Getting Even

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

Homeward Bound

At I write this, I’m sitting in the Firenze (aka Florence) airport waiting for a short flight to Frankfurt before connecting to a 12-hour flight home to Los Angeles. As absurd as it sounds, I’m anxious to say arrivederci to my vacation in Tuscany and get back to work in Fresno. I’ve enjoyed the trip overall, but after a week in the Italian hills as the black sheep of the yoga gathering, I’m looking forward to food and conversation I can understand.

The highlights of the last couple of days were a visit to Assisi, birthplace of the saint of the same name, and then one to Siena and the Museo della Tortura, a museum dedicated to torture. Visiting the two in sequence was a fitting metaphor for the week among the yoginis—peaceful reflection punctuated by unimaginable acts of cruelty that tested my will and spirit.

A time for reflection

Despite my sarcasm, I generally like hanging out with yoga practitioners. They tend to be creative and tolerant and every yoga class I ever took had a girl to guy ratio of about 15 to 1. I used to go several times a week before sports injuries and arthritis made it difficult for me to take classes regularly. I still incorporate lots of yoga concepts into my workout routine, but I miss the classes and the view from the back of the room.

The yoga instructor who sponsored this retreat is a favorite of my wife’s. He’s in his mid-twenties but showed the wisdom of a much older man when a couple of days ago, he ruled that the group should observe four hours of silence after class. I’m on the fringe of the group so he whispered his reasoning to me in passing.

“They just won’t shut up!”

I put my hands together, made a praying motion and nodded my thanks, “Namaste.”

For those of you who dismiss yoga as an eccentric notion, imagine if your job description allowed you to prompt a room full of women in Hard Tail gear to assume a variety of twisting poses and direct that they remain silent for extends periods of time. Right?

Assisi

Two days ago, on a whim, several of us took a car to Assisi, the Italian mountaintop village that was home to St. Francis, the monk who founded the Franciscan order in the 1200s. I didn’t know much about the famed saint, but when my wife suggested the day trip away from chatter about shopping and chakras, I embraced the gift from God and tendered an offering to the taxi driver.

By nature, I’m not particularly religious unless I’m all-in on the turn with a weak draw or shoving light on the bubble of a high buy-in tournament. In such circumstances, of course, I’m a true believer and will call upon the Higher Power with the conviction of a man reborn. Most times, though, I’m of the “live and let live” faith and believe that whatever makes you happy and doesn’t involve the infliction of suffering on others is a worthy calling.

Given my lack of regular Sunday schooling, my knowledge of St. Francis was limited to the portraits I’d seen with those of Christ and Kennedy in the homes of my Catholic friends growing up. The trio can be found under every good Catholic roof throughout New England, and by association, I knew I was going to a place of uncommon sanctity like Jerusalem or Hyannis Port.

After a two-hour drive, we stopped at the base of the town and visited Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, a magnificent church which completely encloses a rustic 9th century chapel, the Porziuncula. It was here that St. Francis first heard the call of God, restored this hutch with his hands and started the Franciscan movement. Among pilgrims, the modest church is sacred place and I got my first look at the nuns and friars that we’d see throughout the day. You can see the Porziuncula in the photo below; it’s the small structure located at the end of the aisle below.

The outside of the big church



The little one inside



I’ve attended services at local churches and toured famous cathedrals like Westminster Abbey and Notre Dame, but those worshippers were like tourists at Graceland compared to the piety I found here. Inside the chapel were humble friars and nuns, kneeling and praying with clenched hands and conviction you could feel. I may be a heathen but I respect people of passion, especially those who can turn their back on material things and work for their fellow man. I certainly can’t.

We continued up to the town of Assisi, which is located on the side of Mt. Subasio. The village consists of a large church complex at one end and a couple of medieval castles keeping watch over the townspeople in-between. The entire village is a celebration of the life of St. Francis, who, at a young age renounced his family’s wealth, took a vow of poverty and committed himself to the word of God and the betterment of his fellowman. He’s credited with multiple selfless acts, inspirational sermons and the first acknowledged case of stigmata.

The widescreen view



The Church complex



The complex includes an Upper Church, a Lower Church and the Tomb of St. Francis and his closest followers. I wasn’t allowed to take photographs of the interior but you can get a sense of it from these photos I pulled from the web.

Upper Church



Lower Church



Tomb of Assisi



The interior of the Upper Church is decorated with a series of frescos recounting St. Francis’s life, and there was one striking painting of the Saint preaching to a flock of attentive birds which gave me pause. St. Francis was keeping their interest with scripture rather than bread crumbs, but I resolved to be more respectful to the next homeless guy I see conversing with birds in the park across from Club One. He may have more clout than I’ve bargained for.

“There’s a Lexus across the street…”



Touring the Church complex and reading about the Saint’s life was a humbling experience. According to the brochures, Francis died at 44 and was canonized by Pope Gregory IX less than two years after his death. In a time when the primary form of communication was word of mouth, the Holy See acknowledged his sainthood without hesitation or debate. Impressive. Even Major League Baseball makes you wait five years after retirement for eligibility into the Hall of Fame and puts it to a vote of the writers.

Doing the math, I felt ashamed of my life accomplishments. Within 46 years of St. Francis’s birth, the most powerful institution on the planet validated his life on Earth and beyond. At 46, I’m running a card room in downtown Fresno, ducking state regulators and wondering if anyone even reads what I write. I like to think I have ambition and purpose, but in the aura of the Saint’s greatness, I felt insignificant.

But what’s this? St. Francis is the patron saint of animals, birds and the environment? With three stray cats and a peacock in my house and the hybrid in my driveway, I felt at least some connection to his calling. And upon further reflection, it dawned on me that like the Saint, I’ve spent most of my life combating poverty. Admittedly, the first 26 years focused on my own economic despair, and the last 20 feeding and clothing impoverished women, but surely these selfless acts count for something? Think globally, act locally right?

It was a weak attempt at rationalization. My selfless acts notwithstanding, I think it’s unlikely I’ll ever be accepted into any organized faith, much less canonized by one. Frankly, if I’m lucky enough to get to the Gates of Heaven, I intend to go through like Shaundeeb through customs—moving quickly, avoiding eye contact and hoping that no authority asks for a closer look at my baggage. Best that I just acknowledge the greatness of the man and move on…

After buying a few souvenirs, we left the church complex and wandered around the village. The town itself is a series of genuinely old buildings and new buildings designed to look old. One of the things I really like about Europe is the respect given to old structures. To me, there’s something cool about buildings pre-dating Columbus with interiors renovated in modern style. Walking through Assisi and other towns in Europe, every few yards there’s another “Oh, wow” view that makes any path interesting.

Standard stuff





Monks



Also available in grey



“I’ll be at the bar by the entrance to the rampart.”



We spent the balance of the day wandering around the village, browsing shops and taking photos. Around 7p, we met our driver for the ride home, and just as we headed down the mountain from the village, a flash thunderstorm soaked the area. My fellow travelers congratulated themselves on their “good timing” but I couldn’t help but thinking if God himself stared down, saw me leaving and decided a good flush was in order.

Siena

The following day a group of us headed into Siena, yet another medieval town, albeit 80 kilometers closer. I knew sienna as the color of the interior of my wife’s car, which is to say I knew even less than I did about Assisi. According to the guidebook, Siena is a village within a fortress and home to Piazza del Campo, reportedly the best town center in Italy. The book gushed about its unparalleled charm, incredible basilicas and many buildings of historical import.

More to my interest, the guide noted that the town’s symbol is a she-wolf, it’s home to the world’s oldest surviving bank (Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena, a former pawnshop) and every August, they fill the Piazza with dirt and hold the Palio di Siena, a wild horse race in the town center. Even with that sales pitch, Siena was a bit of a letdown—it was more crowded and less spiritual than Assisi. To its credit, there were striking churches and towers and better shops and restaurants, but for me it didn’t have the same gravitas as Assisi.

Still pretty cool





The best town center in Italy



When we reached the Piazza (above), the group leader talked my wife into taking a couple of pictures for a forthcoming yoga book. A few years ago, my wife appeared in a black and white yoga calendar in a twisted headstand pose. It’s an artistic and tasteful photo, but she’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, so it caused a few awkward moments when one of my favorite health food haunts back home decided to a full-size poster of the original on its wall.

This photo shoot was a bit more tame—a simple double lotus pose, fully-clothed—so I took the opportunity to wander around. I turned down a random alley and happened upon the Museo della Tortura (Museum of Torture). The brochure offered a simple pitch “Terrible instruments of torture in history.” and claimed I’d see “more than 100 original instruments produced for causing pain and death. An authentic anthology of horrors and human cruelty.” Ok, I’ll bite. I dug out five euro for a ticket.

Whatever. Not my first dungeon.





The museum comprised several dungeon-like rooms filled with pieces of ancient torture equipment, all presented with a graphic write-up of their use and effect in Italian and English. It’s shocking what the human mind can conjure up to exact repentance or revenge and I made mental notes in the off chance I’m ever diagnosed with terminal cancer. In such a spot, a better man might look to the afterlife with heart full of forgiveness, but I’m not that guy. I intend to settle some scores. Call it my “fucket” list.

“What? You don’t remember me? Third grade…Roosevelt School…recess? That ring a bell? Perhaps one more turn of the screw…”

All of the items looked highly effective for sorting out harlots and heretics and reflected a time in which a good public hanging was considered quality entertainment. Standouts for me included the Judas Cradle, a sharpened pyramid upon which the naked victim was slowly lowered, and Flaying, the equivalent of being skinned alive. Ok, that would make me talk. Some were amusing even in their horror—the Goat’s Tongue, in which the victim was tied to a fixed spot, his feet immobilized and salted and a tethered goat left to lick the victim’s flesh clean off. But the one that really made me squirm was the Pear of Anguish, a disturbing device which can be inserted into any of several bodily orifices (depending upon the offense) and expanded. Ouch.

Visitors aren’t allowed to take photographs and a place whose inventory included hanging cages, head crushers and breast rippers doesn’t inspire disrespect of posted rules. In the interest of the continuing education of 2R readers, though, I pulled some photos from the museum’s website for viewing here.

“Mind the pedicure!”



A good deterrent



Several items were oriented toward public humiliation—say you hadn’t abided by your husband’s will or failed to make timely payment on a gambling debt. I liked the Barrel Pillory, which you wore around town subject to scorn and ridicule. Likewise the Shrew’s Fiddle, a violin shaped object with hole for the victim’s head and arms, was an impressive piece. I made particular note of one item, a “Good for nothing’s necklace” which was a chain of weighted cards and dice for those who had incurred gambling debts to wear in shame.

The Barrel for you, sir!



Head goes in the big hole



Some items weren’t particularly frightening. Frankly, the Inquisitorial Chair looked more comfortable than the piece of junk behind my desk at Club One. I considered offering the bastard to the museum for a display but I couldn’t find “swivel” and “Office Max” in my English/Italian dictionary. And, what would a museum like this be without a chastity belt?

Mine's worse, trust me.



“Do you know a locksmith who can keep his mouth shut?”



After I left the museum, I rejoined the group in the Piazza but kept my detour to myself. I didn't know how they'd take to me talking breathless about such things as evisceration or impalement. My discretion was unnecessary. In keeping with the theme of the afternoon, they tortured me all the way back to the car by lingering in tacky shops they wouldn’t give a second look in any American city. I kicked myself for not grabbing a bull-whip or heretic's fork when I had the chance.

Back at the entrance to the town, we were waiting for our driver and the yogi talked me into posing for a couple photographs for a book he was writing. It's been awhile, but my ego took over. I tossed him a couple of poses for the book.

Trikonasana, obv



Overall, if I had to choose, I’d take Assisi over Siena. Spiritual power and presence vs. better food and infernal devices? Let’s put it this way. The sister cities of Assisi are Bethlehem and San Francisco. The sister cities of Siena are Buffalo, New York and Weiner, Germany. Which would you pick?

We returned from Siena and packed for our 6a departure from Tuscany to Florence to Frankfurt to Los Angeles. The last leg commenced with yet another crazed taxi driver who didn’t speak a lick of English and ended with some little mutt at LAX sniffing my bags like he was preparing to mark them as his own. Two weeks ago, I’d have chased the cur away, pelted his chubby TSA handler with my cell phone and spent the night in an airport holding cell. But that was then, this is now…the new, tolerant me complimented the agent on her fine-looking partner and cleared customs without incident.

Tanned, rested and surprisingly tolerant…

Edmond

But first an update from Tuscany...

Florence is a special place; if you have the chance to visit Italy, spend some time there. The city is carpeted with churches, towers and museums and as you walk around, it feels like you’re an extra in a Jason Bourne movie. At any moment, Matt Damon could hurtle around the corner in a stolen taxi pursued by polizia intent on delivering him to the local CIA field office and plow through a bread cart or a handbag vendor. Who wouldn’t want to see that?

Where’s Bourne?



If your budget can take the pounding, I recommend the Four Seasons Florence. The property, service and food are all among the best I’ve ever experienced and I’ve had the good fortune to stay at some nice hotels. When I finally commit to moving out of the Holiday Inn Downtown Fresno, I intend to renovate a house in the exact same style. When ya’ll come over to visit, you’re gonna like it.

Let’s relax for a while.



In Florence, we visited the Duomo, the main cathedral; the home of Dante Alighieri, the poet who wrote the Divine Comedy; the Palazzo Vecchio, the Medicis’ palatial City Hall (the bankers ran this town for centuries), and several other random buildings. We ate in the quaint pizzerias that punctuate the city, trying local pizza, pastas and wine. And gelato. In Florence, gelaterias are more prevalent than stop signs and certainly more effective in slowing traffic. While pretty much everyone we saw was carrying a cone or dish of this indulgence, no one is overweight, at least by US standards. The obvious conclusion is that Nathan Pritikin never spent time in Italy.

Mangiamo!



On the last day, we walked to the Pitti Palace, an imposing palace built the Medicis’ rivals and wandered through one of the more impressive art collections in the world. On the way back to the hotel, I insisted on climbing the Giotto bell tower, what I thought was the tallest tower in the city. Four hundred and fourteen steps later, I emerged on the roof, came to grips with vertigo, the spectacular views and my faulty research.

Bastards!



On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a market that stands on a major spot of Florentine commerce a few hundred years prior. There’s a tile marked with an X in the middle of the market where supposedly bankrupt merchants were dropped to their death from the ceiling as an incentive for other merchants to stay solvent. Election year politics aside, I think it would be an interesting solution to the current sub-prime loan crisis.

The view before impact



After three days in Florence, we took a cab to Buchine, the site of the Borgo Iesolana, a 10-room villa/vineyard where my wife could bond with her yoga friends and I could mourn my wounded balance sheet. While everyone else is finding inner peace, I’m lounging by the pool until some burly Italian woman yells “Mangiamo!” and I can justify opening another bottle of the vineyard’s exceptional red wine.

I'll be in my office...



We eat our meals as a group, and for a misanthrope like me, this is a challenge. Most of the participants are humble with their friendship and hospitality, but a couple of the women have decided that I’m an interesting conversationalist. In reality, I’m just making off-hand comments to combat their blather and struggling to keep from pelting them with bread chunks. My alternatives for dinner conversation have pretty much narrowed down to a pair of wishful thinkers that think every Italian man lusts for them or a cluster of aspiring yoginis fascinated with asanas, fish oils and colonics.

It appears to be an educated group, but they use the word “amazing” like Italians use olive oil. The pasta’s “amazing.” The view “amazing.” The wine is “amazing.” And the yoga, of course, is “amazing.” Come on, people, fire a brain synapse and come up with another word. That said, there are a couple of things here that are truly amazing—the internet service is only open from 8:30a to 7:30p (WTF?) and after two days of a vegetarian diet, I haven’t taken it upon myself to kill something. Amazing.

I’ll be honest, I’m ready for this pacifistic tour of duty to end so I can get back to flushing 3/6 kill players from the Fresno weeds and propping our bar which, given the daily numbers I’ve seen, has become a ghost town in my absence. Either that or the staff has forgotten how to use the register. In the spirit of forgiveness that surrounds me here, I’ll give the bartenders the benefit of the doubt and assume that the Club One bar is just not as fun without me in-house encouraging a heavy pour. In any event, I’m anxious to get back and will manage my homesickness by recounting the tail end of the CVPC series below.

The Last Desperate Days of the CVPC

As I recapped last time, the celebrity event was a solid success despite the “pros” inability to locate the final table. We had a nice turnout and the Club One regulars had fun brushing up to the greatness we know as shaundeeb, Adanthar and TT and taking their money. On Saturday, our Main Event was slated to start at the poker-unfriendly hour of 12:15p (a lapse of judgment by yours truly), yet we still managed to draw over 100 players from all over the state.

When we have new folks in the building, we like to throw as much stimulation as possible at them and this Saturday was no different. We had the CVPC Main Event during the day, the UFC 87 – Seek and Destroy PPV fight featuring George St.-Pierre vs Jon Fitch, on tap for the evening and some sort of karaoke/dance event in our banquet room to take us into last call.

For good measure, we intended to throw some Bud Light girls and a trio of lookers from Jack Daniels at the gathering. When the Brown-Foreman rep agreed to send the Jack Daniels ambassadors she did so with the following caveat: “You’ll need to promote Jack Daniels.” Uh, let me get this right…at no cost to us, you’ll send hotties to help do what I’ve done for years, by myself? Ok, hon, I won’t let you down.

Can we interest you in a Jack and Coke?



The Main Event

The CVPC finale, Event #7, the $50,000 Guaranteed Main Event, drew 125 entrants and a prize pool of $56,250. Shaundeeb, Adanthar, Jose all entered and again proved themselves incapable of plucking fruit from the branches I pulled down. Deeb and Adanthar routinely thrash fields of 2000+ hardened online multi-tablers. Here I set them up with 200 bets to start and neither could work his way past 125 live tournament players?

Both online ringers were out faster than a short stack in a Full Tilt re-buy and Canseco and his girlfriend Heidi followed shortly thereafter. The Grand Dames Barbara and Marsha played 15/30 until dawn the night before—both took a pass on the Main Event in favor of sleep.

The crowd and tournament favorites...briefly





Once busto, Deeb nonchalantly camped out in our 15/30 kill game with about 10-15 tournament tables running on his laptop. We set him up close to an outlet and rolled out a tray so he’d feel at home. TT joined him in the game and Adanthar hovered around to help him balance the online and offline load. Later after they left town, other 15/30 players asked me if it was ok to bring laptops to the cardroom.

“Of course not. I’d chase you into the street with a stick.”
“But you let them.”
“I have no recollection of that.”
“But there are pictures!”
“Photoshopped, obv.”

Those are called chips. We bet with them.



As I mentioned in Part II, Jose was gracious even though he took an early exit from the Main Event. When I bust from a tournament, my first thought is to burn the building down on the way out, and if I stay, it’s usually to taunt whoever knocked me out until he himself is sent to the rail. Jose showed more poise and humility in defeat. After busting, he found a seat in our 2/2 NL game and socialized with players until TV cameras showed for an interview.

Son, did I ever tell you about the time...



The Saturday TV interviews took me a little by surprise. At one point, our Head of Player Relations asked “You ok with TV?” and I said, “Sure, why not?” thinking that some local TV crew was filming an accident nearby and decided to use our restrooms. Turns out, when I gave the green light, she pulled the phone numbers of the two leading sports stations from their websites and lured them in with an “exclusive” interview of Jose. Next thing I knew, we had two cameramen and assistants jockeying for position and a hedge of mikes set up on an empty table adjacent to Jose’s.

I like to think I’m a good salesperson, but our marketing/player relations staff make me look like Willy Loman, whining about the racket and looking for a suicide out. Watching them work is like watching an episode of Planet Earth about spiders feeding. Some happy little creature wanders around his mindless life and stumbles oblivious into their shiny little web. Next thing he knows, he’s immobilized and scheduled to be the daily special. It’s fascinating to observe but unsettling to know I spend my workday in the presence of those who could and might turn me into a snack.

Basta. I finally cracked and asked proprietors of the villa to make me some proper food. I’m sitting in my apartamenta eating spaghetti bolognese, an over-grilled chicken breast and some strange fig pastry. By the most generous standard of Italian food, it’s a mediocre spread, but three days into a vegetarian experience, it’s heaven on Earth.

Back to the interview. Jose took a short break and let Heidi work his stack in the 2/2 NL game. Within a couple of hands, she flopped top set and tripled up when no one believed her action. After she ran the stack up another couple of hundred dollars, we pried her from the game to serve as Jose’s interviewer. We drafted a few softball questions and with some camera angle suggestions from Jose, she conducted an ESPN-quality interview worthy with some nice Club One compliments.

"It's like the Bellagio...without those noisy slots!"



Let's play "Find the athlete." You first.



Shortly after the interview, Jose stood for some final photos, and he and Heidi headed back to LA. I turned my focus back to my online specialists.

After they busted, Deeb and Adanthar turned to multi-tabling in the restaurant and attracted several onlookers. In retrospect, I’m not sure why I didn’t chase them back to the hotel since there’s no upside for us in allowing others to see what they can do. Best case, they’d inspire some local to play more poker, but at the same time prove that he can do so without ever visiting us. Worst case, some nit would rat us out for allowing online poker in our licensed venue. I doubt that any regulator would care, but in our industry, there’s always a concern you’ll be called before some public forum and grilled…”Isn’t it true, sir, that in or about August of 2008 you willingly allowed…”

Just checking email. Honest.



Adanthar always reminds me of Mr. Peabody from the old Rocky & Bullwinkle show, and seeing the two together drew visions of Peabody and his boy Sherman entering the WABAC machine to another time and place for a life lesson. Unlike the cartoon, though, they were oblivious of the change in their surroundings, and by 7p, the bar was packed with rabid fight fans screaming at the TV…with the two of them quietly facing the other direction. Over the next two hours, they didn’t look up but to confirm a drink order or wave for more chicken wings.

Contrarians



The UFC fight ended with headliner St. Pierre winning a decision over Fitch, and we made a final effort to push Jack Daniels on the crowd before they dispersed. The folks at Brown-Foreman were kind enough to send three of their finest brunettes (not that Adanthar or Deeb noticed) and we were committed to keeping our end of the bargain. As it turns out, we sold something like 30 times the amount of Jack Daniels that we usually do. Ok, they’ll be back.

Oh yes, the winners...almost forgot...

To encourage repeat entries throughout CVPC week, we handed out a bracelet to the overall points winner for the tournament series. We pirated the PokerStars leaderboard formula and asked the same folks who make the US Poker Championships bracelet to forge one for us. The winner of this impressive hardware was local John Ly. John won Event #1 and finished 2nd in Event #2 giving him 655 total points, almost 150 points more than the 2nd place finisher.

You'll be pulling the ladies tonight, sir!



We awarded John his bracelet and turned our attention back to the final table of the Main Event. When the final table sat, I braced myself for another couple hours of shove and fold poker as players jockeyed for the good money. To my surprise, the final table cleared like a brothel being raided and ended well before midnight. Heads up, local sushi restaurateur Frank Liang called a post-flop bluff shove with 2nd pair, jack kicker and took home the first place trophy and $14,909.

Dude, that's like 2,000 California rolls.



It was an anticlimactic end to the week, given that none of our notables did anything, well, notable. But given the feedback and stream of new visitors to Club One, we were convinced the tournament series was worth repeating and made careful notes for future improvements.

Sunday, a day of redemption

On Sunday, the online boys gave a MTT clinic by playing their usual Sunday complement and letting others watch over their shoulders in our conference room. While they were so occupied, I took TT on a brief tour of the area surrounding the casino.

There’s a minor league ballpark where the Fresno Grizzlies play and the Fulton Mall, an aging 1960s-era downtown shopping district that’s been turned into a pedestrian mall. There’s several million dollars of art scattered around the area, unlabeled, as the City debates pursuing historical monument status. I’m hoping the City comes to its senses and allows the area to be properly developed. It’s an outdoor mall not an historic point and would be improved with a Starbucks and proper signage.

I made a point to show TT La Grand Laveuse (aka Washerwoman). It's a sculpture directed by Pierre Auguste Renoir circa 1917-18 and one of only six original castings worldwide. The others can be found in Fontvieille Park, Monaco, the Tate Collection, the Philadelphia Art Museum and Washington University in St. Louis. Renoir celebrated beauty and sensuality in his work and the piece is pretty good representation of the style. There’s something sexy about the notion of a woman doing my laundry in the buff, and I’m glad Pierre had the insight and skill to capture it in bronze. For his part, TT was perplexed that it was outside, unmarked and unguarded.

“You’d think someone would steal it.”
“I'm not sure anyone knows what it is.”

Shaun&^%$#deeb

Later that night, I wandered into the restaurant and noticed Deeb playing FTOPS Event #9 $500 NL Heads up with Adanthar observing. Seeing them snicker about every obvious move by an opponent felt like the time when my wife decided that I should get a full body check for signs of skin cancer. I was standing naked in a room surveyed by medical assistants who giggled and made notes every time I displayed a body part.

Shaun eventually won the FTOPS heads up event with a Club One regular looking over his shoulder.

“Hey, you just win that?”
“Yeah.”
“How much you win?”
“Like a hundred fifteen.”
“That all?”
“Thousand.”
“Are you serious? Are you $%&^ing serious?”

The general back alley ambiance...

Deeb’s win came at around 1a on Monday morning and this is Fresno, so there weren’t too many people with whom to celebrate. Adanthar whooped it up by going to bed and our hostesses were in hiding. That left me to go upstairs to help Shaun celebrate. When I entered his room 421, just around the corner from my own at 418, the smell brought back a scene from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas….

The general back-alley ambiance of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul, that I figured I could probably get away with claiming it was some kind of 'Life-slice exhibit' that we'd brought down from Haight Street to show cops from other parts of the country how deep into filth and degeneracy the drug people will sink, if left to their own devices.

But what kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten French fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos ripped out of pulp magazines that were plastered on the broken mirror with smears of mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust…and all these signs of violence, these strange red and blue bulbs and shards of broken glass embedded in the wall plaster…

Depraved is not a word I use often and certainly not on a public post where any local vice officer with a Google alert set for “Club One Casino” could read it. But in the spirit of intellectual honesty, it really is the only word to describe Shaun’s room. It looked as if some squatter had holed up with the Do Not Disturb sign on, and occasionally convinced room service to cram food scraps under the door. Sheets and towels were twisted together and scattered around the room in a crude attempt to seal the “contents” of the room from passersby.

There was an opened suitcase on in the middle of the room. Convinced I’d be obligated Shaun into vice if I saw the contents, I turned away before I saw anything incriminating. But there was no escaping the smell. The whole room reminded me of the local dump at my hometown in Maine. The only thing missing was a flurry of seagulls and a rusted pickup truck offloading items too shameful to put in the garage sale. I made a note to hand the general manager a handful of cash to avoid the embarrassment of a detailed bill for repairs.

The celebration comprised me watching the Discovery Channel and trying not to touch anything sticky while Shaun camped out in the bathroom. Around 2a, I left him to respond to some congratulatory posts on 2+2 and crossed my fingers that I wouldn’t be awaken by some predawn raid of his room.

Begone!

On Monday, I’d had enough and shuttled Adanthar and TT back to the airport for their flights back to New York and Las Vegas. I told the staff to monitor {b]Deeb's whereabouts in my absence and made a quick run down to Los Angeles to pick up clean clothes and check in on my wife and office.

I rolled back Tuesday morning for our 10a staff meeting and assessed the damage. On the one hand, the casino had the feel of a stadium after a season-ending thrashing and staff was wandering around like Katrina victims seeking shelter in the same. On the other hand, we’d held a week-long series with radio print advertising, attracted dozens of new players and a few celebs and managed to run seven quality events without embarrassing ourselves. An ugly win is still a win. We’ll take it.

I hadn’t heard from Shaun all day until a cryptic text message exchange confirmed he was still in town until his 11a connecting flight to LA the following morning. On Wednesday I hit the gym and hustled back to run him out to the airport. Still enthused with his $115k win, he had all positive feedback for Club One Casino.

“Dude, I run so good in Fresno. I’m coming back.”

Nice. No sooner had I dropped him off when he texted me.

“I suck at airports. My flight time was for the LA flight. Rescheduling now.”

Of course. Whatever…I knew he’d figure it out. I kept going back to Club One.

Aftermath

Remember back in college that sweet smell of your dorm room the morning after a huge party? How when you caught a whiff of anything alcohol-related, it made you retch so hard you thought you’d break a rib? And how you swore on everything precious that you’d NEVER do it again? Indeed, it’s been almost 10 years since I last experienced that feeling—the morning after a lustful binge of Jack Daniels shots and lemon drops one August night at the Manhattan midtown W hotel. That evening ended at 3a when a girl I later married threw me out of the hotel wearing only one shoe.

I got up the following morning and forced myself to run up Park Avenue and around the Central Park Reservoir in a pitiful attempt to sweat the foulness from my body before a late morning meeting. I remember being dizzy and sticky and leaving a stench trailing behind me that sickened every pedestrian on the east side of the avenue. I recall finishing the reservoir loop, leaning on a park bench, shaky and sweaty, and vowing to use better judgment with both liquor and women. Ah, the resiliency of the human spirit. Alfred recaps it nicely in Batman Begins.

“And why do we fall down, Master Bruce?”
“So, we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

And so, despite three separate occasions during CPVC week standing in the bathroom with my forehead against the mirror groaning, “Only four more days” or “Stick to one liquor” I find myself planning for our next event. We’ll certainly repeat the CVPC next year, and I’m thinking a weekend tournament in November might work. With improvements, of course. Note to self: start the main event later in the day; more Jack Daniels girls; install a projection TV in the event center; get ESPN Radio to do a remote broadcast; have maintenance install a drain in the middle of the casino floor so we can just hose the place down after…

Edmond

Ok, so the Monte Carlo leg of my vacation was a bit of a bust. The Hotel de Paris is a garish monstrosity with small rooms, confused signage and too many plastic people for my taste. I like history and love most cities in Europe, but the whole setting was just too much. I spent a gross amount of money and still felt like I’d spent two days in steerage of a cruise ship run aground on the coast of France.

Trust me, it was horrible...



I did take the opportunity to have a look at Le Casino, the magnificent but sedate casino adjacent to the hotel. At Club One, we have more table game action than they do, but they obviously trump us with slots, location and prestige. It’s funny the things you notice as an owner—no photo ID badges on the staff, high camera placement, no sound from the slots, lower table minimums than I’d have guessed, etc. Their guests are somewhat better dressed than ours, too.

Le Casino



Monte Carlo itself is a gem built into the side of the Maritime Alps, but its tax haven status and rep as a jet-set hot spot attracts a ongoing stream of drifters and charlatans who happen to use yachts or Bentleys for transportation. The general theme is “Look at me! Let me show you how much money I have to blow!” and everything is shiny from the cars (it’s a crime to drive an unwashed car), to the baubles (every luxury brand over-represented), to the skin of the visitors (tanned and tucked to extreme). After two days, I’d had my fill of the gaudy consumption and fled to Italy.

I’m now holed up in the Four Seasons in Florence after a day-long skirmish with taxis and Hertz which I settled by offering a wad of Euros to a driver in San Remo and querying “Firenze?” The hotel recently reopened after a multi-year renovation and in terms of facility and service easily blows the Hotel de Paris back into the Mediterranean. To compare the two hotels is sort of like comparing Pam Anderson and Angelina Jolie sans tattoo. The former has the goods albeit renovated but after two nights you'll be looking for the door; the latter is just as sexy but more suited for an extended stay.

The view from the back door



My current locale, Florence, is the capital city of the Tuscany region of Italy with a population of about 370,000, some 100,000 fewer people than the city of Fresno. It was home to the Medicis (the bankers) and Dante Alighieri (a namesake of sorts), the birthplace of da Vinci and occasional home of Michelangelo (damned talented Italians, IMO) and is widely considered a cultural center of Europe. Tonight I’m embracing its long tradition of poetry and art by completing CVPC Part II and watching “21” on DVD.

The Line-up for the Celeb event

The Central Valley Poker Championships kicked off on Sunday August 3rd at Club One, with 221 players competing for over $13,000. We followed with a different tournament each day of the week until the highlights, Event #6, the Celebrity Bounty Event on Friday, and Event #7, the $50,000 Guaranteed Main Event on Saturday. As I mentioned in Part I of my CVPC recep, for Friday’s event, we had invited a number of notables including:

Jose Canseco - 1988 American League MVP, six-time MLB all-star, aspiring poker player
Ashley Collette – an FHM magazine model, voted one of the "100 Sexiest Women Alive"
Mike & Janet Dages - Fresno City Councilman and his wife, both good friends of Club One Casino
Shaun "shaundeeb" Deeb – Top-5 ranked online tournament player worldwide
Barbara Enright – member, Women in Poker Hall of Fame, the only woman to final table a WSOP main event and winner of the 2008 Legends of Poker Ladies event
Terence Frazier - former major league baseball player and local Fresno entrepreneur
Steve "TT" McLoughlin and Serge "Adanthar" Ravitch – moderators on TwoPlusTwo.com, the world's leading poker website
Matt O'Dette - captain of the Fresno Falcons hockey team
Max Shapiro – writer for CardPlayer magazine
Jason Von Flue – Club One-sponsored mixed martial arts fighter and contestant on Ultimate Fighter 2
Marsha Waggoner – “Lady Poker Extraordinaire”, member of the Women in Poker Hall of Fame and international rep for Crown Casino in Australia and

On Friday, I got up early, shook off the Cabernet cobwebs from the previous night and hit the gym before our other invited guests began filing in. Adanthar,, TT, Shaun, Barbara and Max stumbled in piecemeal from next door, and by 4p, Jose Canseco and his girlfriend, Heidi Northcutt, a stunner who runs an online marketing business, Ashley Collette, Marsha Waggoner, Matt O’Dette and Jason Von Flue were all wandering around the casino getting their bearings.

Our patrons were inspired by the presence of such luminaries. Club One customers aren’t shy with their support of odd causes—Fresno State, the 49ers, open-ended straight draws—and proudly show support through apparel, tattoos and in the case of the OESD, a shove in the face of little or no fold equity. Nonetheless, I was surprised when one of the staff pointed out that a customer had shaved our logo into his head for the event.

At first I thought she was joking, but upon inspection, I confirmed that it was true. Note that he wasn’t responding to any sort of competition—his haircut was completely unsolicited. I thanked him for his show of support and asked him to stand for a photo. I also planted the seed for an upgrade, noting that if he shaved his head bald and tattooed our logo and phone number across his skull, I’d considered reimbursing him for his out-of-pocket expense.



We’d run “celebrity” events before but I was curious to see our staff’s ability to manage this crew of documented miscreants without incident. When you own a card room, there’s always the grey cloud of regulatory oversight over whatever you do. Most days I feel like I’m leading a pack of rowdy degenerates through a gauntlet of DUI checkpoints with several of them standing up through the sunroof howling profanities and toasting the officers as we drive by. I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before I hear a short siren burst and a sobering “Been drinking tonight have we, boys?”

Off we go!

But we’re nothing if not committed and the event started with over 90 civilians joining our celebs in NL combat. I introduced our invited guests to polite applause and cued our tournament director to initiate action.

Nice crowd



We structured all our CVPC events with 10,000 start chips, 25/50 start blinds and 30-minute rounds so I’d done my part to stack the event in favor of our ringers. On the other hand, I added $100 bounty on each to make sure anytime they entered a pot they’d have most of the table tagging along. As any experienced gunslinger can tell you, the price on a man’s head matters more than the size of his weapon, and that maxim held true in Event #6. All the invited pros busted out well before the bubble. In fact, I’m not sure any of them made the first break or even posted an ante.

There was a nervous moment early when Barbara was all-in with a set of sixes with four spades on the board. She was convinced she’d be the first to the rail, but I knew her flopped set was the nuts. Sure enough, at the river, the other players in the pot showed 3rd pair, top kicker A5 and two pair, respectively. Barbara scooped the pot and commented, “I thought for sure one of them had the flush.” Welcome to Club One, hon.

I’m telling you, they don’t have spades



Out they go!

Ironically, world top five shaundeeb was the first pro out when his 55 on a 432 board failed to improve against an overpair.

A confluence of beauty and talent



Adanthar was out next with some random trash like TPTK.

Bemused, obv



TT lasted the longest of the boys from out of state. I’m not sure what sent him to the rail, but it was probably some odd hand and line which convinced that Fresno poker is stuck in 2004.

TT, the Councilman and Jose back-to-back-to-back



Jose lasted longer than our “pro” players but still got bounced well before the money. His girlfriend fared better and stormed into the final table as the chip leader. Of the other notables, only Jason Von Flue, a poker novice coached between hands by LakeofFire, made the final table. The others crapped out and ended up in the restaurant multi-tabling.

Back to the comfort zone



A seasoned competitor

Jose once again proved himself a surprising asset for any poker event. Say what you want about the off-field drama, the 1988 AL MVP shows up on time, looks like a pro athlete and socializes with everyone. He’s also an enthusiastic player who’s open to any poker-related conversation. If you own a card room and don’t invite him to your events, you do your room and your customers a huge disservice.

Charter member, 40/40 Club



Specifically, he was gracious and friendly with everyone, including all our regular short on social skills card room riff-raff. None of Hellmuth’s “I am a poker god. Lower your eyes in my presence.” or [fill in the name of most poker pros]’s “Pardon me while I get too drunk to complete a sentence.” nonsense. After he busted out on Friday night, he gave an impromptu interview to a local TV station and then on Saturday, sat for a staged interview to two others. He also signed piles of Club One gear for gawkers and stood for a ton of photos. Not only that, he sat in our 2/5 NL game and went on a huge heater in the 2/2 NL game on Saturday, running a $100 stack up to about $800 in minutes when his top set got paid off in a multi-way pot. I’m not sure our regulars liked the way he drained their cash from the table, but his presence was a real treat for the Fresno poker community.

Workin’ the 2/5 NL game



He juggled the TV guys like a veteran and gave a good interview with lots of props to the casino. And as I alluded above, his girlfriend Heidi is hot, smart and can play--she finished 5th or 6th in the event and knew exactly what she was doing throughout. Admittedly, she pulled a wicked suck out with ATo v AA at the final table but hey, we all would if we could.

The Grand Dames et al.

A word or two on the other out-of-town guests. Barbara Enright and Max Shapiro were both a hoot and a fun addition to the event. Barbara has a pile of stories from her days married to a former Dodger (as in baseball, not tax) and the last 30 years loitering in poker rooms taking money from hapless chumps. Throughout the weekend, she kept threatening to publish her lurid stories, and I dabbled with the notion of optioning the lot.

The storyteller



Max Shapiro is her straight man, a polite craftsman of words who’s authored over 120 articles for CardPlayer magazine. In other words, he was writing about poker well before writing about poker was cool. He was gracious and complimentary throughout the weekend and I took his “We were very pleasantly surprised with your card room.” as high praise. He’s seen a lot of rooms.

Max Shapiro



Marsha Waggoner, a friend of Barbara’s, was another colorful addition to the event. Like Barbara, Marsha made a nice living separating men from their stacks and she’s got her own satchel of road stories. The “Grand Dame of Poker” is an executive host at Hollywood Park and spokesperson for Crown Casino in Australia and has a great nose for value. She spent most of the weekend camped in the 15/30 game.

Marsha "Lady Poker Extraordinaire" Waggoner



Ashley Collette was a woman of extremes, both the best looking and least experienced of all the players in the room. We seated her at the main table with Jose, Janet Dages and Barbara Waggoner and alternated Meemee and Su near her to coach her through her first time at the table. She took to poker like a fish on a bicycle, but in a rare display of Club One hospitality, no one complained. Apparently, when you pull 17,000,000 online votes in the FHM Digital Darling competition, Club One patrons are willing to overlook your lack of poker fundamentals.

Ashley picks the dealer she wants



"Ladies, how about one more for Vanity Fair..."



The pride of Fresno

We’re sponsoring the Fresno Falcons this year as they return to Selland Arena in downtown Fresno, and in reciprocity, they sent their captain, Matt O’Dette, and a staffer from the marketing department. O’Dette is an imposing defenseman, who at 6’5” and 228 lbs. is a nightmare for opponents hurtling toward them at thirty miles an hour. He’s also got a fine roster of fights on his hockey resume and we were happy to have him in-house and on our side for the event.

On defense…Matt O'Dette



We also beefed up by inviting Jason Von Flue, a contender on Ultimate Fighter 2 and good friend of Club One. Jason’s a dangerous ground fighter who can cripple at will. He always shows for Club One charity events or pay-per-view fights and we toss a few sponsorship dollars his way for a prime spot across the back of his fight trunks. It’s part of my “keep guys in your weight class who can kill you complacent” strategy and has the added benefit of providing added exposure to our key 21-45 male demographic.

Jason and a C1 customer moments before his death



Side note: A few of us went to see Jason’s bout on he following Friday night. He was matched against a brute named Kamaka from a rough area of Oahu. Jason was the pre-fight favorite, but when the Hawaiian landed a hard right to his chin, Jason dropped hard. We freaked, but as Kamaka moved in to pummel him, Jason spun him into a hold that threatened to blow out his knee for life. Tap tap tap. The howls of approval you hear in the background in the YouTube below are Club One folks. Cue to the last 30 seconds.

Note the bottom of the shirt



Sir, that was a mistake...



Cue to the last 30 seconds

[YOUTUBE]exLa_9C8MKI[/YOUTUBE]


Le table finale!

Despite their talents and experience, all but two of our celebs failed to negotiate the briar patch of Club One tournament poker. Jason hacked his way through the field with LakeofFire’s careful coaching (“You’re short. Shove.”) but finally busted in 7th or 8th place. Heidi seemed to have a lock on the event; her striking looks and calculated moves resulted in a monster stack but her run ended in 5th or 6th place when a Q high shove didn't get there.



The event finally wrapped about 1a with Kevin Lusk, Oran C. and Ron M. chopping three ways for over $1600 each.

Right, ok...get out of here already…



By the time, the final three players chopped, our celebrities had either a) gone home (Ashley, Jason, Matt et al.), b) scattered throughout the casino (Barbara, Max, Marsha and TT) or c) retreated to their room to play online (Serge, Shaun). I made a mental note to invite more live limit playing celebs next year and headed to the bar to regroup before last call. Tomorrow's event would start at 12:15p sharp and I thought a hangover would add a fun twist to the day...

Next up…Central Valley Poker Championships – The Conclusion in which our notables again fail at live poker and Deeb saves face by winning $115,000 online.

Edmond

An apology of sorts

I used to pride myself on timely reporting of my poker exploits—the CA State Poker Championships, the Commerce Free-roll, Super Bowl Sunday at the Mirage—but the ownership gig really cuts into my time to relax, pour a few ounces of bourbon and fire up the laptop. Invariably, when I start working on a write-up, someone barges into my office with item requiring immediate executive decision-making:

“The second ice machine is down!”
“Seat 2 in 15/30 is complaining about karaoke!”
“One of the hostesses showed up in short shorts!”

As a good manager, I make it a point to respond quickly to these imperatives with hands on attention and measured responses.

“Send security to SaveMart for ice.”
“Tell that whiner to use his headphones.”
“Let’s have a look.”

Unfortunately, my commitment to customer service distracts from regular blog posting, and I’m forced to look for stretches of free time to piece together an account from memory.

At present, I’m sitting in business class on a United flight to Nice, en route to Monte Carlo, the first stop in a 10-day cash bonfire I’ll be witnessing in Europe while my wife enjoys her summer vacation. The inferno starts at the Hotel de Paris, my first trip to another casino as an owner and as far from Club One, literally or figuratively, as one can get. The conflagration then moves east to the Four Seasons in Florence for a couple of days so, as my wife put it, “We can stay somewhere nice.” The blaze then gets contained at a pre-paid yoga retreat at a Tuscan villa, where my wife will search for inner balance and allegedly, I’ll be able to self-immolate by the pool in peace and quiet.

I’m actually looking forward to the trip to catch up on sleep, eating and writing, all of which used to be part of my daily routine. In the meantime, I’ve got 10 hours to kill between LA and Frankfurt and I intend to unload my CVPC recap, which has been lodged in me like bad British food. I’ve been frustrated by fits and urges without meaningful result, so like a man angered by constipation, I’ve resolved to sit here until I get the damn thing out.

Ok, we'll need a couple of ringers

For those of you who missed the 7-day bender we called the 2008 Central Valley Poker Championships, mark your calendar for the sequel due out in the Summer of ’09. The inaugural series offered remarkable value for your poker and bar dollar, of course, but with a few months to stew on what we did wrong and another nine or so to pressure our vendors for even more promo dollars, CVPC Deuce should be at once entertaining and frightening. I’m hoping the Patriots will take the same approach to the 2008/09 NFL season.

The week started with Adanthar, TT and Shaundeeb all confirming attendance. Nath and SirWatts opted out, for the installation of a new grill and a wedding, respectively. Another less confident host might take offense at the rejection. Missing a trip to Club One in Fresno for a trip to the dentist or a hitching in Canada? That’s like turning down a backstage pass at a strip club to do laundry, but I reminded myself that both are still youngsters and my own superb decision-making took years of trial and error to hone.

With the three confirmations in hand, I caned our staff into a frenzy, pitching the trio as visiting dignitaries with deep poker resumes, proven social skills and vast influence throughout the poker community. I figured that would be more inspiring than the more truthful…”Ok, three geeks who spend most of their day in front of the computer in shorts will be wandering around this week. Encourage them to wear shoes in the casino, and be sure to put a tarp under them when they eat.”

My ruse worked and the staff rushed around most of the week re-training our dealers and hosts, stocking the bar, assembling gift baskets—“What? There’s no mini-bar at the Holiday Inn? That’s not going to work…”—and reminding the hotel staff that the typical HI guest’s work and sleep schedule was the exact opposite of that of our guests. By Thursday, I felt we were ready to accommodate our visitors or, at the very least, distract them from our own shortcomings.

The Holiday Inn in downtown Fresno is attached to our building and changed hands late last year. The property had been closed for several years and the new owner completed an ambitious renovation in June. We’ve got a good relationship with the management and the property is now a standout for this town, but there are still a few spots for improvement. For example, the pool’s renovation is “pending” and we’re keeping a close eye on the progress. Not that we’re nosy neighbors. It’s just that their pool happens to be directly above our security room and leaked during the demolition. I showed up one day and found our staff in ponchos and the security equipment under plastic. That said, the Holiday Inn Fresno is stupid convenient to us, the nicest place in town and home for our guests for the next few days.

Like Motel 6, only better!

Shaun was the first to arrive at Fresno International (so named, I think, a traveler once fled Fresno and ended up in Mexico) with laptop in tow. I contemplated s