Now where are my orange wedges

Up above a world so high, Orion's Belt held in the sky.  And you're welcome for the earworm this morning.  Last night with weather that could only be described as Utopian-like, low 70s, a breeze light enough to hear to make that Snuggle fabric softener teddy bear giggle, a man stepped onto a playing field.  That man was me, the playing field was a jigsaw puzzle of sod with outlines of a soccer pitch and some worn down goals thrown behind two football goal posts. 



Soccer was a sport that never caught on since its season meshed between the end of baseball and the start of hockey and perhaps due to the fact that my lanky body threw the ball much harder than I could kick one.  Sure, deep in my parent's treasure trove of little Drizz baby and bath pictures are faded photographs of the moppy-hair-turn-sideways-and-he's-invisible elementary school kid in soccer gear with kids from the neighborhood that I could name to this day despite having trouble recalling one memorable moment playing the sport. 

Last night wasn't about playing, it was my first of many parents vs. kids games of which I assume there's a graph of parent's age/ability that crosses over kid's age/ability for the perfect game when neither side has to "let" the other team win.  Since my son is seven and three of the dads actually PLAY the game on a semi-regular basis complete with shin guards, 25 yard rockets, and touch passes light enough for the rank amateur in the Surly beer t-shirt to put one past the sprawling second grader.  The parents played position while trying to spread the mob of purple jerseys with their first names imprinted on their backs. 

Before the window's down ride to the field after a long day at the office and having to check my email at home, my son had to make a choice if he would like his mom or dad to join him.  "Daddy's always super-busy and needs to work".  Ouch.  Instantly I was set back to 1985 where my father wouldn't get home until it was too dark yet again, but just in time for a meal because of working overtime so his kids could play those sports and we could continue our lower middle income existence with a few much appreciated extras.  A lot of self-practice that involved a tennis racquet and wall, of course later on "self-practice" would be better served by a Penthouse or wavy porn on a 13 inch TV after the parents were asleep but that was far out of mind for the geeky kid who just wanted his father to play catch with.  Before I took on going back to school full-time, before I took on the gig with PokerStarsBlog on the weekends and during its big tournament series, I sat down with my wife and kids and told them, no matter how tired I may be I will always make time for them.  Period.  Exclamation point.  Signed, sealed, and delivered with a lisp.

My wife gracefully bowed out claiming a need to get ready for a trip (which she did, but not for two days), as I set down the laptop and peeled out of the work clothes for more suitable attire.   The old man held himself well remembering how to curl a ball inside the posts, and make a few passes that would turn the head of Victoria Beckham (actually... she needs a steak dinner) and the rest of the WAGs of in my direction. That's right babe, bring that 70 pound body and 50 pounds of tits my way, I got orange slices, lines of blow, and 80's metal waiting in the truck.  The boy's spirits seemed lifted with a genuine smile as we traveled back home in time for me to start up my new quarter school with the Wadsworth book of too many frickin English grammar rules that I'll never learn.

I may be busy.  I may be tired.  But, I've learned that if I don't spend my short time here enjoying all the people around my existence what's the point of sitting in front of that monitor at 11pm learning about literary canons and contra-accounts.  None.  There's no reason to work yourself silly for money unless you know the real value are those you spend the money with.  I work full-time so we have a home/food/Sportscenter, I go to school make sure I keep my current and future work positions, I work at the PokerStarsBlog so I can see my friends both far and near along with some selfish reasons.  And that's enough I's for the day because the Twins are on tonight and WE will be watching them take down the Yankees for once.



Jack Frost hiding behind the pine tree

Growing up it was easy to justify calling October the beginning of winter.  There was the infamous Halloween Blizzard in which a 17 year old me was working at the store which will probably become his only place of employment until its time to wear trifocials and oversized suspenders while flagging down the sympathic high school waitress at a $2/$4 table in Arizona.  Shoveling snow for two hours AFTER my shift of stocking toilet paper and 12-packs of Coke products for the weekend dollar days sale, just to get my multi-colored 85' Nova hatchback on Bass Lake Road and home to two worried parents since the wonders of cell phones were left for those who earned slightly more than my $3.25 an hour.  The beginning of the month however is best that this barren Nordic land can offer.  A breeze with a slight nip tickles the senses just enough as the sun does its job by keeping you warm like a blanket during a bonfire.  A last call for frolfing and taking the garbage out barefoot at anytime of the day.

October used to be a resting time, time to recoop from the summer's go-go-go schedule and September's month of work-work-work.  But, now since some "friends" woke the sleeping academic bear inside of me, I am in my third quarter of studies which include an Introduction to Lit course.  My previous exposure to such lofty writing was back in high school with an English teacher I admired but unfortunately his demands at the time and my already stacked class load which included HP Calculus and Physics along with the rigors of two-a-day baseball practice and part-time job, I took the easy way out and slid over to a different English course whose final consisted of watching Blade Runner as Harrison Ford battled the replicants.

This time there is no such option and nor would I take it, while I don't take my "writing" seriously, I do appreciate the chance to pick up a few pointers from those long dead and maybe mesh their works into my posting here for extra buttery flavor.  And as the leaves fall on a daily basis and 15,347 trips to the county compost site become a weekly occurrance, its one more step in the direction of obtaining that degree.  The steps are getting steeper at this point which more advanced Accounting terminology being introduced and again the Lit course with its 900+ page tome of Shakesphere, Keats, and Plath.  All this as the breaths are starting to show during my son's soccer games and hot chocolate on the sidelines becomes more of a hand warmer than a belly one.

We'll see if the college dream implodes now that the subjects are brand spankin new and if the 35 year old freshman is up to the challenge of juggling school with family, work, and play.  My only hope is to come out of this with a little more knowledge, little more tolerance, and a little more self-awareness in finding out just who am I besides some goofball that enjoys an adult beverage or seven at a card game.

Steps in Parenting: Try or try not

The bargain bin alarm clock with the red tag of clearance half torn showed a blurry 4:37am as the clock puncher rolled out of bed to start the morning ritual.  The schedule returned to watching Sportscenter as the best team in baseball can only draw 17,000 to their home games despite giving away tickets.  But, on my mind wasn't the inability to avoid rather sizable obstructions like walls and refrigerators while trying to splice together a quick breakfast.  It was another parenting lesson.

Two days ago while still hit hard by the moonlighting as a online poker reporter, there was some fatherly duties to attend to for the precious daughter.  Dentist at 4pm proved to be a breeze as I answered questions as to why my eyes looked like I just ran over my dog and decided to knock away the pain by watching Lassie re-runs on Nick at Night while downing a handle of Captain.  No, "just some extra work that I'm proud of doing and hope those who read it get some pleasure from the words" was my reply.  After the teeth were whitened to an ivory sheen, the Spongebob Squarepants toothbrush acquired, and an extra prize gift grabbed from the long forgotten basket in which she took a piece of twine that was wrapped as a "present".

No idea, I don't claim to understand the female specie.  Anyway, she happy with said rope, I was happy she didn't try to spit the industrial strength mint flavored toothpaste all over the 42" flat screen or jerk her head while the dentist was probing her mouth with a metal pick.

Happy would end about two hours later in an elementary school gym where after getting dressed up a leotard and tights it was time for dance class.  A see-if-she-like-it type thing put on by the community as I still hold wishes she'll take up volleyball or softball and grab a college scholarship after being named to the all-state team three times (not likely but one can dream).  For the first half she performed gracefully as I peered over the top of the new book I got from Lulu the other day.  "The Chosen" by John Hartness with the picture of my favorite kilt-wearing blogger on the back, and I got to the part where Adam and Cain reconcile their differences over an AlCantHang-sized bender (side note:  Happy Birthday to the original walking party himself)  and are heading to New Orleans to confront Eve. 

My son's PSP went down due to lack of batteries and the charger was left on the kitchen table as he pulled the book down to inform me that someone was being less than cooperative in the dance line.  I didn't need to even look to figure out it would be my purple spandexed spawn refusing to getting up despite plees from the community-ed instructor who was probably getting $25 for putting on a fake smile for 50 minutes while dancing to Kidz Bops 14.  Sure enough my daughter with a mix of my stubbornness and my wife's fierceness sat on her ass while the 14 other little girls twirled for their parents.

Since these was not a first offense, she knew what was going to happen.  "Wyatt, go politely tell your sister to come here" I said in a calm voice that rivaled The Godfather's right before the violin music came out and someone got whacked.  To my surprise she came right over, sparing her the potential embarrassment of going in front of all these parents while I tried to catch her in front of the room.  I told her she knew what would happen, and to my surprise she didn't cry as I carried her to the car 15 minutes before schedule.

To tie in as I buckled her to her new big girl car seat booster, I looked back at the boy and told him about his "less than stellar" (copyright Joe Speaker) performance in his Saturday soccer game that made Manny Ramirez look like Pete Rose, if I saw him do the same thing in Tuesday's game I would walk across the pitch and carry him home as I have just about zero shame.  Fast forward to yesterday's performance in which the team won their sixth straight game 7-0, he played with a extra kick, challenging balls and not giving up after the first try.  Running up and down the field, abeit bunching up as mob-styled play prevails at this age, but showing speed versus the light gait of a snail shown on Saturday. 

Nothing makes a parent more proud of their offspring to see them try.  Some may force their children to "be the best", and forget those little legs may not have the genetics to become the next AAU all-star, but to allow them to smile and recap the shot on goal that missed by a time zone but to someone who hasn't scored all season got that chance, was a boost to a kid normally regulated to video games.  Perhaps this is something to build on, a reason to go outside and practice a bit with the under-coordinated father and maybe build some skills.

Even if he doesn't, he made a dad proud.  Now, I just need to figure out the other one...

Coming out of my WCOOP shelter

**Warning this gets rambling and make no sense, much like Paris Hilton's existance or my daughter's tantrum at dance class last night which was trigger by UV40 rays and lack of gummi bears in the school's vending machines**

Returning to normalcy.

Or what I once thought as normal, the shower, breakfast, 9 to 5 job, the cube, commute, dinner, ball game, kids, bed.  Many stick themselves on this wheel and don't stop to break it enough until the wheel spins too fast and their lives become a really boring reality show that would get worse ratings than a Tiger Woods talk show on fidelity.  Every September for the past three years, I have been invited to enjoy sleep deprivation, breakfast at two in the afternoon, and a break in my "normal" routine while playing the part of online chronicler for the PokerStarsBlog along side some of the best in the business (Otis, Dr. Pauly, Change100, Shamus, Jen Newell, F-Train, and a computer program called Kevmath who will take over the world by 2014 or at least break the record for most posts at 2+2 and Twitter).

On most nights/mornings last week I sat on my couch drafting about the latest tournament and trying to find a little something interesting about its players.  One was quite easy when Team PokerStars pro Jason Mercier used full-on aggression plus a little run-good at a final table to take down his first WCOOP bracelet.  It gave a little something extra to root for going into the wee-hours of the morning.  Unlike Otis and Change100 who had to battle labor disputes and roaming dogs on the way to work in Buenos Aires, I just had to pack up the kids, replenish my supply of Wheat Thins or Triscuits, and battle dozing off before the six a.m.final tables hit.

But it wasn't about the poker, it wasn't about the millions being thrown around during the WCOOP or the extra paycheck that will be redistributed in Las Vegas over at Cheetah's, Gold Coast's Pai Gow pit, and most likely the Geisha Bar at Imperial Palace during the WPBT in December (you have signed up for the Up For Poker last longer challenge correct???  Free money people, and you can laugh at G-Rob after busting him!!).  No, working the WCOOP is about friendship, its about stepping outside the comfort zone, it's about being called upon to do something that isn't drafted in some dusty 15 volume tome of corporate suck.  Here's the story, go write it.  That's it (and of course there is some structure but mostly to get the maximum amount of readership and so the good writers of the blog have future work).  Unlike every job I've ever held from planting trees at parks, to frying frozen tacos at Jack-in-the-Box, to sitting in a secluded mail room with millions of invoices everything had structure with no sense of creativity.  No injecting sour cream in the tacos to make them taste better, or finding a new filing system for the invoice, just do your job like a robot and move on.  Granted my career and schooling choice of becoming an Accountant frowns upon "creativity" as seen when Accountants *ahem* use there skill to "find" and "report" debits and credits in ways GAAP does not intend.  Nonetheless, I enjoy finding the numbers and putting the in the right places, much like a final table story at the PokerStarsBlog, I have been proud to be a part of the team for the past three years. 

The artist formally known as Poker Shrink, now just "The Shrink" talked about "normal" in a blog post that smacked me a bit as I overwork myself to retain my little world of normal, but instead of the upper-middle income family he speaks about in the post "Dis-ease", my world of going back to school full-time while holding down a full-time job, two kids with multiple activities, a wife, and a part-time job that keeps me glued together, I work hard just to survive.  There are no real "extras" except the occasional jaunt to meet up with my dearest friends and authors across the nation.  Whether it be in Las Vegas, G-Vegas, Chicago, or a $100 cab ride to Philly's airport while still trying to figure out why I craved a TastyKake and a WaWa sandwich, these things keep me "normal".  A little hip check to the routine keeps everyone fresh, and without the above, I would sink into the same abyss my co-workers at my "normal" job suffer.  They are set in their ways, counting the days to retirement, some even with a little clock that has five years, 345 days, 21 hours and 15 mintues on it. 

Why?

Sure they're older but why live to die?  Despite the shit hitting the fan yesterday during 24 hours of nothing going right including flushing half of my online bankroll in the toilet, paying for a $48 slab of lasagna then blowing up with the wife as she picked it up when I explained I ordered the single serving and she got the wrong order, then having both kids decide to mimic daddy's deaf ears and filter only for sentences containing:  "treat", "play", "movie".  My mind went spinning for most of Sunday afternoon into Monday, but I finished up the final write up around 8:30am Monday morning, calmly put together a skillet (no, THAT kind of skillet) and let the crazy wash off before returning to "normal" today.

Hugs were given, invoice for the work sent in, and Excel spreadsheets about to filled by the college student who is now done with 2/11 quarters from fulfilling a hole that I never wanted to admit was there.  The degree won't make me "normal" but it will push me to continue being weird by trying something new and giving a reason to not settle for my present cube. 

Up for Poker - Luckbox Challenge Act II

Ok, ten or twenty people who drop by my little place here.  It's a far reach when this used to be a poker blog that morphed into a personal diary/poker/parenting place to vent.  The WPBT Winter Classic is kicking off it's seventh (?!?!!?!?) year of existance with a huge bang.  No, some lucky blogger is not getting married way above their means again (looking at you Mr. Buddy Dank). 

Instead Otis, CJ, and G-Rob the self-proclaimed Frolf champion of the G-Vegas upper east side past McDonald's but not before Barley's Taproom have put together the biggest promotion yet for our still growing community.  Yes, poker is a fad and that fad has faded, except that it hasn't, and barring some heavy DOJ action between now and December, let us welcome the second edition of the Up for Poker/Luckbox Challenge!

You and two other degenerates.  Yes, degenerates, we don't take kindly to straight laced white-collar folk around here, leave that shit at home to be a good parent or spouse, come to Vegas to punish your liver and laugh with friends without volume/social graces control.  PokerStars despite the WCOOP raging on (I'm on for Friday's O8 tourney and working nightly (morningly?) next week, got together a package for us scribes of the four suits that will have me foregoing any prop bets that involve myself staying awake for 48 hours in Vegas.  Other prop bets on bar games will be gladly accepted.

$3,000 prize pool for a team of three to enter (by shipping CJ the cash or PokerStars transfer).  My team is pretty much set so you will not have the pleasure of me finishing second-to-last unless you a) like the Vikings and can name at least five Vikings quarterbacks not named Favre (my favorite will always be "Touchdown" Tommy Kramer) b) had the pleasure of going to work while its -10 or below for a solid two weeks  c) plan on tilting Yankees fans when we win the World Series this year! 

Minnesota homer much?  Yes.  It's who I am, but I still refuse to eat lutefisk or tell an Ole and Sven joke.

$500 Hammer Challenge!  Still play Grubby's hammer like it's 2006?  Get rewarded!  $50 to the first POST-FLOP hammers to take down a pot.  This should lead to some interesting first and second blind level post-flop play which will probably get someone Pauly's copy of Gigli.  If you find me sober, please be kind and order me a wine (or a Cap'n Coke is always accepted).  I play sober poker like Paris Hilton's cocaine stash and legs, open for all to see.

O.G. challenge - there were 14 original players in the WPBT at Sam's Town, some of which arrived like the rock stars they are in a limo.  Knock them out, buy them a drink, tell them to peddle their segway ala Tony G outta here, and take their trinket to CJ in exchange for some more cash.

It's 85 days to my birthday when I touchdown in McCarran that Wednesday and hopefully retain lifeforces without ending up in the Nevada desert as another sad sap tale of degeneracy gone wrong.

I don't know who will be there for birthday shots, I don't know where I'll end up doing my usual disappering act, but come noon on December 11th at the very classy Aria poker room, my presence will be with friends who have given me more than they'll ever know.  Check out April's WPBT facebook page for more details on the tourney and buy your damn ticket already! 

Accounting for thongs

Why I'm writing a mere four hours after finishing up my first leg of ten recaps for the 2010 WCOOP at PokerStarsBlog is beyond me.  Something piqued my interest while getting gas before work and before long I drafted the bestest blog post EVAR!

Yeah, must like my dreams where I'm a stallion in bed listening to Anna Paquin and Jessica Biel scream out my online name and take pots off name branded poker pros half-crocked on Captain and Coke in Bobby's Room at the Belliagio, the post sounded better as the meter on the pump hit north of $40.00 and the cashier who was probably as awake as I, reminded me to pay inside.  But, across two islands of gas pumps was a guy in a non-descript car with overalls and a patch with his name on it.  It said "Steve" in red stitching as he probably worked in the nearby industrial park specializing in putting things together or repairing them for folks like myself who have a comparable power tool dexterity of a zebra.  Steve drove off while I purchased a much needed energy drink after finishing up this morning's Event #13 final table wrap and heading in for a full day at the office with Event #16 awaiting me when I return home in ten hours.

It hit me after seeing Steve as to why I returned to school.  More money from a better job sounds a like a cop-out and it is.  Money should never been someone's driver for lofty aspirations, unless you're a poker player outside of a friendly home thus money is the only reason you should be sitting down.  No, an enlightened bank account didn't get me to go back and learn how to separate partnership's capital accounts with salary and interest when one partner puts up X amount of money and the other puts up Y amount (which is less than X) while Mr. X works 50 hours per week at the business and Mr. Y spends more time at the local rub and tug while claiming to be networking. 

Sadly, it was not for my family and friends.  As I give ever little ounce of myself to my two kids and wife along with dear friends who's followed my sappy tale of woe here for nearly six years, there a little piece of me that is finishing up quarter two of 11 towards my bachelor's.

I want to be able to do something.

Steve the mechanic can probably hop under a car or machine press and fix the problem because of past knowledge and knowhow.  I can tell you in under four seconds how many outs you have with three board cards and if the guy in the nine seat is drunk enough to call you.  I can whip up a simple database or fancy spreadsheet, maybe make a few people laugh with attempts of humor and self-pity while having the writing amplitude of a half eaten Pringle.  No, I wanted more.  And I feel selfish now that it took Steve to make me realize why I'm lugging around those textbooks, staying up late to complete computer lab assignment when my head should be next to my wife's. 

I want people to come to me for help, and I want to be able to sit down with a tax return, or ledger and just let the number flow much like my words seem to do in satisfactory ways while writing about poker.  Note, I LOVE writing about poker, I LOVE the game and will never lose that, but becoming an Accountant or at the very least having an accounting degree means the world to me.  Laugh if you will, accounting is a noble profession in my mind, but it's not going to get the ladies La Perla lacy underthings saturated (I'd plug in "moist panties" here but a good friend of mine says those are the two worst words in the English language).  Some people were built to inspire, others to annoy, and me, I just want to do.  I want to be Steve, minus the grease, better pay, and some stock options so I can retire before my Viagra years kick in.

Nine quarters from now we'll see if that pocket protector with my name etched in midnight blue is waiting for me.

From Duluth With Love

With five days of zero work responsibilities and just school to worry about, a refreshing trip to the trailer cabin and North Shore were in order. If someone were from out-of-state and had a few days to putter around our flyover state, I would suggest heading straight up north for the North Shore. Rich in history, the edges of Lake Superior not only offer up gorgeous views but antique shopping and a hidden gem for micro-brew lovers.




We weren’t able to head further up north than Duluth but our friends managed a day at Gooseberry Falls with its over 100 foot drop that blows the Minnehaha Falls out of the water with its surrounding forest views.

Image from Nikilynn.net

For the beer drinkers, Fitger’s Brewhouse (and 4-star hotel) is a must. My suggestion is to try a flight of samplers, and request the Hercules if it’s available. You most likely cannot get a growler of the Herc, but the El Nino Double Hopped IPA or Big Boat Oatmeal Stout will tame your tongue once you return from these lumberjack-esque lands.



We’re working our way from the top down so as you enter Duluth with its taconite loading docks for ships heading out onto Lake Superior be sure to bring an appetite and some cash for shopping. Little niche shops of handcrafted items, touristy Nordic wear, and antiques are spread out along Canal Street. My family and I checked out the tour of a perma-docked ship the S.S. William A. Irvin. Our guide with a group of 20 had a little lack of volume control but was an encyclopedia ship knowledge after spending 30 plus years virtually living on ships like this one. He easily guided us through the captain’s quarters, explained how the crew managed to sleep ten feet from the engine room, and how his girlfriend saved his job as a porter from a fire-happy Chef (she’s the daughter of the ship’s owner). For just $11.50 a piece (kids free!) we got to see an IMAX movie (Dinosaurs, was decent for its archeological perspective) and go on this guided boat tour.



After checking out the pier with huge freighter full of taconite pellets going out, it was time for Grandma’s and its famous cheap pitchers of booze. Back in the day when my legs cooperated and a young volleyball player was able to jump high enough to hit the tip of the end poles, we would meander over to Grandma’s at the end of Minnesota’s biggest volleyball tournament and enjoy $3 pitchers of Kami’s and Long Island Iced Teas. Today they cost $5, still a bargain as they have added live bands and better food to the mix while their staple Bonottas still rule the menu.



After the long day it was time to head back to the Cities for life back on the grid as I started to take in the poker news I’ve been missing like Durrrr vs. jungleman12’s (check here for the scoop from Dr. Pauly's post at Full Tilt’s Poker From the Rail blog) new staple of degeneracy as another Durrrr challenge takes off as Dwan’s first challenge against Antonius winds down (finally).



And of course, yours truly was taking in the news from the WCOOP, which I’ll be on the PokerStarsBlog.com team for my third year of coverage. First assignment is tomorrow afternoon’s Event #13 PLO8 6-Max One Rebuy, One Add-on with a $200,000 guarantee. And that will dribble into Friday’s Event #16 Pot Limit Omaha 6-Max. Hmmmm, it seems I have the degen tourneys maybe I should have snagged a couple more of Fitger’s growlers to bring home.

Blogging with a side order of pimp juice

Let me dust off the counters and spray a little Windex on the musky windows for a sec.


There.

All better.

When I started this blog back in the days when bloggers where no more than people who would trade hand histories while attempting to beat the quarter/half-dollar games at 888.Poker and PartyPoker, I never intended to spill out my live story here. Instead this became a place of solitude, a place to spill my burdens and a place to meet friends.

Those friends have done some amazing things lately and I was reminded quickly last night after putting the kids to bed and learning how to properly book a discounted notes receivable with a maturity date beyond one year. College student at 35?!? I had thought I was done years ago, set into my pigeon hole at the big bullseye, content with a marriage that wasn’t enjoyed but got the job done, and two kids that I was more concerned about versus getting to meet them and enjoy their presence.

I had stopped living.

But this little space and the people who still drop by despite Google’s iron curtain cloaking me from their massive search engine, saved me from putting my life in auto-drive and for that I thank YOU. As noted above my friends have pushed their lives forward and put a lot of their soul out for anyone to see in book form:

The Chosen by John Hartness

My original partner in crime at the PokerStarsBlog back in August 2008. We traded sanity and sleep to stay up late on Sunday nights/Monday mornings after Otis dropped in to offer us final table recaps of PokerStars’ biggest Sunday Major moving on to doing World Championship of Online Poker (WCOOP), Spring Championship of Online Poker, and Sunday Warm-up after Jen Newell thankfully came into the mix from the opposite coast to allow for some sleep before a ten-hour day of spreadsheets and databases. My hopes of the success of his book mirror his drive to get this work published (my long overdue purchase was made this morning, hopefully gets here before Labor Day).

Look back here for a review of the book in the next couple of weeks.  I may even find a proper kilt to wear while enjoying the book my cabin's deck.

Lost Vegas by Pauly McGuire

As I wrote on Lulu.com:

“As the people who wrote the forewords state, if you have never met Paul McGuire one would think his vivid stories from the World Series of Poker, Phish concerts, strip clubs and Las Vegas in general are fiction. Far from the truth. As the man who stepped away from a life chained to an Armani suit working on Wall Street and stable paycheck to becoming his own boss and in charge of his own destiny Lost Vegas gives a small glimpse of that life that many of us 9 to 5'ers would gladly trade in our mini-vans for. Mixing degeneracy and philosophical debates is not for the weak, and Pauly brings it every page with existentialist musings from chatting shop with his fellow overworked poker writers to the afternoon shift strippers who can't kick their adderall addictions. If you ever wanted a peak behind the Belliago fountains, Cirque du Soleil shows, and 5-star restaurants, here's your chance to see Vegas in a different light. You won't regret your purchase.”

Pauly is one-of-kind despite that New York Yankees cap on his head. I had never met someone who lives the moment more than him and inspired me to do the same after my two-wheeled epiphany of sorts. And if you want insight into how Pauly became one of the most respected writers (not just poker) came to be, along with his journey for the past five years grab a copy of the book and dig in. Honestly, I wanted some more Phish concert stories despite never hearing a single song simply from reading his personal site Tao of Pauly.

A true friend.  And whatever part of my readership here does not know about Doc’s ability to mix dead philosophers musings and Paris Hilton into a poem-like sentences should do themselves a favor and start reading both the book and the blogs (in that order).

Parenting: You're allowed to have fun too

It takes two people to create a child and a village to raise them, or just one father trying to juggle Maslow's self-actualization theory as it relates to business management while getting his daughter to finish her mini corn dogs in under 30 minutes.  Getting a blip of single parenting this weekend as the wife was whisked away with her girlfriends to a camp somewhere deep in cheesehead land.  Each time I can to slow down and enjoy watching our breeding efforts run up to the 15 foot tall giraffes at Como Zoo, or simply crack an egg ever so slightly against the new countertop its a lesson in learning to appreciate your kids.

Some parents brand their kid too often with the word "burden" across their foreheads in their younger years and end up trying to chase them down for a hug well after their legs and minds become too fast to catch.

Not me.

Extended weekends like these make me enjoy my two children for who they are and what they will become.  Despite not knowing the consequences of popping open a jar of peanut butter where the oils floated to the top and ended up spraying my work clothes like Peter North after a month long vacation, and being rushed to gather two kids and their respective sets of toys, clothes, and bodies for day care at five in the morning, I love it.

The feeling of being needed, or the third rung of Maslow's pyramid "Love and Belonging" was climbed this weekend, yes the Daddy voice made its appearance a few times over minor "she/he did it" moments but even more so the "thank you's" and hugs came in  regularly, unforced, and welcomed even at 6:00am following a night of online poker degeneracy which saw several deep runs in happy meal sized tournament that went for naught.

Seeing the pure smiles on their faces in the mini water park at Como Zoo as the temperature rose above 90 but my temper never did.  Instead of retreating to "you're wrong and I am right" tactics, instead I asked why did something that was conduct unbecoming my child.  No, I did not break into Staff Sargent Drizz like below:

I GOT YOUR ASS AND YOUR HI-C DRINK BOXES!!!!

Instead we enjoyed a day at the pool, the Zoo, the batting cages, and at the end of the weekend some quiet time laying out exhausted while watching Favre get a rude welcome back into the NFL and becoming more of a family than people I hand my paycheck and sanity over to.  Nothing stays double rainbows and orange desire scented Axe body spray, but with hopes there will be less quiet time in the corner and more pure embraces that make this old guy get out of bed with a purpose each day.

Deep Fried Favre

You probably felt it after getting off the bus or out of your car while walking towards the building of your employer this morning.  It was darker out, the winds nip a little more as the oppressive humidity rolls somewhere behind the nearest Starbucks.  While the leaves have not changed colors, Fall is around the corner as noted by the annual state get-together known as the Minnesota State Fair commercials.  Minnesotans can always count on the major TV channels and StarTribune to send bright photos and images that seem to waif the smells of cheese curds and bacon on a stick thru their respective mediums.

Eight days until Snelling Ave. becomes a parking lot while waiting to slide, hopefully into a grassy parking lot or one jump across the road to the many residents who open up a side business for two weeks hoping to syphon a few bucks from parking or make-shift lutefisk stand before they enter the fairgrounds.  This fair go'er grew up marking the date on the calendar, getting up at the crack of dawn to sit in the parking lot before the fairground roared to life to have cake donuts and milk from a thermos off the back door of the station wagon with his brother and sister.  My further memories of the Fair are consciously lost from the head injury but something down deep wakes up my senses when it's time to visit the 4-H buildings and see the Princess Kay of the Milky Way carved in butter.

Photo Cred (Jannorris.com)

Even with the Twins making a late-season push towards not only a playoff spot, but a potential World Series berth with a powerful lineup and suspect starting pitching (nice job for the sweat Baker, you need to treat Thome to Manny's after blowing that four-run lead), the Fair is coming.

Even with Favre-gasm Dos exploding ESPN into FavreCenter yesterday and most of this morning.  This rabid fan of the Purple and Gold needed new Calvin Klines after the buildup on Twitter with three star players very noticably missing from the practice field on Tuesday morning.  Was the defense collapsing because Jared Allen drove his pickup thru a bar in Minnetonka at 3am?  Did Ryan Longwell mistake a block of cement for a pop can?  Did Steve Hutchinson finally decide to live like a Northern Minnesota native in the mists of Lake Vermillion catching smallmouth bass and drinking pitchers of Schmidt Light at the Kwazy Wabbit?  No, they were in Mississippi giving a Hellmuthian escort (but I doubt Hutch look that good in a bikini top and boy shorts) 

How to pissed off Mean Gene despite the presence of boobs

Yep, Brett Favre is back.  Today is a press conference where he'll ride in without his beloved John Deere and give Minnesotans one more year of excitement followed by heartache that we have come to terms with as sports fans in this state.  Wanted?  Definitely.  Needed?  Does T-Jack get your hopes of a ring up?  No.  And Tarvaris if I could, your quote yesterday said "I don't care if he's back", actually you should. if you want to be the starter next year or if some asshole like Sean Payton tells his players to purposely injure the AARP rep behind the center.  The PR correct answer was:  "It's great that I'll be learning from a future Hall-of-Fame quarterback with hopes of leading this team in the near future".  Say what you want through the grill of your facemask, but when faced with the media keep those comments to yourself, as now you'll get painted as a cancer to a potential playoff/Super Bowl contender.  Sad that you haven't learned the PR game or controlled that sawed-off shotgun of an arm spraying balls like pellets from its barrel.

For the next eight days the prize is on the Midway of the State Fair not the bat of Jim Thome saving the day, or talented media whore turning me unwillingly into a fanboi (damn you Favre!).  Nope, I'll be sitting in that patted down grass parking lot waiting for the box of donuts to passed to me.

After the all-you-can-drink milk and Sweet Martha's Cookies are gone all bets are off and the Helga Hat comes out of the closet :)   SKOL!!!!

Minneapolis Summit 2010

I'd like to thanks the folks who dropped by our humble little state this weekend and experienced just how quickly the weather can change here.

By numbers if your will...

Number of miles on my car:  234
Number of miles driven with prescription sunglasses on at night:  37
Number of miles that I should have stayed downtown:  13
Number of dollars won at PAI GOW at Canterbury Park:  350
Number of dollars my wife gets to see:  0
Number of Newcastles while golfing with Speaker and Edinburgh USA:  5
Number of Newcastles I should have had:  3
Number of strokes on the front nine:  47
Number of strokes on the back nine:  yeah about that many
Number of lost golf balls on Edinburgh USA's signature 17th:  4
Number of former volleyball teammates with third nipples I ran into downtown:  1
Number of hours of I was unaccounted for Friday night:  2
Number of slices of Pizza Luce's signature pizza I had:  9
Number of lesbians met:  5
Number of Sarah McLachlan songs Donkeypuncher sang with the lesbians:  2
Number of consecutive games of cornhole won:  11
Number of visits to Sexworld:  1
Number of visits to Sexword that I remember:  0
Number of longest drive on Saturday at Theo Wirth (in yards):  342
Number of times I flexed afterwards:  3
Number of final winning score at Theo Wirth:  94
Number of visits this year to downtown prior to Summit:  2
Number of trips downtown this weekend:  6
Number of chicken wings consumed from Runyon's on Wednesday night:  23
Number of mustache rides offered by women:  2
Number of dollars won by fading A's rookie Chris Carter:  5
Number of beers consumed on Friday:  dont ask
Number of Captain n' Cokes consumed on Friday:  *whistles*
Number of friends I'll miss until December rolls around:  too many

Come back soon folks, even if it's while here on business for a quick slice at Pizza Luce or a pint.

Nailing Customer Service

Daddy Day Care has been in service for the past three days while the wife enjoys a city with more doctors per capita than lawyers, Target cashiers, and McDonald's drive-thru specialists combined while attending a conference for work.  Holding up the weather beaten home fort as been more a test of which side of Harvey Two-Face was going to come out of the kids the next minute.  Picking the kids up garnered whines of wanting the window down despite the humid Minnesota air being thick and hot enough to slow cook a 64oz. ribeye.

(photo cred: stuffwelike)

Heads:  We love you  Tails:  We'll just break your laptop and soul

Add in another chunk of tree missing my house but squarely falling in a neighbor's yard and the air conditioning deciding that 86 degree is an acceptable temperature while trying to figure out the differences between double-declining and straight-line depreciation methods and my patience remaining could have filled one of those four holes on a button.

Yesterday after a brief flash flood and just as quickly clearing up for swimming lessons, I placed each kid in the car ready for the dreadfully humid Brooklyn Center pool.  "Hmmmmmm"  I thought after getting the newly minted seven year old situated with his Pokemon guide book (yes I used exactly six "M's").  The back tire was a little low as in "yeah, that would blow out on I-694 if you don't get some air in it".  After having the transmission in the mini-van during the coldest day of the year, why not go for the mother nature yearly double and get stuck in the same place only this time sweat your balls off instead of fighting hypothermia.

The culprit bend nail was found quickly as my mechanically inclined father had an air compressor and was able to fill it up but not plug the hole.  The ride was smooth, and swimming lessons were enjoyable as my son looked like he finally mastered the doggy paddle well enough to move up a level, and the daughter did not drown the teacher so I'll call that a win.  At 6:15 my sister mentioned a tire place right on the way home which I would attempt to sneak in to take care of this nail since I'd need all four Firestones working in perfect harmony for this weekend's meeting of degenerates. 

First stop:  Discount Tire Co.  I could see an emptyish parking lot next to Home Depot and figured this quick fix would take no more than 20 minutes.  The garage bays were still open but as my flip-flopped kids walked towards the tires showroom the hours were from 8am - 6pm.  Really?  Do people's car problems only happen during business hours? 

Just unlucky I guessed and went towards an auto repair corner of Brooklyn Park that I remembered.

Second stop:  Firestone Complete Auto Care  Garage bay still open as seen after deftly moving thru all the possible auto care places and arriving 20 minutes before closing.  Might get gouged here but the thorn in my steed's hoof needed removal.  The chrome-domed "manager" had to unlock the door to tell me they 1) wouldn't take in the car  2) don't do plug/patches, only patches  3)  he was late for his Call of Duty pizza and beer night.  But, made a suggestion to hit up Tire Plus down the road.  Hulk not like, Hulk smash.

Third stop:  Tires Plus  My brother once worked for this fine company (for two weeks) and left due to its complete lack of professionalism such as hand tightening lug nuts and denying anything wrong when the wobbly car came back in.  But, I needed a quick fix and with only one car up on the lift and about four mechanics around, I figured there was plenty of time since they were open until eight.  Again, the kiddies strolled inside as the barely out of high school manager type who spent a little too much time inside the cheese curds deep fryer explained they do not do plug/patches and it would take over two hours.  Pointing out the glut of mechanics and lack of cars got me a blubbery spew of apologies but no advancement.  Hulk want hit something.

(photo cred: here)

Last stop:  Salvation.  After driving around the small town of Osseo (which is nearly inside of Maple Grove) and no mom and pop shops open, down County Road 30 I spied some small businesses tucked behind some pines.  Maple Grove Auto Service spelled out in bubble popping red letters had a business hours sign stating they were open until nine and like Princess Leia's message to Obi-Wan:  They were my only hope.  Fearing for the worst and getting polite, complete service was unexpected to say the least.  $.50 cans of pop and a genuine smile went a long way since my kids decided that sitting quietly was not in their nature.  20 minutes later, plugged/patched, $17 invoice in hand and peace-of-mind driving ahead.

A lot can be said about large corporations forgetting the smallest business tenant of personal service trumping short-term profit margins.  True, Maple Grove Auto Service could have bent me over like Bree Olson in No Holes Barred #19 but instead they gained a positive customer, a positive review, and a little faith that my quaint suburb hasn't been completely engulfed in vapid pre-packaged franchises.

Drizz with hair!

At one time, or rather for all of my school years and getting rejected by the ladies there were hair products used and haircut done by a profession rather than a $9.99 set of clippers at Chez Drizz.

Fest your eyes on such creatures below:

Sorry for the crappy resolution but it's the best the free add-on scanner would do.

The first decade of friendship

I posed this question on Twitter, and its relevance is because I will be opening the box tonight for just the second time in ten years...

For those who are or were married:  you pair a lot of money (most likely but not universal) to have a professional photographer come to your wedding and snap photos, including of course the shot of all of the groomsmen trying to get the lace garter off the bride.  How often or how many times have you opened the box or photo album since those nupitals words were read?

Tomorrow, a flashback, and a look forward for two people who have been through a lot and will continue enjoying getting up at 4:30am each morning to see to happens the next day.

I love you Kari, and while I lose myself from time-to-time you are always there to point the way back to where I want to be.

Smells Like Favre Spirit

A little more than a year ago, the air musky with a hint of despiration smelling like Great Aunt Lovey's den.  Once the center of attention in year's past and as soon as that afternoon now contained a tired group of on-lookers and even more depleted group of players.  The raised poker table had six players left from the 2009 Binions Poker Classic Omaha Eight-or Better tournament as the clock turned into the single digits of the morning.  A far cry from the high rolling pros who called this casino home for the month long endurance series called the World Series of Poker for three decades, now forced to offer local grinders and discount tournament players a series at 1/10th the cost of the bracelet chasers and "famous" pros. 

A deranged woman who like someone just tossed her puppy into a microwave fidgeted back and forth with a sack of papers that became more and more of mess with every meth-addled step.  From my vantage point in the four seat, a group of scribes had rolled downtown from the Rio and decided to cheer on a half-deaf kid from Minnesota playing the one game he felt comfortable enough to sit with anyone.  Despite their tired faces, the smiles gave me a greater high than oxy, ecstasy, and Jesus ever could.  If you want to get into those writers shoes for a brief moment I highly suggest reading this post, then clicking here to buy Dr. Pauly's Lost Vegas. 

Hop over here for the skinny on the book

The blinds were at the point where no one had more than 10 big bets, and I was facing a raise in the big blind from the Hawaiian kid in the eight seat whom I chatted with a bit on the other tables.  A drink a hour was the pace but I was doing the Captain and Cokes more for the caffeine at this point and looked down at a ragged low hand.  Calling left me with three big bets and slighly more than his stack, and missing meant two more orbits as the prize money ramped up steeply (for me, remember I'm used to getting excited about final tables in chicken nugget buy-in online tourneys) from $1,000 to over $3K for fifth with $8,500 to the winner.  I made the call and as the dealer laid out a two low, all heart flop I checked my cards to see a lowly pair, a VERY weak low draw, and one heart but the Aica, HI native told me that he'd rarely played O8 and liked NLHE more.  So, immediately I cut out a bet and put on my face of granite.  A little sweat, a peek toward Otis, Mean Gene, the lovely CK (who finished 8th), Al Cant Hang, and F-Train and they all knew I was full of shit, but that didn't matter and would probably earn me a drink or two later.  For a few minutes my opponent hemmed and hawed, tried to half-muck his cards in order to get a reaction from me but once the pot got pushed I carefully slid those rags to the dealer and two hands later the Hawaiian was out and we were on break coming back to 50K/100K blinds and I'm holding just enough to squeak by an orbit without playing.

This isn't about that night which was probably one of my best gambling rolls I'd ever been on, and despite drinking for a solid 15 hours, three more 60-minute intervals of booze and Pai Gow would come because one does not refuse a drink (or four) from Al Cant Hang or the chance to watch an Otis  Degree All-In Moment at the Pai Gow tables with a greyhound resting in your hand. No, it's about the bluff I pulled which unfortunately is rare (because I suck playing poker sober) but the situation warranted it, unlike Mr. Brett Favre, my bluff did not cause the world's largest sport station to turn into a montage of my playing career.  One peep from "sources" and instead of Phil Mackey chatting on ESPN1500 about Vikings training camp and the resurgent Twins who looked strong against the Rays this week but fell short, he had to field questions about number four returning to the purple today instead of after week one of the preseason for the length of his noon to two spot.  Then at five p.m. with dinner at my parent's place, Sportcenter dribbled out Ed Worthless live from the Favre compound and another 25 minutes of filling up my favorite show with bloated "Favre is retiring" themes.

photo cred: here

You could have sucked up 100 days of oil spill with that vortex of hot air.  Good grief people, I about as rabid Minnesota Vikings fan as you can get and I'm sick of it.  After the news came out I fully ready to publish a Onion-like parody with Favre pulling off the biggest practical joke ever by screwing over the Vikes in last season's finale with the interception that erased a missed FG by Gary Anderson as the most painful Minnesota sporting memory, arm and arm with a laughing Ted Thompson behind the scenes shouting GREEN AND GOLD FOREVER from his trusty John Deere riding lawn mower in the middle of Lambeau.  But, the man gave me the most exciting year as a fan ever.  Even more than 1998.  For that he gets a little shred of respect and hope that the media circus pulls up its tent stakes quicker this year.

Just play or don't play Brett.  Either way, thank you.

Wild Thing. You Walk Everything.

The second white spray painted line was drawn with a little hitch over a recently tar-patched crack.  I looked down to make sure my gazelle-like stride would not exceed the make shift foul line.  "Three balls for five dollars, throws must be made from behind the line" barked the carny with curly auburn hair and black metal rimmed glasses. 

County fairs are an off-shoot of major league baseball's minor league system.  Each major county in Minnesota has one as I'm sure the same could be told in other states, but only a few states could rival the grandness of the Minnesota State Fair (three weeks, reallly?!!?). These county fairs are usually run by the D-crew of the state fair, carnies traveling the US trying to catch on with a bigger company or make enough to move on to the next city/county celebration.  We dropped by the Anoka County Fair this weekend to watch my brother turn my grandmother-in-law's old chevy into a metallic wrecking ball for five minutes.  Demo derbies are a sight to see if just once in your life.  The fans in the stands are most likely those from "Fight Club", those who fix your cars, serve dinners, deliver your mail, people who some snootier sort wouldn't notice unless they took their asses out of their $2,000 personally plated iPhones for two seconds.

The cliches never miss:  the biker with the sweat-soaked red hanky on his head with a generous beer gut stretching that 99 cent wife-beater for every taiwanese made fiber with a heavy sleeve-less leather jacket over the top.  The very pregenant 16 year old holding a baby while alternating hands to take a drag on a Red.  Various assortments of breasticles popping out of multiple exposed bra straps and jean shorts tight enough to look painted on.  The wirey old leathered tanned guy that weighted 80 pounds before breakfast was in the pits offering his services for a fee or a bottle. 

The sparks fly as two cars race to the middle of the slicked, muddy track to smash the watermelon in the middle, good for $50 and basically your entry fee back.  One such race for the melon left its driver dazed enough to take down her fluorescent orange stick signaling she called it quits.  But, being knocked out first wasn't the end of the disappointment as race was stopped while seven firemen and women tried to extract the 300+ pound driver from the car.  No idea how she managed to get in, but getting out required the jaws of life, an exposed ass crack and mega sling-shot sized animal print thong that I will never be able to un-see, and perhaps a Daddy-size can of butter flavored Crisco.

After taking a crippling blow to the radiator, my brother finished 6th out of 13 cars, good for $25 and a deal at the cheese curd stand.  After being beaten down for two hour in the heat it was time to blow money on the midway before heading to friend's place for previously feathered animals on a grill.  As the story left off above my first three tosses were of the Ricky Vaughn pre-skull crosses glasses variety and almost managed to miss the entire giant inflatable batting cage-like structure.  "Four balls for $5 and you automatically win a small prize".  After dumping off my walk-around poker bankroll at home because having several hundred dollars bills in your pocket at a carnvial seems less than smart, I had three singles to my name.  My wife of 9 years 361 days (see what I did there?) offered the extra two bucks for male ego purposes. 

The length was a little beyond the 60' 6" and flat with a hole where the catcher's mitt should be, but I trying to reach back to 1993 and throw a low to middle 80 mph fast ball and get the auto-win as posted "Male:  Any pitch over 75 mph wins".  I found those days are WAAAAAAAAAY behind me after tossing three balls under 65, and my fourth was no better at 62 and hitting the outlined right handed batter in the helmet.  Fifth and sixth pitch had Harry Doyle going: Juuuuuuuust a bit outside ball six.  Wife with arms crosses and a father having to decide between which kid he wants to hear whine because the other one got the auto-prize, I toed the line one more time.  This time a kid in a blue Minnetonka jersey stood in the box with the only catcher brave enough to catch me wearing the black and orange of Osseo high school behind the plate as I dropped my arm and let the ball fly versus trying to do some John Daly twist before throwing....

"Double Winner!" the kid in the yellow polo shirt cried.  The dejected Minnetonka Skipper batter walked back to the dugout as I handed over two multi-colored inflatable hammers to happy kids after the perfect strike down the middle hit the hole with a thump and $10 wasted let an old man smile like the 120 pound kid with the jersey that barely fit and belt that required extra holes 17 years ago.  I don't know if the carny had a button for the speed gun to display a number of his choosing but it was enough to walk away with an empty wallet and a former athlete's pride intact.

A note to financial planner Michelle Bachmann

Hi there Michelle.

Photo cred at her website

I heard you were busy yesterday during the hearing on Internet Gambling Regulation.

Your quote:

"With our economy struggling as it is and unemployment hovering around 10%, this bill rewards offshore gambling corporations at the expense of American workers," Bachmann stated. "This legislation will kill American jobs and open up another revenue source for an already reckless and bloated federal government. We should be putting forth legislation that promotes responsible behavior and sound financial planning. This bill completely misses the mark"

I'm afraid my dear YOU are the only one "missing the mark".  The bill, if you bothered to read it, is to bring regulation and most likely those offshore gambling corporation back home creating jobs in *gaps* America!  Yes, home of the Freedom Fries, Nicole Scherzinger, and people who pay your salary might play online poker.  Your babbling about the unemployment rate makes no sense because online gambling didn't just spring up yesterday.  It was there for the boom and bust of the economy, and it will be there for the next boom and the next bust.  If someone's flush draw doesn't get there, the person does not lose their job.

It is not going away.

Tell me madame representative do you understand how many people these offshore gambling sites employ?  Did you bother to try to understand there are potential jobs coming home for those who were forced to move away when the UIGEA was slipped underneath the Watergate hotel room's door?   Those jobs include many different sectors:  advertising, marketing, accounting, management, IT, and even some writing jobs for us bloggers who manage to wrest away from our crippling Red Bull and Atomic Fireballs addictions. 

Promote responsible behavior and sound financial planning?  Oh, like my 401k which took a 40% nosedive in the past two years?  Or how about my underwater mortgage that I have dilegently been paying on and improving for the past four years but the property value continues to sink despite adding a new roof, new driveway, new windows and siding, and stainless steel appliances and a rockin' hardwood floor in the kitchen that doubles as a slip and slide for my kids when they get bored.  Does this shock you that a loving husband of ten years, doting father of two for seven years, who holds two jobs and goes to school full-time might play online poker and has not resorted to knocking over the local Chuck E. Cheese for game tokens?

Kill American jobs?  Tell me Michelle Bachmann just how does this bill effect YOU.  It does not.  It effects me greatly.  With the extra income from writing about online poker I was able to return to school because my second paycheck allows me to pay the portion of the tution that federal education loans would not cover. In fact YOU are trying to kill MY job and my education in attempt to earn a bigger piece of the "American Dream" that seems to be your song-and-dance presented to rile up more vote.  Next time you think you are helping the American people and those who reside in your own state with unresearched spew like your actions and statement above, look at the toes you are stepping on to get there.  Please explain which American jobs are going to be loss when online gambling sites no longer need to flee to Isle of Man or Gibralter because of reckless politicans telling hard-working Americans how they should spend their paycheck.

I admit I have but one vote but I have a voice and if someone else reads this and agrees it becomes two votes, and so on. 

Sincerely,



A life-long Minnesotan

Life with panoramic views

Take one minute to see.

Take one minute to encompass yourself in your current surroundings.

I am a busy person during the summer.  Much of this was my own doing as returning to school and taking on extra work for PokerStarsBlog and Bluff Magazine were a chance to continue doing something that enjoy AND get paid to write in few puns about.  Yes, sitting an sweat bath of a porch at 1am writing about poker with nothing but gray boxer briefs, a muted AVP Women's sand volleyball on the screen (seriously, they have six feet of legs, able to jam a quick set, and are wearing less than your average Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition models, HOT!), all while 80s hair bands keep it real through the Bose headsets and enjoying it seems a little mentally imbalanced.

And even with three hours of sleep into a long day at the office, I love it.  Somehow I doubt corporate America would allow such under-clothed freedoms but I'd work for half of my undersized paycheck for the chance to debug a database or balance a receipt while performing pantless accounting.  

Despite the hurried schedule I took two minutes.  The first was my son's bedroom.  Sitting in front of me was my son's bed decked out in Transformers dark blue motif most of it strewn about since getting poker by his father that it was time to go to nana and pa's for the day.  While on his belly and knees bent, his feet came together to form a perfect triangle while deflecting all urges to take care of business before hoping into the dented Mini-Van.  My daughter to his left, curled up perfection that could do no wrong.  Her oversized K pillow that has retained most of the original sequins over the three years she has owned it, fuzzy leopard-print slippers and a world of dreams opening up now that is becoming of school age.  The back window had my fat cat peering thru carefully, not wanting the half-asleep girl to notice its presence or face getting mauled by the overexcited four year old. 

After managing to not run over Thumper is his 14,562 brothers and sisters, the kids were dropped off at my childhood home where a second minute was taken in.  90 degrees to the right was Muffy Robbins house, my first crush with her golden curly hair and about my only boy-girl interaction innocent enough where it was fun to be around the opposite sex versus coming up with new ways to get rejected.  The basketball hoop that her one-armed father constructed above the garage still hung and looked well-maintained by the new neighbors that moved in after Muffy took for the mountains of Colorado at age seven.  After 28 years I still don't know their names, but remember Jerry the father, her brother Benji, and Muffy's real name of Sarah.  While turning from east to west in a motion like that Sony panoramic camera commerical with Taylor Swift the Cul-de-Sac where I once played football on a daily basis, scuffing myself up, grabbing some TLC from mom only to go right back out there and gain some more scars.   Further to the side of the street is my baseball card collection, dancing in the make-shift stream during a flash flood in which I was attempting to transport from Matt Spitzmuller's house to my own but tripped as Don Mattingly's rookie card moved as effortless as his swing down towards the sewer never to be traded again. 

Reality set in quickly with my wife of nearly 10 years hopped up for quick kiss and a reminder that I had a dentist appointment right after work at 5pm but asked if I could grab a new headlight for her car before I started homework and a softball game at 8pm but not to leave before getting the kids in bed.

Life was a little more simple while playing strat-o-matic baseball and ghost tag into the night versus the cluster of reality that is shoved into a 24 hour day at the present time.  But, it's a good feeling to take the time to reflect and refresh before stepping back to that life you built for yourself.  Try it sometime.

Never bet against a drunk

As noted I purchased my flight earlier in the night before getting my drink on.

I play good poker while under the influence occasionally.

Note Mr. Craig's finish in 10th, I got my first Pro bounty in four years playing at Full Tilt :)  This paid for the trip I couldn't afford easily just five hours ago.  The donkey drunk gods have provided as I start to play Rush Poker cash, and lose a flopped  straight to a rivered  boat that called all-in on the turn.

$1 to everyone and something pretty for Maigrey at Sephora.

Off to the trailer/cabin this weekend for guy's weekend and come home for a night of fun at PokerStarsBlog starting off with the Battle of the Planets, then Sunday Warm-up, and finishing with the Audi TT giveaway:  Turbo Takedown.

Peace folks.

WPBT is da place to BE!

If you know about the upcoming annual blogger's attempt to drain every ounce of alcohol and donkey blood from the poker tables of Las Vegas during the WPBT Winter Classic  from the lovely April then prepare yourself to hear Wilson Phillips on Decemeber 7th of the year 2010 because I'll be there for my birthday this year!

Yeah, hopefully there's not the same results as last time that found my drunk ass in need of two wheeled transportation.  And this year I'm going early and staying at the lavish MGM Grand because those beds (should I ever go to the room) are a recharging station for the awesomeness of seeing my degenerate friends in their natural environment.

Wed 8-Dec-10


Minneapolis (MSP)
Depart 4:00 pm
Terminal 2 to Las Vegas (LAS)
Arrive 5:20 pm
Terminal 1 1,294 mi
(2,082 km)
Duration: 3hr 20mn
SY
Flight: 103



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



3Economy/Coach Class ( Seat assignments upon check-in More Information ), Boeing 737-700





--------------------------------------------------------------------------------





Total distance: 1,294 mi (2,082 km)

Total duration: 3hr 20mn





Mon 13-Dec-10



Las Vegas (LAS)

Depart 6:05 pm

Terminal 1 to Minneapolis (MSP)

Arrive 11:05 pm

Terminal 2 1,294 mi

(2,082 km)

Duration: 3hr 0mn

SY

Flight: 104



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



3Economy/Coach Class ( Seat assignments upon check-in More Information ), Boeing 737-800





--------------------------------------------------------------------------------





Total distance: 1,294 mi (2,082 km)

Total duration: 3hr 0mn











Hotel summary



Wed Dec-8-2010 (5 nights)



MGM Grand Hotel and Casino



3799 Las Vegas Blvd S

Las Vegas, NV 89109

United States of America

Check in: Wed Dec-8-2010

Check out: Mon Dec-13-2010

Flannel Utopia Redux

While traveling along Hwy. 371 towards a group of towns in Northern Minnesota that are reknown for their rustic resort-type settings it was a chance to catch my breath for the two hour drive.  A ten-hour day at the bullseye ended with starting an overheated car thanks to the summer's blanket of humidity that produced ass sweats like I'd just finished a triatholon (which would never happen since 15 minutes on the stationary bike usually taps my lung's gas tank).  The ride was quiet thanks to the absence of kids in the car seats behind me, the road opened up once past the clog of cars in the city limits of the self-proclaimed "Halloween Captial of the World" Anoka, MN.  Not sure if that distinction is the best since Halloween has turned from innocent pillow covers stuffed with candy into skanks stuffing bras (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Becker, Big Lake, Rice (with a rather evil population of 666), the college town of St. Cloud, all past by before hitting the Baxter/Brainerd/Nisswa triage of resort towns.  Usually, since this is an even year, we would be soaking up the sun in Isle of Palms, SC while renting out two beach houses and watching my daughter chase crabs up and down the massive sandlot.  But, since "the economy" is in play we're taking in the odd years tradition of heading to my eldest uncle's house for a round of golf and pot luck spread while watersports awaited for those inclined to do so. 

The kids arrived at the hotel/waterpark before their father and were already an hour into double-tubing down the slides and getting knocked over every half-hour by this massive bucket of water.  Road weary but happy to get out of the monkey cubical suit, I would join for a bit before two poolside drinks and fatigue from a long three months of school/work/blogging took it's toll and rendered me unusable. 

Tee times at Crosswoods Golf Course for 12 of us were early enough to catch the stillness of what makes Northern Minnesota so great.  The lack of mosquitos and cars noises allow you to soak in the massive pines and oaks peppered with nature stealing those wayward Titlests into their forest homes (I donated more than a few).  My golf game mirrors my pitching "career", wild with flashes of brilliance.  The first with everyone watching the golf gods were kind enough to grant me a gentle fade, splitting the fairway 330 yards and leaving my team of four a mere 50 yards to the forward pin.  We won't recount the shanks after this because the mini-cooler of mass produced beer was emptied as quickly as we could fill it.  A 65 was carded but couldn't notch the young guns' 63 as they used Rodney Dangerfield's shotgun driver on every hole leaving themselves eagle putts when they should have been on the fairway hitting approach shots. 

After paying off the sidebets and getting most of it back for hitting a closest to pin on a Par 3, it was time for beer can chicken, off the bone ham, and desserts which fatten an ass by the chocolaty smells (I had thirds) back on Pelican Lake (pictured below).  Sadly mother nature was on the rag this afternoon and took out her fury in the form of tornado warnings and flash floods but that just gave us more time inside to catch up with my many cousins and chat about one's hockey teams as my uncle was well-known for coaching a AAA Junior team for many years and my cousin took helm shortly after to continue the tradition. 

(image from MinnesotaLakes.net)

The backroads leading towards the hotel and civilization made me wonder, in 20-25 years when that gold watch of retirement shows up and we celebrate a quick "thanks for working here, now please take your bloated salary out of here" sheet-cake party would I want to return to this blissful area or one like it just another two hours further north in Ely, MN (which I've writen before).  The sereneness of the area in the summer (don't mess with a Northern Minnesota winter unless you enjoy ice cubes for toes over six months)  could change my plans of becoming a snow bird and living half up north and half in the dry heat of Arizona or Texas. 

Then again, there's no guarantee that I'll play corporate survivor for the next 25 years and may find something else to my liking and end up down a very different path.  But, it will be fun getting there, that much I do know.

You Make the Call!

Safe or Out? (Photo courtesy of Neal Anderson)

The thing is I was more interested that kept his eye on the ball while catching it.

Couch: The Lost Time Machine

My apologies for blank space but the need to refuel writing outside of work that doesn't seem like work is very necessary.  Last night there was no hot tub, but a couch that was older than the two people sitting on it for most of the evening.  One every ten minutes or so, a four-year old would bounce up with a tired smile to curl up then take off without reason.  Besides the boarded up fireplace in the basement which shielded the nasty recent humidity front which cooled the area to be comfortable, was a large HDTV.  A relative relic now standing at six years old and weighs about 100 pounds but works well enough for the kids to have a place to watch Tom and Jerry re-runs or Monsters vs. Aliens on the dual VCR/DVD combo.  But, last night after my wife found some old VHS tapes we decided to take over the space for a short time traveling excursion.

The first was her playing in the 1990 14-year olds Minnesota State Softball tourney somewhere in northern Minnesota.  After seeing the dot matrix like white font with the year, date, and time as a constant reminder of OLD OLD OLD with every pitch during her team's defeat of 6-0, it took a quick look in the bathroom mirror with gray hairs sticking defiantly from my chin to confirm OLD OLD OLD.  As I hobbled back to the couch after pointing and laughing at its age thus tempting the structure to collpase, the second tape was put in

Mullets, fritzy hair, acne, indecision, depression, freedom, baseball, pep rallys, Grease:  The Musical, a future.  The 1994 Anoka Tornados Video Yearbook came across the screen and for the next hour finger-pointing at hair-dos, people my wife remembered included a sizable young man who was featured several times as royalty to the different dances took his life just one year after donning a faux-velvet crown and getting a stand-ovation as he walked across the basketball court floor.  The muscials shorts were well-produced, the clips of the debate team, foreign language, and every other student organization gave a short group "hello" to the camera along with the leaders nervously telling what future world problems they would solve (perhaps they could start with that BP oil spill and work their way to the US budget deficit

On a personal level I tried to remember my high school years as replays of the various dances came across the screen, and since my fawning over just two girls the entire time I walked the halls of Osseo Senior combined with the complete lack of confidence, I barely knew of all these after school dances, much less any after-school activity that didn't involve another round of advance math and science classes or baseball during the spring trimester.  The friends I shared locker space with are the same ones my kids play with their kids today.  Homely, for a guy who loves the bright lights of Vegas but I had my chance to break from my hometown if I so desired.  Being a freshman at Arizona State and holding my own academically but inside, fixing to jump off the top of one of those buildings if I didn't find something to latch onto, the decision was to return home and right the ship before I ended up like the gentleman above who took his own life despite being named a dream date by several girls wearing the school's maroon and white. 

The after the credits rolled and the couch returned us to an asleep child who needed a parent to take her upstairs to her beloved and ragged "K" pillow, and a mohawk'd one in Transformers PJs to his much faded blue lizard two kids had grown-up in different ways only to end up in a basement of a house built the year they were born to start the process again.  Will I be able to provide the push to my kids to achieve what they can instead of what is safe?  Can I help them find themselves so they do not have to endure the same painful adolescent years without a sense of direction and self-worth

For certain, they will get everything I know I can give them and perhaps things I didn't know I could get them.

LeBron James Signs With Detroit Lions

(AP) - Detroit, Michigan

*In a stunning turn of events Cleveland Cavaliers forward LeBron James has decided to leap across professional sports and signed this morning with the Detroit Lions.  The announcement came during the third hour of the "LeBron James Nokia Open Press Conference" sponsored by McDonald's just as they were going to show that highlight of James hitting a game-winning shot for the 16th time, James approached the stage set up in an undisclosed area of Detroit for fear of potential gate crashing by people frustrated from living in Detroit.

"I have dream..."  began the 6-8 250 lbs. man who averaged nearly 30 points a game last season but managed to lose to a team that comprised of the 1978 All-Star team in the conference semifinals.  "And that dream is to draw Barry Sanders back to the Silverdome" continued James.  Quickly someone corrected He Who Thinks Too Highly Of Himself and told James that the Lions play at Ford Field the aloof All-Pro said "Ford?  Damn, I gots five of those in my fourth house's garage collecting rust, horrible pieces of *bleep*".

When asked what position James would play his manager Quincy Cuzo took the mic and explained his client "will be required to touch the ball 85% of the time while on offense and Matt Stafford would just have to suck it up".  No word if James has ever played football as researchers are hitting the phones of all Pop Warner and other junior league coaches from the Akron, Ohio area for the past 20 years.

Local Lions fan Rusty "Mad Dogg" Knutz who neighbors describe as "nails are as tough as him" had this to say:  "As long as I gets my McGriddle in the morning LeBob James can be mayor for all I care".  A mixed Knutz was asked to clarify his statement:  "Oh, he's gonna play for the Lions and he's not a wide reciever?!? hell it's time to show my Lions PRIDE" as he ripped open his unknown brownish substance t-shirt revealing a Lions logo which took up his entire chest.  The writer of this story refused Mr. Knutz's offer to show myself where the southernly pointing tail ended.

James is expected to sign for the deed to half of Detroit and "whatever cars have not been broken into" within that area.  No word on Brett Favre's reaction to this story.

*if you think any of this is true I suggest falling down three flights of stairs for clarity

Return to the land of the living

The ending was a beautiful half-painted orange-reddish ball on my right with that light reflecting off the glass of my workplace on the left as I crested over the final bridge and back to work after five days of being unplugged.

Relaxing?  As relaxing as a short family vacation can be, but sleep was made in bunches as having my laptop disconnected for five days certainly relieved me of stress as more important things like getting the kids up for a round of mini-putt or helping them on with their life-vests in the morning for the uncrowded pool.  When you're a parent you take your stress relief in bunches and try to enjoy them to the fullest.  Golf was rainy, but calm despite my ability to miss every five foot putt due to the crisp way a few drives came off my old set which is stored at the trailer/cabin.  There's very little that compares to watching the perfect flight of a golf ball or baseball when struck, if you don't play and think those athletes on TV are posing for the cameras, you'd be right about two percent of the time because I guarantee you if you're ever taken in the panoramic view of that floating sphere being lifted it's much like a decent sunrise to view.

Rest happened, plates with spare ribs touched by Jack Daniels were demolished, and I'm back to a crazy schedule while my friends in Vegas are in the home stretch as the World Series of Poker rages on with Day 1C starting up today.  Good luck in the trenches folks, may you wash off that donkey blood off before hitting up the Gold Coast Pai Gow tables for the next weeks.

As my present to myself for some sloth well-done, I snagged Red Dead Redemption after picking up my son's birthday present yesterday.  Hooked. 

Saying No Is Hard To Do

When I pulled into the open company parking lot this morning with just eight cars that would soon become over 500 and used a turn signal with nary another automobile running and had to back track to retrieve my awful picture badge after reaching the revolving door of the building it was another reminder.  A hint of the wear-and-tear that my eyes tell and body laboring a bit after a good stretch of work and school has left me in need of a disconnect.

It killed me to turn down someone who I doubt I've no to in two years, as I had to tell both gigs this was planned a month and a half ago.  No PokerStarsBlog, no Bluff Magazine, no laptop, only a cell phone with a number that only a few know will be open for texting me to share a drink or give me a conversation topic for the late night bonfires.  My black Toshiba Satellite will rest on top of the $2.99 beige foam support on the couch where my ass imprint is quite profound after two months while covering SCOOP, extra PokerStars Sunday Majors reporting, school. and the World Series of Poker.  No working thru the night and into this dark cubical where the lights haven't been lit as the parking lot mentioned above remains relatively bare.  General ledger analysis and highlighting text will need until next week when school starts up again.

This weekend was cleared to give my wife a husband for a solid five days since our real 10th year anniversary in a few months is surrounded by family obligations, work, and school.  Being off-the-grid will give no excuses to miss out on the Saturday four-man best-ball tourney or taking four kids in my golf cart up to the clubhouse for the best $1 swirled ice cream waffle cone you can find within 15 minutes of the Wisconsin border.  While it killed me to say no to work projects that I love, my son gave me a little perspective of how much I've been heads-down on my 15" monitor this summer.  He asked "daddy, do you have to go home early to work again?". 

"Not this time buddy". 

I'll see you Tuesday, and with any luck, I'll be rested but hungover.