Base Camp Two

While I'm on the road and awake in the middle of the night, I tend to watch some really strange television while trying to fall asleep in the dawn hours. Ice Road Truckers. I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. Documentaries on the financial crisis. And those Discovery Channel specials on insane lunatics that climb Mount Everest. This morning, while the sun was peeking though the spaces between the blinds, I drifted off while our intrepid climbers reached Base Camp Two. They weren't quite halfway through their climb, but were still high enough that they had to dip into those oxygen tanks for a few hours a day.

That's pretty much where we're at when it comes to the WSOP. Not quite halfway there. We're in the thick of things. Nearly everyone has the thousand-yard stare. Those that are spending their nights trying to grind it out at the tables are telling their bad beat stories with a little more frequency and frustration. 4 a.m. feels like midnight used to, and thankfully, I already had my mental breakdown during the first week of the series, so I'm just trying to focus on myself and my own well-being as I trudge up the mountain. I cover two more events start to finish and then we're at the $50K H.O.R.S.E.

I've been climbing solo for the last two weeks, with my beloved off on the first leg of summer Phish tour, researching his next book. I'll admit it was difficult reading all his posts and Twitters from the road, clearly having the time of his life while I was stuck grinding out a paycheck at the Rio. But at the same time, those dispatches brought a smile to my face during some of the darkest hours in this building.

Check out the Best of Bonnaroo Twitters on Coventry to relive their adventures.

I also cracked up at this post Bonnaroo and Craigslist from Broseph, who pilfered through the "Missed Connections" section and uncovered some gems.

Pauly also has his Bonnaroo recap up.

I've downloaded all the Phish shows from Fenway Park to St. Louis and am slowly making my way through while cranking out articles and driving back and forth to the Rio. Today's selections were from the Asheville show, where they played a killer Divided Sky, but then went into some random country song about a cactus where Mike Gordon started yodeling. WTF? At least after that, they busted out with Bold as Love, which sizzled and made me happy, despite the bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-15.

For now it's another late night at the Rio, a $10,000 stud 8 or better tournament, and Dutch Boyd's tragic hoodie staring me in the face.

Tao All-Stars: The WSOP Fashion Report, Week 1

I'm honored to be one of the Tao All-Stars at this summer's WSOP and just contributed my first of several Fashion Reports. Check it out.

***

I'm back working for PokerNews at the WSOP and so far, the experience has been more similar to the fresh hell of 2007 than the far more manageable 2008. Basically, the entire official live reporting team was thrown together only two weeks before the start of the series due to protracted negotiations with Harrah's/Bluff, and things are far more disorganized than they were last year. A smaller staff, everyone taking pay cuts (myself included), fewer days off and lots of housing and transportation-related snafus have turned us all into a grumpy bunch pretty quickly. We're eight days in and I already have the thousand-yard stare. To make up for the pay cut I took, I'm still writing three pieces a week for the front page of PokerNews so I can afford to pay rent on my empty apartment back in L.A. and my editor is ready to throttle me, as I've blown every deadline since I got to Las Vegas. Typically I get home around 2 or 3 in the morning and have another couple of hours of work, usually getting to bed around 5. Now I know what Pauly goes through every single night at the WSOP. It's not pretty.

I feel like I haven't seen anyone since I got here. I pass people like Al, LJ, California Jen, Mean Gene, and the PokerListings guys in the hallway and don't have time for more than a passing hello. I haven't had time for a single drink at the hooker bar. I haven't played a hand of poker or Pai Gow. I can't even think about squeezing in a friendly dinner with folks or playing a satellite to try and make a few bucks. It's all about just getting through the day at this point.

Sorry to be such a downer, but that's where I'm at right now. I wish I could spend time with friends, have a laugh or two, and enjoy a nice meal, but with the way things are going at the moment, it's simply not in the cards. And if this $10K Mixed Event ends up going four days instead of three... well, there goes my day off.

FML.

The Run-Good Challenge: WSOP Edition

I've done abnormally well in the PokerListings Run-Good Challenge. I won the first Grand Final and was runner-up to Kid Dynamite in the second one. I actually think Matt Showell secretly named the challenge for me because that was exactly what I had to do to finish in those spots. Run-Good is populated with the cream of the crop when it comes to the bloggerati, including Check-Raising the Devil authors Tim Lavalli & Amy Calistri, voice of French Poker Benjo, EPT goddess Mad Harper, Jay "WhoJedi" Newnum, the Luckbox, Spaceman, Shamus, AlCantHang, at least one of the Entities that comprise Wicked Chops Poker, Michalski, and my beloved among others. The best part of these tournaments is getting to play with friends. There were many in the field I hadn't seen in a while and it got me pumped up for the impending poker media reunion at the WSOP.

My starting table had Pauly on it and that was less than ideal. Not because we were playing from the same location, but because that donkey likes to call me in position with junk and flop miracles, then run around the room crying "Ship it holla balls!" in a gleeful falsetto when I fold. In his recap on the Tao of Poker he described our starting table:

Seat 1: Mad Harper - Everyone's favorite British ex-pat living in Spain played "fast and furious" because she had guests coming over for a dinner party

Seat 2: Amy Calistri - She's been beating up the financial markets ever since she stepped away from poker, but not before she helped pen Check-Raising the Devil with the Poker Shrink and Mike Matusow

Seat 3: change1OO - Everyone's favorite Hollyweird blonde was living the California Dream. The tournament started literally minutes she came home from the gym and fired up a binger of medicinal goodness.

Seat 4: F Train - Former regular at the Blue Parrot games, he shed his suit and tie and left the mean streets of Brooklyn for Sin City.

Seat 6: AlCantHang - The walking party. The next incarnation of the Dali Lama. Flowing robes. Grace. Stunning.

Seat 7: Matt Showell - Everyone's favorite Mac Daddy. He schooled me for a bunch of Hungarian bucks in Budapest on an apple eating prop bet at 4am.

Seat 8: Your Hero - Your hero almost missed the tournament because of Big Brother Tilt. I was slightly paranoid about reading a controversial book in public in a coffee shop frequented by LAPD, who kept peering over at my attempt at opening my mind.

Seat 9: DrunkBlonde - Unfamiliar with this person. I'm assuming it was a bot. Long live the machines.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't last long in this edition of the Run-Good. I folded T-T in one spot when Michalski opened for 300 from late position and Amy Calistri shoved for 615 from the button. I had about $1,650 and put her on a decent pair or a big ace and Michalski on a weaker holding, maybe K-J, K-T, Q-T, or a small pair. With F-Train still left to act behind me in the big blind it was definitely a shove or fold situation for me because I didn't want Michalski to call. I ended up folding, not wanting to race with or be crushed by Amy's hand, but Michalski called, showing Q-9 to Amy's A-K. I would have flopped a set when it came down K-T-3 and turned a boat, but I'm still OK with the fold there. I think.

I met my end when I had about 13 BB left with the blinds at 50-100. The action was folded to me in the small blind and with A-Ko, I raised to 300 hoping that F-Train would shove on me. He did exactly that and I snap-called. I was in good shape against his A-8, but the A-8-7 flop sent me packing.

I promptly left the house and went to Sephora where I cured my tilt by spending more than $200 on makeup and skin care products. When I came home, Spaceman and the Poker Grump were heads-up for the seat. After a lengthy battle, Poker Grump came out ahead and stamped his ticket to a $1,500 donkament this summer.

There is one more Run-Good tournament next Saturday, where PokerListings is giving bloggers a shot at not one, but two $1,500 donkament seats. I'll be spending my final hours in Los Angeles before departing for the Nevada desert playing in that tournament... and hopefully faring a little better than I did today.

Congrats to the Poker Grump and many many thanks to those wacky Canucks at PokerListings for putting this on.

Change's Turkey Chili

Several in the Twitterverse were curious about my turkey chili recipe. This is one of the few dishes I make that is both healthy and Pauly-friendly, though he complains about the size of the dice on my celery every time without fail.

For the curious and the rest of you, here's my ever-evolving concoction:

2 tbsp. olive oil (enough to coat bottom of pot)
1 package extra-lean ground turkey (about 1-1 1/4 lbs.)
1 small-medium onion, finely chopped
1 stalk celery, finely chopped
1/2 of a large green bell pepper, finely chopped
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and minced
1 roma tomato, seeded and chopped
handful of fresh cilantro, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 can each of black beans and white beans
4 cups chicken stock
chili powder
cumin
cayenne pepper
salt

Coat the bottom of a large heavy pot with the olive oil and turn up the heat to med-high. Let the oil heat for a minute or so, then break up the ground turkey and add it to the pot. Season with 2 tsp salt, 2 tbsp chili powder, 1 tsp cumin and cayenne pepper to taste (I shake out about 1/4 tsp, but I like it spicy). When the turkey has browned and nearly cooked through, add in the onions, celery and green peppers. Stir it around and let the veggies soften, about 3-4 mins. Next, add in the tomatoes, cilantro, jalapeno pepper and garlic. Stir it around again and let it cook another 3 mins or so. Drain the juices out of the two cans of beans, then add both the black beans and the white beans to the pot along with the 4 cups of chicken stock. Stir that shit up.

Let the chili come to a boil, then turn the heat down low and let it simmer for about 90 minutes. When it's thick enough to your liking, remove from the heat and let it rest about 10 mins. Taste and adjust spice if necessary. Top with finely minced red onion, sour cream or cheese if you'd like.

In Memory of Justin Shronk (1981-2009)

"When Patrik Antonius folds his cards, they turn into doves and fly away."

That's only one of the many "Shronkisms" that left me in stitches during the all-too-brief time I knew Justin Shronk. Without fail, every time I saw the guy, he'd make me laugh, make me smile, or even just play some random YouTube clip he'd come across that would brighten my day. This afternoon, I found myself in tears in Mar del Plata airport when I heard of his passing, and now, flying the red-eye home from Buenos Aires, I'm completely exhausted, but still can't sleep. I tear up every time I think of him and can’t imagine the devastation his family must feel right now.

I met Shronk at the Commerce Casino in early 2007. I was covering my first tournament for PokerNews, the L.A. Poker Classic, and had already heard a slew of hilarious Shronk stories from Pauly, who had just returned from working with Shronk at the Aussie Millions, where the now-infamous Vegemite Prop Bet had taken place. It was only last month that Shronk was up for “Best Actor in a Tao of Pauly Video” for that performance and he naturally launched an online campaign for himself, pimping for votes on the PokerRoad forums and getting his friends to stuff the virtual ballot box.

I got to know Shronk the most, though at the 2007 World Series of Poker when he was working as the Multimedia manager for PokerNews, shooting and editing video pieces and interviews. We discovered that we were both unabashed fans of writer Aaron Sorkin, who created both Sports Night and The West Wing. We’d constantly trade our favorite quotes from the show and one day I casually proposed a West Wing trivia contest.

“You have no shot. I’d smoke you!” said Shronk. “Dude, I’ve seen Two Cathedrals 60 times,” he added, referencing his favorite episode.

Shronk was not the best traveler and unfortunately for him, our jobs involved a great deal of it. Shronk wanted his American food, his American television, and the comforts of his own apartment rather than living out of hotels and ordering foreign cuisine in a foreign language. While on an EPT stop in Barcelona, Spain, Shronk was introduced to the ways of European showers— cramped, tiny, and often doorless. I can’t tell the story nearly as well as our former editor John Caldwell can, but let’s just say that Shronk’s first shower in Barcelona ended with a phone call to housekeeping to bring twenty towels up to his room to sop up the quarter-inch of water that was now sloshing around his bathroom floor.

A few weeks after Barcelona, we were wrapping up the WSOP-Europe in London. By now the whole PokerNews crew had been on the road for the better part of a month. Poor Shronk had sprained his ankle on an uneven part of road and was hobbling around Leicester Square with all his gear. Apparently he couldn't find a laundromat close enough to hobble to because in desperate need for clean underwear, Shronk decided to send out all his skivvies to the hotel laundry. That month, PokerNews received an invoice from Shronk including his laundry bill which came to 400 GBP. Yup, $800 to wash Shronk's shorts. We never let him forget that one.

Shronk's passing leaves a huge hole in the hearts of everyone in the poker media. I’m going to remember the guy who would hand me a memory stick full of episodes of Top Chef, just so I could catch up on the show and he could finally talk about it. I’m going to remember the guy who walked into an Australian liquor store in search of cheap vodka and bellowed in complaint when he saw the $60 price tag on a bottle of Absolut. I’m going to remember the guy who photoshopped John Caldwell’s head onto a photo of M.C. Hammer with the caption “Stop, Schecky time!” while John was en route to his victory in a PokerNews Cup event. And I’m going to remember how happy he was when he cashed in his first and sadly only WSOP event.

Shronk loved poker. He loved the game, the people who played it and most of all his band of fellow misfits who covered it. The great injustice of his premature exit from this world made me recall a scene he loved so much from that episode of The West Wing that he'd seen 60 times. President Bartlet's longtime secretary Mrs. Landingham had been killed by a drunk driver and he railed against God...in Latin... while standing alone in National Cathedral after her funeral.

"Gratias tibi ago, domine. Aec credam a deo pio, a deo justo, a deo scito? Cruciatus in crucem. Tuus in terra servus, nuntius fui; officium perfeci. Cruciatus in crucem --eas in crucem."

I sit here in shock, trying to think what the hallways of the Amazon Room will be like this summer without his booming voice, hilarious one-liners, and a love of the game that inspired us all. My heart goes out to his family and close friends in what has to be an unbearable time. Rest in peace, buddy.

Music Festival Style Guide

I'm off to Argentina this morning for another LAPT event (and this time I get to go with Pauly!). So while I'm fending off crying infants on a crowded airplane, take a look at this piece I wrote for Coventry over the weekend-- Part I of Change100's Guide to Music Festival Style.

For now, though, excerpts from the Evita soundtrack fill my ears as I prepare for the long journey to Buenos Aires...

In Transit

"You've probably flown more in the last eight or nine months than I have in my entire life" said my father as we careened down the wide part of La Cienega Boulevard that takes one out of Baldwin Hills and deposits them in the L.A. basin at 55 MPH (depending on traffic, of course). He had retrieved me from LAX after a rather pleasant direct flight home from Santiago, Chile.

I looked at the odometer on the dashboard of his eight-year old Infiniti G20. 108,000 miles in just under seven years. He'd logged enough miles on the L.A. freeway system to earn himself Executive Platinum status on American Airlines. I tried to multiply that into hours as I stared at the lines on his face.

Yesterday afternoon I landed at LAX again, after nearly 24 straight hours of travel from Punta del Este, Uruguay. It's roughly a 6,700 mile journey from Punta, to Montevideo, to Miami International Airport, to my door in the slums of Beverly Hills. Uruguay is one of those places like Hungary or Bangladesh or Guam that one never believes they'll visit. Now it sits on my list along with Chile and Poland and Denmark. Even Pauly cheekily refered to Otis and I covering the "LAPT Uganda" when in fact we were at a tournament in a picturesque South American beach town with Monte Carlo prices.

The frequent filer miles I earned on this journey pushed me over the mark for Gold Elite status on American. Between the miles logged on this journey, the one to Chile, and a couple of trips back and forth from the east coast, I can finally get myself an upgrade at least one way the next time I have to spend 14 1/2 hours in the air. Surprisingly enough, despite all the traveling for tournaments, I've never been an elite anything on any airline.

On this journey, we endured delay after delay. We didn't take off from Miami to Montevideo until 1:20 in the morning, and our return flight was over six hours late, finally departing at 2:45 a.m. Thankfully, Joe Giron, our talented photographer for the PokerStars blog, is like Mega-Platinum Diamond Mine Status and was cool enough to get Otis and I into the Admirals Club both times we were stuck in the airport. That place is like the antidote for travel tilt. Free wi-fi, nice leather seats, a beer or glass of wine before boarding, low lighting, no screaming children, and Greg Raymer playing $40-$80 Badugi in the next seat while I bubble a $27 SNG.

Then, you get on the plane. Back in steerage with the rest of the world.

An infant wailed for eight of the nine hours it took to fly from Montevideo to Miami. I'd sleep for maybe 15 or 20 minutes before being woken up. The Xanax flowing through my system was all that kept me from locking it in the lavatory. I landed in Miami at 10:30 a.m., having blown my connection to LAX hours before. I was re-booked on a 3:30 flight home but was desperate to make one that would take off at 1:20. After clearing customs at MIA, I booked it to the ticketing desk. At the entrance to the queue, I was met by a woman in a bad mood.

"I'm trying to get on standby for an earlier flight, can I do it here?"
"The manager says no standby today."
"Really. My friend just did it."
"Well, there's no standby today."
"You know what? I'm going to talk to someone else."

Good thing I did. After I explained the flight debacle from Uruguay as well as my newly acquired Gold Elite Status I was not only put on standby, but bumped up to #4 on the list of 21. All by finding someone in a better mood.

I was the last person to get on that plane. I had perhaps the worst seat, a freezing, narrow middle one in an exit row that didn't recline all the way, but at least I wasn't spending another two hours in an airport. Next to me was a girl who played on the Australian Womens' Netball team. She was only six hours into a 36-hour trek from St. Maarten to Miami, Miami to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to Melbourne, and Melbourne to Canberra. I didn't feel quite as bad after hearing that, though my back didn't quite agree.

And when I walked through my door, he had flowers waiting for me. As always.

It's time to sink back into routine after the better part of 16 days on the road. Waking up at normal hours in my own bed and cooking dinners for two in the evenings. Shopping for fresh food instead of ordering off a plastic menu. Unfreezing that gym membership again and feeling the rubber-on-rubber pound of the treadmill. Hitting the keys at regular intervals. Pounding out articles, the clock ticking toward the WSOP and another summer in Las Vegas.

AND getting back to American Idol, if I can stomach it. (I have a lot of catching up to do on the episodes, but knowing that Alexis Grace bit the dust last week I have to tell you, my enthusiasm is down and my tin foit hat on.)