sheverb

Sincerely, the story part? It’s fewer than 150 words. The rest is homage to Pauly.

Peacecorn lives!

Not in a Peacecorn’s Desperate Choice LifeTime movie of the week manner (though by employing tremendous suspension of disbelief, this could be played by a pre-weight loss Valerie Bertinelli bluffing away a large chip stack in the late stage of a tourney with 9/10 off suit).

Peacecorn Lives is more like a SciFi horror film where:

Your car (AA) never starts at the crucial time (my 89s hits a straight on the flop and turns a flush).

The public official (my 57o) never believes you (your JJ loses to my two pair on the river).

The bad guys (my pocket fives) come back to life for the sequel (your well-played AKs is ahead all the way, but you fold to a bluff on the river).

Or

Everyone who has sex (you and the rest of the table who called my crap because I have no concept of pot or implied odds) dies (gets sucked out by me with a gut shot) .

Much to my delight, Wheaton is personally involved in this post, but not in the manner in which you might suspect. Head to Fleet Street Games for fun if you play online poker and desire some seriously free cash. This long story short continues tomorrow or Friday.

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In the meantime, do check out the Sixth Anniversary OMG edition of Truckin.

1. Ikeaphobia by Paul McGuire
I kept imagining Swedish people in Sweden coming home from their Swedish jobs and sitting down on their Swedish couches and eating Swedish meals cooked in Swedish pans and served on Swedish plates… More

2. The Crucification of Kaminsky by Betty Underground
The diet pills made her skinny. Made her feel excepted in the land of the beautiful. The speed getting her through the days. Coke came at night, when she needed to escape her own mind. Her past… More

3. One Night Out, Part I by Sigge S. Amdal
I noticed that I wasn’t alone in the alley, and I looked up quick enough to see a prostitute coughing up a recognizable white substance. She looked up and for a brief time our eyes met. Only one window apart earlier, but out here we were both equally being sick. It was a strange moment of solidarity… More

4. The Reason Why… by May B. Yesno
The place had a less than classy name, The Roamin Gardens, to say little of the fact the only garden about it were two fake, potted palm trees at the front door. A typical sleazy pick-up joint. One in which you feel like everything you touch you can pick-up most anything… More

5. Drafting Richard Petty by Drizz
Imagine starting every day with these heavy chains pinning you to Davy Jones’ Locker, and having zero motivation to try to swim to the surface because those depths didn’t provide any sunlight to reach… More

6. FLASHBACK - Fukuoka, Phishy City by Tenzin McGrupp
The workers are tiny Japanese girls who wear the most adorable white and red uniforms and lovely white gloves cover their tiny hands. They greet you with big smiles and sing a nice happy song to you as the customers pay… More

I was terribly shocked and saddened to hear about Tim Russert today. My dad died six years ago this weekend while I was out of the country, so I know the heartache of such a thing. I’m not going to give you any twee advice about hugging your father or family this weekend, but I will ask one thing.

Can the pundits please lay off the “he’s doing his interviews in heaven now”?

It would have driven my dad crazy.

Lincoln Park Zoo, 1999

Between my recent trip to Atlantic City, a card room opening close by the Dome and cash games on FullTilt during my convalescence, I’ve played more poker in the last three weeks than I have in the last six months. My decision to bail out of Al’s BBT3 in February in retrospect is both a blessing and a curse. A curse because I miss it tons and understand there won’t be another one of these for very long time, and a blessing because I am very much off my game.

In fact, I’m so deep in the red it’s hard to breathe down here.

While I’m shifting my game to recovery-mode by playing much lower stakes and not traveling to Vegas this summer, I’m still following the WSOP closely thanks to Pauly, Change100, Jen Leo, The Poker Prof and Flip Chip, Tim Lavalli, MeanGene, Spaceman, Short-Stacked Shamus, FTrain and the rest of the crew who are covering it just for me. Just for me!

Aren’t they swell?

And while Amy may be in Texas for the WSOP, her heart is in Vegas–she’s still contributing. Plus, I hear Otis will be there in a few weeks. Oh, the anticipation.

If you care about such things, do check out their coverage. While they ARE writing just for me, they are generous creatures. I’m certain they’ll share with everyone. (In an hour or so, permanent links will be placed in the sidebar for your convenience.)

Pokerblog.com
Tim Lavalli

Pokernews.com
Amy Calistri
Change100
John “Falstaff” Hartness
Haley Hintze
BJ Nemeth
John “Shecky” Caldwell
Jen Leo
Gene “MeanGene” Bromberg
FTrain
Short-Stacked Shamus

Poker Listings
Jason “Spaceman” Kirk

Pokerati
Dan Michalski

Tao Poker
Dr. Pauly

Tao Poker saved me last night after losing a buy-in at Ocala Jai Alai and I just didn’t have the heart to buy back in. Because he’s raging solo and not writing for a media outlet this summer, he’s able to take the WSOP and all its corporate and not-so-corporate shenanigans to task. And shenanigans, there are many. The site kept me entertained on my Treo while my cohorts finished playing. I miss Pauly and can’t wait to hear these stories and further insights first hand.

With bronchitis happily settled deep within my lungs, it’s hard to move, hard to speak and sometimes hard to think. Rather than wallow in my agony and secretions, I’ve chosen to delight in the fact I have a compassionate boss who banished me from my place of employment today so I could work from the comfort of my new fake Westin Heavenly Bed. (I choose to believe it’s compassion and not outright fear that I might first infect the rest of the staff and then hospitalize his entire family.)

Between frequent naps and stuffing the cells of my brain not destroyed by apoplectic coughing fits full of upcoming work-related projects, there’s just enough time to post a few more vacation photos before they go stale.

I spent some time with Al and Mike at McGillin’s Old Ale House during Mike’s 40th, and we met here again this time around. Established in 1860, it fit right in with the history jones I was on during this trip.

I was disappointed to find no ghosts (or skeletal baby hands) in the street-side cellar hole of McGillin’s.

Kat arrives in the McGillin’s alley via cab.

Inside McGillin’s. Someone enjoyed a beverage while looking out this very window, no more than 34 years after Adams and Jefferson died.

One beverage for Kat.

Two beverages for Maudie.

One of the many seagulls in Atlantic City who wanted my cracker.

Around 1am, after I lost a crap-load of chips in AC and Kat and Maudie crashed, I went out to the beach to say goodbye to a different kind of ghost. Way fewer than 34 years ago, with my college friends and the man who would be my first husband, I enjoyed many beverages and sunsets from the windows of the Black Forest, once located in the Steel Pier (seen in the distance).

And this is the direction where all those suns, and that part of my life set. I stood on the beach alone in the dark for a long time, watching the moon and wondering about some things. Why is it that relationships forged in my twenties seem so poignant and romantic to me now? Why did I discard them in the manner I did? And holy fuck, what is that guy doing walking around out here? Is there time to run to the boardwalk steps or should I just scream right now? Run or scream? WHICH CHOICE WILL ALLOW ME TO LIVE?

I used to feed the seagulls (inappropriately) when visiting Atlantic City years ago. This weekend I tried to recreate this fond memory with Maudie and Kat . . .

Don’t believe Hollywood.

I spent a lot of time in Atlantic City in the mid-to-late 90’s. That recent movie about black jack?

It’s a lie.

I counted thousands of cards, paid for dozens of vacations as a result and was only kicked out of Harrah’s once. I was not MIT student material, there were no dark basement rooms with moody sewer pipes and no creepy Laurence Fishburne characters threatening to punch me in the throat (damn).

There was just one old guy in a wrinkled suit, confiscating my player’s card while escorting me out the front door and asking me to leave Atlantic City FOREVER.

Harrah’s corporate overlords aren’t the best record keepers. My friends and I were back a few months later.

Anyway. While at the Borgata in AC this weekend, a casino that stands not far from the place that kicked me out for life, I was dealt a nasty beat. I won’t go into it here except to say the phrase “winner winner, chicken dinner” was spoken to me by my seatmate with regard to the ass clown who called me down and won with a ridiculous seven-high flush on the river.

My response was an impromptu, “No. Runner runner, turret gunner.”

I’m not certain why Randall Jarrell’s “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner” was running through my head at the time, but I’d been playing badly for at least an hour, my bankroll was toast and I felt like shit.

No normal and sane person would make a comparison between a young man giving up his life during WWII and losing an ill-gotten bankroll in a card room, but I’m nothing if not insensitive and self-absorbed.

I wandered around for awhile, got lost in the bowels of the Borgata and came back with not a great new plan for poker strategy, but rather a fun way to play with Twitter, an inexplicable social networking site I still can’t wrap my brain around.

Seriously.

What is wrong with me?

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Wall outside of Christ Church

Independence Hall

Tony snaps his own photo

Maudie and Me

Technology Dorks

Tony and Me

Interior of Independence Hall

We Three

Sticking my camera inside a tomb

Further inside the tomb

OMFG! A TINY HAND AND RIB CAGE??!

For eight years and 16 seasons, I’ve faithfully watched Survivor. Early on, I wanted to BE a contestant. I completed dozens of applications and prepared (in my head) the videos I’d send to CBS designed to make me a shoe-in. There were great plans to record adventurous exploits of me jumping out of a plane, making my ascent upon Everest or fighting a bear.

Except I don’t do that stuff.

Ever.

I can work myself into a panic attack just by thinking about those things too hard. Christ, the short domestic flight I booked from Jacksonville to Philadelphia next week already has me crafting worst case scenarios. Can I finish this one last book I’m reading before I die? Will I have time to make a last second phone call as the plane goes down? Wait. Who should I call? Wait. Wait! Have I cleared my cache? HAVE I CLEARED MY CACHE?

If I were selected to be on Survivor, I’d flip out about a potential viral hemorrhagic fever and bail out on Jeff Probst during the phone call telling me I was in.

Even though I gave up my Survivor dream long ago (okay, last Tuesday when I decided there is no way I was going to fight a real bear), I still dork out during every finale. I use it as an excuse to reconnect with my childhood by preparing the junk food my parents served up to family and friends on New Years Eve when I was growing up. Shrimp cocktail, clam dip, chips, a cheese ball, some crackers, and Cold Duck. I light a candle for the final four, ceremoniously snuffing each one out as they leave the game.

There are a few good hours to be spent on a therapist’s couch trying to figure that one out.

Cirie should have won.

Pauly’s latest edition of Truckin’ has arrived. 72nd issue, wowee!

1. Sundays by Paul McGuire
I held four crappy jobs and had to work on Sundays at an art museum. Most of the time, I got baked in the parking lot and just stood around making sure the post-church and post-brunch crowd kept their grubby mitts off the paintings… More

2. Prison Justice by Dr. Chako
Hateem’s crime must have been grave. They broke his ankles and elbows, of course. What happened next is beyond human understanding. At least five executioners must be involved. After the arms and legs, you’d think Hateem’s spirit would be broken, but you’d be wrong. They must be swift. From the time the gag comes out, the screaming must be intolerable… More

3. Egotistical: Three Examples by Sean Lovelace
The radio was playing angry girl bands. I love and have always loved angry girl bands. They have what I call fuck you. Also I was waiting on a girl. A cute bra-less girl who would soon leap off a balcony… More

4. High School Reunion by Johnny Hughes
He kept asking me if I remembered people which I didn’t, but he told me all about them anyway. No one would ever forget Bobby, especially me. Now the most mellow guy in West Texas had a license to carry a hand gun… More

5. Ode to…. by Dusty Rhodes
Death is natural. We will all die and we will all have friends and family that die. It is a hard thing to deal with but it has to be done. People cry, people act strong, people try to empathize but can’t truly understand what it is that you are going through. Our experiences are all different but I can’t imagine anyone who likes dealing with these things… More

Sleepers wake! Upon what do you sleep?
(Apologies to the long dead Bach. Not even close to a reasonable translation.)

I’m in the market for a new bed and am leaning towards a Simmons Beautyrest Classic Pillowtop. In stores, it feels similar to The Marriott Bed (by Jamison) and the Westin Heavenly Bed (by Simmons). I’ve had great sleeps on both and with a little research, I’m pretty sure I can avoid considerable branding and shipping costs if I purchase the bed from a local retailer under its made-up-mattress-scam-name instead of a hotel chain.

My problem lies in what the rest of my research uncovered. The Simmons World Class model, one above the Classic, gets supremely crappy reviews all over the internet. Though it’s not the same bed I’m considering, the reviews are unnerving. There are loads of complaints about divots forming in the bed within two to three years (some showing up as early as six months of use) and there are many complaints about the company as well. Specifically, some say the quality of Simmons craftsmanship has declined over the years and the newer beds just don’t hold up.

My dear three invisible internet friends, have any of you purchased a Simmons Beautyrest Classic within the last few years? Or know of someone who did? Perhaps you could post this question to your favorite internet chat board for me. I’ve found very few reviews on this particular model.