Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Lesson Learned

Gather round now, and let Kid Dynamite give you some valuable poker advice...

Do...not....FUCK....with....Phil...Ivey.... Understand now? (Sick hand link attached)

Let me repeat myself. Do not fuck with Phil Ivey.

class dismissed.


Monday, March 27, 2006

Quick hits

-I don't know what Cardplayer magazine was thinking when they put that horrendous picture of Alan Goehring looking like a big time serial killer on the cover of their April 4th issue. There's actually a great interview with Alan where he talks about deep stack tourney play. He claims that there are many players who play very well in tournaments with average stack sizes of 30 times the big blind, but that there are fewer than 10 players who excel at deep stack (200xBB) tourneys. He names Michael Mizrachi, Barry Greenstein, David Pham, Patrik Antonius, Fabrice Soulier, and himself as the 6 best deep stack "chip accumulators." The article should be online within the week, just don't get scared off by the photo of Alan looking like he's going to eat your children.

-I confirmed with Mrs. Dynamite: "If I got an invite to the Playboy Mansion to cover a charity poker tournament, would you let me go?" "Not a chance." Whipped.

-Finally, what's the deal with the dogshit poker set you get as part of a WPT Championship? Let me get this straight... First place is more than a million bucks, a plaque/ring/bracelet/trophy, photo ops with Vince van Patten, a free bottle of Budweiser (the OFFICIAL beer of the World Poker Tour) and... a fucking plastic chip set with the WPT logo? I think my dream is to get heads up with a 10-1 chip lead against a guy who's a real instigator at the table, like Tony G, and tell him,

"Hey Tony, I tell you what, let me propose a CHOP: I'll take first place money, the trophy, the title, and the honor, and you can have the beer and the poker chips. Whatdya say?"


Saturday, March 25, 2006


It's official. I have NOT retired from poker.

email conversation last week with the Vortex:

KD: "You play at all live lately? I talked to Chris and I hear the game has been going strong and SICK!"

Vortex: "I was there last night."

KD (starting to TILT): "WHAT? Details please?"

Vortex (taunting me): "Crazy game. {proceeds to name a plethora of donators}

KD (Fully TILTed): "Aiyahh! I'm on high TILT right now. I want to play so bad, but I have to take care of my puppy after work."

Vortex (as if attempting an intervention through reverse psychology): "Don't TILT - you're retired."

No fuckin' way baby. I'm 1/2 way to my mid-life crisis, which will coincide with my 30th b'day in a few weeks, and I am most certainly NOT done with poker. Just because I have to take care of my baby when I get home

doesn't mean I'm not thinking about poker way more than any normal person should.

Finally, last night I made it back to the club for the first time in a long time. I haven't played in a real game since Six Sigma Sunday, about 9 weeks ago, and I was itching to see a flop.

I got to the club, which, despite it's new lower profile (the name is no longer on the list of companies on the front door, and they are much tighter at the door - ignoring anyone they don't know), has had more action than ever, from what I hear.

I hit the buzzer and look up at the camera.


Again. Buzzzzz... Pause.... Nothing.

Someone is leaving the building, and I sneak in as he exits. I take the elevator up to the club, and buzz the next door.


I buzz again. Finally Asian Paul comes to let me in. I walk in and see Eddie on the phone. I give him two middle fingers, and a "What the fuck? Do you know who the fuck I am?"

"Sorry - I didn't recognize you - none of us did."

Jeez. Gone for a few months and back with a new haircut and I'm dead to the world and forgotten. Unreal.

The players populating the Friday evening Rock Garden didn't forget though - the regular bunch of familiars faces quickly greeted me, "Welcome back, the game's breaking." I laughed and bought chips.

Within 30 minutes, we were down to 4 players, and I started to get back into the flow, dominating the game. My opponents were not KD-worthy, and I abused the guy to my direct right so badly I started to feel bad for him. I won every fucking pot I played with him. Bluff. Value bet. Value call. Everything.

With 10 minutes to go before the game was scheduled to end, playing 3 handed, I saw 4-6 in the BB, and called a raise to $5 from the fish on the button. The SB came along for the flop of 4-4-A.

SB checked, I bet out $15, and the button called. Nice. This will work out nicely when he gets committed to his ace.

Turn: offsuit jack - no flush possible. I bet $30. He calls.

River: 9. I bet $50. He moves all in for a total of $78: $28 more. I call, still fully expecting my hand to be good, and he turns over... FRIDAY IN VEGAS! Pocket jacks! How fuckin' poetic. Trumped by my signature hand on my triumphant return to the felt.

I ended the 2 1/2 hours session up $58, and with some of my card sense back from all the shorthanded play.

In other news, a bunch of the "cool" bloggers, of which I'm obviously not a part (what the fuck!?) are going to the Playboy Mansion this weekend! Unreal. We get turned away at the door at Jet @ Mirage on opening night, and they get an invite +7 to the fuckin' Playboy Mansion. Aiyahh! At least Dr. Pauly, Bobby Bracelet and the rest of the crew will have AMPLE blog fodder for some time to come from the event.

until next time,

Wednesday, March 22, 2006


Joke of the Day, courtesy of Bones, and with regard to Oscar's recent vet adventure:

Q: What's the difference between an oral and a rectal thermometer?
A: The taste!

ba dum bum CHING!


Tuesday, March 21, 2006


My boy is sick. I came home from work yesterday, and Oscar greeted me with barely a shrug. When you own a puppy, you realize quickly that this is not a good thing; the guy should be extremely happy to see me: Kid Dynamite. Pops. Dad.

Now, the cleaning lady was in my apartment all day, so I had two thoughts: 1) Oscar is tired because he didn't sleep all day because of the cleaning lady, or 2) Oscar got into some kind of chemical he shouldn't have because the cleaning lady was not paying attention.

This morning, when he was still lethargic, I realized it wasn't number 1. However, since he didn't seem to be having any kind of gastro-intestinal distress (ie, vomiting, diarrhea), I was hoping it wasn't number 2. I took two hours off at lunch today to take him to the vet.

At the vet, the doctor explained to me, "First, we'll take his temperature." Hmm... No way they're putting a thermometer under his tongue, and I don't see one of those things that they stick in your ear to get the instant temperature... Uh oh buddy... Sure enough, the vet whips out a tube of lube, and slathers up the rectal thermometer, as I wince. Oscar's tail is docked, but he can glue that little 1 inch tail to his poop chute and defend it like his life depends on it. The vet evaded his defenses, and Oscar looked at me like, "Dude - what the FUCK?" Poor dude.

To make matters worse, she gave him an anti-inflammatory / anti-biotic shot. Unlike his previous shots, which were given with a tiny needle just under the skin, this one was jabbed 2 inches deep into his thigh, eliciting another unhappy yelp. Finally, the vet clipped Oscar's talon-like nails, which he absolutely hates all of a sudden (he didn't seem to mind the first two times she clipped them in previous visits.) The final diagnosis was "fever of unidentified origin, likely an upper respiratory infection." Bill: $122.

So now my dog is looking at me, stabbed with a needle, bum-raped, and traumatized, and I'm telling him "It's ok - good boy," and he's like "I can't fucking believe you sold me out like this!"

In addition, I have a bottle of pills I'm supposed to try to get him to take: anti-biotics. That should be fun.

I hope the little fucker gets better. Here's a picture of him showing off his not so huge junk:


Sunday, March 19, 2006

WPT Whores

Is nothing sacred? At the end of this week's World Poker Tour broadcast, from the Legends of Poker at the Bicycle Casino in L.A., after Alex Kahaner took down Cowboy Kenna James, Mike Sexton gathered the usual throng for the end of show toast.

"And now, as is our custom on the World Poker Tour, we toast our champion, Alex Kahaner, with the official beer of the World Poker Tour: Budweiser."

Huh? What? Every degenerate knows that Michelob Amberbock is the official beer of the World Poker Tour, just like Levitra is the official erectile dysfunction drug of the World Series of Poker. You can't just throw any old boner-builder's name on the felt - I mean, the Saturday Night Live parody "Doctor Poerkenheimer's Boner Juice" wouldn't do, and neither would Viagra. When I think WSOP and erectile dysfunction, I think Levitra.

Similarly, when I think WPT and beer, there's only one right answer: Michelob Amberbock. It's like peanut butter & jelly. Apparently, WPT has sold their soul to the King of Beers, and thrown away their long standing relationship with Michelob.

Shame on you WPT. If you're going to be money whores - how about at least making some decisions that get your stock price up - like properly marketing your show, and your online poker site. Perhaps Foxwood's new "WPT World Poker Room," will get the ball rolling. Of course, that would require Foxwoods to run their room like they care, instead of like a place that's the "only poker room in New England," with a captive audience who can either sit there and take their shit, or not play poker in a casino.


Thursday, March 16, 2006


Monday on High Stakes Poker we learned that if you want to put Freddy Deeb on TILT all you have to do is accuse him of ratholing, or "going South." Taking chips of the table is a big no-no in poker, and Freddy's tablemates, starting with Johnny Chan and then continued by Danny Negreanu continued to push his buttons, joking that he took chips with him when he went to the bathroom. Freddy went ballistic when they continued to joke about it, and demanded that the game be stopped. Eventually Freddy was pacified after Sheik gave him a rose - how sweet.

Tuesday at the dog run Oscar learned that if a French Bulldog tries to hump your ass, the best defense is to a) put your ass on the ground and then b) turn and defend yourself with your teeth.

Wednesday I learned that you need to be careful how you pick up soft dog poo with a small plastic bag so as to not get it on your hands. Yep - poop on the hands - and I didn't even freak out - I'm officially a dad.

Thursday I learned that I owe the IRS stacks and towers of checks. Fuck me. As Dirty Dave put it, "That's the price of being KD."

Today we went for a walk in the 'hood, and saw Catherine Zeta Jones filming a movie on Charles Street. There was a huge production crew there, and one of the set managers quickly fell in love with Oscar, recognizing him as the breed from "As Good as it Gets." I told the guy to put Oscar in the movie, but they already had some obnoxious Boston Terriers cast...

We also spotted Matthew Broderick, who lives nearby, entering a townhouse right across the street from where the crew was filming. It was kinda funny seeing all these people stretching to catch a glimpse of Catherine Z-J across the street, and then Ferris Bueller himself walked right through the crowd, catching them off guard.


Sunday, March 12, 2006


I read in Cardplayer that the World Poker Tour has ended it's alliance with PartyPoker (Party Poker Million) and Ultimate Bet (Aruba Classic). They will not be part of next season's calendar of WPT events. Why is this? WPT wants to promote their own poker site: Hopefully they won't fuck up this layup, and the stock will get back to a decent valuation.

Other thoughts: Ted forrest is SICK. His card sense and ability to absolutely NAIL his opponent's hole cards, even when he's not in a hand is downright scary. I will not fuck with Ted Forrest.

In puppy news, my boy Oscar is starting to lift his leg when he pees! Daddy is so proud - baby boy is growing up fast!

until next time,

Friday, March 10, 2006


This morning I dreamt I had pocket aces. I was sitting in a NL Hold'em game, first orbit at the table, with $1000 in front of me. Blinds were $5-$10.

In early position, I raised to $30, and was called twice, before the SB min-raised to $60. I popped it again, making it $250 to go, and all three opponents called. At this point, I realized that I was not playing hold'em - I was playing Omaha - I had 4 cards, not two: A-A-T-T. I used to have the dream that I got involved in a big pot, and on the river my cards would change for the worse. I'm told this is a common degenerate poker player's dream, and this morning's dream was an interesting Freudian variation.

So, I'm significantly less excited about my A-A-T-T Omaha high hand, compared to my AA hold'em hand, but I am temporarily pacified by the flop of T-9-3 with two hearts. I do not have a heart draw.

The SB checks, and I shuffle my chips, which the dealer interprets as a check. One player checks behind me before I object: "I haven't acted yet. I'm all-in. I'm all-in." I said it twice - I remember this clearly.

and then the alarm went off....

I need to play some poker...


Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Just Another Day

"I've got the biggest dick in the world. Twelve inches of thick black cock."

6:20am and this is the first thing I hear when I walk out of my apartment. My immediate thought is, "Dad? Is that you?" But alas, it's not my long lost father. It's some dude who looks like he could be normal, ranting at no one in particular.

I'm in front of him, walking the same direction as he is, and we pass a woman loading luggage into a town car, like she's going to the airport. Johnny BigDick leers at her "Oh yeah Sistah - work that trunk," and I can hardly contain my laughter.

Unfortunately the next words out of his mouth, I fear, are directed at me: "I love sucking white boys' cocks." Normally this may be a good thing to hear, but in my neighborhood, and this time, it is usually not music to my ears. The chances of these words coming from neighbors Liv Tyler, Famke Jansen or Gisele are somewhere between slim and none (akin to catching perfect-perfect to scoop a pot - only much much worse), while the chances of them coming from a 5 foot 6 inch gay black man are pretty fuckin' good (like having a super wrap straight draw + flush draw with overcards in an Omaha pot that makes you a big favorite).

I make it to work, and in the afternoon I fire off an email to Chris asking him if he's played at our club lately. He replies that not only is the club still going, but he played last night, and there were at least four BIG TIME action players splashing around, issuing brutal beats. I quickly shoot off another email to The Vortex, imploring him "You have to go play live - I hear the game is sick. I can't play because I have to take care of Oscar after work."

Vortex quickly replies that he was actually IN this game, and that it was sweeter than I could imagine, giving me a few brief details. I'm now on serious TILT, as I'm aching to play live poker, but have other obligations, mainly, my boy - Oscar. Instead of living vicariously through Vortex, I want a piece of the action myself...

oh well. another day, another dollar.


Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Cheer Up

Kirby Puckett died today. He was one of the all time greats, and epitomized my childhood as a baseball fan. Kirby, Wade Boggs and Tony Gwynn were the three guys you had to have on your fantasy baseball team back in the mid 80's - back when it was still called Rotisserie Baseball. He always played with an intensity and a joy for the game that couldn't help but put a smile on any fan's face.

Check out my January Archives for what was one of my best months of postings, including a guest post from Dirty Dave, Vegas trip reports and a plethora of puppy tales and pictures - hopefully that will put a smile back on someone's face.


Monday, March 06, 2006

Heads up H.O.R.S.E.

The Big Show came to town this weekend. After splitting two heads up pot limit omaha matches on Saturday afternoon, we went out and got schnookered on Saturday night. Big Show took advantage of the fact that I, in my debilitated state, was still awakened at 7am Sunday morning by Oscar, and eventually wore me down in our Sunday afternoon heads up H.O.R.S.E round robin.

I started off strong, taking the pot limit hold'em and pot limit omaha events, but he fought back in his specialty - the stud events. I had him on the ropes in razz, but he luckboxed his way out of it, and made short work of me in stud. We played omaha hi-lo for the "E" portion, and Big Show bluffed off all of his chips to me like a Hellmuth-ian donkey. Unfortunately, his meager hand held up, and he claimed the H.O.R.S.E. title on my home turf, sending me into Sunday evening mega-TILT.

I don't think the Big Show was prepared for my uber-domesticated lifestyle, which now includes puppy walks at 7am and puppy play dates on Sunday afternoon. Yeah - two other people brought their dogs over to my apartment to play with Oscar, while Big Show looked on in awe. Who knew Kid Dynamite was such a softie.

Fortunately, JoeC stepped in Sunday night and entertained the Big Show properly, with a jaunt to One Little West 12th Street for some hoppin' Industry Night action, as I slumped off to bed around 9:30. Oy vey.

until next time,

Friday, March 03, 2006


So I know I haven't posted much lately. Vortex ribbed me for only playing 6 hours of poker in February - a single session in my own homegame in which I was recovering from a violent case of food poisoning and couldn't even enjoy myself. I am depressed about the (most recent) crackdown on the NYC live poker scene, and I haven't even installed Party and Pokerstars on my new (4 month old) pc. I hope Party hasn't confiscated my account since I last logged in.

Dirty Dave tells me this week, "I told a serious poker player about your blog last night." Man. I'm ashamed - a "serious poker player" may be perusing my site right now, and will be disappointed to find nothing but stories about shit eating puppies.

Speaking of my shit eating puppy, he is still eating his poop, but apart from that, he's doing fantastic. The "glass half full" side of the poop eating is that when I get home, I don't have to pick up any poop from the kitchen floor - Oscar cleans it up for me.

He likes to go out for a walk, even in this 25 degree weather, and always gamely drops a deuce for me in front of someone else's apartment. Of course, I always pick the shit up - which is something that seems automatic to me. Yet, as Mrs. Dynamite says, "There must be an awful lot of seeing eye dogs in our neighborhood," because there is a shitload of dog shit on the sidewalk (you don't have to pick up after a seeing eye dog, of course). Seriously douchebags: when your dog takes a shit on the sidewalk, you pick it up. That is non-negotiable.

I'm a big fan of The Sports Guy Bill Simmons, and came across this extremely well written point from Malcolm Gladwell, who wrote this brilliantly succinct reply as part of a Q & A with the Sports Guy, with regards to why some athletes simply show up unprepared (emphasis added)

The (short) answer is that it's really risky to work hard, because then if you fail you can no longer say that you failed because you didn't work hard. It's a form of self-protection. I swear that's why Mickelson has that almost absurdly calm demeanor. If he loses, he can always say: Well, I could have practiced more, and maybe next year I will and I'll win then. When Tiger loses, what does he tell himself? He worked as hard as he possibly could. He prepared like no one else in the game and he still lost. That has to be devastating, and dealing with that kind of conclusion takes a very special and rare kind of resilience. Most of the psychological research on this is focused on why some kids don't study for tests -- which is a much more serious version of the same problem. If you get drunk the night before an exam instead of studying and you fail, then the problem is that you got drunk. If you do study and you fail, the problem is that you're stupid -- and stupid, for a student, is a death sentence. The point is that it is far more psychologically dangerous and difficult to prepare for a task than not to prepare. People think that Tiger is tougher than Mickelson because he works harder. Wrong: Tiger is tougher than Mickelson and because of that he works harder.

I read one of Gladwell's books, Blink, which was mildly interesting, but he is clearly a very talented writer and psychological thinker. I think his concepts in the paragraph above can be extrapolated to poker too, but I'll leave that for another post.

The Big Show comes to town tomorrow.

until next time,