2008 was a momentous and fulfilling year in my personal life.  Janeen and I got engaged.  We purchased,  moved into and furnished a new apartment.  We got married.  We went on an amazing honeymoon (I still plan on blogging about this trip, it was unreal).  My life took the figurative sharp left turn at Albuquerque (big ups to Bugs Bunny).  Things have changed so much this year that the 2007 version of me would probably struggle a bit to recognize the domesticated guy sitting here (in a Snuggie, for the record!) writing this entry.

On the other hand, professionally speaking, my 2008 was the opposite of momentous.  In fact, it was a dud.  My year got off to a fast start when I final tabled two Atlantic City tournaments, winning one of them.  From there it all fell apart.

After the two AC scores, I slowed down a bit.  The purchase of our apartment and our move occupied quite a bit of time, so I decided to take a break and make the WSOP the focal point of my professional year.  When WSOP season arrived, I dove in headfirst.  I stayed in Vegas for the majority of the month of June and played as many tournaments as I could, living and breathing tournament poker for about 40 days straight.  The results were atrocious:  I cashed in one single event and whiffed on everything else, making the 2008 WSOP a financial wipeout of proportions I had never before experienced.  Several other factors exacerbated the situation, turning it from a fiscal disaster into an emotional clusterfuck:  I felt isolated and alone during the extended trip.  I felt a subtle but palpable sense of guilt/embarrassment because I had, for the first time, taken some money from backers, almost all of whom were personal friends or family.  In the end, I was so frustrated by the experience that my drive and desire abandoned me.

I returned home defeated and played almost no poker in July and very little in August; I simply didn’t feel like it.  And then, before I knew it, my wedding date–with all the concomitant planning and fussing–was approaching.  Then the wedding was here.  Then I was on my honeymoon.  Then it was December.

In the end, I played about 33% less poker than I did in 2006 or 2007, earning only a fraction of what I made in those years, and at a lower hourly rate.  Where did the year go?

I’ve mentioned this about 2,000 times now, but it bears repeating.  Playing poker for a living really is nothing like holding a normal job where you draw a salary.  Most of us can sleepwalk through an occasional day or two at work and be none the worse for it; the same paycheck still comes every week or two.  Lord knows that I used to mail it in for weeks at a time when I worked that kind of job.  But I don’t get to mail my days in anymore.  Poker players trade in that luxury for the increased freedom we enjoy.  You have to want it bad in my world or you can’t make money.  If you strip me of my determination to play high-level poker, I’m basically unemployed (or worse, dead money).  And for much of 2008, I either was too disinterested or too distracted to play.  After the WSOP, I went through phases where I alternatively could not summon the desire or could not find the hours to kick it into gear.  It was a lost year.  Yes, I still made a decent living in 2008, but it was nevertheless a major disappointment. 

Although I’ve heard a few people predict that tournament poker will begin to die, thereby erasing my main source of income, I suspect better days are in store.  In December, in fact, the tide has already begun to turn.  I’ve been playing and winning steadily–and more importantly–thoroughly enjoying poker.  I have reason to believe that I’m back in the saddle.  Look out for Sug D in ’09!

Some 2009 Resolutions:

Hit the Tournament Trail:  I play very low volume for a professional.  Time to change that a bit.  I’m going to be busy at the start of 2009.  For the first time in my career, I’m hitting a non-Vegas circuit stop outside of the Northeast (okay, I did the Bahamas once).  On January 2nd I’ll be making my way to down to Biloxi, Mississippi to try my luck against some good ‘ol boys in the Southern Poker Championships at the Beau Rivage.  I’m even breaking with tradition and playing tournaments during the NFL Wildcard Games!  I’m planning on getting all Katrina on their asses down there.  After Biloxi comes the Borgata Winter Open, and after that I will likely play some stuff in Vegas and/or LA.  I’m mindful that balance is required here.  Too much time on the road does not agree with me (nor my new wife).  I will never become a full-time touring pro, but I intend to make a concerted effort to travel the circuit quite a bit in 2009.

No More Taking Stakes:  I’d always been proud of the fact that I only play my own bankroll.  I chose to abandon that strategy in 2008 in an effort to make some big scores at the WSOP and it backfired.  I don’t like feeling financially beholden to anyone else, and I probably put undue pressure on myself at the 2008 WSOP because of it.  I’m done with it.  If this means I have to grind it out in smaller tournaments and 2-5 NL cash games, so be it.  If you see me in a $10k event in 2009, it probably means I won a satellite.

Rebuild my Online Game:  I played very little online poker in 2008 and accomplished next to nothing in this area.  I have lost some confidence in my online play and I still cannot effectively play multiple tables.  I also have found it impossible to summon the willpower to truly concentrate and put in long online sessions.  In an effort to remedy these things, I am going to start from scratch with a two-monitor setup.  I’m taking three steps backwards and playing only small stakes cash games and tournaments online until I prove to myself that I can beat them.  Only then will I move up (Sundays are exempted from this rule, I’ll still play the big Sunday tourneys once the NFL season ends).  At the same time, I’ll be using my dual monitor setup to try and finally teach myself to play my A-game on more than two tables at a time.  I’ll probably be the only touring pro playing $2000 live tournaments on the road and $33 sit ‘n gos at home, but that’s the initial plan for 2009. 

No Ego:  I’ve come to realize that many of the mistakes I make playing poker are ego-driven.  For instance, I frequently misplay hands because I put myself in my opponent’s shoes, assuming he/she is playing a hand the way I would play it.  I ascribe goals and abilities to these opponents that are not present, which leads to terrible misreads.  I need to stop this.  Also, I am going to try my best to avoid unnecessary standoffs and pissing matches.  There’s a difference between aggressive play (necessary to win) and macho bullshit play (detrimental).  I am going to try and be alert but still look at every hand I play with fresh eyes, so to speak. 

And away we go…

Happy New Year everyone!

DZ

In our neverending quest to explain the universe around us, we have picked up an odd habit.  We (us humanoids) try to ascribe causality where there is none.  The more absurd and self-indulgent we are about this, the better.

In the realm of gambling our superstitions are obvious.  Most everyone has a lucky article of clothing.  It seems like most poker players have some kind of lucky chatchka they keep next to them on the felt.  In the pit, it’s even crazier.  Go play craps and try refusing to request the same dice the next time you toss one off the table and see how everyone else there regards you.

Even otherwise rational non-gamblers fall victim to this habit.  We eat the same breakfast every time we take an exam, thinking it will imbue us with the same ability we displayed the first time we ate it and aced a test.  We credit our spotless driving record to the decrepit stuffed animal sitting on our dashboard.  We think that hearing a certain song on the radio guarantees a big night out.  We knock on wood.  We do all sorts of silly stuff; people can (and do) develop obsessive-compulsive disorder keeping track of it all. 

Being a sports fan is no different.  We think that sitting in a particular chair increases the likelihood of a win.  We put on our lucky jersey before we turn on the TV.  We think that we can help our pitcher strike out a tough batter by twirling our hands around in circles.  Just ask that old lady who used to sit behind the plate at Shea Stadium.

I’m certainly not immune to these strange habits, particularly when it comes to the New York Jets.  I’m being perfectly honest and not exaggerating when I say this:  one of my life’s unfulfilled dreams is to see the Jets win the Super Bowl.  I have a hard time accepting the lack of control I have over making this eventually somehow happen, and the fact that the Jets have provided nothing but disappointment and heartbreak since I have been following them (which is a very long time) certainly doesn’t help.  I am quite crazy over this, and I have struggled along with the New York Jets for my entire life in a very real and very personal way.  It’s beyond question that I suffer more profoundly than the players on the New York Jets when the team loses, which is often.  How I got this way is up for debate, but I’m definitely out of my mind.  Should the New York Jets ever win the Super Bowl (this is something I frequently daydream about by the way), I believe my stunned reaction would be equal parts elation and catharsis.

Of course, I’m just as deluded about the Jets as those craps players who think that a red cube bouncing onto the carpet foretells disaster.  I’ve always done whatever I could to control the outcome of Jets games.  For a long time, my father and I agreed that swapping seats at the stadium could reverse three quarters of poor play.  While watching at home as a child, we routinely banished my mother from the room if her presence coincided with a Richard Todd interception.  I’ve tried everything, from articles of clothing too numerous to list, to uttering the same phrase before every play, to closing my eyes before third down plays, to screaming my head off before every snap, to three hour vows of silence.  Never have I managed to create the kind of correlation I’ve been searching for.  Until now.

It turns out that the connection is much simpler than I’d ever imagined.  Almost too simple, in fact.  It seems that I am the Jets’ problem.  That is, my physical presence anywhere in the vicinity of the New York Jets football club causes them to suck.

Witness their 2008 season.  From September through early November they played basic New York Jets football–the middling crappy .500 football to which I am accustomed.  They opened the season 5-3 thanks to a creampuff schedule and weren’t fooling anyone; they were going nowhere.  Then I left for Chicago for my wedding and honeymoon, and what happened?  While I pined away for my Jets and whined like a baby about missing their games for the first time since I was in diapers, they broke loose like an unshackled maniacal inmate.

While boarding the plane bound for my honeymoon, I discovered that the Jets were dismantling the Rams in the first home game I had failed to attend in many moons.  The following Thursday night, as I enjoyed a steak dinner in Mendoza, Argentina, the Jets beat the New England Patriots on the road, in an overtime thriller.  Two Sundays later, as I helplessly sat in a Brazilian airport, the Jets did the unthinkable, delivering a crucial win against the undefeated Titans by thumping them in their building.  The Jets were 8-3.  Logic and the pundits agreed:  this was a team to be reckoned with, headed for the playoffs and likely to do some serious damage once they got there.  While I was pretty upset about having missed their wondrous ascent to the top of the NFL power rankings, I was thrilled that an exciting winter and the possible fulfillment of my lifelong dream laid in store.  Then I came home.

With me back in the fold, the Jets have reverted to form and have DONE NOTHING BUT SUCK DONKEY BALLS FOR A FULL CALENDAR MONTH.  What looked like a great team has collapsed before my unbelieving eyes.  Draw your own conclusions, but the evidence is irrefutable.  I watch every single Jets game from 1979 until the middle of 2008, the Jets lose.  I miss three Jets games and they turn into worldbeaters.  I come back and resume watching, and they stink like a pile of steaming dog shit.  Barring a miracle, there will be no playoffs, no dream fulfillment, not even a little smug satisfaction.  Nope, just the same old, same old:  another Jets season swirling ’round in the toilet.

Sorry everyone.  I doubt you feel worse than me, but still, I’m sorry.  The Jets are in my DNA and I have no plans to move to another continent where American Football is not televised.  We’re all shit out of luck.

The NFL:  hypocritical, anti-poker and awesome.

How could my two favorite things have so much in common yet be locked in mortal political combat? 

That’s the question I asked when I discovered the following tale of gambling melodrama on my honeymoon.  You’ll have to forgive me if I get some minor facts wrong.  This is not a blog about politics and I sure as hell am not doing any major research on this stuff.  But the gist of the story is this:

The Unlawful Internet Gambling Enforcement Act (UIGEA) was passed awhile back.  While the poker players of the world stood idly by (the Poker Players’ Alliance was only created in the aftermath of bill’s passage), other groups did plenty of lobbying with the friendly Congressmen from the Christian Right who were responsible for the UIGEA.  One of these groups was the National Football League, who paid a guy named William Wichterman, a former employee of Rep. Bill Frist, the douchebag who first conceived of the UIGEA, over $200,000 to spearhead their lobbying effort.

Wichterman evidently did a good job, because the law that was passed defines gambling on sports as a prohibited activity but expressly exempts fantasy football (along with state lotteries, trading stocks, horse racing and some other stuff) from the reach of the UIGEA.  The NFL’s dual goal of protecting the sanctity of its game from the evil influences of gambling and preserving the rights (and associated income) of millions of dudes like me who play fantasy football was accomplished.

I’m not going to bother discussing the hilarity of the lottery and horse racing exemptions and will focus for now on how big a fucking joke the fantasy football exemption is. 

First of all, fantasy football is gambling.  It is a game of skill–and that is the exact grounds under which Wichterman advanced the cause for the carve-out it received–but as sure as Brett Favre crams his old white ass into tight pants every Sunday, fantasy football is gambling.  Groups of guys all over the United States pool their money, pick their players, then watch their players compete against the other guys’ players, and in the end someone wins the money.  You’re betting on players.  It’s gambling.  But it’s a form of gambling that has become exponentially more popular in the internet age and has somehow never become too socially stigmatized, unless you count calling those who participate nerds.  Either way, it is a huge revenue source for the NFL and Mr. Wichterman accomplished his goal of keeping it easy to play.

Second, the fact that the NFL draws a sharp distinction between the supposedly insidious “regular” football gambling and friendly ol’ fantasy football (and successfully lobbied Congress to enact legislation containing that same distinction) is unadulterated bullshit.  While I understand that blowing your life’s savings on the Bears/Vikings game in Week 4 is a lot easier to accomplish than losing your entire net worth in a fantasy football league, both forms of gambling are in fact games of skill.  And if you don’t believe me on that you’ll just have to trust me. 

Also, while fantasy football is a major revenue source, the amount of NFL interest generated by fantasy football is a drop in the proverbial bucket compared to what the mere availability of sides and totals on every game accomplishes.  The NFL’s product is perfect for gambling, the numbers are printed in every newspaper in America, it’s legal in Nevada, and hundreds of radio and TV pundits openly discuss these numbers on a daily basis.  Everyone, including the NFL, knows that “regular” gambling is a very big part of what makes football America’s game.  Gambling on football is as old as the game itself, for god’s sake.  It’s still more convenient for the NFL to continue with its “sanctity of the game” charade since they know full-well that the demand for action on its product is strong and inflexible, no matter what they say.  It’s better for the NFL to continue with its near-monopoly on sports gambling (look at the numbers sometime, only the NCAA tourney comes close).  So the NFL threw a bunch of money around and the UIGEA, tacked onto the back of an anti-terrorism bill, became reality.  Like I said earlier, the cardplayers of America were asleep at the switch:  the word “poker” never appears anywhere in the legislation and as such is treated the same as the lethal blight of football gambling.

Fast forward a few months:

The UIGEA reads like it was drafted by a drunk nimrod and it didn’t take people long to discover this.  The UIGEA requires America’s banking institutions to police themselves by coming up with regulations designed to restrict the flow of money to and from offshore gambling entities.  “Easier said than done” is an understatement with regard to accomplishing that, so the banks basically shrugged off this new responsibility and chose to do nothing at all.

In Congressional discussions (what are Congressional discussions called–“sessions” or something?), several groups stepped forward to pronounce the UIGEA and its proposed regulations a big pile of steaming shit.  The most vociferous objections came not from sportsbooks, poker sites, degenerate gamblers or libertarians, but from from our country’s banks, who unanimously stated that the regulations would be expensive, wasteful and impossible to enforce.  Then a long period of time passed by in which nothing happened.

Then came November 10th, 2008, one week after Obama’s election (and two days after my wedding).  On that date, William Wichterman–now no longer as an emissary of the NFL but gainfully employed by the Bush Administration as a “Deputy Director of Public Liaison” (whatever that is)–was up to his old tricks again.  Um, it’s been awhile since I took that ethics class, but this sounds a little bit conflict of interest-ish to me.  The UIGEA, supposedly at the behest of Wichterman, suddenly became a major priority and the UIGEA regulations became the subject of what is known in political circles as a “midnight drop.”   This apparently is what they call it when an outgoing administration pushes through a pet project or two before exiting the premises.  And so on November 10th, the Treasury Department finalized the regulations.  It remains to be seen what the Obama administration (or for that matter, the banks) will do with them, but they’re on the books for now.

The point of this blog entry isn’t to rehash my slanted version of the history of the UIGEA but rather to highlight the NFL’s role therein and to point out what unlikely enemies poker and the NFL are.  Poker and football provide America with two of its greatest pastimes and I with two of my great loves.  Not coincidentally, poker and the NFL provide us with two of our country’s most common forms of gambling.  Yet while poker must fight for legitimacy (particularly online), the NFL is so powerful that it has been able to influence lawmakers and keep its gambling-infested world in perfect order.

So, to Mr. Roger Goodell and the other bigshots at the NFL I have this to say: 

Dear Sirs,

I love your product and would be lost without it. 

But kindly eat me.

DZ

Once the afterglow of our engagement faded, Janeen and I faced the task of putting together our wedding weekend.  Like any sensible man, I dealt myself out of most of the planning, leaving the big decisions in the capable hands of my fiancee and her mother.  As they began their work, the picture that slowly emerged was of an upscale November affair in a fancy Chicago hotel.  Fine by me. 

Although I was thrilled to let Janeen and her mom do most of the planning, I did want to somehow put a personal stamp on the weekend (without any cheeseball poker references).  I’ve been to enough weddings to know that the guests are there at least partially because they’re expected to be there.  At best, they attend because they are somewhat obliged to “share in your happiness.”  At worst, being at the wedding is a outright drag.  So when I learned that I’d be asking my friends and family to travel a long way and spend a lot of money, I resolved to make my wedding fun, specifically for my friends.  Your great aunt is probably going to have a nice time at your wedding regardless of what the party’s like, but the people you hang out with on a weekend-to-weekend basis are going to be a bit more discerning.  Notwithstanding the limitations any wedding planner faces, I wanted a party that they’d enjoy.

Everyone has a different idea of what is fun, and frankly I wasn’t about to speculate on or really accomodate anyone else’s concept.  I’m lucky to have a big network of close friends who are familiar with and share in my version of big city fun:  late nights at bars, concerts and clubs, with music always playing a central role.  And the kind of music that moves me is the kind of music you can lose yourself in; preferably something funky, raw and improvised.  Something a wedding band is incapable of producing.  While a band that makes you say “Oh, ‘Living on a Prayer!!’ I LOVE this song!” has some merit, my version of a good band makes you say “Jesus, these guys are killing it!” instead.  So with Janeen’s blessing, I decided to ask my favorite band to play my wedding.

I discovered Milo Z in 1995 or 1996 when I went to see the Meters at Tramps.  Per usual, the Meters tore the place up, but it was the opening act that really blew me away.  They did funk music the right way, with a big sound driven by tight horn arrangements.  During the solos, the bandleader had a James Brown-esque control of the rhythm section, instructing them how many times to play their vamps (“two times!”).  Their songs were funny in the same way old school hip hop was funny:  songs about sex, songs with dirty nursery rhymes, plays on words, crowd participation with the vocals.  It all amounted to a convenient excuse to bounce to the bass and let the horn riffs fill your earholes.  I was smitten.  I became a Milo Z devotee, attending countless shows around the city for many years and introducing the band to everyone I knew, including Janeen.  If you hung out with me sometime between 1996 and 2003, chances are you and I caught a Milo Z show together.  And most everyone agreed with me:  it was a guaranteed good time; Milo Z brings it.  My friend Steve does Milo Z some justice in this entry on his blog, check it out.

In early 2008 Tramps was long gone (replaced by a dance club that I often frequented–that club is also now closed), but Milo Z was still working the NYC circuit.  I contacted the band’s manager and ever-so-slickly dropped the names of many discarded songs and ex-band members to prove that I was a legit old school fanboy.  She must have been suitably impressed, because after she conferred with Milo, we struck a deal.  She said they didn’t normally play weddings, but would make an exception for me.  Milo Z at my wedding.  Sweeet!

Unfortunately, my first ever concert booking set off a chain reaction of events and expenses for which I was woefully unprepared.  I had booked a New York band to play a Chicago wedding.  The band needed to be flown out to Chicago, needed transportation in Chicago, needed hotel rooms in Chicago, needed instruments and sound equipment in Chicago and needed a sound guy in Chicago.  All these issues were my responsibility and many turned out to be way more difficult than anticipated.  I also had to account for Milo Z’s shortcomings as a wedding band:  namely, I had to find a long recording of a Jewish Hora, recordings of songs for the traditional dances Janeen would have with her father and I with my mother and grandmother, and Janeen and I had to personally program the music that would be played at the ceremony, as there is no harp player in Milo Z’s crew.  It was a ton of work.  Overnight, I had gone from your basic groom-to-be to a club promoter.  So much for my detached indifference with respect to the wedding planning. 

Milo Z’s gig at my wedding was a closely guarded secret.  I wanted to surprise my friends, many of whom were at the introductory show at Tramps and many shows thereafter, and would surely appreciate the surprise guests.  In the end, although some of the older guests might have preferred a band that played “Unchained Melody,” I’m happy to say that Milo Z was a huge hit, although the surprise was ruined for many when the band was spotted at the hotel’s front desk.  The band was kind enough to learn and play “Sunny” (originally Bobby Hebb, but oft-covered), which they played for our first dance.  From that point forward it was a typical Milo Z show, and they even played 20 minutes of overtime when we didn’t want to leave the dancefloor.  By the end of the night, I had achieved exactly what I wanted:  my new bride and I dancing with our friends to that real live funky getdown on the getdown.

Milo doin’ werrrk.

White man’s overbite + happy bride

The entire wedding weekend was a success, I think.  All the planning done by Janeen and her mother was evident:  during the whirlwind of activity, I was still able to appreciate how good everything (including Janeen!) looked, how tasty the food was and how happy our guests were.  Everyone thinks their own wedding was the bees knees, so take that commentary with a grain of salt.  Only the guests are really qualified to rate the party, so you’ll have to talk to someone who was there. 

I do know this:  Janeen and I are blessed to have so many people in our lives that love us and support us.  That statement is eye roll-worthy boilerplate post-wedding blabbering, but I have special reason to believe that it’s the truth.  During our wedding weekend there were a number of speeches given on our behalf.  It was quite a speechy wedding–in fact, Milo Z’s second set was delayed because all of the speeches ran long.  But the speeches were neither boring nor repetitive.  Some of the speakers were invited, some were not.  Each person had something different to convey, and each speech came from a different angle:  some took a comedic or sarcastic approach and some were tender and heartfelt.  Some were throughly planned, and one person even employed visual aids.  Others were completely improvised on the spot.  The sentiment was nevertheless the same throughout, and it was obvious that each speaker held Janeen and I in high esteem.  I remain touched and grateful after listening to them and I’m likely to remember each of them forever.

And now here are some more pics.  I’ve lifted these from other people’s facebook accounts, so thanks guys.

bustle dat ‘ish, mom.

Janeen & her dad. 

I have a lot of good, old friends.

yayyyy

yayyyyy again