I started writing in various journals and blogs a little over 4 years ago, and from time-to-time I like to re-read entries. It's interesting to go back and see where I was as opposed to where I am not now. Sometimes it's funny, but most of the time it's downright painful to read just how bad I was at writing.

Not that I presently make the claim to be a writer. At best, I'm an amateur, self-important hack with delusions of humor. But at least I'm not as bad now as when I started.
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May 3rd, 2002

"Hmmmm...I feel like my first journal entry should be profound and life altering for ALL my throngs of fans who now know that I am on this site. Bah, who am I trying to kid? I'm just doing this to waste even MORE time during my day on the internet! *scoff* As if I don't spend enough on here already. :D
I had a soccer game last night and it was cold as a russian hooker outside! *shivers* We won 4-0(and I had a goal and assist) but does it really count when we were playing 11 on 8? HELL YEAH IT DOES! A win is a win! I don't think we'll have that many easy games though. A wierd thing happened at the game though. I was coming off the field after scoring and there were 2 guys there that were helping to cast "normal" soccer players for a United Airlines commercial that is going to be aired during the World Cup. They video taped my "trying" to do some of my non-existant moves and said that if I end up getting chosen as one of the 10 finalists, I'd be called sometime this weekend and shoot the commercial on Monday. How fucked up is that? I KNOW I won't get it, but it was interesting all the same :D Ok, I've babbled enough, right Tani? RIGHT?!?!"



Can you believe I used emoticons and words inside asterisks? Emoticons, for fucks sake! I'm sure that there are *many people that would say that I'm not a good writer, and that's a-ok with me, but at least we can all agree that I've improved, at least slightly. At least give me credit for that.

Had I written that piece above in 2006, I probably could've stretched it out to 1000 words, no problem. But I've been told before that my entries are too long, so it's up to the reader to determine which is the lesser of two evils; wordy entries or writing like I've had a frontal lobotomy.

But if I have to dumb it down for the masses, I might as well quit writing and tell jokes to barnyard animals. At least they'd be a captive audience.

I haven't really written much lately. Not really sure why that is, but it is nonetheless. It seems to happen everytime I find myself in a relationship-type thing, though. It's nobody's fault really. When all we do is sigh at eachother, smile, and fake argue about who likes who more, does anyone really want to hear about that?

Even if that scenario wasn't a blatant lie, I'd hope that nobody would be left not puking after reading it. Anybody that wants to read gushy stuff has a problem.

You hear that Amber? A problem. It's the affliction known as "being a girl". It's debilitating, but at least it's not contagious.

And that's what we call a joke in the biz.

I feel like I should go back and rewrite some of the stories that aren't necessarily better, but have much better potential.

Like the one about night where I went to Rudolph's alone and ended up scared for my anus after being given the thrice over by a mexi-transvestite.

Or the follow up to that when I followed a girl down to The 90's(it's the gay club where all the straight women hang out), and when she saw that I actually showed up--yes, she invited me--she ran in the opposite direction. I was left standing there watching the drag show while the aforementioned mexi-transvestite inched closer.

Minneapolis is small that way.

Luckily I was saved by one of the three straight girls in the bar when, after asking if I was gay(that night I wasn't), invited me to join her and her friends at another bar. But is it really considered being saved, when the second thing out of her mouth after the gay inquiry is "I'm not sleeping with you, just so you know"? Probably not.

And then there's the whole gay, german dude that could use a little polishing. The story, I mean, not the dude himself. That's sick.

Or the girl that asked if I had large junk after I gave her my phone number. My real phone number. I wish she'd dropped that bomb before I thought she wasn't crazy in the head.

I'm not trying to make a point that I have much more fun when I'm single, because that's not that case. I have plenty of recent stories that I could tell, but why would anyone want to hear about the orgies with all those Penthouse Pets that keep knocking on my door? Or all those drunken good times I've had with my good pal, Bradley Pitt? (You should see some of the sloppy seconds he just THROWS AWAY.)

No, I'm just saying that some of the stories that had potential to be better, or funnier, or just not stupid--right now, they're crap. Crappity crap crap crap. And at least they'll give me something to write about, because the amount of poker material hiding backstage can be summed up with the following; what the fuck is poker?

Oh yeah, and I should post more pictures. People love pictures of pretty shit, huh?


*This is going along with the self-important theme in thinking that I have thousands and thousands over adoring readers, of course.

My hands are poised above home row, but the keys aren't being pushed. My brain says "Mash, Monkey, Mash!", but my fingers don't listen.

This is normal for me after one of these trips to Vegas, usually because I've ingested enough alcohol to move myself one step closer to being clinically brain dead, and words are tough to form, let alone type. This time, however, I "took it easy", and my flight back to Minneapolis--which in the past have been as close to Hell as I believe there to be--was almost, dare I say, pleasant. Almost.

Had I not been plagued by the almost- falling- asleep- but- jerked- awake- with- an- embarrassing- head-bob monster (he's tight with his cousin, Boogie), I might've even been able to sleep. But he was lurking and I looked like an idiot yet again. I won't begin to talk about talk about drooling down the entire right side of my face and hoping that the attractive girl next to me wasn't staring. I was afraid to look in her direction for fear that my nervous smile would be met with a look nothing short of abject horror and genuine repulsion.

What can I say? I know how to wow the womens, especially those that have nowhere to run.

My girlfriend picked me up at the airport on Sunday, expecting stories, and both of us were a little disappointed in my retelling of said stories. I had an incredible time--and always do--but the times enjoyed are usually of the had-to-have-been-there variety. They're tough to put into words, that's for sure.

My only regret is that I fucked up on booking the flight, without realizing that I'd be leaving in the middle of the World Cup final. Quite dumb of me, I must say. I should've stayed another day, but the very short weekend was on the refreshing side rather than flat-out exhausting, so that's a plus. And after seeing some of my friends get casino-ly raped, repeatedly, it's better that I got out of Vegas with sphincter still in working order, and I can never complain about that.

I have many things to write about that require extra time, so that I can carefully choose the write words. Right words, whatever. With that being the case, I might as well start with what is easiest for me to write about; my WPBT Summer Classic II tournament experience.

I suck at tournaments.

Fin.

What do you mean that's not enough? Fuck you people, it's my story.

Ok, you asked for it.


--image ganked from eventual champion, F-Train, AKA "The Jerk on my Left".

Oh how retarded I look. I look like I'd be more comfortable in a pair of Zubaz and a muscle tee exposing my backne, than a stylish Ben Sherman shirt and Calvin Klein ass-enhancing thong. Um, forget that I mentioned the last article of clothing. I never think about that people can't see it.

Anyhow, I don't normally wear sunglasses at the table because, for me, I don't think they help much. Though I've never recorded myself playing poker, I'm sure I have a plethora of undecipherable tics, and tics that cancel out tics. And if anyone is able to decipher them, well, they deserve to get all my chips, my girl and my respect. The sunglasses aren't going to save me.

In my defense, I was tired, the room was bright and I'd gotten laid the night before.

And Corey Haim is my little brother.

No, really, I was just tired and my eyes hurt. That's all. You can stop laughing anytime, thanks.

Everybody started the tournament with 4000 chips, the blinds began at 25/50, with 40 minute levels. A fairly good structure. Looking back, I should've Hellmuthed it up and arrived late, because I didn't play one hand out of the blinds for the entire 1st level. Not one. And you thought a virgin midget was tight.

No, I don't know what it means either. Just nod and smile, my friends, nod and smile.

I picked up AKo twice in the 2nd level, the first time winning the blinds and then a very small pot the second. That was painful. Everybody on my end of the table kept saying how tight I was playing, so I guess it's no surprise that they folded immediately when I raised. That was part of my plan, though, so I could steal when I needed to later in the tournament.

I changed my style not long thereafter, raising with 9-10s on the button when it was folded around to me. Only F-Train called making the remark of "My defending range here is huge", and yes, it made me wary. The flop came with two 6's and a blank, and we both checked, which was a stupid move by me. When the turn came a jack, he bet and I thought a bit before folding. He flashed a jack. I'm not sure what his other card was, though, and it really wasn't important. The outcome is still the same; I'm a pussy.

The very next hand, I'm dealt A4s one off the button, so when it was folded around to me, I raised again to 400. Human Head called in the big blind. Looking back, he actually put out a 1k chip but didn't announce raise, so the dealer had to count it as a call. Warning bells, sirens, and noisemakers all went off inside my head. Simultaneously. And at the same time. Raising the new person's blind was mistake #1.

Head was moved to the table just a few hands before this, and this is where my lack of sleep the previous night came into play. I had a brain fart, for sure. I didn't even think that about him not knowing that I hadn't played a hand the entire first 40 minutes. That I'd been playing so tight that the coal I'd shoved up my ass the previous night was now a diamond. Or at least diamondique.

The flop came out Q-high with two spades, and he immediately bet out for 1500. What could he possibly have that he'd want to reraise with there from the big blind and then open up with that much on the flop? A set? A lower flush draw with a pair? An overpair?

Instead of thinking about it and assigning him a real hand, I just put him on AK, no pair, and pushed for about 1300 more. That's a joke, people. The part about putting him on AK, not the pushing part.

It's no joke, however, that I didn't even think about stack sizes and the size of the pot before pushing. Mistakes #2 and #3. It was an easy call for him(about 3-1) with top pair and enough of a chipstack behind that he wouldn't be crippled.

I was happy when he turned over QJo, but none of my 12 outs, twice, hit, and I was out really, really early. I was trying to get lucky and double up before the break, but it didn't work out. If I would've folded right there, I still had plenty of chips to not be the smallest stack left, but I didn't want to play fold, fold, fold, push, double-up, repeat, poker for the rest of the afternoon, as I'm apt to do.

That's it; my tournament report in the span of 4 played hands. Pathetic.

The worst part about busting out was that I only got one beer out of the deal, so I was more disappointed that I didn't drink my tournament fee in booze than I was with playing like a retard. It wasn't until later in the afternoon that my frown turned upside down after the waitress asked me if want something to drink while I was watching Bob play.

Talk about the exact opposite of a bad beat.

This post is being beamed to you directlyfrom the friendly people at Northwest Airlines!

That's what I would be saying if airlines weren't stupid and actually provided wifi on all domestic flights. But they don't, and we already went over why. So, the next best option is to use my time on this airborne dildo by writing, and then immediately hitting post when I disembark. Since I don't have the luxury of using Onelook like I normally would 75 times a post, "disembark" may or may not be the word I was looking for. In fact, it may not even be a word. So, don't expect this to be the last time I use a word uncorrectly.

Also, I'm forced to use my laptops thumbpad thingy because there's no room to use my awesome optical mouse. I hate using the thumbpad. They're made for retards and since I'm not a retard, I am incapable of using one in a productive manner. Don't argue my logic, please, I know of what I speak.

So, yeah, I'm on a flight to Vegas, and I'm pretty sure I'll be the last to arrive. I texted Bobby B.--because talking on the phone is for gay men and 16 year old girls--and he was already at the Excal thanks to being able to get standby, and Kent arrives sometime around noon. That's everybody, right? Well, not quite. It seems that there are 115 people playing in the tournament this go 'round, of which I know approximately 10 of the bloggers.

And that's the tough thing about these trips; the more bloggers that sign on, the fewer I ultimately am able to read.

I can see it now; someone will introduce themselves by their blog name--and I hate it, but it's the nature of the this silly game-- and I'll cock my head to the side like a confused puppy and act my way through the introduction like I've known them all along. Like they're old friends. Buddy ol' pal, can I buy you a drink?

You don't drink? Really? That's crazy talk. I've only met two people in my entire life that don't drink; one because of a liver transplant early in life, and another, a guy on my soccer team we've dubbed "Last Year Mike" because the only thing he's good at is taking up space. I digress.

I was teeter-tottering on whether or not I was actually going to play in the tournament tomorrow becausee, I've played exactly two MTT's and three SNG's in the past month, and my game hasn't been in a place where I felt comfortable forking over $80 as dead money. And dead money in this group of hooligans and functional drunks is not a good thing to be.

A few days ago I deposited the lowly sum of $25 into PokerStars with the intent of ripping through a couple SNG's to see if poker still sucked eggs or not. Oddly enough, I finished in the money in both and felt like almost invincible. But I still didn't win enough to make the WPBT a freeroll for me, which I would've liked.

That happened this morning.

On the absolute last hand I could possibly play before I had to catch the bus to catch the light rail to catch the tram to the airport so that I could get on this very here plane that I'm typing on right now, I was dealt Kings. I stacked two players when I hit a set on a benign flop and they decided to go to war before it got back to me. One jammed his small stack in with a king and no kicker, and the other jammed a much bigger stack with a jack high flush draw. Idiot. I filled up on the river and I was out the door after relieving them of the obvious burden that cash was bringing to their bankroll.

So, I'm pretty sure I've almost totally kind of decided to play in the tournament tomorrow morning. The final decision won't be made until 9:55 in the am, though. I didn't know that you were allowed to be out of bed in Vegas at 10 in the morning unless you were still awake from the previous night. It's a law, right?