Pauly Pimpin

I'll be here tonight despite my new rule of no poker on Monday or Tuesday. I may have to sacrifice the Mookie (and a chance to be on Live Poker Radio/Buddy Dank Radio) until next week for this.

We'll see if the life crap allows me to play both.


P.S. I'd also like to pimp Truckin, but I really don't want to go through the hassle of linking all those stories...is there any easy way to plug in the Truckin template and all those links into blogger? Any ideas?

If you give a toddler some french fries....

If you give a toddler some french fries....
He's going to want some "dippy dippy."
When you begin to pour the ranch/ketchup/mustard/bbq sauce on his plate, he's going to want to do it himself.
When he reaches for the sauce, he'll knock over his juice, spilling it all over the table.
You'll grab a washrag to clean it up.
When he sees you're not looking, he'll put his hand smack in the middle of the sauce and begin licking it off his fingers.
Then he'll rub it in his hair.
He'll ask for you to clean it off after he sees the washrag.
The washrag will bring back memories of the juice on the floor yesterday in the other room.
That will remind him of his new Hot Wheels car on the floor in the other room, getting him out of his seat at the dinner table for the 26th time that night.
When he's in the other room, he'll see the back of the TV, where he'll try to hide while he poops.
After he's done pooping, you'll need to change him. He'll stick is finger in the back of the underwear and come out with a poopy finger.
He'll want you to look at it.
When you're done washing his hands, he'll see the bathtub.
He'll want to take a bath.
When he's done, he'll climb out of the tub fired up and want to maul and wrestle his sisters.
He will, repeatidly, despite their protests.
That will get him in time out.
On his way to time out, he'll see his empty juice cup.
He'll want some juice.
The juice will bring him back to the table and the uneaten burger on his plate.
And when he sees the burger...
Chances are he'll want some french fries.


P.S. This blog post inspired by the children's classic "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" by Laura Numeroff and Felicia Bond.

Crap

I heard a rumor.
(They say you got a broken heart. Pop quiz: Who is this 80s band?)
No. This rumor involves toliet training. They say that girls are much easier to train than boys.
I truly hope so.
God, do I hope so.
Jayden has learned how to pee in the potty and does so on a fairly regular basis.
He has yet to poop in the potty.
I understand. Pooping is a pretty personal thing, kind of like rubbing one out. Whenever I'm at work, if someone's in the stall, I don't take the empty one. I wait it out. I like my privacy.
Jayden, apparently, does too. He now hides when he's crapping his pants. Sometimes it's behind the TV, or outside by the slide, or maybe in the corner of the house where we can't see him from the back deck. Occasionally he goes under the kitchen table.
He's also taken to holding it at times.
Nice.
I'm not angry at him. I did these things when I was his age as well. Maybe I was a little later even.
But any tricks? We've tried bribery. We've tried soothing. We've tried insistence, although we haven't tried that that often because we don't want this to be a power struggle. Monkeys throwing feces is what happens in a power struggle. Lord knows we don't want that.

Giving Up or Giving in?

The pain hit like a pair of little knives, one for each side, and my legs went weak.
You never really know how you're going to feel in a 5K until you start, and Saturday was a perfect example. I felt great before the race, and I steamed to a 6:53 start for the first mile. That's a little fast, but given the way I'd been running lately, it wasn't going to kill me.
At least, I didn't think so. The pain got worse. And at that point, you have two options. The first is backing off a bit, trying to breathe through the hurt while keeping a good pace and suffering for 15 more minutes until you cross the line.
I've done that before. I did it this year, during the Bolder/Boulder 10K. I was proud after I finished with a personal best.
Only I didn't want to do that this time.
For some reason, my personal will had turned to Crisco, and so I chose option number two.
I quit.
I didn't stop, nor did I walk. But I stopped running hard. I essentially let my discomfort dictate the race, and three weeks after I finished with one of my best times ever, I finished with my worst time since I began running seriously three years ago.
I'm still not sure what went wrong. Maybe I did start too fast. Maybe I'm not as fast as I thought. Maybe I'm just exhausted. Maybe it's just all of it.
Since the twins were born, I was determined to push the exhaustion aside and keep living my life the way it should be lived. That meant I would continue to run, seriously, and climb mountains and watch a movie late into the night if that's what I wanted to do.
I made some concessions. I climb maybe three or four times a year now, a steep decline from what it once was, and that's OK. But I refused to make excuses. Everyone has things they deal with and continue to live their lives.
Yet lately either I'm getting weaker, or they're getting stronger. Regardless, I feel right now like I'm losing the battle.
It's taking its toll on me. And I'm allowing it to happen.
Why now? I have no idea. It might be that they're teething. Or that they're still not sleeping through the night. Or that Jayden has suddenly developed his 3-year-old personality, which seems to be equal parts stubbornness, sass and the word "no. Or maybe it's all of it and the ethanol in my tank is down to fumes.
But I am going to bed now at 10 p.m., after a bit of reading, writing or a smidge of online poker. I used to hate going to bed so early, when I could use the extra time staying up allowed. Now I'm simply too tired.
I will climb this year, but only two more times. I will race twice more, maybe only once more. And now, as Saturday's 5K shows, there's no guarantee that I'll be as tough as I should be.
Am I allowing myself to give in every once in a while, or am I just giving up? That's the debate that's circling through my head today.

Less is more

My win rate is up. Am I playing better poker?
A little. I lost the minimum with a set when I thought the guy hit his flush and was trying to check-raise me. He only got a small value bet outta me on the river.
Then again, I could not fold Q-Q to an obvious A-A last night as well. But that was in the Mookie. No one folds that pre-flop in the Mookie in the later stages.
But I'm playing about as well as I have in the last year, which means a grinder's existence playing $50 NL on Bodog and PokerStars. This year I might actually clear a $2,500 profit. Hey, hey, ladies, back off the fur coat. There's enough for everyone here. Who wants a ride in my Mercedes first?
So what's the difference? A couple months ago, I decided to play less.
I really love poker, and I had not realized how much of a part of my life it had become until I took a hard look at how often I was playing. And the answer was every freaking night.
The routine was basically come home, dinner, get the kids to bed, get a workout in or run, then play online poker for a couple hours and go to bed. It was easy to settle into this routine because quite frankly, given the stress in my life (twins are stressful, by the way), I really didn't want to do anything else other than zone out. And online poker is a great way to zone out. Three tables and the world around me grows silent. Online poker was the eye of my life's hurricane.
The only problem was I was paying for that. Mondays and Tuesdays are not the best nights to play. My theory is that the average online player, i.e. the ones we love to hate, gets their fill on the weekend and wants nothing to do with poker on Monday and the first day back at work. Tuesday isn't much different from Monday. They were leaks.
By the time Thursday rolls around, the cash games seem to loosen up again. Maybe that's because some workers have Friday off, or Friday is an easier day, or much of the fish simply gets the urge to play again after a few days' rest.
That's when I hop back in.
It's been nice to take a couple days off each week. I've watched more movies, dug into more books or caught up on some DVR shows (many are poker, but that's OK, at least I'm not playing, right?). Or lately I've battled the kids' teething problems, and to be honest, sometimes poker offers the same amount of frustration as that, so at least that attention going to my kids and not some douchebag at a cartoon table.
As a result, I've enjoyed poker more when I'm playing it. I'm not making as many stupid calls, I'm more selective and, to my amazement, the suckouts are bothering me less, not more.
Poker is less of a job and more of a fun hobby.
Which is how it should be.

Whiny post about my twins

I'll keep this short, but the girls are teething right now.
(Edit: Like, their eyeteeth and molars and whatever else, maybe some fangs. Sorry for the fix. I'm tired).
Life is hell, in other words.
Last night we put the girls down at 6:30 p.m. I mowed the front, we put Jayden down, and I wrote a couple freelance stories, including the post below. I folded some laundry. Then I settled in with a book, ready to enjoy my last hour before bed. This is exactly the downtime I need to restore myself.
And then Andie started crying.
I sat with her for about 20 minutes, fed her and then put her back down.
She bawled.
Kate got up to sit with her and then put her back down.
Bawled.
Then Allie woke up.
The end result was two hours of screaming from one twin or another, which I think really highlights the joy of twins. Last night, if you had asked me if you could make one disappear, I would have said yes. Don't ask me to pick which one.
I think the toughest thing about being an introvert is needing alone time to recharge. I wish I could get my energy from being with others, rather than it draining my tank, because that time just isn't happening much these days. Sometimes being a parent just sucks especially if you're an introvert.
Then they woke up at 5:30 a.m. and would not go back to sleep.
They say these are the best years of your life. And then I just laugh and laugh.

Get intense with Poker Intensity

If you stitched all the poker information Web pages together, you could make a quilt that would cover California.
Or you could just go to Poker Intensity and find a lot of that information in one place.
Poker Intensity offers information on poker terms, horse betting and the best online casinos. That's all pretty standard, of course, but three things about this site stuck out.
One is a poker odds calculator. That's nothing new, but this one was incredibly easy to use. It was far easier, for instance, than PokerStove. I was able to plug in my hands quickly and easily through its clean interface. I'll use it again for sure.
The second is the site's guide for new players. It answers questions on how to avoid scams, how to protect yourself against fraud and the best way to fund an account (on this last point, the site recommends NETeller, oops, but then again this site isn't just for U.S. players).
The third is the site's impressive guide to online poker rooms. Now we've seen thousands of sites that offer guides to online poker rooms, but usually these are just glorified rewrites of what you can find on the poker room's home page. Not here. You'll find ratings and long, well-written tips on the best features of each site.
The site is extensive and covers customer support, the cashier and a sign-up bonus as well as whether the room offers referrals, details on the software and its financial security and stability.
This section also sparks my only complaint. It seems to me the site isn't tough enough on some rooms. In fairness, the site bashes Absolute Poker, but here's what is says about Ultimate Bet:
"A Safe Bet. UltimateBet is extremely secure and stable. They are one of the best poker rooms in the world. UltimateBet is a licensee of the Kahnawake gaming commission and has been online since 2001. Your money is safe with UltimateBet."
Um, yeah.
So I'd encourage the site to be more up-to-date with its information and try to present more unbiased reviews. But that's my only beef. If you're looking for a place to play poker , you might want to check out Poker Intensity, as you'll learn a lot of information without wading through hundreds of Web pages to get it.


***The following was a paid review of Pokerintensity.com.

Snowdrift Peak

I learned how to climb in the summer, usually in late July or early August, with two of my climbing buddies, Mike and Jack. They're almost one entity, MikeandJack. Dad met the two on a hike, and as we got more experience and began climbing harder and more remote peaks, we started to plan out our trips together.
Jack, an English professor who writes historical novels, now lives in Estes Park and Mike comes back for a month.
Even when I moved here, and Dad had a baby and stopped hiking, and I began chasing the 14ers, I met with them for a few hikes every summer.
It finally slowed, but never stopped, even when I had kids. It did slow to almost a crawl, once a year, and last year the twins were born and I didn't go at all.
Friday, at 2:30 a.m., I left my house to do another hike with MikeandJack (and Paul, a retired doctor who lives in Estes Park).
We climbed Snowdrift Peak, a mountain that gets climbed maybe 10 times a year in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a long, hard, epic day, and today my body is yelling at me at times.
But it was worth it.
Why?
Here are the photos.

New Album 7/19/08 10:18 AM

This is a poker post!

Anyone else watching the cash game on Poker After Dark?
It's really a good mix.
I mean, I know that watching poker on TV is SO 2005. But I still love it. I'm really jacked for ESPN's World Series of Poker coverage starting Tuesday. And I am loving PAD.
But let's be honest. I don't get out much.Though I am climbing a mountain Friday. Man, I'm rambling. Get back on track, Peaker.
OK, sorry. "Durr" is a fantastic player. Most of them on Poker After Dark, actually.
Except for Phil Hellmuth.
I'm going to say nothing new here. In fact I'll bet my traffic drops as soon as this post goes up.
But Hellmuth is such a jackass, and the act is getting old. In fact, it's also SO 2005. It really has started to screw with my enjoyment of the whole show. This is what happens when you allow a guy to wear a bathrobe to work (how's that for a weak-tight analogy, kind of like my play at the Mookie last night). He starts to think he can say anything, forget to shave (this analogy is going nowhere I'd better drop it) and then he slaps on some Brut instead of showering. Anything goes.
It's a tired, tired act. You could see the other players visibly uncomfortable with his antics. And the thing was, he made some terrible plays. I realize the guy has 11 bracelets but he played TERRIBLE. He checked a hand down with K,A on a King-high flop after re-raising in position and then bitched when his aggressive opponent caught up. Then he bragged about "how much money he saved."
I don't need to go on. We all know he's a jackass. This post is about as original as raising with the hammer. Maybe less. But I really wish he'd move on to a new act.
Its time for Hellmuth Part II. And I know sequels aren't very imaginative. But maybe just once we'll get one that will surprise us.

P.S. Had A-K, went all in with a pathetic M, was facing A-10 heads up, 10 on the turn. Ahhh. It's good to be back. :)

Kit to surviving Salina, Kan., with two twins and a toddler

I decided to be a good husband and somewhat good father and made the trip out to Salina, Kan. with my wife and the twins and toddler for a four-day trip.
I would have picked Okie-Vegas, myself, but then Kate would have ranked me just below the mosquitoes that have caused Jayden to get huge red welts on his back.
Kate makes this trip every year with her family. Salina just happens to be where I worked for five years before moving to Greeley, so it's not all bad.
But the trip was not easy.
In fact, if I didn't have my kit to survival, I may not have made it, or I would have at least written another whiny post like the one below, which is nearly as bad.
So I present it to you. You may substitute "Salina" for "Any Lame City, U.S.A." with the in-laws.

1. Patience. Patience. The patience Iggy showed in his awesome WSOP run. If you ask why, you've obviously never taken an eight-hour trip with one-year-old twins and an easily bored 3-year-old. And, really, I wouldn't wish that on anyone, except maybe those responsible for Sept. 11. It ran out at 11:30 p.m. in a hotel room in Goodland, Kan., when the kids still didn't go down after an hour, but no rants escaped my mouth that night. I almost cried, but that's another story.

2. Earplus or a good iPod - I chose the iPod and listened to old Ante-Up podcasts. Try strapping a twin in a car seat for eight hours and watch what happens. It's fun. Just bring something to help with decible levels that will turn your eardrums into pools of searing pain, even eardrums already numbed by years of Metallica and Iron Maiden concerts (and trumpets, but the metal concerts makes me sound a lot cooler).

3. Tolerance for all things fried or otherwise bad for you - Only someone who lived in the midwest for as long as I did could have the tolerance for the diet I exhibited this weekend. So I don't suggest you dive in. When I ran seven miles today I could still feel grease leaking from my pores.

4. A DVD player - Remember the old days when your parents expected you to spend three straight days in the car with an Etch-A-Sketch and Mad Libs to keep you entertained? Yeah, me too. But I don't begrudge our kids for getting to, like, watch movies and TV shows while we pound the pavement with our mini-van. In fact, thank God for it. Jayden was a very good boy for those two days in the car. If he was acting as bad as the twins, I don't think I would have survived. But the DVD player numbed his brain just enough to keep him quiet.
Still, god DAMN that DVD would have been nice when I was 8.

5. A Dial-A-Shot call from friends - I got a rare (OK, my first, I'm not as popular as you, OK?) Dial-A-Shot call late Friday night, and hearing this guy's voice and knowing that lots of others I have come to call friends were thinking of me really helped me through Saturday's car trip back. Now next time I'll leave my damn phone on past 9 p.m. Friday instead of watch "Once" on my laptop (although what a terrific movie it was).

6. A Coffee Shop - Kate's grandmother does not have Internet, so I had to seek out a coffee place one afternoon in Salina to send off a couple stories and...OK, mostly to scratch my itch. I even played 10 hands of poker because I missed it so much. I lost $2.
I'll never buy anything but a laptop again.
Oh, and I apologize there hasn't been much poker on this blog, but really, there's a lot better players who score a lot more than me every single night. I just play three $.25/.50 tables four nights a week and slowly build my bankroll. Booooring.

7. A huge box of crappy toys - I am talking the kinds you find in a Carl's Jr. meal, not even the quality stuff you get in a Happy Meal. But any new toy, one two certain twin girls haven't seen before, will stop the fuss for two minutes, and that's two minutes of pure gold.

8. A pair of running shoes - But be careful, Salina, like most places, is a humid, swampy, hot mess in the summer (and how do you people stand it?), so running intervals is probably not a good idea at 4 p.m.

9. An understanding family - I've decided what I needed to say here and have decided to take most of it down after getting it off my chest. I'm still disappointed in Kate's siblings' sulking at the twins' and Jayden's crying and noise.
That's because parents of twins, we're sensitive to all the stares we get in restaurants and whispers behind our backs (probably overly sensitive, to be honest) and we quite frankly don't need that from our family.
At least Kate's mother and grandmother pitched in and were a lot more understanding.

10. A video camera - How else are you going to record all the wonderful memories? And there were a few. Seriously.

One very long, very hard session

You need three things to raise twins and a toddler.
Energy, a sense of humor and patience.
I ran out of all three Sunday night.
Jayden started screaming about a half hour after I got home from work Sunday night. I'm still not sure what set him off, but it was probably residuals from pacifier withdraw. We took it away a few weeks ago, and after a few days of him acting like a tweaker without his needles, he's beaten it for good.
Except, of course, for these midnight outbursts where he is in an unreachable state, almost like he has autism (with apologies to parents who actually have autistic kids). Nothing works with him. You just have to ride it out.
Well, his screaming fits numbered one, two, three, and on the third, he woke up both of the girls.
Now I am an introvert in the worse sense, and all that means is being around people really wears me down. On the weeknights it's not a huge deal because I know I still need to get the kids dinner and baths and bed. But Sunday I've usually spent all morning and afternoon dealing with the kids, then work is almost always really busy. So when I come home on Sundays, I'm running on fumes until I can get some alone time and get at least a little of my energy back.
This is, by far, the most difficult part of having kids for me. Energy restoration, i.e. alone time, is in short supply.
So of course, I'm still on fumes when I sighed and went to get Andie, and after a short fight, I got a bottle ready. She didn't want the bottle. I tried rocking her. It seemed to work, until I put her back in her crib.
We tried to let them cry it out, but they're teething right now (again, I'm not sure why evolution decided that having sharp things poke out from your gums one at a time for a year was a good idea), and they screamed for a good half hour.
One of the many fun things about twins is crying it out rarely works when they're both awake because they feed off each other.
So I went to pick up Andie and Kate went to get Allie and Andie fought me like a badger. Nothing would calm her down. She was too worked up, and I even dug out infant tricks like shusshing in the ear and walking and rocking, even though she's almost 14 months now, and nothing worked. I literally fought her for 15-20 minutes before Kate put a sleeping Allie in her crib. When Kate came in I handed Andie off like a football, totally frazzled, completely spent and almost insane.
And that's when Jayden started screaming again and woke Allie up.
In my Boot Camp for New Dads class I say there will be moments when you will be angry enough to hurt your children. Some prospective fathers look at me in shock. That's because they don't know. My boot camp vets, the guys with new babies, look at me and nod their heads. They know.
I don't know if I was there last night, but I was close. I went into Jayden's rooms and told him to shut the F up because he woke up his sisters AGAIN. Kate, still holding a screaming Andie, rushed in and kicked me out. She knew. It was time to leave. It's OK to feel that angry as long as you recognize it and take a time out when you do. It was time for an adult time out.
I went downstairs for a break on the couch.
Five minutes later, Kate was still struggling with both, so I went upstairs, took Andie from her, and sat. She calmed down fairly quickly, and I gave her Motrin and a bottle, and she took it, and then she went to sleep.

Tonight we start driving to Salina, Kan., my old stomping grounds and home to Kate's grandmother and the annual vacation with my in-laws. The drive, and most likely the trip, will try my patience, even when I"m on fumes. Wish me luck.
I'll need something to ensure I don't fail again like I did last night.

Poisonous

People say things all the time they don't mean. "We should get together." "Call me." "No, you don't look fat in that." They're ways to close out a conversation or survive a talk with your spouse.
So I was skeptical when Rikki Rockett from Poison said after my interview for the Greeley Tribune that, "I should come backstage and say hi," I figured it was just something to say.
But I did something I usually never do.
I took him up on it.
I contacted Poison's manager, told her what she said and explained that, if there was no way to come through, I would of course understand. I think I said this seven or eight times.
It had been a long week. After I did a cover story with Bobby the Bass Player on the band for Saturday's show at the Stampede, our annual two-week hick-fest, rodeo and excuse to eat lots of deep-fried foods on a stick, a few days ago Rockett released a statement saying he never would have agreed to play had he known the Stampede was a rodeo. I put out feelers through SHARK, the animal-rights organization who helped organize his statements, and within 10 minutes Rockett called me back on a break from rehearsal. I wrote the story that day.
Well, as you can imagine, we don't take kindly to such fluff (I actually think Rockett had a good point and spoke well, but Greeley, which was built on the fortunes of a meat-industry powerhouse, doesn't exactly concern itself with the feelings of animals). Saturday Bret Michaels, who has his own wacked-out show to worry about, released his own statement blasting Rockett for his statements a few days later.
It made for good ink, and though I'm usually not the kind of journalist who thrives on that sort of thing, occasionally it's an OK treat, kind of like eating a deep-fried something on a stick.
Anyway, Poison's manager wrote me back, and Saturday I went up to the box office fully expecting to be turned down. It didn't matter, we already had tickets purchased by my friend, Jared, for his birthday, so it wouldn't have really ruined the evening. But the lady at the ticket window came back with an envelope.
Backstage passes.
Sweet.
I tend to get nervous about such things, as I've documented my worries about stuff like the blogger gathering. Artists have such a demand on them, and I hate to be one of those people who just wants a piece of them. But after a shot or two of Jager and an MGD, and my friend's general drunkeness, I got over it. We slapped the pink passes on our chest and ventured backstage.
"Backstage" at the Stampede isn't exactly glamorous. It's back by the arena stage. Sorry, no lingerie-draped velvet rooms with champagne everywhere. Here we were trying not to just step on the horse shit. But, still, it got us an ear to the drama.
A half-hour before the show started, two of the four guys from the Spin Doctors were apparently lost and Poison was nowhere to be found. The guys from Poison, either from all the drama or the fact that they just don't like each other, period, all took separate buses. Maybe that's standard, I don't know, but a part of me doubts it (gas prices, after all).
I had fun talking to the program director from a local radio station here that plays some hair metal. Poison didn't come through with a meet-and-greet for some listeners after the station had promoted it for two weeks and he was understandably pissed about it. I'm not sure if that was the Stampede's or Poison's fault. I guess at that point it doesn't matter. When the Stampede knew the show was going to be late, workers asked him to stall, and he told them he was going to "throw things out for the crowd and then get the hell off the stage." I loved it.
Sure enough, the Spin Doctors did show, and because of inebriated state and general "Fuck it, how many times have you wanted to be backstage and now we're finally here" attitude, he got some photos I snapped with him and the band. He loves the Spin Doctors. I think they're sorta meh although they did put on a good show.
We went backstage again after the intermission and sniffed around. Poison seemed to be playing hide and seek with the meet-and-greeters, although I also wasn't sure why. Again, It may not have been the band. We were about to go back in when Jared spotted Rockett, said, "well, YOU talked to him" and darted off for him. The show was starting in just a couple minutes, and Donovan, my other buddy, turned to me and said, "What the hell." We raced up and got a quick shot. He thanked me for the story and was a very cool guy.
OK, I had my moment and was ready to rock out now.
Rock out we did. Poison put on a good show, better than I thought they would. They got off tempo a few times but otherwise their songs were clean and they harmonized well. Michaels voice was giving out by the end but all the songs sound good, even the ones I hate, like "Unskinny Bop."
We went backstage once again after the show, but I was tired and ready to leave. When two 22-somethings came up to me in pink tops and looked all glittery, they asked how they could meet the band. I looked them over and gave a chuckle.
"I think you've got a better chance than we do," I told them.
And then I left, happy to have the tunes from my high school days still ringing in my ears.






Jared with the lead singer of the Spin Doctors





Jared with Rikki Rockett of Poison (no fair,why am I with one with the camera all the time?)






Poison in all its glory

Ante Up raises the stakes of an award-winning Podcast

Ante Up!, the best Podcast on poker (and co-starring our favorite card player, Columbo, ), is venturing out on its own after years of its association with the St. Petersburg Times.
I am a big fan of the Podcast now, and so I did a story on the move for Pokerworks. I enjoyed interviewing Scott Long and loved putting together a story for them.


Here's the story.


Make sure you check out their new Web site and update your links to the Podcast Friday, when the new site launches.

What to wear (or not)

Nothing probably reflects my personality more than my closet.
Most of it is filled with bland, conservative shirts, the kind you buy at Kohl's (40 percent off). You'll find T-shirts from my races, a bunch of 14ers T-shirts and a couple snarky T-shirts with a poker saying or maybe something clever from Las Vegas (what happens in Vegas STAYS in Vegas, chortle chortle chortle).
There are a few black concert T-shirts from the glory days.
And so I ask you.
Poison comes to town Saturday night at the Greeley Stampede.
What the hell do I wear?
I could wear said concert T-shirts, except I really only have Iron Maiden and Metallica, and I have a feeling that might scare some Poison fans. And my Def Leppard Hysteria shirt, something for the masses, is pretty ratted out by now. In fact I think it's gone.
Plus I don't want to be that guy. You know, the guy who wears concert T-shirts to concerts just to prove how many concerts he's been to. I usually am that guy.
I don't want to be that guy Saturday.
I cant' really wear one of those slightly outdoorsy, Kohls shirts can I? (Columbia, the brand of the Colorado sorta-but-not-really hip adventurers. You can wear it at work AND on a 14er!). Won't that be out of place at a Poison concert? I realize most of the audience will consist of people just like me, 30-plus guys who listen to too much Arena Rock in an attempt to relive the glory days of copping a feel in a parents' basement while Whitesnake warned us about the Still of the Night. Most of those guys, usually saddled with young children (probably not 1-year-old twins, but you never know), dress like me. So maybe I'm safe.
But how boring. This is a metal concert! Well, sorta a metal concert! I should let my hair down! (If I had any left from my mullet days).
I have no leather tops, leather pants or leather boots. I have no snakeskin vests.
I got nothin'.

So what would you wear? Semi-hip-but-not-really Kohl's outfit? Black concert T-shirt? Snarky T-Shirt? One of my Rainforest, nice, Vegas shirts that sorta looks like a bowling shirt?
I need some fashion advice.
Fire away.

A trip to remember

I lead a group of hikers from a gym in Fort Collins, CO every year. I pick three 14ers and I guide them up. I have climbed all the 14,000-foot mountains in Colorado, so I do it for the money and the chance to get paid while spending a day away from the demands of the kids. These are beginners, so the 14ers I have to do with this group really aren't worth repeating too often.

I have to admit, I was disappointed in the numbers from our first climb, up Mount Sherman, a 14,036-foot mountain. I get paid by the numbers and I thought maybe this hike was a waste of time, and time is precious at my house.

Then, right before the summit, one of my clients, a newbie, told me she was diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago, and that this was the first "big thing" she was doing after beating it.

The first picture you see is of Mount Sherman. The second is of her taking her last few steps up the summit. The last is her sliding down a snowfield, something I showed her how to do safely, which made her squeal like a schoolgirl.

The trip was special. It reminded me that what I do as a guide sometimes is more important than money.

Booked until besotted

I have demons. Some might laugh at that. Most probably would.
My demons don't have anything to do with gambling - I have yet to touch a table game in Vegas. I rarely drink too much - I was barely buzzed during last December's gathering. And I've never done drugs, except for a bit of pot, and that was years ago and was never, ever even remotely a problem.
No, my demons come from that little person inside that whispers to me whenever I do something like attend a gathering of bloggers.
"You know," the person whispers, "what makes you think you'll fit in?"
I can climb any mountain in Colorado, run a half marathon or ski a black diamond (sometimes, not very well), but going out to see a group of people still scares me.
I'm booked for my December trip. I'm going alone this year. I'm heading out Thursday and I'll leave Sunday afternoon. It'll be a nice vacation.
I may have to rage solo Thursday. I hope not but if that's the case, I'm set for that. But I hope it's not the whole trip.
Now I'm not totally concerned about that, but I remember last year, I had Mr. High on Poker as a roommate, and it was nice to have a set crew to hang with, someone to check in with during the whole trip. As pathetic as it sounds, Jordan was my security blanket, and it made me comfortable to meet a bunch of new people without breaking out in hives.
My anal, planning personality already wants to know who's doing what and when, so I know I won't be stuck out there among groups of friends who already know each other.
Stupid. I feel needy, and I've always prided myself on not being needy. I hate needy people. Yet...I'm kinda being needy.
The wild thing is I love being alone. If you'd read this blog for more than two weeks, I've probably made that pretty clear.
As I was writing this yesterday, Andie got up five times in an hour, and the last time I got her, she looked at me and just lay her head on my shoulder.
That's OK, sweetie. I understand. I guess everyone needs some reassurance every once in a while.



P.S. I did book a double bed, so if someone wants to room with me, I may take offers. E-mail me or comment in the story. Although room rates were only $200 for three nights. Pretty nice.

Review of Motley Crue's new album

Motley Crue, America's poets, are back with a heartfelt collection of songs to soothe the soul.
Entitled "Saints of Los Angeles," this tribute to their glory days as soothsayers reflects the triumphs of their past life. The all-white cover, simply decorated with a cross, truly reflects the deep, spirit-searching lyrics that await you.
With songs entitled "This ain't a love song, this is a fuck song" and "Motherfucker Of The Year," these tunes speak to your heart and show the deep, personal-yet-political poetry we've come to expect from the authors of past classics "Ten Seconds to Love," "Girls, Girls, Girls" and "She Goes Down."
These songs will require numerous listens before you can truly capture the thoughts it took to write such deep, heart-rendering lyrics.
Of course, the music is a treasure, too, soft, succulent and soothing, with enough spirit and soul to cleanse whatever might be ailing you during these troubled times.
When you live the kind of clean, wholesome lives these boys have lived - with Sixx's heroin overdose, Vince Neil's nationally televised plastic surgery and appearance on "The Surreal Life," Tommy Lee's sex tapes and Mick Mars emergence from Satan's armchair - you can help but produce the kind of healing music the Crue continue to bring forth with every album.


P.S. (Real Review) The cross is made up of naked women. This album totally kicks ass and reminds me of the good 'ole days. Seriously, go buy it now.

Stardom is inevitable

By far the cutest cover for Twins Magazine hit the stands today.


Here it is.








Do you recognize those two girls?
I do.
I see them every day.



You can order your copy here. Order fast. They'll be worth something someday.
At least they will to me.




P.S. I write for the magazine too. I'll have the cover story for the next issue. I had the cover story for the last issue as well. Kate and the grandparents were about 10 percent as excited about that fact as they were about this cover.

The king is dead, long live the comedian

Carlin's death was a shock to me. I interviewed him a couple years ago for the Greeley Tribune when he performed here.
You can see the story here.

I hope the three of you (maybe) who bothered to read my project below enjoyed it. Scroll down and click on the link if you're curious. And the needy writer in me hopes you are.

One Last Chance

I followed this woman for eight months in between covering fairs and interviewing Tim McGraw and Poison.

Can you at least take a look at it?

One Last Chance



P.S. For those of you who will look at the length and think, "Nah, I'd rather watch repeats of Lost so I can see what 12th-century poem this scene is referring to," I don't blame you.

We're not as good as you (Obv)

I'm not sure what's worse, the fact that the girls still aren't sleeping through the night, or the looks some smug parents give us when we talk about the twins' sleeping habits.
I don't think there's a more judgmental group of folks than parents. Maybe right-wingers. Maybe other poker players. Maybe bloggers.
Nah.
Kate had tears rolling down her face this morning, and I think it was because of our battle last night with Andie. I know I'm whining here, but sometimes life really isn't fair. We've got twins. It's been a year. A year. I think we deserve a break and some sleeping through the night. If that wasn't enough, it took Jayden a year-and-a-half before he graced us with eight hours of sleep at a time.
I think we've paid our dues.
I know. You're probably raising your eyebrow. It's OK. Others do, too, like one of Kate's friends, who's 10-week-old baby is already sleeping from 9 p.m. to 10 a.m.
"What are you doing wrong?" she asked Kate, or she at the very least ACTED like she asked Kate that when Kate talked about our struggles with Andie, who continues to need a couple feedings a night and screamed for a half hour at 2 a.m. last night.
And i think that's why Kate was crying this morning. She was frustrated, sure, but it's the little, paper-cut looks and comments from her "friends" that just make it that much worse.
Sometimes life is not only fair, it just plain sucks.
It's especially frustrating to me because every run, every race and probably every climb - we'll find out this weekend, when I lead my 14ers group up our first mountain of the season - I battle a crushing fatigue, like I've got a tire tied to my ass. When I have slept well one or two times this month, the fatigue is gone and I run really well. So all I need is sleep, and I'm still not getting it.
Last week we took a break for the weekend for Kate's birthday. We went out to dinner, saw Indiana Jones (which sucked) and stayed in a swanky hotel in downtown Denver. Alone. Without the kids.
It was wonderful even if Kate's younger brother said, "Oh, dumping the kids off at Mom's and Dad's, eh?" I'm glad he didn't say that to me. Let's just say it would have made Thanksgivings uncomfortable.
Yes, it was wonderful, and yet sometimes weekends like that just make it that much harder to go back to the grind. In a way, a nice, relaxing time out just makes you miss them that much more.
Yes, we've talked to our doctor, and his answer was if they're going back to sleep after they eat - and usually they do - then they probably need the extra feedings.
So we don't know what to do other than let our kids cry it out, and after a half hour of it last night, my heart cracked and I went to get Andie, who was hysterical and sniffing and needed me to hold her before she fell asleep.
I guess I suck as a parent too.
Sorry if this seems angry. Sometimes I'm glad for a blog. I can vent to it (and you all) and maybe, possibly, feel better.
Soon.

I'm an uncle (again) and other exciting news

My brother had his second child, a boy this time (thank goodness, the clan was getting a little bit overrun with estrogen).
Kate and I drove down to see him Friday. His name is Brooker, which is my mother's maiden name. My middle name is Brooker. We're probably gonna call him Brooks, so he should be a great third basemen.
Here are three pictures. It's up to you to figure out what those faces mean.

















Oh, and Ante Up!, the weekly poker podcast that features blogger Columbo with his always excellent one-minute mysteries features a hand of the week.
This week they used my hand! I was very excited. Now I can die. Well, maybe after the kids graduate from college.

Metalhead status called into question even further

I really, really, really love this song. I don't remember listening to a song this much since Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy."

This song probably belongs in a gay nightclub, and not just a gay nightclub, but the kind bathed in blue light, with Gray Goose martinis served as you walk in the door and velvet red pillows scattered on neon green couches.

I don't care. I love it.

P.S. My only saving grace? I'm also in love with Arch Enemy's "I Will Live Again."

Am I still metal despite this cotton candy?

Despite mother wondering why I haven't outgrown it, I am a true metalhead.
I do not have the look. Instead, I look like someone who might enjoy a Chicago concert, and not the cool early shit either, the "You're The Inspiration" years.
I do not have the metal girlfriend. I married a sensible, good Catholic girl who is the best Mom I've ever seen.
I do not have a drug addiction, although the implication that you need that to be a metal fan kind of pisses me off.
So never mind.
But I do have the desire. That's all you need. Mostly.
I do wonder, however. Am I metal enough? It's truly OK to enjoy a wide range of music, as I do. I do love pop music. Classical. Jazz. But jazz has a certain rebel element to it, and classical is brainy. There's really no excuse for pop except to like it.
Here are 10 songs I truly love that may, indeed, threaten my status as a metalhead:
1. Michael Jackson tunes - "Thriller" is a killer, and "Off the Wall" is off the hook. It's too bad the guy didn't die after "Thriller." He'd be a legend instead of the freak he is now.
2. Britney Spears' "Stronger." - The lyrics are good for running. "I'm stronger than yesterday..."
3. Olivia Newton John's "Magic" - Her "Grease" stuff is classic as well. But this song stays in my head every time I listen.
4. Christina Aguilera's "On Our Way" - This underrated classic is from her latest double album, which I got sent to me by a record company, probably because I do a lot of entertainment at the paper. I like the whole album. She's got pipes.
5. Young MC's "Bust A Move" - I'm not sure where hip-hop stands in the metal world. I think it still has some rebellous qualities to it, although it's also pretty commercialized these days. This goofy hit was popular in high school and I still like it.
6. Wham's "Careless Whisper" - That sax riff. Who can resist? I justify this by wanting to rip out George Michael's throat with a rusty fork every time I hear "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go."
7. The Carpenter's "Superstar" - I like a lot of the Carpenter's work, actually, and I think they might be hip enough to give me a pass, although they overdosed a lot on the syrup.

I'll leave it at 7. One of the twins is crying. Probably because she knows I'm listening to Wham.

There's a first time for everything

Including a day at the pool for the twins:

I do not necessarily love to feel the rain in the summertime

I think God must have sent Noah a Yahoo message or something because the last couple of days around here have resembled a rainforest more than the arid climate we peakbaggers in Colorado are used to experiencing.
Seriously, the air is so dry here, even the guys who dig into streets with jackhammers all day use lotion. Unscented, of course.
So yesterday at noon it poured on us. It rained so hard I seriously thought someone in the sky forgot to turn their bathwater off. It only lasted a few minutes but it was enough to turn drains into waterfalls and make little lakes in the lawns.
So I thought I was free and clear for our intervals track session that night. As I left our house I changed my mind a bit, as the black sky and occasional bolts of lightning made me rethink my plans, but I surged on. When I got to our track, the rain had already started, but I figured it would clear up.
Um, no.
We started our drills with lighting crashing down (to the east of us, so for the most part it was safe) and the rain once again causing little lakes, this time on the track. I was skin-soaked by the second lap. By the third five-minute run, my legs felt like a cadaver's and my fingertips were blue. It seems almost impossible to get any wetter when you're soaked but somehow I was. The running probably spared me hypothermia.
I am a devoted little runner.
The girls were screaming when I got home - they had not let up for 45 minutes, a nice foreshadowing to the night to come - but I needed a warm shower pronto, so I ran upstairs, stripped and hopped in. Ahh. A warm shower after something like that has to be one of life's true, great pleasures.
I did pretty well in the non-BB3 Mookie, taking 10th, mostly because my K-K could not beat A-K (obv) near the end of the bubble (standard), but I was warm and, more importantly, dry, and that's all that mattered.
Softball is supposedly tonight, but the way it's raining today, they'd better just cancel it. I'm not really in the mood for two drowned rat sessions in a row.

Up and down, like a seesaw

The swings of playing three $50 NL cash games a night for months now is starting to wear me down, and I'm not sure how to fix it.
I just finished Harrington's "No Limit Cash Games Vol. I," and it's improved me, even if I don't agree with some of his advice and some of the advice is just obvious.
I'm winning more than ever.
The problem is, I'm also losing more than ever.
This is proof to me that I'm no longer the nitty player you all think I am. I'll gladly take that (still well-deserved) reputation, as it helps me steal blinds. But it's no longer completely true. In fact, after reading the book, I realize I was making some pretty stupid bets. I was being too aggressive, in other words.
I'll wait for you to finish laughing before I continue.
Still with me? OK. In the last three months, I've plumped up my bankroll, and that's because I've won and also taken advantage of Bodog's reload bonus. But the swings have been pretty wild. I might lose a buy-in or more when I lose, and when I win, I might win a couple.
Most of the losses, lately, have been coolers. I hesitate to say this because to me the term "cooler" is abused and overused. When your J-J loses to A-A after you've called an all-in post-flop and your stack was deep, that is not a cooler. When your straight loses to a paired board and you shove on the river, that is not a cooler. When you stack off with top pair, I don't care what happens, that is not a cooler. Those are bad plays. Period.
But lately I've lost my stack with a K-high flush (only three on the board) to an A-high flush, twice I've been setted over setted (yes, I had the smallest set possible) and I've lost pre-flop with K-K when it's run into A-A four times.
I dunno. Maybe those aren't coolers either.
I've also made some bad plays. I jammed with Q-Q on a low board when the other player was showing strength and of course he had a set. That was incredibly dumb in a cash game.
As I play in the final Bodog WSOP series tournament tonight, a tournament riddled with my mistakes, mistakes that cost me a seat in the freeroll, I'm wondering how to keep winning but keeping the losses down.
Any ideas?

Every day is a race

"They never tell you ahead of time how impossibly difficult it's going to be."
- Frazzled mother, speaking to Keri Russel about her child


That quote is from the wonderful Waitress, which I watched today. Of course, I watched it in pieces, like the pie Keri Russel serves so well. Breaks today, as they do almost every day I'm home with Kate, came in small portions.
The girls did not nap in the afternoon. At all. Jayden napped for maybe a half an hour. I corralled them in the morning, when Kate went to work out, and then I got my turn to blast off some energy, thereby decreasing my chances of getting too frustrated simply because we won't have the strength for it.

Every day is a joy these days, and yet, every day, more and more, at the end, when Jayden finally gets sent to bed with Dr. Seuss or something similar, I feel completely drained.
Those who say kids make you younger were so very, very wrong. They were laughably wrong. I feel 50 right now. And the kind of 50 who smoked and drank every day rather than ran and ate brussel sprouts three times a day. I am 36.

I feel as I do after a hard race, like the kind I ran Monday, or just climbed a mountain, although the weariness is even worse in a way because those are renewing, no matter how exhausting. A day like today with the kids, as rewarding as it is, is not renewing. It pecks away at your sanity and greedily sucks the very last drops of your reserves with the large straw Daniel Day Lewis shouted about in "There Will Be Blood."
My kids do indeed drink my milkshake.

It's worth it, as I'd much rather spend my energy every day rather than keep it in my gut. And the payoff is huge. Tax breaks. Someone to invite over at Christmas when you're 85. And all the smiles and love you can handle.

But as I look over that quote from the movie I watched in pieces today, I can only think of one word in response.

Amen.

Too little....

Too late?





I think so. I don't think this even gets me a sniff of the top 18. If I hadn't played like such a friggin' donkey the two or three other times I had a nice stack close to the final table, this would probably get me a seat.
As it was, I was determined not to donk off my stack and play my game. That meant playing tight, patient poker, and it paid off tonight.
I think I have to win next week for a shot. Ah, well, it was fun regardless. As they say, you like the service, but you come back for the overlay.

The race of our lives

As excited as I was to start this year's Bolder/Boulder, part of me wondered why.
I was looking forward to this year's 10K in Bolder, one of the nation's biggest 10K races, all winter. It was one of the main reasons I kept up my miles through temperatures that occasionally froze the snot in my nose.
But after Thursday, when hundreds of homes were destroyed about 10 miles from my home, all I could think of was, "What's the friggin' point?"
Really, part of the reason I run these races and climb mountains is a need to challenge myself. The Bolder/Boulder, in a sense, is a fabricated way to see how mentally tough I am.
It's also a lot of fun, so don't think I'm a monk who needs to sit and whip himself an hour a day to remain pure. I truly enjoy it.
But after Thursday, I'm not sure I need a challenge. We all have one now around here.
My home was fine, but Thursday was one of toughest days I've had on the job, seeing all those heartbroken people going through their destroyed homes, many of them in shock (including me). I was so drained by the time I got home, I just held Jayden on my lap, then spent an hour on the computer and went to bed.
I've rethought that, however. Maybe a challenge is only part of the reason I run a race. I also think it's because it's who I am.
I am a runner and a climber and a father and a poker player and sometimes a writer. I can't lose sight of that. In fact, when we face times like this, when it seems like we'll never get back to normal, it's more important to never let go of who you are. It's the only stability we've got.
So I ran Monday, and folks, it was tough. The Bolder/Boulder is also one of the tougher races in Colorado. Mile two has a long, gradual hill, and that hill leads to mile 3, which is one long, steep hill. Mile four features several small hills and one huge, super-steep hill. Then it's all downhill from there. Well, except for the ski run that leads into the University of Colorado's stadium at the end.
I really struggled at times. I had to walk twice just to grab a breath. I allowed myself only 10 seconds before I kicked it back into gear. I'm still not sure if that's a good plan. Probably not. But I was able to run much faster after the quick stop. I never felt great the whole day. The girls didn't allow me to sleep much Sunday night, which was frustrating, but I had to roll out of bed at 4:45 a.m. to make it out to Boulder for the 7 a.m. start the early, elite waves require. It will be nice to actually run a race on some sleep. I just hope that's this year.
Still, my splits were better than I thought. I think I started way too fast, which is very easy to do in that race because the first mile is downhill, and the first mile is always easy. I ran 7:15 the first mile, 7:40 the second, and then the hills hit. But it wasn't terrible, averaging 8-minute miles over the next two, which was the plan. Still, I would have liked to have been faster on mile 5, when it's downhill again, with only 7:49, and I ran pretty slow that last mile, on mile 6, when I ran only 8:05. I was pretty tired by then, which frustrates me. Didn't I just run a half marathon three weeks ago?
But I did run 48:33, which was almost 50 seconds faster than my best time last year, and an overall personal record for a 10K, which was nice to set on a tough course. My pace was 7:49 per mile.
I do feel pretty good today after the race. It was cold and rainy by the time I finished, so I filled out a bogus credit card application and got a free towel, which I wrapped around my shoulders.
I know my pain during the race was inconsequential to what those Windsor residents are feeling as I type this.
I hope they can get back to who they are soon.
I thought about them as I finished.
This run was for them.

Stunned silence

In Colorado here, we worry as much about tornadoes as much as we do hurricanes or earthquakes or maybe nuclear war.
So the mile-wide tornado that just tore through our neighbors yesterday didn't so much as destroy homes, although it did that, and flattened cars, although it did that too. It also stunned us, just completely reduced us to blinking, silent journalists as we worked on one of the stories of the century.
Yes, I'm fine, and yes, the family is fine, and yes, even our home is, thankfully, OK. A few miles down the road, people were not so fortunate, and that's what I covered this afteroon. I am completely, totally drained. I really don't even know what to feel.
I was a reporter in Kansas for a number of years, and I covered a few tornadoes that demolished homes, but I've never seen the kind of complete devastation I saw today. I've seen a home or two destroyed, but this was block after block after block of crushed homes.
I've said this before, but I'm always amazed at how generous people are during these events. All I had to do was show up with a notepad and people told me their stories. I really think they wanted to this time. I'd like to think it seemed to help. All I could do was sit there, take notes and shake my head.
I'm sorry, I said, and cursed how hollow it sounded, even if it was sincere.
You can check out over coverage today on our Web site. But as of right now, I'm going to go home.
And I'm going to hug my kids.

A birthday built for two

Here's some highlights from the girls birthday party, which I'm assuming you'd much rather have than a bunch of whining about how much I suck at poker.

One hand at a time

As the music from "One Day At A Time," you know, the comedy with the single mother, plumber with the porn-star mustache who probably would be sued for sexual harassment today and wild daughters, I'm thinking about two hands I played yesterday.
Both of them poorly.

#1 - In the Bodog tournament series, which has gone about as poorly as I could have hoped, I'm dealt A-K sooted. I"m fourth to act. The third to act, a guy that's been hounding me all night and doesn't strike me as a very good player, raises 3xs the big blind.
I have nearly 10,000 chips. He's probably the only guy who has more chips than me in the whole tournament (I know I'm at least third or fourth). There are 16 left. The points and the cash (at least the $11 in tournament dollars) is near. I could coast to both if I wanted. The blinds are 200/400 with a small ante.
When he raises, I think about it for a bit, and I shove.
He quickly calls me with K-K. I do not suck out, despite getting a flush and straight draw on the turn, because that never fucking happens and I go home.
Later, my suspicions were true, because he was, in a word, terrible. He had a monster stack at that point and yet managed to bleed all his chips before the top 5 and that juicy $109 in tournament dollars. He just woke up with a monster.
Still, he raised in early position, he was the chip leader, and I didn't have much to gain by putting my whole tournament on the line.

#2 - I'm playing a cash game, .25/.50, and I'm dealt K-K in middle position. A guy UTG who has a nearly full stack raises to $2. Everyone folds to me and I re-raise to $6. Everyone folds.
He thinks for a second and re-raises me to $13.
He has A-A. Every single time someone does that at that level, a small re-raise, he has A-A. Usually a re-pop pre-flop at these levels almost always mean a huge pair or, at worst, A-K. Maybe A-Q or less if he's a shorty. And a small re-pop pre-flop (I just like to say that now) means Aces. Always.
So I call to set mine. It's not that much more.
The flop comes all low cards. He pushes. I call.
He shows A-A. I do not suck out because that never fucking happens, and I lose a big pot.


Yes, both of these hands were coolers. But they were also dumb plays by me.
In both these hands, I let emotions rule the way I played them. And this is what I mean by taking it one hand at a time.

In the first hand, I knew the guy wasn't very good, and I was quite sick of him raising my big blind with his small blind every single time it got to me. I didn't call in those situations because I didn't think 8-2os were hands worth defending. I also knew that if I waited, I'd get an opportunity to burn him. I suppose a re-steal at times would have been warranted, but it's harder to do that with weak players because they will call you with something like K-9 and think they're golden.
But when any player raises you in early position, and he has you covered, and your M is awesome, that's not the time to take a huge stand and put all your chips on the line. Instead of examining that one hand for what it was, I was tired of him and I thought he was terrible, so I pushed.
Emotions, not good play, ruled my game.

In the second hand, instead of listening to myself, I simply couldn't believe that the guy had Aces over my Kings AGAIN. See, in the last two weeks, despite a decent run at the cash tables, I've run K-K into A-A four times. Four times. It has, as you can imagine, cost me a bunch of money. I haven't always been stacked, but I have more than I should have been.
I refused to listen to reason and instead just said the odds and justice or whatever would not give me K-K against A-A again.
Emotions, not good reasoning, ruled my play.

I was so pissed, I put myself to the test. I went back to the cash tables after a short break. I was determined to fight the tilt bubbling inside me.
And I won $30 back and then hit up Razz and even finished up $20 there as well.

I took my hands one individual hand at a time there. I ignored past history and just listened to what each hand was telling me.
Maybe the hard lesson Tuesday will eventually pay off.

Happy Birthday Andie and Allie

One year ago today, Kate delivered twins.
My girls are 1.
We were cleaning and blowing up balloons and getting gift bags together for all the minnows who will be tromping through our house. Today we'll be picking up cake and ice cream and thawing and throwing chicken on the grill.
"All this work," Mom said, "and they won't even know it's for them."
This party is not for the girls.
It's for us.
We survived.



Here's a column I wrote for the paper I write for, the Greeley Tribune, that ran in my Tuesday slot. Or you can just skip to the picture below:




Some would have called me anal before the girls were born.
I preferred the term “organized.”
No matter what you called me, one thing was certain. I did not like the unexpected. I loathed it, in fact. I preferred to plan out my life as if it were a to-do list.
So when our ultrasound technician said to us that we were having twins, I was in immediate denial. Our technician assumed we knew, of course. Who doesn’t know they’re having twins at 21 weeks?
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said to her.
She wasn’t kidding.
I took the news about as well as someone who doesn’t like surprises can take it, meaning when Kate’s doctor came in to confirm the news, she was initially more concerned about me.
Once Kate, our toddler, Jayden, and I celebrated that night with a dinner that mainly consisted of me staring blankly into the menu and saying “Huh?” a lot to our waitress, our lives melted into the kind of chaos that you normally see in a “Family Circus” cartoon. You know, the ones that feature the mother in her bathroom with a boiling pot on the stove, laundry, four crying kids, the dog with a dish in his mouth, and an electrician at the door.
The twins hadn’t even arrived yet, and we had to move Jayden to the smaller bedroom, paint his room red and blue, paint the girls’ room pink, gather a whole lot of dresses and pink onesies and get another one of everything, including another swing, another crib and another stroller, this one built for two.
When they were born, we learned what the term “sacrifice” really means. I sacrificed my time in the mountains. We sacrificed friendships, some of which have never recovered. We sacrificed sleep, some special time with Jayden and, at times, our sanity.
Most of the time, we felt like single parents, constantly feeding and changing and carting a baby around.
Kate and I learned to work together, much more than the vows say you will, and yet we had two periods where we fought every day, long and hard. The problem, of course, is that there was too much work to go around.
Any infant is hard. But parents usually can take shifts for midnight feedings, diaper changes and making sure the little one doesn’t crawl off the staircase. Shifts don’t exist when you have twins.
When you’re raising infant twins, when one parent takes a break, any kind at all, the other pays for it dearly.
So now we find ourselves breathing a sigh of relief come Saturday. The twins will turn 1. Every parent I have talked to who went through what we went through has assured me that it gets easier after the first year.
I’m hopeful because the first year was not easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing Kate and I have ever done. In fact, it still is.
But it’s changed me. I’m more relaxed now. It’s not a cliché. I mean, you have to be.
When you have a day like I did three months ago, when Allie had a poop that exploded out of her diaper and went all over the kitchen floor, and Andie was doing everything in her power to play in it, and Kate was at Target, well, you learn that little surprises like that aren’t really problems. They’re funny.
Every day, like that day, holds something unexpected. Some still call me anal. I still prefer the term “organized.” My to-do lists are still there. But the day doesn’t always follow them. And I have learned that’s OK.
I have learned to not only deal with the unexpected, I have learned to embrace it.
I embrace it every day, in fact, when I crawl out of bed, pick up one of the girls and hold her high above my head, completely aware of just how lucky I am that chance found its way into my heart.


And here they are one year later, toasting their birthday. I, too, will drink to that::

Once a mother...

Mom's in town for the next three days, and today she's watching Jayden.
It's a little blustery outside and a tad cold, though it's really not too bad. The wind lately has been awful, infecting our softball games (I've purposely pitched it right at the batter because the wind carries it away from him and back over the plate), pushing me around when I try to run and even causing some damage to fences, trees and a few rooftops.
So a bit of a breeze is fine.
I have on a short-sleeved shirt and I'm about to head out the door.
Mom looks me over.
"Don't you need a JACKET? It's COLD out there."

I smirk at her.

I am 36.

The jacket stayed in the closet.

Putting the Cowboys to bed

I was playing well and looking for a profitable night at the cash tables last night on Bodog when I was dealt K-K UTG.
I raised 5xs the BB to $2.50. I prefer to raise this amount because I don't want a bunch of callers ruining my top pair. You would think that this would be a red flag to other players at the table, but you'd be wrong. I get called by hands like Q-10 more often than you think.
Anyway, I did get one caller, and then the guy on the button raises to $10.
At these levels, pre-flop re-raises are rare, so they always mean something.
I chose to call because I had a player behind me yet to act. If he shoved, my thinking is I could fold, given that both of them had full stacks, as did I.
He just calls.

The flop is all unders, one suit, clubs, and the re-raiser insta-pushes.

Given that he just pushed rather than went for a bet, I put him on Q-Q. Lately I've been very successful sniffing out overbets and figuring that they usually mean my opponent has a hand but not a great hand. In other words, he doesn't have a set or a flush here, and given his re-raise, he probably had a high pocket pair. So I thought he'd value bet with A-A.
OK, so I was wrong, he did have A-A. I did have the Kc for extra outs just in case, but he of course had the Ac, and me and the third player both got stacked.

Yes, I realize:
• I was calling, not jamming myself
• It was a suited board
• The odds were not good
Maybe I'm just a donkey.

And so here is my problem. Harrington in his Vol. I cash game book says to never fold K-K. I have folded K-K before, preflop, and been right. I consider great laydowns a key reason why I'm a winning player. Recently I've lost a lot of money three times in the last two months when I've had K-K and the other guy had A-A.

Three other times that night I saw someone lose their stack pre-flop when he had K-K and the other person had A-A.

I'm starting to believe Harrington is wrong. I'm starting to believe there are times you need to lay down K-K pre-flop. All three times I had a good feeling that the other person had A-A but I refused to believe it because folding K-K pre-flop is so weak. I have saved money in the past folding K-K pre-flop.
I realize poker is situational, but what do you all think about this? And does anyone fold in my above situation?

Samatha Fox

I used to have a thing for Samantha Fox.
I fell hard for her for at least a couple weeks - hell, maybe even a month - when I caught her video on "Friday Night Videos."
You remember that show, right? Oh you do so. Don't be coy. Back in 1983 it was the only way I could catch music videos because my parents refused to spring for cable. Cable, back then, was a luxury enjoyed by only the most spoiled of my friends. I still remember the guy who had a ColecoVision.
It was the raddest show on TV. ZZ Top and the car and those chicks! Def Leppard's "Photograph!" That three-part interview with David Lee Roth in bed when shamed and insulted Quiet Riot! And the awesome cartoon introduction and...OK I'll stop.
Problem was, it was on late, like midnight, and our house by then was usually freakin' cold because my parents also believed saving money meant turning the heat down to, I think, 45 degrees because we were asleep and therefore didn't need the warmth. So I'd use this little space heater, which would inevitably put me to sleep, probably because of all the gases it emitted to heat the room.
Fox's video for "Touch Me," one of my favorite early 80s songs, was on last, probably because it wasn't that much of a hit, and I remember watching a slit of the beginning out of my sand-soaked eyes, and when she appeared, I bolted right up.
Wow.
So today it suddenly occurred to me that I could watch her video RIGHT NOW on YouTube, and the 12-year-old in me stabbed me in the liver and demanded I sneak a peek.
And I went to the video.
And I was laughing hysterically about a third of the way through.
It held up about as well as the mullet I wore my senior year in high school.
I mean, she's still a hottie...and I still like the song.....but....


Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?

Into the wild, maybe

I just finished watching "Into the Wild," and though I liked the book better, it provoked the same thoughts I had when I was reading the masterpiece by one of my heroes, Jon Krakauer.

I think everyone, ultimately, wants to be free of the shackles of this world. The quest for money, the drive for nice things, the need for comfort. Security, many times, means the cash to make us feel safe rather than love, protection or faith in who we are.

One of the big reasons I visit the peaks so many times every summer is because every trip whittles the goal down to a very basic sense of struggle and survival. You are hungry, so you eat. You are cold, so you throw on another layer. You are tired, but you push on, until you reach your goal, and then you feel so good about pushing through the elements and your own exhaustion to achieve such a simple yet worthwhile goal. I run for the very same reasons.

This is why being a parent of the youngsters I have, and to the degree that I have them, continues to challenge me more mentally than physically. There's no endgame. There's no standing on the peak. But there is plenty of exhaustion. There is frustration. There is always a struggle.

Today the plumber came and stung us with a $175 bill because Jayden yesterday dropped plastic forks down the drain and jammed up the garbage disposal. I suppose it could have been much worse. But that's not what I needed today after he had a good half-hour meltdown as thanks for taking him to see baby farm animals and then driving him to a park to see herons and egrets nesting in the trees. The meltdown was because I refused to take him to a playground.

The real reason for the meltdown, though, was not a plastic slide. It was that exhaustion gets to Jayden, too, and so does hunger. I often wonder how hard having the twins is on him. I think more than we realize since he's such a good big brother. I forget to credit him for that.

I finally got some food down him after a lot of talk and, I'm sorry to say, a little yelling. The meltdowns chip at my sanity, and I can only take so much.

Then again, after the fourth time I put him down for his much-needed nap, he looked at me and said "Iluvudaddy." He wasn't answering me. He was telling me something from his heart.

I still desire my freedom from the boundaries that life and, mostly, my kids chain to me every day. Yet I also give into them, willingly and without regret.

The tough part about being a parent is there is no summit. But that's also what makes it worth it.

The internal debate

Man, I'm running hot at the cash games lat -

Internal voice: What are you doing?

What do you mean?

Internal voice: "I'm running hot?"

Um, well, this IS a poker blog. Sorta.

Internal voice: Yea, and...wait a minute. You were going to write a BRAG POST weren't you?

Um...well...

Internal voice: Are you NUTS? Write about how your full house lost to a full house at the Bodonkey! Write about how your Razz hands sucked in the Skillz. Write about how sore you are after your good half marathon race! Write about your girls' poop! Anything but a BRAG POST!

But I whine all the time! I wanna write about how good I am!

Internal voice: Fine. Can I kiss your bankroll good-bye before you post?
Look, you're really not that good, OK? Write about why you THINK you're running well but don't just brag. No one cares, and you're inviting the doom switch.

OK, three reasons why I'm running well:
1. Bodog players continue to be horrible. They call way too much, meaning Overbets work wonderfully.
2. I can put players on a hand now, and I'm not afraid to put all my money in the middle to act on them. Patterns have emerged: Paired boards are ripe for picking off bluffs or weak hands, top pairs are transparent, and not many players know how to control a pot.
3. I'm not afraid. I have a sense of calm, even if I lose a lot of money in a night, because I know, eventually, I'll win it back.


And one question:

I'm reading Harrington's cash game books, and as you can probably tell by my style, I'm a Harrington follower. But early on in his first volume, he advocates controlling the pot when you have a pair by checking the turn and betting the river, even with a draw.
I disagree. I much prefer to bet all turns to make players pay to see the river and then check the river if I still have top pair. It does leave me with a decision sometimes, but I've been able to sniff out bluffs more often than not lately.
What do you all think?

A half marathon, but a full dose of effort

If you looked at a manual that gave you tips on how to run the race of your life, I seriously doubt “Get Up at 3:45 a.m., then bus out to remote field and freeze for an hour” would make the top 10.
Probably not even the top 20.
Yet there I was today, shivering in the 6 a.m. air, with a helpful breeze slathering us in chill, as we waited for the start of the Colorado half marathon. The race started at 7 a.m., but the “luxury” buses (meaning “not school buses”) took us up the Poudre Canyon at 5:45 a.m., I guess, to make sure we all got there on time.
We were the last bus to leave and we still waited an hour. It got so bad I had to slip on my Superman/Superhero/Ghey Under Armor tights and try to keep busy by walking around. I wore a hat, gloves and two tech shirts along with the tights. I wore the same outfits at times during the dead of winter, when the temperatures struggled to scrape above single-digits. Yet, in May, I was shivering like a baby penguin.
I also used the potty - a vital part of race preparation, for obvious reasons - and lingered in the port-a-potty because it felt so damn good to be out of the breeze and frosty air. It’s probably the only time I’ve ever wanted to stay in a port-a-potty after the deed was done. Again, for obvious reasons.
The race did eventually start, after all 1,200 of us became like bees in a hive and huddled together, and it took all of a mile to realize I had made a huge mistake by leaving the tights on and checking my shorts. I had stripped my top layer, the hat and gloves, and I was still a little warm.
Crap. Crap crap crap. How long is a half marathon? 13 miles?
Crap. I’m screwed.
Only I wasn’t because despite the fact that my legs felt like they belonged on a cadaver, thanks to the cold I whined about above, I was doing pretty well. My goal for this race was to run faster than an 8:30-per-mile pace, with outside hopes of hitting above 8:15. It was a lofty goal, given that it would mean hard running for one hour and 45 minutes. But I also thought it was attainable.
A good portion of the course is downhill, like the first third, and I was breezing along and feeling pretty good. I probably should start out slower, I thought, but I knew I could finish the race, so I decided to run as hard as I could and see how it went.
My iPod Shuffle, stuffed with speed metal, the occasional inspirational song (”Stronger” by Kayne West) and a cheesy ballad or two, kept me moving.
The first real challenge came at Bagel Hill, around mile 5, a steep hill, but at the bottom my running partner was there with a Gatorade mix and some much-needed encouragement. It’s funny how just a little cheering from a good friend can really lift your spirits.
I’d need it again around mile 10, when she showed up again, this time with more Gatorade. After a pretty uneventful race, I was beginning to crash. My bones hurt, my legs didn’t want to move and I had a hard time finding any kind of rhythm, despite the fact that running like a robot is more crucial than ever when you’re that tired.
She got me to the last mile, when I found another friend, an older woman who is basically a studette. She was planning to run a marathon in six days. I ran with her the last mile and pulled ahead in the last few moments.
I crossed the line in 1:49:57.
The pace was 8:24-per mile.
And stopping felt really, really good.
I finished around 245th out of 1,200. Not bad.
I went home, fixed some Tyson chicken tacos (and I managed to ignore the fact that the “Now with 10 percent more chicken!” was considered a good marketing gimmick from Tyson officials) and took a long, hot shower.
I’m sitting at the computer now, with my right leg in a pretty bad mood, something Advil hasn’t even soothed. It’s not injured. I think its feelings are hurt.
It can’t understand why I’ve sacrificed its comfort for the health of my spirit. Someday, when I know myself, I’ll explain it to him.

The day before

The day before a big race is always filled with butterflies.
I didn't think I'd get this way. A half marathon just might be my favorite race. Really, the pressure is off. I want a good time, something below an 8:30-per-mile pace, maybe even faster. But it's 13.1 miles. No one really asks what my time was when I tell them I finished one, save for my hardcore running buddies.
The time doesn't define the race.
Yet I've thought about it a lot today. I think that's part of the preparation. I know it's going to be tough and that eventually I'll be in a lot of pain. I also know I'm excited about it. Half marathons are fun.
Running is still new to me. It's only been three years. I rarely feel this way before a mountain, even one that's considered dangerous by some. That's so old hat.
A part of me, I guess, still wonders if I can do it. I always love to doubt myself.
I'll be up at 3:45 a.m. tomorrow to prove myself wrong.

My kid is napping, so....

A few random thoughts:


1. The wind sounds like it's blowing 853 mph outside today. If today were the half marathon, I don't know if I could finish the race.
Well, yeah, I could, but it would probably be on my hands and knees by the finish.
Plus it's about 40 degrees today. That's understandable. It's only May 2. I mean, I wouldn't expect the weather to get warm by then. Gotta be at least July before that fucking happens.
Sigh.

2. I'm reading Heartsick right now and absolutely love it. I'm finally reading books again after spending too much time playing video games. I used to love to read before I started writing for a newspaper, and there were far too many days that I'd be so burned out on writing when I got home that I didn't want anything to do with the written word. I've discovered the joy of reading again. Maybe that will help me resist the temptation to buy an X-Box 360.
Maybe.

3. Cripes, that wind is strong.

4. Should I have known that my opponent, while playing $50 NL on Bodog, called my $4 raise with 5-2 os when the 2 came on the turn on a 10-2-7 rainbow flop and he raised me $10. Was I dumb to jam with my K-K in that spot?
Other than that, the move to that level has gone well for the most part. I am a lot more aggressive than I used to be, so the variance is wilder, but that's OK, I really need to improve.

5. I'm listening to the Ante Up! podcasts while I run my 10 miles or so on Sundays or while playing and I'm really liking it. Our own Columbo is a part of it and does a great job with his hand puzzles.

And no, unlike some of my other recent posts, this was not a paid ad.