Geysir, Iceland

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Friday night was a fun night of vegetarian chili, whiskey, and the Dukes of Hazzard.  The boys were in hot pursuit of some gold forging outlaws who Swindled Boss Hogg out of $100,000.  With the General Lee parked outside of town (Roscoe thought the Duke brothers had stolen Hogg's gold) and the tires shot out from under the squad cars, the band took to Daisy's yellow Plymouth (unsure if it was the Road Runner or a Satellite).  Finding a shortcut through the hills, Bo skyrocketed off a mound of dirt and yelled, "Welcome to the Hazzard County Air Force!"  I chose the more recognizable vehicle and made this shirt.  If I can create a good likeness of the Plymouth sailing off a cliff from later in season 2, maybe i can bookend this t-shirt series.

2014 marks the unextinction of many tiny bleats

before now there were many times of relatively few bleats recorded quietly for myself and my mom and my wife's mom.  Thank you moms for checking here so frequently, even when nothing was happening.

now, I have a few posts to organize, beginning with the honeymoon Sue and I took to Iceland.

later, hopefully I'll post a few stories a month as I work up to getting back into the swing of journalism, music and arts appreciation, dabbling with fiction and poetry, and hold myself publicly accountable of the things I intend to do (and am doing) with my life

Big Blind Squirrel Nuts

Things are looking great. I'm sitting on the button with about 35 big blinds, late in a multi-table tournament. There were 5000 entrants and we're under 900 left, of which 540 get paid. With my stack, I'm not looking to hover around and try to min-cash, I'm looking to make a run at the final table.

In this hand there is one limper and my suited AQ is looking pretty. I make it 1850. The big blind is pretty short. He likes his hand and decides to move all-in for his 2770. The guy who limped in has a lot of chips, about 50 big blinds. He decides to come along.

Now I'm in a sticky situation. The size of the short stack's shove handcuffs me into calling. The raise of 920 is not a legit raise of my bet. I raised by 1350 and his bet is only 920 more. Technically, the betting is capped and a final call of 920 is the most I can do. I'm not sure if the 50BB limper realized that he could see this flop at a capped price or he was just in the mood to gamble, but for 2770, we were going to see this flop heads up, with a short stack all in.







This is a pretty good flop for me. I hit top pair with the best kicker, an ace. I'm only behind a set or some funky 2 pair hand which you would not think could possibly be in the mix (Q-2, Q-8, 2-8). The flush draw could present a problem, but there is no reason not to bet this flop. The limper checks and hands me the reigns. I bet 3765, which is about 2/5 pot. It's big enough to knock off the riff raff, but it might get a flush draw to come along. It might also get a weaker queen to call along. I'll have to make some reads on the turn card if I get a call here.



Our villain calls and we see the turn, a Jack of hearts. It's not a club, but it's totally in the range of speculative hands that could be drifting along on this flop. QJ could have been in there and is now a 2 pair hand. 10-9, especially of clubs, could have been in there. This is a dangerous card. Again he checks to me. At this point I either have to give up and hope he's willing to check down or value bet on the river, keeping me in the game, but hoping for a double up. Or I can go for it and make him drop whatever speculative hand he was playing passively (and terribly). His preflop limp screamed that he was speculative and weak. The check call on the flop could have been a trap, but after we see the hands face up, we know this is not the case.

This player has a clear case of "I don't know what to do with my chips late in a tournament" syndrome. He's bored, he's playing passively with a wide range of hands hoping to stack off on a good flop. To his error, he decided to commit 1/4 of his chips with 2nd pair, trying to pick off a bluff. Fortunately, I wasn't bluffing. Unfortunately, here is the result:





The turn card gave this genius his only hope. He catches one of 5 possible outs. We get our money in and now I'm a big dog, but still have 7 outs to win (three 2s, one Q, and three Aces). The short stack was crippled by my hand. The river blanks and another deep run is over for me.

A brief history, in cars

I’m leaving Boston in a different car than I arrived to it in. As much as I am a non-believer in the ‘you are what you own’ ethos, that 1996 Saab was a pretty good embodiment of me over the past 5 years. In fact, every big change in my life has been loosely correlated with a change of vehicle.

1989 Mitsubishi Montero

Years owned 1998-2004

This car was an amazing present from my Aunt and Uncle. As the fourth child, turning 16 coincided with my parents running out of vehicles. I learned to drive on my dad’s Chevrolet Cheyenne. In the parking lot of Uniroyal and along our ¼ mile driveway I bucked, skidded, and stalled its manual transmission, which was evidently nothing like the snapper riding mower I’d been commanding for years. During my first few months of licensed freedom, I drove around my mom’s Dodge Caravan. The classy natural wood trim ran elegantly down its maroon body; a purple blur of Beastie Boys whizzed through the streets beating up the beat before the “Situation” made it a phenomenon.

But the day I was given the Montero was the day I became a man. My steed was an arctic white beast with fierce tinted eyes. Its massive radial all terrains hugged sporty American Racing rims. The front and back were mounted with ramming bars to keep other drivers out of my way and, if that wasn’t enough, I could blind them with my KC lights. I had full control of its manual engine. I passed cars uphill across a solid line laying on its super octave elephantine horn. Though I wasn’t an especially cool kid, the Beast made me cool for five minutes a day as we clamored through parking lot traffic on our way home. I waxed it and took it to the senior prom.

It got me through most of college before throwing an engine rod my senior year. I was on my way up to Boston to see Einsturzende Neubauten. I filled up the tank and called my brother to let him know I was en route. A few days later I was syphoning the gas into my friend Greg’s car and signing over the title to a junkyard mechanic. The Beast was dead.

Synopsis – naïve and strong. The beast knew not past and future, but only present day. And it kicked those days’ asses.

1996 SAAB 900s Hatchback

Years owned 2004-2010

For the last few weeks of college I used my dad’s pickup. Another red Chevy, but not the Cheyenne, much bigger. I had once attempted to back this truck out of my parents’ driveway during a party of theirs when the Montero was blocked in. I over-steered a bit and crumpled the driver’s side against the Beast. Nothing major, just cosmetic negligence. The Beast, of course, was unscathed. So this truck got me though finals and I returned to my home town without a whip of my own. I had some money saved from working summers at a resort hotel in the old section of town – both old in history and in median age, Heritage Village and its Bazaar was Q-tip heaven. I told my dad that I’d like to make the change to a car or at least something more economical than the 14 MPG I was used to. I think I told him I was interested in a hatchback, maybe a VW Golf or GTI. He found the SAAB in the newspaper and it sounded awesome. Old in years but young in miles; it was an 8 year old car with only 67,000 miles on it. It was housed outside a Monro Muffler shop by a man named Terry who made a career of buying cars at auction and reselling them privately. He’d used the Monro as a front because he gave the shop so much work. I think he threw in new pads with the deal. This particular car was from an American Cancer Society auction. With the help of my dad, we talked the price down a few hundred dollars and saved what we would have paid in taxes. This car was considerably less manly than the Beast. However, the periwinkle blue yupster seemed to match my quirky idiosyncrasies. It had the appearance of both money and intelligence. It could get by on a class level where many other cars less than $5,000 could not. It was the car that most closely matched who I was trying to be during its 6 year life span – the freelancer.

Of course the first year I owned this car I worked in a fancy restaurant and lived at home with my parents in an attempt to save up some money for “the big move” somewhere. At that point I had fully expected it to be NYC. My family was all from New York and it was clearly the coolest place to be on planet earth. Rich people lived there. Starving artists lived there. Bands came from all over the world to play for 50 people in a small dive bar in New York City. It was the one place on Earth where it was probably as legitimate to fail as it would be to succeed. And I know what you’re thinking, L.A. But it’s not cool to fail in L.A. L.A. isn’t even a city, you need a car to get anywhere. In New York you can fail and as long as you can come up with $1010 a month, you can afford a place to sleep, a quart of milk and a link of sopressata…and be just as happy as the next guy.

But I couldn’t come up with $1010 a month, so I chose to move to Boston.

SAAB’s are said to last for 200,000 miles. SAAB owners like to tell you SAAB stories. The fact is, this car didn’t die on me. If I only had more money, I’d probably still be driving this car. Ironically, because I don’t have more money, I’m making payments on a nicer newer car. Oh the wonders of credit.

That’s not to say this car was a pleasure cruise. I’ve had to change the alternator, replace the gas tank, and spent more than anyone would ever budget for on maintenance like brakes and exhaust repairs. The shifter knob peeled off after a few years. I’d been riding with a hollowed out tennis ball on it for about 3 years until I finally took the initiative to drill out a baseball and mount in on with some putty; Man, was that a messy project. The trunk was always damp. Parts of the body were starting to rust away. The check engine light was on for about a year; I was able to pass state inspections by disconnecting the battery moments before taking it in. But the car was still running at 150,000 miles. It never ceased to surprise me. It made it to DC and back a few times, fitting an Australian road bike and a barcalounger inside it. And aside from the AC, it was running great the day I traded it in.

Synopsis – Adaptable to any situation, but with a mind of its own. Herby meets Harry and the Henderson’s.

2006 Honda Accord Sedan

Years owned 2010-present

I have driven this car for 5 months and have put about 6,000 miles on it. It has been an absolute dream. It is the only car I have ever had that I didn’t actually own. The bank owns it and I pay them monthly. I took out a power train warranty on it. I have no headaches. I still have AAA but more for when I am a passenger than a driver. The Accord is the only car I have ever owned that is automatic. I use cruise control on the highway and get near 30 MPG. It has a good environmental footprint. It’s silver and has very little personality. A month after owning it I shaved my head and now look like a really average person. I’m moving to a new state, to start a new life with my wonderful girlfriend who is very career oriented. I’d like to think that, like this car, I will be strong and reliable over the next few years. There won’t be any worries or unexpected hurdles.

But let’s get real. I’m a jack of all trades. I’ve never held one full-time job as an adult in my life. I’ve always juggled schedules, freelanced, and taken odds jobs as they’ve come along. I’ve managed to not be reliant on an employer; to be near self-employed. Will I now all of a sudden become a grown-up and hold down a regular job? Will I really become my Honda Accord?

Did I mention it has a 6-CD changer?

Synopsis – humbled by trepidations, a trusty steed on a journeyman’s course.

POKERSTARS BIG GAME AUDITION

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The slow exhale of poker on television...

Last year 9 players reached the final table of the world series of poker and for the first time ever, play had been postponed nearly 4 months. The elite 9 took a chunk of their riches home to their families and friends and prepared for what would be the toughest thing they might ever have to deal with in their poker careers…celebrity (and maybe taxes). As Phil Helmuth, Mike Matusow and other pros dropped off the list with 5 or fewer tables to go, ESPN executives were likely squirming in their seats with their decision to hype up 9 nobodies for months without a big name to keep fans interested. Still, the event was well received and despite a table unmarked by poker nobility, play was customarily exciting. After editing, a final table looks pretty much the same no matter who you put in the seats - a slew of all-ins and coinflips.

Like it or not, this gaggle of inexperienced players emerged to become minor celebrities. They were invited on talk shows and even to ballparks to throw the first pitch. America, and the world, began to fall in love with these doting nobodies. These once beggars and borrowers were now first class all the way. Operation November 9 was a success.

In the year since, poker on TV has changed a bit. The everyman was getting more confident in his abilities. More nobodies were making final tables and fewer “pros” were seeing the spotlight. Young Internet kids emerged from their tiny bedrooms across the globe and were hitting the big time by cashing in along the WPT and EPT circuits. But this was all getting boring for the spectator. There was very little personality at the table; nobodies just don’t get out of line like stuck veterans do. Respectful fist pumps and shoulder shrugs were taking over “one time” declarations and tasteless name-calling. If things stayed the course, people might actually have to resume playing poker to be entertained by it, instead of watching it on TV!

So, network execs finally decided to throw in a wild card. Poker after all is a game, and they figured it was about time for it to be marketed in gameshow format. To a true poker fan, this format was a little off-putting and childish. But to the casual observer seeking something to watch on the days after Monday night football and before kickoff Sunday afternoon, a less technical form of poker was just the right thing to crack a can of Milwaukee’s Best to. Replace the hours of stone-faced amateurs folding their cards with a gambling priest, a guy from the sopranos and some scantily clad women and we have ourselves a poker game!

Fast forward through a series of junky permutations and we come to the big game once again, the 2009 WSOP Main Event. In a lauded attempt to show the game of poker in true form, ESPN broadcasted over 30 edited hours of the month long exhibition of gamesmanship. Unlike years prior, ESPN ran the majority of their coverage on the Main Event itself, and spent much less time televising smaller buy-in events. They wanted it to feel like the 9-day-war that it was, with the courageous November 9 being raised up and crowned with laurels. And this year, in all their elaborate detail, they had succeeded where they had not in their first attempt: Nobility had reached the final table.

The name amongst names, the living legend; Phil Ivey was among the final nine. Like battling against Achilles at Troy, the remaining eight players had to debate the earthly possibilities of beating their rival. Among the swarm of hopefuls was a poker publishing mogul, a reclusive logger from Maryland with a monstrous stack, and some very determined live and online players. In their second attempt, the execs had roped a winner.

But when the final table played out live, it took a bit of reclusiveness on my own part to keep from hearing the turnout. They brought the final 9 together and began play at noon on Saturday Nov 7^th. When they had gotten heads up, in the daylight hours of Sunday Nov 8^th, play would again stop and the duel would commence Monday night Nov 9^th. The important thing to understand is that ESPN would not air the final table until Tuesday Nov 10^th. This would give them time to edit the footage down to a few hours’ worth of entertaining television. But in no way could this ever be considered a televised live event. In a way it’s like TiVo’ing the Super Bowl. If you don’t watch that game within a few hours of it ending, you’re bound to hear a spoiler and the whole game is ruined. So I had to try and avoid the internet for nearly 4 days. I couldn’t listen to any podcasts. I had to avoid Facebook altogether. I was even nervous to watch ESPN in fear of seeing a text update roll across the bottom of the screen. As I write this, I currently just found out a spoiler about the live UFC 105 event I am watching on Spike. While researching a fighter who just pummeled Michael Bisping in the first round, his updated fight card on Wikipedia notes this fight as a loss. The fight took place live earlier today in England…

Essentially, my Main Event final table experience marks the recognition that poker as we know it can never be a live event. I’d much rather be given the opportunity to watch an entire day with no hole cards exposed than only be able to see 20 hands picked by some editors to tell a story that I already know the outcome of. Add in Norman Chad’s incessant comments with the ticking clock of the program and televised poker is like watching a mystery movie that I forgot I already watched drunk a few weeks ago: vaguely predictably and rather boring.

TV, you just don’t do it for me anymore. The internet has whooped your ass and you’ll have to settle with being the 2^nd broadcast. But unlike how TV forced print journalism to rise above sensationalism and produce quality content, the internet only seems to make TV a jealous copycat. You’d better stop trying to one-up other mediums and realize what you’re actually good at: documentaries, HD sports, and episodic programming.