I have received a lot of private correspondence since my last post.  I want to thank everyone for their thoughts on parenthood and for their encouraging words.  I also want to alleviate the concerns of those who seem worried about my well being.  I am perfectly fine.  I had a moment of emotional semi-clarity and sat down to write about it.  I am happy with what came out and have no regrets sharing it.  I like using the blog as a sounding board and a place to vent.

I also want what I write here to be more compelling than typical poker blog material.  If you want to hear about how “JJ was the absolute bottom of my range and how in the world can BiffMan call me with AQo there I mean I really respect his game but imo that’s just a terrible loose call and I should never have busted in that spot but oh well what can ya do, onto the next” I can direct you to a couple of hundred other web addresses.

I’m having last call before Not Anabelle.

Last call for live tournament poker will take place tomorrow at Mohegan Sun, where there’s a $1500 event that completes their Fall Poker Series.  I normally don’t play Saturday tournaments during football season because they conclude on Sundays.  Normally this event would not be on my radar, especially because the Jets are playing a home game this week.  But this is a special circumstance, so there may be a substitute sitting in for me at the Jets game this week.  My mother could make her long-awaited Meadowlands debut this week, occupying my seat next to my father’s.

I have done some due diligence and received assurances that Day 1 of this event will have a minimum of 14 levels and will not conclude until at least 12:30 a.m. on Sunday.  This means that if I’m forced to alter my Sunday ritual I will have the consolation of playing for some serious cash up in Connecticut.  I think my next live tournament poker after Saturday will probably consist of a few cameos at Borgata in January 2011.

There’s another last call on the horizon.  Per a negotiated agreement with Janeen, I will go out clubbing in NYC one final time before the baby is born.  This will take place tomorrow night if I bust out of the Mohegan Event early or on December 4th if I am not yet a father on that date.

I used to enjoy going out clubbing and spent the better part of the last ten years as a semi-regular on the NYC electronic music circuit.  If you think it sounds unnatural for a married man and expectant father to want a night out clubbing on his own, I don’t blame you.  Part of the issue is that “clubbing” connotes something a little different to me than most people.  A dissertation detailing the differences between “the underground” and bottle service joints would be an exercise in futility—this is a subject you either know or you don’t know.  The very short version is:  version A of clubbing means dressing up, bottles of grey goose, hip-hop and playing grab-ass til closing time.   Version B means your most comfortable clothes, drug consumption, house music, and freaking out way past daybreak.   Version A is dominated by sexual energy.  Version B has a pseudo-spiritual feel.

I was once devoutly down with Version B.  However, Janeen came to me with no taste whatsoever for it and never developed one.  She mostly tolerated my propensity to stay out late in weird places during our courtship, and when things got more serious I completely sacrificed my involvement in “the scene” for her.  It’s a compromise I was happy to make, and only on rare occasions do I miss the energy of the crazy nights out I once obsessively enjoyed.  I’m certainly healthier physically for it, and I have discovered that football is more enjoyable when you sleep the night before and view it through eyes that are not fogged over by a life-threatening hangover.

But now is my last real chance to go back.  Although parents of young children who go out dancing past daybreak do actually exist (and incredibly, there are folks in “the scene” who speak of these people with sincere admiration), I will not be such a person.  I am aware that little kids don’t differentiate between weekdays and weekends, and I’m going to pull my weight around here.  So this is it.

That distant sound you might hear around 6:15 am on Sunday will be me screaming “yeahhhhh!” as I flail around a dance floor in a pitch black room in a secret location because the DJ just took things up a notch.