Threading the Needle

"Making a movie is like threading a needle" said Charlie, on one of those nights we were stuck at the office long past Hollywood quitting-time. I was sitting in my usual perch on his brown leather couch. I always said it looked like it belonged in the office of a 1940's private eye, not that of a Hollywood studio executive. But nothing about Charlie was terribly Hollywood anyway, from the rumpled Banana Republic khakis he wore to his leased Honda CR-V that sat parked under a $100,000 painting eleven floors beneath us in perhaps the snottiest parking garage in Beverly Hills. And that was the way he liked it.

The $125 million epic we'd been working on for the last year had fallen apart in the course of four phone calls. The first from the studio to the director saying if he wanted that big a budget, he'd have to cut to a PG-13 rating, the second from the director to his sickeningly powerful agent saying he'd do no such thing, and a third from the agent to the studio informing them that they'd just lost their director AND their star, who would no longer be appearing in this film with anyone else behind the camera. The fourth call took place when the studio called both the agent and the Academy-Award winning director's semi-bluff and said good luck to you both, but we're moving ahead with a lower-cost director and star. A year of buildup, $12 million already spent in pre-production, and the thread missed the needle's hole by millimeters. Charlie and I were back to square one. New thread, new needle, and not a whole lot of time to work with. That director was suddenly unemployed, and needed a new project, and fast.

We found him one within eight weeks and had a cast in eleven. Cameras rolled less than six months later, and I was booking my flight to New York for the premiere less than a year after the script had landed on Charlie's desk.

The great irony here? Both films commercially bombed and the low-cost version of our former $125 million epic ended up three weeks over schedule and $28 million over budget bringing the final cost to... $108 million.

Most things I've attempted in my life have been just like that-- threading a needle.

The first thing I ever wanted to be in my life was an actress. My entire family, of course, hated that idea but I was bound to prove them wrong. I auditioned for every school and church play I could, and ended up with the leads in most of them. When my mom would break it to me in a soft voice that I couldn't do the play because she couldn't drive me to and from rehearsals because she was working, I'd figure out a route home on the Santa Monica Big Blue Bus line. When my dad sat me down and said that he couldn't afford to send me to the local theatre camp I was dying to attend, I saved up my money all year and presented him the $400 or so I had managed to accrue in an enormous roll of tens, fives, and singles with the line "if I can come up with half, well so can you." And I spent that summer, the summer I turned 13, carpooling downtown to the L.A. Theatre Center with this bitch I totally hated just so I could get a ride there and back from her stay-at-home Holmby Hills mom, who drove a gold Mercedes and lived off of alimony.

I was a determined little kid. And even more so in high school. I pushed the acting thing as far as I could go with it. Mom and Dad had put the kibosh on my attending any sort of conservatory/B.F.A. acting program for college. Whatever they'd end up (partially) shelling out for would be "a real school." Which meant theatre programs like NYU, Carnegie-Mellon, and the North Carolina School of the Arts were out. But it didn't stop me from driving myself down to the L.A. Airport Ramada and auditioning for those schools anyway. I didn't get into all of them, but at least I had an acceptance letter or two to prove to myself and to my family that I was good enough to at least get in. And when it came time to choose a "real school" I chose a very, VERY academically "real" place that just happened to have one of the best theatre schools in the country built right in. I threaded that needle perfectly.

I chose difficult schools, difficult majors, difficult interests, and eventually, an incredibly longshot career. After discovering that I wasn't cut out for an actor's life a full two years after declaring my theatre major, I made a quick turn-about and set my sights firmly on producing films. Was it having some disctance from L.A. that made me realize that the answers were in my own backyard all the time? Perhaps. I spent my last semester at school cold-calling studios and production companies about internships and finally talked the right person's ear off at the right time. Diploma in hand, I finished driving the 2,200 miles from Chicago to Los Angeles on a Friday and started my new studio-lot internship that Monday. Three months later, I met Charlie and we worked together, 12 hours a day every day for five of the next seven years I'd spend in the industry.

Then I re-discovered this little game called poker. Talk about another needle to thread! But the game was in my blood. My Nana had taught me to play on a July night in 1987 in her New Jersey trailer park. Swatting away mosquitoes and sweating in the heavy summer air, I watched her destroy a seven card stud game on a picnic table outside Donut Mary's doublewide. Nana called her Donut Mary because not only did she work at the local Dunkin' Donuts, but she'd bring back a free dozen every night for all her "gals." Nana was a force of nature and a natural aggressor both in life and at the table-- a sharp contrast to my mother, her rather shy, demure daughter. Nana always told me I took after her, and she's probably right. She left this earth in 1996, but had she lived through the poker boom, I guarantee you, we'd be playing each other heads-up on Poker Stars and watching the WPT together on Wednesday nights.

Theatre, film, poker, now screenwriting. All endeavors with miniscule success rates. Man do I know how to pick'em. It's little wonder I've been under the care of three different psychologists over the last ten years. Little wonder that every time I see my father that the words, "Change... just RELAX" escape his lips. I've spent my life squinting so hard at the needle's eye that I couldn't see anything else going on around me.

I thought my last year had been about taking my eye off the needle. Racking my focus just enough so that I could see that there is life outside of Hollywood, of Los Angeles, of the stifling air-bubble of the Industry. And at times I was able to. I lived in a casino, I danced barefoot in a field in Tennessee, I smoked hash on the streets of Amsterdam and I took my first vacation since 2001. I started to look at some of the more expensive designer items in my closet and wondered why I had bought them in the first place. To "fit in" with people I didn't even really respect to begin with? Everything inside me shifted.

It was just about one year ago that Hollywood shoved me off the cliff and dared me to climb back up. And I don't think I realized until very recently just how much that fucked me up. That it just took an Uzi to my confidence. And that spilled over into my poker game too, I know it. I haven't felt the same at the table since. Until last year, I had threaded every needle I had attempted to thread, and with relative ease.

Conservative mathematical estimates tell me that over my film development career I read approximately 2,500 scripts and I honest to God head-over heels loved only about 20 of them. Ever. I'm talking like, over 7 years here. I was a tough cookie. And now I'm writing my own. Isn't that hilarious? Seeing as the 20 scripts I liked included masterpieces like American Beauty, Adaptation, and Little Miss Sunshine, I have a lot to live up to.

The next month or so is about finishing the goddamn thing. Seeing if I can live up to my own increasingly difficult expectations once again and letting go of them long enough so that I can let the rest of the story flow out of me and onto the page.

The needle I'm threading now is the smallest one yet. It makes me think of that line from Apollo 13 when Walter Cronkite has that scientist on the news who tells him that if the earth is a basketball and the moon is a baseball and if they're placed 14 feet apart the spaceship has to hit a target no wider than a sheet of paper. That's where I'm at. With writing. With poker. With my career and financial future.

Instead of bouncing off the earth's atmosphere into a ball of flames, those guys did get home. And 24 years after the fact, the film made about them had a Hollywood ending.

I don't have a lot of time left to find mine. But my fingers are crossed.

L.A. & Vegas Photos

Here's a few random snapshots from the last week:

Washington Blvd. in Montebello, southeast of downtown

Downtown L.A. skyline

Metrolink station (the Joe Speaker train)

Spark it up, Georgie

4:45 PM in Las Vegasm, Caesars' 31st floor

Caesar's in 1966

Caesar's today

Mountains outside Baker, CA at 90 M.P.H.

One Night in the Valley

I had dinner last night with the lovely and talented Jennifer Browning, late of the Pokerblog crew that formed at last summer's World Series of Poker. She had driven from Dallas to Los Angeles with two friends who were making the move out west... with their four cats. Now I've only driven with one cat once and that was only for like five miles so 2.5 days in a car with four felines is nothing less than saintly in my book. She had just hung up with Michalski when I picked her up. He was totally horrified that she had agreed to eat Mexican food in Los Angeles. Texans have a "thing" about their Mexican food being better than our Mexican food. But let's get real. With the sheer number of actual Mexicans that live here, how bad could it be?

"Hey, the restaurant is only like, a five minute walk from here" said Jen.
"Are you kidding me? This is Los Angeles. We're driving. It's part of the cultural experience."

At Mexicali, I had the camarones burrito and a Corona while Jen went for the blue crab enchiladas. and a rocks Petron margarita. Her friend Kat joined us for a drink at the end of the meal...though she actually walked there and did not drive. We dished on everything from her trip to Haiti to the UIGEA throwing our livelihoods for a loop, to how frighteningly similar Michalski and Pauly's bald spots are. We concluded the evening with a couple of pints (each) of Stella at a pub on Ventura Blvd. called the Fox and Hound. They frequently show soccer on all the TVs and it's full of transplanted Brits and Europeans.

Jen fell a little bit in love with Los Angeles on her trip out there. I can't blame her. It's hard not to get sucked in when you spend the afternoon photographing Venice Beach and discover the impromptu drum circle that forms near the boardwalk nearly every afternoon. It started with four guys and grew to over a hundred strong as the sun set behind them.

* * * * *

Showcase and I have discovered that there are hours and hours of fun to be had by searching YouTube for videos of Broadway shows. Of course, we're still on our "Dreamgirls" kick (and there is no end in sight), so naturally, this clip from the '82 Tony Awards would be our mutual favorite.



And you... and you... and you...

It is, of course American Idol season again. Every year Showcase and I tell each other that we're sick of it and we probably won't watch it again. But, like crack addicts in Lafayette Park, we go back again and again to suck down our fix. Personally I'm eager to move past the "please allow me to humiliate myself on national TV...but hey, at least I'm ON TV" audition rounds and get to the train wreck of Hollywood week where it's narrowed down to the 100 or so aspiring Idols who can actually carry a tune. Bring on disco theme week, Gloria Estefan week, Paula Abdul drooling into her red plastic cup of not Coca-Cola and Ryan Seacrest's $200 T-shirt of the week.

We've also somewhat shamefully been watching Grease: You're The One That I Want. It ranks below Deal or No Deal and Survivor as shameful television viewing and/or time suckage. We only tuned in because a friend of ours from our college theatre days had made it to "Grease Academy," but unfortunately, she was cut in the first round. She was... not Sandy. Booooo.

I'm spending this final week before Pauly comes back to L.A. from Oz working on my script, finishing all the errands on my "list" and playing online poker before all "zee American fishes" go busto ;) Hope I'm not one of them. Full Tilt shed over 25% of its players in the week since Neteller stopped processing U.S. transactions from online poker sites. Check out this (depressing) page on PokerSiteScout for more info on the trends since the UIGEA passed.

Time to watch the only President with an approval rating lower than Nixon's during Watergate deliver his State of the Union address. Showcase laid me 2-1 that he'd get booed at least once.

Time Warner Tilt

This post is sub-titled : Southern Californians! Help Change pick a new internet service provider!

Showcase and I have wasted over four hours of cell phone minutes between us on hold with Time Warner Cable for the last 3 days as we try to get an answer as to why our service craps out about half a dozen times per hour. The sequence of events usually happens like this:

1. I get disconnected from the internet after flopping two pair/a set/a straight in a SNG when it's three handed.

2. I lose the hand due to being timed out and I swear a lot.

3. One of us calls up Time Warner and gets a cubicle monkey on the phone who can't explain why our internet is crapping out so much. Cubicle monkey tells us to unplug the router and modem and plug them back in to reset.

4. We tell the cubicle monkey that we've been through this process over a dozen times and it's not going to fix anything.

5. Cubicle monkey puts us on hold. We remain on hold anywhere from 60-90 minutes before getting disconnected.

6. Repeat process.

In at least a dozen calls to Time Warner, we have yet to speak to a real life human being who has (a) told us what's wrong or (b) offered to fix the problem. Just when I thought Comcast was the worst a cable company could get, in waltzes Time Warner.

So we're done with them. D-O-N-E done. And we're open to suggestions as to which internet service provider we shoud switch to. If you'd be so kind to offer your recommendations and/or cautionary tales in the comments, we'd be oh so grateful.

We can't be too tilted though... American Idol is BACK!! Ooooh whoa oooooh whoa!!! I'm already rooting for the 16 year old black girl from Wisconsin who blew the doors off the place with...get ready... "I Am Telling You I Am Not Going."

Like I told Showcase... we're gonna hear that song a lot this season.

Pot Committed's Last 10 Google Referrals

1. Kathy Liebert gay
2. smooth nubile blondes
3. cheerleader high school touched penis
4. getting weed in Vegas
5. young black ass-worship
6. Capt. Tom's penis
7. twin strippers
8. food proposition bets
9. "donkey fucking" and "bacon"
10. Brandi Hawbaker nipples

All You Have to Do is Dream

"And you... and you... and you..."

Showcase and I have been singing the damn song around the apartment... over the phone... over IM... since the first "Dreamgirls" TV spots started running. Most nights it's so gay in here the walls are about to catch on fire. What do you expect from two former musical theatre students.

Fortunately for all of us, Jake Gyllenhaal immortalized his rendition of "I Am Telling You I Am Not Going" on Saturday Night Live last night. Showcase and I are into double-digit viewings. And it only took 12 hours to show up on You Tube:



The plans for our first viewing of Dreamgirls were in the works for several weeks. Showcase and I decided that the best way for us to experience "Dreamgirls" was not amongst the hoi polloi at the AMC Century 15 or sandwiched between ballcap-wearing quasi-incognito B-list celebrities (see Rachel Bilson, Frankie Muniz) at The Grove. We would take in Dreamgirls at the Magic Johnson Crenshaw 15.

"I think it's a great idea" said Showcase. "Of course, we're GOING TO DIE, but sure, why not."

Then, another thought struck him.

"I"ll only go if I can drive."

"Brilliant, we can get your car stolen, too!"

"Exactly."

"Only if you pay for cab fare on the way back."

"Deal."

Showcase has been walking out of malls and supermarkets for months now, just praying that someone had stolen his car. His Jeep is a malfunctioning money pit and his girlfriend and I have been getting the "it won't start"calls with increasing frequency over the last few months. I'm totally serious. I don't think he's locked it since the summer. Yet, it still greets him, unmolested, time after time, when statistics and L.A. common sense would tell you that someone should have picked the damn thing off by now. Leaving Showcase's SUV unlocked in an open-air lot on MLK Blvd. south of the 10 would increase the chance of theft ten-fold or more. We made sure we had at least $50 in cash between us for the cab and set off down La Brea for the theatre.

Seeing "Dreamgirls" at the Crenshaw 15 and seeing "Dreamgirls" in Beverly Hills is like the difference between going to a packed church on Sunday with a full-scale gospel choir and sitting through an 8 AM Latin mass presided by an octogenarian, visually impaired priest. The first hand went into the air only 2o minutes into the film. The first "go on, girl!" followed three minutes later as Jennifer Hudson launched into her first solo in "Move." And every male in the audience laughed long and hard at whatever came out of Eddie Murphy's mouth. Murphy certainly impressed me, turning in the only worthwhile performance of the last 6 years of his career which have included gems like "Daddy Day Care" and "The Haunted Mansion."

"Dreamgirls", though, was all about Jennifer Hudson. Anyone else in the frame simply ceased to exist while she was singing Beyonce faded into the background like an extra and her voice sounded thin and plain compared to Hudson's searing belt. Even the written-especially-for- Beyonce-11 o'clock number "Listen" couldn't take her voice anywhere near Hudson's level. "I Am Telling You I Am Not Going" was met with thundering applause from the audience. Get this girl an Oscar nomination... or at least give her a Golden Globe win tonight.

We exited the theatre into the 9 P.M. darkness and prop bet on whether or not the car was still there. With Showcase's luck, I knew we'd be driving that heap of junk home.

4 hours. On MLK Blvd. Unlocked. It was still there.

Ship it!

In Position

Parking is war. Ask anyone who lives in Los Angeles and they'll be all too eager to tell you their personal battle story. Hell, I've seen people in the Century City parking lot so desperate for a spot that they resorted to waving $20 bills out their Mercedes windows at holiday shoppers walking back to their cars, loaded down with shopping bags. "$20 if you lead me back to your space!" Sicko, right?

Pauly took Showcase, Tina and I out for a bon voyage dinner Wednesday night. The restaurant's outdoor parking lot was pretty crowded and I cruised the aisles knowing I'd have to get aggressive. See an opportunity and pounce on it. A silver Camry with it's backup lights on was just what I was waiting for. I counted my chips and got ready to make my move.

I had the advantage with a clear shot straight forward into the space. I threw my blinker on to further mark my territory. But the white Honda Accord had other ideas. He had just cruised past the space and was now backing up to try and cut me off. (Uh-uh. Too late! You had your chance!) And then there was the little VW Rabbit just behind him, who looked like he was going to take a shot as well.

Fuck it. Here's a diagram.


The Camry slowly backed out. He knew what was about to happen.

"You have position, you have position!" cried Pauly.

"Don't kill us!" whimpered Showcase.

"Kids, I've got the best hand and I'm going ALL-IN!" I squealed as I shifted into first gear.

The Camry took off. I gunned it straight for my target as the Accord slammed into reverse, heading straight for me. Hefinally came to his senses and slammed on his brakes as I cruised into the spot.

VICTORY!

Pauly was the first to speak.

"OK, I guess I'll be the first one out of the car in case he wants to beat us up."

My Morning Jacket at the Fillmore, NYE 2006

"OH MY GOD!" sqeualed the blonde girl in the white fur bolero jacket. "Are you LOVING IT?" It was still forty minutes to midnight and My Morning Jacket wasn't even halfway through their first set. Her eyes were saucers as Jim James slammed into the chorus of "Off the Record."

"OH MY GOD!" I squealed right back. "It's AMAZING!" The drugs had taken ahold of my senses in the best way possible and I wondered if I could ever stop dancing.

"Oh look! I have to go ride that pony!" Twenty feet away, a hobby horse bobbed up and down at the edge of the crowd and she took off in that general direction, never to be seen again that night, at least by me.

The freaks were out in San Francisco that night, and the regular folks had their annual excuse to get freaky. It was New Years fuckin' Eve, dammit.

Pauly and I drove up from L.A that afternoon and checked into the lovely Cartwright Hotel on Nob Hill. After cracking open a bottle of Moet courtesy of Showcase, we set out on a nearly two-mile walk down Geary Street to one of the great historic west coast music venues-- the Fillmore. Low lit. Wood-paneled. Those still-glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The ghosts of Janis Joplin, Jerry Garcia, and Jimi Hendrix haunting the place. Scrims softly painted with red-leaved trees hung along the walls and across the front of the stage. Between the forest landscapes, the snow machines that burst to life as the opening chords of "One Big Holiday" sounded, and the Fillmore's most excellent ventilation system, it almost felt like we were outside. Or... maybe I was just on drugs.

Raw. Intense. Thick. Dark. These were the words swirling through my head as MMJ tore through an energetic first set that included "What a Wonderful Man," "Gideon," "Lay Low," and "Golden." There was a whole "Oregon Trail" theme to the show, including an intro/outro where the band gathered around a campfire dressed in buckskins and cowboy hats, Indian headdresses and coonskin caps and enacted a bizzare scenario reminiscent of the Donner Party, which concluded in them collectively deciding to shoot the bassist, Two-Tone Tom (dressed in a bear suit) and eat him. Though most of the band shed their costumes after that little bit of theatre, Jim James would don his oversized red foam cowboy hat again and again throughout the night, ambling across the stage like a post-modern Yosemite Sam as he twirled a cap gun in one hand and gripped his mic in the other.

Make no mistake, I love MMJ's music. But please tell me, what the fuck are those lyrics coming out of Jim James' mouth? If I had to sing "Magheetah" for you, it would sound something like this:

"Sweee da leeeta deeeta.... all wrapped up in a bottlawhy... i been weddin dommy some-ee oh wa so lahhh..."

Actual lyrics: "sittin here with me and mine. all wrapped up in a bottle of wine
little we can do... we gon see it thru somehow."

The band took a quick break at ten minutes to midnight before returning to the stage for the countdown. The opening band, Louisville's Wax Fang (who performed their set clad in cheerleader outfits and pigtails), joined MMJ onstage to sip champagne as hundreds of balloons floated down from the rafters. It was one of those magic New Year's moments-- perfect band, perfect place, time standing still in a soul-tingling midnight kiss.

I was hoping MMJ would bust out a few cover songs but was entirely unprepared and pleasantly surprised with what they turned out next. The Deerland Horns backed them up on Kool and the Gang's "Celebration," Lionel Richie's "All Night Long" George Michael's "Careless Whisper" and Prince's "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man." Careless Whisper was insane-- it was 1991 all over again and I was back in my high school auditorium wearing a velvet Jessica McClintock dress swaying back and forth to that mournful sax solo as I wondered if Jeremy Van de Kamp really liked me. Highlights of the rest of the second set included "Phone Went West," sick versions of "Wordless Chorus" and "Dancefloors" and one final unexpected cover-- AC/DC's "Highway to Hell." Sickness.

The crowd had thinned out a bit as we headed toward the encores. A tripping hippie that looked like a cross between Al Can't Hang and Sweet Sweet Pablo danced wildly in front of us while a crunchy gentleman clutching a Budweiser nearly passed out while standing up as his eyes rolled back into his head. A very very drunk girl in a pink sweater hugged me for no apparent reason on her way out the door. "Anytime" and "Magheetah" closed the show at 1:30 A.M., over three hours after it started.

I made a bathroom run while Pauly grabbed our jackets from the coat check. When I came back out, I saw him talking to a random guy and what appeared to be his wife or girlfriend. I only had to hear the phrase "I read all your blogs, man" to realize that Pauly was in the throes of a fan encounter. At the Fillmore of all places. On New Years' Eve. Aaron was from Portland and he had seen us at the Nashville Airport with the Joker and Professional Keno Player Neil Fontenot waving the celebrity heads as we arrived for Bonnaroo last June. He and Pauly shot the shit for a moment before we parted ways and started the long walk back to the hotel. I, for one was grateful for it, as we were still buzzing from the drugs and had energy to burn.

As we walked back up Geary, every bar in San Francisco was closing. Yes, bars close at 2 A.M. in California, even on New Years' Eve. People were passing out in the streets. Walking into walls. One guy carried his unconscious girlfriend through an intersection while another puked between two parked cars. Barefoot girls in party dresses carried their high heels as they weaved their way home.

"Jesus, Pauly. For two people tripping their heads off, we really have our shit together."

"Fuckin' amateurs!" he scoffed.

Change's Changes

I just returned home from a whirlwind New Years' trip to San Francisco where My Morning Jacket blew the doors off the Fillmore with one of the sickest live shows I've seen in my lifetime. Definitely the best concert I saw in 2006, and between Bonnaroo, Vegoose and random shows around L.A., I saw a shitload of live music this year. It was an epic evening to say the least, and you should stay tuned for the full trip report.

However, Pot Committed is about to undergo some sweeping changes as we kick off 2007.

I wrote this back in August of 2005:

I'm a 28 year old single woman in Los Angeles. By day I work in the entertainment industry, and by night I am a poker sponge-- playing, reading, watching, thinking, and absorbing all I can about the game. By that admission alone, you'd agree that I'm wired a little differently than my peers. The urban single women I know fill a good percentage of their time away from their careers with hip bars and online dating and shopping and movies and socializing with friends. With my time, I do all of that, but mostly I play poker.

Though I never set out to be a "poker blogger," poker is what got me blogging. I needed an outlet not only for the writer within me that had been lulled into hibernation by Hollywood's 14-hour days, but for my own struggles and triumphs in this game, this fucking card game that had taken ahold of me by the soul and refused to loosen its grip. My friends couldn't relate to my struggles and their eyes glazed over when I started a sentence with something like "so I had A-Q in middle position." Thank God the wonderful people of the WPBT welcomed me with open arms. My life has never been the same... on so many levels.

Even from day one, though, my blog wasn't all about poker. I mean, what is Pot Committed without Showcase? Celebrity sightings? Blind-item Hollywood gossip? Jaywalking tickets? Proposition bets? Buying Pauly clothes? And, of course, 2006's epic motion picture drama "You're Fired!" and it's direct-to-video sequel "So Now What?"

Well...

A few weeks ago, poker's own fairy blogmother contacted me and asked if I would join the "blog city" forming over at PokerWorks. Guys I respect and admire like cc and Iggy were already part of the family, and when I discovered the identities of some of my fellow "incoming freshmen," I was incredibly flattered to be invited to write in such company.

I accepted Linda's invitation and as of today, I'm a proud mother of twins. While Pot Committed will live on as my personal blog, my poker musings have a new home. Adjust your bookmarks and RSS feeds, kids and get ready for Change100 at PokerWorks.

Happy New Year, everyone. My new digs still need some paint and furniture, but you're all still welcome to come over. Hope to see you there!

2006: The Year in Food

For Derek and Daddy, here are some of my favorite pictures of food from 2006!

Steak and bacon tacos. El Cholo. Los Angeles, CA

Pasta Salad. WSOP media room. Las Vegas, NV.

Steak and eggs. Los Angeles, CA

Keno crayon. Las Vegas, NV

Crispy bacon and corn maque choux. Los Angeles, CA

Club sandwich. Carnegie Deli. Las Vegas, NV

Kaas. Amsterdam, Netherlands

Mushroom and bacon pizza. Los Angeles, CA

Brownie sundae. The Mirage. Las Vegas, NV

Sushi. The Bicycle Casino. Bell Gardens, CA

Onion ring tower. Henderson, NV

Seriously?

Mike Matusow's MySpace page plays that cheesy Snow Patrol song?

While a photo slideshow of him playing poker scrolls by?

Huh?

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi! Oi! Oi!: Joe Hachem wins WPT Bellagio

Mad, mad props go out to 2005 WSOP Champion Joe Hachem, who just won the Doyle Brunson North American Poker Championship's $15,000 Main Event at Bellagio. Hachem adds $2.18 million to his lifetime winnings, which have now soared over the $10,000,000 mark. That puts him at #2 on the all-time money list, leaping past legends like T.J. Cloutier ($8,714,759) and Phil Hellmuth ($8,574,217). The #1 spot is, of course held by Jamie Gold, who will find out on Thursday whether or not he gets to take back that $6 million he promised to Crispin Leyser.

Like Greg Raymer before him, Hachem has now more than proven that he's not just a one-hit wonder with 2 WSOP final tables, a WSOPC final table, an EPT final table, and now, a WPT Championship since his $7.5 million Main Event win.

Curiously though, Hachem was one of seven poker pros who sued the World Poker Tour this summer over their "in perpetuity and throughout the universe" image release form and encouraged fellow players to join in their boycott of WPT events. The other six plaintiffs, Phil Gordon, Annie Duke, Howard Lederer, Greg Raymer, Chris Ferguson, and Andy Bloch, did not participate in this tournament, and have not played any WPT events this year.

I wonder what changed Hachem's mind about the suit? Clearly he's dropped out.

Finishing second was Jim Hanna, a tournament rookie with no major cashes on record. According to Linda Johnson's announcement from the tournament floor, his brother, professional player Mark Hanna, staked him in this event (and will get a nice return on his investment-- 2nd place paid out just shy of $1.1 million). A little Googling revealed that he also played one year of professional football, as a defensive end for the New Orleans Saints in 1994.

Some kid named Daniel Negreanu took third place and $592,000 after losing a K-T vs. 44 coinflip against Hachem. I think he's won a few tournaments before.

Finishing in 7th place was Justin "ZeeJustin" Bonomo, who added another $152,000 to his quarter-million plus haul from this tournament series. Bonomo made three preliminary event final tables over the last two weeks for an additional $116,000, though he is still best known as "the guy who cheated Party Poker by playing multiple accounts, got banned from online poker, and had all his winnings revoked." All that and he didn't even have to have his back poked by Capt. Tom's penis.

Or DID he?

Brandi Hawbaker, Capt. Tom's Penis, and $21,000 Jim

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WPBT Winter Classic, Part I: "I Gotta Get Unstuck"

It's true that you never forget your first. First crush, first kiss, first lover, first drink. First drag off a Camel Light. First all-nighter. First double-down on an 11 to hit blackjack. First big pot you ever won playing poker. First time you woke up in the grips of a pre-dawn hangover with sections of the night blacked out like phrases in a classified document. First time you grabbed a blogger's junk in a bar. First time you shot Soco with AlCantHang. First time you were ejected from a strip casino.

Firsts carry all the novelty.

The 280 miles I drove from Los Angeles to Las Vegas one year ago to meet my peers in the blogging community was the first step in what would become a giant leap for me. Unbenknownst to me, it set events in motion that would dramatically change my life. I drove alone through the desert last December questioning everything: my passion for my job, my friendships which were increasingly clouded by Hollywood politics, my abilities as a poker player after going broke for the first time, and my own potential as a writer. And on top of that, I was about to meet 100 strangers who only "knew" me through a BLOG of all things.

One year later, here I was-- about to do make that journey for the third time. Only this time I wouldn't have to do it alone. All my anxieties had been replaced by excitement. I was getting to spend time with people who had become some of my best friends. I had no agenda. Just a hotel room, $500 in my pocket, and the vague premonition that the Imperial Palace's Geisha Bar would become the centerpiece of the weekend's action.

Saturday, 10 AM

"You don't look so good" Pauly said, as I staggered out of bed.

Though my blood-alcohol level at the previous night's MGM drink-fest didn't nearly rival my display a year ago, one only had to glimpse the bags under my eyes, the pale pallor of my skin and hear the groggy slur of the words disjointedly escaping my mouth to realize that I. Was Hurting. 20 minutes under a scalding hot shower head got me mobile, and a couple of layers of Stila foundation and concealer rendered me at least halfway presentable to the outside world.

"Listen, were you and Schecky fucking with me last night about the drug test? Because that would be a great way to do it. " Pauly asked.
"Dude, I was too hammered to pull one over on you like that. That requires careful execution."
"C'mon, are you sure?"
"I swear to God it wasn't a prop bet."

Relatively early in the previous evening's festivities, Shecky pulled me aside at the MGM sportsbook bar and mentioned that it looked like Pauly would have to take a drug test in order to cover the Aussie Millions in January. The Australian government required subcontractors of the Crown Casino to get gaming licenses in order to work there, and a piss test was supposedly one of the required steps.

"He's not going to pass it."
"Well.. yeah. What if he stopped smoking tomorrow?"
"Like that's going to happen. He's gonna have to buy some clean pee off some random dude in Melbourne. Or maybe Tim Lavalli."

After hearing the news about the pee pee test, Pauly's Soco intake increased by approximately 300%. A couple of hours later he staggered back over to Shecky and proposed a solution.

"Liiisshhhtenn, I'ma willinggto forghooo fifthy percent of my compizensation to bribe whooooever I hafta down there, mkay?"
"OK."
"Iam totallllly seriousss. I'll bribe allll the gaming officials!"
"OK."
"It's suppppposed to be liberal down there, man... if I were a cokehead that shitttedbeoutta my system in three dayss..."

(As of press time, the good doctor did discover that a piss test would not be required of him. This news was met with cries of "SHIP IT!" and a happy dance around my apartment that closely resembled Kirk Gibson's 1988 World Series home run. There will be NO bribing of Australian gaming officials.)

Saturday, 1 PM

Bacon, eggs and about 32 oz. of coffee courtesy of the Teahouse cafe made me feel better. After spending the morning on the fence about playing in the tournament, by 1 PM I finally felt well enough to commit to it and we headed across the street to Caesar's. I milled around, chatting with bloggers before "shuffle up and deal" and got my first glimpse at Maudie's kick-ass tattoo. Otis, Dr. Jeff, and Drizz played in a $1-2 NL cash game while I spotted my pal Friedman jumping in for a quick $4-8 session before the tourney kicked off.

I drew a table that included Iggy, Grubette, G-Money, Lucko, and on_thg. Our table was sqeuaky-tight in the early going and I couldn't get any action. Stole a lot of blinds, though. By the time the ante hit I had doubled my stack after two key hands. Michael Craig, who had just been moved to our table, open-raised from MP to 300. Everyone folded to me in the CO and I looked down at two red aces. I re-raised to 800. He called and gave me one of those "I'm gonna stare into your SOUL" looks as the flop came down three baby hearts. Hoping I had A-K or at least no heart in my hand, Michael fired out 1300, which was actually a little more than I had left, and I insta-called. He looked none too pleased to be a 6% favorite after we turned over our cards. My rockets held against his 8c-8s and I was up to around 3500 or so. My other big pot came when I raised to 600 with the Hammer and the SB (Riverchasers guy) flat-called. I never hit hammer flops, so imagine my delight when it came down a beautiful Q-7-7. Riverchasers checked to me, I bet 1000 and he raised to 2500. I re-raised all in and he laid down what I'm pretty sure was A-Q. Had to show the hammer, of course to ooohs and aaahs and applause.

I was up to about 9K or so after that hand and felt good about my chances. By then, however, the blinds were getting up there and I knew I'd have to win a couple of coinflips to become a factor. Early in the 200-400/50 level, I open-raised to 1200 with A-J. Riverchasers moved all in and it was 1875 back to me. With 5300 in the pot, I was getting a significant price and knew I pretty much had to call. He turned over 3-3. Yup. Race. The K-T-K flop gave me 15 outs twice, but a 7 on the turn and a 2 on the river didn't do it for me. I was left with about 11 BB after that hand. A couple of orbits later, I pushed my last 4100 with A-J and SoxLover called with 8-8. I didn't improve, and was bounced somewhere around 40th place.

Congrats to our new champ, -EV, as well as Veneno who came in second. I was so thrilled that Friedman came in third because I know firsthand how much sweeter a tourney score is when you're recently unemployed. Fuck Card Player, and their holiday layoffs, BTW.

Time for a nap. I'm a sprinter, not a marathoner like GCox. I mean, did that guy sleep at ALL? If we're giving out awards, he gets my vote for rookie of the year.

Sunday, 1 AM

The wee hours of Sunday morning were all about PAI GOW. Pauly let me play his chips while he went to the bar to mingle and I promptly started hitting every single hand. I finished up about $200 plus the expected value of four or five white russians. Mrs. Head was playing StB's stack and hit both a straight flush AND quads on the Fortune Bonus.

Pauly eventually rejoined our all-star table, including JoeSpeaker, StB, Maigrey, Daddy, and F-Train. He had been cold-decked for 48 straight hours and was desperate to get unstuck-- so desperate that anyone within earshot of Pauly that night likely heard the phrase "I gotta get unstuck" an average of 2.3 times per minute. As his Pai Gow losses hurtled toward the -500 mark, his tilt-monter emerged, just as a moderately intoxicated Daddy started to slur to me his plan for cheering Pauly up.

"Dude, I can hear what you're saying."
"Relax, man. We just want to cheer you up?"
"I don't care."
"C'mon, man. Tell me, what would cheer you up."
"Getting unstuck."

Eventually, Pauly pushed his remaining $100 or so in chips into the middle with what turned out to be a king-high pai gow. He set his cards and departed the table in a tilty huff as he walked off his steam.

The dealer made a straight for the high hand with a crappy 7-9 low and Pauly got a miracle push.

"I'll just pull those chips back if that's OK..." I said to her.

Around 4:30 AM, I saw the first pimp cross the IP's casino floor. He was wearing a full-length brown fur coat and a floppy white hat that evoked J.Lo, circa 2003. Derek hadn't been shitting me when he reported that in the late late-night hours, the pimps and hos all came out and congregated around the Geisha Bar. Hours later, one of these hos would cause poor Al to break Rule #20.

Speaking of pimps, Michael Craig spent much of that evening at the Geisha Bar playing wingman to Dick Bro, who was clumsily trying to pick up women. I had been introduced to Dick the day before at the blogger brunch at the Wynn. I totally got that "I'm undressing you with my eyes" vibe as he gently shook my hand. I got chills, but not the good kind.

My eyes closed around 6 AM Sunday morning as the party still raged on downstairs. There wasn't much time for rest before the next big push... NFL Sunday.

To be continued...

Quick Point of Order

Thursday night... Geisha Bar... much drinking. I am currently a winning Pai Gow player... hope to keep it that way. Drizz celebrated his birthday at midnight with multiple kamikaze shots to go on top of his Captain & Coke IV and is still piecing together the details of how he returned to his hotel that night.

Friday morning... Daddy and G-Money blew into town. Tried to convince me to play in the IP daily tournament with them but my growling stomach won out. Had a delicious brunch at the Wynn with 20-odd bloggers. I highly recommend the teryaki steak and the rock shrimp ceviche. Hit Sephora with Gracie and Mrs. Human Head on the way back to IP. About to head out to MGM for more mixed games and madness.

A quick (but important) reminder-- I maintain a "no photos" policy when it comes to blogs. Feel free to snap a shot of my druggy mug or squeeze me into a group shot, but if I could ask you all please to respect my wishes and keep them off the internet.

Kthxbye I'm gonna go drink and gamboooool. Weeeeeeeee.

The E. Coli Taco and the Mirage Rock Garden

The drive out was easy and took under four hours, even with a stop for gas. There was a Taco Bell attached to the Chevron station in Baker where we stopped to re-fuel and Pauly recoiled in horror as I devoured a taco supreme.

"You're eating an E. coli taco!" he squealed as I doused it in hot sauce.

Thankfully I woke up this morning free from disease.

After checking into the IP and taking a quick power nap, we headed across the street to grab a bite at the Mirage and play some cards. While Pauly took a $1-2 NL seat, I settled for a $3-6 limit table populated by a few local rocks and a couple of clueless cowboys. The one directly to my right didn't understand limit betting structure and I had to remind him on more than one occasion that he could not lead out for $12 on the turn. He lost his whole buyin inside the four hours I spent there, but unfortunately very little of it was shipped my way. Though I flopped a set of queens at one point and turned a boat, that's the only decent hand I remember playing. I do recall the old half-asleep Asian lady who cracked my J-J with 2d-5d when she turned two pair and the clueless cowboy's grandma whose Q-J made two pair to river my K-J. Mainly I was just card-dead and folded a lot.

Pauly joined me after his NL game turned decidedly less juicy and took the seat to my left. He tried to drop the hammer on one of the rocks, who gave him a look that said "are you an escaped mental patient or what?" as he tabled his 2-7 at showdown. Pauly paired his 7 on the flop and the guy called him all the way down with K-Q high which unfortunately improved on the river when a red king fell.

"Hey, at least I raised with it!" Pauly muttered as the confused old man stacked the pot.

We went back to the IP around 1 AM and played Pai Gow for a couple of hours. Pauly won about $75 after a rush of cards and I squeaked out an $11 win. Combined with my 3-6 losses at the Mirage, I'm only down $58 in my first 24 hours in Vegas. It could (and has been) a fuck of a lot worse.

We're about to head out to McCarran to pick up Derek, who is presently zipping his way to Vegas from NYC via flying death tube. There have been promises of breakfast at Green Valley Ranch where I almost always indulge in their decadent chocolate chip pancakes. Ship it!

Vegas Eve

20. Don't get rolled by a hooker.
-Pauly

Though there are any number of shameful things that can be said about my recent past involving bloggers and the city of Las Vegas, including extreme tilt, the near-destruction of my car engine, and multiple-day drug benders, none is more humiliating than the crown I wear as the blogger who came the closest to violating Rule #20.

It can happen to anyone. Even a sweet blonde girl from California. Drink enough double Socos and next thing you know, you're in a cab sandwiched between two big black hookers with no control over (a) your motor functions or (b) the words coming out of your mouth. Hookers are crafty, wily bitches, so just steer clear of them altogether if you can. But if you do find yourself in the back of a vehicle with one, please make sure you know the whereabouts of your wallet or purse at all times.

* * * * * *
Pauly and I spent a mellow weekend in L.A. On Saturday we drove up to Malibu and stopped at Topanga State Beach in the late afternoon. Just as we got home, the USC-UCLA game was ending and my jaw dropped to the floor when I saw that UCLA was up by 4 with less than a minute to go in the 4th. I imagined every bar in Westwood literally exploding with joy as Bruin fans rushed the field at the Rose Bowl and the Trojans dragged themselves back to the locker room with any hopes of a national title erased. What can I say? I'm still smarting from that 1996 Rose Bowl game that my Northwestern Wildcats dropped to those pompous snooty fucks.

The next day, right before taking in a matinee of Bobby at the Grove, I got Pauly to do the right thing and spend invest $100 in a quality pair of hipster jeans. I dragged him into the Lucky Brand Jeans store and before he could make a move for the door, I had him whisked into a dressing room with half a dozen different styles and washes-- everything from a relaxed fit bootcut to one pair straight out of Marco Traniello's closet. He took to a dark, straight-leg cut and both the salesgirl and I nodded in approval. Total selection time? Less than 10 minutes.

"So, what are you doing later?" the waify clerk with dark eye makeup asked Pauly as he forked over his credit card. My jaw hit the floor and I dropped the buttery leather purse I was fondling.

"I'm gonna go get high and write" was his bone-dry reply.

"Good to see you're getting your shit done" she said with a smile.

I walked out of the store on 20% tilt. 10% for the flirty salesclerk, 10% for the buttery leather purse I can't afford.

* * * * * *
In terms of game selection and variety, the poker I've played in the last week has been all over the map. I booked a couple more final tables in those 90-player SNGs on Full Tilt and I've been sucking down triple draw on Stars like a loaded bong. I'm up 200 bets in a limit game on Full Tilt that is so juicy I'm afraid to talk about it and jinx myself. I'll be arriving in Vegas tomorrow however, with people more on the brain than poker, so look for me more at the bar than at the tables this weekend. Though I will definitely be playing the tourney and attempting to chase back-to-back WPBT final tables ;)

May your travels be safe, my friends. See you in the City of Sin.

Wednesday Blurbs

Some dude got unhappy with me last night for cheering on Pauly and StB at the final table of the Wheatie. "Cheering goes both ways, you know" he spat in the chat as he finished out of the money. Guess I need to check if my friends are in a hand with a Grumpy McGrumpster before (God forbid!) I type in a "weeeeeeeeee" or "nh."

Congrats to Pauly on his 2nd place finish and StB for taking 3rd! Well played, guys.

* * * * * *

Earlier in the afternoon, I was feeding my triple draw addiction on Stars when some dude sits down and buys in for $30,000. Keep in mind I'm not exactly playing at Chris Fargis levels here. This was at a $0.50-1.00 table. Take a look for yourself.

It's funny when Drizz buys in for $1K at the MGM 2-4. Because Drizz is a funny guy. Plus you get the visual of the ten racks of blue and the bewildered floor guys and dealers wondering what sort of crack we're all on. It's just pathetic when guys like this one start swinging their bankrolls around to compensate for their tiny dicks and poor self-esteem.

Though on the table I played before that one I managed to convince one noob that the game is called 2-7 triple draw because deuces and sevens are wild.

I'm evil.

* * * * * *
My handsome, well-dressed and perfectly coiffed friend, Joe Speaker has started a new blog. A sports blog. It's called Walking Mike Davis. If you like sports, I suppose you'll know what that means. Me? No clue. Speaker, however is a writer par excellence so you should check it out and link it up. If you like sports. And I'm sure most of you do.

* * * * * *
Guess what? Bill Frist is not running for President in 2008. Thank God for small miracles. Instead, he'll finish out his term in the Senate before going back to being a below-average doctor in Tennessee. Or, in his words, "return to my professional roots as a healer." So, yeah. Frist's little plan to curry favor with Jim "click your mouse and lose your house" Leach and the Iowa caucuses and set up his '08 run by sneaking the UIGEA through the Capitol back door netted him nothing but a ticket back to Nashville. Oh yeah, and Leach lost his seat too. So much for that plan, guys. Ship it!

* * * * * *
Spaceman and his lovely wife Mrs. Spaceman, though not cat people, have taken in a poor little hungry stray out of the goodness of their hearts. Spaceman is holding a naming contest for the little kitty on his blog. Winner gets to play him in a heads-up NLHE freeroll. Check it out.

* * * * * *
Vegas is in 10 days, people. Cut back on your sleep immediately. Exercise is probably a good idea too. If Pauly can eat salads and run, well goddamn it so can you. Even my lazy ass went and walked a couple of miles this morning because it actually felt like fall outside with the temperatures below 60 and the gusting winds and whatnot. Everyone in L.A. is trotting out their scarves today.

Next Vegas task, preparing outfits.

Thrown from the H.O.R.S.E.

It's just like me to be at or near the chiplead for an entire tournament and totally blow it around the bubble. That's me. No other poker ailment is more "me" than that. Witness the following finishes from this weekend:

$10+1 90 player SNG, Full Tilt: 24/90 (18 paid)
$5+0.50 H.O.R.S.E. MTT, Full Tilt: 21/138 (18 paid)
$5+0.50 90 player SNG, Full Tilt: 18/90 (18 paid)
$10+1 90 player SNG, Full Tilt 18/90 (18 paid)
$20+2 90 player SNG, Full Tilt: 18/90 (18 paid)
$20+2 90 player SNG, Full Tilt: 7/90 (18 paid)
$24+2 WPBT Circuit H.O.R.S.E: 6/28 (4 paid)
$24+2 $11K Guaranteed, Full Tilt: 74/924 (90 paid)

So deep, every single time. So little money to show for it. So trying to be more aggressive to make the bigger money and not play for cashes. So not working. At least I can say I've never finished worse than 24th in one of those 10-table SNGs. The players in them are so terrible, but the ante-less structure morphs the tourney into a stall-fest crapshoot near the bubble where the average stack might be 7 or 8 BB. To counteract it, I play those bubble situations more aggressively than usual, because everyone is just trying to survive. It's when the bubble bursts and I finally get my money in ahead when I've been losing. AK vs AQ and a Q on the flop, and such. So it goes.

I contemplate this question, as of late, with regard to my late-stage MTT game: Am I just not putting myself in enough positions to suck out?

I was pretty pissed not to cash the WPBT H.O.R.S.E. event, because I did a lot to prepare for it, including playing micro-limit stud and stud 8 on Poker Stars and running two warm-up tourneys (the aforementioned $5 one and a Full Tilt freeroll) beforehand. I was happy to see Pauly cash, though, since he was hands-down the best all-around player on the final table. Pauly plays stud. Most of us are like, "uh, is that the one with the up-cards?" Mean Gene totally rocked the tourney and finished 2nd. Thanks to Byron for hosting.

The $11K was also a disappointing affair for me, though Otis and I both managed to at least cash. During those critical high blind levels in the third hour (300-600/75 through 1,000-2000/100) I caught AT twice and KJ once, only to be met with a raise and a reraise before it was my chance to act. With my sort of stack, they were hands I'd have loved to push with, but I folded all three times. Of course it was the correct fold every time, though I would have massively sucked out in all three hands and tripled my stack. Left with less than 10 BB I picked up A-A and got no callers. I picked up A-K and got no callers. I picked up Q-Q and got no callers. I just couldn't double up. Ultimately, I pushed all-in from MP for about 5 BB with 10-10 (about 10K). The chipleader (on my immediate left, who had over 80K behind) flat-called and it folded to the BB (2nd in chips, about 60K behind) who pushed all-in. I knew I was doomed at this point, but I literally jumped out of my seat when the flat-caller OVERCALLED THE RERAISE and turned over 8-8. The BB had Q-Q, and an 8 on the river rewarded the mind behind the worst NLHE play I've seen in months with a 130K pot.

Is it just me, or are these Full Tilt Guaranteeds not what they used to be?

It was also a day of high hands that yielded nothing in terms of monetary gain or bankroll growth. Here's the quad aces I made in the H.O.R.S.E. freeroll when I was trying to get knocked out so I could take a shower:

And here is the steel wheel I made in the $11K en route to el busto:

At least I cooked myself the most scrumptious dinner ever--NY steak, cajun-spiced scrambled eggs, rosemary-onion potatoes and buttermilk biscuits with fresh O.J-- which I devoured during the first three levels of the WPBT event.

Lastly, have you guys seen the new Bodog TV ad with Jamie Gold? The first time I saw it, I was pretty high and totally laughed out loud at the image of Gold stepping out of a limo, his thinning, cowlick-prone hair begging to be concealed beneath a baseball cap once again, a plasiticine six-foot tall model leading him inside with fuck-me eyes. Give me a fucking break. In the real Hollywood, those kind of girls are inviting that kind of guy inside only if he has either (a) pre-paid or (b) just got a TV series greenlit. Hilarious stuff. I'm surprised no one has You Tubed it yet.

Giving Thanks

I'm thankful for my parents. They're quirky and odd and my mother can talk your ear off like you wouldn't imagine, but never once did they doubt or judge me in a year where I made a massive, unexpected career change. I'm thankful for their trust and fact that they could care less about what my alumni magazine says about me, as long as I'm happy.

I'm thankful for my little sister. She's 26, but a buck-o-five soaking wet so I can still say "little." I'm thankful for her quiet wisdom and calming spirit. I'm thankful she can make me laugh at myself when I'm taking the world too seriously.

I'm thankful for the incredible opportunities I've had this year. To write, to travel, to meet new friends. To cover the World Series of Poker and live in Las Vegas. To get wasted in Dutch hash bars and dance barefoot in a field in Tennessee. To hobnob with professional keno players and witness a grown man eat crayons. And for all of that, I suppose I'm thankful for the Big Man's hatchet boy who fired me last February. Were I still trapped in my ivory tower on Wilshire Blvd., it's safe to say I wouldn't have experienced 10% of the beautiful madness I have this year.

I'm thankful for the low-limit online poker players so ravaged with insecurity that they feel the need to throw their entire bankroll on the table in a $0.50-1 game when I beat them a pot. It tells me everything I need to know about their poker game and their penis size. I'm also thankful for the ones who stack off with top pair weak kicker in the first level of a tournament, since I really enjoy doubling up early.

Most of all, I'm thankful for the people I've met through this very space. The men and women who have bucked me up when my game was down, bought me shots of a certain sweet amber liquid, put me in cabs when I was too drunk to function, and with whom I shared many many laughs and pints at the Tilted Kilt. You have enriched my life in ways I can barely express without my eyes welling and a lump forming. I can't wait to see you all in two weeks' time.

And lest you think this post is wholly sentimental, here's some pictures of food from last night!!

Mmmmm...turkey!!

Crispy bacon and corn maque choux

My sister's boyfriend made this chocolate pie AND invited me to his home game. Yum yum!!

I learned last night that this candlestick got its dent when my granmother hit my grandfather over the head with it. I always thought it fell in an earthquake.

The spread!

Enjoy your long weekends, people. And thank you.

I Played More Poker Today

After a $165.00 loss on Saturday, which is no small sum given my current less-than-a-month's rent bankroll , I took a breath, dug in and tried to get back on the horse today. It was a noble pursuit and a psychological challenge, for sure, and like most things poker-related for me lately, turned out like crap.

Goddammit I want to write that shiny happy poker post.

First stop, the $22 SNGs, which are more or less the poker equivalent of a part-time job at Wal-Mart. There's absoultely no challenge to them, you don't get health insurance, and if you're lucky you'll net $4 an hour after taxes. Low limit SNGs are frightfully boring but unfortunately they are, for me, by far the easiest way to unstick myself after a bad run. I won the first one. That was nice. Left me only stuck $97 from last night. I also ground out 13 bucks at $1-2 O8 on Stars while I played the first SNG.

The next three SNGs-- not so hot. A 5th, a 6th, and a 3rd. I flipped from the Stars O8 tables to clear bonus at Full Tilt, where a $1-2 game had finally come together. My bonus was dropping $40 in THAT game. One more SNG, one more 6th place.

Seeking a break from the Wal-Mart checkout counter, I took a leftover token and bought into the $35K guaranteed on Full Tilt. 1,906 runners. Most I've ever seen in that tourney. $45K prize pool. 308 paid. Was doing well until I took K-K to war against T-T preflop, flopped top set, and lost to a runner runner straight. 20-1 flop favorites like that are the stuff dreams are made of. Special thanks to the Full Tilt RNG for crushing what's left of mine.

2-4 LHE. Same damn thing happens. Top set eights 3-bet preflop, capped on flop, three bets on turn. J7 gets runner runner straight. -76.

Back to Wal-Mart. Put on my checkout girl apron. Two more SNGs. Another 1st, but also another 6th. That's 1, 1, 3, 5, 6, 6 for the day. +18 for 6 SNGs. (See, this Wal-Mart metaphor really isn't that far-out.)

-68.50 today. Add it to yesterday and a third of my roll went poof this weekend. Pa-thet-ic, I know. Variance, variance, everyone has bad runs, you're still a good player, you did your best, it'll turn around it always does, yeah yeah whatever whatever.

So much for rolling up a stake and going to Vegas. I may be there in body in 3 weeks time, but any gamble I possess will be locked up here at Wal-Mart.

Paper, or plastic?

I Played Poker Today

I want to write a shiny, happy poker post for you guys. Really I do. For a while today, I thought I would be. First thing I did today was play the Full Tilt double-stack $11K guarantee. I like double stacks. I tend to do well in them. Played a great tourney, got in with the best of it and busted out after 3 1/2 hours, 93rd of 764. 72 paid.

Undaunted, next up for me was a $14+1 super satellite that awarded entry into a $100+9 satellite to the $500+35 FTOPS Main Event. I decided to try the satellite after realizing that even cashing in the FTOPS ME would more than double my bankroll. I came in 3/68 in the first satellite and got my seat to the $109, where 465 runners and 86 seats awarded was a payout ratio I could more than live with.

Yeah, busted from that one in 189th. I think I made one pair the whole tournament.

Played three peeps after that. Bubbled one for cash, won tokens in the others. Took one of the tokens and rolled it into the $24+2 "superpeep" only to bust out 15th when double-belly-buster plus nut flush draw plus overcard fails to hit. Damn. Really wanted to play Don's tournament. Oh well. Saved the remaining peep for another day.

Later in the evening, I ran into Donkeypuncher playing $1-2 O8 and I managed to turn a $25 profit after a couple of hours. Right before he sat down, I flopped a straight flush. Played triple draw on Stars for what seemed like forever and broke even. All the while, I was grinding 2-4 LHE, just to try and clear some of that slow-as-molasses Full Tilt bonus. Just grinding, ABC poker. Nothing tricky.

Can you say -120 in 2 hours? That's a dollar a minute. I won 4 pots out of the 201 hands I played and saw 23% of flops. Cold deck after cold deck. Bad bad bad shit. Really didn't think it was possible to lose that much, that fast, at online 2-4 for fuck's sake. When I got a walk in the BB with AA and won half a big bet with KK on the very next hand I thought I'd start taking hostages.

I guess it is possible.

Then I tried the $14+1 FTOPS super again and busted out 2/3 of the way through the field.

And the University of Spoiled Children beat my Cal Bears despite a great start.

Back to the $22 SNGs... yet again...

Twelve Bars (Part II) and more 'Dam photos

"You know, if Starbucks opened up a chain of hash bars in America, I'd be hopelessly addicted." - Pauly

Halftime was a great idea. After an entire afternoon of power smoking, the food recharged our bodies and parted the clouds of our addled brains. After polishing off some frites with mayo (sweeter and allegedly less fatty than the American version), we turned off Damrak and headed down a twisty alley to my favorite stop on the hash bar circuit, the 420 Cafe. If the 420 Cafe existed in the greater Beverly Hills adjacent area, I'd set up shop/move in there to an extent that would likely require the permission of the management. Not only could I write there during the day, but I'd be able to do so while simultaneously enjoying my favorite cannabis and guzzling down copious amounts of caffeine. Pretty much what I do in my living room most days, only in a more social, gently-lit locale, complete with a long, antique oak bar tended by effortlessly chic Dutch girls who poured 1.80 half-pints of Amstel to a friendly, international clientele.

Pauly bought us a gram of NYC Diesel at the counter and ordered up a balloon for me, as I grabbed us a low corner table in the back. I watched as the British hippie guy behind the counter attached a plastic bag to a vaporizing device called "The Volcano" and inserted a nug of the weed into a little chamber. As the weed vaporized, the balloon filled with the resulting smoke. It's a clean, intense high and actually much easier on your lungs since you're only inhaling the pure THC, not the burned-up stuff.

After an hour, we took a stroll toward the Leiseplein Square area and made our 7th stop at Dampkring. With it's dark, trippy interior and notoriety from appearing as a location in Ocean's Twelve, Dampkring makes all the travel guides and was completely packed. Pauly nabbed a gram of our new favorite strain, Buddha's Sister, while I watched Damon, Clooney, and Pitt's coffeeshop scene play on a loop on two flat screen TVs behind me. I loved the vibe of the place, but there was literally nowhere to sit. We smoked a bowl in the center of the room, nestled against a pillar that looked like a mushroom stem opening up on the ceiling before deciding to move on to our next destination.

The Bulldog in Leiseplein Square was the site of several matches in our roving international game of Chinese Poker. I'd done much better there than at the Pink Floyd, where I think I must have dropped at least 30 points over the course of the trip. We sat out on the covered porch, next to a threesome of American fortysomethings who had not toked up in the last decade or so (and couldn't stop talking about it). We smoked two joints of the Bulldog Bio in the time it took them to get through a half , and they stumbled out shortly before we did. Pauly had been eyeing the Haagen-Dazs across the street and we succumbed to the munchies by ordering two scoops of exquisite Belgian chocolate ice cream.

"I just got an erection," Pauly said, as he took his first bite.

From the Bulldog we took a walk down one of the side streets looking for a new place to try and ended up at the Rokery. More club than coffeeshop, Rokery's interior is Euro-castle meets Far-East temple. Tall, while pillar candles and blue stained-glass hanging lamps glowed against the bar at it's center, while Hindu designs and paintings cover the walls. Nearly every table was packed and a live D.J. spun mellow house music for the inebriated crowd. We purchased a gram of one of Pauly's favorite strains, Sour Diesel. It's always high on his request list when we send Showcase out to the medical pot stores in L.A. for provisions.

From the clubby Rokery, we started heading back in the general direction of our hotel and made a stop at La Canna on Nieuwendijk. We'd already clocked in some hours at La Canna on our first day in the 'Dam, when we had 5 mid-morning hours to kill before we could check in to our hotel. Spread over three floors with food, bar, and cannabis options, at that time I mentally dubbed La Canna the "TGIFridays" of hash bars. It was a little overpriced, full of tourists, and had an entire floor devoted to pool tables. At night, however, the entire place transformed. When we arrived, Pauly grabbed a table and I headed for the third floor to hit the WC. Dozens of Dutch African men were crowded around the pool tables, where a rather competitive billiards match was coming to a close. Half the crowd looked pleased at the result. The other half did not. We smoked a quick joint and decided to move on to hash bar #11. As we exited the place, a fight broke out on the street in front of it.

Down the street, we settled into a table the Cafe Kroon, another establishment we had visited on Day 1 of our trip. The Kroon was home to a sweet, pertpetually stoned gray cat, who contantly slept next to the scale used to weigh out the weed. The cat was in the same position we had seen him in days earlier, curled up on the bar, oblivious to the hip-hop blaring through the speakers and the smoke swirling through the air. We bought a small bag of AK-47 and burned through a joint while a group of Iranian guys remained deep in discussion around the cafe's small bar.

Our 12th and final stop of the day was the Kadinsky Cafe, a tiny little place tucked into an alley. Pauly said he wanted to stop off there since it was named after one of his favorite painters (Kandinsky), though I had to gently point out to him that there was only one "N" in "Kadinsky." We were so high by this point, I'm not sure that even registered with him. We got a 7 euro bag of the Kadinsky special-- super skunk-- and with the place entirely to ourselves, we rolled our final joint of the day and gazed out the window into the night. Pauly was up for more, but I was done. Twelve was a good number to end on.

Here's a few more photos for you from the trip:

Pretty leaves!

People actually live on these things

View from Pink Floyd's

Canal in the Jordaan district

Converted jail cell at the Bulldog, which is housed in an old police building.

Cafe Kroon's stoned, sleeping feline

Van Gogh museum mural

The Holland Casino Amsterdam

Rijksmuseum

Dutch road sign

Prop bets waiting to happen...

Raw herring...even MORE prop bets waiting to happen