This Sunday, the Patriots will begin their two month march to redemption with a no-nonsense drubbing of Roethlisberger and his backup band of defensive wannabes. From there, the Pats will have four easy games (Seattle, Oakland, Arizona and Buffalo) enroute to their 6th straight AFC East title. The Jets have a similarly cake schedule, but they'll find a way to seize up and maybe blow a wild card spot--a late fumble at Candlestick, an ill-advised pass turned pick against Miami--even with 3 of their last 5 at home. After a quick playoff wins against the Squealers and the Titans (another AFC sham), the Pats will savage the Giants in SuperBowl 43 so badly that the only reason there will be any spectators lingering in the 3rd quarter is that Springsteen headlined the halftime show and they're stalling to avoid traffic.

Sure, the NFL is filled with feel-good stories this year--Collins and the Titans, Warner and the Cards, hell, even Favre and the Jets is fun to follow--but none will be as satisfying as watching Belichick, Cassel & Co. expose the poseur Manning, that troll Coughlin and their Giants "legacy" as a complete fluke. The only nervous part of the whole run will be the 10-15 minutes of the Cowgirls leading the Giants in the NFC Championship game until Manning's ritalin kicks in. Even that game will end predictably--with a vacant look on Romo's face and tears streaming down Owens' cheek.

Patriots at 19 to 1 to win the SuperBowl from here? Are you kidding me? Easy money, IMO.

Edmond

In the mid-1900s, Abraham Maslow put forth a theory of human motivation in which he hypothesized that humans have a pyramid of needs—a “needs hierarchy” in his terms. Put simply, he said that before people can be creative, their food, shelter, love and self-esteem needs must be met. His model has flaws—I know plenty of starving artists—but for me, it’s a good fit. Despite being short the financials and long gold for most of the year, the bear market has left my balance sheet in tatters and me speculating how to finance my next meal away from Club One. Ergo: it’s been six weeks since my last post. That said, others on this site have managed to make regular entries despite public setbacks in bankroll, love and self-esteem. Faced with this, I realize that I’ve shamed the site by not remaining current, and resolve henceforth to post more regularly. Maybe even about something poker-related.

So what’s happened over the last six weeks worth noting? Well, I crashed my Lexus on the Pacific Coast Highway while…how shall we say?...multi-tasking. Given that every insurance company in the world is looking for reasons to kick customers to the curb and de-lever, I wouldn’t suggest the practice or document it on a public blog, for that matter. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but it did set me back a few hundred bucks (deductible, car rental, time value) and resulted in a mild scare when the DMV canceled my license (for a day) for lack of a timely accident report. Oh, that? Sorry, ma’am. I’ll get that right out today.

On the Club One Casino front, we’ve held two radio-sponsored free-rolls each of which drew over 400 new faces into Club One. We ran radio ads, gave away several thousand dollars in cash, DVDs and gift certificates and generated lots of new blackjack and poker trial. The response has been great given the local economy (11% unemployment and retail and restaurant traffic down double digits), but then again, maybe not. They were free-rolls after all.

Fortunately for us, radio stations are practically giving away time now with other advertisers pulling back in the recession. Never one to run with the herd, I’ve tripled our radio ad efforts. I firmly believe it’s the most cost-effective way for us to reach targeted groups. The only problem for me personally is that the stations on which we advertise make for horrible listening, so policing the ad placements is torture.

I’m not a music snob but the classic rock, alt rock, talk radio, etc. stations of today are all pretty bad. Uh, no. Nickelback is not comparable to Nirvana and a male talk show host gushing about changing a kid’s diaper does not make for good drive time radio. And when did weeping over how your daughter looks in a prom dress make the county music cut? In the words of LakeofFire, country music is supposed to be about pain and jail and killing a man in Reno just to see him die. Mr. Cash would be beside himself if he were alive to hear some of this crap. RIP, sir. Some of us still believe.

What else? Last weekend, we held the first annual Fall Classic at Club One Casino which drew 280 players at $345 per and set a high water mark for a tournament attendance and sick side game action. Given the turnout, we immediately set plans for a Winter Deep Freeze, pretty much the same tournament with a different logo. Those of you stuck in cold climates should make arrangements to attend. The side game action, while not as deep as in Vegas or So Cal, is equally clumsy. AK893, three heart board with capped action on the turn and river? No, sir. Your queens aren’t good.

Speaking of which, I’ve become sort of a happy hour prop in our 15/30 kill game. The game, a staple for us, tends to play in shifts during the week. There’s a group that plays 9-5ish and another set of customers that come in around 8p or so. To bridge the gap, I’ve taken to sitting in the game during the shift change. Unfortunately, most days I end up stuck or lit or both and end up camped out until last call. I’m told it’s “good for the game” which means that I’m the fish, obv, and it’s probably not the most effective use of management resources. It’s like feeding a stray cat, though. I’m sort of stuck with it until a larger predator shows up to clear the property.

On a side note, when we’re considering the card-room purchase, I have to admit I underestimated the 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year nature of a casino gig. My day comprises the following: wake-up around 9a, trudge downstairs, commandeer the Club One van, hit Starbucks and the gym, shower and suit up around 11a or 12p, eat, deal with vendors or other casino-related nonsense until 5p or so, play 15/30, wrestle the floor-staff over being pulled from the game stuck (“But Kyle, the list is five deep!” “I want my chips back, dammit!”) eat, deal with other casino nonsense until 1a. Drink until last call. Trudge back to the hotel room. Repeat daily. Mix in trips to Los Angeles, New York and Sacramento to taste.

The “casino-related nonsense” referenced above includes reviewing daily numbers, looking for staff efficiencies, pushing and reviewing promotion ideas, comparing ATM contracts, weighing Coke vs. Pepsi or Red Bull vs. RockStar, attempting to comprehend pai gow tiles, reviewing food costs and menu pricing, providing ad hoc IT support, updating LED signs, helping police the casino floor for trash (human and otherwise), providing cogent updates to partners and lenders, greeting customers, managing the staff, teaching poker classes, updating the website, etc. I like it—a lot—but still, it would be nice to have a break to hose the place down and grab 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

On the other hand, it could be worse. For the last two months, my friends in the finance community have been getting pummeled relentlessly like a fleet of racing yachts attempting to round Cape Horn in the middle of winter. Everyday there’s a new story of carnage with a friend being wheeled out, catatonic, mumbling about a thoughtful investment position that was demolished by forces out of his control. None of us ran the “Ok, let’s say the financial system collapses. What’s that do to the model?” downside case.

Of course, there’s not a lot of sympathy out there for guys making strong six figures now making nothing and deci-millionaires back in single digits, especially since the typical American came to grips with his job insecurity and housing value months ago and is now high-fiving himself that gas is back to $2/gallon. But it is sobering. As one of my friends put it, “It’s worse than a divorce. I’ve lost half my net worth and I’m still married!” Ouch.

Edmond

Free at last

Regular readers will be relieved to know that I’ve been released from the Bavarian prison and am now back in Fresno where I belong. Most of the allegations surrounding my recent flight to Germany have already been dropped, and I’m confident the final two, “willful destruction of private property” and “violation of the Mann Act,” will be resolved in my favor soon. The former charge, regarding damage to the Airbus 340 is rightly a warranty claim since at no time did I use the lavatory for anything other than its intended purpose. As for the Mann Act charge (transportation of women across state lines for immoral purposes), it’s on shaky ground. I met those tramps 35,000 feet over Iceland, had no role in their presence on the flight and only gave them that wad of $1 bills so they could make correct change for drinks. That rap will never stick.

The last few days of my incarceration in Germany were a blur of daily culinary nastiness, closed-door strategy sessions, odd gladiatorial games, and a visit to a palace and a nunnery. It was a challenge to keep my spirits up amid the abuse, but I did so and am back at work flushing 3/6 kill players from the weeds and picking up empty Corona bottles. I still have nightmares over the mess, but they say writing is good therapy. Over the next few days, I’ll provide some recaps to help cleanse my mental palette.

Fancy a bit of polo?

A few days into my detention, the sadists holding me decided that hilarity would ensue if they dragged my comrades and me to a polo pitch, propped us up on horses and forced us to engage in combat. I’m a competitive guy and my fellow captives were a doughy lot, so I would typically embrace this opportunity to shine like Maximus before a packed Coliseum. In heads up sport, though, I prefer something I can do with my feet on the ground like a good drinking game or Madden ‘09. Polo? Are you kidding me? So what if I’m a part-owner of a pari-mutual betting lounge? Playing the ponies isn’t quite like riding them.

As a little kid, I once remember bouncing around an indoor ring and someone yelling at me that I looked like a “goddamn sack of potatoes.” Then, twenty years later, I recall sweating atop an old nag named “Dusty” in Mexico as part of a not-like-it-looked-in-the-brochure day trip to a remote beach. My mental notes from that romantic venture were that flies the size of terriers swarmed around me all day and the horse directly in front of me had a diet high in fiber. That made two times in the last 40 years I’d been on a horse and both times left me with deep emotional scars. Awesome.

As a general rule, if I suck at something and I’m not being paid, I’ll avoid it. But here I didn’t have a say in the matter. I was herded together with the others and ordered to prepare for battle. First, we spent a few minutes of practice on wooden horses. Practice involved standing on the hobby-horse seen below, holding the reins like the thing was actually moving and swinging a mallet at a hard wooden ball on the ground.

Mount up, fellas


While a select few of us would flail from the horse like crazed tee-ballers, the others would retrieve the balls from the field without any protective gear. Most of these knuckleheads had the hand-eye coordination of Ray Charles but with 30 years of chasing tennis balls under my belt, I climbed up and gave a little clinic on keeping your head down and following through.

The Natural





Perfect, in reverse



After setting the standard, I hopped down and took my turn retrieving balls hit by the others. Imagine you’re ordered to collect balls at the local driving range without the benefit of a caged range car. Admittedly, most of the time, I wasn’t in any real danger—the typical “shot” was a complete whiff or feeble nick of the ball. But at least one of my colleagues connected with perfect timing and launched the hard wooden ball squarely against my left ankle. WTF! Ok, that’s why the horses have shin guards.

After a few minutes of this nonsense, I limped over and was given a helmet and instructed to mount a horse named Emily for “live practice.” I pulled myself up on the English/Argentine mix with the enthusiasm of Charles Manson’s cellmate ordered to the top bunk. Emily, like most women I’ve known, was unimpressed and began to wander off, disinterested in me and my commands. My captors found this hilarious, of course, and ridiculed my efforts to sweet talk her into compliance.

Edmond charms the beast



They had grossly underestimated my mastery of seduction, though. Like the others before her, she responded to smooth talk, sharp kicks to the sides and my breezy confidence in the saddle. Within minutes I had her right where I wanted her…sort of…

Emily, would it kill you to seem interested?



Cover shot from the October issue of Polo Times



When our captors decided that we were trained enough to play without harming the horses, they forced us out on the pitch, four at a time, to compete. It was gut-wrenching to see my friends pitted against each other in awkward battle and I cursed the bastards for making me watch. What’s next? Bussing in local nursing home residents for a soccer match? 1/2 limit? It was horrible.

El Polo Loco



When it was my turn to compete, I was forced back onto Emily, but she’d had enough of my self-deprecating charm and was intent on wandering back to the stable. At one point, I managed to steer her back in the general direction of the group on the field, but at no point was I within striking distance of the ball. I tried to figure her out, but she stayed true to the gender and refused to respond to logic or direction. It was like trying to make sense of Omaha hi/lo. Four cards, use two, high and low hands win? What the fuck is going on here and why? And what happened to all my money?

Emily decides she's had enough



At the end of our match, the evil bastards decided to highlight how pathetic we were by mounting the same horses and engaging in a quick scrimmage. To shame us further, a couple of young girls mounted up and joined them. Under skilled riders, the horses were different creatures, turning and stopping like an M-series BMW. Every shot rocketed downfield and the riders covered the 10-acre field like it was their backyard. It was like watching a bunch of middle-aged guys struggle at whiffle-ball and then having Derek Jeter and his girlfriend take the same bat and ball and hit line drives into Monument Park. Thanks, guys. Nice touch.

I wanted to forget the whole damn affair but my colleagues would have none of it. Later, at dinner, they presented me with the coveted Pegasus award, a stuffed horse key chain, for the rider “Least able to control his horse.” I accepted it with the same pride I felt when, at the age of 4, my friend asked me how I managed to roll my Big Wheel over 60 yards of wet sod into an empty wading pool. I still don’t know, but it was humiliating and tiring and I’m not doing it again.

Next up…Trapped at a convent.

He said

At present, I’m being held against my will in a small prison thinly disguised as a lakeside resort in the Bavaria region of southern Germany. I came here without a struggle thinking I was arriving to participate in an off-site strategy session for another business I’m involved in, but it’s now clear that a misunderstanding at LAX last night resulted in my immediate and indefinite incarceration in this 400-year-old farmhouse turned detention center. Think Club Fed…with smaller rooms and worse food. And it’s 50 degrees and raining.

The incident occurred when I showed up at LAX roughly 50 minutes early for an international flight. I meant to arrive earlier, of course, but got tangled up by my own scheduling and some nasty Friday night traffic. Despite my bad timing, I had only one piece of carry-on luggage and a valid passport so I thought for sure I was in good shape. I presented myself at the ticket counter and was promptly informed that the flight to Munich was closed and my seat was no longer available. What?

My recollection was that I used my considerable charm to persuade the ticket agent to downgrade the passenger who’d taken my seat and reclaim my spot on the flight. It was clear that she understood my situation was completely unavoidable and that the off-site conference would suffer from my absence. After a brief phone call and some quick keystrokes, she presented me a boarding card, bade me “Gute Reise!” and offered an energetic Lufthansa rep to move me through security without delay. The whole process was so seamless I made it to the gate in time to stop at the newsstand for magazines and snacks. The flight itself was fine and I thought nothing of it until I was picked up at the airport and dropped off at the entrance of the penitentiary below.

Wait, there must be some mistake…



She said

In a twisted case of “he said, she said”, the ticket agent’s report of our interaction differed dramatically from my own. According to the extradition filing faxed to me by my attorney, her sworn recollection was that I forced my way to the ticket counter “swinging my briefcase like a flail and threatening other ticketed passengers with profane language and physical harm.” Her statement continued that I was dragging a carry-on piece “in gross excess of FAA weight and dimensional limits” and her impression was, given my angry refusal to check the bag, that it contained “something incriminating…possibly a body.”

She was obviously in the grips of some hallucinogen because her statement continued with the assertion that I demanded that if she didn’t “downgrade that whiner who took my seat and give me my [expletive] boarding card,” I’d “burn this terminal full of squatters to the ground” and make sure that she would be “put on the street and sold into slavery.” According to her, she only released the seat to me because I appeared “uncontrollable” and the other customers who “were starting to sob and shake with fear.”

Conspiracy, obviously

Unfortunately, the Germans are a loyal tribe and her colleague joined her in the foul conspiracy. The escort alleged that my sprint through security reminded him of “a looter fleeing from the police” and noted that the only time I complied with posted rules was when confronted by an armed federal officer at the security detectors. He supposedly observed me stuffing magazines and beverages into my briefcase at the Hudson News shop and insisted that he “hadn’t seen the passenger pay for any items.” His account concluded that my behavior throughout reminded him of Colonel Jessup in A Few Good Men right after he’d been tripped up on the witness stand.

The final insult was the in-flight staff report that I commandeered every available pillow in business class and raided the service carts for all the Jack Daniels and premium vodka, which according to their inventory comprised 8 pillows and some 20 mini-bottles. Supposedly, I refused my in-flight meal with the demand that they “send this swill back to steerage where it belongs” and when offered Portuguese wine made some suggestive comment about having it served by a Brazilian in a thong for authenticity. For good measure, they made some wild claim that I “intentionally served two minors alcohol.”

All of these allegations are complete nonsense, of course, and some aren’t even actionable under current US law. In any event, on Monday, I intend to find local legal representation and address each of these specious claims in detail. In the meantime, I’m trapped in Hotel Gut Ising with nothing to entertain myself with other than my wits.

The Stalag

The prison website draws unsuspecting inmates by depicting outdoor activities like tennis, golf and equestrian activities. By description, it’s “an idyllic country hotel with a rural ambiance and private atmosphere on the beautiful Chiemsee.” (a large lake) and from the looks of the dogs and horses wandering around the property, pet-friendly. The location, per the website, is less than an hour from Munich and less than a half hour from Salzburg, and supposedly looks like the aerial photo below.

The location for the 2011 season of Prison Break



A more accurate introduction would be "Willkommen to Stalag Gut Ising. You can get here via a two-hour, high-speed drive through winding roads. If you’re not completely nauseated upon arrival, we have an exercise room with two pieces of equipment confiscated from the Mengele estate and offer the smell of known carcinogens in most rooms. We’ve left local programming on the TVs for maximum boredom and maintain our signage exclusively in German to keep you in a state of constant confusion. The dogs you see sleeping in the restaurant are trained attack animals and the guards on horseback will run you down should you try to escape. Oh, by the way, it’s damn cold and it rains all the time.”

The guard tower



The warden’s house



Hannibal Lecter had a better view



”Ok, where do I start?”



I’ve yet to find a staff person who will admit they speak English and have no idea what time it is, what I’m eating or how I’d find my way home even if the dogs didn’t run me down. I start shivering uncontrollably every time I go outside and my contact with the outside world is limited to a sketchy internet connection. Given the circumstances, it’s probably best if wrap myself in whatever blankets I can find and spend my time working on counter arguments to the Lufthansa allegations.

Pertinent facts

First, my briefcase is far too heavy to serve as effective flail. I may have used it to help a woman nudge her overloaded stroller forward but to claim that I “used it as a battering ram” is way off-base. Besides, what was a 4-year-old doing in a stroller anyway? Make that lazy brat walk off some of that baby fat.

Likewise, the notion that I may have been transporting a body in my carry-on is ludicrous. You’d have to be an idiot to take even a partial skeletal system through an x-ray station. If they can see a shoetree, what makes you think they can’t see a femur? Everyone knows the most effective was to dispose of a body is through extended submersion in water. What, I’m the only one who ever watched the Sopranos?

As for burning anything to the ground, it’s certainly a phrase common to me, but I was clearly joking when I said it. The concrete and steel construction of Bradley International wouldn’t respond well to fire and why would I even bother? The next earthquake should turn that rickety slum to a pile of rubble without any help from me.

The “selling into slavery” reference is wishful thinking by that mean trollop at the ticket counter. Given her sour look and bad attitude, it would cost the airline thousands of dollars to get rid of her. What value would she bring in any active slave market? And the other customers were sobbing? Oh, please. Tell those crybabies that air travel is not for the weak.

As I sit here today, there’s no way the gate escort saw me stuff anything in my bag. Did he mention the PowerBars? The Advil? No, of course not…because he couldn’t SEE me. And if he couldn’t SEE me, how could he HEAR me tell the newsstand clerk that I’d settle up on the following Saturday when I returned? Exactly. I’m notifying that weasel I’m considering a defamation action against him once we sort the primary incident out.

The in-flight claims have some element of truth but they aren’t crimes per se, especially without intent. The pillows and liquor are free to business class customers, right? Are there any posted limits per passenger? As for the food, any Lufthansa frequent flier will confirm that their menu is tough to stomach. So I was a little dramatic. What of it? Is that a crime? And my suggestion about improving the wine service was a good one. Put it to a vote of the business class travelers and you’ll see.

Finally, re: serving alcohol to minors, remember that the plane was darkened for overnight travel and I’ll state under oath that the little minx insisted she was of legal drinking age. And she herself suggested that we give bottle to her younger brother to settle the fidgety bastard down. In any case, that specific incident occurred somewhere over the Artic Circle. Who really has jurisdiction there—Canada? Russia? Finland? Good luck getting any court in those countries to convict a guy offering vodka to a girl.

On a positive note

I think once these pertinent facts are aired, I’ll be released with written apologies from all parties. It wouldn’t even surprise me if I’m offered some form of compensation for the gross inconvenience. I’m thinking a couple of business class seats anywhere in the Lufthansa system and a 10-day stay at somewhere warm with decent food.

In a crude attempt to keep Amnesty International at bay, my captives have let me and several other inmates make brief visits to local churches and monasteries to introduce some sort of repentance into my life. If it didn’t happen at Assisi, it isn’t happening in Bavaria, but I’m making the best of it. So far, I’ve had dinner in a former monastery, heard a German woman play a church organ once played by Mozart (Salzburg, his home, is less than an hour away) and managed to sneak a stein or two of the local brew product.

Been there, done that



They store the sinners here



Dinner in the monastery



Not Mozart, but he did play it



In any event, I’m stuck here until I can sort things out. Feel free to post me with suggestions on where I should take me free trip from Lufthansa.

Edmond

It's off-topic but I thought it might be of interest for some.



Last Thursday, Henry Z. Steinway passed away at his home in Manhattan at the age of 93. Henry was an American icon who ran the piano company that bears his name for years and remained an active spokesperson for the company up until his death. He headed the company from 1955-1977 and was known throughout the industry for his warmth and wit, his commitment to the piano industry and profound respect for artists of all kinds.

I’ve known Henry since 1995 when my partner and I first invested in Steinway & Sons. At the time, many of the people at the company looked at our purchase with skepticism—we were young finance guys—and Henry himself admitted years later that he thought, “Here we go up the flue for sure.” Over time, though, we gained his confidence and as our relationship grew, he always greeted my partner and I with the genuine warmth and wit for which he was known.

After he retired around 1980, he maintained an office at Steinway Hall, our flagship showroom on 57th Street in Manhattan, and continued to serve as ambassador for the company. Most days, you could find him in his office typing on a 60s-era typewriter, meeting with awe-struck customers or dealers or just wandering around the building. In recent years, his visits were shorter and more sporadic, but whenever he was at Steinway Hall, the building had an aura of history and goodness that all visitors could feel.

In 1958, he and his family sold the building that houses the Hall and I think he regretted it from the moment he handed over the keys. In 1999, we had the opportunity to buy the building back, and although the investment value was debatable, we did so to insure the showroom’s ongoing presence. At the time, were mocked by investors, but when we announced it at our annual dealer meeting, Henry jumped up, broke into a huge grin and hugged anyone within reach. Ironically, the appreciation of Manhattan real estate made the purchase a winner, but Henry’s reaction trumped any economic gain. It remains one of the proudest moments in my career.

Henry always had time to share his thoughts on the industry and treated my partner and me with respect despite our relative lack of industry experience. He never once showed a bit of arrogance despite his fabled name and was full of self-deprecating humor. When President Bush awarded Henry the National Medal of Arts, the nation’s highest honor for the arts, he mentioned it to me with the wry qualifier, “They’ve made a mistake, but I don’t want to embarrass them. He's the President, you know.” It was classic Henry.

He and his wife Polly were happily married 64 years and I often referred to them as the coolest couple I ever met. She is a beautiful, sweet woman and I’m sure she misses him greatly. We all do. He was a giant.

The New York Times obituary...Henry Z. Steinway, Piano Maker, 1915-2008