JD Who?

I remember when I took what was basically Psych 101 in college, we discussed something called anchoring bias.

Anchoring bias works as follows: you ask one group of subjects a question like "Is the population of the United States more or less than one billion people?"

You ask a second group of subjects "Is the population of the United states more or less than 100 million people?"

Then you ask each group of subjects to write down the number that they think is the actual population of the united states. The subjects in group one, who were given the one billion "anchor" in the leading question will on average guess higher than the subjects in group two who were given 100 million as the anchor number.

So what the heck does this have to do with anything relevant that I may write about? Well, I think it explains how I was mistaken for JD Drew while out in Boston last weekend. Let me explain.

The Capital Grille on Newbury Street in Boston is the place to be on Friday and Saturday nights. After the Red Sox-Yankee 4pm game, we had a 9pm ressie, and showed up to a packed house, to find the host turning away four San Diego Chargers defensive backs who had shown up without a reservation (sorry gentlemen, please call me ahead of time next time you're in town and I'll take care of you). Fortunately, the host clearly knew who the fuck WE were, and sat us promptly.

We were in a booth, with Mariano Rivera and some guests seated in the booth directly to my right and one up, and Jack Welch, the legendary GE CEO and some guests seated directly to my right and one back. Now, although almost no one noticed Jack Welch, everyone noticed Mariano, and several people came by to shake his hand and solicit an autograph during dinner.

This is where the Anchoring Bias comes in, because, you see, on Saturday night at Capital Grille, you kinda start to assume that everyone there is "someone." I happened to be with 3 other guys, one of whom was about 6 foot 6, so other tables started eyeing us. I'm guessing they weren't whispering: "Hey - that's Kid Dynamite - that guy who writes those sweet Vegas recaps!" When two of the guys in our party got up to go to the bathroom, a Sox fan wandered over, still wearing the red long sleeve jersey jacket he'd worn to the game.

"JD Drew," he accused me - as he extended his hand to me. Now, you have to understand - although I might normally be attempted to play along, JD Drew is not exactly a fan favorite in Boston. He has been a very expensive and very disappointing failure so far this year. Thus, when someone comes up to you thinking you're JD Drew, they are quite likely to react poorly, as three of my friends separately replied via text message "DID HE PUNCH YOU FOR SUCKING?" "DID HE TELL YOU U SUCK?" "DID HE BOO U?"

So I look this doucheball in the eye, and calmly say, "No." I look about as much like JD Drew as I look like Dustin Pedroia - which is to say, not much.

He keeps his hand out, saying "You're JD Drew."

I stare at him with a look that says without words "dude - STOP," but he doesn't believe me - he's sure I AM JD Drew, and I am just shy or afraid or something.

"I'm not JD Drew," I tell him quietly.

His hand is still extended, and he says "Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you on a good game today," you see, Drew had actually driven in a clutch RBI against the Yankees!

I shook his hand, smiling, and telling him one last time, "I'm not JD Drew," while shaking my head. He walked away, back to his 8 man table, and they proceeded to stare at me for the next 15 minutes.

I tried to unload a deuce in the bathroom, but wilted under the pressure, fearing that at any minute a camera phone would appear under the stall trying to catch JD Drew on the crapper for the Boston Herald.

until next time,

KD

Vegas Summer 2007 Part III

If you haven't read Part One or Part Two go do so immediately...

So where were we? Ah yes - I'd survived my liquidity crisis at the Venetian double deck blackjack table, and gone to see what the boys were up to before getting ready for dinner.

Let simplify Friday night down to two pieces of wisdom: 1) When you're going out for dinner in Vegas, especially with a large party - just suck it up and go to a quality place. If you try to save $30 a head by going to one of these places that has 300 seats and less than top notch food, you'll end up vastly OVERpaying for the dog food they serve you with attitude. 2) Do NOT, under any circumstances, try to roll 19 guys deep at a gentleman's club. Just don't.

So anyway, after a vicious series of clusterfucks Friday night, Saturday began in unusual Vegas fashion for me: at the pool! We had two cabanas at the Venetian pool - the only problems were a) it was 105 degrees outside, b) I will get skin cancer if I sit in the Vegas sun for more than 4 and a half minutes and c) IT WAS ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE!

Still, I hid in the shade of the cabana long enough to down a burger for nourishment, and then head off to the poker room. (Warning: ACTUAL POKER CONTENT imminent!)

I sat in the 2-5NL game for 1 orbit while waiting for a seat in the 5-10NL game. After calling a raise with 88 and flopping top set on a draw heavy board (8-7-3 with two hearts), I raised the preflop raiser's flop bet and took down the pot. On the next hand, I again called a raise with 33, and saw a nearly identical flop: 8-6-5 with two hearts. I decided to get all fancy 2+2 style on the preflop raiser, and just call his flop bet, seeing what developed on the turn.

When the ultimate scare card - the 4 of hearts peeled off on the turn, the preflop raiser checked to me. I smiled on the inside, as I laughed at how easy this game was, and bet out $120. The preflop raiser promptly checkraised me all-in for about $250 more. Fahhhhhhk. I mucked, asking him innocently, "That card didn't scare you at all? Maybe just a little bit? I thought it was a pretty scary card."

He shrugged "I didn't think you had the flush," and now another doucheball piped in "Me neither." I laughed and racked up my chips - realizing I'd given my opponents too much credite - assuming they had brains - and heading for the 5-10NL game that I'd just been called for.

I rounded my stack up to $800 and surveyed the scene: There was a short stacked young gunner who was playing tight seated two to my left, with a Russian former NYC Cab Driver (Russian) between us. On the other side of the table was a Southern Card Rack (SCR), a Middle Eastern Putz (MEP), The Poor Man's Gary Busey (BUSEY), and an Eastern European Calling Station (EECS).

The first hand I played was my old nemesis A-Q. After 1 limper, I made it $50 to go and was called 3 times - I'd be third to act post flop. I kinda liked the flop of K-8-4 rainbow, as I thought the rest of the table viewed me as a tight aggro player, and would assume I had something like at least A-K when I fired out $150 after it was checked to me. It was folded back to Busey, who leaned around the dealer, asking "How much you got left?" I showed him that I had about $600 left. "That's it?" He asked - being a total dick. "That's it," I answered. He nodded and said "All in," just for emphasis - as he had about $4k in front of him.

I laughed and mucked - hey douchball - this isn't my first time at the table! The only question I was asking myself is if I'd make the call with AK there - I don't think so. I made a mental note that I'd be stacking this cockchugger imminently. As it turned out, I had to wait about an hour, until Busey's $20 straddle was called, and I made it $60 to go with TT. Busey called, as did the limper, and we saw a flop of 9-8-4 with two clubs. Busey and the limper checked to me, and I fired out $200. Busey nodded, and like the payoff wizard he was, called. The limper folded, and I watched as the dealer peeled off the 7 of clubs on the turn.

Busey looked up from his food and checked again. Although I couldn't really hate this card more, I thought that Busey would bet here with a made hand - hoping I wouldn't believe him - as he would be wrong to try to trap me - given the tight play I'd exhibited, even if he had proven that he was a calling station. "All-in - $450" I said, sliding my chips forward and counting them down. He nodded, and called - I cringed.

The river was an offsuit jack, and I quickly turned my hand up, declaring "I have a straight." Busey considered the board - eyed me annoyingly - and mucked his hand. I don't think the jack helped me - as he was the type to show his cards if he'd received a bad beat - he likely had something like A-9 or A-8 with the Ace of clubs.

I gave some chips back another hour later in this frigid deck: The Russian opened for $50, and I was next with KK. I made it $160 ($1400 stack), and it was mucked around to MEP - who was a total donkey and moved all in for $600. I began salivating. When the action came back to the Russian, he now moved all in for $790. I jumped out of my seat, not believing the action. "Wow, really?" I couldn't believe I could lay this hand down in this game, especially since I'd already labled MEP as a douche-royale, and these stacks were not deep enough. I took 30 seconds before saying "I call," and turning to the Russian: "You have aces?" "No - queens," he admitted. I turned to the MEP and stated: "YOU don't have aces." He nodded - he did. What? Faahhhhhhhhkkk. Frigid. At this point, the new young gunner to my left said "I guess this would be a bad time to tell you I folded a king," and I groaned.

We turned our hands up, and amidst the oooohs and ahhhhs there were suddenly 20 people standing around our table to see the flop of Q-Q-T. FAAAHHHHHKKKK!!! I couldn't even win the side pot!

Fortunately, Busey still had money left, and was kind enough to double me up again an hour later when I finally found AA. Again the Russian opened for $50, and again I made it $160. Busey cold called $160 from the $20 straddle, and the Russian called as well. The flop was 9-9-5, and Busey bet out $200. The Russian folded, and I instantly pushed in my last $450 - $250 more to him. He shrugged, called, and when I tabled my AA he mumbled something about needing a 4. The kid to my left thought he said he had 4 outs (7-6? 8-7 ??), but in any case, when the J and Q peeled off, he mucked his hand, and I was up again.

The Young Gunner scooped a big pot with A-Q unimproved when he raised preflop, bet the K-8-4 two club flop, and moved in for about 2 times the pot when the turn bricked off. The Russian took the chips he'd gotten with his flopped quad queens and called after some deliberation. It seemed that the Young Gunner had to have at least AK, but when the river bricked off, he said "I missed." The Russian nodded "Me too," and finally the Gunner turned over his AQ. The Russian turned over Ac9c, and the Gunner scooped about 3 dimes - much to his surprise.

Later, SFCEO (Southern Former CEO) sat down in the one seat, and asked the waitress what kind of white wine they served. She began to consult a list of ONE in her head... "Ummm.. Chardonnnay...... ummmm..." The CEO interrupted her "Please bring me the driest white you have," and a look of horror came over the waitress's face. Seeing this, I tried to stifle a laugh, which ended up erupting like a snort. She looked at me for help, and I laughed "Just ask the bartender - he'll know," as the CEO looked at me with wide eyes - shocked by her ignorance.

"Come on," I told him, "To be fair, what kind of doofus orders a dry white wine in the poker room?"

Well, I'll tell you what kind of doofus - the kind of doofus who thinks like this: Busey is clearly on tilt - MEGA-tilt. He has had aces 5 times - and cannot get away from them - each time paying off $1k plus in turn and river bets -and his stack has dwindled. YoungGun opens a pot for $60, and Busey in the SB steams "TWO HUNDRED." Now the CEO thinks for 45 seconds, and mucks reluctantly. The YoungGun mucks too, and I look at CEO, inquiring, "Ace jack?" cause that's the kind of hand this idiot would really like to play here stuck between two raisers. "Nooooo - I'd play Ace Jack there - I had pocket jacks." The Young Gun practically knocks over his chips in disbelief - and I stare with my mouth open, as JJ, aka FridayInVegas is practically the nuts right there against the steaming Busey. CEO explains "You see, if I had Ace Jack it makes it less likely that he has aces there," and my brain immediately shut down as he proceeded to have a discussion about it with the Russian - WHO AGREED!!!

When the Russian and the MEP finally left, I got up to cash out, logging a $687 profit for the four hours, and decided to abuse the Venetian's Pai Gow pit a bit. I sat for an hour, pounding 6 vodka-grapefruits and taking $300 out of the game before I went upstairs to freshen up for our big Saturday night at Tao. We pre-partied in Dave's room, with ample booze and appetizers, before heading down to Tao - preying there would be no more clusterfucks. No matter how carefully you plan, nothing is certain when you have a 19 man party in Vegas. We'd been set up with a booth and a six bottle minimum, and had only to endure the last minute plug job the hostess laid on us, telling us we'd have to get 7 bottles, since it was "a big night." No shit - it's Saturday - it's ALWAYS a big night on Saturday - nice bait & switch you filthy bottle whore - but what could we do - Dave handed over his credit card, and we were led to a quality box above the main dance floor.

I couldn't help thinking it was an error when we ordered Jack Daniels for one of our bottles, and of course I was right, as it was the only thing left at the end of the night. Several bottles into the evening, on our way to 10 bottles, Brian somehow escaped eviction when, in an attempt to "slap an icecube out of Brendan's hand," he instead slapped a full vodka tonic over the ledge of the skybox onto the floor below. I don't know how he talked his way out of that one, but several hours later, we were in a real jam when Brian was down on the dance floor and his little brother Mikey, sloshed out of his mind, attempted to lob a drink to him. I watched from 8 feet away in slow motion as this train wreck unfolded, springing to life screaming "NOOOOOOO," almost exactly like Apollo Creed's trainer in Rocky IV when Drago knocks Apollo out (killing him) and Apollo's head slams against the mat - you KNOW the scene I'm talking about.

Too slow to stop him, I winced as Mikey tossed the drink over, and security suddenly swarmed us like wasps. After tense deliberations which lasted a full 20 minutes, Dave managed to negotiate our continued occupation of the skybox, offering to let the bouncer throttle him if anything else went wrong.

Dirty Dave would never believe that the boys brought back a group of legitimate bona fide KCSH's to our booth - Kansas City Sweat Hogs!!! The girls were probably surprised with the ferocity with which we guarded our booze - Andy whispered to me "If she even LOOKS at our vodka, I'm throwing her the FUCK out of here." See, us happily married men have different priorities - booze over flooze.

We eventually staggered out of Tao after 4am, where I decided to drop a buy-in at the PaiGow pit before retiring to bed for the night.

Sunday morning, I woke up and beat up the double deck blackjack pit for a few hours, doubting that Mikey would awake from his coma in time for our 1pm flight. As I stacked green chips into a tower, Mikey finally called me and stumbled down to the casino floor lugging his two athletic bags, and sweating a mixture of vodka and tequila.

As we headed off to the airport, I realized he was still trashed, and he managed to get himself subjected to a full search at security when he left his sunblock in his bag. The young Irish TSA worker swabbed Mikey's bag with a pad, as I prayed Mikey didn't have any illicit substances. "It's gonna screen high for alcohol and stupidity," I joked to the agent, who replied honestly, "that's ok, if that was illegal they'd fire ME." We ultimately made it through security, and back to NYC in one piece, where I began plotting our next trip...

until next time.
KD

Vegas: Summer 2007: Part II

Warning: ACTUAL POKER CONTENT!

If you haven't read Part I - what are you waiting for?

Friday we woke up, and I educated Mikey on the proper preparation for a hard day at the tables - we ventured outside into the searing heat, rolling next door to Chipotle for some sustenance. Mikey attempted, and failed, the Guac Freeroll, although I did manage to get extra salsa free. They now try to charge for double salsa, but I threatened the salsa girl: "DYKWTFIA? I will write about this in my blog." "What eees a blog?"* she replied, and I shook my head, "Never mind - just give me more salsa." After wolfing down a mediocre chicken fajita burrito, I returned to the Venetian poker room to get down to business.

*did not actually happen

Paul X-22 Magriel was STILL there - apparently grinding it out in the 1-2NL game - I'd seen him there the previous night at 3am, and it was now around 11am. I watched him throw a quack quack ($22) bet at a kid on the flop, which was called, followed by a "double quack quack" $44 turn bet - which was called - followed by a "quack quack quack" $222 river bet, which the kid folded to.

They called me for the 2-5NL game, and I took the 7 seat at a table full of helpless flounders in the must move game. I played one interesting pot early, when, after 3 limpers, I put in a little sweetener to $25 on the button with KcJc. The small blind called quickly, as did 3 others, and we saw the flop 5 ways: Ac Tc 8s. I flopped the famous GSRD: gutshot royal draw.

The small blind surprised me by betting out $40, and everyone folded to me. I put him on a medium ace - something like AJ or A9, and I elected to smooth call and await further developments. When the turn bricked off with the 4h, the SB again led weakly at the pot with $60. This time I announced "Raise," and counted out $130 more - making it $190 to go. I had about $250 more behind, and his stack was virtually the same size. DBIWOHH (douchebag in way over his head) (clearly could not run with Kid Dynamite) thought for a solid two minutes, counting down his stack, before simply CALLING! At this point I put him on a hand like AQ, or maybe even AK.

An offsuit king fell on the river, giving me a pair of kings, which I knew was not good enough to show down after he checked to me. I calmly announced "All in" and counted down my $250 - after all - I am representing a hand like ace king myself!!! DYKWTFIA ?!?!?!

DBIWOHH took less than 5 seconds to muck his Ace Ten (flopped top two!!!) face up, lamenting "nice river." Several of the other blowfish nodded in approval - wow - what a disciplined laydown. "I can't believe you got away from that," I admitted, as I stacked his chips. He said "AK or trip aces?" I said "You know what I had," no you don't you douchebag - you have no fucking clue - and ANOTHER thing - if you're going to call the turn raise you have to call the river bet you idiot.

I was moved to the main game - which was playing a little bigger - the action was fast, furious and somewhat unpredictable. Several hours in I was treading water, somewhat annoyed that I couldn't find a hand to play a big pot with - until I looked down at 8h9h on the button in the face of a middle position raiser - a tighter kid sitting on about $2k in chips. I called the $30 as did the straddler ($2-$5 with a $10 straddle) and we took the flop 3 ways:

Th Jh Jc - I'd flopped an open ended straight flush draw in position, and I had about $650 in chips.

The straddler and the preflop raiser both checked to me, and I decided to bet out $70. The straddler mucked, and the preflop raiser, henceforth LBCR (luck box card rack), check raised me to $200.

Now, with my stack size, I thought this decision was pretty easy: I counted the pot and realized that when I moved all-in it would basically be another pot-sized raise and a show of extreme strength, and since I wasn't going to muck here, I announced "Raise," and slid $450 more into the middle - all in. I am almost positive he's mucking AA, KK, QQ here - I thought his check-raise said "I have a real hand, and I'm not ready to give up on this flop just because the board is paired - I want to know where I stand." Of course, my all-in re-raise in the face of that said "AA no good d-bag - you better have a monster." Unfortunately, he did.

LBCR shakes his head - cannot believe how cold this deck is - takes 45 seconds, and finally says "I'm not good enough to lay this down - I call - do you have tens?" Before I can even respond, the dealer has burned and turned the 2h, and my opponent has turned over his AJ. As I turn over my 8h9h, explaining "I don't have tens," the dealer burns and turns the river - a vicious ten, filling up my opponent's hand.

I calmly turned to the dealer, and explained that next time she should slow down and tap the table before she deals, in case we wanted to do business. I was shocked to hear her explain "you can't do that here." Now, perhaps she actually DID know who the fuck I was, because I'm not doing business anyway, but I was nonetheless surprised to hear this response. I sought out a floorman, who confirmed for me "of course you can run it multiple times," and I explained to him that the dealer (who was pushed after the hand) was not aware of that and should be made aware. The floorman returned 10 minutes later, asked to speak with me away from the table, and explained that he was very sorry, and that this specific dealer had been told NOT to run the board multiple times previously, and had made a mistake. I thanked him for his attention to the matter, and jokingly asked if he was going to give me 1/2 the pot from the cage. He declined.

This same floor man came back to me an hour later and again pulled me aside, explaining that he'd talked to the head of the poker room, who had told him that they discourage running it multiple times in games smaller than 10-20 NL because it confuses the tourists. Now, why am I dwelling on this? Because it illustrates one of the things that makes the Venetian the best poker room in town - this floorman took the time to come back to me three separate times on the issue, just to make sure he had fully and accurately explained himself - and I thanked him for the attention and professionalism. I didn't even have to explain to him that I was a world famous blogger with a massive internet following who could easily put the Venetian poker room out of business. I asked him if Kathy Raymond, the manager, was around, as I wanted to commend her on the quality of the poker room, and also to ask her how it was possible that the room she ran at Foxwoods chugged maximum cock, while the Venetian room was the best I'd seen (and when I say that, I mean the best RUN - the best EXPERIENCE). Unfortunately, Kathy was not around, so I returned to donking off my chips.

After steaming off another buy in over the next two hours, I decided to go seek some more positive EV in the double deck blackjack pit, where I encountered a subprime liquidity crisis of my own. After being tilted by the suboptimal play of a douchebag who decided to hit his hard 17 against a ten, and took the 5 that was supposed to be painted on my 16, I moved to an adjacent table to take on the dealer heads up. The pitboss asked me to color up my green $25 chips before leaving, but I explained that I was just going to the next table. He explained "but I don't have room for them in that rack," and I thought he was just busting on me - like "hey kid - we're getting all those chips one way or another," but then realized his point that the rack was full. Hah - I was really going to stick it to the Venetian by making them figure out where to put my chips!

After dumping one buy-in, and 1/2 of another, a woman I'd played with previously in the same pit joined the table to enjoy the carnage. I was playing two hands of $75 each, and found a 6-5 and an 8-3 against a dealer ten. I doubled both - going into my pocket for more cash - and watched the dealer make a 5 card twenty against my 16 and 17. Fuck you. I had 4 hundy's left in my pocket, and three green chips, and I layed them in the spot: all in.

"I have to change them, sir," the dealer explained, and I waited as she made me a nice stack of green chips. Tina, the other woman at the table, rubbed the felt excitedly, as the dealer dealt our hands face down - and showed a deuce. Tina looked at her hand: blackjack! I laughed, and lifted my hand off the felt: ACE. "OOOH" - she was excited - "show me first," I laughed again, shook my head, and squeeeeeeeezed the second card: aaaaaace....

Fuck.

Obviously, you have to split aces, but I had a liquidity issue - I had no more cash in my pocket! I paused, stood up, looked at the sky, and whispered "fuck." The pit boss was fully aware of my situation, and was standing by, trying not to laugh, as he watched me squirm and try to find a solution. I reached into my "non-bankroll" pocket and fingered $180 or so in $20's. This cannot be happening - DYKWTFIA? I'm Kid fucking Dynamite! I have AMPLE liquidity in my room safe - how did I end up short stacked and all in at the double deck blackjack pit with a hand that I need to split ?!!?!? Normally, this would be solved simply by an insta-loan from the BigShow - but I was without his tutelage on this trip.

Tina, realizing my dilemna, inquires cautiously, "Would you like to borrow some money?" Now, I'm sitting there in a Bruce Springsteen Fenway Park t-shirt and cargo shorts, and she has no idea who the fuck I am, so I try to remain calm and not scare her away with desperation.

Calmly, confidently, I look at her, "Yes. I have plenty of money in my safe, I'll go get it if I lose the hand." She looks at the pit boss, who gives her a "don't look at me - this is between the two of you" look. "I don't know if this is a good idea," she hesitates - after all, she's probably worried that I'm going to have to sell my blood or something if I lose this hand. "Look, I can handle the action - I want the action," I explained, without resorting to "DYKWTFIA."

After another glance at the pit boss, who is now smirking, and still giving her the "don't get me involved in this" look, she asks "are you SURE you want to do this?" "Absolutely," I tell her, but just so there's no confusion, I add "just to be clear - you're not buying my hand - you're loaning me $475 which I will pay back either way."

"Give me something to hold on to," Tina requests collateral, and before she's even done talking I've slid my phone across the table. She nods to the pit boss, who instructs the dealer to give me $500 from Tina's marker. The dealer, a 50-something woman, is freaking out - certain that if she puts a bad beat on me here I'll have to sell a kidney to get out of debt.

She paints my two cards face down, and then proceeds to bust her hand - a 4 card 24. Tina and the dealer are whooping and hollering, and I slide Tina back the money I'd borrowed, and just laugh - I immediately walk away from the table and call Big Show and Dirty Dave with this completely absurd story - how I had to borrow money from a random person at the blackjack table because I'd ended up all-in with aces. The pit boss doesn't seem to understand that it's not the money that made the hand a big deal for me - I mean, it was a big bet for me, but the sigmas of the situation were much more impressive than the win. When I get up to leave the table 45 minutes later, the pit boss says "Where are you going?" "Casino credit - this is never happening again," I reply coolly, and go fill out a credit app.

I took a walk to the pool, nearly combusting when the sun hit my hooded sweatshirt that is standard poker-room gear for me. I found several members of the crew lounging in the wading pool. "Do you guys realize it's 115 degrees?" I was in awe. "Why are you wearing a sweatshirt?" They were mystified, not understanding that the temperature inside the casino was 1/2 of what it was out by the wading pool.

After releasing my guns from the confines of the sweatshirt, and basking in 5 minutes of Vegas heat, it was time for me to return to the indoor environment, where I donked off a buy-in at the Pai-Gow pit before going upstairs to change for dinner.

part III to come...

-KD

Vegas Summer 2007: Short Stacked and Steaming

Thankfully, neither of the adjectives in the title apply to my poker experiences in Vegas this weekend, but I did manage to find myself short stacked in an impossible to make up blackjack scenario, and steaming by the pool as I threatened to combust under the relentless glare of the Vegas sun on my uber-pale white skin. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

The car picked me up Thursday at 4:30pm at my apartment, and, being the pro I am, I was untilted by the barrage of potential tilt-inducers thrown at me: the car had that horrible incense smell - not unlike the smell inside the Venetian, which Big Show speculated may actually be vaporized Red Bull. The driver, a clean cut young Hispanic gentleman, exhibited a propensity for gunning the car at stopped cars in front of him in a desperate attempt to cover the 15 open yards of road in the heavy traffic on the Long Island Expressway in the shortest amount of time before coming to a dead stop again. Halfway through our hellish journey to JFK I realized that he was sick - as he was sniffling and sneezing every several minutes, digging in the front seat for something to wipe his nose with. Now, I'm a germ-a-phobe already, and when you throw the wear and tear of a Vegas weekend into the mix, I was certain that it would be impossible to avoid coming down with something this weekend - most likely the hard to avoid Vegas Flu - which is the product of stale plane air, various hotel room germs, and 2 hours of sleep a night.

I met Mikey at the airport, pounded a double vodka&cranberry, and boarded my JetBlue flight, knowing I'd need some rest on the plane if I was going to survive the night. I had confided in Dirty Dave that I was having serious stamina problems, but he was convinced that the desert air would cure all my ills. Never mind the fact that I was unlikely to go outside - at least the oxygen rich casino air would help - if my NYC smoke-free-softened respiratory system could re-adapt to the abundance of cigarette smoke I was sure to encounter.

My exit row seat provided ample leg room, but made it tough to lean against the window, due to the curve of the exit door. Hey JetBlue - YEAH- there IS something you can do to make my flight more comfortable: Shut the fuck up!!! The happy and extremely loud voice of the stewardess came blaring over the public announcement system all too often, advising me that I could order a PPV movie at my seat, get as many free packs of cookies as I'd like, and that they'd be coming around with another beverage service. All I wanted was a few hours of sleep, which I managed to snag, despite the presence of some true chooches on the flight.

One douchebag, and I am not making this up, although it's so perfectly stereotypical that anyone who has encountered one of these douchebags will swear I was just relying on the existing image, was whistling like he was hailing a cab, and shouting "Vegas BABY!!!" every so often. Hey Spanky - act like you've been there before. When he roused me out of my last nap, shortly before we landed, I turned to scout out exactly who this cockchugger was. I knew Dirty Dave would never believe me when I told him that this guy was ACTUALLY wearing a Kangol cap, with a cigarette tucked into the brim. "Kid Dynamite," you're thinking, "come on - there is no way you really ran into the ultimate vegas stereotypical douchebag." Now, the thing is - even though chooches are a dime a dozen, they come in a variety of styles: the sombrero wearing chooches, the wool scully clad chuggers, the BIG TEN athletic shirt sporting glory hounds (GO TERPS!!!), the sunglasses at night spiked hair glamour boys, and the Kangol cap d-bags.

I had encountered one of the rarist breeds: the Kangol cap WITH tucked cigarette. Now the cigarette was not tucked behind his ear, mind you, it was tucked into the brim of the cap, pointing straight down - in the patented mark of the uber-douche. Unfortunately, there was no one I could turn to and offer 25-1 odds that this guy was staying at either the Palms or the Hard Rock. Exiting the plane, the older gentleman behind me, a few rows in front of the UberDouche, ranted "He should be arrested." I smiled and responded "It's not his fault he's a complete idiot," and sped toward the cab line - which was completely empty! I basked in the freeroll, and cruised over to the Venetian.

We met Dave, Brian and Ted near the check-in desk, dropped our bags in the room, and went back downstairs to grab some subpar food in the food court by the casino floor. The other guys went to putz around at the sportsbook and the craps table as we waited for BigJosh to arrive, and I attacked the double deck blackjack pit solo. This was my first Vegas trip in a while without the company of my faithful degenerate gambling companion, the Big Show, and despite the fact that we were rolling 18 guys deep for Brian's bachelor party, I was basically alone in my willingness to gamble outside of the craps table. Mikey made a brief stop at my blackjack table - spiking two blackjacks and a hard 20 in three hands, and executing a professional Hit and Run.

After dumping a buy-in at the blackjack table, I saw BigJosh from 40 yards away at the dice pit - his 7 foot frame is easily visible. I arrived just in time for his roll, which was a bonanza - a 45 minute clinic in how to effortlessly slam points of all varieties - fours, tens, fives - it didn't matter - Josh nailed them all, as I carried on the bachelor party tradition started by E-dub at my own BP a few years ago, by randomly adding more odds bets to Brian's passline wagers. I'm not a craps savant, but I used to be good at math - and I caught the dealer mis-paying one of my bets. As he tried to argue his case, the boxman said "The kid is right" and threw me the difference. Craps dealers seem to be the most mathematical and intelligent dealers in the casino - but maybe that's just because the amateur players have no clue what they are doing! When he fucked up a second time, severly shorting my payout, I caught it again, and laughed at the long shot that was me managing to notice this twice, in my imparied state. DYKTWFIA? I can do craps math even after 12 various sundry vodka drinks - none of which included Red Bull. When Josh finally passed the dice, I'd won back the blackjack losses, and made a small profit for the evening. We proceeded to the circular main bar on the Venetian casino floor, and watched the hookers try to snag a fish for the evening.

I laughed as one guy fed a lady some quality bullshit about being from New Zealand, and asked her name. "Jesse," she replied, as he inquired, taunting her, "Chesty??!?!" while eyeing her bombs, which were bigger than her head. After he was done fucking with her, I commended him on his New Zealand angle, but reminded him that he didn't need to charm hookers, he just needed to pay them.

Suddenly, a roaming magician came by, and dazzled the crowd with a display of street magic that would put David Blaine to shame. Now, I was drunk but not stupid, and I consider myself smarter than the average bear - but Cameron Shadow was fucking INCREDIBLE. I was less impressed with his ability to make a cigarette levitate - as I know they sell that very trick upstairs in the Magic Shop at the Grand Canal Shops - but when he made the serial letter mark on a dollar bill move, and handed the newly defiled bill back to its owner - it was just the beginning. He had a person pull a $20 out of their wallet, write his name on it, and hold it in tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Then Cameron handed the person a small lemon - took the bill from him, and held it over the fruit, shaking it once or twice at the lemon, which was in the random person's hand. As Cameron made the bill disappear with sleight of hand and pulled a knife out of his pocket, we knew what was coming - he sliced the lemon in half, and something was sticking out of the flesh - a folded up bill, which the person pulled out to show that it was the one with his name on it.

As we left, jaws open in awe after several more up close demonstrations of various tricks, we hit Grand Luxe for some early morning sustenance. After sitting down, the 7 of us waited several minutes for a waitress, as we considered the menu. After 12 minutes or so, a waitress did a fly by, explaining "I'll be right with you, boys." After another 8 minutes, we got up and left - annoyed by the gross incompetance at Grand Luxe. As we exited, the host, completely ignorant to the fact that he'd recently seated us, and that we should NOT be leaving yet, said "thanks for coming," to which Mikey smiled, "Thanks - great meal."

Fully tilted, I figured there was no better thing to do while drunk and steaming at 4am than check out the action in the poker room. Although Paul X-22 Magriel was sitting in the 1-2NL game, his froglike tongue wagging back and forth, I realized I was in no shape to play, and joined the guys in Dave's suite where we tried to order some room service. When we realized it would take another hour for food, I abandoned the effort, as Dave shouted from the other room "Who left a shit in the toilet?" "That's Ted's calling card!" Brian replied, as Ted came out of the bedroom, proudly smiling: "Didn't you like how I left the tp so that you could still see the poop?"

I smiled, glad to see that although I wasn't in the company of the gambling addicts who could keep up with Big Show, I was nonetheless surrounded by degenerates of the highest caliber. I returned to my room to get some rest, as Dave ranted about the current state of his "ball bag," after a full day of work and a night of drinking and gambling.

Vegas baby. Vegas.

stay tuned for Part Two.

-KD

Cause This is THRILLLLLER

What? You haven't seen the Philippine Prison Thriller video?

get on it right now.

-KD

Charles In Charge Of Our Days, And Our Nights

Scott Baio has a reality show on VH1. I know - if I told you 10 years ago that Hulk Hogan, Tom Sizemore, Flava Flav and Scott Baio would each have their own reality show - you'd have laid me 1500-1 on the parlay. I only caught 10 minutes of "Scott Baio is 45 and Single," but as far as I can tell, the premise of the show is that Baio has had trouble maintaining relationships, but is now with a girl he likes. He's taken an 8 week vow of celibacy, which his friends are trying to sabotage by using Baio's Charles In Charge fame to attract chicks, and also catch his residual chick-runoff. Multi Sigma for sure.

Today at our therapy dog trip, we had to take a time out between rooms when Oscar popped wood in the hallway. I guess he was excited about his new haircut, or that it was dinner time in the hospital. He recovered nicely, and had some great visits.

-KD

Summer of Love

Mrs. Dynamite and I have returned from our first of FIVE summer weddings. This past weekend we went to Napa, for a long weekend of wine tasting and a black tie wedding, and the first time that we were both away from Oscar, who survived nonetheless under the exceptional care of our dog walker who came and stayed in our apartment with the O-dog.

On the wine tasting front, Vincent Arroyo was again the clear standout - with unmatched hospitality and quality. Go there if you visit Napa - you will not regret it.

Oscar got his haircut yesterday: shaved To the FELT! The Vortex and Big Show immediately both replied "Groomer must have had AQ!"

So the Kid Dynamite summer schedule is:

Wedding in Napa (Complete)

Wedding in NJ

Bachelor Party in Vegas

week off

Wedding in Tuscany, Italy (week long trip)

Wedding in New Jersey

Wedding in the Berkshires

Hopefully I'll have something interesting to report somewhere along the way...

-KD

Advance Move

Forecast: Heavy drinking

That was my prognostication, which of course turned out to be correct, before last night's String Cheese Incident show at the Beacon - a Saturday night fiesta to close a four night tour from one of the most talented jam bands around. The show was intense, but I was surprised to learn an advanced concert move, never before seen by me, from one of the myriad happy go lucky jammy hippies at the show:

At the set break, the crowd poured out into the packed concourse of the Beacon Theatre, as sweaty under-the-influence hippies tried to make their way to the bathroom or the bar. I was standing at the corner of the bar, neat the door to the theatre floor, when Johnny Superfan, a chunky kid of about 25 years old with a curly afro, sunglasses, and a cape, emerged from the seating area. He surveyed the scene, then quickly made an exaggerated swallowing motion, gagged, and put his hands over his mouth, clearly about to puke.

The sardine-packed crowd parted like the red sea, in an effort to avoid the impending chow shower, as Johnny Superfan expertly took three quick staggering steps, then, like Kaiser Soze at the end of Usual Suspects, fell into a normal gait, and removed his hand from in front of his mouth.

"Holy crap! That was a SERIOUSLY advanced move!" I was in awe, exclaiming to Scott. "the FAKE puke to get through the throng of people!" Incredible - not even Dirty Dave had that one in his playbook.

In non-fake-puke-angle-shooter news, we have been going to the hospital with Oscar once a week for therapy dog visits. Last week we met a crazy non-stop talking old man, who made us laugh as he blabbered and pointed to his roommate, "Me, I'm 79 - that guy over there - he's 83. HE'S got problems." He went on a rambling monologue that was a cross between George Carlin and Rodney Dangerfield - but was happy to see the O-dog.

Hopefully, you've been tuning in to Pauly's TaoOfPoker and WickedChops for all the WSOP news - Phil Hellmuth is clearly a favorite to win Douchebag of the Year again.

-KD

Charity

Sure, I volunteered at the local soup kitchen a few times back in high school, but lately the only charity I've been doing is when I donate my stack to a no limit hold'em opponent by overplaying AQ, or generously payoff a river bet knowing I'm almost certainly beat.

However, we're now doing a weekly gig at St. Vincent's hospital to take advantage of Oscar's healing powers - visiting patients with our therapy dog, hoping to put some smiles on people's faces. I went for the first time this week, with both Oscar and Mrs. Dynamite.

Since I spend a vast amount of time at work talking about my dog as if he was my son, my colleagues were eager to know how the first visit was. I tried to explain that, in a word, it was "hard." You see, it's not like we're just fulfilling requests of people who have asked to have a dog come visit them and are expecting us. Each week we visit one floor of the hospital, armed with nothing more than Oscar's smile and list of patients which contains only their name and how many days they have been in the hospital for. The difficult part is that many of these patients are quite sick, are not expecting you, may be sleeping, and you have no idea how they are feeling, or if you should interrupt them - or even if they will want to see you when you DO decide to wake them up.

To make matters worse, each patient is supposed to sign a "release" form acknowledging that they have approved the therapy dog visit - but it's really awkward to have to ask these patients: some very sick, some elderly, some non-English speaking, some suspicious, some illiterate - to sign any kind of release - as I fear they are already wary of people trying to take advantage of them or to sabotage their rights.

Now, as a poker player and a person with good people skills, I think one of my strengths is reading and reacting to people. In the hospital however, it's very hard to tell when you peek in on a patient who has their eyes closed if they will be happy to see you and your dog, or if they will be annoyed that you've just woken them up after they finally managed to fall asleep despite the pain of their recent surgical incision.

Still, we managed to navigate our way throughout the floor - taking a few early rejections in stride, and basking in the graciousness and smiles of several patients who acknowledged how Oscar brightened their day. Oscar did not rip out any IV's, despite his attempt to play "bedtime crazy time" with one woman who asked that we put him up on her bed (this is his favorite game when we get in bed at night - he spins around like a mad man, barks, and pounces at me while I pretend to hide under the covers). Oscar is still getting used to all the medical equipment - and his size is a little awkward - he's just small enough that it's awkward for the patients to lean over and pet him, and just big enough that we have to be very careful who's lap we place him on - especially knowing that many of these patients are surgical patients - but not knowing the nature of their surgeries.

One woman asked us "What made you decide to do this?" I explained to her that Oscar made people smile - no matter who saw him, or where we were - and we just wanted to see if we could spread that happiness around to people who might need it.

"Well, you put a smile on my face," she confirmed, as Oscar licked her hand.

until next time,
KD

Cops and Robbers

Finally! Something to write about! Unfortunately, the topic is a total cockchugger: the shutdown of my poker club.

Last week, another club on the east side of town was robbed. My immediate reaction: "Fuck." The reaction of the management and security at my club: *shrug* - and instead of tightening things up and laying low, they let in all the doucheballs from the other club!

Now, for some reason, when the other club got robbed, all people were concerned about was beefing up front door security. I had a different concern: the COPS! When a NYC talking head is spewing quotes like:

"I told the NYPD about the existence of this illegal gambling hall weeks ago . . . We're lucky that no one was hurt, but a bust could have prevented this dangerous armed robbery from happening. At least now this den of inequity (SIC) is closed for good"

It doesn't take a fucking CSI to figure out that the cops are going to have to do something to save face. Now, the cops clearly know about the club, and the club KNOWS that the cops know about the club, so they apparently made the level two thinking error of assuming they would be ok. How wrong. When I woke up Friday morning at 3:45am to see my cell phone flashing, and found a one word text from the Vortex: "Raided" - I knew our berry patch had been uprooted.

Since Channel 11 news was on the scene, turning it into a ridiculous, sensationalized story, I can't imagine this will be a case of "oh - we'll be open by Monday."

So, now I'll have to find another way to get my poker fix - like surfing the 2+2 message boards for ridiculous topics like this thread with a bold claim by David Sklanksy. I'm blatantly misquoting and oversimplifying, but Sklansky's basic thesis is that no one who is a certified Jesus Freak can beat him in a math test, because Jesus Freaks, are, by definition, not smart. Great stuff.

In more interesting poker discussion, Brian "SbRugby" Townsend made a recent post on his blog about a very important, very situation specific topic.

"An example of this would be if you were playing someone HU and raised preflop. The flop came down Kh Qh 2c you hold A8o and bet the pot and are called. The turn brings the 5 of clubs and your opponent checks and you check. The river brings another five and your opponent bets pot. Many players would say "I have ace high I fold" and if they held QJo instead they might say "I have middle pair I call." But the best players realize that these two hands have the same value on the river as an opponent value betting a queen is unlikely. I feel mediocre players would be more likely to call with the queen and top players would call equally with both hands. This is one of the little things that I look for when I am up against a new opponent, and to be honest very very few players call with QJ as often at A8 in that scenario, probably myself included, but the truly great ones call equally with both hands."

A key concept articulated by one of the games fastest rising young gunners.

In non-poker news, Mrs. Dynamite and I cooked some good stuff this week, including roasted vegetable meatloaf with potato and corn salad.

In even more important news, Oscar finally made his first visit to a hospital as a therapy dog! After passing the therapy dog test, we had to make it through all of the red tape at St. Vincent's, but both Mrs. Dynamite and I, as well as Oscar, are now fully registered as volunteers. Oscar even has an ID badge:

until next time,
KD

No, thank you, I'll pass

I live in the West Village of NYC. It's a very liberal, very progressive, tolerant neighborhood. I've seen a lot of weird shit - so much so that very little surprises me or fazes me anymore (Nothing fazes Bill Gazes!)

I've a had a small black man offer to "show me what a real pussy looks like" as I walked down the street with Mrs. Dynamite. I've been proffered a plethora of illegal substances, and solicited for sex by too many tranny whores to count. But today, it was all about the tone of voice.

As I walked down Christoper Street at 9pm to grab a slice of pizza following a big poker session, a guy standing against a car who looked a little like an Italian Chris Kattan, looked at me and simply state/inquired/offered, "FUCK?"

It was the exact same tone of voice a waitress would use when pouring you a cup of coffee and asking "Sugar?" Or perhaps bringing you a Caesar salad and asking "Pepper?"

But no - this was "Fuck?"

Now, I don't think anything about my actions suggested that I was looking for hot man on man anonymous sex, but I guess this guy's preflop reads are a little off.

I didn't bother to decline, instead just continuing on my merry way, somewhat surprised that I'd even been surprised by this proposition.

All in a day's work.

-KD

WSOP!

The WSOP is underway already, and two sites will keep you up to date with all you need to know:

WickedchopsPoker posts several times daily in their inimitable, irreverent, yet informative style,

and Pauly @ the Tao of Poker is again working the WSOP circuit with his veteran insight and angles.

Story of the day is Tony G threatening to whoop someones ass at Cardplayer - as they're stealing the chip counts Tony G's company bought the rights too. Read Tony's beef HERE.

The non poker topic this week is how the Sopranos season finale will go down next week. Big Show predicts a True Romance style Mexican standoff, where everyone dies in a hail of gunfire. I think a realistic scenario is that AJ actually kills Tony! Let's think about it - AJ has been portrayed as the biggest pussy of all time - couldn't Tony say something to him about being a MAN, and AJ respond by killing his old man?

we'll see.

-KD

Perspective, TILT.

You know, I steam home after a few frustrating poker sessions, and then have to put it all in perspective. I met up with some old friends on Thursday night, and found that my friend Steve's degenerative retinal disease is getting worse. He'll probably be blind by the end of the year; and meanwhile I'm annoyed that the pompous doucheball in the 2 seat spiked his 5 outer on the river against me, or that the quiet cockchuckker in the 7 seat rivered his flush (and I didn't pay him off - DYKWTFIA?). I can take a bad beat, but perhaps the best play I've made in each of the last two sessions I've played was to get up and leave when I realized I wasn't playing my best poker.

Tonight, as I TILTED toward the subway, and commended myself for leaving a game I wasn't enjoying, I remembered that I should keep it in perspective - I'm sure Steve would love to be able to sit in a 2-5NL hold'em cash game and lose the money I just lost - but he can't see the cards. As my buddy Leeroy once put it, after listening to Third Eye Blind's Semi Charmed Life, "We lead semi-charmed lives," and by that he meant, we lead CHARMED lives...

I have great wife, the best dog around, financial security, and my health. Knock on wood.

So every time I TILT myself and get mad that I smooth called instead of raised, or made a shitty payoff on the river, I'll think of Steve - and the fact that I deserve a big "fuck you" for sweating the little things.

My Dad reads my blog on occasion now - he's an elementary school teacher (for a few more weeks at least! He's retiring after 30 something years at the end of the month!), and his school's Internet filter blocks this site sometimes. I'm sure this post will cause it to be blocked, because I'm about to unleash a stream of FUCK YOU's, but, in the words of Tom Cruise's Joel Goodsen in Risk Business, "Sometimes you just have to say "What the Fuck?""

I try not to give stupid celebrities any more breath than they deserve, but I figure some of the latest news deserves a few FUCK YOU's.

Lindsay Lohan - REALLY? You get arrested for DUI and you're not even old enough to drink? Really? FUCK YOU! How the fuck do you crash your car driving drunk when you're underage... and YOU'RE LINDSAY FUCKING LOHAN?!?!?! Can't she hire a driver? THIS tilts me... "Kid Dynamite, what's the big deal?" you ask... Yeah - as long as Lindsay just keeps driving into trees, no harm no foul - but drunk driving is far from a victimless crime, and I don't think I need to get preachy on this. She should do some time in the joint, and have to poop in front of other people, (and toss the salad, of course.)

Jerry Buss - seems like a decent guy - but gets arrested for drunk driving a day after LL. Come on Jerry - you're worth about a billion dollars, play high stakes poker with pocket change, and bang chicks less than half your age - do you REALIZE how much you have to lose? Hire a fucking driver!

In other news - have you seen the new Streetview feature on Google Maps? They don't have it in every city, but basically what they did was drive around in a van with several cameras on it, and build a visual map database similar to the "virtual tours" you see on real estate sights - only this is basically for the world... eventually. Pretty awesome.

I'm a little worried about the future of American society. Sports Illustrated used to have a weekly sidebar titled "This Week's Sign of the Apocalypse," - and if the new shows Pirate Master and Sunset Tan don't qualify, I don't know what does.

until next TILT,

KD

The Joint

"Did you hear Paris's sentence got cut in half?" I asked Mrs. Dynamite.

"Yeah - she gets to stay in some segregated 12 person unit," Mrs. D confirmed, but was clearly pondering something deeper...

"I wonder if she has to poop in front of other people?" Mrs. Dynamite asked me with an intrigued look on her face.

I returned a blank stare.

"Because that's probably the most humiliating thing in prison," she explained her logic to me.

"Umm, I'm pretty sure being forced to eat someones ass is worse," I lobbied.

"Fine - the worst system imposed thing," Mrs. Dynamite settled on.

That's my girl.

We watched The Departed last night. Awesome movie. Never mind the fact that any movie which showcases Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg's Boston accents will automatically be good (cases in point: Perfect Storm, Good Will Hunting); I think I can safely put The Departed in the top 5 movies of all time - brilliant plot, brilliant acting, brilliant directing.

-KD

Donkey

Warning: ACTUAL POKER CONTENT

So I fucked up, but I raked a huge pot... here's what went down.

2-5NL, $485 effective stacks. I've been at the table for 20 minutes, and haven't really played a hand.

After 2 limpers, I make it $40 to go from the cutoff with A-K. Lou cold calls me on the button, and both limpers call.

Flop: K-4-2, with two spades. I have the ace of spades.

I'm somewhat confused when the second limper (I'll call him Jerry) bets $350, to which the dealer responds "Raise." I'm thinking "that's a bet you fuckin' idiot - not a raise," and trying to figure out how to react to this massive overbet. Jerry is left with about $100 behind, basically the same stack size as me.

I decide there is no way he's open overbetting like this with a set - the only hand that makes any sense that beats me is 2-4. After 45 seconds, I move all in. Now Lou shakes his head and says "Now I'm priced in." He pushes all in for $550.

It's at this point that I realize Eric is still in the hand - and had bet out $150 to start this action! I turn to Lou, who I know, and mutter "I didn't realize he was in the hand!"

"Don't worry - he's mucking," Lou whispers.

"Lou, you don't get it - I thought I was reacting to a $350 open overbet - not a bet and a raise!" I whisper.

Lou laughs, and Eric, across the table, CALLS! He has me and Lou covered.

The turn is a red nine, and the river is an ace. Lou and Eric both have 2-4 for flopped bottom two pair, and Jerry had the flush draw that never got there. River suckout! SHIP IT!

Only Jerry seemed to understand the irony of the situation, in that I somehow completely missed Eric's opening bet. The other doucheballs at the table were like "yeah - top pair top kicker - you're committed."

I played one other hand of note - where TVEAK (TV educated Asian Kid) limps, I make it $40 with KK, Jerry calls, and TVEAK calls.

TVEAK bets out $60 on the flop of A-A-3 with two spades (I have the king of spades). I've played enough live NYC poker to know that it's about a 4 sigma event for the average player to bet out trip aces in this spot. I call. Jerry folds. The turn is the nine of spades. TVEAK checks his hole cards and bets $100 - leaving himself $225 behind.

I briefly consider raising, but realize he's not folding a better hand, and if I'm ahead, he's probably dead to one out. I call.

The river is a non-spade jack, and he again bets $100.

I throw my $100 call in, acknowledging "If you have an ace, you played it really well."

He tables eights and is SHOCKED when I turn over KK.

"How can you call me down with that?"

Well, because I'm a pro, and you're a donkey. That's how.

Pass the Sugar!

until next time,

KD

Home Again

Yesterday the Vortex and I made our triumphant return to the large scale NYC live poker scene. Using my 7 year old original Acepoint 3-6 limit connections, we gained entry to a new berry patch, and were tearing up a 2-5NL game before 4pm.

There was one guy at the table who thought he was the Captain, sitting directly to the Vortex's right, who was sitting directly to my right. Poor doucheball had never even realized he had the two toughest players in the room to his immediate left, even after I checkraised him off the best hand from out of position, and the Vortex made him lay down time after time. We let him steal the $20 pots, and raised/reraised him in the larger ones.

In one pot, after 5 limpers, I made it $40 on the button with AQ, aka, the NUTS. The small blind INSTA-called me, and set off a wave of callers - everyone came along for the ride.

On the K-J-5 flop, they checked to me in slow succession. I took a free card, which was a blank - and the aggro guy bet out $75. I mucked, and the SB called. They both checked when a queen came on the river, and I was surprised to see the SB show down J-9 for the winner. Now, I'd been playing tight aggressive, and casually asked him a hand later "If I bet the flop, do you call?" His answer summed it all up:

"Well, if YOU bet the flop, I might call, because YOU were the preflop raiser."

"Sure. Seems reasonable." I looked at the Vortex with raised eyebrows, and I swear I caught him drooling. "You'll come home, home again" I hummed, the classic God Street Wine tune, as I shuffled my chips and daydreamed about my soon to be winnings.

"I once was lost, but now I'm found," Vortex preached - as we both realized we'd found a new poker home.

-KD

Sprung

Spring has sprung, and the Odog, after a hefty vet bill and a shot in the ass, is back in effect, recovered from his gastro-ills.

I came across this fantastic youtube clip of Colin Cowherd comparing Yankee radio announcer Suzyn Waldman to the Nature Boy Ric Flair.

Speaking of wrestling - there's this clip of the Iron Sheik going ballistic at an autograph signing for the Ultimate Warrior - from this week!

I'm still trying to figure out who's a bigger cockchugging whore - Roger Clemens, or the Yankee fans. Did the Yankee fans forget that Clemens totally fucked them a few years ago after they threw him a retirement party and he then signed with Houston? In any case, it will be good for the Sox-Yanks rivalry, as Rocket is the Evil Empire personified.

If you missed this week's Entourage - do whatever you can to see it. Best. Episode. Ever. It's about Ari trying to negotiate a last minute deal on Yom Kippur. Great stuff.

-KD

Happy Hour Hero

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I just haven't had anything to say that was worthy of bumping the Dogs Playing Poker custom artwork from the top spot on my page.

So I'd already heard from Big Show, who was in Vegas for the perfect storm collision of NBA All-Star weekend, Chinese New Year, and Presidents' Day, that the city was an absolute shitshow that weekend. Now, MGM CEO Terry Lanni commented on Mirage missing their quarterly earnings estimates, "The gang-bangers and others who came for purposes other than attending the game, they weren't very good for Las Vegas." Great stuff. He added, "In talking to our casino hosts, a number of people stayed in their villas and suites. They felt uncomfortable."

In other words, the NBA entourages and fans created such a hostile atmosphere that the Asian high rollers were AFRAID to come out and gamble! FANNNNNNNtastic.

Yesterday, we had another similar perfect storm of events: Drinko de Mayo (a retarded holiday made up to give people who have no Mexican connection at all an excuse to drink margaritas at 10am,) the Kentucky Derby, and the Fight of the Year - Mayweather-DeLaHoya. My observations in New York, however, are that no one was afraid to go out and party.

Interestingly, walking through the uber-hot Meatpacking district on my way to dinner and my second consecutive moe. show, it seemed as though the City was strangely subdued - almost as if everyone had crashed and burned earlier - passed out in the wake of early afternoon Patron shots.

I had the opportunity to see moe. live this weekend. Twice. This was an aggressive proposal, considering that I'd never seen the band before, and had only limited exposure to a few live shows of theirs. They were playing a 6 night run to open a brand new venue within walking distance of my apartment - the Highline Ballroom - a 700 capacity general admission area, roughly 1/2 the size of Irving Plaza. My hopes were dimmed somewhat by a failed voyage several weeks earlier to check out Umprey's McGee for the first time. I felt like the crazy old dude at the concert, surrounded by a sea of kids aged mostly 16-23. Rony and I weren't standing there for 3 minutes before some plastered 17 year old asked us to buy him beer. No thanks. Umphrey's percussion-centric jams didn't do it for me, and I kept the faith that moe. would be better.

Friday night's show was awesome - but I had barely recovered sufficiently by Saturday night to properly pollute myself again. In any case, I recommend checking out moe. if they come to an area near you. And yes, the band's name is m-o-e-period, in case you were confused.

Mrs. Dynamite won the "best text message of the year so far" award, with last nights simple message: "Oscar just took a shit on the carpet in the bedroom!!!" I was at dinner when I got this message, and burst out laughing, immediately thinking that Oscar was exercising some defiance and protest over the bath we'd given him earlier that afternoon - but it turned out he was sick and undergoing some serious gastro-distress. He spent the rest of the evening following Mrs. Dynamite around and rolling over submissively onto his back whenever she looked at him - clearly upset at what he'd done. She even took pictures of the pile of crap on the rug - but I'll spare you those for now.

until next time,

KD