Beam Me Up

First off, I'd like to thank Iggy @ GuinessandPoker for semi-pimping my blog. When Iggy, one of the original poker bloggers, speaks, people listen, and his site is far and away the leading source of referrals for Kid Dynamite's World.

I'm a frequent reader of ESPN's SportsGuy, Bill Simmons. In a recent column, Simmons mentioned that his "Unintentional Comedy Scale" would need to be completely re-calibrated to account for the surfacing of this classic William Shatner clip. In the simply MEZMERIZING video, from the 1978 Science Fiction Awards, Shatner gives his spoken word "interpretation" of Elton John's Rocket Man. It's flat out impossible to describe - go watch it right now (sound necessary) - I'll wait.

Ok - you watched the video? Now we can discuss it: Here's where SportsGuy was right, and some commenters seem to be missing the point: I think Shatner was completely serious when he was doing this performance. Nowadays, he's kinda a satire of himself, and he's in on the joke, but in this clip, he thinks he's the friggin' nuts. It's absolutely priceless - I can watch in on a loop, staring at the screen in awe, mouth agape. "And I'm gonna be hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh......as-a-kite-by-then......."

Finally, the animated TV show, The Family Guy, shows why it's one of the best shows on tv by parodying the Shatner clip - a reference so obscure that it's almost impossible for the average viewer to get, but if you're in on it, it's pure genius.

-KD

Bits and Pieces

I was heavily tilted by Bob Ciaffone's article in the latest Cardplayer regarding my worst nightmare: Pokertek (PTEK). If you've forgotten, the Pokertek table basically has players sitting at a table, playing internet poker against each other: each player has a display in front of them which only they can see - there is no dealer, no physical cards, and no physical chips - it's the equivalent of online poker, but you're playing against the 9 other people you are sitting with. Ciaffone calls it "the best of both worlds," as it speeds up the game and eliminates dealer errors.

Ciaffone notes: "One of the benefits of having a dealer is to keep the game moving along. For this reason, it is a good idea for a cardroom that’s using this computerized technology to designate a player in the game as the “table captain,” to keep the game moving and ensure that no improprieties take place, such as making comments during a hand about what someone might be holding."

I cringed as I read this, imagining all the old timer leatherass table captains I've met in every poker room - the last thing we need is these douchebags playing table cop.

I hit up Dirty Dave on IM, and complained to him.

"Ouch - like you need some leatherass playing Vichy cop on you,"
he's always the intellectual.

"dk" I responded - Wall Street talk for "Don't Know" - as in "I have no clue what you're talking about.

"Vichy, France: wartime rule" he explained.

"Hang on Voltaire," I blasted him with one of my favorite movie quotes from one of my favorite movie scenes of all time: let me explain.

In Swingers, Mike and Trent are in a diner, ordering some chow. Let's join the screenplay, courtesy of ScreenplaysForYou:

MIKE I'll have "pancakes in the Age of Enlightenment"
It goes over like a lead balloon.
WAITRESS And you?
TRENT I'll have the Blackbeard over easy.
WAITRESS I'll be back with the coffee.
She takes the menus and goes.
TRENT (genuinely) Nice, baby.
MIKE I should've said Renaissance, right? It went over her head.
TRENT Baby, you did fine.
MIKE (disgusted with himself) "Age of Enlightenment". Shit. Like some waitress in a Las Vegas coffee shop is going to get an obscure French philosophical reference. How demeaning. I may as well have just said "Let me jump your ignorant bones."...
TRENT ...Baby...
MIKE ... It's just, I thought "Renaissance" was too Excaliber, it's the wrong casino. She would've gotten it, though...
TRENT You did fine. Don't sweat her. We're meeting our honeys soon. You know Christy's friend is going to be money.
MIKE I hope so. (checks watch) We gotta go soon.
TRENT Baby, relax. It's just down the hall. She's gotta change... we'll be fine.
MIKE We didn't do so bad after all.
TRENT Baby, we're money.Mike tries to catch the attention of their waitress, who is passing with a huge platter containing a BREAKFAST BANQUET.
MIKE Excuse me. We're in a bit of a hurry.
WAITRESS Hang on, Voltaire.

Brilliant stuff. Anyway, in another completely random note, I saw Matt Pinfield, former MTV VJ extraordinaire on my corner today.

My knee is healing somewhat I think - I'm able to walk, but still limp slightly. Thanks for all the well-wishers. I even had three different random people on the streets of NYC offer me assistance.

Oscar's balls (or lack thereof) appear to be healing nicely - he gets his stitches out Monday.

Mrs. Dynamite and I took him with us to Philly last weekend for a wedding, and his good behavior when given free reign in the hotel room prompted us to decide to try giving him free reign of our apartment yesterday while we were at work, instead of confining him to the kitchen like we usually do. As Mrs. Dynamite put it to me when I got home, Oscar "violated the circle of trust," by pulling all the mulch out of the big potted plant we have in our dining room, running down the hall with it, and spraying it all over the bedroom. Good effort dude - back in the kitchen...

Previously, while Mrs. Dynamite was in the shower, Oscar did this with the toilet paper:

Elsewhere in my world, last night I went with some colleagues to DelFrisco's Steakhouse. I resisted the urge to comment when the waitress told us about the special: the bone-in ribeye ("Do you like the bone in? guffaw guffaw guffaw), but when I ordered the fillet, medium, she actually said, and I quote, "That's hot and red in the center, and pink toward the outside." Before I could even react, one of my compatriots blurted "JUST the way he likes it." Of course, I then had to tell my "$600 and ounce? sounds like my sperm" story.

I told you all about how Blogger shut me down for a week several months ago, since their proprietary software had decided that I was SPAM. Well, I'm on an email discussion list with some of my poker buddies, and I sent an email to the list, which my own email dumped into my SPAM folder. Ouch. That hurts. My own account think's I'm SPAM. I don't even know what to make of that.

Finally, I'm at war with Citibank: a friend of mine sent me a check, which eventually bounced when I deposited it in my account. Citi debits the check, fine, but then they also hit me with a $10 fee. What the fuck? Huh? I am the bouncee, not the bouncer - there is no fucking way I'm paying a fee, especially since I didn't even withdraw the money. I've told them this much, and threatened to close my account if they don't take the friggin' $10 off - DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? Yeah, I know, it's only $10, but I'll spend 5 hours fighting in on principle.

until next time,

KD

Triage

I went to the ER yesterday for the first time in my life. I didn't really want to go, because, it's not like they're going to perform surgery on my knee there, so my thought process is generally, what's the point?

Anyway, unable to walk, I took a cab to St. Vincent's at 3pm on Saturday, and walked right into a made for TV scene - and Asian woman was reacting like an alien was about to pop out of her stomach - howling, laying on the floor, and arching her back like she was going through an Exorcism. It was freaky - and her two kids, a boy (about 10) and a girl (about 8) were bawling their eyes out as they watched their mom go bonkers.

Two minutes later, the woman was fine, and I asked the little guy, "Is that your mom?" He nodded. "She's gonna be ok - don't worry." He looked at me with wide eyes, unsure. "That was scary, huh?" I asked. He nodded. "She'll be fine," I hope I was right...

After that incident, there weren't any other stereotypical NYC ER scenes - just a bunch of weekend warriors (like myself) with sports-related injuries. A guy with an injured thumb... A guy with a busted ankle... A guy with a cut on his forehead...

I looked at the guy with the bad ankle, who was still wearing his tank top and athletic shorts. "Basketball?" I guessed. He nodded. "Soccer," I confessed, as they wheeled me to the FastTrack ward an hour later in a wheelchair, after taking my vitals (blood pressure good, temperature normal, pulse: 69). FastTrack is a new branch they have which is to treat non-life-threatening injuries, while the seriously injured people stay in the Triage ER section.

"Do you want some pain medication? We can give you a narcotic," The physician's assistant told me. "Yes, sure" I answered. "It will make you drowsy," she warned. Like I give a shit - give me the fuckin' percaset! They gave me one, and x-rayed my knee. X-rays were negative, of course, but they don't do MRI's in the ER - so I really don't know any more than I knew yesterday. They gave me a knee imobilizer, and a pair of crutches. The only problem is that the friggin' crutches hurt like hell to use! Now my armpits are bruised and killing me.

After an hour in the FastTrack ward I limped home. Eric came over later with his 5 month old baby boy, Luke.

"Luke, repeat after me: DOUCHEBAG. DOUCHEBAG. DOOOOOOSH BAAAAAG," I tried, but all luke would do was keep repeating a baby-babbly ga-ga that sounded like "All-in." Eric has already taught him well.

"Luke, Muh-ther-fuck-er" (Don't worry, I got permission to teach the kids bad words), but he just stared at me with empty eyes, and babbled "RAISE." Man this kid is tight aggressive.

I'm off to Philly for a wedding. Monday BBQ back here in NYC is imminent though.

until next time,
KD

P-Stars

Yeah b-yatch: Gonna defend my 14th place Blogger Tourney finish...

I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker!

This Online Poker Tournament is a No Limit Texas Holdem event exclusive to Bloggers.

Registration code: 7330476

Friday Night Lights

I was once a decent soccer player. Never a prolific goal scorer, at my peak, I could nevertheless defend along with the best of them. About 5 years ago I began playing with a group of guys in the city, friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend kind of thing, and the next thing you know we're playing together at least twice a week in two different leagues. We played mostly 6v6 on Friday nights at a rooftop field with a great view of downtown Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, and 11 a side on Sundays up in Harlem. We were young, at least not old yet, and somewhat in shape. Over the years, the roster of players changed, and some of the cachet of playing with, and then going out drinking with the same guys every week wore off.

About a year ago, the not no-so-25-year-old version of myself volunteered to fill in for a missing player in a 7v7 Tuesday night league. I took a brutal kick to the shin, right on the side of the shinguard, that left a tennis-ball-sized welt on my leg. X-rays were negative, but I still have a bruise 12 months later, and hadn't played since.

Thursday afternoon, Gavin, the long time team captain, sent out an email desperately looking for a few more players for Friday night's game. Hmmm.. Weather? nice. Other obligations? None. Conditioning? Non-existent. List of players coming? Old school! It looked like almost our original team scheduled to play! I had to be there...

"Gav, I have to tell you - there's a remote chance I could play, but, no exaggeration, I get tired walking up the steps when I come out of the subway - I'm strictly an extra body to give someone else a breather," I responded.

"Rubbish - just come, none of us are fit," Gavin shot back, never failing to use a quirky Euro-term.

When I found out Friday's forecast called for massive thunderstorms, I hedged myself, "Gavin, I'm not playing if it rains hard."

"Your skin was meant to withstand rain," he wasn't in the mood for my whining.

"Yeah, but my skills weren't - I'm not going down with a pulled hammy from slipping on a wet field," I'm a total pussy, and although I enjoy kicking around with a group of guys I've known for years, I KNOW I'm out of shape, and do not need a Friday Night Injury.

Friday afternoon and evening turned out to be beautiful, but as I checked my email before the game, I realized that we were playing 8 on 8, on a full field, and that one possible teammate had just bailed, leaving us with only 8 players. Uh oh.

In a strange turn of events, Eric happened to be in New York, and I immediately called him, telling him that if he didn't come to the game, I was even money to be carted off with a heart condition.

As we arrived one by one at the field, the entrance of each player put a smile on everyone's face. Will? Will is here??! Holy crap. Kevin! Kid Dynamite? Dave! Josh! Good to see you! Unreal - this is like our vintage 2003 championship team. When Eric strolled in, we all just started laughing - it was like the old days - nothing had changed.

We ran around the field warming up, complaining of sore backs and tight hammy's, and placing bets on who'd have what injury. In the game, we took a 3-0 lead, dominating like the days of yore, before sportingly allowing our opponents to gain a ray of hope. 3-1. 10 minutes later, 3-2. Jeez, how long are these fucking halfs - 45 minutes? 22 minutes, I'm told, but I'd lay 5-1 odds we played at least 35 minute halfs. They tied the game 3-3, before we put it away with two late goals for a 5-3 victory. Of course, the game wouldn't be complete without me deciding I was going to make a run up the right wing, receiving a perfect pass from Gavin, and whiffing on a one-timer attempt, jamming my right leg in the process, and going down like I was shot. My right knee straightened, and the entire weight of my not-so-1996-fit body jammed into it, as I collapsed in a heap.

As I lay on the ground in agony, I could hear two of my friends laughing at my horrific goal scoring attempt, not realizing that I was actually hurt. People talk about "hearing a pop" when they tear their ACL. I tried to think - did I hear a pop? I think it was more of a crunch. I can flex my knee - maybe that's a good sign. "Usually if you tear your ACL or MCL, you can still move your knee," Eric crushes my optimism.

After the game, we used to go out drinking for hours at a local restaurant, Brothers BBQ, who eventually agreed to generously sponsor a few of our seasons. Nowadays, we limp home, puppies and babies in hand, and settle in to watch High Stakes Poker reruns, with Eric (who apparently lives in a log cabin with no tv or something, because he's the only poker player I know who watches absolutely ZERO poker on tv) analyzing every hand out loud, relishing the action like a kid on Christmas Day.

So, here I am, not sure how badly my knee is hurt, unable to walk on it, and not eager to go to the ER on Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend. Hopefully, it's not a torn ligament or something like that, but I've been lucky enough to have avoided knee problems throughout my athletic career, so I really don't know - all I know is that I can't walk. Fuck.

getting old,
KD

Teaching a New Dog New Tricks

I finally uploaded a crappy quality video of Oscar's patented "fetch the tissue trick." Mrs. Dynamite sneezes, and Oscar runs and gets her a tissue. S-T-U-D.

He's the frickin' MAN.

-KD

Nads

Oscar got neutered today. Sad, I know, but we didn't want him getting some bitch pregnant. Here's an old picture of his huge junk pre-op.

In addition, he got 4 teeth pulled - baby teeth that didn't fall out. The vet wanted them out because otherwise they cause all sorts of plaque buildup and infection problems later on.

Oscar is pretty pissed right now. He's all drugged up, laying in bed, giving me the sad face. I'll post some post-op pics, including his lampshade that he has to prevent him from pulling at his stitches.

In less depressing news, WickedChops proved their wicked interview chops once again by interviewing TJ Cloutier. It's not as good as their Kid Dynamite interview, but it proves that they have the chops to get a sit-down with TJ.

Bloomberg wrote a story about a Wall Street blog today, LeveragedSellout.com. It's absolutely fuckin' brilliant stuff - a satire on Wall Street (especially investment banking) life and culture. Apparently the kid who writes it doesn't even work for an investment bank, but gets stories from his friends that he adds artistic license too. The result is a brilliant satire, which some of his readers seem to miss the sarcasm and subtlety of, as can be seen in his comments.

Reading LeveragedSellout.com will bring back memories of American Psycho, one of my all time favorite movies, starring Christian "Batman" Bale (side note: the character Bale plays in Batman Begins is basically the same character he played in American Psycho - and he plays it to perfection). American Psycho is the ultimate satire of over-indulgent Wall Street culture, and of getting caught up in the Material World. If you haven't seen it, rent it ASAP. The book, by Brett Easton Ellis, is also exceptional, although much more graphic and gruesome than the movie.

until next time,

KD

Homegame Action

The weather cooperated yesterday afternoon, and we set up the table in my backyard for a 7 hour session of PL Hold'em and PL Omaha.

On the very first hand, H0nus stacked Drew in an unraised pot when they both checked the flop, and H0nus made his gutshot straight on the turn at the same time Drew made 2 pair + a flush draw.

H0nus later gave me those chips on this hand:

Mergie raised to $7 UTG, and H0nus called in the cutoff. Ollie called in the SB, and I called in the BB with 2-5 of diamonds, announcing "I want you all to know, I have a really bad hand - I warned you."

When the flop came 6c-4d-3d my rags were now the nuts, with a re-draw to the mortal nuts - an open ended straight-flush re-draw. Now, on to the important business - how to make money! I bet $10. Mergie folded, and H0nus raised to $25. Ollie folded, and I bumped it to $75.

H0nus starts to think. After a minute, I tell him: "I know what you have: K-J of diamonds." "Better," he says, "I have a big pair." "Uh oh - how big?" I ask, "Not bigger than eights right?" I'm deep inside his head now... Now, H0nus and I have had many a battle in the past, and he knows I love to push him around, so he thinks his J-J is good, and he's not crazy to think so. He goes into the tank for a full 3 minutes, and finally elects to put me all-in for about $67 more. I beat him into the pot, and my hand holds up.

The Chairman, Jay G, one of the founding members of the KD homegame made a triumphant return to the game. Although he and Greg continued to push for a session of PL 7CS high-low, several of us held out, in the interest of not losing our stacks in that unruly game. We instead settled on PL Omaha, and I made a monster laydown in the first orbit:

I limped UTG with A-2-7-8 single suited, and called when Mat made it $7 from the small blind. Mergie came along for the action. The flop came A-9-2 with two hearts (not my suit), and Mat bet into me, $15. I had a very bad feeling here, and just called the $15, as did Mergie.

The turn brought an ace - a card I really didn't like, even though it made me aces full. Mat again bet $40, and now I really didn't like my hand. I called the $40 though, and Mergie folded. Mat is a pretty tight, smart player, and I don't think he's betting anything less than the nuts here - A-9-x-x.

The river was the four of hearts, completing the possible flush draw, and Mat hemmed and hawed before betting $100 into me. I KNOW I'm beat - how can I call? I'm not THAT much of a hold'em playing Omaha novice - I know my hand is vulnerable, and against this specific opponent I'm in deep trouble. I shake my head, "How can I call?" "What's that? You call?" Mat inquires. "No, I didn't do anything yet."

I continue to deliberate, and finally say "Now I'm just trying to decide if I should muck my hand face up or face down!" Mat nods and says, "Just muck already - hurry up," and that seals it for me, I lay my cards face up. Jay has a look of horror on his face - which surprises me. I'm almost expecting him to say "Nice laydown," but instead he tells me "I make that laydown, exactly, NEVER." And Jay knows exactly what he's doing. In this situation, I could make the call if Mat kept his mouth shut, but I got a serious read on him, and I felt supremely confident in my fold, especially since Mat didn't show me a bluff after I mucked face up. Mat teased me off and on for the next several orbits, but eventually told me that he did indeed have A-9 along with the flush draw.

I only played one more pot of interest, when I found JJ - Friday in Vegas - in the small blind. Mat opened for $7 on the cutoff, and I made it $24 to go. Mat called.

The flop was A-A-6, and I check-called a $35 bet from Mat.

The turn was another 6, and I checked again. Mat bet $65, and I thought for a long time, before moving all-in for $87 more. I had decided I wasn't going to fold, and thus my decision was between

a) moving all-in, in which case I get called if Mat has an Ace, and otherwise take the pot down (if Mat has KK or QQ, he probably calls here too - I can't get a better hand to fold),

or

b) call and check the river with the intention of snapping off a 3-bullet bluff when Mat bluffs the river. The risk there is that he can spike a K,Q or underset on the river, and he may not bluff the river anyway.

I decided to move in, and Mat folded quickly.

We played until 11pm, with a spotlight and a lantern on the table, until finally the action dried up and we called it a night. All in all, a good time was had by all, and I came out with a monstrous $40 profit, much of which was due to my winning the race for the odd chips when we all cashed out.

until next time,
KD

Happy Fuckin' Friday!

Have you seen this video? If you're not from Boston or Chicago, you may have never seen a "piss trough" urinal before. They are really unmatched in male bathroom camaraderie - a bunch of dudes standing at a big long tub peeing into it while trying to act normal. Unmatched. This dude at Wrigley takes it to an entirely different level when he does a facefirst dive through the trough. Wow. Speechless.

I was walking into my apartment today with Oscar - who was wicked unruly on our walk. As I pulled my keys out, I looked at him and said "What's up Wild Man? What's the deal Bad Boy?" And a dude walking by stopped 5 steps past my place and started looking at me. Now, you have to understand, I live in a pretty gay neighborhood (not that there's anything wrong with that.) I suddenly realize the misinterpretation - this guy thinks I'm talking to him... I open my door, and look back - he's still looking at me. "Umm, I was talking to the dog," I explain. Johnny Cakes. He looks disappointed, shrugs, and keeps walking.

Until next time,
KD

That's the Spirit

I sent out an email to my "homegame" list, planning a Saturday afternoon poker game at my place. Mergie won the award for best decision:

"I did have a second date planned for Saturday, but Poker comes first. If she can't understand that, then she's not worth dating anyway. I'm in."

Attaboy Mergie.

Oscar and I just got caught outside in a thunderstorm. He friggin' HATES the rain, and tries to refuse to go out when it's raining. Unfortunately, I already have a note today from my dogwalker that notes that Oscar didn't do a "#2" this afternoon, so we're going out tonight sooner or later - rain or shine... This is my life.

-KD

Johnny Cakes

So did you see Sopranos this week? There is a great scene where Vito is doing some actual construction work, as opposed to the no-show construction work he's used to doing. There is a voiceover of Vito's inner monologue, basically saying "It must be 10:30 by now - don't look at your watch - save it - enjoy it," etc... then there's a cut, and Vito is still working, he's saying to himself "It's gotta be 11:30, maybe 11:45 - look at the angle of the sun - ok - go ahead - check your watch," he's just trying to make it to quitting time. He checks his watch: 9:55am. "FUCK ME!" Vito yells out loud - and I couldn't help but laugh - as I've definitely been there. Me and Vito are kindred spirits, only he's gay, fat, Italian, a total douchebag, a Yankee fan and a mobster. Other than that, he's just like me...

Oscar went to the groomer this weekend, where he got a stylin' trim. We just came back from yet another trip to the vet. He's trying to preserve his league leading status atop the West Village Animal Hospital appearances list. This time it was for a mysterious intermittent leg injury that he's been having. The vet couldn't diagnose the problem, but did surprise Oscar with his not-so-favorite test: the rectal thermometer. I was thinking, "Um, his leg hurts, he's not sick," but what the fuck do I know - I'm not a vet. I thought he had a luxated patella, which, in English means a bad kneecap. Little did I know that dogs only have kneecaps on their hind legs - the front legs are their arms, and thus have elbows. Oscar fought the backdoor intrusion like a champ, but I had to hold him and settle him down, as the last thing I need is a BROKEN rectal thermometer inside of him.

How about some ACTUAL POKER CONTENT at Kid Dynamite's World? I haven't played recently, but I have still been watching, among other poker shows, the World Poker Tour (hey, I'm a stockholder!), which is almost unwatchable in the wake of the stellar "High Stakes Poker" (season two debuts the first week in June!). So this week was WPT Tunica - Gold Strike, featuring Gavin Smith, Scotty Nguyen, and Michael "the Grinder" Mizrachi sitting right next to each other in that order. Scotty and Grinder are the chipleaders, and play a pivotal pot early, where Scotty has 4-4 in the small blind, and Grinder has 5-6 in the BB. Forgive me if I get the action wrong, but I think it was very close to this:

Scotty limps, Grinder checks (Grinder may have made a small raise, not sure).
Flop: K-x-7, rainbow. Scotty checks, Grinder bets around 1/2 pot, Scotty calls, and says "You're going to check the turn, so I call now."

Turn: 4, giving Scotty a set, and Grinder an open-ended straight draw. Scotty checks. Grinder says "He wants a check, give him a check" and checks behind.

river: 3. Grinder goes runner-runner nuts! Aiyahh! Scotty checks, and Grinder bets out about 2/3rds the pot, perhaps slightly less.

Scotty starts to think. He cuts his chips - and at one point he even says "I can't believe I could just call you here," but continues to cut his chips, and there is no action ruled. After several seconds, Scotty stacks his chips into the pot as he says "RAISE," and reaches back for his raising chips. Grinder, in a complete brain fart, turns his cards over!

The tourney director is called to make a ruling, and SOMEHOW, he rules that Scotty can just call the bet! Huh? There is no way that's correct. Scotty is obligated to a min-raise at least. Gavin Smith pipes in something about how "there was reason to believe he was beat," but I really couldn't catch what he was trying to say, or figure out if that had something to do with the Floor's decision.

Anyway, this was a pivotal hand, as Scotty would have clearly had a tough time getting away from his set of fours on this relatively non-threatening board against a player as aggressive as the Grinder. Scotty would have check-raised the river, and Grinder would have come over the top. Scotty may very well have had to pay Grinder off with his set, as he fears only a bigger set and exactly 5-6, and suspects that Grinder's re-raising hand range is wider than that. Then again, maybe Scotty would get away from it, who knows. In any case, it was a huge mistake for the Grinder, who ended up finishing second to Scotty.

Until next time,
KD

One of Those Days

Fuck Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck.

Man what a fucking day I'm having. Phone ringing off the hook regarding work annoyance after work annoyance... Then I walk into my apartment and the light bulb blows - and I can't find the light-bulb-changy-extension-thingy to reach it.

I've been on simmering TILT since Saturday, when I sat down to watch the Kentucky Derby with Mrs. Dynamite. My man Big Show was at the Derby, and ready to place a wager for me. I asked Mrs. Dynamite to pick two horses. "Barbaro and the #13 horse," she replied matter-of-factly. Of course, I didn't call Big Show and have him buy a ticket for me - it's more of a heads up friendly "who can pick the best horses" wager between Mrs. Dynamite and myself.

Murphy's Law: she woulda nailed the FUCKING EXACTA! Paid $550+ on a $2 bet. SONOFA... "If you'd given me a grand to bet we'd be rich right now," Mrs. Dynamite points out. "I woulda done it too," she adds... This coming from the woman who was scared to bet the free match-play chip at a casino on our St. Maarten vacation many years ago...

So at least the Sox thrashed the Evil Empire on Tuesday night, with the play of the game being Big Papi scoring from second on a hard hit ball to Matsui - unheard of to see the big man truckin' like that. I only wish he'd pancaked Posada at the plate.

Last night I had the misfortune of being at Yankee Stadium when the Sox blew a 3-0 lead and lost 7-3. And, there's nothing like having to listen to the game highlights on the radio of the car on the way home - when I'm jammed in the middle of the back seat. Big Papi did hit a monster dinger to the third deck in right field, and also beat out a deep infield hit! Speed!

At least Dirty Dave made me laugh today: There's been a takeover saga on Wall Street regarding Aztar corp - owners of the Tropicana. Several companies are locked in an outright bidding war for the company, with the latest bid now some 40% above the initial bid. Never mind that the valuations placed on the company are way out of the range of anything ever attained on the Vegas Strip - it's like the Dutch Tulip Mania or the Internet Bubble - these guys are DYING to own Aztar. So I ask Dirty Dave, "Can you believe this fucking Aztar?"

he replies:

"Pot. Pot. Pot. Pot. Pot. "

and I smiled and laughed out loud. Dirty Dave, Analogy Master, had nailed it perfectly once again. The bidding war was, in poker parlance, like watching opponents sit across from the table and fire pot-sized raises at each other in an attempt to take the pot down - only no one was blinking.

anyway...

-KD

Pissahs

So I'm reading Peter King's column this week, and he tells of his trip to Fenway for the Sox-Yanks series. In the newly renovated bathrooms at Red Sox Bar Cask and Flagon, King runs into a guy who, marveling at the new digs, blurts out, "Wow! What'd they do with these pissahs?"

As a Boston native, I long for the days of drunken' Bostonians using words like "Wicked" and "Pissah" - and even the only-understood-by-fellow-Bostonians: "Wicked pissah," which I think is the equivalent of England's "The Dog's Bollocks," also known as "The Nuts." So to recap: Pissah is a noun meaning "urinal" or an adjective meaning "cool". Wicked Pissah is something very good - like Big Papi hitting a 3 run homer in the bottom of the 8th against the yankees.

Speaking of Boston bar memories - I remember vividly my senior year, late one night at Whiskey's on Boylston street. I finish using the pissah, and one of the sinks is filled to the brim with puke. I hold my breath and clean up at the other sink, while I spot a dude hanging out in the bathroom eyeing the puke-filled sink. Feeling that something needed to be said, I tried, "Wow - I'm glad I don't have to clean that up." "I do - that's MY job," the poor sap replied, in despair. "Sorry bro' - what are you going to do?" I asked him. "I think I'm going to quit." he replied, quite honestly. Good times.

In other news, Oscar has "graduated" from puppy kindergarten. He has the diploma to prove it. Yes - it's on my 'fridge. I spent Saturday morning pulling two ticks off his face - fuckin' disgusting. Ticks are the most vile creatures you could imagine - their entire head burrows under the dog's skin, and their bodies plump up with blood. Usually if you dab them with a cotton-ball or q-tip soaked with rubbing alcohol, they will release their grip, but Oscar's two ticks were very close to his eyes, so I had to be very careful. Mrs. Dynamite and I couldn't subdue the little warrior with out tightest grips, and it took us several hours of coercing and restraint before I was able to extract both ticks with a pair of tweezers (making sure not to pull off the body and leave the embedded head.) I'm told Frontline flea & tick medication works well in preventing the parasites, and he'll be on that shortly.

until next time,
KD

F U E.S.P.N.

So I'm watching the Sox-Jays game on ESPN-HD. In the bottom of the second, 3-3 tie game, the Red Sox have the bases loaded with 1 out, and Mark Loretta coming to the plate. Suddenly, ESPN cuts away to a live Barry Bonds at bat. Not a split-screen view - they fucking CUT AWAY to Bonds! I am forced to watch Bonds ground out, and then the ESPN studio announcers take another 30 seconds before throwing the game back to the Fenway broadcast, where I see the Red Sox in the field! What the fuck?!?! The announcer casually mentions that Loretta hit into a double play.

Can't the fuckin' geniuses at ESPN come up with a better plan? They clearly don't want to sacrifice their valuable add time and show Bonds' at-bats during a commercial, but they could at least give us a split screen! Bonds isn't even close to the home run record - he's close to taking over SECOND PLACE! FUCK! Would anyone know if they just "pretended" that the Bonds at-bats were live, when in fact they were 5 minutes delayed until there was a suitable time to show them? Does anyone care about a Bonds at-bat if it's not a homer anyway? I'm certain there was not one Red Sox fan watching the game who was thinking "I don't care about Loretta and Big Papi coming up with the bases loaded - I wonder what Barry Bonds is doing right now."

fuck you ESPN.

-KD

Beast

So I'm lying on the couch watching the Sox-Yanks game, and I hear my wife howling from upstairs "Help! Aiyahh!"

"What's the matter?" I shout up the stairs.
"He's attacking me while I'm on the toilet!" Mrs. Dynamite squeaks back, while trying to fend off the attacker:

Yep. Oscar. The little guy has learned to identify optimal attacking times: like when his target is on the toilet, and thus less capable of defense... He got me with the same move this afternoon - it's harder than you think to defend yourself from a crazed Oscar using one arm, while you try to wipe your ass with the other...

This is my life...

-KD

Blogfiles

The Kid Dynamite Blogfiles is up on WickedChops. I just got back from Boston, so I have some catching up to do, but in the meantime, check out the interview on WCP.

-KD

State of the Union

So my main man Chops over at WickedChopsPoker did a "blogfiles" interview with me yesterday - it should come out very well when he posts it on his site later today. Dying to know who's at Kid Dynamite's dream poker table? Head over to WickedChops and check out the interview (I'd link to it of course, but it's not up yet). WickedChops should be on your daily blog-perusing list if it's not already. Someday Chops, Dirty Dave and I will team up to write the great American screenplay. I hate to put up a post that will bump the immortal David Williams post from the top of my blog, but the WickedChops - Kid Dynamite Blogfiles interview will be worth it.

Pokerwise: Still trying to rebound from the back to back poker disasters of two weeks ago, I have re-focused my game, and am playing flawless poker. I played 90 minutes of live 1-2NL on Monday night, for +$276, and 2 hours last night, for +$467. In between, I crushed Jordan's homegame tourney, but settled for second place.

Puppywise: Oscar is the cutest fucking dog you've ever seen. He's such a stud it's absolutely incredible. Take a look:

Drinking straight from the bottle - Boone's Farms Style - only he's drinking a $40 bottle of Pinot Noir from Napa. I told you he was spoiled.

In other news, Mrs. Dynamite was making Matzoh Ball soup last night, from some leftover chicken I'd made the night before. Since we're on vacation this week, and we've been hanging out in town, we've been trying to take advantage of the free time to cook dinner. My wife would definitely win any "Shikza Matzoh Ball Soup Making Contest."

I peer over Mrs. Dynamite's shoulder and ask: "You like making the matzoh balls small eh?" I try to make them the size of your nuts," she replied instantly and honestly. Touche. Blogworthy. Lemme tell you though - when the matzoh balls were done, they were effing huge baby.

I'm off to Boston for the weekend with the Mrs. and the puppy. We're doing an annual canoe relay race on the Charles with our families. So far I'm 3 for 3 in "years getting poison ivey on my legs" even though I still haven't seen the fucking ivey.

I'll leave you with one more Oscar picture for the weekend...

until next time,

KD

The American Dream

Warning: NSFW: links are not suitable for work.

So this NEEDS to be addressed... The David Williams Story.

I first read about the David Williams Story on NeverWinPoker.com, but it seems that the story has been circulating for years throughout Williams' old circle: the Magic community. Basically the story is this: Williams needed cash, so he appeared in a porno in which he spends a significant chunk of time chomping on the poop chute of a washed up C-level porn star.

There is a blog, StarkNakedPoker, with all the details of the saga, including links to video clips.

Now I can't be sure this is actually David Williams - it certainly looks like him, but you can bet your hershey highway I'd use it to put DW on TILT if I ever sat with him... "Wow.. Bad beat.. that sucks ass... No offense David..." "Anyone want to order food? I'll have a tossed salad... Oops - Sorry David." The possibilities are endless.

But here's the bottom line: If it is indeed David Williams in that video - kudos to him. What's a better poker story than this:

Young aspiring poker star gets taken to the felt, broke, and has to raise a new playing stake. Instead of playing on someone else's money for a share of the profits, he pimps himself out in a low grade porno, eating the ass of some Skinimax reject from 1985. Young Star takes the porno profits and enters a satellite for the WSOP Main Event. Young Star wins the satellite, and parlays the entry into a 2nd place finish, $2MM + payday at the World Series of Poker. That's better than the Mikey McD story from Rounders. That's the American Dream: wake up broke, eat ass, parlay payment into millions. Boo Yah.

I mean seriously, who hasn't eaten a little ass on camera to raise a buy-in when they were down to the felt and the game was still good? I can't be the only one... Guys? Guys???

No shame David - just pop a piece of Dentyne before you talk to me.

(Disclaimer: KD has never tossed salad on camera)

-KD

Surprise

Statcounter.com is a cool web tool that let you look at stats on your web page, such as how many unique visitors you have, how many page loads, how people got to your site, and what keyword searches your site was a result for.

I can only imagine the surprise on one douchebag's face when he searched for "barbershop hot lather shave gentlemen" and ended up with Dirty Dave's legendary guest post about a poop gone bad at Truefitt and Hill in Vegas on Six Sigma Sunday.

I also get a lot of hits from searches like "Phil Hellmuth Douchebag," "Sean Sheikhan," and "Peyton Manning's Wife."

I was going to write a post about Oscar's throbbing boner (uh oh, now I'll show up in some more totally fucked up searches), but as Bones noted, I don't have a good picture to go along with it, so I'll hold off for now. I'll throw in a bum-sniffing pic instead.

good times.

-KD

Sinking

Yesterday's session hurt. Thinking back about the session, I was very happy about my play in general: I took one vicious beat, missed a big draw, ran into one pretty cold deck, and was beaten by a better hand in another pot. The fourteen hundred dollar loss sucked, but I felt good about my play. I vowed to keep my composure, get back on the train, and start fresh today.

Today, I ground my stack up early, and then quickly got stacked by Chris on his first hand: I raised to $10 UTG with Friday in Vegas: JJ. Chris called, as did JD and one other, and we saw a 6-7-8 flop with two diamonds.

I bet $50 and was called by both players. On the turn, the jack of diamonds came. Aiyahh... speaking of cold decks. Chris has been playing ridiculously fast and loose lately, so I'm not planning to check-fold here. I bet $150, and he moves all-in for $180 more. Fuckin'A. I call and he has K-3 of diamonds. The board doesn't pair on the river.

Can I get away from this hand? Perhaps. This is one I can complain about all I want, but I didn't need to lose $330 more here on the turn. Indeed, the jack of diamonds was the worst card in the deck for me on the turn, but it's also conceivable I can give up on this pot against two opponents. The bottom line was, against these two opponents, in this game, I wasn't prepared to do so.

I rebought, and really focused. I played some of my best poker: managing to dodge bullets in difficult situations while fighting to stay afloat and maintain my discipline.

I raise to $15 in EP with KQ, and 5 players called me. I bet $75 into the flop of K-T-6, and Billy R on the button thought for 20 seconds before moving all-in. I had about $550 left, and he had me covered. Now, Billy was the one who stacked me a while back with AA vs. my KK, making a similar overbet which I called preflop. We've talked at length about that hand, and Billy knows that I'm a thinking player. So while I'd normally have to muck this KQ without hesitation, Billy is deep inside my head: I know that he knows that I know he's done this to me before... Does he put me on AK and expect me to call here? In any case, Billy is not the type of guy who puts his money in the pot in a situation like this drawing dead. At best I'm up against an open ender, or a flush draw. At worst I'm drawing almost dead to a set. I muck. Feel good about it KD.

I gained a lot of confidence when I beat my nemesis, Billy R, in the following pot:

Larry raised to $15, and Billy called. I was in the SB with JJ again, and made it $55 to go. Both players called. The flop came: 8-4-2. I checked. Larry checked. Billy bet $65, I called and Larry mucked. The turn was a nine, and I checked. Billy makes a comment about my subtle pinky finger check, and checks behind me. The river is a deuce, pairing the board. I check again. Billy bets $140 and I call, raking the pot when he shows 3-3. I like the way I played this hand: Billy is a very tough player, and I maximized my value here.

I was in for $1000, with about $950 in my stack, when I made the biggest mistake of the past two days - and it cost me. I can make all the excuses I want, and try justify my play, but the bottom line is, this was one of the worst calls I have made in recent memory. I can only hope this play is a lesson to someone reading this. Here's what happened:

I was in the SB with AA. There was a straddle, and two callers, before Ivan on the button made it $35. Now, Ivan is a big donater in the game: he's loose and wild, and will call down big bets with marginal hands. The strategy for beating Ivan is simple: make a hand and bet it.

I raised to $85, and everyone folded to Ivan, who said "You want $50 more of my money eh? Ok." and called.

The flop was Q-6-4 rainbow. I bet $100, Ivan called. This could mean he has a queen (he may frequently raise a queen here, but will also smooth call), or any pair between 6's and Q's.

The turn is a 3, and I bet $250. Ivan says "I'm all-in," and I jump up from the table. Fuck. The dealer burn a card and goes to deal the turn card and the whole table yells at him to stop - as I haven't acted yet.

Now, the easy reasoning is "It's Ivan - he could have anything, I call," but I'm smarter than that. More importantly, I know Ivan's smarter than that. Ivan is very difficult to put on a hand, but the bottom line is, he's extremely unlikely to raise me here with A-Q, K-Q a weaker Q, or any other hand I can beat. I don't think he has KK, but I do think he'd play KK like this. Ivan is not stupid - he usually has a hand like two pair or a bigger made hand here. I know this - it's an easy laydown.

I look at Ivan. "I have aces." I tell him. "That's not the hand I put you on," he responds. Muck. Muck!. Muck the hand KD - the voices in my head are screaming. You cannot be winning. But it's IVAN! I respond to the voices. He could have anything! You know that's not true - come on - you're plenty good enough to release these aces.

The table calls the clock on me. I ask Ivan "If I fold will you show me?" "No," he answers. If he says yes, I'm calling in a heartbeat. But he said "No" - of course he did - he has a monster and wants me to call! This is such and easy fold I can't believe it. I count and recount my chips. I stand up and scratch my head. The dealer counts down. 30 seconds left.

I stack my chips. I'm mucking. I shake my head. I look at Ivan. "Ten. nine. eight. seven..." and a last thought goes through my head, proving I've hit rock botton: If I win this pot, I could dig myself out of the hole I've been sliding into for the last two days. My hands, as if acting on their own, push my $550+ chips neatly into the pot, as I watch in horror.

Ivan turns of 6-6: he flopped a set. The river is a ten, and I shake my head. No excuses. Digging myself out of the hole? Come on... I just dug myself into a hole that I have no chance of getting out of. Bad call. "It's Ivan, he could have anything" simply doesn't work as an excuse for a good player, which I envision myself as. Despite my brilliant play over the session, this one mistake cost me about $1k. It wasn't bad luck. It wasn't a cold deck, it was a bad play.

I rebought, got ground down to $225, and lost my remaining stack with 2-2 in this cold-deck situation that typified the victim mindset I fell into: Ivan made it $20 preflop and 5 of us called. The flop came Q-Q-2 with two hearts. It was checked around. Turn: 8 of hearts. Bobby checked. Ivan bet $85. I moved all in for $205. Bobby called. Ivan called. I show my had to Sal, next to me, and he pats me on the arm, whispering "There you go!" "I am not winning this pot," I sigh to him, beaten.

River: Jack of hearts: Bobby bets $300 and Ivan mucks. Bobby turns over - I don't even need to see it - I know already: Q-8. Unreal. I toss my 2-2 on the felt, eliciting moans of worthless sympathy. Could I have bet the flop? Of course - but it wouldn't have made a difference. Bobby does not release a queen here. And my equity in letting the flush draws chase their heart drawing dead was more than worth it anyway, considering that a queen isn't folding. Cold Fucking Deck.

I walk out into the rain without an umbrella, and manage to laugh at the situation. More bad fucking luck. More cold fucking decks. Then I think back to the fact that the big pot I lost had nothing to do with luck - NO EXCUSES - it was my own stubbornness, TILT, and desperation that cost me an extra $550 with aces in a hopeless situation.

I hit "play" on my Ipod, forgetting where I had stopped the music. Pearl Jam: Alive. "Ohhhh, I'm still alive," Eddie Vedder wails, as I laugh again, and smile at the omen: yeah - I'm still alive. I'm shaking my head as I walk toward the subway in a slow, steady rain. The next song comes on: Why Go: with Vedder shrieking "Why go home? Why go home? Why go home?" Is someone trying to tell me something? I look for the hidden message... But I'm going home: I know why....

Cause it's not all about some bad calls and bad beats...

Live and learn.

-KD

Soapbox

I'm a big fan of Tasti-D-Lite - the low calorie, lactose free, mostly flavorless ice cream alternative - but their hazing has to stop. Every few months when I go into my local Tasti-D for an after dinner helping of bland, not-so-unhealthy desert substance, there is a new girl behind the counter with a tag on her shirt that reads: "TRAINEE."

Now, although I consider myself smarter than the average bear, and like Bobby Bracelet, I scorn the stupid, I have faith in the ability of the average NYC employee to effectively dispense a soft serve ice cream substitute into a cone or cup by pulling a lever on a machine. Where does the training come in? Hazing. That's all. The veteran Alpha-Tasti-D-Female in residence makes this pledge wear the TRAINEE badge to let her know: "Hey - you think you've got it all figured out, but I've been dispensing wafer cones since you were in diapers," even though the veteran has only been there 4 months. Always puts a smile on my face.

And while I'm ranting: lemme talk about this New Jersey smoking ban. New Jersey has banned smoking in indoor places: bars, restaurants, etc, following in the footsteps of New York, Massachusetts, and several other states. Great stuff - I applaud them - but there is one major problem: the ban doesn't apply on the floor of Atlantic City casinos!

What? Now in NYC, when bars complained that they would lose business to the smoking ban, they were full of shit: every bar and nightspot was on equal footing: unless smokers ceased going out entirely, which did not happen, business would go on. In New Jersey, however, even though casinos already have the most addictive product on the market: the allure of easy money, their lobbyists somehow convinced the legislature to give them a monopoly on the second most addictive product: nicotine. That is a big load of crap - and local NJ business have every right to be pissed.

That is all.

I'm going to get a haircut today - very exciting - and then I will make my Ali-like return to the felt for some live NL play.

-KD

Bloodbath

You know you're a pro when you can get railed in the backdoor and not even flinch. Wait - let me rephrase that, and add some details.

I played 4 hours of live 1-2NL today. The game was wild: loose action and huge pots. I bided my time, patiently mucking my trash hands and my missed flops, until, 90 minutes into the session, I played the pot I was waiting for against an action player. Two players limped, and the cutoff, Bobby, raised to $15. I called with 4-4 in the small blind, and $600 in my stack (Bobby had me covered). Two other came along.

flop: 2-4-Q rainbow. I bet out $40, and a limper called, as did Bobby.

The turn brought a jack, and Bobby flinched visibly. I bet $100, and with little hesitation, he raised it to $300. I counted down my chips: I had $460 left, which I pushed in. He called the last $160, and Eddie dealt the river:

Queen. I tabled my 4-4, and Bobby showed Q-J. Aiyahh! Railed in the backdoor for a $1300 pot - and I took it like a man. Right in the poop chute. "Chips."

Unfortunately, the rest of the session didn't get any better. I got stacked with AJ suited in diamonds after this action: I raise UTG to $10, and get 5 callers. Larry in the SB bumps it to $20 - a strange move: he's kinda on tilt, but he doesn't make this move without a hand he wants to play a big pot with. The BB calls in between us, and I debate a raise, but settle on a call. Everyone comes along. We see the flop:

2-3-Q with two diamonds. Larry checks, the BB bets out $55, and I raise to $255. It's folded to Sal who moves all-in - he clearly has a set, and I call my remaining $150 to see his set of threes. The turn brings an ace, and the river is the 7 of clubs: I'm left digging into my pocket again.

Sal took another few hundred from me when he flopped a set of sixes vs. my QJ on a A-J-6 board, and called my $25 bet.. The turn brought a jack - the only card in the deck that would get me to put more money in, as it was clear I was previously behind. I checkraised his $50 bet to $200, and he came over the top all-in, but prematurely turned his cards over! I mucked, saving my last $160 - which I lost a few hands later when my TT ran into Will's QQ.

Net for the session: -$1400. Ouch. One of my worst ever.

random thought: Have you seen Jeremy Piven's travel show? Lemme put it this way: I don't want to watch Jeremy Piven travel to India unless he's doing it in character as Ari the Agent from Entourage. 'Nuff Said.

until next time,
KD

Phil Fun

Thanks to Paul Phillips for providing this tidbit: Bill vs Phil. If you're having trouble getting the Quicktime video on the site to play, go to a computer where you can get it to work. It's worth it. Priceless. I give this clip to all of you as a present on my birthday. Yes - Wednesday, April 12th is the day: Kid Dynamite's 30th B'day. It's a big number, so allow me the shameless self promotion.

For my birthday wish, I can only hope that poker players all over the world will make 2006 the year of the Phil Hellmuth song, which they will sing whenever they stack an opponent... "You don't... wanna mess with Hellmuth - Why? 'Cause Hellmuth... will freakin' bust you." (sung in a douche-baggish Hellmuth sing-song voice)

A poster (The_Groove) on Paul's journal said is best: "If I had to devise a formula to create the prototypical jackass, the end result would be very close to Phil Hellmuth."

-KD

Spring Fever

Red Sox Nation is ablaze with a fresh season of hopes and dreams, and enamored with young gun closer Jonathan Papelbon, new ace Josh Beckett, and new faces all over the infield. Spring optimism now carries the weight of real expectations - not eternal disappointment, after the conquest in the 2004 season (which also finally featured the wedding of KD and Mrs. D).

As a Red Sox fan in New York, it comes from all sides: Big MO and H0nus send the good messages, words of Sox support ("Another 1-2-3 inning for Beckett," "Pap is a stud"). Zray represents the dark side: blasting me on AIM to tell me that Johnny "Judas" Damon doubled in his first at bat in Yankee Stadium. I retaliate by hitting Yankee fan EddieHilz with a screenshot of the AL East standings, and a simple message: Suck It. He ignores me.

We watch not only our own box scores, but those of The Enemy. Sox win... "How'd the Yanks do?" It's reflex. It's all that matters. Never mind that several baseball minds picked Toronto to win the AL East this year (I'd take the Sox/Yanks over Toronto any day.) The Yankees are the competition.

The season is young, but now that the Red Sox have finally proved to be more than the little brother who sits there and takes his beating, the rivalry here in New York is better than ever. Now the Sox have a hope. Now it's a fair fight. Well, almost fair...

But the best tidbit of the young season: Pitcher Bronson Arroyo - who the Red Sox traded to Cincinnati for Willy Mo Pena (who let a ball bounce off his glove into the bullpen for a homer today), is 2-0 with a 1.98 ERA... and TWO HOME RUNS! Yes - Bronson has HIT two home runs! Unreal.

Meanwhile, back in Red Sox Nation, Coco Crisp has a broken finger, Trot Nixon has a pulled groin, and Keith Foulke is a shell of his former self (note: Keith Foulke almost singlehandedly won the Red Sox the World Series in 2004 with impeccable pitching in zero margin of error situations time after time and inning after inning - it's essential that people remember this). On the flip side, Big Papi has a new contract, Manny is happy for the moment, and Schilling is throwing 96 mph on his 110th pitch. Papelbon has the entire town talking, and Beckett is getting fired up.

It's gonna be another wild ride.

-KD

Quote of the Day

"I am pleased the Ministry of Culture is protecting the morals of expatriate bankers and their girlfriends." - Mick Jagger, Rolling Stones

The Stones played Shanghai, China last night, the culmination of an arduous road that resulted in the Chinese Ministry of Culture barring them from performing 5 songs ("Brown Sugar," "Beast of Burden," "Let's Spend the Night Together," "Honky Tonk Women" and "Rough Justice" ) which are, I suppose, the tool of the White Devil. The funny thing is, the ticket prices ranged from the equivalent of about $40 to $500, which meant that very few Chinese citizens could afford them, and prompted Mick's sarcastic quote above.

non-sequitors:

-I played 3 hours of live NL Hold'em last night, and finished down $235, thanks to a poor decision which resulted in my inability to release a hand that was clearly not best. I also played a few pots in fine form, which was a positive, at least.

-Bobby Bracelet is raising funds in memory of a friend's battle with cancer. If you'd like to support him, you can find the details on his web page.

-Oscar is recovering from Colitis - an infection of the colon, and he's got a bunch of new toys. Here's a picture of him pouncing on his cousin Gustav.

-A few precious days remain until I'm officially "Old." Tonight's forecast calls for "Severe drunkenness, with an 80% chance of feeling like crap tomorrow."

-KD

Somebody Has to Say It

Phil Hellmuth is a pussy. There. I said it. I hope Phil doesn't use his uber-celebrity clout to have Google shut me down again...

If you aren't watching High Stakes Poker on GSN, you should be. Last week, Phil Hellmuth joined the game, prompting Danny Negreanu, stuck 700k, to cheer up visibly in his chair, as he exclaimed "I didn't think I'd have a chance to get even, but I didn't know you were coming - how much money did you bring?" Danny later explains that Phil is what's known as a "yum-yum" - a player they LOVE to have in the game.

So, why do these pros love having Phil "NINE TIME WSOP bracelet winner" Hellmuth in their game? Because he's a pussy! If you're going to play high stakes no limit poker, you cannot be a pussy.

In one particular hand, Phil, holding 6-8 (the Vortex!) gets all in against Barry Greenstein (holding K-T) on a T-6-6 board. Phil asks the dealer to hold on for a second, as he counts his chips. Danny, eager to try to get out of his $700k hole, says "What are we waiting for?"

Phil replies, "I was told I could get insurance."
"You can run it twice" Todd Brunson chimes in.
"Insurance from WHO?" Danny is practically laughing now, in shock.
"Barry will insure me." Phil replies.
"Sure," Barry is quick to grab free EV when he sees it.

Now Sheik chimes in something, and Phil retorts, "I'm rich Kid, I want to stay that way."

Now let me explain: Phil was a 90-10 favorite. He knew this and Barry knew this. Phil proposed 10% insurance on $100k of the $160k pot, which means he pays a 10% vig, and locks up his reduced equity on a portion of the pot. In this case, they basically take $100k out of the pot, and Phil gets $80k, giving Barry $20k. They then deal the turn and river for the balance of the pot. So, long story short, Phil gave Barry $10k in EV to reduce his variance. And he wonders why he gets no respect in the game?

After playing in the wildest game I've ever seen, the Mirage Six Sigma Sunday game, I had numerous discussions with my poker peeps about the willingness that a poker player should have to seek out positive EV situations. My question was getting down to the essence of "If I have AT suited, and my maniacal opponent is moving all in every hand, shouldn't I be willing to call off my $1000 stack with this hand that figures to be way better than average. The answer was "not necessarily," as there are many other factors in play, such as a) there was a max buy-in at the table ($500), which meant that there was some value to the fact that I had a bigger stack, and could potentially find a HIGHER EV situation to apply it. b) This is not "the long run" - this game could end at any time.

Essentially, I felt that if I figured to be a 3-2 favorite, and I wanted to call myself a poker player, I should be willing to commit my stack in this spot. My colleagues argued that to be called a poker player does not mean you have to accept every potentially positive EV situation offered - you have to consider the likelihood that you'll be able to find a BETTER situation with more EV.

Now, back to Phil. He was already committed in the pot, and flat out gave away EV. That is not something a poker player does. Ever. Especially if he wants respect at the table, and doesn't want the other players to repeatedly take advantage of his puss-itude by running him over for the rest of his life. Ok, there is some point where I will concede that the size of the pot would dictate that it would be acceptable for a player to puss out and try to lock up some of it, but in this game, $160k was NOT that size.

Hellmuth tries to defend himself to the wide eyed Daniel Negreanu, who seems like he wants to reach across the table and grab Phil by the neck, shouting "I can't believe you are such a colossal fucking pussy - and you call yourself a poker player?!?!?." Phil says "Ivey was giving me insurance all day - 10%, 5% even. All I had to do was call him and explain the situation." What Hellmuth is saying, I think, is that Ivey agreed to take Hellmuth's variance in exchange for a vig - Ivey wasn't even at the table, Hellmuth just had to call him up and explain the situation to him! Fuckin'A!!!! Hey Hellmuth - if you're giving away EV, call ME! I'll insure your hands you pussy!

Negreanu responds: "Of course he (Ivey) was - he's a smart guy - he'll take free money if you're giving it away."

The bottom line is, if Phil Hellmuth is asking for insurance on a $160k pot here, he shouldn't be in the game. By all means: run it twice - run it three times, chop the pot based on EV... But don't pay a vig for your puss-itude. And seriously: when the table runs you the fuck over afterwards, don't raise your hands to the sky and wonder why.

In this week's episode, Phil repeatedly made bets in the neighborhood of 1/6th the pot size or less... He bet $3k into a $16k pot... He bet $1k into an $8k pot... and more. Every time he was run out of the pot. If Phil is trying to set up his opponents so that he traps them when he finally makes a big hand, I would suggest he come up with a new game plan. He's not fooling anyone at this table, and the one time last week he decided to slowplay his QQ, he checked his way right into Jen Harman making a 1 card straight with her 8-4 offsuit, and lost the pot.

Of course, Phil finally gets fed up with being run over, and takes a stand with 6-6 on a 2-5-8 board when Barry puts him all in. Barry has a set of deuces, and Phil is liquidated AGAIN.

Nice hand sir.

-KD

The Ultimate Insult

So, last week I go to post some rambling blog post about my puppy, or how much Phil Hellmuth sucks, and Blogger tells me that my blog has been flagged by their automatic software as a "SPAM blog"...

"The ease of creating and updating webpages with Blogger has made it particularly prone to a form of behavior known as link spamming. Blogs engaged in this behavior are called spam blogs, and can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text, along with a large number of links, usually all pointing to a single site."

Wow - talk about a fuckin' insult.... Irrelevant, repetitive, nonsensical. That hurts. So, in true un-American fashion, Blogger declared me GUILTY until proven innocent, and took away my ability to post! The other problem is, they ignored my desperate emails pleas (insisting that although I may be irrelevant and repetitive, I am most certainly NOT Spam!) for four days. Now, however, one week shy of my 30th b'day, I'm back. Certified Unspamified. Whitelisted. Phew.

I guess I can't write "Do not fuck with Phil Ivey" three times in a row, or some process thinks I'm spam. And the patented Bobby Bracelet self link technique is also spam-escent. Even though I post a lot of pictures of my boy Oscar, I don't see how those could be read as SPAM...

Bones was just about to start an uprising at his French bank, out of RAGE at my being unable to post and fresh ramblings - and believe me - you do NOT want angry Frenchies raging against you Blogger!

So, Phil Hellmuth will get another day of reprieve, before I mercilessly tear him apart in a post soon to come.

until next time,
KD

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.

-KD

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?"

-KD

Back!

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.

Nothing.

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.

Nothing.

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,
KD

LOL

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!

-KD

Sick

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:

-KD

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.


-KD

Learning

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.

-KD

WPTonline

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: WPTonline.com. 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,
KD

Dreams

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...

-KD

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.

-KD

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.

-KD

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,
-KD

Psychology

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,
KD