Make Mine Mike

Remind me later to catch up on my blogging and maybe I’ll write about last weekend’s scotch tasting, my ever-precarious job situation, and if there’s time, how I’ve been haunted lately by my embarrassing childhood. (Sorry, I got nothing on the Golden Globes.)

But for now, I just wanna say this: I suck at poker.

I tried before to play in a regular game, but found myself reluctant to do it regularly. I blamed it on the long drive to the Burbank. But I realize that was a lame excuse. Especially after one of the editors at work invited me to play some Texas Hold ‘Em at his house in Venice. Now my trip home is much quicker, but I’m still as broke.

Searching for other alibis, I blame my last poker fiasco on the fact that I got lousy hands. Unlike everyone else at the table, not once did I get a pair, or hell, more than one face card. On the rare occasion I got a queen or a jack, my other pocketed card was always jack shit, like an unsuited 3 or a deuce. So I played timidly and steadily bled chips til I suffered an unglamorous death.

Tonight, I decided to be bold -- no more Mr. Fold. Hang tough -- call people’s bluff.

Do not go gentle into that big blind.
Rage, rage against your dying chances of getting three of a kind.

On the very first hand, I got a king and a jack. Pretty damn good. So I matched every bet, no matter how much anyone raised me. Even when someone went all in -- the only chick at the table, probably trying to prove herself -- no problem; I’d call.

She had two aces. The flop, turn and river did nothing to help either of us. I lost.

I didn’t mind so much blowing my buy-in money. Or even getting knocked out of the game so fast. I just wish the guys from work hadn’t coined the nickname “One-Hand Mike”, ‘cause that sounds like it has a whole different connotation.

Anyway, that’s my poker story. The big hand that got away. Yeah, so what? I’m already thinking about other things to write about. Like the things I listed above.

Or how, when driving home from the game tonight -- earlier than anyone else, dammit -- I was so distracted I turned off of Santa Monica Boulevard and nearly ran over Luke Wilson. Or was it Owen? The dark-haired dude with the slightly less fucked-up nose. Yeah, that’s Luke. He stepped out into the street and I nearly hit him. But I didn’t. Missed him by that much.

And well, that’s about it for that story, too.

Except for this: Luke’s not as famous as his brother Owen. And he certainly wasn’t nominated for any Golden Globes -- if he was, homeboy was on the wrong side of town -- but considering he didn’t get run over by some absent-minded one-hand-losing poker player… even that bastard Luke was luckier than me tonight.

Not that I’m dwelling on it or anything.