Anne walked into the house yesterday afternoon, and said, “Will you set up the computer for me, so I can write the marathon story?”
“Yes. Yes I can,” I said. “The natives have been growing restless.”
“I know,” she said. “I finally have some time to do it.”
I pulled myself up off the floor, where I’ve spent much of the last two days with a very painful lower back, and did as she asked.
We’re going to link in some pictures and stuff, but I absolutely can’t sit here longer than a minute or so before I feel like I’m going to cry from the pain, so the full story won’t come out until Monday.
Until then, here’s a little bit of her entry:

In all our training, we were able walk 13 miles and feel great. So I figured when we did the marathon, it might be a bit tiring, but such a thrill to be there that it wouldn’t matter. Boy, was I wrong. By the time we reached that oh-so-exciting 13.1 mile marker (that would be the half way point for those of you keeping score at home) I was completely exhausted. “Half way!” I said as we approached the sign. Of course, the people around us probably thought I was excited but the truth was, I was pissed that I felt so terrible and it was only have way done. Or halfway left. However you want to look at it.
Wil and I both went through waves of feeling great and feeling like we couldn’t go on over the next ten miles. Of course, when Wil was feeling great, I had to listen to him make up songs about keeping our head up and our shoulders back. Mmm. That was nice. But when I was feeling really wiped out and in pain, I just kept saying, “This is nothing compared to seven days of radiation or a month of chemo.” Then I felt like such a chump for even complaining at all.

Have a great weekend, everyone, and check back on Monday for the full post.

We’re done with our sketch writing process at ACME. For the last four weeks, we’ve met each Tuesday, and presented an original sketch. Most company members work on material together, so they effectively get more than one turn, (for example, if I write with Kevin, Chris, and Jodi, I’d have three chances that night to make the list of funny sketches that will go in front of an audience) but I live so goddamned far away from everyone else, I ended up writing solo all four turns this time, which seriously limited my chances of making the show. I lucked out, though, and hit the comedy artery with my funny probe: I went 3-4, and I’m pretty sure my rewrite will make it, too. Depending on how our previews go, and what happens with everyone’s schedules, I could be in ACME shows starting on Saturday, September 18.
We’ve also started a new ACME improv company, called Zebra Company. Some of the greatest improvisers in Los Angeles are in this group, and auditions were very tough. I was lucky enough to make that cast, too (!) and our improv shows start September 24th.
While I drank my coffee this morning, I looked at the ACME schedule for the rest of the year, and if I’m in both Zebra and ACME Main company, I’ll pretty much be living down at the theatre. I’m conflicted about that, because I’ve really grown accustomed to working from home, and hanging out with my family whenever I want . . . but on the other hand, some of the happiest times and best performances of my acting life have been in that theatre . . . and performing twice a week will certainly give me something interesting to write about on a more regular basis. Once rehearsals are done, though, I’ll only be there on the weekends, and I’ll have an opportunity, twice a week, to perform as an actor again, which I haven’t gotten to do in far too long.
I’ll be on The David Lawrence Show again tonight, to talk about Just A Geek. When I was there for Dancing Barefoot, David and I used the entire three hours, so we just planned on that for tonight. It’s 7-10 Pacific time, and all the listening details are on the Online Tonight website.

Part one of this story can be found by following this handy link.
Also, in response to numerous requests . . .
Readers who are unfamiliar with hold-em rules can find them at ultimate bet dot com. Readers who are unfamiliar with poker terminology may want to read This glossary from CNN first. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.

The city of Commerce is just fifteen minutes down the freeway from Hollywood, but the Commerce Casino is a thousand miles away from Odessa. There’s no alley to walk down, no bouncer to deal with, and you’re more likely to talk to a valet than a crackhead on your way into the club.
From The Standard, we drove across the 10 and picked up the 5 in the East LA interchange. Even though it was after ten, it was backed up like rush hour. I pointed at a sign that advised 45 MPH on the turn.
“Since I was sixteen, every time I pass that sign, I laugh. I don’t think 45 has ever been a reduction in my speed through here.” I said.
Burns nodded. “That’s why you should ride a bike.”
He’s got two bikes: a racing bike, and a touring bike. Both monster Yamahas. “I’m not cool enough to ride a bike.”
“And I am?”
“Well . . . yeah.” I said. “How many times have you talked to Johnny Cash?”
“One.”
“That’s one more than me. How many times has Dusty Baker called you from the dugout at Wrigley?”
“One.”
“Again, that’s one more than me.” I said, “How many ti–”
“How many super-hot porn stars have hit on you?” He said.
“What?”
“Answer the question!” He said, in his best Tom Leykis voice.
“Uhm. One?”
“Yeah. That’s one more than me, and we’re calling it even.”
“I don’t think that–”
“Even!” He said. As if on cue, a racing bike flew past us along the shoulder, and punctuated the moment. I involuntarily jumped in my seat while Burns laughed.
“You’re still cooler than I am.”
He started to talk, and I honked my horn. “COOLER THAN ME!” I shouted. The guy in front of us looked at me in his mirror. I waved, he frowned. I made the “Live long and prosper” sign, and he quickly lost interest in keeping eye contact with me.
Burns paused a second and said, “Geek.”
“Thank you.”
We laughed, and continued to creep through the interchange.
I switched the radio from Fred to Ethel, to The System.
“I’m a little intimidated to play in an actual cardoom,” I said.
“Yeah, me too.” He said, “I’ve played in plenty of home games, but I’ve never played in a casino.”
“Have you read Lee Jones’s book?”
“Not yet. I’m still in Caro’s book.”
“Just play super-tight and be aggressive when you’ve got a hand,” I said. “Look for a reason to quit a hand if you’re raised.”
Good advice. Very good advice. Yep. Good, solid, useful, winning advice. Advice that I hadn’t heeded for weeks. Advice that I needed to hear even more than Burns did, because I’d been playing like complete and utter shit: too loose, too aggressive, and way too many hands. I had consistently lost, regardless of the game: pot-limit, low-limit, no-limit . . . Hold’Em, Stud, Draw . . . ring, tournament, home game, online game . . . I just couldn’t get it done.
When I was in my early twenties, I was a pretty good golfer. I usually shot in the low 90s, and I played every chance I got . . . then one day, I just lost my swing. My scores exploded into the 130s, and they still haven’t come back down. I hardly ever pick up my clubs; it’s too depressing. I was worried that my poker game was headed in the same direction.
Ten days ago, I was in a single table tournament that some friends put together, 10-20 No Limit Hold’Em. It wasn’t that big a deal — a fifty dollar buy got me 1500 in tournament chips, and the top three places paid out. Until recently, I’ve done really well in the tournaments I’ve played this year, always finishing in third place or higher and I usually kill these guys, so I was sure I could beat this game.
We were down to 5 players at level III. I had about T4100, and was second to the leader, who had something like T7000. So far, I’ve played a surprisingly solid game . . .

I don’t remember the specific pre-flop action, but it was called all around. The flop is Ah-3h-10c. I hold 10-9h.
I’ve got a four flush, and second pair . . . why did that goddamn ace have to come out?”
While I look at my cards, I realize that my left hand has picked up a stack of 100 dollar chips, and pushed them into the pot.
“Bet 1000.” The first mistake.

“Why did I do that? Was that the right way to play it? I don’t know. Probably not, but maybe I can represent the ace, and I had still have the flush draw. In any case, I’m not happy with that play. I hope nobody else at the table picks up on that.”
It’s folded to the button, who calls. The turn is the 4s.
I think about all the hands I had recently where I got killed: I can’t remember the last time rockets held up for me, and I’d had AK, KK, QQ —pretty much every premium hand I held — cracked so many times in limit games, I was starting to hope for The Hammer. When a draw starts to look good, you know you’re in trouble . . .
From a far away place, someone picks up my hands, and shoves all my chips forward. At the same time, he opens my mouth, and says, “All-in.” The second mistake.
The button thinks for a second, and calls.
I turn over my 10-9h. He turns over AJ and laughs. At me. My stomach turns.
“You’re going to tell yourself that you got outplayed, but you know the truth. You completely misplayed it. You blew it, jackass. He read you like a book. He knew he had you beat on the flop. You knew he had you beat on the turn. That guy who’s passed out at the bar knew you were beat. I’m pretty sure there’s some kid in Somalia who just looked up at his mother and said, ‘What the hell was Wil thinking?'”
The river doesn’t help me, and he wins it with two aces. I drop from second to last with something like 280, and tilt like a pinball machine in an earthquake.
The dealer pushes my stacks over to the winner, and spreads the muck around the table. I stare at the swirling action of his hands, occasionally catching glimpses of bright green felt beneath the blue-backed cards.
Tony Holden quotes Amarillo Slim Preston in Big Deal: “If you can’t quit the best hand, you can’t play.” I have it written down, and I read it to myself before every game. I read it so much, I guess it lost its meaning, because I have been falling madly, passionately, wildly in love with two pair, a suited ace, or any king with a medium kicker. Worse than that, I was so in love with these awful hands, I couldn’t get out of a pot when someone else clearly had me beat. In a ‘kill-some-time-game earlier that night, I knew that the guy behind me had hit his flush, but I couldn’t bring myself to muck my set of 8s. (I loved them! We’d been together since the flop!) I counted out a call, and before I capped it, I even said, “I hope you don’t have that flush, because if you do, you’ve got me beat.”
Yeah. I was such a fish, I had to wrap myself in newspaper to go to sleep.
“. . . to you.”
“What?”
“It’s to you.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
I peek at my hole cards, and almost immediately I’m running hand-in-hand through flower-filled fields with J8. A string quartet plays while we make eyes at each other. A cool breeze blows through my hair, as butterflies surround us. I absently shuffle some chips, and go all-in before the flop. It’s folded to the leader, who calls.
I flip up my precious J8. He flips up J7.
“I figured you for a tilt,” he says.
No shit.
“Well . . . I guess it was a semi-tilt,” I say. “I didn’t know how far I was going to get with 280.”
The flop is J-x-x. The turn is also a rag, and there’s an 8 for two pair on the river. I double through, and still feel like a loser. A few hands later, I finish fifth, with exactly the same to show for my efforts as the guy who went out 9th. To tell the truth, I had no business even getting this far.
Too loose, too aggressive, way too many hands . . . but it wasn’t until that game that I uncovered one fatal flaw in my game: I just couldn’t quit a hand, even when I knew I was beat. I’d been so worried about making the wrong play, I hadn’t been able to relax and make the right one.
I hear that poker players have ups and downs in their games, but I’d been down so long, it took busting out in a game that I normally dominate to see just how down I was. When I played, I wasn’t having fun, and I should have realized that something was seriously wrong.

“You sure got quiet,” Burns said as we passed the 710. The traffic did that weird thinning-out-for-no-apparent-reason thing that it always does in Los Angeles, and we were back up to 80. The Chemical Brothers thumped out of my radio.
“I was just thinking.”
“Not about the porn star, I hope. Because that’s a little creepy.”
I laughed. “No. I’ll save her for later.”
“What?!” He said.
“Just kidding,” I said. “I was thinking about my game.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
We neared our exit, and I merged right, onto the offramp. The one-story casino, dwarfed by an adjacent fifteen-story hotel, loomed large in front of us.

Back when I was promoting Dancing Barefoot, (which has gotten a really nice bounce in sales this last week — I’m sure because of WWdN readers — so thank you!) I talked about it a LOT on my site. Partly, that was because Barefoot-related things dominated my life at the time . . . but it was also because I’ve been told (and experienced firsthand) that books only sell as well as their authors promote them. This is the best way I have to promote my books on my own, so I’m going to do that in the coming months. I just want to be honest about that right now. If this sort of thing bugs you, stop reading now, and go check out the best combination since Gretzky and Kurri: They Might Be Giants and Homestar Runner. Seriously, you guys.
Still here? Okay. Here are a few mid-morning Geek things:

• There’s another excerpt from Just A Geek at California Authors dot com. I am a huge fan of California Authors, and it’s very exciting to be mentioned by them.
• I’ve been thinking a lot about how to describe Just A Geek, because I’ve already heard a lot of people (especially booksellers) mistakenly assuming it’s a typical celebrity bio (it’s really not. I worked very hard to avoid that trap, and I hope it’s more David Sedaris than David Caruso) or a Star Trek book. I’m working hard to correct this misunderstanding (and hopefully reverse the “pushback” it’s created), thusly: Just A Geek is as much a story about Star Trek as Stand By Me is a story about walking down train tracks to find a dead body — sure, it’s part of the story, but it’s not what the story is about. It’s really a story about my journey from trying to be someone (or something) to please everyone else, to discovering that I’m happiest when I’m just myself — Just A Geek.
• I hear that the major chains are shelving Geek in Television, or in Sci-Fi. I’m not too crazy about that, because I think it belongs in Biography. So if you’re looking for it in Biography, and you can’t find it, go look in Television. I’m trying to get them to move it, but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. And if you really want to help me out, you could ask for it, even if you already own it, or don’t plan on buying it. That sort of customer inquiry filters back to Bookstore Mountain, and the Bookstore Overlords may decide to give it some better shelving in stores. If that happens, I’ll . . . uh . . . well, I can’t afford to buy everyone a cookie, so I’ll just have to offer even more of my eternal gratitude 🙂
• I have three confirmed readings and signings for August: August 6 at Powell’s Technical Annex in Portland, August 15 at Borders in Hollywood (on Sunset and Vine! Cool!) and August 21 at Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego. I’m also working on a SUPER COOL event at the ACME. If that goes off well, I could end up with something very cool.
• I’ll be on The David Lawrence Show this Thursday from 7-10 PDT to talk about Just A Geek, and I’m sure I’ll get to read some selections from it. I’ll post all the specific information about it on Thursday.

That should do it for today. Thanks for listening! Go reward yourself with Corporate MoFo’s hilarious explaination of The DaVinci Code. (I’ll admit it: I read the DaVinci Code, and I enjoyed it. It’s the first “popcorn” book I’ve read since Hunt for Red October) CMF wins a cauldron of bonus points, too, for working Frank Zappa and Frank Capra into the same column. Good work, Ken!

The phonecam art show I was in was called SENT, and it was at the Standard hotel in Downtown Los Angeles. The building used to be the headquarters for an oil company, or an accounting firm, or something like that, and the new owners have held on to just enough of the steel and marble architecture of its former identity to give it a space-age, ultramodern feel. Think Tomorrowland in about 1978.
My wife and kids were out of town, so my friend Burns came with me to the show. We hung out and talked with lots of people, but after a couple of hours, I got antsy.
“Do you have to get up early tomorrow?” I said.
“No. I’m going to the Dodger game at 1,” he said.
“Want to get out of here and go play cards?”
“Are you finally taking me to Odessa?”
“No. It’s Saturday, so it’s a dance club tonight,” I said. “I hear it gets pretty crazy.”
“Plato’s retreat crazy?” He said.
“You stole that from my blog!” I said.
We both laughed.
“Let’s go to Commerce,” I said.
“Okay.”
While I said goodbye to Sean Bonner, one of the curators of the show who is also a very good friend, this über hot girl who I was convinced had been giving me “the look” all night walked up to us.
“Can I ask you something?” She said. I held my breath.
If she says, “Didn’t you used to be an actor,” I’m jumping out the window.
“Sure,” I said.
She looked at me with deep, blue, swimming pool eyes and said, “How did you get into this show?”
I exhaled, and pointed to Sean. “I know the curator.”
Sean laughed. “He’s also a pretty good photographer.”
“Well, I liked your pictures. Especially the one of your speedometer.”
My brain furiously looked for double entendres, so I could have a beer drinkin’ story to share with the guys.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” she said coyly, as she turned, and walked away.
“Goddamn,” Burns said. “How come girls don’t talk to me like that?”
“Because you’re not married.” I said.
I faced Sean. “Thanks for letting me be part of the show. We’re taking off to play poker.”
“Are you going to Odessa?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s a dance club on Saturday nights.”
“I hear it gets pretty crazy on Saturdays,” he said.
“Plato’s Retreat crazy?” I said.
“Are you quoting your own blog?” Burns said.
“Yes. Yes I am.”
“Geek.”
We said goodbye, and walked to the elevator.
“That was pretty good,” I said. “From the moment we decided to leave to the actual leaving, only ten minutes elapsed.”
“That’s got to be some kind of record,” Burns said, as we quickly descended forty feet to the first floor.
“This place would be very cool,” he said as we crossed the hipster-filled lobby, “if it wasn’t for all the hipsters.”
He was right. We navigated our way around several Von Dutch shirts, and into a cloud of clove smoke just outside the door.
“I guess ten is prime time for the place on a weekend,” I said.
“Looks like it,” Burns said.
We hooked around the corner of the building, onto Flower street, and down a steep driveway and into the parking garage. A neon sign flashed “PARK” then “HERE” on a red wall.
“I keep expecting to walk into Quincy, or Rockford, or one of those guys here.”
“I don’t think this is James Garner’s type of place,” he said.
“No, but this garage is right out of 1980. I bet you the A*Team would have parked their van in here.” I said.
“Geek.”
We got into my car, and headed to the freeway. The click clack of stacking chips was already in my ears as we drove away.