Excuses, excuses.

Yeah, I realize I haven't been around all that much. A completely unexpected death in the family, a little bout of seasonal depression and an effort to conserve what little bankroll I do have for Vegas, well, they all tend to keep me away from hucking digital chips towards my opponents stacks. They didn't really want my money anyhow.

I just haven't been playing that much poker of the last two weeks. No poker, means no updates. I didn't even realize it had been so long since I've touched your lives with my beautiful, flowing verbiage.

Uh, yeah.

It's about that time of year when thoughts turn towards check-raising some douchebags(credit:Bobby Ipod), losing large razz pots, and questioning why the Plaza reeks of impending death. And by impending death, I mean "old people".

There isn't much advice I can give to you, Lame Reader, that hasn't already been forced into your already addled, pre-Vegas brains. I do, however, have one contradiction to a major piece of advice; 50 degree daytime highs and 30 degree nightime lows is not cold.

Where I come from--Minnesota, not my mother's womb thingy--that's balmy this time of year. While I understand the need to wear your warmest winter gear in the poker rooms(my hands turned purple more than once in June), there is no reason to lug around your warm winter jacket in 50 degree weather. And admit it, you're not going to be outside more than the time it takes to go from one casino to the next.

The WPBT event in June was my first trip to Vegas for this sort of convention. Even I, with my rudimentary counting skills,(fingers and toes, penis when necessary) can figure out that this will be my second. If you catch me unzipping my pants while at a poker table, I'm either blacked-out drunk, or trying to figure out pot odds on an open-ended straight flush draw. Most likely both.

On the fun scale of one to a shitload, June ranks right up there just a notch under a shitload. I do wish that I'd talked to more people, though. You see, I tend to be on the shy side, and even when I drink I tend to sit back and watch the show rather than become a part of it. I'm perfectly content sitting back and observing.

I hung out with and talked to Bobby Bracelet, Joe, BG, and even got to talk to Pauly more than I thought I would.

But that leaves 70 some odd people that I didn't say more than a few words to. I'm pretty sure that everyone at my starting table in the Saturday tournament thought I was a hobo because I didn't say more than 10 words, to anyone, the entire time, and I had to have reeked of 75 different forms of alcohol. What does it say about me when I contemplate licking the back of my hand--in public--to make sure I'm not sweating vodka?

Come to think of it, though, I was at the girl's end of the table, and girls are icky. And have cooties. That would explain why I didn't talk all that much. Can you get cooties from poker chips? Hell, I didn't even realize that Chilly was there until, er, yesterday! Not that he has anything to do with girl germs, I was just sayin' is all.

That's my only 'must-do'; talk to more people.

If you didn't hear the legion of Penthouse Pet railbirds scream "Chaaaaad! We lust after you in the exact opposite of a platonic way!"(who knew that any Pet would know the definition of "platonic?") when I was knocked out of the actual WPBT tourney in June, I finished in 9th(10th?) place. That would normally would be a non-paying final table appearance, but the other players were kind enough to give me a refund on my entrance fee, even though I showed up with 3 orange chips(T1500 total) when the average stack was about T100,000,000. Yes, a hundred meeellion cheeps.

After being knocked out, I grabbed my swag, made the Walk of Shame towards the bar in the middle of the casino, grabbed a drink, sat down and thought about my play. Did I play my best? Did I make stupid calls and get lucky? Even 6 months later, I still look back at some of the plays I made--which at the time I thought were terrible--and wonder if that's the sort of game one needs to succeed in tournament poker.

Just a fair warning; the details on these hands will be sparse. I didn't document them at the time, so get off my back already, wouldya?

My 99 vs. Pauly's 1010: Before the tournament started, I recall Felicia saying that the structure that had originally been agreed upon was scrapped at the last minute, and that the Aladdin's structure was nothing but a crapshoot. As I played this hand, that word kept replaying in my head. I don't remember the last time I called off all my chips holding a pair of nines, and I know I haven't done it since. Crapshoot, crapshoot, crapshoot. I had just seen Pauly push AK against Halverson's KK and get lucky, so I hoped he was doing the same thing here. I was fortunate(lucky) enough that the first card off was a 9, and I doubled up on a play that I don't usually make.

My A5h vs. Tanya's33: I'm sure she had no clue who I was, but I knew her and made a decision to stay away from her from the minute I sat down. Why? Uh, could it because she's a much better tournament player than I am? Of course. If I recall correctly, she pushed when it was my big blind, and it wasn't that much more to call. If the odds to call were there or not, that's another story altogether, a story that I didn't even read. Regardless, I rivered a boat and she was out. I'm sure she wasn't too happy to lose to someone calling with A5h.

My K10d vs. EvaCanHang's K9o: Once again, it wasn't that much more to call, and by that time I had a fairly big stack, but I don't remember the last time I called an all-in with king-ten. Crapshoot.

My A7h vs. CJ'sA3o vs. Shelly's QJ: I didn't play this hand out, but the outcome makes me wish that I had. I know, I know, it's impossible to win by beating yourself up over hands that you shouldn't play anyhow, but I pussed out from playing the patented brand of retard poker I'd been entrenched in all morning, and that's the annoying part about this hand.

CJ had sat down a few hands earlier with an enormous stack, probably twice the size of my stack, and I know that I was well above average. By the time this hand came around, he had been whittled down to less than I had in front of me. Shelly open-raised and I was more worried about what she was holding than CJ's hand, so I folded. CJ pushed and Shelly called and lost the hand, but I would've rivered the nut flush. Should've, would've, could've, I know. I was just more disappointed that I chose that hand hit the brakes on my runaway train. Like a madman laughing at the rain. Was I a little out of touch, and little insane?

Who knows, I'm just trying to make Dave Pirner roll over in his grave.

So there you have it; y'all are pussies and chad plays live poker like a retard.

Any questions?