Thursday, July 31, 2008
Fairly Routine
I wake up somewhere between 9 and 10 in the morning. Our bed is the most comfortable bed in the world. My dear wife has been up for a few hours. I warm up a heating pad for my neck (arthritis), pour a 20-ounce mug of coffee, fix and eat breakfast, which is always a bowl of cereal and a banana, watch the news and weather, get another mug of coffee, go down to the basement to read forums, blogs and write a little.
Just about an hour and a half after waking up, I get dressed, go outside and attend to the birds. (Sometimes my dear wife does this. We switch off.) We have 12 ducks and one Guinea Fowl. We used to have 18 ducks and 4 Guineas, but death happens.
One of the ducks hurt her leg a week ago. We have no idea how it happened. My dear wife went to put them in the pasture for the day and one, an older chocolate Indian Runner, didn’t get up and run out of the coop with the others. Her left leg was splayed out. Leg injuries are common in domestic fowl. Usually, after a couple weeks of rest, they are good to go. Sometimes they are not. We put her in the “infirmary,” a small area in the coop that I built just for such situations. She’s not eating or drinking much on her own, so each morning and night we put a half-dozen night crawlers in her water bowl. She gobbles them up right away. These worms will determine whether or not she survives.
The last Guinea has broken each of his hips once. He spent a couple months in the infirmary. He now gallops when he runs, and his tail is at a 45 degree angle to the left. We call him Legs. He still manages to terrorize the ducks when out in the field by charging at them, Male Guineas do this to establish dominance. Yet, Legs wasn’t always the Alpha. Another male that died from a really bizarre leg injury was the big dog before, but when he kicked, Legs filled in right away.
So the birds that can walk go out to a back pasture for the day. They have 3 big bowls of water that they climb in to wash off, and 3 smaller buckets from which they drink. These all get cleaned and filled every morning. Then it’s back to the coop to collect eggs, and clean out the food bowl and watering trough.
We still have some veggies in the ground. I put in a couple rows of spuds this spring and some lettuce. There are a couple raised beds of mint, which we still sell, Then there’s the tomatoes, eggplant and peppers in the hoop house. We planted enough garlic to last us the year. The garlic is almost ready to harvest, so it doesn’t get watered any more; however, the irrigation for the other plants still needs to be managed. We had our first new potatoes for dinner last night, seasoned with some green garlic and peppers. Yummy.
There are a million things I could do outside at this point. Our 3 cords of firewood were delivered yesterday evening. It needs to be put away in the barn but the area where it is stored still needs to be cleaned up, irregular pieces of wood from last year put elsewhere in order to neatly stack the new wood. But I still have to cut down the Photinia, buck the wood and stack it with the green filbert logs I bucked up last week. All of that wood needs to go behind what we are going to burn this winter.
And then there’s the barn. It’s a mess. The stall where we put stuff that needs to go to the dump is overflowing. I have about six trips to the dump ahead of me. Tools are strewn everywhere; hoses, hose manifolds, ground cloth, plastic trellis and potting cans all dropped with a “I’ll deal with them later” from last season are waiting to be dealt with.
One of the paddocks still has tomato cages and soaker hoses from last year. They are overgrown with weeds, so getting them out of there will be a monstrously hard task now. I may have to wait until winter to deal with them.
The roof needs power washed, a window sill needs replaced, the paint on the house needs touched up, the deck needs to be treated, screens in the windows need repairs, and I need another cup of coffee.
I go inside and sit down to write.
Then it’s time to go into town for the mail and sundries. And before I know it, it’s late afternoon. Time for a little poker before evening chores.
Poker Academy Online #40,179,664
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.5/$1 NL)
Table Emerald
July 30, 2008 - 15:58:12 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $164.75 6s 6d
2) gwpro $275.55 ?? ??
3) trubbel $85.15 ?? ??
5) ctrl $105.20 ?? ??
6) Papageorge * $188.20 ?? ??
7) Boomerang (sitting out)
8) TIRAMISU $91.10 ?? ??
9) Loki9 $204.50 4h 7d
TIRAMISU posts small blind $0.50
Loki9 posts big blind $1
ubu roi calls $1
gwpro folds
trubbel folds
ctrl calls $1
Papageorge folds
TIRAMISU calls $0.50
Loki9 checks
FLOP: 7h 6h 5d
TIRAMISU checks
Loki9 bets $4
ubu roi raises $12
ctrl folds
TIRAMISU calls $16
Loki9 raises $187.50 (all-in)
ubu roi calls $147.75 (all-in)
TIRAMISU folds
ubu roi shows 6s 6d
Loki9 shows 4h 7d
TURN: 7h 6h 5d Ad
RIVER: 7h 6h 5d Ad 8c
Loki9 wins $344.50 with an Eight High Straight
$3 raked.
Chores are going to start early tonight.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
V(o)ices
May came back! (See July 16, “May”)
Actually, she came back last week. Comes strolling in the door about 15 minutes late and says, “Hi everybody!” I’m the only person who says hello. Late in the session players are talking about her again, loudly. I figure I missed her busting out and she’s already left the pub. I look over at the table she was sitting at. She’s still there. I bust out early so I don’t know how deep she got. I still wondered why she came back at all. Clearly, folks don’t much care for her. Tonight she was at my table, and busted out early.
I didn’t last too much longer. Short with A 10 suited, a 10 on the flop, all in, called by AQ. Rivered. It was too early to go home. Beer on the breath in a small town with cops trying to prove something is worth avoiding. Two beers all night and I may find my name in the paper next week. So, I watch a bit of the final table. Pretty soon, May moseys up and starts a conversation.
“Do you play for money too?”
I’m a little hesitant with my response. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Have you ever been to Las Vegas or Reno?”
“I go to Las Vegas sometimes. I belong to an online group who go annually.” A woman knows that if she asks a man about himself, he’ll warm up.
Screeeeeeeeech! That’s the sound of me slamming on the brakes in order to back up.
May has been playing in this game for what, a couple months? One hand tonight she had to be reminded what denomination the red chip was. $100. In another hand, I knew I had the best of it on the turn when she and Doud were in the hand as well. (I’ll write about Doud in the future.) Doud checks after his preflop raise and c-bet. I put him on paint and bet $500, about 3/4 of the pot with my pocket fives and a gut shot. It’s May’s turn to act and she starts fishing through her dirty stack to find a green chip. Then it hit me: she wasn’t thinking about the value of the chip; she was only concerned with matching the right color!
I started yapping. “Yeah, you want the $500 chip. The green one is worth $500.” She paused, then mucked. Doug then mucked his pocket twos. I gave them both immense shit.
Usually, I’m pretty quiet at these games, and people have remarked about such. In fact, during breaks, I pretty much keep to myself or sit and listen to tales about misbehaved children, low-paying jobs and benders. For some reason tonight I found myself rather loud and taunting, and people noticed. The jury was mixed as to whether or not they approved of my witty banter. May liked it. Another woman, Lois, who is pretty quiet herself, seemed perturbed, and the guys…hell, they’re good ol’ boys, and I was acting no different than some of them, except for the wit.
I gave them a choice: “Play like shit against me, and you get the loud me; play well, and I’ll shut up.” For the most part I stayed loud, maybe even got louder as Doud stayed in with bottom pair to hit two pair on the turn, and Suckout Dan rivered me twice, including on my final hand. It seems that if one has an ace or any paint in his or her hand, then seeing 5th street is advised. But hey, it’s free!
Anyhoo, when May sidled up after the game, I was still pretty pumped up, full of myself, what-have-you. So, it was probably easy for her to get me going again.
She says, “We didn’t even make the final table.”
“Nope.”
“You always say that you can fold your way to the final table.”
“I can, but when I have the best hand, I have to play to win, not just make it to the final table.”
“I want to make the final table next week. Let’s make a pact. Let’s both get to the final table next week. Promise?”
Something just ain’t right here. “OK, I promise.”
“Was she hitting on you?” That’s what my wife wants to know when I relate the encounter to her.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I’m nice to her. That might be enough.”
“What else did you two talk about?”
“She wants to get a group of us together to go out and play at the casino. I told her that wasn’t going to happen, as these folks like to play free tourneys and penny home games.
Then she asked me to call her the next time I went.”
“What!?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Back to the bar.
“So what do you play when you go? Cash or tourneys?”
“Cash, mostly. 1/2.
“Do you win?”
Most of the time, yeah. Sometimes I’ll lose a buy-in.”
“Well, when I lose $1,000, I just write it off to having some fun.”
“$1,000? I’ve never lost that much in one sitting. Hell, I don’t have much more than that in my total bankroll.”
“Then how do you afford to play 100/200?”
I’m dying inside. “One dollar, two dollar.”
The conversation then shifted to whether playing poker is fun. Never. The environs may be fun; the game isn’t, whether winning or losing.
“You take poker pretty seriously. Do you play a lot?”
“Every day.”
“Do you ever go to the local casino?”
“Every other week or so.”
(Insert group trip idea.)
“Well, if I give you my phone number, will you call me next time you go?” I’m thinking to myself that she would get chewed up and spit out. “I’d like to play but I don’t want to play against any really good players…what do you call them?”
“Sharks.”
“Yes, sharks. Can you tell who they are when you’re playing?”
“Most of the time, yes. Especially the locals. But I have to tell you, there’s usually three or four at every table.”
“But you can tell me who they are. Call me, please? I’ll give you my number.”
My mind is going at a thousand miles an hour. Here’s someone who by my estimations is a complete fish/calling station who is either going to suck out and clean up or dump a G and not fret. And because I’m sufficiently literarily paranoid, I wonder if this is some elaborate ruse. This chick just moves to town, finds some sap poker pub players and sets them up for a trip to the local cash game to clean them out. Of course, this is just my mind doing its thing, that thing that keeps me at home most of the time, quiet and holed up in my basement.
But something is just not right. Of that much I am certain.
She hands me her business card. She works for a regional bank that has lost 90% of its stock value in the recent mortgage fiasco. She’s a home loan officer.
Actually, she came back last week. Comes strolling in the door about 15 minutes late and says, “Hi everybody!” I’m the only person who says hello. Late in the session players are talking about her again, loudly. I figure I missed her busting out and she’s already left the pub. I look over at the table she was sitting at. She’s still there. I bust out early so I don’t know how deep she got. I still wondered why she came back at all. Clearly, folks don’t much care for her. Tonight she was at my table, and busted out early.
I didn’t last too much longer. Short with A 10 suited, a 10 on the flop, all in, called by AQ. Rivered. It was too early to go home. Beer on the breath in a small town with cops trying to prove something is worth avoiding. Two beers all night and I may find my name in the paper next week. So, I watch a bit of the final table. Pretty soon, May moseys up and starts a conversation.
“Do you play for money too?”
I’m a little hesitant with my response. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“Have you ever been to Las Vegas or Reno?”
“I go to Las Vegas sometimes. I belong to an online group who go annually.” A woman knows that if she asks a man about himself, he’ll warm up.
Screeeeeeeeech! That’s the sound of me slamming on the brakes in order to back up.
May has been playing in this game for what, a couple months? One hand tonight she had to be reminded what denomination the red chip was. $100. In another hand, I knew I had the best of it on the turn when she and Doud were in the hand as well. (I’ll write about Doud in the future.) Doud checks after his preflop raise and c-bet. I put him on paint and bet $500, about 3/4 of the pot with my pocket fives and a gut shot. It’s May’s turn to act and she starts fishing through her dirty stack to find a green chip. Then it hit me: she wasn’t thinking about the value of the chip; she was only concerned with matching the right color!
I started yapping. “Yeah, you want the $500 chip. The green one is worth $500.” She paused, then mucked. Doug then mucked his pocket twos. I gave them both immense shit.
Usually, I’m pretty quiet at these games, and people have remarked about such. In fact, during breaks, I pretty much keep to myself or sit and listen to tales about misbehaved children, low-paying jobs and benders. For some reason tonight I found myself rather loud and taunting, and people noticed. The jury was mixed as to whether or not they approved of my witty banter. May liked it. Another woman, Lois, who is pretty quiet herself, seemed perturbed, and the guys…hell, they’re good ol’ boys, and I was acting no different than some of them, except for the wit.
I gave them a choice: “Play like shit against me, and you get the loud me; play well, and I’ll shut up.” For the most part I stayed loud, maybe even got louder as Doud stayed in with bottom pair to hit two pair on the turn, and Suckout Dan rivered me twice, including on my final hand. It seems that if one has an ace or any paint in his or her hand, then seeing 5th street is advised. But hey, it’s free!
Anyhoo, when May sidled up after the game, I was still pretty pumped up, full of myself, what-have-you. So, it was probably easy for her to get me going again.
She says, “We didn’t even make the final table.”
“Nope.”
“You always say that you can fold your way to the final table.”
“I can, but when I have the best hand, I have to play to win, not just make it to the final table.”
“I want to make the final table next week. Let’s make a pact. Let’s both get to the final table next week. Promise?”
Something just ain’t right here. “OK, I promise.”
“Was she hitting on you?” That’s what my wife wants to know when I relate the encounter to her.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I’m nice to her. That might be enough.”
“What else did you two talk about?”
“She wants to get a group of us together to go out and play at the casino. I told her that wasn’t going to happen, as these folks like to play free tourneys and penny home games.
Then she asked me to call her the next time I went.”
“What!?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Back to the bar.
“So what do you play when you go? Cash or tourneys?”
“Cash, mostly. 1/2.
“Do you win?”
Most of the time, yeah. Sometimes I’ll lose a buy-in.”
“Well, when I lose $1,000, I just write it off to having some fun.”
“$1,000? I’ve never lost that much in one sitting. Hell, I don’t have much more than that in my total bankroll.”
“Then how do you afford to play 100/200?”
I’m dying inside. “One dollar, two dollar.”
The conversation then shifted to whether playing poker is fun. Never. The environs may be fun; the game isn’t, whether winning or losing.
“You take poker pretty seriously. Do you play a lot?”
“Every day.”
“Do you ever go to the local casino?”
“Every other week or so.”
(Insert group trip idea.)
“Well, if I give you my phone number, will you call me next time you go?” I’m thinking to myself that she would get chewed up and spit out. “I’d like to play but I don’t want to play against any really good players…what do you call them?”
“Sharks.”
“Yes, sharks. Can you tell who they are when you’re playing?”
“Most of the time, yes. Especially the locals. But I have to tell you, there’s usually three or four at every table.”
“But you can tell me who they are. Call me, please? I’ll give you my number.”
My mind is going at a thousand miles an hour. Here’s someone who by my estimations is a complete fish/calling station who is either going to suck out and clean up or dump a G and not fret. And because I’m sufficiently literarily paranoid, I wonder if this is some elaborate ruse. This chick just moves to town, finds some sap poker pub players and sets them up for a trip to the local cash game to clean them out. Of course, this is just my mind doing its thing, that thing that keeps me at home most of the time, quiet and holed up in my basement.
But something is just not right. Of that much I am certain.
She hands me her business card. She works for a regional bank that has lost 90% of its stock value in the recent mortgage fiasco. She’s a home loan officer.
Monday, July 28, 2008
45 Degrees Latitude
We live in an area known as the “Grass Seed Capital of the World.” Every year at this time, fields of grass are being cut and winnowed, seed is being harvested, and fields are burning. After the grass seed is removed, the burning destroys weed seeds and adds a little somethin’- somethin’ back into the ground with the first rains, which, according to the weatherman, may make an early arrival tomorrow.
Last Friday, and again all day today, huge columns of smoke arose in all directions. I would venture to say I saw at least seventy-five of these fires today. And when I say “huge columns” I mean apocalyptically huge. Like a volcano just blew its top and a half-mile wide swath of ash is rising four miles into the sky. Only it’s ten volcanoes blowing at the same time. The air gets pretty smoky and little black blades of burned grass fall all around. And every year at this same time, city folks get in an uproar about the air pollution. The same folks that buy the grass seed for their lawns. Hey! grow a vegetable garden instead.
I feel a tangent coming on, so before that happens, let me cut to the chase: After the field is burned, the contrast is quite striking between those large blackened tracts and the surrounding, still green, yellow or brown fields. I have been admiring these neo-geo landscapes for several years now, and have always thought they would make a great photo study. In that the area is quite hilly, there are some great panoramas that should translate quite nicely into a two-dimensional format. In previous years, unfortunately, our harvest has been in full swing at the same time as the burnings, and I have not been afforded the time to go out and shoot what I have seen as I drive to and from deliveries.
Since we’re not farming this year, I have been looking forward to the burnings, and today I went out with my trusty Canon A-1. I believe I framed some pretty nice shots. Plus, I scouted a lot of fields that have yet to be harvested that will yield some really nice close-up work. As soon as I get the slides processed and scanned, I’ll post a couple pics.
And because the song rocks:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10BbpGKLXqk&feature=related
Last Friday, and again all day today, huge columns of smoke arose in all directions. I would venture to say I saw at least seventy-five of these fires today. And when I say “huge columns” I mean apocalyptically huge. Like a volcano just blew its top and a half-mile wide swath of ash is rising four miles into the sky. Only it’s ten volcanoes blowing at the same time. The air gets pretty smoky and little black blades of burned grass fall all around. And every year at this same time, city folks get in an uproar about the air pollution. The same folks that buy the grass seed for their lawns. Hey! grow a vegetable garden instead.
I feel a tangent coming on, so before that happens, let me cut to the chase: After the field is burned, the contrast is quite striking between those large blackened tracts and the surrounding, still green, yellow or brown fields. I have been admiring these neo-geo landscapes for several years now, and have always thought they would make a great photo study. In that the area is quite hilly, there are some great panoramas that should translate quite nicely into a two-dimensional format. In previous years, unfortunately, our harvest has been in full swing at the same time as the burnings, and I have not been afforded the time to go out and shoot what I have seen as I drive to and from deliveries.
Since we’re not farming this year, I have been looking forward to the burnings, and today I went out with my trusty Canon A-1. I believe I framed some pretty nice shots. Plus, I scouted a lot of fields that have yet to be harvested that will yield some really nice close-up work. As soon as I get the slides processed and scanned, I’ll post a couple pics.
And because the song rocks:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10BbpGKLXqk&feature=related
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Still Looking...
I’m subject to human frailties, indecision. Imagine that. I went to the casino yesterday and, after 8 hours, came home with $100 extra in my pocket.
Still, I’m torn. I had discussed the casino problem that I wrote about last week with my dear wife, and she more or less agreed that online might be a better way to go. I went yesterday with the half-baked idea that I would give it one more shot. If I did well, meaning that I worked toward building my bankroll, then I might consider keeping the casino as part of my poker repertoire. If I lost another buy-in, then I’d back off to only online.
I was halfway to online (down $100 at $1/$2) when good things started to happen: my suited connectors hit, my BB checks hit boats, an 11 outer with the flush and gut draw turned into pairing the turn and hitting the flush on the river, and I pulled off a spectacular river bluff. I was in good form late in the day, and I think I played a game that kept my opponents guessing.
Not that it was the easiest table I’ve ever played at, There were some monster stacks and some pretty aggressive players that I had to work around; yet there was enough dead money coming to the table to work with. There was a good cast of characters, and if I were to quit going to the casino, this is what I would miss the most.
I initially say in the #9 seat, next to the dealer. (I don’t particularly care for this seat, yet it’s not as bad as #1. I like to see the whole table and much prefer seats 3, 4, 7 and 8.) In the #5 seat was a guy that I’ve played on a number of occasions. He’s a quiet, studied player. I’ve seen him get clobbered in the past, but today was his day. As I sat, the table was talking about whether or not his high hand for the hour ($250 every hour), quad sixes, would hold for five more minutes. They did. Then he hit quad aces on the river against an all-in baby flush. Another $250 on top of a big pot. Later in the day he hit quad 8s and another $250. In the midst of all of this, he was getting hit with the deck, and by the time I left he had about $1100 in front of him, plus $750 cash in his pocket.
If I ever had a day like his, I’d be on cloud nine and have a hard time hiding that good feeling. However, this guy was pretty much monotone. He would occasionally talk about a hand, talk a little with the other players, but not much. I kinda figured him for some computer guy, maybe working for Intel, Hewlett Packard or some such company. You could see his brain working out the numbers on a hand, replaying the action. He was a joy to watch. And I watched him a lot, looking for tells. Nothing. I asked him toward the end of the day if he was going to wait until he got home to let out a “woo hoo.” He gave me this look that said he thought the whole idea of celebrating his wins was crass.
One of the players that donated a fair amount of chip to Mr. Rush was Mr. Know-it-all. Mr. College. The guy never shut up, sharing his poker theory with a buddy of his who was visiting from New York. He nearly always raised 5 x BB when on the button and in the cutoff. His cutoff was my big blind. I never had an opportunity to successfully defend my blind for that size of raise…but I wanted to. At one point he raised 3 x BB from the SB after several limpers. Indeed, he had several callers, and after he folds his hand he says, “I had 79s. I had to raise to get the pot to a size that would be worth playing those cards. I knew I’d get callers.” OK.
As the day wore on, a few young guns started showing up. One kid sat to my left, sunglasses, ball cap, stern poker face, a $200 stack of whites and a nervous cough after every hand he won. I was in the BB and the kid coughs preflop and bets 3 X BB. Wow! He must have a monster. Mr. Money bags calls, I look down at K5 off and fold. Board is K525K. His Aces held after quite a bit of betting. Oh well.
When it comes right down to it, I don’t know if I can give up the live play. With that said, I know that to continue means that I have to build a roll to match. Look for some online experiences here in the future. If I can get something started online, I can then better afford live.
Still, I’m torn. I had discussed the casino problem that I wrote about last week with my dear wife, and she more or less agreed that online might be a better way to go. I went yesterday with the half-baked idea that I would give it one more shot. If I did well, meaning that I worked toward building my bankroll, then I might consider keeping the casino as part of my poker repertoire. If I lost another buy-in, then I’d back off to only online.
I was halfway to online (down $100 at $1/$2) when good things started to happen: my suited connectors hit, my BB checks hit boats, an 11 outer with the flush and gut draw turned into pairing the turn and hitting the flush on the river, and I pulled off a spectacular river bluff. I was in good form late in the day, and I think I played a game that kept my opponents guessing.
Not that it was the easiest table I’ve ever played at, There were some monster stacks and some pretty aggressive players that I had to work around; yet there was enough dead money coming to the table to work with. There was a good cast of characters, and if I were to quit going to the casino, this is what I would miss the most.
I initially say in the #9 seat, next to the dealer. (I don’t particularly care for this seat, yet it’s not as bad as #1. I like to see the whole table and much prefer seats 3, 4, 7 and 8.) In the #5 seat was a guy that I’ve played on a number of occasions. He’s a quiet, studied player. I’ve seen him get clobbered in the past, but today was his day. As I sat, the table was talking about whether or not his high hand for the hour ($250 every hour), quad sixes, would hold for five more minutes. They did. Then he hit quad aces on the river against an all-in baby flush. Another $250 on top of a big pot. Later in the day he hit quad 8s and another $250. In the midst of all of this, he was getting hit with the deck, and by the time I left he had about $1100 in front of him, plus $750 cash in his pocket.
If I ever had a day like his, I’d be on cloud nine and have a hard time hiding that good feeling. However, this guy was pretty much monotone. He would occasionally talk about a hand, talk a little with the other players, but not much. I kinda figured him for some computer guy, maybe working for Intel, Hewlett Packard or some such company. You could see his brain working out the numbers on a hand, replaying the action. He was a joy to watch. And I watched him a lot, looking for tells. Nothing. I asked him toward the end of the day if he was going to wait until he got home to let out a “woo hoo.” He gave me this look that said he thought the whole idea of celebrating his wins was crass.
One of the players that donated a fair amount of chip to Mr. Rush was Mr. Know-it-all. Mr. College. The guy never shut up, sharing his poker theory with a buddy of his who was visiting from New York. He nearly always raised 5 x BB when on the button and in the cutoff. His cutoff was my big blind. I never had an opportunity to successfully defend my blind for that size of raise…but I wanted to. At one point he raised 3 x BB from the SB after several limpers. Indeed, he had several callers, and after he folds his hand he says, “I had 79s. I had to raise to get the pot to a size that would be worth playing those cards. I knew I’d get callers.” OK.
As the day wore on, a few young guns started showing up. One kid sat to my left, sunglasses, ball cap, stern poker face, a $200 stack of whites and a nervous cough after every hand he won. I was in the BB and the kid coughs preflop and bets 3 X BB. Wow! He must have a monster. Mr. Money bags calls, I look down at K5 off and fold. Board is K525K. His Aces held after quite a bit of betting. Oh well.
When it comes right down to it, I don’t know if I can give up the live play. With that said, I know that to continue means that I have to build a roll to match. Look for some online experiences here in the future. If I can get something started online, I can then better afford live.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Discover a new world
http://www.adultswim.com
http://www.superdeluxe.com
No, this is not spam. These are avenues to laughter. But be forewarned, the humor can be a bit bizarre or untoward.
My Favs: Squidbillies on Adult Swim; Babycakes on Super Deluxe; and Tim and Eric on both sites.
Please don't think less of me.
http://www.superdeluxe.com
No, this is not spam. These are avenues to laughter. But be forewarned, the humor can be a bit bizarre or untoward.
My Favs: Squidbillies on Adult Swim; Babycakes on Super Deluxe; and Tim and Eric on both sites.
Please don't think less of me.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Just that quick-last 3 hands
It was one of those nights. I was playing 18% - 21%, catching nothing, losing just on pre-flop calls and folding lower aces. I had caught some nice pocket pairs early in the game but there was an all-in fest going on, boys waggin' their peenys at each other. I wasn't going to get involved and folded. Meanwhile, the Major wagger has lost about eight buy-ins, playing that kind of game where a player will lose that much just to bust out someone for a single buy-in and then crow about it. After all, when it's play money, ego has a premium.
I had been at the table for only 40+ hands yet it felt like I had been there an eternity. The table had slowed down a bit, albeit overbets were not uncommon. I picked up AK and took down a small pot. Then the following occurred:
I'm ubu roi.
Poker Academy Online #36,377,425
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:57:31 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $55.55 Qc Jd
2) emptytofull $142.90 Td Kc
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid * $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes $47.25 ?? ??
9) Aces2 $47.75 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $101.25 ?? ??
Aristophanes posts small blind $0.25
Aces2 posts big blind $0.50
MAJOR folds
ubu roi calls $0.50
emptytofull calls $0.50
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
KennKid folds
Aristophanes calls $0.25
Aces2 checks
FLOP: Ad Ts Kd
Aristophanes bets $2
Aces2 folds
ubu roi raises $6
emptytofull calls $8
Aristophanes calls $6
TURN: Ad Ts Kd 8s
Aristophanes checks
ubu roi bets $47.05 (all-in)
emptytofull calls $47.05
Aristophanes folds
ubu roi shows Qc Jd
emptytofull shows Td Kc
RIVER: Ad Ts Kd 8s 9s
ubu roi wins $117.10 with an Ace High Straight
$3 raked.
A bit surprised he called my all-in but I was happy to be above even. I now had some chips to play with, maybe loosen up a bit...
Poker Academy Online #36,377,426
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:58:09 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $117.10 Qs Qd
2) emptytofull $87.35 ?? ??
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes * $38.75 ?? ??
9) Aces2 $47.25 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $101.25 9c 6c
Aces2 posts small blind $0.25
MAJOR posts big blind $0.50
ubu roi raises $3.50
emptytofull calls $4
I figure empty is looking to get back some of what I just took off him.
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
KennKid folds
Aristophanes folds
Aces2 folds
MAJOR calls $3.50
But of course...
FLOP: 6d 9s 2d
MAJOR bets $97.25 (all-in)
ubu roi calls $97.25
emptytofull folds
ubu roi shows Qs Qd
MAJOR shows 9c 6c
TURN: 6d 9s 2d Kh
RIVER: 6d 9s 2d Kh 4d
MAJOR wins $203.75 with Two Pair, Nines and Sixes
$3 raked.
To which he tells me that I should know better than to call his all-in. Perhaps so, but this guy goes all-in with a draw, top pair on the board, etc. He's also trying to make up for a ton lost earlier. Plus, the only way this guy makes any money off of me is with bad beats. I'm calling on principle, hoping to re-suck so he can scream about being robbed. Didn't happen.
It's getting late, I've about had enough and I'm not going to stick around for another couple hours to try and get back to even. Life's too short. Last hand:
Poker Academy Online #36,377,427
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:59:33 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $15.85 Ad Kd
2) emptytofull $83.35 ?? ??
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes $38.75 ?? ??
9) Aces2 * $47.00 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $203.75 Ah 7s
MAJOR posts small blind $0.25
ubu roi posts big blind $0.50
emptytofull folds
MonkeyFish calls $0.50
ElkY jr calls $0.50
Poliweb calls $0.50
RiverKillsMe calls $0.50
KennKid folds
Aristophanes folds
Aces2 calls $0.50
MAJOR calls $0.25
ubu roi bets $15.35 (all-in)
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
Aces2 folds
MAJOR calls $15.35
ubu roi shows Ad Kd
MAJOR shows Ah 7s
FLOP: 4c Td 9s
TURN: 4c Td 9s 2h
RIVER: 4c Td 9s 2h 7c
MAJOR wins $32.50 with a Pair of Sevens
$1.70 raked.
I didn't stick around for the commentary.
I had been at the table for only 40+ hands yet it felt like I had been there an eternity. The table had slowed down a bit, albeit overbets were not uncommon. I picked up AK and took down a small pot. Then the following occurred:
I'm ubu roi.
Poker Academy Online #36,377,425
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:57:31 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $55.55 Qc Jd
2) emptytofull $142.90 Td Kc
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid * $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes $47.25 ?? ??
9) Aces2 $47.75 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $101.25 ?? ??
Aristophanes posts small blind $0.25
Aces2 posts big blind $0.50
MAJOR folds
ubu roi calls $0.50
emptytofull calls $0.50
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
KennKid folds
Aristophanes calls $0.25
Aces2 checks
FLOP: Ad Ts Kd
Aristophanes bets $2
Aces2 folds
ubu roi raises $6
emptytofull calls $8
Aristophanes calls $6
TURN: Ad Ts Kd 8s
Aristophanes checks
ubu roi bets $47.05 (all-in)
emptytofull calls $47.05
Aristophanes folds
ubu roi shows Qc Jd
emptytofull shows Td Kc
RIVER: Ad Ts Kd 8s 9s
ubu roi wins $117.10 with an Ace High Straight
$3 raked.
A bit surprised he called my all-in but I was happy to be above even. I now had some chips to play with, maybe loosen up a bit...
Poker Academy Online #36,377,426
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:58:09 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $117.10 Qs Qd
2) emptytofull $87.35 ?? ??
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes * $38.75 ?? ??
9) Aces2 $47.25 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $101.25 9c 6c
Aces2 posts small blind $0.25
MAJOR posts big blind $0.50
ubu roi raises $3.50
emptytofull calls $4
I figure empty is looking to get back some of what I just took off him.
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
KennKid folds
Aristophanes folds
Aces2 folds
MAJOR calls $3.50
But of course...
FLOP: 6d 9s 2d
MAJOR bets $97.25 (all-in)
ubu roi calls $97.25
emptytofull folds
ubu roi shows Qs Qd
MAJOR shows 9c 6c
TURN: 6d 9s 2d Kh
RIVER: 6d 9s 2d Kh 4d
MAJOR wins $203.75 with Two Pair, Nines and Sixes
$3 raked.
To which he tells me that I should know better than to call his all-in. Perhaps so, but this guy goes all-in with a draw, top pair on the board, etc. He's also trying to make up for a ton lost earlier. Plus, the only way this guy makes any money off of me is with bad beats. I'm calling on principle, hoping to re-suck so he can scream about being robbed. Didn't happen.
It's getting late, I've about had enough and I'm not going to stick around for another couple hours to try and get back to even. Life's too short. Last hand:
Poker Academy Online #36,377,427
No Limit Texas Holdem ($0.25/$0.5 NL)
Table Dolomite
July 23, 2008 - 23:59:33 (PDT)
1} ubu roi $15.85 Ad Kd
2) emptytofull $83.35 ?? ??
3) MonkeyFish $57.65 ?? ??
4) ElkY jr $256.19 ?? ??
5) Poliweb $96.84 ?? ??
6) RiverKillsMe $65.30 ?? ??
7) KennKid $78.45 ?? ??
8) Aristophanes $38.75 ?? ??
9) Aces2 * $47.00 ?? ??
10) MAJOR $203.75 Ah 7s
MAJOR posts small blind $0.25
ubu roi posts big blind $0.50
emptytofull folds
MonkeyFish calls $0.50
ElkY jr calls $0.50
Poliweb calls $0.50
RiverKillsMe calls $0.50
KennKid folds
Aristophanes folds
Aces2 calls $0.50
MAJOR calls $0.25
ubu roi bets $15.35 (all-in)
MonkeyFish folds
ElkY jr folds
Poliweb folds
RiverKillsMe folds
Aces2 folds
MAJOR calls $15.35
ubu roi shows Ad Kd
MAJOR shows Ah 7s
FLOP: 4c Td 9s
TURN: 4c Td 9s 2h
RIVER: 4c Td 9s 2h 7c
MAJOR wins $32.50 with a Pair of Sevens
$1.70 raked.
I didn't stick around for the commentary.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
All Good Things Must Come at the End
Now that we’re not farming as much, if at all, I can no longer ignore all of the other projects that need done around the property. Today I have concentrated on pruning trees. I started with a plum tree that someone in his infinite wisdom planted about three feet from the corner of the garage. A large portion of it was lying on the roof of the garage and had dented the gutter. This same tree has suckers (little babies sprouting from the root system) growing up all over the place. Add to this list the damn thing is near barren. We might get two or three plums a year. I removed three overflowing truck loads of limbs and managed to only pull the gutter away from the garage in one spot.
I then attacked one of the two filbert trees we have. Filberts? Hazel nuts to the rest of the world. Filbert trees in the orchards around here look considerably different from those in our yard. In the orchard they look like most any other tree with a trunk and branches. If left to their own devices, filberts will send up many long slender shoots from the base of the tree, and if they aren’t cut, they become the tree. Think of a fountain. Filbert wood is also somewhat brittle, so if the trees aren’t trimmed back, any strong wind or heavy snow will send branches crashing. And because the canopy of these fountained filberts can be rather dense, big branches that break off may not get to the ground. Instead, they’ll hang around waiting for someone to come along on a lawn tractor and then drop, bringing a few other limbs with them. Four truck loads. Tomorrow I’ll work on the other one.
That will leave the big Photinia in the front yard. The Photinia sans leaves. When we bought this place five years ago, it had leaves, albeit riddled with Entomosprium Leaf Spot, and it also had a big black streak of who-knows-what running down its trunk. I sprayed it with compost tea that first year, and that seemed to help some. Nah, actually it was just the dry weather, for over the years, and with our long wet seasons, the disease has progressed to the point where I want to take the tree out. I am meeting with resistance.
“Why do we need to take it out?”
“Because it’s diseased.”
“Can’t we do anything to make it better?”
“We can spray it with a fungicide every 10 to 14 days for the rest of our lives.”
“I’ll do it.”
“It’s a thirty-foot tree. It’ll be impossible to spray the whole thing.”
“How about if I just spray the black streak? That’s got to help.”
“It doesn’t work that way. The fungus is airborne.”
“You have to cut out the whole thing?”
“I can try to save some of it. I’d rather just be done with it.”
“It’s going to leave a big empty spot in the yard.” Thirty years ago someone went to a lot of expense to landscape this place. There are some beautiful specimen trees in the yard.
“I already planted those oaks and cedars, but they’ll take a long time to fill in.”
“What are you going to do with the wood?”
“We’ll use it for firewood.”
“But you said the fungus was airborne. Won’t the disease go up and out the chimney?”
“The fungus is already out there, everywhere.”
Well, to make a long discussion short, we’ll take the damn thing out and have someone come out with a big tree-digging machine and transplant one of the more mature trees in an adjacent lot of ours.
Now, I have to confess that while we were having the above conversation, I didn’t know the scientific name of the fungus. I just knew it was similar to the fungus, Black Spot, that infects roses. I looked up Photinias and then found their common diseases, looked them up and found the culprit, Endomosporium.
“Severely defoliated plants may need to be pruned heavily to have a small, easier to spray plant, to reduce the source of spores and improve air movement. It may be necessary to remove severely diseased plants that have also been damaged by cold injury and replace them with another plant species that is not susceptible to leaf spot. This disease is very difficult to control after plants are severely infected.”
I have just come back from getting a cocktail, and while I was pouring it I said to my dear wife, “It’s called Endomosporium.”
“The fungus?”
“Yes. And what I read said that severe infections are almost impossible to get rid of.”
“Well, okay, but promise me that you’ll talk to the tree while you’re cutting it down.
“I will.”
“And thank it for it’s many years of service.”
“I will.”
And as I was heading back downstairs: “What are you doing?’
“Writing.”
“About what?”
“Endomosporium.”
“I just gave you the end to your piece, didn’t I?”
I then attacked one of the two filbert trees we have. Filberts? Hazel nuts to the rest of the world. Filbert trees in the orchards around here look considerably different from those in our yard. In the orchard they look like most any other tree with a trunk and branches. If left to their own devices, filberts will send up many long slender shoots from the base of the tree, and if they aren’t cut, they become the tree. Think of a fountain. Filbert wood is also somewhat brittle, so if the trees aren’t trimmed back, any strong wind or heavy snow will send branches crashing. And because the canopy of these fountained filberts can be rather dense, big branches that break off may not get to the ground. Instead, they’ll hang around waiting for someone to come along on a lawn tractor and then drop, bringing a few other limbs with them. Four truck loads. Tomorrow I’ll work on the other one.
That will leave the big Photinia in the front yard. The Photinia sans leaves. When we bought this place five years ago, it had leaves, albeit riddled with Entomosprium Leaf Spot, and it also had a big black streak of who-knows-what running down its trunk. I sprayed it with compost tea that first year, and that seemed to help some. Nah, actually it was just the dry weather, for over the years, and with our long wet seasons, the disease has progressed to the point where I want to take the tree out. I am meeting with resistance.
“Why do we need to take it out?”
“Because it’s diseased.”
“Can’t we do anything to make it better?”
“We can spray it with a fungicide every 10 to 14 days for the rest of our lives.”
“I’ll do it.”
“It’s a thirty-foot tree. It’ll be impossible to spray the whole thing.”
“How about if I just spray the black streak? That’s got to help.”
“It doesn’t work that way. The fungus is airborne.”
“You have to cut out the whole thing?”
“I can try to save some of it. I’d rather just be done with it.”
“It’s going to leave a big empty spot in the yard.” Thirty years ago someone went to a lot of expense to landscape this place. There are some beautiful specimen trees in the yard.
“I already planted those oaks and cedars, but they’ll take a long time to fill in.”
“What are you going to do with the wood?”
“We’ll use it for firewood.”
“But you said the fungus was airborne. Won’t the disease go up and out the chimney?”
“The fungus is already out there, everywhere.”
Well, to make a long discussion short, we’ll take the damn thing out and have someone come out with a big tree-digging machine and transplant one of the more mature trees in an adjacent lot of ours.
Now, I have to confess that while we were having the above conversation, I didn’t know the scientific name of the fungus. I just knew it was similar to the fungus, Black Spot, that infects roses. I looked up Photinias and then found their common diseases, looked them up and found the culprit, Endomosporium.
“Severely defoliated plants may need to be pruned heavily to have a small, easier to spray plant, to reduce the source of spores and improve air movement. It may be necessary to remove severely diseased plants that have also been damaged by cold injury and replace them with another plant species that is not susceptible to leaf spot. This disease is very difficult to control after plants are severely infected.”
I have just come back from getting a cocktail, and while I was pouring it I said to my dear wife, “It’s called Endomosporium.”
“The fungus?”
“Yes. And what I read said that severe infections are almost impossible to get rid of.”
“Well, okay, but promise me that you’ll talk to the tree while you’re cutting it down.
“I will.”
“And thank it for it’s many years of service.”
“I will.”
And as I was heading back downstairs: “What are you doing?’
“Writing.”
“About what?”
“Endomosporium.”
“I just gave you the end to your piece, didn’t I?”
Monday, July 21, 2008
Thoughts Looking for...
No casino this weekend. We had dinner guests Sunday and I spent the greater portion of my afternoon sitting in front of my grill, Stella Artois in hand, getting up only to check the temperature gauge on my grill top, turn the chicken and slather on more barbeque sauce.
Missed my home game on Friday as well. It starts at 7 o’clock with a tourney, the cash game for losers begins at about 10, and the whole affair can wrap up as late as 4 or 5 in the morning. Lately, I’ve been avoiding the tourney and hitting the cash game late, but not this week. I wanted to be well-rested for the Highland Games outing.
I am, however, managing to squeeze in some time at Poker Academy and I’m doing OK there. Play money can have a treacherous field of players who will call nearly any pre-flop raise, no matter the size, hoping 26 suited will hit big on the flop. I could get pissed, except this type of play is not unlike the $1/2 game at the casino, or even our home game after players have finished off the six-pack they brought with them. Instead, I look at the loose play money games as good practice for the type of games my bankroll forces me to play elsewhere.
There is a general assumption that play money games are looser than cash games. While this might be largely the case, I would maintain that it is not whether there is real money at stake, but how much real money one has to “blow” without feeling any effects on one’s ability to pay bills, eat or send the kids to college. Additionally, in that time is money, for free games, one must also take into consideration whether responsibilities are getting blown off in order to go all-in with any Ace or spend that time improving one’s game. If one has wads of cash or oodles of time, and doesn’t really give a shit about frittering either away, then the play in either a cash or play money game can pretty much be fancy-free.
The consensus of serious players is that donks are always welcome. And yes, I love getting a good piece of a calling station who hopes to spike an Ace. But again, when that Ace does hit on the river, and there is real money involved, the effects can be devastating for someone like myself who has a rather paltry roll.
So, while on the one hand I’m anxious to go back to the casino, I’m also anxious about encountering the cooler. To get stacked at Poker Academy is a minor setback and I can rebuild over the next couple sessions. At the casino, losing a buy-in means one less day at the casino in the future, and therefore one less opportunity to build a bigger roll.
I have a friend who insists that I start playing Limit at the casino. I can play $3/6 for quite a while and not lose as much as I do playing NL, nor win as much either. (I don’t lose all of the time!) Perhaps I’d need a little more practice and patience before delving into a game where half the world may be with you at the river. Or, it may be the perfect game for me inasmuch as every board seems to suggest several ways I can be beat. Wrong or right, if the odds merit the showdown, then I won’t be getting too far out of line on either the weak or aggressive side. I’ll see. (If I do play, rest assured I’ll post about it.)
Again, what I don’t want to do is lose all of the money I have put aside for poker. I could just play the home game and be done with it, satisfied with the $.50/1 game. Or, I could find a way to get more cash onto an online cash site. The money I have set aside for the casino would go a long way online, provided I stayed at the .10/.25 or so games.
I’m thinking that online might also be a more efficient way to go as well in that I don’t have to worry about transportation costs, food, tipping, etc. I would miss some of the interactions and people-watching that live games afford. That would be the only downside. Another benefit would be that it would keep me far away from those slots. Even though I have replaced the term “slot” with the name of an old girlfriend, well, sometimes I forget to remember the pain and suffering. Hoping to get rich on the slots is like hoping the beatings will stop.
Do I overstate? I don’t think so. And I imagine the same can be said for poker. I see people on their way down or already there at the casino. And for those of you who play in the poker rooms in the Los Angeles area or spend time at online sites, you’re familiar with the room trolls looking to be “staked” or just out-and-out given a few bucks to go toward the buy-in that’ll turn everything around. The latter type are the same guys that earlier in their poker “career” were visiting the ATM every half hour. The earlier version is happy time for other players; the latter, the end result, is a tragic individual, and a pathetic pain in the ass.
I bring this up for one reason: What would I do if I lost my whole roll? Would I quit playing poker? Well, there’s always Poker Academy. I can still play for fake money. But what would be the point? For fun? I don’t play poker for fun. I play poker at PA to get better at playing poker. It’s not exactly a task; it’s a regimen to build a skill that promises certain rewards. Those rewards are supposed to be monetary. At Poker Academy there is a ranking system of players, and I have been fortunate enough and/or sufficiently skilled to remain among the top players there. Not enough. “He’s one helluva good poker player but he’s broke” is not what I want to hear, ever.
A lot of pros have reportedly lost and won fortunes, gone into the hole, borrowed money to stay in the game, and eventually get to the point where they no longer have money worries. Such stories may do a great disservice. I can see someone using such apocrypha as an excuse to go deeper into a financial hole. We know it happens, and thankfully, recognizing this will keep me from that depth of despair.
Of course, as soon as I write the above, I return to the question: What would I do if I lost my whole bankroll? I’m going to dodge my own question for the time being. The same friend as above also maintains that within a year’s time I will have grown tired of this game and move onto something else. I suspect this is what happens more often — not the gutter — to those of us with inadequate funds to continue. If this is the case, I had better start working on new subject matter for this blog.
Missed my home game on Friday as well. It starts at 7 o’clock with a tourney, the cash game for losers begins at about 10, and the whole affair can wrap up as late as 4 or 5 in the morning. Lately, I’ve been avoiding the tourney and hitting the cash game late, but not this week. I wanted to be well-rested for the Highland Games outing.
I am, however, managing to squeeze in some time at Poker Academy and I’m doing OK there. Play money can have a treacherous field of players who will call nearly any pre-flop raise, no matter the size, hoping 26 suited will hit big on the flop. I could get pissed, except this type of play is not unlike the $1/2 game at the casino, or even our home game after players have finished off the six-pack they brought with them. Instead, I look at the loose play money games as good practice for the type of games my bankroll forces me to play elsewhere.
There is a general assumption that play money games are looser than cash games. While this might be largely the case, I would maintain that it is not whether there is real money at stake, but how much real money one has to “blow” without feeling any effects on one’s ability to pay bills, eat or send the kids to college. Additionally, in that time is money, for free games, one must also take into consideration whether responsibilities are getting blown off in order to go all-in with any Ace or spend that time improving one’s game. If one has wads of cash or oodles of time, and doesn’t really give a shit about frittering either away, then the play in either a cash or play money game can pretty much be fancy-free.
The consensus of serious players is that donks are always welcome. And yes, I love getting a good piece of a calling station who hopes to spike an Ace. But again, when that Ace does hit on the river, and there is real money involved, the effects can be devastating for someone like myself who has a rather paltry roll.
So, while on the one hand I’m anxious to go back to the casino, I’m also anxious about encountering the cooler. To get stacked at Poker Academy is a minor setback and I can rebuild over the next couple sessions. At the casino, losing a buy-in means one less day at the casino in the future, and therefore one less opportunity to build a bigger roll.
I have a friend who insists that I start playing Limit at the casino. I can play $3/6 for quite a while and not lose as much as I do playing NL, nor win as much either. (I don’t lose all of the time!) Perhaps I’d need a little more practice and patience before delving into a game where half the world may be with you at the river. Or, it may be the perfect game for me inasmuch as every board seems to suggest several ways I can be beat. Wrong or right, if the odds merit the showdown, then I won’t be getting too far out of line on either the weak or aggressive side. I’ll see. (If I do play, rest assured I’ll post about it.)
Again, what I don’t want to do is lose all of the money I have put aside for poker. I could just play the home game and be done with it, satisfied with the $.50/1 game. Or, I could find a way to get more cash onto an online cash site. The money I have set aside for the casino would go a long way online, provided I stayed at the .10/.25 or so games.
I’m thinking that online might also be a more efficient way to go as well in that I don’t have to worry about transportation costs, food, tipping, etc. I would miss some of the interactions and people-watching that live games afford. That would be the only downside. Another benefit would be that it would keep me far away from those slots. Even though I have replaced the term “slot” with the name of an old girlfriend, well, sometimes I forget to remember the pain and suffering. Hoping to get rich on the slots is like hoping the beatings will stop.
Do I overstate? I don’t think so. And I imagine the same can be said for poker. I see people on their way down or already there at the casino. And for those of you who play in the poker rooms in the Los Angeles area or spend time at online sites, you’re familiar with the room trolls looking to be “staked” or just out-and-out given a few bucks to go toward the buy-in that’ll turn everything around. The latter type are the same guys that earlier in their poker “career” were visiting the ATM every half hour. The earlier version is happy time for other players; the latter, the end result, is a tragic individual, and a pathetic pain in the ass.
I bring this up for one reason: What would I do if I lost my whole roll? Would I quit playing poker? Well, there’s always Poker Academy. I can still play for fake money. But what would be the point? For fun? I don’t play poker for fun. I play poker at PA to get better at playing poker. It’s not exactly a task; it’s a regimen to build a skill that promises certain rewards. Those rewards are supposed to be monetary. At Poker Academy there is a ranking system of players, and I have been fortunate enough and/or sufficiently skilled to remain among the top players there. Not enough. “He’s one helluva good poker player but he’s broke” is not what I want to hear, ever.
A lot of pros have reportedly lost and won fortunes, gone into the hole, borrowed money to stay in the game, and eventually get to the point where they no longer have money worries. Such stories may do a great disservice. I can see someone using such apocrypha as an excuse to go deeper into a financial hole. We know it happens, and thankfully, recognizing this will keep me from that depth of despair.
Of course, as soon as I write the above, I return to the question: What would I do if I lost my whole bankroll? I’m going to dodge my own question for the time being. The same friend as above also maintains that within a year’s time I will have grown tired of this game and move onto something else. I suspect this is what happens more often — not the gutter — to those of us with inadequate funds to continue. If this is the case, I had better start working on new subject matter for this blog.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Bagpipe
My dear wife, our vet friend and I went to the regional Scottish Highland Games today. There were men in kilts everywhere. For several months now I have been talking about getting a kilt for myself. Not a tartan, but a Utilikilt (www.utilikilts.com). These kilts are made by a company in Seattle. They come in solid colors and in several styles, yet all are still the basic kilt design. I am partial to the “Workman,” which is what kilts would look like if Carhartt made them, with a lot of pockets and a hammer loop as well.
There were a few vendors with kilts of varying quality. Some were surprisingly heavy and lined, others were flimsy, wear-once-and-stow-away-forever novelty items. One can drop a pretty penny for a good one.
Of course, if one is serious about wearing kilts, meaning that they become part of one’s regular wardrobe, then it makes sense to buy a quality garment. And it would also become necessary to have more than one. I don’t have that kind of money, but more importantly, I’m not too certain I’d be wearing one much at all.
I imagine myself walking through tall weeds and brambles, as I often do here on the farm, and I see my legs all scratched up. Or with a wasp tickling my inner thigh before the inevitable happens. With this said, I’m still intrigued by them as a clothing option if for one significant reason: to let the twig and berries breathe.
Go without underwear? Not on your life. But to reduce one layer of fabric would be a welcome relief, especially during the summer. As I sit here writing, I have on my undies (mid-thighs, thank you very much) and a pair of sweats. There seems to be no escape. Even if I were to work in a pair of shorts, I’d still be chaffing.
Can I hear an Amen? I suspect not. Guys can’t get their minds around the fact that a kilt looks like a skirt. I can see the local town folks’ reactions now, the stares, the snickers, the sneers of old codgers as I get out of my truck and flash an up-skirt for their wives.
What surprises me the most is the reaction of some women I know when I have mentioned that I am considering donning my version of the lower half of a Catholic girl’s uniform. I would think that they’d be thrilled. Instead, I get an “eeewwwww.” Not from my dear wife, though. She thinks I have sexy calves. Big, strong, manly calves. In fact, I do. And even my thighs are shapelier than the majority of women’s in these parts.
But I digress. Or not.
When we first got to the games, we spent time pointing out the kilts we saw in the parking lot. By the time we had watched the pipe and drum competition and the athletic events, in which kilts were mandatory, we had become completely accustomed to seeing them and had moved onto wondering why some women had come to the event dressed as wenches from the Elizabethan period. So, when we came across a vendor with Utilikilts, you better believe I tried one — no, several — on. Dropped trou right there and gave the ladies a thrill. I have to say, even with my whiskey gut, I looked good!
Still, I’m not thrilled with the idea of being the only guy in our small town who’s wearing a kilt. If we lived in the city, it might be a different story. I guess I could wear it at home and change before heading out, but that seems like too much of a bother. Perhaps it’s a good thing that they didn’t have the style I wanted in my size.
I found a website called “MUGs Around the World” (www.kiltmen.com/world.htm). What does MUG stand for? Many unbifurcated garments. I like that: unbifurcated. The caftan, dashiki, gho, sarong and hakama. Men in other cultures may know of a special freedom that we lack.
If I do end up getting a kilt, I’ll be sure to let you know.
There were a few vendors with kilts of varying quality. Some were surprisingly heavy and lined, others were flimsy, wear-once-and-stow-away-forever novelty items. One can drop a pretty penny for a good one.
Of course, if one is serious about wearing kilts, meaning that they become part of one’s regular wardrobe, then it makes sense to buy a quality garment. And it would also become necessary to have more than one. I don’t have that kind of money, but more importantly, I’m not too certain I’d be wearing one much at all.
I imagine myself walking through tall weeds and brambles, as I often do here on the farm, and I see my legs all scratched up. Or with a wasp tickling my inner thigh before the inevitable happens. With this said, I’m still intrigued by them as a clothing option if for one significant reason: to let the twig and berries breathe.
Go without underwear? Not on your life. But to reduce one layer of fabric would be a welcome relief, especially during the summer. As I sit here writing, I have on my undies (mid-thighs, thank you very much) and a pair of sweats. There seems to be no escape. Even if I were to work in a pair of shorts, I’d still be chaffing.
Can I hear an Amen? I suspect not. Guys can’t get their minds around the fact that a kilt looks like a skirt. I can see the local town folks’ reactions now, the stares, the snickers, the sneers of old codgers as I get out of my truck and flash an up-skirt for their wives.
What surprises me the most is the reaction of some women I know when I have mentioned that I am considering donning my version of the lower half of a Catholic girl’s uniform. I would think that they’d be thrilled. Instead, I get an “eeewwwww.” Not from my dear wife, though. She thinks I have sexy calves. Big, strong, manly calves. In fact, I do. And even my thighs are shapelier than the majority of women’s in these parts.
But I digress. Or not.
When we first got to the games, we spent time pointing out the kilts we saw in the parking lot. By the time we had watched the pipe and drum competition and the athletic events, in which kilts were mandatory, we had become completely accustomed to seeing them and had moved onto wondering why some women had come to the event dressed as wenches from the Elizabethan period. So, when we came across a vendor with Utilikilts, you better believe I tried one — no, several — on. Dropped trou right there and gave the ladies a thrill. I have to say, even with my whiskey gut, I looked good!
Still, I’m not thrilled with the idea of being the only guy in our small town who’s wearing a kilt. If we lived in the city, it might be a different story. I guess I could wear it at home and change before heading out, but that seems like too much of a bother. Perhaps it’s a good thing that they didn’t have the style I wanted in my size.
I found a website called “MUGs Around the World” (www.kiltmen.com/world.htm). What does MUG stand for? Many unbifurcated garments. I like that: unbifurcated. The caftan, dashiki, gho, sarong and hakama. Men in other cultures may know of a special freedom that we lack.
If I do end up getting a kilt, I’ll be sure to let you know.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
God made Chihuahuas
The question is: Why?
I went to pick up our diabetic cats at the vet clinic tonight, and needed to have a quick visit with our vet to talk about his test results. The vet’s assistant put me in an examining room to wait. Our vet is also a friend. The last time we had dinner together, she told us about this little Chihuahua that was a charity case at the clinic. It had jumped off of a kitchen counter and broke both front legs. The dog had never been to the vet before this accident as the owners couldn’t afford the expense. Now they had to, even though they couldn’t afford to, and left the dog at the clinic. The broken legs were the least of this dog’s problems. It also had a heart murmur.
When the Vet came into the room, she was carrying this dog. Both of its front legs were in little hip-to-toe casts.
“Is this the dog you were telling us about?”
“Yes. I just love this little dog!” The dog was visibly shaking, like many of these little dogs do when they are in the least bit stimulated. This dog was so small, it had to be a toy Chihuahua, if indeed some sick bastard has seen fit to breed such a dog.
I asked, “Does it even qualify for being called a dog?”
“Ha! Here, hold it just like this.” She directed me to support it’s chest with the palm of my hand. “Feel that?” I could feel the dog’s heart pounding a mile a minute, yet there was no steady rhythm to the beats.
“Man, that’s some murmur.” She put the dog in a sink while she talked to me about our cat. When we were wrapping up I asked, “Say there is such a thing as reincarnation, what sort of people would come back as a Chihuahua?”
“People who fucked over other people.” She confided in a hashed tone. Sounded good to me. This little over-bred thing was so jumpy, I half expected its heart to give out while we were sitting there.
I thought about the previous lives of Chihuahuas on the way home. If all Chihuahuas were shitheads in a previous life, then there’d be a helluva lot of Chihuahuas on this planet. More likely those who had bred that type of dog must come back as one.
Why aren’t there any Chihuahuas in these paintings?
Do Chihuahuas play poker? If so, what kind of player would they be?
Even if a Chihuahua won the WSOP Main Event, could it get any sponsors afterwards?
Perhaps an even more important question is: Why would a serious poker blogger even put these painting on his site? Because someone said there was too much text, that I needed more pictures.
NEWS ITEM:
'DOGS PLAYING POKER' SELLS FOR $590,400 AT DOYLE NEW YORK ON FEBRUARY 15, 2005
ANNUAL DOGS IN ART AUCTION SETS WORLD AUCTION RECORD FOR 'POKER DOGS' ARTIST CASSIUS COOLIDGE
Intense Competition for Pair From Coolidge's Original 1903 Series
Paddles were wagging at Doyle New York's annual Dogs in Art auction on February 15, 2005. Coinciding each year with the Westminster Kennel Club dog show, the auction offers two centuries of canine paintings, paintings, prints, bronzes and other objects.
Highlighting this year's sale were two rare paintings from Cassius Marcellus Coolidge's 1903 series of dogs playing poker. The pair were estimated to fetch $30,000-50,000 at the auction. After intense bidding from several determined bidders on the telephones and in the salesroom, the pair sold to a private collector from New York City for a staggering $590,400, setting a new world auction record for the artist.
Cassius Marcellus Coolidge was born in upstate New York in 1844 to abolitionist Quaker farmers who named him after statesman Henry Clay's brother, Cassius Marcellus Clay. An accomplished cartoonist, he is also credited with creating the familiar life-size Boardwalk cutouts, which he called Comic Foregrounds, into which one's head was placed so as to be photographed as an amusing character.
In 1903, Coolidge contracted with the advertising firm of Brown & Bigelow of St. Paul, Minnesota to create sixteen paintings of dogs in various human-like situations. Nine of these paintings depicted dogs around a card table, two of which were offered at the auction.
Poker players who placed form 10th to 12th at the 2008 WSOP Main Event made just a little more than this at $591,869.
I went to pick up our diabetic cats at the vet clinic tonight, and needed to have a quick visit with our vet to talk about his test results. The vet’s assistant put me in an examining room to wait. Our vet is also a friend. The last time we had dinner together, she told us about this little Chihuahua that was a charity case at the clinic. It had jumped off of a kitchen counter and broke both front legs. The dog had never been to the vet before this accident as the owners couldn’t afford the expense. Now they had to, even though they couldn’t afford to, and left the dog at the clinic. The broken legs were the least of this dog’s problems. It also had a heart murmur.
When the Vet came into the room, she was carrying this dog. Both of its front legs were in little hip-to-toe casts.
“Is this the dog you were telling us about?”
“Yes. I just love this little dog!” The dog was visibly shaking, like many of these little dogs do when they are in the least bit stimulated. This dog was so small, it had to be a toy Chihuahua, if indeed some sick bastard has seen fit to breed such a dog.
I asked, “Does it even qualify for being called a dog?”
“Ha! Here, hold it just like this.” She directed me to support it’s chest with the palm of my hand. “Feel that?” I could feel the dog’s heart pounding a mile a minute, yet there was no steady rhythm to the beats.
“Man, that’s some murmur.” She put the dog in a sink while she talked to me about our cat. When we were wrapping up I asked, “Say there is such a thing as reincarnation, what sort of people would come back as a Chihuahua?”
“People who fucked over other people.” She confided in a hashed tone. Sounded good to me. This little over-bred thing was so jumpy, I half expected its heart to give out while we were sitting there.
I thought about the previous lives of Chihuahuas on the way home. If all Chihuahuas were shitheads in a previous life, then there’d be a helluva lot of Chihuahuas on this planet. More likely those who had bred that type of dog must come back as one.
Why aren’t there any Chihuahuas in these paintings?
Do Chihuahuas play poker? If so, what kind of player would they be?
Even if a Chihuahua won the WSOP Main Event, could it get any sponsors afterwards?
Perhaps an even more important question is: Why would a serious poker blogger even put these painting on his site? Because someone said there was too much text, that I needed more pictures.
NEWS ITEM:
'DOGS PLAYING POKER' SELLS FOR $590,400 AT DOYLE NEW YORK ON FEBRUARY 15, 2005
ANNUAL DOGS IN ART AUCTION SETS WORLD AUCTION RECORD FOR 'POKER DOGS' ARTIST CASSIUS COOLIDGE
Intense Competition for Pair From Coolidge's Original 1903 Series
Paddles were wagging at Doyle New York's annual Dogs in Art auction on February 15, 2005. Coinciding each year with the Westminster Kennel Club dog show, the auction offers two centuries of canine paintings, paintings, prints, bronzes and other objects.
Highlighting this year's sale were two rare paintings from Cassius Marcellus Coolidge's 1903 series of dogs playing poker. The pair were estimated to fetch $30,000-50,000 at the auction. After intense bidding from several determined bidders on the telephones and in the salesroom, the pair sold to a private collector from New York City for a staggering $590,400, setting a new world auction record for the artist.
Cassius Marcellus Coolidge was born in upstate New York in 1844 to abolitionist Quaker farmers who named him after statesman Henry Clay's brother, Cassius Marcellus Clay. An accomplished cartoonist, he is also credited with creating the familiar life-size Boardwalk cutouts, which he called Comic Foregrounds, into which one's head was placed so as to be photographed as an amusing character.
In 1903, Coolidge contracted with the advertising firm of Brown & Bigelow of St. Paul, Minnesota to create sixteen paintings of dogs in various human-like situations. Nine of these paintings depicted dogs around a card table, two of which were offered at the auction.
Poker players who placed form 10th to 12th at the 2008 WSOP Main Event made just a little more than this at $591,869.
A Parable for Poker Players and the Like
The big Mexican has been off medication for quite some time now, living on the street and in the same clothes at least as long as I've lived in the neighborhood, which is about a year. Today I passed him sitting in the shade on the side of a fast food place, shuffling golden twist-off bottle caps from swollen hand to hand like Timon of Athens sifting riches from the sand outside the city wall.
"You want a cigarette, Brother?" I say, stopping just past him on my morning walk.
He nods once.
"Do you need some money?" He stuffs the two cigarettes I give him into one of his filthy socks and glances back up at me. "Do you need some money?" He shakes his head. "Take care, Brother."
I have taken to calling the needy men on the street "Brother." It is my religiosity showing through. Many are, I suspect, drug addicts. The women outside of Walgreens too. "Sister, you gotta kick that shit." (I am not opposed to using vulgarity or the vernacular, although it may at times seem as forced as the parenthetical transitional sentence. To convince is to make a point in the story.)
Empathy is like that, recovered from a habitual misuse of drugs, having lived in rural poverty as a result of that abuse, sleeping with local girls who stash their kids in another room while we go at it, believing the situation temporary as I acquire two college degrees at the same time, privileged by the G.I. Bill. They have kept me awake many nights hence, my nervous system on fire with the memories, battle with demons long-assumed beaten. I feel like an outsider, unable to offer real assistance when what is very real is the fix, and assistance is the means to acquire it; or the voices that, should I stand here for five more seconds, will convince my friend that I am anything but an angel of mercy.
I have a friend, who, although an ordained minister, has left the church and taken his tithes to the street. Ask of him and it is yours. Even though I didn't ask, after a recent tale of temporary financial troubles, he handed me a fifty dollar bill while we ate lunch. The spirit told him to, knowing he would be blessed doubly by his act of generosity/mercy.
I pray for mercy as much as wisdom, understanding and the benefit of others. I have faith that my prayers are answered: proof in my pocket, so to speak; words on a page that rounds-out as a grace-filled thing of beauty; and lastly, hoping a small light has been lit or a light burns brighter as a smile, no matter how fleeting, on the faces of loved ones.
I give thanks and chip away at my own despair.
In Shusaku Endo's novel, Silence, one of the priests, his ministry outlawed, hidies from the officials and despairs at being found out, killed, or worse yet, tortured. He is sick at his fear, thinking personal despair a vanity of self-preservation, the greatest sin of all for the faithful drawn to alleviate the suffering of others. He feels called to put an end to another's despair by bringing the word of our Lord to empty and over-taxed stomachs.
Who then is the greater sinner, the priest or the heathen? It is neither. It is the overlord. Here in the United States it goes by the name Private Interest. Greed.
The funny and sad thing about greed is that it perpetuates despair on all fronts. As clichéd as it sounds, the more one has, the more one wants and will be taken advantage of; while to that same end another aspires or suffers in direct proportion. A two hundred dollar pair of sneakers feeds six people three times a day for a month or is the M.O. in a slaying. A multi-billion dollar merger starves a whole nation or leaves an inner city school population largely illiterate. Psychotic people roam streets until they freeze to death or are bludgeoned for their torn but quilted jacket.
Still, a sense of entitlement pervades, like a perverse mutation of the work ethic. Even in my own way, I am guilty, asking in my prayers that others be blessed, assured that in turn I will be blessed for no other reason than my Lord is both love and mercy unbounded. And perhaps, this is a conceit on my part, comfortable even in the paradox, afforded that perspective whereas others are not. Abjection of the over-informed and privileged, contemplating my complicity as a way to relax after dinner.
One may feel that things have gone so awry, the social programs of the last thirty years so destructive and self-defeating, bringing out the worse in everybody, that there is no hope for stability save everyone retire to their respective corners: the haves to the burbs and other semi-insulated residential areas; the have-nots left to die or feed upon each other before rot sets in. This will not be the case. Everyone will suffer for the hunger will be so great, the madness pervasive.
What solutions can I propose? I have none. That's what I want to talk to you about. Suffer my neighbor and me, and we shall honor you as well. Maybe we can come up with something together.
"You want a cigarette, Brother?" I say, stopping just past him on my morning walk.
He nods once.
"Do you need some money?" He stuffs the two cigarettes I give him into one of his filthy socks and glances back up at me. "Do you need some money?" He shakes his head. "Take care, Brother."
I have taken to calling the needy men on the street "Brother." It is my religiosity showing through. Many are, I suspect, drug addicts. The women outside of Walgreens too. "Sister, you gotta kick that shit." (I am not opposed to using vulgarity or the vernacular, although it may at times seem as forced as the parenthetical transitional sentence. To convince is to make a point in the story.)
Empathy is like that, recovered from a habitual misuse of drugs, having lived in rural poverty as a result of that abuse, sleeping with local girls who stash their kids in another room while we go at it, believing the situation temporary as I acquire two college degrees at the same time, privileged by the G.I. Bill. They have kept me awake many nights hence, my nervous system on fire with the memories, battle with demons long-assumed beaten. I feel like an outsider, unable to offer real assistance when what is very real is the fix, and assistance is the means to acquire it; or the voices that, should I stand here for five more seconds, will convince my friend that I am anything but an angel of mercy.
I have a friend, who, although an ordained minister, has left the church and taken his tithes to the street. Ask of him and it is yours. Even though I didn't ask, after a recent tale of temporary financial troubles, he handed me a fifty dollar bill while we ate lunch. The spirit told him to, knowing he would be blessed doubly by his act of generosity/mercy.
I pray for mercy as much as wisdom, understanding and the benefit of others. I have faith that my prayers are answered: proof in my pocket, so to speak; words on a page that rounds-out as a grace-filled thing of beauty; and lastly, hoping a small light has been lit or a light burns brighter as a smile, no matter how fleeting, on the faces of loved ones.
I give thanks and chip away at my own despair.
In Shusaku Endo's novel, Silence, one of the priests, his ministry outlawed, hidies from the officials and despairs at being found out, killed, or worse yet, tortured. He is sick at his fear, thinking personal despair a vanity of self-preservation, the greatest sin of all for the faithful drawn to alleviate the suffering of others. He feels called to put an end to another's despair by bringing the word of our Lord to empty and over-taxed stomachs.
Who then is the greater sinner, the priest or the heathen? It is neither. It is the overlord. Here in the United States it goes by the name Private Interest. Greed.
The funny and sad thing about greed is that it perpetuates despair on all fronts. As clichéd as it sounds, the more one has, the more one wants and will be taken advantage of; while to that same end another aspires or suffers in direct proportion. A two hundred dollar pair of sneakers feeds six people three times a day for a month or is the M.O. in a slaying. A multi-billion dollar merger starves a whole nation or leaves an inner city school population largely illiterate. Psychotic people roam streets until they freeze to death or are bludgeoned for their torn but quilted jacket.
Still, a sense of entitlement pervades, like a perverse mutation of the work ethic. Even in my own way, I am guilty, asking in my prayers that others be blessed, assured that in turn I will be blessed for no other reason than my Lord is both love and mercy unbounded. And perhaps, this is a conceit on my part, comfortable even in the paradox, afforded that perspective whereas others are not. Abjection of the over-informed and privileged, contemplating my complicity as a way to relax after dinner.
One may feel that things have gone so awry, the social programs of the last thirty years so destructive and self-defeating, bringing out the worse in everybody, that there is no hope for stability save everyone retire to their respective corners: the haves to the burbs and other semi-insulated residential areas; the have-nots left to die or feed upon each other before rot sets in. This will not be the case. Everyone will suffer for the hunger will be so great, the madness pervasive.
What solutions can I propose? I have none. That's what I want to talk to you about. Suffer my neighbor and me, and we shall honor you as well. Maybe we can come up with something together.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
May
Tonight was the weekly pub tourney.
I try to go every week. Lately I’ve been hitting it twice a month. In that I live outside of a rather small town, there is usually anywhere from 12 to 24 people playing on any given night. Tonight there were 12. I went out in sixth place when my AK was beat by A8. That’s not so bad. Getting re-raised pre-flop by K5 suited against Aces hurts more. But it’s a freeroll, not counting the booze, food and video poker. People are here for more than serious poker. At least most are, so the bad beats abound.
One of our newcomers — new to town, new to the bar, and supposedly new to poker — wasn’t in attendance this week. Her name is May, a nice small-town, old-fashioned name. May is a calling station that somehow manages to end up at the final table every week with a huge stack. I think her last name is Very-Likely-Call-Any-Raise. So far, she’s not won a tourney. (But hell, I’ve only won one in two years, so who am I to say anything?) Noticing she wasn’t playing, I asked if she had been there the week prior. No. Somehow, I don’t think May will be back.
May showed up about five weeks ago. She sat at my table. I went out of my way to welcome the new face. She had just moved to town that week. You see, I’m a newcomer as well. I’ve been here five years. May had showed up a little late, and her seat had been a ghost, so she had already lost a few chips. And within the first five hands, she had to re-buy. After that, she amassed a huge stack, mostly from pure luck. She couldn’t or wouldn’t lay down a hand, and eventually made it to the final table. I was short-stacked (M of 4 or so) and went all in with AK. She was the lone caller from the button with 23 off.
I said, “No hard feelings.” Beginners luck, right?
I missed a couple weeks, and when I returned, May was there, and she had brought her hubby. He didn’t play. May was playing at another table, but from the cries of her name and a tone of disbelief that came from those players, I knew May was at it again.
Said one player at my table: “She’s a ringer, that’s what she is. Never played before… bull shit.”
And another: “Fucking calling station is what she is. Doesn’t hit the flop and still calls.”
Wow.
May was at the final table again. I was short again with an M of 6. AJc UTG, I raise 3 x BB with $1K and $2k blinds. May is on the button again and is again the sole caller. Flop comes K36, two clubs. I say, “What the hell” and I push with the rest of my chips. She calls and shows K3d. The table starts calling for another club, which doesn’t come.
The whole table was calling for a club!
And that’s why May won’t be coming back.
I try to go every week. Lately I’ve been hitting it twice a month. In that I live outside of a rather small town, there is usually anywhere from 12 to 24 people playing on any given night. Tonight there were 12. I went out in sixth place when my AK was beat by A8. That’s not so bad. Getting re-raised pre-flop by K5 suited against Aces hurts more. But it’s a freeroll, not counting the booze, food and video poker. People are here for more than serious poker. At least most are, so the bad beats abound.
One of our newcomers — new to town, new to the bar, and supposedly new to poker — wasn’t in attendance this week. Her name is May, a nice small-town, old-fashioned name. May is a calling station that somehow manages to end up at the final table every week with a huge stack. I think her last name is Very-Likely-Call-Any-Raise. So far, she’s not won a tourney. (But hell, I’ve only won one in two years, so who am I to say anything?) Noticing she wasn’t playing, I asked if she had been there the week prior. No. Somehow, I don’t think May will be back.
May showed up about five weeks ago. She sat at my table. I went out of my way to welcome the new face. She had just moved to town that week. You see, I’m a newcomer as well. I’ve been here five years. May had showed up a little late, and her seat had been a ghost, so she had already lost a few chips. And within the first five hands, she had to re-buy. After that, she amassed a huge stack, mostly from pure luck. She couldn’t or wouldn’t lay down a hand, and eventually made it to the final table. I was short-stacked (M of 4 or so) and went all in with AK. She was the lone caller from the button with 23 off.
I said, “No hard feelings.” Beginners luck, right?
I missed a couple weeks, and when I returned, May was there, and she had brought her hubby. He didn’t play. May was playing at another table, but from the cries of her name and a tone of disbelief that came from those players, I knew May was at it again.
Said one player at my table: “She’s a ringer, that’s what she is. Never played before… bull shit.”
And another: “Fucking calling station is what she is. Doesn’t hit the flop and still calls.”
Wow.
May was at the final table again. I was short again with an M of 6. AJc UTG, I raise 3 x BB with $1K and $2k blinds. May is on the button again and is again the sole caller. Flop comes K36, two clubs. I say, “What the hell” and I push with the rest of my chips. She calls and shows K3d. The table starts calling for another club, which doesn’t come.
The whole table was calling for a club!
And that’s why May won’t be coming back.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
If this is Sunday...
Another Sunday at the casino. Sunday is High hand Day, so there’s a good crowd. Actually, the room has been rather empty for the most part this year. The economy. But today was a little better. When I arrived, there were 2 tables of 1/2 running. One had 1 seat open, the other had 3. I sweated them a bit, checked out chip stacks, looked for regulars and picked a table with some folks I recognized, but with more folks I didn’t.
First hand I’m in the cut-off. AA. I bet $10, get three callers from earlier limps and take it down after the flop. Small pot but I’m up. I choose to show. I want my image to be tight. Those whom I play with on a regular basis already think that I’m tight. Tight weak, even. Maybe so. Maybe not. Let’s just say “Less so.” I enjoy a 78 suited just as much as the next guy. After the Aces, I had a short flurry of playable hands that went nowhere.
Of course, QQ plays better than connectors most of the time. Mine held up at least three times. My connectors never hit. And the one time I was able to limp with 34 offsuit in the Small Blind, I chickened out with an open-ended on the flop when I guy bet 120% of the pot. Straight hit on the turn. Oh well.
Others had less trouble with a bit looser playing style. I had 10s UTG, so I limp. Several other limpers. Flop comes 10d7d3d. Small blind goes all-in. He’s short-stacked, maybe $45. I call. He shows 45d and hits a straight on the river. Oh well.
He thinks it’s a riot and says, “I always do better when I’m behind.” I hold my tongue. He says it again. I say “Nice hand. I knew I was dead when I saw diamonds.” The guy chews his fingernails to the quick at the table. Lovely.
The guy to my left is a pretty good player. I’ve written about him before, taking a pot from him with a bigger boat. We always seem to be at the same table, and usually I’m to his left. Not today. I’m Mr. Right today. I watch him take down a pretty good-sized pot with 10Q suited when he hits two pair on the turn. Next hand I get Q10 off and I’m inspired enough that I call a small raise from the nail-biter after a couple other people have called as well. Flop gives me an open-ended. He bets the pot and I call, Turn completes my hand. He bets half the pot and I min-raise. He folds aces. Oh well.
I have to say that the only real mistake I made all day was when I over-played AQ . I raised 3 X BB from the cut-off and was called by the guy on my left. Flop had a J, and he called my C-bet. Turn was an A. AJ crossed my mind but wasn’t certain until the showdown when he said, “I sure hope you don’t have pocket Aces.” I lost a bit of change on that one. Oh well.
There’s a point in the day when I know I should go home. The key is paying attention to this notion. I was down $100. As a matter of fact, I’d been down $50 to $100 most of the day. I got close to even a few times, and I said to myself that if I got back to even, then I’d go home. Never works that way, does it? I waited until I lost $40 more. Oh well.
Bankroll below even for the first time this year. Might be better to hit the home games with smaller buy-ins. Or, as a certain friend keep insisting, play Limit. After all, I’m not so sure if building a bankroll or just having enough money to play more sessions should be my immediate goal.
First hand I’m in the cut-off. AA. I bet $10, get three callers from earlier limps and take it down after the flop. Small pot but I’m up. I choose to show. I want my image to be tight. Those whom I play with on a regular basis already think that I’m tight. Tight weak, even. Maybe so. Maybe not. Let’s just say “Less so.” I enjoy a 78 suited just as much as the next guy. After the Aces, I had a short flurry of playable hands that went nowhere.
Of course, QQ plays better than connectors most of the time. Mine held up at least three times. My connectors never hit. And the one time I was able to limp with 34 offsuit in the Small Blind, I chickened out with an open-ended on the flop when I guy bet 120% of the pot. Straight hit on the turn. Oh well.
Others had less trouble with a bit looser playing style. I had 10s UTG, so I limp. Several other limpers. Flop comes 10d7d3d. Small blind goes all-in. He’s short-stacked, maybe $45. I call. He shows 45d and hits a straight on the river. Oh well.
He thinks it’s a riot and says, “I always do better when I’m behind.” I hold my tongue. He says it again. I say “Nice hand. I knew I was dead when I saw diamonds.” The guy chews his fingernails to the quick at the table. Lovely.
The guy to my left is a pretty good player. I’ve written about him before, taking a pot from him with a bigger boat. We always seem to be at the same table, and usually I’m to his left. Not today. I’m Mr. Right today. I watch him take down a pretty good-sized pot with 10Q suited when he hits two pair on the turn. Next hand I get Q10 off and I’m inspired enough that I call a small raise from the nail-biter after a couple other people have called as well. Flop gives me an open-ended. He bets the pot and I call, Turn completes my hand. He bets half the pot and I min-raise. He folds aces. Oh well.
I have to say that the only real mistake I made all day was when I over-played AQ . I raised 3 X BB from the cut-off and was called by the guy on my left. Flop had a J, and he called my C-bet. Turn was an A. AJ crossed my mind but wasn’t certain until the showdown when he said, “I sure hope you don’t have pocket Aces.” I lost a bit of change on that one. Oh well.
There’s a point in the day when I know I should go home. The key is paying attention to this notion. I was down $100. As a matter of fact, I’d been down $50 to $100 most of the day. I got close to even a few times, and I said to myself that if I got back to even, then I’d go home. Never works that way, does it? I waited until I lost $40 more. Oh well.
Bankroll below even for the first time this year. Might be better to hit the home games with smaller buy-ins. Or, as a certain friend keep insisting, play Limit. After all, I’m not so sure if building a bankroll or just having enough money to play more sessions should be my immediate goal.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Other things happen
Yes, other things, better things, beside poker happen in my life. I just won an award for a photo I submitted to a big local juried art exhibit. 500 smackers. My dear wife had to choke back tears of joy as the Mayor presented the award. I’m pleased. Now, if the piece will sell as a multiple edition…
I haven’t been making a lot of art lately, because of several things. Mostly poker, I think. It used to be the farm that kept me busy as hell. Not so much anymore. I hit a wall physically and emotionally, weed and drought. I’m feeling better now, thank you. And with that, I’m able to pull myself away from poker a bit more. (Yeah, poker can be a way to self-medicate and can be abused. I’ll have more on that in the future.) Yet, before I flamed out, I had amassed a lot of photo and video projects that had never seen the light of an audience. I’m now going through all of that work to put together an updated website of art. This show I’m currently in helped push me in that direction.
A few months ago, my dear wife saw an article in the local newspaper about a big annual show, now in it’s second year. They were looking for new entrants. She tore out the clipping and left it on the coffee table where I eat breakfast while watching the weather report. She didn’t say anything about it; she just left it there. And for a few days, there it sat.
Looking back, it seems like it took all of the emotional strength I could muster to finally pick the article up, read it, and a few more days to go to the website for a submission form, look through some photos I had taken of this area, choose three photos, write an artist’s statement and send the package to the jury committee. I was that bad. Maybe it was the four months of rain…
I made a mental note of when the selection process would take place, but soon forgot about it. A couple months passed. Dear wife and I celebrated our ten years of marriage with a weekend getaway, and when we returned, there was a postcard in the mail. It said to save the date for the show. What? Did I miss some notification? Whether I was or wasn’t in the show, I surely would have heard before the invitations went out, right? Maybe my dear wife, wanting to spare me the lament, had intercepted the rejection letter or email. No, she hadn’t seen anything. Then I checked email: Congratulations!
Thirty-seven artists had been selected from a couple hundred submissions. Goodie gumdrops.
I have to back up a bit. Not everything was in darkness after the initial submission. In fact, just the act of putting everything together for this competition helped me get back on track, at least a little bit. I had been thinking about a video project for couple years and somehow found a way to make it happen. And when the sun finally broke, I had some time to kill one day and mustered the wherewithal to go into a local gallery. I hadn’t been in a gallery in four years. Not my cup of tea, yet the woman who owns the gallery is doing what she can to make a go of it in an area where folks just don’t take a shine to anything except pottery, landscape painting and the like. By the time I walked out of that gallery, the gallerist had invited me to be in a one-day show/event the following month. I said. “What the hell. OK.”
I had four weeks to conceive and prepare an installation piece. In the past I have had several months to prepare works of a similar size and scale. It took four days to install. By all accounts, it went well. The gallerist seemed please; people took pictures with their cell phones. As the day was winding down, I mentioned to her that I had submitted to the Mayor’s thingamagig. She said that she had a role in that show too. The conversation didn’t go much further.
After reading the congratulatory email, I began to think that maybe she had had a role in the selection process. I dropped by the gallery the next week to find out, and if she did, to thank her. It turns out that she was in fact on the jury, so I thanked her. But she gave me this quizzical look. “What piece was yours?” Oh, it was a blind jury? “Yes.” When I told her the name of the piece, her eyes lit up. “Oh yes, absolutely!” Apparently those were the words of several jurors.
It occurs to me that this might read as some sort of brag. No, this is more the thoughts of a guy who is mildly surprised that he has been able to go from being in the crapper to a semblance of what it must feel like when good things happen.
The opening reception was a couple days ago. There were hors d’ouvres and a jazz duo. There was about 100 people in attendance. (The $15 ticket price may have kept some people away.) Dear Wife and I ate a bit and had a cocktail as we walked around to see the art. Lots of landscape painting and photography, some abstraction, a few figures, some calligraphic stuff, and my piece. My piece was the very last piece on the walls, kinda stuck back in a corner. I had been late in delivering the piece (our well pump died that morning), so what I got is what I got.
After about a half hour I was ready to go home. I don’t do well in large gatherings like this. I had to wear a tag that said “Exhibiting Artist” and felt like no one could really give a shit. There were other tagged people wandering around, looking at the work or staring out a window at traffic. I am so glad my dear wife was there. The gin and tonic helped a little too.
An hour into the reception the Mayor got up on a stage to start the awards ceremony. Five artists were to receive honorariums and one would win the Purchase Award. My wife and I moved closer to the podium to appear more civil and to hear. As is the case with most events like this, there are a lot of people who’d rather continue their conversations than listen to what they supposedly came to hear.
Four names were called before mine. I was the last of the honorable mentions. It was a little odd. I knew it was my name. People actually cheered. The gallerist was handing out the award envelopes. “Surprised?” she asked. Did I expect it? No. Did I hope for it? Of course. I’m not that depressed.
I kissed her hand.
I haven’t been making a lot of art lately, because of several things. Mostly poker, I think. It used to be the farm that kept me busy as hell. Not so much anymore. I hit a wall physically and emotionally, weed and drought. I’m feeling better now, thank you. And with that, I’m able to pull myself away from poker a bit more. (Yeah, poker can be a way to self-medicate and can be abused. I’ll have more on that in the future.) Yet, before I flamed out, I had amassed a lot of photo and video projects that had never seen the light of an audience. I’m now going through all of that work to put together an updated website of art. This show I’m currently in helped push me in that direction.
A few months ago, my dear wife saw an article in the local newspaper about a big annual show, now in it’s second year. They were looking for new entrants. She tore out the clipping and left it on the coffee table where I eat breakfast while watching the weather report. She didn’t say anything about it; she just left it there. And for a few days, there it sat.
Looking back, it seems like it took all of the emotional strength I could muster to finally pick the article up, read it, and a few more days to go to the website for a submission form, look through some photos I had taken of this area, choose three photos, write an artist’s statement and send the package to the jury committee. I was that bad. Maybe it was the four months of rain…
I made a mental note of when the selection process would take place, but soon forgot about it. A couple months passed. Dear wife and I celebrated our ten years of marriage with a weekend getaway, and when we returned, there was a postcard in the mail. It said to save the date for the show. What? Did I miss some notification? Whether I was or wasn’t in the show, I surely would have heard before the invitations went out, right? Maybe my dear wife, wanting to spare me the lament, had intercepted the rejection letter or email. No, she hadn’t seen anything. Then I checked email: Congratulations!
Thirty-seven artists had been selected from a couple hundred submissions. Goodie gumdrops.
I have to back up a bit. Not everything was in darkness after the initial submission. In fact, just the act of putting everything together for this competition helped me get back on track, at least a little bit. I had been thinking about a video project for couple years and somehow found a way to make it happen. And when the sun finally broke, I had some time to kill one day and mustered the wherewithal to go into a local gallery. I hadn’t been in a gallery in four years. Not my cup of tea, yet the woman who owns the gallery is doing what she can to make a go of it in an area where folks just don’t take a shine to anything except pottery, landscape painting and the like. By the time I walked out of that gallery, the gallerist had invited me to be in a one-day show/event the following month. I said. “What the hell. OK.”
I had four weeks to conceive and prepare an installation piece. In the past I have had several months to prepare works of a similar size and scale. It took four days to install. By all accounts, it went well. The gallerist seemed please; people took pictures with their cell phones. As the day was winding down, I mentioned to her that I had submitted to the Mayor’s thingamagig. She said that she had a role in that show too. The conversation didn’t go much further.
After reading the congratulatory email, I began to think that maybe she had had a role in the selection process. I dropped by the gallery the next week to find out, and if she did, to thank her. It turns out that she was in fact on the jury, so I thanked her. But she gave me this quizzical look. “What piece was yours?” Oh, it was a blind jury? “Yes.” When I told her the name of the piece, her eyes lit up. “Oh yes, absolutely!” Apparently those were the words of several jurors.
It occurs to me that this might read as some sort of brag. No, this is more the thoughts of a guy who is mildly surprised that he has been able to go from being in the crapper to a semblance of what it must feel like when good things happen.
The opening reception was a couple days ago. There were hors d’ouvres and a jazz duo. There was about 100 people in attendance. (The $15 ticket price may have kept some people away.) Dear Wife and I ate a bit and had a cocktail as we walked around to see the art. Lots of landscape painting and photography, some abstraction, a few figures, some calligraphic stuff, and my piece. My piece was the very last piece on the walls, kinda stuck back in a corner. I had been late in delivering the piece (our well pump died that morning), so what I got is what I got.
After about a half hour I was ready to go home. I don’t do well in large gatherings like this. I had to wear a tag that said “Exhibiting Artist” and felt like no one could really give a shit. There were other tagged people wandering around, looking at the work or staring out a window at traffic. I am so glad my dear wife was there. The gin and tonic helped a little too.
An hour into the reception the Mayor got up on a stage to start the awards ceremony. Five artists were to receive honorariums and one would win the Purchase Award. My wife and I moved closer to the podium to appear more civil and to hear. As is the case with most events like this, there are a lot of people who’d rather continue their conversations than listen to what they supposedly came to hear.
Four names were called before mine. I was the last of the honorable mentions. It was a little odd. I knew it was my name. People actually cheered. The gallerist was handing out the award envelopes. “Surprised?” she asked. Did I expect it? No. Did I hope for it? Of course. I’m not that depressed.
I kissed her hand.
Short stack strategy
A Day at the Aces, part 2
A Day at the Aces
The Good, the Bad and the Buggy: My Poker Game in Las Vegas
Throwing this out to the community for input
2nd Anniversary at Poker Academy
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