There are tomes upon tomes that wax on about the glories and/or pitfalls of poker. Poker the tool, the challenge, the entertaining hobby; poker the devastating vice and distraction from everything otherwise wrong with a life. Ho hum.
Poker is like life in only one regard: you have to be a good guesser. It’s one helluva big one regard, but it’s the only one when it comes down to it. Your top pair, damn-good-kicker could be toast and drawing nearly dead to a testosterone junkie-idiot at any given moment, or the same hand is good against a huge stack that jams with air on a straightened board. You make determinations based on perceptions and accept the consequences. The only question left to ask is: Why bother?
No, I’m not in a foul mood spawned out of variance. Inured is more like it. As Buddha said, “Screw the question. Either play the game or don’t.”
Inspired more than usual, I spent an inordinate amount of time in the studio today. I made a few pieces for “What,” one of which I posted earlier, wrote that poem, corresponded with a few folks, and just sat waiting for the fog to roll back in.
Then I made nine bucks in less than 50 hands. I guessed right.
I think I have thing for conflict.
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