Heads Up!

It must have been my junior year in high school, 1993. I threw discuss on the track team, and we were practicing indoors, in the double sized gym, throwing hard rubber discusses.

I was sitting on an aluminum bench, talking to Nick, when suddenly, our conversation was shattered by the sound of a discus slamming into the bench next 18 inches from me. I looked up, incredulously, at Coach Moran, giving him the ultimate "what the FUCK?" look without saying anything.

He was already coming toward me, smiling, with his hands up in a peace offering pose, trying to explain himself, "Look, I knew the discuss wasn't going to hit you, so I didn't want to yell something that would cause you to move into it's path." Kenny, a 6 foot 5 260 lb. defensive lineman, who had thrown the disc, now grunted "heads up," and chuckled, as he picked up another disc.

So why do I bring up this seemingly random story? Well, I'm glad you asked. You see, Oscar has taken to peeing on people in the Small Dog Run. He wanders around, and then, with little warning, lifts his leg and hoses down an unwary target.

Now, sometimes Oscar is out of ammo, and it's just a harmless leg lift, and sometimes he has juice left, but misses his target. However, there are times when he manages to label someones leg with pee.

So my dilemma is, as I see Oscar lift his leg, do I

a) shout "Oscar NO!" and draw attention to it, which, although perhaps making me look like a responsible dog owner, will highlight the fact to the victim that they are getting peed on, and usually does nothing to deter Oscar anyway. It will also highlight the fact that my boy is a people-pee-er.

b) stay silent, hoping Oscar has no ammo left, or will miss their leg

c) count on the person not to notice anyway

Today, I opted for option a), but Oscar lifted his leg anyway, and nailed a lady sitting on the bench, who then, in horror, gasped, "Oh my goodness! is that on ME?" I snatched up Oscar immediately, and took him out of the dog run, all the while cursing this idiot who wasn't paying attention and blamed my baby! I mean, you have to understand, this shit happens in the dog run - that's why you don't wear your fancy pants, and that's why you pay attention when dogs are sniffing around at your feet.

Anyway, who could stay mad at this face:

Happy New Year to everyone.



-KD

Kid Dynamite Plays Poker!

Many posts ago, this blog was started as a POKER BLOG! Lately, I've played so little, it's morphed into a little soapbox for me to rant about all things Fergalicious. Tonight, however, I played poker again! In a big way.

Let me keep this short and sweet: you know a poker game is huge when you walk up to the table of a 5-5NL game which you know to have a $750 max buy in, and see so many chips on the table that you have to confirm their denominations... "Blacks are $100, greens are $25 right?" I ask, feeling like an idiot, but wondering how there can possibly be almost $30k on the table.

"Yes," I get the reply, and eager stares from the sharks eager to take the money of the guy who doesn't know the chip values. Fortunately, I know most of these players, and despite (or because of) their six sigma play (open raise to $50, or $75, reraise to $200, which can be cold-called 3 times. Most hands are straddled or double straddled, so it's basically a 5-5-10 NL game), I manage to book a nice win in 3 hours, playing very few hands.

until next time,

KD

Happy Holidays

Kid Dynamite, Mrs. Dynamite and Oscar Dynamite

Vegas December To Remember 2006: Marty Up!

Friday.

As always, I had the trip details fully planned. Not the rookie "pimp shirt and straw hat to impress the young sluts" details - the "there are 30 free seats on the 3:20 pm flight out of Newark, so even though I'm booked on the 4:30pm flight, it shouldn't be a problem to walk on to the earlier flight" details. The fact that the early flight was on a smaller, less comfortable Boeing 737 instead of the 4:30 flight's 757 was a sacrifice I was willing to make - yeah, I'm willing to bet I'm the only guy who knew that it was a different kind of plane. Like I said, this isn't amateur hour.

I consulted with Dirty Dave, as always, Friday morning, explaining to him that Continental offered the option to change your flight to the earlier flight on that day for $25. He suggested I just book it, and not worry about it.

"But Dave, we're talking EV here!" I'm always looking to save a unit.

"Friday afternoon to Vegas? Those seats could disappear in a hurry," Dave cautioned with the words of an experienced Sensei, but I decided to roll the dice.

I arrived at Newark airport around 2pm, and as I was walking through security, my phone rang: an automated message from Continental airlines, telling me that the 4:30 flight was now delayed until 7pm. Fuck. Dirty Dave was right again - there was the 3 sigma event that would result in a rush on the 30 open seats on the earlier flight. The problem was, I was too early, there wasn't even anyone at the gate yet.

I took my place 8th in line at the Continental customer service line, staffed by a single agent. Twice I called the 800-number to try to do the transfer on the phone, but I gave up, not wanting to wait 10 minutes on hold, and figuring it would be easier to do in person anyway. 30 minutes later I was "next" in line when the couple behind me got through to customer service on the 800-number, and made the exact switch I was trying to: 4:30 Vegas flight --> 3:20 Vegas flight. I jokingly handed my boarding pass to the woman on the cell phone, and mouthed "change mine too," with a big grin. The guy she was with urged her "yeah - change his too," and then two more people handed her itineraries! She hooked me up, getting my flight changed, while I made small talk with the guy - who told me they were staying at the Imperial Palace, which sent off my Spidey sense: why would two normal looking people from the NYC area be staying at the IP... unless... they were bloggers? I calmly waltzed up to the agent to pick up my new boarding pass, and waited for the couple, offering to buy them a drink.

We cruised over to the airport bar, and, armed with vodka&tonic, rum&coke and gin&tonic, made more Vegas small talk. "We're kinda meeting some people out there," the guy explained, vaguely. "Not the blogger crew - is it?" I was straightforward. Two shocked looks came back my way, as the guy asked "are you going for that too?"

I explained that I wasn't really part of the blogger cool crew, but that I did indeed write a little. The woman exclaimed with a flourish, "Well, meet the Boy Genius!"

"Holy Shit - BG in the flesh? You're the horse racing degenerate!" Thankfully, BG knew to take this as a complement. I extended my hand and explained, "Kid Dynamite, I've read your stuff."

"And may I present Maigrey, the Poker Princess," BG introduced, as she took a mock bow.

"Bobby Bracelet is your real brother right?" I asked, and BG admitted as much reluctantly. He got Bob on the phone, and I finally got to talk to the Legend himself. BB told me that there was actually a solid chance he would be booking a last minute flight to Vegas, but that I had to keep it quiet. I resisted the urge to try to pick off BG with inside information on a prop bet, instead lifting his offer when he let me choose what kind of product the group of salesmen gathered at the table behind us sold: tangible (ie, drugs) or intangible (ie, HR, payroll). I eyed the group of young, coed boozers, and said "intangible." BG went right over to them and got the answer: Payroll! I had him on tilt before we'd even boarded the plane, as I collected on the wager.

After three drinks, I decided I'd check on the status of our newly delayed earlier flight, and found that after pushing it back an hour, they'd re-instated the initial departure time! We scrambled for the gate, and BG flaunted his Elite frequent flier status by waltzing onto the plane, larrying his drink, while I had the presence of mind to bring mine with me.

***

Touching down in Vegas, I bid farewell to BG and Maigrey, and double timed it to the taxi line, prepared for the worst. I called Dirty Dave from the line, and he mocked me, asking "Taxi Tilt yet?" but the line was less than 15 minutes, and I'd located the Big Show in the Wynn poker room before 7:15pm. I dropped my stuff in the room, and repeatedly tried to raise Chops on the cell, but got a "THAT NUMBER IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE" message. The fucker got a new cellphone THAT day, and didn't give me the number. D-ball.

We decided to head over to the Venetian to check out the 8pm tourney which has a fairly decent structure, and attempt to find Chops, as he'd mentioned that he and Snake would likely be there. I did manage to find the dynamic duo, easily identifiable by Snake, a dead ringer for Jared Leto. It was great to finally meet Chops, the legendary Vegas porn producer, and likeminded blogger. Snake isn't nearly as degenerate as he should be, given his rock star looks, stable of Atlanta hookers, and Wicked heritage, but then again, I don't know what I expected from him at a poker tournament. (note: Chops is not, in fact, a porn producer, and Snake may or may not have a stable of Atlanta hookers.)

We ground it out in the 70 person tourney for several hours, before I bowed out in 21st place. Snake held on for 15th, and Big Show bubbled at 11th. After doubling my stack courtesy of a total doucheball in the 2-5NL game, Big Show and I left to go crush the Venetian double deck blackjack game, with Chops still alive and fighting at the final table! By the time Chops stopped by to tell us he'd taken down third place, I was down $304, and we said our goodbyes before heading back to the Wynn to regroup.

Saturday.

Big Show and I hit the Wynn's Terrace Point Cafe for breakfast at around 10:30. A 20 minute wait for an outside table evaporated instantly when I explained to the hostess DYKWTFIA - that she was talking to Kid Dynamite and the Big Show - in the flesh! Cheeseburgers and fries fortified us for a leather ass session in the poker room, and absorbed residual toxins from the night before.

There was a blogger tournament scheduled at Caesar's at 1:30, but as much as I wanted to meet some of the people whose prose I've been reading, I couldn't tear myself away from the 2-5NL games at Wynn and Mirage. We started out at Wynn, and I treaded water in a mediocre game for several hours. Eventually, Big Show and I headed over to the Mirage, where the games were actually softer - I think it's due to the lack of walk in Fish traffic at the Wynn. It's not that the Wynn games were especially tough, just not nearly as juicy as I'd expected - and nothing like the game at the Venetian the prior night, or the Mirage that same day. In a bizarre twist, both Big Show and I managed to get felted in the first orbit of our respective 1-2NL games at the Mirage, which we sat in for less than 15 minutes while waiting for 2-5NL seats.

I played some of my best poker, and had all of the young nits at the table fearing me like the grim reaper. One cockchugger asked the dealer to rabbit hunt a flop, after I'd made a big re-raise and then preflop laydown with QQ, and my opponent showed me KK. The dealer obliged, as I eyed Big Show across the table and tried to figure out if I'd fucked the hand up. As she flipped up a Q high flop, the table erupted, but I was stone cold. I got my revenge the next day, when I played with the same rabbit hunting mother fucker (more on that to come.)

Big Show took a series of beats, and I was unable to make anything exciting happen, so after 8 hours big show made an Orange Chicken run and we recessed to a dinner of Panda Express in the Mirage sportsbook. Big Show and I were dragging a little, but we decided to roam the strip, checking out the legendary Pinegar Twins on the dueling pianos at Harrah's (you know, the twins who both look like weathered Tara Reid?), and observing the action at the outdoor Carnival Bar.

We returned to our old favorite, the IP, but the lack of cellphone service prevented me from bumping into the ample assortment of blogger colleagues who were likely there at that very moment. Big Show and I dropped almost two dimes in less than an hour, and our favorite pit boss Frank offered to buy us breakfast. "No thanks, I don't want to get sick," Big Show replied without missing a beat, and we laughed our way out the door.

Feeling our age, we dragged ourselves back to the Wynn, where I couldn't make it to the room before succumbing to the effects of Panda Express. Big Show hit the room to change, while I annihilated the first stall in the Wynn Shops crapper, and scooped two passes to Lure - the Wynn's "Ultra Lounge" on my way upstairs.

Changed into more presentable gear, we made our way back to Lure, where, before we even had a drink in our hands, we ran into old friends of the Big Show. This group of degenerates was on their way to Tryst - the Wynn's nightclub, and big Saturday night scene. We were invited to tag along, but were mindful of not wanting to fuck up the reservations this crew already had. Somehow, in a feat of pure will, the leader of the group bullied the Wynn club host into letting all FOURTEEN of us in on the same table reservation - and I don't even think he greased the host! The two bottle table for 7 became a table for 11 dudes and 3 girls, and still with only two bottles required! This was almost a positive EV play, as we dodged $30 cover charges!

Lure is pretty insane - a big open club with a giant waterfall in the middle, and wings on both sides of the ensuing pond. As Big Show and I pounded pint glasses of red bull, vodka and cranberry, two young sisters dancing on the banquette made eyes at us. I made a motion like I was throwing up in my mouth, and the sisters suddenly disappeared.

We decided to take a lap around the club, and, swimming our way through the sea of bodies, came across none other than Tiltboy Phil Gordon himself! I grabbed him by the back of his leather jacket, as I shouted at the Big Show - "Holy Shit - PHIL GORDON!" Phil, not quite sober himself, took the assault well, honored that we had recognized him, and extended a hand in thanks. I'd waited so long for this moment, that I blew my shot - I failed to circle him, instead just shaking his hand and continuing through the mob.

In a move of unprecedented Ghetto-tude, the gentlemen occupying the table nearest the dance floor began throwing fistfulls of $1 bills in the air, which threatened to cause a frenzy. Big Show used his height to grab some of the loot, but was embarrassed when he realized they were singles, and there was a serious awkward moment as people came to this realization, each urging the person nearest to them "No, YOU take it."

Thoroughly plastered now, we somehow decided that the Wynn poker room would be a good idea, and sat down in a shorthanded 1-3NL Peach Chip game. I picked up AA on the first orbit and trapped Big Show for 1/3rd of his stack, and somehow managed to avoid giving it back 5 minutes later when I wriggled out of a trap set by a SSS - Sober Sneaky Scandinavian. He flopped a set vs. my top pair, and made a tremendous overbet on the river, attempting to convey a bluff. Somehow, blood alcohol content over .15, I managed to sniff out a problem and muck my hand, and as Big Show got felted yet again, we called it a night.

Sunday.

Big Show got up early to lay down some NFL wagers, as I tried to resist the allure of the trappy road chalk - in this case, Atlanta - 3. Dirty Dave had assured me that it was ok to fall off the wagon to get felted by trappy road chalk in Vegas, but I was not gonna do it this time. Even if I KNEW that ATL and New Orleans were locks today - I had quit NFL gambling. When these two games came through easily, I was, of course, severely tilted.

I called Bobby Bracelet at 9:30 am, as he'd left me a message earlier at 2:30 when he did in fact make it to Vegas. Surprisingly, he was still rolling dice at the IP - an impressive show of endurance.

When Big Show returned, we cleaned up and headed downstairs, veto-ing the poker games at the Wynn, and heading back to the Mirage. We were on the list for a newly starting 2-5NL game, and killed time in the blackjack pit by the poker room, playing face up double deck (booo!) until I got the signal from the poker room that our game was starting.

Again, I couldn't take advantage of the fishy table - suffering some vicious cold decks (flopped flush under flush and managed to lose only 1/2 my stack!) while Big Show continued to run into brick walls. There was only one player at the table who I could beat - the knobgobbler who had asked to rabbit hunt the deck on my QQ vs KK laydown the prior day! I doubled through or felted this dipshit FOUR times, setting a new personal record. When he left, Big Show and I did too, returning to the Wynn to prepare for another big dinner at SW Steakhouse.

Playing Wynn Pai Gow before dinner, we received the ultimate accidental insult from our dealer: "Did you guys just get here? You look fresh." He was attempting a complement I think. I turned to the Big Show: "Holy Shit. We have a serious problem. I cannot BELIEVE he just said that." We were forced to implement the Pai Gow Martingale system to punish the Wynn for it's indiscretion, and took several units out of the game, obviously frequently punctuated by one of us screaming "PAI GOW" at the top of our lungs. Marty up!

After feasting on Kobe strip, and listening to stories from Big Show's friends that were so funny I almost threw up at the table from laughing so hard, we continued to drink hard, and eventually ended up back at the Wynn Black Chip double deck game late night.

I sat down, and managed to lose NINE hands in a row, working myself into a state of unprecedented tilt. On the tenth hand, I had a hard 16 against a dealer 7, and was already standing up to walk away from the table in disgust, when the dealer painted a four on my hand,, and I made a comeback. I doubled up the next hand, and blackjacked the next, and suddenly I was only down a few units! The Wynn doesn't use mechanical shufflers to do the work between shoes in their double deck game, and when a kid hopped in for one hand on the top of the deck in a new shoe, spiked a blackjack, and walked away, I was incredulous.

"What the fuck was that? Top of the deck? He must have shuffle tracked it!" Now, I was joking of course, but this drew an INTENSE amount of heat from the Wynn pit personnel. Two pit bosses came over and casually joked back, "What do YOU know about shuffle tracking?"

"Huh? Who doesn't know about shuffle tracking?"

"About ninety nine point six percent of the population," he replied without a smile.

The Chinese dealer joked in broken English "They from that school - M.I.T."... now, you see, we actually ARE from MIT, a fact I'm sure the Wynn could easily verify, and some of my best friends are blackjack masters from the legendary MIT team. Big Show doesn't even have to mutter "How's the back room in this place" - the heat is on.

Not content to slither away, and impressed by the sudden flurry of activity in the pit behind the table, I raised my voice in the best line of the weekend: "If you're looking for me in Griffin, I have a moustache in that picture!"

The pit manager standing over the table offered me a black magic marker, joking, "Here, hold this up." I promptly felted myself in rapid fashion, and ventured alone to the Pai Gow table.

After being up several hundred in Pai Gow, I pressed my luck and lost a series of multi-unit hands, again finding myself felted, while the Big Show had joined me and was rapidly ascending the prescribed Martingale progression. His $75 bet had become $150, then $300. When he got to $600, he was moderately tilted, threatening to give back his blackjack winnings.

"Marty up! Last night in Vegas!" I urged him, and he pushed two hands at $1200 before finally scooping a pot and breaking even at the Pai Gow table, bellowing what was probably the loudest "PAI GOW" on record at 4am in the history of the Wynn casino.

After a few hours of restless sleep, I woke up, cleaned up, and packed up, making the always depressing Vegas Exit.

final PnL:

Friday:

Venetian Tourney: $-180

Venetian 2-5NL: +$613, 2.5 hours

Venetian double deck: -$304

Saturday:

Wynn 1-3NL: $-23 2 hours

Wynn 2-5NL : $-43 2 hours

Mirage 1-2NL: -200 0 hours

Mirage 2-5NL: +260 6 hours

I.P. double deck: $-750

Wynn Pai Gow: $+495

Wynn 1-3NL late night: $+27 1 hour

Sunday:

Mirage 2-5NL: +$36 5 hours

Wynn double deck: $-1000

Wynn Pai Gown: $-500

grand total: $-2059 playing table games

17.5 hours of poker: +$490

until next time,

KD

Finger Sweep, Dentyne Ice, ATM

The Vegas 2006 December to Remember trip report is imminent - some highlights to whet your appetite:

-meeting BG and Maigrey in Newark airport by accident as we tried to get on an earlier flight after our flight was delayed for several hours, and managing to figure out who they were (I used my powers of deduction after they said they were staying at the IP and I continued to ask leading questions, as I know that no sane people from New York would stay at the IP unless they were meeting the blogger crew). Unfortunately, I didn't hang with any of the rest of the bloggers all weekend.

-Dominating the Venetian Friday night tourney with Big Show and the WickedChops boys - I finished 21st, Snake pulled 15th, Big Show bubbled at 11th, and Chops chopped it up with third place!

-Proving that you can get 14 people (including 11 dudes!) into Tryst on a Saturday night with nothing more than a reserved table and 2 bottle minimum (note: SEVERE persistance required).

-Bumping into a wasted Phil Gordon at 2am at Tryst, but being too drunk myself to have the presence of mind to circle him.

-Implementing the Martingale System at the Wynn Pai Gow tables... and Big Show having to win an $1100 bet to break even (PaiGOW!)

-note to self: do NOT joke about shuffle tracking a the Wynn $100 double deck blackjack tables.

-stacking the same dipshit FOUR times in one session at the Mirage 2-5NL game. He happens to be the same guy who asked the dealer to rabbit hunt the flop on a monster hand the prior day where I layed down QQ vs. KK preflop. The dealer mock-flopped: Q high... I didn't flinch, but got revenge by stacking him 4 times when we played again the next day.

-Aces holding up!

-another VIP dinner at SW steakhouse, and stories that almost made me throw up at the table because I was laughing so hard.

*

*

*

Today, as I related poker hand details to Dirty Dave over IM, he got geared up.

"I'm so psyched to play some NL tonight. I just got the text from the club manager: Game is ON tonight."

"You get the heads up when Chester James shows up?" I was jealous.

"Yeah... wait... I have my girl's Holiday Party tonight... POPOZAU!" He was tilted by the realization.

"Marty up!" I urged him - figuring the Martingale System can solve any problem.

"Double my alcohol intake continuously until I get sent home?" Dirty Dave came up with the solution right away! Marty indeed!

"Awesome! Boot --> Escape --> Rally" I countered.

Now, Dirty Dave is the King because he came back with the perfect plan, succinct and inimitable:

"Finger Sweep, Dentyne Ice, ATM." Either you get it or you don't.

I still can't stop laughing.

until next time,

KD

Vegas Prep

There are varying theories about how to best prepare the body for the sleep deprivation that occurs in Vegas. Now, Dr. Pauly is not an amateur. Not at all. Dr. Pauly is a professional degenerate, but I have to disagree with his sleep theory. Pauly, knowing that all good atheletes must train, suggests depriving the body of sleep, in an attempt to prepare it for the stresses and strains it will face in Vegas.

The Kid Dynamite/Big Show hypothesis, on the other hand, suggests stockpiling sleep, so that your body is well rested and prepared for the assault. As Dirty Dave, junior assistant on the research project put it: "It's like sleep-doping." You pile extra sleep into the body, which the body uses while in its deprived state in Vegas. After all, you wouldn't go for a long training run or 2 dozen beers the night before running a marthon right? Treat Vegas like the marathon - rest up, and be prepared to go balls out.

Speaking of marathons, I'm told there is one this Sunday in Vegas. Although I was once spotted running up and down the strip at 8am on a Sunday morning in Vegas, I will certainly not be running a marathon, 1/2 marathon, or any variation of a marathon. I hear my boy Snake over at Wicked Chops is running the 1/2 marathon on Sunday, but if he thinks that's going to get him out of normal Vegas obligations (ie, hookers and blow), he's going to be very sore come Sunday afternoon. Anyway, I wish him, and any other masochistic fuck who wants to run a marthon in Vegas, good luck.

Hopefully, the collision of Kid Dynamite, Big Show, and the entities that comprise Wicked Chops Poker will result in some stellar-as-always trip reports, but until then, enjoy the musing of Vegas trips past:

2005 Vegas Winter Assault

Jan 2006 Vegas Winter Assault

The Incomparable Six Sigma Sunday

You can find all my past Vegas trip reports in the "posts of fame" section of the sidebar.

until next week,

KD

SNL Tilt

What is the friggin' deal with Jack Black? His Band "Tenacious D" is a joke right? Yet they just played Madison Square Garden! Does anyone have attendance numbers for this show? Did 20,000 people really pack MSG to see Tenacious FUCKING D? I don't know about you, but Jack Black sends me into a TILT frenzy every time I see him. His non-stop schtick is more annoying that Fergalicious, and it's all he ever does!

This weekend, Tenacious D was on Saturday Night Live, and lo and behold, it's like Jack Black's schtick routine with some guitars mixed in. Holy shit - I'd rather listen to a medley of the 3 crappiest songs of all time: PoPoZau, Fergalicious, and Bringin' Sexy Back. I think that says it all.

There was actually a funny moment on SNL this week, when Amy Poehler, during weekend update, was talking about Britney Spears' new panty-less habits, and her lack of pubes too: "I remember the time when a woman's baby garden was the size of a slice of New York City pizza." Good stuff.

Oh - check this shit out: a recent search that this 'blog came up on, courtesy of stats from Statcounter.com: "Ed Hochuli and sexual positions." Wow. Freaky. I don't know which one of you fuckers was trying to find out how the most jacked ref in the NFL likes to hit the hole, but I'm impressed - and surprised that FridayInVegas came up as a result. Go Google.

Vegas is imminent: 5 days and counting.

-KD

Thank the Troops

The Blonde had this link on her blog, where you can go to a website and select a postcard which is automatically sent (courtesy of Xerox) to a troop in Iraq. If you appreciate the fact that US Troops are fighting on behalf of all Americans, risking their lives, then take a minute to go send a postcard expressing your feelings.

I don't want to get into a political debate here, because I don't think it's about politics - it's about common sense - I certainly appreciate the fact that these soldiers are risking their lives so that I can sit here and write about shit like gambling, ludicrous stories, and of course, my uber-cute dog. Speaking of which, here's a pic of Oscar getting religious.

Turns out I'll be in Vegas next weekend, December 8th-10th, which happens to coincide with a blogger meeting out there. If anyone who reads this will be there, drop me a line in advance.


I was on the treadmill today at the gym, and they have these nice individual TV monitors where you can choose from basically any cable channel. I happened to flick to a replay of the ESPN WSOP main event, where Dmitri Nobles was dishing out bad beats, and pushing his stack around with the finesse of an offensive linemen. I was so violently tilted that I almost fell off the f'n treadmill, which of course, made me laugh. Fergalicious!

until next time,

KD

Crown Their Ass!

I'm not big on going to a bar to watch football: I'd almost always prefer to watch it from the confines of my own couch. However, being located in NYC, with the Giants playing Sunday at 4pm, I was part of one of two metropolitan markets in the country whose FOX 4pm game was Giants @ Tennessee rather than Bears @ Patriots. Thus, me and Scooter headed over to Barrow Street to watch the carnage, as the Patriots showed the Bears what happens when you go up against a real opponent.

I had previously gone on record to Dirty Dave with my guaranteed 10 star parlay of the year (which, since I have quit betting, is COMPLETELY assured of success): NE - 3, Under 37.5, and Rex Grossman over 1.5 Interceptions. Of course, all three legs came through with ease, as the 17-13 final score was never in doubt.

Did you see Junior Seau break his arm in the first half? Holy shit - this was a play so ugly that you won't see a replay, because they don't show replays of disturbing shit like this: Seau fell on his own arm, which was levered over a running back's leg - and broke his own forearm like a twig. He grabbed it, and the camera zoomed in to see it dangling like a limp wrist - only it wasn't his wrist, it was 6 inches higher. Disturbing, and possible a career ender for Seau.

The play of the game was the not-so-fleet-footed Tom Brady scrambling for a 4th quarter first down, as he put a shake-and-bake move on the lethal Brian Urlacher. Then Brady got in his face and talked shit to him - awesome stuff.

And how about the Giants-Titans game?!?! Talk about muther-fuckin SIGMAs!!!!! The Giants jumped out to a 21-0 first half lead, which is how it stayed until the 4th quarter, when Tennessee suddenly clawed their way back into the game with 2 TD's. Then, with 4th and 10 on his own 15 yard line or so, Vince Young was wrapped up by Giant's rookie Mathias Kiwanuka for a game ending sack - but there was one problem - Kiwanuka let Young go without a whistle! Young scrambled for a first down, and Tennessee scored an inevitable touchdown of destiny to tie the game. Then, Eli Manning threw an interception at midfield with less than a minute left, Tennessee ran a few plays and drilled a game winning 49 yard field goal. Sigmalicious.

Mrs. Dynamite joined us for the final quarter of the Patriots game, and got me all aroused when she uttered this simple inquiry: "Can't you arb the point spreads of the game?" Oooh baby... Bringing together the concepts of arbitrage and sports betting - THAT'S my GIRL!!!

"Elaborate," I urged her, wanting to see what she was thinking of.

"Well, if the line was New England -3, and now it's New England - 4.5, couldn't you bet both sides of it and clean up?" My baby was looking for a middle! I'm so proud.

I realized that the pro sports bettors must have absolutely CRUSHED this game, as a middle like this covering two key numbers (3 and 4) with two big defensively oriented teams is a phenomenal play. I explained to her that you have to pay a 10% vig, so you'd be betting $1000 on each side of the game, which ensures a $100 loss, with a chance to win $2000. 20-1 odds on a NE-CHI 3 or 4 point NE win is probably a very nice price. And Mrs. Dynamite had it the whole fucking time.

until next time,

KD

Are You Kidding Me?

Impossible "DYKWTFIA" moment from a friend of mine who was out on a date last night. The story starts with an IM teaser tidbit which my boy Greg copied from our boy DZ:

"we were out for hours... everything seemed cool. she was in a black dress, burberry jacket. looked preppy. then just lost it."

as Greg tells me "some chick bit DZ last night!" Holy cow - I immediately try to extract the meaningful info from Greg (seductively? angrily? vampire-ly?), but he doesn't quite have it, so I go straight to the source: DZ - to find out what really happened.

Basically, DZ was out with this chick at the bar that is the epitome of everything I hate about Murray Hill: Wet Bar. After several hours, he has to leave, so on his way to the bathroom, he pays the tab at the bar, and when he returns, all hell breaks loose.

She starts screaming at him "YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING! YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME? GOOGLE MY FAMILY'S NAME - SEE HOW MUCH MONEY WE HAVE! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?"

Meanwhile, DZ is standing there stunned, and, in his own words from IM:

DZ (11:28:58 AM): she was like "do you know who i am?"
DZ (11:29:04 AM): i said," absolutely not!"
DZ (11:29:07 AM): "i have no idea who you are"

KidDynamite (11:29:08 AM): DYKWTFIA - do you know who the fk i am?
KidDynamite (11:29:12 AM): and what did she say? (answer: he never should have paid the bar tab)

DZ (11:29:35 AM): i said you're right, i really wish i never paid that bar tab. lets go to an atm and you can pay me back.

Holy cow! Is this tremendous stuff or what? Not only did DZ have HIS FUCKING DATE ask him "Do you know who I am," but he had the style to reply, "Absolutely not, I have no idea who you are." Kudos DZ - nice hand.

He goes on to tell me more:

DZ (11:37:35 AM): while we were at the bar, this trashy girl sat next to us. my date and her were chatting for a bit. she was complaining about the wine she had so when we got our round, i offered to get her another drink, just because she was talking to us. then during the tirade, my girl said "and you bought that slut with the big boobs a drink! you think you know everything!"

KidDynamite (11:38:46 AM): AWESOME!

DZ (11:38:54 AM): i was like -- you were the one talking to her.

She also ranted "You think you know everything because you went to Brown - well you DON'T."

But the kicker is that, after making this scene in the bar, ranting and raving like a lunatic who had a switch flicked in her brain, she BIT HIM ON THE HAND! Holy shit! Are you fucking kidding me?

And DZ's punchline is classic:

DZ (11:42:04 AM): my buddy got her roommates number the week before. i told him "i think i blew it for you"

Now I know what you're thinking: what was her name? Well, I beat on DZ for an hour today, as he repeatedly claimed that he didn't know her name - that he'd forgotten it. I eventually managed to extract a first name, Julie, but Julie's last name remains a mystery for the time being. Believe me, if I uncover anything juicy, you know I'll rant about it here.

Until next time,
KD

DYKWTFIA?

Do you know who the fuck I am? Apparently, I'm a fat, 30 year old, perpetually injured, out of shape gambling addict with freakish symmetry. Let me explain.

First the easy part: Gambling addict: yep - after my 3rd straight week of absolute NFL futility, which left me down 30 units for the season, I wrote the Big Show a check for my debit balance and quit cold turkey. I literally went something like 3-18 in my NFL picks the past 3 weeks, which left me so frustrated and unhappy, that I decided to do something about it.

After "quitting" sports betting earlier in the morning, I was kind enough to offer up my Monday Night Football pick for Dirty Dave and the Big Show. I warned them that, since I was no longer betting, my perfect contrary indicator status would almost certainly, due to ultimate irony, be reversed. I didn't think Carolina should be laying 10 points to anyone in the NFL, even the hapless TB Bucs. TB was a mortal lock. When I turned on the game late in the first quarter and saw TB up 7-0, I laughed. As Carolina failed to score for the rest of the half, I did a phenomenal job controlling the boiling TILT inside of me, as uber-irony was clearly in effect: the moment I quit betting, I'd be able to pick games with 80%+ accuracy. However, when I woke up and checked the final score, like EVERY other time this season I woke up to check the score on my picks, I found that I had (or would have, had I bet) lost. Carolina won 24-10. Strangely, I can't tell you how happy this made me! I was still a perfect contrary indicator! (If anyone is wondering, I, former Certified Dallas Cowboy Hater, LOVE Dallas at home vs Indy this week.)

Perpetually Injured: I was once an athlete. It's true. Back in June,2005, I suffered a violent blow to the left shin in a soccer game that left me with a welt the size of a tennis ball, and kept me out of action for almost a year. I still have a bruise on my left leg. Earlier this year, in May, 2006, I made my triumphant return to the green felt: the turf soccer field, where, late in the game I made a heroic run from fullback, getting myself open near the net, where I promptly whiffed on a cross from one of my teammates, jammed my right knee into the turf, hyperextending it, and fractured my medial tibial plateau. This injury has kept me out of action since May, and I'm just getting back into some light non-impact cardio, like the elliptical machine, which sucks ass.

Which leads us to fat and out of shape: I kinda have an excuse, since my knee is fucked up, but nothing which explains my FIRST PERCENTILE showing in a cardio test at the gym today. Let me explain: two years ago, my wife purchase a 10 pack of personal training sessions at my gym. After using four of them, she quit the gym. So now, I've finally decided to make use of the already-paid-for sessions. Today was my first - where they hook you up to a high tech machine to measure weight, body fat, flexibility, bicep strength, cardio strength, and a barrage of other health and nutrition surveys.

So my trainer takes all these measurements (pushups: 75% percentile, situps: 35% percentile, bicep strength: 78% percentile: back in the day I would have been a contender baby!), and then has me do the Vo2MAX Step Test - this is to measure the max oxygen your heart pumps through your blood. You step up and down on a 16 inch step for 3 minutes at a steady pace, and then sit down and count your pulse. He told me to count my pulse for a minute, and I came up with 125. He inputted it into the "system" and it shows: POOR. FIRST PERCENTILE. "Does that mean I'm the best?" I joked. He gave me a steely gaze. "Come on, no fuckin' WAY that's first percentile bro - there is no WAY that's as bad as it gets," but he insisted it was.

Now, Kid Dynamite is not first percentile in anything. No way. No matter how out of shape I am, not matter how hard I breathe walking up the stairs out of the subway, I'm not in the mutherfuckin' first percentile - THIS I know. So, I come home and look on the internet, and find the chart I linked to above. Said chart says to count the pulse for FIFTEEN SECONDS and input the number into the box to find the heart rate in beats per minute. It lists 125BPM as 95th percentile! I'm guessing what happened is that the trainer fucked up by having me count my actually beats in a minute, as opposed to counting 15seconds, putting that number into the machine, and having the machine do the advanced math of multiplying it by four. At least that's what I'm hoping. First percentile my ass!

Anyway, I now have a full cardio, nutritional, and workout program, which I'll be able to ignore because it will be too fuckin' cold to go to the gym, and I'm confident that the 1st %-tile reading was a fuckup. Actually, I'll try to hit it hard and become the Adonis I once was.

I do have one thing going for me: Freakish Symmetry! (actual words used by the trainer!) In the words of Bobby Bracelet: "You hear that ladies?" That's right - FREAKISH symmetry. Calves equal. Pythons equal. Proper Hip-waist ratio. Knees equal. Thighs equal. The only lack of symmetry was in my right forearm, which was 1/2 inch bigger than my left forearm. The trainer instantly diagnosed a solution to that: "Jerk off with your left hand instead."

Vegas trip is booked for Dec 8th. It looks like the forces of Kid Dynamite and WickedChops will finally collide, which will surely provide for more entertaining trip reports.

Until next time,
KD

Fergalicious

I remember back when I used to read Sports Illustrated, there was a little sidebar called "This Week's Sign of the Apocalypse," and it would have the ridiculous item of the week from the sports world. Nowadays, I don't know if they still have this feature, as ridiculousness has become commonplace, with athletes shooting up cars outside of strip clubs, and characters like Ocho Cinco.

However, when I was driving to Boston this weekend with Mrs. Dynamite, I had the displeasure of realizing a definite sign that the Apocalypse is near, when the song Fergalicious came on the radio. I was driving, and, in a state of utter shock, nearly drove into the ditch in the median on I84, as I listened to the verbal vomit that is Fergie's Fergalicious. Seriously - words cannot describe how bad this song is. A post on WFNX's message board said it best: "Fergalicious is slightly better than My Humps or London Bridge, which is much like saying diphtheria is better than leprosy." I can't verify that Fergalicious is better than those other two crappy songs, as I think it is quite possibly the worst song I have ever heard.

Now, this is saying a lot. After all, it means that Fergalicious is worse than K-fed's PoPoZau - which I had previously thought was the worst song ever recorded. Listening to Fergalicious, though, made me long for, beg for, PoPoZau. It got me thinking that I may have to go buy K-fed's album after all, as I heard something about PoPoZau not being on the album, since it didn't meet K-fed's strict standards of quality. I mean, if Fergalicious is on the radio, and PoPoZau is BETTER than Fergalicious but NOT AS GOOD as K-fed's other shit, than his other shit may be seriously legit. I'll let someone else investigate.

On Sunday, on our trip home, I was finally coming down of the Fergalicious-induced-TILT from Friday evening, when another song came on the radio in the car: Justin Timberlake's "Bringin' Sexy Back." Holy shit. This song is also 100 times worse than PoPoZau, although not quite as bad as Fergalicious. Still, Bringin' Sexy Back is uber-TILT-inducing.

Dirty Dave and I used to utilize the term POPOZAU! to describe any insanely TILT inspiring situation. For example: you're an Oakland Raider fan, and your team just set a record this week by becoming the only team in the history of the NFL to be shut out on Monday Night Football twice in the same season: POPOZAU!.

You're the Dallas Cowboys, on the road in Washington, freerolling to win the game with a field goal attempt at the end of regulation in a tie game... The kick gets blocked, returned, and has a 15 yard face mask penalty tacked on, allowing for a final play by Washington with no time left on the clock, where they nail a 47 yard game winning field goal: POPOZAU!

You're Kid Dynamite: watching the Pats-Colts on Monday night, having wagered on the total score: Over 48.5. You're a lock at halftime, 17-14 Indy, and in the 4th quarter you need a mere fieldgoal when Indy is up 27-20, but Adam "Automatic" Vinatieri misses a field goal for only the second time all year (the first time was earlier in the game!) as does the Pat's FG kicker. Brady throws his 3rd and 4th interceptions, and your "over" goes down in flames. POPOZAU!

After conferring with Dirty Dave today, I explained to him the relative value equation:

PoPoZau > Bringin'Sexy Back > Fergalicious,

and that henceforth, all formerly PoPoZau situations would become FERGALICIOUS! situations. Get sucked out on when your opponent spikes runner runner in a $1500 pot? FERGALICIOUS! Accidentally call your wife when you sit on your cell phone while receiving a lappy d? FERGALICIOUS! Drew Bledsoe gets replaced at QB so you can no longer bet against him? FERGALICIOUS! You get the point.

In other news: yesterday was Oscar's first birthday! This was a big deal in the Dynamite household. Mrs. Dynamite baked Oscar a cake (banana), complete with cream cheese frosting, and his friend Buddy came over to play. Today we went to the pet store so Oscar could pick out the toy/treat of his choice. Yep, the little guy is one, and has made is wicked happy so far.

until next time,
KD

Vagina Man

I met Vagina Man last night. Yep, it's true. Who, you may ask, is Vagina Man? Let me explain.

Halloween in the West Village is a complete and utter zoo. It's basically the lyrics to Ten Years After's "I'd Love to Change the World" come to life: "Everywhere is freaks and hairies - Dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity."

So Mrs. Dynamite and I are out walking amongst the throng of revelers, with me carrying Oscar in the BabyBjorn carrier (don't even ask), and he's wearing his Ewok hood, looking insanely cute, just like an Ewok.

There was the usual quota of slutty cops, slutty football players, slutty firewomen, slutty schoolgirls, slutty sluts, slutty referees, slutty cowgirls, slutty Little Bo Peeps, slutty Tinkerbells, slutty rock stars and slutty Catwomen. Gotta love Dress Like a Whore Day.

Two doucheballs dressed as the Super Mario Brothers walk past us, and ten feet behind them are two more guys who also look kinda like the poor man's Super Mario Brothers. One of these guys is wearing a little fake moustache, and a white terry cloth cape, with a big V emblazoned on it. He's strutting kinda like Ric "The Nature Boy" Flair, and hamming it up.

I give him an inquisitive eyebrow, wordlessly conveying the sentiment "What the fuck are you dressed as?" He looks right at me, and in a mock Superhero voice, booms, "Vagina Man," before twirling his cape with a Zoro-esque flourish and moving off into the throng. I was impressed, laughing loudly, as I regretted not pulling out my camera to provide evidence for my eager throngs of bloggers who will now be left tossing and turning sleeplessly at night wondering exactly what Vagina Man looked like. I apologize.

I know some of you are also disappointed that Vagina Man has nothing to do with The Bracelet, or Joe Speaker, who were both likely candidates for the moniker. I have to give the Bracelet props for being the only one to fully appreciate my 9 inch pie crust story.

until next time,
KD

Halloweenie

ESPN's Sports Guy Bill Simmons wrote a top notch piece about his memories of Red Auerbach. It's a must read. I don't have memories of Red, specifically, but I have a handfull of memories of Larry Bird, the old Boston Garden, and select snapshots from Bruins games vividly ingrained in my mind, which I'll address another time.

I'm on severe tilt after demonstrating this week that I have absolutely NO clue how to solve NFL wagering. I dropped 10 units in one week, with not a single winning wager. Ouch.

Here's a picture of Oscar, hating his Halloween costume, but looking cute doing it:

And a picture of him lounging in bed:

until next time,

KD

Odds and Ends

I forgot to mention Mrs. Dynamite's vicious Monopoly wheeling and dealing last week when we went home to her parents' house for the weekend: In a family game of Monopoly, the seemingly innocent Mrs. Dynamite showed that she learned some real world cut-throat business sense in b-school after all, when she snapped up Boardwalk and Park Place. The real coup was the way she traded off pieces of the future revenue from the two properties (ie, you get 15% of all Boardwalk and Park Place revenues, and I don't have to pay any rent at any of your Orange properties) to each of her opponents. By the time all was said and done, Mrs. Dynamite had traded away 95% of the revenues of Boardwalk and Park Place, which she promptly mortgaged, as she counted all the I.O.U's she had accumulated in exchange, and laughed until she almost threw up. I was so proud.

In more serious news, Red Auerbach died last night. Red was the driving force behind the history of the Boston Celtics - leading the indominable Dynasty in the 1960's, before moving to the front office and building the legendary Larry Bird teams of the 1980's. The image of Red with a cigar in his mouth is a staple in Boston sports.

Switching gears again: Watching Joe Hachem on the weekly ESPN WSOP broadcasts makes me admire how hard it is to be a professional poker player. Joe was the defending world champion, and is probably not hurting for cash, but the beats he takes in huge situations drive home the point of the mental toughness that is constantly being tested.

In the Main Event, Hachem got a decent sized stack in three ways preflop, holding AA vs JJ and AQ... With a great chance to triple up deep into the tournament and contend with the chipleaders, Hachem was dismayed to see a jack hit the board, and had to hit the exits. Before that, at a $10k WSOP circuit event, he took another tough beat at a final table, when his KK was sucked out on by Kido Pham's J-T, after they got all the money in preflop and Kido spiked two jacks on the flop. Against Dutch Boyd heads up for a bracelet this year, Dutch was reduced to moving all in virtually every hand, and although Hachem repeatedly got his money in as a 2-1 and 3-1 favorite, Dutch eventually got lucky and sent him home by spiking a 3 outer on the river.

This week, Hachem was down to the final three again, and was sent home by Gentleman John "Let's Hug It Out Bitch" Gale, who, despite Hachem telling him "I've got you beat, John, don't call" called Hachem's al-in as a 6-1 dog (getting roughly 3.5-1 pot odds, showing a seeming lack of understanding of pot odds, as he uttered "I'm sorry Joe, the pot is too big") and spiked a 5 outer on the river to send Hachem packing again.

Knowing he's in the spotlight, Hachem takes the beats as well as he can on camera, but if you think he just walks off the set and smiles, saying "Fuck it, I'm a World Champion, I don't care," well, then, you've never player poker and had these beats grind you down.

Finally, Mrs. Dynamite and I cooked last night: we made a wicked sweet meal (all from scratch) of:

-grilled chicken and rotini pasta with mozzarella ball and homemade pesto
-grilled eggplant, zucchini and portobello mushroom
-bruschetta on baguette toast
-pecan pie!

In the grocery store, I was looking for a "9 inch pie crust," but they didn't have sizes printed on them. As I held one up in front of my hammer, a passing lady in Juicy sweats eyed me, "What are you doing?"

"I need a 9 inch pie crust," I grinned nonchalantly. "Does this look about right?" as I glanced southward.

Instead of smiling seductively and licking her lips, she made a look like she had just thrown up in her mouth, and seemed to be looking around for a can of mace. Oh well - can't win 'em all. ***

The meal was just warmup for our second annual Thanksgiving Heads Up Gourmet Bash which will be coming in a few weeks.

until next time,
KD



*** Pie crust story is completely fabricated, unfortunately. The pie, however, was real, and spectacular.

Let's Get Physical, Physical

I went for a physical today. I'm at that age (30) where I wonder if the doctor is going to try to check my oil - as at some point it will surely be time for a prostate test.

This time, however, I had a urine test, blood test, EKG, blood pressure check, ball squeeze, chest exam and general exam, but I avoided the oil check - I consider it a moral victory.

The only other odd thing was that in the rapid fire medical history inquisition he gave me (history of diabetes? NO. drugs? NO. smoking? NO. high blood pressure? NO. etc) he then asked "Have you ever had a colonoscopy?" NO. "Have you ever had a scope inserted in your rectum?" NO. "Any kind of camera or tube inserted in your colon?" Umm.. Doc.. No... Is there something you're getting at? Anyway...

In other news - did you see this video of Larry Johnson tackling Troy Polamalu by his hair? Great stuff.

until next time,
KD

RoShamBo Revisited

I met Jay Greenspan many years ago at NYC's Acepoint club. Several of us formed our own poker posse way before it was the cool "Crew" thing to do (I can't believe I even brought them up... they are like the poor man's Rocks'n'Rings). We discussed poker non-stop, and all worked to develop our skills. Jay morphed from a weak tight rock (where most of us began our poker adventures) into a big bet assassin, and top notch poker journalist to boot.

After celebrating the recent publication of his book, Hunting Fish, Jay recently got married to Marisa, in true degenerate style: they chose the order of the vows using a RoShamBo contest, and Jay's tutelage under the Legend, Rafe Furst, enabled him to come away victorious against his soon-to-be wife. You'll recognize Rafe as a 2006 WSOP bracelet winner, and perennial RoShamBo World Championship contender (although I did once beat him in heads up RoShamBo when he dared to come to my homegame).

Back to Jay's book: check it out. FridayInVegas is a pimp-free zone - I don't get paid for anything I say or do on this meager site, so you can be sure that when I recommend Jay's book, Hunting Fish, I'm doing it because it's worth your time. You can tell the book is good because Kid Dynamite is listed in the acknowledgements.

Jay travels across the country, trying to build a bankroll for the big Commerce No Limit game, while at the same time balancing the pressures of a long-distance relationship, and the TILT-ifying encounters that come blasting his way daily as a professional grinder. Now, don't misunderstand the term "grinder" - Jay no longer sits on his leather ass waiting for the nuts - he is not afraid to seize the opportunity to devour any weakness you show him at the table, and put you to a big bet test, to commit his stack on a draw, or to make a read and go with it. However, one of the great thing about Jay's book is how he illustrates the grind that is professional poker - the mental toll that the travel and the inevitable beats take on him and his psyche.

The book is not a story of a bunch of poker hands - although there are a few hands where Jay describes his thinking and actions, and give some expert insight into big bet poker thinking - it's a story of a poker journey, and the development and self-introspection of an aspiring player.

In other "friends of KD who are making it big in journalism" news, H0nus's fiancee, Catherine Holahan has been writing some articles on online gambling for BusinessWeek. Her latest is a top story today, and features the highlights of her discussion with Dr. Pauly.

check it out.
-KD

Can you Feel the Tilt?

I was going back and forth with Bones and Dirty Dave this morning, trying to convey exactly how TILTed I was on Friday night as I left the Chinatown Home Game.

Let's consider the factors:

1) It was Friday night - I just wanted to have some fun and play some cards
2) This was the softest game around - a "can't lose" game - it was basically a gift that I'd manage to penetrate it, like Mikey & Worm in the Trust Fund game in Rounders.
3) They were using dog eared raggedy paper fucking cards!
4) hard table - not felt
5) no massage girls
6) I was coming down with a brutal case of something flu-like: growing soar throat, head cold
7) I got action when I didn't want it, and no action when I wanted it.
8) I dropped two buy-ins

So, I stagger out onto Bowery, intent on grabbing a cab and putting an end to my misery. But wait - more TILT-a-liciousness: no fucking cabs. I walk around the corner to the subway. Many subway stations in NYC have an uptown entrance on the East side of the street, and a downtown entrance on the West side of the street. Since I had been caught in a mass of humanity on the way to the game, I assumed that the Grand Street station was one of these, and I waited for 2 minutes to cross the street. It wasn't until I was entering the station that I realize that I could have used the entrance I'd stood at for the previous 2 minutes.... Why does this matter you may ask?

Well, because I missed the subway train by 30 seconds, and I had to sit there, Friday night, 10pm, on SUPER-UBER-MEGA-TILT in the fucking Grand Street subway station for twenty mutherfucking minutes waiting for the next train!! Aiyahhh!

The only way this situation could have gotten worse was if I'd decided to go home and log on to Party Poker to grind it out in some PLAY MONEY POKER!!!!!

At least Bones and Dirty Dave got a kick out of it, appreciation the TILT warranted by the situation.

I was just re-reading my 2006 Vegas Summer Slam trip reports - and they made me feel better.. Read part one here, and part two here. Good stuff.

-KD

Gonna Take You Down to Chinatown

So it's official - I withdrew the balance of my Party Poker account. I don't even really like online poker, but I will miss the option to play it nonetheless, and I feel for my friends who make their livings playing poker online. I think what a lot of people don't realize is that it won't matter that PokerStars hasn't closed its doors to U.S. domiciled players yet (as Party Poker has) - the government's goal is to cut off the funding for the accounts - which I think they will be successfull in doing. Neteller will yield, and Firepay has already ceased transfers to gaming sites for U.S. players. More imitation "Netellers" will pop up, and get shut down, and it will be a game of financial Russian roulette for those who wish to play it: hope you don't get caught with your money in a fly-by-night site when it disappears. The problem is, without the legal and easy methods, the pipeline of fish will dry up.

Thus, feeling depressed, I jumped at the chance to play in the Friday night Chinatown game which Bones has infiltrated. He tells me trumped up stories of this game, which takes place on the third floor of some check cashing operation in Chinatown - where he's the only Gaijin.

"Imagine the shop in Gremlins," he taunted me. "And don't forget to bring your own pillow - that floor is hard." I checked in with Dirty Dave, trying to find out what the proper etiquette was for yelling "PaiGOW" as I dropped a big bluff or spiked a two outer on the river. Bones assured me, "It's encouraged" - I think he wanted to see a Jack-Bauer-esque international incident.

I took the subway down to Grand Street, and stepped out into another world. Chinatown is incredible - I felt like a foreigner in my own city - I was quite literally the only white guy in site. hundreds of Chinese bustled by me, grabbing freshly minced squid from a stand at the top of the subway station, like I might grab the NY Post. Across the street were several fish markets, with live softshell crabs scampering about, as vendors plucked them out of boxes into bags for eager deal makers.

Bones tapped me on the soldier, "Welcome to Chinatown," he told me. "This is why I don't travel," I explained, "I can get it all right here." He teased me further, "You know, it's customary for guests to bring an assortment of garden vegetables for the host."

"How about a bag of crabs?" I inquired, imagining the scene: "I raise," as I dump a bag of live dungeness crabs on the table.

We walked into a Vietnamese restaurant, where I was completely ignored as I tried to ask for water with my 1/2 gallon bowl of top notch chicken soup. "If I scream "DONG" how many guys in here will turn their head?" I asked, as Bones eagerly encouraged me to try it.

We finished dinner, and headed around the corner to the game. Bones' active imagination and thirst to prey on my depraved mind resulted in me having a picture of a darkly lit room like an opium den. I expected a thick cloud of smoke, coming from unfiltered cigarettes, and massage girls who knew not to make eye contact. There would obviously be some thick velvet curtains leading to rooms in which unknown illicit activities were taking place, and hopefully at least one crazy old wizard in the corner sipping onion juice from a mason jar.

In reality, the office was clean and smoke free, with comfortable leather chairs and a well lit conference table. I missed the felt, adjusting to the hardtop table, and was clearly thrown off my game by the paper cards. What? Paper cards? Do you know who the fuck I am? Aiyahh! There was a nice bunch of guys, who welcomed me, as they chatted about putting in lowball bids on properties in Brooklyn and Queens.

The game was loose and passive, and I was totally card dead. TILT accelerated when I found QQ in the BB (1-2 NL, 100 buy in), and everyone folded to me, for the first and only time all night. "PaiGOW" I shouted in mock frustration, showing my hand and hoping they'd laugh, which they did, as they plotted to lock me in the dungeon of a cargo ship bound for Mongolia.

I later flopped a set of 5's on a 9-9-5 board in a 6 way pot. When everyone checked to me on the button, I bet $5. Everyone folded and I showed my hand. "You bet?" was the reply. "I was hoping someone had a nine..." I wasn't giving lessons or anything. "Slowplaying is the RULE." Bones explained.

Unfortunately, the Vietnamese chicken soup had not halted my oncoming cold, nor the frigid run of cards, and I left after 3 hours, down two buy-ins in "the game in which you cannot lose."

until next time,
KD

Sigmas in the Pooper

Bones ridiculed me for my uber-geigh praise of Ian Anderson's flute skills, so, in the absence of poker, hookers and blow, I figured I'd rant a little about the degeneracy present in my daily life: the trials and tribulations of NFL wagering!

Dirty Dave's "John Anthony" pick of the week was DET + 6.5 @ Minnesota, which I promptly laid off on the Big Show for 2 units. As the out of town scores flashed during the Giants-Skins game which I wasn't really watching, Detroit had the game in hand. I'm already counting my profits, when suddenly, the final score flashes: MIN 26, DET 17. What? I go online to find out what happened: Even after giving up 16 (soon to be 23!) 4th quarter points, the Lions were down by 2 with the ball, and under 2 minutes left - a mortal lock against the spread. Kitna promptly throws a pick-6, and they Lions secure the game loss, and the spread loss. FAAAHHHHHHHHK.

As a New England Patriots fan, I know what Drew Bledsoe can do to a team. In a bad way. Bledsoe on the road against a good team is one of those 6-sigma gambling situations that those of us "in the know" look for. When the overrated Cowboys came to Philly as mere 2 point dogs, I couldn't figure it out - it was too easy. So easy that I got nervous, and made my 10 star pick of the month a relatively sedate 3 unit play.

Fortunately, the Cowboys couldn't overcome Bledsoe, who fumbled the ball 3 times, threw 3 picks, and took about 65 sacks in the second half on key third down situations. Strangely enough, although Philly had been OWNING the Dallas offensive line all game, when Dallas finally had their backs against the ropes, down by 7 with under a minute left on their own 40 yard line with 4th and 18 with the game on the line, Philly decided to play prevent defense. What the fuck? They are absolutely mauling Bledsoe every single play, and they decide to give him time. Bad idea jeans. To make matters worse, the linebacker and the corner back BOTH bite on Terry Glenn's stop'n'go move, and Philly is forced to interfere with Glenn on the 5 yard line.

Suddenly, Dallas had 1st and goal from the 5, but unfortunately, they still had Bledsoe at the helm. On second down, he threw an interception in the endzone, which was promptly run back 102 yards for a meaningless TD. Thanks Bledsoe. I knew I could count on you. Cha-ching.

My scouts in Boston (read: my father) tell me that the Patriots looked like shit in dispatching of the Dolphins 20-10. I can't figure out the Pats. One week they look absolutely helpless at home on Sunday night against Denver, then the next week they go on the road against one of hottest teams in football in Cincinnati, and absolutely crush them. The next week they return home against the hapless 'Fins, and again cannot move the ball. Oy Vey. Hopefully they clear some things up with their bye week this week.

until next time,
-KD

Me Gusta El Beisbol

{Trying very hard not to make this a Yankees Suck post}

You have to hand it to the Detroit Tigers. 13 consecutive losing seasons, and finally Detroit Rock City is back in the playoffs. Of course, they figured to be a snack for the Evil Empire - as the healthy New York Yankees put together what was quite possible the most lethal batting lineup in major league baseball history.

Damon. Jeter. Abreu. Sheffield. Giambi. A-rod. Matsui. Posada. Cano.

Wow.

Someone forgot to tell the Tigers that they had no chance, and they put a 3 games to 1 whooping on the Yankees. Now, as a Boston fan, this goes beyond my natural Yankee-hating tendencies: Detroit's victory over the Forces of Darkness is good for baseball. It shows that all the money in the world purchasing the most dangerous arsenal of mercenary batsmen ever, can still be beaten.

You know what I liked most about Detroit? The way they celebrated. Taking laps around their home field, high fiving their fans and throwing hats into the crowd. Kenny Rogers spraying champagne all over the crowd - and dumping it on a cop's head. They celebrated like the Red Sox would have. Like a bunch of Idiots.

Go Tigers.

-KD

Ian Anderson

So Ian Anderson played a concert last night at the Rose Hall in the Time Warner Center. We saw an add in the paper for the show, promoted by Dreyfus, and Sig piped up "I have an account at Dreyfus, let me call them." High roller that he is (Do You Know Who the Fuck I AM?), Sig was quickly comped 4 tickets, and a Dreyfus cocktail reception, and a post-show meet&greet with Ian Anderson himself. We took the wives, and made an evening out of it - preceded by an overpriced but convenient dinner at BarMasa (aka, a cheaper version of Masa without a ressie).

Now, you ignorant sluts out there are asking yourself, "Who the fuck is Ian Anderson?" Well, Ian Anderson is the lead singer of the former "Jethro Tull," author of the legendary "Aqualung," and the greatest rock flautist to ever live.

Ok, so that sounds gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), but Ian Anderson is an absolute fucking genius. He is unparalleled in his flute skills, and can really rock. In this concert, he had a 4 piece band (drums, bass, guitar and keyboards) backing him, as well as a 16 or so piece orchestra made up of students from the New England Conservatory in Boston, and led by Ann Marie Calhoun - a violin virtuoso who is apparently a bluegrass genius too.

Watching Ian rock on the flute (yeah - I know "rock on the flute" sounds retarded, but you've heard Aqualung right? You've heard Locomotive Breath? Cross Eye'd Mary? Do yourself a favor and pick up the Aqualung album) I couldn't help but think that there are few fields where the "best" is so far ahead of the "next best" as Ian is in flute-land. Musically, John Popper (of Blues Traveler) is in the same boat with his harmonica skills, but I can't even think of another artist or athlete who is so clearly superior.

So, bottom line, it was a very very good show - watching Ian play "Bouree" and "My God" live cannot help but put a smile of admiration on the face of anyone who appreciates musical talent. After 3 hours (he talks a lot between songs, and took a 20 minute intermission), we didn't have the energy to stick around to meet Ian, although I did want to tell him the vintage story of how I had tickets to see Jethro Tull back in 1992 at the Orpheum theatre in Boston. My soccer team's game from the previous week was rained out, and re-scheduled for the night of the concert. I chose Jethro Tull, skipped the soccer game, and was benched by my coach for the next game as a result. Sometimes you have to make the tough choices! I couldn't pass up Aqualung & company.

until next time,
KD

What Do You Call This?

Today I was in the dog run with Oscar, sitting on a park bench, eyeing middle aged girls with bad intent... Then, lo and behold, on my Ipod was Aqualung, by Jethro Tull, featuring the timeless lyrics:

"Sitting on a park bench - eyeing little girls with bad intent"

And I thought to myself - Holy Fuck - what is that called? Not deja vu... not irony... I don't know... But I laughed nonetheless...

-KD

What Can I Say?

I don't really know what to say about this new anti-gaming bill - actually, it's the Port Security Bill. I guess our elected officials have decided that the inability to donk off a buyin with A-Q suited will make our country safer. Fuck'em.

There is an old quote, "I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." I thought it was a JFK-ism, but a little internet search attributes the quote to Voltaire (cue Swingers quote: "Hang on Voltaire!"). I don't even like online poker, but I certainly believe I should be able to play it if I fucking want to, and I believe my friends who make a living as such have every right to do so. The fact that this Draconian bill has been pushed through is a load of crap, and it's shocking how fast Party Poker has said they'll pull the plug on their US business.

I haven't pulled out the money from my (inactive) Party Poker account yet, I don't really think I need to panic (someone please tell me if they disagree) - I figure worst case is that I won't be able to add money to the account, and that I won't be able to play on the site - but I don't think it will be a disaster getting the money out. At least I hope not.

For constantly breaking news on the Port Act, check out

WickedChopsPoker
NeverWinPoker
and a variety of 2+2 Threads.

I'm pretty depressed about this in any case, as I think it will have a huge negative effect on live poker as well - as the pipeline of new fish who get interested in the game online and then go get stacked by me at the Mirage will dwindle.

Shelley Berkley, representative from Nevada, states the ridiculousness of the Port Act in this YouTube clip.

on TILT,
KD

Fuckin' Indian Food

Finally, something blogworthy...

Tonight should have been a normal, boring night in the life of Kid Dynamite.

Like most other nights, I arrived home to an eagerly wagging tail, courtesy of Oscar,

and we went to the dog run for an hour. Oscar took three dumps, humped a few bitches, and ran like a maniac around the gravel enclosure.

We came home and rested, watching Monday's CSI:Miami, before Mrs. Dynamite finally arrived home at 8pm.

"What do you want to eat?" I was fucking starving.

"Believe it or not, I could do Indian tonight," she replied, which was odd, as Mrs. D is not a big Indian fan. However, since we'd had Thai last night, and I wasn't in the mood for Chinese, I was more than happy to lob in the immediate standard Indian order to my go-to guy at Ghandi Cafe:

1 Nan
1 Onion Kulcha
1 Chicken Tikka Masala (Mrs. D)
1 Lamb Sagwala (KD)

Being a veteran, I ask the guy on the other end of the phone, "How long will it be?"

"Turrty meenuts sir," he assures me, and I hang up and set the table.

I killed some time on the computer reading Pauly's epic trip report of the 2006 Bash at the Boathouse, and by 9:05, foodless, I was fully TILTED. I hit "redial" and politely inquired as to the status of my order.

The guy told me something about a "problem with the bike," (the place is only 5 blocks away) apologized and told me it would be 5 minutes.

Again, savvy consumer that I am, I said, "Will it be 5 minutes? or 25 minutes?" Don't try to bluff me MOTHERFUCKER - Do You Know Who the Fuck I Am?

"Five meeenoots sir," he assured me, and I hung up.

At 9:25, I was steaming enough to dump a full buy in with A-Q unimproved on the flop, and I called back, no longer as polite, basically saying "Where is my fucking food?" The dude now tells me that the delivery guy left 5 minutes ago, and that it would be there in 1 or 2 minutes.

Since I know this place is maybe a 2 minute bike ride away, I decide to go sit on my front steps and wait for him. I mentally mark 9:30 as the cutoff time, after which I'm going to refuse to take delivery of the food.

9:30 rolls around - no food. I storm inside, telling Mrs. Dynamite "I'm going to get pizza - when the fucking food comes, tell him he's too late and sent it back."

Mrs. Dynamite, not one to crave confrontation, immediately retorts, "I'll go get the pizza," and she takes off.

At 9:35, the doorbell rings. I make the guy wait for 2 minutes before I buzz him in. As I'm doing so, Mrs. Dynamite calls with the pizza report, and I tell her to wait a minute, as I'm dealing with the delivery guy.

It's an Indian kid who can't be much more than 16 years old, well dressed, as Ghandi Cafe's delivery men always have style.

I tried to stay calm: "Are you going to give me a discount or something? I ordered this NINETY minutes ago," I began. He looked at me, exasperated, and replied merely, "Sir," as he gave me a helpless look.

"Look, I order from you guys a lot, and I like your food, but this is ridiculous," I threw him a compliment to keep it friendly. "I can't be sitting here all night waiting for the food, and I will not tolerate being lied to on the phone. At 8:05, the guy told me 30 minutes. At 9:05, he told me 5 minutes. At 9:25, he told me you already left, and you didn't get here until 9:40. I know you're only 5 minutes away. Not for nothing, but I can't eat Indian food at 9:30pm."

The kid continues to give me an exasperated look, and makes no move like he's gonna comp me the meal. I am torn because I know if I devour the food at 9:30, I'll be running to the toilet at 2:30 am trying to make it into the bathroom before my ass explodes. On the other hand, I'm starving.

"Listen," I tell him, "Will you please just make sure you tell your boss what I said, and have him call me if he wants to talk to me about it?" More blank stares and exasperated look.

"Wait - you don't speak English - do you?" It finally hits me. He shakes his head "no," and now I can only laugh. I even tipped the kid - hey, I'm not a total dick, I know it's not his fault.

I went back inside and called the restaurant, getting the boss on the phone, who was very apologetic, telling me that the delivery guy had his bike stolen up on 18th street. I insisted that all he had to do was tell me the truth, and that I could handle ordering from somewhere else if he told me it would take an hour and a half, which was a much better scenario for everyone involved than his people stringing me along all night. He agreed, and promised to comp my next meal. Freeeeeeeeeeeroll!

Now, complaining about food and food service is not something I do often, as it always involves the classic fear of "they're gonna spit in my food." Yeah, it's possible the guy spits in my food the next time, but I'm hopeful he won't, as I used my international diplomacy skills to politely and effectively explain myself.

Mrs. Dynamite wondered aloud if that was the same delivery guy who got his bike stolen, and what he must think of America: "What a country - they steal my bike, then some guy spends 5 minutes yelling at me and I have no clue what he's talking about. Where are the streets paved with gold? And this is my first day. Oy vey."

Here's the best thing about Ghandi Cafe: the "review" snippets they have on their menu from actual user comments - I am not making this up:

"...I'd say the biryani is a big soggy, but other than that, thumbs aloft!"
"... Not the best Indian food I have had, but one of the better ones in NY."

Talk about rave reviews!!!

Awaiting the gastrointestinal effects of a late Indian dinner,
KD