Eating antacids like they’re Skittles. Taste the rainbow of anxiety.
Spent about an hour with Lee Jones yesterday afternoon, got some excellent coaching on NLHE strategy. I like Lee. He’s a good guy and knows poker. Nerves settled a little bit, traded antacids for a Zantac.
Had dinner with Greg Raymer last night, (he ate real food, I ate pickled ginger, steamed tofu and rice) before heading to Aladdin to play the hundred dollar 1-2 NLHE game with Lee. Fossilman is the nicest guy in the world, but I hope I don’t ever have to play against him. I hear that he was the chip leader for much of yesterday afternoon.
Wind nearly blew me off my feet getting to Aladdin, finally walked into the Poker Room around 10:30. Sat down and played with people from the WPT crew and production staff. Only opened a few pots: early on with pocket tens. The flop came 10-6-7, guy ahead of me makes it 75, I call all-in, he shows 8-9h for the straight. Misread him. Thought he was over-betting to push me out. Luckily, he liked to tell everyone why he did what he did, so I figured him out pretty quickly and he only got five bucks from me the rest of the night. Still tilted from the huge loss early on, though, and never fully recovered.
Bought back in, played the tightest I’ve ever played in my life. Eventually made it 10 to go UTG when I found pocket kings, no callers except the button. Flop is A-A-x. I check, he checks. Turn is another baby card, I check, he checks. River is also a blank, he bets 10. I rase it to 25, he folds. I want so badly to show my cowboys but I don’t. That’s proably the most I was going to get on that hand, because I would have folded to a set of aces if he’d played back on fourth street. Only made about 30 bucks on the hand.
Folded for two hours, made a little stab with A-10 of Diamonds in the BB, threw it away when the flop paired, completely missed me, and UTG made it 20 to go. Good fold: he had a set. Nerves finally relaxed. Though I didn’t make lots of money, my bets were appropriate, and my instincts proved to be right on every hand until the last I played.
Eventually got all my money in with KJ. I hate KJ. For whatever reason, it just never holds up for me. I almost threw it away when my pre-flop 10 was called, but it was late, I was tired, and Bad Wil (with apologies to McManus) said, “Come on, man, double up or go home broke. Who loves you, baby?” Moved in for about 80, called by AJ, jack on the flop, no king. Went home broke.
Finally got into bed around 2, stared at the ceiling for what felt like an hour, but was probably about ten minutes. Woke up on my own around 9:30.
Waiting for room service to bring breakfast. Need coffee and a waffle. Sitting down in seat 4 at table 37 in two hours.
Holy Shit. Taste the rainbow.

After breakfast, I came back upstairs to work on Games of our Lives.
I got into the elevator, and held the door open for about a half-dozen people. When they were all in, I was closest to the buttons.
“Where y’all going?” I said. Normally, I don’t say “y’all,” (and in this case, the proper conjugation would have been “all y’alls,”) but I’ve got The Nerves, and sometimes that makes me say weird things.
They all said the same number, which happens to be the same floor as me.
“Oh, I hear all the cool kids are staying on that floor,” I said. (Longtime WWdN readers will understand why I didn’t say, “It’s the floor that’s sweeping the nation.”)
“Yeah, I hear it’s the floor where all the winners are staying,” this businessman with an NAB badge around his neck said.
“You mean it’s where the losers are staying!” This forty-something woman said. In one hand she held one of those plastic footballs, presumably filled with something scandalous like Sex on the Beach.
“Hey! Speak for yourself, lady!” I said with a laugh. I’m normally not this chatty in elevators.
She looked at me, and her eyes focused (eventually) on my WPT badge.
“Oh!” She said, “You’re in the poker tournament?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m still alive,” I said. Somehow, it sounded cooler than, “I start tomorrow, and I’m scared out of my fucking shit right now,” while still technically true.
She extended her left hand toward me. Liver spots, huge gold bracelet, 790 carat diamond ring on her middle finger. No wedding ring. Loud, pinkish-orange polish on otherwise tasteful acrylic nails.
“Give me some of your luck, kid!” She said. I tried, but failed to identify an accent.
Okay, how much do I love that this woman just called me “kid?”
“No way,” I said. “I don’t want to get any of your ‘loser luck’ on me.”
The whole elevator laughed, including The Football Lady.
“I tell you what,” I said, as we arrived at our floor, and the doors opened, “If I’m still in the tournament on Sunday, you can touch me then.”
“It’s a deal!” She said.
I walked out of the elevators and turned to the right. They went to the left. As the distance between us grew, I heard her friend say, “He’s right, Melissa. Keep your loser luck to yourself.”
Their laughter echoed down the hall as I put the key into my door.

Late last week, my manager called me.
“Do you want to play poker next week?” He said.
“Chris, I always want to play poker. Where’s the game?”
“It’s in Vegas —” he began.
“I can’t afford to go to Vegas right now,” I said.
He patiently told me to wait, and listen to all the details.
“Sorry, Chris. My brain is going in a million directions right now. We open the ACME show on Saturday, and . . . well, just a whole bunch of other stuff.”
“Okay, here’s the situation: World Poker Tour has invited you to play in the WPT Championship next week.”
“Well, that’s really cool, but I don’t have twenty-five thousand dollars to spend on a poker tournament.” I said.
He laughed. “You’re freerolling!”
He explained that Mekhai Pfeiffer, who finished first in my Hollywood Homegame, and Andrea Parker, who finished second, couldn’t make it out to the tournament.
“So I’m the Secretary of the Navy!” I said.
“What?”
“You know, I’m next in the line of succession.”
“Isn’t that the Speaker of the House?”
“I don’t know, and now the joke isn’t funny.”
Of course, it wasn’t funny to begin with, but Chris was too polite to say what we were both thinking.
“So do you want to play?”
“Let me think about it for a second. YES! How many days is the tournament?”
“It starts Monday, and goes through until Sunday.”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“I can’t go. I’m performing Dancing Barefoot on Wednesday, and I’m doing the sketch show on Saturday.”
“What do you want to do?”
The question, translated into the secret sideband which accompanies many of our conversations was actually, “Do you want to blow off your shows at ACME so you can play poker in Vegas?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not going to blow off ACME so I can play poker in Vegas.”
“Oh, good, that’s sort of what I was wondering.” He said.
“But if I’m even still alive by Wednesday, they could just blind me away while I’m in Hollywood . . .” I said, “Yeah! I’ll come home for the shows, and they’ll just blind me away!”
“Doesn’t that mean you’ll bust out?”
“Maybe. That doesn’t matter. I could write a great story about this, like one that could get into a magazine or something!”
I’ve been secretly working on a poker book for a few months. It’s an anthology of stories that I’ve published on my blog, and it needs one more longish story before it’s something I can publish.
The Writer said, “Chris, no matter what happens, I am going to get a great story out of this. Can you imagine? If I was in the pack at the top, and I had to leave to come back to Los Angeles to do a show? That would be really dramatic! Or if I’m short-stacked, and I know that I have to go home anyway, so I get really agressive, and pick up a bunch of pots . . . so I get into the top pack and have to leave anyway?! This is going to be so cool!”
Though I was sitting on the couch when the phone rang, I was now excitedly pacing around my house. I walked through my kitchen and into my back yard, scattering about two dozen birds off the feeders as I passed them on the patio.
I stood on the grass in my bare feet, and had a thought. What if it’s going to suck for WPT that they’re giving me a freeroll into this tournament, but I have to leave in the middle of it? Would that be lame?
“Okay, I think you should call them, and tell them that I want to play, but explain that I have to come home no matter what. If that is going to suck for them, they can move down to the next player on the list, and I’ll completely understand.”
“I’ll do that, and call you back.”
We hung up, and I ran back inside to my office. I grabbed all my poker books off my shelf, and started reviewing. I’m a good limit player, and I’m great in live games . . . but I don’t have a whole lot of tournament experience. Maybe I could get some help from TJ, and Doyle, and Mike Caro . . .
I sat down on my floor, and started reading. As I absorbed advice from the masters, I felt like I was getting back on a bike.
About thirty minutes went by. I underlined passages, used post-its for bookmarks . . . and realized that I was unconsciously doing what I read about in Positively Fifth Street.
“Oh man, I could write my version of Positively Fifth Street!”
The phone rang. It was Chris.
“Hello?”
“You’re going to Vegas!”
I took the phone away from my head, and shouted out in excitement.
“You’ll have to take care of your travel and meals, but they’ll get your room. Is that okay?” He said.
“Yeah! That’s fine. Are they okay with me leaving?”
“They’re fine with it.” He paused. “Do you think you’ll really be live on Wednesday?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I looked down at the pile of books scattered across the floor. “I’m already over my head,” I thought.
“I’m just going to do my best, have fun, and try to get a good story out of it.” I said. “Chris, this could be my version of Positively Fifth Street!”
“Uh, Wil,” he said, “don’t you need to make the final table if you want to do that?”
“Oh. Right. That.” I said. “Well, maybe it’ll be called Positively Short Stacked.”
He laughed, because it was funny. I laughed because I was embarrassed. Who was I kidding?
“Have a great time while you’re there, and keep me updated.” He said.
“I will.”

So here I am, at the start of a week in (and out of) Vegas. I flew in yesterday afternoon, and just found out about fifteen minutes ago that I don’t start playing until tomorrow at noon. Which is good because I need to write two Games of our Lives columns, and prepare for my Dancing Barefoot reading on Wednesday. And it wouldn’t hurt to get some practice playing in a few live games today.

I’ve got the familiar blend of nerves and excitement, because in just six hours, the last few months of writing, rehearsing and workshopping all pay off.
As I wrote the other day:

In this show, we’ve got a fairly complicated stunt to work out, as well: we’re doing this thing where the whole show takes place in one day, and the same characters show up in more than one sketch, with some incredibly hilarious call backs. We were unsure if the audience would get what we were doing, and worried that even if they did, they may not think it’s as clever and funny as we do. But over both previews it’s worked incredibly well, and I think it’s going to reward audiences who are paying attention.

Even though I know my lines, even though I know my characters, and even though I’m confident that we’ll kick all sorts of ass, I’ve been reviewing my sketches, double-checking my costumes, and anxiously passing the time until I leave for my call at 5 this evening.
I love opening a new show! For all of you WWdN readers who have been lining up in front of The Groundlings for the last five weeks, here are the details for our show:

WHAT: ACME A Day In The Life
WHERE: Acme Comedy Theatre
135 N. La Brea
Hollywood, CA 90036
(323) 525-0202
WHEN: Tonight, and every Saturday until the end of June, at 8 pm.

My friend Danica McKellar, (probably best known for playing Winnie Cooper on The Wonder Years) is a fantastic actor and writer. A few years ago, we worked together in a short film called Speechless . . . which she wrote and directed.
Yesterday, Danica e-mailed me that she’d done a photoshoot for Stuff Magazine.

I did a photo session for “Stuff” magazine last Wednesday– the first time in my life, ever, taking pictures in lingerie!!

The editors of Stuff want to know which hottie from the 90s Stuff readers would like to see in their magazine. Now, I’ve known Danica since forever, so she’s like a little sister to me. The Protective Big Brother in me wants to say, “No way am I going to encourage people to check you out in sexy pictures!” But there’s no denying that she’s grown up to become quite a beautiful woman. Her competition is Jennie Garth, Elizabeth Berkley, and Kari Wuhrer. Though I had a mad crush on Kari Wuhrer when I was younger (read: last year), and I knew Elizabeth when I was a kid the world has already seen a whole lot of them in (and out of) lingerie. Danica is my good friend, and I’ll gladly endure the trauma of seeing her in lingerie so she can make the cover of Stuff. I know how Hollywood works, and if she wins, it will help her career tremendously. It would be sort of impossible to see her just as little Winnie Cooper, wouldn’t it?
So if you want to help her out, head over to Stuff Magazine, and click on Which hottie from the 90