Verbosities

Okay. Yes, We Get It…

You’re clever. I know. You can spoof an email address. Congratulations Mr/Mrs-Sending-These-From-Your-Gmail-Account. I may not be an Intranet Jeenius or anything, but with some help I figured out this much.

Anyway, if you’re getting a kick out of this – fine. But there’s chord you’re not quite hitting through your last couple protestations. That chord, my friend, is a sense of humor.

Sending an email from “Rachel’s Assistant Rita?” Not funny. Now, had the email come from “Bob Harper-Collins, President of Harper Collins Publishing,” that’s funny. Putting in the text of the email that Rachel can’t accept my returned emails right now because she’s not set up in the HC system yet? Okay, you had to figure I was going to click “reply” to see if it was, in fact, a valid email. But who gets permission to send outbound email from (obviously not “from”) the company’s accounts without getting setup with an inbox?

Here’s what you try next time to make this joke more effective: pick a semi-known quantity with a semi-complicated name who works in a position to help a struggling writer out. Let’s say Mark Napolitano from Poker Pages. Get a gmail address for that name, name drop running into Jason Kirk in Reno (entirely plausible), and that you’re inaccessible until Monday but want to talk about an ongoing assignment.

On that hook, perhaps I bite.

While the first email was well-crafted, the follow-up from “Rita” and the follow-follow-ups from the others just weren’t fucking funny. “Lame” and “desperate” are two adjectives that pop into mind. Look, if you’re smart enough to toss that first email my way, “pushing the right buttons” and all, you should be smart enough to be fucking funny when you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Otherwise, let the joke go. It almost worked. I’ll give you credit for that. The rest of this?

Now you’re just annoying me. Congratulations.

By the way? It’s not a long enough list that you’re going to be able to stay in the shadows very long CHRISTOPHER HANEL (or Maudie, or Byron, Alan, or AJ among others). You’ve got to be a hell of a geek to spoof like that, so says Al.

Hmm… Al?

Seriously, if you’re going to keep hitting me with emails, please for the love of god bring the funny. We’ve already passed “tedious.”

Ha Ha Very Funny

I don’t know who’s got the time and skills to think up something like this, taunt me with it, and somehow fake the emailed address from which this came, but bravo dickhead. You can’t just send something like this on April Fools’ Day Eve and expect to get me all worked up…

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Message-ID:
Date: Fri, 31 Mar 2006 10:42:05 -0500
From: “Rachel Stein”
To: “bg@gamblingblues.com”
Subject: Avon Trade Publishing
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/alternative;
boundary=”—-=_Part_5876_30537135.1143816125733″
Envelope-To: bg@gamblingblues.com

Rachel Stein
Development Assistant
Avon Trade – a Division of Harper Collins

Not funny guys. Not funny.

Lines For April 1

In regards to what might happen next in the supposed dust-up between G-Rob and Otis:

· There’s an ounce of truth to any of this – 250/1

· Otis wakes up this morning and says, “Huh?” – EVEN

· G-Rob and Blood spend countless hours on the girly IM chat thing over the next few days deflecting the protestations of the rest of us and insisting there’s actually some “bad blood” brewing – 3/5

· G-Rob goes so far as to trash Otis on the air – 25/1

· G-Rob and Blood loop G-Vegas’ other bloggerati into the fray to try and lend the story some legitimacy – 5/2

· Odds that these guys think they’re being really clever – 1/9

· Maudie gets concerned and/or deeply saddened and begs us all not to take sides – 4/1

· There’s an ugly public custody battle over Wil – 7/2

· There’s an ugly public custody battle over CJ – 50/1

· Odds these guys refuse to drop the veil on the joke within 30 days, simply to drag it out past the point people stop accusing them of making all this crap up – 7/1

· They realize their attempt at an April Fool’s gag has fallen flat and abandon the joke with a marginal apology before Saturday morning hits – 3/1

God Bless YouTube

I finally found the glory that is Billy Squier’s “Rock Me Tonight” video online. If he wasn’t gay, his director, choreographer, set designer and wardrobe guy have a lot of questions to answer…

We Interrupt These Trip Reports…

Dispatch Four is here. We had our first real celebrity sighting, and I get to relay the Al Can’t Hang bartender bribery story in the immediate wake. Whee.

I had a really rough day yesterday, for no reason at all in particular.

Generally speaking, I’d probably be diagnosed as borderline-depressed, were I to sit through enough sessions with a shrink. What goes on in my head is an odd balance of the acute self-awareness of reality mixed with the slightly nagging feeling that everything I think I know is clouded by erroneous perception.

Is that clear enough for you?

What I mean is that I’m both a realist and a pessimist, but with enough of a doom-and-gloom predilection towards panic tossed on top that I’m constantly thinking three steps ahead to the bottom of the cliff. Whether or not the plummet is imminent or imaginary, I can still envision the edge and know at my most fundamental level that I’m somehow going to be challenged to keep my balance and not topple to my demise.

To flip that old truism on its head to suit my purposes: it’s not the landing that gets you, it’s the stress of projecting the fall.

This has always been how I filter the world. This isn’t new, this isn’t random kvetching, this is just me. 99 days out of 100 it’s not a big deal. I live a life that doesn’t seem to allow for the manifestation of peaks and valleys, which makes sense if you’re doing what you can to keep everything in your own head on the same plane. At a basic level, I don’t want to feel. I mean, technically I do. I want a lot of things that are within my grasp that would bring me satisfaction or pleasure, and yes, I do work towards realizing these things.

I’m not as bad as you’re thinking, really. I don’t torpedo my own possibilities. Usually.

But there is that small nagging pain in my skull that throws “If/Then” into the conversation, always shrouded with imminent failure or embarrassment – and then what? I play through these self-doubts all the time. They’re minor, they don’t cripple me, and when faced with the reality of a choice, I’m able to make the right one, even if that’s not the safe, easy or lazy one.

Problem is, I’ve never been one to remember my dreams until lately. I can’t define what “lately” means, but I can tell you that the volume of dreams I awake from with a vivid remembrance has gone way, way up lately. And there’s been a common theme in many of these – I’m on the verge of being assaulted in some way (home invasion, mugging, car jacking, whatever). I try to run but it’s like I’m stuck in quicksand. I try to yell but all I can produce is a panicked laryngitis sound. There isn’t a goddamn thing I can do to prevent whatever is going to happen from happening.

I know what these mean, ultimately. With everything that has happened to me in the past three months, combined with everything that is on the verge of coming to fruition, I’m fearful that my little scope of control I thought I had on this life of mine is fluttering away – and fast.

I wake up to reality again, every day, and I can assure you I’m excited for and happily in anticipation of the good things that are on my horizon.

I just want these dreams, the ones I sometimes can’t shake until the following night’s rest, to just fucking go away already.

Gold Club

Dispatch Three Here.

I got fucking screwed last night trying to order a pizza. I could have waited in (a long-ass) line at Dulles to grab a sandwich (or Wendy’s or whatever), but no. I chose to hold out and grab food once I got to the hotel in Allentown.

I settle in and call the pizza joint across the street (a busy street, and it’s a drive, not a walk) and eschew pickup for delivery. Why not? Company’s paying. That’s 730PM. 8PM passes, then 820PM and then we hit 830PM before I realize I’m really fucking hungry. I hadn’t had a meal since half a burger on Friday night in Vegas, and somehow they lost the fucking order between the phone and the kitchen. The pizza never even made it to the oven, and by now I’d be getting it ten minutes after I need to go to sleep. See, I was working on two hours of sleep and all (Chad snores like a motherfucker when drunk), and had shifted from simply “hungry” to “profoundly emptified.” But I wasn’t going to make it to 10PM either way. Fuck.

I had the cafeteria’s flank steak with chimichurri (or something like that) sauce, couscous and broccoli for lunch. And I’m still fucking starving. FUCKING STARVING. Mean Gene would have given you 2000 words on how good lunch was (pretty darn, if you’re checking), but I’m weary and wheezy and just wanted to get part III of the above up for you, as the Al/Negreanu story is already circulating.

I wish I had done a better job with these, but whatever. I’ll write something of substance about this later. I just don’t have it in me right now.

Thank fucking god I don’t have to come back to Pennsyl next week, I need at least three straight nights in my own bed to recover. Bleh.

732PM, Dispatch Two

They have faces? Shit, I was fixated on the bunny outfit and totally missed getting to meet my favorite Playmate, Miss November 1998 Tiffany Taylor (NSFW by a mile). Ava Fabian (according to Speaks) was in the other bunny suit, and if you add Julie McCullough (of Growing Pains fame) to the mix, that completes your set of Playmates we accounted for on Saturday.

Dispatch Two comes from a quick survey of the scene from an elevated patio overlooking the bulk of the party. The LA celebrities weren’t quite in the house, but pro poker players have a tough time ignoring an open bar. I do recount my best celebrity sighting of the weekend, though it came at the bell desk at the Excalibur.

Oh, and I have not uploaded any other dispatches, so don’t bother trying to get ahead of the pack with changing the digits on the URL. I’m on to you.

Support the Urban Health Institute, who were responsible for getting us into the Mansion in the first place.

Dispatches From The Celebrity Poker Front

Was there a point in bringing our laptops? Nope. No signal, no power outlets, no “media” table… But the appetizers were good. I had:

· Salmon sushi rolls
· Tuna sushi rolls
· Beef with horseradish sauce
· Chicken satay
· Won-tons (a huge hit)
· Chicken sausage (disappeared way too early)
· Coconut shrimp
· Cocoa covered fudge balls
· Lemon cookies

I’m probably leaving something out, but rest assured that I had no more than two pieces of each, no thanks to the roving tray bastards figuring our crew out pretty quick. Celebrities first? Bah. Eff them, I’m hungry.

Until then, be sated by the first of eleven audio posts I’ve got from the Mansion. They’re not spectacular, but fuck it. Here you go.

Tool of the Man

Broke down, bought a sport coat. Pictures will have to wait, I do not own a camera with flash…

Reality Check – A Public Service Announcement

Guess what?

I don’t want to join in a reciprocal link partnership with your blog directory.

There’s something else too.

I’m not going to respond to your overtures for a “mutually beneficial” advertising relationship.

Oh, and then there’s this.

If I have to see an ugly blinking banner for your poker portal every time I see my own web page load up, chances are I’m going to commit blog hari-kari and scrap the whole fucking thing.

This is just me we’re talking about here anyway. If you feel the opportunity to play a series of freerolls is enough compensation for the advertising you’re offering, have at it. If you want to help perpetuate the growth of one of those multi-hyphenated poker portals by trading links, that’s totally cool by me. If you want to push PSO or freerolls or bonus codes or whatever, go right ahead. I won’t think any less of you, and neither should anyone else.

As a matter of fact, those of you not named Pauly or Iggy or Otis/CJ/G-Rob who are on the more lightly-trafficked side of the fence should probably take whatever table scraps are thrown your way if you’re hungry. For better or worse, if you looked at the growth of the “brand name” blogs in this neck of the woods, you’re looking at a fairly astonishing amount of daily attention, so the rest of us do get the trickle-down effect of being approached to shill or link or take the freebies we’re being offered.

As I’ve mentioned here before, there’s not a damn thing wrong with scratching out some cash via your blog. You (hopefully) put a lot of hard work into the thing, and you’ve been stewing in your own juices watching Pauly and Jason Kirk and Otis land these gigs traipsing the globe in the footsteps of Jesus (Ferguson). Where’s your piece of the pie?

Freerolls and freebies. Ad revenue. Relationship building. If you’ve got this nagging feeling that you deserve something for all your work, there you go. It’s on the table, piping hot. Eat up. They’re going to dismantle the buffet at some point, so if you’re the type to regret not taking what you could when it was there, start stuffing your pockets.

December 2004′s Vegas trip was a microcasm of how this community came together in the first place. It was a loose and organic gathering, the sort of situation where anyone who wanted to be a part of things simply raised their hand and said, “I’m in.” The fact that we all got to Vegas and shared that Rashomon weekend together just kinda happened. No one “took the lead” and really organized anything until it became apparent that we should get a tournament due to our numbers, and we should try to mine Prof’s contact list for some special guest stars.

So here we are eighteen months later, and the term “WPBT” is no longer tongue-in-cheek. We’re not 30 strong, we’re 200 strong. Inside and outside of our nebulous borders we’ve got opportunities and affiliations that stretch a tangled web (excusing the pun) to all corners of the online gaming world.

Here’s the part that should go without saying… This WPBT thing is not real. It’s not official. It’s a lot of things, like a confederation of friendships and an identifiable logo under which we play, but we’re not the Elks or Kiwanis. We’re not a literal group with membership and a constitution. We’re barely a social organization, as the only criteria for hanging around seems to be having a blog or knowing the author of one.

Why then is there even a question about the ability of an advertiser’s offer to somehow rend asunder what we have wrought? I can’t conceive of a circumstance where some freeroll is going to put the friendships I have built through our common loves of poker and writing at risk. If anything, the seemingly ravenous appetites some of us have for poker (compared to others, such as myself) can only be fed and strengthened by this.

So what if an online site wants to use your words to improve its search results and bottom line (legitimately, with your permission)? So what if the introduction of a few new freerolls cuts off a couple of dates in the future for “sanctioned” WPBT event scheduling (shit, where exactly across that last sentence do the ironic quotes belong?)? Who cares if the term “WPBT” somehow gets co-opted or corrupted by an insidious poacher?

Seriously, does that somehow lessen the friendships and associations you’ve grown to cherish?

I, BG of all people, am about to toss a little advice everyone’s way that may seem out of character for me…

…Don’t get so worked up about this, it’s not worth it.

Support these advertising efforts, don’t support them, rail against them, whatever. I can’t for my life see the dollar signs at the end of this tiny little rainbow somehow crushing the bonds of respect and friendship we’ve been building, so whatever you decide to do about the sales pitches and relationship marketers and such, just do it. Don’t worry about the rest of us. We know that ultimately when we put together these tournaments, you’re not about to turn your back on your friends.