There are Monsters Under the Bed

I lost some money in Vegas last weekend. It was a loss, but not a painful one. A decent portion of it was at Craps, as as that turned out, it was a universal loss among my brethren at the dice table. I hardly played a hand the entire trip, save maybe 30 minutes at a 3-6 table with Spaceman after I busted from the Aladdin daily tournament when my all-in raise with KQc ran smack into Aces.

I haven't recovered my mojo since.

The last thing I wanted to do was interrupt my trip reports, which I so love writing, to bitch about poker. But after a three day stretch of Abu-Ghraib style torture at the tables, I just can't keep it inside anymore or I'm really going to lose it.

I'm really starting to think I suck at this game. That every tournament win I've ever pulled out was done via sheer luck and that winning tournaments doesn't mean very much anyway. Performance in cash games is the true measure of a player. And my results have turned dismal. I'm just not getting better and meanwhile the games get harder every day and I feel like I'll never ever catch up.

I dropped about $750 playing 3-6 and 5-10 in March. No matter how hard I try, how tight I play, how aggressively I bet when I think I have the best hand, how many great laydowns I make, it just isn't adding up to anything. The swings are steep and harsh and long. I feel stressed out and horrible all the time. I'll win 400 and feel fantastic only to lose it the next day and feel miserable again. I'll flop trips to lose to a rivered gutshot and feel like I'm losing my mind. I always feel like I'm perpetually trying to get unstuck. I'm dealt aces or kings and can already feel my chips moving away from me. I play hands in a vacuum and try to be zen about the whole thing. I understand the mistakes I've made in the past and avoid them fastidiously, but still I bleed. I play more tables to take the sting out but it only makes the sting worse because I'm getting sucked out in double-time and losing twice as much.

A $750 swing and she's going this nuts? It's not this one swing. Believe me, it's not. It's that after all this time grinding away, I'm still maybe a breakeven cash player at best, I think I'm playing right, and I really don't know where to go from here. I thought sound ABC limit poker according to the wisdom of Sklansky and Malmuth and Ed Miller and their Big Red Book was supposed to yield a profit measurable in big blinds per hour. Not for me it doesn't.

So I took a break and tried to make the money back in SNGs. Change of pace and all. I stuck to the $11s on Party and played 55 of them in 3 days. That didn't go much better. I lost again... just slower.

Buyins: $605.00
Winnings: $500.00
Return: -$105.00

1st: 6
2nd: 4
3rd: 5
4th: 8
5th: 8
6th: 7
7th: 9
8th: 4
9th: 2
10th: 3

This next part recounting my more stunning suckouts is really just therapy... do yourself (and me) a favor and skip this section...

66 called by A3 on 732 flop. Another 3 on the river
J9 vs. A6 on AJ9 flop. 6 on river.
AA vs. KQ on JT4 flop. 9 turn, 8 river.
45 flops top two on 452 flop... of course A3 is trapping me
A5 vs. 78 on A74 flop. 7 on river.
77 vs. JTo on A78 flop. River 9.
KQ vs. J7h on KQ69 board, two hearts. He hits a river heart.
Reraise 10 BB all-in with KQ, called by A9. Q9X flop, 9 turn.
All in JJ vs. 78. Flop 477.
KK vs. AJ. Ace on river.
AA vs. 77. I run headlong into his flopped quads.
AJ falls to T2d on the bubble and villain admits he misclicked.
A7 vs. K8 on 7 high flop, he hits runner runner straight.
AQs falls to 28o. I want to put my head through glass.
K9 vs. Q3. I push on a 9 high flop and he rivers his Q.
J8 flops trips on JJT board. Why wouldn't he have tens? Shoulda known before shoving in.
JJ vs. 58 on J high flop. Calls down and hits flush on river.
AK vs. AK vs. AQ... Q on river.

OK. All better now.

I'm just saying. If I can't seem to not only beat but annihilate $11 SNGs and $3-6 cash games on Party Poker after playing for 2+ years, I just have to wonder.

Is it even worth it for me to keep playing?

Especially now when my entire future is in jeopardy?

For 13K hands, my VP$IP is 21.15. Att to Steal Blinds 29.99. Folded BB to steal 49.33. Won $ WSF 36.78. Went to SD 29.54. PF raise 9.97. Won $ at SD 48.55. Aggression factor 2.86

What am I missing?

Outfitting the Doctor

The first blogger I saw stumble off the shuttle bus was Joe Speaker, his arms outstretched in victory, a shit-eating grin that could have lit up the Sunset Strip stretched across his face. BG was next to enter the frame of my rear-view window, his head thrown back in laughter, as a thoroughly soused Chad weaved around, only minutes away from puking up every drop of Hugh Hefner's alcohol that he'd consumed in the last six hours. Even good-boy CJ had tied a few on and his face lit up as I turned my car around and parked behind the departing limos and town cars that had just deposited a slew of partygoers back at the UCLA parking lots after a long night at the Playboy Mansion.

I jumped out of the car and hugged CJ, who just couldn't stop smiling. He giddily showed me a set of photos he'd snapped at the mansion on his spankin'-new digital camera. My jaw hit the floor when we hit the Ava Fabian-Tiffany Taylor shot. I could already hear Otis crying.

Spaceman appeared from behind, grabbing my shoulders and bearhugging me. I swear I heard him squeal. Chad stumbled over and fake-puked on the roof of my car in an eerie act of foreshadowing. And a thoroughly jacked-up Pauly flew to my side, warning me that Al Can't Hang wasn't just drunk, he was "Top 5" drunk.

But my eyes fell to Speaker again, puffing contentedly on a Parliament from my purse, that movie-star smile back on his face where it belongs. Where it had been far too absent as of late. The genesis of this entire weekend had been about doing just that, and between two wild nights in Vegas and one in Hef's backyard, I'd say we'd hit our mark.

* * * * * *

"I want to get this over with."

You'd think he was facing dental surgery or something, but we had only been in the Ceasar's Palace Forum Shops for about twenty minutes. I had convinced Pauly that none of the nearly-identical lightly wrinkled button-down shirts that comprised a good portion of his traveling wardrobe would cut it at the Playboy Mansion, and that he should suck it up and pull out the MasterCard in the name of all that is good and holy and buy a hot outfit for the party.

"Do it for Hef," I pleaded.

Our first stop was Hugo Boss, where Pauly declared everything gay. Next was Armani Exchange, where he took a liking to a textured blue button-down, but not the indigo hipster jeans that were paired along with it.

"$115 for jeans? Are you crazy?"
"These ones I'm wearing right now? $145."
"Working in Hollyweird has warped your brain."

We declared that the "fail-safe" outfit, the one you go back to if nothing else in the mall suits your fancy, and continued onward. We hit Ralph Lauren next. Sending an unemployed studio executive with a fashion-induced credit card addiction into Ralph Lauren is like handing Robert Downey Jr. the keys to a suitcase full of blow. The temptation is almost too much for one human being to handle. I buckled down and fixated on men's shirts. A snazzy violet-hued one caught my eye, but Pauly looked nauseous when I pointed it out to him.

"Fine then, what would YOU pick?"

His eyes tracked along the rows of shirts, stopping on a white one with blue stripes.

"What about this?"
"It's exactly like the JCrew one you already have."
"Or this one?"
"Dude, it's exactly like the one you have on RIGHT NOW."

Ralph Lauren was a bust. So was Diesel. Pauly grew anxious and I was resigned to the Armani Exchange shirt when the Kenneth Cole store peeked out at me. Showcase always seemed to find cool shirts there. I led the Doctor inside.

Our salesman was tall, black, handsome, and very very gay. Pauly gravitated toward one shirt almost instantly-- a soft linen button-down with light green stripes accented with silver and navy-- while I tried to tear my gaze away from a flawless lightly ruffled eggshell trenchcoat that would look so good aginst my $145 jeans. The shirt fit him perfectly and I smiled my approval. The MasterCard came out, the shirt was purchased, and he'd go on to grumble about the $198 price tag all afternoon.

Pants were next. I'd been hard-selling the virtues of perfectly torn hipster jeans, but Pauly wanted nothing but class. How could I disagree with that? We settled on some slick black pants and a matching belt from Banana Republic.

"Try them on with the shirt," I pleaded.
"Come on, we can do that later. I'm hungry."
"Just do it. You have to see the whole picture. You won't regret it."

Two minutes later, a changed man emerged from the dressing room. The same mischief flashed in his eyes, but the scruff of his Old Navy checks and schwag-bag T-shirts had evaporated, replaced by $400 worth of couture. He stepped up to the three-way mirror and took a look at his new, improved self.

"Now this is a man ready for the mansion!" I declared.

And I swear I saw him blush.

To be continued...

Vegas Aftermath

I can neither confirm nor deny certain other bloggers' accounts of the last four days, prior to contacting my various legal representatives.

I can tell you that I got a lap dance from a lovely woman at Scores. I lost a retarded amount of money playing craps with bloggers. I met Steve Dannenmann in a bar, and got Pauly to buy clothes that do not come from Old Navy or a Poker Stars shwag bag. And Al Can't Hang slept on my couch after drinking a fifth of Soco at the Playboy Mansion.

God help me. I should be dead by now or at least have a disease.

Full report to come...

Truckin' and Actual Poker Content

I hope you all will take the time to check out this month's special "L.A. Story" issue of Truckin'. A slew of L.A. bloggers contributed pieces this month, including Joe Speaker, Shane Nickerson, Facty, and yours truly. I dug into my Hollywood archives and shared one of the odder experiecnes I had as a young, green D-assistant when Charlie sent me to pry a script out of the laptop of a coked-out, AWOL writer. The resulting story is Paging Dominic Leare.

I've been stepping up the poker this week, spending more of my time grinding the ye olde trusty limit hold'em games. My time has been evenly split between 3-6 and 5-10, the decision usually based on the quality of fish sitting in. No-limit tournaments are still my best game (I think), but if I'm gonna make some consistent money, and at this juncture I need to, I have to become a better limit player. It's funny, it all used to be reversed until I won that blasted WSOP seat on Full Tilt last year and turned my attention to NL. Limit was so mind-numbingly boring to me after I smoked the tournament crack pipe.

But here I am, back on the bandwagon. I'm still a bit rusty and working out the kinks, but I'm getting there. I'm remembering why it's so hard to push people off hands and why it's such a terrible idea to bluff. I've totally re-learned how to play overcards. And I'm a much stronger blind defender. But if there are two things I can tell you about my limit hold'em play now vs. a year ago it's (1) I was missing the fearlessness I needed for the game before because I was playing too scared with an inadequate bankroll and (2) I'm trusting my reads and calling down fewer hands when I know I'm beat, unless it's some ginormous pot and I have sufficient equity to do so. Folding makes you money.

Yesterday I played maybe a thousand hands of LHE and walked away with 200 bucks or so. It should have been a lot more, maybe even 500 or so. But there were suckouts. Brutal ones that made my hair curl. Half a dozen or more where I was 8-1 or better going to the river. There will always be suckouts. But I was OK with them because I played the hands correctly. Had I won the hands and not maximized my equity, I'd have been more disappointed in myself.

The more you play, the less it hurts.

I'm still playing tournaments, of course. Just fewer of them. I hit up two of the $16 WSOP double shootouts on Stars yesterday evening. In the first one, I got down to heads-up in the first round, turning a straight to lose to runner runner FH for 12th of 89. In the second one I made it to three-handed on the first table. Picked up AA vs. AK to have the board come a straight. That's the hand that shoulda done it for me. Down to 15BB I re-raised a perpetual button raiser's button raise all in with AT suited and he had AK. Bounced in 17th of 73. I also used my two hard-earned peep tokens for a couple of shots at the $17K Guaranteed. Monday night's ended for me in the first hour when kings ran into aces. My demise came tonight about 50-something from the money at the end of hour two. I got an opponent all-in dominated twice and lost both times when their inferior kickers hit the flop. Boooooooo. My money went in good and I can't be unhappy with that. It certainly takes the sting out a little. Though tonight's domination double smackdown did send me on mini-tilt.

But I can't stay there for long. I'm going to Vegas.

WSOP Blogger Satellite #1: Almost Paradise

I spent the majority of yesterday afternoon sitting in traffic. All I needed to do was drive from my apartment to the Toys 'R Us on South La Cienega, pick up a gift for Charlie's daughter's 4th birthday, and drive from there to Charlie's place in Hancock Park for the party. Only I forgot the L.A. Marathon was still going on and every north-south artery within two miles of where I needed to go was shut down with barracades and cop cars. So an hour-long errand took three and I had a splitting headache by the time I got home from Charlie's and fired up Paradise Poker for this year's first WPBT WSOP satellite. I popped two Advil and chowed on a spicy chicken burrito from Wahoo's as the cards went in the air.

I was drawn to the table of death. Otis and DoubleAs were on my left. Drizz, The Rooster, Bobby Bracelet, Scurvydog, and Helixx rounded out the starting lineup. My head pounded and I gingerly sipped from a bottle of Aquafina. I played tight for a few orbits before picking up KK against Helixx's QQ for my first double-up. I love busting people in poker, but when it's someone I like, it takes just a little of the fun out of it. That would happen four times in the course of this tourney.

Joaquin would be the next out at our table. I raised with 88 and he called with 58 from the BB. The flop came down J 6 7 and the Rooster threw out a confusing minimum bet. I made a substantial raise and he called. I was liking my hand a lot less with that call. But then the turn came a beautiful 8. Joaquin bet again and I made another big raise. He called. Now I was really confused. River is a 5. He bet 550, I pushed in, and he called with two pair. Aiyah! He was really on a draw? Suddenly, I have 8000 chips.

I hung onto the lead for a while. Otis mucked a big hand to my squeeze play reraise from the button (it was a good fold, Otis) and I mucked just as big a hand to DoubleAs' squeeze play all-in from the BB. I didn't want to race for half my stack and he knew that-- a slick, professional play for the situation.

I went card dead for quite a while before my next big run. I was genuinely sad when I felted Joe Speaker with KK because I have busted him out of nearly every tournament we've played together. I'm serious. Online, Murderer's Row, whatever the occasion, he seems to run in to my monster hands. Shortstacked, he pushed in on a steal with KT and I pushed over the top with KK, which held up. Linda Geenen was the next blogger to run into one of my monster hands when I picked up QQ vs. her A5. I had 34K and a substantial chiplead.

Then came the coinflips.

I doubled up Poker Gnome when his KQd outflopped my 88, giving him enough chips to begin a monster run at first place. I raised Gracie in late position with 77 and she reraised all-in with AQo. I was getting the right price and called, but she flopped a Q. Half my stack? Poof.

I arrived at the final table with an average stack. I raised with Q9h in the cutoff and a very short-stacked Joanne pushed in with 44 which held and doubled her through. I made one tough laydown and bled down to about 7600 with 400-800 blinds. New chipleader Poker Gnome made a raise from MP and I pushed in with 55. He called with A9o and flopped a 9, sending me out in 8th place. Had I won even one of those races, I could have made a serious run at this thing.

I couldn't be happier that Gracie went on to win! Congratulations, girl! Runner-up Poker Gnome played a helluva game as well.

I can't say enough about the level of play I witnessed last night. You all inspire me to study and think and do whatever I can to become a better player. I look around and see how far all of us have come in a year, only reinforcing my belief that 2006 will be the year of the blogger at the WSOP. Ryan certainly raised the bar for us with his LAPC victory in January. I can't wait to see how high it goes.

I Predict an Instant Cult Classic

It's here! Click on the logo for the S.O.A.P. official teaser trailer!

Despite my current state of Hollywood unemployment, I can guarantee you that I'll be calling in every political favor I'm still owed in this town for premiere tickets.

Peep Drought Over

1-17 now. Phew!! Bring on the turbos.

For Revenge, Don't Call

You've been there. Some douchebag makes a re-steal and you lay down the best hand. You flop a great draw only to have a donkey push his whole stack into a small pot. An assbag 19-year old with acne and a whiny laugh hits his bloody gutshot on the river and practically creams his pants as he throws out a bet.

You want revenge.

Why? Because you're smarter than he is, goddammit! (AND a better player AND you got better SAT scores than he could dream of AND you don't live in your mother's basement in New Jersey wanking off to Sweidish urine porn for fuck's sake!)

Revenge is sweet. Especially against assbag 19-year olds. But it doesn't belong in tournament poker. Why? Because vengefulness causes one to refocus their attention on another when it should be firmly placed on oneself in a tournament setting. Where is MY stack in relation to the table? How am I playing aginst the eight or nine others? Who will fold to a re-raise coming from ME? What image am I giving off? These are the things we should be thinking at all times, not stuff like "how can I bust this guy and make him pay for what he did, that STUPID FUCK!!"

Vengeance leads to bad moves and loose calls. Bad moves and loose calls lead to losing. And losing leads to tilt. How much do we hate tilt? It's perhaps my least favorite state of being. Yet I find myself there all the time.

I'm arriving at some sort of a point, I promise.

I think it was one of those sexual dynamos, Sklansky and Malmuth that wrote that we go on tilt because we don't understand why the move we made was wrong. And it is only in reliving those moments outside of the cloud of tilt and examining why our decisions were wrong that we not only make strides in our game, but we prevent future tilt. Or at least try to.

Here's two terrible moves I made in this afternoon's $5.5o Craaaaazy Rebuy on Poker Stars. The hands have three things in common: (1) I made a bad decision, (2) I lost the hand, (3) my bad decisions were motivated by revenge.

1. During the rebuy period I was seated to the left of a player that was going all-in on literally every single hand. It was incredibly frustrating, though it created a lot of action for the table. I had accumulated a huge stack of 16K by the third level, and this guy had probably rebought in excess of ten times. Just after he did yet another double rebuy and made a miracle double-up to 6K chips with queen-rag, he pushed in from MP and I found KQ suited. It's 6000 of my 16K to call.

Even though it is a rebuy tournament, I feel that this is a frighteningly easy fold in retrospect. There's no reason to risk that percentage of my chips just to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar yet again. But there I was, caught up in the moment. With 16000, I should be overjoyed about where my stack is at only the 25-50 level and wait for a better opportunity, perhaps against a different player.

I called like an idiot. He had the best hand that time with AJ and doubled through me to $12K. Of course, he stopped going all-in on every hand right after that. I still had over $10K left and it wasn't the end of the world for me, but it was a terrible decision nonetheless.

2. Late in the second hour of the tournament. 200-400/50 blinds and I have an above-average stack of about 15,000. A hyper-aggressive player had been moved to my table a few orbits ago and has been stealing every pot in sight. He has an avatar with a picture of his smug little face and layers of gold chains. Any time I tried to steal the blinds, he'd flat-call from the blinds and checkraise all-in my continuation bet on the flop. I was pretty sick of it. I had just folded to him twice in that sort of situation and was definitely looking for a hand to bust him with (here's that revenge thing again).

I was dealt 77 in third position and put in a raise to 1200. He flat-called from position. The flop came 3 4 4, pretty great for me. I decided to try his own trick back at him and checked, intending to check-raise. But he pushes all-in. It's my whole stack to call. And he'd make this move with pretty much any hand.

I should have folded. Absolutely. There are much better places to get my money in. But I just wanted revenge. I had lost patience with being pushed around. I just wanted to beat his donkey maniac ass. So I called off my whole stack. Who's the donkey now?

He had JJ and took every last one of my chips. 20 minutes later, he had bled almost all of them all off to the rest of the table.

Folding in that position would have just set him up to make further stabs at me and I could have potentially trapped him with a huge hand and really got paid off. Instead, I trapped myself.

Sometimes, folding is not for pussies.

In the face of so many loose-aggro internet maniacs and all-in monkeys, patience needs to remain my virtue. This game is not about "beating" people. Tournaments are about survival, and surviving longer than those doofuses ever want you to.

When I played MY game today, I flourished. My game is tight and patient and crafty with flashes of aggression my opponents don't see coming. That game gets me deep and it gets me chips. I know I can be too cautious at times and it's something I struggle with. But vengeful, longball moves like I made today are for donkeys. They'll only make you lose. And what does losing mean? Tilt. And we know how much I hate that.

When in doubt, fold. For revenge, don't call!

Cashing the Stars $1M and Blogger PLO

I got my bad beats out of the way early on Sunday morning. I played two NLHE SNG's on Stars to warm up for the $1 Million Guaranteed and went broke on a 4-1 favorite in one and a 3-1 favorite in another. I wasn't tilty in the least because the beats were ridiculous and I made the right moves, but nonetheless, I changed gears and fired up an $11 Omaha Hi-Lo SNG. One river gutshot later I was out. Next, I fired up a 130 FPP super satellite to the $100K VIP Freeroll. I made it through 2/3 of the field before losing my first significant coinflip with 77 vs. AQ.

But like I said...I'm glad I got this crap out of the way early. I'm not especially superstitious, but I have been seeing a bit of the worst of it lately, and having to deal with a few suckouts immediately before kickoff made me strangely confident going into the Big Sunday Stars tournament. I was due for at least a small amount of revenge.

I started channelling my suckout powers by swapping 10% with the Original Luckbox, who decided to play at the last minute. I chopped out some small pots in the first half hour, my stack hovering between 2800 and 3300. My first big decision came in a hand where I raised with KQ from MP and was called by the big blind. The flop came Q high, and he check-called my bet of 2/3 the pot. The turn came a 2 and he suddenly pushed in. I tanked for a while before making what I thought was a gutsy call. I just couldn't put him on a better hand. Turned out he only had KJ and I doubled up to over 6K in chips.

I got more aggressive and my chip count started to rollercoaster-- up to 15K when I made a full house with AK, then 24K, then back down to 15. I was starting to get cute with a big stack and needed to calm down. I got JTh in the seat right before the cutoff and raised to 1800, and the BB pushed. I called 2500 more and saw the bad news-- he had QQ. The flop gave me hope though, when it gave me an OESD, and I rivered the Ace to take it down. I was up to 20K again.

Hand of the tournament. I have 88 in MP and make a standard opening raise. The big blind calls. I have him covered by maybe 2-1. Flop comes 9-7-5. He bets 1500 and I raise to 4000. He tanks for a good 40 seconds of his time bank before calling. After the call he has maybe 3500 behind. Turn is a K. He checks, and I put him all in, reading weakness. He lets all but 5 seconds of his clock run off before folding. Wonder what the hell he had there. A9? K9? A7?

I went card-dead for a while after that and lost a horrible blinds vs. blind hand when I got aggressive from the SB with K8 on a K 9 2 flop. Turns out the BB had K9, the ultimate cooler. That hand chopped my stack in half. With 8700 left and 400-800 blinds, I pushed over the top of one limper with KJo. He insta-called with AA. Aiyah. I had him slightly covered and was down to 1900. I thought the end was near. We were still over 200 to the money.

"You can do this :-)" CJ wrote in the chat box. I chose to believe him, but I'd need some serious luck.

With 45c and no choice, I pushed from the SB. I was called by QT.

"Luckbox powers activate!" wrote CJ.

The flop came 4 4 K. No. Fucking. Way. Then, to rub some salt into my poor opponent's wounds, the turn was a T and the river a Q. CJ is magic.

I rebuilt my stack to about 8K which was good enough for me to hang on until the money. Ultimately I pushed UTG with KJo and about 7BB left. The button pushed over the top with AQ, and the flop brought both an ace and a queen. I ended up in 591st of 5699 for a $455 payday. CJ cashed as well, in 400th place for $569.

Not bad for an $11 investment and my first attempt at a big weekend tournament. I'll certainly be playing more of these in the future. Thanks to CJ, the Doc, Joe Speaker, hacker59, and all who sweated me!

Later that evening, I joined my fellow bloggers in the first WBPT Player of the Year Tournament, a $22 PLO event on Poker Stars. I have no idea how to play PLO. I read the Lyle Berman chapter of Super System once, but I was really stoned. Pauly taught me some starting hands and I heard that it's wise to only draw to the nuts. That's really all I know.

But I guess it's all really most of us know. I managed to make it through half the field to finish 28th of 56 entrants. I would have gone further had my AAK2 not been runner-runnered by Max's KKQ8 hitting a straight! Poker Geek managed to finish ahead of me simply by sitting out. Thakfully both of us qualify for POY points.

Congrats to STB for taking it down! That's two victories this week for our favorite beer-swilling Wisconsan!

Check out the Tao of Pauly if you haven't already and check out Pauly's photos from his trip out here. He makes my city look mighty pretty. My favorites are from Zuma Beach, though I'm also a fan of the one of the ominous dark clouds behind the palm trees along 6th Street. He took that one in Koreatown when we were driving back to the westside after lunch downtown with Joe Speaker. The sky looked a lot like that today.

Tomorrow is Monday. Showcase will awaken at 8 AM and quite literally start screaming "Nooooo! Noooo! Noooo!" to the walls as he faces the reality that he has to go to work in his sterile little cubicle and I get to sleep in until 11. But I'm slowly getting back on the horse. I have a couple of meetings this week and we'll see where those lead. This week my real hope is that I can discipline myself to write something every day. I'll start with that.

That, and I need to find a dentist before my insurance runs out. I think I have some wisdom teeth that need extracting.

Detox, Dismissal, and Scooping Layne

"He's someone I definitely would have rushed" - (former fratboy) Showcase on Pauly

Our favorite doctor has left Los Angeles. I miss him already. It was one helluva 23-day ride and I don't think my brain cell count or my cholesterol level will ever be the same. Last night I slept something like 16 hours trying to recover. What a way to transition from 60-hour work weeks into the neublous sun-bleached daze of Hollywood unemployment. I think I need to spend this weekend sobering up and eating nothing but vegetables.

I know Showcase won't forget Pauly's visit either. He's still seeing Stacee! She came over to our place for dinner last night before they headed off to an improv show at the Groundlings. She sucked down three glasses of chardonnay along with her salmon filet as she made me insanely jealous with tales of Vegas weekends with her parents' high-rolling friends. Private jet flight out, comped suites, free spa services, the whole nine. Even Showcase's eyes were as big as saucers at the thought. I didn't hear Stacee slip out at 6 this morning for her drive of shame back down the 405, but I did hear some serious high-pitched gasps and moans as I drifted off to sleep last night. I don't think Showcase has stopped smiling for over a week now.

* * * * * *

Shortly before I was unceremoniously sacked from my Hollywood gig, I was nailed with Jury Duty after 6+ years of dodging the L.A. Superior Court system. I had postponed it a week when I found out Pauly would be in L.A., but couldn't move it again when he decided to extend his trip. So I had no choice but to roll the dice and just hope I'd get rejected. On Sunday night I crossed my fingers and called into the automated system thingy and did a little dance of joy when I found out I was off the hook for Monday. I did the same thing the next night when I wasn't needed for Tuesday either. But on the third day, I had to suck it up. My presence would be required at 7:30 AM Wednesday morning. This meant a 6 AM alarm. I groaned and made sad faces at Pauly. I honestly could not remember the last time I had to get up at 6 AM, though I could recall with astounding detail the last few times I had gone to bed at 6 AM.

I arrived downtown around 7:45, dragging my barely conscious body into the courtroom cafeteria for 24 ounces of bad coffee before heading for the jury room. I filled out my paperwork, pinned the "Juror" badge to my shirt and staked out a row of three adjoining chairs that I hoped to monopolize. No such luck. An older professor-type set up shop, laptop and all, right next to me. I curled up into my single chair and attempted to doze off.

After 3 hours of cramped uncomfortability and spotty sleep, my name was called along with about 30 others and we were sent up to the seventh floor and ushered into a courtroom. I took a seat in the front row between a young hipster guy and an old Russian woman. As the clerk began explaining the case and introduced the lawyers and their clients, I took note of the judge's name and it rang a bell in the far reaches of my memory. There was something familiar about it.

The judge took the bench and explained that this case would likely take over two weeks to reach a verdict. Oh no. I was not down with that. He asked for a brief show of hands of who would be able to serve for that length of time. Less than a dozen volunteered. The rest of us were asked to write our excuses down on a slip of paper. I made up some yarn about having a bunch of important job interviews in the next couple of weeks and said a silent prayer. The bailiff collected the papers, and the lawyers disappeared into chambers to look them over.

A few minutes later, the judge retook the bench and began dismissing jurors one by one as he leafed through the excuse papers. Finally he got to mine.

"Hmmm. There's something very familiar to me about your name."
"You know, I was thinking the exact same thing about yours."
"It definitely rings a bell."
"Do you have a son named Sean?"
"I do."
"Went to Harvard-Westlake?"
"Yes."
"And the University of Chicago?"
"Yes."
"I went to prom with your son."

The courtroom erupted in laughter. The Judge cracked up too and shook his head in bewilderment.

"You're dismissed!"

Best reason for getting thrown off a jury EVER. Eight hours of excrutiating waiting later, my service to the County of Los Angeles was complete.

* * * * * *

Now for a little poker content...

I am currently 0-13 in the $6.60 Full Tilt token SNGs, or, what my friend Facty has affectionately termed "The Marshmallow Peep Sex SNG." I certainly never knew that humping sticky, squishy sugary bunnies could sting so badly. I mean, a big fat donut hole? Is that really possible in these things? I was making an attempt to stock up on tokens so I can start working my way into some Full Tilt WSOP satellites for cheap, but it doesn't seem to be working. The Peeps hate me. I seem to run smack into monster hands at every turn.

I had some more terrible 3-6 cash sessions on Stars today. I flopped two pair a lot when others flopped sets and turned flushes. I flopped straights a lot when others rivered boats. And I turned a full house that made a guy's quads. Yay me. The bloodshed continues.

Variance. Ain't it a bitch.

Here's the weird thing. In the face of all the losing I'm doing at limit hold'em, I'm beginning to win consistently at Omaha Hi-Lo. I've been sticking to 2-4 and 3-6 limit, but took a shot at the 5-10 a couple of nights ago on Full Tilt when I saw that Layne Flack was sitting in. The presence of a pro like Flack, Erik Seidel, or Mike Matusow really draws out the fishies. I'd say a good third of the table had only a vague idea of how to play. I sat in for about an hour, and "hit it and quit" to the tune of +147. I also got to do this:



I was in the big blind, BTW-- lest you want to mock my cheesy hand.

If my lazy ass is up in time tomorrow, I'll be playing in the Stars VIP Freeroll at 12:30 PST. I cashed for a whopping $5.25 in last week's where I finished 72nd out of 1120 or so. I may also take a swing at Sunday's WPBT Player of the Year PLO tournament on Stars if I'm up to it after the $1M Guaranteed. This is a pretty cool little tournament series Byron is running for bloggers. Check out the details on his site. I'm a total fish at PLO, but Pauly gave me a few tips during his visit.

Who am I kidding? My buy-in is yours.

Stars Giveth, and Stars Taketh Away

After a two-week rush of winning sessions at the 3-6 on Stars, it all came crashing down in the last four days, wherein I managed to drop 1/3 of the bankroll I have on that site via multiple tilty sessions, the kind where you shout shit like 'why can't MY draws come in!" at the screen. I'll have to go over the carnage in more detail on Pokertracker in the coming days, but it was one of those stretches where I couldn't hit a flop, couldn't hit a draw, and got runner-runnered more than I'd like to remember. We all have these stretches and they're miserable. This was no different. My tilt monster was definitely peeking out of the closet last night and I think he scared Pauly (whom I now believe is never leaving Los Angeles).

Hating limit and cursing the gods, I signed up for an $11 Double Shootout to the Stars $1M Guaranteed Sunday extravaganza, rushing back into the arms of the NL tournaments that built my current roll in the first place. Since Stars started running these, I've played maybe a dozen of them and have won my first table well over half the time, only to fuck up or get sucked out on the second table. I had mentally labeled the Turbo version a crapshoot and the longer version a waste of three fucking hours after a number of fourth and fifth place finishes.

Until now! See ya this weekend, fellow donkeys!! This girl's getting her Big Sunday Tournament Cherry popped. I plan on bringing my typically tight, cagey game with me to the table along with a big bag of ganje so God help you all.

In between sewing up my bloody wounds from LHE this week, I ground out a few nut-peddling sessions of 2-4 Omaha Hi-Lo on Stars. Even though some people claim that O8 "is not a real game," I've been slowly delving into it for the last couple of months and starting to develop it as a cash game alternative for me. Now, I've been "recognized" at the virtual tables once or twice before due to this humble slice of internet blogestate, but never by a Vegas stripper at a low-limit O8 table who claimed to have given Pauly a lap dance one night at the Crazy Horse Too. She said he was a good tipper and he inspired her to start playing poker.

You know, most of the time I smell the bullshit a mile away when online poker players claim to be strippers. But because it was Pauly, I, for one, believe her.

Oscar Sunday and Four Things about L.A.

A certain Card Player-ranked, Absinthe-swilling poker player "tagged" me for this challenge, and having lived in this fair city longer than most will ever be able to withstand, I felt more than obliged to contribute. I love Los Angeles. Though at times she wears down my body and threatens to tear out my soul, L.A. will always be a huge part of who I am.

And today, Oscar Sunday, is like her prom night. As I write these words, the L'Ermitage and the Four Seasons and the Chateau Marmont are flooded with entourages and stylists. Racks of gowns are being wheeled through their gilded hallways up to the nominees' studio-comped suites. The stars will rub sleep out of their eyes and sip coffee while flashbulbs pop and makeup cases are unpacked, and gift baskets arrive, sent by agents and well-wishers, dying for a mention in a potential acceptance speech. The ones who have been through this before might relax into the process and savor the moment, while the first timers may freeze, immobile in the eye of this hurricane of glamour and stardust, wondering just how the hell they got here.

In just a few hours, the end result of all this Hollywood hoopla will be beamed via satellite to the rest of the known universe, and the industry will be able to take a short collective breath before starting this shit all over again next year.

Make sure you check out the Tao of Pauly today. I did a quasi guest-post that includes both our takes on the Oscars as well as our picks in the individual categories. Lemme say it right here right now-- it's the year of the Gay Cowboy.

So in honor of Oscar Sunday, here are my 4 THINGS ABOUT L.A.

Four Jobs I've Had In My Life in LA:

1. Usher at the Hollywood Bowl
2. Paralegal for personal injury law firm in Downtown L.A.
3. Unpaid intern to coke fiend producer on Burbank studio lot
4. Creative Exec at Academy-Award winning producer's film company.

Four Movies About LA I Could Watch Over And Over:

1. The Player
2. 10
3. Adaptation
4. Clueless

Four Places I've Lived All Over L.A. (With Food Memories From Each):

1. Westwood (Big, soft melt in your mouth cookies for 25 cents apiece at Diddy Reese)
2. West Hollywood (Excellent sangria and friendly service, not to mention some spectacular, tastes-like-home-cookin' Mexican food at Gardens of Taxco on Santa Monica Blvd.)
3. Beverly Hills (You must try Il Tramezzino's dreamy paninis-- AND they're open until 4 AM on the weekends!)
4. The Slums of Beverly Hills aka Beverly Hills Adjacent (Great pizza and cheesesteaks at Philly's on the corner of Olympic and La Cienega).

Four LA-Themed Shows I Love(d) To Watch:

1. Beverly Hills, 90210
2. Six Feet Under
3. Three's Company
4. Entourage

Four Places I Would Vacation At In LA:

1. Chateau Marmont
2. The Four Seasons, Beverly Hills
3. Shutters
4. The Ritz-Carlton, Marina Del Rey

Four LA-Based Websites I Visit Daily:

1. The Defamer
2. Variety
3. Awful Plastic Surgery
4. Daily Candy L.A.

Four Of My Favorite Foods Found In LA:

1. The crab roll at Sushi Nozawa
2. The lobster salad hand roll at Sushi Katsu-Ya
3. The black miso cod at Nobu Malibu
4. The tuna sashimi in ponzu sauce at Sasabune

Four Places In LA I Would Rather Be Right Now:

1. Getting lost in Topanga State Park
2. Watching the sunset on El Matador beach
3. Getting high in the Huntington Gardens
4. Hiking to the Hollywood sign

Tagged:

HDouble
Franklin
Facty
Rini

Fuck tha Police

We found a parking space at a meter in front of the Bank of America on La Cienega and Pico, directly across the street from Nick's Coffee Shop. Pauly and I were once again headed to my neighborhood diner for a bite to eat and I was psyched we found a parking space so close. Yesterday we weren't so lucky, when it was pouring rain and we had to sprint down the block, dodging puddles and getting milldy drenched. This time, all we had to do was get ourselves across four lanes of traffic-- which is not difficult at all. Just look both ways, find your opportunity, and take it. As traffic slowed and the light a block away turned red, Pauly grabbed my hand and we made a run for it across Pico Blvd.

Unfortunately for us, we ran directly in front of an LAPD motorcycle cop pulling out of his own parking space in front of the diner. He let us cross before continuing down the street.

"Maybe he's gonna just look the other way" Pauly said, just as the cop pulled into the gas station fifty yards east of us, flipped a U-Turn and drove down the sidewalk, chirping his siren.

The cop hopped off his bike and asked for our IDs. Steam and rage and bile rose inside of me as I fished my drivers license out of my jeans pocket.

"Sir, your zipper is down" the cop said to Pauly, matter-of-factly before he headed back over to his bike to write us our jaywalking tickets.

Commence MEGA-TILT.

I couldn't fucking believe it. Do I have like, some fucking overdraft on my karmic account? Isn't getting unceremoniously sacked from my job bad enough for one month? And now this fucking bullshit. Fucking JAYWALKING! IN LA!! Unbelievable. I was steaming so hard I couldn't even LOOK at the douchebag fuckface cop as he scribbled away on his little cop notepad so I turned and leaned against a parking meter, facing the complete opposite direction. My blood pressure rose and my heart pounded as I tried to keep myself from screaming obscenities and finding the closest sharp object available and stabbing him in the testicles. Fucking cops.

Pauly on the other hand, found this all hysterical. Between snickers and shakes of his head, he'd occasionally glare at me intently as my breathing intensified or I'd start to mutter expletives under my breath.

"This is gonna be a great blog. I can even write the ticket off as professional research."

When he finally finished writing us up, the cop decided I needed a lecture on top of the goddamn ticket. His blue eyes bore into me as he sternly spoke.

"There are 200 fatalities a year on Pico and thousands more go to the hospital. Bwah blah blah blah bwah bwah baaaa..." I gazed back at him with the dead eyes I usually reserve for my fiercest opponents as he said a whole lotta shit that was supposed to scare me. Whatever. Let me tell you, I've spent the last 29 YEARS OF MY LIFE living off of Pico Boulevard, dining on it and jaywalking across it and I'M STILL HERE GODDAMMIT!!!

The asshole douchebag cop handed both of us our tickets-- even Pauly's "I'm just a tourist" schtick wasn't working with this guy. As he rode away, I allowed my rage to finally escape.

"UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE! I mean SERIOUSLY!! Does he like, get cop bonus points for that!" I said as I stormed into the diner, tossing my sweater and my disgusted self into the brown leather booth.

"I'm not gonna talk to you if you're like this." Pauly mumbled. I could not yet see the humor in the situation the way he could.

With this type of ticket, I'd now be forced to navigate the seven levels of hell that constitute the beureacracy of morons that is the State of California. After watching Showcase have to reverse a $6000 judgement that was made against him BECAUSE OF A TYPO (no joke) and the six-month courtroom drama I endured last year trying to dismiss a ticket I got in Beverly Hills for expired tags because some minimum wage monkey at the DMV just couldn't manage the piece of data entry that involved recording my parking tickets as "PAID," thus releasing the unlawful hold on my vehicle registration and a nasty $718 fine. Try explaining THAT ONE to the L.A. Municipal Court's automated call-in system. So based on past expericenes alone, I fully expect to be sued, jailed, deported, institutionalized and fined six figures before this ticket is resolved.

Once we were seated in the diner, the blonde waitress came over to our table. It was obvious I was in distress. We held up our twin tickets and explained to her what had just happened.

"No way! That cop was just in here! That's terrible-- everyone jaywalks across Pico!" she said, before scampering off to get Pauly his iced tea and me my Diet Coke. My head sank into my hands and I let out a long sigh.

When the waitress returned she asked us for the cop's name along with our docket numbers. "We take great care of these cops. They shouldn't be ticketing our customers, especially when they can see they're coming here."

As we ate and the minutes passed, my tilt cloud gradually lifted, though Pauly still looked at me with trepidation, as if I was an escaped mental patient or a rabid caged animal or something of that ilk.

"I can tell a lot about people by how they deal with law enforcement. You crack under pressure." Pauly said, pointing a finger at my nose.

"No, that's not it at all. I thrive under pressure. This ticket is just so profoundly annoying and will be a total pain in the ass to deal with" I explained. "See this is one of those things you have to know about me Pauly. Bullshit like this happens to me and I'm a total mess. But just for ten minutes. And no one, I mean no one should be around me in those ten minutes. There should be a fucking force field around me or something when I'm like that. I tilt hard, and I get so fucking mad and I want to kill people and smash things-- but only within those ten minutes. Then it passes and I can laugh again."

Just as the words escaped my mouth, a tall, slender blonde in a cropped camouflage hoodie and tight jeans walked past our table, sucking on a cherry lollipop. Pauly's jaw dropped and he wiped a droplet of drool off his bottom lip before he turned to me and shook his head in bewliderment bordering on near-disbelief.

"God, I love this fuckin' town" he said, with a lascivious grin.

And I could laugh again.

Playing the Rush

I'm on a rush. My apologies to anyone who's on a bad streak at the moment, but at least for the last week, I've been beating up cash games like I haven't in almost a year. My bankroll is cresting to a new height, and if I hadn't pissed away a couple hundred in tournament buyins, I'd really be dancing the horah around the living room right now. 3-6 limit holdem at Stars has been good to me. So has the $200 NL at Commerce, despite the awful blind structure. It's $3-5 blinds with a default preflop raise in the $20-25 range. But this post taught me what I need to know.

My most satisfying gambling victories this week, however, have been in various proposition bets and heads-up matches with Pauly . A race to 5 in Roshambo won me a free breakfast, a cocky "one-shot-only, none of this race to 5 crap" Roshambo won me a free lunch, and three consecutive NL heads-up victories yielded me a lovely chicken parmesan at the Italian restaurant on the corner of the block I grew up on. I guess I didn't tilt him too much, because he made me the kickass banner at the top of the page while I was napping this afternoon. Thanks Doc!

So between the welcome distraction of Pauly's visit, some winning sessions at the tables, and all of the exciting travel plans I'm making for the next couple of months (Vegas, Bonnaroo, a possible east coast swing), I'm rather enjoying this whole unemployment thing. But I know it's not forever. I've been in and out of casinos, sleeping through daylight and partying til dawn. I've forgotten what day it is on more than one occasion. I have not read an issue of Variety or the Hollywood Reporter in more than three weeks. I haven't done that in almost 10 years.

What is going on here?

A lot of people in my life are wondering the same thing. Here's what they're asking:

The Top 5 questions I've been asked since getting shitcanned:

1. So when are you going to start looking for another job? - my father

You're on my case about this already? Sheesh. Can a girl have a break after nearly seven years of indentured servitude to egotistical Academy-Award winning billionaires? OK, I know I'm going to need to find some way to earn a living beyond the next 6 or so months. I'm not that deluded. But in Hollywood, it's not like you just open the classifieds. When Charlie lost his first executive job many moons ago, he was out of work for 8 1/2 months. There aren't a helluva lot of executive gigs out there, and when they do come around, one only gets in the door via whispers and word of mouth and intense networking. I have a very solid resume for someone my age, not to mention a lot of people who owe me favors, and I think once I do get in those rooms, I'll do just fine. I always have in the past. I just want to make sure I'm choosing the right ones. It's too important for me to take this time right now to live in the moment and slow down and breathe.

2. So you ARE going back to life as a Hollywood D-Girl? -various biz friends

Wellllll.... I didn't say that. If there's any way for me to work on a flick with Charlie or set something up myself with a writer, I'd do that in a heartbeat than going back to life in an office. It's a hard one to call right now. I'd put it at about a coinflip.

3. What about becoming a professional poker player? That's probably what you really want. -my phishy ex-intern

I have absolutley no delusions of going pro. I am too emotional, drug-addled, sensitive, and under-rolled to attempt that. You know that list in Barry Greenstein's book of all the psychological qualities that make a winning poker player? Well I have like, none of them. I will continue to play to supplement my income as I always have, but I won't be trying to completely support myself through poker. However, I will be playing live a lot more often with all this time on my hands. Hey, so far I've been doing pretty well!

4. Are you going to write more? -Pauly

Now that you've spent two weeks in this place, you can understand, even just a little, just how much this city just inspires laziness. L.A. is a city of 10 AM movies and 2 PM brunches. It's sunny every fucking day. It never sucks to be outside, even when it's raining, because of the novelty of it all. We drive everywhere and valet our cars for six bucks. It's as much a part of our culture here as Chanel bags and plastic surgery.

That said, I do want to write. I do want to find a way to work it into my life on a more permanent basis. I want to attempt a novel, even if I only have characters and themes in my head and virtually no plot. I want to just vomit it onto the page and not care. And when you slink back off to New York, that's probably just what I'll do. I hope you'll hold me to it.

5. What really did happen to that Hasidic lady's cat? -Daddy

His name was Schlomo. He was gray with long fur. And that's all I can really talk about due to some impending legal action.

On a Freeway in Los Angeles

"When I was a kid, I didn't just want Wil Wheaton's career. I wanted to BE Wil Wheaton." -Showcase

We were passing the Normandie exit when the red truck pulled alongside my car on the 10 East. Pauly had just passed me the tiny glass bowl and I leaned in for a toke as my knee steadied the steering wheel. As I exhaled, Pauly burst into laughter and pointed at the pair of Mexican guys that were giving us the thumbs-up through the window, holding aloft their own tiny glass bowl and sporting shit-eating grins. After a little over a week in Los Angeles, I think Pauly finally understands why so many Southern Californians love weed.

"You people all have to be high to deal with this fuckin' traffic."

Even a few short trips down I-5 titled poor Spaceman to no end. My city is not for some. He showed me a series of photographs he had taken of a bonfire in his backyard, which is really not a backyard, but acres and acres of fields and rolling hills. I could see all over his face just how much he missed it.

With my temporary roommate Pauly down at the Commerce every day covering the WPT, my actual roommate Showcase on a cruise ship in Mexico with Ricky Schroeder, and really no current structure to the life I am living, I've spent a large portion of the last week playing poker, from Poker Stars (where I just turned SILVER) to the Commerce Casino NL tables, to Murderer's Row. I sat out the tournament portion of the evening over at HDouble's last Friday, but bought into the cash game and proceeded to win what a few believed was the single largest pot in Murderer's Row history.

Columbine. It's a 4-way all-in. AA vs. JJ vs. 78o vs. snowman-taterlegs on a 783 flop. Ephro of course had the taters. Rini had one of the big pairs and gazed at the felt in utter disbelief, glassy-eyed and weaving heavily from his Heineken-laced bloodstream as I tabled my top two pair to rake in a pot worth over $250. I couldn't fucking believe it. And this, after a horrible beat I put on the Geek when he got his money in with two small pair and my AA spiked a set on the turn. This must be how Katkin feels every week.

Sofia, of course, was in rare form. After all, this is the woman who had me in stitches only three hours after being shitcanned from my job. At one point after more than a few beers, she looked over at Rick Wampler, who was smiling shyly after dragging a pot.

"Oh, look at Reek. He's so cute I want to breastfeed him. Sorry, Henry."

I really should work on my Sweidish accent now that I have lots of time on my hands. Sofia tells me I always sound German when I try to do her voice.

I hit Commerce with Pauly yesterday. I met him in the lobby after driving over because I couldn't get up to the tournament room without a press pass. Gotta protect those celebs from their stalkers. He introduced me to Steve Hall, formerly of Poker Pages, who, no joke, was toting an autographed Liz Lieu poster. What a goddamn cliche.

While Wil was up in the tournament ballroom, collecting chips in the WPT Invitational and trying to bust Scientologists for $27 each, I sat in a juicy $200 NL game downstairs. A burly, vaguely Phishy dude in a black Card Sharx shirt sat two to my right. He had a shock of what looked like recently un-dreadlocked hair, and the scowl of a man already on his third rebuy.

"Goddamn it. I mean JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! All night I get these great hands and on the flop? NOTHING. You people think it's skill? It's all luck, man." He slammed his fist on the edge of the table before digging into his pocket for another two Benjamins. His friend joined us, taking the empty seat on my immediate right. Phishy guy's friend freaked me out a little bit, not because he was creepy or anything, but because he looked a helluva lot like my evil ex-boss the Big Man. Same beady eyes and leathery skin and gelled hair. There was stubble on his arms and wrists, which made me wonder if he was one of those dudes who shave all their body hair.

As much as he brought back bad memories, the Big Man's doppleganger was the fish of the table, passing his companion's lack of skill by leaps and bounds. As he talked about all the great "suited hands" he was picking up, I could see Ricardo, a jovial, thirtysomething Latino guy I'd played a few sessions with this week literally licking his chops at the thought of busting this dude. I like Ricardo a lot. He's fun to play with and I've never seen him in a bad mood, even when losing. He's also one of those guys that folds if I make so much as a move toward my checks on the river. I'd say at least half of what I took home last night was collected during that very scenario, and I rarely had anything better than an ace high.

After cashing out, I had a drink in the bar with Pauly and Wil, who was celebrating his survival to Day 2 of the Invitational. Though Wil and I had met briefly on my infamous night in the MGM Grand back at the blogger gathering in December, I had barely any recollection of it, and given the Soco-soaked state I was in, it's probably all for the best. Wil did his mentor, Lee Jones, proud-- check-raising ex-sitcom actors with aplomb and calculating his M with lightning-fast precision. He was confident about his play, save for one laydown against Jason Alexander that he questioned. Wil's a cool guy. And he really is "just a geek."

Wil would go on to outlast every celebrity in the event, finishing 23rd. His finish also managed to get Pauly out of trouble with some shifty nihilist Norwegians. Read all about it on the best damn live blog in the business.

Speaking of the doctor, I hope to get the both of us outdoors and into the sunshine this weekend. Aside from my hasidic Jewish neighborhood on the fringes of Beverly Hills, the walls of a South L.A. cardbarn and a twenty-mile ribbon of congested freeway, the poor guy hasn't been able to see much since his arrival. Though he israther fond of the palm trees outside my window. The other morning he told me he forgot where he was until he saw one swaying in the wind.

And though I have made him cookies, I still owe him a lasagna.

The Family Showcase

If you haven't already, get yourselves over to the Tao of Poker for the grooviest tournament coverage on the web. While I sit here watching the rain, playling online and taking the slacker lifestyle to new heights, Pauly is out at the Commerce Casino working his ass off to bring us all the highlights of the 2006 LA Poker Classic. If there's a spectacular suckout or a quality fistfight, Pauly's gonna have the scoop. Spaceman is also in town, bad back and all, reporting live for Bluff.

Showcase's family is in town today, as they're all about to embark on a week-long family cruise to the Mexican Riviera. His brother, Hoboken, stayed with us last night. He dabbles in poker, so maybe I'll get to angle him into a heads-up match. Showcase's mom is a trip. The epitome of a nervous Jewish mother, it's easy to see where Showcase gets his sharp sense of humor as well as his entire bag of neuroses. Mama Showcase is quite the white-knuckle flier, usually requiring a cocktail of sedatives to get her onto an airplane. A little bit ago she asked me to look up a satellite weather map for the Pacific Coast in order to check the wave conditions. And not for surfing, mind you.

"Are you really doing this to her?" Showcase queried, exasperated.

"I just wanna know if the water's going to be choppy while we're at sea."

"It's a freakin' CRUISE SHIP! You're not going to feel any waves!"

Showcase then sat down with his mom and gave her a tour of his J-Date profile. This, I thought, was a terrible idea. Here's a whole catalogue of potential daughers-in-law, Ma. Take your pick! Naturally they disagreed about almost every lady Showcase pointed out.

"Hey what about this girl?"

"No."

"Tell me, Mom. What is wrong with this girl?"

"She's black."

Mama Showcase would definitely approve of the girl Showcase has been seeing over the last couple of weeks. I met her and I could see us being friends. And she's a nice Jewish girl. Even though it's only been a couple of dates for them, I already have quite a bit riding on this relationship in various prop bets with a certain doctor.

Murderer's Row game tonight. I'm skipping the tourney to have dinner with Showcase's family, but I'll be there in plenty of time for the cash game. Wil was supposed to be making a special appearance, but I've since heard from unidentified sources that his plans have changed.

Pussy.

Bad Beat by Babs

"Not as gay as I expected." -Pauly on Showcase

Yup, those two met last night. I think they got along pretty well. Unfortunately, Showcase couldn't stick around for long because he had to head out to a rehearsal for a play that he's doing next month, directed by one of our pot dealers. Only in L.A.

Pauly and I spent the afternoon at what is about to become his second home for the next couple of weeks-- the Commerce Casino. I immediately rang up Ryan upon our arrival, mentally putting him at about a 3-1 favorite to be up in the tournament room. Sure enough he was, on a break from a $1K super satellite to the LAPC main event. We chatted for a while on the upstairs terrace before Pauly went off to play in the media tournament and I jumped into a cash game.

I sat in a 4-8 game that was rockish by Commerce standards, and by that I mean four people going to the flop instead of seven. It was still relatively early in the afternoon and there wasn't even a 6-12 game going yet. In the first hour and a half I won one huge pot and lost one huge pot, leaving me $9 up before I went upstairs to check on Pauly's progess.

When I found his table, they were already down to three: Pauly, three-time WSOP bracelet winner Barbara Enright, and some sweaty fat dude in a white shirt. One of the Commerce's typically ugly horse trophies had been brought out and placed on the table. Though Pauly looked to be second in chips when I got there, he went out in third place when he called Barbara Enright's all in with K3. Enright showed Q5, but turned a 5 for the suckout. At least he got in with the best of it. Bad beated by Babs. First prize was a seat in next week's WPT Invitational, but Pauly left with only a T-shirt.

After taking a smoke break to decompress, we signed up for 4-8 and got seated at the same table, but played the whole "we don't know each other" routine. Pauly sat in the 9s, I was in the 5s. I'm not sure if I was playing looser than usual or if I was just getting a lot of starting hands worth a limp, but I was seeing a lot of flops. I missed a nut flush draw right off the bat after picking up A2d in the BB. That was a big pot. Then I won a big one with a set of nines. Then I lost all of that when my top set went down to runner runner straight. Then I won some of it back when I actually sucked out on someone rivering a higher flush than the one he turned. Then it all went away again after my 2 pair lost to pocket queens spiking a two-outer for a set on the river. I was up and down, up and down. but mostly up. I had built up a nice profit of around $130 when this hand came up.

It's folded to me in the cutoff and I raise with AJo. The fat, white-haired dude on my left folds, the small blind folds, and Pauly calls from the BB. He checks in the dark with a smirk and we're heads-up to a J52 flop. Great flop for me. I bet and he calls. The call doesn't mean a helluva lot to me because I know he'd take one off here with a very wide range of hands. He's also Pauly, and I know he'd like to beat me a hand so he can lord it over me for days to come. Either that, or he's calling with lower pocket pair or even a jack, but his kicker isn't as good as mine, and I'm gonna get him on the big streets anyway. Turn is an 8. He checks again and I bet. He raises. Rrrrrreaaallly? What's he got here? 99? TT? Those make a lot of sense to me. I'd pop it with nines or tens myself. KJ? Even better. I three-bet it and he looks at me, his jaw open in bewliderment. He calls the bet and the river is a blank. He bets and I call. I turn over my AJ, fully expecting to see the pot shipped my way. I'm mentally spending the money until Pauly turns over his J8s for two fucking pair.

Motherfucker. At least I dumped off forty or so bucks to him rather than some douchebag in sunglasses. Both of us left up, in the +70 range and grabbed a bite at the diner near my place.

Spaceman just got into town as well. He'll be covering the LA Poker Classic for Bluff. He's on his way over here and I hope my freeway directions were clear enough for my favorite Tennessee boy. Right now, though, in this moment, the scene is pretty funny. Pauly and I, side by side on my green couch, each of us on our laptops, pecking out posts. I think I've really gotta stop now and take a bong hit because it's really too geeky for words.

In the Middle of the Day

I just saw Phil Gordon's Hooters Hold'em commercial. Wow. His stock just dropped WAY down for me. I can't even imagine the shit the Tiltboys, not to mention his Canadian girlfriend are giving him for it. Don't get me wrong, he's still dreamy. But sheesh, selling out to a titty-themed corporate wing joint-turned-casino? On the other hand, the new Full Tilt TV spots are pretty great. I love the Lederer/Seidel one with Erik's seven clanking bracelets.

I cleaned out my entire office this weekend in just under three hours. I threw almost everything out and carried home the balance in four bankers boxes that are still in the backseat of my car. I don't even know what most of it is and I have to bulldoze away some space for it in the corner of my bedroom that is about to become a makeshift office. I've been writing a lot this week, but in random locations around the apartment. The dining room table. In my bed. But primarily, on the couch in the living room while exploring the wasteland of American Daytime Television.

I was sorely disappointed to discover that the cable reruns of Dawson's Creek that used to soothe me on sick days had been replaced by a slew of bad Warner Brothers movies from the late 90's. Without my Capeside fix to get me through the morning, I turned instead to jewels like The Maury Povich Show which featured a "reformed" teen bad-girl on a return visit to the show, her whoary garb of the past replaced by a demure cardigan and slacks. Maury explained that our little Lolita was about to find out if a certain pimply skater-looking boy was indeed the father of her now 3-year old daughter. AND that he was the 15th guy they had tested! God Bless America.

So being unemployed is sort of fun for now. I've always wondered who those people walking around L.A. in the middle of the day, sitting in cafes and shopping and going to 1 PM movies were. Now I'm one of them. I'm certainly in the right habitat for it. I've heard Showcase audibly growl at me in jealousy as he trudges off to his day job each morning.

Pauly is on a plane right now, on his way here. What a way to start off a couple of months of freedom than a two-week stretch of degeneracy with the good doctor, huh? I'm going to make him a lasagna. And maybe some cookies. I think he was a little cross with me last night when I doubled through him on a donkey $50 NL table on Poker Stars. He limped and I raised preflop with 88. I'd been raising a lot of pots and had just doubled through on another poor soul, so I had a bit of a maniac image. The flop came JJT. Pauly bet close to the pot and I raised. Then he pushed all in. I called in a shot. I just knew I had him-- he wanted to push me off the hand and show his two threes, but I was so sure I had him.

"How the fuck do you call there?" he wrote.
"'Cause I knew I had u beat ;) "

He got his revenge and doubled back through me later on with an ace high flush vs. my king high flush. We both left up a couple of buy-ins. I'll take it. I've been subscribing to the hit & run theory lately, and it's been working so far.

That's all for now. I have a tomato sauce to make.

Dining Out in the Aftermath

I’m touched...overwhelmed...floored by everyone’s kind words, calls, and emails. Though I’ve been pushed clear out of the sky, I feel almost as if I’ve landed on feathers because of the incredible people in my life. I’ve been hugged, soothed, cooked for, smoked up, taken out, gifted with bottles of scotch, and dined on one of the most succulent bone-in rib-eyes of my life in recent days. I’ve been back to my office exactly once, to retrieve my immediate personal stuff and pick up my cell phone charger, which I’d left in the wall. Everything was exactly as I’d left it the minute I left for that fateful meeting, down to the Johnny Cash album I’d paused on iTunes when I got the phone call. I grabbed my photos, a few books, some financial documents, and a number of assorted blazers and suit jackets and Banana Republic button-down shirts that had found their way onto hangers behind my door. No one saw me, and I was in and out of there in fifteen minutes.

I was pretty numb all weekend. Not angry, not sad or depressed or anything like that. More just shocked and bewildered and unable to focus on anything really. I went on a mini-bender and played poker badly while thankfully not bleeding away too much money. I had long conversations with Charlie and Bean and Showcase and Pauly. After breaking the news Friday night, I avoided talking to my family. My mother took it worse than I did, descending into quivery-voiced hystronics, which turned into me calming HER down, which kind of upset me even more.

The sun rose on Monday morning and I officially crossed over into life as an unemployed D-Girl. I rolled out of bed around 10, precisely the same time that everyone would be shuffling into the Monday morning staff meeting. I fired up a joint and wrote for a couple of hours, returned a bunch of phone calls, and then got a bunch of phone calls, mainly from confused people I used to work with who wanted to know what the fuck was going on. By lunchtime I’d had enough. I threw some stuff in a bag and got in my car. It was warm and clear and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some sunshine and spend my first day of freedom outside.

Only my car would not start. What a goddamn joke.

The car went to the shop and Charlie bought me dinner later that night. He beat me to the restaurant and I found him at the bar, polishing off the last of the three olives he always ordered with his martini. He looked good. He always has, but since his own exodus from those hallways over 2 years ago, he’s lost maybe 40 pounds and ten years off his face. He hopped off the barstool and pulled me into his arms.

“I am so glad you’re out of that toxic fucking place ” His green eyes twinkled and I squeezed him back, laughing. Charlie flagged down the bartender and I ordered my own martini, swapping out the olives for a twist of lemon. I hate olives.

It sounds cheesy, but Charlie is like the older brother I never had. I grew up taking care of so many people that I have a really hard time allowing others to take care of me. Yet Charlie has had my back since the moment we met 6 years ago. He was a studio executive and I was a 22-year old intern for a coked-out producer with a deal on the lot. I needed a full-time gig and I heard Charlie needed an assistant. I got one of the coked-out producer’s D-Boys to hook me up with an interview. Even though I was utterly green and he had no reason to hire me, we clicked from the get-go and would stick together for over a year at the studio and then for three more at the Big Man’s. It took maybe two weeks before we were finishing each other’s sentences and bickering like old friends.

In a town where most executives are loathe to let anyone on the come in on their secrets, Charlie threw open the book. He taught me everything I know about story and structure and how to talk to writers and how to write great notes. He got me to trust my taste and not sweat the small stuff. He’s someone who truly appreciates cinema, reveres its history, stays up night after night thinking about it and dreaming up ideas. He put me on projects and took me to location and stood up for me at every turn. I drank it all in, aware at every moment how lucky I was to work for someone so caring in a business so cruel. Charlie and I fit perfectly and I loved every day we worked together, through a dozen films, three addresses apiece, two parents with cancer and the birth of both his children. After Charlie left to produce on his own and I got my promotion, we became perhaps even closer friends. We’d grown up together. And now, with both of us on the other side of our years on Wilshire Blvd., we clinked glasses over the mahogany bar of a legendary L.A. steakhouse, toasting my freedom.

We talked about surviving outside the Hollywood system while I dove into a medium-rare bone-in ribeye that moved me in ways that usually only good sex, great drugs, or winning a shitload of money can. I mean, this steak was like a religious experience. Succulent, juicy, maybe an inch thick. The garlic roasted potatoes weren’t bad either.

Charlie and I closed down the place. The valet came inside to give us our keys because he was calling it a night. The waitresses were counting their tip money and the bartenders re-racking glasses. We walked out onto a nearly-deserted Santa Monica Boulevard, a light fog blurring a string of green lights extending for what looked like miles.

“Do you remember what I told you was the first commandment of this business?”
“Never underestimate Hollywood’s ability to disappoint you.”
“That’s why you’re going to be OK. That’s why you’ll make it in the end if that’s what you want. You already get that and you’re still so young. Most people in this town will never get it.”
“Oh stop it, you’ll make me blush.”
“Call me later.”

Charlie squeezed my shoulder and headed for his silver minivan.

“Hey Charlie.”
“Yeah?”
“Is it weird that right now I don’t feel that scared?”
“No. But you’ll probably freak out in a week or two.”

I gave Hollywood my twenties and all I got was this lousy severance check

At 5:30 this afternoon, I got fired.

Yeah, you're reading that right.

About two weeks ago, the president of the company asked me to meet with him privately and for undisclosed reasons. I had no idea what it was going to be about, and his assistants didn't have any clues to offer me. I freaked out a little, thinking it was gonna be bad news, but after a number of conversations with my ex-boss Charlie and a few friends familiar with our company politics, I changed my mind. I became convinced it was something benign. Then the meeting got cancelled. And it wasn't rescheduled. I breathed a little easier. Two entire weeks went by. Then the meeting went back on my books again this morning. I had almost forgotten about it.

One of my peers at work, a guy who was promoted at the same time and to the same level I was had the same meeting on his schedule. I was still thinking it was something innocuous, like a new project, or a title bump or something of that ilk. He wasn't so convinced.

"I really don't have a good feeling about this." His usual New York tough-guy facade was crumbling.
"I'll bet you a dollar it's nothing bad."
"OK, you're on."

Something inside of me shifted when I looked in his eyes and shook his hand after he took the bet so quickly. It's like when you're at the table with pocket nines and the flop comes king high or something and the old rock falling asleep in the 1s leads at you. Something told me my hand wasn't good anymore.

It was only 3:15 so I still had a good two hours to freak out to various individuals in my life before getting called down there. I talked to Charlie and he offered me 5-1 that I wasn't getting fired. I took the action. Showcase sent me an email letting me know he picked up freshies for the weekend and wrote as like a funny ha- ha joke "P.S. I hope you don't get fired." I read the same eight pages of a script three seperate times before giving up and flinging it against the wall.

My phone rang at twenty after five. The ex-reality show cast member assistant to the president of the company told me that I should come down. I walked out my office door, down the hallway, took the shortcut through the file room into the side hallway, and crossed myself before punching in the combination on the CIA-style keypad to get into the main hallway. Mr. President was standing right outside his office as I arrived. We went inside and he shut the door.

"I wish I was calling you down here to tell you good news, but I'm not, so I'm going to be very direct about this. We're letting you go."

I couldn't look him in the face anymore. I felt like I'd been smacked by a truck and thrown fifty yards. My brow furrowed and my eyes wandered down to this ugly little southwestern-stlye rug he had spread out beneath the coffee table. It was blue and orange and looked faded from the sun. I stared at the rug and the wooden legs of the table as I heard phrases like "It has nothing to do with intelligence or performance" and "you're not the only one this is happening to" and "The Big Man just wanted to make some big changes." I couldn't process anything. I had played this scenario out in my head dozens of times in flights of perverted fancy but I never thought it would go down like this. At 5:30 on a Friday with no warning less than two months after a stellar year-end evaluation.

We go through life often not knowing when certain moments will be the last of their kind. Not knowing that the hug you gave to your college roommate on graduation day would be the last one you'd ever share. That the half-hour visit you paid your grandmother before getting on that plane back to school would be the last time you'd see her alive. That the lazy morning sex with him on that Tuesday would be the last time for the two of you. I certainly didn't get up today thinking today would be my last day of employment at a place I've given the last five years of my life to.

I walked around Beverly Hills for a long time in stunned silence. After a few blocks, I called Showcase. He thought I was joking when I told him what happened. Then he said something that seven seperate people would say to me in the hours to come as I broke the news:

"I really think this is a blessing in disguise for you."

You know, it really may be. It's no secret I wasn't happy there. You all certainly know that. But despite my obvious discontent, I was still damned good at my job. My writers loved me and respected my notes. I'm just not a typical Hollywood person. I'm not a perfect fit into this industry. And that's fine. I like who I am. I'm not ready to change that for a bunch of showbiz fucktards.

The level I'd reached within the company essentially demanded that I drink the Kool-Aid. Give into the lifestyle. Make Hollywood more or less a 24-hour job. Make the Big Man's problems my problems and care about them deeply despite the fact that I know he's a mercurial egomaniac who will never give a shit about anyone who works for him. I resisted the Kool Aid as much as I could for as long as I could and he knew that. In an environment where no one tells him "no" and everyone bends over backwards to kiss his ass, the Big Man had to understand, even in the smallest way, that I had his number.

I'm still in a ridiculous amount of shock, but I'll be OK. I even went to play in the Murderer's Row game tonight to get my mind off it all. I have to kick my poker game into some serious gear now that I have no other regular income!

I am unemployed for the first time in my entire life. I've worked nonstop since graduating college, barely stopping for a vacation let alone an extended break. I haven't updated my resume in 6 1/2 years because I haven't needed to. It's strange having so much responsiblity evaporate in an instant. I have no idea what I'm going to do, or even if I'm going to go back to the industry. No immediate plans. For at least this week, I'm just floating free.