Going to my home game tonight and bringing my PA buddy, sbstar. Stories to follow, rest assured. In the meantime, I was looking through the vaults of an earlier time and found this:
Camp
The frying pan sits on the campfire, pond water boiling up to the rim, bringing with it the accumulated, previously fused, burnt food from the bottom. In just a bit I will be able to dump the water, scrape the last of the charred remains and ready myself to leave for home.
I've camped here for three weeks, fishing, picking dandelions and pulling cattail roots for food ... by choice. This is something I know about; and it doesn't really require a lot of varied experience. The knowledge that schools impart, or the calm that surrounds me — even the coyotes yipping and howling at night just fifty yards from my tent — all difuses and infuses after the third day or so.
Five days is not enough time to spend here. Dread sets in almost as soon after relaxation, having made this trip many times before, and knowing what my reaction to the traffic, noise, garbage and flurry of inconsideration will be upon my return to the city.
I arrive here with enough water for the duration of my stay. I have seen but three people in the last three weeks. They were all here to fish for a few hours, chat briefly about the pond owners and their own legacy of fishing rights, implying, if I was predisposed to such a thing, an outsider like myself need not get territorial about their presence. Take a few bluegill or crappie for dinner and be on their way. "Me and the wife been comin' out here ever since Fred Sr. put the pond in." I nod. I'd been coming here for well over twenty years myself. His wife nor I have much to say.
I remember my first time here. I was greeted by a heifer, dead two days or so, bloated. On the second day its gut exploded while I was eating a late lunch. The noise, sort of a loud fart, scared me into spilling my water in my lap, splashing into the fire, hissing several pitches higher than the cow.
All week the cow stayed downwind. The flies got pretty thick. The coyotes took care of the rest.
For a while, while I had one, I brought my family here. They loved the spot. The year crazy Fred Jr. tried to drain the pond, we came down here to find the water level at about two feet surrounded by a fifty-foot muddy shoreline of dead fish. We fought the whole time — three days — her wanting to leave right away, me trying to hold onto something nearly gone, the kids crying in the a-ground john-boat. That fall, my wife ran off with a crewing coach. I recognized the irony in that situation only now, on this trip.
So why continue coming to this place? I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that death and only death associates itself here. No, for I love the flies and coyotes, the fish that muddied their backs in the remaining shallows, and the flames that allow me to sit here staring into their cool blue centers, listening to the crying calves a half mile away as they're weaned from their mothers, their pain temporary, somehow not real because it will be forgotten in a few days.
Like the time I walked through the poison ivy that used to line these shores. It eventually stopped itching and draining, healing but taking all the hair on my shins with it. It's okay.
Muskrats and beaver aren't permitted to reside here. My brother comes down for target practice as a favor to Fred Sr.'s grandson who now owns the pond. Bought it from Jr. after the draining fiasco. In fact, my brother comes down here more often than I, visiting with the grandson when he's in town. I imagine them sitting around a campfire remarking how I never leave wood for them. I should tell them that I appreciate the well-stacked pile they leave me.
I wonder if I'm the only other person who camps here for any extended period. There is evidence of others, less respectful of the place than I am of my brother and friend. Beer cans and bottles covered in moss spot the water's edge and come up in the ash pile. I am sure I have spoiled party plans those nights when a car pulls in, sees my camp, turns around and parks further down the road. I hear the bottles bounce off trees or into dirt clods in the fields. I'd call 9-1-1 if I could, if there is such a thing down here.
The ex-Sheriff, now dead, was an old friend of my grandfather. Everyone down here knows who my grandfather is ... was. I felt completely safe in this county, when he was alive. Mere mention of his name meant any trouble would be dealt with by an octogenarian pit-bull. Of course, I was very careful not to get into a situation that called for his intervention, a respect for the family name-thing; an honor to him and his ghost that would surely be in the area, if it were to be anywhere.
At the risk of sounding pap-plus, it is the memory of Grandpa alive, as the memories I carry assure me that I am alive, with the occasional move forward, the feeling of progression adding to the life force; and only recently having gleaned the hope of deliverance to encourage me on. In the same manner of the coyotes and flies feasting on misfortune, and the overcrowded fish waiting for rain or the dam to be plugged, allowing the overcrowded spring to fill beyond its channel, I embrace all of the struggle.
To me, this is balance, and when I return to the city, I try to hold onto this perspective. I try to break through the thick vitreous of the traffic's haze and the "Yo-yo-yo-drugs-here", nowhere-to-go-except-to-an-early-grave neighborhoods I have lived in before and after they have been gentrified, the mixed odors of a multitude of dying cultures carried along the songs of old and young listeners oblivious to notions of hope that are not related to food, clothing and shelter — money — for today and tomorrow. Tomorrow will become today and we shall start again.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
500 Hits
Six weeks now. And google helped.
Someone in Saskatchewan was looking for a "Trespassers will be composted" sign.
Louisiana search: "injured duck guts OR innards OR intestines hanging out"
Someone in England has an aggressive Indian Runner Duck. Most likely a drake.
Texas seems to have a thing about chihuahuas and dogs playing poker. A Virginian wondered when the last time one of those little rat dogs won a major dog show.
My use of the phrase "cervical dislocation" is going to put me on the wrong list. I'm even afraid to mention the organization by name lest it be googled, they find me and liberate what is left of our meager flock.
Thank you, dear readers.
what happens if one googles google? Infinity and beyond!
Someone in Saskatchewan was looking for a "Trespassers will be composted" sign.
Louisiana search: "injured duck guts OR innards OR intestines hanging out"
Someone in England has an aggressive Indian Runner Duck. Most likely a drake.
Texas seems to have a thing about chihuahuas and dogs playing poker. A Virginian wondered when the last time one of those little rat dogs won a major dog show.
My use of the phrase "cervical dislocation" is going to put me on the wrong list. I'm even afraid to mention the organization by name lest it be googled, they find me and liberate what is left of our meager flock.
Thank you, dear readers.
what happens if one googles google? Infinity and beyond!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
And then they were ten.
The walkie talkie crackles and then I hear the dear wife. “She’s dead.”
“OK, I’ll be right out.”
Last night, as I was bringing the birds in from their paddock, I found the odd duck sitting in the high grass along the fence row. She had been spending her day in there the last few days. As I approached, she stood up and then moved out into the field. She was moving slow, so slow that I had no problem picking her up and carrying her into the coop. As we walked, I noted that the feathers near her anus had a greenish tint to them. I took this to mean that she had been either eating a lot of grass, or that she had not eaten at all and this was bile. I listened to her breathing. She seemed to be having a hard time getting air and her quacks came shallow and strained.
By the time we got up to the coop, I had determined that I would have to put her in the infirmary. In addition, I would spike her drinking water with an antibiotic. (This is always a last resort, as our eggs are supposed to be organic. Quarantining her would guarantee that if she was to lay eggs, we could dispose of them.) Even though I had not seen her eat, I had watched her drink, so hopefully the medication might help. My dear wife said she had shown interest in eating worms yesterday, so I put three big worms in the water. Two worms remained in the bowl.
Two ducks in two weeks. I still had a small pile of compost that I hadn’t moved for the earlier burial, so…
The diesel engine of my tractor sounded a bit mournful, or rather, my mood caught a lower register than the ringing sound one usually associates with diesel. I kept the tractor in a lower gear and took the opportunity from my perch in the seat to have a look around. The late season blackberries are ripening; the Gravenstein Apples have a nice color to them; the Italian Plums are almost ready to pick; my dear wife gives me a half-hearted wave as she fills the waterers in the back paddock.
I resolve to pick some berries this afternoon and take a bite of an apple to see if they’re ready. I say to myself that I now have today’s blog entry.
“OK, I’ll be right out.”
Last night, as I was bringing the birds in from their paddock, I found the odd duck sitting in the high grass along the fence row. She had been spending her day in there the last few days. As I approached, she stood up and then moved out into the field. She was moving slow, so slow that I had no problem picking her up and carrying her into the coop. As we walked, I noted that the feathers near her anus had a greenish tint to them. I took this to mean that she had been either eating a lot of grass, or that she had not eaten at all and this was bile. I listened to her breathing. She seemed to be having a hard time getting air and her quacks came shallow and strained.
By the time we got up to the coop, I had determined that I would have to put her in the infirmary. In addition, I would spike her drinking water with an antibiotic. (This is always a last resort, as our eggs are supposed to be organic. Quarantining her would guarantee that if she was to lay eggs, we could dispose of them.) Even though I had not seen her eat, I had watched her drink, so hopefully the medication might help. My dear wife said she had shown interest in eating worms yesterday, so I put three big worms in the water. Two worms remained in the bowl.
Two ducks in two weeks. I still had a small pile of compost that I hadn’t moved for the earlier burial, so…
The diesel engine of my tractor sounded a bit mournful, or rather, my mood caught a lower register than the ringing sound one usually associates with diesel. I kept the tractor in a lower gear and took the opportunity from my perch in the seat to have a look around. The late season blackberries are ripening; the Gravenstein Apples have a nice color to them; the Italian Plums are almost ready to pick; my dear wife gives me a half-hearted wave as she fills the waterers in the back paddock.
I resolve to pick some berries this afternoon and take a bite of an apple to see if they’re ready. I say to myself that I now have today’s blog entry.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Quickie
I wish I had the time for one.
Things are picking up a bit around here. I received a call from a client to do a rewrite on a proposal and have been dealing with a breakneck deadline on that. I sent the copy over to the client just an hour ago and have received a positive response, plus another rewrite assignment. While I’m waiting for copy, I thought I’d spend a little time here.
First off, another duck is on the ropes. A younger one this time. It went into a serious molt a couple weeks ago and has been despondent the last few days. No idea what is wrong with her, and we are hoping her unsteadiness and lethargy are the after-effects of the molt as she tries to regrow feathers.
I’d also like to address some of the comments from the previous post. In short, yes, it is a bankroll issue. Work is still sporadic as I ramp up my writing and say good-bye to the farming life. Therefore, we are still in a financial limbo.
Bankroll is key, there's no doubt about it.
I couldn't possibly have contemplated my year-long experiment without being willing to really and truly bankroll myself for it. *gulp*
I will not sit down at a table in a casino this year without at least 5 buy-ins in my pocket. It puts my head in a completely different place.
Only an hour and a half to a real live casino? Cripes, I'd commute there every other day if I had one that close!
Dear Sister Cardgrrl, if I had 5 buy-ins to bring along to the casino, I’d feel like I ruled the world. In that my casino roll totaled 7.5 buy-ins, I guess I was fucked from the start.
Good point from CG. My little trick was putting my casino winnings in a separate container and only ever using that money for trips to the casino. That way, mentally I was playing other peoples money instead of seeing my own hard ended going into the pot. :)
And to my dear friend, Gumpo: I tried that, or rather, a variation on that. Last year I split my winnings with my dear wife. See above. Needed the cash for other things. The result was that when I lost, there was no one to split it with and funds got depleted. This year I resolved to keep all of my winnings for my roll. The poker gods had other ideas.
there are plenty of real money but micro stakes online. You should be able to absolutely kill at those games with all the bad players.
I know it's ultimately not about the money with you, or you wouldn't have spent so much time becoming one of the top 3 PAX players. So it must be more about the intellectual challenge and the thrill of competition. Play .01/.02c if you have to, but play!
And to dear Matt: I have tried those ultra-micros and find them way too frustrating, However, I have not tried multi-tabling them. Where is Yakshi to give me pointers? As to whether the game is about money, an intellectual challenge or the competitive spirit, it is about all three. The first one has my attention at the moment. I have spent so much time on PA under the assumption that by improving my game there, I would have an easier time moving into real money. That has not been the case. In fact, a case might now be made that the longer I play at PA, the more harm it will do to my overall judgment in cash games.(I may address this issue at length later.)
Both Matt and Sandman suggest trying the micros again. I’ll give it a go.
Dear friends, thanks for reading and responding.
Things are picking up a bit around here. I received a call from a client to do a rewrite on a proposal and have been dealing with a breakneck deadline on that. I sent the copy over to the client just an hour ago and have received a positive response, plus another rewrite assignment. While I’m waiting for copy, I thought I’d spend a little time here.
First off, another duck is on the ropes. A younger one this time. It went into a serious molt a couple weeks ago and has been despondent the last few days. No idea what is wrong with her, and we are hoping her unsteadiness and lethargy are the after-effects of the molt as she tries to regrow feathers.
I’d also like to address some of the comments from the previous post. In short, yes, it is a bankroll issue. Work is still sporadic as I ramp up my writing and say good-bye to the farming life. Therefore, we are still in a financial limbo.
Bankroll is key, there's no doubt about it.
I couldn't possibly have contemplated my year-long experiment without being willing to really and truly bankroll myself for it. *gulp*
I will not sit down at a table in a casino this year without at least 5 buy-ins in my pocket. It puts my head in a completely different place.
Only an hour and a half to a real live casino? Cripes, I'd commute there every other day if I had one that close!
Dear Sister Cardgrrl, if I had 5 buy-ins to bring along to the casino, I’d feel like I ruled the world. In that my casino roll totaled 7.5 buy-ins, I guess I was fucked from the start.
Good point from CG. My little trick was putting my casino winnings in a separate container and only ever using that money for trips to the casino. That way, mentally I was playing other peoples money instead of seeing my own hard ended going into the pot. :)
And to my dear friend, Gumpo: I tried that, or rather, a variation on that. Last year I split my winnings with my dear wife. See above. Needed the cash for other things. The result was that when I lost, there was no one to split it with and funds got depleted. This year I resolved to keep all of my winnings for my roll. The poker gods had other ideas.
there are plenty of real money but micro stakes online. You should be able to absolutely kill at those games with all the bad players.
I know it's ultimately not about the money with you, or you wouldn't have spent so much time becoming one of the top 3 PAX players. So it must be more about the intellectual challenge and the thrill of competition. Play .01/.02c if you have to, but play!
And to dear Matt: I have tried those ultra-micros and find them way too frustrating, However, I have not tried multi-tabling them. Where is Yakshi to give me pointers? As to whether the game is about money, an intellectual challenge or the competitive spirit, it is about all three. The first one has my attention at the moment. I have spent so much time on PA under the assumption that by improving my game there, I would have an easier time moving into real money. That has not been the case. In fact, a case might now be made that the longer I play at PA, the more harm it will do to my overall judgment in cash games.(I may address this issue at length later.)
Both Matt and Sandman suggest trying the micros again. I’ll give it a go.
Dear friends, thanks for reading and responding.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Wherewithal
I’m not as young as I used to be…two days ago. Despite ten and a half hours of sleep last night, I am still dog-tired, feeling a bit queasy and, well, ambivalent. A bumper sticker I saw yesterday could sum it up: CAUTION: Driver just doesn’t give a shit anymore. That certainly portrays the last hand I played at the casino yesterday.
Yesterday, I was supposed to meet up with a fellow PA player, Mad Mosby, at the local casino. We had never met before, and, after several attempts to get our schedule to agree, it was finally going to happen, and not a moment too soon. The tourist season was coming to a close, meaning no more easy pickings at the tables. We were going to slaughter them like grizzlies picking off salmon coming upstream.
I was anxious for a last hurrah. So anxious, in fact, that at the last minute I decided to leave for the casino Saturday afternoon.
My dear wife was a bit surprised when I sprung this on her. Well, maybe not that surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d made one day at the casino into two. “If that’s what you want to do, call and see if they have a room for you.”
They didn’t. The hotel was booked solid. Instead, I threw the sleeping cot into the back of the car, grabbed my toothbrush, and off I went, promising that I would be safe sleeping in the car. I had done it several times before.
The card room was fairly busy, but not so busy that I couldn’t be seated right away. I checked out the two 1/2 games going and opted for the one where I knew the fewest players and had the smaller stacks. The last thing I wanted to do was play deep stack poker with my 100 BB.
This weekend must have been the last fling for kids returning to college, as there was a gaggle of them at my table. A couple of them knew each other. There was a young gun who I recognized and seemed to recall he wasn’t so good of a player. There was an old loud drunk, who I also recognized as someone I had played several months before and who was crazy loose and lucky. And there was Mr. Muscles.
Mr. Muscles went on a heater right off the bat. The drunk raised it up $15 and MM would call. Anyone else who raised it up, MM called or reraised big. It wasn’t long before he had tripled up. I was card dead for all of the action except for one hand in which I rivered a boat on some guy’s presumed flopped straight. I checked my set on the flop and he jammed for his last $100. He mucked and left.
My bladder isn’t as young as it used to be either. I was on the button with A5d when it was limped around to me. I called. The flop came smallish with one diamond. The drunk bet $10, MM and another player called, and I folded. I wasn’t going to chase, and besides, I had to pee. As I stood up to leave, the turn was another diamond and both players checked. I walked away. No! I couldn’t resist and turned around to see the river. Yep, another diamond. I didn’t stay to see the betting, but when I came back from the potty, MM had even more chips. I couldn’t help but think some of those could now be in my stack.
The table changed a bit as the hours dragged on. The college students went busto, the drunk got yelled at by another player and he left, MM went over to play 2/5 and I remained card dead. Slowly but surely I was frittering away my earnings, calling small raises and folding, and losing my blinds with 72 off and the like. I saw 72, 73, 82 and other crap for hours.
I was in the BB with K7s when it limped around to me. The flop came with a 7 a 10 and 2 and was checked around. I suppose I could have bet my 7 but I was soooo out of position. I was overjoyed when a K came on the turn. I bet about the pot, $20, and it was folded around to the young gun who tripled my bet. A set? Unlikely. He would have called on a rainbow uncoordinated board. He had a King and I knew it because I had seen him push hard with top pair earlier. He lost that hand too, so I smooth called. The turn was a Q, which bothered me a bit. I checked, waiting for him to lead out. He bet $60, a nice value bet. I called. Should I have jammed the turn on his turn raise? You tell me.
I bought another $100, and sat there for a couple more hours folding. Eventually the table broke and I moved over to another table. More youngsters, plus a solid player who I had befriended. He was doing well, up about $300. I took down a sizable pot with AJ when a guy went all in for his last $25 with A10. One of the kids, an obvious calling station also called the all in. We checked it down and I won with A high, J kicker.
Eventually, however, I could get nothing going after that and watched my stack dwindle once again. My friend at the table lost with his set of tens on the flop to a set of Kings on the turn and left in disgust, saying, “This same thing happens every weekend!” I watched another kid get stacked when his K10d, K on the flop, all in on the diamond turn lost to AQd with another diamond on the river. There was still money to be had, but I had had enough.
I tried to sleep. Maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the K7. I tossed and turned a while before getting some much-needed rest. I woke with first light, fell back asleep and went back into the casino at sunrise. I had some breakfast, drank a couple cups of coffee and made my way back to the poker room. I thought I felt okay.
The tables were already going strong. I recognized players from the night before, apparently going without sleep ant sleep at all. After a short wait I was seated at a 1/2 with mostly older guys, maybe some my age, some decidedly older, and a couple young players. One of the young guys was a regular as he knew all of the dealers by name, and they knew his.
By and large it was a strong, aggressive table. Folks weren’t afraid to get their money in, and some big pots were taken down with some big hands. The young regular was out of his league, even though he was right in there with a loose aggressive style. He lost a buy-in in fairly short order and reloaded. A bit later I was in two hands with him.
An older guy on my right opened with a small raise, I called with A9s and the kid completed in the BB. The flop came with an A and the old guy made a C-bet, which I raised by that same amount, just to see where I was at. The kid called, as did the initial bettor. The turn was a blank, the kid checked, as did the old guy and I. The river paired the board and it was checked all around again. The kid flips over trips, the old guy mucks. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I should have raised more on the flop or bet the turn. The upside: I didn’t lose too much and I now had information I could use later on.
I was catching some decent hands. Too bad. I limped with KQc and called a good-sized raise after another player did as well. The flop came with a Q. I checked, the initial bettor made a good-sized C-bet, the other player and I called. The turn was an A. I knew I was beat, the other player didn’t. I was down under $100.
Meanwhile, the kid had taken down a few pots with trash hands and was building a stack. I tell myself to just be patient. Qs in early middle position. The old guy to my right has limped and I raise to $12. It folds around to the kid who raises it to $40. The old guy calls. There’s almost $100 in the pot, and hoping the kid thinks his jacks are good, I push the rest of my chips in the middle. The kid calls and the old guys goes all in as well. The flop comes with a K, turn is a K, river is a 10. I know I’m beat. The kids shows Aces and the old guy mucks.
Time to call it a day. Yet, I still have to wait for Mad Mosby to show up, and that’s a couple hours from now, so I go back out to the car to lick my wounds and take a nap. Again, the sleep is less than restful and I wake up in 45 minutes. By the time I get back to the poker room, the kid is down to $60. It just makes me feel worse.
After killing a little time lamenting my session over the phone with my dear wife and chatting with my son in Chicago, I go to meet Mad Mosby. Just as I had suspected, he’s a great guy. I told him about my beats, tried to justify my play, and he listened like a nice person would. We talked about Poker Academy and I hope I convinced him to join us at the 3rd Annual PA Rendezvous in Las Vegas next year. He would make a fine addition to an already wonderful bunch of folks. I just hope I can attend as well.
Suffice it to say, lamentations kept me awake for the drive home. Did I play poorly? Did I play scared, tight-weak poker and then tilt off the rest of two buy-ins? And now, I don’t have enough of a bankroll to return to the casino for the foreseeable future. But do I have any business ever going back? Is my game worse than I think it is? Tight isn’t good enough when I’m not aggressive enough to raise it up or get it all in good before the turn or river, and then get frustrated with the turn and river beats. Or, maybe I just don’t have the fortitude to play this game, weather the beats and move on. Like a whipped dog kept on a chain next to a ratty-looking doghouse, with bad beats and a small roll, I may still have my tail between my legs when the kids come out to play. I’m happy to see someone but I still half-expect to get clocked.
When I told Mad Mosby that I was down two buy-ins, his response was, “What? The guy who has all of my PAX (play money) on Poker Academy?” Yes, the disparity is striking. Oh, I sometimes get clobbered on PA. The difference is that I am not crippled when it happens. I can come back, and always do, gradually building my roll higher and higher. Yet, when it comes to real money, knowing that I don’t have much to begin with, my game goes in the toilet and seems to stay there. The difference? I can’t afford to lose real money.
I’ve been dancing around this realization for a while now. I’ve been telling myself that I’m a good enough player, and that the seemingly constant losses and break-even sessions at the casino or online shouldn’t be happening to me. Others seem to think I’m good enough to beat the game as well. I have had three different people offer to stake me. I have turned them all down, first, because I don’t want to be beholden to someone, and second, because, afraid of losing someone else’s money. I’d still be playing scared. Yes, it is a bankroll issue.
So, what is the solution? I suspect there isn’t one except to quit playing for cash. Relegate myself to Poker Academy play money and the pub tourneys? The thought of it makes me ill. If I swear off the casino, I still have enough of a bankroll left to play my home game. That may be the answer. Still, I worry that the damage done may be irreversible or like some sort of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and it won’t be long until that money is gone as well.
I love this game of poker. Yet, that doesn’t necessarily mean it is good for me to be playing it at the moment. I’m going to scale back. I’ll stay away from the casino, and stick to PA, my shitty little pub tourney and my home game. After all, this is supposed to be a blog about poker first and foremost, right? Right? So, dear readers, we’ll see how this thing plays out. And you’ll get to go along for the ride.
Will bastin turn his game around? Will bastin go broke and swear off poker forever, only to find new joy in quilting bees? Stay tuned.
One final note: I witnessed my first bad beat jackpot Saturday night. Quad fours against a 7 high straight flush. It happened at a 2345 Limit game. A game at which I can afford to take a few bad hits. No, not really. Not with my bankroll.
Yesterday, I was supposed to meet up with a fellow PA player, Mad Mosby, at the local casino. We had never met before, and, after several attempts to get our schedule to agree, it was finally going to happen, and not a moment too soon. The tourist season was coming to a close, meaning no more easy pickings at the tables. We were going to slaughter them like grizzlies picking off salmon coming upstream.
I was anxious for a last hurrah. So anxious, in fact, that at the last minute I decided to leave for the casino Saturday afternoon.
My dear wife was a bit surprised when I sprung this on her. Well, maybe not that surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d made one day at the casino into two. “If that’s what you want to do, call and see if they have a room for you.”
They didn’t. The hotel was booked solid. Instead, I threw the sleeping cot into the back of the car, grabbed my toothbrush, and off I went, promising that I would be safe sleeping in the car. I had done it several times before.
The card room was fairly busy, but not so busy that I couldn’t be seated right away. I checked out the two 1/2 games going and opted for the one where I knew the fewest players and had the smaller stacks. The last thing I wanted to do was play deep stack poker with my 100 BB.
This weekend must have been the last fling for kids returning to college, as there was a gaggle of them at my table. A couple of them knew each other. There was a young gun who I recognized and seemed to recall he wasn’t so good of a player. There was an old loud drunk, who I also recognized as someone I had played several months before and who was crazy loose and lucky. And there was Mr. Muscles.
Mr. Muscles went on a heater right off the bat. The drunk raised it up $15 and MM would call. Anyone else who raised it up, MM called or reraised big. It wasn’t long before he had tripled up. I was card dead for all of the action except for one hand in which I rivered a boat on some guy’s presumed flopped straight. I checked my set on the flop and he jammed for his last $100. He mucked and left.
My bladder isn’t as young as it used to be either. I was on the button with A5d when it was limped around to me. I called. The flop came smallish with one diamond. The drunk bet $10, MM and another player called, and I folded. I wasn’t going to chase, and besides, I had to pee. As I stood up to leave, the turn was another diamond and both players checked. I walked away. No! I couldn’t resist and turned around to see the river. Yep, another diamond. I didn’t stay to see the betting, but when I came back from the potty, MM had even more chips. I couldn’t help but think some of those could now be in my stack.
The table changed a bit as the hours dragged on. The college students went busto, the drunk got yelled at by another player and he left, MM went over to play 2/5 and I remained card dead. Slowly but surely I was frittering away my earnings, calling small raises and folding, and losing my blinds with 72 off and the like. I saw 72, 73, 82 and other crap for hours.
I was in the BB with K7s when it limped around to me. The flop came with a 7 a 10 and 2 and was checked around. I suppose I could have bet my 7 but I was soooo out of position. I was overjoyed when a K came on the turn. I bet about the pot, $20, and it was folded around to the young gun who tripled my bet. A set? Unlikely. He would have called on a rainbow uncoordinated board. He had a King and I knew it because I had seen him push hard with top pair earlier. He lost that hand too, so I smooth called. The turn was a Q, which bothered me a bit. I checked, waiting for him to lead out. He bet $60, a nice value bet. I called. Should I have jammed the turn on his turn raise? You tell me.
I bought another $100, and sat there for a couple more hours folding. Eventually the table broke and I moved over to another table. More youngsters, plus a solid player who I had befriended. He was doing well, up about $300. I took down a sizable pot with AJ when a guy went all in for his last $25 with A10. One of the kids, an obvious calling station also called the all in. We checked it down and I won with A high, J kicker.
Eventually, however, I could get nothing going after that and watched my stack dwindle once again. My friend at the table lost with his set of tens on the flop to a set of Kings on the turn and left in disgust, saying, “This same thing happens every weekend!” I watched another kid get stacked when his K10d, K on the flop, all in on the diamond turn lost to AQd with another diamond on the river. There was still money to be had, but I had had enough.
I tried to sleep. Maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the K7. I tossed and turned a while before getting some much-needed rest. I woke with first light, fell back asleep and went back into the casino at sunrise. I had some breakfast, drank a couple cups of coffee and made my way back to the poker room. I thought I felt okay.
The tables were already going strong. I recognized players from the night before, apparently going without sleep ant sleep at all. After a short wait I was seated at a 1/2 with mostly older guys, maybe some my age, some decidedly older, and a couple young players. One of the young guys was a regular as he knew all of the dealers by name, and they knew his.
By and large it was a strong, aggressive table. Folks weren’t afraid to get their money in, and some big pots were taken down with some big hands. The young regular was out of his league, even though he was right in there with a loose aggressive style. He lost a buy-in in fairly short order and reloaded. A bit later I was in two hands with him.
An older guy on my right opened with a small raise, I called with A9s and the kid completed in the BB. The flop came with an A and the old guy made a C-bet, which I raised by that same amount, just to see where I was at. The kid called, as did the initial bettor. The turn was a blank, the kid checked, as did the old guy and I. The river paired the board and it was checked all around again. The kid flips over trips, the old guy mucks. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I should have raised more on the flop or bet the turn. The upside: I didn’t lose too much and I now had information I could use later on.
I was catching some decent hands. Too bad. I limped with KQc and called a good-sized raise after another player did as well. The flop came with a Q. I checked, the initial bettor made a good-sized C-bet, the other player and I called. The turn was an A. I knew I was beat, the other player didn’t. I was down under $100.
Meanwhile, the kid had taken down a few pots with trash hands and was building a stack. I tell myself to just be patient. Qs in early middle position. The old guy to my right has limped and I raise to $12. It folds around to the kid who raises it to $40. The old guy calls. There’s almost $100 in the pot, and hoping the kid thinks his jacks are good, I push the rest of my chips in the middle. The kid calls and the old guys goes all in as well. The flop comes with a K, turn is a K, river is a 10. I know I’m beat. The kids shows Aces and the old guy mucks.
Time to call it a day. Yet, I still have to wait for Mad Mosby to show up, and that’s a couple hours from now, so I go back out to the car to lick my wounds and take a nap. Again, the sleep is less than restful and I wake up in 45 minutes. By the time I get back to the poker room, the kid is down to $60. It just makes me feel worse.
After killing a little time lamenting my session over the phone with my dear wife and chatting with my son in Chicago, I go to meet Mad Mosby. Just as I had suspected, he’s a great guy. I told him about my beats, tried to justify my play, and he listened like a nice person would. We talked about Poker Academy and I hope I convinced him to join us at the 3rd Annual PA Rendezvous in Las Vegas next year. He would make a fine addition to an already wonderful bunch of folks. I just hope I can attend as well.
Suffice it to say, lamentations kept me awake for the drive home. Did I play poorly? Did I play scared, tight-weak poker and then tilt off the rest of two buy-ins? And now, I don’t have enough of a bankroll to return to the casino for the foreseeable future. But do I have any business ever going back? Is my game worse than I think it is? Tight isn’t good enough when I’m not aggressive enough to raise it up or get it all in good before the turn or river, and then get frustrated with the turn and river beats. Or, maybe I just don’t have the fortitude to play this game, weather the beats and move on. Like a whipped dog kept on a chain next to a ratty-looking doghouse, with bad beats and a small roll, I may still have my tail between my legs when the kids come out to play. I’m happy to see someone but I still half-expect to get clocked.
When I told Mad Mosby that I was down two buy-ins, his response was, “What? The guy who has all of my PAX (play money) on Poker Academy?” Yes, the disparity is striking. Oh, I sometimes get clobbered on PA. The difference is that I am not crippled when it happens. I can come back, and always do, gradually building my roll higher and higher. Yet, when it comes to real money, knowing that I don’t have much to begin with, my game goes in the toilet and seems to stay there. The difference? I can’t afford to lose real money.
I’ve been dancing around this realization for a while now. I’ve been telling myself that I’m a good enough player, and that the seemingly constant losses and break-even sessions at the casino or online shouldn’t be happening to me. Others seem to think I’m good enough to beat the game as well. I have had three different people offer to stake me. I have turned them all down, first, because I don’t want to be beholden to someone, and second, because, afraid of losing someone else’s money. I’d still be playing scared. Yes, it is a bankroll issue.
So, what is the solution? I suspect there isn’t one except to quit playing for cash. Relegate myself to Poker Academy play money and the pub tourneys? The thought of it makes me ill. If I swear off the casino, I still have enough of a bankroll left to play my home game. That may be the answer. Still, I worry that the damage done may be irreversible or like some sort of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and it won’t be long until that money is gone as well.
I love this game of poker. Yet, that doesn’t necessarily mean it is good for me to be playing it at the moment. I’m going to scale back. I’ll stay away from the casino, and stick to PA, my shitty little pub tourney and my home game. After all, this is supposed to be a blog about poker first and foremost, right? Right? So, dear readers, we’ll see how this thing plays out. And you’ll get to go along for the ride.
Will bastin turn his game around? Will bastin go broke and swear off poker forever, only to find new joy in quilting bees? Stay tuned.
One final note: I witnessed my first bad beat jackpot Saturday night. Quad fours against a 7 high straight flush. It happened at a 2345 Limit game. A game at which I can afford to take a few bad hits. No, not really. Not with my bankroll.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Compost Happens
Rain, rain, rain. Yet another weather-related excuse to hole up in the basement. Not that I need much more of a reason than because-I-feel-like-it. I did go out to put the birds in the paddock for the day, take a look around, remember that I still have that tansy to pull out in the back field, and avoid scaring the deer hanging out by the compost piles.
The day before yesterday I moved a maturing compost pile over to cover the newer one that contained the duck and fish remains. The last thing my dear wife needs to see is the remains of the duck scattered about by some enterprising dog or raccoon. The extra compost will cover and hasten the decay.
The first year we plowed the field, our soil, a silty clay loam, had a distinct red hue. Drainage was going to be a problem, and there was a lot of iron. It was clear that the soil needed amending if we were going to get any sizable production from it, so I started my first compost pile. Composed mostly of llama dung from our neighbors and grass clippings, it was on the small side, and as compost piles do, it got smaller and smaller as it cooked. I went in search of sources for a greater amount of compostable materials. I sought out dairy and beef farmer willing to part with their black gold, and it wasn’t long before I had 40 tons in big piles scattered about the farm. In order to maintain a good cook, compost needs to be turned on a regular basis. Up until now I had been turning my pile by hand with a pitchfork. That would no longer be possible, so I bought a new tractor with a front-end loader.
I derived a certain pleasure in building my compost piles. A good compost pile requires a specific architecture and dimensions to work properly. My tractor was my sculpting tool and the piles were my big minimalist sculptures. Daily, I would check the temps on each pile, making sure they weren’t getting too hot or cool. I watered them if the seemed to be drying out. I took pride in my piles.
After the compost matured, taking about nine months depending on its components, it was ready to be spread. The compost we started each previous summer was put on the fields in the spring right before we tilled. Very convenient. Now, five years later, our soil is a rich brown color and kicks ass in production. My dear wife dubbed me “The King of Compost,” and bought me a sign that stated, “Trespassers will be composted.”
Yes, a good-sized compost pile can erase any trace of a human body, for instance, one of the tweakers that crash at a house behind our place. (Don’t worry, it’s just a fantasy.) And, as I’ve indicated elsewhere, our piles have included several beast and fowl over the years: ducks, guineas, possums, skunks, stray cats, a deer, a calf and innumerable gophers.
And one coyote.
The coyote is in a very special compost pile, one that will never grace our fields. It is an art project. Or maybe it’s art therapy.
I had this one idea for an art piece for a while, ever since I grew my hair out. When it is not back in a ponytail, I look a little wild, especially when I have my requisite Great Northwest facial hair going at the same time. I envisioned a photo shoot of me, naked in one of our stunning temperate rainforests with dead animals, specifically a deer and a coyote, hanging from trees. It would be raining. I put a call out to sheep farmers I know that if they should trap a coyote, I’d like the carcass.
Months went by. A long, cold, cloudy and wet autumn, winter and spring ensued. Rain, snow, rain, rain, rain, snow, rain, rain, rain. The weather up here can have a deleterious effect on the soul. Combine that with the variance that is farming and a host of other little setbacks, I sunk into a funk, and my mind turned into mud. I didn’t care about much of anything except poker, my great escape, yet even my game suffered.
I tell you this only to set a scene. For years I worked as a serious artist. I was well-regarded, yet for some reason that still somewhat eludes me, I was unable to get my career started. Farming was a bit of a reaction to that disappointment, and now that endeavor was failing as well. Despite having an enviable list of clients, we just couldn’t make the type of money we needed to justify continuing. We didn’t know what exactly we were going to do next, but it was clear that things couldn’t continue as they were.
I was waiting for a pub game to start when my cell rang. It was my dear wife. A neighbor had a coyote for me and he was bringing it over as we spoke. Did I even want a coyote now? Well, the guy was on his way and I couldn’t leave her to turn him away, so I jumped in my rig and scurried home.
It’s fairly obvious that I ended up taking the canine. It was a female and the wire noose was still around its neck. I put it in a garbage bag, locked it up in the barn and returned to the poker game. I’d deal with it, meaning compost it, in the morning.
Morning came and went. A week went by, it was cold outside, and so the coyote remained. For some reason I couldn’t get rid of it. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the idea of getting naked in the cold and rain, yet I also kept thinking of the German artist, Joseph Beuys’ 1974 performance piece, “I like America and America Likes Me.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTOD5Pu6uVM
A short description of the action can be read here: http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/beuys/room4.shtm
(For any of what follows to make sense, you will have to read the Tate article.)
Beuys was an early influence for my art. His insights into what can be art had, at one point in my life, given me hope. I revisited “I like America” and found a spark of inspiration. I would use the coyote.
Since 1993 I have had subscriptions to “ArtForum” and “Art in America,” two of the more prominent art magazines here in the States. Thinking that these periodicals were invaluable records of recent art history and criticism, I kept all of the issues. I was mentioned in a couple issues, plus there were a few reviews of exhibits we had at our short-lived gallery, so in a small way we were a part of that history. Yet, the importance of these mags had decreased as my mood deteriorated. They began to represent unfulfilled dreams and goals. I took all of them, along with my video camera, out by the compost.
I made a 5-foot in diameter, 15-magazines-deep ring on the ground of the “ArtForums.” I then draped myself in a plastic tarp and stood in the ring. Then I introduced the coyote to the ring, draped myself again and stood to the side of the ring. I propped the coyote up with all of the “Art in Americas” to make it look like it was running. And, finally, I covered the whole thing in compost and placed the tarp over the pile.
That “action” took place this spring, and I am just now in the process of editing that video. I call it “I like art but.” I view the piece as a sort of catharsis for my ambivalence toward things I used to enjoy: making art and compost. Now that I’m making art again, it looks like it worked. The pile itself has gotten a little smaller and there are plants growing on it, despite it being tarped. I need to go out and weed it. Maybe when it quits raining.
The day before yesterday I moved a maturing compost pile over to cover the newer one that contained the duck and fish remains. The last thing my dear wife needs to see is the remains of the duck scattered about by some enterprising dog or raccoon. The extra compost will cover and hasten the decay.
The first year we plowed the field, our soil, a silty clay loam, had a distinct red hue. Drainage was going to be a problem, and there was a lot of iron. It was clear that the soil needed amending if we were going to get any sizable production from it, so I started my first compost pile. Composed mostly of llama dung from our neighbors and grass clippings, it was on the small side, and as compost piles do, it got smaller and smaller as it cooked. I went in search of sources for a greater amount of compostable materials. I sought out dairy and beef farmer willing to part with their black gold, and it wasn’t long before I had 40 tons in big piles scattered about the farm. In order to maintain a good cook, compost needs to be turned on a regular basis. Up until now I had been turning my pile by hand with a pitchfork. That would no longer be possible, so I bought a new tractor with a front-end loader.
I derived a certain pleasure in building my compost piles. A good compost pile requires a specific architecture and dimensions to work properly. My tractor was my sculpting tool and the piles were my big minimalist sculptures. Daily, I would check the temps on each pile, making sure they weren’t getting too hot or cool. I watered them if the seemed to be drying out. I took pride in my piles.
After the compost matured, taking about nine months depending on its components, it was ready to be spread. The compost we started each previous summer was put on the fields in the spring right before we tilled. Very convenient. Now, five years later, our soil is a rich brown color and kicks ass in production. My dear wife dubbed me “The King of Compost,” and bought me a sign that stated, “Trespassers will be composted.”
Yes, a good-sized compost pile can erase any trace of a human body, for instance, one of the tweakers that crash at a house behind our place. (Don’t worry, it’s just a fantasy.) And, as I’ve indicated elsewhere, our piles have included several beast and fowl over the years: ducks, guineas, possums, skunks, stray cats, a deer, a calf and innumerable gophers.
And one coyote.
The coyote is in a very special compost pile, one that will never grace our fields. It is an art project. Or maybe it’s art therapy.
I had this one idea for an art piece for a while, ever since I grew my hair out. When it is not back in a ponytail, I look a little wild, especially when I have my requisite Great Northwest facial hair going at the same time. I envisioned a photo shoot of me, naked in one of our stunning temperate rainforests with dead animals, specifically a deer and a coyote, hanging from trees. It would be raining. I put a call out to sheep farmers I know that if they should trap a coyote, I’d like the carcass.
Months went by. A long, cold, cloudy and wet autumn, winter and spring ensued. Rain, snow, rain, rain, rain, snow, rain, rain, rain. The weather up here can have a deleterious effect on the soul. Combine that with the variance that is farming and a host of other little setbacks, I sunk into a funk, and my mind turned into mud. I didn’t care about much of anything except poker, my great escape, yet even my game suffered.
I tell you this only to set a scene. For years I worked as a serious artist. I was well-regarded, yet for some reason that still somewhat eludes me, I was unable to get my career started. Farming was a bit of a reaction to that disappointment, and now that endeavor was failing as well. Despite having an enviable list of clients, we just couldn’t make the type of money we needed to justify continuing. We didn’t know what exactly we were going to do next, but it was clear that things couldn’t continue as they were.
I was waiting for a pub game to start when my cell rang. It was my dear wife. A neighbor had a coyote for me and he was bringing it over as we spoke. Did I even want a coyote now? Well, the guy was on his way and I couldn’t leave her to turn him away, so I jumped in my rig and scurried home.
It’s fairly obvious that I ended up taking the canine. It was a female and the wire noose was still around its neck. I put it in a garbage bag, locked it up in the barn and returned to the poker game. I’d deal with it, meaning compost it, in the morning.
Morning came and went. A week went by, it was cold outside, and so the coyote remained. For some reason I couldn’t get rid of it. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the idea of getting naked in the cold and rain, yet I also kept thinking of the German artist, Joseph Beuys’ 1974 performance piece, “I like America and America Likes Me.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTOD5Pu6uVM
A short description of the action can be read here: http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/beuys/room4.shtm
(For any of what follows to make sense, you will have to read the Tate article.)
Beuys was an early influence for my art. His insights into what can be art had, at one point in my life, given me hope. I revisited “I like America” and found a spark of inspiration. I would use the coyote.
Since 1993 I have had subscriptions to “ArtForum” and “Art in America,” two of the more prominent art magazines here in the States. Thinking that these periodicals were invaluable records of recent art history and criticism, I kept all of the issues. I was mentioned in a couple issues, plus there were a few reviews of exhibits we had at our short-lived gallery, so in a small way we were a part of that history. Yet, the importance of these mags had decreased as my mood deteriorated. They began to represent unfulfilled dreams and goals. I took all of them, along with my video camera, out by the compost.
I made a 5-foot in diameter, 15-magazines-deep ring on the ground of the “ArtForums.” I then draped myself in a plastic tarp and stood in the ring. Then I introduced the coyote to the ring, draped myself again and stood to the side of the ring. I propped the coyote up with all of the “Art in Americas” to make it look like it was running. And, finally, I covered the whole thing in compost and placed the tarp over the pile.
That “action” took place this spring, and I am just now in the process of editing that video. I call it “I like art but.” I view the piece as a sort of catharsis for my ambivalence toward things I used to enjoy: making art and compost. Now that I’m making art again, it looks like it worked. The pile itself has gotten a little smaller and there are plants growing on it, despite it being tarped. I need to go out and weed it. Maybe when it quits raining.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
One of us! One of us!
The full moon is waning, yet, here in rural America, as most everywhere on any given night, the freaks come out to play. Mix in something resembling poker and you have a pub tourney.
This small town hosts two weekly pub tourneys at two different bars. One is on Sunday, and the one I attend is on Tuesday. I have been to the Sunday game, and there are some things I like about it that the Tuesday game lacks. Sunday has prizes after each game. First prize is a cheeseburger dinner, second and third prize are swag with booze logos on it. I like cheeseburgers. Points are given to those who make each final table and after six weeks of play, a final tourney is held for the top point earners and the winner of that wins $75.00. And finally, there are no ghosts to blind off and split up after three levels. The Tuesday game has ghosts, which are a pain in the ass to manage and muck; and winners from each week get extra raffle tickets for a monthly drawing for a $50 gift certificate. The Sunday game is a better value for my time, right? Not necessarily.
Although several Tuesday players go to the Sunday game, the Sunday crowd is, how shall I phrase it, a bunch of loud, obnoxious, loose-passive pains in my ass. Well, not everyone, but there are enough of these types to ruin a game. Imagine a bunch of inbreds with button noses, caved-in faces and rheumy eyes who have drunk too much cheap beer by 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Then throw in a couple loudmouth back-slappers who show up half in the bag and only get louder with more and more cheap beer. And finally, throw in the mousey, chain-smoking, bone-thin sixty-plus year old woman who is drinking that same beer and looking for any excuse to rub my thigh. Let’s call her Vera.
Vera showed up for the Tuesday game.
Fortunately, Vera was seated at another table for the first part of the night. Yet, Vera does know how to play Hold ‘em, so I figured I’d see her at the final table, if I made it that far.
(Sorry, a bit of false modesty there. Or more accurately, a nearly irrelevant statement, for at this game, I often fold my way to the final table.) In the meantime, she had competition for my attention.
The game started on time for a change, if a bit short-handed. We had five players and three ghosts at our table. A man and woman walked into the bar, came over to say hello to Skunk, who was seated at my table, and Skunk asks the man if he was going to play. He said yes with a distinct British accent and in the highest-pitched voice a man could have. I took a second look. A bit on the short side, one really lazy eye, a crew cut, frosted on top, a bit of bling but nothing too garish, slacks, and wind breaker with an Oregon State jersey underneath. I introduced myself to Leslie (no help there!). Leslie rolled the most perfect cigarette. The fingernails on Leslie’s small but rough hands had the slightest point to them. Leslie confessed to having not played much poker, and when one table had several bust-outs in one hand and Leslie and I were moved to that table, I said to ask me if there were any questions.
Please note, dear reader, in the last sentence of the previous paragraph I avoided a more convenient use of a third person pronoun. I could have wrote, “I told him to ask me if he had any questions.” So went most of the evening, for as inexperienced as Leslie was, Leslie managed to catch some hands, thereby prolonging my genderless word-dance. She and he and her and him were circumvented. However, no one else at this table seemed to have the same problem. As far as they were concerned, Leslie was a female, and Leslie never bothered to correct anyone. Hey, what do I know? I’ve only lived here five years. As far as I knew, everyone at the table knew Leslie. Finally, I slipped out a “she,” and then attempted to stumble back from it, causing me a bit of embarrassment, if only to myself. But man, she/he was distracting, which probably didn’t help me concentrate on my game as much as I could have.
It wasn’t that I was making any big mistakes. It was more that there were other distractions. When Leslie and I were moved, I found myself sitting across from a woman with a huge stack who was obviously tweaked out of her mind. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, “tweaked” refers to someone who is exhibiting the physical manifestations of being high on methamphetamines. Her mouth was contorting, she squinted a lot and her arm movements were exaggerated. And, she was a fucking calling station. She was May in November. AK went down to her 94 off with a K on the flop, as well as a 9 and a 4 on the turn. And don’t think that AK wasn’t bumped pre-flop.
The final table. Vera takes the seat to my immediate right. Oh shit. But I luck out and she busts early. Leslie finally bites the dust, along with a couple other players, leaving me, Max and the meth head. The play is slow because Tweaky can’t remember what the blinds are, bets out of turn, forgets that she’s the dealer and digs through her purse for God-knows-what. Twenty minutes go by and I’m thinking, “Donk off and run.” when I feel two hands on my shoulders. I am getting a massage. I think that my dear wife has come to the bar to surprise me. You guessed it. Vera!
“Ooooo, you’re doing well.”
“Thank you.” Cold, cold, cold. Bye.
Max is a solid player, and between the two of us, we eventually got rid of Tweaky, at which point I threw my chips over into Max’s stack. “ You win. I just didn’t want to be beat by a newbie tweaker. I’m going home.”
Blinds are still at $25/$50, the first level. Two limpers, per usual, in early position, Skunk is next to act and goes all in, it folds around to Debbie on my left who thinks a bit and calls. Limpers get out of the way. Skunk flips over A8 sooooooted; Debbie has A5 off. 5 on the river.
Skunk complains, “Rivered! I had a better hand. Why did you call?” A donkey bet and call, not so surprising, really.
I shouldn’t have, but I chimed in, “Why would you go all in with A8?”
“They were suited.”
“But it’s still the first level of blinds. Why risk your stack so early?”
“Listen, bastin, you don’t know as much about poker as you think you do. You have to have confidence. Plus, I only have $1400 in chips.”
“OK, coach, forget I said anything.”
A few orbits later with $50/$100 blinds, there’s a big raise and call from early positions. Skunk pushes again with all of his rebuy. I have pocket Jacks in the BB and fold. The early players fold as well. Skunk shows A8 off. I grab the deck and run the cards. No A. Shit.
I’d love to get this guy in a cash game.
This small town hosts two weekly pub tourneys at two different bars. One is on Sunday, and the one I attend is on Tuesday. I have been to the Sunday game, and there are some things I like about it that the Tuesday game lacks. Sunday has prizes after each game. First prize is a cheeseburger dinner, second and third prize are swag with booze logos on it. I like cheeseburgers. Points are given to those who make each final table and after six weeks of play, a final tourney is held for the top point earners and the winner of that wins $75.00. And finally, there are no ghosts to blind off and split up after three levels. The Tuesday game has ghosts, which are a pain in the ass to manage and muck; and winners from each week get extra raffle tickets for a monthly drawing for a $50 gift certificate. The Sunday game is a better value for my time, right? Not necessarily.
Although several Tuesday players go to the Sunday game, the Sunday crowd is, how shall I phrase it, a bunch of loud, obnoxious, loose-passive pains in my ass. Well, not everyone, but there are enough of these types to ruin a game. Imagine a bunch of inbreds with button noses, caved-in faces and rheumy eyes who have drunk too much cheap beer by 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Then throw in a couple loudmouth back-slappers who show up half in the bag and only get louder with more and more cheap beer. And finally, throw in the mousey, chain-smoking, bone-thin sixty-plus year old woman who is drinking that same beer and looking for any excuse to rub my thigh. Let’s call her Vera.
Vera showed up for the Tuesday game.
Fortunately, Vera was seated at another table for the first part of the night. Yet, Vera does know how to play Hold ‘em, so I figured I’d see her at the final table, if I made it that far.
(Sorry, a bit of false modesty there. Or more accurately, a nearly irrelevant statement, for at this game, I often fold my way to the final table.) In the meantime, she had competition for my attention.
The game started on time for a change, if a bit short-handed. We had five players and three ghosts at our table. A man and woman walked into the bar, came over to say hello to Skunk, who was seated at my table, and Skunk asks the man if he was going to play. He said yes with a distinct British accent and in the highest-pitched voice a man could have. I took a second look. A bit on the short side, one really lazy eye, a crew cut, frosted on top, a bit of bling but nothing too garish, slacks, and wind breaker with an Oregon State jersey underneath. I introduced myself to Leslie (no help there!). Leslie rolled the most perfect cigarette. The fingernails on Leslie’s small but rough hands had the slightest point to them. Leslie confessed to having not played much poker, and when one table had several bust-outs in one hand and Leslie and I were moved to that table, I said to ask me if there were any questions.
Please note, dear reader, in the last sentence of the previous paragraph I avoided a more convenient use of a third person pronoun. I could have wrote, “I told him to ask me if he had any questions.” So went most of the evening, for as inexperienced as Leslie was, Leslie managed to catch some hands, thereby prolonging my genderless word-dance. She and he and her and him were circumvented. However, no one else at this table seemed to have the same problem. As far as they were concerned, Leslie was a female, and Leslie never bothered to correct anyone. Hey, what do I know? I’ve only lived here five years. As far as I knew, everyone at the table knew Leslie. Finally, I slipped out a “she,” and then attempted to stumble back from it, causing me a bit of embarrassment, if only to myself. But man, she/he was distracting, which probably didn’t help me concentrate on my game as much as I could have.
It wasn’t that I was making any big mistakes. It was more that there were other distractions. When Leslie and I were moved, I found myself sitting across from a woman with a huge stack who was obviously tweaked out of her mind. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, “tweaked” refers to someone who is exhibiting the physical manifestations of being high on methamphetamines. Her mouth was contorting, she squinted a lot and her arm movements were exaggerated. And, she was a fucking calling station. She was May in November. AK went down to her 94 off with a K on the flop, as well as a 9 and a 4 on the turn. And don’t think that AK wasn’t bumped pre-flop.
The final table. Vera takes the seat to my immediate right. Oh shit. But I luck out and she busts early. Leslie finally bites the dust, along with a couple other players, leaving me, Max and the meth head. The play is slow because Tweaky can’t remember what the blinds are, bets out of turn, forgets that she’s the dealer and digs through her purse for God-knows-what. Twenty minutes go by and I’m thinking, “Donk off and run.” when I feel two hands on my shoulders. I am getting a massage. I think that my dear wife has come to the bar to surprise me. You guessed it. Vera!
“Ooooo, you’re doing well.”
“Thank you.” Cold, cold, cold. Bye.
Max is a solid player, and between the two of us, we eventually got rid of Tweaky, at which point I threw my chips over into Max’s stack. “ You win. I just didn’t want to be beat by a newbie tweaker. I’m going home.”
Blinds are still at $25/$50, the first level. Two limpers, per usual, in early position, Skunk is next to act and goes all in, it folds around to Debbie on my left who thinks a bit and calls. Limpers get out of the way. Skunk flips over A8 sooooooted; Debbie has A5 off. 5 on the river.
Skunk complains, “Rivered! I had a better hand. Why did you call?” A donkey bet and call, not so surprising, really.
I shouldn’t have, but I chimed in, “Why would you go all in with A8?”
“They were suited.”
“But it’s still the first level of blinds. Why risk your stack so early?”
“Listen, bastin, you don’t know as much about poker as you think you do. You have to have confidence. Plus, I only have $1400 in chips.”
“OK, coach, forget I said anything.”
A few orbits later with $50/$100 blinds, there’s a big raise and call from early positions. Skunk pushes again with all of his rebuy. I have pocket Jacks in the BB and fold. The early players fold as well. Skunk shows A8 off. I grab the deck and run the cards. No A. Shit.
I’d love to get this guy in a cash game.
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