Author: Wil

Calling all Teen Titans fans!
This weekend’s new episode “Winner Take All,” airs at 9PM on Cartoon Network, and features everyone’s favorite underwater-fish-talking-guy, Aqualad!

I can’t recall if I wrote about this, or if I just talked about it with some friends, but I am incredibly proud of the work I’ve done on Teen Titans, and I am so grateful that I get to be part of it.
The last time I was over there, when I was walking from my car to the studio, someone called out to me, “Hey! Aqualad!” and the biggest smile filled my face. It was quite a contrast: when someone calls out, “Hey! Wesley!” I sort of look at the ground and wish I was invisible . . . but when this unseen person called me “Aqualad” my heart jumped, and I looked around to see who said it.
You know, I could probably sell my soul and work all the time on shitty low budget genre films that nobody cares about. I could probably make a decent living doing it, too. I mean, you’d tune in if I was on some late night erotic thriller, right?
Wait. Don’t answer that. As a matter of fact, let’s forget I ever brought that up. (Although . . . it would be nice to see Lisa Boyle up close and in person.)
Uhhh . . . let’s forget I said that, too, okay?
The point is, I care about the work that I do, and if I can help it, I don’t want to contribute to the stinking pile of garbage that passes for popular entertainment these days.
When I get to be part of something that’s consistently good, something that I can be totally proud of, and heartily endorse, I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. It’s just awesome that I can tell people to watch Teen Titans without any of the standard disclaimers that have accompanied just about everything I’ve acted in over the last few years.
Now, if I can just get Las Vegas, The West Wing, Arrested Development, and Family Guy to give me a chance . . .
Seriously. Tune in on Saturday. Teen Titans is superfuckingcool.

Note: 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.
Part one of this story is here.
Part two of this story is here.
Part three of this story is here.

During the shuffle, Mrs. Beautiful turns to me and says, “Hey, where the hell is Shane?”
“He’s . . . babysitting.”
“Babysitting?! Who?”
I tell her that I’m not sure. Mr. Director offers the name of a fairly prominent studio executive, well-known for his tantrums.
“I really don’t know.” I’m sort of glad I don’t.
For the next several hands I get nothing but a bunch of small off-suit junk. The only pair I get is crabs, so I let Mr. director and Mrs. Beautiful beat up on each other while I lose enough in blinds to drop back to third. When the blinds go up to 500-1000, my short stack looks a lot shorter. I have just enough to cover one or two more blind bets, and I’m hoping for a miracle.
Mrs. Beautiful is on the button, Mr. Director is the small blind, and I’m the big blind. She calls. Mr. Director folds, and I look at my cards. There’s my miracle: A-10 hearts. My heart thumps hard in my chest. If I remember what I’ve learned from Doyle Brunson correctly, these are good cards to play 3 handed. It’s time to make my move.
I wrap my left hand around my small stacks of chips, and push them toward the center of the table.
“I’m all in.” I know the words come out of my mouth, but they sound distant.
Mrs. Beautiful studies her pocket cards. “Call.”
Visions of doubling up and making a strong run at second, or even first, begin to dance in my head.
I stand up, and turn over my cards. Mrs. Beautiful bites her lip, and turns over Siegfried and Roy.
Two. Fucking. Queens.
With a gentle smile, she says, “I’m sorry.”
Oh fuck me.
The dealer knocks the table, slides the top card under the the muck, and deals out three cards. He spreads them out with a flourish, just like on TV. He flips them over and the flop is revealed: 9 hearts – 10 diamonds – 5 clubs. I make a pair, but her queens still beat me.
I’m not good enough at math to know what my odds are, but I know that I’m looking at twelve outs — twelve cards out of forty-something that can make my hand: eight hearts put me one off a flush, (One of Mrs. Beautiful’s queens is a heart, but my ace beats her if we make it) one of the two tens makes trips, and either ace would give me two pair. I’m not out . . . yet.
The dealer burns and turns . . . a red deuce . . . is it hearts of diamonds? It’s a heart! The lowly two of hearts. It’s the most beautiful card I’ve seen tonight. Eleven cards left now in this deck that can keep me in this game.
The busted out players who have stuck around to drink surround us like railbirds. A wave of excitement ripples through them.
“Come on, Wil!” Yells Mr. Drunk Guy.
Ever since I played my first game of Hold’em in high school, and learned about the World Series of Poker sometime during my junior year, I’ve entertained notions of playing in the big one. But every time I go to Vegas, I look into those poker rooms, and lose my nerve. Before tonight, I’ve never had the balls to play in anything bigger than a home game with friends . . . I doubt I’ll ever play in the WSOP, but the way I feel right now, I could be at the final table, staring across the felt at Johnny Chan.
I take a deep breath, and grab the back of my chair tightly, I don’t have to look at my knuckles to know that they’re white. Here comes fifth street, and the whole thing is in slow motion: the dealer knocks three times with one knuckle, grabs the red-backed corner of the top card, his thumb covering the little Bicycle cherub, and burns it away. Was that one of my outs? I’ll never know. His hand rests atop the deck, and it feels like an eternity before the river is revealed . . .
. . and it’s the queen of clubs. I go out in third place.
Mrs. Beautiful stands up and hugs me. She smells good. Mr. Director shakes my hand, and tells me that I played well. Mr. Drunk Guy tells me how much he loves me.
I am slow to pick up my jacket. I’m conflicted: in the haze of elimination, I wonder if I made a mistake moving all-in, but I’ve just finished third in my first-ever real money tournament! Before I can walk away from the table, the next hand is dealt. Mr. Director, who has an almost 2-1 chip lead on Mrs. Beautiful even after she wiped me out, says, “Let’s finish this,” and puts her all-in.
She calls. He’s got a pair of jacks, she’s got K-Q.
“What are the odds? If I wasn’t here, I wouldn’t believe it.”
The flop is A spades – Q spades – 4 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful leans forward, and looks intensely at the board. Mr. Director stands up, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
A king (clubs) comes on fourth street, and Mrs. Beautiful takes the lead in the hand with two pair. The excitement level from the fourteen or so people who are in the club rivals the poker room at Binion’s.
Mr. Director and Mrs. Beautiful look at each other. She is chewing furiously on her bottom lip, and it’s incredibly sexy. I wish I was in this hand.
The dealer knocks the table, burns the top card, and the jack of hearts — one of my outs, one hand too late — comes down the river. Mr. Director makes three of a kind, and wins it all on a suck out.
I can’t tell who’s more stunned between them. Mrs. Beautiful reaches across the table and shakes his hand. I look down at the green felt table: nine cards turned up, the rest of the pack spread out next to the dealer. A mountain of chips. I wish I had a camera. This would make a great book cover.
When I look up, they’re both cashing out. The railbirds have wandered away, and music starts to fill the room. The dealer scoops the chips into a bag, and the felt top is carried away under one very large Samoan arm.
I look at my watch: it’s after midnight. Since Sean and I worked together on Toy Soldiers, our careers have taken wildly different paths, and each time I look at this innocent timepiece, I feel a twinge of sadness and regret. Occasionally jealousy. I wear it because it was a generous gift. It’s also a reminder. I watch the second hand sweep slowly around past the 8, and for the first time in ages, I don’t feel like a loser. I feel good. Maybe I’ll finally get up the nerve to call Sean. Maybe I’ll ask him over to play cards. I pick up my coat, and go collect my money.
The girl at the bar counts out a stack of bills. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Jet black hair down her back. Goddamn.
“You’ve never played here before.” She says.
“Nope. I didn’t even know this place existed until two weeks ago.”
“You should come in on a weekend night. It gets crazy in here.”
“Plato’s Retreat crazy?” I ask.
She gives me a blank look. I realize that she can’t be older than 22.
“It was a 70s sex club in New York,” I say. “Not that I went there when I was eight, or anything.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “Well, it gets crazy in here.” She hands me my money. “Your finish gets you a free seat at the next game in two weeks.” There’s a very subtle flirtation. I wonder for the briefest second if it’s me or the cash I am stuffing into my pocket.
“Oh? Cool. I’ll be back then.”
“And don’t forget the weekend.” She takes out a shiny black business card with “Odessa” stamped on the back in red ink, and writes “Jessie” on it. “This will get you in.” She smiles, puts it in my hand, and holds on a little too long.
I’m enjoying this entirely too much. “I usually spend the weekends with my wife and stepkids,” I say, “but I’ll hold onto this.”
“You do that.” She says. “You want anything for the road?”
Do I.
“A bottle of water would be great,” I say.
She turns around and reaches down into a box against the back of the bar. Her shirt lifts up, and reveals a tattoo of ribbon, tied into a bow, just above the top of her black and red —
I really need to get out of here.
“Here you go.” She says.
“Thanks. Bye.” I take the bottle, and walk to the door. Mr. Webmaster is waiting for me.
“Hey, you played really well.” He says.
“Thanks. Too bad I got clobbered by those fucking queens.”
“It happens. Can I ask you a question?”
Oh good. He wants me to introduce him to the agent I don’t have.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you play on Celebrity Poker Showdown?”
“Because I’m not a celebrity,” I say. “At least, not in the way it matters to Bravo.”
“Aw, fuck them. You can play here whenever you want.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”
“Just bring Shane and his money next time.”
I laugh and shake his hand.
“Will do.”
I walk out the door, and discover a long line of hipsters down the alley, behind a velvet rope. They have no idea about the game. The Odessa keeps a good poker face.

Note: 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.
Part one of this story is here.
Part two of this story is here.

I get up, take a piss, and grab a Coke. My cell phone rings while I’m at the bar. It’s my stepson, and he wants to know how I’m doing. I tell him about the 7-4, and he says, “Don’t tilt, Wil.”
“Too late,” I say.
“Oh. That sucks. Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you when you get home. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I say. We hang up.
For some reason, the conversation settles me down, and I return with new focus. I decide that I am the only person at this table who can beat me, even if the cards aren’t helping me win.
I keep getting junk, so I throw away the next several hands. Mr. Lawyer busts out Mr. Magician and Mr. Webmaster. Mrs. Beautiful takes care of Mr. Agent’s Assistant, and there are just five of us left at the table: Mr. Lawyer, Mrs. Funnypants, me, Mrs. Beautiful, and Mr. I’m In The Music Industry.
Finally, my cards start to come. I stick to my plan, and double through Mrs. Funnypants, the well-known comedienne. On the next hand, Mr. I’m In The Music Industry goes all-in against me with pocket tens. I’ve got a good chip lead on him, so I loosen up and call him with K-9. There’s a king on the flop, it holds up, and I bust him out. It’s the first time I’ve ever busted anyone out, and I feel like Howard Fucking Lederer. I sneak a look at Mr. Lawyer as I rake in the pot. He’s busy shuffling his chips.
When the blinds are up to 50-100, I’m briefly the chip leader, and I tighten up again. Maybe it’s not the best strategy, but . . . I’m the chip leader for the first time in my life, in my first real tournament. Where the hell is Shane?
Mr. Lawyer comes over the top of Mrs. Beautiful, all-in pre-flop. Mrs. Beautiful calls him before he’s done pushing his chips in. It goes something like this:
Mr. Laywer: “I’m all i–”
Mrs. Beautiful: “Call.”
Mr. Lawyer blanches, and turns over 8-9 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful flashes him a smile, and turns over KK.
“You do not have two kings!” Mr. Lawyer says. I wonder if that’s his “I object!” voice.
“I’m pretty sure I do,” she says. Overruled.
Mr. Lawyer stands up, and a vein throbs in his forehead. I could kiss Mrs. Beautiful right now.
He pairs his 8 on the flop, but that’s it. Mrs. Beautiful sends Mr. Lawyer home.
He looks at me, and says, “I had to take my shot.”
“Tough break,” I say, “Guy.”
Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Next time. Next time.”
I feel like a fucking rockstar for outlasting him.
When there are seven of us left, we take a break before we move to one table. The other players go to the bar, the bathroom, or just meander around the mostly-empty club. I walk outside and call Shane. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, Wil. What’s up?”
“I’m at the Odessa. Where the hell are you?”
“Have you seen the news recently? I’ve been babysitting executives all week.” He says.
“At ten o’clock on a Wednesday?”
“Yes. It’s that bad. So how are you doing?”
“Better than I thought,” I say. “I made it to the final table. The regulars wish your money was here.”
He laughs.
“Maybe I’ll play next time.” I hear a voice in the background. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece, and says something back. “Look, I gotta go. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
The door opens behind me, and one of the big Samoan guys raises his fist at me. I wince, until I realize that he’s holding up his thumb, directing me back into the club.
“They’re ready for you,” he says, and walks back inside. I catch the door inches before it closes. It’s incredibly heavy.
We sit down, and the cards come out. On the first hand, I bust out Mr. Circus Clown. A few hands later, I bust out Mr. Drunk Guy. Goddammit, this feels great! I work hard to keep my focus, and hope my hands don’t tremble as I separate my chips into hundred dollar stacks.
The blinds go up to 100-200, and that takes care of Mrs. Funnypants, who was down to the felt when we moved. I try not to get too excited, but I’m currently one off the money. That’s pretty damn cool, but there’s a sobering reality: if I go out next, I have as much to show for my efforts as Mr. Lawyer, and I really fucking hate that guy.
Shortly after the blinds go up to 300-600, Mr. Director busts out Mr. I Won An Emmy, and I find myself in the money! I can’t believe it!
I look at my stack: I have about 2200, I guess. Mrs. Beautiful is stacked . . . and is also the chip leader with over 4000. Mr. Director has about 1000 less than she does. He reaches into his jacket, and takes out a Camel cigarette.
“You can’t smoke in here, sir,” the dealer says.
“What?” Mr. Director says.
“It’s against the law.” The dealer says.
“We’re in an illegal cardroom, and you’re worried about me smoking?”
“Sorry.” The dealer says. “House rules.”
For a moment, I think Mr. Director is going to punch him, but he laughs.
“Fucking California,” he says. We all laugh as he puts the cigarette behind his ear.
The laughter fades quickly. We all know that there is a substantial money difference between 2nd and 3rd place, so play is pretty tight. A raise before the flop is usually enough to steal the blinds. I take some chances, and grab one or two with marginal hands: 10-10, and K-7. I almost wish I would see 10-2 — the Doyle Brunson — so I could play it. What the hell is wrong with me?
This goes on for a while, until I look at my pocket cards and find AJ on the button. Mrs. Beautiful calls, Mr. Director checks, and I call. The flop comes J-4-7. The bet is checked to me, and I move all-in. Mrs. Beautiful looks at her cards, then to me. I take a deep breath, and look down at the board. I’m pretty sure I want at least one call, but it’s still nerve-wracking. If I blow this, I go home with nothing.
She calls. It’s about half her stack. Well, I got my wish . . . I think.
Mr. Director calls; it hardly makes a dent. Oh shit. Two callers? They’ve both got jacks. Please not a pair. Please not a pair.
Mrs beautiful turns over KJ diamonds. My hand involuntarily flies up to my chin, and pulls at the corners of my mouth.
Mr. Director turns over J9. I breathe for the first time in over a minute, stand up, and show my Ajax.
Here we go: the dealer turns a 6, and then a 3.
I won? I won! Wait . . . did I? Yes! Holy shit! I won!
I can’t help it. I shout, “YES!” as I double (triple?) through, and drop Mrs. Beautiful to third. I hope I can hold on.

Note: 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.
Part one of this story is here.

The game starts at 8. My watch — a gift from Sean Astin when we were promoting Toy Soldiers in Japan — says it’s 7:55. The tables are starting to fill up, so I ask the bartender for a glass of water. I take it, tip him a dollar, and head for my table.
The blinds start out at 5-10, and double every 30 minutes. I have studied my Sklansky and Jones faithfully for the last ten days or so, and I have what I think is a solid game plan: Play extremely tight, but aggressive. Only premium hands, no chasing, and no raising before the flop unless I’m sitting on AA or AK. For the first two levels, whenever I have something worth playing, I’ll skip sandbagging and just bet into the raisers. No free cards, just survive. I thought it was a good strategy, and I hoped that my opponents wouldn’t catch on that I was only in the pot when I had the nuts. I figured that if I wasn’t the first one out, I’d be happy.
My seat is the only empty one at Table Two. I put my coat over the back of my chair, stack my chips, and sit down. Everyone at my table seems to know each other. They’re the regulars, I guess, and I’ve read enough to know that I’m already at a disadvantage.
The table looks like this:
Seat One: Mr. Lawyer.
Seat Two: Mr. Magician.
Seat Three: Mr. Agent’s Assistant.
Seat Four: Mrs. Funnypants.
Seat Five: Mr. Webmaster.
Seat Six: Mr. First Time Player.
Seat Seven: Mrs. Beautiful.
Seat Eight: Mr. I’m In The Music Industry.
When we cut for the deal, Mr. Lawyer gets the ace of spades. I draw the two of clubs. I hope it’s not an omen.
We play a few hands, but my cards are shit, and I don’t get into any pots. It’s okay, I’ll be patient. Stick to the plan.
For a game in Hollywood, there’s precious little coffehousing, until Mr. Lawyer says to me, “Hey guy, aren’t you an actor?”
I hate that question, because I always have to answer, “I used to be.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘used to be?'” Says the guy to my right. He’s a Webmaster from Long Beach who could have saved an hour on the freeway and played at the Bicycle, but I find out later that he comes here because he’s a starfucker.
“I haven’t done any acting in a long time. I’m a writer now.” This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy them, so I say, “I only act when something really great comes along.”
(“That is, before my agents dropped me a year ago. Where the hell is Shane?”)
“What show do you write for?” Says Mr. Agent’s Assistant.
“Oh, I don’t work in the Industry. I write books.”
A knowing look passes among them. “You published?” He says.
“Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about myself any more. I look down at my cards and find more rags. I study them like they’re suited connectors and start counting my checks.
“How’d you find out about this game?” Mr. Agent’s Assistant says.
The bet comes to me. I give my rags another look, and throw them away.
“I’m a friend of Shane’s.”
They all laugh, and I find out that Shane is the deadest of dead money. Everyone likes him, but they like his poor play even more.
“I hope you play better than he does, guy,” says Mr. Lawyer.
I shrug my shoulders. I am beginning to hate Mr. Lawyer. First of all, he’s a lawyer. Second of all, he keeps calling me “guy.” Finally, I know that he’s stealing blinds, but I’m not going to move on him because I’m sticking to my plan.
Later: I’m four seats behind the big blind. There’s a raise and a couple of callers. I throw away 9-2 off suit, and the flop comes 9-2-x. Fourth street is a deuce, and the river is an ace. I’m pretty sure I made the right play . . . I would have been out of my mind to play 9-2 off-suit, especially with a raise before the flop, but Mr. I’m In The Music Industry wins it with AQ. Would have been nice to take it down, but I’m sticking to the plan.
I don’t see anything worth playing until the blinds are up to 25-50. I hold AJs in the big blind. Mrs. Beautiful folds behind me, Mr. Lawyer raises, and everyone else folds around to Mr. Webmaster, who calls from the small blind. All I can think about is Mr. Lawyer stealing the blinds, and calling me “guy.” I’m gonna sandbag this guy. I call. The flop is a rainbow: 5-8-J. Mr Lawyer checks, Mr. Webmaster checks, I bet 50. Mr. Lawyer raises me 50. I think for a second that he may be holding a jack, but I can’t stop thinking about that 9-2 I threw away, and I’m looking at top pair with a fucking bullet kicker, so I raise 200. He calls immediately, and Mr. Webmaster folds. Oh shit.
The turn is a blank, and the river is a 6. I look at the board: 5-8-J-x-6. I wonder to myself if he’s playing 7-4.
I think, “How in the WORLD can you call 200 on a draw, with four outs? There’s no way. No way at all. If he played 7-4, I’m dead, but I’ve got about half my stack in this pot . . .”
I’m first to act, and I think I’ll check raise. He checks back . . . and flips over 7-fucking-4.
“What the hell are you doing playing 7-4?!” I say.
“I guess I’m taking a whole bunch of your money, guy.” Mr. Lawyer says, and he does.
“The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers,” I think, and I realize that I’ve been on tilt since I sat down. I’m pissed at myself for not playing that hand wisely. I did everything wrong, because I let this fucking lawyer get under my skin.
I should have moved all-in on the flop . . . right?
I’m not sure.
The only thing I am sure of right now is that I played that hand like shit.
I’m better than this.
I’m not a fish.
Where the fuck is Shane?

A couple of weeks ago, I played in a no-limit hold-em tournament.
There were sixteen players at two tables. It was a freezeout, with the top three finishers taking home money. I had never played in a real money tournament before, and this was my first chance to test out the teachings of Doyle Brunson, Mike Caro, David Sklansky, and Lee Jones that I’ve spent so many hours studying.

The club is on the eastern edge of Hollywood, in a pretty seedy area where the cops are too busy busting crackheads to bother a poker game. To get in, you walk down an alley, and knock on the door with the big red bar painted horizontally across the middle. Most of the people who play here are in the entertainment industry, so it’s appropriate that it’s something out of a movie.
I show the doorman a business card with the club’s address written on the back, and he lets me in. I’m here to play in a no-limit hold-em tournament. It’s the first time I’ve ever played in an illegal game. It’s the first time I’ve played outside of a friendly home game. It’s the first time I’ve ever played for money.
I buy in, get 600 in tournament chips, and my table assignment: I’m seat six at table two. We don’t start for about ten minutes, so I get a bitters and soda from the bar, and try to act like I belong here.

“You play poker, right?” my friend said to me a few weeks earlier, as we waited for the subway.
“Yeah. You have a game?” I said. I’ve been looking for something similar to The Tuesday Night Game ever since I read Big Deal.
“Sort of. You ever heard of the Odessa Room?”
I shook my head. “I’m spectacularly uncool, Shane, and I live in suburbia. What’s the Odessa Room?”
“It’s an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in Hollywood. Twice a month they have poker tournaments.”
“What are the stakes?”
“You can afford it. Why don’t you come with me next Wednesday?”
“Because I’m not good enough to play for money.”
“You ever played for money?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I appreciate the invite, but my wife would kill me if I played cards for money.”
He took out his business card, and wrote down the address.
“Think about it. If you change your mind, I’ll see you there. Show this card at the door.”
With a blast of warm, humid air, the Wilshire / Western train pulled into the station. Shane got into the car.
“Of course, if you’d rather, you can just give me 100 bucks and cut out the formality of playing.” He said as the doors closed.
I laughed and flipped him the bird. He gave it back as the train pulled away.
I turned his card over in my hand. His office at Walt Disney Studios on one side, the address to an illegal poker game on the other.
Sometimes, I love this town.

The Odessa is really just a bar, and its illegal nature means its unknown owners have forgone the interior decorating that would make it truly cinematic; the only thing of real value is a sound system that rivals any Sunset Strip night club. Three well-worn area rugs cover most of the cold cement floor. The indirect lighting is provided by those halogen uplights that were popular in the 80s. Twelve of them line one wall, and create a pretty good mood. Large cathedral-like candles sit in sconces that are nailed to the other walls. There are several enormous Samoan bouncers watching over all of us.
Everything is portable, including the bar. When I lean against it, it rolls back a few inches.
“Watch it,” the bartender says. His tone tells me that this happens all the time . . . when fuckin’ new guys like me show up.
“Sorry.”
I swallow hard. I think about leaving, but my money is already spent. Better not lose my nerve now. For the first time since I decided to come here, I wonder if the club’s name has anything to do with the Russian mafia. Then I wonder how many of these Samoan guys have guns. What am I doing here? And where the hell is Shane?