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So I know I haven't posted much lately. Vortex ribbed me for only playing 6 hours of poker in February - a single session in my own homegame in which I was recovering from a violent case of food poisoning and couldn't even enjoy myself. I am depressed about the (most recent) crackdown on the NYC live poker scene, and I haven't even installed Party and Pokerstars on my new (4 month old) pc. I hope Party hasn't confiscated my account since I last logged in. Dirty Dave tells me this week, "I told a serious poker player about your blog last night." Man. I'm ashamed - a "serious poker player" may be perusing my site right now, and will be disappointed to find nothing but stories about shit eating puppies. Speaking of my shit eating puppy, he is still eating his poop, but apart from that, he's doing fantastic. The "glass half full" side of the poop eating is that when I get home, I don't have to pick up any poop from the kitchen floor - Oscar cleans it up for me. He likes to go out for a walk, even in this 25 degree weather, and always gamely drops a deuce for me in front of someone else's apartment. Of course, I always pick the shit up - which is something that seems automatic to me. Yet, as Mrs. Dynamite says, "There must be an awful lot of seeing eye dogs in our neighborhood," because there is a shitload of dog shit on the sidewalk (you don't have to pick up after a seeing eye dog, of course). Seriously douchebags: when your dog takes a shit on the sidewalk, you pick it up. That is non-negotiable. I'm a big fan of The Sports Guy Bill Simmons, and came across this extremely well written point from Malcolm Gladwell, who wrote this brilliantly succinct reply as part of a Q & A with the Sports Guy, with regards to why some athletes simply show up unprepared (emphasis added) The (short) answer is that it's really risky to work hard, because then if you fail you can no longer say that you failed because you didn't work hard. It's a form of self-protection . I swear that's why Mickelson has that almost absurdly calm demeanor. If he loses, he can always say: Well, I could have practiced more, and maybe next year I will and I'll win then. When Tiger loses, what does he tell himself? He worked as hard as he possibly could. He prepared like no one else in the game and he still lost. That has to be devastating, and dealing with that kind of conclusion takes a very special and rare kind of resilience. Most of the psychological research on this is focused on why some kids don't study for tests -- which is a much more serious version of the same problem. If you get drunk the night before an exam instead of studying and you fail, then the problem is that you got drunk. If you do study and you fail, the problem is that you're stupid -- and stupid, for a student, is a death sentence. The point is that it is far more psychologically dangerous and difficult to prepare for a task than not to prepare. People think that Tiger is tougher than Mickelson because he works harder. Wrong: Tiger is tougher than Mickelson and because of that he works harder. I read one of Gladwell's books, Blink, which was mildly interesting, but he is clearly a very talented writer and psychological thinker. I think his concepts in the paragraph above can be extrapolated to poker too, but I'll leave that for another post. The Big Show comes to town tomorrow. until next time, KD

Tags: strong, shit, poker, pick, dog

" I've got the biggest dick in the world. Twelve inches of thick black cock . " 6:20am and this is the first thing I hear when I walk out of my apartment. My immediate thought is, "Dad? Is that you?" But alas, it's not my long lost father. It's some dude who looks like he could be normal, ranting at no one in particular. I'm in front of him, walking the same direction as he is, and we pass a woman loading luggage into a town car, like she's going to the airport. Johnny BigDick leers at her "Oh yeah Sistah - work that trunk, " and I can hardly contain my laughter. Unfortunately the next words out of his mouth, I fear, are directed at me: "I love sucking white boys' cocks." Normally this may be a good thing to hear, but in my neighborhood, and this time, it is usually not music to my ears. The chances of these words coming from neighbors Liv Tyler, Famke Jansen or Gisele are somewhere between slim and none (akin to catching perfect-perfect to scoop a pot - only much much worse), while the chances of them coming from a 5 foot 6 inch gay black man are pretty fuckin' good (like having a super wrap straight draw + flush draw with overcards in an Omaha pot that makes you a big favorite). I make it to work, and in the afternoon I fire off an email to Chris asking him if he's played at our club lately. He replies that not only is the club still going, but he played last night, and there were at least four BIG TIME action players splashing around, issuing brutal beats. I quickly shoot off another email to The Vortex, imploring him "You have to go play live - I hear the game is sick. I can't play because I have to take care of Oscar after work." Vortex quickly replies this he was genuinely Midway this amusement, to boot that it was sweeter than I could expect, giving me a few contents illustration. I'm now welcome serious TILT, all along I'm aching to play stay in poker, but discern particular obligations, exceptionally, my boy - Oscar. Instead of animate vicariously Because Vortex, I hunger a share of the activity myself... oh thoughtlessly. twin term, another dollar. -KD

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It's official. I have NOT retired from poker. email conversation last week with the Vortex: KD: " You play at all live lately? I talked to Chris and I hear the game has been going strong and SICK!" Vortex: " I was there last night ." KD (starting to TILT): " WHAT? Details please?" Vortex (taunting me): " Crazy game . {proceeds to name a plethora of donators} KD (Fully TILTed): " Aiyahh! I'm on high TILT right now. I want to play so bad, but I have to take care of my puppy after work ." Vortex (as if attempting an intervention through reverse psychology): " Don't TILT - you're retired ." No fuckin' way baby . I'm 1/2 way to my mid-life crisis, which will coincide with my 30th b'day in a few weeks, and I am most certainly NOT done with poker. Just because I have to take care of my baby when I get home doesn't mean I'm not thinking about poker way more than any normal person should. Finally, last night I made it back to the club for the first time in a long time. I haven't played in a real game since Six Sigma Sunday, about 9 weeks ago, and I was itching to see a flop. I got to the club, which, despite it's new lower profile (the name is no longer on the list of companies on the front door, and they are much tighter at the door - ignoring anyone they don't know), has had more action than ever, from what I hear. I hit the buzzer and look up at the camera. Nothing. Again. Buzzzzz... Pause.... Nothing. Someone is leaving the building, and I sneak in as he exits. I take the elevator up to the club, and buzz the next door. Nothing. I buzz again. Finally Asian Paul comes to let me in. I walk in and see Eddie on the phone. I give him two middle fingers, and a "What the fuck? Do you know who the fuck I am ?" "Sorry - I didn't recognize you - none of us did." Jeez. Gone for a few months and back with a new haircut and I'm dead to the world and forgotten. Unreal. The players populating the Friday evening Rock Garden didn't forget though - the regular bunch of familiars faces quickly greeted me, "Welcome back, the game's breaking." I laughed and bought chips. Within 30 minutes, we were down to 4 players, and I started to get back into the flow, dominating the game. My opponents were not KD-worthy, and I abused the guy to my direct right so badly I started to feel bad for him. I won every fucking pot I played with him. Bluff. Value bet. Value call. Everything. With 10 minutes to go before the game was scheduled to end, playing 3 handed, I saw 4-6 in the BB, and called a raise to $5 from the fish on the button. The SB came along for the flop of 4-4-A. SB checked, I bet out $15, and the button called. Nice. This will work out nicely when he gets committed to his ace. Turn: offsuit jack - no flush possible. I bet $30. He calls. River: 9. I bet $50. He moves all in for a total of $78: $28 more. I call, still fully expecting my hand to be good, and he turns over... FRIDAY IN VEGAS! Pocket jacks! How fuckin' poetic. Trumped by my signature hand on my triumphant return to the felt. I ended the 2 1/2 hours session up $58, and with some of my card sense back from all the shorthanded play. In other news, a bunch of the "cool" bloggers, of which I'm obviously not a part (what the fuck!?) are going to the Playboy Mansion this weekend! Unreal. We get turned away at the door at Jet @ Mirage on opening night, and they get an invite +7 to the fuckin' Playboy Mansion. Aiyahh! At least Dr. Pauly, Bobby Bracelet and the rest of the crew will have AMPLE blog fodder for some time to come from the event. until next time, KD

Tags: strong, back, game, kd, vortex