I’m not certain this tournament could be considered the early origins of the Battle of the Blogger Tournament series (BBT), but it was the first of many WPBT tournaments that saw poker bloggers sending other poker bloggers to the Rio during the hottest months of the year.

The tradition has evolved into an insane number of free dollars and crazy opportunities. Thanks to AlCantHang and his cohorts at FullTilt, #5 is the best BBT yet. Three Main Event seats, accommodations at the Rio, three 2K event seats, as well as over 12K in free rolls and prize padding.

(Exclamation of astonishment!)

There will be invitationals over the next six Sundays and I’ve been lucky enough to win a golden ticket (FullTilt, FTW!). My mom is in town for her birthday weekend (78, FTW!) and it won’t be easy to squeeze in a tournament tomorrow, but I’m thinking a heavy meal and strategically timed Sandra Bullock film ought to do the trick.

Since I won the seat in 2006, the talent and skill of poker playing among the bloggers has increased by orders of magnitude. I am quite aware I am not of their caliber. May my overplayed crappy pairs hold up and my weak-tight play be rewarded once again! (It could happen.)

And now, here is a picture of Theo. You might remember him from such hits as Genetically Inferior Pup and CSI Gainesville: Paw of Destruction.

As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, at 7:43. Now you are here, at 7:44. Now you are…

Gone.

–Charlie Kaufman
Synecdoche, New York

Hey clouds, quit being so majestic. I’m trying to be annoyed by Miami traffic over here.

We finally reach the Keys when a nearby star nearly destroys my left retina.

Here is a picture of the sun setting over Big Pine Key. Note the modern dancers posing as fisherman along the bridge.

Some say the 19th century guest house we stayed in is haunted by the ghost of Cuban cigar heiress Enriquetta Marrero. I submit that the eerie moaning that awoke me at 5am was nothing more than a poorly hydrated Philadephian.

Cowboy Bill’s welcomes back Al Can’t Hang!

Settling in after a long drive.

Jason says the band is from Nashville. I believe him because their sunglasses are non-ironic.

Jason and Rachel: OMG 2 CUTE

Back in the saddle again. (The “saddle” is what happens to you when you try to keep up with Al).

Cock fighting is illegal in the Continental US, but fluffy puppy fighting prevails on Duval St.

Poker on the front porch: Rachel is not buying what Pablo is selling.

Poker on the front porch: Jason assures Rachel she made a good laydown. Pablo probably had quads.

Okay! Birds!

Sunday brunch. Do not ask Rachel about the ladies room.

Seriously.

Don’t.

Southernmost point of the United States. Right behind my khaki-clad ass.

Hammock store!

Coq au vin!

I would like to live here, please and thank you.

Sunset fun, take one.

Change iPhone photographers. Sunset fun, take two.

Al snaps a picture as the sun sets on the eve of his birthday.

That one cloud is really screwing up this shot. God.

People we don’t know on a boat, probably having more fun than you.

1. Tangerine Rockets
by Paul McGuire
Lennie was an international legend. His father walked away from a plane
crash and passed along some of those good luck genes over to Lennie . . .
More

2. The Red Pill
by Sigge S. Amdal
She dropped the face and began to cry, as tensions rose around me. The
waiters stopped waiting tables, people stopped talking; they were just
exchanging knowing glances and judgmental comments . . .
More

3. Fine Tuning
by Milton T. Burton
He looked perplexed. I slipped my hand beneath my coat, came out with the
little silenced .22 Magnum auto, and shot him right in the center of the
forehead. The hollow-point bullet exited the back of his skull, making a
colorful little jet of blood and brains as it went . . .
More

4. On Scoring
by Human Head
One look at the eyeliner, eyebrows, gold hoops and herringbone chains, and
I knew this was the Angel we were supposed to see. As she drew closer to
the door, the tattoo’s left little doubt. She didn’t say anything. She just
looked at me . . .
More

5. The Joys of Gambling
by Johnny Hughes
Saratoga Springs, New York in August was the gambling capital of America
in the 1920s, with the horses, the spa waters, large and ornate casinos, and
America’s wealthiest citizens in a gilded age, when money and wine were
treated like water . . .
More

What a Long Strange Trip It’s Been . . .
From Dr. Pauly McGuire’s Laptop:

The September edition of Truckin’ marks the return of the Human Head after
a four year hiatus. I’m enthralled to have him back in the mix. Everyone’s
favorite Norwegian word wanker, Sigge, returns for a second month in a
row. We also have a couple of Texan scribes in Johnny Hughes and Milton T.
Burton. And of course, I have a story inspired by a recent trip to Colorado.

Thanks for telling your friends about Truckin’. May you will increase your
karma ten fold! The contibutors here write for free and you’ll be doing me
a huge favor by helping get the some publicity.

If anyone is interested in being added to the mailing list, or perhaps you
are interested in writing for a future issue, then feel free to contact me.

I have to sincerely thank the writers for sharing their bloodwork. Thanks
for taking this leap of faith with me. And a special thanks goes out to
you, the reader, for your loyalty and support over the years.

Be good,
McG

Two years ago this weekend . . .
I was mad at Ira Glass about the show “Duty Calls”, I witness a woman toss a baby, and I patiently await photos from the Boys of Summer.

Three years ago this weekend . . .
One of my most embarrassing moments and some photos from the Keys.

Four years ago this weekend . . .
Dreamed about Lindsey Lohan and posted photos of poker bloggers at the Plaza.

Five years ago this weekend . . .
I became obsessed with Poker, Hula moved out.

Six years ago this weekend . . .
Posted a random list and a headless shot of Hula, the only photo of him ever posted.

Seven years ago this weekend
My father died.

Eight years ago this weekend . . .
I had an echocardiogram.

Nine years ago this weekend . . .
I re-watched “Twin Peaks”.

Ten Years ago this weekend . . .
I started an online journal.

To begin the next decade, I stayed inside all weekend while friends, internet-invisible and real met in Chicago, Bonnaroo, the Alcove downtown and at the movies. I justified bailing on all of these events with actual honest-to-god valid reasons, but after looking through entries tonight that I’ve posted (and not posted) over the last decade, I’m pretty sure a new battle with the ever-shrinking prison that is my agoraphobia is the culprit. Going to a store or the movies should not feel as daunting as jumping out of a plane.

But it does.

In fact, I find I’m increasingly uncomfortable even reading books or watching television about people who get on planes or stray too far from civilization. (Took me two days to watch “Into the Wild”. Two days!)

I’ve fought this particular demon and emerged triumphant before. I have a plan (that includes professional assistance) that I may or may not chronicle here.

Something that sustains me in the darkest hours of anxiety and fear is reading (and watching television) about people who successfully escape. I’m torn, because after ten years (and my foolish appearance on facebook and twitter), this “online journal” isn’t so secret anymore. There’s a good deal more personal shame and professional worry about revealing too much in 2009 than there was in 1999.

I am conflicted. Recording this particular journey here might help someone going through a similar crisis. Recording this particular journey here might also cost me my job.

That being said, it’s not all bad. Despite missing friends around the continent this weekend, I was truly happy at the dome. Florida storms and uninterrupted hours of quiet reading and contemplation, surrounded by the woods and wandering possums, armadillos and deer, accompanied by a chorus of night-bugs and frogs helped yank me out of the clouds of “me, me, me”.

I feel grounded.

Melancholy, but strong and hopeful.

As proof, here I am, strong and hopeful and not visiting a shower since Friday (not due to depression or laziness mind you, but in solidarity for my unwashed brethren at Bonnaroo), looking at the Kindle where much of this weekend’s reading has been done.