Questions raised by hair metal songs

• If you're already hot and sticky sweet, do you really want someone to pour some sugar on you? Isn't that ENOUGH sugar already, man? Do you have a problem with your sweet tooth or something?

• If you're man is working hard, I think he's worth a LOT more than a "Deuce," which to me means something that ain't exactly a reward, if you get my drift.

• How do you get "Naughty Naughty" as opposed to just naughty? And, no, I don't think "down and dirty" is enough of an answer.

• If a guy whines like a toddler for you to "Wait" throughout the song, are you really gonna be attracted to him at the end?

• How do you live on the edge of a broken heart? Did you get a bad note between sixth and seventh hour, but you don't know if you're actually broken up until the bell rings?

• If a girl tells you "she's only 17," isn't that a sign you should probably move on?

• If your heart needs to be kickstarted, shouldn't you be, like, dead?

• Can a girl have a love machine?

• If you're shouting it, isn't it already out loud?

• What exactly are they burning up there in Heaven for it be on fire? Aren't there just like a bunch of clouds and stuff?

• Do you REALLY need bad medicine? I prefer the good kind.

• What exactly is "motorin'?"

• How effective would shouting at the devil really be? I mean, it's the DEVIL. Can't he just spear you with his pitchfork or take your soul or something?

• If you really wanna rock, can't you just, you know, do it?

• Where, exactly, should I jump? Do you mean in place?

• When he said I really wanted to lay it down, was he trash talking in a poker match?

Can you name all these songs and the artists?

Flimsy final table

If this was a final table, it was made with rickety metal legs, a thin coat of astroturf and gaudy markings showing you where the cards should be placed.

Granted, the Main Event of the WSOP is, ultimately, like any other tournament, and so you're going to have a mix. You're going to have the luckboxes and the pros, the skill players and the ones who give an "aw, shucks" when they outdraw yet again, the bad calls and the fantastic bluffs.

But that's not what I saw Tuesday.

I just saw horrible poker.

That could have been ESPN's coverage. In fairness, it's nearly impossible to whittle down that much poker to two+ hours with the understanding that you have to show the bustouts. But I'm going to judge this final table by what ESPN shows us, as that's what the general public will watch. They won't go to PokerNews or PokerWorks or the countless other poker sites to follow every hand. That's what we do.

The whole November Nine was made for the average television viewer in an effort to make it more of a sporting event. It worked last year. Ratings were up. I think I still hope they do it every year. I like the final table being a spectacle. 

But not if that's the poker we'll see.

The final table, at least what ESPN showed, did nothing to showcase poker as a skill game. The massive chip leader, Mr. Moon, played like he was in outer space. I don't think I've seen that horrible a performance at a final table. This is our biggest event of the year, and the guy who had most of the chips looked to the average viewer like he was a lucky logger and nothing else.

Now granted, I didn't see the heads up match, mainly because my DVR thought the show was only two hours long (and I wonder how many other viewers had that trouble), and he supposedly redeemed himself there. But Moon seemed like a country boy who got lucky, not a skilled poker player.

And how many times did Cada, our champion make reckless, foolish pushes, only to suck out with a two-outer? This is supposedly the best player in the world, the one who beat all the others, including the Man, Phil Ivey? I can't imagine what the average viewer, one who really doesn't have much understanding of how poker tournaments work, thinks.

It worries me. We want average viewers to watch this show. Again, that's why the November Nine was created, to put poker more into the mainstream. And then we bill the winner of this tournament as the World Champion. The average viewer, therefore, must think these are the best players in the world. That's what I think when I see the Yankees celebrating.

I saw all-in calls with mediocre hands like K-Q, no regard for stack sizes, gutless folds, even when the story made no sense, stupid, all-in bluffs and suckouts galore. In fact I can't think of a time when the best hand held up at a crucial moment. 

I would imagine the average television viewer probably can't either. And while we carp about how poker really is a skill game, seriously, no really it is, and hope that they overturn the stupid federal law that says it's gambling, I have to wonder what the everyman thinks.

Because if I'm everyman, after seeing the final table, I'm really wondering what's so hard about this supposed skill game, wondering why people scream about some law that says it is, and scraping together $10,000 through roulette, blackjack and craps, all so I can get my gamble on next year and hit it big, baby, just one time.

Edit: Oh, the heads up match is TONIGHT? Sweet. OK. Maybe that will help. :)

Race retch

There aren't many true adages that exist in running, much like there aren't many in poker, either. 

But there is one: You never know how you're going to feel until you start running.

Twice I've felt like total crap, once with a sinus infection, once with a horrible cold, both times bad enough to leave me wimpering like a kitten. Both times I PRd in races, the first in a 10K, when I broke 47 minutes for the first time, and the second this spring, in a half marathon.

Saturday was, unfortunately, quite the opposite.

I felt great as I lined up for my last half marathon of the year (probably until August of next year, actually). I was worried. I was doing my third half marathon in five weeks, and I ran good, hard times for the first two. I had no idea how my body would react to that. It's a lot. I knew it. I just wanted to see if I could do it.

I continued to feel good as I ran the first mile in 7:30. In fact, I usually gage my pace by how I'm breathing and how hard I'm flowing, and I flowed easy and wasn't breathing hard. I was stunned, in fact, to see my pace floating around 7:15 most of the time and found it hard to slow down. Well, shit, today is going to be a good day, I thought.

I was so, so wrong.

By mile 3, I reconsidered, as I gagged for the first time. For the next three miles, I managed to keep my pace above 8-minute-miles, but I almost tossed my cookies another three times. What the hell? I'd never felt that way, even during my 5Ks. 

By the time mile 7 came up, I was hurting, bad, and knew I wasn't going to PR. In fact, part of wondered if I was going to finish. And I couldn't do anything about it. It was 80 degrees, super hot for November in Colorado, and yet I couldn't take any water or Gatorade or a gel because I was afraid I'd puke it back up.

By mile 11, predictably, my pace slowed to a crawl, and I had to walk occasionally. 

I did finish - I wasn't NOT going to finish - but did horribly. I didn't even bother to see where I finished. I ran 1:54, or at a 8:47 pace. I ran 1:45 three weeks ago at the Denver Half.

But I was proud. I had a horrible day and pushed through it. I finished. And I wonder if it was just too much. That's what I'm thinking. 

If you see me in Vegas, I'll be on a running hiatus for a week or so. I'll start training as soon as I get back. I'll leave this race behind me, call it a good year and eagerly await the Thanksgiving run.

That's only 3.1 miles. I'm already looking forward to it.

Kids these days...

They got it so easy. SO easy. I was pondering how much easier my life would be if I were 14 today instead of back in 1985.

Why?

Read on.

(Disclaimer: Yes, this is a "when I was young, we didn't have..." post. I know the idea isn't original. Deal with it.)

• If I were 14 today, I wouldn't have had to watch a football game for 25 minutes to find out the score. Or if I wanted another score, I wouldn't have had to watch until halftime. The score's already there, in the corner, along with the scores of every other game. I wouldn't even have to watch the game at all. I could check ESPN or a billion other sites, along with stats and who had the ball and where they were on the field. I can even check the stats of my fantasy players at the click of a button.

Kids these days don't need to watch a game. They can get the score whenever they want.

• Fantasy players, you ask? If I were 14 today, if the Chiefs sucked (as they most certainly did back then, almost as much as they do today), I wouldn't have to pretend to like another team to drum up some interest in the NFL (Go Redskins!). I would have a fantasy team. Fantasy these days is the only reason I watch the NFL.

Kids these days can like sports even if their teams suck. They have fantasy teams.

• And if I were 14 today, I wouldn't have to wait for the beer commercial with the bikini babe ever year to prep my overactive imagination with a little, um, "me" time. I wouldn't have to trade Sports Illustrated Swimsuit pages with my overactive friends for fresh material or wait for the Sears catalog to come every year or root around in the 7/11 dumpsters for discarded Playboys or make a red-faced purchase of a swimwear catalog. I wouldn't have to rent "10" or "Revenge of the Nerds" and wait for my parents to go upstairs before I could watch it at 12:30 a.m. I'd have Internet porn. 

Kids these days don't even have to leave the house for "me" time.

• If I were 4 today, I wouldn't have had to rely on Saturday Morning Cartoons and watch those gay two-hour "preview" shows that revealed all the new SMCs that were coming to suck up soccer time (yay! A 'Pac-Man' cartoon!). Or Bugs Bunny, Woody Woodpecker or violent and semi-racist Tom and Jerry cartoons on a local channel that featured bad furniture commercials through a snowy screen that didn't come in when it rained outside. 

Kids these days have channels that show nothing but cartoons all the time. They're not as good as Bugs Bunny, but they kick Chilly Willy's ass.

• If I were 14, I wouldn't have to think that the blobs of light that were shooting at other blobs of light were the most kick-ass thing ever because I could play VIDEO GAMES AT HOME!!!!!1111111. I wouldn't have had to beg my Dad to take me to Malibu Grand Prix to spend my $5 bag of 25 tokens. True, they only cost a quarter back then, but they weren't worth much more than that, either. 

Kids these days have video game systems that totally kick ass. No blobs of light allowed.

• If I were 14 today, I wouldn't have had to wait by the radio for hours, listening to the same Flock of Seagulls song over and over, in the hopes of tape recording "Mr. Roboto," and when I did, it usually sounded like a whisper-thin song with an ocean crashing over the guitars and drums. If I wanted to see videos of the song, I wouldn't have to stay up until 3 a.m., my eyes like boulders, to see ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" on "Friday Night Videos." 

Kids these days can just download any song they want, anytime, and watch those same videos for free on YouTube. I even remember saying once to a friend, "Don't you wish you could just make any radio play any song you wanted at any time." And I wasn't even thinking of getting a perfect copy of the song and playing it on my crappy Walkman that skipped whenever I, say, breathed. I just wanted to record it off the radio whenever I wanted.

• If I were 14 today, I wouldn't have to pine over a yearbook photo of the girl I was crushing over and fantasizing over the way she signed my yearbook ("Have a cool summer! Hmmm"). I could just go to her Facebook page and stare at the thousands of shots at her in a bikini during her parents' trip to the lake. 

Kids these days have all kinds of ways to lurk.

If I were 14 today, I could buy something to drink at my school rather than sneaking out to down a 12-ounce can of pop over lunch or being forced to count to 3 at the water fountain. I could eat Taco Bell at my school. I could chat online with my girlfriend or just call her cell phone or even just text her rather than having to ask her father if she were there and then having to go to the basement just to talk for a few minutes alone on the phone.

If I were 14 today, life would be so much easier.

But I don't know if it would be as much fun.

Steely Dan snow show 10-29-09

I looked around at all the work casual clothes, the patches of balding hair and bifocal glasses, the retired beatniks with graying goatees, the women in dressed usually reserved for office Christmas parties and the soft conversations back in their comfy seats.

Was this a rock concert or an orchestra performance? I'd played at many more orchestra performances than attended them, so I can't be sure. But I could say that this was definitely different than most of the rock concerts I'd attended.

Where were the black T-shirts? The AC/DC playing in the background? The, um, people my age?

Of course, I didn't care. After a white-knuckle drive through Colorado's first major snowstorm of the year (more than a foot), where my car occasionally skated more than drove, I was happy to be there with all my major organs. Besides, I admitted that I, myself, was wearing basically the same outfit, without the Dockers or loafers and with a slightly hipper black sweater and Nikes.

And I had always wanted to see Steely Dan.

Steely Dan ranks in the top 5 of my all-time favorite groups. I have the box set and know all the words (the ones I can decipher, anyway), and I'm one of those who roll their eyes when someone calls himself a fan because he knows "Reelin' in the Years," like the hardcore fans of Led Zeppelin who don't want the band to play "Rock and Roll" at a show.

It's an odd mix, yes, my love for loud, crunchy guitars, fast drums and screaming vocals coupled with a band that could be played at coffee shops. But it comes from my background in jazz bands and love for original artists. I still love jazz, and there isn't much better than Steely Dan.

I've always considered them a jazz band with rock tendencies, not the other way around, and sure enough, the band proved it at Thursday's concert. The opening act was an organ jazz trio (imagine THAT at a Metallica show), and when the Dan band came out, the four-piece horn section opened with a combo tune and each took a turn soloing. Can you imagine Slayer hitting the stage and noodling around on "Fly Me To the Moon?" Yeah, me either. Several times during the show, the band played different arrangements and the solos were improvised, not memorized pieces from the albums. It was as much a jazz concert as it was a rock and roll show.

I went alone, partly because I get to go to a show like once a year, so I tend to splurge when I go (I paid $150 for nearly front-row seats), and partly because it's Steely Dan, and partly because I'm lame. But it didn't matter. There were many who joined me, intent on the music and not dancing around. Several just sat there and listened. It was, again, like an orchestra concert, or more like we were there to see Wynton Marsalis. I was starting to feel pretty fucking sophisticated and shit.

Then I smelled the pot.

I never know where the pot comes from. I never really find it. I don't have Pauly's nose or radar (or a girlfriend who gets baked more than brownies at a Martha Stewart show). It was a nice reminder that this was still a rock concert, even if we were sitting down and I wasn't thrashing my head back and forth like it was attached to a Slinky.

As The Dan launched into its full performance of "Aja," I was reminded why I love the band so much. The guys don't tour often, which was one reason I'd never seen them (another is because, again, I'm lame). It's easy to see why. The music is fucking HARD. The Dan needed two guitarists (including the brilliant Walter Becker), a pianist, three female backup singers, the horn section (bari sax, tenor, trumpet and trombone), bass and drums, in addition to Donald Fagen's vocals and organ work, to pull it off. And I was amazed at how many times the Dan NAILED the complex songs, tempos and changes (jazz musicians regularly include their music among the Miles Davis and Charlie Parker in their sets).

Fagen didn't speak to the crowd during the "Aja" set, preferring to pretend the record was on during a cocktail party (one of the female singers even "put on" the record on a beat-up turntable, and the band was so serious about playing along with the illusion, she switched to side B halfway through).

I love "Aja," and it did make me realize how much we miss these days by not owning albums anymore (I'm guilty of this myself, choosing to download singles probably 90 percent of the time). It's so awesome when you get a record that plays seamlessly from start to finish, with the powerhouse tunes ("Peg," "Deacon Blues," "Black Cow" and "Josie" blending well with the few weaker tracks on the record. The weaker tracks ("Home at Last") were there to give us a break before we got our socks rocked off again. More bands should play albums in full; it's a perfect way to enjoy the first half of a show.

The Dan played an hour and a half after that, maybe rewarding us a bit for traveling through the icy roads and snowy air.

There were two minor missteps. One was near the end of the show, when the band played "Dirty Work," one of the band's first major hits (it might have been the very first), and since it's one of the few tracks not sung by Fagen, the girls took turns singing the lines. It was nice to hear the trio featured on a song, but it came across far too karaoke for a band of the Dan's caliber. And I'm being greedy, but I wish the guys had played at least one song from their last two albums, including "Two Against Nature," which earned them their only Grammys.

My highlights included "Bodhisattva" (few bands could pull that one off so well live), "Don't Take Me Alive" (my favorite song by the band), "Time Out of Mind" and a cool arrangement of "Show Biz Kids."

And, of course, "Reelin' in the Years." The band played it as an encore. The crowd rushed the stage and cheered the loudest.

That's OK. It really is a great song.

Set List:

First set

The Complete "Aja" album:

Black Cow

Aja

Deacon Blues

Peg

Home At Last

I Got The News

Josie

Second set (not in order)

Black Friday

Bodhisattva

Hey Nineteen

Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More (sung by Walter Becker)

Dirty Work

Don't Take Me Alive

Time Out of Mind

Babylon Sisters

My Old School

Kid Charlemagne

Reelin' In The Years - Encore

No "Do It Again." Phooey.

All Hallow's Eve

We went to a trick or treating event at an old town museum in Greeley. Christmas gets a Christmas Eve, so why can't Halloween have several different events?

Leaving it all behind - the Denver Half Marathon

It started with a little friendly bantering. I expected that. I was proudly wearing my Jayhawk shirt, as I always do, but I was surrounded by people foolishly wearing University of Colorado gold.

I was at Saturday night's football game, and when you venture into enemy territory, you have to expect some ribbing. Only the guy, with his kid, kept up the ribbing when CU scored, and then it became on every play, even a three-yard run. SEE THE SPEED? he proclaimed? Or a Jayhawk dropped a ball. I THOUGHT YOU GUYS COULDN'T CATCH. When CU scored again and took at 27-3 lead, he popped me in the chest. SEE? My eyes flashed a bit at that chest smack. Kate told me later she prayed I would keep my cool. I may not have a few years ago.

But I was running the Denver Half Marathon the next day.

I left him at the first mile.

I used to be a Type A. A is for Anal and uptight and wound. I would get into shouting matches with opposing players on softball squads and once came close to a brawl. I would worry about the future, even if the future looked bright enough for shades (enter harmonica here). I would sweat the small stuff. Profusely.

Mountain climbing was pretty much the only thing that would help, and that, unfortunately, was seasonal. 

I've mellowed, and events like the Denver Half Marathon are reasons why.

Around mile 3, as the sun starts to shine over downtown and bathe Coors Field in orange light, I leave worries about the economy. Around mile 5, I no longer shake my head about being duped, like everyone else in the media and law enforcement, by the bubble boy hoax (the family, being from Fort Collins, ensnared an unusual amount of our time and ink space at the Greeley Tribune).

Andie, Allie and Jayden, I love you, but I leave you behind around mile 9. Running was probably the only thing that kept me sane when you all were infants. At 4, 2 and 2, you continue to test me in special, strange ways - fits over wanting the blue cup, for instance - and its better to leave you all on a race course rather than yell them out in your face.

Around mile 10, it's me at the large, looming hill, and I no longer care about anything but the top.

Around mile 13, with just a .1 to go, I repeat, in my head, to finish strong. There is nothing left to leave but the shadows.

You've seen the shadows. They're symbolic. The shadows in front of me represent my goals for the future. The shadows beside me are my running partners and life partners, the ones who encourage me to push my limits. And as I race to the finish, the shadows behind me are the many worries and frustrations in my life, as they struggle, in vain, to keep up.

Edit for stats:

1:45. I finished 450/4480 runners in the half marathon. 8:04 pace.