If you know me at all or follow this blog, you know about my obsession with the New York Jets.  I have discussed my lifelong love affair with the Jets a few times on the blog, including here and here.  Long story short:  I’m a grown man with a child’s dream:  to watch my favorite professional football team play in the Super Bowl.  I am deluded enough to believe my many years of dedication and suffering have earned me the right to witness the Jets’ momentous and overdue rise to glory.  I am, however, self-aware.  I know that harboring this desire is puerile and irrational, but it cannot be wished away.  The best I can do is embrace my fanaticism.

And that’s how I ended up in Pittsburgh, PA two Sundays ago, sitting outdoors in frigid single-digit temperatures while strangers lashed yellow towels across the only part of my body exposed to the elements—my face.  The prior week the Jets had delivered their greatest achievement in my lifetime, a rollicking and resounding upset of the hated Patriots in a Divisional Playoff game in Foxboro.  Once that game was secured, the odds of the Jets actually delivering my holy grail shrunk to a reasonable figure.  I was giddy.  To say the least.

As recently as ten years ago, a hastily planned trip to Pittsburgh for the AFC Championship Game would have been difficult, but in the Stubhub Era tickets to games on enemy turf are plentiful and inexpensive.  If, at long last, the Jets were going to reach the Super Bowl, I was going to personally bear witness.  I decided to pass on a few Borgata Winter Open events and head west.  My friend Pooh and I found a pair of tickets online, booked a hotel room, then departed at 7:00 am Sunday, driving a beeline through southern Pennsylvania.  We were in Pittsburgh well before kickoff.  Before I left town, I quietly secured game tickets, a hotel reservation and flight plans for the next game—the Super Bowl, which will be contested between the Steelers and Packers in Dallas a few days from now.

The game, of course, was a letdown.  The Jets quickly found themselves facing a deficit too steep to overcome.  A strong second half only made the scoreboard more cosmetically appealing.  In the end, I sat quietly and despondently in my seat as the throng of Yinzers whipped their towels ’round and sang all the songs in their songbook (the Steelers have no fewer than four popular songs dedicated to them).  I was—and remain—bitterly disappointed.  While the Jets have now reached the NFL’s semifinals in two consecutive seasons, it is folly to say they’re a team on the rise whose natural next step is the big game.  The modern salary-cap NFL does not work like that, especially in a year of labor unrest.  Each deep run into the playoffs is a rare opportunity to transform the dream to reality.  The Jets didn’t cash this one (or their previous three trips) in.  For the second time in my life my fully formed Super Bowl plans (tickets, hotel, flight) were dashed.

I got back to Brooklyn just in time for this winter’s latest snow event, and I drove through the teeth of an unrelenting storm down to AC for the smallest “major” buy-in I’d ever heard of, a $200 tournament at the Borgata Winter Open with a $100,000 guarantee.  It’s a tournament I may not have bothered with under different circumstances, but it fit nicely with my plan of simply getting my feet wet again.  The tournament drew something like 1200 entires and went very well. I ended up making the final table and finishing sixth for just under $10,000.  Just as importantly, the tournament allowed me to get re-acclimated to the tourney grind and allowed me to realize that I did miss playing poker for the past few months.

The tourney played out pretty straightforwardly.  Most of the big pots I won were coolers and flips:  I got all in with 10-10 vs. AK and won, I got all in with AK vs. QQ and won, and I got all in with KK and faded AK.  At the final table, I came in short but ran well.  And by that I mean that several players with larger stacks busted ahead of me, allowing me to creep up the payout ladder without incident.  The one hand of the tournament that probably deserves mention went as follows:

Just before dinner break on Day 1, I was on the button with the QdJd.  With the blinds at 1200-2400 with a 200 ante, a young player in middle position opened to 6200.  We both had roughly 130,000 in our stacks.  I made a play that is fairly standard for me and reraised the button—my button—to 16,200.  The action folded back to the young man in middle position, and as it turns out, he wasn’t done with the hand.  He thought for a bit, cut some chips out of his stack then four-bet to 44,000.  While I was unfamiliar with this kid (and vice-versa), he fit the profile.  Young, defiant, handling the chips deftly.  My instincts told me he was looking to run game on me.  He was light here.  I may not have played a tournament in awhile, but I still had guts.  I was going to have the last word.  I allowed my conscience the opportunity for a short counterargument, and the idea of folding and waiting for a different spot flashed for a moment.  The next thing I knew I was sliding my entire stack in, five-bet jamming with queen high.  The kid insta-folded and the dealer pushed me the pot.

My five-bet bluff in that situation was significant in two ways.  One, it was telling that this happened in a $200 event.  Tournament poker is tough these days.  Three, four and five-betting in an event with such a small buy-in would have meant KK vs AA back in the day.  But this ain’t back in the day, and yes, a kid was in fact trying to pwn me in a $200 tournament.  Also, this hand indicated that I hadn’t lost my nerve while I was on vacation changing those diapers.

Fully aware of these circumstances and more than a little proud of myself, I proceeded to do something I virtually never do:  Wishing to relive the moment, I picked the QdJd off the felt and held them aloft about eight inches from my face.  Both cards were clearly visible to the players to my direct left and right.  Inevitably, two guys across the table began to grumble and insisted that I table my cards.  I shrugged and showed everyone without so much as a smirk.

In the Main Event, my deep run in the $200 offered little in the way of momentum.  My mindset coming into the tournament was all wrong.  The Borgata Main Events have structures similar to the WSOP Main Event—they’re marathons, not sprints, and longball tactics are not necessary from the outset.  For the WSOP Main, I am able to counsel myself properly and let the action come to me.  At Borgata, I’m incapable of doing this for some reason.  I invariably do something spastic in Borgata Mains.

On Day 1 of the Main Event, I chipped up without incident for most of the day before bluffing off half of my stack by barreling three streets with 9-high.  On Day 2, I made an uncharacteristic bet sizing error.  By mistakenly putting in far too much money before the flop on my final hand, I turned what should have been a controlled attempt to seize a small pot into a fatal showdown.  After busting, I was unhappy with myself and disappointed with the possibility that my strong performance in the smaller prelim was nothing more than a mirage.  Still, it was good to get out and play.

Today I feel energized and ready to play more poker.  I think I will do just that.

Ivy’s about three weeks old now and Janeen and I are settled into the routine of caring for her.  Routine is actually a misnomer since there’s no rhyme or reason to Ivy’s schedule.  This little broad is down to party all night sometimes.  We’re tired!

A couple of books I’ve recently read describe the first few months of a baby’s life as a fourth trimester.  The theory is that the human species has a head so disproportionately large that our children are born before they’re fully cooked.  Our absurd bulbous eggheads have to fit through our mothers’ birth canals, so our gestation period is only nine months even though we really need twelve.  In our first few months of life, we’re fetuses living outside the womb, beanbags with eyes.  Based on my experience with Ivy, I gotta say that  this theory has merit.  Ivy’s not capable of a whole lot right now.  She sleeps, she eats, she poops.  And she fusses (because she wants to sleep, eat or poop—I’m expert at knowing which).  For maybe a few minutes each day she achieves the magical mental state of being awake, alert and quiet.  Then she sleeps, eats, poops—or fusses.

I’m making it sound pretty awful, but while caring for a newborn can be tedious, I am enjoying this.  I’m fortunate to be able to grant myself a paternity leave to stay home and assist Janeen.  I am suffering from a frailty as unique to mankind as our melon-sized craniums:  our sometimes devastating refusal to accept the transience of moments in time.  I’ve got a bad case of this common affliction right now.  Every day, I find myself holding Ivy, looking at her tiny little grabby hands, at  her chubby little kicky legs, and into her wide and unknowing eyes.  And I think ohhh, she will never be this little again!  This thought brings about feelings of love, of fear, of nostalgia, of regret, of hope… of everything.

In other news, the early stages of fatherhood may have cured my severe case of fecalphobia.  Of course I realize that it’s completely normal to be repulsed by shit, but my level of distaste for all forms of excrement and excretion is at least three sigmas above the mean.  Just seeing, smelling, or thinking about (touching is out of the fucking question) shit utterly horrifies me.  I’d way rather be a ditch digger than a nurse; much of what the human body is capable of nauseates me.  For what it’s worth, I was able to get through maybe three seconds of “2 Girls 1 Cup.”  It gave me nightmares for weeks.  People are so… gross.

Thanks to a trial by fire, today I can say that my fecalphobia is fading.  Owning a city dog—which requires picking up shit in a plastic bag a few times a day—was step one in my path to recovery.  Step two is dealing with the constant stream of poo that flies out of Ivy’s little tuchas.   Damn, no one told me how much little babies shit. This little sucker poops her drawers ten or twelve times a day.  She’s not even a month old and changing her diaper has already become so routine that you’d never know that I’m a recovering fecalphobic.  Something to really be proud of.

Becoming baby-rearing hermits has simplified our daily lives greatly.  Ivy goes two or three hours max without requiring attention.  I therefore now take pleasure in occurrences that are supposed to be significant only to people over 80 years of age:  a nice cup of coffee, my favorite television program (we’re working our way through Season 4 of The Wire), a walk around the block, my favorite radio show (Mike Francesa’s droning curmudgeonry), deciding what to have for lunch, the mailman’s arrival, outings to the supermarket… exciting stuff.  Somehow I am really enjoying it all.  I’ll be sad when this era comes to an end.

I realize this subject matter is far afield of almost everything I’ve historically written.  Sorry, it’s the best I’ve got.  Poker is a complete non-factor for me right now.  The last hand of poker I played was on November 20th, 2010.  Since that day I have logged zero live sessions and zero online sessions, repeatedly turning down the opportunity to put in an “honest day’s work.”  Since Thanksgiving I have thought about poker for maybe thirty minutes combined, and only then because questions or stories about poker have been posed to me.  My only exposure to my chosen profession has been my friends’ Facebook status updates, rife as ever with tournament poker’s familiar manic-depressive cycle of hope, disappointment, hope, disappointment, hope, disappointment—with some occasional elation thrown in to keep the wheel turning.  I feel zero empathy reading these updates.  I’m quite far removed from poker emotionally.  I read the updates and mostly chuckle.

This total layoff comes on the heels of a previous hiatus in the fall.  The end result is that I have played 130 hours of poker since Labor Day, which is an average of less than one hour per day.  That’s a pretty epic period of inactivity, and because I have not missed poker at any point during that time I’m unsure how I should feel about it.  My drive is not completely gone—I’m going to Borgata next week, and when I think about that trip I like to imagine that my layoff will leave me feeling refreshed and ready.  Then again, there’s the nagging possibility that I just don’t give a shit anymore.  Guys who don’t give a shit can’t survive in poker, it’s a world full of hungry muthafuckas.  Am I still willing to “keep up with the game”—to make the constant adjustments that are a prerequisite for success?  I’m not sure.  The best way to find out is to get in there and mix it up.  Next week.

On Saturday morning Janeen gave birth to our daughter, Ivy Beatrice Zeitlin! She arrived at 9:45 am and weighed a normal baby weight.

(No, I am not providing the exact weight. Does this figure correlate with anything meaningful? I challenge anyone reading this to explain the purpose of providing a human baby’s exact weight in birth announcements. All it seems to do is help us gauge the precise size of the item recently forced out of the mother’s coochie. Aaaanyway…)

I am thrilled beyond description. And I must say that there is a strong physiological component to parenthood. I have never had much of a taste for babies; I’ve mostly either avoided or tolerated them. I regard human babies with the same faint interest I take in fish in an aquarium. (I’ve purposely selected that analogy rather than “animals in a zoo” because I truly enjoy the zoo). So I wasn’t sure what to expect, even as Janeen’s labor was unfolding.

I’ll be damned if I wasn’t overcome by a crushing and monolithic love the instant I laid eyes on my baby girl.

In that instant I understood at once the responsibility, exhilaration, risks, and the vulnerability of parenthood. I suddenly understood why an infant’s mild ear infection is treated with the frenetic urgency of the Bubonic Plague. I suddenly understood why rational adults believe that people will actually open and inspect emailed photo galleries featuring 172 different images of their child holding a dandelion. I suddenly understood why parents frantically chase an escaped toddler down the sidewalk with desperation in their eyes when the child is a mere three feet in front of them and obviously not in danger.

On Saturday morning, I probably acquired a lot of traits I have always thought were bizarre. I couldn’t be happier about it.

I’m very proud of Janeen.  Due to a couple of ailments it took a few days longer than expected to bring Ivy home, and Janeen has handled the minor ordeal with amazing courage and care. At this early stage it is already obvious that my loving wife is also an excellent mother. I’m also proud of our goofball dog Ruthie. More than one person told us that she might be too wild to co-exist with a baby. Others said our former pride and joy would become “just a dog” once our baby arrived. Wrong and wrong. I couldn’t wait to introduce Ruthie and Ivy, and when we did, it was maybe the most touching thing I’ve ever seen: with bowed head and intuitive deference, Ruthie gingerly approached, then nuzzled gently into Ivy’s swaddling blanket. My girls!

Ivy snoozing.

Here, Ivy contemplates my checkraise all-in. "WTF is that, Daddy?"

About her name:

Ivy is just something Janeen came up with early in the pregnancy, after she disposed of “Annabelle.” I said “hey, that’s a cool name,” and that was that.

Janeen also suggested that we follow the Jewish custom of honoring a deceased relative—in this instance, my maternal grandmother—and I agreed with the idea. My beloved Nanny was instrumental in raising me; as a child I spent so much time with her that she practically served as a second mother to me. She was an incredibly giving and loving woman who cared for my sister and I with a diligence and fervor that was almost scary (in a good way). She adored all children and I wish more than you can imagine that I could share Ivy’s arrival with her.  There’s no one more deserving of the honor of a namesake than my Nanny, whose rather unfortunate first name was Bertha.

Janeen and I knew we couldn’t saddle our daughter with the middle name Bertha, so we took on the challenge of finding a decent female “B” name. We discovered that the pickins at B are actually pretty slim. We took a few days to settle on Beatrice, the letters of which comprise over 80% of “Bertha” when scrambled and rearranged. Good enough!

Welcome to the world, Ivy Beatrice!

-Dad 🙂

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought about online poker, and even longer since I’ve called anything but a puppy cute. But this video’s about online poker and is cute.

Enjoy.

The Micros

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.

My shift in focus away from poker for the past month or two has left me with little anecdotal material to share, but this buzz killer of a post has been brewing for some time.

Having a baby on the way has me kind of spooked.  While I’m looking forward to fatherhood, the severe lifestyle change in store is not something I’m eagerly anticipating.  I know I’m going to love my daughter like I’ve never loved another tiny lumpy hairless beanbag-sized person (newborns are fucking weird!), but my life is pretty awesome the way it is.  Janeen and I are not having a baby because we’re dying to experience parenthood, nor is one of us is doing the other a favor here (Janeen’s maternal instinct is MIA, I expect it to finally kick in when she actually holds our wonderchild).  We’re having a baby for one primary reason:  we’re too old to wait any longer.   Not-Anabelle (that’s what we’re calling her for now; Anabelle was the name Janeen pre-selected over a decade ago, then abruptly abandoned upon insemination) is going to bring some challenges into our world.  Will I be able to play poker whenever and wherever I please?  (No.)  If I take on the role of daytime child caregiver, will Janeen resent me? (Probably.)  When I inevitably sleep through one of not-Anabelle’s dramatic moments or mishandle some aspect of childcare, will Janeen get angry with me?  (Yes).  Will I be able to travel?  Will I want to travel?  Will I compensate by learning to enjoy online poker?  Will online poker even be possible?  Will I switch to live NYC cash games out of necessity?  Can I even beat those games?  I don’t know all the answers.  I do know that things are going to change pretty drastically.

Financially, we are doing well enough for now, but with not-Anabelle on board, we will not be able to withstand another year or two of only $80k in gross tournament cashes from me.  The mere idea of needing a score to “stay in the game” is unnerving; I’ve never operated under that kind of pressure.  I am very nitty with my bankroll.  Since the option remains at my disposal, I’d sooner return to desk jockeying than risk my case money, but I wouldn’t like it.  Not one bit.  I would return to the world of suits and ties kicking, screaming, kvetching and bringing daily misery to anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.  It wouldn’t be pretty.  I hope (mostly for the sake of Janeen, N.A. and Ruthie) it doesn’t happen.

The combination of experiencing my worst year on tour and baby time closing in has caused more than some worrying.  It has also ignited some rambling and candid self-examination that has led to some difficult realizations.  Some might call it a mid-life crisis.  I prefer to call it being honest with myself.  Hopefully that honestly will be apparent in what I’m about to write, and this post will come across more like something real and heartfelt than like the rambling manifesto of a weirdo.  Here’s what I’ve learned.

I am a person with aspirations.  From early childhood, I have harbored a burning desire to be exceptional.  Then, as now, I liked to lead and I liked to win.  I’ve never found satisfaction in following or being part of the crowd.  I yearn for the respect and admiration of my peers.  I wish to be memorable to others.  I wish to be remembered not only by those closest to me but also by passing acquaintances, competitors and by those who have never met me.  I want to leave a mark.  I aspire to a legacy.

That’s a difficult admission to make, particularly because I derive great pleasure in laughing at the expense of the many relentless self-promoters I’ve met through poker.  It’s very amusing to me that some of poker’s biggest self-promoters are the least equipped to do it, and through the magic of the internet, I have come to despise people I genuinely liked in face-to-face interactions before linking up with them online.  Still, I completely understand what these guys are doing.  My goal is the same as theirs.  It’s just that I refuse to look clumsy achieving it.  As much as it pains me to admit this, I want to be famous too. After discovering poker, this is probably why I gravitated towards tournaments:  They offer the perks of televised final tables, endorsement deals, and the undue and wholly unwarranted adulation of fellow gamblers the world over.

It may seem incongruous, but despite my aspirations I have no real ambition.  I simply do not believe in the sanctity of hard work and perseverance.  I actually believe that hard work and dedication can sometimes be foolish, and I have noticed that the timeless axiom that “luck is the residue of design” is really a plain and blatant falsehood.  Even poker players, whose daily lives are especially subject to the vagaries of luck, like to perpetuate this myth.  Everyone says their hard work has paid off when they win and that they’re stuck on the bad side of variance when they lose.  But it doesn’t work that way at all.  Luck is not visited most often upon those who deserve it.  Luck is, by definition, random.  Luck is luck.  Since neither luck nor my version of success is in any way correlated with hard work, I hold those who succeed without expending maximum effort in the highest regard.  I believe, in life as in sports, that winning without breaking a sweat is the ultimate in badassery.  If you have the time (with or without the inclination) to highstep on your way into the end zone, you’ve done something right in my world.

It is obvious that the greatest tragedy of my life took place the year I graduated college, when I allowed myself to fall into a profession rather than actually pursuing one.  I ended up an attorney out of mere convenience.  If that strikes you as bizarre, then maybe it is.  I really did subject myself to the rigors of law school, the cauldron of bar exam study and the charade of law firm interviews mostly because it was convenient for me.  It was not my finest hour.  The law was a profession where my aspirations could only be achieved through tireless work and years of subservience—and even then remained a longshot.  Famous badass lawyers are few and far between.  To become a famous badass lawyer you must pay your dues and be passionate about the law.  I will never pay dues unless the check is made payable to a synagogue (and only then because Janeen will make me).  And conceptually, I cannot understand how “passionate” and “law” belong in the same sentence.  I was a very bad fit as a lawyer, especially at a big law firm.  In that environment, I felt my greatest accomplishments occurred when I would receive plaudits for work I’d completed while self-handicapping, usually by consciously putting in minimal effort or by operating at less than full capacity.  I took perverse pleasure in being worth less than my paycheck (I was a specialist in EV before I’d ever heard the term!).  Needless to say, I never won the employee of the month award.  If I had been guided by my passions and true desires rather than someone else’s concept of practicality, I would have avoided the miserable 10-year sinkhole that was my career as a lawyer.  Alas, it seemed a convenient sinkhole.

By the time I became aware of the grave mistake I’d made and was prepared to fix it, poker had become the singular passion in my life and my obvious next profession.  This would not have been the case had I followed my dreams initially, as I played no poker whatsoever in college and was then unaware of its existence as a viable occupation.  I sometimes like to play the butterfly effect game and wonder what I’d be doing today had I not chosen law school, because it almost certainly wouldn’t be poker.  There is a clear causal relationship between my distaste for lawyering and my discovery and frenzied exploration of the world of poker.

Poker was a good fit for me because it matched not only my abilities but also my wants and desires.  My aspiration to be someone special was possible once again.  Poker was a place where I could shine, and I’ve just admitted that I’m the type of person that needs to get his shine on.   I’m concerned that having a child will rub the shine off of me real quick.  I am excited about the baby but dreading the possibility of having to set my aspirations aside.

Thanks to poker, I have actually realized some dreams.  Poker energized me; an existence formerly dominated by tedium and regret became one of pride and determination.  Through the years, my abilities at poker have garnered me praise and the respect of colleagues, a few trophies and appearances in worldwide rankings.  My name is known in wider circles that would be possible in nearly any other profession.  If the modern barometer of fame is Google hits, I’m exponentially more famous today than I was before poker.  However, perhaps because of how long the gratification of doing something fulfilling was delayed in my life, I still feel that I have more to accomplish.  I believe I’ve yet to leave my footprint in this life.  I believe my story is yet untold.  I want more.  And into that picture walks (crawls? emerges?) a baby.

I’ve seen firsthand how fatherhood can subsume all else in a man’s life.  I know of many men who have happily relegated themselves to the role of provider/caregiver and not much else, but I don’t think I will be joining their ranks.  I’ve seen guys with interesting lives transformed into pack mules whose sole purpose appears to be transporting car seats and the contents of diaper bags from one location to another.  I understand that there is something noble and possibly heroic in putting your child’s life before yours in every respect, and I know I’m going to make a great father, but I can’t set aside my hopes and dreams.  I feel guilty saying this, but I’m not prepared to identify myself as my daughter’s father first and David Zeitlin second.  There’s so much more I want to accomplish for myself.  When I die, I want my obituary to say more than “loving father, devoted husband.” If that’s selfish, so be it.

I might be particularly uppity about this because my job and my sense of self are inextricably connected.  The first thing most people would likely say about me is that I’m a professional gambler, and I quite like that.  Also, my job lacks the natural escape hatches that more typical jobs offer:  bosses, daily commutes, deadlines, duties.  All of these things suck but they also regulate.  I’m therefore not merely concerned that I’ll be un able to perform my job once the baby comes, I’m scared that I won’t want to work when there’s a child to look after and no one making any demands.  They’ll be a new kind of pressure.

Since I’ve made the reluctant admission that I’d like to experience fame, this is probably a good time to mention that I’ve already achieved a sort of incidental fame in this life.  It’s a little-known fact that I’ve appeared in books.  And soon, a movie.  Are you wondering what the fuck I’m talking about or if I’m delusional?  I’m serious.  Here’s a very short version of the story.

Back when I was fresh out of law school and working at a big NYC law firm, I entered into a relationship with a co-worker of mine by the name of Alice (not her real name, I’ve been advised that a real name could land me on Page Six of the NY Post, and I don’t want that).  “Relationship” is probably not as accurate as “affair,” as Alice was engaged to be married, and later was married, during the time we were together.  But together we were.  It was a long, it was drawn-out, it was tumultuous.  It was ultimately very painful, thanks in no small part to the penchant I then had for self-destruction.  In the end, Alice chose neither her husband nor I (she “Kelly Taylor’d it,” in Janeen’s parlance).  She went with a third option, the man to whom she is now happily married, who may or may not have been introduced to her by a woman who was then employed as both parties’ therapist (I’m unfamiliar with the ethics of that profession but suspect this might be a violation of some kind).

More importantly, Alice also made another choice around that time:  to leave her job at the law firm to pursue a career where the big score is based more on luck than even professional poker.  She became an aspiring novelist.   After the standard initial rejections, she managed to land a big book deal and published her first novel.  It was a chick lit book, a book designed to capture the imaginations of women.  It succeeded.  It was extremely well received, a rousing success by any measure.  The book ended up climbing the New York Times bestsellers’ list and jumpstarted a literary career that is now five or six books deep and in full bloom.

This brings me to my point, which is that the book is about me in many ways.  The book’s plot revolves around an adulterous affair and describes—always generally but sometimes in great and meticulous detail—the author’s relationship with me.  The thrills, frustrations and turmoil of engaging in an illicit relationship are explored.  Specific rendezvous that actually took place are covered; an email that I wrote to the author appears verbatim.  Strange details, like the actual real-life Upper East Side doormen employed by my former residence, show up.   Reading a book based on your very own failed (but in the book, successful) relationship is surreal in the truest sense.

It was a measure of fame I didn’t relish.  I was genuinely happy for her, but I also resented that Alice had taken a shared and decidedly negative experience and parlayed it into a new career.  Then mired in a job I disliked, I was also straight-up jealous.  And I definitely didn’t appreciate Alice’s concerted effort to keep the inspiration for the plotline—like everything else about us—a complete secret.  The inevitable question of whether the book is based at all in reality has been posed to Alice hundreds of times, and each time the answer is “absolutely not.”  In the extremely unlikely event that an Alice fan finds this post on my poker blog, let me fill you in on a little secret:  she’s lying.

It got worse.  I had just embarked on my new career in poker when the second book, a sequel to the first, was released.  It was an even bigger hit that catapulted Alice’s career to new heights.  This book was autobiographical in some respects, one of which is the appearance of a character based on me.  Actually, the character is not merely based on me, the character is me, down to details such as my favorite phrases and mannerisms.  I purchased this book, opened it and was astonished to read a full reconstruction of every aspect of my behavior and persona.  I suppose this alone would have been a cool homage.  There was just one problem.  The character [redacted] (i.e., me) is initially depicted as a witty fun guy, but in the end he turns out to be a rather villainous gaping asshole who shrugs and scratches his balls whenever confronted with the female protagonist’s needs.  Alice had authored a scathing indictment of my character.  In a book widely read by suburban housewives, chicks on the subway, and probably at least one of your female friends, the reasons the author found me a less than ideal partner are spelled out in detail.  Unpleasant.

There’s yet more.  As is often the case with the big chick lit books, the movie rights to these two novels were duly purchased some time ago, and the first movie has already finished production.  When the motion picture “[redacted]” hits theaters next year, the world will be watching a movie about the tribulations of two best friends, but also based on my relationship with the author Alice.  And when the sequel shows up, presumably a couple of years from now, the world will be treated to a jackass called [redacted] who is in fact David Zeitlin.  Remember to look for me if your girlfriend or wife drags you to these movies!

So I’m already semi-famous.  An affair I had about ten years ago is depicted in one bestseller, and I am a full-blown character in another.  I’m something like Jerry’s Seinfeld’s weirdo neighbor of yore who became the prototype for Kramer.  Except while Kramer (read:  the character, not the douchebag Michael Richards) is goofy and uproariously lovable, my guy is a jackoff.

You may have guessed by now that this secret incidental fame of mine only increases my desire to create my own legacy in this world.  When not-Anabelle has kids of her own and I gather ‘em round and sit ‘em down on Grandpa’s knee, I sincerely hope I have better stories to tell than the one about the time I almost won some jewelry playing cards and the one about being a character in an old timey book.

I love fall in the Northeast.  There’s something worth savoring every time I step outside; something the other seasons can’t match.  The crispness of the cool air on my skin, the vibrancy of the foliage surrounding me,  the crunch of fallen leaves beneath my feet.  The fact that it’s football season.  I love it.  It seems like there’s just more to see and feel at this time of year.  The time between Labor Day and Thanksgiving is easily my favorite time of the year.  Fall owns.

The blog’s been quiet because poker hasn’t been a part of my life for the better part of a month.  Between the day the Borgata series ended in mid-September and yesterday, I played poker exactly once.  It was at a home game tournament called The Ugly Tuna Challenge  that runs out of Westchester.  While it’s essentially a home game, it is quite professionally run by host Greg C. and his wife.  They serve a delicious array of food and drink and the tournaments draw over 60 players, feature an excellent blind structure and fun rules like bounties and team side bets, and there’s even a computerized tournament clock like the ones in casino venues.  It was my second time playing an Ugly Tuna tourney and with the help of some significant rungood, I won the thing and added to my small but steadily growing collection of poker trophies.

chicken dinner.

The day I won that tournament has been the only day I’ve played or even thought about poker in the last four weeks.  After Borgata, I decided that I’d spend some time doing whatever I fancied rather than setting specific goals or forcing  myself to work.  The result has been a surprisingly complete and thorough poker hiatus.  The telltale signs of a man fully devoted (or obsessed, depending on your point of view) to poker have been absent.  For a month, I never opened a Pokerstars or Full Tilt table.  I never visited the 2+2 forums.  The thoughts that typically dominate my consciousness—like particular hands I’ve played and theoretical poker situations—have been gone.  The words on my Facebook news feed—which, due to my numerous poker contacts and friendships has become a massive dumpster-sized receptacle for the boasts and rants of attention-starved poker players—may as well have been written in Sanskrit.  Never in all the time since I “went pro” have I felt farther removed from my chosen profession.  At no point in time during the past month have I missed poker.

Why has this happened?  The answer is borne from some combination of burnout, my uncertain future in poker and especially the arrival of football season.  I’ve chosen to spend my days advancing and applying the daily research I began in the National Football League’s preseason and chilling with Ruthie.  Nothing about it has felt unproductive.  I’m allowed to spend my time doing those things, and it’s been really nice.

I’m writing this from Foxwoods, where I’ve made my return to tournament poker in what will be my final trip before the birth of my daughter.  So far I’ve played two tournaments, and nothing’s happened.  I’ll keep you guys updated if things become interesting.

I’m either getting soft or continuing to figure things out…

Poker is hypercompetitive and therefore often brings out the worst in people.  Still, some guys take our “sport’s” pervading negativity to unnecessary lengths.  Some of the most successful pro poker players I know are incessant whiners and unusually bitter people.  A recent experience on the circuit really illuminated the incongruity of being grumpy while playing a game for a living.

A few weeks ago, as I took my seat in Foxwoods’ latest Megastack tournament, I looked at the player across from me and found it was none other than Darvin Moon.  Darvin, of course, is the runaway star of the 2009 World Series of Poker, the bumpkin logger who finished second in the 2009 Main Event.  It was my first time meeting Darvin and he came as advertised—humble, unassuming and generally happy to be there.  He also played tournament poker quite well, especially post flop.

Some of the recreational players at my table were very eager to interact with Darvin and completely unabashed in their open adulation.  An older lady sitting two seats to his left was effusive in her praise and repeatedly declared that Darvin was her hero.  She seemed to be doing everything in her power to keep from genuflecting in his direction.  I watched with a mixture of amazement and amusement as the gentleman seated to my right gladly followed her lead, making comments like “what would Darvin do here?” and “well, you’re the pro, Darvin” while winking in Darvin’s direction in the middle of contested pots.

However, the pros at the table were less impressed.  Two younger players in particular were unable to hide their contempt with the celebrity treatment afforded Mr. Moon.  Each compliment Darvin received elicited exaggerated eyerolls from them.  Eventually, one of them could contain his contempt no longer, and muttered “guy gets lucky in one tournament and everyone thinks he’s the best?” as he shook his head disapprovingly.  This type of sentiment is quite common amongst my colleagues.

I must admit that my limits were also tested by the battery of questions sent Darvin’s way.  These included queries such as “who’s the toughest in today’s game, Darvin?” and “what are some live tells you’ve detected?”  With my five years of moderate success grinding on the live tournament circuit, having hundreds more tourneys under my belt, I was far more qualified to answer these questions than Darvin Moon.  It was I, not Darvin, who has spent a great deal of time and effort working towards the goal that Darvin so easily reached on his very first try.  Yet because I have one forgettable television appearance to my credit while Darvin Moon is a poker celebrity, I was treated like a nobody and Darvin was the resident expert.

As I contemplated voicing this sentiment, two things occurred to me.  First, I was reminded how effective ESPN’s character-driven presentation of the World Series of Poker is.  Darvin Moon truly is a folk hero to many, thanks to the clever people who control the presentation of televised poker.  Second, I realized that I should not begrudge this fact.  Television coverage is a big part of the reason why poker is a profitable career, it attracts players to the game.  In a sense, if there were no Darvin Moon there would be no grinders like me.  I actually owe a debt of gratitude to Darvin Moon.  The eyerolls, the caustic message board posts, the dismissive comments, the thinly veiled hatred—all of it is misplaced.  Is the fact that Darvin Moon probably doesn’t know what “cold four bet” means reason to belittle him?  It’s no more than a manifestation of petty jealousy and an unearned sense of entitlement, and it’s incredibly myopic to boot.

I kept my mouth shut.  And I thoroughly enjoyed my time playing poker with Darvin Moon.  Poker is supposed to be fun, I’m leaving the griping to the grumps.

As long as I’m writing sentimental blog posts about my favorite eateries, allow me to add the sad news of the closing of my favorite sports bar.

adios Back Page.

I watched hundreds (thousands?) of hours of sports at The Back Page, a bar that was located on 3rd Avenue and 83rd Street on the Upper East Side.  It all started with the 1995 NCAA Basketball Tournament, back when the place was called Polo Grounds, continued through two name changes (including the Entourage era, which long predated the show on HBO, thank you very much) and ended with my final visit for this year’s edition of March Madness.  In the interim I spent somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty NFL Sundays and twenty NCAA opening weekend days in the place.

Fifteen years ago, when Direct TV’s NFL Sunday Ticket was a brand new commodity, and American sports fans were still adjusting to the concept of out-of-town games appearing somewhere other than the ticker at the bottom of the screen, very few sports bars had perfected the winning formula that seems so basic today:  offering a vantage point from which ALL of the NFL games could be seen simultaneously.  Back Page, located six blocks from my studio apartment, was one such place.  If you were lucky enough to grab a seat at one of the center tables in the dark back room and willing to swivel around and give your neck muscles a workout, you could see everything in the NFL that day as it happened.  Magic.

It was installed as the unofficial home of my fantasy football league, and my best friends and I gathered there on countless Sundays, a tradition that survived all the way through the 2009 season.  Opening each NFL season by walking  into the back room of B.P. around 12:00 on Week 1 Sunday to find most of my leaguemates salivating in anticipation of September’s first kickoff became one of my favorite days on the calendar.  It’s tough to match the feeling of watching one of your fantasy players rip off a long touchdown run in the company of your entire fantasy league.  Back Page routinely gave me that, and for that I am thankful.  On the weeks when the Jets had away games, I routinely put in seven hour days—yeah, both the 1:00’s and the 4:00’s—at the place.  I can watch football forever and never get bored.  Yeah, I’m a huge nerd.  So what?

I always stayed all day, even after everyone else left.  Every time.  It was only when I stepped outside around 7:15, forcing my retinas to adjust to the sudden shift from Back Page’s dungeon-like darkness to normal light, that it would occur to me that I had committed the sin of doing what non-psychos call “wasting a day.”  I could not have cared less.  I walked home, got onto my couch, picked up the TV remote and turned to the Sunday Night game.

I had some epic times at Back Page.  I pored over NCAA brackets and fantasy lineup cards there.  I’ve won and lost a small fortune there.  I got back-doored; I got front-doored.  I watched the Mets win playoff games.  I watched the Mets lose playoff games.  I watched the Yankees win the World Series.  I watched the Yankees lose the World Seriese.  I was there when Harold “The Show” Arcineoux single-handedly wiped out the Tarheels.  I was there when the little Coppin State coach got scooped up from behind and air-kicked for joy.  I was there for Bryce Drew.  I was there when the Jets held a halftime lead in the 1998 AFC Championship game.  I was there when they got blown out of Mile High in the second half.  I was even there for the moments when three or four of my fantasy football Super Bowl titles were secured.  And yes, it was Back Page that hosted my legendary appearance on a locally televised sports trivia show.

For most sports events of remote significance I have reported to Back Page, even after I moved out of the neighborhood to an apartment forty minutes away.  Starting around 2005 or 2006, the owners and waitstaff all came to know me and would usher me to my preferred seat and reliably bring me “the usual” when I ordered a meal.  I suppose it is the New York bar I’ve been to the most times.  Pretty much every person I know here in New York has been inside The Back Page with me.

The Back Page eventually fell behind many of New York’s other sports bars in some important respects—it was likely the last sports bar in the city to have old school tubes (not flat screens) on some of the walls, the service left much to be desired on some days, and the manager would sometimes leave one 1:00 NFL game out of the televised mix, but it was still a great place to me.  It was great because its formula was simple:  all the games and good food.   You could always see seven or eight NFL games from one seat, and the kitchen served atypically good fare for a sports bar.  My Sunday order was always the same.  Nurse my hangover with a house salad (ranch dressing, no tomatoes) at 12:30, move on to an order of the excellent wings around 2:00, and then around 3:30 I’d treat myself to the menu’s crown jewel:  “chicken tidbits,” which was an open faced grilled chicken sandwich with melted mozzarella served on garlic bread, with BBQ sauce on the side.  Ahh.

The Back Page was also great because it was a gambler’s paradise.  The older dudes at the bar would openly discuss the action they had pending while the kids in the back rooted for their fantasy teams.  I suppose I was affiliated with both groups.  For really big games involving New York teams, and for big events, particularly the NCAA Basketball Tournament, B.P. would get rammed, it had the buzz.  Solid place.

There is something to be said for traditions, old habits and landmark locations that withstand the test of time and a life’s changing circumstances.  Yes, I will find new places to watch the games (even with a baby on the way, I’m still a long way from giving this practice up, sorry Janeen!), but none of them will be The Back Page.  When I found out the place was gone for good, I felt a small piece of me go with it.

One last tidbit for the road!   Mmmm.

I love cheap food done right.  Call me crazy, but given a choice between a five course meal at a Michelin five star restaurant and a perfectly prepared chicken parm hero from the deli around the way, and I’m going chicken parm all day.

It’s not that I have an underdeveloped palette.  I’ve lived in New York City for well over a decade, and it wasn’t long ago that I was regularly availing myself of meals at its finest restaurants courtesy of a corporate expense account.  You think being handed too much change at the drugstore is getting over?  Try eating a shitload of free meals at critically acclaimed NYC restaurants.

I’ve traveled everywhere, too.  When it comes to experiencing the finest restaurants the world has to offer, I’ve been there, done that.  I enjoy complex dishes served by impeccably mannered waitstaff, but in the end, that kind of experience just isn’t a big deal to me.  What I really want is two pieces of bread with some combination of meat and cheese stuffed between them.  A tasty sandwich or a badass cheeseburger cooked by someone who really knows what they’re doing.

I grew up thinking that the four food groups were 1) Brookville Diner; 2) pizza; 3) Wendy’s; and 4) chinese takeout.  To this day, when I’m looking for food that makes me happy, I automatically go back to that comfort zone.  When I suffer an unjust beat that takes me out of a poker tournament, I hightail it over to the nearest sub or burger joint.  That’s my salve.  I’m not saying that I love lowest-common-denominator fast food (although there is a time and place for it) but that my preference is for down-home eats.  I have thus made it my mission in life to find the most authentic, affordable, delicious local meals wherever I go.  My time away on the poker tournament circuit has taken me to both the normal casino towns and some pretty unlikely places.  I always make a point of traveling off campus to find something good to eat.

Again, my age and New York perspective colors my personal preferences on the road.  If I were 23 years old or from Sheboygan, my favorite lifetime meals might be found in casinos.  But the fact is that I’m thoroughly unimpressed with whatever Bobby Flay is doing at Borgata and the steakhouse at the Palms.  That’s not who I am or where I’m from.  To be perfectly honest, I could give two shits about most of the high end places in Vegas and AC (not even going to mention what typically passes for high end elsewhere). I can treat myself to better meals two blocks from my apartment.  What I want when I’m traveling is something cheap, hand crafted and delicious that I can’t have at home.

And so I present to you the local gems I have discovered in the past few years.  My guide to poker circuit grub.

Bear in mind that I am not conversant in foodie-talk, so in the paragraphs below you will not find any esoteric food critic words, no gallant descriptions of different flavors or textures, and not a single reference to “port wine reduction.”  If you are looking for that, take your ass over to chowhound or yelp or wherever.

Atlantic City

AC isn’t a great food town.  Borgata and Caesar’s bring some very predictable high end places, and there are a couple of decent basic red sauce italians around.  Here are my circuit grub picks:

White House Sub Shop, 2301 Arctic Ave.  Yes, there are other AC sub shops that serve similar fare, but this place is the original.  The real deal.  That they’ve refused to expand the operation beyond the single store on the corner of Arctic and Mississippi adds to the charm.  No one ever has a bad thing to say about the White House, and you should believe the hype.  Their advertising budget is exactly $0.00, but word of mouth is powerful when the product is perfect.  The ingredients at the White House are always fresh (and limited—try asking for a condiment other than mayo, ketchup or oil and see what happens).   The secret weapon is the freshly baked bread from the Formica Bakery across the street, delivered to the White House every couple of hours.

Walk in, sit at the counter and ask one of the nice old ladies for an italian sub or a cheesesteak served on a half-loaf (full loaves are also available for the morbidly obese and the incredibly hungry), then watch a guy make it for you.  It’s obvious that not much has changed here in the sixty-plus years they’ve been in operation, and that’s a good thing.  You want something other than a great sub?  The machine in the back sells $1.00 sodas, and behind the counter they have a few bags of chips and TastyCakes.  Best sub shop ever.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries , 720 White Horse Pike, Absecon.  Actually located several miles outside Atlantic City, this blatant, not-quite-as-good In ‘N Out knockoff is a brand name that is currently expanding rapidly and in danger of oversaturating its market.  Still, this is the best fast food burger I’ve found in or around AC.

Las Vegas

Almost every restaurant in Las Vegas is decent to good, but not excellent.  For this reason, the occasional tourist does little exploration out there.  Solid options exist at all the large casino hotels. Anyone with even the faintest familiarity with the Vegas real estate market should innately understand the dilemma faced by a Vegas restaurateur:  either pay exorbitant rent for an on-strip (or near-strip) location and the captive consumers it comes with or pay very modest overhead a few miles away and try to create a product that separates your business from the crowd.  If you’re off the strip and can manage to generate a buzz that resonates with even out-of-towners, chances are you’re serving good food.  Vegas picks:

In N’ Out Burger (various locations):  The current gold standard in American fast food.  Because the company is resolute in its refusal to franchise and limits itself to stores in California, Nevada and Arizona, east coast burgerboys like me make pilgrimages to the nearest outpost whenver we find ourselves in one of those states.  The Double-Double Animal Style remains my favorite fast food burger.

Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop (various locations):  Capriotti’s is a Delaware sub chain that for unkown reasons has expanded somewhat randomly with a few locations in the Midwest, Florida, California, and yes, Las Vegas.  If you’re like me and love turkey sandwiches, this place is a great go-to.  WHen you order a turkey sub here you will not receive a small stack of slimy off-white processed ovals with toppings, condiments and bread.  Instead you will receive actual, real-deal delicious turkey meat pulled off of a just-roasted whole turkey, with toppings, condiments and bread.  Yes, the kind of turkey from Thanksgiving.  Not Boar’s Head.  Righteous.

The Egg & I, 4533 West Sahara Ave.; Egg Works, 9355 West Flamingo Rd.:  I love these places.  If you are in Vegas and find yourself craving an artery-busting, cholesterol-crammed pile of breakfast food, go to Egg & I or Egg Works.  These places have names that are 100% on point—they make every conceivable combination of (incredible, edible) eggs, served with everything under the sun that goes with (incredible, edible) eggs.  They get big bonus points for their banana nut muffins and the cutesy imitation newspaper menu filled with pictures of cartoon eggs begging you to devour them.  They open at 6 a.m. and stop seating at 3 p.m.  They serve lunch too, but I know nothing about that.

Connecticut

My Connecticut explorations have uncovered very little in the way of quality local stuff.  Conspicuously absent from my short list below is a restaurant in or near Foxwoods, and that is no accident.  I’m sad to report that the best cheap meal that Foxwoods offers can be found at California Pizza Kitchen.  Seriously.

Herb’s Country Deli, 1105 Norwich New London Turnpike, Uncasville:  Located maybe three or four miles from Mohegan Sun, this little diner/candy store slings New England style breakfast and lunch from a cute ramshackle building abutted by a gravel parking lot.  Some thought goes into the preparation of the simple menu items offered here—try the western omelet; it comes not with plain old ham but with a yummy mixture of ham, salami and turkey ground together.  The people who work at this place are almost impossibly nice.  You will end up having a conversation about whatever it is you’re up to that day, guaranteed.  This is a challenge for a poker player, but go early.  They close at 2 or 3 p.m.

Frank Pepe’s Pizza, @ Mohegan Sun:  This place earns the honor of being the only restaurant located within the confines of a casino that makes my list.  This is actually an outpost of a famous New Haven pizza joint and it serves thin-crust pizza done exactly right.  The cheese, sauce and toppings are all really good, and the pie is cooked properly—not undercooked and goopy, not overcooked and overly crisp.  New Yorkers might blanch at the way the large square pies here are haphazardly sliced, but there is no dispute about how good it tastes.  This is truly outstanding pizza.  Every time I come here I eat way more pizza than I thought I was capable of stuffing down.

Biloxi

I’ve been to Biloxi once, for a week.  The odds of a return trip are 50/50 at best, it’ll take a pretty nice tournament to lure me back.  Before Biloxi, I thought that culture shock in my own country was impossible, but I was wrong.  Yikes.  A few days before my trip wrapped, I remembered a Travel or Food Network feature on a BBQ joint down there, and the saving grace become my excursion to…

The Shed, 7501 Highway 57, Ocean Springs MS:  First of all let me say that I luuurrrrrve Bar-B-Que.  BBQ, perhaps more than the hot dog or hamburger, is the quintessentially American cuisine.  It represents everything I want in a meal:  it is cheap, it varies widely provincially, and it is often created with great pride and effort.  It is a cuisine that people have strong opinions on.  BBQ is a food that lends itself to much debate, and there is an astounding number of small scale producers across the country.  BBQ quests are a fine way to spend a day.  Again, I don’t count myself amongst its true connoisseurs, but I know when I taste some BBQ that I like (and also when it’s not very good).

Anyway, The Shed.  I’ve probably said it best in a prior blog entry, so I’ll just quote myself:

The place is pretty out of the way, off of Route 10 (the highway that connects Gulfport and Mobile), and it’s located next to a trailer park.  The place is literally ashedof some sort, with a yard full of junk next to it.  The decor inside is an overwhelming tapestry of more junk; it’s everywhere, on the walls, the floor, the ceiling.  You walk in and a hostess approaches you and chats your face off about what you oughta eat.  Then you stand in line and order it, and then you go sit somewhere amidst the junk and wait.  Chilling along with the other customers there is a small collection of happy homeless-looking men who are apparently either employed by The Shed or just allowed to hang out there.  After awhile, a different chick pops out of the kitchen with a Styrofoam box screaming your name, and when you reply you are presented with the box.

Upon receiving the box, you open it, and inside is the best BBQ ever.  Amongst the best ribs i ever had, with meat that falls off the bone.  Your meal includes a couple of sides, and they sold me on the macaroni salad, which i don’t normally like, but this was the best macaroni salad ever.  They also jam a piece of white bread in the styrofoam box, along with a plastic fork.  And to drink they have a gazillion beers and sweet tea.  It comes out to around $12.00.  Unbelievable place.

Upstate/Turning Stone

Upstate New York has a lot of things to offer.  The stretch of interstate that connects Albany to points west that include towns-that-time-forgot Utica, Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo is not one of them.  Yet along this highway is where one finds the Turning Stone Casino.  Nothing worth a damn thing is located within one hundred stone’s throws of the place.  Playing poker there is not much better, unless you enjoy the company of a mixture of old men who are bad at poker and a crew of 18-year old kids who are bad at life (in varying degrees), snickering at old men nonstop.  However, located less than a half an hour’s drive from Turning Stone—and probably the most compelling reason to bother going there—lies the world’s greatest restaurant.  My favorite BBQ joint (possibly favorite joint, period), in the most unlikely of locations.

The Dinosaur BBQ, 236 West Willow Street, Syracuse NY:   I don’t even know where to begin with this place. Just preparing to write something about The Dinosaur makes me very happy.

First I should admit that I have a strong bias because of some sentimental memories associated with the Dinosaur.  I went to school in Ithaca New York, about an hour away.  During my senior year, word filtered out that there was a dope BBQ joint in Syracuse.  Road trip!  My friends and I drove up there to check it out, and at 21 years of age the night turned into my first experience in an adult barroom.  Until that time, “going out” was associated strictly with college bars, fraternity parties, and “afterhours,” i.e., sloppy porch keggers.  The Dinosaur was my first time at a bar that didn’t reek of stale beer and vomit, a place where a chug-off seemed (only) mildly inappropriate, a place with attitude, where old people were in our midst.  Back then (umm, 1994) the Dinosaur was just a biker bar with live blues and great BBQ.  My friends and I sat at in a booth, devoured some ribs, drank some pints of cheap beer, and watched in awe as a crusty old blues band ripped through two sets.  Great food, great beer, great music.  Great fuckin’ life.  It was electrifying, amazing.

I’d love to meet the bikers who opened the Dinosaur in 1988.  They are obviously equal parts cool and astute.  Today, the Dinosaur is always (literally, always) packed, and there are similar locations in Rochester and Harlem.  The owners have grown the Dinosaur into a national brand that sells its rubs and sauces in supermarkets.  But somehow the place is the opposite of a sellout.  Everything remains exactly the same—but bigger—inside.  The amazing ribs they serve here are the place’s calling card, but everything on the menu is delicious, and I’ve been through it all. Best wings.  Best sides.  Best chicken.  Best chili.  Best brisket.  Best salads even.  Best beer list, with tons of great stuff on tap.  I think this place was designed for me.  Then again, everyone feels the same way.  I dare you to go to this place and not have a good time.  Yeah, there may be a long wait for a table, so get your ass over to the bar.  You can’t F wit’ the Dinosuar.  I lurrrve you Dinosaur!