Not you. Or us.

*

This was the third offer we'd made. All on standard sales. We shied from short sales because, well, that's just a never-ending waiting game filled with fraud and incompetence. We did look at a couple bank-owned homes, but every one of them was in terrible condition (due to the foreclosure process taking upwards of two years now, allowing lame-duck homeowners to live in a home in which they no longer have a vested interest, a fact which, at best, results in apathy, and, at worst results in wholesale destruction).

So we stuck to the standard sales. The first one on which we made an offer, the realtor got 18 offers. In two days. Thanks to our impressive credit scores (and my charm), our offer made it to the semi-final round before succumbing to a cash offer. Same with the second try. We allegedly finished second in that one, or, as I've taught AJ that calling someone a "loser" is not nice, we'll use his phrase, "Anti-Winner."

Frustrating, sure, but no more than the lack of available properties.

*

Finally, events conspired for us to get the latest house. It's a standard sale, as well, and the owners have lived there since it was new (15 years ago), so have lots of equity, meaning they didn't have to monkey around with the price to pay off their second and third loans. Secondly, we made our offer during the holiday week, when there was little traffic, and this time of year is typically slow for real estate because people don't want to move during the holiday season. Third, the owners were anxious to just be done with the process. Near as I can tell, ours was the first (fair) offer and they jumped at it.

So, now WE get to move during the holidays, fine on one hand since Emet has the Christmas Break off from teaching; not so fine as we're going to be out of town between Christmas and New Year's. But we will abide.

*

Emet's home alone tonight as I have a date with the fam at my sister's nephew's high school football playoff game and she can't logistically make it. She was kinda bummed, but I reminded her that this is likely her last ever night without the company of at least one, and often two, loud, smelly boys. So the celebration will have to hold for another day.

It's a curious feeling. Exhilaration and "Holy crap we have a lot of work to do" in at the same time. Maybe that's why people get up at 5 a.m. to go to Target on Black Friday. Me? I'm gonna try to keep the stress under control for the next 30 days and be thankful that the search is over, that AJ's getting a new bedroom (and basketball hoop!) for Christmas and that Emet and I will finally have a place to call our home.

The Show

2009-11-12T23:02:00.000-08:00

Ohmygod people play so bad.

One guy stacked off with 97o, unimproved, to my AA. Another called a re-raise push with top pair-8 kicker v. my flopped set of deuces.

Those were both at the Final Table.

So, really, I had no choice but to win the seat.

See ya Sunday!

Keep It Positive

2009-11-11T10:43:00.000-08:00

With few exceptions, I've never been one to scream at or bait soccer referees. Heck, I was 30 before I got my first red card (defending myself against an opponent actively trying to bash in my skull) and have only had one since (for actively trying to bash in an opponent's skull). I naturally assume all referees are inept and/or crooked.

The exceptions are pretty funny, though, in retrospect. I once got a yellow card as a high school coach for "inciting the sideline," which I did by not uttering a single word, but, rather, kicking at the ground and spinning away from the field after the seventh or eighth strait call that went against my boys. The ref actually stopped play to book me, then gave the opposition--our cross-town rival--a free kick in a dangerous position from which they scored the only goal in a 1-0 loss.

The other that comes to mind is the time a ref disallowed a goal I'd scored (when we were tied and down to 10-men in a Cup Final) for "charging," a curious call since I won the ball in the air and touched nobody, a fact which caused me, for the remainder of the game, to alert the ref that I was going to win the header ("EVERY TIME!") off every goal kick or corner kick, which I did. He eventually tired of my antics and, I swear to you, offered me the choice between a yellow or red card. I chose yellow and we ended up winning anyway.

Yes, it's not as if I'm immune to emotion getting the better of me. However, I have no issue keeping my fire under control while coaching AJ's team. His U-8 team.

Kudos to me for my restraint.

Of course, when referees, even the U-8 style, seem to want to pick a fight with me, well....

I didn't have any ref issues last year. Not even close. I made it four games this year before my first run-in. In a tie game, the other team scored a goal by kicking the ball out of my goalie's hands. I protested, instinctively, saying as such. The ref turned to me and said, "He did not have clear control of the ball!"

What I should have said was, "That's not the rule." Because it isn't. If he has a finger on the ball, it can't be kicked out of his hand and the reason for this is so goalies, such as they are at this age, don't get repeatedly kicked in the head. That's what I should have said. What I did say was, "Of course he didn't have clear control! He's 6!"

Okay, my bad. After the game, I sought out the ref, apologized for my outburst, but then made my point about the safety of the children, to which he heartily agreed and actually said he appreciated me mentioning that because he hadn't thought of it.

Play on.

Perhaps that scene was reported elsewhere, because that can be the only explanation for what happened two weeks later.

This ref was strident from the start. Before he checked the kids' cleats, he gave them stern treatment, using phrases like "I will not tolerate..." and "When I blow the whistle....STOP...IMMEDIATELY." I was partially amused. Chillax, Brah.

The first issue arose when one of my players got hurt in the first quarter. As I helped him off the field, I motioned for a replacement when I was informed by the ref that I couldn't sub "until the end of the quarter."

"That's ridiculous. Yes I can."

"No," he said. "Those are the rules."

(Those are not the rules.)

Being the responsible adult/coach I am, I didn't press it and we played short for a couple minutes while my player recovered.

Then it got stupid.

AJ, as he is prone to do from time to time, wandered about the pitch aimlessly. I yelled to get his head back into the proceedings. What I said was, "AJ! You have to play defense!"

The referee blew his whistle and stopped play. Turning to my sideline, he bellowed, "Coach! Keep it positive!"

I was stunned into open-mouthed silence (Emet, bless her heart, was not, and threw out a sarcastic, "Really?" for which she earned a Death Stare). For one, what I said was hardly negative. For two, I don't think you could find a parent on my sideline who would accuse me of being negative. For three, the referee's place is not to interject himself into coach-player relations (outside of physical mis-treatment, I'll allow).

Still, I managed to swallow the four or five smart-ass remarks that rushed to my brain and returned to the matter at hand.

Then it got stupider.

I had turned my back to the play. It was an opponent's goal kick and I headed up field in anticipation of the re-start. Then I heard one of my parents yell, "Hey! He can't do that!" (What the opposing goalie, a child nearly twice the size of your average 7-year-old, had done was not to kick the goal kick, but to throw it, nearly 3/4 of the field.) As I was turning back to see what had happened, the ref blew his whistle with all his lung power and sprinted over to me, while also reaching in his breast pocket, a sure sign he was going for a card.

Again, I was incredulous.

"Coach! Control your sideline!" he said and the poor parent, as nice a guy as you can imagine is stammering apologies behind me, but also filling me in on the play that I'd missed. I related the issue to the ref, who is now firmly ensconced in my face, my arms spread out wide and my voice diplomatic.

"Do you want me to throw you out?" he said and, honestly, I couldn't hardly take it any more, so I asked if what the opposing player did was legal and since it's not, he might be able to understand why the parent was momentarily, but not harshly, chagrined and holycrap sir, you do realize this is an under-8 game and you are acting in a manner not in proportion with the activity at hand.

I avoided being thrown out AND being shown a card, though he made sure to remind me he was boss, was, in fact, one bad motherfucker in his yellow shirt.

That was really it for confrontation, though my blood, and the collective supply of my sideline, continued to boil. One last thing though, one of my players was hurt in the 4th quarter and as I walked him to the sideline, the ref told me I could bring in a sub for him.

I don't know if this was a conciliatory gesture, or if the opposing coach had informed him at half time that he had erred earlier, or if it was a pity move, since we were down three goals at that point.

Whatever. I sent in a sub.

I've played soccer for 35 years and have never reffed a game. Wouldn't wanna do it. Respect the people who take their time (incompetent and/or crooked though they may be) to do a thankless gig. Game ended. I always go out of my way to thank the refs. And I was going to do so again. Except he scurried away.

I'd like to think this was because he realized he was inappropriate. More likely, he had to hustle to his next assignment. He had another game to ruin.

Emo Dracula

2009-11-02T11:12:00.001-08:00

As I've mentioned before in this spot, I am not a big Halloween guy. I've dressed up once in the last 25 years and that was a quick throw-together White Trasher complete with mullet wig and spaghetti stains on the tank top. Emet asked me why--though she, too, is anti-costume--and I came up with two reasons:

1) I have no desire to take the time and brain effort to craft the most awesomest costume ever, a failing that collides nicely with a fear of being laughed at for a half-ass result (or, even worse, a monumental, but ultimately disappointing effort), thereby creating a black hole of meh regarding costuming.

2) Halloween costumes invariably require you to wear something on your head, or do something unnatural with your hair and...well...I have great fucking hair and it's criminal to hide it.

So when we decided to go to a party down in the O.C. on Saturday night, in her sister's neighborhood, one of the best things about the gathering was no costume required. At least for the adults. The kiddies were fired up.

AJ decided on vampire, which is certainly popular these days, but when I quizzed him about which media-saturated famous vampire he wanted to be, he looked at me blankly, a fact which I appreciated because I'd rather puncture my cardioid artery with fake fangs than have him read that crap "Twilight" stuff.

In the weeks leading up to the Big Day, I kept asking him if he needed anything for his costume and he kept saying "No," that he and his Mom had it covered. Er...not so much. He had a cape. That was 8 sizes too big. Awesome.

That's why I was standing in a 50-deep line on Saturday afternoon getting make-up for his face, which annoyed me on the patience (or lack thereof) level and also on the fright level, as I tried to glean which of the various products would be easiest to apply. As I am artistic at a 4-year-old level, I feared screwing up the face painting so horribly that he'd have to go as a caped Al Jolson.

It was just as I'd feared. My hands are clumsy ("your fingers have no brains"), especially so when spreading toxic (oh sure, they SAY the products are safe, but c'mon) materials around your child's eyes and mouth. And with an audience even. Emet has two adorable twin nieces, age 6, who are completely captivated by AJ and they stood in the bathroom door giggling the entire time I applied the makeup. Additionally, this made me nervous since my son is, you might say, a perfectionist and a vampire is supposed to be scary in an undead way, as opposed to a Joan Crawford in "Mommie Dearest" way.

Mistakes were made (like accidentally putting a dot of black on the end of his nose), and hastily covered up with even more makeup. And, as I reached the final result, I took a deep breath and asked the girls, "He looks scary, right?"

They giggled some more. "He looks silly!"

Uh oh.

But AJ was cool. Though what he ended up with is something I like to call Emo Dracula...

...aka King Diamond (I'm sure there are at least 3 of my readers who recall Mercyful Fate). For the rest of you...

Okay, so makeup crisis averted. Time to party.

The parents took turns leading the pack of kids around the neighborhood while the others enjoyed a nice spread, the World Series and various adult beverages ( a term I used once that evening, to which AJ interjected, "He means beer!"). But it wasn't just beer. Oh no. Apparently, there is a tradition in this 'ville featuring something they alternately referred to as "Apple Jack" and "Apple Crack." It literally tasted like apple pie/cider. Except it had Everclear in it.

Middle-Aged Suburbanites Gone Wild.

Between shots and candy prospecting, AJ and I shot some hoops (see? If I were wearing a costume, I couldn't shoot hoops!), played some pool, watched the Ducks destroy the Trojans and gorged on meatball sandwiches. I was, in the moment, totally pro-Halloween, though perhaps that's because it was unclear who was more jacked up, the kids and their candy or the adults and their cider shots. And while I maintained my usual semblance of Responsible Adult during the proceedings, both AJ and I spent Sunday on the couch, with energy levels just south of zero, periodically raiding his pillowcase full of sugar. I was so lacking in motivation, that I didn't even care how bad my hair looked.

So, thanks for that Halloween and my new friends in The O.C.

That Didn't Suck

2009-10-18T04:34:00.000-07:00

Heads-up lasted all of five hands, as I was out-chipped 4-1 and out-flopped by trip queens. But heck, not a bad run. Kudos as well to fellow blogger VBDave and his final Table finish.

My poker game is better than my soccer coaching, I assure you.

Consider the Lobster

2009-08-23T19:24:00.001-07:00

Don't Forget to Read

2009-08-03T21:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was AJ's 8th birthday. I got him a skateboard, which, in turn, got me a higher health insurance premium, less for potential injuries to him, than for the anxiety it's sure to cause me when he starts doing Ollies and Indys.

I got you something, too. The resurrection of Don't Forget to Flush.

You may not have noticed my TGOD about that precocious son of mine (and my struggles against certain douchebags) went away. That's okay! It's still a gift. Wrap yourself well.

Offsprung is back under new management and I was asked to contribute more tales of AJ, both the ridiculous and sublime. My first post won't appear until Friday (we're having a staggered start), and it's a re-working of something you have read here, but there are a dozen entertaining voices over there, including some new columns that will focus on movies, step families and pop culture for the kiddies. As always, The Playground is a great clearinghouse for parental information, support and occasional tomfoolery.

I know...you want me. You don't want the rest of that stuff. Fine. Here's a recent account that can tide you over 'til Friday.

AJ plays very patiently and nicely with his 5-year-old cousin, even though she's a little girl in every sense and her mother and I never got along that well growing up. He'll deal with an hour of playing with dolls and she'll reciprocate with some baseball or running around in the backyard. Except all that outdoor rough-housing invariably causes an injury, real or imagined. My mother, of course, can't resist administering compassion, along with band-aids. Lots of band-aids. Last weekend, she was eventually sporting half-a-dozen.

Sometime later, AJ and his cousin were jockeying for water at the refrigerator and she banged her knee on the door. "Ow!" she said.

AJ, lacking the compassion as his grandmother, a humanistic void apparently filled with snark, instantly asked,

"Would you like another band-aid, Princess?"

And scene.

The Cost

2009-07-27T11:34:00.001-07:00

We have reached that portion of the year in my desert hamlet where the temperatures soar to Africa Hot. That's not a complaint. I get mine in January when I'm at the beach and you suckers are shoveling snow. I'll take egregious heat over bone-numbing cold every single time. As long as my air conditioner continues to work, nobody takes a crap in the community pool and the grocery store continues to sell Widmer Hefeweizen, I will abide.

Of course, I could be smarter about the weather. With the mercury past triple-digits yesterday, I played 90 minutes of soccer and 18 holes of golf. I took three cold showers. I have limited movement in my extremities. But my hair still looks good.

Next weekend, I play a soccer tournament in Santa Barbara. Though the weather will be more mild, we could potentially play five games in two days. The toughest is always the first game on Day Two. Because we're old and sore and have limited movement in our extremities. But also because we invade State St. on Saturday night like frat boys on Spring Break. Ain't maturity grand?

This is the first year we will play in the Over-40 division. Blanch. Ugh. Fuck. I can't begin to count the ways this makes me feel old in ways I've never felt before. I've probably mentioned previously about how turning 40 didn't tilt me, despite it happening right in the G.D. middle of The Troubles. I had bigger issues to obsess about. In fact, the only birthday I've ever had that administered a whuppin' was my 33rd. Because that was the Year 2000, a milestone I'd stared at as a child, the Big Scary Future, and couldn't believe I'd someday be that age.

This isn't about waking up and beginning to wrestle with my mortality. I've never really been that guy (minus that early-90s period when I was on drugs all the time and had frequent panic attacks). The simple fact remains that my life is probably half over. Maybe more so.

The future? I don't worry about it. Plan for it? Sure. Try to make good decisions in the present and hope the chips fall more or less fairly. People like to talk about their 10-year plans and shit like that. What a waste. "Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans."

I knew I was going to pay for yesterday's physical insolence. My grandfather, 88-years old and still hanging strong, wished me good luck in my soccer game yesterday. I replied, half-jokingly, "Winning is less important than not getting injured or passing out." Of course, when I got out on the pitch, I didn't shy away from anything. Soccer, golf, Emet, AJ. These are among the things that give me joy. I've no desire to push them to tomorrow, regardless of whatever consequences I reap.

So, next Saturday night, you'll likely find my teammates and I closing down the James Joyce Pub on State St. We'll pay in the ayem. Oh, will we pay. But the cost of missing out on that time is considerably more expensive.

RIP Shadow

2009-07-10T11:08:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since seeing her name in the cell phone window gave me a feeling of dread, but when X called at an unusual time Tuesday night, my stomach immediately kinked. "The cat died," she said, through tears. AJ's cat Shadow.

AJ was already asleep in his bedroom. Thankfully. He wasn't at X's to see his cat attacked by a pit bull.

We decided not to wake him and tell him, which meant I had to carry the news for a day, until we could all get together.

His face crumbled as soon as X started to explain what had happened. He cried, tears of anger, which was slight relief. Better than inconsolable sorrow, I thought, though I knew that was destined to come, as well.

"But I only had him 8 months!" he screamed. The unfairness of it all, the injustice. Noting for us to do but hold him, smooth his hair, tell him we were sorry, too. I'd spent the day researching how to handle the affair. Encourage him to talk about what he's feeling, that his reactions are natural and okay. But that's not the way The Boy works, not when all eyes are on him. He'll tell us, certainly, but randomly, in his time. We have to be alert to listen.

Later, he blamed himself. Also natural. And he's my son. He learned that from me, the urge to take responsibility. You gain a measure of control, an illusion of it anyway, by unnecessarily picking up burdens, convinced we can carry them, to prove our strength and worthiness. I turned Robin Williams on him. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

"But he's MY cat!" he screamed.

*

We buried Shadow. AJ said goodbye. "You were the best cat ever," he said, and the tears were sorrowful then, the helplessness we all felt. I wanted to tell him the feeling would go away with time, but nobody wants to hear that, least of all a 7-year-old, even if he's going on 12. I simply said that he should remember how much fun he and Shadow had and that those memories will make him smile. Someday. Soon, I hope.

Fore!

2009-07-07T14:13:00.001-07:00

We being today with an admission. I'm obsessive. Fine. Feel better? Cards on the table. I'm good, too. Thanks for asking. Except for the pain in my left middle finger, the first knuckle, to be precise. Repetitive motion injury, I suppose.

Over my slightly extended holiday weekend, I played golf three times. I used to really enjoy golf and though I have never been any good at it, have never been instructed how to properly play the game, I hit the links 2 or 3 times a month in my younger years. Then I broke my wrist, changed jobs, spent my free time playing and coaching soccer (both of which I was also obsessive about), got married, became a Dad, found poker, and, suddenly, it had been 10 years since I picked up a club.

A few months ago, Emet asked if I wanted to go hit some balls (that's what she said). She had taken some lessons last summer and had seen my cobweb-riddled clubs in the garage. I agreed, thinking my wrist wouldn't be able to handle it (it really will never be the same), but the price of a bucket of range balls seemed like a small financial commitment to find out. I sprayed balls all over the place, but the wrist held up and, most important, as any duffer knows, I whacked a few off the sweet spot, long and straight and arching beautifully in the blue sky.

So we started to play. Executive courses (not just chip and putt, though), nods to my wrist and her lack of length. You know where this is going.

Or, perhaps not.

Last Sunday, at 4 p.m., the thermometer read 114 degrees in Palm Springs. The wind was at least 25 mph. When we got to the course, there were fewer than 10 people as moronic as us on either of the 18-hole layouts. We walked right on. And we played the long course (we'd hit their short course the previous day, early, before the heat got obscene), Emet's first time on a track longer than 3000 yards (it clocked in at 5100 from the reds). What a fucking trooper she is.

She was skeptical, but I bribed her. My most previous obsession helped, since about 12 hours earlier I'd stacked a guy at a 1/3 NL table at the Spa Casino to more than double my buy-in with my set of 4s (in case you didn't get the Twitter update, about a half-hour into my session, absinthe sat down to my right, which elevated the fun quotient of the evening considerably). Since we'd been up so late, we didn't have much gumption to sweat poolside and while exploring our options for fun, I said I'd buy her a new golf shirt with my poker haul if she'd consent to walk out into the middle of Hell and play with me.

I ended up buying her two.

We survived the conditions and the length. I threw my pitching wedge but once. She didn't take my name in vain. By the end, we were sucking wind and damn near dropped from exhaustion before being revived by an excellent dinner at the perfectly-named Happy Sushi.

That's not the last of it. Oh no. We came home Monday and with several hours to go before I picked up AJ, and another day off, I went and played at my local course. Hell, it was only 90 degrees out. Almost felt like spring.

*

Here's the thing. Obsessive, yes. Competitive? As all hell. In my mind, I know I'm not good at golf. But that doesn't ease the pain of screwing up a shot you've made before. Or of three-putting. Since I am apparently now going to spend every spare minute longing for a tee time, I figure I need to get to a point where I can score at a level that won't piss me off.

This weekend, I shot 77 on the Executive Course (par 55). That's a bit worse than usual. On the long course, in the heat and wind, I shot 98 (par 72). That's about right. At my home course (also par 72), the most difficult of the three (based on slope), where my two previous attempts yielded a 107 (definitely NOT solid) and a 102 (better, but still...), I shot a 93.

And I'm still fired up about it.

I've never played better than bogey golf. And there it was, just 3 strokes off bogey golf in only my 11th round since I came back to the game. I rolled in a 25-foot birdie putt that I knew was in the moment it left my blade. I hit nearly every drive down the middle. I didn't throw a single club.

Am I good? No. But I can hit good shots. I'd like to continue hitting more each time out. It's said the only way to play better golf is to play a lot of golf. I can do that.

*

One last bit. When I walked onto the local course (Sierra Lakes, if you wanna check it out), I was paired with another single. There was a foursome, Asian folk, already waiting on the first tee box and my partner, a boisterous 50-year-old who had a 12-pack of Coors Light with him, barreled right up to the group and asked if we could hit first. To my surprise, they agreed quickly and willingly. We rushed to the tee and my partner hit a nice one, straight and about 220. I bombed one a mile. On a line, 285 when it stopped rolling. The brute force of my swing, the beautiful sound of square contact, the wholesome trajectory of that little fucking white ball in flight...

"Ahhh!" said one of the Asian gentleman as he watched it fly. "You like Tigah Woods!"

If that were the only good swing I'd had all day, it would have been enough to bring me back. There was more, however, which means only one thing.

Emet's gonna be lousy with new golf shirts.

Two Humans at Specific Points in Time

2009-07-03T12:13:00.001-07:00

First, The Boy. San Clemente State Beach, 2009. Built like his Daddy, ain't he? We were playing paddle ball and it was a bit frustrating as his motor skills only allowed for us to get 4, 5 hits maximum. Lot of chasing the ball and bending in the surf. So, I changed it up and started hitting sky high. Here, he tracks it on the way down.

Next, The Dad. UCLA, circa 1989 and recently posted to Facebook. The mullet. The acid washed jeans. The Miller High Life. I don't really need to say more, do I? $34 says this is The Rooster's new favorite hair pic of me.

Bet You Didn't See This Coming

2009-07-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

I spend hours thinking about soccer (henceforth referred to as Football). Before and after every US Men's National Team game, I have animated phone conversations with Jorginho about the most minute of details. I have four Liverpool jerseys. I'm going to play in an Over-40 (GUH) tournament in a month.

So, with Jorginho's prodding and my own need to get all these swirling Football thoughts out of my head, I started another blog.

The Defensive Third

I'm ridiculously verbose on the subject. I can wring 3,000 words out of "Carlos Bocanegra as Left Back." If you like Football, you might like the blog. If you love Football, you will want to fucking marry me.

Tell your friends. Link it up.

Not Yet

2009-06-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

Once we got about 100 yards down the beach, he and I were basically alone. We scanned the sand for skipping rocks and rifled them into the surf. He chased after the seagulls and laughed in the whitewater banging on the shore. Saturday afternoon in San Clemente, our third day there. We were both hot and tired, walking away from the crowds and noise, just me and my son.

*

AJ's life has been pretty crowded lately. For two weeks, he's shared an apartment with 11 other people. His days with me have been a relief. Just the two of us. But we had plans for this past weekend. More crowds. Lots of kids.

On Thursday, we drove down to San Clemente State Park with Emet for a weekend of camping at the beach. The weather broke just in time. Southern California experiences what id known colloquially as "June Gloom." Overcast skies, humidity, a tenacious marine layer. It's not cold, but there's not a lot of sun. Thankfully, the gloom ended a few days early.

Beach camping is a yearly tradition for Emet's family. They've been doing it since she was a kid. It's far more involved than picking a site and pitching a tent. Elaborate meals, arts and crafts, beer. Throwing in friends, we numbered close to 80 people, more than half of them kids, all of them full of summer energy. Right down AJ's alley, of course. He's met all of Emet's nieces and nephews, idolizes the older boys, is curious about the younger girls. When he found out two of the nephews, just entering high school age, would be in the tent right next to ours, he was beside himself.

Still, on Saturday afternoon, all the stimulation got to him.

*

He looked a bit forlorn, sitting there by himself. He mindlessly packed sand. I suggested he join a group of other kids building a castle. He declined. A boy came and asked if he could help. AJ sent him on his way and returned to his task, whatever it was. The wave came and drenched both AJ and his pile.

He started to cry. Was inconsolable. I sat him down next to me under the shade of an umbrella, out of the heat, cool down, a 15-minute timeout. I tried to talk him out of his meltdown, but kids that age, when the injustice just feels too great, can only offer "but!" So I ignored his sniffling sobs.

Easier said than done. Parental reaction #1: Make it better. So I asked if he wanted to walk down the beach. Just he and I.

He stopped crying, but started talking about his new step-brothers. About how they tease him, say he has a "funny face." News and insecurities flowed out of him, complaints against the sound of the waves. I pulled him to my hip as we walked, my voice even as I listened.

This is the way my child communicates. Not in answer to a pointed question, but randomly, when comfortable. It's how I know what is going on with him. It's a helpless feeling sometimes. As with most parent-child relationships, those lines of communication are less apt to be open as the kid grows older, learns to keep his own counsel, a fact exacerbated by the time he spends away from me, at his mother's house where I have even less idea of what the fuck is going on.

But as soon as he started, he stopped. He was unburdened for the time being.

*

Behind us, the umbrellas got smaller, the shouts of the children turned to silence. AJ was himself again, finding wonder in a sand crab, delight in jumping into the steep angle of the shore. His face shone with a sunshine smile and we just walked, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always tethered. His laughter buoyed us and, when I finally noticed how far we'd gone, I asked him, "Do you want to turn back?"

"No," he said, as he reached for my hand. "Not yet."

So we kept walking. Just my son and I, certain with each other.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I got for my birthday this year.

US-Spain

2009-06-24T10:33:00.001-07:00

The question today is not if the US can beat the world's best footballing side in the Confederations Cup semi-final in South Africa. On paper, Spain is a massive favorite. Any reasonable, unbiased analysis says the Spaniards will stroke the ball around at will, exploit the tiniest of gaps in the US rearguard and generally have their way with the Americans.

I will accept this as a given.

But a question does remain. How will the US perform? Tentatively and awed, as they did against Brazil (and, to a lesser extent, Costa Rica in qualifying)? Or committed and confident, as against Egypt.

Without a doubt, the US is up against it. They must lay deep against Spain, a tactic that no team prefers. The speed and movement of Fernando Torres and David Villa is a bad match-up for the Nats pedestrian back four. Therefore, they can't play up the pitch. That creates a domino effect, forcing the US midfield to also play deeper, lest there be too much space between the two lines, space where the likes of Xavi, Cesc Fabregas and Xabi Alonso can operate at will. As such, the US will be forced to rely on counter-attacks and set-pieces (which are a Spanish weakness and a US strength) to generate offense. In a perfect world, the Americans would be able to have a measure of ball possession themselves--against a side that lives with the ball at their feet--to take some of the pressure off defensively. I don't see that happening, not with the available personnel, nor with the necessary set-up.

The game against Italy provides a blueprint. The final score obscures how well the US played in that game, finding chances in the first half before Ricardo Clark was sent off for a red card. The work-rate was superb, if invention in the offensive third was not. Defend as a team, don't chase the ball, keep shape and transition quickly from defense to offense. Get the ball forward to the guys with pace, Altidore, Davies, Donovan, and rush into attack. Fitness and desire will play a major part.

The first 15 minutes will tell. If the US gives up another early goal (they've been scored upon in the first 10 minutes in three of their last five games), they will be finished. Chasing the game is difficult enough. Chasing the game against a Spanish side that is on a 35-match unbeaten run and is the best in the world at moving the ball around is suicide. If the US can get in some early tackles, show some thrust going forward, the tenor of the game might change in their favor. Results aside, this is a chance for the US to make a statement.

Live blog to come. Stay tuned.

*

0 min: US lineup: Howard-Spector-Onyewu-DeMerit-Bocanegra-Dempsey-Clark-Bradley-Donovan-Davies-Altidore

Carlos Bocanegra returns from a hamstring injury and is placed out wide left at the expense of Jonny Bornstein. Great substitution. Long-time National Team followers have begged for Boca to be moved to the left from the center of defense. DeMerit's performance alongside Onyewu in South Africa apparently (finally!) convinced Coach Bob Bradley to pull the trigger. Tim Howard in for Brad Guzan in goal.

This is the best possible lineup Bradley could have sent out. So far so good.

0 min: Spain lineup: Casillas-Sergio Ramos-Pique-Puyol-Capdevila-Xabi Alonso-Fabregas-Xavi-Riera-Villa-Torres.

An embarrassment of riches. No surprises there. I feel compelled to mention they put their shorts on one leg at a time, just live everyone else.

0 min: Jorginho told me to "Be More Funny." I replied that my live blogs are always hilarious, because I'm drunk when I do them. Though that's not the case today, I'll give it a shot.

Here's one: I have a new catch phrase: "I give it two years." It is said with bitterness, grunted almost, and refers to anything that sucks. It comes from my mother, of all people, who said it when informed that X got married last week. Honestly, if you could heard the way she said it, you'd know how funny it is.

0 min: And we're on the air! I typically watch US games with the sound off while listening to Elliott Smith, who makes me happier than the commentators, especially Tommy Smyth. Sound is on today, though, so I can make fun of insipid statemenst from John Harkes and JP Dellacamera.

0 min: I love Spain. Five Liverpool players on the roster, three in the Starting XI, including Fernando "El Nino" Torres upon whom I have the largest man-crush in the history of Bromances. It is not possible tove love a man you will never meet in a more heterosexual way than I love El Nino.

My kingdom for a tilda.

I love the way they play. I love the way they decimated Germany last summer. I love their uniforms. I love recalling the time my Spanish friend Sergio screamed at a TV in fractured english, "The referee! He is always against a-Spain!"

0 min: JP says "no pressure on the US today." Um...really? I stridently do not concur.

1 min: And away we go.

1 min: Gooch is wearing gloves. He is either taking a motorcycle ride right after the game of has a really bad case of psoriasis.

2 min: That is what the US can't do. Give away possession in their half and concede a free kick in a dangerous spot.

4 min: US corner comes to nothing. At least they didn't play it short to Beasley.

5 min: Great ball from Gooch to Davies. Casillas alert to cut out the danger. Davies was in alone.

6 min: 50-50 balls, 2nd balls, knock-downs...the US has to win them all.

6 min: Donovan's touch heavy there, but it appears the counters are on.

7 min: Wow. Davies bicycle kick a couple yards off the mark. US attacking with intent. Me likee!

8 min: US on top right now. Let me repeat that. US on top right now. Davies rampant. Donovan turning guys. Dempsey shoots just wide. Fantastic stuff.

10 min: It's difficult to rattle the confidence of the best team in the world, but the US forays into the Spanish end could make Sergio Ramos and Capdevila think twice about heading up the flanks with the regularity they usually do.

12 min: Torres goes close soon after a Clark give-away. Can't turn it over in our half, boys.

13 min: Spain not quite as crisp as we're used to seeing them. That can change in an instant, but the US is doing a good job of disrupting their flow. Playing higher up the pitch than I thought they would.

15 min: If Jozy's gonna wear those awful blue shoes, he'd better get a brace. At minimum.

17 min: Forgot to mention Donovan's yellow. He deserved it, but it's nice to see Lanny actually go in hard on someone. Usually, he just blows lightly in their ear.

18 min: Good start. Organized in the back. Confident on the ball. Got past that magic 15 minute mark without conceding.

18 min: Howard with a huge save, but Torres is offside. Torres was also wide open in the middle.

19 min: Somebody fucking shoot the ball!

21 min: Thank you, Lanny.

21 min: Clark really having a great start to this game.

22 min: Spain looking very dangerous now. Last pass is lacking. Not for long, I bet. End-to-end action. Good stuff.

23 min: US defending in numbers and then hoofing it up the pitch. Not a recipe for success.

26 min: Are we really only 25 min, in? I'm exhausted. US defends two corners in quick succession and clears to Davies who is mauled by Puyol in a somewhat homoerotic fashion.

27 min: Goal USA! Jozy! Turns Capdevila and wrong foots Casillas who gets a hand on it, but not enough.

Oh my goodness.

29 min: I'm not sure what to do with myself right now. Who's more stunned? Me or Spain?

30 min: I was starting to doubt whether this group of US players had any sack.

30 min: Abysmal touch from El Nino. Great defending by Spector. Sergio Ramos camped out in US offensive third. Corner Spain. Corner again Spain.

32 min: Great take by Donovan, Clark gives it up too easily (possible foul), Spain gets a lucky deflection to Villa in the box, but he shoots wide and over. He does not do that very often.

35 min: US clearing headers could use some work. We'll address that on the training ground.

36 min: El Nino caught offsides for the third time. Stoppages, even this early, good for the US. Spain play at such a high tempo. Pause for wind and disrupt the flow of the game.

36 min: Donovan's free kick just inches too high for Dempsey who deads wide. Clint up for it today. Nice to see.

38 min: Spain with another lightning-quick transition, but US gets back. Just.

39 min: Torres was very nearly in there. Again, Spain is just a fraction off with the final pass.

39 min: At this point, it's time to play for halftime. Take the lead into the locker room.

40 min: Xabi Alonso whacks down Jozy. Frustration setting in? Or maybe he hates those electric blue shoes as much as I do.

42 min: US living right. Spain gives away a chance on a free kick and Gooch clears one inside the 6-yard box with Sergio Ramos lurking.

43 min: Possession is all Spain's right now. Basically what we thought the game would look like beforehand. US a little panicky with halftime looming.

25 min: As I said...Torres abuses Bocanegra, twice, but Howard gets a leg down to stop the near-post effort.

C'mon halftime whistle.

45 min: Halftime.

Seriously, I need a break. My analysis is all up there. It was all Spain the last 15 minutes. Bradley will need to find an answer or two and make the right substitutions.

I can't believe we're discussing how to hold a lead against Spain.

46 min: Spain right back on attack. Howard saves from Villa.

50 min: This is going to be a 45-minute onslaught. US needs to keep its composure. And, I think, some subs pretty soon. They look gassed.

51 min: Spaces getting huge. You might say, gaping. Another corner for Spain. That's 3 this half already.

52 min: SI's Grant Wahl reports Jozy's strike is the first goal Spain have conceded in 451 minutes. That's 5 games, for the mathematically challenged.

55 min: That central ball into Xavi is too easy now. Need to cut that off.

56 min: Speaking of SI soccer writers, I wonder if Luis Bueno feels like an idiot? He should since his last column comparing US and Mexico performances in major tourneys was not only false (by omission, as in the relative strength of the sides' groups in the last world cup for instance), but now is rendered meaningless by the US performance since publication.

58 min: US conceding the flanks, which is fine, they have to concede something, but if you're going to clog the middle, clog the fucking middle. That central ball is still there and that's what the tactics are supposed to take away.

61 min: Better now from the US. Jozy and Davies need to find space on the wings. Both standing too centrally. Make Puyol and Pique chase them around some.

64 min: Sure, it's target practice right now, but the US has played with a ton of courage tonight.

65 min: I'm thinking subs, Bob. Feilhaber for Davies, push Dempsey up top.

65 min: US blocking shots like a hockey team.

67 min: Spain does the US a great favor with those long, searching balls.

68 min: Not the best game I've seen from Fabregas.

69 min: Attaboy Bob. You know how to get on my good side. Just do what I tell ya.

72 min: Eighteen minutes, plus stoppage, from a famous victory. Keep your head, boys.

73 min: Spain showing some fatigue now. They've not been at their best, but plenty sharp everywhere but the US box.

74 min: Goal US! Dempsey! 2-0! Terrible mistake by Sergio Ramos. Dawdles in his own 6-yard-box and Clint bangs it home.

Are you kidding me?

76 min: This is beyond belief. I'm beyond believing. Remember, Spain have won 15 straight, unbeaten in 35. 35! And they're gonna lose to the USA?

79 min: Not that I'm counting chickens or anything. Bad foul by Feilhaber and Spain with a free kick in a dangerous spot.

Howard saves a rather tame effort.

80 min: Onyewu huge tonight. Man of the match.

81 min: Spain's last los: Nov. 2006. US's last loss...a week ago.

Cue up the "We Want Brazil!" chants?

82 min: It is quite refreshing to see Dempsey working his ass off. Doesn't happen often enough.

84 min: Gooch again. He's won every header n the box it has seemed.

87 min: Unbelievable. Red for Michael Bradley. Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

Next game without one of our more accomplished players, though I think even a yellow there would have ruled him out.

88 min: Spain keeps serving those balls into the box and Gooch keeps heading them clear. He's a man.

89 min: I have no perspective at this point. None. I have no idea how to rate or encapsulate this game. It's quite literally beyond my comprehension.

90 min: Three minutes of stoppage time. Enough time for Man U, perhaps, but few else.

90+ min: You know, Conor, you've only been on the field for like 12 minutes, perhaps you could be bothered to run a little more, considering we have 10. Just a thought. Dick.

90+ min: Just a proud effort. Lofty effort.

Fulltime

The US just beat the best team in the world.

That simple sentence will have to suffice for now.

God Morgon (is Swedish for Good Morning and it's pronounced Go Moron)

2009-06-18T11:14:00.001-07:00

When my ex-brother-in-law (which is a term I need to retire, you know, 'cause he didn't divorce me and he's AJ's uncle, so he's still family; I'll take suggestions) walked into my apartment last night, his first words were, "Of course."

He was referring to the A's-Dodgers game on the TV, because, though we've not spent ample time together over the last nine years, my A's obsession is well-known. Once, when we were in Sweden, I politely asked if we could go into town--we were at a cabin on the archipelago without internet access--to find out a score. This was in 2002, shortly after the A's record 20-game win streak came to a halt and the score in question was the opener of a four-game set against the Angels, then fighting for the AL West lead.

He drove me in, twenty minute trip, and we finagled a computer at a local gas station. They won. Tim Hudson with the honors.

You know, I briefly considered "Hudson" as a name for AJ?

Anyways...Niklas is in town for the nuptials and we decided to go out one night and catch up. He's a good guy, plenty smart, and a lot of fun to hang out with. From the outside, you may think this meeting would have some awkward aspects, but that's not the case at all. Though we did touch on some of the delicate subject matter surrounding X, it was all good and agreeable. Mostly, we talked sports and politics and sub-prime mortgages and the time I dropped my pants at his motorcycle club in Sweden.

For future reference, Wednesday night is Country Night at my local watering hole. I did not know this. But it wasn't half bad. The band was stellar and mixed in some actual songs amongst the "My Dog Died and My Old Lady Stole My Truck" standards, including a splendid version of "Sultans of Swing," one of my all-time favorite cuts. The bartendress calling everyone "Pardner" was just icing on the cake.

Like any human being with an accent, Niklas drew the attention of some of the locals, like Mike, who reminded me of my Uncle Curt and who didn't believe a Swede existed without blond hair. Big fan of the fist bump, Mike, but entertaining in his way. Some kids overheard and wanted to know about the chicks in Sweden (everything you've heard is true and you should especially know that Swedish women have flawless skin) and we ended up telling them about the time I dropped my pants at his motorcycle club in Sweden.

There was really no catalyst for me doing that, standing pantsless in the middle of the dance floor. I was just hammered, mostly because a guy who claimed Sonny Barger as a personal hero, a guy who quietly stared at me, mencingly, I thought, for three hours, a guy with narrative scars running all over his face, finally walked over, loomed over me like some Norse God, and said, "Come, we have cognac." There was no question I went, and some four cognacs later, on top of all the beer--with weird names like "Falcon"--he and I were compadres. Though he later asked me to put my pants back on.

Niklas is enjoying his stay, has taken the kids to Hollywood and Disneyland, and on days where nothing is planned, sits out on the porch and plays online poker. He was surprised to find out the Pens beat the Wings, the latter being largely populated by Swedes, making them a favorite in the home country. He humorously described how he asked everyone at X's place who won Game 7 (he was on a flight while it was going on) and nobody knew.

We talked about AJ. He said both he and his wife think he looks just like me. I don't really see it. He's a step-dad, you know, to my ex-niece and nephew, and he was adamant. Assuring me. No matter how much those kids love him, how much he does with them, he'll never be on that higher plane, he'll never be Dad.

*

I woke up with a raging headache this morning. People my age should not be drinking on a Wednesday. For family, you make exceptions.

Keep

2009-06-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

"I had a cool dream last night," AJ said this morning.

"What about?"

"I don't want to tell you. I want to keep it for myself."

*

I hadn't seen the boy for a few days. I gave up my weekend with him so he could spend it with X, whose family arrived from Sweden last week. AJ doesn't get to see his grandparents and cousins much, so I figured he would enjoy that more than playing Guitar Hero: Metallica with his old man (which we've been doing non-stop) or folding my hands while I take a bathroom break in the middle of another (mythical) Final Table run (three fictional times this month).

Predictably, he talked non-stop about what he'd been up to, from the good ("I got to stay up 'til midnight!") to the bad ("I went shopping with Mommy at Macy's. It was horrible.") and this weekend's wedding festivities. As excited as he is for all the action, he was also happy to be the center of attention again, one-on-one, instead of a single (albeit LOUD) voice among many. I'm sure he missed me, as I did him, but I think he was also relieved to get away from the chaos for a while.

*

For my part, I will be absconding to San Diego this weekend with Emet with an agenda of sun, baseball and Gaslamp District tomfoolery. It's not as if I need to get away to erect a denial bubble about X getting married, about AJ getting a step-family. I don't see how it really changes anything as far as my role. And as I've repeated many times, I have no longing for my "previous" life. Some regrets? Sure. But any desire to be back where I was four years ago knowing what I know now? None. That marriage was poisoned. I just didn't know it until after.

I'm sick of talking about it, actually (he said, as he talked about it) and therein lies part of the reason why I've been so scarce in this space. After all the drama, it has seemed to me that frivolity had lost its place here, that recitation of my mundane wanderings were beneath some sort of nebulous standard that I'd built in my head. Problem. If the writing is based on false prophets and perceived reaction, it's no good to anyone.

The second issue sounds cheeky on the surface, but it's undoubtedly true: I write less when I'm happy. Funny thing. I write to work things out. If nothing needs tending, then poof. Nada. I also cry more when ecstatic, touched, than when I'm sad, for what that's worth.

So, I'm happy. Deliriously so. And I haven't written about it because a) I don't do syrupy very well and b) like my son, I've kept this good dream to myself.

*

I was asked about Emet recently. I fumbled for words. Not because I couldn't find one. Because I found many. We share so much. Interests. Beliefs. Goals. I tried to encompass all of these things. What is it that set her apart from my previous failures?

Recognizing my past mistakes is part of it. Not fair to blame the women without looking inward. I've chosen badly. Not bad women. Bad for me. It all comes back to certain expectations, traits I believe I needed in women. I've had a rather large blind spot for most of my life, a misconstrued view of how relationships work. That can hardly be the fault of the other.

*

My mother relates a story: When I was six, I came to her crying and said, "What if nobody ever wants to marry me?"

That's pretty funny, in retrospect. But it points to a psychological issue which has dogged me, with various ferocity, most of my life. Many, including a wary Emet, have accused me of being that guy who needs to be in a relationship. There's truth there. I've denied it in the past, but no, it's probably right, though I would say it's less a need to be in a relationship than a need to have someone to relate to.

I'm a social animal. I crave being around people. I like debate. Camaraderie. Experience. I am not a sentient being (nine straight hours of play money online poker excepted). Stimulation is like bread, I need it to live. Whether it's out playing golf (which I've recently gotten back into after years of a bum wrist and life-crippling marriage) or spinning yarns from a bar stool with strangers, I need that to get myself out of my own fucking head, which is stifling in its own right.

I continually talk myself out of action. Of coloring outside the lines. Acute paranoia of offending someone else. Why I never argued with X. Why I have failed to take steps that would improve all of my relationships. That need to be liked. For want of someone willing to marry me, if you will.

At the most basic level, that's deception. Like political correctness. A person who says "African-American" when they would normally use the 'N' word is lying. The public face masks inner beliefs. If you think you've heard that one before, you have. X is the same way (though on a larger scale). Hard to believe we didn't mesh.

I've known this for some time and worked hard to be honest about how I feel, even at the risk of offending. I've succeeded, though I remain, as always, a work in progress.

*

I know Emet likes me for who I am. I've shown her parts others have not seen. Confessions. She is unlike any woman I've ever wanted. The word I found:

Generous.

Something I am not. I don't mean time or money. I mean spirit. I mean selflessness. I never looked for that in a woman before. Never knew what an monumental difference it can make between two people until I received it. As such, I never knew how much those relationships were missing.

"We'll be friends for the next 40 years," she said to me once. Not "We'll be together for 40 years." Important difference. More meaningful in the sense that our relationship is grounded in mutual respect and admiration and trust, not subject to the whims of fate or unforeseen events. It says, "You have value," not just "You have value to me." She is calm and graceful and deep and thorough.

I've managed to meet my fair share of women who "liked" me. That was made easier by stacking bricks around those dark places I hid from them. Now I've met one who really sees me. And she's sticking around.

*

A couple weeks ago, Emet's Dad turned 80. There was a big party with her large family. I've met them all, of course, and they are lovely and close-knit in a way that makes me envious. This was the first time I'd brought AJ along, however, and like his recent situation, I worried about him, the Only Child, meshing with a dozen or so of Emet's nieces and nephews, my concerns the same as always, that he'll get along and not need to make himself the focus of everything (like he does at home. and school. and church).

He was mostly good. Took a football in the face and shook it off (he didn't want to cry in front of the big kids) and the big kids were careful to include him. He charmed the adults.

At one point, we all sat around watching a slide show. AJ got restless as it went on and there were no pictures of him and I had to shush him a few times. He slunk away, ending up next to Emet, where he silently slipped his arm around her waist and leaned into her hip. He stood there but a few minutes, but the message was clear. He's had so much thrown at him in his young life and yet, he remains the sweet, tender boy he's always been, appreciative of the people around who love him.

There's more of those people now. And that can only be a good thing. I assume, however, he'll keep those thoughts to himself.

Seriously

2009-06-01T01:35:00.001-07:00

It was the best of times...it was the worst of times. I was rolling along in the Blogger Big Game, feeling pretty solid about my play, faded some diamonds to triple up huge early (myself and corron10 flopped sets and sellthekids, the nut flush draw) and generally threw my big stack around. At the same time, I was rolling in the 50/50, with a stack of twice par about an hour in.

Then bdiddie's queens beat my kings, one of the wonkas got hissef pot committed and won a post-flop race against me and I ran KK into ShabazzJenkins's AA and so long Blogger Big Game. Somewhere in the middle of all this my JJ got out-flopped by TT and I was down to 1300 chips in the 50/50 with blinds at 100/200.

And I was all like, SERIOUSLY?.

That there is the 50/50 Final Table.

Where I became a mere spectator for way too many orbits. I even joked in chat, after the BB, who got a walk, showed A6, "Is that what an ace looks like?"

We lost a couple shorties, then the following hand took place. I should note, the KK guy had less than the BB. Easy push for me and I was 3/4 of the way to bed when the river fell.

That was an $800 river card, the money difference between 6th and 5th, where I soon finished after running The Drizz into QQ.

Not bad. Seriously.

Get Yer Red Hots!

2009-05-28T10:27:00.001-07:00

Fresh, piping hot WSOP action coming to you live from lots of people you know. Personally, I'd rather read these guys than watch the hands play out on ESPN. And I've been to Norman Chad's house.

Dig.

Pauly
The once, present and future king.
Poker Stars Blog
Not sure if new, doubled-up Daddy Otis will be making the trek this year, but brand loyalty and all that.
Poker From the Rail
Wait...seven weeks in Vegas for Al? This will not end well...except for the readers! (See what I did there?)
Ultimate Bet Blog
Sure, the poker reporting is top-notch and Geno's is a style to envy, but I can't help but picture him as I once saw him on press row in about Week 4 of a previous WSOP engagement: Looking but not seeing. So, every time I read him, I look for clues as to when he's about to snap. This probably makes me a bad person.
Pokerati
Michalski money is the sweetest money. Ask Pauly.
Wicked Chops
Mom, if you're reading this, don't click the link.
Poker News
All you need to know. Constant updates. Chip counts. Strung-out players. Irate backers. That this site once employed me is the exception to their rule of excellence.

She'll Never See It

2009-05-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

The timing seemed unusual, all these people still wearing suits and dresses, splattering electric blue paint up on the walls of the apartment. I called AJ over and gave him $25 from my wallet. "Here, give this to your mother," I said, "For the paint." I turned to leave and passed my son's new step-father on the way to the door. "Congratulations," I mumbled, without looking at him.

*

That was how my dream ended last night. It was a long, meandering tale with the setting being some sub-conscious-driven version of X's impending nuptials (23 days, but who's counting). The ceremony took place in a synagogue (!) and I picked a fight with the fey co-ordinator (!!), whom I threatened to "turn into whipped cream," (an awesome challenge in any mental state). At another point, I was naked, for a reason I found wholly legitimate, and was indignant when chastened by the groom's father. My mother was there (!!!) and when I was tossed by the Jews at the synagogue, with whom I also nearly fought, we wandered the streets of San Leandro, CA looking for my car, which we never found.

Yet I still ended up back in the newly-electric blue apartment of my ex-wife, much to the chagrin of a pack of snarling Jews.

*

I suppose it's fair to say I haven't known how to deal with this imminent wedding. The primary issue is, I didn't exactly know what bothered me about it. I'm confident the Jews are not relevant (I finished reading "Portnoy's Complaint" just yesterday, so I'll assume that's why they were there). My feelings have been the same as when I found out they'd become engaged. No visceral emotion to seize. Some incredulity. I'd grasped some random straws long enough to quicken my blood, but discarded them just as swiftly. All I've had is this nagging itch, familiar by now, but just out of reach.

*

When I woke up today, the blue paint thing reminded me of another break-up, one long ago when I had my teen-age heart broken. On the day she delivered to me the bad news, she also asked to borrow my new Scorpions LP so she could tape it.

I let her. Regardless of how these women hurt me, I am, as always, the nice guy, which makes me a sap, most likely.

*

I've been listening to a TON of Airborne Toxic Event. I've said this to other people, but I say it to you all now: If that album had been around three-and-a-half years ago, I might've offed myself. It's all heartbreak and anguish and failure, beautifully, achingly rendered. "Innocence," is the gold standard and there's a line in there that resonates, now, and from out of the past.

"I woke up, tired, scared and sad."

I recognized it immediately, but also not. I used to say, during that time, I woke up either angry or sad, and always rooted for angry. I never pegged that anger came from a place of fear. More than anything else, I was scared. For what was to happen to me. For what was to happen to AJ.

And that helps, because I'm not scared any longer. Sad? Sure. Some days are bad ones. Not because I long for the repair of my marriage, or for the days we were happy together, but for my son's future, for what we will, and already have, put him through. I know it's hard on him still. I see it in his confused face, in his nervous manner, and I'm so sorry for what we've done.

Yet, I no longer fear he will ditch me, as his mother did, replace me with his step-father. Never gonna happen.

*

X and I sat together at AJ's baseball game last night. She told me my ex-brother-in-law wanted to grab a drink or eight with me while he was here for the wedding. That was pretty cool. Niklas is the only one who reached out to me during The Troubles, even though I practically begged for help from the other members of her family. I don't blame them for anything. Perhaps they spoke for me in private, though, more likely, I was asking them to do something which is not in their nature.

Niklas asked X, "So what kind of places are there to go out?" in our little desert hamlet. X laughed relating the story. "I don't go out," she told him.

Which is ironic. That being Reason #1 for why she ditched me. We didn't DO enough stuff together.

*

Like my feelings about the engagement to now, I have another thought that hasn't changed. It's one I relegated to non-status after a while, because it didn't matter. It was over. She was gone. But it came back to me last night. That conversation with X was, like my nagging itch, familiar. Other things she said, some recent actions. She's not gone anywhere. And I remembered. Something I told a lot of people back then, something I believed, something that came more from a place of logic than from one of emotion.

She's making a mistake.

Seems rather simple on the surface, yeah? X would, at this point, even concur that what she did was not just wrong, but a mistake. I don't think she'd admit, however, that marrying this guy is also a mistake.

It is.

*

I don't know that it's any of my concern. Certainly, there's potential for AJ to get hurt, but I can't police every one of their actions. But that familiar itch, it's not just giving me a fact, it's telling me I could do something about it. I could pay for the paint. Or loan an album.

I will ignore it, of course. I can't tell her. That conversation would never go anywhere. But that's what it is, reduced to another lyric.

"And this light from the window of my car. She'll never see it."

On the Subject of Name-Calling and Book Cover-Judging

2009-05-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

"Hey Daddy! Look! The Giants have a nerd on their team!"

I look up to see Tim Lincecum--reigning Cy Young winner, Tim Lincecum--at the plate.

"That 'nerd' is the best pitcher in baseball," I say. "And it's not nice to call people names."

"Oh."

"His actual nickname is 'The Freak.'"

"Whatever, he still has stupid hair."

"I dunno, it's kind of like Daddy's hair right now."

"Exactly what I said."

Not-At-All Live Blog of a Weekday Off

2009-05-08T10:59:00.001-07:00

With my department's staff at its lowest number ever, I am now required to work the occasional Saturday. While that blows in many ways, the one benefit is having a day off during the week and, yesterday, I took full advantage.

8:00 a.m.: There was no sleeping in. Seize the day! Nothing like a trip to the dentist to get the morning started off right. Deep cleaning. Wow! Did that suck!

It wasn't so much the cleaning, but the discomfort of sitting in the chair for 90 minutes. My jaw hurt. My neck was stiff, so much so that I made them bring me a pillow.

Seriously.

9:30 a.m.: Lecture by the dentist on flossing. Right. Like I have time for flossing. You know...that's why I hate the dentist so much. Not the pain. The tsk, tsk-ing. I'm a man! I'm 40!

9:31 a.m.: 40-year-old man with numb face comically spills mouthwash all over himself. Twice.

10:00 a.m.: Back at Emet's house and I hear the news about Manny. Pisses me off. It's almost as if you can't get excited about anything regarding baseball any more. I had surprisingly found myself caught up in "Mannywood." Dodger Stadium hasn't seen such a frenzy since Fernando Mania. More often than not, I'd watch the Dodgers on TV, rather than the A's, perhaps simply because it's fun to see a team actually execute at a major league level.

But the real point of this is that I'm cursed. Didn't see that coming, did ya? Yep. My ego is so huge that I believe I have an effect on events completely out of my control. We all know the manner in which the A's have shit the bed in the playoffs this millennium. And now this with the Dodgers.

On Wednesday, talking to Dodger-lover Donny on the phone, I said I was really enjoying watching his team play. Might even be called...gasp...a fan. And what happens? But a few hours later.

So, what exactly is the genesis of this curse? What have I done to the Sporting Gods? Honestly, I have no idea. Was it the night I unleashed a stream of expletives dirty names (the worst kind; you know...the compound words) for not pinch-running for that Fat Ass Jeremy Giambi, resulting in the Jeter Flip Throw? Was it the Terrance Long voodoo doll? Dating Gil Heredia's underage daughter?

Regardless, an exorcism is needed.

11:00 a.m.: Finally un-numbed, I grab a coffee and muffin at Starbucks on the way to the golf course. I should mention it's 90 degrees. Nothing like hot coffee on a summer's day.

11:45 a.m.: Emet meets me at the golf course. Like any good girlfriend, she takes a half day off when there's fun to be had, a difficult choice for her as one so dedicated to her craft, that of keeping her students from stabbing each other during language arts. Thank a teacher today, everyone.

12:30 p.m.: I par the first two holes. This is notable because I'm not good. We're playing an executive course (par 62) because Emet's just starting to learn how to play, though she's taken more lessons (five) in her life than I have (zero), which might explain why I'm not good. Just as I learned how to play poker from watching WPT Final Tables, I learned how to play golf watching the Northern Bank Trust Open.

12:36 p.m.: Triple Bogey. I question the inclusion in my bag of the pitching wedge, as it seems I'd get similar results if I used a craggy tree limb.

1:00 p.m.: Beer > coffee on a hot summer day. I also slather myself in a few ounces of sunblock, using the time-honored and effective Garth "aggressive application" method.

3:30 p.m.: I somehow end up with a 79, even though I parred 6 holes. Which means I played the other 12 in 17 over. That is just plain fucking horrible. Even for someone who is not good. Like me. My main problem is distance control. I'm just too long.

That's what she said.

4:30 p.m.: Showered and freshened, Emet and I head to The Auld Irisher for food and beer as a prelude to the evening's Red Wings-Ducks tilt at Honda Center. Nothing says hockey like an Irish pub. Nothing!

5:00 p.m.: Mmmmmmmm, corned beef and "Awesome Old Man's Beer" (that's two Garth references today. I think I miss Garth).

6:30 p.m.: The two-mile trip from The Auld Irisher to Honda Center is a cock-up of massive proportions. Emet claims the problem is Angel fans trekking to the nearby ballpark for their game with the Blue Jays, but I respond that is impossible, seeing as this is the worst possible route to Angel Stadium before reversing myself once I recall that Angels fans are idiots.

I suggest a "pizza move," so named for the nebulously legal actions I used to take behind the wheel when I delivered pizzas during college. It works. Then we jaywalk.

Fight the Power!

7:25 p.m.: Comfortably in our seats, seven rows up from the glass right behind the net, I take a picture and drop my cell phone into my 24 oz. Pacifico. Fortunately, the Ducks have handed out garish, orange hand towels, presumably to spin over our heads during moments of high emotion. I will not be doing this. For one, I'm not a Ducks fan. I am here a) for the beer b) to see someone's head bleed c) to support my girlfriend. Also, if I spun my towel, beer would fly from it like a whirly bird sprinkler since I used it to dry my cell phone. And my arms.

I'm 40.

7:40 p.m.: Ducks score in the first minute. Honda Center goes bonkers. Well...70% of it. The rest are Wings fans. They travel well. Emet swears off beer. Says there's too much going on to continue drinking. I see her point. Having never sat this close to the ice, for any hockey game, let alone the playoffs, it's exhilarating. Johan Franzen skating right down on you? Eff me.

8:20 p.m.: End of first period. Despite early goal, Ducks are getting destroyed in all facets and now trail 2-1. Bathroom line provides plenty of hilarity. To wit:

Guy wearing meticulously faded Wings t-shirt tries to bond with other Detroit fans, bald, ugly, hardcore guys in Yzerman jerseys. I can tell t-shirt guy is not "true" (maybe it was his perfectly coiffed hair, not that there's anything wrong with that), but trying hard to fit in and he's doing okay until he mentions how it "won't be tied for long."

"Uh, we're ahead 2-1," Yzerman Guy says and turns away with contempt.

The trash talk is beauty, too. You know how it goes. Detroit fans mock Anaheim ("Is it even a real city?") and OC fans, to a person, lean on, "Why do you live here, then?"

8:25 p.m.: Emet runs into one of her students. Tries to hide her beer under her shirt.

9:30 p.m.: Second period ends 4-2 Wings. Could be 8. Could be 10. All over 'em. This thing's over, but for the fights. While we don't get any on the ice, I see at least two in the stands, one contested by senior citizens. Awesome.

10:20 p.m.: Game over. 6-3 final. Coulda been 15. Coulda been 20. I sing "It's So Cold in the 'D'" all the way back to the car. Not a single person sings along with me. Disappointing really.

I'm 40.

10:30 p.m.: I'm starving. That corned beef sandwich seems so long ago. And I don't want to go to bed. It's a Weekday Off! I suggest a bar and some pub grub. Emet's dragging. Been a long day for her and she has to teach in the morning. We reach a sublime compromise: Jack in the Box tacos. I only have two.

Coulda been 6. Coulda been 12.