Lost Vegas

Yes this post will be about Las Vegas and poker, also strippers, drugs, alcohol and lime tossing.  A friend and fellow writer has just published a book about all of those things and so much more. Paul McGuire -- Dr. Pauly to those involved in the world of professional poker -- has been writing about poker for over five years but Lost Vegas is more about the underbelly of Las Vegas than it is about playing poker. I have seen most of what Pauly describes in his book but I saw it from a safe distance. Where I protected myself with kevlar, Pauly barely had time for the latex. This book is very up close and personal with the dark side of Sin City. He has felt the breath of a coke-up stripper and had the drunken conversations with hookers as the sun came up on another heat-stoked Vegas day.

Think Leaving Las Vegas without the cinematic touchups. Yes folks, Vegas really is this nasty and dirty. No matter how many Cirque de Soleil shows you see, the raw truth is just behind that row of Wheel of Fortune slots.

I will warn you only that there may be too much poker action for my non-poker audience but if you ever wanted to see, touch, feel and smell what real Las Vegas can be like -- this book will give you a taste you will remember. Yes, I do make a few cameos but as I said, I never go as dark as Pauly. And lest you think you have heard this all before -- I offer you my favorite excerpt from Lost Vegas:

"You having a good time tonight?" she asked.


"The possible ranks higher than the actual."


"You didn't just make that shit up?" she screamed into my ear over the blaring music. "You don't think I'm that fuckin' stupid where you can pass off a second-rate quote from an out-dated philosopher like Heidegger? He's a Nazi, you know."

My bluff had been called. There's something very sexy, yet surreal, when a naked woman debates Heidegger with you while you attempt to drown out the Britney Spears song blasting in the background.


If you want to check out the unique style of the good doctor, he pens a number of blogs: Tao of Poker, Tao of Pauly, Coventry Music and Tao of Bacon. As Bill Edler would say -- well done, my friend.

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A White Man

I took a phone survey today and was reminded that most multiple choice questions don't have the "correct" answer for me. I was also struck by the follow-up question when my answer to the race question was -- caucasian. The interviewer said: do you consider yourself hispanic or of hispanic origin. I responded: "I understand why you would ask that if I had said "white" but my answer was caucasian and that question immediately followed my answering "Ph.D." to the level of education question, so one might assume I actually do know what my racial origins are."

His response was: "So that would be no to the hispanic question?"

My contention for many years is that the even the caucasian label is vague bordering on useless. Here it is, by the way:

of, pertaining to, or characteristic of one of the traditional 
racial divisions of humankind, marked by fair to dark skin, 
straight to tightly curled hair, and light to very dark eyes, 
and originally inhabiting Europe, parts of North Africa, 
western Asia, and India: no longer in technical use.


In other words -- "those people", you know the rich, in control, dominant, priviledged, blah, blah, blah. But all in all, not a helpful nor descriptive category. No, this is not going to be some inane rant about reverse discrimination, I have always said that being a large, white male in America is a huge advantage. But caucasian as a descriptive category simply sucks. You see apparently I am half Italian sort of and half Irish kind of. I have no connection to either of those cultures and all of my relatives, those that were alive when I was young and those alive now are just plain white folk. 


Therefore, I now propose and will pencil in on all future applications, surveys and prying government inquiries my true racial label:


I am albus americanus!


If you are too, then stand up proud and don't forget the SPF 45 sunscreen.

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What's In a Name?

Off and on for the last couple of month's I have written quite a bit about my new place -- The Apartment I called it. Most of the words I have written recently had to with the view. Now that summer is in full swing the the sun has reversed course heading back south towards the Golden Gate and the fogs of San Francisco are around most days. So my view gets lots of natural variation. Today I wish to muse about what I call this place in Berkeley. I really thought The Apartment worked just fine with no references to the Billy Wilder, Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine academy award winning film of the same name.

But last week, someone who really knows The Apartment referred to it as The View and that got me thinking. The Eyrie came immediately to mind but that was just way too precious, it led to Roost and Perch, Promotory and Massif which allowed Amy to wonder if caves ever came with views. I growled at that suggestion, briefly considered Grizzly Peak and put the whole idea aside until last night when I wrote this line in a story -- "he lived life with a glimpse and a glance."

Seems as if there must be some ocularly infused eponym that is just right, not too hot, not too cold. So I am open to suggestions, a prize for a winning linguistic turn.

Until then, I am signing off from The Apartment - the one with The View and this my 100th blog post of 2010.

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Getting a Closer Look

Even though the thumping at first reminded me of mortar fire, (I just finished a great book on the Vietnam War) I quickly realized that some community on the western side of the San Pablo Bay (that's the north end of the SF Bay to non-locals) had decided to go with fireworks on Saturday night (3rd). Since I had just set-up my new Zhumell 20x80 Super Giant Astronomical Binoculars with optional adjustable tripod, I was quickly able to zoom in on the show. I must say it was pretty cool and the big red, white & blue finish was extra super special cool. After the final flashes had gone out I was surprised by how long it took those last audio echoes to reach me in Berkeley.

I was going to get out my old slid rule and do some calculations when I decided it was better just to look up the nearest fiery attractions for Sunday night the 4th of July. I was fairly sure that San Francisco would hold it regular show from Pier 39 but I suspected that Treasure Island would block the lower part of my view but I was really more concerned with the foggy overcast that really hasn't burned off the past several days and really regroups as the solar heat decreases in the early evening.

I wondered if there were any East Bay displays, lo and behold there it was Berkeley 9:30 PM off the Berkeley Pier. That puts a big display about 2.5 miles from my elevated perch and I still have the SF fireworks in the distance.

So the new toy is fine tuned, banana bread is defrosted, Oohs and Aaaahs are at hand.

[8:30] one hour to go and the overcast (undercast?) is really coming in. I think the San Francisco fireworks will just be faint glows in the mist. As of right now I can still see the Berkeley Pier, but this is going to be an interesting pyrotechnical evening.

[10:15] Muted is seldom a word used to describe fireworks, but that is the perfect descriptor for tonight. The top third of the Berkeley display disappeared into the clouds. Many of the mid-range starbursts had their tops or bottoms dissected. Geometrically this was a display like no other I have seen but am betting those waiting in line to get out of the Marina parking lot might feel a bit dampened. Mother Nature has her way with us yet again.

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Lay of the Last Minstrel

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
                   -Sir Walter Scott

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Courageous Cat

Today's post is all about inter-species communication. The black feline in the picture is Vlad who resides at M's house. The picture was taken by the next-door neighbor, who is the owner of the very large twenty year old parrot. Vlad is a wise animal and is fully aware that the parrot is larger than he is and has a very sharp beak. But sometimes he just has to hop the fence and ponder the possibilities of 'what if'.

I am going to make this a long weekend, so today I leave you with other furry and feathery images.

Enjoy the weekend.

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The (Poker) Shrink Speaks Again

A year ago I offered these same advisory comments to my friends in the poker media regarding the inevitable World Series of Poker burnout from long hours, bad food, poker playing and ridiculously high standards for tournament reporting that no one reads. I received several laudatory comments from my writing buddies, but no one actually took my advice. While I don't miss being in Las Vegas for six weeks in the roasting heat, I do miss my friends among the players, tournament staff and media. So, today I want to (re)remind everyone that total exhaustion is not a requirement of the impending WSOP Main Event.

Rule #1: Rest! 

Resting does not include clubs (night or gentlemen's). You might consider some exercise, again that would mean a gym not a gentlemen's club. The big parties are in full swing this week; the barbeques are fine, the all night drunken rolls with or without running Twitter commentaries are not. Those of you who will not take this advice, please do twitter away all the details, drunken tweets are always great for next day prop bets.

To the players, remember you are the one who said:

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I have been running bad the whole series, but now the main event is here."

"I am going to focus and be prepared to play" is not a line that should be followed by ". . . another round for the table."

Yes, Las Vegas is a lot of fun, lots and lots of fun. But not the night before your Super Bowl. This really is the World Series of Poker and if you are good, skillful and lucky; it will last nearly two weeks, you really think it is wise to go out and party the night before you or your backer upchucks ten thousand dollars?

Back to my buddies in the poker media. Repeat after me. Nothing happens on Day One, not Day 1A or 1B or C or D. There is no reason to further stress yourself out to report on anything but the funny hats and stupid costumes. Also no one makes the money on Day Two, not Day 2A or 2B. Lots of stuff happens but nearly none of it is worth reporting. Things get semi-serious on Day Three or maybe Four, so pace yourself and next year remember all the resolutions you made this year. You know: eat right, use the gym, don't play poker after a 12 hour writing day, finish your screen play and read that book on Omaha 8. But for now -- go to back to bed! 


Finally I would add that not hearing a single chip shuffle or someone yelling "Floor!" every five minutes is what most people call summer. 


Hang in there, it really is almost over.

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