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.
Monday, July 21, 2008
How about a photo?
The end of our first year. Roma tomatoes
we put in the geodesic greenhouse to ripen.
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.
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