Same as it ever was

So what did you get for your last birthday? A new tie? Maybe a nice dinner out? A piece of chocolate cake? I've got a girlfriend better than that, and nothing is better than this: David Byrne at Benaroya Hall.

As you know, Michelle took me to Byrne's Seattle concert on Wednesday night, my birthday, and it was one of the all-time great presents.

Michelle is such a huge fan of Byrne -- and especially of his groundbreaking 1970s and '80s band Talking Heads -- that she was afraid I'd consider the tickets a gift for herself. Like if I took her to a Bob Dylan show for her birthday (which I might have done, come to think of it). But no, I always loved the Talking Heads too, and except for the famous 1984 movie "Stop Making Sense" I'd never seen Byrne in concert.

Wednesday's show was everything I hoped. He brilliantly mixed classic Talking Heads stuff with music from last year's album "Everything That Happens Will Happen Today." (That's a terrific record, by the way, one of my favorites of the year. I was surprised to find just now that I didn't include on my Best of 2008 list, but now I remember I put the list together before I heard it; a friend, responding to my list, turned me on to "Everything That Happens.")

At 56 now, Byrne has barely changed from his classic "Stop Making Sense" look and sound, except for his now-white hair. Still whip-thin, constantly in motion, fluid and jangly, he looks like he could still rock a really big suit. I thought about wearing my own big suit to the show, but somewhere along the line it turned into a really small suit.

The Talking Heads may be no more, but the instrumentation, staging and showmanship Wednesday night were all vintage. Byrne played electric or acoustic guitar most of the night, backed by bass, keyboards, two drummers, three backup vocalists and three remarkable dancers. All 11 wore white (slim white pants and shirts for the men; short white dresses for the women), and they executed precise, intricate and energetic moves throughout the two-hour show. Every second seemed choreographed, and beautifully. His collaborations with Twyla Tharp weren't for nothing.

You may ask yourself, is this my rock venue? Benaroya Hall, normally home of the Seattle Symphony, turned out to be a wonderful host for a new-wave concert. The place is beautiful, and it held its great sound from the standing O that openend the show through the four encores including the scorcher "Burning Down the House."

Byrne's voice was supple and rich as it ever was. The concert goes in my Pantheon for sure. Thank you, baby, for an awesome birthday.

Last year we went to Paris. Gosh, what'll we do when I turn 50?

Here's a taste of Byrne back in the day, "Girlfriend is Better," from "Stop Making Sense."

Incremental Updates, Annual Edition

Glancing at my M&M Calendar I notice that, unbelievably, it was one year ago today we launched this stupid blog.

Michelle's first post, "One day I couldn't stop blogging," was about how we both felt something missing after the fun of blogging our big adventure earlier last summer at the World Series of Poker. So, Incremental Updates was born.

Since then we've built a small but regular community of M&M'ers -- our moms, Kaye & Val, Mich, Janice, Laurie, a few other lurkers -- and we've all shared a few laughs, stories and photos from our little lives. Like "Seinfeld," M&M is a show about nothing. And that's what I love about it. We're far from perfect: It's been noted that we're overly generous with our movie-rating gliomas; I also remember confidently predicting that Hillary Clinton would be president; and who could forget the awesome carrot fight?


But we've also found an excuse and a place to document some excellent meals with friends, watch Gina and Franny adapt to teenagerhood, appreciate the unexpected misanthropic fun of brain cancer and record highlights from our awesome Pie in the Sky II tour of America. Pretty good.

Flipping back through some early posts I ran across this genius idea by Michelle, A challenge to our readers: Send us a photo of what you're doing today. Unfortunately, due to laziness, technical problems or just low readership, no one participated. Here was the follow-up post: What we're doing today.

So now, all of us being a year older and more technically adept, let's try again. Send us a digital photo of what you're doing today, it doesn't need to be fancy, meaningful or even in focus, and we'll post a little M&M birthday album.

It's our blog's four-glioma birthday wish. And we blew out all the candles so it has to come true.

Pie in the Sky, Parts I and II

Several mentions here recently about the big Pie in the Sky II road trip, and since the Excellent Element hits the highway a week from today I figure it's time to tell how the voyage got that name, and when and where we're going.

It all started seven years ago, actually, when Miriam rescued me from unemployment and potential bankruptcy by offering me a job at the Los Angeles Times. That story here. I was scheduled to start work in mid-October that year, 2001, so Michelle and I decided to leave a month early and take the long route from Seattle to LA ... via Chicago, Boston, New York, Washington, Louisville, Denver, the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas.

We both always had wanted to take a cross-country road trip and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. When I called Mom to tell her about the plan, though, she thought it sounded over-ambitious.

"That sounds a little pie-in-the-sky to me, Mark," she said.

Well that cracked me up, so we immediately dubbed our trip the Pie in the Sky Tour, and made concert-style t-shirts, complete with projected tour stops on the back, to commemorate the adventure. I still wear mine.










Amazingly, the day of our scheduled departure -- with the moving van showing up early that morning -- was Sept. 11. Yes, that Sept. 11: 9/11. The moving dudes knocked on our door at about 7:30 and asked if we were watching TV. No, we said, and we turned it on to see the footage of planes flying into the World Trade Center. And then the moving guys unplugged our TV to load it onto the truck and Michelle and I climbed into my old Honda Civic wagon and we started driving east.

Weird. No planes in the sky and by the time we got past Spokane, a couple hundred miles east of Seattle, no solid radio signal either. We went for hours at a time without any news about what was going on.

And yet, we managed to have a great trip. We camped in Yellowstone, played cards in Deadwood, ate dinner with a bunch of flag-waving patriots in a small red-state diner someplace and then, later that same day, cruised into the liberal college town of Mankato, Minn., to find a peacenik coffee shop still open at midnight. Trippy.

Our plan had been to see ballgames in some classic parks like Wrigley Field, but the terrorist attacks suspended the baseball season. Some guy in a poker game in Shakopee, Minn., was raving about the beauty of the northern shores of the Great Lakes around that time of year, so we decided to blow off Chicago and head north instead, through Duluth and into Canada. That leg of the trip truly was as beautiful as advertised, but strange too. That's where we ran into Canadians, including the proprietor of a B&B where we stayed, who told us Americans had the attacks coming and almost seemed to hold us responsible.

Eventually we made our way through Niagara Falls and Boston and into New York, where we visited the less-than-two-week-old Ground Zero -- eerie, upsetting and unforgettable -- before moving onto happier destinations.

Some of the coolest parts of Pie in the Sky I were hooking up with friends and family, including M&M regulars Ronelle and her crew in New Jersey and Janice (below) and hers in Louisville, as well as Michelle's sister Renee and her family in Colorado. We also loved the Grand Canyon and the area around Moab, Utah (top picture). All those stops will be part of Pie in the Sky II as well.

Although we had tour dates on our t-shirts, we didn't really have a set agenda for that first trip, and that was a lot of its charm. The Canada detour was just one example of our spontaneity. We had a big Rand McNally atlas with us, and we traced our path in pen as we went -- it still hangs on our wall.

For this trip, with three times as much time on the road, our plans are even less set -- really, really, pie-in-the-sky, Mom -- except for the first two weeks, which are planned. We're leaving next Saturday, heading for Mom's place in Eugene; then to San Francisco, where Michelle has a speaking gig at the San Francisco Chronicle; to Santa Barbara, where she booked us an awesome camping spot on the beach; to Los Angeles, where she's speaking at a Cal State Fullerton writer's conference; to Las Vegas for a night; and then to New Orleans for JazzFest.

After that, wide open. We know we want to see some friends and hit some card rooms. We both kind of want to see the Florida Keys and Maine, where we've never been, and we hope to stay off the interstates and travel the smaller highways and back roads. The beauty of a long break. We'll camp and sleep in the tricked-out car when we can, grab a motel room if we absolutely need a shower.

Overly ambitious? Pie in the sky? Maybe, but something tells me we'll pull it off. With stories to tell.

Jazz Fest 2008

One of our big early stops on the Pie in the Sky Tour of America (II) will be to attend the second weekend of the Jazz Fest in New Orleans. Here's a slide show of our last trip to New Orleans and to the Jazz Fest:



For a slideshow with larger images go here.

In case you're wondering just how jealous you should be of our Jazz Fest pitstop, here's the lineup:

Friday, May 2

Art Neville, Stevie Wonder, John Prine, Michael Franti & Spearhead, Richard Thompson, John Butler Trio, John Hammond, Trombone Shorty & Orleans Ave., Marva Wright & the BMWs, Terence Blanchard & the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra, Papa Grows Funk, Sunpie’s Tribute to Clifton Chenier, Zigaboo Modeliste, The Jackson Southernaires, The Lee Boys, Bonerama, The Bad Plus, John Boutté, Soul Rebels, Ingrid Lucia, Coco Robicheaux & Spiritland, Theryl “Houseman” DeClouet, Chubby Carrier & the Bayou Swamp Band, Bluerunners, Wanda Rouzan, Driskill Mountain Boys, Ann Savoy’s Sleepless Knights, New Orleans Jazz Vipers feat. Sophie Lee, Stoney B & Grampa Elliot, Gina Forsyth & the Malvinas, Clive Wilson & the New Orleans Serenaders feat. Butch Thompson, New Wave Brass Band, Tuba Woodshed feat. Matt Perrine and Kirk Joseph, Belton Richard & the Musical Aces, Eve’s Lucky Planet, Larry Garner with Henry Gray, Ritmo Caribeño, New Orleans Jazz Ramblers, Louisiana Repertory Jazz Ensemble, Betty Winn & One A-Chord, Lyle Henderson & Emmanuel, Kid Simmons’ Local International Allstars, Pinettes Brass Band, D.L. Menard & the Louisiana Aces, Legacy – the students of Alvin Batiste, Greater Antioch Gospel Choir, New Orleans Mardi Gras Rhythm Indian Section, Ebenezer BC Radio Choir, Loyola University Jazz Ensemble, Casa Samba, The Smooth Family, Eulenspeigel Puppets of Iowa, Original Big Seven and Original Four SAPCs, McMain High School Gospel Choir, Fi Yi Yi & the Mandingo Warriors, New Orleans School of Circus Arts and ISL, Gospel Inspirations of Boutte, Rosedean Choir of South Africa, Scene Boosters and Old N Nu Fellas SAPCs…


Saturday, May

Marcia Ball, Jimmy Buffett, Diana Krall, Steel Pulse, The Roots, Bobby McFerrin and Chick Corea, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Bishop Paul S. Morton Sr. & the Greater St. Stephens Mass Choir, Dirty Dozen Brass Band, Henry Butler, Aaron Neville’s Gospel Soul, John Mooney & Bluesiana, the subdudes, New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra, Ruthie Foster, Irvin Mayfield & the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra, Savoy Center of Eunice Saturday Cajun Jam, Charmaine Neville, The Dixie Cups, Nathan & the Zydeco Cha-Chas, James Andrews, Dr. Michael White & the Original Liberty Jazz Band feat. Thais Clark, Lillian Boutté, Geno Delafose & French Rockin’ Boogie, Stephanie Jordan, War Chief Juan & Young Fire, Pine Leaf Boys, Bionik Brown, Treme Brass Band, New Orleans Blues Serenaders, Spencer Bohren, Don Vappie & the Creole Jazz Serenaders, Roddie Romero & the Hub City Allstars, Lil’ Buck Sinegal feat. Rudy Richard, Feufollet, Pinstripe Brass Band, Storyville Stompers Brass Band, Tribute to Max Roach feat. Herlin Riley, Jason Marsalis, and Shannon Powell, Tondrae, Chappy, Danza feat. Evan Christopher and Tom McDermott, Beyond Measure, Lil Nathan & the Zydeco Big Timers, Rumba Buena, Rocks of Harmony, Guitar Lightnin’ Lee, St. Joseph the Worker Mass Choir, Big Chief Ke Ke & Comanche Hunters and White Cloud Hunters Mardi Gras Indians, Leviticus Gospel Singers, Tulane University Jazz Ensemble, Secondline Jammers, New Generation and Undefeated Divas SAPCs, Trouble Nation and Mohawk Hunters Mardi Gras Hunters, Archdiocese of New Orleans Mass Choir, Bester Singers, Donald Lewis, Young Guardians of the Flame, Stephen Foster’s Mid City Workshop Alumni Ensemble, Westbank Steppers, Valley of the Silent Men and Pigeon Town Steppers SAPCs, Golden Blade and Wild Tchoupitoulas Mardi Gras Indians…


Sunday, May 4

The Neville Brothers, Santana, Maze feat. Frankie Beverly, The Raconteurs, Dianne Reeves, Galactic, The Radiators, The Derek Trucks Band, Keb’ Mo’, Rebirth Brass Band, Sonny Landreth, Snooks Eaglin, John P. Kee & the New Life Community Choir, Preservation Hall Jazz Band, Tribute to Mahalia Jackson feat. Irma Thomas, Marva Wright and Rachelle Richard, Vernel Bagneris: Jelly Roll & Me, Amanda Shaw & the Cute Guys, Ivan Neville’s Dumpstaphunk, DJ Captain Charles, Abigail Washburn & the Sparrow Quartet feat. Bela Fleck, Kenny Neal, Sherman Washington & the Zion Harmonizers, Bob French & the Original Tuxedo Jazz Band, Elysian Fieldz, The New Orleans Bingo Show!, Benny Grunch & the Bunch, Goldman Thibodeaux & the Lawtell Playboys, Jonathan Batiste, Rotary Downs, George French, Chris Ardoin & Nu Step, Guitar Slim Jr., Grupo Fantasma, Lost Bayou Ramblers, Ovi-G & the Froggies, The Revealers, Pfister Sisters, Salvador Santana Band, William Smith’s Tribute to Kid Sheik, Eddie Boh Paris aka Chops, SUBR Jazz Ensemble, Chris Clifton, Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz Ensemble, New Orleans Spiritualettes, Zulu Male Ensemble, The Jazz Jam, Tribute to Tuba Fats, Highsteppers Brass Band, Black Eagles, Hardhead Hunters and Apache Hunters Mardi Gras Indians, Lady Rollers and CTC Steppers SAPCs, Guyland Leday with Family & Friends Zydeco Band, Young Traditional New Orleans Brass Band, Watson Memorial Teaching Ministries, Wild Apaches, Young Magnolias and Black Feathers Mardi Gras Indians, Original Prince of Wales and the Original New Orleans Lady Buckjumpers SAPCs, Tornado Brass Band, Judy Stock, Minister Jai Reed…

If we get there early enough on Thursday, we might be able to stop in for Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys, and Tower of Power.

El Capitan Awesomeness

Today I booked a room -- make that a parking spot -- at the El Capitan State Beach just north of Santa Barbara. Cost for one of the best addresses in the universe: $35 bucks. We'll be staying there April 21, sleeping in the tricked out Tripmobile. Sweet!

Thanks to isotaupe for the pic. She also has some cool pics of national pillowfight day, which took place last weekend ...

Tricking out the Tripmobile

Here at last are some pix of the platform I built. Yesterday I stained it a lovely mahogany, and today I'll be lacquering it, as it doesn't seem to be losing its funky raw wood smell over time. Also, we won't have to worry about spilling water on it, or about mold (I don't think) if I lacquer it.

Don't you know who I am?!

One of the regulars at the Muckleshoot Casino, where I like to play cards, is a 60-ish character named Barry, a nice guy and a decent player who through some physical and personality peculiarities stands out even in this large room of outsize degenerates.

Because of some kind of stroke or disease, I've never been sure which, Barry walks with a severe limp and can't fully open his hands (he needs help stacking his chips, which he gathers from the pot just a little too often to suit me), and he talks in a loud, nasally and slurred voice. He's a tireless flirt, often exacting a bonus kiss on the cheek from the cute young chip runners who help him stack his winnings, and his drinking habits are so regular and well known that precisely at 5 p.m. every day, Darla or Cheryl or Anna will wander over to his table and say, "It's 5 o'clock, Barry, are you ready for your martini?"

My kinda guy, in other words.

When Barry's in a pot it can be hard to put him on a hand. He plays a solid game and when he bets or raises it usually means he's got the goods. In fact he milks this image, with an expression that has become a standard Muck joke. If Barry bets or raises and then gets reraised by another player he'll stare down the competitor and then exclaim in his loud, funny-talking voice:

"Don't you know who I am?!"

The thing is, Barry doesn't always have what he's representing. He bluffs just often enough -- probably intimidating some players with his famous speech -- that he gets paid off with his big hands. That's what makes him a winning small-stakes player.

By this point most of us have heard Barry's signature line so often that sometimes we'll use it too. Sometimes you'll hear, from across the room, Barry's booming "Don't you know who I am?" and everyone in the place will laugh. Sometimes when I call Barry's bet I beat him to the punch: "I'm only calling, Barry, because I know who you are."

One day I was sitting next to him and Barry asked me what I was listening to on my iPod. He told me he owns a record store -- Sound Sounds, I thought he said -- and we chatted about music. I took the store's name to be a clever play off the Puget Sound, and Barry's little custom-made card protector, a half-dollar-size piece of coral encased in acrylic, seemed to fit the store's name. (It reminds me of the above photo, although the pic actually is a sea urchin and comes from Picasa user John, a local photographer.)

So, Barry and I became friendly over the months. He told me about growing up in Los Angeles and starting his first record store there; I told him we used to live in Belmont Shore. I told him about working at newspapers up and down the West Coast. When Michelle and I watched "The Godfather" and the Moe Green character gave Pacino the ol' "Do you know who I am?" speech, I mentioned that to Barry and he got a big kick out of it.

Barry and Moe Green, don't mess with either of them.

A couple of weeks ago Barry asked me if I knew anybody in the P-I's business news department; he wanted to gauge interest in a story about his shop for the paper's weekly small-retail column. Yeah, I said, I used to be their stupid boss. Without promising him anything I gave him a couple of numbers and wished him luck.

So this morning I pick up the paper to find Barry staring up at me from the Biz front. It turns out his full name is Barry Reisman, that he has cerebral palsy and that his store is Soundsations, not Sound Sounds (which would be a better name, I think). It's a nice little puff piece. I'm sure it'll help his struggling business.

Meanwhile, in an only marginally related story, I was playing at the Muck one day last week and as I got up to leave a guy I've seen there for years, Rich, asked me if I knew someone named Michelle. Well, yeah, I said, I live with her.

"Oh, you live with her?" he said, kinda nervous-like.

Yeah, why? A lot of people there know Michelle and ask about her since she doesn't play as much as she used to.

Rich muttered something and tried to change the subject but I eventually got him to spill: Um, he said, it must be a different Michelle. The one I was thinking of lives with one guy but is dating another.

"It's not her," I said, trying to sound sure.

He must not know who I am.

Chapter One: No Luck

When we leave next month for our "Pie in the Sky II" road trip, part of the plan is to play poker across the country, hoping to qualify somehow for this summer's World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. If all goes well, we've thought, maybe we'll write a book about the experience.

On Sunday, in kind of a pre-trip prep run, we drove down to our favorite local cardroom, the Muckleshoot Casino in Auburn, to play in one of their monthly World Series "satellite" tournaments. You pay $170 to enter. If you're lucky or skillful enough to win, the prize is a seat in the $10,000 entry-fee World Series main event, the same tournament I played last July with help from Team Mark.

It's a long shot, but hey. Hitting the jackpot before we even hit the road would be a pretty good start.

On the 45-minute drive down to Auburn we talked tournament strategy and quizzed each other with problems from "Harrington on Hold 'Em, Vol. III." You know: You're dealt the ace and queen of clubs in late position and two players before you "limp in" to the pot (calling the blinds without raising); do you fold, call $60, raise to $240 or push all-in? Stuff like that. We had a similar conversation last summer, when Michelle gave me her pre-tourney pop quiz: If you're dealt pocket kings on the first hand and another player goes all-in do you call or fold? We disagreed about that one.

Ever the optimist, Michelle blurted out halfway to the Muck on Sunday: "OK baby, you know this is the first chapter of your book ..."

Well, I don't know about that, but I did see a pretty close approximation of Michelle's pocket-kings pop quiz. I wasn't involved in the hand, unfortunately or fortunately, but it was interesting to watch.

In the second hand of the tournament, a woman who I hadn't seen before and who didn't seem very experienced tossed a $100 chip in front of her before the flop, clearly intending to raise to $100. But the rules of tournament poker state that unless you explicitly announce the amount of your raise, any single chip bet will be assumed to be a call, not a raise. So the Seat 5 woman was forced to merely call the $50 big blind. The action folded around to Bonnie, a Muckleshoot regular and a good tournament player, who might have missed the other lady's bungled raise. Bonnie popped it to $500 and the other woman pushed all-in. Bonnie immediately called.

What disappointment and horror she must have felt when she proudly flipped over her pocket kings -- the second best hand possible before the flop -- only to find that Accidental Caller Lady had inadvertently "limped" with pocket aces. The rockets held up and Bonnie was out on the tourney's second hand.

Me, I didn't have any such close calls, or even difficult decisions. I folded hand after hand for two hours, seeing nothing even to get out of line with. I won one small pot with an offsuit 5-2 in the big blind, when no one raised and I flopped two pair. Eventually the rising blinds nicked away at my chip stack and, in the fourth round, I went out when my best starting hand of the day -- ace-king -- lost an all-in bet to a guy with pocket queens. Ah well.

Michelle, at an adjacent table, lasted about half an hour longer than I did. She said later she didn't get many good cards either. Sometimes it goes like that.

Further evidence of poker's whims: When I busted out I went to join my friend David in a live game. In the first three hands I was dealt I saw better cards than in my entire two hours of the tournament. I cashed out a $180 winner -- enough to cover my tourney entry and buy my standard Muck lunch, seafood fried rice.

Chapter One will have to wait for another day.

In the sunshine

We've been back from Europe for a little more than a week now and still haven't told the story of what was probably our vacation's most memorable day -- and for me, weirdly, one of my favorites.

Let me say first that Michelle and I never fight, about anything. In the eight years-plus that we've been together I can remember maybe two or three minor dust-ups. So seldom and for such low stakes do we tussle that the stupid fight we had on the day we visited the Eiffel Tower -- two weeks ago today, I believe -- counts among our biggies.

The day began promisingly enough. We took the Metro to the Eiffel's nearest stop, about half a mile away, then stopped and took a couple pictures and strolled the pleasant stroll along the Seine to the monument. It was a cold but beautiful day. So far so good.



Despite being the off-season for tourists, there were a lot of people lined up under the base of the tower, where there were two options being offered: You could take an elevator up to one of the three viewing platforms, at prices ranging from about 6 to 11 euros, or you could pay 4 euros to walk up what looked to be about a billion steps to the first, lowest, platform.

Oddly, that sounded fun to me. Maybe I was remembering how much I enjoyed, windedly, climbing the steps of Giotto's Bell Tower in Florence on my first trip there nearly 20 years ago. Michelle had no interest in the Eiffel stairs; maybe she'd done it before, I can't remember. But that was OK; this wasn't the fight part. As we often do, we agreed to go our separate ways and hook back up afterward.

"I'll meet you over there in the sunshine," I said, pointing to some benches in what would be the foreground of the top picture above. We went to stand in our lines.

At one point during the longish wait a rope descended from somewhere above, and several men took turns rappelling down to the tourist staging area and then climbing back up the rope. This was to discourage whining about the stairs, I suppose. Amazing.


I finally got to the front of the line, paid my 4 euros and began my ascent.


I liked walking. You could appreciate the tower's height, one step at a time, and also the marvel of the engineering. On some of the landings there were posters with fun facts about the Eiffel Tower, when it was built, how many steps to the top (1,600 and something), stuff like that. One poster told the story of a Paris newspaper that, a couple years after the tower opened, sponsored a race to the top. Somebody won in like seven minutes, I think, some ridiculous time.

It didn't go so fast for me. Classic eyes-stomach disconnect. For the entire trip we did a lot of walking and I held up pretty well, but I did get tired and had to stop for frequent rests. On the Eiffel stairclimb I trudged up with little painted signs marking my progress -- 90 steps, now 160, now 200, until finally at 300 and something I made it. Whew.

I'll admit, I was tired. But it was beautiful and I enjoyed sitting on a bench looking at the view. I walked around the perimeter of the platform, shooting a couple of pics, including this, my favorite:

I went into the gift shop and bought a couple of trinkets, then sat down with my bottle of water and wrote a couple of postcards. I wasn't dawdling, but I wasn't in a giant rush either. Eventually I caught my breath, felt a little spring back in my legs and began the long walk back down.

At the base of the tower I looked for Michelle in the sunshine -- no luck -- used the restroom, took a quick lap around the benched area of the park where she might be -- still no luck -- then sat down on a bench closest to the Tower.

I'd barely opened my paperback when Michelle stormed up. "Where have you been," she said, no hint of fun in her voice. I began to stammer something about what I'd been up to, but she said I'd kept her waiting for 45 minutes in the cold and hadn't been where I was supposed to be in the sunshine.

She turned around and walked away and I shlumped after her.

Even now, I suspect, she'll read this and get mad all over again. Somehow the fact that she was in an elevator and I was on the stairs wasn't figuring into her calculations. In fairness, it was cold, and "over there in the sunshine" amounted to a fairly vague meeting place. I was probably wrong in a half dozen other ways I can't even conceive. No matter. We somehow had managed to erect a fun-blocking barrier of monumental engineering, and it remained in place, all 7,300 tons of puddled iron of it, for the rest of the day, with a long shadow into the next.

In silence we schlepped to a bus stop, boarded the first one that stopped, then got out at Luxembourg Gardens, near our hotel -- she must have known where we were going -- and ate what was otherwise one of my favorite Paris meals at the Brasserie de Luxembourg.

As fights go it wasn't exactly Ali-Foreman, and in the end it couldn't really spoil what was a touristy highlight of the trip.

We've tried, with typical M&M style, to laugh ourselves out of it, but I think we both know the humor's only about half-working.

At the Amsterdam airport, waiting for our connection between Rome and San Francisco, Michelle got up to go use the restroom.

"I'll meet you over there," I said, "in the sunshine."

"Heh."

It's only logical

One of the anticipated highlights of our Paris trip was a visit to the Aviation Club de France, a relatively new card room on the Champs Elysees which is part of the World Poker Tour on TV and boasts of having "the best cash games in Europe." Okeydoke, I don't know how to say deal me in in French, but deal me in.

So on the Friday that we were in town, after spending most of the morning and afternoon at the Louvre (that's it in the picture above), we walked the rest of the way up the Right Bank (listen to me) and after asking directions a couple of times found the place.

It was just a single door front, no big glitzy casino neon, and a single doorman/bouncer/guard. He allowed us in and we walked up a flight of carpeted stairs to find a guy in a suit sitting at a desk at the front of a hallway, with the den of iniquity apparently hidden (quietly) somewhere behind him. The Bellagio this wasn't.

When we inquired about playing poker the desk dude asked if we had passports. Mine was in my day pack, no sweat, but Michelle had left hers back at the hotel. I'm sorry, he said, without a passport you can't play here.

Michelle asked if she could just watch while I played for a little while.

No, the man said, with a sarcastic (I thought) Frenchy smile. "If you need zee passport to enter zee casino then of course I cannot allow you into zee casino to watch without zee passport. It is only logical."

"Yeah," I said to Michelle, using the double-reverse head-fake mock tone that I knew she would recognize but that he wouldn't, "It's only logical."

Dumbass Frenchman smiled in my direction as if to say: Women, what're ya gonna do.

So, although we were tired from our long walk and Michelle was catching a cold and wanted to sit down, we seemed out of options. We thanked Frenchy for his time and walked back outside. On the sidewalk Michelle suggested that I go back in and play for a few hours. She could take the Metro back to the hotel, she said, and I could meet her back there later. Good girlfriend.

When I walked back upstairs the guy gave me a knowing smile. "Ah, you're back," he said. "Maybe madame will return later."

Yeah, I thought, and maybe she'll kick your sorry logical ass for you. But I dutifully handed over my passport, filled out a little form and waited to be escorted down the secret hallway to the poker action.

Frenchy came around the desk, looked me over and stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't notice. We're going to have to find you some shoes. It is a house rule."

I had already checked to make sure this wasn't some kind of 007, tuxedos-only joint, and nobody had said anything about my casual (but neat and clean) travel attire. Now, though, my trusty REI hiking boots were a problem.

"Do not worry," Frenchy continued, "we can take care of you."

He walked me into a tiny coat closet, invited me to hang up my rain jacket and backpack, and suggested that I pick out some dress shoes from the back of the closet. What difference my footwear could possibly make -- in a few minutes it would be invisible under the poker table -- I couldn't imagine, but whatever. When in Paris.

Maybe now you're picturing a neat row of nice, shiny oxfords and loafers to choose from. Nopey, not quite. Instead, on the floor, under the hanging overcoats and rain gear was a medium-size pile of beat-up street shoes -- a helter-skelter leather pyramid -- that looked like it might have come from the Goodwill, or Dachau.

None of the shoes were in pairs, and none had laces. "We don't want you to 'forget' and walk back to your hotel in our shoes," the coat-check man explained.

I tried on a dozen shoes and finally found one that was only a half-size too small, then spent several more minutes looking for its mate. Finally I emerged from the closet, two scuffed, dusty, pinching, laceless "dress shoes" on my feet, wondering how this look conceivably could be more presentable than my nice $250 hikers. I did not see the logic. But OK, another hurdle cleared.

Now I was escorted back to the poker area, which consisted of about 10 or 12 tables spread among two small parlor rooms and a connecting hallway, but with games in progress at only four of them. I asked the host what limits were being spread -- what was the size of the games being offered -- and he informed me that they didn't play any structured-limit games like the ones Michelle and I usually play. The only options were no-limit games -- the stuff of old Western movies and big-money tournaments like the World Series of Poker -- with minimum buy-ins of either 50 or 100 euros, about $80 to $160.

There was a long waiting list, he said, but he'd be happy to put me on the board. He wrote down "MM (UK)" -- close enough; whatever the actual nationality, I was the English-speaking foreigner with the loaners on my feet.

Now I saw that there were literally 30 people ahead of me on the board and for the first time noticed all the men (only two women in the whole club) standing around waiting to get into a game. Why they didn't start two or three new games, like they'd do here at the Muck or in any other card room I've visited, I couldn't guess. It was going to be a long wait, and if I hadn't been tired from our day of walking and museum-touring, I might have bailed right then.

Eventually, about an hour later, I got a seat in the bigger of the two games, the 100-e minimum buy-in with blinds of e5 and e10.

Now, no-limit hold 'em, despite being the king of poker, really isn't my game. I've logged thousands more hours in small- to medium-stakes limit games, and I feel like the rhythms, betting patterns and mathematical calculations of those structured games have become second nature to me. I sometimes lose and I sometimes make a mistake, but I think I always know the best play, or can figure it out if I take a minute. My experience in no-limit is much narrower. I've played it in tournaments but only once or twice in a live game like this, and with much less confidence than I'd normally have.

Still, I'd been watching as I was waiting and I could see that this game was soft. Nobody was raising, especially before the flop, and too many players were playing too many hands. They may have been splendidly shod, but they were making beaucoup mathematical and strategic errors that even I could see from the rail.

I decided to buy in for the minimum 100 euros and see what developed. This, I knew, was not a good game plan. Since the game had been going a while several players had much more money than that in front of them; in a no-limit game you don't want to be short-stacked against an opponent, who can use that advantage to push you out of pots. Smart no-limit players buy in for as much as they need to match the big stacks at the table. But Europe's expensive with the weak dollar right now and I didn't come here to win or lose a fortune. I just wanted to experience some Paris-style poker and have some fun. If I caught some cards and won a little money, great. If I lost my e100, so be it; my bankroll would live to fight another day.

On the second hand I was dealt, what do you know: pocket aces!

It was only now that I realized, hey, everyone's speaking French, which I don't understand, and no one, including the dealer, seems to understand any English.

"Raise," I said -- what the hell, it's an American game -- and I made it e30 to go. What? A raise? This seemed to break the friendly vibe. I heard a lot of under-their-breath French muttering and half expected to be marched back to the coat closet. But two players called, and one -- a young sunglasses-wearing guy of a poker type I'd recognize in any language -- stared at me, hard.

They have no idea what I'm up to, I thought. I'm a crazy foreigner, and I could have any two cards.

The flop brought an ace to give me three of a kind, beautiful, and no apparent flush or straight draws. I bet out, about a third of the pot, inviting callers. Only the starer called. The turn paired the board, giving me a full house. Now I was truly golden, unless the other guy held exactly 7-7 for quads. I checked and he checked behind me. On the river, a blank, I bet most but not all of my remaining chips, he called, and I scooped a nice pot to about double my chip stack.

The Frenchies muttered some more. "Nothing to it," I said in loud, annoying English. I thought maybe I'd put them all on Froggy tilt and walk out with all their euros.

For the next hour I didn't see any decent cards and didn't play a hand, but I kept up my chatter, just to make it seem like I was part of the game and to see if I could provoke any reactions. If nothing else, I thought, I'll remind these guys that Texas hold 'em is an American (not French or even UK) game, and maybe lay some universal poker expressions on them.

When one guy made his straight draw on the end but didn't bet, unsuccessfully trying for a check-raise against a wise or gun-shy opponent, I gave him my standard needle: "Whassamatter man, you don't like money? Bet your own damn hands!"

Another guy in another pot checked, hoping for a free card, but ran into a big bet. "Check your hat!" I said. "Cash money!"

This was entertaining to no one but me, but I didn't care. I was money ahead, playing poker in Paris and except for my feet about as comfy as I could be.

Finally I got another hand to play, ace-king, and raised to my standard 30 euros. This time several players called, and although I caught a king on the flop sunglasses kid caught two running cards to make a straight, and I was back down to less than my original buy-in.

A few hands later I had pocket 8s, raised all in and was called by one player with pocket 5s. He caught a 5 on the river and I was out of chips.

In some circumstances I might have bought in again -- I still liked my chances in this game -- but I'd lost what I had budgeted and had some fun along the way. Good time to head back across the river and find Michelle, I figured. It was only logical.

Pie in the Sky Part II

Here's a piece of awesome news: My request for a three-month leave has been approved by my editor David and my publisher Roger, two really awesome dudes, I have to say.

The Backstory: Mark started saying a year or so ago that he would like to take a long drive around the country and write a book about xxxxxxx (book-savvy friend Donna tells us not to say too much about the secret sauce!)

So in December or so I put the idea to David, my boss and a fellow xxxxxx afficianado. He immediately endorsed the idea, and seemed even to be wishing a bit that he could come with. He pitched the idea to Roger, my publisher, who also approved.

It's been over a year now since Mark collapsed just a few feet away from where I'm sitting now, heralding the beginning of his life as a sick guy.

One of the most amazing revelations of this awful experience has been just how awesome my bosses are. They have been incredibly giving, generous and understanding. I can't even begin to explain all the little and big things they have done to make this path easier for us to walk. They have really been amazing.

I tried to write a bunch of stuff just now about just how amazing they are, and all they have done for us since Mark got sick, but I deleted it. It all feels too personal and too much to get into.

So this is all I have to say: I wish such bosses upon you. Even in our misfortune, we are fortunate. And thank you, thank you.

More to come, on The Great Adventures of Cat Psychiatrist and Old Navy.