WIL WHEATON dot NET: 1.5

Part three of our turgid tale is here.

Chicago racks his chips, and can't leave fast enough. He's about halfway to the cashier before he comes back and flips a red chip to the dealer. A couple of hands later (8-3d: fold, A-4o: fold) he is replaced by a woman in her 40s. Short, short hair, no jewelry, light makeup, wears a black vest over a white blouse.

During the shuffle, I imagine her story:

Her name is . . . Rebecca. No, it's Dianne. Yeah, Dianne. She moved to Vegas four years ago because she's running away from something. Nothing criminal . . . probably a broken heart.

About three weeks ago, she caught the eye of a poker dealer named Andy. Hold'Em has played an important part in their courtship, so here she is . . .

Or maybe she's just another tourist . . . but making up people's stories is fun for me, so that's what I do.

She gives five twenty dollar bills to a chip runner.

"One hundred behind," he says.

Dianne tells the dealer that she'd like to play this hand, and the cards are in the air.

I fold again, and get up to pee. When I come back, Moneymaker and Drunk Guy are standing up. They've probably dropped two hundred bucks between the two of them, but they don't seem to mind at all.

"Dude, let's go to Olympic Gardens," Drunk Guy says.

"We were just there last night," Moneymaker says.

"I know, dude!" Drunk Guy laughs, and they do that hitting-each-other's-fist thing that seems to have replaced the high-five.

As they walk away, I catch Pungent's eye. "I'm going to miss them," he says with a glance at his chips. The dealer laughs, then the whole table laughs.

"Two seats open!" The Dealer says, and we get two new players:

Seat Two: Late 40s, golf shirt, baseball cap perched above a high forehead. His wife kisses him when he sits down, and walks off with a stack of bills. I immediately like this guy.

Seat Four: If Gabe Kaplan had massive male-pattern baldness, and sweat like Roger Ebert, he'd be sitting across from me right now. This guy looks so terrified when he hands two fifties to the chip runner, I'm convinced it's an act . . . but why waste the effort at a 3-6 table? You know what I have to call him . . .

Kotter has a weird, nervous energy that would probably get him pulled out of line at the airport, and I notice that the players next to him slowly but deliberately move away from him. This shifts the whole table around, and I end up so close to the dealer, his left hand hits my elbow on the next few deals. I try to give him some room, but Golf Shirt is so close to me our knees bump together . . . which reveals a big, fat, juicy tell: when he likes his cards, he bounces his leg. This saves me a few "borderline" calls, which is pretty cool.

For another few orbits (that's what I call it when the button goes around the table) I don't see much of anything, but I don't mind, because I've got Catherine Wheel and then The Cure on my iPod, and well over 100 bucks in profit stacked up in front of me. It's also interesting to watch Kotter slowly bleed his stack away, one crying call at a time. When he finally does make a hand, it's one of the most tragic things I've ever seen.

He's in middle position, and Hipster has the button, and they go heads up on a flop of 6d-9s-8s. Kotter bets it out, just like he has every hand, so I put him on random cards, but probably an Ace, maybe A9, but I've gotten a pretty good read on Hipster, and I think he's made a set. They fire bets at each other until it's capped, and I pull one of my headphones out, so I can hear them talk.

The turn is the six of clubs. Kotter looks at the dealer and says, "What's the most I can bet?"

"Six dollars, sir."

Kotter picks up three chips in each hand, and deliberately slams each stack down in front of him. His eyes dart around the table; I avoid them.

Hipster frowns and says, "I raise."

"Six again, sir," the dealer says to Kotter.

"What?"

"It's a six dollar raise, sir."

"Oh. Okay. I want to raise him back." The way he says it, it's like he's looking for permission. Weird.

"That's six more to you," the dealer says to Hipster.

"I call it."

The dealer rakes some chips off the pot, and drops them into a little box that's near his right hand. He burns the top card, and deals out the Ace of diamonds.

Golf Shirt mutters, "Someone's got quads," and we all look at Kotter. The sweat beads up so much on the top of his head, he looks like an ad for Turtle Wax.

"I bet six again," he says, nodding his head excitedly, and slams his chips out in the same motion as before. I can hear Phil Gordon in my head: "That's intended to make your opponent think you've got a strong hand when you're weak. That's usually a tell." Dave Foley makes a joke that falls somewhere into that gap between really clever and really awful.

"Raise him!" Says Hipster.

Kotter seems insulted, and says to the dealer, "Tell him I want to re-raise."

The dealer is so close to me, I pick up the tiniest hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "Okay, that's another six dollars, sir."

Slam! Slam!

Hipster laughs this time. "Re-raise him!"

"Betting is capped," the dealer says. "Six dollars to call."

"I call him!" Kotter says. This time he slams down a $5 chip and a $1 chip, and flips over the 8 and 6 of hearts. "FULL HOUSE!"

Hipster flips up his cards, and I hear Dianne gasp before I can see them: two nines.

The Dealer calmly says, "Nines full of sixes," and pushes a mountain of chips to Hipster.

In slow motion, I turn my head back toward Kotter. I half expect to see him putting a gun into his mouth, but he just looks shocked.

The color has drained out of his face, and sweat drips off his nose as he says, "I . . . I had a full house . . . "

"Jesus," Golf Shirt says.

I feel genuinely sorry for the guy, but my survival instinct encourages me to keep my mouth shut.

Hipster tokes a dollar to the dealer, and just about the entire table chides him into giving more.

"Hey, that's worth at least two dollars," Pungent Nose says.

"Yeah, come on, man," adds Trucker Hat. I notice that Trucker Hat exudes Cloutier-like intimidation.

Hipster gives in, and tokes another two bucks to the dealer as he racks his chips and walks away.

Our dealer is tapped on the shoulder for a shift-change. "Okay, good luck, everyone," he says as he leaves. I wonder how many hands a day he sees like the one that just played out. I think about how I can't wait to write this up when I get home, and I wonder if any of this sticks in his mind the way I'm sticking it in mine.

Our new dealer is quite friendly. He's Rob, from North Dakota, but he went to college in New Orleans, and he's really worried about Ivan.

As soon as he sits down, he says, "Did you all hear about Ivan? It's going to make landfall right over New Orleans." He shakes his head, "Man, that city is already twenty-two feet below sea level, and the storm surge will be over forty feet." He looks around the table. "Everything that's not brick or stone in that city could be gone in the morning."

"I thought Ivan was bearing down on Florida," I say.

"Nope, it turned again. New Orleans at four a.m."

"Jesus." Again I mark how lucky I am to be here and not there.

Rob shuffles, riffles, shuffles, shuffles, riffles and shuffles.

"Blinds, please," he says, reaching across me to tap he felt in front of Golf Shirt, and pointing at Pungent Nose.

"Forty feet, man," he says quietly to himself, and the cards fly.

Pungent calls. Kotter looks numbly at his cards, and folds. Trucker Hat folds, grabs a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket, and walks away. Siegfried calls, Dianne calls, and it's to me. I look down at 87o. It's not a hand I like to play, but I'm starting to get a little antsy, and I am in late position . . . so I call. Golf Shirt checks.

"Five players," Rob says.

The flop completely misses me. Pungent checks, Siegfried checks.

"Maybe it missed us all?"

Dianne bets.

"Maybe not." I fold.

Golf Shirt calls, Pungent folds, Siegfried calls. The three of them go down to the River, and Golf Shirt picks up the pot with a split pair of Cowboys when his 9 outkicks Dianne's 5.

This is the beginning of a rather frustrating run. For the next two or three orbits, whenever I get a marginal calling hand, I make the wrong choice. I get K-5 off-suit in early position, and when I fold it, the flop comes A-5-5. I get A-4 of clubs in late position, and when I call it, the flop is all spades. The most memorable hand is J-7 of hearts in early position. While I thought of calling, Golf Shirts started bouncing the hell out of his knee, so I folded . . . only to watch the Ace, King, and Five of hearts hit the flop. It ends up being a monster pot between Golf Shirt, who held Big Slick, and Siegfried, who made trips on the turn.

I know that I'm playing things "by the book," so I'm not too upset — especially when I count my chips and realize that I'm still ahead well over one hundred bucks after just about two hours. I recall some Lou Krieger advice: "If you play it wrong on just one hand, you can completely wipe out everything you've earned in your session, so play 'by the book,' and stick to it!" I'm pretty sure that my rush has come and gone, and I should get up and leave, but a seductive voice in my head says: "Let's just take down one more pot from these tourists, and then we'll go."



Ah, sweet hubris, how I love to hate thee.

Tomorrow: Part Five

Posted by Wil at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (71)

Note: Part two is here.

"Would you like me to get you some chips?" My helpful new friend asked.

"That'd be great," I said, and handed him some cash as I sat down in Seat One of table fifteen.

"Two hundred behind," he said to the dealer as he walked back to the cashier.

"Would you like to play this hand?" the dealer said.

I would be in the small blind, not exactly where I'd like to start. "I'll wait for the button."

The dealer mixed the cards around, and I noticed that the felt was the freshest, cleanest, and nicest upon which I've ever played. It's one of those details that I never would have noticed before I thought of myself as a Capital-"W" Writer, and I'm glad I noticed it.

"No matter what happens during this session, I have a cool image to record and put down. I like that."

The dealer finished mixing the cards, shuffled them up, and dealt them out to my new enemies. Er, opponents, I mean. Yeah, opponents:

Seat Two: Smells like booze, is drinking a margarita. Can't be older than 22, wears the Moneymaker cap and sunglasses.

Seat Three: Older man, wrinkles up his face like he's constantly smelling something pungent. Seems to be hanging on in not-so-quiet desperation.

Seat Four: Moneymaker's friend, who is the obligatory drunk guy. I think they're in town for a bachelor party.

Seat Five: Mr. Not-So-Ironic-Trucker Hat. Based on the stained mustache, heavily lined face, and greyish skin, this guy will be getting up to smoke more often than I'm opening hands.

Seat Six: Late 50s, wears a collared shirt with a Ralph Marlin Cubs novelty tie, and keeps telling his foot-tapping, watch-checking wife "Just one more hand." Wears a watch with Sammy Sosa on it. I think I'll call him Chicago.

Seat Seven: Sir Not Sitting At This Table. A nice stack of chips, though.

Seat Eight: The Tokyo Hipster. His Rocker Mullet has "Super Gangster!" written all over it.

Tom returns with my chips. I thank him, and tip him five bucks. I don't know if it's too much, or not enough, but he takes it with a smile, and wishes me luck.

I look at rags for several hands, and even though I'm not involved, I watch the other players carefully. When I played on WPT's Hollywood Home Game, I asked Daniel for some advice that would help my game, based on what he saw. He told me to watch for betting patterns, because most low-limit players don't know enough to mix it up . . . so that's what I do. They all pay to see the flop, but they check when a scare card falls. Each time someone bets, he's either holding an ace, or paired his hand. The strange thing is, just about everyone is a calling station. It's not quite the no-fold'em games I'm used to at Commerce, but just about everyone plays to fifth street without regard to pot odds.

"This is a loose-passive game, and I'm going to have to choose my starting cards carefully, and play the best tight-aggressive game I've ever played if I expect to leave here ahead."

When I finally do open, I'm two seats ahead of the button. My first peek shows a nice bullet: the Ace of Hearts. My second peek shows me an positively beautiful bullet: the Ace of Clubs.

It's the first time I've ever seen Rockets when there's real money on the line. A rush shoots through my veins and ripples out across my skin. I can feel my scalp tighten up as goose bumps form down my arms and legs. I hope nobody notices the flush I can feel burning up my chest and face.

I hear Obi-Wan Kenobi's voice in my head, slightly louder than the Catherine Wheel song playing on my iPod: "You raise for two reasons, Luke -- I mean, Wil: to get more money in the pot, and to drive out drawing hands. Don't slowplay aces in a low-limit game."

"Raise," I say, stacking out chips with a hand so steady it surprises even me.

"Six to play," the dealer says.

Moneymaker calls, Pungent Nose calls, Drunk Guy calls . . . holy shit, it's called all the way around!

"This is either very, very good, or very, very bad. Either way, this rules!"

"Trust your feelings, Wil." Obi-Wan says.



There's an Ace on the flop, and I raise it again. This time the only callers are Moneymaker and Trucker Hat.

The turn is a blank, and there's no flush or straight draw on the board. Could I have these guys drawing dead? Only one way to find out . . .



"Bet," I say.

Moneymaker folds, and asks nobody in particular to send him a cocktail waitress. Trucker Hat calls. I put him on a big ace, or maybe a couple of cowboys. Either way, I'm still in the lead.



The river is a seven. I think for a second about check-raising, but when I scan my mental library of poker advice, I can't find an entry that says that's the right thing to do, so I bet it again. I can't wait to flip up my aces, but I keep my chin planted firmly on top of my right hand while my let hand shuffles some chips. The cocktail waitress comes by, and Moneymaker orders another margarita. I look up and ask for a bottle of water, and when I look back down, the dealer is pushing the pot my way.

"What?! He went all the way to the end and didn't call?!" I can't believe it, but I don't show my cards. I don't even look up. I just stack my chips and flip two bucks to the dealer. He thanks me and shuffles the cards.

"Did you have it?" Moneymaker says.

I have waited my whole life to give my reply: "I don't remember," I say, with a shrug.

He laughs, and says, "Nice hand, man. Nice hand."

"Thanks," I say.

The cards come out, and I'm under the gun. I peek at my cards and see two red jacks.

"Two massive hands right in a row? I think The Mirage is my favorite casino on the planet!"

I try to do this thing where I frown, but I act lke I'm trying not to frown. It's probably not worth the effort, but it's fun, you know? I push my chips out: "Bet."

Moneymaker can't wait to push his checks in. Pungent calls, so does Drunk Guy. Trucker Hat sighs, frowns at me, and calls. "That's a tell; he's got something. Is it better than my Johnnies?"

Chicago calls, and shoots a look at his wife, who has stepped out past the rail to smoke. "Does he have a hand, or is he just sweating her? Okay, he's more focused on her than he is on any of us. Sweet."

Not-Sitting at this table must have come back while I was stacking the cargo American Airlines delivered, and I get a look at him while he studies his cards: Young guy with really big hair, almost Richard Marx if he was blonde. Wears a ring on his index finger that looks like a pyramid, and seems to be trying to put on an "I'm so bored" face. He foppishly calls. "Wait. Is that possible? Can anyone 'foppishly call' in poker?" I look up at him again. He's pushing out his lower lip into a full-on pout. I imagine his voice sounds strikingly similar to Siegfried or Roy, and realize that he's totally got Siegfried and Roy hair, right here in the Mirage. He calls, Hipster calls, and we've got eight-way action again.

The flop comes Qh-6h-9c.

Hipster checks. I bet. If someone's got a queen and they raise me, I'm throwing this hand away.

Moneymaker calls, Pungent and Drunk Guy fold, and it comes to Trucker Hat. He glowers at me. I leave my hand on my chin, just like my hero Howard Lederer, and lose myself in "Black Metallic." He folds. Chicago folds, Foppish folds, and Hipster calls.

"Three players," says the dealer.

The turn is the three of diamonds. The dealer holds out his left hand like he's going to do a karate chop, and says, "Check or bet, sir."

"Check," I say. As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I'm certain I've just made a mistake. "Okay, if I get called, I can raise, and I'll tell myself that I intended to check-raise all along."

Moneymaker checks. Hipster bets. "Shit." I think about mucking it, but something tells me he doesn't have me beat.

"Raise," I say. Moneymaker folds before I put my chips out.

Hipster asks for time, and looks at his cards.

While he thinks, I look at the pot and try to estimate the size: eight calls on my first bet is forty-eight, plus another --"

"I call you!" He says. Trucker hat nods at him and says, "Good call."

The river is the eight of spades. I look down at the board: Qh-6h-9c-3d-8s

Hipster checks to me again. I search my feelings for the trap, but it's just not there. I am nervous about that queen, but I recall something I read in the back of Lou Krieger's book: "Be selective, but be aggressive!"

"There's no way I'm buying this pot, so if I bet, I have to hope to get called. Am I confident enough in my cards to make another bet? This could be a huge mistake . . . dammit! Why can't I pause this game and read through my books?"

"Luke, trust me . . . "

"Bet." I say.

This time, he speaks to the dealer. "I call him again!"

"Show 'em," The dealer says, and I flip up my boys.

Hipster turns over the Ace of hearts and the six of clubs.

"They're all Tourists, Wil . . . "

I look up for Tom, spot him across the room, and send him a mental fruit basket, which is not nearly as . . . fruity . . . as it sounds.

Tomorrow: Part Four

Posted by Wil at 07:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (84)

I need to interrupt our regularly scheduled poker story for a moment, because at 2:30 this afternoon, I have an actual on-camera audition, for a very popular TV show.

I'm quite excited, because the material totally doesn't suck, I can put this character on pretty easily, and when I was pitched to the casting director, she reportedly said, "Oh wow! What a great idea! Send him in!"

So if you could spare a little bit-o-mojo around 2:30 Pacific today, I'd be most grateful.

In fact, to show my gratitude, I offer a link to the official Mount St. Helens Live Volcano Cam, which we should all be watching because there have been lots of earthquake swarms in the last 24 hours, and it looks like she's waking up.

Updated @ 5:06PM — Just got back, and I am happy to report that I had a really good time! It was the first on-camera audition I've had in AGES, but all the nerves and crap that used to get in my way never materialized. I had prepared my sides well, and knew my character all the way down in my bones, so even though I had to wait for almost an hour, I passed the time happily, playing Downtown Hold'Em on my cellphone. (I made it to the fourth tournament before I went all-in with a Jack-high flush and lost to a King-high flush.)

I was very happy with my performance in both scenes . . . and I marked something interesting as I left: the character I read for was a little nervous and scattered, trying very hard not to get caught after he did a Very Bad Thing™, and I had to very carefully and consciously shift gears once the camera rolled. When I left, I thought to myself, "Aw, man, I was nervous and scattered," until I realized that that was precisely the way I was supposed to be. So they'll either think that I nailed this character, or they'll think I was too scattered and nervous . . . but either way, I'm glad I went in.

Thank you so much to everyone who sent mojo and stuff. It made me smile more than once while I was there, just knowing that at least thirty people (the comment count when I left) were thinking of me.

Posted by Wil at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (122)

Part One of this story is here.

"Hey! Don't you EVER say drinking Guinness in some bar is a waste!"

"I am so right. Consider me properly chastened."

While I had this conversation with myself, I continued to walk, and when I was finished, I stood at the entrance to The Mirage's Poker Room.

"There's no turning back now! Muwahahahahaha . . . "

I stood in front of a podium (think of a hostess-stand in a restaurant, and you've got it) and looked around the room: There were about thirty tables or so, but it felt neither cramped nor expansive. Even though I was just a few feet from about a million slot machines, it seemed quieter and more laid-back than the rest of the casino floor, and the air smelled . . . well, sweeter. Weird, I know, but true. It was like an Oasis in the Mirage.

There didn't seem to be anyone who could put me on a list, or sit me at a table, so I walked around the podium to the cashier. A middle-aged Asian man with huge flakes of dandruff lining the part in his hair stood next to a woman in her 60s, who I am certain was from Texas: huge bouffant, huge make-up, and a huge cloud of perfume. They were both on the phone, so I read a little plaque titled "HOUSE RULES" while I waited for them.



1. Max rake 10%

2. Check and raise is permitted

3. Maximum 1 bet 4 raises

4. Mirage poker room does not employ shills

5. Decision of the supervisor is final



It was a cool little sign, made out of faux-wood-grained plastic with mechanically carved white letters. So much of Vegas these days is gold and brass and music and fiber optics and explosions, it was charming to see this little plastic sign, which was perfectly suited to its job.

The female cashier hung up the phone and looked at me. "Yes?"

"I've never played here before," I told her as I felt my face flush. "Would you tell me what to do?"

"Sure thang, honey," she said, in a drawl that was straight out of -- no joke -- Odessa, "Go up to the front and wait a bit. I'll send Tom over."

I thanked her and walked back the way I came. I picked up a copy of Cardplayer, but a man came over before I could open it.

"Can I help you?" He said.

"I hope so," I said. I cleared my throat and continued, "I play in Los Angeles, but I've never played here before, and I feel little lost."

He smiled and said, "Check and raise is allowed, maximum of one bet and four raises in a round, and we take the rake as you go, so you don't have to think about it. What would you like to play?"

His silvery grey suit matched his hair, and he exuded a disarming charm and kindness, the likes of which I've never seen in one of the Los Angeles card clubs. I felt like this man really did want to help me, and for the first time since I hung up my cell phone across the street, I began to feel at ease.

"Uhh . . . 3-6 Hold'Em." I said.

"Sure." He picked up a clipboard, "Can I get a name and a last initial?"

"Wil W."

He put down his pen and looked up. "I thought you were . . . you." We both laughed, nervously, for different reasons. "Welcome to the Mirage, Wil."

"Thanks," I said.

"Well, it shouldn't be too long," he said, "Are you staying with us?"

"No, I'm in town for a meeting, and I'm staying with my hosts across the street. It's my first time there, and holy crap, man, the rooms are huge." I was close to rambling. Stupid adrenaline.

"That's what I've heard," he said, as he set the clipboard down, and looked across the room, "Hm. Well, it looks like I've got two tables open right now." He gestured to one table that was close to the edge of the room, and another that was more toward the center. "Where would you like to sit?"

"With the suckers. Dah-dum . . . daaaah-dum . . . dum-dum-dum-dum . . . "

"Well, I'd like to sit where everyone pays to see the flop, if you get my drift . . ."

He nodded slowly and knowingly. "Well, they're all tourists, Wil."

"Excellent," I said, in my best Mr. Burns voice.

Tomorrow: Part Three

Posted by Wil at 09:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (51)

I stood in my hotel room, and looked out the window across The Strip. On the TV behind me, CNN showed Hurricane Ivan's terrible fury, and I spent a moment sending some mojo to Florida. Twenty-six stories below me, tourists swarmed around in the late August heat, and I marked the incredible difference a few thousand miles makes.

I picked up my cellphone, and dialed. I got a machine, so I hung up.

Damn.

My phone rang before I could get it back into my pocket.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's Daniel. You just called me?"

"Hey, Daniel, it's Wil Wheaton."

"Hey Wil! How are you?"

"I'm good, man," I said. "I'm in town today and tomorrow. You want to grab a beer or something while I'm here?"

"I'd like to, but I'm actually getting ready to leave for Los Angeles!"

"Damn. Well, next time, then."

"Yeah," he said, "Where are you staying?"

"The Venetian," I said.

"That's a nice place."

"Yeah, but it doesn't have a poker room," I said.

"Just go across the street to Mirage, or down to Bellagio."

I started to involuntarily pace around my room.

"Whenever I hear someone talk about the poker rooms in The Mirage or Bellagio," I said, "the story usually ends with the same words that end everyone's Tequila-in-college story: 'With god as my witness, I'll never do it again.'"

We laughed together.

"I'm pretty sure I'll get killed there," I said.

"Nah, you're a good player," he said. "What limit are you looking to play?"

I was a little embarrassed to say it out loud. "Well, it's probably micro-limit to you, but . . . 3-6 or 4-8?"

"Oh yeah. You'll do great at either place."

I drew a steadying breath. "Okay. Thanks. Have a safe trip across the desert."

"Thanks. If we leave late, I'll call you and we can grab that beer."

"That'd be great. Bye."

"Bye."

And so it was on the advice of Daniel Negreanu that I picked up my iPod, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed across the street to The Mirage.

In the last eighteen months or so, I've studied more than at any other time in my life, and my game has improved dramatically. I'm pretty confident when I sit down at at low-limit table, and my log book has been in the black for most of this year . . . but I was terrified as I walked across The Strip. Despite Daniel's friendly encouragement, I was certain that I was going to get killed at The Mirage, until I remembered something I heard Phil Hellmuth, of all people, say: "If you think you're going to lose, you're going to find some way to lose, consciously or otherwise. You've got to go in there expecting to win."

Good advice. I resolved to play my best: the only person who was going to beat me was me. I imagined the theme to Jaws, as I walked through a faux rainforest and into the casino. I slowed down and looked through a surprisingly smoke-free room, across an armada of slot machines and saw "POKER" hanging from the ceiling about a hundred yards in front of me. In my imagination, a needle scratched across the Jaws record. My palms got sweaty, and my legs felt heavy. I was about to lose my nerve.

Tomorrow: Part Two

Posted by Wil at 01:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (49)

I've got all this stuff I want to write up, but I've just gotten supremely busy, and I probably won't have a chance until next week to do it.

Until then, I strongly encourage WWdN readers who have had it with pop-ups and spyware to take a look at the latest release of Firefox. I started using it a few days ago, and I like it (and its totally bitchin extensions -- especially bugmenot) so much, I'm considering switching from Konqueror, and making Firefox my primary browser. That probably doesn't mean very much to anyone, unless you know how much I like Konqueror, which is a lot.

Okay, I have to go do real work now, so have a great weekend, everybody.

Posted by Wil at 01:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (100)

I've never been the captain of anything in my life, so this is pretty cool:

The Memory Walk, 2004 Team, "Stars Trekking For Jimmy Doohan," was inspired by the heart-felt and powerful messages made by Star Trek actors during the Farewell Dinner and celebration for James "Scotty" Doohan, on August 28th of this year.

To show our support for our beloved Jimmy Doohan a small group of fans teamed-up with the Alzheimer's Association of Southern California to participate in the Walk on October 2nd and raise money to fight this debilitating disease.

Naturally, we simply had to recruit one of the more impressive speakers from the Tribute Dinner to be our Honorary Captain - Wil Wheaton.

(Is nobody going to say it? -- 'Captain Wesley Crusher, reporting for

duty!')

I am going to be a Gnomedex on the 2nd, so I can't actually head down there and do my best R. Lee Ermey impression, but I'm honored just the same. Will any SoCal area WWdN readers step up, and represent? It would be SO COOL if we could get a posse out there to support this team. You can find out more about the team at our official homepage: Stars Trekking for Jimmy Doohan.

Posted by Wil at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (54)

Anne walked into my office, and proudly pointed to the T-shirt she was wearing. It said "I [heart] my geek."

"Is that true?" I said, "Do you really love your geek?"

"I do when he gets off the computer so we can go take care of our errands." She said.

I stood up, and kissed her nose. "Okay," I said, "I just have to change my shirt and we can go."



"What's wrong with the shirt you have on right now?" She said.

"Look at it," I said.

"There are only ten types of people in the world: those who understand binary, and those who don't."

"Right." I said, "I need to change this."

"Why?" She said.

"Because it's like you're wearing a shirt that says 'I'm with stupid,' and if I wear this shirt . . ."

"Oh. You're him." she said.

I laughed, and walked into our bedroom. I returned wearing my Vandals T-shirt.

"Now everyone will wonder who your geek is!" I said.

She looked at me for a moment and replied, "Uhm. Probably not. But I still love you."

I held her hand the entire time we were out.

After we got home, I went for a run through my neighborhood. The sun was beginning to set, and a light breeze shook a few leaves from the trees over my head.

"Mother Nature thinks it's October," I thought, "I like that."

I reached the corner, and turned down a new street. A car pulled up next to me and honked.

"Well, hello there, Mister Wheaton," said the driver, one of my very friendly neighbors, "How are you?"

"I'm well," I said.

"And how is your beautiful wife?"

I smiled and said, "She's beautiful!"

Because she is.

When I got home, I walked into the dining room. Anne sat at the table, and giggled as she read The Onion.

"Do you know how much I love you?" I said.

She looked up at me, smiled, and held up two fingers.

I shook my head.

She held up four fingers.

I shook my head.

She held up ten fingers.

I shook my head, and held my arms out at my sides, palms open. "This much," I said.

"That's an awful lot," she said.

"Yeah, it sure is."

Posted by Wil at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (105)

If you're going to be in a sub-culture, you absolutely must be able to laugh at yourself. It starts out in school, as a defense mechanism against The Cool Kids. When we grow older, if we're smart, it's how we snort laugh right back at people who just don't get it . . . you know, the mundies. (Who used to be The Cool Kids, before we realized that it is we who are truly The Cool Kids.)

In this endeavor, John Kovalic is our leader. Case in point: "The force can have a strong influence on the geek-minded."

Posted by Wil at 07:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (31)

What do you get when Mediasharx asks me ten questions, and I answer them?

Why, you get Taking The Bat: Ten Questions With Wil Wheaton, of course.

Dive into the deepest recesses my my mind, and swim around Too Much Information like:

5. If you could have a love child with anyone besides Anne, who would that be and why?

Jenna Jameson. However, I'm not as much interested in the having the child part, as I am in the making the child part.

Posted by Wil at 08:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (51)

I was checking Just A Geek's Amazon sales rank (hey, if you had a book at Amazon, you'd check it's sales rank, too, buddy) and I saw one of the best Amazon Listmania lists, ever: So you wanna be a geek like me?

Quoth the list's creator:

Tired of being a regular, run of the mill geek? Ready to take that ever-important step forward into full-blown uber-geek?? Then take the plunge, young man (or woman)! Pop 'Flood' into your CD player and let's get cracking!

This list is just a few items short of being definitive. Suggest additions in comments, and maybe together we can create the Official WWdN Geek List.

Posted by Wil at 08:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (44)

Even though I've been doing interviews for almost twenty years, it's still a challenge for me to keep it brief and simple, because that's completely at odds with how I talk in real life. See, I look at interviews as an opportunity for The Audience to listen in on a conversation I have with a journalist, rather than using the journalist as a stenographer for my press release or bio. Of course, if I'm promoting something like Just A Geek, I want to make sure I talk about it at least a little bit, and a good interviewer will facilitate that, but the really good interviews are the ones where the journalist has done his or her homework, is actually interested in what we're talking about, and isn't afraid to throw the list of questions away if something more interesting comes up in the course of the interview.

Oh, and when I do this on the radio, we have to do it in less than ten minutes.

There are notable exceptions, like when I do The David Lawrence Show, and David (disclosure: David is a good friend) books me for the whole three hours, but those opportunities are few and far between.

So I was very excited when WebTalk Radio asked me for an interview, and told me that it would be a longer, more relaxed, "Charlie Rose" style discussion.

I loved every minute of the interview, even though I had to pee really bad for the last five minutes or so (yeah, you needed to know that, right?) We talked for almost an hour, uninterrupted, and WWdN readers who are looking to earn their "I spent 58 minutes listening to an interview on WebTalk Radio" merit badge know what to do.

Links:

Windows Media stream of just my 58 minute segment.

The Full Show (1 hr, 12 min; 14MB @ 32k) in .mp3 format.

Posted by Wil at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (36)

I had a fantastic time in Las Vegas! I was there >24 hours, which is the perfect amount of time for me to be there, I've discovered. I'm working on my trip report, but I've got some real work to do today, and I probably won't have time to finish it until the weekend.

While I was on my way home yesterday, I actually managed to audioblog a little bit about the trip, so go listen, and then read this cool interview I did with Poker Lizard dot Com:

PokerLizard: Do you have any plans to play in the World Series of Poker (WSOP) in the future?

Wil: I was just reading Howard Lederer's website for his 2003 WSOP reports and something really struck me at the very beginning, he said, NOW This is Howard Lederer were talking about, he said, "I've been playing all year long in No-Limit tournament games to get ready for the World Series because I never felt I was ready enough to play in that game."

If HOWARD LEDERER feels that he has to spend a year on top of all his other experience to play in the No-Limit tournaments, I probably have a LOOONG way to go before I can compete and play competitively at that level.

I had fun with that interview, even though I was steaming from a really bad beat (or misread, depending on who you ask). But the really cool thing is that my interview is right next to an interview with Daniel Negreanu, who is one of the nicest people I've ever met, and certainly the kindest professional poker player I've ever met. It's nice to keep good company.

Also, I discovered a wonderful review of Just A Geek over at Apple Lust dot Com:

Let's get this out of the way right now: if you come to this book looking for Star Trek gossip and wry recollections of life among the Klingons, you're going to be disappointed. Wil Wheaton's autobiographic melange of weblog and memoir is something far, far more important.

For a world where fame is instant and independent of talent, and where reality television cranks out disposable celebrities willingly sell their souls for fifteen minutes of fame, Wheaton has written an intelligent and honest warning. Like the slave who whispered "Memento Homo" into the ear of the Roman general enjoying a Triumph, Wheaton reminds us that celebrities are as vulnerable to the vicissitudes of fate as the rest of us. Starring in a hit TV show or getting an Oscar nomination in no way guarantees that the casting calls and party invitations will continue to come.

Oh! And before I forget, this Saturday night at ACME, we're opening a brand new sketch comedy show. I'm not in this one, (my show opens in 10 weeks) but I was with the cast when they wrote it (we all write our shows together) and it's hilarious. Tickets are only 15 bucks, there's a great bar next door, and there is 500% of the USRDA of funny on the stage.

Posted by Wil at 07:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (45)

My parents took me and my brother to the Dodger game last night. It was awesome. Especially when Beltre tried to hot-dog a pop-up in foul territory, and ended up dropping the ball about ten feet in front of us. Our entire section stood up and yelled at him, "Use two hands!"

When he came up to bat in the bottom of the inning, most of the stadium started chanting "MVP! MVP!" But not our section. We chanted "USE TWO HANDS! USE TWO HANDS!"

Maybe you had to be there, but it was really funny.

Then there was the old Chinese guy sitting one section above us, who was totally Dancing Homer. They put him on the Dodgervision screen so many times, I wonder if they're going to hire him in Capital City.

I've been going to Dodger Stadium as since I was a little kid. I will always remember sitting in the family seats, two rows above the Dodger dugout, during the World Series in 1977, when I had such a bad ear infection that my dad had to hold me in his lap whenever the crowd cheered too loudly, or during the playoffs in 1978 when I got to go to a game with my dad because my mom had to stay home with my recently-born sister. I will never forget holding Nolan up so he could watch Mike Piazza hit one completely out of the ballpark, and high-fiving Ryan a few years ago when we watched a successful suicide squeeze play unfold right in front of us.

I love baseball, but I love Dodger baseball, at Dodger Stadium, more than anything. My family has had season seats there since the stadium opened (there's a really cool story about how my dad's family is connected to the Dodgers, but that's another story for another time), and last night was the last game of the year that the family tickets were available to my mom and dad.

Oh crap, it's 8:45 and I have to get out of here. I have an audition at 9:40, then I get to go to Las Vegas for a Meeting-with-a-capital-M tomorrow morning, so I'm looking forward to a nice drive across the desert, some poker tonight, and a (hopefully) cool trip report when I get back. There's a chance I'll moblog and audblog from the trip, so check in if you're so inclined.

Posted by Wil at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (69)

I've updated my Appearances page to reflect some stuff that's coming up: namely, Gnomedex and Linucon. There's some other stuff in the works, but until I sign on the dotted line, I had better not talk about it.

Also, if you're half the fan of Futurama that I am, you will probably enjoy The Top 25 Futurama Moments.

And if you're into poker, you should check out The Film Geek's poker blog. It's good.

Oh, and if you get a chance to watch Star Wars: Empire of Dreams, you simply must do it. To quote my wife, "I'm not even a Star Wars Geek, and I loved it."

Posted by Wil at 10:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (56)

The familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee woke me a few minutes after Anne got up. I was still half-asleep when I walked into the kitchen and said, "Is there coffee?"

"There is totally coffee," she said.

I filled my new favorite mug with Peet's French Roast. It's a cheesy looking thing that says "Crabby 'till I get my coffee" with a picture of a frowny crab holding a mug of coffee in each claw. It came from Cannery Row, of course.

"Are you crabby 'till you get your coffee?" she said.

"Uh-huh." I said, as I wiped sleep from my eyes and took my first sip. I kissed the back of her neck and said, "But I'm not crabby now."

I'll spare you the rest of how sickeningly cute we were at each other, but if you've ever been stupid in love with someone, you probably know what I mean.

The kids ate breakfast, and Anne took them to school. When she got back, she said, "You want to take the girls to the park?"

Ferris has a limited vocabulary, but I'm convinced that she knows the phrase "take the girls" because whenever she hears it, she runs to the cabinet where we keep their leashes, and kicks the door.

"Yeah. That will be fun."

Fifteen minutes later, they were running around with other dogs while we watched like proud parents.

"I love the way dogs play just like little kids," I said.

Ferris ran over, dropped a dirty tennis ball at my feet, and looked up at me. Riley sat next to her, trembling with excitement.

"Did you want me to throw the ball for you?" I said.

Riley jumped up and ran in a little circle. Ferris barked.

"Okay," I said, and threw it as far as I could.

The dogs chased it at full speed, right through a big mud puddle.

"I guess I'm taking my car to the carwash today," I said.

Anne looked at me. "How are you doing this morning?" she said.

"I'm okay."

"You're still dwelling on that stupid Entertainment Weekly thing," she said. Not a question.

My left eye began to twitch. It's been doing that for about a week, and I really wish it would stop.

"Yeah."

"I know that it sucks, but you're wasting a lot of energy on a few words."

Riley got to the ball before Ferris, but kicked it across the grass. Ferris darted to the side, and picked it up.

"You know how they said I 'endlessly lament' in my book?"

"Yeah."

"I used some linux tools to grep my manuscript last night. I wrote 'I used to be an actor' six times. That's 48 words out of a manuscript of over 84000 words. That's like point oh oh oh two three eight something something. It's hardly 'endlessly.'"

"Oh my god," she said. "You are such a nerd."

Ferris dropped the ball back at my feet, and took off before I could bend over to pick it up. Riley followed her, right through the mud puddle.

"It's just that --"

Anne put her hand on my shoulder, and turned me to face her.

"You have to let this go. You know what the truth is, and so does everyone who reads your website."

"But it sucks."

"Let it go, Wil."

I drew a deep breath, frowned, and rubbed my hands down my face. Ferris picked up the ball, and started to run back.

"I know. It's just not as easy as I wish it would be."

"I know. But if you dwell on it, you're going to start whining," she said. "You're dangerously close to whining right now."

Those were the magic words. She was right, and I knew it. I did not want to become a whiner. Somehow, I had to just let it go, learn something from it and just move on.

"You're totally right."

When Ferris was about fifteen feet away from us, she suddenly dropped the ball, and ran after a beautiful golden retriever. Riley scooped up the ball, brought it back to us, and lay down at our feet.

"Are you tired?" Anne said to Riley, in the overly-happy 'I'm talking to the dog' voice.

"Did you play too hard?" I said, in the same voice.

Riley rolled onto her back, and stretched out as far as she could. She was covered in mud.

Anne and I laughed, and I scratched the only part of her belly that wasn't muddy.

"We are such geeks," I said. Across the grass, Ferris and the Retriever were playing an excited game of you-chase-me-then-I'll-chase-you.

I looked up at Anne. "When we get home, I'm going to write in my blog. I'm going to thank everyone for their support, and see if I can pick up a lesson from this. If I can, I'll write about that also . . . but that will be the end of it."

After a few minutes, Riley got up, and joined the game of you-chase-me-then-I'll-chase-you, with an emphasis on the you-chase-me part.

While I watched the dogs run around, I marked how lucky and happy I am. "I have fantstic kids. I have a wife who loves me as much as I love her, and I was able to spend my Monday morning at the park with my dogs. I've got the freedom to write what I want, when I want, and I have the privilege of sharing these things with a wonderful audience who choose to give me a little bit of their time.

What a myopic fucking fool I've been! What a stupid, stupid jerkass! I was so worried about impressing The Cool Kids, I forgot who I am, and why I do this. And even worse, I disrespected -- even if unintentionally -- the very people who have been with me on The Journey all along. It's not some stupid magazine that owes *me* an apology; it's *me* who owes all those Real People an apology."

I turned to Anne. "I know what I'm going to write when we get home."

"Good," she said. "Just let it go."

"I just did."

Posted by Wil at 01:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (259)

Last week, Entertainment Weekly called my manager, and said that they were going to write announce Just A Geek in this week's issue. I told my manager that I was concerned, because Entertainment Weekly has always written really cruel and misleading stories about me and my website, but the reporter assured him that this would just be a nice blurb announcing the release of my book.

Since the mainstream media have completely ignored me and Just A Geek, I was pretty excited that an influential magazine like Entertainment Weekly was going to give me a little ink.

That "nice blurb?" I just saw it on page 83:

"Whiner of the Week"

In his blog-cum-memoir Just a Geek, the former Star Trek, TNG cast member, now 32, fills 260 pages endlessly lamenting, "I used to be an actor when I was a kid."

It's pretty clear that the person hack who wrote this awful, mean-spirited, and misleading blurb didn't read the entire book, because I DON'T spend 260 pages "lamenting I used to be an actor when I was a kid." I spend the first chapter talking about those feelings, because it's an important foundation for the rest of the story. A responsible journalist would know that.

It's one thing to criticize the way I write, or opine that I spend too much time on one thing, and not enough time on another. That's totally valid opinion . . . but to completely misrepresent me and the content of my book this way is despicable.

Someone at that magazine must have a vendetta against me, because Entertainment Weekly has tried very hard to portray me in a consistently negative light. When they reviewed WWdN about two years ago, they selectively quoted me out of context, and made me look really bad, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that they're at it again, but it still hurts.

Posted by Wil at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (383)

Around 6:30 PM Pacific Time tonight, I'm going to be on Your Mac Life to talk about Just A Geek, my iBook woes (and what looks like a very positive resolution to said woes), and some other geeky goodness.

Details on the show, like how you can listen and stuff, are in the link above.

As I did last time I was on the radio, I'll probably update this entry with a running critique of my performance.

Update: There weren't any breaks, so I can't do a running commentary . . . so I'll just assess: I felt good. I think I was able to talk about the book enough to promote it, but also not just shill for it, you know?

I also said "You know?" WAY too many times. I am *so* from The Valley (really, I am.)

I felt a good rapport with Shawn, the host, which is always a bonus. I was a little surprised that he was so stricken by the honesty of my book . . . I mean, I knew it was honest because I wrote it, but that's a theme that keeps coming back around: readers are stunned by how honest and direct I am in it. Maybe we (me, O'Reilly, and my publicist) should be talking about that in the marketing?

Anyway, I am mostly happy with the show. I can't sit here and pick out any major moments that I liked or hated, which usually means that I was focused, and didn't suck out loud.

Cool!

Posted by Wil at 10:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (49)

I'm sort of a baseball geek. I read the Baseball Prospectus every year, Rob Neyer is one of my favorite sportswriters of all time, and I positively HATE Paul DePodesta for Kevin Malone-ing my Dodgers.

Okay, so the last one has more to do with being a life-long Dodger fan, and less to do with stats . . . unless you believe, as I do, that pitching wins in the baseball playoffs the same way goaltending wins in hockey playoffs.

But anyway, the whole point of this post is to share a cool item, brought to us by my Baseball Page-A-Day calendar:

On this date, in 1911, Grover Cleveland Alexander, who was a rookie at the time and playing for the Phillies, outlasted Cy Young, who was playing for the Braves. The final score was 1-0.

So that's cool and all, because Alexander went on to 373 career victories . . . but Cy Young, who held his own against the rookie, was forty-four.

I say that, in their honor, we re-raise the mound, eliminate the DH, and tell the crybabies players who wear body armor that if they're going to crowd the plate, they may just get brushed back.

Posted by Wil at 03:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (45)

On Friday night, I watched the DVD of Goodfellas. It's as good as I remember it.

On Saturday, Anne and the kids went down to her friend's house at the beach, and I met up with several of my friends from ACME, including Shane, (who you should be reading if you're not already) and went to Canter's Deli in the Fairfax district. Canter's is a true Los Angeles institution, where hipsters routinely share the room with octogenarians, and you're just as likely to get cussed out by the 70 year-old waitress as you are to get patted on the head and called "honey." It's rad. Saturday night I played poker for about 3 hours. I'm saving the details for a cool poker story . . . but oh my god. I'm back on my game, and it feels good!

On Sunday, Anne and the kids came home fairly early. We dropped them at the movies, and ran tons of errands while we were "kid-free." For dinner on Sunday night, I made Beercan Chicken on my grill, which is usually really good, but this time something went horribly wrong, and when I opened the grill to turn the bird around, there was fire shooting out its ass, and smoke shooting out its head! I figure that there was a lot of fat on the bird that caught fire as it was dripping off. The whole skin got charred, and popped off in one piece when I touched it (think the Turkey in Christmas Vacation) but the chicken itself was incredibly good. Nolan declared that it was the "best chicken ever."

Yesterday, my parents invited us up to their house for an end of summer barbeque, and swimming. It was the first time all summer I went in their pool, which is really kind of sad. We played swimming pool wiffle ball, and had our first and last family dinner of the summer.

It was over 100 all weekend, but we finally have air conditioning! I got one of those wireless thermometers, so I can see what the outside temperature is compared to the inside, and I loved seeing OUTSIDE: 104 INSIDE: 79

Ryan started school today. Holy crap. I'm the parent of a 10th grader.

Posted by Wil at 12:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (49)

Okay, so it's not quite April 5, 2063 just yet, but . . .

LONDON (Reuters) - An unexplained radio signal from deep space could -- just might be -- contact from an alien civilization, New Scientist magazine reported on Thursday.

The signal, coming from a point between the Pisces and Aries

constellations, has been picked up three times by a telescope in Puerto Rico.

New Scientist said the signal could be generated by a previously unknown astronomical phenomenon or even be a by-product from the telescope itself.

But the mystery beam has excited astronomers across the world.

"If they can see it four, five or six times it really begins to get

exciting," Jocelyn Bell Burnell of the University of Bath in western

England told the magazine.

It was broadcast on the main frequency at which the universe's most common element, hydrogen, absorbs and emits energy, and which astronomers say is the most likely means by which aliens would advertise their presence.

The potentially extraterrestrial signals were picked up through the

SETI@home project, which uses programs running as screensavers on millions of personal computers worldwide to sift through the huge amount of data picked up by the telescope.

My whole life, I have hoped that we would look to the stars, and find undeniable proof that we are not alone in the universe. Could this be it?

Update: Aw, dammit. As synchronicity points out in comments, probably not:

A recent (September 1) article in New Scientist magazine, entitled ? Mysterious signals from 1000 light years away,? implies that the UC Berkeley SETI@home project has uncovered a very convincing candidate signal that might be the first strong evidence for extraterrestrial intelligence.

Alas, this story is misleading. According to Dan Werthimer, who heads up the UC Berkeley SERENDIP SETI project, this is a case of a reporter failing to understand the workings of their search. He says that misquotes and statements taken out of context give the impression that his team is exceptionally impressed with one of the many candidate signals, SHGb02+14a, uncovered using the popular SETI@home software. They are not.

Well, I still say we are not alone. So there. Nyah.

Posted by Wil at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (85)

Yesterday afternoon, I worked with Rod Roddenberry (Gene's son) at my favorite pub in the world, which just happens to be in Old Town Pasadena. Rod is shooting a documentary called "Trek Nation," that was originally about how Star Trek has positively impacted all sorts of people all over the world . . . but has become, he told me, about a son's efforts to understand his father, and grok his father's legacy. He's got an incredible story to tell, and I am really happy that I got to be part of it.

Even though we both worked on TNG (he was a PA one summer, and I was, well, Wesley), and we're about the same age, we never actually sat down and talked about anything important -- or got to know each other -- until last night. It's good that we didn't meet earlier in our lives, because from about 17 to 21, I was too busy being A Really Big Asshole™ to get to know him, anyway. It was really cool to compare our memories of Gene, and the diferences -- and similarities -- in our relationship with him.

We had an incredible conversation, that I'd love to recount here, but that would sort of steal Rod's thunder, wouldn't it? When the documentary is released, I think it will be of great interest to WWdN readers, even (especially?) those of you who are not Star Trek fans.

Posted by Wil at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (55)