Turning For Home

She stood at the gate to Del Mar, aquamarine shirt mirroring the nearby ocean. I'd be able to pick out her kind anywhere, a San Diego girl. Having spent two-and-a-half stoned festive years in America's Finest City, the look is burned in my brain: long-limbed, athletic, fresh-faced, perfectly tanned. I pointed her out to Bobby, told him there were plenty more where that came fron. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

She was hawking the local fishwrap's tout sheet. Fifty cents for the whole paper, a bargain, but an unecessary expense seeing as we had a 10,000-word e-mail from the Schnecksville Savant, or, as he's known in these parts, el hijo genio, giving us all the handicapping information we'd require. Oh that we'd actually followed his advice.

Obligatory tilt BG photo:



We grabbed a bite (of food) and marvelled at the beauty of our surroundings. The track was nice, too. We played a game where we tallied the percentage of women who met our rigorous standards (minimum of two working limbs, no visible missing teeth, a pulse) and it never fell below 50%. If the attractive women of Southern California were one giant jug of Orange Juice, Del Mar racetrack, on Saturday August 26th in the Year of Our Lord 2006, was the frozen concentrate from which it sprang.

And that's offficially the worst metaphor ever.

We were the only ones there before first post, despite our wheat beer hangovers. One benefit to living in my desert oasis is an easier trek south, away from the maddening crowds of LA proper. So while it took Bob and I a leisurely 90 minutes to cover the distance, our Westside co-horts were looking at multiple accidents and tri-county gridlock. After subjecting my guest to a Friday night's worth of speed metal, our soundtrack through the rocky hills of northern San Diego County was some "old school hip hop" courtesy of Bobby iPod, complete with gems by MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice and the Sugarhill Gang, the last reminding us, once again from twenty-some-odd years ago, "DON'T DO IT!"

FREAK!
ROCK!

And thus ends the audience participation portion of our program.

Wagering? Oh, there was wagering. Not much of it good. BG picked the first two races correctly, and while I had both his selections in exotics, I cashed neither. I had some minor wins, but couldn't break through for the big score, missing out on an exacta AND a solid place payout by a nose in the 6th.

Our other guests began trickling in, Blinders winning The Least Lame Award by getting there before the 4th, which was just as well since, by that time, we'd found our actual seats, though not without overcoming a strong desire to leap over three seats and one row to deliver a patented Filipino Windmill Beatdown to a mouthy UCSD assistant teacher in wrinkled denim. Professor Dickweed was one more word from picking his eyeballs out of his colon. My cousin, his lovely wife and a friend arrived soon after, leaving Rini (who's trading in his "Billy Legend" nickname for the slightly incongruous "Rock of Gibralter") and Veneno still unaccounted for. They both finally showed, with the latter holding a winning ticket before she even got to her seat. And then hitting the trifecta in the next race. For $500. You think that tilted two veteran handicappers who'd been getting their asses handed to them all day long? You know that scene in Swingers when Trent and Mikey are squeezed in at the $5 blackjack table and the old lady (Favreau's real-life mother, incidentally) hits on 17 and makes 21? The look on their faces? Yeah, similar.

I did finally nail the winner in the 10th, the last race of the afternoon, though my excellent odds got hammered down by post time to merely okay. But I strode away a winner less loser and knew--JUST KNEW--my fortunes would change at Pechanga, where blackjack awaited. But first we had to make the gut-wrenching decision to pass on the free Jimmy Eat World concert that followed the end of the card.

Doubling Down > JEW

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Commence pimpage:



This is tonight. I'm signed up. Winner gets a seat at the Gavin Smith Charity Tourney in less than a month's time at the Bash. I'll probably be late, so you get the added incentive of my free blinds for 20 minutes or so. In addition, Full Tilt is in the midst of a months-long "Let's Fuck With Speaker" Telethon, so there's no way I'm winning. See you there.



Mookie has set up this charity tourney for a youngster affflicted with stage 4 neuroblastoma. This shit hits close to home and I hope you'll all contribute. I won't be able to play, but my money's going in regardless. Hug your kids and donate. More information on Tanner can be found here.

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California April is raising money for asthma research and the people who continually call me and tell me to quit smoking: The American Lung Assn. She's actually gonna walk 5K to earn the money and she lives in California, so you know she has no experience with walking. The only thing more treacherous for a Cali resident would be to have them drive 5K in a light drizzle. So back her up with some cash. My ineffective cilia and I thank you.

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Alright, this one's free! Your tangible reward for all the good you've done today. Pauly has published another excellent edition of his literary e-zine, Truckin'. If you're not reading Truckin', you're deeply and profoundly retarded and don't deserve to exist on our planet and should probably be shipped to Pluto, which isn't even a planet any more, so wee is your intellect. Seriously, I've been wearing my "I Heart Truckin'" t-shirt to the bars on weekends and have been forced to use my pint glass as a defensive weapon to keep all the fanbois and fangirls off of me.

Hunters and Gatherers

I should have just rented a minivan yesterday. Take the kid to school. Run errands. Get a haircut. Go grocery shopping. Pick kid up from school. Take him to soccer practice. Go home. Cook dinner. Fill out new school forms. Lay out today's outfit (him and me). Go to bed ex-fricking-hausted. Being a Soccer Mom is brutal.

At the local Ralph's, I figure being there in the middle of a weekday is the way to go and it seemed hardly crowded at all. The deli line was short, I didn't need to squeeze my way past eight carts every aisle or physically shove aside the oblivious fatty kneeling by the Twinkees. And then I come around the corner and see the mob scene at the check-out. Twenty-four shoppers. Two lines open.

Tempers were hot. Especially the people with four items. "You don't have an express lane open!" they shouted like bleating sheep at the manager as he huffed his way to the front. The Four-Itemers were pulling the "Is it okay if I go in front of you since you have a full cart of food?" move, one which definitely has its place, but not in a clusterfuck of this proportion and after refusing one by pointing out that EVERYBODY behind me had fewer items than I and if I let one go how is that fair, especially when I need to get a future swashbuckling midfielder to soccer practice.

So I finally get to the point where my items are on the conveyor belt and the lady behind me is beginning to do the same when she says, "We finally made it."

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Way to jinx it, honey.

I actually said, "Let's not count our chickens just yet" and I am a prophet indeed because one of the primary bleaters is still in front of me and trying to pay by check and challenging the price of every item and even when it seems the transaction has ended, it hasn't, because the bottled water on the bottom of the cart wasn't rung, so that's separate and ANOTHER check is written, after which the older lady with the skin so white it's nearly translucent decides she needs to read the checker the riot act over the lack of service.

But I made it to soccer practice and immediately went on tilt because...well...AJ's coaches have no idea what they're doing and he's not learning anything, but you know what?...God bless 'em anyway because I'd flip my lid within five minutes of trying to keep 13 five-year-olds in line and they did a great job of that and I'm going to have to accept the fact that the Jedi won't be creating triangles or making over-lapping runs anytime soon.

This Soccer Mom shit is for the birds. I much prefer scouring the phone book for a place to drink beer.

When I got home Friday night after work, Bobby mentioned his beloved Lions were set to take on the Ray-duhs in pre-season, exhibition, gridiron warfare. I could tell he really wanted to watch the game, based on the face paint and powder blue ensemble he was sporting. Trouble was, I am still new to the area and had no idea of a suitable sports bar, the one we had gone to the previous night not being up to par with its ridiculous volume (Steve Physioc and Rex Hudler should not be experienced at 11) and shrieking clientele.

So I found two potential spots and really it was never in doubt where we were going to go, but I asked anyway.

"Okay, we've got 'Peppers Sports Bar and Grill' and 'The Beer Hunter.'"

Five minutes later, we strode confidently into a mammoth sports bar, one that looked like it used to serve as an Office Depot or perhaps an airplane hangar but was now the place where men (and women who look frighteningly like men) come to Hunt Beer. It was packed and the over/under on neck tattoos was set low at 3. Plenty of silver and black in the crowd and they cheered Oakland's wholesale dismantling of Jon Kitna's Lions (pause for reflection on that state of affairs), which was probably just as well. If Bobby had anything to cheer about, the likelyhood of us getting shivved would have risen exponentially with each whoop. Yet, even in a crowd of multiple-silver-chain-wearing Beer Hunters, a certain refinement expressed itself in curious ways, like the run-down slob in the ratty jeans and tattered tee who, after washing his hands in the restroom, used a towel to open the door. Whether he was keeping himself safe from germs or doing the rest of us the favor of not passing them is up for debate.

The food was absolutely tragic, pub-grub with a side of grease. It's not called the Food Hunter, kids. Bobby's medium-rare steak came blacker than Mike Cameron, my parmesan-grilled turkey sandwich had the unmistakable odor of bacon grease and they put the goddamn sour cream directly on the potato skins! Okay, fine, the last is only bad in Bob's World of Bizarre Food Rules. If it wasn't for fried cheese, we'd have both starved.

We forcibly removed ourselves from the bar, happy we could say we had been The Beer Hunter, but in some intestinal distress. As we walked to the car, we hear a guy admonishing another, saying, "You've got nothing going on!" We turn to see the subject of said judgement and it's a feeble guy in a wheelchair. Nice.

Luckily, we had something else going on and maybe I'll get to it later, but I think there was actual dancing to a Journey cover by the live band ("Who's Crying Now") and a debate over the validity of meeting people over the internet, not that I'd have any experience with that. Either way, the SoCo was likely to blame. That and the low-cut tops.

And Away They Go...

So, I suppose you're all here to find out if Southern California managed to survive the rampaging, General-Sherman-Marching-on-Atlanta-style assault of The Bracelet, complete with debaucherous lessons like 1) How to lose at all selected forms of gambling 2) How to choose a sports bar 3) How to get new acquaintances to buy into how "you roll," though being unable to sway them in other ways to the point where they are forced to suggest--politely--that they no longer want to hear about your "big weiner" and 4) How to subsist for 72 hours entirely on beer and fried cheese.

Well, I hate to disappoint you, but today was AJ's first day of kindergarten.



Daddy's gonna need a moment.

Across the Board

AJ is really perceptive about things and lately, he's been trying to get me laid. I'm not kidding.

Sunday, at my soccer game, his "minder" was the girlfriend of a teammate. After a full 90 minutes of running her ragged, he came to me at the end of the game and said, "Daddy, can (she) come home and play with us."

Later that day, at the movie theater concession, I mentioned to him that I used to work in a movie theater, that it was, in fact, my first job. In full hearing range of three hot twenty-somethings, he said, "Was that before you were a rock star?"

Now THAT'S a wingman.

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I'm not the most patient person in the universe. I tend to tire of a project as soon as it stops being fun. So it was not with a great deal of anticipation that I sat down last night and spilled 700 Lego pieces on my coffee table. That's right, 700, many of them no bigger than my pinkie toenail. Yet, surprise of surprises, it was one of the most relaxing nights I've spent in a while. AJ was helpful and happy and, most importantly, focused. I took pleasure both in his enjoyment and that innate sense of accomplishment. Sure, we only managed to get the jumbo jet assembled (in 90 minutes) and tonight promises even more meticulosity as we piece together the terminal and hangar, but the satisfaction of quality time with AJ, of placid teamwork and completion...it's the best.

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Hey! Look at me! My fingernails are as long as my fingers! They curve like talons and are painted like Mardi Gras! They serve no function! In fact, I can't even wipe my own ass! But look! LOOK! Notice me! PLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEE!

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T-minus 55 hours until the arrival of Bobby Bracelet for a weekend of alcohol, gambling and alcohol. And gambling. I'm trying to figure out how to work "douchebags" into what promises to be a crushing of the parimutual pool at Del Mar on Saturday, but I just can't come up with it.

Salve

What do you do when things just aren't going your way, when you zig everyone seems to zag, when your Aces are cracked by Nines with all the money in pre-flop, for example, not like that fucking happened tonight when I had a big ass stack in a satellite to FT's big tourney tomorrow...edit, later today...and you also had KK cracked by a 5-outer when you'd spent the previous 45 minutes waiting--WAITING, like a patient panther in the underbrush--to trap the hyper-aggressive internet avatar to your left and, in the end, you simply find yourself bereft of bankroll and poker entertainment?

You do this:


And double your buy-in and marvel at the amazingness that a) people even exist who would indulge in this sort of pursuit and b) said people's total inability to participate as an effective individual in the gaming exercise. Thanks to Ryan and Garth for late night entertainment I have not experienced since the days of Don Kirschner's Rock Concert.

AimK

I want these motherfucking ants out of my motherfucking kitchen!

It's not quite "Snakes on a Plane," but this is Real Life, people, not some fictional tour de force of multi-layered screenwriting and Oscar-worthy performances. I'm attentive to the smallest scrap of food being left out because of common desert infestation by these pests and last night, I could not find a single crumb they might have been after. Perhaps they cleaned me out before I got home, but I prefer to believe they just decided to hang at my pad due to its inherent "cool factor." Flattered though I was, I still massacred them in droves, ensuring an above the fold mention in today's ant newspapers.

Aside from serial antocide, I spent a quiet evening at home watching my recently-purchased DVDs of "The Shield" Season 1. Wow. What a conflicted anti-hero in Vic Mackey and Chiklis owns it. Great character, great show. I missed quite a few programs like this during my married/poker fugue and have been really enjoying catching up on some of them in my limited free time.

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Interesting theory advanced by a colleague on this Jon Benet fiasco. The guy is undoubtedly creepy and likely has an illegal and inappropriate past, but his story just doesn't ring true in this particular instance. So what's his motive? Fame, perhaps, but a more concrete reason to confess would be to get the hell out of Thailand. You want to do time as a sex offender there or here? Thought so.

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I played an $11 Double Shootout to the Stars Sunday Million last night and was out in 6th at my table. I saw a free flop in the BB with Ks8s and was delighted to see it come 988 rainbow. I check-raised two douchebags a healthy amount--pot bet, call, raise 4x--and one called. Turn was 5d, second diamond and I bet the pot. Call. River was 2d and I pushed my remaining 500 into 2K. Call. 7d3d for runner-runner flush.

Worst flop call ever? You decide. I decided I wouldn't play any more poker last night.

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For no reason other than I want to, here are the top 5 greatest books ever about baseball. If you're a baseball fan and haven't read all five, kill youself. Or read 'em. Whatever.

1. The Boys of Summer
2. Ball Four
3. Moneyball
4. Bronx Zoo
5. I'll go ahead and leave #5 blank and you can submit your own. The top four are unassailable, but now there's room for debate. I'm partial to "The Moustache Gang," an examination of the A's in the early 70s, partly because it was one of the first books I ever remember reading. "Men at Work," by George Will was a seminal work at the time, but seems dated now. Halberstam's got some good stuff, but, if pressed, I suppose I'd go with "Wild, High and Tight: the Life and Death of Billy Martin," which is just a fascinating examination of the combative SOB and includes keen insight into why Steinbrenner is a complete sociopath.

Thus ends our broadcast day.

Kicking and Reaming

Commence poker content:

I feel like my game is coming around. It's not there yet, but last night I avoided one of the common pitfalls of my recent play and it allowed me to hang around long enough to cash again in the Crazy $11 Re-Buy on Stars in a field that featured both Moneymaker and JohnnyBax, the latter being at my table when I finally did go bust with a pocket pair of 9s. And though I was the only one in the three-way all-in with outs--the others both had TT--I did not improve and went out in the 90s, recouping one-and-a-half times my investment.

So, the play. We're in the third hour and I have a below-par stack, though am not hurting M-wise just yet. I open-raise with AQo and get called by one of the blinds. Flop comes jack-high and I continuation bet when it's checked to me, at which point I get check-raised all in. I had not been at the table that long and had no read on the guy. At best, I figure I have two overs with two to come. If I fold, I'm left with 8K in chips, less than a third of par and dangerously low. In recent times, I've called that bet. Less an "Aw, fuck it" call than a "frustration" one, from lack of cards (certainly qualified last night) or from being out-flopped or from just plain not believing I can do any actual damage in the tourney with that small a stack.

Now, we all know that thinking is errroneous, chip and a chair and all that. But the even curiouser aspect is that I play a good short stack. Or I used to anyway. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that. And it's become a bad leak, 'cause when you make that dumb play, you're out, which, by definition, makes your chances of winning the tournament less than your chances with even the tiniest stack. The other night, in the $9K on FT, I ended the first hour with T880. I ended the second hour with T20K. Good things CAN happen when you still have chips.

So I folded last night and held onto my 8K. An orbit later, I doubled in the SB when I won a race with 99 v. AJ (The Drizz > The AJ). A couple orbits later, I called a button raise (3x) in the BB with 8h7h. I flopped the flush--Ah6h5h--and checked to the raiser who pushed. AsQs no good sir. Further insult when I made the straight flush on the turn. And suddenly I'm back to par. And a short time later, I'm in the top 20 in chips when QQ outruns AK, and I very much appreciated the Q-high flop, Lee.

That would be my last real hand. I soon got moved to JohnnyBax's table where the trend of me having a deuce in every hand continued. I lost a bit when my KJ got out-flopped by QJ, though I figured it out by the river. I might've been there an hour or so and played only that one hand, at which point, I was down to an M of 5 and went down swinging with The Drizz.

A humerous aside: Being at Johnny's table meant a lot of railbirds, one of whom called out Moneymaker, who happened to be keeping an eye on Bax, as well. Money's got rabbit ears. Posturing and heads-up challenges ensued. Good times. Thanks alot to all my lovely sweaters, even if I did have to beg nearly all of you to lend your karma.

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Yesterday was AJ's first soccer practice. I can't even stand it. It began too early for me to go, but we did try on his gear on Tuesday night and if someone could die from exposure to cuteness, we'd be ordering flowers and choosing pallbearers for me today.

I have been asked by several people if I think about coaching him. I think that's a bad idea. It's tough being the coach's son, for one. I'd rather not hang that albatross on him. Secondly, in my nearly dozen years of coaching, I tended to run on the excitable side...let's call it passion, much better word. I was always so invested in my players. I so badly wanted them to do well and I so badly wanted to win. It's how I was raised, in a competitive environment where winning is important. And while I think there are some advantages to that, it's way too early in his development to have that be a focus. I remember being sick from nervousness at age 13 before a State Cup quarterfinal. So there's a downside to all that pressure, too. And I can only guess at my...er...passion...when my own son is involved. I think these first few years, I'll simply concentrate on reining in my wholesale desire to scream at crooked, incompetent referees and become one of those Stepford suburbanites who screams wildly and positively at the kids regardless of the level of play. At least until I can no longer take the ineptitude of all around me and seize control in a bloodless footy coup and whip these 5-year-olds into shape.

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Fifteen straight against the Mariners (or, as we used to call them back in my A's message board days: The Seamen). Fewer things in life give me more pleasure. Yes, I'm petty. There are a couple real solid blogs about the Mariners. One of 'em is USSMariner, headed by the provocative and entertaining Derek "DMZ" Zumsteg, who you may have read on ESPN once or twice. The other main contributer is David Cameron, who is the crappy yin to DMZ's yang. It's not that I disagree with Cameron all the time, it's that his rigid analysis and arrogantly pedantic manner in delivering it often fails to see the forest for the trees.

So, in my pettiness, I'm compelled to point out this steaming pile from six weeks ago, which ends with this gem:

There’s no reason to be afraid of the A’s. The Mariners are a better team, even if the national writers will take months to figure that out.

Oh, that's gold. Pure spun gold.

Give It a Name

For one of the few times in recent months, I had a lazy Saturday morning all to myself in which to indulge in nothing more strenuous than lounging on my premium microsuede sofa and gawking at the ridiculousness one can find on the Idiot Box. And I stumbled upon the show with the greatest potential in the history of mankind, "The Flavor of Love," starring the incomparable Flava Flav. Amazingly, it's Season 2 and based on some online video clips, I'm a full season late to the party. Aren't you people supposed to tell me about these train wrecks?

Flav himself is a certified comedic genius, throwing out lines like, "I love latin women. My last three kids have been by hot latin women." Add in the 20 ladies--all of whom appear to exist on the societal and mental health fringe--vying for his affection and you have an unintentional comedy meter consistently topping out in the red. Naturally, the producers see the possibilities here and make sure to interview the weirdest of the candidates as often as possible, so you get multiple viewings of the lisping black girl whose enunciation makes Mike Tyson sound like Winston Churchill. Or the gap-toothed white trasher who talks like she's straight outta Compton. I watched the entire hour with mouth agape, from the almost immediate fist fight over a disputed bed, to the quick-fire drinking session that had one girl "looking but not seeing" after double-fisting shots to the naming ceremony where Flav gives them all nicknames based on their personality or characteristics, mostly because he, in his words, "can't remember their real names." So good luck to Toastee and Bootz and Delishus.

Speaking of naming rituals, last night AJ got his his marching papers for his first season of soccer. I admit to having anxiety over the selection of the team name, hoping it wouldn't be something stupid or something nonsensical from the imaginative mind of 5- and 6-year-olds. Sure, it's hilarious when AJ brings me an eight-legged drawing and says he's created an "Octamonster," but that'd kinda be a mouthful to scream from the sidelines. So, I wasn't too upset when they came up with "Jedi." Not exactly a classic sports team name, but an evocative one, one that certainly has more machismo and strength than my first club lo those many years ago: the Minnows.

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I got some poker in over the weekend and it wasn't half bad. My M.O. when running bad has always been to take some time off, clear the head. When I get into trouble is feeling like I "need" to play. Lately, with all else that's been going on, my poker time is limited and I think I benefit from that, because I'm excited to play when I do get a chance and my focus is better knowing there's not another session right behind this one. I made runs in both the Stars Crazy Re-Buy and a $20 MTT on Friday night. Though both ended up short of the money, I played well and avoided some of the pitfalls of my recent game, most notable among them being ill-timed (and ill-conceived) bluffs. I seem to try to take these further than they are warranted and basic logic doesn't support my play. I've also been susceptible to people inducing bluffs against me and I need to firmly grasp when I should be done with the hand, not one (or two) streets later.

I did money in the $9K Guaranteed on FT later in the weekend, though I got reamed down to 4 tables when my AA was cracked by J8o with all the money in pre-flop. I think it's excellent when a guy makes a horrible play with an unsuited 3-gapper and flops the nuts anyway. But that's poker. And that's what happens to horrible players sometimes. Still, it was a rewarding run in light of the fact I began the second hour with all of 880 chips. Was able to keep patient long enough to get some hands, another aspect of my game that has been left wanting.

It's been a rough year bankroll-wise for me. I had to spend about 70% of it on non-poker expenses and my hazy play in the first three months of the year provided another substantial hit. Poker was my escape from reality and neither my standard of play nor my results mattered much to me at the time. Since then, I've become almost unstuck for Aught Six, which doesn't sound like much, but it's better than where I was on April 1st. And if I hadn't given four buy-ins to Nickerson (and one and a half to Garth) in Vegas, I'd be positively ecstatic over the tiny numbers. At least they'd be black.

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I love baseball. I love well-played baseball. And I love the Oakland A's (though, like many unrequited loves, they can hurt you). When my team is playing good baseball, I walk around aroused 18 hours of the day. And they've been a blast to watch the last 3 weeks. Even AJ will now sit on the couch and watch the games with me and absolutely MUST be in the room every time "Big Hurt" comes to the plate. As such, he's picking up some of my baseball speech and mannerisms, like last night when Nick Swisher hit a deep fly ball and he screamed, "Get outta here!"

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Don't forget the For Peyton auction going on now. Eighteen hours left to leave me in a sniveling heap over my lost Layne Flack jersey.

Like I Even Need to Say It...

...but yes, I just peed myself.

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HOLY SHIT!!!

Bobby Bracelet just emailed me with something unreal. He finally put together that special package for the auction that he had previously mentioned. Not sure why he keeps using me for his announcements. I guess he likes me. (In a totally non-gay way of course)

Anyhow, he doesn't have a website anymore (HEAR THAT EMPLOYERS?) so I guess he had to choose someone, and who better than me? But let's get to the goods, cause these goods are especially good goods. Like that "good goods" sentence? I thought so. I am a wordsmith to an extent only rivaled by my one other quality. I am a dicksmith of Level 12 proportions. At any rate...

Bobby tells me this should be up Friday evening. If not, keep checking back because it is definitely going up soon.

PUT THE SOCO ON ICE!!!
(Pasted directly from Bobby's email)

(NOTE: Faces of your hero’s have been temporarily covered to ensure employers and creditors continue to be stymied about our existence as internet celebrities.)


You are bidding on a Bobby Bracelet and Donkey Puncher HUGE PACKAGE of priceless collector’s items and once in a lifetime opportunities.

First up is a set of framed collector’s edition photographs of Bobby Bracelet and Donkey Puncher, two of the most elite poker bloggers this world has ever seen. Each photo has been carefully selected based on a rigid set of standards set forth by DP, the Bracelet, and the Franklin Mint. Thousands were discarded to ensure you received the highest quality photos of these prolific individuals that time and money can buy.



Capture your inner David as Donkey Puncher has done in our first selection. Nothing says “I am Man” like a good solid David pose, and the Puncher of Donkeys has not disappointed here. This photo will be signed, and if you’re lucky DP will write a few special words of encouragement as well.



When the Bracelet sits down to play poker he brings more than just the pain, he brings cold hard cash. (Dollar Dollar Bills Ya’ll!) Check-raising douche bags has never been more fun than in today’s poker crazy world. Keep a sexy reminder of what this game is all about by placing this photo of Bobby Bracelet on your mantle, above your bed, or in your bathroom. The Bracelet will not only sign this photo, but he’ll also write his now famous catch phrase, “Don’t forget to min-raise your Aces!”



Finishing up the framed and signed collector’s items, DP and the Bracelet were captured plying Power Poker at the same final table. Signed and framed, this unbelievable photo contains many of your favorite poker bloggers playing against, or watching these two A-List bloggers as well. It’s also visual proof that Bobby does more than lose at blackjack, and DP doesn’t spend every waking moment doing his hair or posing like David.

Lastly, as if Jesus himself put this package together, you have the opportunity of a lifetime. Why? Because Bobby Bracelet and Donkey Puncher will grace the winners of this package with their presence. Yes, allow the 860th Greatest Poker Player in the World (as of 6/3/05) and the Vidal Sassoon of Poker Bloggers to crash your home game, hit up the town for drinks, or maybe give your special lady a sensual massage. The world is your oyster. Travel must be reasonable so foreign countries are probably out of the question, but hey, make it worth our while for Peyton and maybe we can make an exception.



Just in case your head hasn’t exploded yet, we’ve thrown in a copy of the great book by Michael Craig, The Professor, the Banker, and the Suicide King. Inside the Richest Poker Game of All Time.

Now go bid on this unbelievable package. Make Bobby and DP proud.

Personal Ad

It's your first night with a new puppy. She seems happy in her new home, has been there for nearly 4 hours and behaved perfectly except for one tiny thing: she hasn't performed her biological business. And it's getting late. Take a dump, dog!

Two reasonably intelligent people tried many different things to get this to happen with no success. We'd about given up, went searching for puppy suppositories and dog dishes full of warm water. She squealed at us from the other side of the screen door as we implored her, "Go...on the paper, on the patio, in the garden, in the dirt...Anywhere!"

Ohhhhh...well...except there. On the carpet. Less than two seconds after wedging her way into the house. I thought it was funny. Owner of said house and carpet? Not so much.

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So, another nice evening with the lovely young lady with whom I've been spending a fair amount of time (kind of a mouthful, maybe time for an acronym) while not telling her about the blog even though I'm sure she wonders why I get phone calls past midnight from random people around the country and further wonders what possible origin could there be for me occasionally referring to The Bracelet or Chadarama or DonkeyPuncher.

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It came up in conversation last night: Something of a State Of The Wooing communique in between tending to puppy needs. And it was settled that we are not yet at the point of Exclusivity. My reaction to which is, "Wait...we still get to see each other a lot...but when we're not pawing at each other over there on the couch, I can...like...pick up random chicks at Applebee's?"

Precisely. Hear that ladies? (Have we beaten that one far enough into the ground yet? Gawd, I hope not.)

She asked if I was okay with that and I am, thinking it's not only prudent at this relatively early stage of our acquaintance, considering as well our shared circumstances, but also because I've experience with the person I'm seeing--or even married to--dating someone else.

Bah-dum-dum.

So, now that I'm apparently still on the market and I don't believe there were any limitations placed on my participation, allow me to list some of my finer qualities for you hot, single members of my female audience (and you're all hot on the internet until proven otherwise, just remember that), those things you're not going to find anywhere else in the Dating World.

I know my 14-digit library card number by heart and it begins with a hammer-flop-eriffic 272...I quote liberally from "Beavis & Butthead"...My belt ALWAYS matches my shoes...I love to dance, when I'm 8 drinks past wasted or when there's a gun pointed at my head...I'm very handsome, a fact I verify in every mirror I pass...I'll happily wax my back hair into your initials. You only need ask...I played in the World Series of Poker last year. They don't let just anyone in, you know. What?...I have a tremendous capacity for remembering names, which can sometimes be a problem because with all those names packed in this tiny brain, sometimes the wrong one slips out at an inopportune time, like last night, when I was kissing her adieu, I called her "Iggy"...I will soon be the proud owner of a Layne Flack-autographed Full Tilt Basketball Jersey (suck it, drizzle)...I'm not wearing pants.

E-mail is on my profile page.

One Night in a Bar

It was ironic I found out about the foiled terrorist plot in Britain while drinking Jack & Cokes at this seedy bar because I'd elevated my own threat level the moment I walked into the joint. A strange confluence of events had brought me there and, at first, I diverted eye contact from the assorted clientele. Before long, I couldn't tear my gaze away.

The place reeked of meth sweat and rotten teeth, white trash wilted in the summer sun. One gal wore bobby socks, too tight floods and a shirt that strained mid-belly, giving off the sense of ruptured sausage casing. Another had veiny muscular arms, white as a blizzard, which scribbled furiously on a lottery slip. Her sunken eyes made her look like a dead--and dying--ringer for Tom G. Warrior (a reference only BadBlood and I get, so here). A Latino guy nursed his 12th Bud Light and talked about his remarkable recovery from a stroke just four months ago, proudly tipping back his longneck with a still-whithered left arm. A blonde in a dirty red evening dress and flop flops ranted about restraining orders and living in a motel and sex with 15-year-old girls and "sick shit." The huge bartender with the black roots barked at us brusquely from behind her carefully, heavily outlined lips, "Whatcha drinkin' dudes?" She talked with one of her co-workers, who, based on the shaking, hit the rails immediately after quitting time. She couldn't have been more than a few months past 21, a tanning bed hue blanketing her tiny frame, and she talked excitedly about making $100 in tips the other day, which she hoped would pay for the dent she incurred driving mommy's 7-series Beemer.

Me and my buddy nursed our Jack & Cokes at the end of the bar and whispered quietly.

There was a time when I courted unusual characters, where I openly engaged them in conversation for my own amusement. I suppose those days are long gone. These people frightened and fascinated me, a world removed from my own, yet less than a dozen miles from my suburban Disneyland. They were blue-collar folks, construction workers and janitors and waitresses, finding their mid-week oasis in this linoleum hideaway. There wasn't much laughter. Just groups of people sitting around lazily recalling their day, deliberately, absently wiping the condensation from their bottles. They spoke with caution, as if going deeper would upset the balance of the place, that fragile comfort they find inside these walls.

The bathroom was an abomination, the details I'll leave aside, but for one. On my first trip, I noticed some unusual footwear peeking beneath the shuttered stall. Same on my second and third, encompassing a few hours. Around midnight, the bartender forcibly removed the guy from the stall. He'd been passed out there for quite a while. "Phil!" she screamed. "We're closed!" And turned the lights out on us to enable the ruse.

At some point, the jukebox went quiet and we sauntered over to give it a look. We'd reached some level of comfort here, had a few short conversations, tipped the bartender healthily enough for her to start calling us "darlin'" instead of "dude," enough for her to start putting more Jack than Coke in our glasses. So we figured we'd gamble a little and played some music that might shatter the delicate detente of the bar. Iron Maiden? Check. The whole of "2112" (how 'bout a half hour of prog rock)? Check. Jack White's squealing guitar virtuosity on "Ball and Biscuit?" Indeed.

The loud music seemed to animate the place a little. We got a tip of the glass from the guy in the black t-shirt for our selection of "Two Minutes to Midnight." And then a girl who wasn't all there started talking to us. She had a flat, clipped midwestern accent and a Joker-ish grin. She danced from aimless topic to aimless topic as we simply nodded and grunted agreement. Finally, she said, "Have you seen the guy I came here with?"

I had, much earlier. A big guy with red-brown skin and the calloused hands of honest labor. He had walked in ahead of her, but never acknowledged her presence, even as he cradled his pint glass and took long satisfying drinks, like the brew was a hard-earned reward. She flitted about him like a satellite, but he never seemed to notice.

"Not in a while," I answered her and she told us how they had met at dinner, a Sizzler, I think it was. The story went on from there, a meandering tale of perceived attraction and bliss, a lot of action packed into just a few hours it seemed to me, so I said, "This all happened tonight?"

"No, this was three years ago," she said.

The bartender, not feeling well, she said, decided to close up early. There were half-hearted groans, a slammed beer bottle, but all succumbed. I watched some of them trudging out, some weaving down the street on foot, others awkwardly sitting astride a bicycle. Their expressions never changed, but I could tell they didn't want to go. I tried to imagine where they went, a game my friends and I used to call "Get into their lives." It was hard to say. All I knew for sure was that they'd be back.

Oy Vey

Somehow, I think Mel Gibson is responsible.

Liverpool 2, Maccabi Haifa 1

Yeah, fine. I wrote all that when it was still 1-1 late, but I thought it was so funny that I'm leaving it there even after debunante Chilean Mark Gonzalez put in the winner in the 89th. And it's not like a last-gasp win--and giving up an away goal--against an Israeli club is anything to celebrate.

Fresh Meat

The next item up for bid here at The Price is Right is your immortal soul, which will be ferried into the afterlife--the good one--if you give up the cash For Peyton.

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They say that the 3rd time is a charm.

I don't know who "they" are, but they could be on to something. Bobby
Bracelet and his merry band of Do-Gooders, has struck again. I tell ya,
if I was a girl, I'd be all over Mr. Bracelet. The dude has everything
going for him. He's like a living breathing example of what the word
Perfect means. Plus the size of his heart is only exceeded by the size
of his Thrice Confirmed Huge Junk. Hear that ladies?

Anyhow, the 3rd edition of his Auction For Peyton is up!

Now hustle yourself over to ebay and find yourself something to bid on.


Antonio Esfandiari Photo

Michael Gracz Photo

Erick Lindgren Photo

T.J. Cloutier Photo

Carlos Mortensen Photo

Daniel Negreanu Photo

David Williams Photo

Layne Flack Jersey and Photo

Kenna James Cowboy Hat

Card Player Package

Hellmuth DVD Package


Plus, there is rumors that Bobby is going to put together a special package to add to the auction within the next day or two. He hasn't told me what it is, but expect it to kick ass if he does it. Because that's how he rolls.

Guest List

So far, my brilliant idea of Blogger Day at Del Mar has generated overwhelming response in the form of two "Yay's," two "Maybes" and one "oh, but I have to move to Florida two days later." Lame. What kind of beer-drinking in the sun degenerate gamblers are you? I may accept "no" for an answer, but I will not accept APATHY! I mean, The Bracelet is coming all the way from Michigan! Hear that ladies? Yeah, I hear it too, it's the sound of BG going on tilt. So, it's me, Bobby and Veneno at this point, with Hoff and Glyph on the "also elibigle" list. Those of you in the area (and really, the invite extends coast to coast) with the deafening silence thing are getting an e-mail in the next couple days. It will not be safe for work.

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I played some pretty good poker the other night, moneying in the Crazy $11 Re-Buy on Stars, doubling my investment. My game has been sporadic as I've lacked a lot of free time to play and when I do play it has not been anywhere near my 'A' game. I think the primary reason for that is I was focusing on the Special $10 Re-Buy on Paradise where there is little to no room for anything but ABC poker. Even though it's a re-buy and a profitable tourney for me, the blinds go up so quickly that it's "wait for a monster and push it," a factor which means my game has become stagnant. There's no improvement to be had there.

For a time, right around the end of last year, I felt like I was improving in leaps and bounds. One of the primary reasons for that was Murderer's Row. Playing in that game forced you to elevate your game and I learned something every single time out. Since, of course, the game was forcibly disbanded and my personal life went through a few changes. So I haven't gotten that back. I've not played at that higher level since.

So that's why I'm going to start playing the Stars Re-Buy instead. There's much more room for play after the re-buy period. There's a better standard of player than at Paradise, so I can learn by watching when not in a hand. And hell, the prize pool is over $65K on weekends and if I have to wade through 1800 players to taste it, so be it. I felt a little of the old me coming through on Sunday night: better focus, better reads. It wasn't perfect. I made a couple mistakes, but only small ones. And I got my money in with the best of it all the way until the end when I had to push with a less than stellar holding. I was encouraged.

I figured I should talk about poker a little since you may have noticed a growing ad section over there. Yes, I'm in high demand. I'm trending upward. I'm slowly moving away from my core paradigms and thinking outside the box. Click a couple if you love me. Even if you just kinda "like" me. And before you call me a whore, I did turn down a few offers.

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So I had to do something last night that I was REALLY dreading. I'm an idiot, you see, and needed to correct a misconception, which was a misconception because of me. And while I felt some relief at unburdening myself, I felt even better with the way my confession was received. Wow. I really think I'm on to someone special here. That's not a euphemism.

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I got four phone calls from dozens of bloggers last weekend.

"Hey Speaks, we're in NYC. How many times have you been to Sephora?" (The over/under was 5; the under took it)
"Hey Joe! We've got 11 people in a limo cruising down The Strip and we wanted to call and tilt you say "Hi!"
"Speaker, just wanted to call and say I loved your AJ post and you're a big pussy."

Thanks, guys. During one of those conversations, a familiar question came up, "Have you told her about the blog?" I have not mentioned my TGOD to the young lady I am currently seeing. I don't know when I will, either. It's not that I have anything to hide, which should be patently obvious to all. And, in fact, would love to share some of my "creative" side with her. It's just that there's a lot of stuff here, a lot of raw, emotional stuff and I guess I'd like her to hear some of the bigger pieces of my past from me instead of experiencing it for the first time in cyber print. And there's also the whole profane hperbole that might set her to wondering. Anybody have any sort of experience with this kind of thing?

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Don't look now, but the A's are quietly playing .714 ball since The Break (15-6) and have, in the last four or five games, looked considerably more impressive than they have all season. The defense especially has been fun to watch, capped by the sick Web Gem from Chavez last night. All of which means squat since the Angels aren't going away and the division will come down to the last two weeks--and seven games v. Anaheim--where the A's recent history of passively giving it up looms. Still, when Esteban Loiaza (aka The Tijuana Turd) manages a win against the high-powered Texas offense, maybe things are breaking right for a change.

Exchange Rate

I recently had occasion to experience one of my favorite thrills in life: Returning/exchanging items at a local electronics store which shall remain nameless, but it rhymes with Best Buy.

With the "aid" of one of their fine sales staff, I had managed to walk out of the store with two video games which did not match the game system I had also purchased at that time. Unlike most of my male peers, I'm not at all versed in the video game culture, my flirtation ending somewhere around Atari 2600's Space Invaders. Once I went off to college, I left them behind, preferring to use my free time to study hard and help those less fortunate. Okay fine, I smoked a lot of weed and took a lot of naps while listening to "British Steel." But that is neither here nor there. My ignorance forced me to lean on the knowledge of the blue-shirted experts, who managed to get me the wrong games, a fact I only realized after opening one and seeing quite clearly that it would not marry to the console.

Armed with my receipt and a healthy regard for what is right, I sidled up to the return counter, where a snarling bulldog with a red pen and name badge greeted me with a disdainful click of the tongue. She informed me that she could exchange the unopened game for the one I needed, but the opened package could only be swapped for the exact same game, which of course would still be incompatible with AJ's Gameboy. I opined that was silly. She replied that it was policy. I took a deep breath and went all logic on her.

"So the unopened one can be returned and I can get the right game for my system."
"Yes."
"But the opened one can only be exchanged for another of its kind."
"Yes."
"Which I can't use."
"That's our policy, sir."
"It's stupid."
Crickets.
"We don't accept returns on opened software or video games."
"But you do."
"Huh?"
"You accept them for the exact game."
"Yes."
"So you do accept returns of opened software or video games."
"Yes, but..."
"Wait. Stop there. Let's not get to part two yet. Let's verify that you accept opened software and video games."
"But only for exchanges of the exact game."
"Daddy?"
"Yes, AJ."
"Why does that stupid lady keep saying the same thing over and over again?"
Crickets.
"OK. Here's what we're gonna do."
"Yes sir."
"I would like to exchange the opened video game for an unopened one of the same kind."
"Okay."
"Then, right here in front of you, I'm going to open that new video game and ask to exchange it for another unopened one. And I'm going to do that five or six times, at which point I'll probably get bored standing here wasting both our time and ultimately exchange an UNOPENED one for the game I actually need, because, we have established you DO to that, per your precious policy. Now, that's Option One and I'm relishing standing here and having you transact this exchange over and over again. Option Two would be to eliminate those unnecessary steps, which I believe you can agree would be most inefficient, and just go ahead and let me return this opened game for the one I need."
"Let me get my manager."

Seriously, has nobody ever punched that similar common sense hole in their policy? I can't imagine. Anyway, the manager came over and gave me what I wanted without a peep. He smiled, in fact, tousled AJ's hair, and was generally swell about the whole thing. Of course, he was obviously gay and I was looking pretty good.

Take a Plane, Take a Train, Take a Car

You take the castle-theme, the "MiLords, MiLadies and Squires" flying around, the cheesy get-ups and the overly-dramatic speeches of Medieval Times and I suppose it's no surprise I felt like I was back at Excalibur, minus the degenerate gambling and horrid customer service. Then again, the smell of stale horse urine in the Arena also reminded me of The Plaza.

AJ had a fantastic time, bouncing around in his seat for the full two hours. The show was mostly entertaining, the food edible and his interpretive post-show dance/swordplay of what he had seen was worth double the price of admission. Of course, when we passed the similar Pirate-themed dinner show on the way home, X and I suggested that perhaps grandma would like to take him to that one.

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So, you take horses and the memories of degenerate gambling with bloggers and you come up with an idea.

Blogger Day at Del Mar.

I hereby invite any and all LA, OC, San Diego, Santa Barbara and hey, how about a shout-out to Schnecksville to join me and...well...nobody at this point...in a Saturday at the track, where the surf meets the turf.

The date is Saturday, Aug. 26. Post time 2 p.m. If you're interested, drop me a comment or send an e-mail from my profile within the next few days. Once I get a number, I'll order some tickets. At my advanced age, I prefer the Stretch Run seating, which offers a fine view of the entire track. Back in the day, when you could bring your own beer, we'd lug massive coolers into the infield where, by the 5th race, we'd be so loaded that we'd pick horses based on perceived drug references in their name.

"Dude, I'm going with Blueberry Policy."
"Why?"
"'Cause some blueberries would be AWESOME right now and 'cause Reagan's Drug Policy is total bullshit."

But the last time I was there a couple summers ago, the infield was barren dirt, was not populated by skimpily-clad SDSU co-eds and was generally a depressing (and very hot) place to be. And you can't bring your own coolers any longer. Furthermore, they will be holding a concert by Jimmy Eat World in the infield that day and if I hear more than 10 seconds of Jimmy Eat World, I'll be fleeing to Tijuana to escape murder charges.

So, if anyone's interested, as they say on myspace, "hit me up, yo."

High Five

AJ,

On this, your 5th Birthday, my gift to you, aside from the GameBoy, is to finally reveal all the ancient truths of the Universe and perhaps to answer some of the millions of questions you have asked me over the last five years.

In a fight, Superman would totally annihilate the Power Rangers, the whole lot of 'em. Superman is like Tito Ortiz and Samuel L. Jackson rolled into one, whereas the Power Rangers are more like the Jackson 5, fun to have around at parties, not so entertaining in a back alley throwdown.

Crayons are not to be eaten. However, if you find yourself in a situation where the ingestion of waxy cylindars is unavoidable, make sure you videotape it and put it on the internet.

Avocados are actually a fruit, not a vegetable, so when you say you don't like vegetables, you are not including avocados in that statement, so you should really try avocados as they are not only tastier than Super Sugar Crisp, they contain what is known as "good fat," also known as Essential Fatty Acids, which keep your skin pretty, your hair shiny and the rest of your body lubed up. And no matter what anybody tells you in your future junior high school locker room, having pretty, lubed up skin is not only totally not gay, but is rather a crucial trait to attracting the opposite sex, who, clear as I recall, are not openly swooning over guys with rampaging back zits.

We're taking you to Medievel Times tonight and though it's a secret, you can't read yet, so haha!

Always be polite to women; open doors for them, bring them soup when they're sick, buy them flowers. No, this will not help you get laid. In fact, most women hate to be treated well and will quickly take advantage of your kindness, break your heart, stomp on it and leave it beating weakly by the side of the road, but such behavior will make Daddy proud and if it keeps you a virgin a while longer than you'd like...well...that's okay with Daddy, too.

You're probably better off just completing or checking in the blinds of an unraised pot with a big ace, 'cause you're not gonna chase out many limpers, some of whom are probably ahead of you with baby pairs and others not far behind with live cards. You're out of position and you'll very often find yourself having to throw out a continuation bet if the flop is unkind, which is simply wasting chips against the retards you're gonna find in the nightly Full Tilt guarantees.

Life is too short to drink bad beer. Except when you're in college, so don't ask me to send more money.

I think it's heart-warming that you wish dinosaurs were still alive so you could be friends with a T-Rex but, and I haven't told you this yet so as not to burst that wonderful imagination bubble of yours, you and T-Rex wouldn't have gotten along too well. He'd probably have eaten you on sight, no matter how cool your Lego Pirare Ship is.

I'm not afraid of you growing up. I'm excited to see the boy and man you will become. A lot of people wonder "what happened to my Bay-Bee?!?!" but, to be honest, you were pretty boring for the first six months; nothing but pooping and crying and laying around like a lazy ass. Since, of course, you've made me laugh almost every day, given me heart palpitations on occasion with your daredevil climbing and fresh insight into a great many important things. I'll never leave your side, son, even if we're miles or two genenerations apart. I know the days will come when you'd prefer to be adopted by someone else, when my behavior--my very existence--is an embarassment to you, but that's okay. I've been there. You'll find you know less and less as you get older, slowly rolling down the knowledge mountain from the summit of 16 years old. Even so, I'll never stop leaning on you, trying to make the words sink in, hoping my influence gets inside your veins, lessons that I pray will remain with you even when I'm gone. There is nothing you can ever do to make me love you less. And with every passing second, I love you more.

Happy Birthday,
Daddy

Connect Four, Bitch!

One of the characteristics of my area of Los Angeles (referred to derisively as the Inland Empire--IE--or The 909) is the less-than-mediocre level of customer service one finds at the neighborhood venues. I established this fact along ago during a brief 6-month stint in the area and am still unable to come up with a valid reason for it. Perhaps it is just growing pains, these pre-fabricated cities rising from nothingness and somehow civilization is playing catch up.

Fortunately, I am "at peace" and yesterday handled back-to-back incidents with aplomb. First, I went to pick up my dry cleaning. I've been happy with the place, one I chose because of its close proximity to my apartment. I'm picky about dry cleaners, as I am with my clothes, and have had to change my patronage on many occasions in the past due to what I consider sub-standard care. Like the place that actually used a black grease pencil to write my name on my shirts, which is not so cool when it's a white shirt and I wear it untucked. Or the place that thought "light starch" meant treating the shirt so it could stand unaided. But, until yesterday, I hadn't had any problems with the new joint. AJ likes it too because the guy lets him work the buttons and gives him candy.

Yesterday's mistake, however, is unforgivable and I will be finding a new place to launder my garments. My pile of shirts contained one that did not belong to me, which wouldn't be so terrible if one of mine wasn't also missing. My favorite shirt, to be exact. Yes, they found it, with my extensive help, but I can't run the risk of that happening again. We're talking about sacred stuff here. Handle with care and all that. I feel violated. As if someone broke into my walk-in closet and re-arranged my clothes, putting shirts with pants and blues with browns. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers.

Then it was off to a local "Restaurant and Sports Bar." I've never been to this establishment, but the refrigerator was a little thin and I didn't feel like cooking, so AJ and I made our way over. We arrived a little before 7 and I took note of the five TVs in the dining room and how they were all showing the same game--Tribe/Sawx. I ordered a Fat Tire and a Sicilian pizza and asked a passing hostess if it would be possible to change one of the TVs to A's/Angels since, you know, this IS Los Angeles and the local team IS playing a rival for first place in the division. She said sure, she'd tell the manager. Twenty minutes later, I was still looking at Tribe/Sawx on all five TVs and I politely inquired again. The hostess provided a lame excuse, which I interpreted as "I forgot," but immediately promised to get it done. By the time AJ and I had finished our meal, I was watching Baseball Tonight on five TVs, the Sawx having Ortizzled the Tribe. When the waitress came by with a box, I asked to see the manager.

I might have mentioned previously how I am trying to be more assertive and I'm happy to report this is the first time I've ever asked to see a restaurant manager. She arrived and I--again, politely--explained what had happened and that perhaps a SPORTS BAR in LOS ANGELES might be aware of when the local teams are playing and automatically have them on a couple screens, especially at the head of the season's home stretch and even more especially since the winner of this particular game would be in first place. I then opined that the manager of a SPORTS BAR in LOS ANGELES would probably want to be even more sensitive to showing the game WHEN A CUSTOMER SPECIFICALLY ASKS FOR IT.

I told her that this was my first time in their establishment, that I came, in part, to watch the game and that I would not be coming back. She comped us anyway (Free Beer!) and even threw in a desert for AJ. Assertiveness is cool.

And then we went home to watch the A's beat those stupid Angels. I've said all along, the only thing this A's club has lacked is a sociopath. With Milton Bradley, they're finally complete.

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Also be sure to refresh often today over at Pauly's House for all the up close and personal tales of poker action during Day 2A of the Main Event, featuring bloggers Ryan and Tuscaloosa Johnny.

Also check out the Poker Stars Blog where some of my--and your--favorite writers are pounding out some excellent work, though with fewer pictures of hot chicks than Pauly.