SUPPLEMENTAL INCOME

Yes, yes, yes...

2012-02-17T00:03:00.001-06:00

I know this blog is in serious arrears. It appears many of you have taken me to collection services.

Fair enough. Just don't think for one moment lack of blogs hasn't stemmed from lack of material. Just the opposite.

But fret not. Three delicious blogs are stewing right now, getting peppered and spiced, salted, and much more than a pinch of love added to them. Hungry yet, jackals?

I'm not sure if they're home runs, but safe to say that if they're all doubles, then that's one run and a man on second.

Until then, this may have to suffice... an "ugly contest." Put your votes in, voyeurs!!! A, B, or C???

AWFUL NOISES

2012-01-23T21:12:00.016-06:00

FALSE MAYAN APOCALYPSE COUNTDOWN 47 SUNDAYS LEFT. Sun Jan 22, 2012

BLAM BLAM BLAM    BLAM BLAMBLAM

They say your recall of those events is never right, the devil in the details gets lost. Was it six shots? Seven? Ten? It happened so fast.

I thought they were fireworks, but they were pretty loud and the rhythm was all wrong in those three seconds. Or was it two? Whatever it was it sounded like a gangland hit. Was it leftover fireworks? Some idiots with M-80s from new years?

I try not to know people. Maybe it's anti-social, but I prefer in poker not to get too chummy with most people. Not to know their names. Not that I wouldn't like to have a drink or two with some of you at the next social gathering, or maybe get really toasted enough to the point where we wind up singing old Viking war anthems and challenging the next group of guys to go outside (this never happens), but for now, the situation that we're in, with each of us trying to take each other's money, dictates that I may have to raise you and make you fold. Or smooth call you down and make you cringe with temporary embarassment. Or check-raise you. Mmmmmm...my perosnal favorite...to check raise you. Especially if it's on the river and I have absolutely nothing, but so did you.

I think we're both more comfortable if I don't know your name is Ed...or...whatever.

We won't be cuddling, so I don't see much point to resorting to pillow talk. "Nice hand, Ed."

Whatever. I don't say much.

So I guess it gets doubly awkward for me when people call me by my name and I haven't taken the time to learn theirs. Hey, Kai, did you blah blah blah blah...?

I make up names in my head for a lot of players. Maybe you've done the same. A lot of them aren't flattering, but most are innocent enough. The odds of your liking the nickname I've assigned to you? Pretty slim. Ruprict, Lazy-Eye, Fletch, Dorkapotamus, Slinky, Tornado Bait, Professor Puddingsworth...

But most of the time I just make up a name that someone looks like. He looks like a Charlie. She looks like a Gretchen. His name's probably Whittaker. I'm sure I've been called worse. Much worse.

I've already put a quantitative value on their conversational input, choice of topics, degree of how easily amused they are, how they play, and/or physical attributes...and some of these criteria go into the artificial name making process. Is it a little shallow? Maybe. It is kind of fun though. Anonymity is best when blood's involved.

So this is my last shot at getting into the main event. A mega-satellite the day before. And a guy I've named Tugboat Charlie over the years, an older nice guy and good player, makes a raise at the 50/300/600 level. A novice player in town for the rodeo wearing a ginormous white cowboy hat makes a meaningless call. He's the guy who will call anything. If he goes into the Chevy dealership and the salesman tells him that the truck costs $450,000, he won't blink for a second...he's in. He's probably real agreeable in real life.  Let's call him Sasperilla Sam. He just called off his entire stack with a KT a moment ago for no particular reason and rebought in for a full stack. Of course that wasn't nearly as good as when I watched someone accidentally turn over AA after going all in, which Silverado Sam clearly saw...and called off his entire stack -- against the visible AA-- with KQ!!! Although jaws dropped all around the table, everyone had the good sense to keep quiet. And drool. And wait.

I look down at QQ. It's a little challenging to exercise control because I know Tugboat Charlie isn't raising light, and Silverado Sam isn't going anywhere, so why not just call to see a safe flop and enjoy my position?

PLAYERS WE'RE STARTING A $550 SINNNNGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM WITH DANIELLE, A $100 SINNNNGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE. YOUR CHANCE TO GET INTO THE MAIN EVENT RIGHT HERE IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM. SINNNNGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE, PAYS TWO PLACES....

Oh, God. Not now. It's Ringmaster B and his full blast repetitious speech booming down in a shower of game show host madness from the speaker systems directly above our heads.

Must focus...I'm probably going to just smooth call....that's when my peripherals kick in...

What's this? The cool college kid two to my left is going to do something. He is unsure of what, but he has a good hand. His body language has gone from asleep to wide awake though he's trying to look just like he did last hand when he folded.

Sometimes it only takes a sliver of a second to get that mini-pulse, that little vibe, that little almost imperceptible click that goes off in your brain that someone next to you has a big hand, or what exactly they have. But when it goes off, it roars off like a canon inside your brain and your gut.

I don't know why most people play poker. Some do it because they're degenerates, some because they love a difficult way to make easy money, some for social interaction maybe? But for me it's all about that little micro-second of absolute clarity. It's like heaven when you figure out something you're not supposed to know.

So I decide to just smooth call the raise with my QQ, and see what exactly College Kid, behind me, has in mind for Tugboat Charlie, Sasperilla Sam and me. College Kid takes even longer than I did to decide what to do with all those delicious pre-flop chips out there. He wonders what took me so long...what Tugboat Charlie is raising with...none of this is an act...he really feels he needs to make a stand with this marginal power hand...but he's genuinely uncertain which course to take...it's now screaming only one of two things. AK or JJ.

SINNNNNGGGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM WITH DANIELLE! PAYS TWO SPOTS! FIRST PLACE RECEIVES...

Breathe, Kai, breathe. Focus. Shut out the cattle auction...

So he's taking a really long time, but finally decides after almost smooth calling, and then after almost raising...to just grab all the chips and shove. It's starting to look more and more like JJ.

Sasperilla Sam, to no one's surprise calls off his entire stack in this re-buy tournament. Again. His range actually includes some Tarot cards and Uno cards as well. Anything is possible from this guy.

So now I'm looking at a major all-in triple up if I decide to play the third best starting hand in poker -- but three way. That's a big decision. If they hit, I'm not in the main this month...I have to be absolutely sure this kid has JJ and not AK.

I flash back to those gunshots from earlier today. I found out they were gunshots when I walked up my really peaceful block here where I live in South Mississippi. Ugly scene. Not what you want fresh in your head before a tournament. A truck's tires have been blown out. Body on the ground. Cops surrounding him. Another cop zipping around the scene spooling off DO NOT CROSS yellow tape all around the wide block. A cop truck zooms down my 15mph street at about 80. VROOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!! Ten cop cars. Fire truck. Abulance. I'd find out it was some idiot criminal who held up a Walgreens, tried to escape and outrun the cops. Then after the cops took out his tires, he thought running out and bringing a knife to a gunfight was the best course of action.

BLAM BLAM BLAM    BLAM BLAMBLAM

PLAYERS WE HAVE ONE SEAT LEFT FOR THIS SINNNNNNGGGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM! DON'T GET SHUT OUT! IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM! ONE LUCKY SEAT LEFT! DON'T GET SHUT OUT! SINNNNGGGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE ......AAAAAANNNNNNDDDDD....

Oh, God.....the carnival sledgehammer is about to slam down on that one syllable and strike the bell...

SOLD!

In my mind's eye I see Ringmaster B dropping down to the ground hard into a celebratory split and twisting his fists by each each other in a lightning-fast 70's type dancefloor victory celebration.

I love Ringmaster B. I really do. If he needed a kidney, I swear to God I've got two for the guy...but the microphone thing...we've talked about it...it's getting better...slowly...

Back to now. Back to reality. Focus, idiot! Focus! The action is on you!

I've got to know if this kid has AK or JJ. It's a life or death difference. I mumble something to the table...I don't even remember what...it's like sending out a radar signal...trying to see what comes back. It's almost like my eyesight shuts down in those moments and I'm relying just on radar. People mumble some things back and there's a little chatter but I'm focused on the kid through the sides of my head. It's weird when you try to get a read on someone's hand and it becomes like synesthesia...when someone has AK it has a certain flavor to it...an orange heaviness...a heavy hollow bell chime ring...There's a feel to certain people's hands that defies description. JJ has a totally different...flavor.

He mumbles something and throws in his last chip which he doesn't notice which was behind his arm, makes a semi-funny comment and smiles and gives a little laugh. But as I'm watching him, I see his smile has an unnatural ending to it...it doesn't just fade out by a slow drop...it breaks off too tensely and suddenly like the smile was a little artificially confident. Got it. He has Jacks. My Zen moment of absolute clarity has arrived in that tiny fraction of a second!!!

I'm a 4:1 favorite against him! Not a 1.2 : 1 favorite. I'm getting well over a gigantic triple-up pot agaist him and Sasperilla Sam's random hand. I win this one, I can navigate my way easily to the main event! Shove-all-in!

He flips over Jacks.

Sasperilla Sam turns over a Ten......and an Ace. 2.5 : 1 favorite over this calling station to boot!

Flop: Ace.

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAM BLAM.

PLAYERS WE ARE STARTING A NEW SINNNNNNGGGGGGLE TABLE SATELLITE IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM WITH DEBBIE A SINNNNNGGGGGGGGGGG.....

I decide to take my kids and dog out for a walk around the neighborhood later on that day. It's a gorgeous day and I'm ready for some normalcy. I guess I should have focused equally on Sasperilla Sam's hand...been more precise with his holdings as well. Should I have been more careful? Would it have mattered? Wouldn't I have still shoved? Time to leave tournaments behind for a few months and focus on...other things. Today all my focus is on my kids. Leave that crazy stuff from earlier behind me.

My kids, dog and I are loving our walk. Suddenly a cute perfectly trimmed little white poodle sees my dog, my kids and I from across the highway and decides to jot across it and say hi...it doesn't see the car coming from behind it. It's going to hit in half a second. I can't stop it. I yell at my kids to look away! "CLOSE YOUR EYES!" I scream. I try to throw up my arms and shield their vision. They can't help it. They look. They see it. They hear it. I can't stop their horrible crying and screaming for a really, really long time...

This week cannot end soon enough.

In lieu of a book this week I'm HIGHLY recommending ALTEC earbuds. I bought one of those Skullcandy earbuds recently and became aware of how deeply Skullcandy products suck. Returned! These Altec babies were half the price ($20 or so) and are AWESOME! They clobber your eardrums with deep, thick bass and lush, bright sounds. And complete noise filtering without bleeding music. Which is great for drowning out the sounds of people getting shot to death or poodles getting crunched under a tire.

Hmmmmmm....

2012-01-22T23:53:00.000-06:00

Don't think I'm gonna have this blog up by Sun night...but I like how it's evolving, morphing, and getting laid out...maybe put on a finishing touch Monday night. Right now it kind of reads like this...

But with proper time to let it sit overnight and touch it up a few details, it will read like this tomorrow night.

However, I know if I work too long and too hard on it, it will just be as annoying as THIS...

So I think one more day is the proper incubation time. See you voyeurs tomorrow night.

WILL PLAY FOR POPEYE'S FRIED CHICKEN

2012-01-15T22:02:00.107-06:00

FALSE MAYAN APOCALYPSE COUNTDOWN 48 SUNDAYS LEFT. Sun Jan 15, 2012.

Details below.

CRYSTAL AND TIFFANY AREN'T JUST NAMES OF ENTERTAINERS AT RICK'S...

Well if this isn't just salt in the wound...

Flashback about one month ago. I get the only bill in the mail maybe anyone could ever possibly look forward to receiving. And tearing the envelope open with a big smile like it's Christmas morning.

"Dear <Mr. Landry>, it is with great excitement that we are pleased to announce ticket sales for the post season. The NFL has directed us to go ahead and prepare to sell playoff tickets to our season ticket holders as soon as possible tickets for up to two postseason games..."

Boom Shaka Laka Laka!

Our boys in black and gold had done it again! Record shattering amazing bastards! Greatest Show on Turf's points? Shattered. Dan Marino's record? Shattered. Peyton Manning's record? Shattered. Drew Brees even shattered the completion percentage record formerly held by the great Drew Brees. Upwards of fifteen long standing NFL records were obliterated by margins of up to 7-8% by this team. Sproles. Graham. History books.

And then... the comedy of errors at Candlestick Park, against the long-hated 49ers, the double-decade dynasty of the former NFC West allignment. It was kind of like the 1982 Aints had continuously made cameo appearances in the script...leaving me feeling violently nautious, and leaving a team with this much heart and talent, the most offensively potent team of all time, watching the playoffs from home This was supposed to be the mental confidence bounceback game for the Louisiana/ Gulf Coast area after the LSU/Alabama EMBARASSMENT.

What amazed me most about the Saints is how they didn't quit and made an amazing comeback, and damn near victory, all while numerous ridiculous turnovers... bad beat after bad beat...never once shook their confidence. It was an absolutely amazing effort...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

...as opposed to the LSU Tigers' "performance," which damn near had me going on Ebay to sell my collegiate football fan allegiance to the highest bidder. Twenty bucks to root for the New Mexico State Aggies for the rest of my life, and never have to root for these quitters again? Tempting...

There's no dirtier word in sports than the Q-word, and I'll be damned if that's not what they did. Congratulations, Alabama. Congratulations, San Fransisco. While the Saints game may have had me cursing and screaming like a drunken, inner-city Tourettes stricken sailor with an unbridled amounts of equal parts rage and insanity, coming damn near close to throwing my HDTV out the window with the last energy of a dying human body that had it's living, blood-pumping heart ripped out by Vernon Davis with 0:09 left on the clock, at least I can say that the Saints never gave up and fought like hell to win that game.

But as for LSU? OOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, it's gonna take a long, long time for me to forgive you for this one.

We all saw every damn one of you on the bench halfway through the third quarter...not speaking to each other, heads down...dejected. It was the "no mas" fight of college football. It's really disrespectful to Alabama that they didn't even have to earn this one.

So much for getting some more crystal and Tiffany silver trophies down here, no matter how great your teams were this season. The horrific South Louisiana gridiron apocylapse on 2012 is now behind us, but the sting throbs and festers really badly!

Cures sorrow. Take as directed.

Once the Saints are out of the picture, the NFL has about as much excitement and luster to me as AA womens' basketball or sitting around listening to NPR and quilting all day.

But the salt in the wound is that I got ridiculously "lucky" with the Saints this year in my request for additional playoff tickets. All that simply had to happen this week is that the Saints take care of business and the Giants do the impossible and defeat Green Bay at Lambeau Field, and I would have had the rights to sell THIRTEEN NFC Championship tickets at the game that would have been held at the Superdome next week. And as I just watched it unfold, shaking my head in disgust, New York took care of their part. Thirteen golden tickets to an event that doesn't exist...

MILLION DOLLAR HEATER AT THE BEAU RIVAGE.
First off, severe congratulations to my really, really good friend Scott....something. I forget his last name. Whatever. But he's a tremendous competitor. Tremendous enough to take down the opening event at the Beau last week with over 1,500 entrants. Williams? Yeah. That's it. Scott Williams. I think he's this guy in this picture or something:

Forgot to stick out his pinkies...

Anyway, when asked about his strategy, Scott said, "I just cross my fingers and hope a lot." Well said, Scott. Truly inspirational. Let's just "hope" Scott keeps winning so he can enlighten us with more nuggets of wisdom like this.

As for myself, I bubbled that same event last week, then bubbled yesterday's event, coming in 32d with 27 getting paid. The only two events I've played. This just hours after watching the Saints lose in the last seconds during dinner break. Swish that around in your mouth for a while. Tastes like "despondency" and "malaise" doesn't it? MMMmmmm! Despondency! I can't complain though, as it's been a little while since I've played, and feel like I'm getting the "ring rust" off quikly in just these two openers, and I can definitely feel I am starting to get back into strong tournament form.

WILL WORK FOR POPEYES

Anyway as far as the main event goes for the Million Dollar Heater Main Event, if anyone is interested in staking me for the entire buy-in, I will work for no more than one three (3) piece white spicy Popeyes dinner with red beans and rice as the side, and a large Coke as the drink. That means if I take down first place for an estimated $300,000 or so; it would be entirely yours for the contractual consideration of the spicy delicious Popeyes dinner described above. All forms would be filled out accordingly.

I don't really feel like getting into 60/40 split, 70/30 split with makeup discussions...so let's just put this out on the table as simply as I can. I will only accept a cash payout of ONE POPEYES THREE PIECE WHITE SPICY DINNER, WITH RED BEANS AND RICE AS THE SIDE AND A LARGE COKE AS THE DRINK. All cash winnings would be yours and you alone also responsible for taxes.

I know what you're thinking...why would anyone go against the policy of, as the Joker said in The Dark Knight Rises, "If you're good at something, never do it for free."

Well simply put, I'm interested in attaining a working relationship with a backer from here on out. Up to this point I've been the only one fronting myself with two exceptions in this years WSOP (one i won, the other I didn't). And I'm really interested to see what I can do in a different set of circumstances. Could you just "Buy a Piece?" Maybe. But you front the damn chicken, and you get a 100% payout.

Don't worry. I have a great game plan to win. Have Jordan Jefferson run the option or throw a screen on every play, then eventually just give up.

Just kidding.

Or I'll just satellite in and keep every damn penny for myself. Let's see.

But the 99.9997/ 0.00003 (no rake back) offer is on the table.

Yes, I am serious about the chicken.

JUST OUT OF CURIOSITY

If anyone is from the New Orleans metro area and old enough to remember the old LAS Siding commercials with Oscar the handy-man sitting on an old rickety bench and staring just off to the camera and looking pathetic (while the camera slowly zooms out) and the narrator says, "This is Oscar...Oscar is out of work and could install affordable siding on your home..."

I'm asking because I came across this LAS shirt on the internet but couldn't find an Oscar t-shirt anywhere...did I just imagine this character as a child or was this real? Somebody help!

Kai-prah's Book of the Month Club:
Just finished "Bad Bet on the Bayou." For any of you ever gambling at Harrah's in New Orleans, and amazed by how awful the dealers and service are, you'll be even more amazed story of the political nightmare and corruption that penetrated every level of government in Louisiana to get this casino built and gaming legalized in the state. A few months back I highly recommended "Havanna Nocturne" to you, a book about Castro getting the mob and gambling OUTof Cuba during the revolution. This book is about getting gambling and the mob INTO Louisiana by an equally slimy individual, Governor Edwin Edwards. Prepare to be shocked by all the incomepence and corruption in 1990's Louisiana government.

SUNDAYS, EVERYONE? ONLY FIFTY LEFT!

2012-01-07T01:38:00.022-06:00

So I ran into the consistently obnoxious, loud and foul-mouthed owners of our website (GulfCoastPoker.NET) this evening (Bill Phillips and Gene Dudek) at the Beau Rivage in Biloxi. I'm sure most of you know these guys, so I'm sure you'll know exaclty what I'm talking about when I say this...

After having to endure their never-ending barrage of dead hooker jokes, Penn State jokes, and limericks set in "Nantucket." I managed to squeeze in a few words of my own...barely. You know these typical guys, right? The ones who leave the frat house...but it never really leaves them. The ones who keep slapping you on the back, belching, and asking you if you want a beer...only to be distracted by ANY woman who walks in the room to look her over from toenail to hair-do?

I mean...it's not so much that these guys offend my deep Christian sensibilities as it is that they're so damn childish.

Anyway, inbetween the one about Michael Jackson's proctologist and the one about Little Bo Peep's unwanted pregnancy (I've worded that more delicately than they did) ...I told them both how I "resolved" to churn out more blogs for them this year. Even if it's just fifteen or so. I enjoy writing, and feel like I need to hit the ground much harder than I did with things I believe I have a knack for, poker being one of them. To really leave a strong impression in 2012. To write more often ...to read and play poker much more consistently...how I need to take things more seriously once again and use...

Once again, Gene's just pretending to listen to me, but then interrupts me to ask me to "pull his finger."

I indulge him. Yes, Gene... I can tell you had Arby's for dinner. How fascinating.

I tell them how I enjoy writing and have these ideas for a couple of BOOKS I'd like to write. One about a serial murder with a heart of gold who spends all his spare time at Wal-Mart. One about an old widower's personal spiritual quest. One dark comedy about a union organizer in a sewerage plant where the workers are filthy, and the pay gets worse.

Bill decides to cut me off here with another unrequested "comment." No, Bill. That's not what santorum really means. Show some respect to the man. He just placed second in Iowa.

I look over my right shoulder and see Gene is shooting three Jaeger-bombs in the time it takes most people to sneeze and asking everyone if they know who the "player of the series" was at the IP just recently. And how that guy "don't take **** from nobody." Thankfully, most of the room goes unbothered. Even when he raises his right hand and does "the shocker" as his little victory move. "THE SHOCKAAAAHHHH!! YEAH BOOOYYYYYEEEE...." Suddenly, Gene falls over quickly and awkwardly on an empty table fifty-one, really hard, and right on his left side. It looks like it hurt like hell. From this angle, it looks almost looks like he intentionally head-butted the poker table at full speed with the left side of his face. He gets up really quick and tries to act cool. Once again, he raises his right-shocker-hand in victory to the "delight" of the crowd. "shockaaahhh" he just kind of whispers this time.

But I guess this boorish "who cares how I behave, the money's always gonna keep pouring in!" kind of attitude is what we can expect to exist when a couple of guys like Bill and Gene make it big with an incredibly successful poker news site like GCP.NET. That's life.

I start telling Bill, the possibly more sober of the two -- as if that word could ever apply to them -- about how I want to find a serious backer this year. How I've got a goal to even write a poker book with a situational quiz format. How...

His eyes glaze over. He's looking right through me like I'm made of glass. But right when I think he's mentally gliding over the foggy methane surface of Mars, he aggressively grabs my shirt and shakes me with a viscious sneer on his face and a deranged, yet totally zen look in his eyes. "Sundays," he says. "You gotta spill your nasty little verbal gumbo out on my site every Sunday."

Bill throws up a little in his mouth. And then...it disappears back where it came from.

"If you write one day a week, even if you don't .... have no material or nothin'....even stupid stuff...on a set day of the week....you really can increase your readership. People like that set day stuff. Givess 'em shomething to look forward to."

Hmmmm. From the mouths of children... pearls of wisdom. Amazing.

"How bout that, Lumpy (Bill calls me Lumpy for reasons NO ONE understands), you want Sumday? How bout Shhunday?

Sounds pretty good.

Let's do it. After all, according to the Mayans, we've only got fifty Sundays left. I mean, why should I not take serious calendar and self-burial planning advice from a virtually extinct Indian tribe who practiced human sacrifice on their own people and had not yet stumbled upon big technological marvels...like the wheel? Couldn't be any worse than believing Bill...who I just took advice from. Could it? Let's assume both Bill and the Mayas are right, so I'll churn out 50 blogs, one each Sunday, for you people, until December 21, 2012.

I wound up hanging out with these two buffoons for the next half hour exchanging stories. I'm thinking Gene really hurt his spleen from that fall and should seek medical attention, but, hey, who died and made me Dr. Schweitzer, right?! I just walk him over to his car and watch him drive off. He'll probably be ok. Whatever.

But, hey. It's simple politics. If you want to keep having cyber realty space to print your blather on, you yuck it up with these owner / editors. Pretend you like them. Laugh at their jokes. Slap their backs. Take an occasional Jaegarbomb. And then get to writing. In the big picture I have planned out for 2012, with my personal goals, those dudes are just speedbumps along the way. I'm all cleared and now I got talked into doing 50 blogs for you people. YOU'RE WELCOME!

2011 was such a year of "almost" for me in every single way. Almost scored big here, almost got a ring there, almost got my first WSOP bracelet there, almost...well, some of these "almosts" are too scandalous to tell. Sorry. But 2012 will not be an "almost" year. I can feel it coming. And I'm feeling determined again to leave a lot of "almosts" behind me.

So from now on, Kai's blog will come out every Sunday night on GCP.NET. And yeah, I think I can churn out 50. And hey, Gene and Bill, let's change the name of this thing back to "You're Entering a World of Pain."

Well there's a Shocker!!!

Next Sunday: The Viking Auctioneer and Self-Composure

BEST BLOG EVER KNOWN TO MAN.

2011-11-05T15:12:00.000-05:00

((( This blog has been deemed so incredible it has been shielded from public view for safety concerns. We apologize for that disappointed feeling you have. We will return soon with a less incredible blog. Thank you for your understanding. )))

K

WSOP MAIN EVENT UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE

2011-07-13T04:06:00.000-05:00

And there you have it.

Thanks for reading.

DAY 1D. THE JOURNEY TO HELL AND BACK...AND FUN PEOPLE. B.A.P., ANYONE.?

2011-07-12T00:59:00.008-05:00

6,865 players this year. Just a few of them here.

It was downright "Twilight Zone" to be sitting back at Table White 51 in the Pavillion Room. Of all the tables in the Rio, the one where I "left off" with a bust in 2009 (my only other WSOP main) was the most curious spot to land in this years event. In the seat of the guy who busted me no less. Kind of like they divide day one up into day one A, B, C, and D...this felt like I was playing in event 2009-B. The conclusion of a cliffhanger. A do-over. Something.

So I was a little terrified when ol' TT landed in my palms again. But it worked out well, and I played it right.

2009's unceremonious exit was extra heartbreaking because the guys at my table and I were all having a great time.

Ditto 2011. Deja vu all over again.

I don't know why it is that I always seem to have a great time at main events. Maybe it's the awesome structure. Maybe it's the magnitude of the event paired up with people on day one that one can only wonder how on Earth they got in, or landed in a lucky enough gene pool to have such funds available.

But it's probably the nervous tension that I pick up on at the table and try my hardest to twist that nervousness into a fun time. Toss around a few insults with a smile and a wink, tell a few stories that make no sense...then stop and look around confused... whatever it takes, I always try to turn that nervous energy into a good time. And this bunch of guys, well, at least on my side of the table, were game. The other side of the table? Not so much.

Then there were our two mildly psychotic dealers. Picuted immediately below is "Raven." Presumably her stage name. This self-proclaimed witch, as in "Wiccan," decided she absloutely must wear my ridiculous leopard skin sunglasses. She was, to say the least, a lot of fun, and had no reservations about being excessively goofy despite the size and importance of the tournament. After she put my glasses on, a tablemate told her she should "lick his glasses to give them some witch magic." She wasted no time and covered my glasses in a nasty, glossy veneer of 62-year old saliva. The table roared laughing! All except for the stoic Jedi-Knight hooded Dwanna-be's in seats 3,4, and 5....more on them in just a moment.

The "sexy" pose.

Spit. It's the new "rust-coating."

NNN TSS NNN TSS NNN TSS

"Raven" had lots of good one liners, and really cracked me up when one of the Dwanna-be's took forever on a hand, released it, and she taunted him by saying kind of quietly, "Baby...I still need to get my toothbrush back."

Gold!

Then there was "A.J." a dealer from Thailand who reminded everyone that if you play AJ you'll wind up in the parking lot, and that her nickname in fact was "Parking Lot."

"Wanna go to Parking Lot, honey?" she'd ask. Then she'd insist that me and the dude next to me had to give her a lapdance. Even took a couple of stray dollar bills out of her pocket, and begged for it! Hysterical!!!

By level three, of course, most of the laughter had subsided...and the rest of the entire Pavillion Room no longer had to wonder why our remote corner of the room was having such a great time.

"Parking Lot."

As I was slowly grinding my way up to $35,000 from my starting stack of $30,000, aiming for my calling station target who I'd named "Darth Spewer," the wheels came off and took me from in a great mood, to so angry I actually believed I couldn't physically see for a few seconds.

How the other side of the table "rolls."On their collective bookshelves: "Being
a Tool for Dummies." Do they all shop at the same garage sales? I don't
know, but pictured center is"Darth Spewey, Lord of Jedi Clowns."

Darth Spewey, who's mission in life seemed to play Ace-rag from any position and river two pair against anyone, looked down to find himself with a commanding stack of 70,000 pretty quickly. Make no mistake about it...I liked that quite a bit, since another guy in seat two really seemed to be the best player at the table, I'd much prefer Darth to have the chips. Or so I thought. It's no fun when your target's special Sith power is not "force lightning," but "catching abilities."

I raise big. I flop a perfect one-gapper straight. Darth Spewey calls. I jam it. Again. He rivers a flush with a lovely J6h.

I look down at AA against him. 9,3,2, J,9. I jam huge every street. He has A-9o.
At about this time, I look down at 9k in chips, taste the full, rancid flavor of defeat in my mouth, and start to have a Helmuthian meltdown of rage. More like a blackout where I just had to walk it off...for twenty minutes.

Picked and clawed my way back up to 14k, doubled up somehow with AK, won another big one, clawed and scratched some more and finished with 64k. WHEW!!! Comeback!

About the same time that Monkey and I are sending creative suicide plans to one another via text message, he makes a REMARKABLE comeback as well. El Monkez went from 1,975 (about a small blind, big blind and an ante) to finish the day at 42k. Wow.

Almost a shame...because I kind of liked the idea of sending a long rope through the rafters in the ceiling of the Pavillion Room and going Saddam in front of the crowd.

No? Too soon?

Well, there's always tomorrow, but I'm really planning on cashing this thing instead. Stay tuned.

Lastly, just a word of confirmation to Gabe Costner and Michael "Car Wash" Schneider, who have 20% of me, and a 1% save-swap respectively. Also, I'm glad to see my 40% of Monkey didn't vanish into the land-of-broken-dreams-o-sphere yesterday, and is positioned for what I can only hope will be a strong run starting today at high noon. Also predicting Claudia "The Claw" Crawford to make a big run. Don't know why that is, I just trust my gut. Hope she'll swap 1% with me tomorrow.

And as I look at that, I realize I'm really overinvested in myself for this one. I'd like to probably sell another 25% or so of my action. Or at least a swap. You guys let me know... but not too late, and we'd have to have some sort of a written deal, of course.

Off to get a good night sleep in a comfortable bed, have a great run through the crack corridor of Las Vegas tomorrow morning, and if I don't get shot, stabbed, or beat down, do some good things tomorrow. Hope my A-game shows up.

Boom Shaka Laka Laka,
K

SOME STUFF I'VE NEVER SEEN BEFORE...EVER...REALLY!

2011-07-10T05:08:00.003-05:00

What an exhausting couple of days. As you are certain to see, my brain is so dog tired that I can't properly write.

Sorry, kids. No clever writing today, gigantic women, hideous shoes...but a story so shocking, it's a shame I can't tell it better at the moment. But I promised myself I'd spit something out for you.

Shipped the $2K Mega for myself to get into the main yesterday. Pretty pleased with that; wound up spending my max allocation for the main: $3k and got in. I've only played the WSOP LV main once before in 2009. I was thrilled to, as anyone should be.

Strange to think that after a certain amount of time, you expect to get into the main event (anywhere), and place so much internal stock on whether or not you can make the cut.

So it was nice shipping tonight's 1K Mega as well tonight, for a friend of mine who staked me out of the blue. Back to back Mega shipping feels good (earning two "seats" in two nights), but I hope I haven't worn myself out for the main tomorrow. Truth be told, I'd never been staked ever before and was wondering how it would affect my play today. I'm not the guy to go out and "Eskimo" people on the rail begging to get into anything. I've always played with my own money, independently and stubbornly. To some I suppose that means increasing my variance, but to me it's decreasing my variance.

Anyway today's $1K became a hysterical zoo unlike anything I'd ever seen before as panic set in for those without an above average stack. With 624 entering the event, and with 61 getting their Golden Willy Wonka WSOP seat, more screaming failed "deals," obvious collusion, fights, accusations of cheating, flashed cards, insults, etc. took their toll on management...

What do you think of their decision on how to deal with all of this...

The three floormen decided that to end the problems, we were to go hand-for-hand with 65 left (61 would get paid). To counter the "soft play" among players that was accused at about every table, management decided that from now on, each player, as they folded, was not to throw his cards into the "muck," but to "fold" their hand by putting it out just a little bit in front of them. After a pot was awarded, management would order EACH FOLDED HAND SHOWN! Upon viewing each folded hand, which was lying right in front of each player who had discarded it, management would subjectively decide whether or not the player was "soft playing," and would inflict a one-round penalty upon that player.

A player at the table next to mine, was revealed to have folded pocket tens to three larger stacks (on the bubble) and was given a one-round penalty!

HUH?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!!??!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

He rightfully lost his mind and raised hell.

Management then decided to no longer persue that policy about fifteen minutes later. Time to go from 65 players to 61? About three hours. Yes. Really.

When fights resulted and hysteria broke out with 62 left (yes, just one from the money), management threatened to end the tournament right then and there and refund all 624 people's $1060 buy-ins.

HUH?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!!?!?!?!??!!??!!?!?!?!?!??!!?!?!?!?!??!?!!?

Yes, they were dead serious.

Remember...this wasn't at some VFW bingo hall.

This was at the World Series of Poker at the Rio $1060 mega to the main event. Today. Yes. You read all of that stuff right.

Anyway, I'd write more on the subject, but tomorrow's that special day.

How's this for a peculiar omen. I'm playing at the exact same table I played at in 2009. Know how many tables there are at the Rio? Even weirder... I'm in the exact seat of the guy who busted me that day.

Guess we'll see soon what this all means...

Boom Shaka Laka Laka,
Kai

THE DEATH OF THE JETTA, A COUPLE OF GOOD FINDS, AND...WHAT'S IN OMAR HIKARY'S CLOSET...

2011-06-21T00:51:00.009-05:00

Hola from Vegas, once again, disloyal, fickle readers! ;)

It's been quite a journey coming back here with a good bit to tell, so let's get started with a bunch of pictures from this week. I like pictures. They are great space-killers and it lessens the load of all the quality writing I have to churn out. I can put the ol' cerebrum on auto pilot for this blog and let the pix do most of the talking...

For starters, I think we can all agree that these two lights (engine and battery) are not the kind of thing you would like to see on your dashboard when you are in the middle of the desert smack dead in the middle of New Mexico, whose state motto, if you are inclined to believe that sort of thing, is the "Land of Enchantment." Enchantment? I must have missed that right turn. Arid, flat desert. Horizon. Screaming sunlight. Large predatory birds circling overhead. Waiting. Watching. Waiting.

So it is with great regret that I must report that the All-Terrain-Jetta, whose adventures many of you followed in my previous blog...is no longer with the company. Yes, I too am sad about such a loss of one of our staple characters to my blog's ever evolving storyline. The Jetta transported me across this great land from casino to casino. The All-Terrain-Jetta had a cult following on this board. I am aware of this. My All-Terrain-Jetta received fan mail from Indonesia, Brazil, Slovakia, Belize... sometimes written crudely on bits of scrap paper with pencil or crayon; sometimes a gift attached...a spark plug, an Armor-All wipe, a rubber fitting for a windshield wiper... everyone across our global community wanted to see this lovable loser of a car succeed.

So it is with great, great sorrow that I now issue the standard corporate cookie-cutter, pre-fabbed, emotionally void statement of grief that all politicians nowadays use whenever they address someone's death...

"I am shocked and saddened to learn of the sudden passing of [The All-Terrain-Jetta]. [It] will be greatly missed."

Shocked and saddened. Watch for someone to use that meaningless catch phrase next political death. I guarantee it.

Also, well not so much shocking and saddening, as it is a little disappointing is the fact that I will apparently not have a backer this WSOP. Not the biggest inconvenience in the world, but it sure would have been nice to play twenty or so events on someone else's dime this year. Maybe next year.

Before the demise of the Jetta, I did manage to stop in Amarillo, TX on the way back to Vegas for something I've been wanting for quite some time now. A pair of really nicely crafted boots. And where better on Earth to buy a pair than Amarillo, Texas, whose double-Ls in the town name's logo, are, after all, cowboy boots?

Ostrich -- it's what's for dinner. New boots at the dark edge
of the horizon for the Jetta...just stay with me here, folks, there's
a reason I'm talking about shoes...just wait
for it...wait for it...

So I have to say, they do take a little getting used to. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have to wear high heels? Pretty uncomfortable over all, and kind of off balance. Makes me think that maybe cocktail waitresses shouldn't have to be forced to work in high heel shoes. That has to be hell. Note to self: quit having feminist inner monologues. You just bought BOOTS! Stop acting sensitive! Wuss!

Last week I told you all about the venerable Sahara Canino going bankrupt and being "dark" permanently. Well, a few days ago I noticed they were having a liquidation sale starting at 10 am. Great! Sounds thrifty and predatory! What's not to like? But upon arrival that morning, the line of huddled masses extended a good quarter mile down the road (no exaggeration) of people wanting to have fun with an auction format to try to steal a piece of memorabilia... Forget that. Can't do lines. But... I did go back a couple of days later to hope that I might just be lucky enough to find something that I really wanted that was overlooked somehow...and BAM! There it was!

Original, great condition, even replete with chewing gum under the table! Felt is in great shape, just a little dirty. Last one! Total steal. $327 total out the door price! Anyone can buy a poker table, but the way I see it, this is a little piece of history and pretty darn cool memorabilia. I can only imagine they brought this one in from storage that day. I told one of the workers I'd slap him a "finders fee" if he could locate another one, and he thought that was a great idea; even let me know that they could have some poker table Sahara new "felts" for the tables that were never used coming up tomorrow. Stay tuned. Lastly, I did pick up about 64 decks of Sahara playing cards that I'll probably sell most of. See me if you're interested. Unwrapped. Unused. History in the palm of your hands for a measly $5! Tip optional.

Yesterday, the South Mississippi/ GCP crew for the most part headed out to cash game specialist/ Armani fashionista/ quasi-heterosexual militant Omar Hikary's lavish Turnberry Place condominium just off the strip for a really well put together barbeque. Omar ponied up for a lavish spread of grilled sausages, burgers, ribeye after ribeye...Newcastle on tap, ice cold drinks by the pool...really well done!

Gabe Costner's lips are moving, but as Oren
Zweig savors the last juices of his ribeye
off his fingertips, he hears only one thing...
"pie...pie.......piiiieeee......"

Monkey and Omar on the 36th floor. Monkey's
monolithic skull impedes a great view of the
Las Vegas Strip.

Omar as Audrey Hepburn, some random dude who
laughs a lot, the rarely photographed recent WSOP
bracelet winner David Diaz as Zach Galifianakis, TK
Miles, Rastafarian Warlord.

Omar is always a lot of fun at the tables, and it sucks that Uncle Sam relocated him to Las Vegas (great for him though). He's become a cash game machine within the last couple of years, and tonight I hope to see why he talks up the Aria's poker room so much. In fact, I plagiarized Omar's trademark look of gigantic Armani shades a while back; putting my own twist to it. Whereas he would have expensive oversized designer shades, I went with gigantic, really, really ugly shades...and never looked back. The kind of look that makes people quizzically stare at you and think, "Is..he..serious? Does he think he looks good in those? Is he kidding? Is he borrowing some girl's glasses? Is he totally metro? I wonder if he sells drugs. Or ponies... Seriously... what's up with that dude's shades?" The way I see it, the more confused you make the other guy, the better off you are. Keep 'em wondering.

So at the barbecue, I stripped down from my jeans into my swimsuit. Giving credence to the Shawshank Redemption's theory that no one really ever looks at the shoes you're wearing...well, once I took my shoes OFF and laid them on the table, Omar took immediate notice of them and, well, most of you know how Omar does that thing where he exclaims really loudly...

"SON......WHAT........IN THE WORLD...........ARE.......THOSE?!?!"

Green is the new red. Just ask any socialist.
Think about it.

Ok. I get it. I'm stretching a bit far with my shoes. I thought they were a good buy. I don't spend a lot of money on myself, and I thought they were cool. I still do. The boots I'd wanted for years. This was something cheap, practical, and fun. Yes...they're high-tops. And green canvas. Whatever. I'm still feeling pretty good about my purchase. Yes, I know I'm thirty-nine. And, yes, I'm probably trying to look more youthful and hip with the shoes than I am. I think I'm allowed to have an early mid-life crisis in my footwear if I chose to. Damn! Why I gotsta bees called out like dat?

So after an inordinate amount of ribbing, we take the grand tour of Omar's condo...which is an awesome, well laid out pad. 270 degree view of the Valley. Three bedrooms. Totally stylin'...

All was going well for Omar's condo tour until he bragged up his spacious walk-in closet.

That's when I noticed...

wait for it...

Omar's recently bought, pristine "FLINTSTONE HIGH TOPS!!!"

Suddenly my mouth went dry with fear and horror. My body froze. You know that cinematic effect when the most horrible grizzly event just happens in the climax of a horror movie...and the camera slowly zooms in on the horrified guy's face, but the hallway behind him slowly appears to get longer and longer? Where escape out a confined area seems a million miles away -- and you know, right there, that escape is impossible now; there's no way out... and you belong to the monster!

Yeah. That's how I felt. A stultifying fear washed over me in a cold sweat. I was paralyzed with fear and...well, disgust.

Suddenly, TK walks in and GRABS the high tops! Like, with no fear at all. Like each shoe was NOT a coiled up Cobra or something. I felt my stomach drop to the floor. We are all going to die. We are all going to die right here in this closet because these shoes are going to violently f***ing murder us and eat our bodies.

That's when everyone saw them and the room expolded with fear and panic.

Since you are reading this, it's obvious that somehow, I escaped. I don't know how... I kind of blacked out there for a minute. I just remember a lot of screaming, a mob rushing in a frenzied panic out of the condo for the elevator, the sound of children getting trampled, that thing where blood starts pouring down the walls...distant blood curdling howls from those left behind in the condo..."NO.....HELP US.....HEEEELLLLLLPPPP USSSSSSSS AAAARRRRRGGGHHHHHH...."

Omar, I hope that many years from now, you look at those shoes and think, "Damn! I was really running well in 2011. I had way too much money!"

I mean, seriously, dude, where would you ever wear shoes like that? To protest a funeral? To your own DIY exorcism? To a bingo function for blind jazz musicians? To a Mormon Baptism? I can't think of one social event, even remotely, that you could actually get away with wearing those things! To a job interview for a "funeral comforter?" To an interview with the law school admission board?

Wait. I got it. You know what would actually be cool? You know how the state hires someone to actually pull the switch at a state execution of a criminal? Yeah. You could be that guy. Black hood. Black suit. Flintstone hightops.

That would be awesome.

But even more than looking back on 2011 and the shoes with regret, I actually never hope you notice. I hope each year, you make so much money, you never even begin to take notice. I hope you never notice the leopard print Jeep you'll probably buy in 2012. Or the mink coat you'll buy in 2013. Or the Sengali hand crafted marble and ivory waterbed with the disco ball spinning on top of it you're sure to buy in 2014. Or the ostrich skin boots you're certain to buy in...

wait...

I have no Amazon books to peddle to you people this month. It's been a slow reading month, so go see the X-Men. It's really good. Or buy some Sahara playing cards from me. Or don't. Maybe I could sew together a card-jacket for you-know-who...

ADVENTURES IN LAS VEGAS

2011-06-06T01:56:00.053-05:00

Hello, voyeurs!

Been a long time since I've blogged. Wouldn't really be fair of me to raise the subscription price since I've been so inconsistent, huh?

Vegas's former number one cheesy photo op, and
a once thriving hotel in the disco era suffers disrepair...read: Bargain prices!

Anyway, yes, I'm here in Vegas with my ol' standbye roommate, Senor Monkey. Got in Monday night and yesterday, June 4th, I got to SMELL a WSOP bracelet. Just a whiff... just as if it were a passing dream...

Yes, I came within five people of capturing one of the highly coveted fifty-nine gold bracelets available to the players this year. Instead, a consolation prize (like a parting gift for a game show loser) of sixth-place money would have to do. You'll hear it a million times -- the agony and bitterness, and the apparent disrespectful ingratitude of how anyone could be so miserable to make such great money in one day. " Sixth place? Great run! Congratulations!"

Whatever. I lost.

The Zen masters have a saying. "In a journey of a hundred miles, ninety-nine miles is about halfway."

The Riviera's theme? Broken glass! Bring the kids!

If you've ever played a poker tournament, you totally get this saying.

Three hundred fifty-seven players slapped down $1500 four days ago for the Seven Card Stud tournament. As has become tradition it seems, the worlds biggest leg-humper would be placed to my immediate left. For those of you unfamiliar with the term (I'm pursuing a trademark on it), a leg-humper is someone on your left who will CALL for any price, thereby leaving your large bet unprotected, and giving pot-odds for anyone who wishes to join the fray, in a now completely unmanagably large pot. Your split Aces or pocket Kings now have to survive a four way drunken chip carnival, and their highly-favored-holding status is completely diluted by a large pot, and worse, Stud is a LIMIT game. You can't just throw a grenade into the pot and expect everyone to stop, drop, and fold.

So I've learned here to completely SKIP betting on fourth street; it's a small bet that only works against you when the pot is so large. (Apologies to those of you already falling asleep with the idea of Seven Card Stud being discussed...I understand).

Long story short, it got to the point where every time I would four-bet on third street, the rest of the table would begin to openly laugh at the guy calling my raise. I'm showing an Ace. It's not like all three cards are hidden. You can actually SEE what I have. Even if you omit deductive reasoning from your mind about what four bets could possibly mean in this situation...dude...you still SEE I have an Ace. Even small children with poor attention spans can put two and two together in this situation and decide to fold.

Hump. Hump. Hump... Here he comes again along for the ride, bringing everyone else in with him...

Because of him, within about six hours I'm down to half my starting stack while the field is getting whittled down and everyone else has tripled up and is stacking chips.

And as I'm boiling over angrily about this guy...who has no plan other than to CALL himself into a Mutually Assured Destruction scheme for the both of us, and as I'm wondering HOW, HOW do I get this insanity to stop, he looks at me and says, "Huh huh huh...I remember you from last year! You were buying everybody shots and you were a lot of fun!"

Yeah, the guy whose very flesh I'm imagining covered in a pack of angry, rabid Dobermans amped up on a cocktail of PCP and Red Bull, is just having himself a good ol' time. Not too concerned about winning, mind you...at all...just here for the social aspect of the whole thing. And apparently, according to him, I've Butterfly Effected myself a monster from some forgotton drunken late night 1-2 NLHE game from last year in Vegas!

So he's become the ultimate pest. The pest who is not only destroying your plans for chip accumulation, but who actually LIKES you. Ugggghhhh...

I went for a run that Thrusday morning, hours before the start of the tournament. I think a long run before the start of any tournament is the best thing that one can do. Gets out all the funk, hate demons, tension...but most importantly, I try to go for a distance a little further than I'm comfortable with. It kind of programs the brain to get into the mode of thinking "marathon; not a sprint." Every tournament I've done well in, without fail, was played after an early morning long distance run.

For that morning's run, I deliberately picked the worst possible route from our hotel, The Riviera. Um, yes, we're truly doing the "budget" thing this time. I ran the crack corridor in between the Riviera and downtown Las Vegas. The area known as NOTS...north of the Stratosphere. I wanted a little motivation that the artificial sunshine of the Strip can't provide. There's a perverse beauty in that area with all its tattoo shops, pawn stores, peep shows, bail bonds, street walkers, street sleepers, immigration lawyers, ethnic food dives...it's the ghetto hammocked between the two of the fakest areas of the planet. It reeks of reality, has a few areas even Clark Griswold and his family would avoid, and makes for a good run. In fact, you might find the motivation to run even faster. I run past The Sahara. Despite numerous reinventions of iteslf and reinvestment, the Sahara is now permanently "dark." I run past the Rummell Motel, advertising "Non-smoking rooms Hourly rates!" Classy place. All the freaks, povs, pervs, and weirdos Travis Bickle crusaded against surround me. Suddenly I get chills how the randomizer on my iPod has chosen the Red Hot Chili Pepper's "Tell Me Baby." It's an amazing song about the Sunset Strip and those trying so hard to "make it," while the city eats them alive. The Sunset Strip and the NOTS corridor are like mirror images of each other. I jog deeper and deeper into the 'hood.

Bad day to go jogging in a red t-shirt...
time to head back!

It's funny...if some Vegas resident had made a bet in the 1970's as to what would last longer, The Sahara, or the careers of Cher and Tom Jones, anyone would have arrogantly taken The Sahara. Eventually, as you see from the picture to the right, I came to the conclusion that I've run far and deep enough for the day. The back of my throat is cracked from the dry air, the sweat evaporates off me instantly as I'm panting, and I decide that I've had enough and start to head back.

But I still look for the Gambler's General Bookstore in that area, which I couldn't find that day on foot. Back then, in the early 2000s, if you wanted ANY poker literature at all, you had to come to this place to get it. It was like a trove of esoteric knowledge cleverly hidden in a little known store hidden in a cess pool of humanity. Only those strange enough to want to gamble for a living but too anti-social to get themselves on a blackjack card counting team pursued poker. Some of you probably remember this store. Ha! Nowadays, of course, ample poker literature is in every bookstore.

As I finish my run, I cross the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard when there's no traffic. The street creeps all look up at me at the same time with a look of condemnation and astonishment. I forgot! No one on the West Coast jaywalks. Ever. Suddenly, to everyone around me, I'm the criminal and weirdo...

So I attribute my outlasting the Leghumpapotamus to gearing my brain properly from that early morning run. He finally busted out! Whew. A little while later the field has been cut in half. Feels like we are about half way there... But with the forehead vein protruding frustration built up from his presence over the last several hours, towards the end of the night as I'm involved in a big three-way pot, I snap verbally at a new guy at our table who pairs his 10 on sixth street. "Awesome!" I scream sarcasticaslly. "Just Awesome!" after he bets into us. I think I mumbled that he's a bananahead or something totally uncool, since the guy is right next to me, but deep down I know that he had the right odds to call at that point. I'm just very frustrated and behaving in a way I never do. He's a quiet, polite clean cut Jewish guy talking about living in Israel with another Jewish guy at the table. He scoops a big pot, and looking down his nose at me for my little fit (which I never throw...if that tells you the effect leg humpers have on me) and asks what limit I usually play. "2-5, 5-10 Hold 'em, 20-40 stud...why?" He just scoffs at me.

A few hours later we're bagging up our chips for the day. I peek over at his bag as he writes "J-o-s-h A-r-i-e...." Ooops.

The next day I skip the run but do lots of sit ups. I have a ill-formed new age theory that the gut is a primitive brain, and the more sit-ups one does, the better tuned your "gut" instincts will be. I realize that I have opened up a window for anyone to make fun of me for that theory, but it's ok. I'll accept it. That's actually about as weird as I get, despite the fact that I once frequented the Gambler's General Bookstore.

Tom Dwan, Shannon Shorr, and Josh Arieh are assigned to my table, but if anything, I'm encouraged by that. I've been playing Stud longer than the first two for sure. I get Aces full of Queens to take a good sized pot off of Dwan, but realize that I missed a bet along the way, attempting a greedy check-raise. Those little value mistakes cost you tournaments. In a scene no one would have guessed, the amateur microstacks devoured the pros at that table with a good bit of luck. It's the middle of day two and it kind of feels like I'm halfway there.

We're well into 2 a.m. when Shaun Deeb gets moved to our table. We have to fade about twenty more people to make the money. Then just ten more. Deeb takes two murderous bad beats from the pudgy British kid on my left, who I've named "Devilboy." He seems to take an unholy liking to his new nickname, and I wonder if I've encouraged this calling-station too much. Yes, I have. I really have. He slaughters Deeb, clearly the best player at the table, giving the cards and the players intense concentration. First Devilboy two outs him. Then he two outs him again. Deeb is brooding is his chair; once the chip leader, he now sees his fate as a min-casher. His fuming behavior reminds me a lot of myself when I take bad beats. After several minutes of steamng, he reaches for his cellphone and rapidly thumbs at it, then puts it down, feeling a little better. "Facebook or Twitter?" I ask, kind of smirking. "Both!" he almost shouts, "...and I was way too polite about it!"

The energy of day two was heightened by all the commotion going on at the Main Stage right next to us. In a highly billed match, Jake Cody took on Yevgeniy Timoshenko head up. But since Timoshenko is a Full Tilt representative, and since there were about two hundred British hooligans in the audience, the loudest most creative chants for Jake Cody and heckles againts Timoshenko rocked the entire Amazon pavillion room at the Rio. The drunk British hoolgans would chant "USA! USA! USA!," which was funny enough in itself, but purely amazing in the fact that the heckling and chanting kept up solidly for at least seven hours! Every chant was funny, perfectly and spontaneously coordinated, and set to no less than few hundred base melodies! It was like being at a rowdy soccer match overseas. I made sure to join the fracas on any one of my breaks, and they welcomed me and fed me lots of Heineken from their own individual kegs.

We finally make the money and my friend sweating me, Greg Grivas, brings over a big shot of encouragement to me. The guy my friend brings over is an acomplished player, almost blinded this past winter by riding and crashing motorcycles in Vietnam. He's a pretty energetic guy. Not bad for seventy-one years old. Men "The Master" Nguyen suddenly greets me right next to my table as we are re-starting. The greeting was one of two hands held out to clasp my single handshake, then pull me into a big hug into his tiny frame. He was greeting me like I was a long lost relative come to pay the rent. Pretty nice of him, since we only have a mutual friend in Greg. The hug gives me instant credit at my table, as he knew it would, and gives me some encouraging words. He won the $10K Stud event last year, and is second in WSOP cashes only to Hellmuth. The guy is radiant; a very charasmatic energy comes out from him. Men has had an illustrious poker career probably most analagous to Pete Rose's career in baseball. Men, one of the best ever, is now hungry to take the lead and recently encouraged to leave a better legacy for himself, each day diminishing that asterisk on his stat sheet. And with the amount of energy and vitality the guy possesses, I'm here to tell you it won't be long before he takes the lead.

We bag up our chips once again and come back for day three with twelve of us left. The last nine of us would make the final table. As we do, we're taken to the "kiddie table" of final tables, off to the side of the casino, a far cry from the glorious production set of the televised final table area. I understand...it's Stud. Boring enough to play, definitely nothing anyone wants to watch on TV.

I'd run card dead the whole day. That's just the way it goes sometimes. As if a cruel joke, I'd once look down at rolled up Aces (5525:1 against ever seeing that hand) to watch everyone fold behind me. I'd get half way through the last days field of twelve people, crashing and burning out at sixth place. It may have felt like halfway, but really only second place is half way. And big congratulations to cosmonaut Yevgeniy "Eugene" Katchalov for his victory making it all the way. His patience and concentration were top knotch throughout, and a very hard man to read with his icy cold Russkie demeanor.

Sixth place and the scent of a WSOP bracelet is a hard pill to swallow, but the consolation prize of money in my pocket, some of which was Negreanu's, Dwan's, and Arieh's just days ago is a little comforting. Stud is my best game and I hope the growing lack of interest doesn't kill it in the near future...

Anyway, I hope to come back to Vegas for another shot at this year's WSOP soon. We will see how things go back home in Mississippi...

As always, thanks for reading my blather, and have an awesome day!

Full of giggles. Daily.

Lastly, the booky stuff...

Here's my two highest recommendations for the month. First the brilliant book Hollywood ruined last month by dumbing down the script to a vapid romance film. Written in a simplistic, almost Hemmingway style, Water for Elephants exposes our own necessary needs in life for illusions, and the destruction it causes. Brilliantly parallels the pains of growing old, the circus, hardships, and poverty. Next up, Havana Nocturne. Another serious page turner. Expertly researched about the mob, gambling, Batista, Castro and the Revolution (wan't that a band?), Havana Nocturne takes you back in time to a very real and very scary world just a few miles off our own coast. Despite yourself, you'll find Castro very intelligent, heroic, and likable...if not only because of how over-the-top awful his own enemies were.

22d PLACE AGONY...AND THE TUNICA CANKLE MONSTER!!!

2011-02-16T16:21:00.284-06:00

PARTIAL VIEW of the 480 entrants in this years $1600 Tunica Main Event Buy-In. A Chechnyan
mine field of insanity. Photo credit: Jennifer Gay.

Wow. I don't even know how to begin this semi-epic blog about this weekend in Tunica. Maybe it would help if I offered an illuminating geographical comparison.

Mississippi's gaming mirrors Nevada's in a unique aspect. It's two biggest gambling towns are laid out both in the most southern point of the state. Nevada has Las Vegas in the very southernmost point in that angled state, Mississippi has Biloxi, which hangs off Mississippi in a neat little peninsula. Their two lesser gambling towns are both nestled in the upper Northwest corners of the state. These two also-rans are known as Reno, Nevada and Tunica, Mississippi.

And without actually having ever been to Reno, Nevada, I'm going to go ahead and call Tunica the "Reno of Mississippi," or maybe I'll just call Tunica the "Biggest Little city in Mississippi," stealing their slogan. So to properly imagine Tunica, just imagine a smaller, southern, fun-house circus mirror aimed at Reno.

I really didn't like the fact that I'd have to zoom into Tunica just to play the main event. I never play well in a series for the first few tournaments; it takes me a little while to get acclimated into correct game form -- a few tourneys to get a feel for this particular crowd's style, and a chance to adapt to them. But I'd been here before, done well, and I thought I was prepared for the same weak-passive, calling station, belly full of Paula Dean buffet burpin' good country folk.

***Important note to tourists: Never, ever, EVER make any off-color jokes about Paula Dean while in Tunica, Mississippi. Just trust me on this one.***

The WSOP's decision to lower their 2011 circuit buy-ins to $1600 from $5000 is a smart move. 2009's main event entrants in Tunica were 154. 2010's entrants were a paltry 96 entrants. It's easy to forget that in our economic heyday, Tunica's 2006 WSOP Circuit event boasted a $10,000 buy-in that could draw 240 people, and allow Daniel Negreanu a juicy $750,000 first place payout. This years winner would have to be content with $140,000, still doing better than last year's payout.

But before I descriptively walk you through the Chechnyan mine field of insanity that was the 2011 Tunica Main Event, I am proud to say that I captured an amazing creature on video. Weeks ago, in a previous blog, I told you of my "Roxanne moment." This week, I'm proud to say, I had my "Loch Ness moment." A moment that when it hits you, you hope to God, or as she's known here in Tunica, Paula Dean, you have your camera on you.

With the tournament starting in half an hour, I wanted to do a quick run-in to the "mall" of Tunica, located directly across Harrah's. It was there that I encountered the creature.

It's gleaming white drooping hamstrings swayed lugubriously across it's brilliant pasty gigantic calves. The dress, serving ceremoniously as mudflaps from behind, did it's best to conceal the spectacle, but with the last of the northerly winds of Winter, the occasional "Marilyn Monroe updraft" would scoop up the black dress revealing what spilled out over it's tan UGG boots...the most prized, dimpled cankles in all the Western Hemisphere.

This was the Loch Ness of Tunica. The Holy Grail of Cankledom. These mighty cankles were replete with ripples upon ripples of adipose tissue, dimples, stretched out skin, bulging muscle to the point of fully displaced ligament and tendon views.

She got legs...she knows how to use them...She got legs...

I would watch the creature, approaching slowly...ever so slowly as to not disturb it in it's natural habitat. It had appeared to arrive in two transports, both silver, and both emptied out, ready to be loaded with something.

But with what?

Well I figured if Loch Ness had "Nessie," than this was surely my "Tunie." But I wasn't so sure if that was the best comparison for my discovery. Consider also, this short film I was able to surreptitiously take of the creature. I apologize for it's brevity and lack of clarity. At the very last second, you can barely see the creature look back at my camera. Then compare it to the famous Patterson film from Northern California (very close to Reno, NV) made in 1967 directly below.

What else can I say? I want a grant! I want full funding for a research team on an expedition, complete with doctors, cartographers, DNA researchers, paleontologists, archaeologists, and Indian chiefs along with venerable country folk to supply stories and locations of previous encounters.

Putting the "UGG" back in "UGGs."

Now back to the story. "Tunie" came with two young servants. She would beckon to them with a series of low, staccato grunts. The servants would then move back and forth fearfully, loading up box upon box of some precious cargo into the two transports. I moved closer, fearfully, not being armed with anything other than a body full of adrenaline; a body that would not hesitate to choose "flight."

What was Tunie having loaded up in her tranports? Cookies. Boxes upon boxes of cookies. Samoas. Peanut Butter Fills. Do Si Dos. Chocolate Fudge. Macaroons. By my count, 55 boxes.

Carefully, my preeeeeeeecccccioussssss....

Unless she's expecting 15,000 visits from Santa Claus this year,
she clearly has other plans for the cookies.

I hurried off to the tournament. I had seen all I could afford to witness. With the frenzy of activity, I wound up being a full half hour late to the tournament.

I made my way back into the Harrah's convention center to the crowd of 480 people playing poker. There was the usual clicking of chips, but the room was unnervingly quiet. I found my table and looked up to see both "Smilin'" Don Norman and Scott Williams. Never truly glad to see friends at my table with me; there's not a whole lot of good things that can come out of that situation for anyone, but we all said our friendly "hellos," and began to play...but it was still eerily quiet in a room filled with somewhere over 500 people, staff and workers included.

"Don," I said, "It sure is quiet in here, isn't it?"

Don and the part of the table not involved in a hand looked up and kind of giggled and agreed. Then, as if in an old cowboy epic movie, I loudly added, "...too quiet!"

And with that, all the lights in the room went BLACK. All electricity shut off until the generators could kick back on. Only a couple of gleams of cellphones throughout the room gave any light at all. There were shouts of "Cover up your chips!" and "What's going on?" and some laughter mixed in with worried murmurs.

Of course at my table and the tables around me, everyone was laughing hysterically at how what I had said seemed to cause such a weird event! Of course, that meant, everyone but me. The first fear that flashed into my mind was that "Tunie" had found her way to the main circuit breaker of the building, ripped out or eaten the main power cords, and was headed into our room for a 500 plus meal of pure red-meat carnage. Was she out there? I listened on the edge of my chair in a cold-sweat panic...When the lights came back on, everyone was relieved...especially me! Thank you oh sweet holy Paula Dean.

As for the actual tournament, not a whole lot to tell, without boring you, except for my brief encounter with "the kid from Kentucky" decked out in Wildcat gear who seemed to enjoy jamming all his chips into the middle of the table and won, by my count, a ridiculous 13 of 15 coin flips, and wrecklessly and without any worry at all. I hoped to plant some seeds of doubt in his head by mentioning that every season's Kentucky Wildcats football teams proclivity to lose embarassingly in the fourth quarter, no matter by how much they're ahead. Decade...after decade...after decade! Maybe it's "dirty pool" to play head games with these people, but, yes, I really wanted to put him in a state of mind where he wouldn't have any confidence. No such luck. It only convinced him to try harder to win the game outright in the third quarter! This kid kept plowing through better hands one at a time felting more people in a three hour span than I'd ever witnessed before...

But maybe that seed did get planted after all. Although I busted out 22d, about an average payout, "Kentucky" would go on to the final table with a close second place in chips. Here's the hysterical part. The other kid, first in chips -- that would be the kid who shove busted me with a KJ, not that I'm bitter, there's something truly successful about unrestrained aggression -- and "Kentucky" apparantly decided that IT WOULD BE A GREAT IDEA for the TWO LARGEST STACKS at the final table to get into an epic raising war. They were perfectly content to not even try to strategically get the first place money of $148,000 but to settle, psychotically, for 9th place money of $14,000 if that's what the flop decided. It was probably the dumbest strategic thinking since der Furher decided, "Hey, we're in a war with France AND Britain and all of our resources are used up....um.... Ich got it! Let's invade our gigantic military ally Russia too on our other border! Ja!!!"

Within the blink of an eye, "Kentucky" had over HALF THE CHIPS IN PLAY. There were eight players left. Guess what place he came in? If you guessed "eighth"place and a traditional Kentucky Wildcat football fourth quarter finish you were right! I watched a little bit of the final table and when my friend Preston Derden got seventh place, he looked like a shell shocked war veteran who had seen just about freaking everything in poker now. Preston looked like he just successfully navigated a mine field scattered with dead bodies everywhere over three days, to just make it past the last land mine, began to make a final run for the border and get shot by a sniper in the back. Great run though, Preston!

Of course the night before I had to decompress from getting busted out of the Main in 22d place. If you've ever played in a poker tournament you totally understand Ricky Bobby's philosophy of, "If you're not first, YOU'RE LAST!" No cash finish except for first place is anything other than meaningless platitude. After you leave a tournament, your nerves are SHATTERED, and it takes you a good several hours to acclimate back to the real world. You have to decompress. I call this the "Poker Bends" if you try to do anything normally to quickly. You just can't do it. You're a freaking MESS.

So Ante Up writer and friend Jennifer Gay took me to the local bar where she'd helpfully feed me enough cocktails to even sedate "Tunie." It did the trick. So I wasn't sure when I woke up the next morning if I really did run into "Fat Albert" or not. Checking my cellphone for photos revealed that my Fat Albert encounter was not just a Pink Elephant. It really happened! Wow! Within two days I spotted the fabled "Tunie" AND "Fat Albert!" Also a photo montage of the rest of the "sights" we were treated to where she tells the story and I supply the pictures. Here's the pictures for proof of the stories she'll tell you. She's a really great writer and as far as I'm concerned, one of the "cool kids" by far. Below is the link to her Gulf Coast Poker . NET blog. It's great to have her on board with us. Enjoy. I'm simply tired of writing, so be sure to enjoy her perspective on the event that was...Tunica WSOP 2011. Bye for now, thanks for reading this jibberish and I look very forward to seeing you guys in ...hmmmmm.....I'm not quite sure yet! (And lastly a look at the books I'm reading now and my book of the month selection...I'm such an Amazon tool.)

READ JENNIFER'S BLOG RIGHT HERE BABY!

Out of syndication, on hard times...

"Hey baby, what's your name?"

"My name's Jennifer Gay...I'm feelin' lonely...how 'bout you, Tiger?"

We spotted someone downtrodden and asleep at the Food Court in some casino.
We named her "Pocket Jacks." Seemed appropriate.

Jennifer in the background hot on the trail of a unibrowed man and his
lovely Pentecostal fashionista woman. Jennifer carries research
equipment in a bag, and tags them with GPS darts for later study. The male of the species
exhibited a strong protruding monolithic solitary eyebrow, a latent gene
trait of all Troglodytes. The female walks unbothered by our photographs, hands behind
back, always, but the male exhibits some signs of stress...

Tracking down Pentecostal fashionista Suzie Ann "Pigtails" Hopkins. The use of
tranq darts was not permitted in this particular casino, so the couple escaped
back into the wild, unscathed.

A herd like gait, rather sedentary and calm, takes the
two travellers outside the casino, back into the wild.
In the distance, the eerie pitch of a distant Viking
horn being blown could be heard, bringing those lost
from the fold, back.

Checking back on "Pocket Jacks." Still in repose. Still regretting overplaying her hand.

A man Checking into this hotel wearing his finest Elmer Fudd cap, Sponge Bob jacket and
jeans with an arrow pointing to...

Goodbye, Pocket Jacks. Goodbye.

Kai is currently reading: T.R. The Last Romantic. Ashamed I don't know much about our early 20th century president. A really great read just starting off. Actually halfway through it now, but it's a fattie. hope to be done by May. Hey, I have other things to do.

and Phil Gordon's little Blue book. A great poker read; just finished it. Lots of helpful lessons sprinkled in throughout many of his sessions all around the world with poker pros and Hollywood celebrities. Stories are humorous and well told. DON'T get his "Little Green Book." It's got some entertainment value, but few lessons to be drawn from it.

SEVEN DEADLY SINS, MONEY MANAGEMENT, SATAN, AND KERRI SIMMONS

2011-02-05T17:26:00.076-06:00

So another Gulf Coast Poker Classic has come and gone with the end of January at the Beau Rivage, and who would I be fooling if I were to say I wasn't all-consumed by that little green monster known as "envy" of those playing in the Main Event.

Envy is a crafty little bastard. One of the seven deadly sins, no less. If I had to guess, I'd have to think that out of the six sins remaining, "envy" would probably get along best with "greed." Those two seem to really go hand-in-hand; much more so than, say, "sloth" and "wrath." Kind of hard to pair those two up and expect any real sinister, horrific, bloody activities to get done that day. It's kind of odd since not a lot of words end with the "th" suffix, so you figure they'd maybe have something in common. But that's not the case.

"The chicks dig the rod. And the six-pack. And the
cape... and the parachute pants. Wanna breakdance,
mortal fool?"

No wait, I figured it out. It's those "passive-aggressive" types. The ticking time bombs. The "slothy-wraths." Ok, moving on...

More on the seven deadly sins later, but for now, just a thought. If I would have begun this blog going on about the "Seven heavenly virtues" would you have been half as drawn into it? I don't think so. I think all things evil have a real irresistible, gravitational pull towards them. You might not want to dive right into the pool of evil, maybe just stare curiously at it's beautiful, shimmering reflection. Watch as the evil ripples break on the edge, the waves hypnotic, your eyes fixed and tranced now, lulling you in with the warm ripples of desire. Maybe you'll just dip your toes in it...now your feet.....just your feet that's all.... it's ok...no one will know...

Another quick aside: If someone wrote two poker books, one called "POWER RAISING!" and the other called "Sensible Folding," which one of the two would sell out, and which one would be at the top of the New York Times "Worst Seller List" for the next five years at least?

Exactly.

So it's with all the difficulty in the world that I had to say "no" to envy, pride, and greed, and sensibly fold to the thought of playing the WPT main event this January at the Beau.

The little red man on my shoulder had so many seductive, sweet whisperings, too. "Come on, you're playing great right now (pride)! You just won that 7 Stud 8 or Better event! You won a Hold 'em event less than a month ago! This is your territory, dude! You took second in the last main event here in September! Don't be a coward! Easy money, baby! (sloth) You don't want your kids to know you're a coward do you? Do you? It's a televised event just two blocks away from your house! You're already up $*,*** for this series! What's another $*,*** gonna hurt you (greed)?! Don't you wanna earn a buffet comp? (gluttony, idiocy) Hey, look Kathy Liebert is playing! (lust...wait...huh?!)"

Well, Satan, an extra $*,*** would hurt quite a bit. I promised myself I'd only play the Main if I won my way in via a satellite or was up $**,***. That magical number would justify as make-up money for the time off from work I'd taken, and if I failed in the main, I could still walk away a winner from the series for the time I put into it.

Money management in poker is so important, despite what Satan and his anchovy-heavy breath might whisper to you. It's right up there with game selection, not playing above your limit, and all the simple things that are so easy to get seduced away from.

It's the EASY things in life that are so difficult. Google "Diets" and look at the well over 1,000,000 sure-to-win diet plans that will get you to lose weight. Over a million different ways to sell you the exact same simple thing that not everyone can do, but everyone already knows exactly how to do it.

"Psssst! Baby, over here! On your other
shoulder! It's me! Money Management!
Wanna, like, cuddle or somethin'?"

Eat sensible, exercise.

Hardly anyone can do those two very, very simple things.

Buy when the market is going up, sell when it is going down. Again, so incredibly simple, hardly anyone can do it.

Money management.

Sigh. This one hurts really bad today. But it's not about today. It's about the end of the year. And when you alone are your own team of ONE, as many of us are, you're your own player, trainer, coach, manager, and backer. It's a hell of a strange dynamic -- that internal struggle -- when the player in you is screaming, "coach put me in!" but the manager and backer in you is saying, "sorry, kid, not today." Hopefully in the schizophrenic struggle, discretion wins out.

Hey, just over a week ago I was consumed so badly with "Trophy Envy" when that Roland Israelashvili dude busted me out on the 7 Card Stud bubble when he overplayed his kings right into my Aces (not Kosher), and sent me home three from the trophy. I'd go home with my bubble sympathy buy-in money given back to me, and Roland would go home with first place money and a gorgeous crystal-Earth spinning trophy.

That trophy envy and greed consumed me so badly, I went home, read Ted Forrest's Chapter on Seven Card Stud Hi/Lo 8 or Better in the "Full Tilt Poker Strategy Guide" obsessively, over and over again, until I could virtually recite it. The book is a phenomenal tool for your game with the best chapters having golden nuggets of wisdom from Ted Forrest, Gavin Smith, and Howard Lederer. Took lots of notes, discussed some ideas with friends, and went on to win that event just a few days later. Booyah!

So I believe the powers of "envy" and "greed" can be channelled and harnessed to do good things. Temper them with hard work and sensible behavior, and eventually and hopefully, generosity, and you've got something special. That's how capitalism works. The idea is that you can never suppress greed -- it's too powerful a force, but if you can harness it's energy to get some good things out of it, and tax it, then everyone benefits. Communism and Socialism fail repeatedly because there's no energy to channel and harness jujitsu style which would lead to communal benefits coming from "sloth." That's my political science lesson for the day. Test in November.

Of course it didn't hurt that I got "hit with the deck" on the final table, but I did allow myself just a few moments of "pride," since I got to the final table 45 minutes late ( I thought it would begin at 5pm instead of 3pm -- thank you Brian Hempinstall for the phone call!!!), began play as the short stack, had only played that hi/low game twice before in my life, and was up against seven Eldo-Americans, who specialize in Stud events.

So, I got to take my winner's photo with my trophy in a lovely sweaty jogging suit since I was at the gym when I got the phone call from Brian ( Dude...dude...where are you?! Your final table is going on right now!).

The eighth deadly sin. "Grandpa wardrobe." Please
click on my Amazon links, buy a book, so I can afford to not
look like a transient/ vagrant/ Wal-Mart refugee/ retiree.

What I really enjoyed seeing at this January's event, and what's always very, very encouraging is that so many people who are working hard on their games, and performing well, were cashing and/or getting first places. For some reason, I find that much more inspiring and refreshing than whatever I was lucky enough to do this time around. I get the best feeling seeing my friends do well, and seeing those committed to this very strange discipline of ours, in a land of degenerates, doing well!

Kerri Simmons comes to mind. Some of you might know Kerri as that "crazy b****" as a lot of our fellow players have come to describe her, and she was first described to me. The latest Kerri tale came to me from a female player at a single table satellite. She had just gotten busted from the Ladies' event and Kerri was at the final table. "That girl is insane," she stated. "She was cussing at the table and I asked her to stop, and do you know what she did? She told me, 'I paid my money just like everybody else here, I can behave however I want! I can pick my ******* nose at the table if I want to!'"

What I do know is that her boyfriend Brad Peterson, who just won the PLO event at the Beau, as well as a MegaSat into the Main, has been working on Kerri's game with her, coaching her to play in top form, and Kerri finished third in the Ladies event! She probably would have gotten first if the floor would have granted her table a break so she could <use the restroom>, but for some reason the floor did not wish to comply with the agreed requests of all players. So, long story short, Kerri admitted to playing so much better after following Brad's advice, letting a lot of hands go (Power Folding), and not getting too involved in too many hands. Awesome! Congratulations, Kerri!

And with that, Kerri spelunked her index finger, knuckle deep, into her right nostril, and scratched her frontal lobe. I don't know if she pulled out any stalagmites, or even if this story is true, but that's how it was told to me.

You can pick your friends ...aw, you get the idea...

So, good for her and good for everyone else who had a hell of a series this January at the Beau including, but not limited to Mark Wilds, Leif "Fear of Razors" Force, BJ McBrayer, Allen Carter, Shannon Shorr, Mark Rose (again), Chad "Mr. Vanessa Rousso" Brown (again, again, again), Tennyson Phillips, Ryan Lenaghan, Tom Franklin, Michael Brawley, Tim "Ed Hardy" Burt, Matt Brady, Jonathan Little, Michael "Car Wash" Schneider, and Lake Garner (Senior's Event, dude? Really?!! ;) ).

So, for me, for this main event, I'd have to watch from the rail. And it was absolutely...miserable. Just didn't make enough to warrant a big gamble like that. Patience, young Jedi. Patience. There's something to that prayer of St. Francis' after all. Or if you're Catholic and looking for the patron saint of gambling, it's St. Cayetano. Thanks to Hannah Elisabeth for that Cliff Claven-like bit of trivia. More on Catholic gambling in future blogs. Stay tuned...

Well, I'm off for now. Gonna go to Tunica this week and try to "Grover Cleveland" the main. Besides, there's just one more personal demon/ deadly sin left to placate...delicious, delicious gluttony!

Popeye's. Kickin' ass since 1972!
Happy 39th birthday!

BACK TO BLOGGING! THAT WAS THEN...THIS IS NOW.

2011-02-04T04:18:00.004-06:00

The Dos Equis guy, circa 1979

Well OK, folks, the powers that be at www.GulfCoastPoker.NET have subtly nagged me over the last few months to dive back into their blogosphere. The words you see before you now are a testament to my ability to give up and do as I’m told.

Jay Cutler, you’re not alone.

I haven’t blogged in over a year now for reasons I’d rather not share (not yet), but let me say I have missed it tremendously, as I’ve missed getting all-a-y’all’s feedback on my little sordid tales from the deep dark recessed corners of the casinos where our kind feast parasitically on one other.

It was a great way to meet people unexpectedly as blogging is kind of like opening up your mind and heart, and broadcasting into the dark, globally, and never quite knowing who’s reading, minding, laughing, snorting, rolling their eyes, disgusted, turned off, amused…you learn not to care and just enjoy being yourself. You know…a “those who mind don’t matter” kind of liberation.

Sometimes you find yourself getting compliments from people who were strangers to you just moments ago, accompanied by laughter about something you wrote a couple of years back!

“That thing you wrote with the wolverine in the dark closet, and the fire alarm goes off, and it goes berserk and goes after your sack? That was hilarious!” Sometimes, they miss the point behind the joke, or re-tell it worse, but that’s ok.

For those of you who have never blogged before, I’d imagine I could compare it a bit to riding naked through a village on a donkey. You’ve got only a blindfold on and earplugs. You’re holding a large sign that says, “I can’t find my car keys.” An hour later, the donkey, knowing his way around town, brings you back to your village hut, and you’re back safely in your home. Your original intent was to get a few laughs, but because of the blindfold and the earplugs you have NO IDEA what reactions you got. Your best guess is that you made lots of people laugh, some people had no idea what to think of you, some were disgusted, and some, maybe most, just looked away in disinterest and spent their day unbothered.

And it’s that lack of immediate feedback that drives you nuts as a blogger; the complete opening up of yourself in a one-way communications vehicle into the dark vacuum of silence. We’re a people conditioned to have instant reactions, instant gratification, instant everything…so there’s something instantly unsettling and unnerving about opening yourself up to what’s usually just a few comments. Even if you get thousands of hits and readers (as I had), very few of your voyeurs will actually take the time to comment on your post. Peeping Toms rarely, if ever, leave calling cards in the windowpane or graffiti on your walls.

Those of you who remember my last blog on this site, entitled “YOU’RE ENTERING A WORLD OF PAIN,” might have noticed that the title and it’s content were an attempt to de-glamorize the televised, bright and shiny world of poker and present things as they truly are sometimes. The celebrity (barf!) aspect of it is still in its infancy, but to those players who are, say, in their twenties (internet whippersnappers), that’s the way poker has always been in their lifetime! For myself, a guy on the wrong side of thirty, it’s still a concept I’m shocked with, and have trouble getting used to, since I had always played when being a poker player was regarded with contempt, suspicion, and a general assumption of what the remainder of what your free time involves.

If you were a poker player before the Moneymaker/Negreanu/Ivey makeover of the industry, you were generally considered to harbor some kind of illegal addiction, to be guided by absolutely no kind of an ethical compass, actually held residency in a casino if not residency in a seedy motel in the underbelly of a warehouse district, had a laundry list of claims where you were known as the “defendant,” knew at least five people named “Vinnie,” frequented peep shows bi-weekly or more, or even worse; you were suspected to be able to claim ownership of your own bowling ball.

The face of poker circa 1979

Now if you’re a poker player, you’re a brilliant, hip, master of money, math, psychology, and women. You’re stylish, money comes easy to you, you’re reasonably good looking, and very fashionable. You’re sure to be the next big TV sensation, your bankroll is like a self-perpetuating cash cow, you date “Rounder Girls” or whomever the tart is that the magazine of the month supplies you with, your superstar income can be googled by anyone with the click of the mouse, you never lose, and, most importantly, no one ever, ever gets hurt by gambling.

I realize as I write this that Stuey Ungar could have been the only one to actually fall into both camps had he worn anything other than 70’s jogging suits or Members Only windbreakers, and had more than a figment of a nose left to breathe with.

(I’ve always wanted to use "figment" outside of the imagination context. Thanks, Stu!)

The face of poker today, 2011

So since the poker player perception pendulum had swung so ridiculously far to the “media darling camp” in 2009, when I first started blogging, I thought I’d like to offer the antithesis of what is forcefed to the wooled masses via television. “You’re Entering a World of Pain” didn’t present ANY glamour to our favorite hobby, but instead, tried to chop down that tree of lies of the glamorous poker lifestyle. Poker players are nothing more than guys trying to outsmart the next guy and take their money. The great lie of televised poker was that it was cannibalism made sexy. Thomas Harris did it with Hannibal Lector, then television did it with poker.

Somewhere between those two camps lay the truth, and I wanted to present it. As for the poker “World of Pain” being what it is, I know that whenever I’m deep in a major tournament, I’m so stressed out and my gut is wrenching, that I’d rather be anywhere else than in the tournament right now…but I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave! It’s severely stressful. If you “go the distance” in a major tournament, it’s around 32 hours of sudden-death, elimination, high-wire stress. Even when you’re in “the zone,” well, I’ll let “Big Ern” from “Kingpin” take it from here...

“I know that right about now, your bladder feels like an overstuffed vacuum cleaner bag and your butt is kinda like an about-to-explode bratwurst.”

All you can do is use that nervous energy to find an edge. Then you see someone make a mistake, and he goes home to suffer his mind second-guessing itself for as long as it takes his stomach acids to stop its fiery churning, and hopefully, he really does have rent money left. Really. World of Pain. No autographs, please. I’m broke now, no photographs, please. Name a famous player, 98% of them have been BROKE, and many will be again.

…ever feel like you’ve kind of strayed off the path? Where was I? Blogging.

"Roooooooxxxanne!" circa 1979.

So as I had blogged on this site, I learned that recognition for your drivel comes at times when you least expect it, and usually from strangers. My former boss said I had a “Roxanne moment” when a couple of customers came into our workplace (in a casino). He explained Sting’s “Roxanne moment” of recognition that what you’re doing is catching on comes to you unexpectedly. Sting got that moment, my boss said, when he was passing by a ladder with two workers painting a building. One was whistling the Police’s first single out loud to himself. He knew what his band was doing was catching on.

So when these two guys came into our business, I was helping them out and they kind of kept looking back and forth at each other, a little confused. Finally one of them asked, “So…are we entering a world of pain?”

Cool. The blog caught on...

"Roooooooxxxane!" today. 2011. I know my mind is made up. Put away the makeup. Seriously.

So here’s the deal. I’ll keep feeding you voyeuristic jackals our torn up remains from the pit to feast on, the bones to pick at, the whisperings and gossip to savor, and whatever else I feel like blogging about IF I feel like blogging about it. But don’t beg me for more; I can’t rush this stuff. It comes at its own pace. I’m not Monkey, I don’t have “diarrhea of the fingertips,” and I can’t blog once a week. You’ll get it whenever you get it, probably more often if you LEAVE COMMENTS. That’s your subscription price. Add a little something to the discussion. Spit out an opinion. Don't have a Google account? Post under the "Anonymous" button. And you have to deal with long periods of silence. That’s just the way it is. As a bonus, this blog will only be about poker stuff about half the time. Refreshing, huh!

Go check out “Pokerbat’s” blog if you crave MORE…that scandalous old curmudgeon kind of has things figured out in a deliciously, salty, old psychotic kind of way.

Anyway enough blogging about blogging, I’ll get back to you licentious jackals soon enough with a recap of the past few months, and my take on the WPT and Beau Rivage’s Southern Poker Classic. All right, I’m done for now. My wrists are sore. I hate typing! Coach, take me out! Waaaaaah!!!! Waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!