I love doing incline dumbbell presses and hammer curls from the Seattle Waterfront Marriott.

I especially enjoy those exercises when a man and a woman (I assume they were with the online travel site that had a sales conference at the hotel) who I had seen earlier at the hotel bar are having sex in the hot tub. When she walked through the gym into the pool area, I noticed her nice body. A few minutes later, I saw that body stradding his, bouncing up and down. His arms wrapped around her shoulders to make sure that she didn't float away. Yeah, I might have watched a little bit too long. Shut up!


So if you're ever in Seattle - DO NOT sit in the hot tub at the Waterfront Marriott.

And don't use the 35 lb dumbbells either. I didn't wash my hands after using the bathroom, and before doing the curls.

~

Today we took the boy to his second baseball game - BoSox vs Mariners. Dice-K started for the Red Sox. Plenty of photos were taken. I can't wait for this conversation years from now:

Boy:Dad - are these pictures of a WWII internment camp?
Me: Um, no, son. These were taken in 2007.
Boy:What's with all the Asians in one building?
Me: We were in Seattle for an Ichiro-Matsuzaka battle
Boy:You sure that wasn't a Mahjohng parlor?
Me:Positive. But the average ACT score was 32.

I love shifty Asian humor. It's great being Scandinavian.

5 minutes ago in a Vancouver hotel.

Me: Hey, can we catch a Mariners game while we're in Seattle?
Mrs DP: Are you fucking kidding me?
Me: It's against the Red Sox
Mrs DP: No way
Me: Nut i want to be able to catch another ball game with my little boy
Mrs DP: Fine. You're a manipulative prick

Next step: Convincing Mrs DP that a trip to the local tuck-a-buck strengthens the father-son bond.

Those of you who have been (or are in) fantasy leagues with me may know that my baseball teams tend to suck. My teams are either ruined by injury or just plain poor decision making. By the all star game, my teams are usually out of contention. I never give up on the teams, just to be fair to the other league owners. But I know that I won't have much of a chance at placing in the money.

So Fantasy Sports Live is here to satisfy my need for action and a reason to continue watching Baseball Tonight. This venture, lead by Blinders allows people to compete in daily contests. You get a new team every contest - so you don't have to worry managing a bench or trading players. It's perfect for the sucky baseball drafter like myself.

Did I mention that they take PayPal and payout up to 90%?

Oh, and they're also going to have football leagues this fall. I'm pretty solid in football leagues. So bring it on bitches!

Bonus Code DONKEYPUNCHER!

You hear that ladies? You know you want it.

10:30PM, Saturday night, Chicago (my living room)

"See ya, Iggy!" - Me
"See ya, Iggy!" - JoeSpeaker
"See ya, Iggy!" - Bobby Bracelet
"See ya, Iggy!" – Chad-a-rama
"See ya, Iggy!" - Garth
"See ya, Iggy!" - Daddy
"See ya, Iggy!" - F-Train
"See ya, Iggy!" - Grubby
"See ya, Iggy!" - Joaquin

Iggy had already been passed out on the couch for an hour and a half, enjoying a warthog-less slumber.

10:45PM, Saturday night, the Peep Inn

"We can't stay at this bar, man. There's a confederate flag and weird people. And with Daddy stumbling all over the place, we're gonna end up throwin punches." - Joaquin

11PM, Saturday night, the Station

"Hey, look at that guy hitting that punching bag game. What a douchebag!" - Bobby Bracelet (see previous post for image of game)

The entire group had mellowed a ton, from 110 MPH to 30MPH, in the past four hours. Especially Daddy - he was a wreck. He looked like he could go timberrrrrr at any moment. I feared that even with 130 pounds of fury with us, we wouldn't be able to get him home if he passed out.

There were maybe fifteen other people in the bar enjoying the Latin music, so I thought that I would kick it up a nacho. After thirty-six hours of lagers and ales, I had my fill of the suds. I went hard core. I followed Grubby and Garth's lead. That's right. The strawberry margarita. And it was damn good.

I sprinted to the back of the bar as soon as I saw the opening at the jukebox. While holding my fruity beverage, I selected some tunes that I thought would surely get the totally gay online diary keepers going: a little Def Leppard, Hall and Oates, ABBA, The Pet Shop Boys, Queen, and Kelly Clarkson.

It didn't work.

One hour later...

"That fucking guy is still at it. What a fucking clown." - Me

Daddy was near death, his forehead just a few inches off the table. He was slurring his speech, asking the average-looking-waitress-with-big breasts (more on her later) where she got her teeth done, and not making progress on his beer. The rest of us were heading down that same path. The waitress sensed that we needed a bit of a pick me up.

Waitress: Do you guys want shots?
Me: Huh?
Waitress: Shots? (makes a shot-drinking motion)
Me: Ummm
Waitress: Maybe SoCo and lime?
Me: Who paid you to ask that?
Waitress: Ummm, nobody
Me: OK, let's do a round

It went down well, and just like JoeSpeaker's $40 cure, we started to feel a whole lot better.

Grubby: Hey, can you bring us another round?

One hour after that...

"Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna play doubles. Me and the Bracelet against DP and the Rooster." - Daddy

Daddy was wide awake. We found ourselves in front of the boxing game. Yes, we turned into the very douchebag we had mocked earlier in the evening. And we loved it.

When all was said and done, we loved it to the tune of probably $250 of play. The machine charged $1 per punch, with us a having a $5 per person wager. The highest score possible was 1000, with 900 called a “Professional Boxer” and 800 called a “Superman.” And there was also a special level that wasn't on the machine. 60 points - Daddy's level. If the two shots hadn't gotten his adrenaline pumping, knowing that a 105 pound Mexican gal scored 400 points surely did. Not long after that, Daddy challenged everyone to heads up battles. Crush.

Everyone had their own punching style, a topic that deserves its own post. A few things that stick out in my mind:

• I was the best. Around. Nothing's gonna ever keep me down. 899 points. That's right. Don't get into a fight with me if I have the opportunity to have my feet square, turn my body ninety degrees, and have a one foot follow through your face. It also helps that the machine didn't punch back.


• The Bracelet and I tried swinging left handed. I hit a 780 point haymaker. So I thought I would see if I could go higher. I turned back, swung violently, followed through across my body, spun around, my left hand landing between the average-looking-waitress-with-big-breasts' boobies. Joaquin then handed her $5.


• Joaquin in his wife beater, digging deep down, and cursing the same demons that haunted Julio Cesar Chavez, Roberto Duran, Hector Camacho, and Oscar de la Hoya. OK, maybe not de la Hoya. Joaquin isn't a pussy.

2:00AM, Sunday morning
We were the only ones left in the bar.

3:30AM, Sunday morning

"Hi Iggy!" - everyone
"What did I miss?" - Iggy (just waking up and reaching into his dwarf bag for a bottle of Advil)

~

7:20PM, Wednesday night, on a plane home (listening to Bell Biv Devoe, not that it matters)
We may have dominated that punching game, but my body and mind are both defeated. I still haven’t caught up on sleep. My hand is so numb that I’ve been giving myself “the stranger” for the last three days. The sight of beer makes me want to throw up in my mouth. And I’m haunted by that boxing game. 899 points. One point away from Professional Boxer status.

Bar boxing games are clearly rigged.

~

11PM, One year from Saturday
Can’t wait to do it again. For the next twelve months, consider me in training. Both my liver and right hand.

Gentile Summit 2007: I am Boxer Champ!


More to come shortly. After my liver and wrist recover.