The Obituarium

WPBT Hand History

2011-12-05T08:09:00.000-08:00

Hello Blog Reader,

You requested a transcript of the WPBT,

***** Hand History *****

Table Sherwood Forest Bar (Real Money) -- Seat 2 is the button

Total number of players: 65-ish

Seat 1: ThisIsNotApril
Seat 2: Maudie
Seat 3: F-Train
Seat 4: Falstaff
Seat 5: Absinthetics
Seat 6: BamBam and Pebbles
Seat 7: PokerPeaker
Seat 8: Iggy
Seat 9: Garthski and Saunter
Seat 10: DawnSummers

JoeSpeaker joins Table Sherwood Forest Bar

** Dealing down cards **

Dealt to JoeSpeaker: Newcastle

Everybody: Congratulations!
JoeSpeaker: Thanks (and talks all about Emet's pregnancy and AJ's video and reactions and emotions, thoughts he would repeat over and over again the entire weekend and never, ever tire of it).
Iggy: So, I'm out there in the Boundary Waters and I throw my steak in the lake so bears don't get it, but while I'm sleeping I keep hearing these splashes in the water and I'm in full 'what the fuck?' mode.
PokerPeaker: So what was it?
Iggy: Beaver.
JoeSpeaker: You look great, man.
Iggy: Shut up.
JoeSpeaker: No, seriously, that fresh air is doing you some good.
Iggy: Fuck you.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Craps at Excalibur

Seat 1: Maigrey
Seat 2: Gus
Seat 3: Chilly
Seat 4: Garthski
Seat 5: Marty
Seat 6: Astin
Seat 7: Drizztdj
Seat 8: ThisIsNotApril

Maigrey: Horn Hi-Lo!
Gus: Horn Hi-Lo!
Garthski: What are these bets? I think they're just making them up.
JoeSpeaker: Give me a $10 white elephant!
Garthski: Five bucks on Strawberry Milkshake!
Marty craps out
Chilly: That's now how you do it.
Maigrey: (Thrusts two middle fingers in Chilly's direction)
Chilly: What?
Maigrey: crapscritics.com

JoeSpeaker joins Table WPBT Winter Golf Classic

Seat 1: DrChako
Seat 2: Ringer Josh
Seat 3: BamBam
Seat 4: Pebbles
Seat 5: JoeSpeaker
Seat 6: F-Train
Seat 7: Drizztdj

Drizztdj shoots net even-par on the front 9.
JoeSpeaker takes away his strokes on the back
F-train is one bloody mary short of the pocket
(Observer chat) Katkin: Sorry I couldn't make it.
(Observer chat) TheRooster: Me too. I'm a flake.
DrChako suggests wagering guidelines. Group now has 37-way action.
JoeSpeaker hits a duck, makes par on the hole, wins four skins.
Bambam marvels at the balmy weather.
JoeSpeaker also hits a flag stick, three drives into the desert.
F-Train: You're using up all your run-good.
Pebbles birdies, one of only two by the group on the day.
Drizztdj jams his shoulder, is net +16 on the back.
JoeSpeaker scrambles to an 86 to win overall title, four skins and two Nassaus.
BamBam: nh
Drizztdj goes 41-56, wins seven skins, closest-to-the-hole, long drive.
DrChako: Rigged.
RingerJosh wins a Nassau.
Pebbles wins a skin
DrChako wins a skin.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Raku

Seat 1: Astin
Seat 2: DrChako
Seat 3: F-Train
Seat 4: Katkin
Seat 5: Drizztdj
Seat 6: Garthski
Seat 7: JoeSpeaker
Seat 8: Saunter
Seat 9: Absinthetics
Seat 10: Grubby

** Dealing down cards **

Gigantic pitchers of Sapporo
Tofu with Bonito, scallions, wasabi and green tea salt
Sashimi Salad with spinach and crispy onions
drizztdj: I just may lick the bowl.
Red Snapper sashimi and seared
JoeSpeaker: I don't often eat food that comes with a head.
Saunter: We should name him.
JoeSpeaker: (Launches into uncommonly long story about AJ and his love for a certain name)
Saunter: Antonio, it is!
(Observer chat) Waitress: Would you like those bones deep-fried?
Everybody: The answer is 'yes!'
Seafood soup
Shellfish and broth
Fried chicken thighs on spinach with balsamic vinaigrette
absinthetics: Everybody make sure to tweet @gamblingblues
(Observer Chat) gamblingblues: STFU
Asparagus deep-fried with panko bread crumbs
Roasted mackerel
drizztdj: This poor guy swam the wrong way.
Astin: Our cruel waitress is fattening up to kill us later I assume.
Red Snapper bones and skin redux
Saunter: Deep-fried Antonio!
(Observer Chat) AJ: It's not nice to eat a fish twice.
Tofu in beef broth with Salmon roe
Bacon-wrapped mushrooms, two ways
F-Train: These mushrooms are fucking ridiculous.
(Observer chat) Waitress: Do you want another pitcher?
JoeSpeaker: How many courses are left?
Kobe beef with wasabi
DrChako: This meat has no right to be that good.
Pork cheek
JoeSpeaker: (unbuttons pants)
absinthetics: Our mouths are full of amazing
DrChako folds.
Ground chicken on a stick
drizztdj: They should serve these at the Minnesota State Fair
Rice with salmon roe
Astin: Right, 'cause what this meal was missing salmon rice.
JoeSpeaker: I can't possibly take one more bite.
/takes one more bite.
/takes four or five after that

JoeSpeaker joins Table WPBT Winter Classic at Aria

Seat 1: Wookie
Seat 2: Lefty
Seat 3: Katkin
Seat 4: JoeSpeaker
Seat 5: Maudie
Seat 6: ThisIsNotApril
Seat 7: Derek
Seat 8:
Seat 9: Chilly
Seat 10: Timtern

** Dealing down cards **

Katkin bets 300
JoeSpeaker raises to 850
Katkin calls [550]

Dealing Flop: Jh, 8s, 4c

JoeSpeaker bets 1100
Katkin folds, shows [7s 2h]
JoeSpeaker wins pot, shows [As, Ac]

JoeSpeaker finished 12th, wins $0.
Team Los Angel-ish--JoeSpeaker, absinthetics and ShaneNickerson--wins $130 for finishing second in Last Longer Challenge

JoeSpeaker, frustrated and beat, spends 90 minutes contemplating calling it a night. It's 8 p.m. Instead, he calls his wife, is cheered up, and heads to Aria where he has two very interesting and thoughtful conversation that he doesn't get to finish.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Pai-Gow at the IP

Seat 1: drizztdj
Seat 2: Saunter
Seat 3: ColorsTease
Seat 4: F-Train
Seat 5: JoeSpeaker
Seat 6: Garthski

Garthski: PAI-GOW!!!!!
drizztdj: ........
JoeSpeaker: I can't stop hitting bonuses
ColorsTease: Cocktails?

*

JoeSpeaker folds

*

There is no way to express how much I enjoy the company of this group. Many thanks to April for herding the entire flock, to F-Train for setting up possibly the finest eating experience ever, the Aria Poker Room (@AriaPoker) for the hospitality, to Jordan and pokerist.com for the added money in the Last Longer, to the brave six souls who dared take me--and Rhodes Ranch Golf Club--on in the Golf Classic, to each and every one of you who offered your best wishes and kind remarks on the upcoming baby.

Let me also throw out a hearty and heartfelt congratulations to the runners. A truly inspiring feat and I'm sorry I wasn't there to celebrate it with you, but I'll get you the next time.

Too Many Words for Twitter

2011-09-27T10:51:00.001-07:00

I have an irrational set of expectations for other people and I often have to remind myself that these random individuals with whom I cross paths have both a) their own expectations and b) a total ignorance of my peculiar set of rules. This expresses it self frequently on mass transit, which I have now used daily for more than seven years, a fact which is nigh unthinkable in the vast metropolis of Los Angeles, as well as a constant reminder to me that I have escaped the ritualistic Car Culture of my city and its inherent rudeness.*

(*I am often asked why I never use my blinker when changing lanes on the freeways and it is because, as soon as one signals intent, the nearest driver in the intended lane will attempt to block any and all attempts at movement, by speeding up/slowing down/honking horns/spitting. It's a Darwinian culture of Fuck You-ness that I've never encountered anywhere else.)

I find myself grumbling at others. The folks who sit across from me on the train--thereby inhibiting my leg room, which must be substantial for my comfort because I'm a tall drink of water--when there are other seats available nearby that would be more apt for them an me. The people on the subway who stand right in front of the doors so they can be first off at Union Station, but who also refuse to move--even the slightest--when I am trying to board. I liken these offenders to people who christen a pristine row of theater seats by sitting on the end, making others crawl over them. And the worst, those who stand on the left side of the escalator/people mover, when the right is for standing and the left is for walking.

All of these things annoy the living ish out of me. To my mind, they are unwritten rules of behavior, of accommodation to your fellow man/woman. However, if you think about it, my expectations are borne of my own frame of reference and have no relation to that of others, like back-to-back spins on the roulette wheel. Sure, I'd like to think we're all in this together, it takes a village and all that hunky dorey crap, but the truth is, it's every man/woman for themself.

This is called The Gap. The space between our own expectations and the reality of others. It's what you fill that gap with that determines the success or failure of any relationship, as well as one's own sanity. If you fill that gap with patience and understanding, then ta-da! life is good. If you (I) fill it with "get your stupid elbow off my arm-rest!" the days can be long and frustrating.

I guess what I'm saying is you should do what I say and we won't have a problem.

Actually, here's my advice: Mind the Gap.

*

Here's another rule I've recently learned. Say you're visiting friends out of town. Say this hypothetical town is Chicago. And you go to one of their favorite restaurants. Say it's called The Publican. You do not--DO NOT--want to mention, even in passing, how very much you enjoy the experience and you especially do not want to compliment a single dish--say it's the Country Rib--no matter how delicious and savory and downright otherworldly the dish might be, because every single time these "friends" of yours return to said Publican restaurant in Chicago and order themselves a Country Rib or three, they will mercilessly and gleefully taunt you with tweets, texts, pictures and this will be especially hurtful if all you've eaten that day is a hot dog at the turn and a frozen pizza.

I hate you all.

*

My cat is a genius. Normally, I'd never write that sentence since I'm an adult male and enjoy my standing as such, but this kind of blew my mind. Unlike the dog, whose most fervent desire is to stay indoors, preferably within licking distance of at least one of the three humans in the house, the kitty wants to go tomcatting outside as often as possible. Due to the fact that our house is close to the mountains and we have an open field nearby, we restrict her playtime to daylight hours, lest she be eaten by the coyotes which sometimes sneak into the tract for food.

To aid our ability to find her at nightfall, she has a collar with a bell (and her info). A few days ago, she lost the collar on her adventures (it's a breakaway deal so she doesn't hang herself by it). So, all day Saturday, she whined at the back door since we wouldn't let her out without a collar. We procured a replacement on Sunday and duly allowed her back into the wild, from which she returned a couple hours later with the lost collar in her mouth.

She screeched to get our attention, pointedly dropped it on the kitchen floor and stomped right back outside.

*

I'd like to recommend a book to you all. It's "Let the Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. You New Yorkers will especially like it. The setting is 1974 and the common thread running through the novel is the famous tightrope walk between the Twin Towers by Philippe Petit, immortalized in the excellent documentary "Man on Wire." It's basically a love letter to NYC and a metaphor for 9/11. It's exquisite. The prose is so smooth and velvety. Just a wonderful experience.

*

We're fine. Great, in fact. How are y'all?

Mind the Gap.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Studs Up

2011-08-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

Alright, since The Rooster keeps sending me racist, jinoistic messages about El Tri and their crop of young studs who play a lovely brand of futbol, I thought I'd offer a retort, something beyond the usual "Go Back to Mexico!" and "Mow My Lawn!"

I was once on a team that lined up opposite a bunch of Jamaicans, real Jamaicans, black and everything, not white suburban kids who liked Bob Marley. They had this dude in the middle of the park who absolutely dominated us with his quickness, vision and skill. We lost 4-1, but it was far worse than that. the next time we played them, we game-planned specifically for that guy, switching to a 4-5-1 and having a usual left back in the center to man-mark their play-maker. In addition, we put out the call to chop him down physically.

That's exactly what should happen tonight. Dos Santos and Barrera should go down hard (at least) once early. Real hard. Then often. With multiple subs, you can get the yellow cards out of the way and bring on someone else. It's like having a bunch of Brian Scalabrines on the team. Back them off a little, slow the pace of the game with multiple re-starts, raise some fucking welts.

Surely, Klinsi knows this, probably, in fact, remembers when Germany did this exact thing to the US in 2002 World Cup. Jens Jeremies annihilated Yank play-maker Claudio Reyna--who is also in camp!--within the first five minutes, rendering him impotent for the remainder of the match. We have guys like Heath Pearce and Zach Loyd in the team. What else are they going to offer but a little thuggery?

So there is the game plan. Get Gio rolling around on the turf like he's trying to put out a fire on his person. And yeah, we beat the Jamaicans in that second game. Completely reversed the scoreline. Took them out physically, which led to them disintegrating mentally. Same thing can happen tonight, though probably not much chance of El Tri sparking fatties at halftime.

Puppy Love

2011-06-07T14:22:00.000-07:00

So there's this new entity in my house who has worms and shits on the floor. Shat. It was just once and I cleaned it up post-haste, remembering the time AJ was potty training and had a failure which jump-started his two-year-old's sense of shame, so he tried to clean the mess himself and ended up dragging his soiled bottom and clothing all over the upstairs hallway. And I thought, I've done this before, no big deal.

Reggie, the mutt, the maybe part-terrier, maybe part-pit bull, maybe part-doberman, all-thunderous energy, has been with us for a week and we've had to devise an intricate system of levers and pulleys to prevent more accidents (there have been two of the liquid variety), unsupervised interactions with the kitty--who is up in all kinds of arms over this feisty interloper and is taking it out on each of us in unique ways--and various other attacks on our home furnishings and possessions, up to and including AJ's stuffed animals, one of which was subjected to a brief, but no less hilarious and disturbing, quasi-pornographic act.

He treats our couch as if it merely something to hurdle. He has attempted to eat a dozen snails. He keenly disrupts any and all plans to go outside when we are home. He broke the screen door within 12 hours. He eats with the ferocity of a pack of hyenas and with more speed. He's tried to bury his chew bone in the middle of the living room. He is 23 lbs. of whirling, jumping, tugging, galloping fury.

Of course, we love him to death.

I do not speak for the poor kitty, however. The Princess. Her run of Speaker Manor has come to an ignominious end. She's furious with us. Was a time when Emet's morning alarm would be her call to jump up on our bed and lay next to her for one, two slaps at the snooze button. Now, she won't even enter the room. She reserves her hiss mostly for Reggie, but we've all been subject to a swiped fore paw or bared teeth. He is most unwelcome and perhaps her biggest issue is that her forays into the backyard have been curtailed, while we try to get the two of them to co-exist without the chasing. Ironic. The dog always wants in and the cat always wants out.

When we got Reggie last week, he seemed bewildered. We'd prepared for his arrival with all manner of research and purchases of essentials and doggie toys, yet he was disinterested, as if he didn't know how to play. We knew virtually nothing of his background. He came from one of Emet's students. Her family had just moved and they couldn't keep the dog, who they had only had for a brief time after another family member gave him up. So you could say Reggie's five months of life have been unsettled.

He's a little meek with men. Ducks his head in submission; a sign, perhaps, of abuse, but he's shown no outward symptoms of fear or severe mistreatment. We're crate training him and it's going great. Sleeps in the crate in our room with less and less resistance, though Emet says he snores and I have to take her word for it, 'cause how would I hear over the sound of my own Warthoggery. He's caught on to the fact that going bathroom outside will result in a treat and makes a beeline for the back door as soon as he's un-crated in the morning (and then makes a similar beeline to the pantry after emission, since that's where the treats are).

It's been a long time since I've had a dog in the house and that was a house that barely needed to be protected from the behavior of a dog. Sixteen years. I suppose I'm getting used to him just as much as he's getting used to us. I'm up 45 minutes earlier in the morning for a walk and it's quickly become something I look forward to, a quiet, relaxing start to the day, with the added benefit of getting the blood pumping. He's remembered how to fetch a ball and play tug-of-war with...oh...anything and I can get him sprinting around the backyard at frightening speed as he somehow avoids running into the fences or flower boxes. My typical evening of sprawling on the couch watching sports is no longer an option since his energy needs a watchful eye. "He's your dog," Emet says, while sipping wine.

He is, but I want him to be AJ's dog, too. Right now, Reggie favors the adults, who feed and walk him and who are there all the time, as opposed to the half-time kid with the short attention span and fiery desire for the dog to sleep in his bed. AJ's talked about having a dog for so long that the reality might be a little too overwhelming for him, too different from the idea he had in his head about ownership. Goodness knows he's not too happy about having to wash his hands all the time now after playing with Reggie.

So we're integrating this lovable beast into the family. We walk the neighborhood, give him deworming medicine, bounce the ball, higher the better, pretend he's too strong and we can't get the sock out of his mouth. He foils a handful of attempts to get him in the yard when it's time for work, sits there at the back door with those ears, huge and alert, saying "don't go."

And we don't want to.

Pure

2011-05-23T09:41:00.001-07:00

I didn't say anything until after a routine par on #5, the number one handicap hole, a long par-4 with an uphill second shot. Nor had Emet remarked on the round I had going. "Are you aware I'm one-under right now?" I said.

"Don't talk about it," she said, like she was watching a perfect game.

Sage advice. But the round is over now and I can't stop talking about it.

*

It's not like I've been knocking on the door of breaking 80. In fact, I'd been golfing at the same plateau the entire year with outlier results being on the higher scale rather than the lower. My handicap, after hitting a low of 14.5 in March, has risen to 15.1. My scores--and goals--were still bogey golf and the majority of rounds were within a shot or two of 90. The scores were fine, but I was getting frustrated.

This isn't news to golfers. Frustration is ever present. The primary reason for mine was a swing that seemed to come and go, sometimes in the same round. Again, no news to golfers. The only way to find that consistency, I figured, was to keep playing. More experience, the better one can replicate the good swings.

So, of course, I broke 80 in the first round I'd played in a month.

*

This past weekend was the first I'd had off in a while. I've been taking a lot of weekend shifts because I needed to bank some comp days for a summer chock full o' vacation goodness. Because I'd spent so much time away from my wife, I dubbed the past two days Angeliquend, 48 hours of wifely attention and festivities. Fortunately, she's a selfless person and allowed a round of golf as part of the fun.

We took a trip to the driving range on Thursday after work to get out some kinks, but spent most of our time chipping and putting, as I gave her pointers on those pesky chips that she struggles with (and I could say to her many times on Saturday that the shot she was about to attempt was "the same ones we practiced"). I had mixed results on the range, hitting two balls square then duffing the third. Same as it ever was. Didn't walk away feeling like anything was different.

Then, on Saturday morning, we did some yard work. We let the kitty out into the backyard to play while we did so and I took a short break to play with her. She likes me to whack plastic golf balls at her. It was then that I had a revelation.

*

The sixth hole is a 178-yard par three over water. It's tough because the hole is open and unprotected from the wind, which blows left-to-right and both knocks balls down and pushes them into the bunker at the right front of the green. I've used as much as a 5-iron on this hole when the wind is howling, but on Saturday it was a strong 7. I found the green off the tee and two-putted for par.

Still one-under.

*

It has been those iron shots that have been the biggest hole in my game lately. I've honestly had no idea where they have been headed the last three months. I've tried a few changes, mostly in my grip, which is on the weak side, partially owing to the wrist surgery I had, but also because it feels most comfortable that way. Nothing's really worked.

So, there I am with the kitty in the back yard, hitting nice, easy seven irons at her as she tries to catch the plastic balls in the air. I'm not really paying attention to my swing until one shot where my hands brush against my right thigh on approach to the ball.

Holy shit! Total lightbulb. That's it!

*

The seventh hole is a bad one for me and my baby fade. Right-to-left dogleg with water left and a big bunker guarding the corner. That bunker is 235 to carry and it rises about three feet above the fairway. I can clear it. I have. Maybe one out of ten. So, I tend to play away from it. I drove it well, staying right all the way, but it ran out of the fairway. This course is fairly easy if you drive it in the generous fairways (I hit 9 of 14 on the day), but if you're in the rough, it's never a flat lie.

In this instance, I had a hook lie and though I hit it pretty well, it landed hard and carried to the back left of the green, 40 feet and a deep swale away from the pin. I figured my best option was to go high, around the swale, but I didn't hit it hard enough and left myself 12-feet for par.

I missed. "First blemish on the card," I said to Emet, while also noting the hilarity of me calling a bogey a "blemish."

Even after seven.

*

I'm no golf expert. I've never taken a lesson. But I watch a lot of golf. I pay close attention to those slo-mo swing analysis features on the tee-vee. Most of it goes over my head. I'd rather not stand over the ball and think about swing plane and hip tilt. But I do get certain aspects and one thing I've really struggled with is releasing my hands after contact. I've never been able to get extension on my follow through with my irons (driver is different, for some reason that I don't want to delve into because I hit my driver fine thankyouverymuch). I'm certain that explains my fade and I've tried more changes to get my body and hands around more completely.

It never occurred to me that the problem was in my address.

*

The 8th is the longest par-5 on the course and very difficult off the tee. A strand of trees guards the left side of the fairway, which narrows at 230-yards. Bunkers on the right and a hill that's driveable but which slopes sharply right to left. Anything center or left rolls into deep rough and a shot where the ball will be at least a foot above your feet. I'm always in trouble on this hole. The solution would be to hit 3-wood and stay short of the trouble, but I can't hit my 3-wood to save my life (guess that's the next thing to work on).

Alas, on this day, to this point, everything was working, so I just dialed back the driver a bit and landed it short of the hill, in the fairway. A smoked 5-iron left me 128 and uphill to the pin and it was here I got a great break. I thought I was hitting an easy 9, but I got more of it than I thought and it flew the green with malice. Until it hit that tree and caromed dead right, leaving me just a few yards off the back of the green, from where I got up and down for par.

Even after 8.

*

The kitty sat there waiting for me to hit another ball, but I was in no hurry to do so. One practice swing. Two. Eleven. Every single one of them feeling absolutely perfect.

*

The 9th is a gimme. 308 yard par-4, downhill. I've never actually driven it, but I've been awfully close. There's a lake front and left of the green, but my fade takes it out of play for me. The driving range and a buttload of trees are right, so if you don't hit it straight you might be looking at a big number.

I hit it straight, about 280, and it settled just past where the cart path bisects the fairway. I had my distance right with the wedge, but pulled it, leaving me 15-feet for birdie. I missed it--just--on the low side and tapped in for a front-nine score of 36.

Even par.

*

Emet and I hit a bucket before the round. I was anxious to try out my new "fix" with full swings and actual balls.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Every single one of them came pure off the club face. 9-iron to 4-iron. All the way down the line.

*

I still hit the ball great on the back-9. Had a bit of trouble with distance control as the wind kicked up. I left my approaches short on both 10 (bogey) and 11 (up and down for par). I found a fairway bunker on 12--a drive that I came across because I was thinking too much--and then three-putted from 20 feet for a double. On the par-3 13, the easiest hole on the course, I hit my one truly bad shot of the day, a super-fat 9-iron that left me short and with a downhill lie to an uphill green. Bogey there. And then 14, where I took a triple-bogey 7.

I hit a good drive, but missed the fairway. The slice lie, my fade and the wind conspired to put me in a greenside bunker from which it took me three shots to get out. I was okay with the first one (downhill lie and I hit the lip of the bunker), less so with the second (I hit a hard patch and my club bounced up resulted in me blading it right into that same lip). At which point I uttered my first curse word of the round.

So, suddenly I'm 7-over after 14 and a little tilted and I say to Emet, "I need to play par golf over the last four holes to break 80."

"Stop talking about it and just hit your shots," she said.

*

All I did was move my hands away from my body. About six inches. One, I was able to take an inside swing path to the ball without my body getting in the way. I think, and I'm just guessing here, that I was auto-correcting on the way to the ball, dipping my right shoulder too much to get the club face there, and that was resulting in hitting it fat too often. Two, I was much more balanced, so, at impact, my body turn was maintaining speed. Three, my hands were free to release the club head and flowed easily to a good finishing position.

*

Fifteen is a short (491 yards), downwind par-5 and I owned it, hitting the fairway and then a 5-iron from 210 that ended up pin-high, just right of the green. I got up and down for birdie.

A routine par on 16 (I hit 12 greens in regulation. 12!) and then a three-putt bogey on the par-3 17 (pretty much missed the ball on the first put, a 25-footer up the hill).

I needed par on the 18th, a par-five that isn't especially long, but has a waste bunker fronting the green that discourages going for it in two. Which became a moot point when I out-thought myself again on the tee (I tried to hit a draw so it could ride the wind and all I succeeded in doing was swiping it). My drive was well right (but playable) and only 220, so I laid up with a 6-iron to a decent spot, about 110 yards out.

The green is well uphill from there and we had a blue flag, so I hit a big pitching wedge. It wasn't enough. I had to two-putt from 40-feet for 79.

My first putt was good. I got it there, plus six-and-a-half feet. Six-and-a-half feet, slightly downhill. For 79.

Right in the heart.

*

Dr. Jeff sent me a message of congratulations and an note of warning. "You will never be satisfied with anything higher."

Yeah. I know.

But I am tempering expectations. All I want is to be able to keep a reasonable facsimile of my "new" swing. I don't think I'm currently an 8-handicap, which is what that 79 would be. No, I still think I'm in the right range. Maybe a little lower than my current 15.1 (and, actually, disregarding any rounds I play until May 31, the 79 moves my HDCP to 14.3). I know I won't hit the ball as pure as I did every time out.

I just want to be able to find that swing again after it inevitably goes missing.

Is that too much to ask? If so, can I just keep it for another week? I'm playing TPC Scottsdale on Sunday.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy

2011-05-13T12:19:00.000-07:00

In our 50-50 custody arrangement, five days is the longest I ever go without seeing The Boy. It sometimes seems much longer. Every once in a while, he walks through the door and I hardly recognize him.

AJ will be ten in three months. That scrambles my brain (says every parent ever). It goes so fast. He's reaching a tipping point. Double figures. Out with The Boy, in with the...whatever social demographers call it. He's growing up. Young man strut and new concerns. He smells bad after soccer practice.

His current favorite word is "crud," which I find oddly heart-warming. A word from my own childhood, that I've never heard out of the mouth of someone older than ten. "Holy crud!" he says. "Kevin Kouzmanoff is cruddy." And I laugh.

"I hope he stays sweet as long as possible," Emet says, and he is that. Sweet. He'll disarm me with no warning. He is also argumentative, convinced he's always right. The other day, he insisted the record for the mile run was under three minutes. I gently told him that was not true, but he insisted. I dropped the conversation--pointedly--and sent him to Google after dinner was done.

On the other hand, I took him on a surprise trip for a scoop of ice cream--one measly scoop--last night and the thanked me with little boy genuineness. Three times.

*

I was ten, in fifth grade, when I first noticed girls. Didn't know what to do about it yet, but I noticed 'em. "Started kissing them a year later," I told AJ and he predictably screwed up his face and blurted, "Ewwww."

Just wait, buddy. Before you know it.

*

We have a fantasy baseball team together this season and it's the worst side in the league (this is entirely my fault as I didn't peruse the league specs before drafting and went with, you know, the best players, instead of players that fit the scoring. What kind of idiotic league has categories for singles and save opportunities?). Yet, every night, he's on the computer, checking our team (not helped by the fact our #1 pick, Hanley Ramirez, is currently hitting .200) in a way that describing as "obsessive" would be understating it by a buttload.

He has his own You Tube account now and monitors his viewer numbers. He comes home from school and wants to play with his buddy across the street. Social. Maturing. At his Open House a few weeks back, he showed me a project that illustrated these changes. "I used to..." all the sentences opened and turned on "...but now I..."

"I used to want to be the center of attention," my son wrote, "but now I just want to share with my friends."

*

He got bullied recently. Escalated from words and taunts to playground shoves. His mother and I reacted quickly, as did the school. No problems since.

Trouble is right around the corner. Bullies, peer pressure, sex education. Teenagers.

I'm the parent who scares him the most. Daddy Discipline. I'm the last to know about things, as he filters his misdeeds first through his mother and then Emet, dipping his toe in the water before I splash punishment. This is a good thing. Boundaries.

It remains a tightrope. Knowing when to rein him in and when to not stifle his enthusiasm. Who knows what sets him off. He wants to be heard, but needs to know when to be quiet. A hard lesson, especially in a house where his Dad is always yelling at umpires on TV.

He still climbs on me when we watch sports together. Doesn't sit next to me. Lays across my lap or on top of me if I'm supine. He laughs at farts and burps and my stupid puns.

I hope he stays sweet as long as possible. Respectful.

He gets out of the car in front of the school. I'll see him in five days. I wonder what he'll be like then?

Ball Don't Lie

2011-05-05T11:09:00.000-07:00

Oakland A's #1 starter Trevor Cahill is over-rated. I heard this enough during the 2010 year, during the entire off-season and even now. Relax Sabre-Dorks. I get the argument. BABIP.

Now, first off, I have a bit of skepticism regarding BABIP, which is Batting Average on Balls In Play, for you people who have lives. BABIP basically says the pitcher has no bearing whatsoever on balls hit into the field of play (obviously home runs are excluded), that once wood hits horsehide, it's all luck, the Baseball Gods with their fakery and whimsical ju-ju are now fully in control.

Horse balls.

Do you think Mariano Rivera's cutter in on the hands of a lefty (where it is, roughly, all the time) influences a batted ball? Of course it does, in the form of a weak grounder to the right side or a measly pop-up and, usually, a shattered stick. Does a mighty hitter, every once in a while, manage a bloop over whomever the Yanks are paying ungodly sums to man first base? Sure. But the Mo's cutter surely has a major impact on...er...impact and the former scenario is massively more likely than the latter.

Which brings us to Cahill. Have you seen him pitch? His sinker evokes Brandon Webb in his prime. Or Dan Haren now. Heavy ball. Darting action. No surprise he gets a ton of ground balls (1.35 GB/FB ratio last year) and he is aided by a fine Oakland infield defense (last year anyway) and the spacious Coliseum.

But the Sabre-Guardians can't quit their moaning about Cahill. Unsustainable BABIP (with which I agree, with the above "luck" caveats). Doesn't strike out enough hitters. This is a guy who, at age 22 last season, was an All-Star, had an ERA under 3 (I know, ERA doesn't mean anything, it's peripherals(!) that predict performance; well, maybe I'm an idiot, but I'll take ACTUAL performance over predicted performance any day) and an OPS Against of .619.

Read that last stat again. Also, 22 years-old.

So now, Cahill is off to a heated start in 2011--at age 23. ACTUAL performance. The Sabre-Wonks are trotting out small sample size and "See! His BABIP is up 23 points! WEEEEEEEEE! Regression to the mean! Regression to the mean!"

Except Cahill is allowing an OPS Against of .549 through seven starts. Is striking out more than two batters per nine than last year (and I assure you this isn't a fluke; I've seen all his starts. He is putting suckas away) and his K/BB ratio is at 2.53 versus 1.87 last year. He dominated the best offense in the league last night.

I think we can say that--right now--Trevor Cahill is really good, even over the protestations of those who say he really isn't as good as he looks. Here's the thing:

23!

Maybe it hasn't occurred to others, but young pitchers mature. Young pitchers with nasty movement learn to harness it and have better command. Young pitchers with wide-eyed immaturity gain experience and learn the hitters and vary their attack patterns. Young pitchers get better.

Perhaps this is blasphemy from an A's fan, one who loves and preaches "Moneyball," but sometimes the eyes don't lie. Sometimes watching a player do work is more illuminating than poring through the numbers. Trevor Cahill is on the cusp of being an elite pitcher.

And luck doesn't have anything to do with it.

Indivisible

2011-05-01T21:38:00.000-07:00

AJ was just shy of six weeks old on 9/11. He's nine now and had to be coaxed away from a video game to watch the President's news conference just a few minutes ago. That was a powerful speech. I clapped at the end.

"Are we happy he's dead?" AJ asked as I tucked him in a short while later.

"We should never wish for somebody to be dead, son," I said. "But here's the thing...Osama Bin Laden was an evil man. He intentionally murdered thousands of innocent people. Now his evil is gone from the world. He can't hurt anyone else and that's a good thing."

Sorry for the post. I couldn't fit it into 140 characters.

Big 4 Review

2011-04-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

The song in my head right now is "Peace Sells," so let's start there shall we?

The VIP area was very peaceful. We set the O/U at fights witnessed at 10, but we only saw one involving a mosher and a young lady's spilled beer and that was just shoving and pointing and one hand gesture I believe conveyed "Toss off." We did see a couple security takedowns of intrepid interlopers in our pristine VIP area--one of impressive middle linebacker-ian power--but, overall, the mood was festive, rather than maniacal. At one point during Slayer, we were in a thin safety area between two thrashing pits, but the vortex never closed in on us. Even those circling with relish were a conscientious lot, following pit etiquette and creating what my friend Salk once terms, "A Pit of Good Intentions."

So, VIP? Totally worth the extra hundred bucks. Trying to think of $100 that has ever been better spent, I can only come up with two:

1) When Iggy paid donkeypuncher that same sum to ride in the front seat on the way back from Key West.

2) When I wagered that amount on Mrs. Human Head to take down Phil Gordon in Roshambo.

The boys (Al, Blood and StB) and I figured there was room enough for about 1500 humans in the VIP area, which arced out in a half moon from the stage. Behind two restraining barriers, the huddled masses were jammed together like Vienna sausages. It was insane. Ninety minutes before the first note, those crazy kids had packed themselves in, midday Indio sun pouring down on them. It was with more glee than guilt that we stood in our spacious area, stretched out our arms and marveled at their commitment. My single act of charity was to toss them a bottle of water and ask them to share.

Not sure they did.

As for the VIP beverage area, we were promised "better" food and drink selections. The food was fine, including a burger truck cleverly entitled "Grill 'Em All" (which I'm sure Lars slapped with an injunction of some sort), but the beer selections were Coors Light and Blue Moon, neither of which I could consider better than the amassed and mingled sweat of those kids in the front row. Fortunately, I fired up my craft beer radar and tracked down the Stone Brewing tent (arriving there at the exact same time as StB, who had taken another route; eerie), not that there was time or inclination for epic sudsing, but that Stone IPA was a far finer quencher of thirst while waiting for Megadeth.

*

I suppose you want me to talk about the bands some, eh? Bear with me. I've been backed up like a Beijing traffic jam with the writing and it's presently flowing, so I have no desire to edit or stop, so you get stream-of-consciousness or you get nothing you sniveling snivelers.

Though I've always admired Anthrax, I pretty much got off their train after the first album. It's the only one I ever owned, though there was plenty of "Among the Living" blasted into the hallways of my college dorm. My biggest contention with them was always Joey Belladonna, who did not sing on the first album. Even so, I was looking forward to their set, party since I'd never seen them, party because Al's enthusiasm was infectious and partly because I knew that they would be fun.

Of all the bands, they were the happiest to be there and it showed. Joey was probably the most happy, since he was admittedly "higher than a (compound curse word") and appeared to have aged double of everyone else. That fake tan he had working achieved the opposite effect of what I figure he was going for (that's our first winner of the day: Joey wins the Keith Richards Award). Their sound wasn't that great--first band curse--but the energy was fantastic and Scott Ian's maniacal stomp-dance entertained. The highlight was "Metal Thrashing Mad" (from the first album), edging out "Indians" and the playful admonition from Charlie Benante that our War Dance was less than stellar.

*

The second winner of the day, in lieu of a segue, goes to the dude in the blue shirt who was listing dangerously left, making his way (somehow) through the VIP area at a 45-degree angle to the ground. When he led with his right foot, he looked ready to fall over, but the left would magically find terra firma just in time to keep him from a public face plant. I sincerely doubt he made it through all four bands without some sort of trouble, but he can be proud of the fact he was our Big 4 Lewey Award winner.

*

Megadeth opened with "Trust" and then went into "In My Darkest Hour," which succeeded in whipping me into an off-key singing frenzy. It was the one song I told Blood I wanted them to do and it was superb. The song has a lot of history, especially with Metallica in the compound, and Dave Mustaine sang it with full bitterness and anguish, feelings he no longer feels, but was able to summon for the occasion, which is exactly what was demanded.

They were damn good and awfully tight, Mustaine and Chris Broderick trading technically superior riffs while banging away (Best Hair Award goes to Broderick; I told Blood the only reason I ever wanted to grow my hair long was to whip it around in Broderick-ian fashion. Sadly, I don't look nearly as cool as when he does it). Mustaine was short of audience interaction, but before launching into "Holy Wars" he decried the "brother against brother" nature of our world today.

Well said, Dave.

*

Here's the metaphor I used to describe the Slayer performance to Blood:

"Hi, we're Slayer. These are large steel-toed boots and we would like to come on stage and use them to kick you in the teeth."

Wow. Wow. Wow. They opened with "World Painted Blood" (a song I once used to illustrate to Emet what is awesome about this music I enjoy), followed by "Hate Worldwide" and "War Ensemble." Three absolute punishers. Sure, you can make that case for most of the Slayer canon, but they do have the ability to offer nuance. They simply decided not to in their entire set, which contained songs from 1983's "Show No Mercy" all the way up to 2009's "World Painted Blood" and there was not the slightest variation in quality or pause for respite. Kerry King spent 65 minutes pummeling his guitar. Tom Araya, always the coolest guy in the room, wailed away and when not singing, stepped back, surveyed the scene in front of him and offered that self-satisfied, bemused smile of his. It's a look of pure confidence. "Take that!" it seems to say.

"Silent Scream" was an unexpected addition to the set, but the biggest surprise was when regular guitarist Jeff Hanneman came out for the encore, his first appearance with the band since October. He'd been rehabing from necrotizing fasciitis (google'd it), which is flesh-eating bacteria, likely caused by a spider bite. He made sure to cut the sleeve off his t-shirt so we could see the atrophy and scars as he ripped through "South of Heaven" and "Angel of Death." Really cool moment for him and for us.

*

I'm a Metallica apologist ("St. Anger" excluded). I've always backed them ("St. Anger excluded) even when Lars exposes his most douchey side (frequently). They were the band that started it all for me. I went from Top 40 to Metal thirty seconds after I heard "The Four Horsemen" in 1983. But I have to say, they were terrible.

Okay, perhaps not terrible. Just...out of place. A parody, closer to Spinal Tap than to Slayer, with their flash pots and double-decker stage and goofy guitar designs (Kirk Hammett) and big, black beach balls and the way they positioned LArs's drum kit to make sure he'd be in the background of every video projected onto the big screen and the way he jumps up from behind the kit at the end of every song (sit down and play!). It was all rather silly. Even worse, they did not play well. "For Whom the Bell Tolls," which followed the opener, "Creeping Death," was horribly botched, especially by Hammett, who didn't seem to find the pocket until midway through the set.

The songs they chose weren't bad. Only one song from the years between the "Black Album" and "Death Magnetic" and heavy on the first four studio albums. The best was a startling and fantastic "Orion," which was dedicated to the late Cliff Burton, a nice touch from the boys.

Of course, there were the songs none of us wanted to hear, though we protested less vociferously than the guy near us in the Pit who thrust his middle finger at the band throughout the entirety of "Sad But True" and then stoically turned his back to the stage during "Nothing Else Matters" and "Enter Sandman."

*

The encore with all the bands was both telegraphed and onerous, but it was still kind of fun to see them up there together. Not all. Araya passed, later saying he didn't approve of the song selection ("Am I Evil?"), but he would have happily participated if they'd chosen something more "metal" like "The Four Horsemen." That would have been awesome (Big 4, Four Horsemen; get it?) and you know Mustaine knows the song already. Alas...

All in all, a vital and must-seen adventure for me and I was happy to share it with the others, a great bunch (as you all know) who made the experience that much better. I think my metal concert-going days are over now and I can't think of a better way to have gone out.

Well...on second thought...I'll probably go see Slayer again.

Revelations

2011-04-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

I'd like to thank all of you who reached out via comments, Twitter, Facebook, e-mail, text, carrier pigeon, stone tablets and voicemail (sorry to those of you in the last group, but we still don't get any cell reception at home; might take that one up with the Big Guy tonight).

As I said, I didn't want to write that post. That was my overwhelming feeling when it became apparent I had to. What you read was something I began about four months ago. By the time I hit 'post' 90% of any trepidation I felt about it was gone. Part of that was the process and growth, but also thanks to a serendipitous conversation I had with Blood, Al and StB.

On our way out of Indio (as I said, my faith is a work in progress, as evidenced by my spending Easter Weekend with Slayer), we were briefly caught in Easter Sunday traffic and the conversation veered toward my own experience. And I felt totally at ease talking about my faith with the boys, which provided impetus to finally finish the darn thing.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a couple people who were integral in me finally sacking up to post this. Emet, of course, is unflagging in her support and had known how I've struggled to say what I wanted to say lo these six months. She never prodded me and was, at the same time, always there. I'd not have arrived without her and we are both so thankful that God has brought us together.

I also want to thank maigs for that brief, but meaningful, conversation in Chicago. It was the first time I felt like I could do this (though I continued to fight it; the lesson there is, she's always right).

I wrestled with that post for so long and started and stopped and edited and re-edited and second-guessed and...well, let's just say it was hard. There was one part I kept revising and cutting and, finally, I just took it out altogether. I won't put all of it here, but, allow me to summarize:

God is, above ALL else, tolerant. He loves everybody. Muslims, gays, strippers, rappers, atheists, dogcatchers. There is no room for intolerance in His heart or in his Word. Using scripture as a basis for discrimination against any single person or any group is not what I've been taught, nor what I believe.

*

So now that the damn dam is broken, I think I can write again (your mileage may vary) and we'll get back to the usual silliness contained herein. My Big 4 review is on deck.

Thanks again, everybody. I'm overwhelmed.

Confession

2011-04-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

When I was in 3rd grade, I played a significant role in a youth musical at our church. I was several years younger than the rest of the cast, but the part called for a little brother, so they brought me in (if there was an audition process, I can't recall it). I had two solos, scores of lines of dialogue and was in the thick of the action for pretty much the whole program. The first time we performed, I blanked on the first verse of my initial solo. The words were just lost. I stood there, quaking like a rabbit on the highway, knowing the words would not come back to me. So I waited.

I felt that ball of paralysis in my gut, but I was able to sing again when the chorus came. With each word I sung and spoke--remembered--it eased. And by the time we'd finished, I felt no shame at botching a few lines. I was, however, confused, maybe even a little hurt.

"Why did they laugh at me?" I asked my Mom. The script, at one point, called for me to run out the back of the chapel screaming. As I did, I heard laughter behind me.

"They weren't laughing at you, honey," Mom said. "They thought you were cute. You were acting."

I've spent most of my life in fear of being laughed at. I don't ascribe this failing to this event. It's just the way I am. It causes me to shrink from certain situations, to keep my thoughts to myself for fear of saying the wrong words, for seeming foolish or ill-informed. Sometimes, I am able to overcome, when my emotions boil, when the task of holding everything in becomes to great.

I imagine there are those out there who will laugh at me after reading this, think me ignorant.

That's okay.

I have to tell you something.

*

My parents raised me in the Baptist faith. Southern Baptist, no less. Those of you not well-versed in such matters should know that being a Southern Baptist is a full-time gig. There are services on Sunday morning. Sunday School. Services on Sunday evening. On Wednesdays. Tuesday nights, my Mom worked with senior citizens, often deputizing my sister and I to help out. I was in the children's choir, then the youth choir, with practice multiple times a week. I both attended and taught Vacation Bible School.

To sum up, church and God were a constant presence in my upbringing. I became a Christian at age 6. Yes, age 6. During the benediction, I said to my Mom, "I have to go." She thought I meant the bathroom. I meant the altar.

You can argue a child is in no position to make a conscious decision at that age. I understand that. I also know that moment is as clear to me today as it was 37 years ago. I remember every step I took up that center aisle (and it was a long way, as we were sitting in the back). I see Dr. Morton's face as I approached and him whispering in my ear, asking me if I knew what I was doing. I was adamant. He baptized me soon after and I have perfect clarity of that, as well.

What followed was many years in the ministry. I was proud to serve God. I held a bible study in my backyard for other kids on my street. I relished the once-a-year-occasion when youth got to teach the adults in Sunday School. I went on all the retreats, the summer camps, the snow trips. Our choirs sang at other churches, at campgrounds and rest homes.

One of my soccer teammates' father once said he expected me to become a Pastor. I figured he was probably right.

*

I haven't written in a while, as you've no doubt noticed (or not; I'm really not that vital). I've carved out a number of excuses. I've not felt like it. I have no time. I don't have anything to say. I'm spending time in other, more worthwhile pursuits, like my new marriage and my golf game.

The truth is, I haven't been able to write. I've tried. Everything comes out unfocused and cliched. My energy for this space sapped. Silence, better than foolishness. Any day.

*

I came into my teens and, as boys of that age are wont to do, started railing against the rigid aspects of the life I had led to that point. It manifest itself in the usual ways. Disregard for parental control, the need for peer friendships and acceptance, alcohol and then drugs. Church, the cornerstone of my upbringing, became a nuisance. I was 16. I knew everything.

I started to ditch worship service, sitting in a car in the parking lot listening to music or the football game on the radio. I'd go to choir practice and then leave before the evening service. I begged illness on Sunday mornings.

By the time I left home for college, I had no intention of going to church. And I didn't. My commitment was gone. My belief was right behind it.

My second semester in college, I took a class called "Myth and Legend." It examined the "creation myths" of different civilizations. There are similarities among all of these. It was the first time I'd ever questioned the existence of God. It became something of an obsession for me. I was disappointed and angry. Any chance I got, I took religion-centric GE classes. World Religions, Philosophical Approach to Religions, Ancient Israel and, of course, The Bible, a course I figured to ace due to my background, which I did, but only thanks to hyper-diligence as the material was so far beyond what I'd learned in church.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my obsession was a way of seeking. I felt, in a word, betrayed. I looked for proof that God didn't exist, because that would be a way for me to justify my own secular-focused behavior. I tried very hard to succeed at this errand. And I did, in a way. I convinced myself enough so that I could carry on with the direction my life was headed.

*

Moses killed a guy. Did you know that? Smote (weeeee Biblical word!) a dude, buried him in the desert and fled Egypt, ultimately marrying and becoming a shepherd. It was later that God called to him from the burning bush, called him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. At the bush, Moses held his staff, the tool of the shepherd. God told him to cast it to the ground, where it became a serpent. After coaxing a fleeing Moses to pick up the serpent by the tail, it once again became a staff.

God had taken away a man's livelihood--Moses the sheep herder's staff--and then gave it back to him for greater purpose, to follow His instructions.

*

It wasn't until X left that I went back to church. The intervening years were chaotic and varied. Many times, I would have characterized my life as happy. I became a Dad, I made lasting friendships with good and genuine people, I found attention and enthusiasm in a number of pursuits. I lived.

Through it all, despite my protestations to the contrary, I held to my belief in God. I prayed, sporadically, but also with purpose, with the knowledge I was being heard. I asked for a great many things. Guidance, health, forgiveness. I meant every word. After "Amen," I went right back to living my life how I wanted.

I never paused long enough to hear Him answer. Eventually, he had to show me.

God doesn't mind making us suffer for Him.

My first time back at church was with my Mom. X was still living with me, but preparing her way out the door. I started crying midway through the service and didn't stop until we left the chapel. I can't even remember what the message was about. I don't even know why I was crying (though my general abject sadness during time in my life is a pretty good guess).

I do know that I left that day knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my troubles were entirely of my own making and that my only way out of that despair was through Him.

*

I haven't written here because God asked me to write what you are reading now. I didn't want to.

*

I started going to church regularly, having found a wonderful community near my house. It's called Water of Life and its message is "Passion for God, Compassion for People." It was the third or fourth time I went when I realized the pain I felt was not simply from X's betrayal, but from all those many years I lived in selfish service to my own ego. The myriad things, and people, I sought to fulfill me were never the answer. The nagging desire for meaning was always beyond my reach. The hurt was of my own offing.

The service that day was about regret, debilitating regret, and that once it gets inside of you, when you linger over your past mistakes and let them dictate your future, you are well and truly lost, for those mis-steps can not be corrected, they can only fester and bloom black.

It was a lesson I took to heart. Not an easy one, mind you. I forgave myself, though, as God has forgiven me and I set my heart to begin anew with Him.

Oh, but it's hard. Brand New Struggle. To give it all over to Him.

*

It's been many months since God asked me to write this for you. I've failed/balked at every turn. Like Moses. God has taken my words away from me, only to give them back if I follow his dictates.

I pray--and listen--more frequently now and it was in the midst of a serious discussion with Him that he told me I had to do this. I was asking for a lot. Emet and I were facing a difficult decision. We wanted answers! We got 'em.

Hers was way easier to do than mine, I assure you.

This makes me very uncomfortable. Most of you reading this have known me for a while and you can count with zero fingers the times I've mentioned my faith. Going to church, yes, but my belief? No, we haven't discussed it. I'm still that 3rd grader that doesn't want to color outside the lines, to be laughed at.

Yet, I can't deny the power I feel when I'm in worship. Every word is so meaningful, so precise and I'm often moved to pure joy. I can't deny any of this any longer. Can't not talk about it.

*

I was playing golf the other day and got to talking with an out-of-work teacher I'd been paired with. The conversation moved to our children and I asked where his go to school. "Water of Life," he said. I was so excited. I peppered him with questions, finally asking which service he attends. "I don't," he said. "But my wife and kids do."

"You should come," I said, before I even realized the words were out of my mouth. "You should come."

*

I'm learning. It's no easy thing to give yourself up completely, no simple task to suffer, to admit failure, to know that I, by myself, could not cure that long-festering emptiness that I denied, while also knowing it was always there.

And difficult to do what God asks of you even though you don't want to. So many thoughts and I shudder at my inability to get them all on the page. I didn't want to do this, but even more frightening, I don't want to do it badly. I wonder if it's all here.

And then I wake up in the morning and I write,

When He looks at me, he doesn't see all those years, bleak and without hope, and the crooked paths I wandered and the black stain of sin. God looks at me and he sees His Son, in whose image I am made and forgiven, sees only the perfect, a pure, devoted believer in Him, a simple, but eager man, whose ugliness is covered and whose debt is paid by the blood of the Lamb.

*

I thank God for reminding me of the words. I thank you for reading them.

The Ace

2010-12-27T12:20:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve in Southern California dawned mercifully sunny, if a bit nippy and breezy. I know my protestations about the previous week of rain in our fair city will fall on deaf and snow-clogged ears for those of you in chillier environs, but the rain was near-constant and fell the entirety of my four-day weekend and you know what that means.

No golf.

So I was more than thankful to see the sun when I got up at 6:30 in the ayem for an hour drive east to get a round in before the Christmas Eve shenanigans began with the in-laws.

(I find it humorous to say "in-laws," because that terms carries an automatic negative connotation, but I have to say, the Emet Clan--all 40 of 'em--are the most enjoyable and welcoming group around and I have such a great time with them always.)

Emet was not with me for the round and I was playing a course for the first time. With the festivities starting at 1 p.m. at Emet's sister's house, I chose a course close to there and jammed out early. The course was Oak Valley, one of a cluster of courses where the 10 and 60 freeways meet in Beaumont, CA (point of reference for degenerates: about 15 minutes from Morongo) and a tight little track. Narrower fairways than my usual course. And trees. Lots of fucking trees. Oaks, I guess.

After hitting balls for about a half-hour, I headed to the first tee. "Are you my single?" asked the starter. I affirmed that I was an he went into a meandering tale about how he didn't have anyone to pair me with, BUT(!) if I wanted to, I could skip the first hole (which contained a foursome that was less than stellar) and try to catch up with a threesome ("Old guys, but they hit it pretty good") that was a few holes ahead of me. He assured me I could come back to play #1 after the round, so I drove to the #2 tee and set off.

Hit a gorgeous drive on the short-ish par-four, leaving myself but 92 yards to the flag for my second. Gakked a 3/4-swing sand wedge to the left of the green and chipped in for birdie.

That's right.

The third was a very short par-3 with an elevated tee and when I say "elevated," I mean elevated. At least 100 feet above the green. The GPS gave me 117 to the flag, so I hit a nice, easy sand wedge not nearly easy enough and ended up behind the green in a thicket. After pitching out of that crap, then pitching onto the green, I three-putted.

Now, I'm not taking you through my round hole-by-hole. I noted those two merely to illustrate the state of my game. A birdie, immediately followed by a triple-bogey on the easiest hole on the course. So stupid.

I still hadn't caught the older gentlemen in front of me, but I could see them on #4. I bogeyed that'un, done in once again by a poor approach after a solid drive. The wind was pretty pesky. I'd guess 12-15 mph, and I kept trying to hit my short irons on a low trajectory. I do this by playing the ball further back in my stance and putting my hands in front of the ball, thereby closing the face. I play in wind a lot and have somewhat mastered this style, as it gives me a nice little fade and keeps the ball low so the wind doesn't knock it down. The problem I'd been having to this point in this particular round, however, was the lack of fade. Ball was going straight and I was missing greens left.

Pretty much caught the threesome on #5, a long, downhill par-5. I had to wait to hit all three shots (yes, I hit the green in regulation; yes, I three-putted it from about 55 feet). As they were walking off the #5 green, one of the guys yelled back to me that they'd let me play through on the next hole, a par-3 measuring 148 yards.

Here it is:

They were waiting for me on the 6th tee. Maurice, Burt and Dale. Three buddies who've played together for 40 years. They even keep a spreadsheet detailing their rounds (and who owes who). Being the personable guy I am, I thanked them for the offer to play through, but suggested I just join up with them, if they didn't mind.

They didn't.

This is what it says on the golf course website about #6:

"This straightforward par 3 sixth hole is not as uphill as it might appear from the tee. Pull the appropriate club and hit it hole high on this two-tiered green."

The tee box was a few steps up from the cart path, the green a bit uphill from where we stood. The flag was in the front. Dale spied it with his GPS and announced 137 to the pin with the front of the green at 130. I had two clubs in my hand, the 8 and the 9 and debated my options as Burt dropped his tee shot about 20 feet past the hole with a 6-iron. I had read the course tips and remembered what the website said about the green not being as uphill as it looked. Which is what had me thinking 9-iron. But the wind was too prominent, coming right at us.

"Show us the way," Maurice said.

I stepped up with my 8-iron and went into my knockdown stance. Though I was yanking everything to this point, I stuck with my typical plan and aimed a little left, right at the sand trap guarding the left front of the green. I struck it pure, solid contact, a little humpbacked liner that, yes, was starting to fade a bit, was, in fact, tracking right toward the hole.

"Get up!" I said.

I saw it land. I saw it take one bounce. I saw it trickle toward the flag. But I did not see it go in. "That's looks in there tight," said Burt. "Yeah, it does," I said.

It did momentarily cross my mind that the ball went in. More likely, I thought, was that it rolled a few feet behind the hole and was obscured by the pin. I knew it was close. Five feet maybe. Not much more. I was hoping for a nice, easy birdie putt and wasn't even anxious while waiting for the other two to hit.

As I drove the cart toward the green, I still couldn't see the area near the pin. I went down in a canyon and then up and the front part of the green was obscured by the sand trap and the ridge. It wasn't until I reached the back portion of the green that I could see the hole.

There were not any golf balls near it. At which point my heart started thundering in my chest.

"Gentlemen," I said. "That ball may have gone in the hole."

I walked rather briskly, not breathing at all. Saw the ball mark, six feet to the left and short of the hole. I think I even clsoed my eyes for a second as I reached the flag. Opened them as I as looking right down its length.

Yep. There it was. A Nike PD High. In the cup.

*

I didn't jump around or anything. I had, after all, just met these guys (and, thinking about it later, what a stroke of good fortune on two counts: One, I had just caught them. If I go slower, don't catch them until the next hole or beyond, I have no witnesses. Two, the first shot they see me hit is a hole-in-one). I WAS smiling from ear-to-ear, leaning on my putter and trying to wrap my head around the shot. They were awfully nice and congratulatory about it (Maurice gave me his phone number at the end of the round. He said to give him a call if anyone disputed the account) and told me about their first holes-in-one (each of them had multiple, but Dale didn't get his first until age 71--he now has two). I texted Emet. I tweeted the ace (and thanks again everyone for your kind comments and congratulations).

Lastly, I said the my partners, "Now, let's not make any assumptions about my skill level based on that hole," which was followed by suggestions from them about how many strokes I should give them.

Of course, they gave me the honor on #7 and I responded by topping my drive all of 175 yards. I finished the front 9 with a 41. One bird, one eagle, one triple, five bogeys and a par on #1 when I got back around to play it. I was having visions of grandeur about the epicness of this round, the lowness of my score, visions which were only exacerbated when I birdied #10 when I holed out a sand wedge from 60-yards for a birdie, another ridiculous shot in the round that caused Dale to shout, "Who the hell invited this guy?!?"

That's right. After 9 holes, I was only four-over. No, it did not last. I promptly doubled 11, had two pars and three bogeys over the next five holes, and strolled to 17 with an outside shot at breaking 80. I needed to play the last three holes in one-under, but it could have been done, especially after a gargantuan tee shot left me only 48 yards to the pin on #17.

My tee shot was so monstrous, that it ended up in the rough past the end of the fairway. I did not account for the possible flier lie. I also hit it too hard. So the ball landed a few feet past the pin, took a hard bounce and a long roll and ended up in the back bunker.

From where I took three shots to get out (it should be noted that the sand was dense and soaked after a week of rain and I knew I had to really muscle up to get it out and I did, or thought I did, hit two of them pretty good, but just didn't have enough oomph or took too much sand or did something else that I can't exactly pinpoint because I was too enraged with a red misted fury that did not, surprisingly, result in a chucked club).

So that sweet-ass triple-bogey ruined the outside chance of 79, but I recovered to bogey the difficult 18th and par the first for an 84, my best score ever and EASILY my lowest handicap differential round (Oak Valley plays at a 71.0/132, considerably harder than my home course).

It was a swell shot and a swell round and when Emet asked me about it later, I told the tale with all the relish contained here and re-told it to all her relatives (all of whom play) and, later, confided in her about how upset I was with those two triples, to have left all those strokes out on the course.

"You have problems," she said.

I know.

The B Team

2010-12-03T09:45:00.001-08:00

Yesterday morning, I logged onto Facebook and the first thing that showed up was a picture of my son. He was at a hockey game, sitting right up against the glass. In his hand was a puck and on his face was a smile. Not just any smile. It was the one that comes from deep inside him, like his entire heart and soul is etched on his face, like his body explodes from the effort, the joy of that moment.

He went to the Ducks game with his mom and step-father. I wasn't even aware he'd gone until I saw that photo on her Facebook page. And I thought of all the things that means and the last four-plus years and reactions past and bitter twists of the road and that all-too-frequent feeling I've had, the one that laments "What I Miss" of my son's life.

I thought all those things in a rapid instant, but none of them harmed me. None lingered, each negative thought purged by feeling, the feeling that I was happy for my boy, for the experience he had.

*

At my recent wedding reception, my Dad stood up to tell a story. He didn't get it quite right, didn't bring it home like a seasoned orator, but we all got the gist. He talked about driving me home from soccer tryouts when I was 15. It was the first time in my entire career I didn't make the 'A' squad. The decision was unfair. On talent, I make the team easily, and I failed to grasp the myriad, behind the scenes machinations that led to my demotion to the 'B' team. I was beyond despondent, knowing all my friends would play on without me and that I was relegated to the lesser group, made up mostly of boys a year younger than I.

I could go one of two ways: sulk my way through the season and fixate on the unfairness of it all or work hard to prove them all wrong.

*

The day after AJ's mom told me she was leaving, we went to a local amusement park. I know that sounds weird. That was quite literally the saddest day of my life. There was a pain in my heart that I would come to know very well. I felt like I was inside out. All of my nerves exposed, vulnerable to the slightest touch or word.

Yet, I felt I had to go. If there was the barest thread on this unraveling spool, I had to grab it.

As it turned out, the amusement park made me ill. AJ wanted to go on a ride that was basically a centrifuge. Shaped like a spaceship, the ride enclosed us and we laid down at an obtuse angle. Soon, it was turning at a speed which fastened us to the walls of the ride. The force soon made me sick and I began to pine for the end. I could see others climbing the walls, held there by gravity. I reached out for AJ, fearful he was as scared as I, but only saw him giggling and rolling around, suspended above the floor.

I was nauseous the rest of the day. Vertigo plagued me for a week. AJ and I still joke about it today. When we drive past the park, he says, "Daddy, there's the ride that scrambled your brain."

*

That 15-year-old soccer season turned out to be the turning point. My coach gave me his confidence, as did the team. I played every minute in central midfield, a position I hadn't played for six years. My game improved immeasurably. More than anything else, I had fun, more fun than I'd had playing soccer in many years. And, in the ultimate Fuck You, my 'B' team advanced two rounds further in the State Cup than did the 'A' team.

*

I got an e-mail from AJ's mom last week, a few days before the wedding. It said,

"I am grateful to have you and (Emet) in my life, and all the support that I get from you regarding AJ. You’re an amazing dad and (Emet) a great role model."

Gosh. There's a lot in there that has the potential to "scramble my brain." But there's also one, final, immutable fact, the only one that truly matters: we are succeeding.

I have said many times, even during the worst of it all, as badly as I felt for myself, I felt worse for AJ. And that is what kept me pushing forward. What saved me, really. I had to keep it together for him. I (mostly) did. And the child is flourishing, is content with his life, scattered though it may sometimes be.

All the potential detritus that could poison his future, the regret, recriminations, bitter grudges, have all fallen away. They do not matter any more.

*

The lesson, my father said at the wedding reception, summing up his speech, is that sometimes you have to go through the bad to get to the good. He's right. I ended up All-Section in high school as we twice won our league and once the Section title. I slogged through two years of doubt and pain to come out the other side.

Emet is deep and strong and generous and an absolute revelation about the way people can be. I am amazed by her knowledge of self, of her capacity to give and her strength of character. I'm also hot for her.

She would never claim to be my savior and that's probably true to some extent. With the help of many (a lot of you out there, in fact), and my own promise to my son, I was able to save myself.

Emet is the reward.

*

There's a picture from the wedding. Perfect blue skies and docile waves and undulating sand. Emet and I are looking back over our shoulders at the camera and AJ is standing next to us. He has his hands in his pockets. He looks sharp in his pressed white shirt and tie. His hair looks perfect. But I hardly see that. All I see is his smile, the one that comes from deep inside him, like his entire heart and soul is etched on his face, like his body explodes from the effort, the joy of that moment.

Goin' to the Chapel Beach...

2010-11-25T23:37:00.000-08:00

Sundays With Dr. Pauly

2010-09-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

One of the most enjoyable activities from the holiday weekend was picking a fantasy football team with AJ. It was a random league, an autodraft, so I had to patiently explain to him that's why we got Eli Manning, who he deems less than stellar.

This is true, but we're stuck with him. Which would not be the case if AJ were 21 and could participate at Fantasy Sports Live. Nothing gets my engines revved up like whipping all your asses in daily fantasy football contests. Hell, I'll even beat you with Eli Manning.

With the kickoff of the NFL season, we also get the return of Sundays with Dr. Pauly. Follow the link for all the up-to-date info, but I'll give you the lede right here: up to $2,000 added.

I will see you there.

Gentile Summit 2010: Power Rankings

2010-08-16T12:29:00.001-07:00

Another year of midwestern debauchery has come to an end, along with any ill-idealized dreams I had of ever being good at golf, apparently, such was the brutal nature of my swing. I may as well have teed-off with a log washed up on the shore of the muddy Mississippi.

But fear not, great fun was had in Minneapolis and environs, all thanks to the good people below.

1. Chad and Molly.

The top spot could go to none other than our esteemed host and hostess, who planned much of the agenda without complaint (audible complaint, anyway), allowed random socially awkward n'er-do-wells into their home and, burying the lede, provided ample alcohol and cigarettes.

The gem of the weekend had to be the second "floor" of their swank downtown loft, which also happened to be the roof of the building. A frequent gathering place for us, as well as assorted lesbians (who are apparently as excited by DonkeyPuncher as they are by Indigo Girls), the site featured awesome downtown views, the full gamut of offerings by Surly Brewing Co. and ample room for rousing, if one-sided, games of cornhole.

Chad also came through with best suggestion of the weekend, deep-fried chicken wings (drummies only!) at Runyon's. This is the best late-night food ever and he hardly batted an eye when he walked into a nearly closed bar and asked for 72 of them, which seemed excessive at the time, even downright gluttonous, until we got back to the loft and they disappeared in under ten minutes.

2. Emet

Tough choice for the silver medal, as Drizz put forth a monumental effort, but I don't have to sleep with Drizz every night (at least not since the summer of '07), and Emet had a stellar week as well, culminating in her doing all the packing for the trip home on Sunday morning as I moaned and sweated in our concave hotel room bed with a flu bug that can only be described as "sinister."

Emet travels great, of course. This is no surprise. She's a go-with-the-flow type, which is the perfect counterpoint to my plan-everything-down-to-the-millisecond style, so we end up getting to do a whole mess of stuff, while also finding unexpected crevices. We always remember to pause in our journeys, which provides vivid reminders of just how damn much we enjoy each other's company. Whether it was getting caught (and drenched) in a thunderstorm at Minnehaha Falls or hitting four balls into the water on #2 (me only), her good cheer never wavered. Also, she's looking really hot in her new Purple Jesus jersey.

3. Drizz.

Forget the two hours he was unaccounted for on early Saturday morning (hours he semi-recounted later), Drizz was tireless and tenacious. His finest moment was perhaps getting us to and from Canterbury Race Track/Card Club while driving at night in prescription sunglasses, having forgot his regular sunglasses at home. In the interim, he hit a straight flush at the Pai-Gow table.

But that can't be all. This is Drizz we're talking about. At one point on Friday night, he was into the water, but staged a furious comeback after running into an old volleyball acquaintance with a third nipple. I managed to get him drunk enough at Edinburgh USA to pillage his wallet on the back 9. This after he awed both me and our random playing partner (shout-out to Jack from Athens, GA!) with 300-yard drives down the middle on the front. You could actually hear the ball scream at impact. He took all that money back at cornhole (if there were a Drinking Game Olympics, Drizz would be on Wheaties boxes) and prop bets on the futility of A's hitters and the Saturday round at Theodore Wirth and probably some place else I can't remember. All I know is that Drizz is probably the first person to ever profit from a Summit, though those aforementioned two hours probably cut into the take a bit, $20 per song at a time.

4. StB.

He was lower than DonkeyPuncher at one point (I was using these Power Rankings to bend people to my will), when he said, "He's not even here!" True statement. Late (late, late) night at Cuzzy's, the kind of bar where you go when you've drank yourself entirely out of pretension and dignity, and StB continued going strong.

Extra bonus points for bringing along a case of Lager (by which I mean Yuengling, a name which I butchered so many times and in so many ways during the Bash at the Boathouse '06, that Terri the bartender finally told me just to ask for a "Lager" and so I continue to do to this day).

5. DonkeyPuncher

Docked for the rookie mistake of not arriving until Friday, especially since the fam was gone on Thursday night, and also robbing himself of crucial points by not once going to Sex World (as far as I know). Even so, he did entice a lesbian to kiss him by the sheer force of his personality and brown-ness.

As for golf, well, let's just pretend that round at Wirth never happened. Let's let it disappear in the same manner in which our respective swings were lost somewhere at the Minnesota state line.

6. OhCaptain

I (rather mercilessly) taunted Rochester's finest poker blogger all weekend about his standing in the Power Rankings, which caused him to complain at one point that he was "behind people who aren't even here!" which naturally emboldened me to continue doing it. Or course, I kid, that's just the kind of jackass I am, and Tim's virgin Summit appearance was an excellent debut, the kind that will be written about in the annals. What? We don't have any annals?

Shit.

7. Minneapolis Tim

Chad's buddy and my primary Twins fan foil for the weekend, Tim's a clever fellow with a penchant for the suicide squeeze and Neuro-Physics. I am making neither of those things up.

8. The Good People of Minneapolis

There is a term, "Minnesota Nice." I found nothing in the city to abuse me of this notion. We had a jogger stop mid-run and ask if Emet and I wanted a picture together. While we rode the public bikes around town (which was awesome and if we were ranking inanimate objects, the bikes would be in the top 3, along with Surly Furious and Target Field), a few people expressed delight that we were riding them and wanted to know if we were having fun. Also, given the opportunity to run us over on two occasions, Minneapolis bus drivers demurred.

9. Humidity

We have now reached the stage of the Power Rankings where things aren't good. I figured I could rotate a couple t-shirts over the course of the five days, thereby ensuring lighter luggage, but I had to take two of them out of the rotation on the first day after bleeding my rapidly deteriorating sweat clean through them (hear that, ladies!). I can't even get into how the weather made my hair all curly, not curly like sexy, but curly like pubes.

10. The Oakland A's

Sigh. I hate them so very much. They don't deserve me. They are winless in the three games I've attended this season. Their performance at Friday night's game against the Twins at gorgeous Target Field was so egregious that it put me on tilt. Massive Tilt. The kind of tilt I usually only experience, baseball-wise, when they are actually in a pennant race. But 15 hits and only 3 runs, some ridiculous at-bats, the inability to get to Carl Fucking Pavano...

I had to take a time-out walk along the concourse. I shit you not.

*

Perhaps my favorite story from the weekend happened at the Twins-A's game. We were a little tardy (the roof is a tough place to leave), and as we filled up our row, we noticed a priest sitting right behind us. He was with his father (haha the Father with his father), his brother and three nephews, all of whom were very friendly and knowledgeable and immediately started giving me shit about my A's jersey. We talked to them frequently over the course of the game, DonkeyPuncher showing off his Catholic roots, Emet and I teasing the kiddos. Late in the game, the priest leaned down and said to me something to the effect of "We were a little concerned when y'all showed up, there being a lot of families in the section and all, but we appreciate your clean language and how y'all behaved."

Which is a nice microcosm of this group. Degenerates, yes. But considerate and decent. Even if Drizz dropped two S-bombs within 45 seconds of that conversation.

Until next year, gang.

2010: A Television Odyssey

2010-08-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

After 7+ years, two lamps, a color wheel and countless hours of Big Screen Entertainment, the TV died. The timing could not have been worse, what with cash being eaten up at a piranha-esque rate due to numerous summer vacations and two rounds of golf per week. Emet and I even had a technician come out to see if the Old Girl (the TV, not Emet) were salvageable.

The repairman didn't have good news. No easy fix. So I said to him, "Considering the technology in this TV is obsolete and the price of a new (shiny, beautiful flat-screen high-def) TV is but 3x the price of this repair, what would your advice be?"

I knew before I even finished the question what his true answer was. His face gave it away. To is credit, he didn't dissemble. "I'd go buy a new TV," he said. He lost a repair job, but gained a customer.

Customer Service Grade: A

This was a Saturday morning, so Emet and I decided to wait a day so we could see the Sunday mailers for sale prices. In the meantime, I did my research thing and listed the Must Haves (LED back-lighting, 1080p, at least 120Mz) for the purchase. I ran down the get the paper (oh, I mean newspaper; it's this thing old people have delivered to their house and contains information) first thing on Sunday and found an appropriately priced and appointed set. I paused only to brush my teeth before I was in the car and on the way to Best Buy.

I'm not the biggest Best Buy fan, but they usually have the best prices. I have to wade through four different salespeople all trying to "help" me add-on to my purchase, but being prepared always helps. Not that I can't be diverted by other sparkling options. I texted Emet twice about a) getting a bigger set and b) getting a different set that also offered a free Blu-Ray and Surround Sound.

Despite threatening to go off the rails, I ended up with the TV I'd intended to buy, though the process took far too long and by the end I was surly and dismissive and hurrytheffup to every smiling, blue-shirted body that came my way, an attitude that was not helped when informed delivery would take nearly two weeks.

"Wait. Didn't you say you had the TV in stock?"

"Yes sir, but delivery services are backed up." Recession my balls.

Customer Service Grade: C+

I wish that were the end of it. Two weeks with our little TV perched in front of the big, ol' useless one. But now I needed a new box and dish from DirecTV to beam beautiful HD to the Speaker Compund. Now, I've been a DirecTV customer off and on for twenty years, but that off and on (due to apartment buildings that don't allow satellite dishes) has occasioned many calls to English-challenged customer service, many swarthy installers up on my roof and many man-hours lost to unraveling the mysteries of DirecTV pricing plans.

My first telephone attempt resulted in pigeon English and a number of charges I was not willing to pay. Unable to make myself truly understood, I hung up and decided to play Customer Service Rep Roulette. On my next try, the charges were the same (three additional ones on top of the price of the box) and I insisted on an explanation for each, all the while surfing the internet for local cable company rates (outrageous) and Dish Network plans (better, but no NFL Sunday Ticket, which is my primary raison d'etre).

Customer Service Grade: D

So, it seemed I was backed into a corner. I had no place to go. Was facing $200 in trumped-up charges (these were for such bullshit items as "equipment upgrade fee," "sales order fee" and "contract amendment fee,"). So, I ran a bluff. I told the customer service lady--IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS!--that I found these bonus charges to be egregious and wholly unfair and that I was inclined to cancel their service altogether. She responded that she hated to lose me as a customer, but she would transfer me to Cancellations and that maybe they could do something for me. The new Dude cut out the fees in like 90 seconds and I ended up only paying for the HD box.

Ship it.

Customer Service Grade: B+ (points deducted for trying to screw me in the first place)

I scheduled the installation for a day after the TV was set to arrive and steeled myself for another 10 days of Little TV Hell, but satisfied in knowing my long national nightmare would soon be over, if a bit pricey.

But I run so bad.

*

"It looks awfully dark, doesn't it?"

That's what I said after looking at the new TV for about an hour after I got home from work. I didn't think too much of it, since we weren't yet getting an HD signal, but my research had intimated that the LED backlight feature helped the contrast in darker scenes. I grabbed the TV's manual to investigate and stopped cold. The cover said, "LCD TV."

Shit. I grabbed a flashlight and hustled around the back of the TV looking for the model number. Shit. This is the wrong TV. And my first thought was, "I bought the wrong one."

Panicking, I located my receipt. No, I had not bought the wrong TV. The Geek Squad brought the wrong one. Same size, same brand, just the shittier, non-LED, $500 cheaper one.

Customer Service Grade: F

"Hello? Customer service?" I was on the phone again, eerily calm (perhaps because I spent a harrowing five minutes thinking *I* had made a huge mistake), but that calm was immediately tested when, upon hearing my tale of woe, the voice on the other end of the line said, "Did you accept delivery?"

Mt. Saint Speaker was poised to explode. "I didn't," I said, molten lava beginning to rise. "My girlfriend did. YOU. ARE. NOT. GOING. TO. TELL. ME..."

"No, no sir. Let me transfer you."

In the Home Theater Dept, they were apologetic. Yes, we totally screwed up. Yes, we'll send out your TV as soon as possible. Yes, we will send you a $50 Gift Card for your trouble.

Customer Service Grade: C (though the make-up was an A, I'm averaging that with the 'F', which remains totally unacceptable in any context)

Funny story. All's well that ends well. Our actual TV is coming on Wednesday. Yesterday, during AJ's birthday party, the guests kept asking, "Oh, is that your new TV?" to which I kept responding, "It's A new TV." They all thought it looked fine and it does, when watching a day baseball game, though HD does take a little getting used to, especially on the channels that are non-HD, where everything is wierdly three-dimensional and reminds me of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS.
As for the DirecTV installation, we waited way too long on Friday. He said 10:30 a.m. at first, so I felt totally secure in setting a 2:30 p.m. tee time for Emet and I. Naturally, his first job of the day ran way over and he didn't get to our place until 1 p.m. I told him he was going to have to finish in an hour. He didn't. We left anyway. Despite Emet's protestations that he was going to rob our house, I trusted him. Had to. There's no way I'm missing a round of golf. Not the way I'm swinging it. And, if he did rob us, at least we had our clubs with us, so he couldn't take those, and there's really nothing more valuable in our house currently than my sticks, not in a monetary way, you understand, but in a Can't Live Without Them way.

Full credit to Juan the Satellite Dish Technician for not robbing us.

Customer Service Grade: A (non-robbery trumping late arrrival)

Teaching Moments

2010-07-26T09:47:00.000-07:00

I didn't take much notice of the teens in front of us until we got right near the head of the line. I counted them out--five--and realized the line was now longer than I'd expected, because they'd go up one by one to buy their movie tickets, like teen-agers do. Oh well, we were early and my legendary impatience with lines and slow customer service was at bay.

Up they went. One, two, three...

I watched them closer now. I'm obsessed with the behavior of young people around me. This is a new thing and absolutely--100%--attributable to AJ's growing older (he'll be 9 in two weeks). I don't want to be out of touch. Or worse, oblivious. I need to know what the kids are into these days.

The group was four boys and one girl. Gawky age, 14 and 15. Bad skin. Talking around each other, eyes averted. Not A-Listers. Closer to the bottom of the brutal teen pecking order than to the top, I wagered.

As the fourth of them--the girl--went up, a new pack of three boys came strutting around the corner of our back-and-forth line--thirty people deep, at least--and joined up with the waiting others. One of the newbies, hair Bieber-ized, said, "What movie are we watching?"

I tossed Emet a raised eyebrow and she returned fire with that face that says, "Easy, Tiger."

The girl came back from the box office and greeted the new guys with a grin as the last of the original five went forward. The three stayed where they were, right in the front of the line. I looked around at the people behind us, some of them with eyeball daggers drawn.

"You guys aren't really going to jump right in front of all these people are you?" I said, my right arm out like a Price is Right model, appealing to their sense of justice. It's about the people, not just me.

The girl cocked her hip. "Yes," she said, both matter-of-factly and defiantly. "Yup," nodded Bieber Boy. Although, unlike the girl, he didn't turn and meet our gaze.

Emet put a hand on my forearm, though it was unnecessary. I was in no mood to tangle, despite a faraway desire to stave in Bieber's smart mouth for him; do him a favor, you know, before he mouths off to the wrong person and finds himself at the bottom of a Doc Marten.

Emet, of course, is a pro in these circumstances. She deals with preternaturally annoying 6th-graders every day at school. "That's really not acceptable behavior," she said.

"We're not acceptable," said Bieber Boy.

"It's downright rude," Emet continued.

"We are rude." (I'm guessing this is not the captain of the Debate Team.)

Still, the kid hadn't turned around. His insolence didn't go so far as to trump his cowardice. I suppose Emet sensed that, as well.

"You should be ashamed," she said, and I saw the heat start to rise on his neck. "Someone should have taught you better."

And scene. Emet wins. There was no (un-)pithy comeback forthcoming. In fact, I swear the swagger jumped right off that young man's shoulders. He went up to buy his ticket and scurried off without a look back.

*

I'm sure later they laughed about the hippie and the schoolmarm in line. Straightened their spine and how they got what they wanted. For my part, I searched my memory banks for similar scenes from my adolescence (found one; okay two) and thought about ways to make sure no adult ever said something like that to MY kid. I've given variations of the same speech a hundred times to AJ. Something along the lines of, "I don't care if you grow up to be a firefighter/situational reliever/janitor/lawyer, I just want you to be kind, to show courtesy, to learn empathy and compassion."

You know, the things that parents say that kids never listen to. But maybe, if you say it enough times, it worms its way in there.

And yeah, "Inception" was tremendous, even if my attention was diverted at times while shooting spitballs at a Bieber-looking kid down in the second row.

My Job

2010-06-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

It was not yet 9 a.m., but the sun was already beating down as I reached for my iPhone. It wasn't there. Lovely. Emet would have to figure out for herself why what I thought would be a 20-minute exercise would be three times that, at least. I couldn't even see the front of the line.

Twenty minutes later, I'd moved halfway up the hill when a familiar face walked by. I coached her son last year and the two of us had commiserated during the Little League season about the less than nurturing attitude of baseball coaches (as opposed to my egalitarian methods on the pitch). She asked about Friday night's playoff game between AJ's D-Backs and the Yankees, since the loser would play her son's Rockies later in the afternoon. We talked about how the playoffs seem to have "ratcheted up the stupid" among the adults. Finally, she asked if I was going to coach soccer again. I sighed and said yes.

"What made you decide to do it?" she asked, knowing I'd been on the fence for some time.

"I didn't want AJ's coach to be a dick," I said. Then, in near unison, we said, "Like baseball."

*

I've learned over the course of the baseball season to settle my ass down. For a while there, I was hawkish, tunnel-focused. As much as I tried to stay outwardly calm, my son perceived the stress. And it had a negative effect on him. He dreaded games. He complained about umpire calls, the unfairness of it all, always having to play the outfield. I wanted to fix it for him. That's what I'm supposed to do, is it not? And so I obsessively looked for holes in his game.

When all I really needed to do was relax.

In our first playoff game, we met the Phillies, losers of all 17 of their regular season games. I was keeping score for the game alongside another parent with whom I'd struck up a friendship during the year. We'd talked about the competitiveness of the league. Of the coaches (we've all heard of the near-fight between two of them one level up). Of the parents, like the one who came up at the end of one game to ask me the score--it was 19-0, this particular dickface for some reason needing to know the exact total of the drubbing.

At one point, the Phillie second-baseman made a play. His face lit up like Fourth of July. "That's why we should be out here," the parent said.

Right. The next inning, our coach was screaming at an umpire.

*

The line was moving at a decent clip. I talked with a guy on my soccer team as we waited to register as coaches. I told him about a kid I had last year who cried at the end of the season. He was sad it was over. The kid didn't have any real skill, was chubby and slow. But, by the last game, he was an asset. He was aggressive. I could count on him to give his last breath. And I'd managed to make it worthwhile for him, a positive experience.

Look, I'm no saint. I'm competitive. I got yelled at twice by a referee last year. I would like my team of 8- and 9-year-olds to win. But I will not treat them poorly in pursuit of such a thing. I will not leave sportsmanship and teamwork out of the lessons I teach them. I will not focus only on the good players, while letting the others fend for themselves.

I think the best trait a coach has to have is to remember the kids are infinitely more important than the coach. To take delight in the slightest improvement and to make sure the children know they are valued, regardless of their ability. They don't need me to tell them they are awesome soccer players when they are not. They know plenty about where they stand in the pecking order. No, what they deserve is simple regard, to know their coach is on their side.

*

AJ's D-Backs beat the Phillies and matched up with the Yankees in Round Two. Last time the teams met, the Yankees won, and the D-Backs were deemed to have played so poorly, the coach sent them on a run after the game.

There would be no repeat. I was late, but showed up in time to see AJ single in his second AB (after a walk in his first). I saw him hustle to a ball hit down the right field line, hit the cut-off man and hold the hitter to a single. He was happy, confident, like he has been the last half-dozen games or so, once his Dad stopped telling him what to do all the time.

The score was 18-5, a comprehensive shellacking. The Yankees came up for their last ups and AJ ran back out to right field, as he has all season (though sometimes it's left, sometimes it's center). Earlier in the season, I'd have bristled. The game is over (teams are only allowed to score a maximum of 5 runs per inning), let the kids play a different position (not just AJ, but the other kids who've been relegated to the OF all year). AJ's been dying to play second base all year, as he did last year to decent effect. But he's over it by now. And so am I.

And then...as the pitcher warmed up, his coach made changes. The left-fielder came in to play third, the centerfielder came in to play short and AJ...and AJ...came in to play 2nd.

I'm telling you right now I nearly cried. Not because he was getting his wish, but because the smile on his face was beautiful, the excitement was beyond anything I've seen from him since he scored his first goal in soccer.

And that, right there, is the whole point, is it not? Is that not why a man (or woman) donates time to coach sports? To give a child that feeling, that experience? I don't know why it took AJ's coach so long to make a move like this. There were numerous chances over the course of the season. But I'm not going to complain. It happened for AJ and it made all the difference.

The fact he expertly played a grounder for a routine 4-3 putout made it all seem like a dream (X did begin to weep at this point). When he snatched a tough throw--in-between hop--from the catcher and put a slick tag on the base-stealer for the third out, it was like God himself reached down to touch the child, to reward him for sticking it out, to reward his father for remembering--belatedly--to focus on the positive aspects of youth sports. And when AJ's teammates sprinted over to second base to high-five him...well shoot...I couldn't begin to put the feeling into words.

Fortunately, I don't have to. I have this:

I finally got through the soccer registration line. Took almost 90 minutes and without my iPhone to entertain me, I was on substantial tilt. But that was the easiest part of the season. Now it's on to practices and games and time- and soul-sucking meetings and dealing with administrators and coaches and parents and that feeling I get abour 2/3rds of the way through the year when I just want it all to be over.

But this year, I'll carry around the picture of that perfect smile above. That smile that can't hide how proud that child feels inside. And remember it's my job to make that happen for each and every child under my charge.

I'm not saying it will be easy. We all lose sight. But I'll do my best. It should be interesting. AJ will play in U-10s for the first time this year. And unlike U-8s, the U-10s have playoffs.

Licked

2010-05-03T10:38:00.001-07:00

I am proud to tell you all that I've licked my addiction to Little League. From frothing to 'meh' in just a few short weeks. I can't tell you from what spring this addiction welled, it remains a mystery to me, but it had become clear my total insistence on AJ "playing the game the right way," and my own grumblings about the coaching, had a negative effect on my son. He wasn't enjoying himself, was gripping the bat like a dangling limb on the side of a cliff, and seemed to be one bad call/at-bat away from a meltdown at all times.

So I switched modes--not easy to do for someone as single-minded as I can be--to the "Aw fuck it, let's just have fun" setting on my parent-o-meter which has provided me with much relief and, slowly, AJ is focusing on the benefits of play, rather than the results.

This more open-minded view has shown that the Coach is less malicious than he is oblivious, that the assistant coaches are damn fine at what they do and great role models for the boys, the players themselves are a great group of kids that AJ should be proud to call friends and the baseball, well, it's just a game. A game. And it doesn't matter. As I told AJ, "You're 8! Nothing matters!"

I will mention a single event, but only because it illustrates how awesome Emet is. We hosted the Red Sox this past Saturday, a team of genetically-engineered baseball robots, each of them clothed in the guise of 8-year-olds, but so impossibly tow-headed and blue-eyed that they can not really exist. We've seen three of their pitchers in three games and if they were three years older, you'd say, "My goodness those boys throw hard." They are, in fact, undefeated at 12-0, have dealt AJ's D-Backs losses in each of those three games (the D-Backs are 6-1-1 in their other 8 games), each by a score of one million to zero.

Predictably, the game was out of hand early, but coaching must still go on. One aspect that still annoys me, despite my more Christian Attitude, is the coach teaching the kids to throw the ball back to the pitcher. Once the pitcher has the ball on the mound, runners can't advance. However, by instructing, nay demanding, throws from the outfield go directly to the pitcher, rather than the base they are supposed to go to, the kids aren't learning how to play the game. I understand that whinging the ball around the diamond at this age promotes mis-plays, but you can at least make the first correct throw, yes? My two cents.

Anyways, we're down a quarter million or something to zero, Red Sox with a runner on 2nd and no outs. A grounder is fielded flawlessly by our 3rd baseman and the runner is caught halfway. The 3rd baseman runs him back a little and fires to 2nd. A little high. The runner tears for third and rounds the bag, heading for home. AJ, doing a decent job of backing up in center, fires a one-hop strike to home, a seriously perfect throw, that, alas, arrives at the same time as the runner, who demolishes the catcher and scores. The batter, running all the while--as he is programmed to do in a small industrial park adjacent to Van Nuys--ends up on third.

There is a brief period of silence as the dust settles. Then the coach bellows, "Throw the ball to the pitcher!" The last syllable is hardly out of his mouth when Emet--who teaches 6th grade, so you know she has a voice that carries--yells,

"Great throw AJ!"

She has not yet attained my level of zen.

*

Missed last night's freeroll in favor of golf and beers with Emet. Congrats to longtime reader April for the TOC seat. April and I broke into this blogging bidness together and my delight at her victory is not dulled by my hangover or my atrocious putting.

I've come to the conclusion that my putting woes are almost entirely mental. This highly-scientific conclusion came to me yesterday after I three-putted seven holes on the front for a grand total of 24 putts against a score of 48, which is pretty decent considering the putting. Then, on the back, I had only 16 putts, just a single-three putt (with an excuse) and three up-and-downs.

The difference? I was drunk on the back nine. Go out of my head and just started stroking them.

It's been awfully frustrating, but tomorrow's another day (yes, I'm playing again tomorrow). No beer, what with another Little League tilt on tap in the evening, so no yip-helpers in little 12 oz. cans.

On the plus side, I'm driving the ball like a champ. And now I've just jinxed that.

*

I do believe I will take advantage of tomorrow's day off with the Poker From the Rail tourney tonight. My almost complete absence from the series so far has been due to time issues (and I suppose the fact I already won a Bracelet Race and have booked my spot in Event #24--June 12-16, c'mon down!), but I've been itching to get back into the ring with my fellow degens, so look for me this evening.

BBT5

2010-04-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

I was in the Oakland Airport when BBT5 kicked off last night, at the tail end of a three-day bender that included wine tasting in the Livermore Valley (where I grew up), dive-bar shenanigans with Emet, Kool Breeze and Shot and a glorious afternoon at the Coliseum (marred only by the home team being pelted by the Orioles).

I originally thought I'd be home in time to participate in the maiden event, but that's only because I thought it started at 7 p.m. PST. Incorrect. I'll miss the rest of this week's tourneys due to further life issues, like attending Game 4 of the Kings-Canucks series on Wednesday, but hope to play in as many of the events as possible.

Good on Al for his continued hard work and awesomeness and good luck to all of you out there.

The Events

Tournament: Poker From the Rail
When: Monday, April 19th through May 24th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $24+2 (or token)*
Password: 2010WSOP

Tournament: The Mookie
When: Wednesday, April 21st through May 26th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $10+1*
Password: vegas1

*Winner also receives ToC entry

Tournament: Battle of the Blogger Tournaments Invitational
When: Sunday, April 18th through May 23rd starting at 19:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Restricted freeroll**

**$2,000 Prizepool + 1st and 2nd place receive ToC entry

Tournament: Blogger Battle Royale
When: Sunday, June 6th starting at 14:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Freeroll for BBT participating bloggers

Shipped

2010-04-14T00:35:00.000-07:00

Remember how I mentioned I was mulling playing a $1K WSOP Donktastic Event when I was in Vegas this June?

I believe you can book it.

Sporadically Slow Joe Speaker

2010-04-01T11:26:00.001-07:00

New colors! Because The Bracelet did it, and I just wanna be one of the guys (actually, you may or may not have noticed I no longer had a blog title, due to it being a custom one that disappeared from its hosting site and I couldn't manipulate the template to get it back to the stock header, so I replaced the whole she-bang and somehow, amazingly, managed to not lose the millions of words I've horked up onto this virtual page).

Also, I won two G's playing poker last night, so I was feeling like I really should have a blog title again, for the SEO, of course, considering the millions of readers who come here for my expertise, which, sadly, doesn't extend to the End Game, at which I remain hopelessly out of my depth, but I have a 304% ROI in 2010. Bitches.

*

Emet sent me a text while I was on the train last evening that said she was celebrating a co-worker's birthday and wouldn't be home until late. Curious, since I seemed to recall attending a birthday party for this person just last Saturday night, but Wednesday was her ACTUAL birthday and teachers do like to hoist a few. My next thought was "POKER!" since I haven't played much since moving to the new pad and then I realized "MOOKIE NIGHT," so that fired me up even more.

The good folks at my Mookie table would be surprised to learn I finished 6th in the 50/50 for almost two grand, since I managed to not make the first break in The Mook, despite holding the chip lead (of more than T8000) early on. Yes, you could say I was inviting action. Eventually chucked the last of 'em away with AK to A7 on an A74 board. Which allowed me to focus on my tiny stack in the 50/50. I didn't get over par in that 'un until Hour Four and it took some massive retardation to pull me into the fray.

I will never understand the over-push pre-flop, but I was quite happy to benefit from it. Guy directly to my right had 70K to my 24K with the blinds/antes at 400/800/75, so he's got plenty and even I'm not desperate, but he open-shoves in the SB, I wake up with AQ and call, besting his K8. Very next hand, he open-shoves his button and I have QQ. A7 no good. Well played, sir.

(I rarely do this, but I was a little buzzed and highly amused, so I wondered in chat if he had a plane to catch or something. He replied that I should Go Fuck Myself. Touche.)

From there, I did a solid job to get 6th. Went card dead for 75 minutes and got re-popped on a couple steals, so I was dwindling while others were stacking. I was last in chips with 6 left when I called another position over-push with 33 and did not win the race v. A5. Sweet. Mobneys. All of which I will bet on West Virginia. This is not because I hate Duke. Quite the contrary. I can recall shooting hoops in the front yard and pretending to be Mike Gminski (The G-Man, The Ginger Avenger; oh man, if only he were called The Ginger Avenger, that's the greatest nickname ever) or Gene Banks. I most certainly rooted for them against Louisville when Never Nervous Pervis Ellison led the Cardinals to the title (Boy am I glad that nickname trend didn't catch on, a personality trait that rhymes with the player's name; We'd have to deal with stupid shit like Intermittent Guile Kyle Singler or Frequently Loquacious Korey Lucius. Actually, that's kind of fun).

Back to the point (there's a point?), I'm rooting for the Mountaineers because Emet's bracket will finish second in Pauly's Pub if they take the title. I'm not emasculated by that at all.

*

Thanks to all who commented/twittered/called regarding yesterday's post. I feel like I'm walking a fine line between Concerned Parent and Outright Lunatic. Seems most have had at least one bad experience with a youth coach, so I shouldn't be surprised. One conversation led me to believe all will be fine if AJ knows I have his back and I think that works.

*

Speaking of AJ, can there possibly be anything more awesome than your child calling you on the phone and when you answer, he screams, "VEGAS!" No. The answer is no. He's on his second week of Spring Break and X took him to Vegas yesterday. He's beyond fired up and in the midst of our conversation asked if I would take him with me when I go to Vegas this summer (June 12-16...come on down!) and...Jeez...having to tell that excitable boy "No" is the opposite of him screaming "VEGAS!" but Daddy is there for Adult Things, son, and can not entertain the notion it might rub off on his innocent child. Just yet.

Been mulling playing one of the Recession Buster Donkfests during the WSOP when I'm there this summer (hey, lookee there, a $1K starts on June 12, what serendipity!). Honest appraisal of my live tournament skillz is that it's flushing money down the toilet, but maybe I throw in one more online score before June and I'll buy that lottery ticket anyway. If not, I will spend my hours as usual, with the added bonus of World Cup soccer in the sportsbooks, annoying our esteemed writers to hurry up and finish for the day so we can Pai Gow and, very likely, golf (hopefully, some of you locals can find a day to join me).

*

Lastly, thanks to you railbirds last night. Remember that time you watched me play poker? That was awesome.

Of Fairness and Uncovered Bases

2010-03-31T10:56:00.000-07:00

I was outside my childhood home one summer afternoon releasing tension by throwing a tennis ball against the garage door. I was waiting for a phone call to tell me whether I'd made the Little League All-Star team. I was realistic about my chances. I knew I was on the bubble. For one, my coach spent the first half of the season fucking me. Not literally. See, I was still involved with soccer when the season started, so was late to a number of practices, only sprinting up after finishing training on the pitch. Unlike every other coach in the league whom I'd known for years, ours was new to the area. One of those old school guys. He didn't even have a kid in the league.

More often than not, I only played the requisite three innings. Most of those were in right field. This was not meant as a punishment, though every kid in the universe knows right field is where you put the shitty players. No, our coach was a tactical genius. Since we had a couple pitchers who threw really hard, he figured Little Leaguers wouldn't be able to get around on them, so most batted balls would go to the right. He instructed me to play shallow and to try to throw them out at first (which only happened once, so horrid was this strategy, but the kid I did throw out at first was none other than my buddy Donny, and I like to bring it up every now an then for fun). More often than not, the other kids were smoking line drives off one of our pitchers, who did indeed throw hard, but straight, and right down the middle.

Anyways, this thankfully changed about halfway through the season, a season in which, to that point, we'd won a single game out of ten. I again had rushed my way from soccer to the diamond, arriving about 15 minutes before game time, which was 15 minutes late, of course. I was not in the lineup and my coach began to (again) berate me. It was then that our assistant coach, the older brother of two of my teammates, spoke up, pointing out the effort I was making by rushing from soccer, pointing out that my soccer team was incredibly successful (we had already won the state championship and were preparing for regionals) and that I might, perhaps, be an asset to this floundering baseball team because of my athletic ability. There was more. Basically, and emphatically, accusing the coach of a bias against me, that my playing time was not equal to my talent level.

I never loved Marty DeBrum more than I did at that moment.

Long story long (and this is gonna be a helluva long post), the coach put me in the starting lineup, where I stayed, and flourished for the second half of the season. We won six games that second half, I played most of the time at 3rd and 1st and I batted over .500. I wasn't the best player on my team, would never have been mentioned among the top players in the league, but the All-Stars (and Williamsport!) was within reach.

Danny O'Brian gave me the news. He rode his bike past as I was playing with that tennis ball and I asked him if he'd heard about All-Stars (he was a shoe-in). Yep, he said, they called a couple days ago.

Crushed.

*

"Hey Daddy!" AJ said after practice last week. "Did you know my new league has All-Stars?"
"Don't worry about All-Stars, AJ."
"Why?"
"It's all politics."

Emet and I spent a few minutes explaining to him what that meant, that, many times, these selections are merely popularity contests and don't truly reward the level of player. All the coaches sons are going to make it, you know. Many assistant coaches, as well.

Like my own Little League career, I'm realistic about AJ's ability. He's comfortably in the middle. Like all Little League teams of this age (7-9), the cream is easily identified. Usually two or three or four kids on the team who are preternaturally gifted, or who've spent hours practicing with Dad or big brothers (or sisters) or, incredibly, hitting and pitching coaches. We have two of those. Then there are the kids who have a little skill, can catch or throw or hit or some combination. We have seven of those. Then there are the kids who are afraid of the ball (three). AJ can hit (when he's not stepping in the bucket, more on that later), never swings at balls, has an above average arm, in fact, one of the best on the team. His glove? Erratic.

So, he's one of those middle kids. Interchangeable with a handful of others on the team. Yet, for some reason, this is not how the coach sees him. The team has just played its fourth game. AJ has started two of them, hitting 9th, owing to the fact some kids were missing. The other two, he's been on the bench, hitting 11th (they use a continuous batting order). He's had but seven plate appearances in four games and has reached base in five of them. Of the kids who hit in front of him, three have yet to hit the ball or reach base. One of them hits 5th.

Further, when he does get to play the field, he's spent every inning in the outfield, despite the constant rotation of players by the coach. He is the only kid that has yet to play in the infield.

*

I find myself curiously more affected by this than I would expect. Perhaps it was my own experience thirty years ago. Perhaps I, as Emet says, "want AJ to succeed at baseball more than he does." It could be the dejected look on AJ's face when he sees that he is (again) not in the starting lineup or hears another kids name called to play second base.

I am so not built to be That Parent. I have not said anything to the coach. But I have now reached the stage of Beyond Fucking Irritated, because this coach has obviously formed a hard-shell opinion of my son and disregards anything he actually does on the field or at practice. And AJ is smart enough to notice it, too.

*

Having spent a dozen years as a coach, I give a great deal of leeway to coaches. It's not an easy gig. It can be frustrating, not so much the actual coaching part, but the dealings with administrators, officials and, yes, parents. At the same time, I feel like my experience gives me an insight into what goes into successful coaching, and am therefore critical of those who don't seem to get it. In a word, a coach must teach.

Makes sense, right? If we assume coaches want to win, the best way to do that is to instruct their players, correct? Teach them the skills and rules so the kids can succeed on the field. But teaching is not simply mechanics. Children learn differently. One can't endlessly repeat platitudes and expect to connect with children. You have to get through to them.

I had a kid last soccer season who was annoying as fuck. Just constantly underfoot and interrupting me at all times. Coincidentally, he was uncoordinated. He ran on the outside of his feet, which I'd never seen before. I would have been fine with him quitting. But, I had an obligation to him and his parents, as his coach, to work with him. And I knew I couldn't get through to him by treating him the same as the others. I needed patience. I needed to take it one small stride at a time and, most important, to find something in him that would inspire him to compete.

By the end of the season, he wasn't half bad. And he was less of a nuisance. And yes, he helped us win.

*

"How come I always have to play the outfield?" AJ asked me. I didn't have a good answer for him. I couldn't say, "The coach has his favorites" or "He just doesn't like you," two explanations I've already formed in my head. There is no real good reason. Each of the team's four games have been blowouts (two for us, two against us). How you don't let kids play different positions in those instances (especially when the games are LITERALLY out of reach thanks to a league rule that allows a maximum of five runs per inning) is beyond me. In AJ's case, he's completely aware that he's being "left out." Consequently, he's becoming less engaged with the team.

This speaks to the ability to recognize and teach kids. For AJ, getting to play second base is a reward, one that will keep him focused, keep him energized. He takes this situation as his failure. He sees injustice in it and, if there is one thing my child can't abide, it's injustice.

We had a practice at the batting cages last week. The head coach wasn't there, but the assistant (considerably more to my liking) was, as well as a parent (of the best player on the team) who helps out when needed. This parent gave AJ's swing more attention in 5 minutes than the head coach had all season. Not the rote bullshit, but actual, easy to understand instructions about hitting and, all of a sudden, he's not stepping in the bucket any more. Then he gets into the cage and turns into Paul Fucking Molitor. "He's got a great swing," the assistant coach remarked, after AJ lined ball after ball into the netting.

He was pumped. "Daddy, did you see the one I hit right back into the pitching machine?" etc. etc. I was pumped, too, though guarded. I wasn't sure the news would get back to the head coach, if maybe he's deign to move AJ up in the batting order, at least ahead of the kid who jumps out of the box every pitch.

*

A few days after Danny O'Brian told me I hadn't made the All-Star team, the coach called me. When he identified himself, I had this euphoric fantasy that I was on the team, there was an oversight, whatever, get your glove and get to practice. In fact, he wanted to know if I'd come to the field on Saturday to play a game against the All-Stars, he was rounding up an opponent comprised of us also-rans. Heart deflated, I told him sure.

"Why'd you say 'yes?'" my mother asked me, knowing full well how hurt I was.

"I want to show them they made a mistake by not picking me," I said.

That's the attitude I've imparted to AJ. He has to work harder. He has to show them what he can do. Don't give the coach a choice to sit him on the bench. Prove himself.

Yet, it has reached a point where I have my doubts.

*

AJ is playing centerfield, which, at this age, means the lip of the grass right behind 2nd base. With runners on first and second, he fields a hump-backed liner on two hops. He is poised to throw the ball to second for the force (that's another thing he's good at; he always knows the right base to throw to), because the runner isn't even halfway there. Except, neither the shortstop (who has never even moved toward the batted ball and remains rooted to his spot) nor second basemen (standing next to AJ, having chased the ball into the outfield) are at the bag. He's got the ball cocked but holds onto it instead, noting the situation and, seeing the runner arrive at second, throws the ball back to the pitcher.

The rule in the league is that runners can't advance once the pitcher has the ball, but, in the meantime, while AJ held the ball, the runner who started the play on second rounded third. He was more than halfway home when the pitcher caught AJ's throw, so he was deemed safe.

AJ gets back to the dugout at the end of the inning and his coach starts berating him for holding onto the ball and not getting it back to the pitcher. AJ starts to explain (though, why he should have to I don't know since any fucking moron watching the play could have deduced exactly what was happening) and the coach cuts him off and tells him to just throw the ball back to the pitcher (you know, not for nuthin', but teaching the kids to throw the ball to the pitcher every play isn't exactly teaching them baseball).

AJ is crushed. The shortstop unnoticed. Me? Fucking furious. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to rip that motherfucker's head off right there.

*

No, my son is not an All-Star. He's a kid who wants to hit and play second base. But more than that, though he can't articulate it, he wants to be treated fairly. Which is what I suppose we all want out of life. As adults, we know that fairness is an elusive notion. Injustice is part and parcel of life, of employment and relationships and class. AJ will need to learn that soon, too. But I'd like to delay it as long as possible.

I'd guess until about mid-season.

Like Ninja

2010-03-29T09:16:00.000-07:00

While I was at work yesterday, my mother called to tell me what a sweet boy AJ had been during his sleepover at my sister's. I can only assume this is because he doesn't play the Ninja Game when over there. The Ninja Game is a new one where he tries to sneak up on me while I'm watching TV or playing with the poker machine. Most of the time, I see his reflection in windows or I hear him scuffling along on the carpet, but he's gotten me a couple times. Once, I was fully engrossed on the computer, laser focus, and he came up and slapped me on the back.

BOO!

I flew off the couch like I was dropped into hot grease.

Fucking Ninjas.

Back to him being sweet, though. Mom, of course, thinks Emet has had a good influence on the boy, which she has. Chief among her good traits, to Mom's eyes, is that she gets my lazy ass (and AJ's somewhat less lazy ass) to church more often. There's a tip for you fellas, if you want your Mom to like the girl you're bringing home, just casually mention that the two of you go to church. She's in.

We have all noticed a change in AJ recently. It's not that he's sweeter, really. It's that he's become more mature. With that maturity has come a better focus, like in his reading of situations, when to be respectful and behaved, as opposed to his usual 100 mph, goofy self.

We got to spend a few days together last week on his Spring Break and he's no longer that kid I have to keep right next to me for fear he'll wander off into traffic or stumble into a strip club by accident. He's more interactive. For instance, he's somewhat notorious among other kids for his non-sequiters. Yes, they are hilarious. But they were also a sign that he was not really listening to what's going on around him, was off in his own head (hmmm, wonder where he gets that from?) and when he finally returned to the group, he had nothing to contribute but the fact that he is enamored of Kit Kats.

Our Spring Break trip to the museums near USC was a revelation. Usually, we'd spend the week at amusement parks, but I figured he'd appreciate some culture. What I didn't expect was how inquisitive he'd be at the Science Museum. I found myself explaining every exhibit to him and he actually stood there and listened without chasing after the nearest shinier object. Most of the items there were hands-on, he got to shoot a rocket and pick the best sail angle for wind direction and go into the "Earthquake Room" and he was fascinated by all of it, never once pulling away from me as we discussed the science. Only once all day did he express the slightest dismay and that was when we had to leave.

*

When I got home from work last night, I got caught up on his day, him clinging to me as I changed clothes (not easy to do with 60 lbs. hugging your leg). We're joking around when comes the sound of a police helicopter outside. "Ohhhhh, somebody's busted!" I say. "Maybe they're looking for you," AJ says and I assure him I didn't do anything illegal.

Shortly, he went back to his playroom for video games and Emet slides up to me with a conspiratorial look on her face. I expected her to tell me a cute story about my adorable son, but she says, "Did you lock the door when you came in?" I did. "Because I heard voices and rustling in the back yard."

Really? We have criminals in our garden?

I go over to the open window and listen. Well, that could be rustling. No voices though. "Okay, stay here. Do you have your phone?" She did not. The helicopter flies over again and its spotlight is pretty close.

I hustle downstairs to grab both our phones, now in full-scale Man of the House Mode. I take them upstairs and instruct her to lock herself and the child in the bathroom should any shenanigans ensue. Now, I need a weapon.

I go back downstairs, quietly, listening intently. I turn on the backyard lights, which are more like nightlights than flood lights, and are thus not helpful. I check all the doors. We're good. I go into the garage and, holy shit, those are very definitely muffled voices I hear. Quickly, I grab a 5-iron, because it's my most reliable club, can stripe it 205 yards in my sleep, though it occurs to me later that the shorter shaft of a 9-iron was probably a better choice in the case of close hand combat, but I've been known to hit the 9 fat, so the confidence I have with the 5 probably outweighs that fact.

Regardless, I'm armed and ready to defend my castle. I lock the garage door behind me, feel the heft of the 5-iron in my hand and possibly take a practice swing or two, I can't quite recall. I'm making my way to the family room, listening intently, eying the windows for the slightest movement, impeccable Vardon Grip on the club, when...

BOO!

AJ jumps up from behind the couch, big self-congratulatory grin on his face, I think. I'm not sure, because I've shot through the ceiling.

"AJ!"

"Did I scare you?"

I'm not sure how, but I modulated my voice, if not my heartbeat, pretty quickly, so as not to alert him to the dangers RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR DOOR. "Honey, no more Ninja Game tonight, okay?"

"Okay." And he went back upstairs. It was then I realized I'd dropped the 5-iron.

Fucking ninjas.

*

There was nobody in our backyard. Or, if there was, they did not attempt to storm our dwelling. Emet and I laughed about it this morning. "I think you can put your 5-iron away," she said, seeing it leaned against my night stand.

"Yeah, the nine is probably better anyway."

Is This Something You Might Be Interested In?

2010-03-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

There are not too many reasons Emet and I would voluntarily submit ourselves to the waterboard-esque torture of a time share presentation. Them holding AJ hostage would be one. Free golf would be the other.

Fortunately, it was the latter.

But...Oh. My. God. That must be eerily similar to what a cult is like.

We went into the (allegedly) 90-minute presentation with our eyes wide open. I'd been to one before and was somewhat amused by the indignation expressed by the salesfolk when we turned down their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This being a recession and all, I anticipated a softer sell. We figured we'd just be calm and friendly, participate where we were asked, patiently absorb the pitch and then walk away with our parting gifts. I even left outs, akin to arranging a phone call by your buddy to get you out of a bad blind date. We didn't check out of the resort, which had a noon deadline, so I could beg off if the pitch ran over. And then we'd have an hour before we teed off for bloody marys and some swings on the range.

The best laid plans...

Our salesman was a jovial fella named Dale. He was more of a zone trap kinda guy, as opposed to 94-feet of Hell. He was armed with more files than a congressional page, all photos of smiling children and impenetrable statistical data, designed to prove to Emet and I that, our entire lives, we've have been vacationing incorrectly.

Now, the resort is in the middle of facking nowhere. Fallbrook, CA to be exact. Sure, you can get to San Diego in 30 minutes. Or Disneyland in 80. We had a slight problem with this. "What do you like to do on vacation?" Dale asked. "Uh...go to sports events, gamble, drink, go to concerts."

Which is pretty much true. I'm sure it occurred to Dale right then, though he was a consummate pro--never giving up the ghost--that we could do none of those things at this resort.

For a while, it wasn't too painful. Then I noticed that we were running long. My watch had us at two hours already and we had yet to tour the models. Enter stress. You dare keep me from my bloody mary!

*

Emet and I are gracious people. We were willing to hear him out. We never had any intention of buying, but we got a bunch of free shit (golf! Kings tickets!), so we were going to play along. But, after we said, "No," they didn't stop. After we said, "We're late and we gotta get out of here," they didn't stop. I suppose it's their job. I don't begrudge them. We were there voluntarily. But...well...I finally snapped.

We had endured the initial pitch, then the closer (who did the amusing indignation thing), then a re-run from Dale (each time, the price getting lower and lower, to where it was 25% of what they initially offered) and a very slow walk down a hallway to pick up our gifts. When the clerk said, "Jackie will be right down to explain your gift package," I knew we were in store for one last effort and I wasn't about to let it happen.

Jackie arrived and said, "This way please," as she herded us toward her desk. "How are you?"

"Well Jackie," I began, spittle flying. "Not good. We were supposed to check out of our room 20 minutes ago, our tee time is in 40 minutes and our clubs are stuck in the room. Ya'll said it would be 90 minutes and we've now been here for two-and-a-half hours. We're done. We want to go."

I'm sure that was not Jackie's first time around at being the dart board for frustrated non-time share owners. She spun around, dropped our packet back with he clerk and told him to get us out of there. So, kudos to her.

Once back in the car, all was right again. Well, except for having to petition the front desk to let us into our room to get our stuff ("This kind of thing happens all the time with those people," she said). And it was golf time.

*

Boy, am I an addict. It's currently golf that takes up all my time and ambition. You know what they say, you've got to play to get better. So, I pretty much spend all my off-days playing golf (and going to Little League practice). Fortunately, Emet likes to play too, so we get some date time out on the fairways.

The jones is strong. It was even worse yesterday, because last Thursday, I shot an 86. A 4-over 40 on the back. That may be small potatoes for guys like The Bracelet and schaubs, but it's the first time I've broken 90 in 15 years (though, to be fair, I didn't play for 13-and-a-half of those). And I shattered it. Beat my best at that course by 6 strokes. I'd been flirting with 90 recently, however (like a couple weeks ago when I went double-triple-double on the last 3 holes for a 94) and am real comfortable with my swing. I've been hitting the ball great. Sadly, I putt like a blindfolded epileptic.

I was pumped to get back out there. So pumped, apparently, that I was hitting the ball way further than usual (or that may have just been sweet relief at not being imprisoned in a time share presentation any longer). To wit: My second shot into the par-4 first hole was a substantially-uphill 140 yards to the middle of the green. I hit a full 8-iron about 145, which I figured might be a little short due to the elevation change, but all the trouble was behind the green, so I went with it. And hit it 10 yards over, where it landed on the cart path and bounced down into a canyon. Triple.

Missed the green long with a 9 on hole #2. Double.

Then I figured out the air was thin or all those push-ups were paying dividends or the booze was making my swing freer and easier. Either way, I adjusted. Though those first two holes screwed my front nine (49), I rebounded with a solid 43 on the back (which featured a birdie on the 11th, an occasion for which I whipped out a celebration dance that was embarrassing for everyone involved).

Does that read like a hand history? I don't care. Eff you.

I didn't break 90 again, but this course was more difficult than the one I usually play, much narrower fairways and lots more OB issues (though, amazingly, I had just the single penalty stroke and lost ball on the first hole). I walked off the 18th in a great mood and can't wait to play again (Wednesday). All in preparation for donkeypuncher's visit in two weeks, where I expect to win lots of money from him on the links.

*

So, I suppose it was worth it in the end. Got to experience a nice new course. Had a night away with Emet (we gambled at Pala Indian Casino a bit the night before, but I didn't play poker because I hate being that guy whose girlfriend sits behind him bored to tears). And learned, finally, once and for all, to never submit to a time share presentation ever again.

But I suppose joining a cult is still in play. If they have a nice course with reasonable green fees.

The Edge

2010-03-14T17:44:00.000-07:00

I've been anxious a lot lately. Big Time. A swirling ache. Where I can't sit still. It's been bad since Saturday, which was Opening Day, which is a terrible day to be anxious because it's the best day of the year, all the little boys and girls in their pristine uniforms and nobody's struck out yet and no coaches have yelled at umps yet (which, incidentally, lasted all of ONE batter in AJ's first game) and everyone's 0-0 with a slate as fresh as the dirt on the infield.

But yeah. On edge.

It wasn't difficult for me to pinpoint a reason. I've spent the better part of three weeks trying to arrange my schedule around AJ's baseball practices and games. Many of them are during the week and at a time I have no chance of making, due to my hours and long-ish commute. Emet has graciously lent a hand. Not so with X. Not to bitch about her lack of involvement, but the fact is, these sorts of things don't matter to her. Or matter enough for her to move things around to help.

When I was 8, I tried to beg out of a soccer game, claiming sickness. The real reason was the size and aggressiveness of my opponent that day. Bigger kids. Older kids. The aptly-named Crusaders. My mother was having none of it. She sat me down and explained that I had made a commitment to play soccer and I was going to honor it. That I had an obligation of myself, my teammates and my coaches to show up and do my best. Obviously, that lesson has stuck.

There's another reason I've been so adamant that AJ not miss a practice. He's in a new league. An outsider. The coach knows all the players and the parents. They've played together for a couple years. AJ had to be there if he wanted a chance to impress, to penetrate a tight group with a history together (I should note the coaches and parents have all been quite lovely). He needed to make an impression.

*

Thanks to an empathetic boss, picking up some shifts on Sundays and the ever-supportive Emet, we've managed to get him to every game and practice. Where I sit and scrutinize his every move. On the edge of my seat. That anxiety.

And, I'm sorry to say, I crossed over from supportive to That Guy.

*

"AJ, you know Daddy loves sports and sometimes gets really excited. Like when we watch the Kings play and they score a goal. It's the same when I watch you play sports. I want you to do well, because I know it makes you happy. Remember when you scored that goal against the Cobras? You were so excited. And that made ME excited. It was awesome to see your face. I know you were proud and I was proud of you. Same when you scored those baskets last week. But sometimes Daddy gets too excited and instead of being happy for you, he wants to be happy for himself. And that's not right. Because of that, I've been too hard on you sometimes and not let you just play and have fun. I'm sorry. I still want you to behave yourself, pay attention and listen to your coaches. But when you are playing, don't be nervous about what Daddy will say. Just do your best, support your teammates and have fun."

I offered that mea culpa to AJ last night as I put him in bed. He seemed...grateful...relieved. At one point he reached up to hug me.

*

I felt better. Sure. But realized at the same time that the source of anxiety was not his baseball schedule or my burst of over-bearing parenting. It was time. It was that I spend hours moving my life around (and thinking about ways to move my life around) to see my son play baseball. And what have I done with that time? I threw batting tips at him like nasty curveballs, tossed him disapproving glances when he messed around. I couldn't control myself enough in those precious hours, not enjoying the mood of boys at play, instead spending them bombarding him with instruction.

Instruction I couldn't give him at other times because we weren't together. I was at work. Or he was at his Mom's. No time. And that's from where the anxiety stemmed, that deep-down knowledge that I lose him. Continually. Three days this week; four the next. Time he should be with his Dad. Time I spend frantically trying to maximize, while, at the same time, being sidetracked by the pressure of it all.

When X was plotting her escape, I said to her, "You are voluntarily giving up half of your life with your son. He's four now; he'll be 18 when he goes off to college. That's seven years you're giving away; seven years you're taking from me." Dramatic? Sure. I was pulling out all the stops. But it still rings true for me on a regular basis. I miss him when he's not around. And I know he misses me. There are days when he won't even leave my sight, where we sit on the couch, him not next to me, but physically on me.

No, he's not been taken away from me, but sometimes he's not there when I want to talk to him. I miss the funny things he says and does at his Mom's. Just his presence, and how it brings an entirely different dynamic to our home.

*

Like many times in my life, just logically pinpointing the source of my issues goes a long way toward resolving them. It's a better day. I came in to work a little later today so I could take him to school. Nothing major. No great bonding miracle or timeless moment. Just an extra 45 minutes together.

Sometimes, that'll do.

Seven Deadly Sins

2010-01-25T10:50:00.000-08:00

I've been living in full-scale Soccer Dad Mode recently. AJ is simultaneously involved in basketball and baseball right now, on the heels of a short break following soccer season. We're talking about five games/practices a week and coupled with the morning and evening trips to school, the two of us spend a lot of time in the car together.

These short drives serve as a forum for wide-ranging discussions, information from the playground, his mom's house (where he spent all of Sunday in his pajamas playing video games. When I suggested this was perhaps a waste of a good day, he replied that his teen-age step-brother did it too, so it must be okay) and whatever is on his mind.

What was on his mind last night was a new video game he was playing when I came to pick him up. "You have to commit seven deadly sins in a fortnight," he said. As I searched for a reply, he added, "What's a fortnight?"

That was not the last of the questions.

"What's gluttony?"
"That's when you have too much of something."
"What's envy?"
"That's when you desire something that someone else has."
"Oh, I thought that was lust."

Cue Jon Stewart "Wha wha wha what?" Face.

"No honey, lust is when you desire the someone, not the something."
"Oh."
"Let's go back to envy."

*

Envy is a difficult thing to explain to an 8-year-old. Of course they want the video game their friend has, or the bed that looks like a race car. "It's okay to want things for yourself," I said. "We can call them goals and to reach them, you have to work hard."

Coincidentally, this is an ethos that he has recently begun to understand. We're in a new Little League district, owing to the move, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to play this year. I refrained from talking him into it, but I did want to know the reasons why not. There were a couple. He didn't want it to interfere with basketball, which he loves. And he didn't have a good time playing baseball last year, called it "boring" because the coach always made him play in the outfield.

I assured him the former wouldn't be a problem. The latter, more difficult. I couldn't tell him that his coach last year was an asshole and that he was far from the only kid who didn't enjoy the season. Instead, I asked him what he thought would make baseball more fun for him.

He wants to pitch. And he wants to win.

Well shit. I've got a Daddy Speech for that.

*

What I had to do was make the connection for him between success and desire. If he wants to pitch, he has to earn it. He has to practice, take instruction and apply it. In short, make a commitment to this goal. You don't achieve anything by wishing it so. And that goes for everything.

I often rail against the Self Esteem Movement. We're all worthwhile, blah, blah, blah, and we are therefore all equally entitled to praise and worship. Bullshit. Praise without cause does not give kids self-esteem. It gives them license to skate. It ingrains the knowledge that no matter how lowly one performs, he will be passed through because, god forbid, we demand excellence from anyone. Self-esteem comes from within, from effort, from knowing you've done all you can. I'm not about to sugar-coat AJ's deficiencies and I'm sure as hell not going to defend him to teachers/coaches/psychiatrists if he runs afoul of what is expected of him.

I told him, "You want it. Go get it." So he did. And hit the fan.

*

I'm not sure there's anything better in life than having your son say, "Daddy, can I pitch some to you?" I mean, that's what I'm on the Earth for. I squatted down on the front lawn and chased his errant throws. I gave him a few tips and he started throwing it over the plate. thinking I needed to simulate game action, I went into the garage and brought out a standing fan, about the perfect height for an 8-year-old, and put it in the right-hand batter's box.

Perhaps I shouldn't have gotten so confident so soon. Damn hubris.

He hit it twice, turning it from a working fan into a prop we now use for pitching practice. Still, he threw it pretty well. Not well enough to pitch for the Rookie Diamondbacks just yet, I don't think, but well enough to keep working on it.

"I pitched pretty good, huh Daddy?" he asked.
"You did son, but you'll do even better after more practice."
"I know, but I was good."

I suppose we'll get around to talking about Pride soon enough.

AQ = Nuts

2010-01-21T11:12:00.000-08:00

"Don't use up all your run good."
--F-Train

Indeed.

Normally, I define "run good" as "not getting horribly sucked out upon," since I like to think I get my money in ahead most of the time. That was the case for the most part last night in my 4th place finish in the $28K Guarantee, but I certainly benefited from one Luckbox Moment.

We were about three hours in and my stack was dwindling, trying my vaunted patience. There was a raise and a call in front of me, the former by a huge stack, the latter by a Swede who'd been playing a ton of pots. I had AQ on the button and went ahead and shoved, trying to take it. I was more worried about the raiser than the caller.

I was wrong. The Swede flat called with Aces ("fucking Swedes"). I was already on my way to bed on the ten-high flop, but the King turn and Jack river had other ideas. Suddenly, I had a top 20 stack and new life.

(You know, I did this similar thing in a similar situation late in the WPBT Winter Classic. I raised with AQ, Al flat-called and F-Train popped it. As I did last night, I read Al's flat call as weakness (and F-Train? Well, he and I have been in this spot before. I figured him for a medium pair and I'm willing to race at that point, with that structure) and pushed, somehow getting Al to fold AK. F-Train had AQ and we chopped it up as Al walked away in disgust, but rest assured, we gleefully let him know a king flopped. Clearly, these are bad plays by me, but Hey! they worked out. Results-based analysis rules.)

Anyways, long story short, I played out of my head after that, but fell short. I did a good job picking my spots at the final table, ritually abusing the guy on my right and winning a good pit with Q9s after a re-raise (the hand that spawned the quote at the top of this post). Considering my good fortune, I could scarcely be upset when, down to four, my AK was out-flopped by AQ (oh irony, you sonofabitch), even though that pot gives me the chip lead by 400K or so with three left AND those jackholes chopped three ways after my subsequent elimination for $4K apiece with an extra grand to the winner.

I'm over it. Really.

So that was good practice for Commerce tomorrow, though I don't think an opponent who re-raises me pre-flop will check on every subsequent street (as in the Q9s hand). No, that's not really how they do it at Commerce. The paycheck pumped up my bankroll nicely, even if I promised Emet I'd donate half the winnings to the Major Appliance Fund, and my ROI for 2010 is 525%.

Ship. That.

I'll be certain to Twitter the tourney tomorrow for those of you who can't get enough of chip counts. Let's hope some of that run good remains.

I've Been Busy

2010-01-15T16:09:00.000-08:00

So, uh, hey...what's goin' on? I've been meaning to call, but crazy busy here, you know. It's not like I don't value our relationship or anything like that. You know I'm always here for you. It's just there's this imaginary totem pole in my mind, a hierarchy of importance, if you will, and right now it is completely obscured like a polar bear (this is a bad analogy I realize now as it wasn't three weeks ago when the tour bus driver at the San Diego Zoo explained that polar bear fur is not actually white, but black and the individual hairs are hollow, like straws; the more you know) in a blizzard by the flurry of thoughts and tasks and thoughts about tasks that I have to undertake in the next couple weeks.

Yes, moving day is nigh. A homeowner again. That simultaneously proud and anxious step forward for real-life grown-ups. My attendant To Do List shames "War and Peace." Tolstoy'd be all like, "WTF?"

I'm not so good at To Do Lists. Procrastination is part of it. And when mentally itemizing all this crap, it seems like they will take forever, which adds to the distaste of it all--and the insomnia--but eventually, like flush draws against my top set, I get there. Just this week, Emet and I did the home inspection, contracted a painter, picked hues, signed assloads of papers, wired a substantial amount of money into the ether, hired a mover, transferred accounts, played golf and got trashed on a Wednesday night at a local sushi joint.

$1 Asasis. FTMFW.

Emet scored us a great deal on DirecTV. She spent an hour on the phone with them, because of the convoluted nature of our separate accounts (we both had the satellite service, but when she moved in, because of a deal, we used hers and got rid of mine, but now she can't transfer hers because of the last deal and I don't qualify as a "new customer" because of my past service, but we found a way around that), and, by the time she was done, I think they're paying us.

All that's really left is to pack.

*

Oh, but it's not all bubble wrap and packing tape. I'm gonna play Event #1 of the LAPC next Friday at Commerce. It's a $1 Million Guarantee with four--FOUR!--Day 1s. Friday is the third of the four and should be a big field, since those who bust on earlier days can buy in again. My goal is to last until F-Train gets there so we can have a drink after I bust and play Indian Poker at a 4/8 table.

I wouldn't say the structure or the typical (and necessary, in this format) Commerce style of play suits my game very well, but patience and looking for the best spots early is what I do, so I'll continue to do it. Since I've been running reasonably well lately (a fact I'll attribute to playing less, focusing more), I'll take the shot. Sometimes, I need to play outside of my bankroll to feel energized. That's probably a leak, that desire for extra adrenaline. I'm alright with it. In periodic doses.

Along that same line of thinking, I'm definitely also playing a WSOP event this year (long as the bankroll doesn't take a freefall). At least one. Lining it up so I'm in Vegas for the US-England World Cup game (that's June 12th at 11:30 a.m. local time my poker scribe friends; be sure to get that day off) for some Hot Sportsbook Hooligan Action. There are several of the cheap-ass Donkaments in that date range, so I'll find one.

In fact, I've been planning a whole year of vacations and it's only January. To go with Vegas, there's spring training, The Summit, beach camping and possibly a trip out of country. Going to see Kings-Oilers in a couple weeks for Wayne Simmonds (My Main Main) Bobblehead night. Love that homebuyers credit. Thanks Obama.

*

AJ's good. Thanks for askin'. He has his first basketball game tomorrow and he's beside himself with excitement. In fact, his favorite part about the new house is not the pool or his playroom, but the hoop cemented next to the driveway. If his practices are any indication, the will be hilarious. He can't stop running around. He's a one-man full-court press. If he were seven years older, the cops would haul him away figuring he had to be on something.

For some reason, I don't think that energy is going to apply itself to packing.

Free Stuff

2010-01-09T16:42:00.001-08:00

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: 521019

Epilogue

2009-12-29T13:26:00.001-08:00

Well Kiddos, seeing as I'm mere hours away from riding a bullet train into the blue nightlife of San Diego for the rest of this spirited and fulfilling year, I thought I'd take this opportunity to wish you all a pleasant remainder of 2009 and a thoroughly sweet 2010.

What with Christmas (AJ got four--FOUR!--occasions to open presents), planning for the close of escrow (Jan. 18th, bitches!) and the San Diego trip (and golf, don't forget golf), I've not had time to finish the WPBT trip report (though some of it sits there, lonely, forlorn, ignored, in the editing queue), but I will, I suppose, finish off the tales of Final Tabling and the Brent Celek $200 Miracle.

Until then, feed candy to your children, make out with your significant other and keep me updated on Twitter.

Cheers.

Friday: Cocktails? Cocktails.

2009-12-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up feeling 38% better than I thought I would, although not well enough, or early enough, to take a shower, a fact I withheld from my playing partners. I put on three layers of clothing, including some freshly-purchased spandex tights that not only did the job of keeping me (relatively) warm, but are also quite sexy. I've taken to wearing them, and only them, around the house, much to Emet's delight.

I didn't think the weather was too bad as I waited for my car at the valet, though I was even happier when I got in and the attendant had turned on the seat warmers and heat, the latter perched at a balmy 85 degress.

"85 degrees!" drizz screeched when he grabbed shotgun at the IP. drizz was wearing a polo shirt. The 38-degree Vegas temperature was like Minnesota Spring. Then Schaubs jumped into the back seat and one-upped drizz. Schaubs was wearing shorts. They make 'em hardy in Canada.

We made it to Las Vegas National without getting lost, though I instantly regretted making drizz the co-pilot when I found out he hadn't slept all night and had made a prop bet with GRob and Otis that he could not sleep for another 18 hours, meaning his first 32 hours in Vegas would be REM free. Personally, I'd be dead if I tried such a thing, but drizz seemed pretty chipper at that point, as well as driven to pocket some of that GRob money. Later, I would implore him to sleep (while he was in one of his less-lucid states) and give up the $20, which I pointed out was a relatively piddling amount.

"I WILL NOT GIVE MONEY TO GROB!" he bellowed. So I dropped it.

LVN was ready for us when we arrived (if not "prepared," if you know what I mean), a marshal meeting us at the car and taking my clubs. We hustled to the range for some warm-up swings, then hustled to the snack bar for a bloody mary. I was paired with Schaubs and Astin's friend M. The group in front of us was Fuckin' Katkin, DrChako, Astin's other friend N and a Ringer. Right behind us was F-Train, Pebbles, Astin's other friend E (I feel like I should be calling them all "Larry") and AlCantHang.

Haha! Kidding. Jason rounded out that foursome. The final group was BamBam, drizz, jjok and ck, who we were all happy to see got to play after doing all the legwork to set up the outing. Thanks so much to her and BamBam for doing the cat herding.

Schabus is an ace, which was great, but also a little nerve-wracking, since, even though I suck, and I know I suck, I didn't want to suck for 18 holes and have him get frustrated at having to carry my sorry ass out and in and be tempted to take hard left turns in the cart so I would tumble out. Fortunately, I hit the ball pretty well most of the day. That didn't prevent me from almost falling out of the cart twice.

I got off to a good start, hitting fairways (or close enough) on four of the first five holes, preventing a mental meltdown. By the time we were through five, the beer cart arrived and...well...giddyup.

We played the front in even-par with two birdies and two bogeys, our main problem being unable to sink birdie putts (while Team Ringer in front of us was apparently draining 30-footers). We loaded up our coolers at the turn (hey! What's that water doing in there!) and shot a scrambling two-under on the back. We had some fun moments, like the hole where M and I both hit the same tree in successive shots, a tree that was only 10 feet in front of us, causing us all to duck quickly as our balls came ricocheting back. And the par three where one of us duffed it to the ladies tees and two of us hit into the water. Amazingly, we got up and down for par from the ladies tees.

Then there was the 18th, a par-5, where I yanked my drive into the adjacent neighborhood and both Schaubs and M found water. We dropped lakeside and had trees in our path to the green. I took out a 3-wood and decided I was going left, around the trees. Jokingly, I said, "I'm going with a power fade here," which is really what I was trying to do but the chances of actually performing it were around 8%. Yet, BAM! one power fade, coming up. The shot left us about 70 yards to the pin, with a good lie, so Schaubs could go ahead and swing for the fences.

Which he did. A beautiful arching draw over the other set of trees. The only problem was it headed right for Team Ringer still kibitzing greenside.

Dear Team Ringer, he did yell "Fore!" I swear. In addition, I was screaming for the ball to kick left off Katkin's cart.

Again, we got up and down for par for a round of 69. Two shots behind Team Ringer, but good enough for second place and my first ever round of golf under par.

Cocktails!

You probably heard that F-Train won the long-drive contest--big hitter, the F-Train--and Pebs and ck grabbed the closest to the pin honors, which sets up the obvious joke that nobody missed, but is still so funny that it bears repeating:

All the girls got a prize!

We slay us.

Again, thanks to Bammer and ck for all the organization and to my fellow hackers for making it an absolutely great time. Even bigger shout-outs to Astin and CaApril for braving the elements. I know, from pretty much everyone I talked to who wasn't playing that the idea seemed absurd, what with the cold and the early wake-up call, but it was enormously fun and you'd not regret it if you drag your ass out of bed and play next year. Which is not to say I didn't relish coming back into the clubhouse for warmth.

*

From the course, drizz and I went to Nine Fine Irishmen for some pints and sausages, a payoff for a bet earlier this season on Niners-Vikings ("Enjoy your Sausage Fest!" chuckled Schaubs). It was at this point that drizz, who finished his round in a spiffy new jacket he had to buy at the turn to cover his bare, blue arms, was at his most faded. We sat there mumbling into our Harp like we were on an awkward first date, both of us tired (honestly, I couldn't imagine how badly he felt, considering I was operating with a needle poised just above E). And while we were both famished (I'd eaten only a microwave breakfast burrito the size of my thumb; well..and the bloody mary), we barely consumed half the pail of delicious sausages.

Sausage Fest consummated, we made our way across the bridge to the MGM where I ran smack dab into Table 16.

I've never seen its like before and perhaps never will again.

*

I was contemplating a nap (I'm old), but couldn't resist watching. I hadn't seen The Mark yet, and he was his typical garrulous self (I mean that in the best possible way). He had a mound of chips in front of him. Yes, mounds, not stacks, and when he bet, he'd just shove a pile, or most of what he could bulldoze in two hands, into the pot. After relentless prompting from the floor, he did finally stack his chips. In stacks of two, a rainbow which covered one end of the table.

Cocktails?

In the meantime, I couldn't resist playing. Alan racked up and I took the seat to The Mark's right (oh joy). So this is what a G-Vegas game is like. Pretty much how it's been described. Tilt of equal importance as dragging the pot. I'm not one with the skills (or sack) to play that type of game, so I stuck with the cards, winning a little (for a while), doing my part in tipping Tip and others, donating to stb, standing for the National Anthem ("What are you, Canadian?!?!") and throwing away the idea of a nap before Emet arrived.

It's not really possible to recount the shenanigans. It was all cutting remarks and degen vibe and, oh yeah, some poker. I do know I was lucky to get out with just losing my initial buy-in (when diamonds didn't get there against BadBlood's Kings), but also wishing I had the energy and bankroll to sit there for much, much longer or until, you know, the whole table got cut off.

But Emet did arrive, instantly falling under The Mark's charms. He ferried her to the bar straightaway, queried her why, on God's Green Earth, she'd stoop to be with me. She sat behind me for a bit, and then I went broke (cooler), so we headed upstairs to...um...nap.

*

Up and showered at 10:30 (two nights in a row, I make my comeback at 10:30; these sorts of things don't happen in real life), Emet and I went back to the scene of the crime, but Table 16 had already been sent to the penalty box. drizz was standing right there, like a big tree ready to be felled. He was in worse shape than I'd left him, counting on that fourth wind to kick up any time now, but I didn't have time to give him a cursory physical exam, because we were late meeting the crew for Steel Panther.

Now, this kind of thing is right up my alley. I love the metal. Hair bands are pure nostalgia. Live music rules. But I was non-committal to the hordes of folks demanding my attendance because I knew it was over-the-top and vulgar and concerned that Emet might not dig the scene. I needed to get a better overview of the show, so I asked BadBlood.

"How vulgar is it?"
"Very."
"Do they use the c-word?"

He paused, combing his memory banks. "No," he said finally. "But anything and everything right up to that."

Oh.

Regardless, I convinced her to go (helped by the fact she was delighted by Table 16 and they were all going) and we cabbed out to Green Valley Ranch after missing the group by scant minutes, which had me on a little tilt since I hadn't RSVP'd to Nickerson, but my tilt was nothing compared to that of The Rooster, who missed Emet and I by mere minutes (hey dude, when you're gonna get thrown out of a poker room, do it earlier!) meaning he had to foot the cab fare all the way out to BFE by himself.

That's foreshadowing.

Nickerson had snagged us a couple booths (thanks partner) and we killed time before the show started talking to everyone. Emet met a lot of new people whose names she won't remember, but talked long enough to most that she'll at least be able to recall the face/conversation. Talked to DrChako about the real estate market, to Peaker about how Skid Row is underrated and to a late-arriving drizz about the symptoms of renal failure (let's just say I was happy Dr. Jeff was close by).

As for the show...eh. I liked it. I really did, as my sore ribs would attest the next morning. At times, I laughed in spite of myself--Cocktails!--but ultimately, my preference would have been for them to play more songs, rather than repeating endless variations of the "lady parts" jokes.

Regardless, a great time (complete with a couple episodes of drama that need not be repeated here but to say that if you ever get into a shoving match at a Steel Panther show, Emet's got your back) and worth every penny.

*

Afterwards, Emet and I watched a table-full of donks was playing 2/4 as drizz approached the Witching Hour with seven racks of singles stacked up in front of him. He'd finally found his closing speed at some point during the show and was cruising toward the finish line.

Nice hand, sir. Buy yourself something pretty.

We then went to get assaulted by a Pai Gow dealer, followed by what was at least misdemeanor battery at a craps table. Green Valley Ranch is a cooler. I'm not sure I won a single hand or collected on a single point. In fact, at this point of the trip, I'd taken exactly $90 profit off the combined table games I'd played against about $600 worth of buy-ins. So sleep seemed like the good play.

It had to turn around. That's more foreshadowing.

Up Next, Saturday: WPBT Winter Classic

Thursday: It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint

2009-12-15T10:38:00.000-08:00

I bolted into the start of the Winter Gathering Aught-Nine like a speed horse trying to steal the race at a mile-and-a-quarter. This can be a sometimes effective strategy, if one can earn a lonely lead and manage the pace, leaving something left for the stretch run. If, however, you are pressured on that lead, the legs go tired, quickly and suddenly, and you can find yourself stumbling about the MGM six hours later with the single-minded purpose of eating chili cheese dogs.

Driving in, I was caught between easing into The Gathering, like my brain insisted I do for the betterment of the rest of my internal organs, and putting the pedal down just because I was so damn excited. Wanna guess which one won out?

I sprinted right out of my car, onto the monorail, into the IP and ran smack into AlCantStopBuyingShots, though the SoCo he soon put in front of me could oniy be called a "shot" in an ironic way, like calling a fat guy "Tiny." It took me three or four healthy swallows to toss it back, all the while sharing beers with Derek, Pauly, Gnome and stb (and others, which means this is where I put the disclaimer that all omissions of you, person reading this, and going, "Hey Jipperbrains! I was there, too!" are purely unintentional, owing to my poor memory and the slight bleeding in my brain and not at all indicative of race, religion, creed, you sucking out on me or your poor taste in domestic beer), which is starting the weekend off drinking above my weight class.

This became abundantly clear in short order as I stared down Alice Cooper at a blackjack table.

I actually took some profit off Alice (School's out for the summer, bitch!) and ratholed with it, in the process resisting the charms of Reba, who was brought in as a twanging cooler. This was necessary as I'd already dropped a chunk at craps and I knew I was in that dangerous place where you might wake up and wonder where all your money went. I was also surprised to look down at my watch and see I'd been there six hours.

Uh oh.

I slipped out the back door of the IP and made my way back to the MGM. I still hadn't checked into my room, which I did first, before I went in search of food for the first time...er...all day. I ended up with two chili cheese dogs, which I ate hurriedly because I needed a nap before starting Round Two.

Round Two came much later than anticipated as I a) set my alarm for 9 a.m. instead of p.m. and b) was unable to put the phone back in the cradle to receive the wake-up call anyway and that's how you wake up at 10:30 wondering where the hell you are and why do I smell like a tour bus?

I rallied up to get back to the IP to see everyone (see?!?! There, I just mentioned you!) and was drunk again after one beer, the good drunk, I thought, the easy, straight-line buzz one hopes to curate over a long period of time. I was under this mistaken impression until about 4 a.m. when I realized I couldn't hardly stand and that I had to be up soon for the golf outing, which I was damned if I was going to miss, even as I opined that signing up for something that began north of noon...outside in the frigid temperatures...requiring motor skills...was not the brightest idea I've ever had.

I got to talk to lots of folks that night, however (Falstaff, Michalski), took some grief about my hair (The Wife, maigs), had someone stand up for my hair (Maudie!), watched drizz pull quads on Let It Ride and go into an impromptu celebration that woulda drew a flag for being excessive anywhere but the IP where it merely frightened people and even got in some mildly profitable Pai Gow action (despite replacing Derek in what appeared to be the Eff You Seat) with Pauly, Otis (riding high on a straight flush and throwing stacks of green willy-nilly into the circle...and winning), Marty and...um...you.

On the cab ride home, I'm feeling less than stellar, trying to do the math on how many hours of sleep I'm going to get and calculating how much Gatorade I should pound (enough to offer some re-hydration, not so much that it makes you have to get up in the middle of the night to pee) and I start to get woozy. The bad kind of woozy.

Yes, it got a little pukey in Room 4-526, though I was proud to point out to others later that I made it all the way to the room before evacuating the remaining chili cheese dogs in my stomach, which is respectful to cabs and Pai Gow tables and casino floors, if you think about it. I instantly felt a whole lot better and when the (successful!) alarm went off at an ungodly hour, I rolled out of bed in better shape than I could have hoped for.

Then I went out in the cold to hit that stupid little ball.

Up Next, Friday: Booze, Bloggers and Golf Balls, Table 16 and Steel Panther.

Crash Landing

2009-12-14T14:16:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna write up the whole darn weekend. But first, I'm going to sleep.

I did things I'd never done before in Vegas. I did the same things I do every year with the most amazing group of goofballs on the planet. And I feel the same as I do when I always get home afterwards, a mixture of relief at walking in the door still (somewhat ) intact and disappointment that the gathering has ended again. I can't thank everyone enough for their generosity, good will and great company.

As I walked through the MGM about 1:30 this morning on my way to bed, I was stopped first by Falstaff, banging away on a penny slot (and he lost all $9 of profit in the five minutes I stood there cooling him) and then April, taking a break in front of a video poker machine (where we were soon joined by a VERY drunk girl with a bit of a conundrum, which we proceeded to solve in a sympathetic and clever manner). I delight in those moments, though I was completely knackered and desired nothing but sleep. But I think those brief snippets encapsulate what I feel when I leave, because we all live apart, and I don't have the luxury in my every day life of hoping to run into a dear friend at random, to be able to spend five minutes catching up.

So we cram a year's worth into four days, which makes for an awesome four days (my internal organs might quibble), but leaves me wanting. As I said several times this weekend about others, "Seeing (them) just makes me happy!"

I suppose knowing I will see y'all again will have to suffice until the next time. In the interim, take care, hug your families, get some rest and be prepared for me to totally embarrass you in the trip report.

Vegas A-Z

2009-12-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

A -- Aqua. Restaurant at Bellagio. This was my first ever, official, fine dining experience. It had been, previously, unthinkable for me to drop $300 on dinner (for two), but I did it here and am proud to call it the site of my first foodgasm.

B -- Bobby Blackjack. Our bankroll-spewing hero will not be making it this year, but having (barely) survived a few trips--even non-WPBT ones--with him, I will say everyone should lose $400 in and hour with Bobby at a blackjack table. There is something about the experience that is life-affirming and vital. And one never forgets the feeling of walking to a casino ATM.

C -- Circus Circus. Though I only stayed here once (more on that in a bit), this gaudy property was the casino focal point of my first few trips to Vegas. Of course, I was aged 9-12 when that happened. We played an annual soccer tournament there (in January, forcing us to play one year in the snow) and once the games were over, we all wanted to go win stuffed animals at Circus Circus. It was like gambling training wheels.

The one time I did stay there--as an adult--was because it was the closest casino to the auto repair shop where my car was towed after breaking down outside of Baker. The cost for said tow was nearly $500, an obscene sum for me at the time, especially on top of the fact my car never did return from the desert due to the cost of replacing the blown head gasket being roughly equal to what the vehicle was worth. In the Happy Endings Dept., I won a shitload of money playing craps at Circus Circus, enough to pay for the tow and a flight home, but not quite enough for a new car.

D -- Dealertainers. Normally, I avoid celebrity impersonators like AJ avoids brussels sprouts, but there's something about the IP's unironic worship (and lackadaisical attitude toward actually looking like the celebrity) that I find appealing, much like how I used to chew the skin off my fingers and eat it when I was a child. The comfort can't be explained, only enjoyed.

E -- Excalibur. Site of my first-ever casino experience as an adult, my first-ever casino poker experience (7-card stud) and my first-ever Hold 'Em casino poker experience (where I thrashed the $2-$6 game for $200). However, my biggest win ever here (speaking spiritually, not monetarily) was all those singles shipped by G-Rob on the wheel spin prop bets.

F -- Frontier This perpetually downtrodden property was marked by its friendly dealers and the constant striking union workers at both ends of its circular driveway. It was also my favored gambling spot in the early- to mid-90s because of its low-stakes blackjack and craps (bankroll management!). As with most casinos that become "favorites," I won there with better-than-average frequency. My tipping skills when winning are quite solid, which occassioned one of my greatest Vegas moments. I walked into the casino with two skeptical buddies (their first time there) and as we approached the craps table, one of the dealers shouted, "Kenny!" (which is my actual name, sorta), having remembered me--and my tipping--from a previous trip.

G -- Guy's Getaway. That was the name of a package offered one year by Bally's. A bunch of my baseball friends and I purchased the weekend (free booze in the suite, free dinners, VIP club admission) in order to watch the A's in the playoffs from decadent Vegas. Except the A's folded down the stretch, so we just drank and made fun of Hawk leaving the club with the ugly girl, who used the line, "Do you want to go see the most beautiful girl in the world?" who did, in her defense, turn out to be a smoking Brazilian stripper, albeit one totally disinterested in Hawk.

H -- Hockey. This has nothing to do with Vegas (though the Los Angeles Kings have an annual pre-season weekend in Sin City), but I saw something last night in the Kings-Flames game that just illustrates why I love hockey so much. Two players got into it, light shoving, kit-grabbing, and were jawing back and forth, presenting their opposing points of view. Unable to come to a suitable agreement, one of them kind of shrugged his shoulders and said (expert lip-reader that I am), "Let's just go then," at which point they dropped the gloves and traded delicious and viewer-satisfying blows.

Contrast that with, say, football. How many cheap fucking shots do you think Flozell Adams would get away with on the ice before someone cleaned his fat fucking clock?

I -- Imperial Palace. Gosh. What else can be said about the IP. Yellow police tape at the entrance, moldy-smelling rooms, dealertainers, Pimps and 'hos and "Top Slut" tattoos, Dealertainers and the Geisha Bar. I once found myself at the IP on a list to sing Karaoke. But the list proved too long and I left before I could regale the crowd with Slayer's "War Ensemble."

J -- Jorginho. Had a very memorable Vegas trip one time with peerless Scribes defenders Jorginho and Big Head. It was a last-minute jaunt, arranged over post-game beers. Big Head had met the acquaintance of four young girls from the sticks of Wisconsin (Vegas was the first time they'd seen a taxi), all cute, all with requisite Fargo-esque accents, which provided much hilarity. Jorginho and I stayed up all night gambling, while Big Head tried his luck with the girls. We did well, but as we were heading to bed after breakfast, I fell down a short flight of stairs at the restaurant, nearly toppling into a family seated nearby. "If I wasn't so tired, I'd be laughing at you right now," Jorginho deadpanned.

K -- Katkin. Murderer's Row regular and, at the time, a Full Tilt employee, felt the full weighted wrath of The Hammer, when wielded by a drunken idiot who was already stuck four buy-ins. Yes, me. Late in a 1/2 NL blogger session where I was throwing money away like it was on fire (mostly to Nickerson), I live-straddled. bdiddie raised (with 99) and Katkin re-raised. Naturally, I looked at my cards and pushed (though almost lost them when the dealer tried to pull them into the muck). bdiddie folded and Katkin called with KK.

Flop? 654

At which point a roar went up from the assembled masses and a crowd formed, frothing like spectators at the Roman Coliseum. There was never any doubt at this point.

Turn: 8

And the roar went up. I am not a nice man.

Next day, I stopped by the Full Tilt suite at the WSOP and Katkin, seeing me across the room, pointed and shouted, "That's the guy!"

L -- Las Vegas National Golf Course. Ah, the WPBT Shootout at this legendary layout. Let's see, drink most of (all) night and then venture out into 30-ish-degree temperatures to hit a stupid little ball around for five hours or so. And pay for the privilege! What a great idea, especially for someone of my skill level, the aspects of my game ranging from decent to disgraceful. Regardless, I'm very much looking forward to this, especially to see if I can make a backswing with eight layers of clothes and break the record of most times puking in 18 holes, currently held by BG.

M -- Morgan, Seth. Author of the Greatest Book Ever, "Homeboy," a copy of which was the first bounty I ever gave to a wpbt-er and which features the protagonist, Joe Speaker.

N -- Nugget, Golden. (Yeah, yeah, you try doing one of these lists sometime without cheating a little.) Site of a blogger mixed game in June 2005 that put me on tilt. Just like you never want to get in a land war in Asia, you never want to get between a raising war in Razz vs. The Brothers Nardi.

O -- O. I'm told this is/was a Cirque de Soliel show in Vegas. I wouldn't know. I've never been to a show. Cuts into drinking time.

P -- Peppermint Lotion. The bounty of the non-discerning masturbator.

Q -- Quantitative Analysis. You will be tempted to call the clock on me in the tournament, because I will be doing so much math in my head, which I'm not very good at, that time will stop. Or I might just be thinking of boobies. Either way, I will call and you will suckout.

R -- Rio. The first place I ever made a $100 wager on a single hand of blackjack. I was dealt two face cards. the dealer had 21. I haven't gambled there since (poker not being gambling, you know).

Also, Roshambo. I'd like to think I made that $100 back when Mrs. Head easily and summarily dispatched Phil Gordon in that epic match in 2005.

S -- Spearmint Rhino. Good gracious I nearly killed myself with scotch (at $12 a pop) here one night/morning, but it was totally worth it on multiple levels. Ask Div.

T -- Too Drunk to Call. What happens when you have a Mandalay Bay sportsbook filled with hungover poker degens and a horse running with that name? You all bet on it, despite its previous inability to hold leads as tiring speed. And when the sonofagun comes in at 14-1, you have a mini-riot on your hands.

We'll not mention the performance of one Mr. Otis.

U -- Underwear. At some point in Dec. of 2006, a poor unsuspecting janitor at the MGM walked into the bathroom and was confronted by the sight of my ripped and urine soaked underwear, an accident caused by my devotion to a craps table.

V -- Venetian. My favorite poker room and the site of perhaps my favorite meal ever, not because it was the best food, but because I was sick and went with Falstaff to the Noodle House where I got CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP WITH A FUCKING PORK CHOP IN IT.

Try to top that, Volt brothers.

W -- WPBT. You're all sick and depraved and I love you.

X -- Xanthos. Meaning yellow, or yellowish, like my jaundiced skin on Monday morning after my liver stops working.

Y -- Yugoslavia. Prior to the breakup of this Baltic state, the US played the Yugos in World Cup '98, a forgetable tournament for the Yanks as they went into their final group game 0-2 after losses to Germany (reasonable) and Iran (completely, totally unacceptable). They lost this game, as well, which I watched from mostly the fetal position in my Flamingo hotel room with a handful of others suffering similar hungover fates.

Z -- Zicam. There is something about a looming trip to Vegas that makes my immune system take a dive. I've been sick for at least the last two December WPBT events, spending the week leading up to arrival jamming Zicam swabs up my nose and mainlining Naked Juice. Somehow, I always seem to come through it, despite showing up ill. Greyhounds, a clutch beanie purchase and the greatest head massage ever have contributed in the past. By the time the weekend is over, however, the adrenaline is gone and I'm still sick.

This year (knock on effing wood), I'm in fine fettle. Ive been taking liberties with the anti-bacterial dispensers in the office and on the train. I've refused to touch ANYTHING on my morning commute. And every time AJ sneezed, I locked him in the closet.

So, about 24-hours 'til I begin the giddy slog through the desert. Another day to dodge germs. I will not be Typhoid Mary this year.

See y'all soon.

Big Ticket Items

2009-11-27T13:02:00.000-08:00

I know people like to go shopping on Black Friday. I shudder to think who these people are, of course. Stores in my area were touting how they were going to open at midnight or 5 a.m. and I can't think of a single circumstance that would prod me to be anywhere near these establishments ever.

Then, of course, I went and bought a house today.

Go big or go home, I say.

I should say, Emet and I bought a house and, we really haven't bought it yet, escrow and large cashier's checks and all (she's the one with the bulk of the cash; I'm just the guy with the enviable credit score and a certain inalienable charm), but we found out today our offer was accepted.

It's been a huge pain in the ass, this house-hunting. Despite what you read in the papers, the recession is not over and the real estate market is not rebounding and buyers are not snatching up cut-rate deals. The truth of the matter is that inventory is ridiculously low, an artificial tightening of the market thanks you your favorite local bank, which is using every trick at its disposal to keep prices stable. There's a huge shadow inventory of bank-owned homes the finiancial sector is holding onto, for a couple major reasons.

1. If they release all the homes in their stead all at once, prices will plummet due to over-supply.
2. Until they release them (or, more properly, buy them at foreclosure), they can still use the last sale price as the actual price of the home on their balance sheets. Since these paper shenanigans show the asset as worth $300K more than it's actually worth, they don't take a hit on the bottom line or from their shareholders.

The best part of all this is these are the same folks who've gotten billions in bailout money for these toxic assets.

Guess who wins? Not you. Or us.

*

This was the third offer we'd made. All on standard sales. We shied from short sales because, well, that's just a never-ending waiting game filled with fraud and incompetence. We did look at a couple bank-owned homes, but every one of them was in terrible condition (due to the foreclosure process taking upwards of two years now, allowing lame-duck homeowners to live in a home in which they no longer have a vested interest, a fact which, at best, results in apathy, and, at worst results in wholesale destruction).

So we stuck to the standard sales. The first one on which we made an offer, the realtor got 18 offers. In two days. Thanks to our impressive credit scores (and my charm), our offer made it to the semi-final round before succumbing to a cash offer. Same with the second try. We allegedly finished second in that one, or, as I've taught AJ that calling someone a "loser" is not nice, we'll use his phrase, "Anti-Winner."

Frustrating, sure, but no more than the lack of available properties.

*

Finally, events conspired for us to get the latest house. It's a standard sale, as well, and the owners have lived there since it was new (15 years ago), so have lots of equity, meaning they didn't have to monkey around with the price to pay off their second and third loans. Secondly, we made our offer during the holiday week, when there was little traffic, and this time of year is typically slow for real estate because people don't want to move during the holiday season. Third, the owners were anxious to just be done with the process. Near as I can tell, ours was the first (fair) offer and they jumped at it.

So, now WE get to move during the holidays, fine on one hand since Emet has the Christmas Break off from teaching; not so fine as we're going to be out of town between Christmas and New Year's. But we will abide.

*

Emet's home alone tonight as I have a date with the fam at my sister's nephew's high school football playoff game and she can't logistically make it. She was kinda bummed, but I reminded her that this is likely her last ever night without the company of at least one, and often two, loud, smelly boys. So the celebration will have to hold for another day.

It's a curious feeling. Exhilaration and "Holy crap we have a lot of work to do" in at the same time. Maybe that's why people get up at 5 a.m. to go to Target on Black Friday. Me? I'm gonna try to keep the stress under control for the next 30 days and be thankful that the search is over, that AJ's getting a new bedroom (and basketball hoop!) for Christmas and that Emet and I will finally have a place to call our home.

The Show

2009-11-12T23:02:00.000-08:00

Ohmygod people play so bad.

One guy stacked off with 97o, unimproved, to my AA. Another called a re-raise push with top pair-8 kicker v. my flopped set of deuces.

Those were both at the Final Table.

So, really, I had no choice but to win the seat.

See ya Sunday!

Keep It Positive

2009-11-11T10:43:00.000-08:00

With few exceptions, I've never been one to scream at or bait soccer referees. Heck, I was 30 before I got my first red card (defending myself against an opponent actively trying to bash in my skull) and have only had one since (for actively trying to bash in an opponent's skull). I naturally assume all referees are inept and/or crooked.

The exceptions are pretty funny, though, in retrospect. I once got a yellow card as a high school coach for "inciting the sideline," which I did by not uttering a single word, but, rather, kicking at the ground and spinning away from the field after the seventh or eighth strait call that went against my boys. The ref actually stopped play to book me, then gave the opposition--our cross-town rival--a free kick in a dangerous position from which they scored the only goal in a 1-0 loss.

The other that comes to mind is the time a ref disallowed a goal I'd scored (when we were tied and down to 10-men in a Cup Final) for "charging," a curious call since I won the ball in the air and touched nobody, a fact which caused me, for the remainder of the game, to alert the ref that I was going to win the header ("EVERY TIME!") off every goal kick or corner kick, which I did. He eventually tired of my antics and, I swear to you, offered me the choice between a yellow or red card. I chose yellow and we ended up winning anyway.

Yes, it's not as if I'm immune to emotion getting the better of me. However, I have no issue keeping my fire under control while coaching AJ's team. His U-8 team.

Kudos to me for my restraint.

Of course, when referees, even the U-8 style, seem to want to pick a fight with me, well....

I didn't have any ref issues last year. Not even close. I made it four games this year before my first run-in. In a tie game, the other team scored a goal by kicking the ball out of my goalie's hands. I protested, instinctively, saying as such. The ref turned to me and said, "He did not have clear control of the ball!"

What I should have said was, "That's not the rule." Because it isn't. If he has a finger on the ball, it can't be kicked out of his hand and the reason for this is so goalies, such as they are at this age, don't get repeatedly kicked in the head. That's what I should have said. What I did say was, "Of course he didn't have clear control! He's 6!"

Okay, my bad. After the game, I sought out the ref, apologized for my outburst, but then made my point about the safety of the children, to which he heartily agreed and actually said he appreciated me mentioning that because he hadn't thought of it.

Play on.

Perhaps that scene was reported elsewhere, because that can be the only explanation for what happened two weeks later.

This ref was strident from the start. Before he checked the kids' cleats, he gave them stern treatment, using phrases like "I will not tolerate..." and "When I blow the whistle....STOP...IMMEDIATELY." I was partially amused. Chillax, Brah.

The first issue arose when one of my players got hurt in the first quarter. As I helped him off the field, I motioned for a replacement when I was informed by the ref that I couldn't sub "until the end of the quarter."

"That's ridiculous. Yes I can."

"No," he said. "Those are the rules."

(Those are not the rules.)

Being the responsible adult/coach I am, I didn't press it and we played short for a couple minutes while my player recovered.

Then it got stupid.

AJ, as he is prone to do from time to time, wandered about the pitch aimlessly. I yelled to get his head back into the proceedings. What I said was, "AJ! You have to play defense!"

The referee blew his whistle and stopped play. Turning to my sideline, he bellowed, "Coach! Keep it positive!"

I was stunned into open-mouthed silence (Emet, bless her heart, was not, and threw out a sarcastic, "Really?" for which she earned a Death Stare). For one, what I said was hardly negative. For two, I don't think you could find a parent on my sideline who would accuse me of being negative. For three, the referee's place is not to interject himself into coach-player relations (outside of physical mis-treatment, I'll allow).

Still, I managed to swallow the four or five smart-ass remarks that rushed to my brain and returned to the matter at hand.

Then it got stupider.

I had turned my back to the play. It was an opponent's goal kick and I headed up field in anticipation of the re-start. Then I heard one of my parents yell, "Hey! He can't do that!" (What the opposing goalie, a child nearly twice the size of your average 7-year-old, had done was not to kick the goal kick, but to throw it, nearly 3/4 of the field.) As I was turning back to see what had happened, the ref blew his whistle with all his lung power and sprinted over to me, while also reaching in his breast pocket, a sure sign he was going for a card.

Again, I was incredulous.

"Coach! Control your sideline!" he said and the poor parent, as nice a guy as you can imagine is stammering apologies behind me, but also filling me in on the play that I'd missed. I related the issue to the ref, who is now firmly ensconced in my face, my arms spread out wide and my voice diplomatic.

"Do you want me to throw you out?" he said and, honestly, I couldn't hardly take it any more, so I asked if what the opposing player did was legal and since it's not, he might be able to understand why the parent was momentarily, but not harshly, chagrined and holycrap sir, you do realize this is an under-8 game and you are acting in a manner not in proportion with the activity at hand.

I avoided being thrown out AND being shown a card, though he made sure to remind me he was boss, was, in fact, one bad motherfucker in his yellow shirt.

That was really it for confrontation, though my blood, and the collective supply of my sideline, continued to boil. One last thing though, one of my players was hurt in the 4th quarter and as I walked him to the sideline, the ref told me I could bring in a sub for him.

I don't know if this was a conciliatory gesture, or if the opposing coach had informed him at half time that he had erred earlier, or if it was a pity move, since we were down three goals at that point.

Whatever. I sent in a sub.

I've played soccer for 35 years and have never reffed a game. Wouldn't wanna do it. Respect the people who take their time (incompetent and/or crooked though they may be) to do a thankless gig. Game ended. I always go out of my way to thank the refs. And I was going to do so again. Except he scurried away.

I'd like to think this was because he realized he was inappropriate. More likely, he had to hustle to his next assignment. He had another game to ruin.

Emo Dracula

2009-11-02T11:12:00.001-08:00

As I've mentioned before in this spot, I am not a big Halloween guy. I've dressed up once in the last 25 years and that was a quick throw-together White Trasher complete with mullet wig and spaghetti stains on the tank top. Emet asked me why--though she, too, is anti-costume--and I came up with two reasons:

1) I have no desire to take the time and brain effort to craft the most awesomest costume ever, a failing that collides nicely with a fear of being laughed at for a half-ass result (or, even worse, a monumental, but ultimately disappointing effort), thereby creating a black hole of meh regarding costuming.

2) Halloween costumes invariably require you to wear something on your head, or do something unnatural with your hair and...well...I have great fucking hair and it's criminal to hide it.

So when we decided to go to a party down in the O.C. on Saturday night, in her sister's neighborhood, one of the best things about the gathering was no costume required. At least for the adults. The kiddies were fired up.

AJ decided on vampire, which is certainly popular these days, but when I quizzed him about which media-saturated famous vampire he wanted to be, he looked at me blankly, a fact which I appreciated because I'd rather puncture my cardioid artery with fake fangs than have him read that crap "Twilight" stuff.

In the weeks leading up to the Big Day, I kept asking him if he needed anything for his costume and he kept saying "No," that he and his Mom had it covered. Er...not so much. He had a cape. That was 8 sizes too big. Awesome.

That's why I was standing in a 50-deep line on Saturday afternoon getting make-up for his face, which annoyed me on the patience (or lack thereof) level and also on the fright level, as I tried to glean which of the various products would be easiest to apply. As I am artistic at a 4-year-old level, I feared screwing up the face painting so horribly that he'd have to go as a caped Al Jolson.

It was just as I'd feared. My hands are clumsy ("your fingers have no brains"), especially so when spreading toxic (oh sure, they SAY the products are safe, but c'mon) materials around your child's eyes and mouth. And with an audience even. Emet has two adorable twin nieces, age 6, who are completely captivated by AJ and they stood in the bathroom door giggling the entire time I applied the makeup. Additionally, this made me nervous since my son is, you might say, a perfectionist and a vampire is supposed to be scary in an undead way, as opposed to a Joan Crawford in "Mommie Dearest" way.

Mistakes were made (like accidentally putting a dot of black on the end of his nose), and hastily covered up with even more makeup. And, as I reached the final result, I took a deep breath and asked the girls, "He looks scary, right?"

They giggled some more. "He looks silly!"

Uh oh.

But AJ was cool. Though what he ended up with is something I like to call Emo Dracula...

...aka King Diamond (I'm sure there are at least 3 of my readers who recall Mercyful Fate). For the rest of you...

Okay, so makeup crisis averted. Time to party.

The parents took turns leading the pack of kids around the neighborhood while the others enjoyed a nice spread, the World Series and various adult beverages ( a term I used once that evening, to which AJ interjected, "He means beer!"). But it wasn't just beer. Oh no. Apparently, there is a tradition in this 'ville featuring something they alternately referred to as "Apple Jack" and "Apple Crack." It literally tasted like apple pie/cider. Except it had Everclear in it.

Middle-Aged Suburbanites Gone Wild.

Between shots and candy prospecting, AJ and I shot some hoops (see? If I were wearing a costume, I couldn't shoot hoops!), played some pool, watched the Ducks destroy the Trojans and gorged on meatball sandwiches. I was, in the moment, totally pro-Halloween, though perhaps that's because it was unclear who was more jacked up, the kids and their candy or the adults and their cider shots. And while I maintained my usual semblance of Responsible Adult during the proceedings, both AJ and I spent Sunday on the couch, with energy levels just south of zero, periodically raiding his pillowcase full of sugar. I was so lacking in motivation, that I didn't even care how bad my hair looked.

So, thanks for that Halloween and my new friends in The O.C.

That Didn't Suck

2009-10-18T04:34:00.000-07:00

Heads-up lasted all of five hands, as I was out-chipped 4-1 and out-flopped by trip queens. But heck, not a bad run. Kudos as well to fellow blogger VBDave and his final Table finish.

My poker game is better than my soccer coaching, I assure you.

Consider the Lobster

2009-08-23T19:24:00.001-07:00

Don't Forget to Read

2009-08-03T21:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was AJ's 8th birthday. I got him a skateboard, which, in turn, got me a higher health insurance premium, less for potential injuries to him, than for the anxiety it's sure to cause me when he starts doing Ollies and Indys.

I got you something, too. The resurrection of Don't Forget to Flush.

You may not have noticed my TGOD about that precocious son of mine (and my struggles against certain douchebags) went away. That's okay! It's still a gift. Wrap yourself well.

Offsprung is back under new management and I was asked to contribute more tales of AJ, both the ridiculous and sublime. My first post won't appear until Friday (we're having a staggered start), and it's a re-working of something you have read here, but there are a dozen entertaining voices over there, including some new columns that will focus on movies, step families and pop culture for the kiddies. As always, The Playground is a great clearinghouse for parental information, support and occasional tomfoolery.

I know...you want me. You don't want the rest of that stuff. Fine. Here's a recent account that can tide you over 'til Friday.

AJ plays very patiently and nicely with his 5-year-old cousin, even though she's a little girl in every sense and her mother and I never got along that well growing up. He'll deal with an hour of playing with dolls and she'll reciprocate with some baseball or running around in the backyard. Except all that outdoor rough-housing invariably causes an injury, real or imagined. My mother, of course, can't resist administering compassion, along with band-aids. Lots of band-aids. Last weekend, she was eventually sporting half-a-dozen.

Sometime later, AJ and his cousin were jockeying for water at the refrigerator and she banged her knee on the door. "Ow!" she said.

AJ, lacking the compassion as his grandmother, a humanistic void apparently filled with snark, instantly asked,

"Would you like another band-aid, Princess?"

And scene.

The Cost

2009-07-27T11:34:00.001-07:00

We have reached that portion of the year in my desert hamlet where the temperatures soar to Africa Hot. That's not a complaint. I get mine in January when I'm at the beach and you suckers are shoveling snow. I'll take egregious heat over bone-numbing cold every single time. As long as my air conditioner continues to work, nobody takes a crap in the community pool and the grocery store continues to sell Widmer Hefeweizen, I will abide.

Of course, I could be smarter about the weather. With the mercury past triple-digits yesterday, I played 90 minutes of soccer and 18 holes of golf. I took three cold showers. I have limited movement in my extremities. But my hair still looks good.

Next weekend, I play a soccer tournament in Santa Barbara. Though the weather will be more mild, we could potentially play five games in two days. The toughest is always the first game on Day Two. Because we're old and sore and have limited movement in our extremities. But also because we invade State St. on Saturday night like frat boys on Spring Break. Ain't maturity grand?

This is the first year we will play in the Over-40 division. Blanch. Ugh. Fuck. I can't begin to count the ways this makes me feel old in ways I've never felt before. I've probably mentioned previously about how turning 40 didn't tilt me, despite it happening right in the G.D. middle of The Troubles. I had bigger issues to obsess about. In fact, the only birthday I've ever had that administered a whuppin' was my 33rd. Because that was the Year 2000, a milestone I'd stared at as a child, the Big Scary Future, and couldn't believe I'd someday be that age.

This isn't about waking up and beginning to wrestle with my mortality. I've never really been that guy (minus that early-90s period when I was on drugs all the time and had frequent panic attacks). The simple fact remains that my life is probably half over. Maybe more so.

The future? I don't worry about it. Plan for it? Sure. Try to make good decisions in the present and hope the chips fall more or less fairly. People like to talk about their 10-year plans and shit like that. What a waste. "Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans."

I knew I was going to pay for yesterday's physical insolence. My grandfather, 88-years old and still hanging strong, wished me good luck in my soccer game yesterday. I replied, half-jokingly, "Winning is less important than not getting injured or passing out." Of course, when I got out on the pitch, I didn't shy away from anything. Soccer, golf, Emet, AJ. These are among the things that give me joy. I've no desire to push them to tomorrow, regardless of whatever consequences I reap.

So, next Saturday night, you'll likely find my teammates and I closing down the James Joyce Pub on State St. We'll pay in the ayem. Oh, will we pay. But the cost of missing out on that time is considerably more expensive.

RIP Shadow

2009-07-10T11:08:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since seeing her name in the cell phone window gave me a feeling of dread, but when X called at an unusual time Tuesday night, my stomach immediately kinked. "The cat died," she said, through tears. AJ's cat Shadow.

AJ was already asleep in his bedroom. Thankfully. He wasn't at X's to see his cat attacked by a pit bull.

We decided not to wake him and tell him, which meant I had to carry the news for a day, until we could all get together.

His face crumbled as soon as X started to explain what had happened. He cried, tears of anger, which was slight relief. Better than inconsolable sorrow, I thought, though I knew that was destined to come, as well.

"But I only had him 8 months!" he screamed. The unfairness of it all, the injustice. Noting for us to do but hold him, smooth his hair, tell him we were sorry, too. I'd spent the day researching how to handle the affair. Encourage him to talk about what he's feeling, that his reactions are natural and okay. But that's not the way The Boy works, not when all eyes are on him. He'll tell us, certainly, but randomly, in his time. We have to be alert to listen.

Later, he blamed himself. Also natural. And he's my son. He learned that from me, the urge to take responsibility. You gain a measure of control, an illusion of it anyway, by unnecessarily picking up burdens, convinced we can carry them, to prove our strength and worthiness. I turned Robin Williams on him. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

"But he's MY cat!" he screamed.

*

We buried Shadow. AJ said goodbye. "You were the best cat ever," he said, and the tears were sorrowful then, the helplessness we all felt. I wanted to tell him the feeling would go away with time, but nobody wants to hear that, least of all a 7-year-old, even if he's going on 12. I simply said that he should remember how much fun he and Shadow had and that those memories will make him smile. Someday. Soon, I hope.

Fore!

2009-07-07T14:13:00.001-07:00

We being today with an admission. I'm obsessive. Fine. Feel better? Cards on the table. I'm good, too. Thanks for asking. Except for the pain in my left middle finger, the first knuckle, to be precise. Repetitive motion injury, I suppose.

Over my slightly extended holiday weekend, I played golf three times. I used to really enjoy golf and though I have never been any good at it, have never been instructed how to properly play the game, I hit the links 2 or 3 times a month in my younger years. Then I broke my wrist, changed jobs, spent my free time playing and coaching soccer (both of which I was also obsessive about), got married, became a Dad, found poker, and, suddenly, it had been 10 years since I picked up a club.

A few months ago, Emet asked if I wanted to go hit some balls (that's what she said). She had taken some lessons last summer and had seen my cobweb-riddled clubs in the garage. I agreed, thinking my wrist wouldn't be able to handle it (it really will never be the same), but the price of a bucket of range balls seemed like a small financial commitment to find out. I sprayed balls all over the place, but the wrist held up and, most important, as any duffer knows, I whacked a few off the sweet spot, long and straight and arching beautifully in the blue sky.

So we started to play. Executive courses (not just chip and putt, though), nods to my wrist and her lack of length. You know where this is going.

Or, perhaps not.

Last Sunday, at 4 p.m., the thermometer read 114 degrees in Palm Springs. The wind was at least 25 mph. When we got to the course, there were fewer than 10 people as moronic as us on either of the 18-hole layouts. We walked right on. And we played the long course (we'd hit their short course the previous day, early, before the heat got obscene), Emet's first time on a track longer than 3000 yards (it clocked in at 5100 from the reds). What a fucking trooper she is.

She was skeptical, but I bribed her. My most previous obsession helped, since about 12 hours earlier I'd stacked a guy at a 1/3 NL table at the Spa Casino to more than double my buy-in with my set of 4s (in case you didn't get the Twitter update, about a half-hour into my session, absinthe sat down to my right, which elevated the fun quotient of the evening considerably). Since we'd been up so late, we didn't have much gumption to sweat poolside and while exploring our options for fun, I said I'd buy her a new golf shirt with my poker haul if she'd consent to walk out into the middle of Hell and play with me.

I ended up buying her two.

We survived the conditions and the length. I threw my pitching wedge but once. She didn't take my name in vain. By the end, we were sucking wind and damn near dropped from exhaustion before being revived by an excellent dinner at the perfectly-named Happy Sushi.

That's not the last of it. Oh no. We came home Monday and with several hours to go before I picked up AJ, and another day off, I went and played at my local course. Hell, it was only 90 degrees out. Almost felt like spring.

*

Here's the thing. Obsessive, yes. Competitive? As all hell. In my mind, I know I'm not good at golf. But that doesn't ease the pain of screwing up a shot you've made before. Or of three-putting. Since I am apparently now going to spend every spare minute longing for a tee time, I figure I need to get to a point where I can score at a level that won't piss me off.

This weekend, I shot 77 on the Executive Course (par 55). That's a bit worse than usual. On the long course, in the heat and wind, I shot 98 (par 72). That's about right. At my home course (also par 72), the most difficult of the three (based on slope), where my two previous attempts yielded a 107 (definitely NOT solid) and a 102 (better, but still...), I shot a 93.

And I'm still fired up about it.

I've never played better than bogey golf. And there it was, just 3 strokes off bogey golf in only my 11th round since I came back to the game. I rolled in a 25-foot birdie putt that I knew was in the moment it left my blade. I hit nearly every drive down the middle. I didn't throw a single club.

Am I good? No. But I can hit good shots. I'd like to continue hitting more each time out. It's said the only way to play better golf is to play a lot of golf. I can do that.

*

One last bit. When I walked onto the local course (Sierra Lakes, if you wanna check it out), I was paired with another single. There was a foursome, Asian folk, already waiting on the first tee box and my partner, a boisterous 50-year-old who had a 12-pack of Coors Light with him, barreled right up to the group and asked if we could hit first. To my surprise, they agreed quickly and willingly. We rushed to the tee and my partner hit a nice one, straight and about 220. I bombed one a mile. On a line, 285 when it stopped rolling. The brute force of my swing, the beautiful sound of square contact, the wholesome trajectory of that little fucking white ball in flight...

"Ahhh!" said one of the Asian gentleman as he watched it fly. "You like Tigah Woods!"

If that were the only good swing I'd had all day, it would have been enough to bring me back. There was more, however, which means only one thing.

Emet's gonna be lousy with new golf shirts.

Two Humans at Specific Points in Time

2009-07-03T12:13:00.001-07:00

First, The Boy. San Clemente State Beach, 2009. Built like his Daddy, ain't he? We were playing paddle ball and it was a bit frustrating as his motor skills only allowed for us to get 4, 5 hits maximum. Lot of chasing the ball and bending in the surf. So, I changed it up and started hitting sky high. Here, he tracks it on the way down.

Next, The Dad. UCLA, circa 1989 and recently posted to Facebook. The mullet. The acid washed jeans. The Miller High Life. I don't really need to say more, do I? $34 says this is The Rooster's new favorite hair pic of me.

Bet You Didn't See This Coming

2009-07-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

I spend hours thinking about soccer (henceforth referred to as Football). Before and after every US Men's National Team game, I have animated phone conversations with Jorginho about the most minute of details. I have four Liverpool jerseys. I'm going to play in an Over-40 (GUH) tournament in a month.

So, with Jorginho's prodding and my own need to get all these swirling Football thoughts out of my head, I started another blog.

The Defensive Third

I'm ridiculously verbose on the subject. I can wring 3,000 words out of "Carlos Bocanegra as Left Back." If you like Football, you might like the blog. If you love Football, you will want to fucking marry me.

Tell your friends. Link it up.

Not Yet

2009-06-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

Once we got about 100 yards down the beach, he and I were basically alone. We scanned the sand for skipping rocks and rifled them into the surf. He chased after the seagulls and laughed in the whitewater banging on the shore. Saturday afternoon in San Clemente, our third day there. We were both hot and tired, walking away from the crowds and noise, just me and my son.

*

AJ's life has been pretty crowded lately. For two weeks, he's shared an apartment with 11 other people. His days with me have been a relief. Just the two of us. But we had plans for this past weekend. More crowds. Lots of kids.

On Thursday, we drove down to San Clemente State Park with Emet for a weekend of camping at the beach. The weather broke just in time. Southern California experiences what id known colloquially as "June Gloom." Overcast skies, humidity, a tenacious marine layer. It's not cold, but there's not a lot of sun. Thankfully, the gloom ended a few days early.

Beach camping is a yearly tradition for Emet's family. They've been doing it since she was a kid. It's far more involved than picking a site and pitching a tent. Elaborate meals, arts and crafts, beer. Throwing in friends, we numbered close to 80 people, more than half of them kids, all of them full of summer energy. Right down AJ's alley, of course. He's met all of Emet's nieces and nephews, idolizes the older boys, is curious about the younger girls. When he found out two of the nephews, just entering high school age, would be in the tent right next to ours, he was beside himself.

Still, on Saturday afternoon, all the stimulation got to him.

*

He looked a bit forlorn, sitting there by himself. He mindlessly packed sand. I suggested he join a group of other kids building a castle. He declined. A boy came and asked if he could help. AJ sent him on his way and returned to his task, whatever it was. The wave came and drenched both AJ and his pile.

He started to cry. Was inconsolable. I sat him down next to me under the shade of an umbrella, out of the heat, cool down, a 15-minute timeout. I tried to talk him out of his meltdown, but kids that age, when the injustice just feels too great, can only offer "but!" So I ignored his sniffling sobs.

Easier said than done. Parental reaction #1: Make it better. So I asked if he wanted to walk down the beach. Just he and I.

He stopped crying, but started talking about his new step-brothers. About how they tease him, say he has a "funny face." News and insecurities flowed out of him, complaints against the sound of the waves. I pulled him to my hip as we walked, my voice even as I listened.

This is the way my child communicates. Not in answer to a pointed question, but randomly, when comfortable. It's how I know what is going on with him. It's a helpless feeling sometimes. As with most parent-child relationships, those lines of communication are less apt to be open as the kid grows older, learns to keep his own counsel, a fact exacerbated by the time he spends away from me, at his mother's house where I have even less idea of what the fuck is going on.

But as soon as he started, he stopped. He was unburdened for the time being.

*

Behind us, the umbrellas got smaller, the shouts of the children turned to silence. AJ was himself again, finding wonder in a sand crab, delight in jumping into the steep angle of the shore. His face shone with a sunshine smile and we just walked, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always tethered. His laughter buoyed us and, when I finally noticed how far we'd gone, I asked him, "Do you want to turn back?"

"No," he said, as he reached for my hand. "Not yet."

So we kept walking. Just my son and I, certain with each other.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I got for my birthday this year.

US-Spain

2009-06-24T10:33:00.001-07:00

The question today is not if the US can beat the world's best footballing side in the Confederations Cup semi-final in South Africa. On paper, Spain is a massive favorite. Any reasonable, unbiased analysis says the Spaniards will stroke the ball around at will, exploit the tiniest of gaps in the US rearguard and generally have their way with the Americans.

I will accept this as a given.

But a question does remain. How will the US perform? Tentatively and awed, as they did against Brazil (and, to a lesser extent, Costa Rica in qualifying)? Or committed and confident, as against Egypt.

Without a doubt, the US is up against it. They must lay deep against Spain, a tactic that no team prefers. The speed and movement of Fernando Torres and David Villa is a bad match-up for the Nats pedestrian back four. Therefore, they can't play up the pitch. That creates a domino effect, forcing the US midfield to also play deeper, lest there be too much space between the two lines, space where the likes of Xavi, Cesc Fabregas and Xabi Alonso can operate at will. As such, the US will be forced to rely on counter-attacks and set-pieces (which are a Spanish weakness and a US strength) to generate offense. In a perfect world, the Americans would be able to have a measure of ball possession themselves--against a side that lives with the ball at their feet--to take some of the pressure off defensively. I don't see that happening, not with the available personnel, nor with the necessary set-up.

The game against Italy provides a blueprint. The final score obscures how well the US played in that game, finding chances in the first half before Ricardo Clark was sent off for a red card. The work-rate was superb, if invention in the offensive third was not. Defend as a team, don't chase the ball, keep shape and transition quickly from defense to offense. Get the ball forward to the guys with pace, Altidore, Davies, Donovan, and rush into attack. Fitness and desire will play a major part.

The first 15 minutes will tell. If the US gives up another early goal (they've been scored upon in the first 10 minutes in three of their last five games), they will be finished. Chasing the game is difficult enough. Chasing the game against a Spanish side that is on a 35-match unbeaten run and is the best in the world at moving the ball around is suicide. If the US can get in some early tackles, show some thrust going forward, the tenor of the game might change in their favor. Results aside, this is a chance for the US to make a statement.

Live blog to come. Stay tuned.

*

0 min: US lineup: Howard-Spector-Onyewu-DeMerit-Bocanegra-Dempsey-Clark-Bradley-Donovan-Davies-Altidore

Carlos Bocanegra returns from a hamstring injury and is placed out wide left at the expense of Jonny Bornstein. Great substitution. Long-time National Team followers have begged for Boca to be moved to the left from the center of defense. DeMerit's performance alongside Onyewu in South Africa apparently (finally!) convinced Coach Bob Bradley to pull the trigger. Tim Howard in for Brad Guzan in goal.

This is the best possible lineup Bradley could have sent out. So far so good.

0 min: Spain lineup: Casillas-Sergio Ramos-Pique-Puyol-Capdevila-Xabi Alonso-Fabregas-Xavi-Riera-Villa-Torres.

An embarrassment of riches. No surprises there. I feel compelled to mention they put their shorts on one leg at a time, just live everyone else.

0 min: Jorginho told me to "Be More Funny." I replied that my live blogs are always hilarious, because I'm drunk when I do them. Though that's not the case today, I'll give it a shot.

Here's one: I have a new catch phrase: "I give it two years." It is said with bitterness, grunted almost, and refers to anything that sucks. It comes from my mother, of all people, who said it when informed that X got married last week. Honestly, if you could heard the way she said it, you'd know how funny it is.

0 min: And we're on the air! I typically watch US games with the sound off while listening to Elliott Smith, who makes me happier than the commentators, especially Tommy Smyth. Sound is on today, though, so I can make fun of insipid statemenst from John Harkes and JP Dellacamera.

0 min: I love Spain. Five Liverpool players on the roster, three in the Starting XI, including Fernando "El Nino" Torres upon whom I have the largest man-crush in the history of Bromances. It is not possible tove love a man you will never meet in a more heterosexual way than I love El Nino.

My kingdom for a tilda.

I love the way they play. I love the way they decimated Germany last summer. I love their uniforms. I love recalling the time my Spanish friend Sergio screamed at a TV in fractured english, "The referee! He is always against a-Spain!"

0 min: JP says "no pressure on the US today." Um...really? I stridently do not concur.

1 min: And away we go.

1 min: Gooch is wearing gloves. He is either taking a motorcycle ride right after the game of has a really bad case of psoriasis.

2 min: That is what the US can't do. Give away possession in their half and concede a free kick in a dangerous spot.

4 min: US corner comes to nothing. At least they didn't play it short to Beasley.

5 min: Great ball from Gooch to Davies. Casillas alert to cut out the danger. Davies was in alone.

6 min: 50-50 balls, 2nd balls, knock-downs...the US has to win them all.

6 min: Donovan's touch heavy there, but it appears the counters are on.

7 min: Wow. Davies bicycle kick a couple yards off the mark. US attacking with intent. Me likee!

8 min: US on top right now. Let me repeat that. US on top right now. Davies rampant. Donovan turning guys. Dempsey shoots just wide. Fantastic stuff.

10 min: It's difficult to rattle the confidence of the best team in the world, but the US forays into the Spanish end could make Sergio Ramos and Capdevila think twice about heading up the flanks with the regularity they usually do.

12 min: Torres goes close soon after a Clark give-away. Can't turn it over in our half, boys.

13 min: Spain not quite as crisp as we're used to seeing them. That can change in an instant, but the US is doing a good job of disrupting their flow. Playing higher up the pitch than I thought they would.

15 min: If Jozy's gonna wear those awful blue shoes, he'd better get a brace. At minimum.

17 min: Forgot to mention Donovan's yellow. He deserved it, but it's nice to see Lanny actually go in hard on someone. Usually, he just blows lightly in their ear.

18 min: Good start. Organized in the back. Confident on the ball. Got past that magic 15 minute mark without conceding.

18 min: Howard with a huge save, but Torres is offside. Torres was also wide open in the middle.

19 min: Somebody fucking shoot the ball!

21 min: Thank you, Lanny.

21 min: Clark really having a great start to this game.

22 min: Spain looking very dangerous now. Last pass is lacking. Not for long, I bet. End-to-end action. Good stuff.

23 min: US defending in numbers and then hoofing it up the pitch. Not a recipe for success.

26 min: Are we really only 25 min, in? I'm exhausted. US defends two corners in quick succession and clears to Davies who is mauled by Puyol in a somewhat homoerotic fashion.

27 min: Goal USA! Jozy! Turns Capdevila and wrong foots Casillas who gets a hand on it, but not enough.

Oh my goodness.

29 min: I'm not sure what to do with myself right now. Who's more stunned? Me or Spain?

30 min: I was starting to doubt whether this group of US players had any sack.

30 min: Abysmal touch from El Nino. Great defending by Spector. Sergio Ramos camped out in US offensive third. Corner Spain. Corner again Spain.

32 min: Great take by Donovan, Clark gives it up too easily (possible foul), Spain gets a lucky deflection to Villa in the box, but he shoots wide and over. He does not do that very often.

35 min: US clearing headers could use some work. We'll address that on the training ground.

36 min: El Nino caught offsides for the third time. Stoppages, even this early, good for the US. Spain play at such a high tempo. Pause for wind and disrupt the flow of the game.

36 min: Donovan's free kick just inches too high for Dempsey who deads wide. Clint up for it today. Nice to see.

38 min: Spain with another lightning-quick transition, but US gets back. Just.

39 min: Torres was very nearly in there. Again, Spain is just a fraction off with the final pass.

39 min: At this point, it's time to play for halftime. Take the lead into the locker room.

40 min: Xabi Alonso whacks down Jozy. Frustration setting in? Or maybe he hates those electric blue shoes as much as I do.

42 min: US living right. Spain gives away a chance on a free kick and Gooch clears one inside the 6-yard box with Sergio Ramos lurking.

43 min: Possession is all Spain's right now. Basically what we thought the game would look like beforehand. US a little panicky with halftime looming.

25 min: As I said...Torres abuses Bocanegra, twice, but Howard gets a leg down to stop the near-post effort.

C'mon halftime whistle.

45 min: Halftime.

Seriously, I need a break. My analysis is all up there. It was all Spain the last 15 minutes. Bradley will need to find an answer or two and make the right substitutions.

I can't believe we're discussing how to hold a lead against Spain.

46 min: Spain right back on attack. Howard saves from Villa.

50 min: This is going to be a 45-minute onslaught. US needs to keep its composure. And, I think, some subs pretty soon. They look gassed.

51 min: Spaces getting huge. You might say, gaping. Another corner for Spain. That's 3 this half already.

52 min: SI's Grant Wahl reports Jozy's strike is the first goal Spain have conceded in 451 minutes. That's 5 games, for the mathematically challenged.

55 min: That central ball into Xavi is too easy now. Need to cut that off.

56 min: Speaking of SI soccer writers, I wonder if Luis Bueno feels like an idiot? He should since his last column comparing US and Mexico performances in major tourneys was not only false (by omission, as in the relative strength of the sides' groups in the last world cup for instance), but now is rendered meaningless by the US performance since publication.

58 min: US conceding the flanks, which is fine, they have to concede something, but if you're going to clog the middle, clog the fucking middle. That central ball is still there and that's what the tactics are supposed to take away.

61 min: Better now from the US. Jozy and Davies need to find space on the wings. Both standing too centrally. Make Puyol and Pique chase them around some.

64 min: Sure, it's target practice right now, but the US has played with a ton of courage tonight.

65 min: I'm thinking subs, Bob. Feilhaber for Davies, push Dempsey up top.

65 min: US blocking shots like a hockey team.

67 min: Spain does the US a great favor with those long, searching balls.

68 min: Not the best game I've seen from Fabregas.

69 min: Attaboy Bob. You know how to get on my good side. Just do what I tell ya.

72 min: Eighteen minutes, plus stoppage, from a famous victory. Keep your head, boys.

73 min: Spain showing some fatigue now. They've not been at their best, but plenty sharp everywhere but the US box.

74 min: Goal US! Dempsey! 2-0! Terrible mistake by Sergio Ramos. Dawdles in his own 6-yard-box and Clint bangs it home.

Are you kidding me?

76 min: This is beyond belief. I'm beyond believing. Remember, Spain have won 15 straight, unbeaten in 35. 35! And they're gonna lose to the USA?

79 min: Not that I'm counting chickens or anything. Bad foul by Feilhaber and Spain with a free kick in a dangerous spot.

Howard saves a rather tame effort.

80 min: Onyewu huge tonight. Man of the match.

81 min: Spain's last los: Nov. 2006. US's last loss...a week ago.

Cue up the "We Want Brazil!" chants?

82 min: It is quite refreshing to see Dempsey working his ass off. Doesn't happen often enough.

84 min: Gooch again. He's won every header n the box it has seemed.

87 min: Unbelievable. Red for Michael Bradley. Had to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

Next game without one of our more accomplished players, though I think even a yellow there would have ruled him out.

88 min: Spain keeps serving those balls into the box and Gooch keeps heading them clear. He's a man.

89 min: I have no perspective at this point. None. I have no idea how to rate or encapsulate this game. It's quite literally beyond my comprehension.

90 min: Three minutes of stoppage time. Enough time for Man U, perhaps, but few else.

90+ min: You know, Conor, you've only been on the field for like 12 minutes, perhaps you could be bothered to run a little more, considering we have 10. Just a thought. Dick.

90+ min: Just a proud effort. Lofty effort.

Fulltime

The US just beat the best team in the world.

That simple sentence will have to suffice for now.

God Morgon (is Swedish for Good Morning and it's pronounced Go Moron)

2009-06-18T11:14:00.001-07:00

When my ex-brother-in-law (which is a term I need to retire, you know, 'cause he didn't divorce me and he's AJ's uncle, so he's still family; I'll take suggestions) walked into my apartment last night, his first words were, "Of course."

He was referring to the A's-Dodgers game on the TV, because, though we've not spent ample time together over the last nine years, my A's obsession is well-known. Once, when we were in Sweden, I politely asked if we could go into town--we were at a cabin on the archipelago without internet access--to find out a score. This was in 2002, shortly after the A's record 20-game win streak came to a halt and the score in question was the opener of a four-game set against the Angels, then fighting for the AL West lead.

He drove me in, twenty minute trip, and we finagled a computer at a local gas station. They won. Tim Hudson with the honors.

You know, I briefly considered "Hudson" as a name for AJ?

Anyways...Niklas is in town for the nuptials and we decided to go out one night and catch up. He's a good guy, plenty smart, and a lot of fun to hang out with. From the outside, you may think this meeting would have some awkward aspects, but that's not the case at all. Though we did touch on some of the delicate subject matter surrounding X, it was all good and agreeable. Mostly, we talked sports and politics and sub-prime mortgages and the time I dropped my pants at his motorcycle club in Sweden.

For future reference, Wednesday night is Country Night at my local watering hole. I did not know this. But it wasn't half bad. The band was stellar and mixed in some actual songs amongst the "My Dog Died and My Old Lady Stole My Truck" standards, including a splendid version of "Sultans of Swing," one of my all-time favorite cuts. The bartendress calling everyone "Pardner" was just icing on the cake.

Like any human being with an accent, Niklas drew the attention of some of the locals, like Mike, who reminded me of my Uncle Curt and who didn't believe a Swede existed without blond hair. Big fan of the fist bump, Mike, but entertaining in his way. Some kids overheard and wanted to know about the chicks in Sweden (everything you've heard is true and you should especially know that Swedish women have flawless skin) and we ended up telling them about the time I dropped my pants at his motorcycle club in Sweden.

There was really no catalyst for me doing that, standing pantsless in the middle of the dance floor. I was just hammered, mostly because a guy who claimed Sonny Barger as a personal hero, a guy who quietly stared at me, mencingly, I thought, for three hours, a guy with narrative scars running all over his face, finally walked over, loomed over me like some Norse God, and said, "Come, we have cognac." There was no question I went, and some four cognacs later, on top of all the beer--with weird names like "Falcon"--he and I were compadres. Though he later asked me to put my pants back on.

Niklas is enjoying his stay, has taken the kids to Hollywood and Disneyland, and on days where nothing is planned, sits out on the porch and plays online poker. He was surprised to find out the Pens beat the Wings, the latter being largely populated by Swedes, making them a favorite in the home country. He humorously described how he asked everyone at X's place who won Game 7 (he was on a flight while it was going on) and nobody knew.

We talked about AJ. He said both he and his wife think he looks just like me. I don't really see it. He's a step-dad, you know, to my ex-niece and nephew, and he was adamant. Assuring me. No matter how much those kids love him, how much he does with them, he'll never be on that higher plane, he'll never be Dad.

*

I woke up with a raging headache this morning. People my age should not be drinking on a Wednesday. For family, you make exceptions.

Keep

2009-06-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

"I had a cool dream last night," AJ said this morning.

"What about?"

"I don't want to tell you. I want to keep it for myself."

*

I hadn't seen the boy for a few days. I gave up my weekend with him so he could spend it with X, whose family arrived from Sweden last week. AJ doesn't get to see his grandparents and cousins much, so I figured he would enjoy that more than playing Guitar Hero: Metallica with his old man (which we've been doing non-stop) or folding my hands while I take a bathroom break in the middle of another (mythical) Final Table run (three fictional times this month).

Predictably, he talked non-stop about what he'd been up to, from the good ("I got to stay up 'til midnight!") to the bad ("I went shopping with Mommy at Macy's. It was horrible.") and this weekend's wedding festivities. As excited as he is for all the action, he was also happy to be the center of attention again, one-on-one, instead of a single (albeit LOUD) voice among many. I'm sure he missed me, as I did him, but I think he was also relieved to get away from the chaos for a while.

*

For my part, I will be absconding to San Diego this weekend with Emet with an agenda of sun, baseball and Gaslamp District tomfoolery. It's not as if I need to get away to erect a denial bubble about X getting married, about AJ getting a step-family. I don't see how it really changes anything as far as my role. And as I've repeated many times, I have no longing for my "previous" life. Some regrets? Sure. But any desire to be back where I was four years ago knowing what I know now? None. That marriage was poisoned. I just didn't know it until after.

I'm sick of talking about it, actually (he said, as he talked about it) and therein lies part of the reason why I've been so scarce in this space. After all the drama, it has seemed to me that frivolity had lost its place here, that recitation of my mundane wanderings were beneath some sort of nebulous standard that I'd built in my head. Problem. If the writing is based on false prophets and perceived reaction, it's no good to anyone.

The second issue sounds cheeky on the surface, but it's undoubtedly true: I write less when I'm happy. Funny thing. I write to work things out. If nothing needs tending, then poof. Nada. I also cry more when ecstatic, touched, than when I'm sad, for what that's worth.

So, I'm happy. Deliriously so. And I haven't written about it because a) I don't do syrupy very well and b) like my son, I've kept this good dream to myself.

*

I was asked about Emet recently. I fumbled for words. Not because I couldn't find one. Because I found many. We share so much. Interests. Beliefs. Goals. I tried to encompass all of these things. What is it that set her apart from my previous failures?

Recognizing my past mistakes is part of it. Not fair to blame the women without looking inward. I've chosen badly. Not bad women. Bad for me. It all comes back to certain expectations, traits I believe I needed in women. I've had a rather large blind spot for most of my life, a misconstrued view of how relationships work. That can hardly be the fault of the other.

*

My mother relates a story: When I was six, I came to her crying and said, "What if nobody ever wants to marry me?"

That's pretty funny, in retrospect. But it points to a psychological issue which has dogged me, with various ferocity, most of my life. Many, including a wary Emet, have accused me of being that guy who needs to be in a relationship. There's truth there. I've denied it in the past, but no, it's probably right, though I would say it's less a need to be in a relationship than a need to have someone to relate to.

I'm a social animal. I crave being around people. I like debate. Camaraderie. Experience. I am not a sentient being (nine straight hours of play money online poker excepted). Stimulation is like bread, I need it to live. Whether it's out playing golf (which I've recently gotten back into after years of a bum wrist and life-crippling marriage) or spinning yarns from a bar stool with strangers, I need that to get myself out of my own fucking head, which is stifling in its own right.

I continually talk myself out of action. Of coloring outside the lines. Acute paranoia of offending someone else. Why I never argued with X. Why I have failed to take steps that would improve all of my relationships. That need to be liked. For want of someone willing to marry me, if you will.

At the most basic level, that's deception. Like political correctness. A person who says "African-American" when they would normally use the 'N' word is lying. The public face masks inner beliefs. If you think you've heard that one before, you have. X is the same way (though on a larger scale). Hard to believe we didn't mesh.

I've known this for some time and worked hard to be honest about how I feel, even at the risk of offending. I've succeeded, though I remain, as always, a work in progress.

*

I know Emet likes me for who I am. I've shown her parts others have not seen. Confessions. She is unlike any woman I've ever wanted. The word I found:

Generous.

Something I am not. I don't mean time or money. I mean spirit. I mean selflessness. I never looked for that in a woman before. Never knew what an monumental difference it can make between two people until I received it. As such, I never knew how much those relationships were missing.

"We'll be friends for the next 40 years," she said to me once. Not "We'll be together for 40 years." Important difference. More meaningful in the sense that our relationship is grounded in mutual respect and admiration and trust, not subject to the whims of fate or unforeseen events. It says, "You have value," not just "You have value to me." She is calm and graceful and deep and thorough.

I've managed to meet my fair share of women who "liked" me. That was made easier by stacking bricks around those dark places I hid from them. Now I've met one who really sees me. And she's sticking around.

*

A couple weeks ago, Emet's Dad turned 80. There was a big party with her large family. I've met them all, of course, and they are lovely and close-knit in a way that makes me envious. This was the first time I'd brought AJ along, however, and like his recent situation, I worried about him, the Only Child, meshing with a dozen or so of Emet's nieces and nephews, my concerns the same as always, that he'll get along and not need to make himself the focus of everything (like he does at home. and school. and church).

He was mostly good. Took a football in the face and shook it off (he didn't want to cry in front of the big kids) and the big kids were careful to include him. He charmed the adults.

At one point, we all sat around watching a slide show. AJ got restless as it went on and there were no pictures of him and I had to shush him a few times. He slunk away, ending up next to Emet, where he silently slipped his arm around her waist and leaned into her hip. He stood there but a few minutes, but the message was clear. He's had so much thrown at him in his young life and yet, he remains the sweet, tender boy he's always been, appreciative of the people around who love him.

There's more of those people now. And that can only be a good thing. I assume, however, he'll keep those thoughts to himself.

Seriously

2009-06-01T01:35:00.001-07:00

It was the best of times...it was the worst of times. I was rolling along in the Blogger Big Game, feeling pretty solid about my play, faded some diamonds to triple up huge early (myself and corron10 flopped sets and sellthekids, the nut flush draw) and generally threw my big stack around. At the same time, I was rolling in the 50/50, with a stack of twice par about an hour in.

Then bdiddie's queens beat my kings, one of the wonkas got hissef pot committed and won a post-flop race against me and I ran KK into ShabazzJenkins's AA and so long Blogger Big Game. Somewhere in the middle of all this my JJ got out-flopped by TT and I was down to 1300 chips in the 50/50 with blinds at 100/200.

And I was all like, SERIOUSLY?.

That there is the 50/50 Final Table.

Where I became a mere spectator for way too many orbits. I even joked in chat, after the BB, who got a walk, showed A6, "Is that what an ace looks like?"

We lost a couple shorties, then the following hand took place. I should note, the KK guy had less than the BB. Easy push for me and I was 3/4 of the way to bed when the river fell.

That was an $800 river card, the money difference between 6th and 5th, where I soon finished after running The Drizz into QQ.

Not bad. Seriously.

Get Yer Red Hots!

2009-05-28T10:27:00.001-07:00

Fresh, piping hot WSOP action coming to you live from lots of people you know. Personally, I'd rather read these guys than watch the hands play out on ESPN. And I've been to Norman Chad's house.

Dig.

Pauly
The once, present and future king.
Poker Stars Blog
Not sure if new, doubled-up Daddy Otis will be making the trek this year, but brand loyalty and all that.
Poker From the Rail
Wait...seven weeks in Vegas for Al? This will not end well...except for the readers! (See what I did there?)
Ultimate Bet Blog
Sure, the poker reporting is top-notch and Geno's is a style to envy, but I can't help but picture him as I once saw him on press row in about Week 4 of a previous WSOP engagement: Looking but not seeing. So, every time I read him, I look for clues as to when he's about to snap. This probably makes me a bad person.
Pokerati
Michalski money is the sweetest money. Ask Pauly.
Wicked Chops
Mom, if you're reading this, don't click the link.
Poker News
All you need to know. Constant updates. Chip counts. Strung-out players. Irate backers. That this site once employed me is the exception to their rule of excellence.

She'll Never See It

2009-05-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

The timing seemed unusual, all these people still wearing suits and dresses, splattering electric blue paint up on the walls of the apartment. I called AJ over and gave him $25 from my wallet. "Here, give this to your mother," I said, "For the paint." I turned to leave and passed my son's new step-father on the way to the door. "Congratulations," I mumbled, without looking at him.

*

That was how my dream ended last night. It was a long, meandering tale with the setting being some sub-conscious-driven version of X's impending nuptials (23 days, but who's counting). The ceremony took place in a synagogue (!) and I picked a fight with the fey co-ordinator (!!), whom I threatened to "turn into whipped cream," (an awesome challenge in any mental state). At another point, I was naked, for a reason I found wholly legitimate, and was indignant when chastened by the groom's father. My mother was there (!!!) and when I was tossed by the Jews at the synagogue, with whom I also nearly fought, we wandered the streets of San Leandro, CA looking for my car, which we never found.

Yet I still ended up back in the newly-electric blue apartment of my ex-wife, much to the chagrin of a pack of snarling Jews.

*

I suppose it's fair to say I haven't known how to deal with this imminent wedding. The primary issue is, I didn't exactly know what bothered me about it. I'm confident the Jews are not relevant (I finished reading "Portnoy's Complaint" just yesterday, so I'll assume that's why they were there). My feelings have been the same as when I found out they'd become engaged. No visceral emotion to seize. Some incredulity. I'd grasped some random straws long enough to quicken my blood, but discarded them just as swiftly. All I've had is this nagging itch, familiar by now, but just out of reach.

*

When I woke up today, the blue paint thing reminded me of another break-up, one long ago when I had my teen-age heart broken. On the day she delivered to me the bad news, she also asked to borrow my new Scorpions LP so she could tape it.

I let her. Regardless of how these women hurt me, I am, as always, the nice guy, which makes me a sap, most likely.

*

I've been listening to a TON of Airborne Toxic Event. I've said this to other people, but I say it to you all now: If that album had been around three-and-a-half years ago, I might've offed myself. It's all heartbreak and anguish and failure, beautifully, achingly rendered. "Innocence," is the gold standard and there's a line in there that resonates, now, and from out of the past.

"I woke up, tired, scared and sad."

I recognized it immediately, but also not. I used to say, during that time, I woke up either angry or sad, and always rooted for angry. I never pegged that anger came from a place of fear. More than anything else, I was scared. For what was to happen to me. For what was to happen to AJ.

And that helps, because I'm not scared any longer. Sad? Sure. Some days are bad ones. Not because I long for the repair of my marriage, or for the days we were happy together, but for my son's future, for what we will, and already have, put him through. I know it's hard on him still. I see it in his confused face, in his nervous manner, and I'm so sorry for what we've done.

Yet, I no longer fear he will ditch me, as his mother did, replace me with his step-father. Never gonna happen.

*

X and I sat together at AJ's baseball game last night. She told me my ex-brother-in-law wanted to grab a drink or eight with me while he was here for the wedding. That was pretty cool. Niklas is the only one who reached out to me during The Troubles, even though I practically begged for help from the other members of her family. I don't blame them for anything. Perhaps they spoke for me in private, though, more likely, I was asking them to do something which is not in their nature.

Niklas asked X, "So what kind of places are there to go out?" in our little desert hamlet. X laughed relating the story. "I don't go out," she told him.

Which is ironic. That being Reason #1 for why she ditched me. We didn't DO enough stuff together.

*

Like my feelings about the engagement to now, I have another thought that hasn't changed. It's one I relegated to non-status after a while, because it didn't matter. It was over. She was gone. But it came back to me last night. That conversation with X was, like my nagging itch, familiar. Other things she said, some recent actions. She's not gone anywhere. And I remembered. Something I told a lot of people back then, something I believed, something that came more from a place of logic than from one of emotion.

She's making a mistake.

Seems rather simple on the surface, yeah? X would, at this point, even concur that what she did was not just wrong, but a mistake. I don't think she'd admit, however, that marrying this guy is also a mistake.

It is.

*

I don't know that it's any of my concern. Certainly, there's potential for AJ to get hurt, but I can't police every one of their actions. But that familiar itch, it's not just giving me a fact, it's telling me I could do something about it. I could pay for the paint. Or loan an album.

I will ignore it, of course. I can't tell her. That conversation would never go anywhere. But that's what it is, reduced to another lyric.

"And this light from the window of my car. She'll never see it."

On the Subject of Name-Calling and Book Cover-Judging

2009-05-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

"Hey Daddy! Look! The Giants have a nerd on their team!"

I look up to see Tim Lincecum--reigning Cy Young winner, Tim Lincecum--at the plate.

"That 'nerd' is the best pitcher in baseball," I say. "And it's not nice to call people names."

"Oh."

"His actual nickname is 'The Freak.'"

"Whatever, he still has stupid hair."

"I dunno, it's kind of like Daddy's hair right now."

"Exactly what I said."

Not-At-All Live Blog of a Weekday Off

2009-05-08T10:59:00.001-07:00

With my department's staff at its lowest number ever, I am now required to work the occasional Saturday. While that blows in many ways, the one benefit is having a day off during the week and, yesterday, I took full advantage.

8:00 a.m.: There was no sleeping in. Seize the day! Nothing like a trip to the dentist to get the morning started off right. Deep cleaning. Wow! Did that suck!

It wasn't so much the cleaning, but the discomfort of sitting in the chair for 90 minutes. My jaw hurt. My neck was stiff, so much so that I made them bring me a pillow.

Seriously.

9:30 a.m.: Lecture by the dentist on flossing. Right. Like I have time for flossing. You know...that's why I hate the dentist so much. Not the pain. The tsk, tsk-ing. I'm a man! I'm 40!

9:31 a.m.: 40-year-old man with numb face comically spills mouthwash all over himself. Twice.

10:00 a.m.: Back at Emet's house and I hear the news about Manny. Pisses me off. It's almost as if you can't get excited about anything regarding baseball any more. I had surprisingly found myself caught up in "Mannywood." Dodger Stadium hasn't seen such a frenzy since Fernando Mania. More often than not, I'd watch the Dodgers on TV, rather than the A's, perhaps simply because it's fun to see a team actually execute at a major league level.

But the real point of this is that I'm cursed. Didn't see that coming, did ya? Yep. My ego is so huge that I believe I have an effect on events completely out of my control. We all know the manner in which the A's have shit the bed in the playoffs this millennium. And now this with the Dodgers.

On Wednesday, talking to Dodger-lover Donny on the phone, I said I was really enjoying watching his team play. Might even be called...gasp...a fan. And what happens? But a few hours later.

So, what exactly is the genesis of this curse? What have I done to the Sporting Gods? Honestly, I have no idea. Was it the night I unleashed a stream of expletives dirty names (the worst kind; you know...the compound words) for not pinch-running for that Fat Ass Jeremy Giambi, resulting in the Jeter Flip Throw? Was it the Terrance Long voodoo doll? Dating Gil Heredia's underage daughter?

Regardless, an exorcism is needed.

11:00 a.m.: Finally un-numbed, I grab a coffee and muffin at Starbucks on the way to the golf course. I should mention it's 90 degrees. Nothing like hot coffee on a summer's day.

11:45 a.m.: Emet meets me at the golf course. Like any good girlfriend, she takes a half day off when there's fun to be had, a difficult choice for her as one so dedicated to her craft, that of keeping her students from stabbing each other during language arts. Thank a teacher today, everyone.

12:30 p.m.: I par the first two holes. This is notable because I'm not good. We're playing an executive course (par 62) because Emet's just starting to learn how to play, though she's taken more lessons (five) in her life than I have (zero), which might explain why I'm not good. Just as I learned how to play poker from watching WPT Final Tables, I learned how to play golf watching the Northern Bank Trust Open.

12:36 p.m.: Triple Bogey. I question the inclusion in my bag of the pitching wedge, as it seems I'd get similar results if I used a craggy tree limb.

1:00 p.m.: Beer > coffee on a hot summer day. I also slather myself in a few ounces of sunblock, using the time-honored and effective Garth "aggressive application" method.

3:30 p.m.: I somehow end up with a 79, even though I parred 6 holes. Which means I played the other 12 in 17 over. That is just plain fucking horrible. Even for someone who is not good. Like me. My main problem is distance control. I'm just too long.

That's what she said.

4:30 p.m.: Showered and freshened, Emet and I head to The Auld Irisher for food and beer as a prelude to the evening's Red Wings-Ducks tilt at Honda Center. Nothing says hockey like an Irish pub. Nothing!

5:00 p.m.: Mmmmmmmm, corned beef and "Awesome Old Man's Beer" (that's two Garth references today. I think I miss Garth).

6:30 p.m.: The two-mile trip from The Auld Irisher to Honda Center is a cock-up of massive proportions. Emet claims the problem is Angel fans trekking to the nearby ballpark for their game with the Blue Jays, but I respond that is impossible, seeing as this is the worst possible route to Angel Stadium before reversing myself once I recall that Angels fans are idiots.

I suggest a "pizza move," so named for the nebulously legal actions I used to take behind the wheel when I delivered pizzas during college. It works. Then we jaywalk.

Fight the Power!

7:25 p.m.: Comfortably in our seats, seven rows up from the glass right behind the net, I take a picture and drop my cell phone into my 24 oz. Pacifico. Fortunately, the Ducks have handed out garish, orange hand towels, presumably to spin over our heads during moments of high emotion. I will not be doing this. For one, I'm not a Ducks fan. I am here a) for the beer b) to see someone's head bleed c) to support my girlfriend. Also, if I spun my towel, beer would fly from it like a whirly bird sprinkler since I used it to dry my cell phone. And my arms.

I'm 40.

7:40 p.m.: Ducks score in the first minute. Honda Center goes bonkers. Well...70% of it. The rest are Wings fans. They travel well. Emet swears off beer. Says there's too much going on to continue drinking. I see her point. Having never sat this close to the ice, for any hockey game, let alone the playoffs, it's exhilarating. Johan Franzen skating right down on you? Eff me.

8:20 p.m.: End of first period. Despite early goal, Ducks are getting destroyed in all facets and now trail 2-1. Bathroom line provides plenty of hilarity. To wit:

Guy wearing meticulously faded Wings t-shirt tries to bond with other Detroit fans, bald, ugly, hardcore guys in Yzerman jerseys. I can tell t-shirt guy is not "true" (maybe it was his perfectly coiffed hair, not that there's anything wrong with that), but trying hard to fit in and he's doing okay until he mentions how it "won't be tied for long."

"Uh, we're ahead 2-1," Yzerman Guy says and turns away with contempt.

The trash talk is beauty, too. You know how it goes. Detroit fans mock Anaheim ("Is it even a real city?") and OC fans, to a person, lean on, "Why do you live here, then?"

8:25 p.m.: Emet runs into one of her students. Tries to hide her beer under her shirt.

9:30 p.m.: Second period ends 4-2 Wings. Could be 8. Could be 10. All over 'em. This thing's over, but for the fights. While we don't get any on the ice, I see at least two in the stands, one contested by senior citizens. Awesome.

10:20 p.m.: Game over. 6-3 final. Coulda been 15. Coulda been 20. I sing "It's So Cold in the 'D'" all the way back to the car. Not a single person sings along with me. Disappointing really.

I'm 40.

10:30 p.m.: I'm starving. That corned beef sandwich seems so long ago. And I don't want to go to bed. It's a Weekday Off! I suggest a bar and some pub grub. Emet's dragging. Been a long day for her and she has to teach in the morning. We reach a sublime compromise: Jack in the Box tacos. I only have two.

Coulda been 6. Coulda been 12.

Better Be Just a Phase

2009-05-04T11:54:00.001-07:00

AJ has taken on this disturbing new personality trait wherein he actively roots against my favorite teams. He despairs as Liverpool dismantles Newcastle. He jumps around the house in glee when Manchester United pins five on Tottenham. He fist pumps when the A's blow another lead. Cheering on the Mariners for God's sake. Cutting me deeply.

I gave him a stern warning. Then I threatened to sell him to the next passing band of gypsies.

"Daddy, gypsies don't have any money. That's why they're gypsies."

It's not just sports, either. In the car the other day, one of my favorite bands came on the radio.

"I don't like Kings of Leon," he said.

"Because Daddy likes them, I'm sure."

"No, it's just my opinion."

"So, who is your favorite band?"

"Slayer."

Well...there's hope.

Something New

2009-04-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

It's that time again, kids! Time for me to recommend another band that you will all hate. I know you look forward to this occasional series.

I was pretty fired up when Emet secured pit tickets to see Kings of Leon in a couple weeks. Festival in Santa Barbara. Outside. 4500 capacity. Not sure it's reasonable to expect to see them in a similar-sized venue ever again, what with their soaring popularity. It being a festival, however, there are a number of other bands on the bill, so I figured I'd check 'em out to decide whether to watch them or rest my feet in the beer garden (I'm assuming there's a beer garden; there'd better be a beer garden).

I gave cursory listens to the bands lower on the bill. Tar, I'd heard of, due to their moronic re-imagining of Ginuwine's "Pony." Aside from that, they seem watchable. Remind me a bit of Helmet. But it was the penultimate band that has me in a tizzy.

I was instantly attracted to them because of their name. I've read DeLillo's "White Noise," (from which the band takes their moniker) and consider it one of the finest novels since the invention of words. If you've not read it, I highly recommend it. Also, you are a Jipperbrains (I may have called a fellow motorist a "Shit-for-brains" recently with AJ in the car, prompting him to ask, "What's a 'Jipperbrains?'").

But I'm not here to inslut you further, unless you don't like The Airborne Toxic Event. I can take or leave the single ("Sometime Around Midnight"). But I love (love, love, love) "Wishing Well" and "Gasoline" and "Happiness is Overrated" and, especially, "Something New."

Groovy. Soulful. Literate. Purchasable.

Poke

2009-04-28T10:52:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty lackadaisical about the working out lately. Convenient excuse of being busy. Plus, it's not like I'm as slobby as I was a year ago when I started the Speaker Body Revolution. While I've put back on a few pounds, I'm still gliding around the pristine pitches of Fontana with little resistance and the non-smoking continues to improve my health every day.

On the other hand, Emet and I go out a lot and drink beer and eat mexican food.

So I've been noticing the expansion, but it really didn't come home to roost until this weekend. AJ was laying on me, as he frequently does when we watch TV together, when he started poking me in the stomach. Soon, he was adding a soundtrack to the pokes, almost chanting. What he was saying was,

"Squishy belly. Squishy belly."

*

As a result, there was nothing but fish and chicken and fruit and vegetables in the grocery cart on Sunday night. Monday's post-little league dinner was grilled (boneless, skinless) chicken with steamed veggies. AJ groaned a little.

"Do you know why we're eating healthy?" I said, ready to drop the bombshell that he was the catalyst.

"Because of the swine flu?"

Better answer. I let him stick with that.

Pet Sematary

2009-04-21T09:08:00.001-07:00

Today's lesson in How Things Work is brought to you by our dead goldfish, Rascal, aka Rasky, aka Rasco de Gama. Two days of searing heat in the desert killed the little fella (I'm assuming; reasonable cause and effect there, but it could very well have been conjunctivitis or an airborne pathogen), who was a happy and healthy member of our home for nearly seven weeks, or six weeks longer than I told AJ he might live when he acquired him via precision ping ping ball tossing.

There were tears. Sure. And a proper burial in the toilet where I asked AJ to say a few words.

"You were a good pet, Rascal, and I'll miss you."

Which smacked me much harder than the tears. As did his repeated sad face as he broached the subject numerous times, including this morning. Then, there was this:

"Rascal is living in the sewer."

"He's not living, AJ."

"But he's in the sewer."

"Yes, and soon he'll be dumped in the sea."

"Really?"

"Yep, that's where everything we flush eventually goes."

"Like pee?"

"Yes."

"And poo? Gross!"

"Yes, but first it goes to a water treatment plant where they separate it and clean it with chemicals."

"What about diarrhea?"

"Same place."

"What about when I pee on the toilet seat?"

"Daddy wipes that up. Or it evaporates and leaves a yellow stain that Daddy has to clean later."

At which point, he'd forgotten about Rascal.

*

Appreciate the comments from y'all last week about AJ's behavior. Many are right on. He does get easily bored. He will, however, bend and commit to a task he finds interesting. Like on Saturday night, when he spent nearly three hours putting together his new LEGO kit (Star Wars tank vehicle somethingorother) without pause or diverted attention. More than 400 pieces and I only helped him once.

It used to be that I spent three hours putting these things together. Er...okay...usually more. I was pretty impressed with his effort. Those directions aren't the easiest to "read." I was also humored by his repeatedly referring to "Master Yoda," instead of just "Yoda." Wish I merited the same respect.

Anyways...I'm skeptical about putting him in "gifted" classes (he's taken the test; results expected any day now). My own parents refrained from placing me in similar environments on the advice of the tester. Back then, the exam was an oral one (and we wrote our answers on the walls of caves) and the instructor suggested it would be a crime to force me into a socially homogeneous and awkward environment because I was "charming."

Swear. Unless my Mom's lying, which she probably isn't. And yeah...I don't know what happened to that charm, either.

AJ is definitely charming in his own way. There's an underlying sweetness behind his shenanigans. There has to be, or he'd spend all his time in the principal's office. His teachers stress how much they like him and how much he brings to the class when he's on good behavior. It's just the other times. And both X and I like how he's exposed to all manner of kids, socially.

*

One of his duties at school is to go fetch Jack. Jack is developmentally disabled and AJ chaperons him when he moves into the regular classroom for a couple hours a day. His teachers say AJ is not only very patient with Jack, but that when he goes into Jack's classroom, he talks to all the other kids, asks what they're working on, etc.

I can't explain how that makes me feel, though it mitigates nearly every concern I have about my child's behavior. He may act up WAY more than I did ("You had respect for authority," Mom says), but he's a good boy.

He deserves another pet.

Mouths of Babes

2009-04-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

AJ told me yesterday that he no longer wanted me to cut up his granny smith apples that I include in his lunch. He wanted to eat it whole. I balked, because I've seen him attempt that maneuver several times and it takes him a couple hours to finish. He pecks at the fruit in small increments, barely breaking the skin. Considering he only has 50 minutes for lunch and I assume he uses at least 40 of those to run around and rip holes in his pants, I thought my slicing was in the best interest of all.

So I asked him why the change of heart. He wouldn't tell me. I began by offering reasonable explanations, hoping to find the answer.

"Is it because sliced fruit is for babies?"
"Do you get too much juice on your hands and spend the rest of the day sticky because you have no use for water or cleaning products?"

He answered each with an inflated "Nooooooooooo," and a whimsical smile from across the breakfast table. So I leaned into it. I'm not above absurdity for my own, or AJ's, amusement. I turned it into an exaggerated interrogation, pointing at him accusingly,

"Is it so you can pretend it's a martian planet?"
"Is it so you can sell it on e-Bay?"
"Is it so you can put the apple in your underpants and walk around the blacktop saying, 'It's naht ah tum-ah.'?"

He kept giggling, but I had to cut it short. He'd have sat there 'til Thursday. But I finally wriggled it out of him. "Why DO you like the whole apple, son?"

"Because the sticker is still on it and I like to eat the sticker."

Oh. I suppose my guesses were not so absurd.

*

That's pretty much life at the Speaker Compound. AJ says weird things ("Hey Daddy, wouldn't it be funny if a person had whoopee cushions for feet?") and I pretend what he says isn't weird. Don't want to stigmatize the kid, though one of his soccer teammates dropped the dreaded 'W' word on him once and he simply confirmed the diagnosis.

He's a handful and a half. At his recent parent-teacher conference, his teachers gushed over his smarts--the best vocabulary they've ever encountered in a 2nd grader, they said--while also noting that his classroom behavior has gotten worse. I was telling my mother this, how his "listening" had gone from Satisfactory to Unsatisfactory in the second semester when he shouted at me from the other room, his hearing apparently fine at that point,

"It's not my fault! You should have raised me better!"

*

Mom laughed at that. I couldn't. Not outwardly. But it was funny. Then it bothered me for several days. Was there meaning in that statement, or just a child's desire not to be held responsible for anything? Subtext, or simple acting out?

Doesn't matter, I suppose. What matters is that is surely a harbinger of things to come. As he grows older, he will more frequently question his elders. Considering his situation, some of those queries are bound to be difficult, are certain to hold his mother and I with a degree of contempt. Why did he have to grow up in this segregated life?

I know the feeling. I've come to work the clutch pretty well, switching gears as the changes come. But I am armed with these years of experience, the maturity (ha!) to problem solve and communicate truth, regardless of how painful it may be.

I want everything in the world for that little boy. To keep him filled with spunk and spark, wonder and inquisitiveness. I straddle the line between keeping order and letting his energy and intellect express itself. I have no desire to dim that light. To render his thoughts to the margin because they come forth unedited. I don't want to shush him when he speaks out of turn.

Because he might have something very important to say.

Not Fair

2009-04-11T11:45:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night, I watched the A's play the Angels. One baseball game of 162 this year, of thousands I've watched in my lifetime. Most of them disappear when they end. Somebody won, somebody lost. Other times, you remember certain events. At one point in the game, the Angel pitcher, Nick Adenhart, threw Jason Giambi a 2-0 changeup. It was the first change he'd thrown in the game, in the 5th inning. It floated up there, looking fat, before it dove down and away, Giambi a mile in front, flailing like he was trying to hit a hummingbird. I had a reaction something along the lines of "Whoa!" That pitch was not fair.

It was Emet who told me about the accident. I had stayed at her house Wednesday night and she'd dropped me off at the train station so I could go to work. Except there was a derailment and I had no way to get downtown. She came and picked me back up and told me. Nick Adenhart, and three others, not one of them past the age of 25, had been killed by a drunk driver, just blocks from where we were, just hours after Adenhart pitched six shutout inning against my A's.

The news hit me hard. Harder than I'd have expected. Working in newspapers, you develop a certain cynicism. We report bad shit every day. I research obituaries. You become numb or you'd go crazy having to wade into sad news with such regularity.

More than anything else I am in this life, I am a parent. And that was the nerve that was struck. This is not tragic because Nick Adenhart was a baseball player. It's because he was someone's child. Because he was on the cusp of success in his chosen vocation and I can't imagine the pride his parents must have felt. Just as I can't imagine receiving that phone call.

Unable to get to work, I sat and watched the news all day. Read the stories. "Senseless." All the reactions you'd expect, all the ones you feel. I love baseball. Love my A's. Hold the Angels in a certain contempt as a geographical and competitive rival. I even taught AJ to call them the "Stupid Angels." I'm the first to admit I sometimes place too much emphasis on my fandom. Sports are often more than just a game to me. If you have a team you feel deeply about, you know what I mean.

I feel stupid writing that. Useless. What am I trying to say? Come out with it.

Fucking asshole drunk drivers.
Goddamit.
I grieve.
It's not fair.

I called AJ on Thursday night. To hear his voice. Somewhere, deep inside, simply to know he was okay. He was busy. A video game or a TV show or something. I asked about his day. He kept saying, "Okay, Daddy. Bye." Four times. Five. But I held him on the line. I was scared.

I don't know how the Angels went out and played baseball last night. I don't know how Adenhart's parents sat in the stands and watched their son memorialized in the pre-game. I don't know how anyone could have watched that and not been touched to the point of tears or held their children tightly.

I'm glad the Angels won last night. I hope it eased their burden. And I wish them well.

Vroom

2009-03-18T23:52:00.000-07:00

Poker. What can I say about poker? I think I'm kinda good at it, having gotten over a weak-tight hump that hampered me for a while. My results in the BBT4 (no links tonight, it's midnight and I've not the wherewithal or the time, as will become apparent, but I'll jam them in there in the ayem, I promise) have been okay. Okay. Perfect term. Like, when you look at the finishing order you say, "Oh, hey, Speaker hung around a little while," but nothing more than that. I've felt, for the duration, a lack of traction when it got down to bidness. And I'd say the results reflect that.

This evening's Mookie was absurd. To wit:

I lose with KK to AT.

I lose with JJ to 78s.

Both of those were all-in pre-flop, where I called shorties. On the other hand...

I beat AJ with 83 (SMTL!), when I open-pushed from the SB.

I beat KK with AK (when a third player in the hand said he folded AK).

So, really, it all evens out, but it left me with kind of a "Fuck, it doesn't matter what I THINK or what I DO, it's all fucking random."

Having come to that conclusion, at least in the short term, I brainstormed about what to do about this universal truth. There was only one answer.

The Turbo Fiddy.

It. Does. Not. get more random that that sonofagun. Nor is it my personal bag, but, heck, I had beer and still felt like playing after bubbling The Mookie (did you think I'd finish anywhere but The Bubble?).

Now, I've played the Turbo Fiddy before and this might seem incongruous, but, patience still works. It's the lack of such in others that is helpful. Armed with this universal knowledge, I got it all in with AK in the third level against QQ.

I did not win. I was left with 135 chips.

I tripled up with KQ. I doubled with 77. I, stop me if you've heard this before, beat KK with AK.

I final tabled the futchker. As the short stack. With an M of 1. Ish. 'Cause that whole traction thing took over again. When aggression and power was the rule, I could not beat anyone into the pot nor look down at anything helpful. But, again, obscene randomness. And profit. Don't forget profit.

T135 to $411. And it only took two hours.

Enjoy Some Gin and Juice This St. Paddy's Day

2009-03-17T11:43:00.000-07:00

Cleaning Out My Closet

2009-03-12T12:13:00.001-07:00

Not much urge to write lately, which bugs me. Normally, my response to such circumstances is two-fold:

1. Read
2. Embrace the silence

The first is self-explanatory. I get more inspiration from other people's words than any other outlet (music a close second). I just finished Updike's "Couples," an examination of infidelity (what can I say, I'm a glutton for punishment) in the age of burgeoning sexual freedom. Amazing work. Fraught with desperation and bargaining and self-pity. At one point in the novel, the main character says something like, "I expect that any second the world will cease to love me."

I can relate to that. I would say that is the primary reaction to being cheated on. Or, being a cheater. My theory is that infidelity is nearly always a product of a person's feeling of inadequacy, or lacking, within themselves, a hole that can only be filled by something, someone apart from their current life. I would wager we've all felt some measure of that feeling before. It calls on one's character, revealed in how we react.

Heh. I didn't really mean to go all that deep there, but we'll leave it for posterity.

Two, the silence. I'm prone to activity. I don't do a lot of aimless laying about (watching sports excepted). That turns into running around so often that there's no room for reflection, a staple of any writer's diet. A lot of the running is out of my hands, what with Little League starting up, me back playing soccer, a lovely relationship to tend and nurture and the dadgum BBT4, with which I have a love-hate relationship (love to play; hate all the time it takes up, love the competition; hate people flopping the nuts on me). I just haven't had the time to reflect, and thus, to write. To write seriously.

So, I'm going to blog. Less seriously. Consider it stretching.

*

Lots of fun times coming up. AJ and I will make our annual Spring Break trip to the local amusement parks. I tried to form something a little more adventurous this year, like a camping/fishing trip, but was hamstrung by time and a Little League game (I'm Stalin-esque when it comes to AJ attending every game and practice). The following weekend, I'll be in Arizona for Spring Training with Emet (whose brother has a condo in Scottsdale; giddyup) and good friend Salk, trekking in from The ABQ.

Unfortunately, there's another event that weekend that I'll be missing. This Facebook thing is out of control. I've been found by many people from my childhood and a bunch of them, soccer-related, are having a reunion/party that weekend.

When I was 11, my team were state and regional champions. That same year, the girls' 11-year-old team won the same titles. Needless to say, we were linked. In many ways. Like all the "makeout" parties we all attended together. And staying in the same hotels at out-of-town tournaments. Some serious 6th grade Spin the Bottle going on.

Anyways...I can't go (not that I'd trade my existing trip; I wouldn't), but I'll look forward to the pictures. Speaking of which these...well...these are just plain awesome:

Those are some good-looking 6th graders right there. Solid uniforms, too, especially the short shorts. On the subject of soccer jerseys, I was hunting around for a Fernando Torres jersey for Emet (who gives El Nino the Hottie Seal of Approval) because she said she'd wear one and what's hotter than a woman in a Liverpool jersey? Nothing. But I couldn't find anyplace that sells a Reds kit tailored for women. In fact, I found only one men's team that even manufactured one. Though I would say Chivas's sponsor is unfortunate for the product.

What really is there to say after that?

Word Problems

2009-02-24T10:45:00.000-08:00

Here in barren California, we have a push. The tax benefit from the federal stimulus package is about equal to the new (regressive) taxes being levied by our great state to dig themselves out of a $42 billion dollar budget hole. Our forced donations are coupled with massive cuts to schools, among other things. Nice job. The company where I've been employed for more than 11 years is in Bankruptcy (not because of the economy, as they like to say, but because of their idiotic, leveraged deal that saddled the company with $9 Billion, with a 'B,' in debt) and laying off people by the bucket load. I live in an absurdly over-priced apartment, for the location, which is less my fault than it is the fact the area's apartments are all owned by the same company, constituting a near-monopoly, but hey! my pad is only 50 miles away from my job, a job I get to via mass transit for the low, low price of $300 per month. I can't move because AJ is here. And by "here," I mean a city with a total dearth of white collar jobs. X won't move, because The Douchebag is "established" here, which is a curious word, considering he was a 35-year-old man living with his Mommy before X took him in and for the fact he's "established" himself 1300 miles from his own children.

What circle of Hell am I currently in? Please show your work.

Laws

2009-02-13T11:08:00.000-08:00

Dreary week here in the desert. Dreary all over, I suppose, with the economy and a rather rapid return to Politics as Usual. So much for Coming Together. I hate all of you and you're still bad at your jobs.

As such, I'm going to implement some legislation. Get involved. Make people's lives better.

One, the new limit for trying to pay with exact change is 36 cents. Anything over than that and you must use green. My burrito is getting cold while you try to dig up 58 cents. That's 6 coins. Six! Too many. A-holes.

Two, anyone who gets on the subway and immediately stops once inside the door, thereby blocking anyone behind them from entering, gets a kick in their bad knee. You people are a menace. These are the type of folks who would lead a group of people into a movie theater row and take the aisle seat so everyone else has to edge by them. They are noticeable not only by their behavior, but their bad haircuts and musty odor. If you see one, go for the bad knee.

Three, if you were an asshole to me when I was 13, don't add me as a friend on Facebook. I'm going to forever operate under the assumption you're still an asshole.

Speaking of Facebook, there's lately been a rush of childhood acquaintances to my page, which is 95% awesome. In fact, I'm planning on creating a Group on there called, "Girls I Kissed Before I Hit Puberty." We're only waiting on you, Jina Lanum.

Finally, just to reiterate,

Suck It, Mexico.

Wednesday Highlights

2009-02-12T12:36:00.000-08:00

A couple funnies from last night. Since the US-Mexico game started at 4 p.m. local time, I started drinking at 4 p.m. local time, which made it perfectly logical that I'd play The Mookie. Which started at 7 p.m. local time. My state did not miss the host,

JoeSpeaker was buzzed and opening a lot of pots...

Guilty. I finished 5th. Some 6 hours after my first beer. Like I'm going to be able to read limping aces at that point.

In the meantime, I was cybering (platonically) with drizz and telling him about the Proper Football game, which he didn't get to see.

JoeSpeaker: 2-0 to the US. Coach's kid scored both goals.
drizz: Did his Mom bring orange slices?

Otra Vez

2009-02-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

So...I'm amusing myself this morning reading the Spanish language newspapers for their take on last night's US-Mexico tilt, yet another drubbing by the Stars and Stripes. 2-0. Again. I don't speak a whole lot of Spanish, but can fake my way through most of it. What I can't grasp, I run through Babelfish, which, as anyone who has used Babelfish knows, is awesome in its consistent silliness. I give you the lede of a La Opinion article, run through two different translations:

Total loss. That is the balance. Red balance. Themselves does not treat only of the rout, neither of the three points that were an illusion for gullible.

Total loss. That is the balance. Balance red. It is not just the defeat, nor the three points were a mirage for dreamers.

"Total loss" is correct. "Balance," I think, is more properly "problems" ("red" refers to, of course, Rafa Marquez's sending off; that guy has serious problems for someone of such prodigious talent). The second translation has the fourth sentence about right, but I prefer "illusion for the gullible." Must be the writer in me.

*

The US were dominant in the first 45 with the wind at their back. Confident, composed. Bradley sent out a positive lineup, using Sacha Kljestan in the center of the park, instead of the more defensive-minded Ricardo Clark, eschewing his usual 4-5-1 (or 4-4-1-1) with two holding mids. Kljestan's relative inexperience didn't show, though he was never a real threat going forward, he and Michael Bradley did an effective job of disjointing the Mexican midfield and getting forward. Mexico were clearly wary of the speed of Donovan and Beasley, which allowed for space stepping in behind those players when they made runs. While the Nats didn't take great advantage of that, it's a trend that should pay dividends down the line as this group moves forward.

Sadly, all that good work went to crap in the 2nd half when the US took their foot off the pedal. It may have been the soggy conditions, some out-of-season players lacking full fitness, being against the strong winds. Or parts of all three. Regardless, with a one-goal lead, with the goal coming at a momentum-changing time right before half, the home side should have stormed out of the tunnel and continued to impose their will. They did not. They sat deeper, instead of challegning in midfield, the very tactic that had served them so well in the first 45. Even when Marquez was dismissed (at first, I didn't think it was a red, but the replay clearly showed he led with his studs, a karate kick to Howard's knee that Roy Keane can appreciate), the US played passively. That might be a useful skill on the road, but, at home, you're playing with fire.

Still, they got the result. Mexico were poor in nearly every aspect of the game. Eriksson has them playing a conservative brand of futbol and that's never been their style. It's a poor fit. Their "flair" players, Nery Castillo, Gio, were reduced to playing one-on-one due to lack of support, due to the defensive mind-set of the Mexican midfield. Yes, they were short-handed, missing Guardado, who terrorizes the US and Torrado, the rock in midfield. But it's hard to imagine them flourishing in the Swede's set-up.

Going forward, the US has to be more cynical, adopt some swagger and killer instinct. The team, as comprised last night, won't scare anyone in the World Cup final round, but some pieces are in place for improvement. Bradley the Younger was a revelation, aside from the two goals. Kljestan provides some color to go along with Beasley (surprising strong last night considering his lack of playing time at Rangers) and Donovan. Pearce was strong at left back and Hejduk was equally impressive on the right. Clint Dempsey seems to disappear at times and, like my friend Jorginho says, he gets frustrated by poor service and his body language is obvious. But he seemed to work hard last night.

With a clogged fixture list this summer (Gold Cup and Confederations Cup in addition to qualifying), players currently outside the Starting XI should get lots of opportunities to state their case for inclusion. Jozy, Marvell Wynne, Jose F. Torres, Jonathan Spector, Gabriel Ferrari, Danny Szetela and, I suppose, the erstwhile Freddy Adu. Some of those guys are more creative than what we've currently got and I think "creative" is what we need more of. Steel and industry, on the other hand, is not in short supply.

From This Day Forward...

2009-01-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

At one point in my wayward youth, I had a (second) job as a radio newswriter on the weekends. The hours were 4 a.m. to noon on Saturday and Sunday. As you might imagine, this really put a crimp in my ~~weed smoking~~ social life. This is also around the same time I was smashing the drums in a hard rock band, so I'd frequently find myself going straight to work after the after-gig party, just a regular party, or just a night at The Yard, without any sleep. I never actually clocked in while inebriated. Well...overtly. But every time I showed up at Sunset and Gower, I was loopy from lack of sleep.

Sometimes, I'd have something of an out of body experience. Sleep deprivation plays crazy tricks on the mind, altered chemicals in the brain and all that. It was almost like I'd get a feeling of deja vu, except I felt like I was outside the actual moment in time, which was always brief, couple seconds or so, looking in at myself, my surroundings, and being consumed with a feeling of absurdity. Like, this is ridiculous. All of it. The word that set me off, my life, this office, none of this matters and yet, it's oddly and completely compelling.

Pretty good metaphor for a blog.

Gawd. I don't know what I'm doing here anymore. More damning is I can't find anything to write about THAT MATTERS. This navel gazing exercise certainly doesn't. But you're gonna get it anyway.

*

I've been trying to figure out the problem. It's not writing. Been doing plenty of that elsewhere. It's this thing. This thing I used to love, this forum which allowed me to think out loud, as entertainment, as exercise, as therapy. I mean, this blog contained the worst thoughts and events of my life. You all read it (and if you didn't, and you like a good fucking train wreck, perusing the archives circa January-March of '06 oughta do it) and that sorta became what it was all about. Kent would bare his personal demons and his abject despair for the delight of others.

Then I stopped wanting to do that. It seemed indecorous to air my dirty laundry here, unfair to X, who had no means of response. And then, things sort of became okay between us, civil and cooperative, and I feel like it's my duty as AJ's father not to bash his mother, since I never do it in his presence.

Which is why I probably have 30 unpublished posts sitting around from the past year or so. Emotions I needed to get out of my bloodstream, but, somewhere between "Once upon a time..." and Publish Post, I lost the nerve to put it out there. Or, like in recent instances, I've decided against posting because of what the rant would say about me.

I have a very base reaction to X's upcoming wedding. I'm not proud of it. And it's separate from me being her partner in co-parenting AJ. I'm careful not to let my distaste bleed into his life. But seriously, how can people get so fucking worked up about a wedding when the two people involved have absolutely no regard for the institution of marriage? I've been to a few weddings in my life and I don't recall the passages where the Reverend says "Cheat on your husband" and "Sleep with married women." Maybe those are in them new-fangled, hippy vows I've been hearing so much about.

You might think someone with my track record (oh-for-two!) would be cynical about marriage. I am not. Quite the opposite. I have this superior streak and weddings are a celebration and these two people have NO RIGHT to be celebrated and, to quote the immortal H.G. "Buzz" Bizzinger, "It pisses the shit out of me."

*

So yeah, I think about it, the contrived photos and the pomp and the smiling faces and I find it surreal, out-of-body, like those early mornings at KNX. At the same time, I realize my reaction is infantile, a petty response to something well out of my hands for a long time now and that I should embrace my own life, the positive aspects and my own path. Probably the way to go.

Mash

2009-01-18T20:27:00.001-08:00

Anybody top Emet's score at Fantasy Sports Live on Championship Sunday?

I'm guessing no. Nobody did in the contest I lost (and I rang up a respectable 138 on the day, for 5th). By my count, she had every player who scored a TD on the day except for Tim Hightower (though she had Warner, obv.) and Troy Polamalu (but +2 for the INT with the PIT defense). That's pretty much "flooding the zone."

She texted me Sunday morning for advice, but I offered her only one (unnecessary) tip: Larry. Fitz. Gerald.

Anyways...just wanted to note for posterity that, on Jan. 18, 2008, a girl is better than you at Fantasy Football.

I Beseach You

2009-01-16T11:47:00.000-08:00

I don't ask for much. But I need you to do this for me. I need to to pass along the word to everyone you know. I promise--PROMISE!--this will be a good thing. You have no idea. Really. This fucking show is SO good.

Friday Night Lights is amazing. Is it the greatest show on TV? I don't know. It's the one I most look forward to watching every week and, "Bret Michael's "Rock of Love Bus" as a notable exception, I have impeccable taste in television.

Let me tell you what sets this show apart: Kyle Chandler and Connie Britton. Chandler is Eric Taylor, coach of the Dillon Panthers High School Football team. Britton is his wife, Tami, principal of the school. The relationship between the two is the likes of which you've never seen on the small screen before. So many programs rely on tired stereotypes to depict parental interaction: the Dad is oblivious, and idiot even, and the Mom is the one who keeps everything together and provides the object lessons. Or, marriages are fodder for deception.

On "Friday Night Lights," you get real reactions to real situations. There are scenes from Season 3 that I've watched over and over again, struck by their authenticity and the pitch-perfect work of the actors. You'll be invested in them in no time.

Season 3 begins tonight on NBC. It has already run, in its entirety, on DirecTV, and I can assure you these 13 episodes are exceptional. You don't need to have seen Season 1 or 2 (and you're probably better off pretending, like me, Season 2 never happened). There is enough back-story provided and the characters--Tim Riggins and Buddy Garrity, mostly--have so much more depth now.

Whether there's a Season 4 depends on you. The show's writers have set up awesome potential if there is one. I need your help. You don't want to be on my bad side.

Friday Night Lights. Fridays 9 p.m. on NBC.

Also, if you're a guy...hottest collection of women on a TV show since "Twin Peaks." Yep...I'll stoop to lowest common denominator to get my Season 4.

Deformed, Like an Injured Bird

2009-01-09T09:21:00.000-08:00

Pauly is back with a brand spanking new issue of Truckin', 2009 style. Please go support myself, always honored to be included, and the rest by reading, commenting and sharing the stories with loved ones and people you just kinda like.

"The Orchard" is a story that is very close to my heart. I hope you enjoy it.

January 2009, Vol. 8, Issue 1

Welcome back to the first issue of the new year.

1. The Mollification the Foul Temptresses by Paul McGuire
The hookers at the Rio were a combination of famished vultures and parched vampires ready to pick apart any carcass. Any john. Any drunk. Anybody in their path. They were evil personified.... More

2. The Orchard by Joe Speaker
I reach for her hand, probing, touching it delicately. We don't form a fist when we come together, nothing like the taut intertwine of fingers you see lovers form, those Gordian knots, unwieldy like a stone fortress. Our fingers hang off each other's loosely, three of mine, two of hers, vice-versa, and they dangle. Spider webs in the wind. Tenuous connection... More

3. Hector by David Peterson
I remember clearly when the cops came and took Hector's mom away. He seemed rather nonplussed by the whole thing as we stood on the curb watching a bedraggled and wild-eyed woman being escorted from her home in cut-off jeans, a loose-fitting white tank top and handcuffs... More

4. Flight #22 to Denial by Sean A. Donahue
Her eyes were black as the night. Her black hair cascaded near her high cheekbones and tanned complexion. Her body wasn't made for sin but for pleasure, and the glasses she wore on her head framed her face perfectly. The only thing that didn't make sense was that it was raining over her head... More

5. Running it Twice by Andrew Moxon
There are, however, certain points of opportunity. Soft places in time, when the cockpit door comes open and we second-timers can take over. That's when things can change. Sometimes, every so often, we walk through that door and start flipping the switches... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Welcome back to the first issue of 2009. It's hard to believe that Truckin' began in 2002 and we've come a long way since then. This issue features five stories which includes the debut of Andrew Moxon. The always venerable Joe Speaker returns with a zesty piece titled The Orchard. Sean Donahue is back after a short absence and David Peterson makes a splash in his second consecutive issue. And of course, I share a tale that has been told many times before involving Las Vegas working girls.

Truckin' needs your help with a tinge of grassroots promotion. Please tell your friends about your favorite Truckin' stories. The writers definitely appreciate your support, as do I. Spread the word on your blogs and whatever social networking sites you are currently addicted to.

And as always, please let me know if anyone is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Before I go, I have to give a hearty and sincere thanks to the writers for writing for free. They expose their guts, blood, and soul to the universe. Their dedication inspires me and I hope it inspires you too.

Be good,
McG

"Nothing happens unless first a dream." - Carl Sandburg

Published by Truckin' Staff at 1/05/2009 07:51:00 PM | Permalink | Send Comments

Live Ticket!

2008-12-29T10:04:00.000-08:00

I did not think the sight of 17-1 shot Naughty Nine hitting the wire first as the back end of my live Daily Double ticket could be topped this weekend. Then Deuce flicked that 90th-minute off-balance header into Cech's net for a brace and a draw against Chelski. Then that Eagle defensive lineman put a big paw in Tashard Choice's face for one of the more awesome stiff arms ever and caused a spontaneous riot in the sports bar.

It's close, but upon further review, since I singled Naughty Nine, I'll take the beautiful little man in the maroon silks as this weekend's Top Play.

I'm good at horses.

How good? After my fourth straight big money ticket cash, the curmudgeonly guy in the betting window (when you're hot, you ALWAYS go to the same betting window) raised an eyebrow at the nearly $300 payout and then hurriedly scribbled down my upcoming wager. Which I won, winner and exacta. And, presumably, so did he.

By the time I got back to the bar (we stopped at the bar for a drink and then Emet liked that she had a place to put the form and then I hit my first race and you NEVER move from your handicapping spot when you're winning), our group of four had swelled to twice that with assorted hangers-on who had heard me rooting the 5 home and wanting to know a) who I had in the 6th and b) when I was buying them a round of drinks.

The 7. And now.

One of the new guys was a train wreck of Dick Bro-ian proportions, though less inappropriate. He sidled up to Emet (because, seriously, seeing a hot chick at the track with a beer and a form in front of her is something that sends every male libido into the stratosphere) claiming to be a horse owner, a story which had more holes than the Lions defensive line. I bought him a beer, but not before demanding he drink the one he had in front of him, 12 solid oz. of malty goodness that he managed to mostly get in his mouth.

We all hit the 6th, thanks in part to a contending horse jumping over the rail a furlong out, and, after that, things got all fuzzy, because of the succeeding rounds and the fact I hadn't eaten all day. Fortunately, I'm at my best as a fuzzy handicapper. I'm not good, really. Mostly, I just try to stay out of my own way and try not to over-think it. I mean, nobody in their right mind singles a 17-1 shot in an exotics bet. Especially one that is making its first start. Oh, I didn't mention that? Regardless, betting that horse is precisely how I roll. He had a solid work tab, good connections and a sexy pedigree. He was 8-1 on the morning line, which I thought was a bargain. At 17-1? He's a fucking steal.

Obviously.

Earlier, in the 2nd race, I talked myself out of the 2 horse, another first-timer that I liked and went off at 6-1. I kept her in my exacta, but the others didn't come in and she won going away. Were I a little buzzed, I'd have probably not made that mistake. However, the fact I'd started out so poorly made me change things up and I started wagering on Golden Gate Fields simulcast races. I hit three winners in a row at the northern track (one I bet solely on the name, as it was very close to Donny's mother's name), which set up the rest of the day nicely.

Suffice to say, I was loaded, in more ways than two, and I paid for dinner, which was necessary to a) give me some actual food and b) sober up for the drive back to the IE, where I frighteningly realized I had not yet set my roster for the Blogger TOC on Fantasy Sports Live.

When I woke up on Sunday, I was further horrified to realize I didn't even remember who I'd picked and immediately logged on to see. Uh...not pretty. So, I pretty much changed my whole roster minutes before the games got underway, which, as Emet and everyone else will tell you, is a sure way to screw everything up.

Or rack up a huge 142-point day to become KING OF THE BLOGGERS.

Most of the damage was done by Drew Brees and his aerial stat-padding circus and the Artist Formerly Known as LDT (I refuse to call him LT). Steve Breaston (super pick, just super) and Ryan Longwell also had a say and I needed most of 'em since I had to beat Andre Johnson and Michael Tuner, both of whom had huge days. Congrats to Al and thg for making the Finals, though thg also needs to be called out for beating Emet in her first try on FSL. That was mean. She may have called you a "fucker" at one point, but she really didn't mean it.

Alas, trying to parlay my hot streak into poker immortality failed last night on Full Tilt. Nothing can ever change the fact I can't win a crucial race at a crucial time. On the felt, anyway.

Cold Desert

2008-12-26T11:48:00.000-08:00

Hope everyone had a better Christmas than Harold Pinter.

Too soon?

I'm not a doctor.

*

I've mentioned several times how AJ often seems much older than he is (7). To wit: the top three items on his Christmas list this year were:

1) Electric guitar
2) Laptop computer
3) Plasma TV

Um...he didn't get any of those. Maybe if I hadn't chopped that MGM tourney and went for first. X and I contemplated going halvsies on the guitar, but I balked at taking on the added expense of lessons at this point in our country's financial state, not to mention the bankruptcy of my place of employment. Not like the kid didn't make out, what with four--FOUR!--different holiday celebrations/gift-unwrappings. Part of what makes him totally okay with his parents' divorce, I suppose.

*

Had Christmas dinner at Mom's where my brother-in-law, a vice cop in one of the most economically depressed areas of the desert, had us in stitches with some "Stupid Criminals" stories. My favorite was the baggy-panted drug dealer he rolled up on. Chris patted him down despite repeated claims of not-holding innocence and found a dozen rocks and $700 in cash in various pants pockets. The cagey dealer's reaction?

"These aren't my pants."

*

AJ did get FIFA '09 for his Wii and played a few games before we headed off to Mom's. He wanted to be ManU, but I threatened to take it away if he didn't play Liverpool. In the first match against West Brom, Torres had a hat-trick and Keane missed two sitters. This would be the perfect spot for me to make a "life imitates art" joke, but Keane-O had a brace today against Bolton, so I'll withhold.

Top of the table on Boxing Day! I still have my doubts about the Reds' ability to win the Premiership, but it would be nice to be IN the race when spring springs. So far, so good.

*

You have to admire the Yankees. They remind me of a man going through a mid-life crisis, spending wildly on new cars and squiring around a big-breasted trophy ~~wife~~ pitcher.

*

Blogger TOC tomorrow on Fantasy Sports Live. Al, on_thg and I for 150 marbles. Can you feel the excitement?

I really am pretty average at the Fantasy Sports thing. I've only won a single season in my long history (last year) and that was after Charger-ing into the playoffs at 7-7 and having my teams over-perform for two weeks (though I did draft Randy Moss in the 4th round, so I'm not a total fool). I've never even sniffed a payout in baseball. But I hold my own on FSL. Primarily because I get to pick a new team every week. I don't do any real research, other than reading various sites/newspapers and looking at matchups. I think I've won like $40 over the course of the 16 weeks of the National. Football. League.

The fun comes from sweating my teams, of course. Or watching a relatively meaningless Lions-Saints tilt and screaming at the screen because Drew Brees is in obvious stat-padding mode and Rod Marinelli's son-in-law is too fucking stupid to bring 8 guys to try to plant Brees into the Ford Field turf, because, you know, how you're doing it now is wrong. Might want to change things up. Or learn how to defend a screen pass.

*

Been cold and rainy lately in the desert. In fact, I had ice on my car this ayem. I literally had to turn the hose on my windshield so I could see to drive!

Hehe.

But it's supposed to warm up tomorrow, so Emet and I are going to Santa Anita. Forecast is sunny and beer-y. Want me to make any bets for ya? I'll accept Full Tilt or Stars transfers.

*

Gotta play on Sunday.

Chances

2008-12-19T10:38:00.000-08:00

Hey Fellow Enthusiasts,

I have to say, I was appalled--APPALLED--by the number of you with whom I spoke last Sunday in the Sportsbook who do not have a Fantasy Sports Live account (Bonus Code: Speaker). I mean, you like sports, you play fantasy sports, you like me (said emotion my fluctuate from time to time), you like using your vast intelligence to dominate skill-based games, you like screaming at heavily-padded humanoids on your television. What is it about this concept you don't like? You have an aversion to Mouse Clicking? I notice that doesn't affect your Red Tube hits. You don't have $50 to throw on a site that guarantees hours of fun? Heh. I saw the way you threw money around last weekend like it was the Eve of the Apocalypse.

Your excuses are weak. Fail

But I--and all of us here at Fantasy Sports Live--are all about forgiveness. You may have snoozed, but you have not yet lost.

During the football season Fantasy Sports Live, has run a little something called the Blogger Battle. Simple rules:

1. Be a blogger
2. Get the weekly high score in the specific Blogger Battle contests

Do those two things (and you've already done one) and you get an invition to the Tournament of Champions. That happens next week. $150 free money added. The best part? Only three bloggers have qualified, the rather motley collection of myself, AlCantHang and on_thg. Which means the field will have a maximum of four.

It could be you. If you'd get off your ass.

Naturally, the fun does not end with the conclusion of football. Basketball and hockey are in full swing and Spring Training will be here before you know it. So saddle up and join FIVE-STAR RATED Fantasy Sports Live.

And...remember...you like me. Even when I'm shilling.

Yes

2008-12-17T10:42:00.000-08:00

Vegas 2008. Strap in.

Flew out Thursday night. Late decision. Was going to drive. Good thing I didn't. Which will become clear. Nice hand, sir.

Easy flight, up and down, 40 minutes in all, and empty taxi line. Fucking economy. Quick shower and two beers, which are Bud Lights because I'm sick and can't taste anything. I'm sick every year when I go to Vegas. Light this time around, just a head cold, but no taste buds. Off to the Geisha Bar.

Double greyhound to start. Joanada buys me a shot of tequila. First thing I taste in days. Unpleasant. But my head feels better.

DP is wearing a suit. He looks very handsome.

"He's out-gaying you this year." --F-Train.

Wearing a suit is less gay than not betting the Pai Gow bonus. Train calls me a Cooler then hits a full house. Still no money on the bonus. "It's a sucker bet," he says.

No shit.

Meet Professional Keno Player Neil Fontenot. Nice guy. Cheap with the drink-buying, though. Betty is there and totally sober. This puts me on tilt. Lewey Award, I think, goes to BuddyDank who is, "looking but not seeing." He and Jo each hit a penny slot for over a grand. Looks like that profit went right to the Geisha Bar. Or the gastroenteroligist. I meet PirateLawyer who doesn't say 'eh' once. Not once.

I am not wearing a scarf.

April interrupts my conversation and makes me play craps. I lose $200. So I go play poker to get it back. Not so much. Tough table and they won't let me move to the blogger table where Grubby keeps stacking Grubbette. I lose $30 and go home to sleep.

Four hours later I awaken from perfect, dreamless, alcohol-induced delirium to go to the bathroom. As I return to bed, Bobby Bracelet texts me that he's in town. I briefly debate ignoring him for more sleep, but take two Tylenol and get dressed instead. How could I not? He's sporting a beard. Time to make Beard Money. First, Huevos Rancheros and then Blackjack.

I take $80 Beard Money from the table. Leave with DP to go play poker. 11 a.m. tournament at MGM. $65 buy-in. We swap 10% and are seated right next to each other to start. Push Fest. 2000 chips. 20 minute levels. Antes kick in at 3rd level. I double up with AQ v. QT. Bust another player with AJ. I check-raise on AA6 flop. He doesn't believe me. "You tried to tell him." -- DP

I bust another player and have nearly 8K at Level 2. I get greedy. Player to my left limp-pushes. I make loose call with AQ. Kings are good. Down to 6K. At Level 3, I raise another limper with JJ. He calls. Axx board and I c-bet. He calls. I check it down. Kings are good.

Fucking limping Kings.

I'm down to 2800 at the break. 300/600/75 when we come back. I more than double on first hand back with AK. Double again with QQ v. 77. Back in it.

116 players. Nine paid. I lose a race with JJ to AQ and am down to 6K. Same orbit, I gamble with KJs. Turn the jack against A9. El Doble. I push next hand from button and get folds. I push next hand with 55. SB insta-calls in a way that illustrates he's annoyed at my pushy tendencies. AQ no good. By the second break, we're down to 11.

We save buy-ins for 11th and 10th. That speeds things up. Down to six, chop proposed. Ten Seat wants to play. His M is about 5. One Seat has an M of about 9. Everybody else in the 1-to-3 range. Short stack open-pushes and Ten Seat calls with AQ. Shortie has 93. A3x flop. Blank turn. 3 river. "Want to chop now?" --Everybody.

Okay.

$650 for everybody. $900 for One Seat. Deal.

Giddyup.

DP gets his buy-in back. I'm his Horse. He didn't stay to watch, though. They're all at Hooters. Rooster stayed. "I'd never chop." --Rooster.

I know. You have too much heart.

Off to Hooters. DP announces my arrival from thirty feet away. "There's my Horse!" He has a tie on today. drizz has joined Bobby, Chad and DP. They're gambling. I stand there five minutes before I realize they are playing Three Card Poker and not blackjack. Dealer Kelly distracted me a bit.

"DOMINAAAATE!"

I play Three Card Poker. They teach me. "Just play it blind." --Bracelet

I crush the table.

This game is easy!

Dealer Christie gives us fist pounds. We tip her egregiously well because she reveals our cards like we ask her to: slowly. More drama that way. Also more screaming. I leave with $200 profit to take a nap because Emet is coming and I don't want to be sloppy drunk when she arrives in two hours. Ironic.

I get two hours of awesome sleep. Phone rings. Emet says four words and it cuts out. I call her back. Same. But I get the gist. I step into the hallway in my undies. There she is, screaming down the hall. It is now 6:45. She got off work at 12. She's been drinking.

*

Dinner at Nine Fine Irishman. We go with something called the "Sausage Pail" to start. Breaded Irish sausage, grilled spicy sausage in a big ass pail. Mustard and curry dipping sauces. Unbelievable. #2 on the Weekend Food List. Fish & Chips followed, washed down with Smithwick's.

Back to MGM for Sportsbook Bar shenanigans. Emet meets everyone. Surprise appearance by Human Head. That was awesome. I meet bayne who ~~regales~~ berates me for a PLO hand that happened two years ago. 32 oz. of beer for $9. And only $5 when you refill the glass. Elizabeth shows with still-bearded Bracelet and she is finally assured I am not a fictional character.

Have SoCo with Al. A triple. At least. I split mine with Emet. Initiation rights and all.

I behave badly. I apologize. Sincerely. I was drinking 32 oz. beers.

Unable to find a cheap Pai Gow table at MGM, we go with the time-honored Four Corners move. We pass three unnamed bloggers on the bridge to The Trop. I know what they are doing out there. I say, "How's the action at The Trop?" They laugh the type of laugh that verifies I know what they were doing out there.

We take a short loss on blackjack at The Trop and go to the Excal for craps. We're getting hammered and my $200 buy-in is down to $60 when a guy goes on a heater. I forget what what he looked like. Oh yeah. "C'mon gray sweatshirt!" --Emet. Over and over again. There is a cowgirl at the table wearing a vest with mohair fringe that is the exact same copper-ish color as her actual hair and we wonder if they are one and the same. But even "the girl who asks too many questions" doesn't ask that one. By the time gray sweatshirt is done, we're up to $300. Color up.

The last stop on the journey is New York, New York for Pai Gow. Those late night training sessions really paid their dividends. And Emet wondered why I always broke out the cards when we got home from the bar. Because there's only one way to play the game and we were definitely in the BAC range to do so. Unfortunately, our dealer was a prick, capital P. Really? You've never had to deal to drunk people? Maybe it's time for a new profession if it bothers you so much that tourists have fun. Highlight was Emet's straight flush.

She set her hand correctly. That pays 50-1 on the Bonus, F-Train.

Cashed out another profit. I'm good at gambling. Bed.

*

Saturday morning. We run into BG and Head at breakfast and invite them over to the Sportsbook where we will spend the afternoon playing the ponies. Emet hits the first race. I'm oh-fer on the first four before hitting two straight winners. BG shows, as do drizz, Chad, April, Bracelet (now rocking a Fu Manchu) and Elizabeth at various points. BG tells me what I'll be eating that night and my mouth waters for six hours. #1 on the Weekend Food List. My two winners give me a small profit, horse tickets give us free drinks and Emet and I hit a college basketball parlay with UCLA and Xavier.

With our fancy french dinner looming, we decide we have time for craps at The Trop. We do, mainly 'cause of the cold table. I drop $200. The rest bet more judiciously. We go to get gussied up for Bouchon.

In the cab on the way over, Emet is querying the Ethiopian cab driver frequently about what language he's speaking on the phone. Or, he was Puerto Rican and his mother was Ethiopian and he was talking to her in some dialect NOT called Ethiopian. Very confusing. "Is there a word in your language for 'girl who asks too many questions?'" --BG

I'm wearing a hipster shirt with french cuffs that Emet bought me a few weeks back. Maiden voyage. You can't see the buttons. But they're there. Oh yes. Gray sportcoat on top. Joe jeans on bottom. I look good.

We stop by the Blogger Tourney to see how it's unfolding. Garth busts just in time for he and the fairer half of G+G Makeout Factory to join us for dinner. DP has a nice stack at a cash game. Maybe he made enough to buy a new suit. He's still wearing the same one.

Kronnenburg 1640 to start at the bar. BG and Bobby select the wines when we sit.

Here is how my muddled brain recalls BG explaining the appetizer to me at the sportsbook:

They take two types of salmon--poached and smoked--chop it up and shoehorn it into a turine. Then they pour butter on it, seal it up and stick it into the refrigerator for two days so the butter soaks through the entire shebang (BG doesn't use words like "shebang," that's my own). They unseal it at the table and remove the hardened butter coating from the top and then you spread the final prduct on crostinis.

After the first bite, I asked for more crostinis. The flavor was somewhere between heaven and above heaven. And there was plenty for all. My goodness. I have no words to do it justice. Creamy and rich with notes you could taste well after you swallowed. It was high cuisine and drove me mad with desire.

We passed around the various appetizers. I had snails ("Ewwwwwwww!" --AJ) for the first time since my Senior Prom. Back then, it tasted like garlic-flecked rubber. At Bouchon, it was tender, buttery-garlic nirvana.

By now, the red wine was flowing, courtesy of excellent suggestions by BG and Bobby. Four bottles worth by the time all was said and done. I went with the gnocchi for my main course and was mildly disappointed. My taste buds may have been overheating by that point and the flavor was just too strong and pungent. I asked if the waiter if that was how it normally tasted and when he agreed it was, I let it go. He comped it anyway, so I tossed an extra tip in his direction. To sum up the meal? Great food, great wine and the best company.

DOOOOMINATE.

We adjourned to the Venetian poker room to check on the tourney progress. Down to 6 at the final table and I gave maigrey a peck on the cheek for good luck before we headed to the IP. Yes, I'm taking a measure of credit. How I roll.

I'm pretty sloppy by this point. I recall little. Lots of talking. Iggy wearing my jacket (the sleeves dragged the ground when he walked). Maigs coming home with the trophy and deposed Rooster not being able to take his eyes from it. See?

Love that sweater on The Rooster. "He looks like a Mexican Bill Cosby." --Iggy

"Blogger money is the sweetest money." --Maigrey

Silliness. Pai Gow. Bed.

*

My big Sunday morning bet was on the Niners. Emet and I headed to the IP Sportsbook early(-ish) and then she adjourned for coffee while I caught up on my myriad bets. "Caught up" meaning "screamed at three TVs at once." Garth was also sweating the Niners. "I was going to ask where you were, but I heard you while I was on the escalator." --Emet

I called the Dolphin kicker a "cocksucker." He obliged. Cashed the Niner ticket courtesy of a 49-yarder that hit the crossbar and came back out. Exchanged a bromantic hug with Garth. Chugged another greyhound.

Big afternoon bet was on the Steelers. Nobody should have been getting 3 points in that game was my thinking. Went to Gene for assurance. "They're going to look like shit all game and pull it out at the end, right?" He said something about gray hair.

Emet and I played the ponies while the Ravens and Steelers traded punts and field goals. I hit the first two races. Bobby and Elizabeth joined us. Played some numbers based on the time-honored Bracelet Game Theory Method. You've played roulette with him, yes? Same principle. Bobby's on the 9 horse? Bet the 8 and 10.

Steelers pulled it out. I got down on the Giants. Two out of three ain't bad.

In the meantime, we, plus Chad and drizz, went to Batista's Hole in the Wall for dinner, after a lengthy cab ride. "I've got this one, Bobby!" All-you-can-drink house wine, some minestrone soup for starters to guard against the incoming Arctic Blast. Then Chicken Alfredo and an awesome meatball. The perfect recipe for the way I was winding down. Also, I hadn't eaten all day. Disregarding the Bloody Mary olives.

Giants crapped bed. We walked back to the IP. I crushed rapid roulette for a double-up, mostly because I made a $5 bet on the numbers by mistake and hit (8 for AJ's birth month). One last Pai Gow session, which eviscerated my roulette profit, as I hit the wall. Then the wall hit me back. Three or four times. We went back to the room and slept for a long-ass time.

*

The rumored storm from Siberia finally hit on Monday morning and it delayed our flight for better than two hours, during which I hit my favorite airport slot machine and, for the first time ever, failed to profit. That sucked, until I realized we'd have been stuck in town had I stuck to my original plan and drove as the Cajon Pass was closed, not that you'd be wanting to drive tired and hungover with your body in complete revolt through the pelting rain and snow anyway. We made it home, despite it being one of those trips where the flight attendants are not allowed to get up from their seats.

"Did you get to do everything you wanted to do?" --Emet

Yes. I got to be with my friends.

History

2008-12-01T12:57:00.000-08:00

The latest BCS shenanigans stink to high heaven. Nobody should be surprised by this. The system sucks. Out loud. Texas has a legitimate complaint.

But Mack Brown doesn't.

Surely you all remember Dec. 2004? No? Brown's Longhorns were 5th in the BCS that year as the season came down to its final weekend. #4 Cal needed to beat bowl-bound S. Miss on the road to lock up an automatic BCS bid and a Rose Bowl berth (their only loss was to eventual undefeated national champion USC). Cal won their game by 10 and in the next BCS standings, fell to 5th behind idle Texas, who were apparently so impressive while sitting around in their underwear that Saturday that nine--NINE!--writers and coaches leap-frogged them over the Bears in that final poll.

And Mack Brown lobbied for that vote for two weeks.

So...Mack knows the system. He's gamed it. And if you use it for ill-gotten gains, you're bound to get screwed karmically.

Feel bad for the players. The BCS is a travesty. Money-grubbing school presidents. Blah, blah, blah. All true. But Mack Brown can suck a dick.

LOLUrinalz

2008-11-28T14:17:00.001-08:00

Sign in work bathroom draped over broken pee recepticle:

IS NAT WAURK

What the fuck (fauck?) is that? Dutch?

Stupid, illiterate Dutch janitors.

As an aside, this stupid, illiterate blog turned four years old yesterday.

Jebus.

I Stand (Dance) Corrected

2008-11-25T09:56:00.000-08:00

I've loved the picture below since I first set eyes on it. Your intrepid coach, teaching the finer points of The Beautiful Game to his young and impressionable charges as they stand at rapt attention.

Except for the kid all the way on the left. He's doing his own thing, as he often does. That's AJ, of course. The photo is a perfect representation of all that is hilarious--and occasionally annoying--about my darling son. I have dozens of others that illustrate the same. Always in motion. He can't sit still. He's more than a bundle of energy. He's energy personified.

I wonder where he got that, since I'm such a calm and measured person. My mother frequently claims I was also excitable as a child, but I don't remember it the same way. The thing about memories, though, is that they are lies we tell ourselves.

This photo turned up on Facebook recently. It's my 5th grade class. The guy in the red jacket? The one in motion? Yep. Me.

I've got at least three more years of AJ-spasms to go, I guess. At least he's not going to be the kid flipping off the camera (Arnie Munoz, I believe).

(And for those of you who know Donny, that's him in the front left, covering his face and wearing what appears to be a Golden State Warriors t-shirt.)

Shark Jumping

2008-11-24T10:47:00.001-08:00

Went to see "Bolt" with The Boy on Saturday. Unremarkable, but for multiple use of the word, "ridonkulous."

Said word is now removed from viable poker conversation. Though your children might find it funny, as mine did.

Landy-Cakes

2008-11-20T10:27:00.001-08:00

So...America's Soccer Savior 1.0 is headed back to the Bundesliga. Landon Donovan is moving to Teutonic titans Bayern Munich at the first of the year. You remember Landy-Cakes, don't ya? Who failed twice at Leverkusen previously, a coddled homesick little bundle of douche who couldn't handle the rigors of playing in a league where he wasn't one of the top players.

And now he goes to Bayern? The same team where proven International Lukas Podolski can't even get a game? What a laugh.

Landy-Cakes is a joke. His window to prove himself, to IMPROVE himself against better competition, closed years ago. He really did have the stuff to be a world class player, his performance in the 2002 World Cup at age 20 was mercurial. But he lacks guts. He lacks drive. He lacks the mental toughness needed to overcome obstacles. Instead, he runs back to the cover of his mommy's quilt.

Can't see him making any sort of impact over there, except in training. Klinsmann likes him for some reason, so never say never, but reports out of Munich aren't exactly effusive.

"What he has shown so far is okay, he can certainly kick," said Bayern's Uli Hoeness.

Sweet! He can kick!

Hooker, Cooler. Cooler, Hooker.

2008-11-18T10:03:00.000-08:00

Taking too many bad beats? Economy got you down? Bet on the Steelers last Sunday? Life is hard, I know. But at least you're not sucking the toes of a Vegas hooker. That, friends, is Rock Bottom. Thank goodness we have The Good Dr. Pauly around to remind us there are greater cesspools than ours.

Please to enjoy Existentialist Conversations with Hookers: Maelstrom at the Hooker Bar, featuring a sage and philosophical Otis.

Oh...but that's not all! I have a dark place in my heart for Coolers. My buddy Bro is a Cooler of the first order. I once had a craps croupier ask if I wanted him "thrown out," because every time he walked within a 10 foot radius, the shooter would crap out. Memo to self, avoid Michalski at all costs.

Emmisarries From the Land of Indulgence

I think we have all, at one time or another, stared into the abyss in Sin City. Most of the time, we are there for the sheen, for escape, and there's no need to go past the surface, which, naturally, is what the city sells. We get in, get our fix, and get out. Occasionally, you go on a bad run. The cards and dice rot the sparkly paint job, corroding it to rust, and we are forced to face the darkness. Pauly knows more than most and sees the truth behind the glow. It's easy to forget after a hit-and-run weekend, what a diabolical place Vegas really is. Cibola. The mirage in the desert. Nobody wins.

Unless you're there for reasons other than the turn of the wheel. That's what I get out of these two great posts. With all the debauchery swirling around, debauchery our heroes don't necessarily disapprove of, they stick close, finding rewards in each other, surety in friendship amidst the turmoil.

I will be joined by a special guest this upcoming WPBT event. When I initially invited her, I was a bit nervous. I'm not known as someone with a great deal of restraint or maturity, especially when there's ample alcohol and even more ample action to be had and was concerned about her seeing me in my typical Vegas state of glorious irresponsibility. Then I realized, these trips long ago stopped being about wagers and action. They are about hanging with some of my favorite people in the world; the best parts are always the unexpected conversations and that feeling of deep-running camaraderie. That, I know she'll enjoy. As will I.

Which doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to someone needing a wheelchair or throwing their beer in their own face.

How It Ends...

2008-11-16T18:16:00.000-08:00

I didn't play great. Honestly, I made two big mistakes. Should have laid down my flopped top set of Kings to the flush/straight card on the turn in the first hour where everyone was playing lots of flops (he turned the straight). Worked my way back and then dropped a bunch with an over-pair against the tightest player at the table. My "Where I'm at"bet told meI was fucked. I wanted to re-raise (push) this hand, but couldn't. It was 340/170/25 and I raised to 1100 UTG. Short stack had 1200 and pushed. SB called, so BB called (as he should, with two cards). I pushed the flop when it was checked to me. And there ya go...

Que sera, sera.

Going for the Gold

2008-11-13T22:12:00.000-08:00

First satellite tried, minimum $30 expended...giddyup.

You'll notice fellow blogger jamyhawk, finishing in fourth. I didn't play with him until the Final Table, but he was playing his typically solid game. I was one of the shorter stacks once the Final Table conveened, thanks to losing a race with JJ .v Big Slick (the King coming on the river, naturally), but stole my way back into contention. I got rid of a shorter stack with 6 left and finally got my biggest hand to that point at the Final Table (AQ. My raise was re-pumped by jamyhawk, his KQ looking pretty good 4-handed against the table maniac (though less so, I'm sure when I pushed, but he was pot committed) and my dominating hand held up, giving me a huge advantage over the rest. I got to heads-up with a 4.5-1 chip lead and soon squandered it, but by that time, I had a great read on my opponent and quickly took control again. When all the money went in, my lead was back up to 3-1. I still needed the re-suck, though.

Sunday. 3 o'clock L.A. time (6 p.m. Eastern). Come watch me get it on. The poker, I mean. Bring beer. Fifteen minute levels and 7500 starting chips.