Increased Ventilation, Reduced Moisture

I am prone to getting lost in my own head, preoccupied with mysteries of existence, both great and small. It can be difficult for outside forces (like...say...a wife) to penetrate that bubble, as my single-mindedness and complete concentration repels everything around me.

Occassionally, this habit works against me, as the mundane details of daily living are ignored. Those pesky details seem to always present themselves in a lightning bolt of reality, shocking me back into the here and now.

Fuck! I don't have any clean underwear!

You know, as an example. This may or may not have happened this morning. I may or may not be "hangin' free," as the kids say. Quite a way to begin my 39th year on the planet wouldn't you say? Still can't take care of myself.

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Thanks to all for the birthday wishes/jabs. I can take the age jokes. I'm still very much in touch with my inner juvenille. Cheers also to ScurvyDog who shares with me this momentous day of our creation, though I did it first.

I like to tell people that I was born in 1967. The Summer of Love. In San Francisco. 'Tis all true. It would be a much better story if my Dad weren't a stockbroker and my mother a doctor's office secretary. Neither of 'em could tell Haight from Ashbury, Moby Grape from Grape Ape.

My Dad grew up in SF, the eldest son of a Filipino immigrant. That's where I get my gambling genes, from Grandpa Benny. He died when I was 6, my only real memories of him being a few visits to his classic Victorian in The City by The Bay. How the smoke swirled around his head in the hazy room, curtains drawn tight against the midday sun. He frightened me more than anything, his playful pidgen English an unusual experience, a foreign threat.

When I told my Dad about winning the seat to the WSOP, he remarked how I am the "continuation of my grandpa...just a little more responsible about it." Wasn't always that way. I had a mad jones for the ponies in college. Dropped a lot of food/beer/weed/rent money at Del Mar, and later, Santa Anita and HollyPark. Yeah, I liked handicapping, trying to figure out the puzzle, but I mostly liked the adrenaline, the unmatched feeling when your horse is rollin' at the head of the stretch and Trevor Demnan blares its name.

My addiction to the track slowly abated, bored by the game's lack of true superstars, horses that stuck around (John Henry, Great Communicator, Best Pal) instead of quickly retiring for the exhorbitant stud fees. Dirt-level claimers and maiden races fail to provide the same excitement. Though it's hard to match a spring day in the Santa Anita infield.

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These were some of the thoughts I was thinking yesterday as my underwear drawer lay starkly empty. I've always had a gambling spirit. I've always applied it in various ways and ultimately learned how to keep it from being a counter-productive (read: bank account/family attention sucking) hobby. But I wonder if poker, like the ponies, will be a passing fancy for me, as it surely will be for a lot of the people we see across the virtual felt these days.

I can't imagine that's true. I have actual goals I want to reach in the game. Goals beyond simply "winning money." I see paths of inquiry, forks in the intellectual road. I want to travel them all. Far from simply holding my interest, poker demands I actively pursue knowledge, seek answers and understanding. Which, naturally, leads to more areas to investigate.

That's the true lure, the never-ending quest for The Truth. If that quest sometimes leaves me bare-assed under my slacks, so be it.

Plus, I still have to master Razz.

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I got in a nice session last night. It's my birthday, I can't lose! Right?

Quick aside to you sports bettors: I should have alerted you to the fact the streaking A's never lose on my birthday. In fact, my favorite Oakland A of all-time--Dave Stewart--threw a no-hitter on my birthday. I'll get ya next year.

So, anyway. I had my aces cracked in the $20 MTT, putting me out at Level 3. He had Kings and made runner-runner quads, his SECOND quads of the tourney. Maybe it was his birthday, too.

I hitched up my last remaining pair of clean underwear and won a $30 two-table SnG. Yes, you read that correctly. I DID NOT fuck up when I got to heads-up play. My 4-1 chip advantage may have had something to do with that.

So I went to bed with a smile on my face, again pondering those deep thoughts, like how a guy could call a re-re-raise all-in with pocket 9s.

Not sure I'll ever solve that one.