A word must be spoken about the convention poker games. Those of us without regular games at home treasure these once-or-twice a year late-night games and wouldn't give them up, even though they ruin us for any bright-and-sparkling stuff the next morning, and even though, miraculously, everyone seems to lose more often, and bigger, than they win. How can this be, you ask? I dunno, but there you have it. This year we played with white, green and purple chips, which were apparently the only colors left when the gent who brought the chips (Bryan Barrett, Fan Guest of Honor) went to purchase them. In the meeting room next door to the one we played in, old noir b-movies were showing, so we used their soundtrack as ours. (We tried to be their soundtrack, but the people from over there came in and told us to pipe down. They're lucky we didn't go through with our revenge streaking plan.) We drank a $12.95 single malt from Trader Joe's and ate chocolate chip cookies, and Bill Fitzhugh (RADIO ACTIVITY) chewed on a square cigar because it's illegal to smoke indoors in Monterey and Robin Burcell (COLD CASE), who is a cop, claimed she was authorized to shoot him if he lit up. Steve Stilwell, a book dealer with an alleged heart condition which, as far as I can see, entitles him to nothing except blonde cardiac nurses, beat my full house with a bigger full house on a hand with no wild cards. But in the end we all lost to Parnell Hall (WITH THIS PUZZLE, I THEE KILL). Ain't that always the way?