Vegas Prep

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

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

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

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

2005 Vegas Winter Assault

Jan 2006 Vegas Winter Assault

The Incomparable Six Sigma Sunday

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

until next week,

KD

SNL Tilt

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

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

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

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

Vegas is imminent: 5 days and counting.

-KD

Thank the Troops

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

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

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


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

until next time,

KD

Crown Their Ass!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,

KD

Are You Kidding Me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes on to tell me more:

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

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

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

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

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

And DZ's punchline is classic:

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

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

Until next time,
KD

DYKWTFIA?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next time,
KD

Fergalicious

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PoPoZau > Bringin'Sexy Back > Fergalicious,

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

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

until next time,
KD

Vagina Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,
KD

Halloweenie

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

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

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

And a picture of him lounging in bed:

until next time,

KD

Odds and Ends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,
KD



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

Let's Get Physical, Physical

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

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

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

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

until next time,
KD

RoShamBo Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

check it out.
-KD

Can you Feel the Tilt?

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

Let's consider the factors:

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

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

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

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

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

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

-KD

Gonna Take You Down to Chinatown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,
KD

Sigmas in the Pooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,
-KD

Me Gusta El Beisbol

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

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

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

Wow.

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

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

Go Tigers.

-KD

Ian Anderson

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

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

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

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

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

until next time,
KD

What Do You Call This?

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

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

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

-KD

What Can I Say?

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

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

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

For constantly breaking news on the Port Act, check out

WickedChopsPoker
NeverWinPoker
and a variety of 2+2 Threads.

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

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

on TILT,
KD

Fuckin' Indian Food

Finally, something blogworthy...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about rave reviews!!!

Awaiting the gastrointestinal effects of a late Indian dinner,
KD