And the Next Lifetime Achievement Award Goes to ...

I met a lot of people I know at this year's World Series, although not all of them willingly. Heading the unwanted list was Alabama Eddie. He spotted me in the tournament hall and wrapped his arm around me as if we were long-lost buddies.



"Great ta see ya again, Max," the old blowhard boomed, startling everyone in the cavernous room. "Ah had a mahvelous time at that there Aces an' Eights tournament, an' shore appreciate ya'all invitin' me."



I winced as I recalled all the chaos he had caused. "Nobody invited you," I reminded him. "You crashed it."

Alabama Eddie ignored my correction. "Only thang is, ah didn't much care for that there fella runnin' it they called Mouse. Shoah was a touchy guy."



"It's Moose, not Mouse. Yeah, every little thing bothers him. Like you busting in on an invitational tournament, deafening everybody by having your wife screech The Star Spangled Banner, trying to introduce games nobody ever heard of, and then stuffing the sportsmanship-award ballot box."



"Anyway, ah had a great time and hope ah get invited back again next year."



"Invited back?" I said incredulously. "Moose is thinking of canceling the event rather than risk having you show up again. Well, good seeing you again, Eddie," I blurted, trying to edge past him.



"Hold on a sec, young fella," he commanded, blocking my path with his 50-gallon hat. "Ah heard that magazine ya'all write for done give their first Lifetime Achievement Award to somebody name of Doyle Bronson."



"Brunson," I corrected again.



"If ya say so. Never heard of the boy. What's he done ta deserve that award, anyway?"



"Oh, not much. Ten bracelets so far. Best poker book ever written. World's most famous poker player for the past 50 years – little things like that."



"Kinda sounds like politics ta me. How come ah didn't get that there award?"



"I'm sure you would have, had they used a ballot box you could have stuffed."



"Waal, they's always the next one. Maybe ya'all could slip in a good word about me ta that Shubert fella what owns your magazine."



I didn't waste my time with another name correction. "I'd be delighted to, Eddie. What credentials do you have?" I asked, and then took a swig from a water bottle.



"Wa'al, ya gotta understand ah'm a pretty modest country boy an' don't much like talkin' about mahself."



I choked and coughed and sprayed water. "Don't be so shy," I finally managed to sputter. "You can tell me."



Just then there was a call from the live-game sign-up board. "Alabama Eddie, thousand dollar no-limit."



Eddie went into his standard routine, waving his cowboy hat for everyone in the room to see and crying out, "Kindly roll Alabama Eddie over."



I repeated my question about his poker resume. "Wa'al, ah was once voted the best four-card poontang player in the state of Alabama."



"Wow!" I said in awe. "That should do it. Anything else?"



He made some vague references to huge private games and tournaments I never heard of, then made a proposal. "Tell ya what, son, talk me up in your column an' I'll say some real nice things about ya in my acceptance speech. Maybe even give ya a copy of a book ah'm plannin' ta write."



"I'll try to think of something," I promised. At that moment he was called for a $400-$800 limit game, and as he went into his familiar rollover routine, I took advantage of the distraction to slip away.



The next morning I drove back to L.A., making my usual stop at the Barstow Card Casino. Walking in, I saw Aunt Sophie, the oldest and arguably the ugliest cocktail waitress in the world. Trying not to stare at her drooping boobs and tattoos, I asked her where the boss was.



"The big shmegegge? A meeting he is holding with someone from Starbucks. He thinks maybe having those fancy shmancy coffees in this dump might add to it a little class."



A Starbucks at Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino? What's next, a Cartier jewelry salon?



I walked into his office just as a company representative was touting Starbucks' extensive list of beverages. "Your patrons may choose from cappuccinos, café lattes, espressos, four different mochas, and select frappuccinos," he declared with obvious pride.



Big Denny made a face. "Who cares about all dat junk?" he shot back. "What kinda coffee ya got?"



"Those are coffees," the rep said disdainfully.



"Oh, yeah? Only a tooty-frooty would drink any of dat stuff. What does dey cost, anyways?"



"Well, should a customer settle for a simple caffé Americano," the Starbucks man sniffed, "the charge would be $3.95. A splendid caffe vanilla would be just a dollar more."



"What?" Big Denny roared. "Ya expects da farmers here ta pay four bucks for somet'in dey can't drink, or even know how ta pronounce? Don't let da door hit ya in da ass on the way out, pal."



After the big guy calmed down, I told him about my aggravations with Alabama Eddie.



"Yeah, da bum was in here, too. Tried ta talk me inta lettin' him host a poontang tournament. Fat chance. Most of da farmers here don't even know how ta play hold'em. All dey knows is five-card stud. And den I had ta t'row him out when he kept wastin' our time by signin' up fer our biggest games which he never sat down for."



I shook my head, because the Barstow Card Casino's biggest game was $3-$6. I then told Denny how the man from Alabama was trying to promote himself for the second-annual Lifetime Achievement Award.



Big Denny made a face. "Yeah, him an' Michael Jackson. Hey, wait a minute. Maybe dey kin give dat award to me. I made dis town. Before I opened my casino, da only reason people stopped in Barstow was ta use da bathroom. T'ings have really gone up here since den."



"Denny, the only things that have gone up since you arrived here have been the crime and suicide rates. This is the only casino where customers have to pay the security guards for protection. And since you opened shop, this is the only city in America where property values have gone down."



"Tell you what," Denny persisted. "If Card Player gives me da award, I'll run a nice ad in dere magazine."



"First you have to pay for the one you ran last year," I reminded him.



Denny kept pestering me, relating all his alleged accomplishments and insisting that a nice guy like him who was a credit to the game of poker deserved the award. As with Alabama Eddie, I promised to do what I could, and said my goodbyes.



Well, there you have it, Mr. "Shubert." It's obvious that the award should go to either Alabama Eddie or Big Denny. Tough choice.

Maybe you could make them co-winners.