American Idol Season 9, Week 3: Shut Up and Sing

Back in the day, she was on "Barney & Friends"

What's the line Simon Cowell so loves to use when debating a contestant's merit? Oh yeah, I remember.

It's a SINGING competition.

With three excruciating weeks of American Idol auditions in the bag, it doesn't remotely feel like one.

Instead, it's Welfare Check Idol. Breeder Idol. Terminal Disease Idol.

Andrew Garcia, I don't care if your parents moved you out of Gang Land to give you a better life. Can you sing? (In this case he can, and would have advanced, sob story or not).

Christian Spear, I'm very sorry you got leukemia when you were 4. But the fact that you hung it around your neck actually turned me off from your performance. And you're a damned good singer too. Only 16 and you can sing Etta James like that?

Chris Golightly, it sucks that you were raised in two dozen different foster homes. But you're 25 now. Get over it.

"This is not a Lifetime Movie, sweetheart... you have to have talent," said Katy Perry as Golightly finished an unimpressive audition.

Thank God someone out there understands what I'm talking about.

Still, Foster-Care Boy is going to Hollywood. It'll really suck for him when he's cut and FOX is done exploiting his "story."

This week's episodes also made me remember why Idol tends to avoid Los Angeles on the audition tour: my city is full of desperate faker actors willing to do ANYTHING for a minute on national television. Anything.

Like the scary fag in the rubberized rugby shirt who screamed his way through a Cheap Trick song.

Like Mr. Creepypants Jason Greene who huffed and puffed his way through "I Touch Myself."

Like Neil, that scary fucking dude who raided Kathy Liebert's wardrobe for his audition outfit.

Thank God for the dominatrix chick who used to be on Barney & Friends or I might have just deleted all this dreck from my DVR straight away.

"If she doesn't make it to Hollywood, there's always the pole," said Pauly. "And she lives in Dallas. She's good-looking so maybe we'll see her at the Lodge."

The only reason I'm looking forward to next week? I hear everyone's favorite hippie orphan Rose Flack makes a return appearance at the Denver auditions.

American Idol Season 9, Week 2: Glitter and Be Gay

Theo Glinton, ready for String Cheese tour

This week's double installment of American Idol auditions featured a black man covered in glitter, a chick who could flex her boobs, more sob stories and at least one arrest. You know, just another day at the office for Simon, Randy, Kara, and their rotating cast of guest judges. Those seats were filled by country songstress Shania Twain in the Chicago round and so-adorable-I-want-to-squeeze-her Broadway dynamo Kristin Chenoweth in Orlando.

Chicago wasn't too fruitful when it came to the talent. Only 13 Idol hopefuls earned a golden ticket and naturally, most of them had tragic pasts to go with their silken voices.

Poor little Katelyn Epperly's father left her and her Momma this summer. Momma always wanted Katelyn to audition for Idol and now that Daddy's gone, Momma's looking for a new meal ticket. After launching into a mini-therapy session with the judges, Katelyn tore up a Duffy song and made it through. Guess what, sugar. Your voice was good enough and you didn't need to take your Daddy issues national. OK?

Another one who didn't need the sob story? Paige Dechausse, who had an near-fatal asthma attack during a voice lesson at age 15. She sang Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come" better than I've ever heard a white girl do it and earned three votes with Simon as the lone naysayer. Again-- I don't care about your tragic past. Just fucking sing.

I'll also be watching out for 16-year old Charity Vance. The Arkansas teen works at the family hair salon. She even performs in the salon for the customers. Seriously, we're only one insulin attack and a grumpy dog away from Steel Magnolias here. But she can sing, and punched her ticket to Hollywood with a delicate soprano version of "Summertime."

The tragic stories didn't stop in Orlando. We met Seth Rollins, who has an autistic son. Oh, and money problems of course. Oh, and he's 28 so it's his last shot at this. As he talks to the camera the gloomy organ intro to Coldplay's overwrought ballad "Fix You" plays over his sob story. Once actually inside the audition room, he sang "Someone to Watch Over Me" and though Rollins can certainly carry a tune, he's no superstar. Despite his glaring lack of stage presence, he gets a unanimous vote into Hollywood (as the anthemic guitar-heavy bridge to "Fix You" plays in the b.g. Vomit.)

My favorite Orlando Idol hopeful had to be Theo Glinton (pictured above). With dozens of tiny mirrors and feathers glued to the right side of his face and a black and silver cape this dude was totally ready for Sting Cheese tour. However, after growling his way through Pat Benatar's "Heartbreaker," he was tossed out of the room in tears.

Then, after a redneck was escorted out of the building in handcuffs for refusing to leave the audition room, an actual felon closed the show. Matt Lawrence robbed a bank with a BB gun and spent four years in jail. Now he wants to be the next American Idol. He turned in a decent cover of Ray LaMontagne's "Trouble"--nothing special really--but Simon Cowell dubbed him the frigging second coming of country music and he flew out of the room, golden ticket in hand. Now, make sure and call your parole officer before leaving the state for Hollywood Week. OK, Matt?

Next week, the Idol judges descend upon the City of Angels to pluck a few more troubled, talented faces from the crowd and from the previews, it looks like the guest judges will be Avril Lavigne and that chick who looks like Zooey Deschanel and sings the "I Kissed a Girl" song. Stay tuned.

Otis vs. St. Francis Hospital

Last year, my mother had a heart attack. She didn't even know it was a heart attack while she was having it. She thought she had a respiratory infection and that's why she was having such trouble breathing.

My father called me that morning and told me she wasn't feeling well. He asked me to check in on her and bring her some lunch. The request raised a red flag for me. He wouldn't ask me to do something like that unless it was serious, so I picked up some food and drove across town.

What breathing my mother could accomplish that afternoon was pained and raspy. She could barely get the food down and eating isn't exactly something we have a problem doing in my family. I didn't know what was wrong with her but one thing was for sure. This was no freaking respiratory infection.

She and my father had thought about taking her to the Quick Care in West L.A. the night before, but knew the visit would cost them thousands of dollars with the shitty HMO coverage they had; the only plan she could get approved for after years of history with skin cancer.

I didn't give a shit. After offering to take her in myself and getting rejected, I implored her to have my father take her in when he came home from work. Then I got on the phone with him and told him the same thing.

24 hours later, my mother had a 95% blockage removed from her central coronary artery at UCLA hospital.

Almost a year later, they're still trying to pay for it all. Insurance covered some, but not all of the mid-five figures in costs they acquired. And insurance covers hardly any of the hundreds of dollars a month she has to fork out now for meds.

My parents do the right thing. If anything, they do the right thing too often. And Otis did the right thing too, almost exactingly so when he tried to pre-pay for his youngest son's birth in an act of fiscal responsibility my credit-rating challenged self can barely fathom.

Read Otis' story St. Francis Hospital: The Real Cost of Having a Baby and tell me you don't want to punch a bureaucrat by the end.

My country needs real health care reform, and badly. My mom needs to stop living in fear of losing the little health insurance she still has by getting sick again. And people like me and the estimated 25% of Americans who are freelancers, independent contractors, or part-time workers need access to the kind of coverage our corporate worker bee peers enjoy.

For the record, I have a lot of problems with the bill out there. Frankly, I don't think anyone should be forced to pad the insurance industry's already overflowing coffers by being required to purchase coverage from them (only to get denied for shit later, just like Otis and my mom).

But something needs to be done. Read Otis' post and see if you don't agree with me (and I'm sure you will tell me if you don't, comments are right down there).

PokerStars WBCOOP 2010

I'll be donking it up. Hope to see many of my scribbling brethren there!

I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker! This PokerStars tournament is a No Limit Texas Hold’em event exclusive to Bloggers, you too can take part by registering on WBCOOP

Registration code: 383794

American Idol Season 9, Week 1: A Tale of Two Cities

Atlanta's "Guitar Girl"

Boston and Atlanta. Chowder and Hush Puppies. Italian mama's boys and country bumpkins. These two disparate locations were the first stops on American Idol's ninth annual nationwide audition tour, where the usual dish of humiliation and ridicule seasoned with just a dash of real talent was served up to the Fox-watching public.

Every year I wish for the audition episodes to be over with quickly and 2010 is no different. It's not so much the mentally challenged hot messes that are trotted in front of the cameras for their dose of nationwide humiliation, that I despise. There's a fast-forward button for that. It's the sob stories. You know someone's heading to Hollywood if their (a) sick grandparent (b) disabled sibling (c) triumph over disease or (d) perilous financial situation gets a featurette.

In Boston, we watched 16-year old Maddy Curtis turn in a sweet, if nervous rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Halleluljah," but only after we learned about her two brothers with Down's Syndrome. Katie Stevens ripped the hell out of "At Last" but not until we heard about how she takes care of her Althzheimers-ridden grandmother. Some dude who got cancer at age 20 did a cheesy rendition of the Michael Buble arrangement of "Feeling Good" and got his ticket stamped.

Plight/disease/hardship + passable voice = Golden Ticket.

Of course we also saw a parade of attractive girls with karaoke bar voices get put through in Boston, but here are the people I'll be watching:

- Tyler, the drummer who fell out of a tree and broke his hands. He has a huge soul voice and teenage girls will fawn over him.

- Amadeo, the enormous Italian dude who growled his way through a Muddy Waters tune. Pauly wasn't as convinced of his roots-rock potential.

"He could play the bar at the Mohegan Sun on Tuesday nights, but that's about it."

-Ashley Rodriguez, the so-commercial-it-hurts Rosario Dawson lookalike who demonstrated some serious technique on Alicia Keys' "If I Ain't Got You."

-Leah Laurenti, whose clear, jazzy rendition of "Blue Skies" was right up my alley.

In Atlanta, we met Keisha the buck-toothed beauty queen, a singing cop, and "Skiiboski," but the one tune we'll all be singing this morning was brought to us by a 62-year old black man who was given a courtesy audition so America could hear what is sure to be a YouTube smash-- "Pants on the Ground."

PANTS ON THE GROUND! PANTS ON THE GROUND! LOOKIN' LIKE A FOOL WITH YOUR PANTS ON THE GROUND! Sing it with me!

The only two I'm curious to follow from the Atlanta lot are Jermaine (who totally killed that Joan Osbourne song) and the above-pictured "Guitar Girl." I'd like to party with her in the lot of a Widespread Panic show.

Next week? Two more disparate locales. The frozen tundra of Chicago and Disney-fied Orlando.

UPDATE: Of course, a "Pants on the Ground" remix has already hit the internets. Check it out below. RSS readers, you'll have to click through.



UPDATE #2: Less than 24 hours after the show aired, some contestants' criminal pasts are already coming to light thanks to the ambulance-chasers at TMZ. Apparently our boy "Skiiboski" has five prior arrests in the state of Florida and five mug shots to go with them.

Check out the Skiboski mug shots here.

Team Conan

Jeff Zucker should be tarred and feathered in the middle of the intersection of Alameda and Olive for all of NBC to see. In Hollywood's latest gross example of failing upward, Zucker, by making a batshit-crazy TWO YEAR, "IRON-CLAD" commitment to having Jay Leno occupy five hours of primetime real estate, obliterated not only the 10 p.m. network television drama, but has ignited a late-night TV tornado that will leave nothing but broken contracts, and pricey eight-figure penalties in its path.

I'm on Team Conan. He's a smart, hard-working guy who uprooted not only his own family, but the families of his entire writing staff to make the journey west and helm the Tonight Show, an honor he had dreamed of for most of his life. Everyone in Hollywood knows what a colossal douchebag Jay Leno is. And even if Conan's jokes don't always soar, he deserves so much more than the bullshit NBC is giving him now.

"He actually respects the chair," Pauly said, referring to O'Brien's shot-across-the-bow letter to NBC.

O'Brien understands the roots and the history of the Tonight Show. He understands its place in the television continuum and doesn't want to see a mockery made of the show by greedy executives trying not to trigger contract penalties.

Check out Conan O'Brien's full statement here.

Oh and guess what? American Idol is back tonight. Though I've long lost the fanaticism I one had for the show, I still watch. And since this will be Simon Cowell (and thus, I imagine, the show's) final season, I guess I'll have to blog it. So stay tuned.

Christmas Decorations that Boggle the Mind

Why is Santa carrying a decapitated reindeer head on a stick?

Why is this cat walking upright? And carrying a cake?

Happy Happy Merry Merry

71,987 Miles

71,987 miles. That's the balance on the frequent flier account I opened 11 months ago with American Airlines. And I still have two trans-continental trips and a bunch of bonuses still left to post.

That's a lot of time on an airplane. And I'm about to get on another. Crossing my fingers for a business class upgrade to go with the on-board wifi. Praying to whatever supreme being is up there that there isn't a screeching child sitting within five rows of me.

I spent the last week in New York City doing three things. Visiting Showcase, who migrated from West Hollywood to Midtown Manhattan last May, visiting Ben, one of my best friends for the last 15 years, and catching Phish's magnificent three-night run at Madison Square Garden. Coventry, of course has some excellent reviews from Pauly, Kid Dynamite and Mr. Fabulous.

I get only 36 hours at home to jam in a week's worth of work before I make the haul up I-15 to Las Vegas for WPBT weekend. I'll be at the tournament at Caesar's on Saturday-- get ready for Team Tao of Pot (me, my beloved, and Derek).

Whether you're venturing out on your first blogger trip or a seasoned vet, everyone should check out one of my all-time favorite Tao posts, Pauly's Bloggers Invading Las Vegas Tips.

I've come surprisingly close to breaking rule #20 in the past.

I'll see many of you this weekend. Safe travels, and don't forget to tip your waitresses.

WSOP Commissioner Jeffrey Pollack Ankles Harrah's

Jeffrey Pollack introduces the 2008 November Nine

Pauly crawled into bed around six this morning and nudged me awake. Ever since Joe Cada wrapped the Main Event bracelet around his wrist early Tuesday morning, there had been rumors that a big story was about to break in the poker world.

"Jeffrey Pollack is out."

Say what? Sure I was already horizontal and only semi-conscious, but you could have knocked me over with a feather.

The poker media lost a huge ally today in Pollack. Say what you want about exclusive media rights and all the hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing that came with it, but Pollack never censored independent voices in media row, most notably my beloved and the Tao of Poker, but also sites like Wicked Chops Poker-- not exactly the type of guys who will sugar-coat a story to satisfy a bunch of corporate suits. These guys write about the Hooker Bar, "Ass Girl" and the real, serious degen-ing that surrounds the world's most prestigious poker tournament. Pollack didn't simply allow these outlets to function, he embraced them.

Poker fashion has also lost one of its shining stars. Back in April, I named Pollack one of my Top 10 Poker Fashionistas in a piece on PokerNews. I don't know how he did it, but the man always looked fresh as a freakin' daisy, even after a 20-hour final table. Seriously, I've never seen him look bad. His pinstripe suits were always pressed, and he made bold style choices with his pastel shirts, colorful ties, and coordinating pocket squares. I even composed a haiku ode to the Commish over the November Nine weekend:

Hair cropped like Caesar
Navy suit is wrinkle-free
Real men wear pastels

The WSOP will not be the same without Jeffrey Pollack. Who is going to tweet the "Song of the Day" next year, even if it is a rotating mix of U2, Coldplay and Steely Dan?

Fare thee well Commish. And best of luck. But as you well know now, in our game, it's not about luck.

Heads-Up, At Last

"Baby/ I go crazy/ There's fever in the funk house now" -The Rolling Stones

The line to get in stretches for more than a hundred yards. People have been here since morning, waiting for their chance to witness history. They played cards, read best-sellers, and thumbed through dog-eared copies of Bluff as they waited. And waited. And waited.

Now, many of them have seats inside the Penn & Teller Theatre. Tournament Director Jack Effel is introducing the players. Jeffrey Pollack is looking sharp in one of his trademark pinstripe suits. Yellow-shirted Cada fans are continuing their two-day liquor fest as they cheer on their man. That Jack Link's Beef Jerky Sasquatch thing is wandering around. And I'm back up in the skybox with my media brethren, waiting to watch it all unfold.

Barry Greenstein predicted 28 hands. I said 66. And only a few hours from now, poker will have a new World Champion.

For hand-by-hand action and chip counts, head over to PokerNews. For all the behind the scenes flavor, hit up my beloved at the Tao of Poker where he'll be live blogging all the action.

You can also follow us on Twitter:

@change100

@taopauly

@_otis_

@benjodimeo

@alcanthang

@pokerati

@matthewparvis

@pokerprincess

WSOP November Nine Fashion Report

At the start of yesterday's 17.5-hour odyssey that left us with our final two players in the WSOP Main Event (Joe Cada, the young luckbox and Darvin Moon, the old luckbox), I penned this fashion report for the Tao of Poker. I'm a fan of group costumes, so I was tickled to see that many November Nine fans arrived to cheer for their guys in custom-made shirts. Check it out.

Darvin Moon - Everyone's favorite Maryland logger chose a black polo, jeans, and his beloved New Orleans Saints hat for his final table outfit. No logos. No patches. Nada. Personally, I was hoping for him to play up his country-bumpkin image with a plaid shirt (totally hot this fall) and overalls, his supporters all carrying mini-chainsaws that they'd rev up each time their man won a pot. Instead, Moon's rural brethren are all sporting Wheeling Casino T-shirts that say "Bad Moon Rising" on the front. Eh. Points do go to those "Moonies" who brought heads-on-sticks, featuring their man's image.

James Akenhead - "The Limey" might very well be wearing the same clothes he played Day 8 in-- a black button-down shirt and a matching black Full Tilt hat. He has fans here but they are not in costume. FAIL.

Phil Ivey - Pauly tried to get Otis to bet on the color of Ivey's Full Tilt hat, offering him the field against baby blue. Otis wisely told my beloved to go fuck himself, knowing that's the biggest sucker bet he'd be offered all day. Indeed, Ivey chose his trademark sky-blue cap, pairing it with a black button-down. His superstar entourage, including Daniel Negreanu, Barry Greenstein, Jen Harman, and sorta-freakish but totally adorable superfans Mel & Pat Humphries all have prime spots onstage.

Kevin Schaffel - Schaffel is wearing the standard PokerStars sponsored player uniform of a black Stars shirt and matching hat, paired with smart tan trousers. He's not exactly lighting the fashion world on fire with that outfit, but at least he didn't take his ninth-place money and hit up Versace for some vertigo-inducing silk shirts. Schaffel's 80 supporters are all decked out in "Schaffel Up and Deal' shirts with a cartoonish rendition of their man on the front-- the weakest of the group fan costumes, IMO.

Steve Begleiter - Begs must be at least a little superstitious because he too is in the same clothes he wore when he made the November Nine back in July-- a navy polo and a red Full Tilt hat. ESPN's continuity peeps must be happy about that choice. His fans, however, get top marks from me for their blue "BEGS, BEGS BEGS!" shirts.

Eric Buchman - Black PokerStars hat. Black PokerStars shirt. No group costumes. Moving on...

Joe Cada - While Cada is in his black PokerStars uniform, his fans went for neon with garish yellow sweatshirts that made my eyes bleed after looking at them for five minutes in the hallway. The pullovers say "Cada" on the back. Just like that, in quotes. Like it's his nickname. But it's his actual name. I'm confused.

Antoine Saout - As much as I'd have loved to see him in a beret, Saout is dressed in head-to-toe Everest swag. Snooze. His fans are packed into the stage left balcony, all wearing royal blue soccer jerseys that say "Saout" on the back (and "Everest Poker" on the front, of course). Their nationalistic pride is showing, as a number of French flags have been spotted in their section. Personally I'd have gone for baguettes-- they're easily visible on-camera and can double as snacks.

Jeff Shulman - I saw Happy sauntering down the hallway earlier in a maroon Phish T-shirt (points for that), which he has now unfortunately covered with a ratty navy CardPlayer hoodie (booooo). It doesn't look like he's been to the barber (or bought a razor) since play finished up last July. Dude...even Pauly cleaned up after Festival 8 and lost the tour beard. In the immortal words of the joker-- "Get your shit together, man!"

Offstage at the November Nine

One year ago I sat less than ten feet from the final table as Peter Eastgate took down the 2008 WSOP Main Event. This year I'm a hundred feet in the air, hunkered down in the press "skybox" with a PokerNews badge around my neck but without a specific assignment. Sure, my alter ego Nicole Gordon will be scribbling away on several feature articles for the front page of PNews, but unlike previous years, I won't be doing any final table play-by-play. Can't say I'll miss it too much, save for the excitement of being right in the thick of the action. It'll be nice to string more than a few sentences together and feel more like an actual writer than a hand-logging robot.

For live reporting from the floor, check out the PokerNews Live Reporting page, where F-Train, Don Peters, and Eric Ramsey will be covering the action.

If it's behind-the-scenes action, dirt, and all the stuff most other outlets can't print, get thee to the Tao of Poker. I'll be contributing a few fashion reports in my (copious amounts of) downtime and will also be on Twitter.

The Waiting Room

There were 24 people inside the waiting room of a clinic in a moderately sketchy section of the city where the southern fringes of Hollywood meet the northern border of Koreatown. I sat among them for three hours this afternoon and in between chapters of The Omnivore's Dilemma, and outlining a piece for PokerNews I watched them. A lot. There really wasn't much else to do as I waited until 3:30 p.m. to be seen for my 12:45 appointment. All of us had one thing in common-- we had no health insurance.

Number of women: 22

Number of men: 2

Number of flamingly gay men: 1

Number of women carrying Louis Vuitton purses: 2

Number of women carrying Chanel totes : 1

Retail price of a Chanel 2.55: $2,250

Number of students from Hollywood High School: 5

How many of those students were passing the time by doing homework?: 0

How many textbooks were in their backpacks?: 0

Really?: Not a one.

How do I know they were from Hollywood High School? The student IDs around their necks.

Number of people reading books in the room: 3

Ethnicities of people reading books: White, Filipino, Asian

Number of people using texting devices and/or cell phones: 15

How many of those devices were iPhones? 11

Bad television shows that played out during my wait time: Some sort of talk show, Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?, and Divorce Court.

People who were playing along with Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? 4

Number of them who are smarter than a fifth grader: 1

Number of phone calls the actress sitting next to me received from her agent: at least 10

Number of auditions she missed while waiting for her 1:30 "appointment": seemingly one really important one

Total time spent in waiting room: 2 hours, 46 minutes

Total bill for a year's supply of birth control: $769.00

Number of times I said "fuck" out loud after being presented with the bill: at least 3

So that breaks down to... what exactly?: $2.11 a day to not burden myself, my boyfriend and society-at-large with a child. Which actually is a lot cheaper than actually having one.

Silver lining: At least I was home by 4:20.

This Month at PokerNews

It's been a crazy month at Casa Change. In addition to my daily duties at PokerNews, I covered the WCOOP for PokerStars Blog and didn't see the sun for many many days. Which was mostly OK with me, because the basin has been quite the inferno these past few weeks. That, and I love the weird shit that comes on television around 4:30 a.m., like infomercials for fitness contraptions and 1980's movies-of-the-week. Still, the nocturnal hangover lingers a week later, as I continually fall asleep at random times during the day and still feel no desire to head to sleep before three in the morning.

Just in case you missed it, here's a look at some of the pieces I wrote for PokerNews this month. The Sebok piece came out yesterday.

Will Joe Sebok's Signing with Ultimate Bet be a Good Thing? (with Michael Friedman)

The Top 10 WCOOP Moments of 2009

2 Months. 2 Million.: How to Build Your Own War Room

The Explosion of Poker Tours Worldwide: Good or Bad for Poker? (with Matthew Parvis)

ESPN's World Series of Poker Coverage: Buy or Sell?

PokerNews Jet Set: Top 10 Travel Tips for Poker Players

PokerNews Jet Set: Aruba

PokerNews Jet Set: London

PokerNews Jet Set: Barcelona

PokerNews Jet Set: Los Angeles

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: Hand of the Week, Our MVP and More

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: Hellmuth's Entrance, Hand of the Week, and Our MVP

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: Fossilman Takes on Costanza, Hand of the Week, and Our MVP

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: The Phil Hellmuth Show

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: Aussies, ElkY, Ivey and More

WSOP Main Event on ESPN: Ivey Dominates Feature Tables as Bubble Bursts

Though I may be an exceptionally lazy blogger when it comes to this space, I do flutter around the Twitterverse daily, if you'd care to follow my half-baked musings there.

The New Gig

So, I alluded to something a few weeks back here on the blog , but never exactly cleared up the whole mystery of my new writing gig. There's no mystery about it at all, actually and I've already been at it for about two weeks.

As many of you know, Matt Parvis (formerly of Bluff Magazine) took over the reins as Editor-in-Chief over at PokerNews at the beginning of the month, and as part of what will be a dramatic re-structuing of the site, he brought me on as a full-time writer and editor along with Michael Friedman and Elaine Chaivarlis. The three of us are presently writing the bulk of the content on the front page, and since change100 isn't exacly a byline-worthy moniker, my pieces appear under the name Nicole Gordon.

Then, come September, PokerNews will get another all-star team member when Pauly starts his Sunday Op-Ed Series that will run through the end of the year. How's that for a score?

September will be busy under this roof. I'm also on the Otis-captained WCOOP coverage team for the fine folks at PokerStars Blog which will render me partially nocturnal, while Pauly is finishing up the final edits on Lost Vegas. It's turned out to be creatively thrilling to watch the book come together for him. It inspires me. It helps me to see the future, something I haven't been all that adept at lately.

In other news, it's hot as fucking balls outside and this apartment is a mini-oven with the exception of the one slice of couch I'm perched on at the moment, which happens to be in the direct path of the portable air conditioner, which is blasting on high. Oh, also the cable is broken and there is allegedly not a single technician in all of Los Angeles who can fix it today. Fuck you Time Warner.

Cook with Change: Shrimp & Orzo

Good God. After two weeks on the road eating a combination of lot food, fast food and greasy spoon diner food, I was so utterly psyched to pick up some fresh ingredients and make myself a proper dinner. The result was so damned tasty I'm sharing it with you immediately. This dish was inspired by the Walla Walla sweet onions I tasted up in Washington State and the huge, succulent shrimp I saw on display at Pike Place Market in Seattle. If organic ingredients are available to you, use them whenever possible.

Sweet Onion and Cherry Tomato Orzo with Grilled Shrimp and Fresh Basil

(Serves 2)

1/2 lb. wild-caught shrimp, peeled & deveined

1/4 lb. orzo pasta

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved

1/2 medium sweet onion, chopped

1/4 cup shredded parmesan cheese

1/4 cup fresh basil, chopped

1 tsp fresh thyme, finely chopped

1 generous squeeze of lemon juice

olive oil

red pepper flakes

salt & pepper

While bringing a pot of lightly salted water to a boil (for the orzo), place the shrimp in a shallow bowl. Season with salt, pepper, 1 clove chopped garlic and the chopped thyme. Drizzle shrimp with 1 tbsp olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice. Mix by hand, coating the shrimp and let sit about 10-15 mins.

Cook the orzo for 8-10 minutes, drain, and rinse with lukewarm water. Set aside. Heat a saute pan, (or a grill if you have one) and cook the shrimp for 2 minutes on each side. Remove shrimp from the heat and set aside. Add another dash of olive oil to the pan and add in the sweet onions, garlic, and as many red pepper flakes as you can handle (I used about 1/4 tsp). Sweat the onions for 2 minutes before adding the cherry tomatoes. Cook another 3 minutes.

Add the orzo, shrimp, chopped basil, and parmesan to the pan. Mix together and let everything heat through for about 1 minute. Serve immediately.

Embedded With Hippies

I woke up from a mid-flight nap just as we were about to touch down in Denver. After two straight years of heavy international travel, I forgot how easy a two-hour flight could be. Wake up in L.A. at 6:30, touch down in another time zone by noon.

When it came to boozing it up and partying down in Las Vegas this summer... I couldn't participate in very much of it. My schedule was punishing and when I did find myself with a few moments of downtime, they were largely used to suck down a bowl of Sour Diesel or to catch up on articles for other outlets. I returned home on July 18th positively exhausted and spent the ten days since attempting to recharge. I got back in the gym. I stocked the fridge with my favorite organic foods. I picked up my knives and cooked a few nice meals. I pulled bong hits and caught up on shows like Weeds and Entourage. It was refreshing to live a normal, domesticated American life again.

All that downtime served as preparation for what is to unfold over the next two weeks: my first Phish Summer Tour.

First tour, you say? Shamefully, yes. Though I caught about half a dozen Phish shows in my late teens and early twenties in locales like Tinley Park, IL and Irvine, CA, those were my workaholic years, defined by a cult-like devotion to producing musical theater on my college campus (late teens) and an equally cult-like devotion to working eighty hour weeks for peanuts on the lowest rung of the Hollywood ladder (early twenties). By the time I'd earned my executive stripes and found myself with more flexibility of time, thousands of heads were already washing Coventry mud off their boots and I'd have a long five-year wait before seeing Phish again.

So here I am in Colorado. We've loaded our bellies with brekfast burritos and a few hours from now, we'll be on a party bus headed up to Red Rocks for the first night of Phish's four-show run. Next week I'll be on the road again, on a 1,200 mile journey from Los Angeles, to the Bay Area to Central Washington where I'll camp for the first time in my 32 years. Pauly has painstakingly educated me in some of the finer aspects of camping, like pitching a tent and assembling a sun shelter. If you would like to wager on whether or not I'll end up sleeping in the car at least one night for fear of wild animals and little bugs crawling into my sleeping bag, feel free. I'd put that at about 4-1 right now.

As a special added bonus, I got a phone call confirming that I'll be taking part in what I think will be an exciting new project in the poker world. I can't divulge much yet, but I'm very happy that someone I respect immensely has put his trust in me and invited me aboard. For the first time in over three years, I kind of have a regular job and it is one that can easily fit into my nomadic lifestyle. Color me stoked.

To follow along with all our antics this weekend, check in with the Coventry Music Blog, where Pauly and the joker will be updating regularly.

You can also follow all of us on Twitter:

@CoventryMusic
@taopauly
@Neillybop
@change100

Now, as the joker would say... "it's time to WAKE UP and RAGE!"

Suze Orman Meets Dead Money Joe

Suze Orman: OK, next caller. Welcome to "Can I Afford It?" What would you like to buy?

Dead Money Joe: Hi, Suze. I'm Joe from Rockville, MD and I'd like to play the Main Event at the World Series of Poker.

Suze Orman: And what does that cost?

Dead Money Joe: Ten thousand dollars.

Suze Orman: OK, Joe. Tell me a little bit more about your finances.

Dead Money Joe: I'm 34 years old and I take home about $4,500 a month. My mortgage payment is $1,200 and I have two kids. I have about $9,000 in credit card debt and I lease a Honda Accord for $269 a month.

Suze Orman: 401(k)? Savings?

Dead Money Joe: I have a 401(k) but it's lost like 40% this year. I had a savings of about $6,000 but had to use it to pay some medical bills.

Suze Orman: Hold on a minute. You take home $54,000 a year, you're in credit card debt, have no savings and what little investments you had tanked? Where are you going to get the $10,000?

Dead Money Joe: Well I won an $11 satellite on Poker Stars, which got me into a $160 double shootout and then I won two sit 'n goes and got my buy-in.

Suze Orman: What?

Dead Money Joe: Let's just say I won the $10,000 on an $11 investment.

Suze Orman: And you're asking me if you should go gamble that money?

Dead Money Joe: Poker isn't gambling. It's a skill game.

Suze Orman: I don't care what skills you have. YOU CAN'T AFFORD THIS, JOE!

Dead Money Joe: But there's an $8 million first place prize. And it's my lifelong dream. And there is so much dead money in that field.

Suze Orman: No, Joe. You're the dead money. Take that $10,000, wipe out that credit card debt, and you'll almost have enough money to make next month's mortgage payment. Next caller!

Base Camp Two

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

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

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

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

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

Pauly also has his Bonnaroo recap up.

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

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