Well, there's that: the win I posted on what might be the last night I played online for real bucks. And there's still Poker Academy, what's left of it. Maybe some alum will return now that the lights have been turned out elswhere for us Yanks. (The French are having a chuckle, no doubt. Silly American politics. Yeah, I know. And the reason I know is because my mirror is two-way. Nationalism requires a significant amount of denial.)
Then there's those who depend on their nightlies for any number of reasons. I used to post hand histories. Remember? Then changed the title for this thing here. But it's not about me. I feel for you, brothers and sisters. A lot will fade away.
Pub tourneys? Not for everyone, but not to be so readily dismissed if snarking is your thing.
Funny. Yanks and Muslim countries.
Not to get too reductive.
Speaking of retrenching, after a couple days this last week immersed in the art scene, I have returned home to sort it out into coherent paragraphs. At least the parts that have a hope of sense. The art produced is immeasurably easier than the producers. I am reminded of the bitterness felt before making our way to a new life here in the sticks, down in the dungeon. Speaking of snarking.
Not that I had forgotten. More the pain had eased. Very little directed at me, mind you; not this time. But seeing how others are treated, that judgment put upon all others outside of a small circle that grows smaller, more petty, shriveled. The inhumanity of those who want no such thing. To deal with them, I imagine them at a poker table.
And for that aspect of the game, I am most grateful.
Now, if I can get serious for a moment: there might be someone who you have neglected, even if just a little bit.