by Scott Ian
I told Will, “I haven’t heard anything like this from the people at UB, and I haven’t had any issues getting money off the site.”
But he said, “Mate, just start taking it out.”
So I did, and by the time Black Friday arrived I had most of my money off the site. I had told some of my player friends what I was doing, and they did the same. Still, no one saw Black Friday coming. I don’t think anyone thought there would be a complete shutdown. If anything, most people I spoke to thought there would eventually be a deal made with the government to regulate and tax online poker. Why wouldn’t there be a deal? There was so much money to be made by everyone. Since Black Friday there would have been potentially billions of dollars in tax money that could have gone directly into US infrastructure. It makes no sense.
If there is a positive I can take from poker ending, it’s that it did. Black Friday made me decide to stop playing. Without poker I had a lot more free time, and it happened at the perfect moment. Pearl gave birth to our son, Revel, in June. I wouldn’t have been able to maintain the double-duty schedule I had been living for the past four years, and poker would’ve been the thing to suffer. I wouldn’t have been putting in the hours because I would rather be with my wife and baby. Being a dad meant so much more than anything else in my life.
Six years have passed since Black Friday, and the disastrous fallout of that day is still being cleaned up. A lot of players got their money back initially—PokerStars being the biggest of the online sites had the cash to pay all their players back. PokerStars made a deal with the government to buy Full Tilt and paid all their non-US players back as well as paying a $547 million fine to the government for operating in the United States after the UIGEA was voted into law. Paying the fine enabled PokerStars to be able to operate in the United States again as online poker slowly becomes legal on a state-by-state basis.
UB players as well as players on other smaller sites weren’t so lucky, as tens of millions of dollars of players’ money disappeared into a morass of promises, lost paper trails, offshore accounts, and, ultimately, theft. As of this writing the US attorney for the Southern District of New York recently contacted UB players so they could begin the process of making a claim for the money they had in their accounts seized by the Department of Justice. Hopefully this will bring financial closure to the thousands of UB players who got screwed.
I’ve kept in touch with a lot of the people I became friends with through poker, and we usually see each other at charity poker events (I took second out of seventy players in a charity tourney last year, winning a gold pen and a seat in a WSOP tourney I couldn’t play because I was on tour) or they come out to Anthrax shows, and it’s always fun to reminisce about the good ol’ days over too many drinks. Sometimes I get to play in home games locally, the coolest being invited by Phil Hellmuth to play in a game at Steve Martin’s house. Yes, that Steve Martin. Phil called and asked, “Hey Scott, are you home, and would you want to come play cards at Steve Martin’s house?”
There’s a question I’d never been asked before. I immediately answered, “Oh hell yeah! Thanks, Phil!” Then I thought about it for a second and said, “Uh, I’m not sure if I can. You guys may be playing at stakes way above my pay grade.”
Phil laughed and said, “We’re playing $5/$10, nothing crazy. Steve doesn’t want anyone losing too much money in his house. It’d make him uncomfortable.” Phil gave me the address, and a few nights later I was knocking on Steve Martin’s door. I was freaking out. I’d been a fan since his Let’s Get Small album. I love Steve Martin.
Steve opens the door and says, “You must be Scott. How are you?” And we shook hands and my nerves went away because he was so cool and the perfect host. I was standing in his dining room with Phil, Wayne Gretzky, Janet Jones, Wayne’s daughter Paulina, Steve’s wife Anne, and Phil’s friend Chamath, a billionaire. Yes, it was another one of those who-let-me-in-here moments. Steve explained what was going to happen: “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to all have some soup, and then we’ll go downstairs and play some cards. Then we’ll come back up for dinner and then go back downstairs to play cards until we’re done. Sound good?” Yes, Steve, it sounds good. We had soup (Steve had caterers cooking for us), then we went downstairs to his amazing card room. It was a fun game, everyone was super-cool, and there was a lot of shit-talking. Steve was exactly as I imagined he’d be—quietly funny. We played for about an hour, and then we had dinner and then right back to hold ’em. I slipped right back into my game and ended up winning $500. I didn’t care about the money; I had just spent five hours playing cards with Steve Martin. Oh yeah, and Wayne Gretzky.
My relationship with poker these days is that of an admirer from afar. I don’t get to play live poker because I don’t have time. I’m not complaining at all—I love my life. Being a husband and a father and having a full-time gig in Anthrax is the best, but it just doesn’t leave much room for anything else. That’s why online poker was so perfect for me. All I needed was my laptop. Poker has made its way back legally in three states so far: Nevada, New Jersey, and Delaware. It’s only a matter of time before it becomes legal in most of the United States, and then watch out! Your boy will be back, playing the seniors tournament at the WSOP!
The good ol’ days. Courtesy Scott Ian.
THE CONVERSATION
INT. BEDROOM—NIGHT
The telephone rings in Scott Ian’s bedroom in the East Village apartment he is sharing with then Anthrax singer John Bush.
SCOTT: Hello?
DARRELL: Baldini!
Years before Darrell was riding on his tour bus up Third Avenue in Manhattan and passed a men’s clothing store called Dino Baldinini. Darrell shortened it to Baldini, and it became Darrell’s nickname for Scott.
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
SCOTT: Hey Dime! What’s going on, man?
DARRELL: Did I wake ya?
SCOTT: No, I’m actually just going to bed. It’s all good, man. What’s up?
DARRELL: I got that tape you sent of the record. You got some killin’ motherfuckin’ tunes on this album. Man, I’m catchin’ a nut! I got the whole crew over here at the house, and we’ve been crankin’ it over and over again. Record sounds great! Songs are great! Fuckin’ killer, man. I fuckin’ love it! Hope I get to jam some of this shit live with you motherfuckers when you come down here. Just wanted to tell you thanks so much for havin’ me.
Darrell played on the songs “King Size” and “Riding Shotgun” on Anthrax’s new album Stomp 442.
SCOTT: Thank you! Thank you for playing on the record. We fucking love jamming with you, you know that. You can come up and jam any time, brother.
Scott and Darrell start shootin’ the shit, having a conversation. The whole time they are talking there’s somebody screaming in the background. Screaming very loud in a high-pitched, pissed-off way, and not the kind of celebratory shouting there would normally be at a party.
YELLING GUY: NOBODY GIVES A FUCK ABOUT ME! NOBODY CARES ABOUT ME ANYMORE! In 1988 I was NUMBER ONE! Now no one cares. People only want to listen to bands like Pantera and Slayer and Anthrax. NOBODY CARES ABOUT ME ANYMORE!
The yelling goes on and on, and it is distracting Scott.
SCOTT: Darrell, Darrell, excuse me, but who the fuck is that? Who is that yelling in your house?
DARRELL: Aw, man. That’s your boy “Sebastian Bach.” Yeah, uhh, me and the crew we all went down to see him play tonight here in Dallas. He was at some club, and he fuckin’ banged out a whole bunch of old Skid Row shit. We were all rockin’ out and shootin’ Blacktooths and I invited everyone back over to the house for a party afterward. His whole band and all the crew, and we were all havin’ a hell of a good time…
Darrell’s voice gets lower, almost to a whisper.
DARRELL, cont.: But your boy did a whole bunch of cocaine and basically just pissed everyone the fuck off with this fuckin’ trip that he’s been on, and everyone fuckin’ split. Now it’s
just me and him left, and I can’t leave my own house!
SCOTT: Oh, shit. That’s not cool.
Scott hears “Sebastian” yelling in the background, just going on and on with all this “Nobody cares about me” bullshit.
SCOTT, cont.: Well, that sucks, man. What a fuckin’ bummer. Can’t you just call a taxi and he’ll have to go back to his hotel?
DARRELL: I called him a taxi! He wouldn’t get in it!
SCOTT: Fuck, man, what a bummer.
DARRELL: You know me. I’ll fuckin’ party all night long, whatever, all day, I don’t give a fuck. Last man standing. But man, your boy’s just gettin’ on my fuckin’ nerves. I just can’t fuckin’ deal with motherfuckers talkin’ about old bullshit. Nobody cares about him, sayin’ he wants to kill himself…
Scott is very concerned by this last statement.
SCOTT: He said he wants to kill himself?
DARRELL: Yeah! Motherfucker said, “If I ain’t got my music, then what’s life worth livin’ for? I should just end it right now and kill myself.”
SCOTT: Shit, what did you say?
DARRELL: I fuckin’ told him, “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, motherfucker! People love you, motherfucker!” I talked a whole bunch of happy shit, tryin’ to cheer him up. But he just doesn’t wanna hear it. He’s too fuckin’ high.
SCOTT: Man, this whole scenario is just…
Before Scott can finish his sentence Darrell starts shouting at “Sebastian.”
DARRELL: GET OFF THAT, MOTHERFUCKER! WHAT’D I TELL YOU?
The call disconnects, and all Scott hears is a dial tone droning in his ear. There was a loud crash before the call went dead, and Darrell was yelling at “Sebastian.” Scott is concerned for both his friends—Darrell because he’s stuck in this shitty situation, and “Sebastian” because it sounds to Scott like he’s so down on himself. It’s now 3:30 a.m., and Scott, exhausted from a long day, decides he’s going to bed. Scott figures it’ll play itself out eventually and he’ll talk to Darrell the following day to see what happened. Scott falls asleep almost immediately.
About thirty minutes later the phone rings again, waking Scott up, and he very groggily answers it.
SCOTT: Hello?
DARRELL: Baldini!
SCOTT: Hey Dime…
DARRELL: Did I wake ya?
SCOTT: Yeah, uh, yeah…
Scott slowly starts to wake up.
SCOTT, cont.: Yeah, it’s fine, dude. What happened? I heard a big noise, you were yelling about something. What’s going on? Did he leave?
DARRELL: Naw, motherfucker’s still here.
SCOTT: All right, well, what happened?
DARRELL: That crash you heard was that motherfucker breaking my Kiss pinball machine! Took his fuckin’ beer bottle and hurled it right through the fuckin’ glass.
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
SCOTT: WHAT? Oh man, what the fuck? You didn’t throw him out of your house right after that?
DARRELL: What am I fuckin’ supposed to do? Fight that motherfucker? I can’t do that.
SCOTT: I don’t know what to say… man. The Kiss machine? That’s fucking all kinds of fucked up.
DARRELL: Yeah, and he didn’t just do that! He kicked over the smoke machine in my living room so the whole house is filled with smoke now. And now he’s in my fuckin’ backyard, and “Sebastian Bach” is chasin’ the fuckin’ goat around the swimming pool!
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
Darrell has a goat with a pink goatee just like his. Scott starts laughing at the idea of “Sebastian” chasing a goat around the swimming pool. He has never heard that sentence before nor does he think anyone in the history of the English language, or any language, has said, “‘Sebastian Bach’ is chasin’ the fuckin’ goat around the swimming pool.” Scott is laughing his ass off.
DARRELL: It ain’t funny, motherfucker! This ain’t funny!
SCOTT: (Still laughing) It’s a lot funny, Darrell.
DARRELL: IT AIN’T FUNNY! You think if my fuckin’ goat falls in the swimming pool, you think your fuckin’ boy “Sebastian’s” goin’ in there with his white fuckin’ boots on? FUCK NO! I’m goin’ in there! I gotta get the fuckin’ goat out!
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
Scott is thinking of Darrell trying to wrestle a goat out of a pool. How would you even get a goat out of a fuckin’ pool? Scott starts laughing even harder.
DARRELL: Don’t laugh, motherfucker! That thing kicks me in the head, then what?
SCOTT: (Calming down.) I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m tired and a little bit delirious, and it’s making me laugh.
DARRELL: It ain’t funny man. I don’t know what to fuckin’ do. I just—I don’t know what to do about this shit. I’m fuckin’ over it. The guy’s on my last fuckin’ nerve. I can’t handle it.
SCOTT: Hey, hey, HEY! I have an idea.
DARRELL: Yeah Baldini, what is it?
Scott, thinking about all the parties and all the shenanigans that go on at Darrell’s house on a regular basis…
SCOTT: You get a lot of complaints, right? From your neighbors? You make a lot of noise in your house, you must.
DARRELL: Yeah, my neighbors hate me. Call the cops all the time. Where you going with this, Baldini?
SCOTT: What if I called the cops and said my neighbors were making too much noise and I give them your address? Then they’ll send the cops over and “Sebastian” will have to leave. Problem solved.
Darrell doesn’t answer right away, takes a beat, takes another, and then quietly and very seriously answers.
DARRELL: Baldini, that’s a good idea, BUT you can’t just call the cops on my house, like, planned and shit. It don’t sit right with me, like, planning it like that. If the cops come, the cops come. If my real neighbors call the cops, they call the cops. But we can’t do that. It sets a bad precedent.
SCOTT: Are there drugs, like, out on the table?
DARRELL: No! Your boy did all the drugs! There’s no fuckin’ drugs left.
Scott is disappointed that Darrell didn’t like the idea and tries to sell it again.
SCOTT: Well, man, I don’t know what to tell you. I really think I could…
And again before Scott can finish his sentence Darrell starts shouting at “Sebastian.”
DARRELL: HEY MOTHERFUCKER, I SAID DON’T TOUCH THAT! GET…
The call disconnects again. Scott is at a loss now. Darrell’s fucked, but what can he do? He tried to help, but Darrell shot it down. Scott is in New York, Darrell is in Fort Worth, Texas, and Scott doesn’t know how to help his friend. It’s almost four-thirty in the morning now, and Scott has to go to bed. Scott and John (who is fast asleep in the other bedroom) have shit to do the next day, so Scott goes back to sleep. About thirty minutes later the phone rings again.
SCOTT: (sleepily) Hello?
DARRELL: (whispers) Baldini.
SCOTT: Dime?
DARRELL: (whispers) Yeah.
SCOTT: What’s wrong?
DARRELL: (whispers) I’m hiding in the closet.
SCOTT: (incredulous) You’re hiding in the closet?
Illustration by Stephen Thompson.
DARRELL: (hisses) Quiet down, motherfucker—he’ll hear you!
SCOTT: (whispers) You’re hiding in the closet?
DARRELL: (quietly) I’m hiding in the closet. Motherfucker was in the kitchen, so I ran upstairs. I got a big ol’ closet. I fuckin’ ran in and pulled all my clothes down off the hangers on top of me so I just look like a pile of dirty laundry on the floor.
SCOTT: This is your plan? This is your plan? You’re gonna fuckin’—
(Scott looks at the clock in his bedroom.)
—you’ve got at least two hours till the sun comes up. This is your plan?
DARRELL: (whispering loudly) What do you mean till the sun comes up? You think just ’cause the sun comes out, he’s gonna leave. Like a vampire or some shit? Like, “Sun’s up—gotta go!” That motherfucker’s high as a kite. He
might be here all day. I’m just gonna hang here, man. I’m fuckin’ comfortable.
