Yesterday my Mom and I went to a Veterans Day breakfast held by the Friends of Danang, the humanitarian group I went to Vietnam with. The breakfast was held at the Marriott downtown and so we parked at the arena and walked to the hotel while enjoying a crisp November morn. Brilliant blue skies, a bracing chill in the air, the promise of bacon in my very near future. Nice.

“Oh, your father and I bought something yesterday!” Mom said. And she paused and in that pause I tried to deduce what it might be. Hmm…a new roasting pan for the Thanksgiving turkey? No, too banal. A new washing machine? Ehh, didn’t recall they were in the market for one. Of course, silly me–something for Justin, their grandson.

So I asked what it was and Mom said, “We bought our final resting place!”

I double-took and nearly tripped. “You bought a WHAT?”

“We bought our burial site! It’s nice, we’re going to be in a mausoleum, we’ll be next to each other in the crypt and…”

OK, whoa now. It’s not every day you hear Mom using words like “mausoleum” and “crypt”. What’s more she seemed positively GEEKED about it. “We wanted to take care of it now and we saved over two thousand dollars purchasing it in advance”.

I processed this quickly. “Well…actually you saved ME two thousand dollars,” and Mom agreed, seeing as you can’t take it with you and I’ll be the beneficiary of their forward thinking (I already have an elaborately-plotted scheme to cut my brother Ryan outta the picture). So while I was momentarily freaked by Mom talking about her last stop I quickly jumped on board. God knows I don’t wanna be the one making those decisions and with these Death Panels you keep hearing about on the horizon my folks did me a solid sorting things out on their own.

After we got home my Dad (who had an appointment at his cardiologist that morning and got a good report) said that it costs more to be on the bottom shelves of the crypt but, heck, he’d rather be on the top, thank you very much. The mausoleum sits atop a hill, there’s a nice view and everything. So it sounds like they got a good deal and seem quite pleased with the buy. Of course I hope they don’t get to enjoy their purchase for a long, long, long time, especially as I need to frame Ryan for a crime he didn’t commit to put my plan to disinherit him into motion. Really gotta get around to executing that bogus wire-fraud scheme.

Those of you who write or blog or whatever involving the stringing of words know that November is National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo) and this year I’m giving it a shot and who knows? Maybe I’ll actually crank out the required 50,000-word novel in 30 days. Anyway, here’s Chapter One:

It’s a cliché but it was hot enough on that Las Vegas morning to fry an egg on the hood of a car. As it happens I actually was frying an egg on the hood of a car (my utilities were turned off long, long ago) and so, as with all clichés, there is a kernel of truth within. I might’ve been the only person in Vegas happy that the temperature was in triple digits before noon because that meant I would have a perfectly-cooked egg for my breakfast. The night before I went to bed so excited I could hardly sleep.

Temperature aside it’s not easy to fry an egg on the hood of a car. It’s not a flat surface, remember, and the egg tends to both slip and slide. I solved that problem last summer by stealing a piece of PVC pipe from an abandoned construction sites and having a friendly Home Depot clerk use his table saw to slice it into an inch-high ring. It’s just like what they use at McDonalds to make the egg-discs for McMuffins and I’m not too proud to steal a good idea when I see one. So when I get an eggy hankering I:

• Wipe the hood clean with a wet paper towel (towels shoplifted from Wal-Mart).
• Wait for the streaks of water to evaporate before spraying the metal with some cooking spray (also liberated from Wal-Mart) and set the plastic ring on the hood.
• Crack the egg (Wal-Mart, natch, their security is rather lax) and pour the contents within the confines of the ring.

And then you wait. You wait a long time because even in Nevada the sun doesn’t provide the same thermal energy of heat as a stovetop, but that’s OK. An egg cooked slowly, an egg whose proteins are allowed to coagulate at a leisurely pace are always creamier and more luxurious than those dry yellow clots and rubbery splats you find in buffet trays all over town. No, this egg was going to be a real treat, and I was content to wait as long as long as it took.

My eyes slid sideways to see if I was being watched and, yes, there was Roscoe, or the putative human being I called Roscoe. A man with six teeth and seven children who lived in the unit across the way, Roscoe delighted in tormenting me every chance he got. It was, so far as I could tell, his only pastime. Goodness knows that working, parenting, and the pursuit of good hygiene held no interest for him. He sat on his stoop and watched me with those weasel eyes and I did my best to ignore him.

“Watcha makin?” he drawled.

I didn’t want him walking over so I said, “Breakfast” and stared intently at the barely-bubbling albumen. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him stand up and scratch his armpit with such gusto that a nauseous tremor coursed my empty stomach. He said, “The missus, she makes mah eggs in a pan. The last time you have pan-eggs, buddy?”

I shrugged and tried calculate how many inoculations I’d need before I’d voluntarily eat anything prepared by Roscoe’s “missus”. Who was a woman of such comprehensive slovenliness that she made Roscoe seem the second coming of Cary Grant. I did what I could to put such thoughts far, far out of my mind as I watched my egg slowly whiten and set. Roscoe was silent for a few seconds and I let my eyes slide left to see what he was up to. He was backing up the stoop, quickly, reaching frantically for the doorknob and I turned my head all the way ‘round to see him slam it shut. “My lucky day,” I thought as I contemplated enjoying my breakfast in solitude.

And that’s when huge, heavy hands fell on my shoulders.

I would’ve jumped ten feet in the air if the man restraining me wasn’t approximately the size of a grizzly bear. “Aw, shoot,” I said, squirming around a bit until strong fingers dug under my clavicles and squeezed HARD. That froze me in place and after a perfunctory struggle I gave and hung my head in limp resignation. Damn Roscoe distracted me so much that my highly-tuned sense of danger hadn’t, well, sensed the danger.

“Lehtz me guess,” said a heavily-accented voice. “No money?”

I didn’t recognize my tormentor and that threw me a bit. “I’m frying an egg on the hood of a car. You think I have money?”

“Okay,” the brute said. “Boss want to see you anyway.”

“Wait, what?” I said, not liking this change in protocol. Usually at this point I would be beaten about the head and thorax until my assailants grew bored and left me in puddles of various bodily fluids. That had always worked in the past, and I didn’t care for this new scenario one bit. The giant released his grip on my shoulders and wrapped his massive palms around my head. His fingers dug into my skull as though testing a cantaloupe for ripeness and this is how he dragged me, my heels kicking up dust, down the block to their waiting Cadillac. I struggled for air and my pursed lips found a gap in my tormentor’s constricting fingers. “Boris?” I croaked, “Boris, is that you?”

“Da,” sighed a man off to the right. “I only get most important jobs.”

I twisted my head two centimeters. “What’s the problem? Can’t we work this out?”

I heard a short bark of laughter. “Sure, we work it out. Six years I yell at you, beat on you, tell you the next time I see you be the last time you see anything. One of these days that come true.”

Panic rising I asked, “Is today that day?”

I heard him yawn. “I don’t know, I don’t care. Boss say bring you to him, I do as asked. I could not give a shit either way.” The giant dragging me down the road stopped and yanked me to my feet. He released his grip on my skull and I turned around. “Right,” I said, “You’re not Nikolai.”

“Nyet,” the giant mumbled. “I’m Georgi, Nikolai is my cousin,

I titled my head way, way back to take in his doughy face, limp black hair, eyes black and flat as olives. “I see the resemblance. Nikolai is only around six-six, I guess he’s the runt of the litter. He’s well, I hope?”

Georgi nodded. “He move back to Moscow, pay much better back home.”

Boris ran fingers through his thin, pale hair. “Again this bullshit? You want go back to Moscow, go already! Go make that big money with Nikolai.”

The giant looked down at his size-17 shoes. “He doing good there, he says.”

“Sure,” Boris said, lips curled and brow furrowed with contempt.  “He’s making so much money. Ask him if he’s making enough money when he shits his pants starting Alyosha’s car in the morning. Ask him about his bank account when he has to worry about someone firing an anti-tank missile through the fucking windshield.”

“It’s not that bad…”

“No, no, you’re right, it’s not that bad,” Boris soothed, with so much sarcasm that you could dip a tortilla chip in it. He patted the huge man on the shoulder and said, “And I promise, when Nikolai gets blown to pieces tomorrow, or next week, or next month, I’ll see you get a whole hour off to mourn him. With my hand on my heart, I make this promise to you.”

Fascinated as I was by this discussion of working conditions among hired goons I was still preoccupied with my own perilous situation. A situation that grew more perilous when Boris pressed a button on the key to pop the trunk. “Get in,” he barked.

“Wait, what?” I said. “Boris, come on, it’s like 100 degrees. I’ll die in there.”

He nodded. “Yeah, maybe. Tell you what,” he said reaching in his pocket and pulling out a bill, “I bet ten dollars you survive the ride. This is Vegas, right? I even give you a deal—you die before we get there, I buy you a headstone. Your name on it and everything.”

“You’re a funny guy, Boris.”

He spread his palms. “This best deal you ever get. Look,” he said, stepping close and putting a hand on my shoulder, “We both know you ending up in a ditch, or a culvert, maybe just left for the coyotes. This, we both know. And I’m offering you an actual grave with tombstone. No Potter’s Field for you, no bones pushed up 20 years later by bulldozer.” He patted me on the cheek with one hand and pushed the trunk lid open with the other. “You can’t lose. Now fucking get in.”

There was nothing to do but duck my head and crawl into that infernal metal box. “Wait, I want to improve my odds,” Boris said, disappearing around the car. I heard the door pull open, slam shut, and he reappeared carrying a plastic water bottle. He was about to hand it to me when I said, “Boris, look, I gotta be honest here, I don’t have ten bucks.”

Boris took a deep breath, and at that moment he looked very, very tired. “You make it hard to have my fun,” he said. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips, chugging about two-thirds of it, dribbles of water coursing down his chin. He twisted the cap back on the bottle and tossed it to me. “You’ll owe me later. Or, maybe not.”

They walked off to the side and I heard Boris say “You drive” and Georgi say “I drove here, you say you drive back” and then they realized they were talking to each other and not to me and reverted to rapid-fire Russian. Which was fine with me, I didn’t really care what they were saying because from my stifling enclosure I saw Roscoe skulk down the stoop of his hovel and make his way toward my car/skillet. He’d brought a paper plate with him and as I watched, helpless, he tossed the plastic ring aside and scraped the egg off the hood. “My breakfast,” I mumbled, impotent. And then Boris, having settled his situation, walked into view and slammed the trunk lid shut, and all was blackness, hotness, helpless, etc.

I was in a good mood. My Nittany Lions had just dragged a squirming and squealing Wolverine squad behind the woodshed for a long-overdue stick beating and now I was at the bar with my girlfriend and her gang to watch the Penguins. I was sipping yet another beer and enjoying the evening when Dave came up with a bright idea. He ordered a shot of vodka and five shots of water. We each downed a tumbler of clear liquid to see who got good ‘ol H20 and who got hit with the hard stuff. I knocked back my shot and it was cool and crisp and decidedly non-alcoholic. It was Lindsay’s brother Jason making a face as he set his shot glass back on the bar. And there was much rejoicing.

So much so that we did it again. Six shots, but only one chamber loaded with live round. A less lethal version of Russian Roulette and once again I selected a glass, waited for the toast, and tilted my head. This time the stuff in my mouth was hot and cleared my sinuses and as I set the glass on the bar I gasped and said, “Yeah, that’s me”. And there was much rejoicing.

So we did it again. Seven shots this time, one vodka and the rest water. I had second choice and and I picked the shot furthest from me. One-two-three-DRINK…and again my eyes watered as a thimbleful of vodka went down my gullet. “Me again,” I said and everyone laughed. Especially Lindsay. I glared at her and she laughed harder and I took a long pull at my beer.

I should say that I’m not much of a hard-liquor drinker. I tend to drink fast regardless of the liquid before me and so I don’t always moderate my intake when I’m drinking high-octane stuff. A couple of times I’ve gone from witty bon vivant to sloppy staggering caricature in 45 minutes because I lack experience in dealing with booze in a mature manner. So when another round of shots came around I ran through a quick mental checklist to ensure that I still had both hands on the wheel. Did I feel like I was going to fall off the stool…no. Was I able to string words together in sentences my fellow man could comprehend? Yes. Did I want to physically assault some random stranger who was considerably smaller than me? Yes No. In fact I felt pretty good, totally in control. So I had no worries when the bartender brought yet another platter weighed down by seven shots. This time I had first choice, I looked them over with a careful eye, trying to determine which one was not like the others. This time I picked the shot closest to me. One, two, three…

“Oh god damn, GOD DAMN!” I said as I licked my lips and dropped the glass on the bar. And everyone laughed. Including Lindsay. Especially Lindsay. She was practically rolling around the floor. I took note of this.

The Penguins were laying an egg and watching New Jersey when they have a lead is like watching ice melt. Attention turned from the TV to the bar and, again, shots were delivered. Now I didn’t worry about which glass to choose or which draught of colorless liquid was from the tap or the bottle. I let everyone pick their shot first and trusted in the numbers. Choosing that first shot was a one-in-six chance. Just a roll of the dice. The second was a one-in-seven. As was the third. Of course each separate occurrence must be taken independently, the shots don’t care who drinks them, so once again I was facing a one-in-seven chance of picking the vodka. But that also meant I had a six-in-seven chance of choosing water. Those are pretty good odds. I lifted my glass to my lips with quiet confidence.

And a second later I was slamming it on the bar sputtering, “OK, yeah, that’s me again”. Lindsay was in hysterics for an unseemly amount of time as I tried to calculate what the odds are of losing/winning a 1-6, 1-7, 1-7, 1-7 quadfecta. “I think it’s one in 2,058,” I said. I pondered a bit and figured that’s like losing to a one-outer on the river. Two hands in a row. I think. I was a little bit intoxicated and math ain’t exactly my strong suit. I don’t know if I used up my reservoir of good or bad luck with that run…probably bad, considering how I felt yesterday when I woke up.

When it comes to discussing events that I cover I have two rules:

• I never, ever complain about covering a Hold-Em-only event, not after my nightmarish time working the $50K H.O.R.S.E event in 2008.
• I never, ever complain about covering a tournament where English is spoken at the table, not after I couldn’t understand a goddam word during the LAPT event I did in Argentina.

If the format is simple and I can understand what the hell is going on, I’m not going to complain. Final table lasts 28 hours? I’ll sleep when I’m dead. The food is leftovers from an Alabama chain-gang? I need to lose weight anyway. It’s colder than a meat locker in the tournament room? Perfect time to beg for swag. I keep a sunny attitude and go about my business.

So when I tell you that there were times this past week in Aruba when I was thinking Very Bad Things you may wonder what made me crazy. Aruba is, after all, rather a nice place, what with the sun and sand and the Caribbean and all. The tournament itself is a breeze compared to the World Series, with the whole field in one room and play wrapping up by 8:30pm for the first four days. And this year I brought my girlfriend along with me (yes, I have a girlfriend, don’t look so surprised) and most nights we went out for dinner and drinks after I finished work. There’s was plenty of time for fun and I think if you asked most folks who went down there they’d say they had a great time.

There were, however, complications along the way that put me on super-hyper-mega-lifetilt. Let’s take them in turn:

We woke before the dawn and headed for the airport with plenty of time to spare. Until there was a huge pileup on the Parkway West just past Robinson. Which we got stuck in for, oh, 90 minutes. We got to IKEA before traffic came to a standstill and there we sat for nearly an hour. Didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Nowhere to go. And as the clock tick-tick-ticked along we went from having plenty of time to cutting it close to we’re-missing-our-flight. When you’re calling the airline from the car trying to rebook your flight you know you’re screwed. We finally cleared the crash site and, ignoring the ambulances and police cars lining the road, I drove like 90 miles an hour to the airport. The only way we were gonna get there in time was to park in the short-term lot (hope I can get reimbursed for that) and literally sprint for the US Airways counter. And with my camera gear on my back and laptop slung over my shoulder and a packed suitcase tottering behind sprinting wasn’t easy.

We got to booking with 30 minutes to spare. And there we were told…we couldn’t check our bags or get our boarding passes. The system wouldn’t let us check in because it was too late…even though the goddam plane would be sitting there for another goddam half-hour. The folks at the counter told us to go to another line to see about rebooking…and there we were told they couldn’t help us. With steam almost literally whistling out my ears I started to get a bit vocal about my displeasure and we were guided to another counter to see about rebooking. Lots of folks who’d been held up by the accident showed up red-faced and puffing but for them I felt nothing. I just wanted to find a way to get us to Aruba that day. And, miracle of miracles, Terri at US Airways pulled strings and twisted arms and found a way for us to hopscotch our way down the coast and finally hitch a ride to Aruba.

So we fly to Charlotte, thence to Miami. Ever been to Miami airport? It was designed by the Marquis de Sade, at least that’s the only explanation I could come up with. The structure defies logic. There are no signs telling you how to get from one terminal to another. None. To get to our next flight we had to walk past the security checkpoint and go around it and then through a…door. No signs. Nothing to indicate that this door led to another 50 gates and not an employee lounge. I texted my brother to see if he’d ever been there before and he said, “Why do you think immigrants take rafts to Miami instead of flying?

So we get to Aruba, get to the hotel, check in and hit the bar for a Balashi. And everything’s fine. The next day I wake up and head down to the tournament room to see what’s up, say hello to folks I know, take some pics. I head back to the room and try to upload the photos and my computer won’t recognize the SD card. This has never happened before and it’s happening NOW?? “Come on!!,” I begged, sifting through the Windows Vista control panel and being told my card reader was disabled for some reason. “But I didn’t DO ANYTHING,” I whined and turned to the Google for  an answer. But I had trouble connecting (a portent of things to come) and after scowling at my screen for an hour I had to plug my laptop in so it wouldn’t die. I put the card back in…and it worked. No clue why it wouldn’t work on battery power but everything was copacetic plugged in, but that’s what happened. I looked at myself in the mirror and my hair was 30% grayer. Time for more Balashi.

The tournament started Monday and we had trouble connecting to the internet. Now, this has happened in the past in Aruba, you have this island paradise and all of a sudden 500 online poker players invade and clog the pipes with sit-n-goes and tournaments and porn surfing and YouTube. But it’s always usually gets better after a day or so. We spent a pretty penny upgrading the Radisson’s capabilities, but either the tubes just got overwhelmed or something else was afoot. Because we could not connect to the ‘Net. And this problem lasted, well, the entire tournament. There were literally hours at a time where I couldn’t post anything. Couldn’t upload photos. Couldn’t do squat. Instead I kept hitting the Refresh button, in the vain hope that THIS TIME the wires would connect and my bits and bytes would broadcast to the world. At times I couldn’t tell if what I’d written had posted because WordPress puked and I couldn’t get the blog to load. So there I am like a goddam idiot trying to refresh TWO pages to see if my goddam post posted.

Making things worse is that bland, passive “Problem loading page” screen that comes up when shit don’t work. I think what REALLY got me pissed was how that phrase wasn’t capitalized or in boldface or there wasn’t a half-dozen exclamation points after it. It didn’t say PROBLEM LOADING PAGE!!!!!!!! It said “Problem loading page”. As if this wasn’t something to get worked up about. It happens all the time. In fact all day and all night you’re gonna have a Problem Loading Page. Deal with it, jackass.

And so instead of taking pictures or writing as many posts as I wanted I had to sit there and try to stuff what I’d already written through the tubes. Our staff knew there was a problem (everyone was talking about it) but the IT folks down there couldn’t fix it, Aruba not being as tech-savvy as Silicon Valley. I could believe that people were jamming the network because even though Aruba is a tropical paradise a lot of these poker zombies were no doubt holed up in their rooms twenty-tabling and downloading vast quantities of porn and streaming movies. But we were still having trouble connecting on Friday night, when even the most degenerate Scandi clickfiends were doubtless out looking for a pint or chicks. And so I sat there with tears in my eyes thinking “Oh please, oh baby JESUS, please let my Hellmuth chip-update post so I can write something else, oh mother of GOD!!”

So, there were frustrations. I knew covering the final table would be a challenge because we’ve never gotten WiFi out by the pool and that means running in and out of the hotel to post updates. The PokerNews crew of Garry, Eric and Don were there so I didn’t have to worry about missing some crucial hand while I was furiously writing up some other crucial hand. It rained again this year so the final table was held in the bar/restaurant next to the pool, which was fine. Play ran into the going-away party Sunday night (in part because the final four players discussed a chop for over an HOUR before deciding to just play it out) and so I ran back and forth between poker and party snapping pics. Which brings me to another technological fail:

So the tournament is over and I’ve been outside in 90-degree and 90% humidity conditions for eight hours. I’m soaked with sweat. I’m a bit stressed. I had to run back to the room to give Lindsay a wristband so she could get into the party and then run back, contributing to my sweaty/stressed state. I write up my post and decide to head back to the room, have a quick wash, and change clothes. It’s not a long walk to our building but when you’re carrying 25 pounds of gear and you’re tired and thirsty it’s long enough. I walk up to the room, insert the key…nothing. I insert the key…nothing. I INSERT THE KEY…NOTHING!!! This was the second time during the week that the goddam key didn’t work. And I was PISSED. I had to haul my ass and my gear all the way back to the front desk, getting madder and madder with every step, to have them recode the key.

Now, I had the magnetic-stripe key in a separate part of my wallet, it wasn’t rubbing against any credit cards or anything. I explained the situation to the desk clerk and, summoning vast quantities of self control, toldl her that this is the 2nd time this has happened. I should say that the Radisson staff has always been extremely friendly and helpful, they’re great. But the clerk says, “Well, it can become demagnetized if it’s around electronics…” and here she looked at the camera dangling from my neck, “like a camera”. I nearly lost it there. I didn’t have the goddam key inside my GODDAM CAMERA. At times like these it’s best to count to ten before saying anything and I think I counted to 67 before I even risked exhaling.

So that was the frustrating bits of the trip. I should say that there were some good parts as well. Watching Liv Boeree and Lacey Jones wearing dresses and chicken-fighting in the pool, that was a good part:

Had a couple of very good meals with Lindsay, which was twice as nice because usually when I’m down there I’m just grabbing something from room service. Nice to actually wander off the Radisson grounds and enjoy ourselves. Got up early a couple of times and went swimming, Lindsay went scuba diving three times. I felt guilty about getting tilty when I’m working in Aruba, but work-tilt is work-tilt.

I posted a bunch of pics to my Flickr page and I still have to go through a bunch more this week. Maybe I’ll post more this week…there’s the one of me and Liv in the pool, but that’s on Lindsay’s camera…

The other day I sat down and wrote out the reasons why I haven’t been posting here. The list grew to six items, which I’m not going to bother you with. Suffice to say I’m gonna try to do better, write more, eat more fiber, etc etc.

Anyway, last weekend I went to Penn State to see the game and let us never speak of that again. It rained just about the entire day, I got soaked to the bone, it was about 52 degrees, and I’m now sitting here sneezing and coughing and feeling generally miserable. But this is actually a good thing, as I leave for Aruba on Friday and I typically get a cold down there. If I can get the ooginess out of the way here I’ll be way ahead of the game when I’m working.

Back to Happy Valley. I’ve gone to a couple of games over the last few years and the changes that have taken place since I graduated a billion years ago are stunning. The more so because so much looks exactly the same. I hadn’t been on campus itself for at least a decade and we took some time to walk down memory lane. Mark and I visited Porter Hall, where we lived for two years (and, from the young women using swipe cards to gain admittance, is now co-ed). The tennis courts are now a construction site, the field we played football on has been the home of a massive building for about 15 years. Tell you what, if you wanna feel like time marches on and doesn’t wait for you, visiting your old college campus will give you loads of perspective. I stood in the middle of Pollack Halls, looked around, and without much effort could imagine myself an 18-year-old freshman headed to dinner. Walk 100 yards and the landscape is changed so dramatically that a spaceship landing in the middle of the road would’ve been less jarring. There’s been so much construction up there, both on and off campus, that the Penn State I went too seems quaint and backward. Heck, even Beaver Stadium has grown by more than an quarter since I graduated.

The big reason I wanted to walk around campus was to complete a pilgrimage to Carnegie Building, which is where the student newspaper, the Daily Collegian, was housed when I wrote there. This was where my career in journalism was born…and then died, about two years later. I wrote a lot of good stuff for the Collegian, stuff I’m still proud of. And I loved working there, loved it to death. Why did I quit, you ask? Well, a number of reasons, not as many reasons as why I haven’t been writing here, but it’s a long silly story and not worth retelling. Believe it or not I had a personality conflict with someone on staff and for those of you who know me and my easy-going ways that should give you an idea about the personality I was conflicting with. So I decided to leave and try some other things, like occasionally attending class. Wasn’t all that successful at that, to be honest.

The Collegian moved out of Carnegie just after I quit, and when I visited the new offices it just wasn’t the same. They were clean. Well, clean-ish. The old newsroom was split in two, there was the old, huge room with our mailboxes and the Sports Desk and the huge table where the copy editors sat (and where the business side was also located), and then the room around the corner that was brightly-lit and had windows looking out on campus and about 15 workstations. I wish I could say I had pictures to show you but the goddam doors were locked and I couldn’t get it. I think I might’ve been able to go around to the side and get in that way, but it was four hours to kickoff, we wanted to drink, and it looked like it was gonna rain. Which it did, about fifteen seconds later. Anyway, here is the imposing facade of Carnegie Building, which looks almost exactly the same today as it did 20 years ago:

The high points of the trip were both culinary. We made another pilgrimage of sorts to the Lion’s Den, where we enjoyed many a wing and a pitcher in school. Ordered some wings and they were fantastic, top-notch. I also had an exquisitely-seasoned cheeseburger that was served on some sort of artisanal bread and was freakin’ fabulous. I’m not saying fabulous for a divey college bar, I mean it was flat-out awesome. We also got subs from McLanahans, the we-have-everything store on College Ave, and they were just as cheap and delicious as once upon a time. I got the turkey sub with the hot pepper relish, and while the turkey was perhaps a bit dry (maybe I should’ve had it moistened with a bit of oil) it was also pretty fantastic, almost exactly as I remembered it. And for a bit more than three bucks for an 8-inch sub, a ridiculous bargain.

I’ll definitely get up there again sometime soon, maybe have more time to walk around and take pictures without risking hypothermia. Then again I remember it being rainy and cold and gray about 95% of the time up there, so I may have to roll the dice and suck it up. An umbrella might be a wise purchase at some point.

I was Twittering while watching last night’s episode of Mad Men and asked a question that was misinterpreted by a few. Understandable as media criticism is difficult at 140 characters a pop, but what I was wondering about was this–how did Dick Whitman become Don Draper? Not, as a few people quite reasonably thought, how did Dick take on Don Draper’s identity. That I know, I’ve seen the first two seasons, saw the flashbacks in Korea and his meetings with the real Mrs. Draper.

No, the question I have is how did Dick Whitman, who in every flashback was an unsure, frightened, passive man, turn into Don Draper, Master of the Universe? Taking a man’s name is one thing, but it’s much harder to playact another whole personality. And even harder to fake extraordinary talent. That’s what I was thinking about last night–Dick Whitman took on Don Draper’s identity, but the creative talent, the salesmanship, the will…that springs from somewhere. How did the soldier who pissed his pants in Korea morph into the creative director at Sterling Cooper?

We know a little bit about Don Draper’s resume–he sold used cars (and was apparently successful) and wrote copy for a fur company (he talked about that before he made that extraordinary Kodak Carousel presentation). But there’s still some pretty big gaps in his history, and perhaps that will be explored in future episodes. While I was musing on this extremely important question I engaged the Google and came across Alan Sepinwall’s interview with Jon Hamm. If you haven’t read Sepinwall’s episode recaps of The Wire or The Sopranos block out eight hours or so and dig in. Fantastic stuff. Anyway, he asked about the Whitman/Draper character and Hamm said, “When Don’s in trouble, Dick runs”.

And that’s true, especially when it comes to having his identity revealed. When he’s escorting “Dick Whitman’s” body back from Korea he hides on the train, which is understandable because then his family would see that, like, he’s still alive. But his brother Adam sees him and never stops believing his brother is alive…right up to the point where they meet again in New York. And Don responds to this happy reunion by trying to shoo Adam off with hush money. Adam commits suicide, so no need for Don to worry about exposure from him, but Adam mails a package that’s intercepted by Pete Campbell. And after Pete tries to blackmail Don he rushes to Rachel Menken asking her to run away with him. Who wants nothing to do with it and tells Don that he’s a coward. Which he is.

That of course led to the famous showdown with Pete in Bert Cooper’s office, where Cooper, after hearing Pete’s story, utters the immortal line, “Mr. Campbell…who cares?” Which leads to another thought–who really would care if Don Draper’s past was revealed? Maybe it would damage him professionally, but talent tends to win out against petty considerations like pathological lying. Maybe it would end his marriage, but that nearly happened in Season 2 anyway and doesn’t it seem probable that Betty would forgive hiding Dick Whitman from her over excusing Don’s serial infidelities?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, hence I watch the show. I’m also now going to sit down and read through Sepinwall’s episode recounts of Mad Men, which I think will be just a bit more interesting, insightful, and nuanced than this.

As I stepped off the elevator and onto the floor of Pittsburgh’s new Rivers Casino, this is the first thought that went through my head:

“Man, this is pretty (deleted) weird”.

Because the Rivers Casino is a…casino. Looks like a casino, sounds like a casino. Got the flashing lights and the slot machine toodle-oodling and the Munchian carpeting.  And it’s in Pittsburgh, about a quarter-mile down the river from where I used to work. As I said the other day the opening of the casino snuck up on me, though I followed it’s progress in the news I’d never actually seen the structure until just a week or so ago. And after the grand opening Sunday (when I was away) I decided to head down Monday afternoon to check it out. And it was really, really weird. Because to me it feels like it sprung up overnight, as if the aliens slung it under one of their saucers and dropped it on the North Shore. And then opened the doors the following day.

Here’s my brief review–it’s pretty nice. The decor is cool and sleek and modern. I read that all the slots in the casino are of the latest design and they look it. I didn’t get many good shots of the floor (think I had the camera on the wrong setting) but this should give you an idea:

There are some Bellagioesque touches when you walk in from valet parking, they have these streaming-water pillars and lots of Chihuly glass. What with the natural light that pours in throughout the casino it’s quite nice:

Facing the river is the Drum Bar, which has a long circular bar with many flatscreens and little tables and couches where you can sit. No video poker machines, alas, but a nice bar. And there’s glass and an open ceiling and this…I guess you’d call it a chandelier rising 40 feet into the air:

All this sightseeing made me thirsty, so I grabbed a stool at the Spiral Bar and, yes, played some video poker! I inserted my Rivers Club card (after waiting in a line that was 75 deep on a Monday afternoon) and asked for a Yuengling. It quickly appeared, along with a request for five dollars. And here we run into a serious problem–comping drinks is not permitted. I’m not sure what sort of bonuses you get as a card-carrying patron (can’t find any info online) but without free drinks I find it much more difficult to justify indulging my video poker addiction. I should say that the machines were brand-new, glossy, and even a bit coy–I was dealt three to a diamond royal flush and caught the ten of diamonds…and the King of hearts (the red paint card made my heart go ka-THUMP). My first hand I was dealt three sixes but couldn’t quad up. But I made two full houses and when I cashed out I was up ten bucks.

Which I took upstairs, to the Grand View Buffet. I was hungry and figured I’d try out the casino’s mass cuisine. And it was pretty good, better to my mind that the MGM Grand’s buffet. You do get a grand view from the dining room…well, it’s pretty good. I got a view of a coal barge and the tail end of Mt. Washington, though if I’d turned around this is what I would’ve seen:

Most of the food was good–I especially liked the carving station ham, which was fantastic. I didn’t try the Mongolion station, where you pick your meat and veggies and the chef does his Mongolian thing to it, but I did get request a bowl of pho from the Asian station. At first it looked just like the setup they had in our hotel in Saigon, two big pots of broth and a variety of protein and vegetation to add to the mix. Alas, appearances were a bit deceiving. In Vietnam they put the noodles and meat in first then filled the bowl with scalding-hot broth, which cooked the meat and noodles by the time you finally dug in. Here the noodles were already limp and the broth was lukewarm at best. It tasted OK, in fact that first cilantro-laden spoonful transported me back to Saigon’s Majestic Hotel, where I also ate pho outdoors on an extremely humid day. But the rest didn’t even rise to OK, and I actually abandoned it halfway through, something I thought I would never, ever do with pho. Tho it looked pretty:

I wandered around a bit after my meal then headed for home. Didn’t feel like playing more video poker, I’m not much of a slots guy, and they don’t have table games in Pennsylvania. Yet. There will be, someday, it’s inevitable. I read that there’s 30,000 square feet of space set aside at the Rivers for the day when table games are legalized, and that’s a lot of bare carpet for a casino where much of the money goes to the state. I also read today about a trial where a guy is accused of running an illegal gambling enterprise, namely a poker game. The defense is relying on the ‘ol “poker is a game of skill, not chance” chestnut, an argument that, while valid, hasn’t exactly wowed the courts over the years.

One odd bit in the piece is I think deserving of attention:

Pennsylvania State Trooper Rebecca R. Fabich, who was involved in the investigation, testified she had participated in Mr. Burns’ tournaments four times. She said her grandfather and uncle taught her to play poker when she was 10 and she’s been playing for the past 25 years, including 12 to 15 times a year at casinos.

“I know how to fold ‘em,” she said.

Trooper Fabich said that Texas holdem is a game of chance.

“I believe the outcome of the game is determined by your cards,” she testified.

Over the course of the four times she played at Mr. Burns’ location, she estimated she lost $300 to $400.

So you have an undercover cop infiltrating a poker game…it’s not exactly Donnie Brasco but stay with me. She says that she learned how to play poker from her grandfather and uncle. In her own words she says, “I know how to fold ‘em”. Doesn’t this imply that poker is a skill, that can be learned? Folding is one of the ways skillful poker players display their ability, by playing tight and throwing away good hands when they’re beaten by better hands. If I was the defense attorney and a witness for the prosecution made a slip like that I’d pull out a fork and knife and tie a napkin around my neck before I began my cross-examination.

Trooper Fabich provided another avenue for the defense to explore when she said that she believed that the outcome is determined by the cards…and that she lost between three- and four-hundred bucks. I’d turn to the jury with a triumphant “A-ha!”  Could it be that the trooper is a bit biased, perhaps? That her ego won’t let her even CONSIDER that poker is a game of skill because she LOST!!! I’d shake my head at her and say that her grandfather and uncle, who taught her the game, must be shaking their heads in dismay right now. God it’d be great to be a defense attorney, to be a total prick as part of your job description.

The skill vs. chance debate is, of course, largely pointless. If you’re arguing with someone who truly believes poker is purely a game of chance then you’re screwed from the get-go. Seriously, how are we to explain poker players who have great success over a long period of time–either they have more talent and ability than most, or they’re just luckier. What do you find more reassuring, that the guy winning the money year after year is good at the game, or that God or the cosmos or whatever has decided that this player is anointed while the rest of you are damned?

Then again, denying that chance has a role in poker is also pointless. Of course there’s luck. Of course there’s skill. That’s what makes the game fun, that’s what draws players from around the world to the Rio in July to play the Main Event. The real question is whether responsible adults should be able to play the game when they want, where they want, without worrying about the law stepping on their throat. I walked around the Rivers Casino yesterday and watched hundreds of responsible (well, maybe some are) people happily playing games of pure chance–slot machines–with nary a district attorney in sight. Of course the state gets a whopping big percentage of the take at the new casino, and to paraphrase that great philosopher Homer Simpson, “Thou shalt not horn in on thy government’s racket”. I think before too long you’ll be able to play poker (and blackjack, craps, roulette) at the Rivers with no worries. Whether you’ll be legally allowed to play poker outside it’s state-licensed walls is another story.

I have an active imagination. Not an over-active imagination, mind you. People who describe themselves as having overactive imaginations tend to be either weird (and not often in a fascinating-weird kinda way, more a queasy-weird way) or really, really scary. Or they’re these pretentious “I’m so interesting, let’s sit down for an hour and talk about my twisted mind!” jackasses. My imagination keeps me entertained and occupied during the day, so we get along fine.

There are times, though, when that part of my brain presses down on the gas pedal a bit too hard. That usually happens at night, when I’m alone. And especially when I’m alone and about to go to sleep in a strange place. My brother is on vacation this week and I’ve been staying at his house so as to keep an eye on their dog. Sunny is a golden retriever but she’s approximately the size of an adult brown bear. My brother’s house has exposed hardwood floors, and when Sunny barks the reverbs are enough to make your lungs bleed. But she’s been a good dog, she’s been no problem, the week has moved along without incident.

Except two nights ago. My brother’s house groans and creaks like any other, except that I’m not used to this particular symphony. The stairs are especially vocal, and moreso when some fatass, (me, for example) walks on them. So I’m dozing off and from the bed I’m looking through the door to the top of the staircase. I left the light on above the steps in case I needed to go down to look in on Sunny and so, heh heh, I didn’t take a wrong turn in the dark and go a-plunging.

I’m lying in bed, looking at the stairs. The bannister. And in my mind I visualize someone walking to the top of the staircase. He’s dressed in black, he’s walking slowly. And he’s coming for me. The figure in black doesn’t look especially menacing, he isn’t carrying a scythe or some other weapon, he isn’t foaming at the mouth or weeping blood. Just a figure in black, walking up the stairs. Coming for me.

Mind you, I’m wide awake as I think this. I wasn’t dreaming. My brain decided that the best way to ease into Dreamland was to give me this potential nightmare to chew on. I’ve had nightmares like this before–dread figure dressed in black coming for me, I can’t move, hilarity ensues. Chances are we all have, it’s a pretty common theme. But, come on, let me go to sleep first! Making me think about this crap when I’m just settling in isn’t fair.

Eventually I fell asleep. And my dream was actually pretty awesome (it involved race cars). But I was torn from that dream at 4:30AM by a loud CRACK that came from downstairs. I looked through the doorway and heard the stairs creaking, groaning, straining to support the tremendous weight trundling up them. Creaking and groaning and this other sound, this HUUFFF, HUUFFF, HUFFFFFF. Heavy, labored breathing. Panting, even.

Being super-geniuses you’ve already figured out that it was Sunny the Dog walking up the stairs. And I figured it out almost instantly too. I mean, who do I know that pants like that? Sunny. Who’s in the house with me? Sunny. Who would start with the batshit barking if an intruder (even the Grim Reaper) got within five feet of the front door? Sunny. So, logically, this was Sunny coming up the stairs.

But for about a second, a whole second, the logical part of my brain was still powering up. And I was scared shitless. Didn’t quite know where I was, what was going on, if the Monster was coming to get me. The second quickly passed and that’s when Sunny’s head poked around the corner and she waddled into the room, tail a-wag. I swallowed my heart and reached over to pat her head. “You bad dog,” I cooed, “you dirty, vicious, bastard of a dog. ” She licked her chops and tilted her head so I could scratch her neck.

I let her out to do her business. The kitchen has a door at one end leading to the back yard and another door at the other end leading down to the basement. That door is hard to close, like I said it’s an older house and as the years pass the pieces don’t always fit together properly. I let Sunny outside and closed the door; when I did that, the door to the basement popped open. As if someone in the basement twisted the knob and gave a gentle push…

There’s no way to get into the basement, except through that door. Which ruled out an intruder…unless it was a Monster, in which case all bets are off. It was another of those squirmy little moments but I got a grip, no malevolent force made flesh and coming to eat my soul emerged. I shut the door, leaned my shoulder against it till I heard the click, and let Sunny back in.

Around noon I headed back to my flat, to take care of Ernie the Cat. Hard to believe that I’ve been living there for three years now, still feels like I just moved in. It felt like home from the get-go, I’ve never had an uneasy night sleeping there, never felt spooked even once. I’m surrounded by law-abiding neighbors, it’s a quiet area, no worries. I fed Ernie and decided to take a much-needed shower. I was scraping off the grime when I heard a loud THUD from the other side of the wall. Followed by the sound of little cat feet running down the hallway. “Uh, WTF was that?” I wondered, as there’s nothing in my bedroom that would make a THUD sound. A CRASH, yes. A FLUMP, sure. But a THUD? That would send Ernie scampering?

I stuck my head out the door…nothing. No marauding intruder, no corpse on the floor. I looked around the room to see what might’ve caused the noise…and saw my small yet heavy fan lying on the floor. OK, Ernie knocked it over, but how? It was atop my dresser, which was stacked with laundry. Ernie couldn’t get up there, unless…

He came bounding into the room, chasing something. Something fluttering through the air. A moth. A moth got into my apartment and his hunter’s instincts took over. He must’ve jumped up on my dresser, bumped the fan before he also fell off, then chased the moth down the hall.

So, to sum up, in about an eight-hour period I was spooked by:

• A golden retriever who had to pee
• A sticky door
• A moth

Not my proudest moments. But it’s not like I spent the rest of the day cowering under the bed or feverishly fanning myself while sipping laudanum. Hey, it’s been kinda quiet in the three (three? already?) weeks since I got back from the endless stiumlation of Las Vegas. An unexpected jigger of adrenaline was a welcome change of pace. I did sleep with the hall light on last night. I check the basement door every time I walk past it. Bought a fly-swatter, too. A guy can only take so much excitement.

Look, I have nothing against kids. Really. I don’t even mind when they act like…kids. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls, to bastardize the Kinks. That said, yesterday I went to an afternoon ballgame and spent nearly the entire time hunched in my seat with a sour look on my face. All summer in Vegas I was looking forward to the day when I could mosey dahntahn and take in a Pirate game. Bring the camera along, have a few beers, eat a Primantis sammich, soak up some non-blistering rays. And since yesterday was the only weekday matinee the Bucs have until September I headed down to the North Shore looking forward to a relaxing summer afternoon.

It was nothing of the sort. First of all, the roads around PNC Park were jammed. With people going to the game. “WTF?” I said as I inched my silver steed toward the parking garage, which was the only place I felt confident of getting a space. I was following some (deleted) with Ohio plates who kept choosing the wrong lane and then cutting me off to get back in the proper line. “You scurvy BASTARD!” I shouted as he nosed in front of me at the garage entrance. “Death to you and all your kind!!” I usually don’t get road rage but for some reason my temper was already frayed. The jackass pulled in, I let a car coming from the opposite lane take his turn and pull in…and then two dippy women in an SUV cut me off and pulled in too. There are three things to mention about what happened next:

• I let loose with a towering stream of profanity that would’ve made Artie Lange stand and applaud
• I did so with my driver and passenger windows wide open (sunroof too)
• I did so with a City of Pittsburgh police officer standing on the sidewalk five feet away.

Oh, and did I mention that those sidewalks were crowded, mostly with children? I guess mores have changed because the cop didn’t ticket me for creating a public disturbance. Instead he he frowned and shook his head at me. As if to say, “That was uncalled for. Really.”

My trial wasn’t over once I paid the exhorbitent fee and actually got in the garage–I had to follow those two…women…to the top of the garage because it was nearly filled up. Ten stories and they drove about 3MPH, looking for that great spot that didn’t exist. They make you turn around these cones to create two wide lanes in the garage and the driver had a heck of time steering her tank around them. “DON’T BUY THE GODDAM TRUCK IF YOU CAN’T DRIVE THE GODDAM TRUCK!!” I screamed, pleased that my rage had fallen to a more acceptible temperature. We finally reached the roof, I parked, and ran down ten concrete flights to the street.

Which was swarming with kids. Groups of kids. Groups of kids in brightly-colored T-shirts. OK, school’s out, it figured there would be more children around than a game in September. Still, this seemed…organized. And it was really crowded. I went up to my usual ticket window and the line was 100-deep. I ended up walking all the way around the the left-field entrance and picking up my general-admission ticket there, after a teeth-grinding ten-minute wait.

Once inside the park I wandered back around to the right-field upper deck, a good spot to get some shots of the city. But the day was overcast and gloomy, not great for picture-taking. No matter–I’d drink and eat until my mood (and hopefully the sky) improved! I got a Primanti’s cheesesteak and a Bud and found an unpopulated section to enjoy my lunch. But this was not to be. First of all, my beer had a decidedly cardboardy aftertaste, as if it’d been stored in a paper milk carton instead of a keg. Second, my Primanti’s was the worst I’d ever had. They put the slaw on the bottom, then the fries and meat on top. So the bottom slice of bread was a soggy, gooey mess within seconds. And the tomato they used (which I’d forgotten to tell them to exclude) was a red, runny mess…it looked like bloody snot. It WASN’T, I hasten to add, but when you’re about to eat lunch that isn’t the most appetizing thought to have running through your mind.

I sat in my seat, frowning, sweating (it was humid), and watching Ryan Braun smack a Paul Maholm pitch over the left field wall. I took some meh pictures and decided that I’d try to find a different vantage point behind home plate. Usually when I go to afternoon games I wander around, from the upper deck to the pricier seats below. The park is usually 2/3 empty, and after the 4th inning or so the ushers could care less if you sit down front. They’re happy to have some company, I think.

But that wasn’t the case yesterday. It wasn’t a sellout, far from it, but the good seats were taken. I wandered around the concourse and heard a huge roar and the bang of fireworks. Andrew McCutchen had just hit a home run and I missed it. “Crap!” I said as I watched the replay on the scoreboard, and then I resumed my search for a perch.

About a minute later there was another roar and more fireworks. I raced over and saw Garrett Jones jogging back to the dugout after hitting a home run of his own. “Excrement!” I snarled. The most excitement the Bucs have had in 5 years or so, I’m in the park, and I miss it. I turned on my heel and continued on my way.

Cheers. Fireworks. “Bull-SHIT!!” I screamed and ran to the rail. Ryan Doumit had just hit ANOTHER home run. Three homers in four batters. I shook my fist at the heavens and said, “Are you SHITTING ME??” Doumit actually didn’t cross home plate right away, as the umps ruled that the ball hadn’t cleared the Clemente Wall. Turns out it had, the Bucs challenged and instant replay confirmed, and Doumit finished rounding the bases as I settled into my new seat along the third base line. My mood was darker than the Pirates playoff hopes. It was the third inning, the Bucs were leading 5-2, and I was thinking about leaving. Take me out to the ballgame?

I took a deep breath, a couple of pictures…and then I decided to change seats again. I did this because I was bracketed by about 500 extremely annoying kids. Now, I’m not talking about kids enjoying a day at the ballyard, with cotton candy and Cracker Jacks. I’m talking about kids who were climbing over the empty rows of seats to see who could reach the top of the stadium first. Who were endlessly backtalking the “adults” who were “supervising” them. It was that constant background noise that had me heading to the concession stand for another beer (a Yuengling this time, which also tasted cardboardy) and back to my original seat.

It was about this time that I heard over the PA that this was “Day Campers Day” at PNC Park. Ah, so that explained all the kids wearing matching T-shirts. Today was an outing for all those kids whose parents shunt them off to the backwoods to give their sanity a chance to recover. Let me say this about that–if you send your kids to camp, and you think that your child, with 30 others, is being “chaperoned” by two teenagers who spend most of their time flirting with each other, good luck to you. I saw one coven of hyperactive children who I wouldn’t tackle without the aid of the 82nd Airborne–their shephards were an octogenarian and a girl who looked 14. I crossed myself and fairly jogged back to my original, isolated seat.

The score was 5-2 and Maholm gave up a one-out single. “Let’s see how he blows this lead,” I texted my brother. Maholm duly walked the next two batters and gave up a bases-clearing double to Braun. In fact, here’s a pic of Maholm serving that up:

You’d think this sort of meltdown might get the attention of the manager, but no. With the fans booing (God knows I was) Maholm gave up a two-run dinger that put Milwaukee back in the lead. Pirate manager John Russell finally woke up or put down his knitting or whatever the hell he does during the games and took Maholm out. There was more booing, louder, but no one threw debris on the field or anything that was called for like that.

Someone named “Joel Hanrahan” came in and got the last two outs of the inning. I eased back in my chair and watched the most exciting part of any Bucco game–the pirogi race! Halapeno Hanna (sp, I know) beat out Saurkraut Saul at the end. Wonder how much money changes hands during the pirogi race. Fans gotta have some prop bets to hold their interest.

But then something weird happened–the Pirates rallied to tie the score. And something beyond weird happened–Andy LaRoche had a clutch two-out hit to score a run, and later scored they tying run himself. Perhaps you have to be a Pirate fan to understand, but “Andy LaRoche had a clutch hit” is a sentence almost as strange as “Sasquatch rode a unicorn to Atlantis”. I know, pics or it didn’t happen, so here is a shot of LaRoche (his brother Adam was traded yesterday so there’s no need to use the first name) getting a clean hit:

But after Ramon Vasquez doubled LaRoche in, Russell inexplicably let Hanrahan hit with two outs. Two outs, a man on second, and you let a newly-acquired relief pitcher with an ERA above 7.00 hit for himself. “WTF!!” I screamed. “W.T.F.!! The guy bats twice a year! You have a runner in scoring position!! Pinch-hit, you colossal asshole!!!!” But the Pirate manager, perhaps having a lie-down after the exertion of yanking Maholm three hitters too late, let Hanrahan bat (he did get good wood on the ball, lining out to right). I rubbed my temples for a few seconds and saw that my beer was empty.

And that did it for me. Well, that and the huge group of 8-year-olds sitting one section over who were shrieking, and I do mean shrieking, almost constantly. There was one girl among them, I have to tip my hat, she had a scream that was something out of a nightmare. High-pitched, high-decible, and she could sustain. She would scream and everyone would look at her and laugh, because it was hard to believe such a tiny girl could produce a noise louder and more piercing than an F-18 launching from an aircraft carrier.

Not that I heard her for long. Because I bailed. A 7-7  tie in the eighth inning and I left. I didn’t care who won–I wanted to get out of there. The kids, the heat, the lousy beer. John Russell. I didn’t want to get caught in the post-game traffic and there was one more thing I wanted to see before I headed home.

I used to work on the North Shore and I walked past my old building and felt that familiar nostalgic twang. Hard to believe that I left the company more than three years ago (be fair, the company left me). But I pressed on, past Heinz Field, past the Science Center. I wanted to see the almost-ready Rivers Casino, due to open on August 9th. You might think it odd, considering that I spend about two months out of the year in Las Vegas, that I’d never once seen the casino as it was going up. I literally had no idea what it looked like, how big it is, heck, even it’s precise location. I’ve read about it in the paper, of course, and I started to get a picture of it in my head. When it was first proposed I thought that it would be this little joint, like maybe the size of a Cheesecake Factory or something. Nope. I read about how many slot machines the place would hold and all the restaurants and bars and whatnot and, hey, it’s gonna be a fairly substantial place. This is as close as I could get to it:

A bit narrow but it should give you some idea of the size of the place. It is extremely weird to think that there’s going to be a casino in Pittsburgh. That I can, if I want, drive 20 minutes and be playing video poker in a casino. Very strange. And this is just the start, of course–there’s already been talk of introducing table games here (inevitable) and allowing video poker machines in bars (uhh, that could be bad for me). I think people should be allowed to spend their money as they see fit, but after spending two months in casinos I must confess to feeling a bit uneasy about having one here at home. Maybe that’ll change when I visit on August 9th (I’ll be there as soon as it opens, for professional reasons, of course) but it does seem a bit surreal to see a casino plopped down there.

After satisfying my curiousity I turned on my heel and headed for my car. And off in the distance I heard…fireworks. Lots of fireworks. Turns out that Brandon Moss hit a game-winning walk-off home run in the ninth. The Bucs hit five home runs and I didn’t see four of them. I’m not sure what this says about the Pirates or about me. I’m as insane a sports fan as you’ll find–ask Al and Jen about watching Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals with me. I’m a mean, vicious, uncharitable, gloating bastard, and I’m proud of that. But with the Pirates…ehh. They play 162 games a year, can’t get too excited about any particular one. And the Pirates haven’t played a truly meaningful game since Barry Bonds failed to throw out Sid Bream at home back in 1992. I probably can’t name 20 players on the major-league roster (harder than it sounds with all the trades of late). But I still go to three or four games a year. The team stinks, has stunk for nearly two decades, but people keep coming to the games ’cause the park is gorgeous and it’s nice way to spend a summer day. Next time I gotta pick a game without the campers.

This is the second time I’ve come home from seven weeks in the desert to sweet, summer rain:

The trip home was uneventful, though I think I might’ve still been drunk when I woke up to pack. The final table wrapped at 11PM, not the 7AM we all feared, and of course the media rushed en masse to the Hooker Bar for cocktails. I took one last swing at video poker, encouraged by BadBlood, and this time I came through in the clutch:

You can’t read the payout slip but it was good for $435, as I hit quad deuces on a dollar machine. A $400 profit instead of a $100 loss, which wiped away most of my gambling losses for the trip and put me in a very good and very drinky mood the rest of the night. But all too soon night turned to day, and I set a 5AM hard-cap on myself to bail. I’d asked that my flight be pushed back a day so I wouldn’t have to rush around on the last day and could maybe actually enjoy myself a bit before heading home, but it wasn’t switched and so I had to say some quick goodbyes to the people I’d spent seven weeks with. If I didn’t goodbye before the evening ended, apologies, and anyway you were probably sick of me anyway.

When I caught the cab at Gold Coast for the ride to MGM I felt like I’d already disconnected from the WSOP and that life. I wasn’t working anymore; I was a tourist. Not even a tourist, I was an expatriot finally on his way home. I grabbed a few hours sleep, threw my clothes and gear in bags, and after one last overpriced meal I decided the hell with it and went to the airport early. Tired of all the people, tired of the nonstop flashing lights and electronic music of the slots. As I walked out of MGM for the first time I noticed my face hurt, especially around my jawline. I was actually confused for a sec when I realized that I’d been smiling all day. Smiling hard.

My flight was unremarkable, I got home around 1AM to find a note on my mailbox that said THIS ADDRESS IS CURRENTLY VACANT DO NOT PLACE MAIL IN THIS BOX. I removed it and opened my front door to find that I hadn’t been accidentally evicted. My couch was there, my desk, my kitchen. I cooked a little something for a snack (I cooked!) and got my laptop hooked up to my big monitor. I was home, and I was happy.

I got up around one in the afternoon (my bed does not compare to MGM’s, which must be addressed) and went to my desk. And here, a moment of melancholy–there wasn’t a chocolate-chip muffin waiting for me. Most days at the WSOP Al would bring me a muffin from the Gold Coast and that’s how I would start my day. Now, no more muffins. Sigh.

But I’m home. And it’s raining. My windows are open and a cool, sweet breeze is washing over me. Birds are singing. I’m home.