Funeral Notices

Obituarium, The Died peacefully on December 31 at the age of 2. In its brief life, it touched many: degenerates, myspace teen-agers and divorce lawyers. Its tales of beer-fueled addictive behavior struck a chord across the blogosphere. Its weepy ruminations on a marriage in ruins reverberated with Nicholas Sparks-ian melodrama. Its attempts at humor inspired pity amongst its readers. It held fast to the tenets of the genre, never forgeting to min. raise its aces, always making sure the ladies heard "that," occasionally finding a needle of truth in a haystack of nonsense. The blog was a proud member of the WPBT and attended four conventions. Born in Southern California, it nonetheless aspired to global coverage, reporting from overseas, the Playboy Mansion and Malvern, PA. It leaves many survivors, including the blogs listed over there and Joe Speaker. Services are private and will be catered by Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Return to the Eve

I've never been the type to go overboard on New Year's Eve. Too much hassle. It's been called "Amateur Night" by more than a few people and that's the truth. Us proper drinking professionals avoid evenings where the cops are out in force looking for any reason to crack a skull or a perfect driving record. Generally, my friends and I had two goals for the holiday: chicks and not having to drive. the first isn't hard in LA; the second is nigh impossible. As such, most years we were scrambling at the end to find something--anything--to do. Sometimes we succeeded, sometimes not.

One year, we ended up at a chaperoned (by parents!) party. We stayed 15 minutes. One year, we witnessed a fight brought on because, in the words of the Brit instigator, some guy "touched (my) girlfriend's asshole!" Another, the fight broke out in my very living room when a "Leatherface" comment directed at a young woman started a brawl with a well-intentioned, yet crazy, potential suitor. And who could forget the year Kool Breeze peed on me.

I was asleep on the couch when I was awakened by the sound of rain. Urine rain. On my sleeping bag. I lept up screaming, "What are you doing?" Still asleep, Kool Breeze responded matter of factly, "Taking a piss." When I incredulously inquired as to why he was taking it on me, in the living room, he had no response. He simply finished up and lay back down on the floor.

My favorite New Year's Eve party was when '92 passed into '93. The site was a nice Venice apartment abutting the boardwalk. The women who lived there had already moved out and everyone brought their sleeping bags to spend the night on the vacant floor. The pictures from this evening are hilarious. I am, for some unknown reason, wearing green jeans. Every pic of Donny has him sporting cherry lips. Bro and Gork and Kool Breeze and Enza and Bea ("oh, Beatrice") are all there. There are pictures of us holding whiskey bottles sitting in the bathtub. Of my girlfriend at the time and I gazing goofily at each other in front of the faux fireplace. Of Crazy Tom and his ridiculous Prince Valiant haircut. Each of them shows the carefree (and drunk) faces of people who know they don't have to drive anywhere, people who can walk out onto the beach to light a spliff or make out with someone in a lifeguard tower or throw finger foods off the balcony to the homeless guy walking by.

Nobody looked good the next morning, but I think Crazy Tom was in the worst shape. About 8 a.m. he was puking into a garbage can on the boardwalk. A used-up woman meandered by and asked for a cigarette. He wretched out a negative response, head still mostly in the can. Undeterred, the woman said, "I'll suck your dick for ten bucks."

Happy New Year.

Greater Than...

I started, scrapped, re-imagined and totally butchered a "Year in Review" post. Too much on my plate to do it properly. Too much imagination dedicated to other pursuits. Too much bullshit in Aught Six to want to re-live again. The point of my 2K maudlin words was that even though this has been one of the most difficult years of my life, I have also had a handful of experiences that will never be topped. Equaled perhaps, but not beaten.

Thank you to all my friends who keep track of my daily life on here and for your frequent support and exhortations. Thank you to all the friends I've made because of this TGOD. Your presence, generosity and humor is inspiring. Thank you to the random readers who've stopped by here with words of sympathy and helped to prop me up with your own tales of heartbreak and recovery. And thank you to the lurkers. I know you're there and I appreciate the visits.

I'm more than happy to put this year behind me. And if I'm not entirely healed, I'm in a better place than I could have dreamed 11 months ago. For that, I owe many of you a deep debt of gratitude. As the band warms up for Auld Lang Syne, the changing of the calendar will be more than symbolic for me. It's a new chapter, one with fresh opportunity and endless possibilities. I'm looking forward to tackling a new outlet, continuing to build my relationship with AJ and check-raising my first douchebag of '07.

Things are gonna be different around these parts. Greater, one hopes. And I wish the same for all of you out there in Blogland.

Wiesz Guy

Took AJ to see Eragon yesterday. Interesting flick. It opens with an obvious voice-over, something I hate in movies because I think it shows a lack of cinematic imagination. But we are soon treated to a smoking hot redhead laciviously (maybe that was just my impression) riding a horse. She's fleeing the Bad Guys with the Prize, which we find out is an out-sized Viagra pill. She somehow transports it to the dopey farm boy, the reluctant Hero. After the Viagra are Teddy KGB (obviously here to pick up a paycheck and nothing more) and Robert Carlisle, a perennial favorite of mine who made the curious choice to channel Boy George here. Boy George as a bad ass sorcerer, but nonetheless the Karma Chameleon himself. And we're off to a battle of Good vs. Evil.

I enjoyed it actually. Moreso than AJ who realized about halfway through that he'd rather be out in the balmy desert air playing football. In fact, at the conclusion of a big fight scene, he erroneously anticipated the end and shouted, "That was a good movie! Let's go!" If I didn't want to see the end (which screamed "Sequel!") I might have hurried him out of there earlier, because Boy George was clearly influencing his behavior, as he referred to consuming his hot dog as, "eating a hot weiner."

Turns out the Viagra is actually a dragon egg and once hatched provided the biggest disappointment for me. Seeing Rachel Wiesz on the marquee had me dreaming of medieval bustiers, but she merely voiced the dragon. What a gyp.

*****************************

AJ is going to X's tonight for present opening. Her family's Swedish tradition is to have food and gift exchange on Christmas Eve, so it works out fine. I haven't spent a Christmas Eve away from any family in a long time, probably about ten years. That year, I had to work the holiday and ended up in Hermosa Beach with a bunch of similarly orphaned friends. We ate paella and drank Spanish wines before playing Scattergories until the wee hours, with the added incentive of a forced tequila shot for whichever team had the worst score each round. Since the bulk of the group were journalists of some stripe, it was a high tension battle. I recall getting very drunk and falling asleep on Jorginho's couch watching "Braveheart," another movie that didn't feature Rachel Wiesz in a bustier.

In AJ's absence, I'm gonna drink beer and play poker, becuase, you know, I never do that and it's a special occasion. To everyone who's ever stopped by this space, my best wishes for a Merry Christmas to you and your families. And if you're similarly marooned from your loved ones tonight, I'll be around.

Going the Distance

Maybe I'm being too literal but having to sign in as "Old Blogger" with this new Beta stuff has put me on Ageist Tilt. Totally counter-acted the high I was sporting after a random girl called me "handsome" yesterday afternoon. And she wasn't even on crack. Near as I could tell.

Spent a nice quiet evening at home last night with my friends Poker, Boddington and Stella. Didn't cash in the two tourneys I played on FT (chased in one when I thought I had more outs than I did, pushed short in the other), but won back a little of it in a semi-blogger cash game. I'm starting to think I need to mix some more cash games into my (fictional) online poker experience. If last night was any indication, the little NL games at FT are ripe with passive players who can be slowly bled of chips. Even with The Hammer.

I'm one of the few at work today. You could fire a cannon round through the office and not nick anyone. I also don't have much to do. Cleaned out my Bloglines. Trolled for a Russian Mail Order Bride. Watched "Dick in a Box" 72 times. Read some more "Dick in My Back" hilarity.

I didn't take any vacation days for the holidays. That's mainly because I ran out of paid vacation around August, which is what happens when you spend the first three months of the year unable to get out of bed. Not to say I'm not maximizing my two three-day weekends. I stocked up at the BevMo yesterday and I clearly envision a Christmas Eve with me half in the bag trying to put together AJ's toys. What goes together better with beer than power tools? Operating heavy machinery is the only thing I can think of.

Then I think I'm going to start a Christmas morning tradition of Bloody Marys. Reminds me of a recent scene I saw in "The Wire" (Season II) where the stevedores are all at the bar in the ayem and a guy comes in with "breakfast," which turns out to be raw eggs cracked into their beers. Yummy.

Speaking of raw eggs, I curiously find myself wanting to go see "Rocky Balboa." Not because I think it's going to be any good, but very few moments in entertainment are as rewarding as Bill Conti's music kicking in at the crucial juncture. Seriously, I'm apeshit for that stuff. The "Rocky" soundtrack was one of the few LPs my parents owned when I was a kid and I played it endlessly, dancing and shadow-boxing around to the obvious "Gonna Fly Now," harmonizing with "Take It Back." But my favorite cut is "Going the Distance." The opening chimes that suggest the ringside bell. The quiet roiling early on, drama swirling below the action. The call and response horns building toward the cresendo where the frenzied strings take over. Aw jeez...here:



Was it good for you?

So yeah, even though I never saw Rocky V (my mind is pure, unlike Tommy Morrison's bloodstream), even though I've seen one "adult" movie in like 18 months, I'm gonna carve out some Rocky time. I'll probably have to go by myself, but I'll make that more interesting by wearing loose-fitting sweats and a dirty trenchcoat, which is coincidentally what I asked Santa for Christmas.

Wrap-Up

For a ham-handed male lacking an artistic bone in his body, I'm a servicable gift-wrapper. What often puts me on Gift Wrap Tilt, however, is the rusty ol' pair of scissors and my meandering, rather than razor-sharp, cuts of the paper. I may not be artistic or even possessed of average motor skill, but I am a perfectionist, so when my wrap is more jagged than fine, I threaten to blow.

Imagine then, my excitement to find a handy tool to make the job easier. During last night's foray to Target, these little beauties were prominently placed in every aisle. Like an exacto knife, but with a paper "guide," it turned my full evening of holiday cheer into...well...actual holiday cheer instead of the frustration of the season. It still took me two hours to wrap everything, though I could have probably cut that time in half if I had a third hand to help with the ribboning. Regardless, it was painless and the tree has most of the presents beneath it.

I didn't finish though. AJ's a bright one and last weekend when we went shopping for the rest of the family, I let him pick out the colors of wrapping paper he wanted. A number of the presents I wrapped last night were slated to be from Santa and it occurred to me that he would definitely wonder how come Santa used the same wrapping paper that we bought at the store. There's no doubt in my mind he would notice and comment. This is the same kid who wanted to know how Santa was gonna get into the apartment since we don't have a chimney. Who personally scouted the neighboring rooftops and analyzed whether the Big Fella could squeeeze his way down the air conditioning vents. Who insisted we write Santa a note to tell him we'd leave the balcony door unlocked so he could get in. Who wondered whether Santa will leave him presents at X's apartment, too. He really leaves no stone unturned. So I have to go get different wrapping paper tonight.

I don't want to say I'm over-compensating for the holiday, mine and AJ's first Christmas since The Troubles, but I may have gone a little overboard with the shopping. Among other things, I got him a dog, a pony and a two-bedroom condo with mountain views.

Kool-Aid. Party of One

Editor's Note: I present a guest post from Dacia. Seems it will be the only one.

After last weekend, my life has felt empty. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I just sit and stare out the window and long for someone to bust me with a back-handed compliment.

"I like you, you remind of myself when I was young and stupid"

I spend endless hours clicking "refresh" on my browser hoping for a new morsel from Joe Speaker to get me through the day. No one here understands me anymore. I am a fish out of water in this world of reality and I can't shake the feeling that something is missing.

And then, it hit me... I knew what I had to do. It is the only way to salvage what is left of the memories of one of the most epic weekends of my life. I will become one of them. I will build my own house, in their world, and hope they come to visit.

Call me Betty, Betty Underground.

Beta Tilt

The new Blogger "Beta" (Greek for "broken") is really messing with my ability to comment. The filter keeps throwing up "Category blocked 'Sex'" every time I try on those sites that have switched, which makes sense for SnailTrax and The Tao, but not so much for Riding the F-Train. This also means I can't READ comments, which is a seminal pleasure.

So I will be putting all my comments of Trip Reports here. You think this sucks for you? Try crafting the perfect comment: vocabularizing, alliterating, dropping in a well-timed "assface," and having it all disappear in a flash of cyber FUBAR.

Falstaff

You forgot the part where NGLF, upon being stacked, challenged Daddy to play "heads-up for $1000," causing the civilian on my left to say, "Yeah, 'cause THAT'S a real test of poker ability."

I don't think I ever fully appreciated how difficult it is for outsiders to play at a mostly blogger table. The guys down at mine and Daddy's end of the felt were totally flummoxed by what was happening, each of them in succession basically casting their lot with a hand with little idea of what their up against. Which makes sense based on the range of hands we combined to show down.

Garthmeister J.

What you ACTUALLY said to the guy you thought was Bobby was, "SUCK IT, BRACELET!" because he was wearing a Ljungberg jersey.

StB

The same thing happened to me in the tournament. I pushed over an opeing raise with TT and uttered a loud obscenity when a larger stack pushed behind me. The initial raiser folded and, in response to Blinders' query, I said I needed a ten based on the action. Imagine my surprise when the other guy flipped 66.

Oh. Sorry. My pair held up. So, not EXACTLY the same. But no less curious.

**************************

Stupid Beta.

Pieces of Mind

Selflessness

When I walked into the Sportsbook Bar at MGM on Friday night, I saw the usual assortment of faces, but one of them looked more freshly scrubbed and less disheveled than I remembered.

"Look at the new corporate Iggy!" I shouted to The Blogfather.
"I'm actually gonna cut my hair," he said.
"Yeah?"
"And donate it to cancer patients for wigs."
"Do you think it's right to give hair that smells like cigarette smoke to cancer patients?"

They Were Suited

Falstaff saw me sitting in a No Limit cash game with a beer in front of me. His eyes went big and round, his tongue involuntarily licked at the corners of his mouth. It was as if this were a Bugs Bunny cartoon and he saw me morph into a big piece of chocolate cake. Rubbing his hands together, he called for a table change, his memories of the summer's Execution at the Excalibur fresh in his mind.

I felted him in 20 minutes. 'Cause I WILL play 74s out of position. Yes, I will.

Fala Suiaunoa is Still on the Board

Bob: Christian Fauria
Me: Lofa Tutupu
Bob:Troy Polomalu
Me: Malaefou MacKenzie.
Someone: What are you idiots doing?
Bob: Pisa Tinoisamoa
Me: Manu Tuiasosopo
Bob: Fuck.

Water is Wet

After I arrived and checked in, I went to the poker room to see who I could see. Dawn and Karol were there. Imagine my surprise. Still trying to process the 48 oz. of coffee I inhaled on my drive out, I demured to a seat at the NL game they were playing and joined thg, Falstaff and Mrs. Falstaff at the 2/4 table. First hand I played, I limped UTG with A5s and flopped a straight. I was confused when a raising war broke out, but I ain't doin nuthin' but capping the second nuts here. Bets and raises on the turn got it heads up and the other aggressor ran plumb outta money. So he flipped over his aces.

Crack!

I had ordered a Chivas rocks to calm my jittery coffee blood and I apparently made it just in time for 2-for-1 drink day. As I grabbed a smoke with Karol and sipped my Chivas, SoxLover and GCox walked up. I had been loooking forward to meeting Gary's acquaintance and I was not disappointed. Can I get you a Chivas?" I asked. "Sure," he said. "Good, because I already bought it."

Roll On

When I finally headed for bed circa 6 ayem on Sunday, the Las Vegas half-marathon was underway on The Strip with the wheelchair racers bucking a nasty and frigid wind. I did not see drizz.

I'm Sorry....What?

This didn't actually happen in Vegas, but after mentioning it to a couple people upon my arrival, it grew legs, so much so that it was common knowledge by the time I got to the MGM two hours later. News travels fast in this group. As another example, I hadn't been on the IP property for 15 minutes when I'd heard a couple tales of my favorite bloggers going down to ignominious defeat to alchol the evening previous. Propriety being what it is, I was told I "didn't hear it from them."

Anyway, I'm at a local bar on Thursday night, my cell phone off to avoid tilty text messages from those already in Sin City, and I'm talking to a rather fetching young lady when the following conversation takes place.

"Do you like to shop?" she asked.
"No," I said. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, you're dressed nicely."
"I do like to dress well, but I don't necessarily like shopping."
"There's a word for that you know."
"Metrosexual?"
"No. 'Clothes Fag.'"

Holy Craps!

"They've lowered the limits at the craps table to $5" is what The Princess said and, on the scale of phrases that can quickly get me out of my stool at the Geisha Bar, that one's easily in the top 3 along with "Daddy's got his shirt off and is dancing on a Let It Ride table" and "SoxLover is on massive tilt in the poker room." And we grabbed Garth to come with us.

"I've never played craps before," he said.
"It's just like Pai Gow."
"Okay."

Agreeable chap that Garth. With StB, Princess, Garth and Dacia on my right, we had most of our half of the table covered. Sadly, we were a few people short of completely flooding the zone, which left space for the person on my left. Now, I have some experience with Vegas crack whores. But this is the first time one of them ever licked my shirt. "You're gorgeous," she said in an otherworldly voice. I'd have cast it as reverential is if weren't so goddamn creepy. And, just as I had earlier allowed a similar train wreck to run its course without intervention, my friends were of little help other than to simply enjoy the spectacle.

Dice were thrown, too. Poorly. We had a couple teaser shooters, one point and bets pressed before they stopped short of getting us over the hump. By the time the dice got back to me and I put out a round of minimum bets/odds, I had Zero of my $200 left on the rail.

"Don't talk to the shooter. Don't touch the shooter," I informed neophyte Garth. Somebody might have added, "Don't lick the shooter." It was not one of my epic rolls. I hit two points. I hit a fair share of numbers. I hit a hard 8 that I had a redbird on. But I had $225 back in front of me when it was over.

"If I was talking to Joe right now, I would say 'good roll,'" Garth loudly proclaimed a couple times (between shouts of "Pai Gow!" and attempts to make Dacia spit out up her greyhound).

Now that I'd crapped out, it meant my admirer got to throw. She put out $5 and rolled snake eyes. As the croupiers took the line away, she reached out for the dice. But she didn't replace her bet. They'd taken her last chip.

"You need money on the table to roll ma'am," they informed her. Her face went ashen (actually, I suppose it had been that way all along), she reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of silver, furiously counting. But the game stops for nobody and the dice were pushed to the next player.

I did not offer to stake her. She doesn't have a blog.

Raised

The third day in Vegas is when you truly find out what you're made of. I always feel a little homesick (AJ-sick) waking up after two full days of hilarity, thinking that I can't take another drink or an another face-injuring laughing fit and that I should just hit the road and get back to my boy.

This time was no different and as I trudged back to the IP sportsbook Sunday afternoon, I was thinking about making a run for it. A nine-hour bender (mostly at the Geisha Bar) the night before had my body in ruinous shape. I was stuck a goodly amount, having not won at anything--including roulette and Roshambo--all weekend. I was filled to the brim with stories and memories and friendship, saturated like a sponge on the ocean floor. What more could I hope to accomplish by sticking around?

And then I walked into the 'book and you were all there and...well...first I got a drink. Second, I got hugs (men and women). Third, I got bets down. Fourth, I laughed my ass off. Fifth, I finally won a goddamn wager.

"We're chasin'!" Daddy and I screamed at the others, ripping up our shattered parlays and heading to the window to lay some money on the underdog Saints.

"This bet is 50% to root against the Cowboys and Rooster and StB," I said.

"50?!?" Daddy replied. "Hell, 90%. I hate the fucking Crack Wagon."

Four hours of fist-pumping, knuckle-bashing and "Romoverrated!" shouting later, I cashed a ticket, brusquely slicing through a small crowd yelling "Winners coming through!" Drew Brees and the Saints were the fulcrum upon which my gambling fortunes turned as we proceeded to head to a 1/2 NL table and crush it thanks to some strong play and a Luckboxian turn card or two. I even took some cash off a Pai Gow table later on.

Which is not necessarily the point, though my wallet was pleased. The point is this group of people can turn even the foulest of moods by their sheer presence, their ability to knock you backwards with the most hysterical quip and the importance of the bonds we've all formed. It's nigh impossible to do it justice in this space. You just have to experience it.

That said, I'll try to run some scenes in the coming days. Dick Bro. Why Asian dealers hate Easycure. Crush. Mash. Raise. Garth breaking his craps cherry. The Backhanded Compliment Game. Testing melons. How much to drink a shot of bong water? The Logger Tournament. GCox and the Weekend of No Sleep. Roquefort. The greatest text message ever. Your momma has three teeth: one is brown, another is cracked and the third one has braces. That last one's a creeper.

Before I go, a couple things. One, sincere thanks to April for doing all the dirty work to set up the tournament (and for lunch and the massage). I'm sure I have barely a tenth of the knowledge of all the shit she went through to ensure our good time. You're the best, my dear. Second, you all have always made me feel welcome, vital even, and I'm not the only one. As if you needed proof, I give you Dacia:

I read the piece on Pauly's blog and realized that my life is forever changed because I ACTUALLY HAVE MET these hooligans! I have been trying to download the events and paint a picture of the weekend with words but I just CAN'T. All I can come up with is: "It was epic, you just have to trust me." It was one of the best weekends ever. It was simply one of the coolest experiences with some of the funniest and most intelligent people I have ever gotten drunk with! It was a little hard to come down from... re-entry into the life of the responsible and being surrounded by not a single person who could appreciate the stories I have!

I'm Goin In...

WPBT Agenda Adendums

Friday

Tony Romo Circle Jerk. 6 p.m. RSVP to The Rooster or stb

Iggy. Michael Craig. The Octagon. Mandalay Bay Events Center. 8 p.m.

Glaucoma Sufferers Support Group. Pauly's Suite. Pretty much every 15 minutes.

Come see Waffles' puke. Edgy performance art curated by AlCantHang. MGM Sportsbook Bar. Midnight.

Saturday

Enriching Your Word Power seminar. Hosted by Iakaris 8 a.m.

The Princess spills your beer. Ongoing.

The Geo-Political Impact of playing KJo out of position, a multi-part symposium on why we're all fucked. See Human Head for details. Noon.

Road Trip to Reno! Sponsored by Dawn and Karol.

Sunday

Name that Hickey. Registration starts a 9 a.m. Set your alarm F-Train. Special Guest Richard Brodie.

Buy April a drink for all her hard work. Every time you see her.

Mutinous Bounties

Sadly, my Prelude to Vegas is filled with too much work, not enough time and the right amount of AJ. Nobody wants to hear how excited I am anyway. You all know. But I'm trying to come up with a suitable (meaning inappropriate) bounty for whomever sends me kicking and weeping from the WPBT tourney (previous Meanies include Scurvy, Dr. Jeff and Garthski). I was chagrined, to say the least, to not really have a bounty this past summer, sheepishly pawning off the uneaten half of my deli sandwich to my third-favorite Aussie (1. Crocodile Dundee 2. Elle McPherson). I vowed the Winter Classic would be different! So, I've got some ideas.

*Anybody smell candy canes?
*"The Complete Illustrated History of the Shrum Bowl" by Mordecai Richler
*A DVD Box Set of Asian fetish porn, including "Sweet and Sour Porked, Vol. VII"
*A homemade coupon book with redeemable items including "One Free mention in the blog" and "Joe Speaker knits me a tasteful sweater."
*A new iPod Shuffle loaded with Scandinavian Death Metal

List to be updated as time allows.

Behind the Orange Curtain

After months of badgering, I finally got tired of the constant e-mails, phone calls and dead pigeons left on my doorstep and trekked southward to The OC to Blinders' home game. In truth, because they are usually during the week and I'd rather have my eyes gouged out by rabid monkeys than fight weekday traffic on the 91 and 55, I have been unable to attend previous events. But Saturday night? That I can do.

Let's just say this off the top. Blinders oversees an excellent game. And he runs with an entertaining crowd. Being the "new guy," I felt like a rookie pitcher making his first start. I didn't know anything about the other players and they didn't know anything about me. And outside of one guy putting Icy Hot in my jock strap, I escaped hazing and was welcomed by a friendly and diverse crowd, even after I flipped over three hole cards on one hand (people on 'ludes should not deal and most certainly should not put the last burn card on top of their holdings). The tale of the tape:

Good news: I flopped three sets in the first hour.

Bad news: I got stacked with two of them and had to fold (correctly) on the turn in the third.

Good news: It was a re-buy for the first 5 levels.

Bad news: Including the add-on, I was in for 4x.

Good news: Pocket Jacks held up against every draw in the Universe.

Bad news: I entered the freeze-out phase with 30 less chips than I would have had if I showed up and hour and 38 miutes late and took a double re-buy and add-on.

Good news: I doubled up with aces two hands later.

Bad news: I was starting to get a little drunk and was 50 miles from home.

Good news: I made the Final Table.

Bad news: Five places paid. My stack was 9th and miniscule.

Good news: We had a Luckbox. A kid (He told me he was 18, officer). He cracked KK with 88 (I dealt him an 8 on the flop). He cracked TT with KTs. His 65 took out another short stack.

Bad news: I was short. I won one hand at the Final Table, a push over a limper with KQ. Everyone folded.

Good news: I folded to 3rd. Out-chipped by a ton, I pushed on the button of the first 3-handed hand with 4s3s and flopped the nut straight.

Bad news: The Luckbox made a runner-runner flush, which I dealt.

As I told our esteemed host, it was a fantastic time. Great group of folks. Lots of play. Well-conceived and well-run structure. Splendid selection of tunes. Somehow, someway, I'm gonna have to figure out a way to get to OC on the first Wednesday of every month. Thanks again, dude. And...

Ship It!

Now Batting...

That didn't take long.

When I started my new sports blog Walking Mike Davis, I had a few reasons. One, to put an onus on myself to write more. Two, to parlay my vast expertise and pertinent prose into a greater gig. So imagine my surprise when mere hours after dropping the first post on WMD, I was snatched up by a multi-national conglomerate of talented and forward-looking writers.

Behold Up For Sports. Please take a look, add us to your blogroll, talk us up at cocktail parties.

And now, your starting lineup:

1. Otis C -- Who better to manage the game, work counts, be our brain on the field? He's like Jason Kendall, right down to the scraggly facial hair.
2. Speaker SS -- My lineup. Shut up.
3. Bad Blood RF -- Here comes the Beef. Reminds many of Brian Downing.
4. Daddy 2B -- Sure, he's a big man, but he's light on his feet. Like Ronnie Belliard.
5. G-Rob LF -- More power from a corner OF slot. Has petitioned the league to be able to play without a hat, lest the fans fail to get adequate glimpses of his 'do.
6. CJ 1B -- Even Chuck Knoblauch can't miss this target.
7. BG 3B -- Quick reactions, soft hands, lightning wit.
8. Wil CF -- Most range on the entire club, clearly illustrated by his 78 writing gigs.
9. Lefty P -- Duh.