Although to admit this in a public forum might do me some harm at the tables, I have been working on my bluffs. Maybe it was Sklansky who pointed out that a successful bluff must tell a believable story. It must be convincing.
Poker Academy Online #39,328,436
No Limit Texas Holdem ($1/$2 NL)
Table Feldspar
September 16, 2008 - 02:09:29 (PDT)
1} bastin $182.70 9s Qd
2) wake-540 $162.35 ?? ??
5) 986 * $487.80 6c Jc
6) Empty Chair $18.00 ?? ??
10) SilverHands (sitting out)
Empty Chair posts small blind $1
bastin posts big blind $2
wake-540 calls $2
986 calls $2
Empty Chair folds
bastin checks
FLOP: 5d 8s Jd
bastin checks
wake-540 checks
986 bets $7
With the preflop limp and the overbet on the flop, 986 is trying to protect his J.
bastin raises $10.50
My check/raise is meant to indicate one of two things: I also have a J, probably with a pretty good kicker, or I’m building the pot and betting the draw.
wake-540 folds
It also gets wake out of the hand. 986 is a solid player, wake is a little bit of a loose cannon.
986 calls $10.50
TURN: 5d 8s Jd 7d
A perfect card. I still have my gutshot, and now I’ve picked up a flush draw as well. Little do I realize that 986 now has a straight draw.
bastin checks
986 bets $21
bastin raises $42
986 went into the tank for quite some time. I could have anything, right? A set, two pair, the flush…
986 folds
bastin wins $82 uncontested
$2 raked.
I show the bluff.
Seven hands later:
Poker Academy Online #39,328,443
No Limit Texas Holdem ($1/$2 NL)
Table Feldspar
September 16, 2008 - 02:13:15 (PDT)
1} bastin $217.20 9d Td
2) wake-540 * $156.05 ?? ??
5) 986 $448.70 Qs 9s
6) Empty Chair $24.95 ?? ??
986 posts small blind $1
Empty Chair posts big blind $2
bastin raises $5
wake-540 folds
986 calls $6
Empty Chair folds
FLOP: 8d 7s 3s
986 bets $8
bastin calls $8
TURN: 8d 7s 3s Jd
986 bets $16
bastin raises $32
986 raises $64
bastin raises $90.20 (all-in)
986 calls $90.20
bastin shows 9d Td
986 shows Qs 9s
RIVER: 8d 7s 3s Jd 4s
986 wins $434.40 with a Flush, Queen High
$2 raked.
The outcome sucked. Still, I think the earlier bluff accomplished what I wanted it to. My mistake on the last hand might have been not shoving on the turn, however, I have mixed feelings about this.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A Tale of Two Fish
The hole had around 25 fish in it: Coho and Chinook, up from the ocean a bit early. My buddy, Steve, and I were not the only guys trying to catch them. There were five others, and judging from their conversation, they knew each other well. This early in the season, the fish’s color was still good, no signs of the change in physical characteristics (mouth shape and color) or decay that come as the urge to spawn comes upon them. They would be excellent eating. Yet, they would have nothing to do with anything we threw at them. They just swam in a school from one end of the hole to the other. I foul hooked one and it broke my line, the lure now a bit of bling. This is on the Salmon River (appropriate, eh?). I caught a beautiful 15-pound Chinook on this hole last year. My first. Silver. Perfect. Stringer bling.
Steve admonishes, “Your knot, Dude, your knot.” He calls me “Dude” because I look a bit like Jeff Bridges in “The Big Lebowski.” He never tires of quoting lines from the movie to me. It’s a great movie, but I have a hard time remembering to put out the garbage can on trash day, let alone lnes from a movie.
“My knot was fine. I even spit on it before pulling it to. It was the line, and I checked it too, about six feet up.” The end of the line was inconclusive. He wades out of the water to show me a new knot.
“$6.50 for a new spool of line, Dude. When was the last time you changed out your reel?”
“This year, man. Shit!” I am the Dude. Steve is bordering on becoming my Walter, except for the fact that he generally knows what he’s talking about. Steve’s been fishing these waters for 30+ years; me, three.
We don’t stay around much longer. We still have to hit the Money Hole. We swing by the Otis Café for lunch and some of their homemade Black Molasses Bread. There’s a half hour wait. As we leave, we drive by the hole and the same guys are still there. We comment that now the strangers had gone, foul hooked fish were allowed.
The Money Hole is a bit of a ride, through dairy country…that’s all I’m revealing. We have a couple favorite places we don’t share with just anybody.
The water has just a hint of color to it. Fall is approaching, leaves are starting to drop, adding a little tannin to the water. Still, we could see every inch of the hole and down at least eight feet in the deepest part. Steelhead, Cutthoats and Spring Chinook everywhere! I don’t think we’ve ever been skunked here, at least both of us.
Steve takes the bottom of the hole and I go to the top. Steelies are sticking close to the edge as the Chinook rule the river and patrol the deepest parts for interlopers. I’m floating my bait in front of the nose of one Steelie when Steve yells, “Fish on!” I grab the net, and when the fish starts to show signs of fatigue, hand it to Steve. He nets a beautiful 10-pound fish. We’ve been here less than a half hour.
As my dedicated readers may recall, Steve is a catch-and-release kinda guy. He enjoys the fishing, yet as he is a professional chef, he cuts up fish every day and has no need to do so anymore than necessary. The last time we hit this hole, I got skunked while Steve caught two. I took one of them home with me. “
Do you want him, Dude?”
“No thanks. I’d like to catch my own this time.”
Five hour went by. No fish. We could see them, but that meant they could see us as well. Finally, the sun started to go behind the trees up on the mountains. Visibility started to drop. Steve had spent a good portion of the time up-river trying out some of my spinners and spoons, and I had had been hitting the bottom of the hole, both of us with nary a nibble. It’s getting close to the time when we should be leaving.
“How’s it going, Dude?” Steve has made his way back down to me.
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to go deep and see what happens.” Steve puts on some bait and sets his float at seven feet.
“Go ahead. I tried that. I’ve hit every corner of this hole.”
“Fish on!” Steve’s hooked another, and the fish takes his line right over mine before I can get it out of the water.
“Shit!”
“Here, Dude, hand me your rod. Come around to my left and grab it.”
In my haste to get over to the other side of Steve, I fall and my knee sounds like a dowel rod hit by a rubber mallet as it is driven into a hole, only the mallet is a rock.
“Shit!”
“You OK, Dude?” he handed me my rod while I was still on the ground.
“My fucking knee.” I stood up. It wasn’t broke, It just hurt like hell.
“Dude, the net! Here, you play the fish and I’ll get the net.”
It was a small Steelie, maybe six pounds, half the size of the earlier fish. There was very little play left in the fish.
“Dude, man, you take this fish home with you. You earned it with your knee. You OK?”
“How about we take it to your house, filet it and share it?
“No Dude, it’s yours. Tag it and take it home.”
One filet is in the freezer; the other will be dinner.
It struck me on the first hole: All of these fish and not a single bite, this is like a loose poker table, plenty of money to be had, but no cards. Or worse, the Rock has been discovered and there will be no action for him. The rule of thumb in fishing is that if you can see the fish, the fish can see you. When it comes to survival, Chinook are smarter than people, simply because if it’s not food, then it’s danger. When the two become confused (bait), then it’s a different story.
I’m in the late position with 89s. A early middle position player raises 3 X BB. Two callers before me, so I chip in. Flop comes JJx with two spades. Initial raiser bets 2/3 pot, one caller, then I call. Turn is an 8. Everyone checks. River is a spade. Bettor checks, other caller checks and I value bet. Initial bettor goes all in for a small portion of the pot. I have to call. J8 offsuit.
They don’t call them fishhooks for nothing.
Steve admonishes, “Your knot, Dude, your knot.” He calls me “Dude” because I look a bit like Jeff Bridges in “The Big Lebowski.” He never tires of quoting lines from the movie to me. It’s a great movie, but I have a hard time remembering to put out the garbage can on trash day, let alone lnes from a movie.
“My knot was fine. I even spit on it before pulling it to. It was the line, and I checked it too, about six feet up.” The end of the line was inconclusive. He wades out of the water to show me a new knot.
“$6.50 for a new spool of line, Dude. When was the last time you changed out your reel?”
“This year, man. Shit!” I am the Dude. Steve is bordering on becoming my Walter, except for the fact that he generally knows what he’s talking about. Steve’s been fishing these waters for 30+ years; me, three.
We don’t stay around much longer. We still have to hit the Money Hole. We swing by the Otis Café for lunch and some of their homemade Black Molasses Bread. There’s a half hour wait. As we leave, we drive by the hole and the same guys are still there. We comment that now the strangers had gone, foul hooked fish were allowed.
The Money Hole is a bit of a ride, through dairy country…that’s all I’m revealing. We have a couple favorite places we don’t share with just anybody.
The water has just a hint of color to it. Fall is approaching, leaves are starting to drop, adding a little tannin to the water. Still, we could see every inch of the hole and down at least eight feet in the deepest part. Steelhead, Cutthoats and Spring Chinook everywhere! I don’t think we’ve ever been skunked here, at least both of us.
Steve takes the bottom of the hole and I go to the top. Steelies are sticking close to the edge as the Chinook rule the river and patrol the deepest parts for interlopers. I’m floating my bait in front of the nose of one Steelie when Steve yells, “Fish on!” I grab the net, and when the fish starts to show signs of fatigue, hand it to Steve. He nets a beautiful 10-pound fish. We’ve been here less than a half hour.
As my dedicated readers may recall, Steve is a catch-and-release kinda guy. He enjoys the fishing, yet as he is a professional chef, he cuts up fish every day and has no need to do so anymore than necessary. The last time we hit this hole, I got skunked while Steve caught two. I took one of them home with me. “
Do you want him, Dude?”
“No thanks. I’d like to catch my own this time.”
Five hour went by. No fish. We could see them, but that meant they could see us as well. Finally, the sun started to go behind the trees up on the mountains. Visibility started to drop. Steve had spent a good portion of the time up-river trying out some of my spinners and spoons, and I had had been hitting the bottom of the hole, both of us with nary a nibble. It’s getting close to the time when we should be leaving.
“How’s it going, Dude?” Steve has made his way back down to me.
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to go deep and see what happens.” Steve puts on some bait and sets his float at seven feet.
“Go ahead. I tried that. I’ve hit every corner of this hole.”
“Fish on!” Steve’s hooked another, and the fish takes his line right over mine before I can get it out of the water.
“Shit!”
“Here, Dude, hand me your rod. Come around to my left and grab it.”
In my haste to get over to the other side of Steve, I fall and my knee sounds like a dowel rod hit by a rubber mallet as it is driven into a hole, only the mallet is a rock.
“Shit!”
“You OK, Dude?” he handed me my rod while I was still on the ground.
“My fucking knee.” I stood up. It wasn’t broke, It just hurt like hell.
“Dude, the net! Here, you play the fish and I’ll get the net.”
It was a small Steelie, maybe six pounds, half the size of the earlier fish. There was very little play left in the fish.
“Dude, man, you take this fish home with you. You earned it with your knee. You OK?”
“How about we take it to your house, filet it and share it?
“No Dude, it’s yours. Tag it and take it home.”
One filet is in the freezer; the other will be dinner.
It struck me on the first hole: All of these fish and not a single bite, this is like a loose poker table, plenty of money to be had, but no cards. Or worse, the Rock has been discovered and there will be no action for him. The rule of thumb in fishing is that if you can see the fish, the fish can see you. When it comes to survival, Chinook are smarter than people, simply because if it’s not food, then it’s danger. When the two become confused (bait), then it’s a different story.
I’m in the late position with 89s. A early middle position player raises 3 X BB. Two callers before me, so I chip in. Flop comes JJx with two spades. Initial raiser bets 2/3 pot, one caller, then I call. Turn is an 8. Everyone checks. River is a spade. Bettor checks, other caller checks and I value bet. Initial bettor goes all in for a small portion of the pot. I have to call. J8 offsuit.
They don’t call them fishhooks for nothing.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Luckbox
I played a hand wrong, maybe. I was two-tabling at Stars. Can I blame the fact that I was playing more than one table? You betcha! I just can’t do it. Or rather, I am still not practiced at it. Even sitting at one table while looking for another to join stretches my ability to concentrate on the action. After some fumbling and bumbling, I find a second table that looks promising and pretty shortly pick up Aces in the hole. Sweet, and I have AKo in the BB at the other table. Oh no, crunch time. The flop for my AK is negative, so I click the fold box to a bet while at the other table an early position player has raised 3 X BB. By the time I can give my hand the attention it requires, time is running out, so I use a predetermined bet size button and only pop it another 2 BBs. Of course, he calls. The flop is 787, all black, two spades. He bets a small amount, I bet the pot and get a call. Whoa. Turn is another spade, check, check. River is 9c, he bets the pot, and like a numb-nuts, I call. He’s holding J 10 off. I paid him off, yes, yet, as the game progressed, the only comfort I could give myself was that he would not have folded even if I jammed the turn. The guy was a calling station.
Sweet! Right? Except at this particular moment he seemed to be hitting everything, boating up with 89o after calling big raises, calling shortie all-ins with nothing and hitting trips. It was sick. I knew that the only way I was going to feel comfortable with this guy was to wait for monsters, punch up the flop and if the turn was a blank, punch it up some more. He occasionally would fold on the turn. I retrieved a little of what I had lost. Yet, I did not do as well as others.
You could smell it: players waiting to nail the guy. And nail him they did. The great thing about a calling station is just as they don’t care where they are in a hand as long as they have any kind of draw, a pair, two pair, or whatever, they are unable to discern when they are beat. As lucky as this guy had been, he doubled up a couple players along the way. He was the temporary custodian of chips. Yet, even if he lost $25, it was not long before he had another $20 from 2 and 3 outers, usually from players new to the table. Again, sick.
He was still there when I left, as were several of the players I had started the game with. It was clear they were still there only to crack this guy. I made a note. I will seek this guy out in the future.
Sweet! Right? Except at this particular moment he seemed to be hitting everything, boating up with 89o after calling big raises, calling shortie all-ins with nothing and hitting trips. It was sick. I knew that the only way I was going to feel comfortable with this guy was to wait for monsters, punch up the flop and if the turn was a blank, punch it up some more. He occasionally would fold on the turn. I retrieved a little of what I had lost. Yet, I did not do as well as others.
You could smell it: players waiting to nail the guy. And nail him they did. The great thing about a calling station is just as they don’t care where they are in a hand as long as they have any kind of draw, a pair, two pair, or whatever, they are unable to discern when they are beat. As lucky as this guy had been, he doubled up a couple players along the way. He was the temporary custodian of chips. Yet, even if he lost $25, it was not long before he had another $20 from 2 and 3 outers, usually from players new to the table. Again, sick.
He was still there when I left, as were several of the players I had started the game with. It was clear they were still there only to crack this guy. I made a note. I will seek this guy out in the future.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Around Sunset
Sitting in a lawn chair with a Pilsner Urquell
Brubeck’s "Blue Rondo ala Turk" on the radio
Russets I dug bake alongside two grilled sirloins
A doe and fawn feed under the crab apple
A fullish moon rises bright over the treeline
Crickets and frogs start their evening songs
Brubeck’s "Blue Rondo ala Turk" on the radio
Russets I dug bake alongside two grilled sirloins
A doe and fawn feed under the crab apple
A fullish moon rises bright over the treeline
Crickets and frogs start their evening songs
Friday, September 12, 2008
Today
... after an eleven-day absence, is the day my DEAR WIFE returns.
In 2 hours.
So, if you'll excuse me...
In 2 hours.
So, if you'll excuse me...
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The shortest distance between two meals
Although a bit on the small side, the russets had hardened off to perfection and I was able to recover about a bushel. I say “recover” because I wasn’t the first to take advantage of the crop.
As always, I started my harvest at the end of the row, furthest away from the gate to the paddock. That way, as I work down the row and fill my bucket, I have a shorter distance to the storage shed where I will shelf the forty or so pounds of spuds that the bucket will hold. There was a small cave-in at the beginning of the row. Underneath, a gopher tunnel.
It was a small tunnel, maybe an inch and a half in diameter. Just a baby. The damage was minimal, maybe one or two potatoes chewed on per mound. Yet, as I continued down the row, the tunnel grew in girth, and the number of chewed potatoes increased. The last mound in the russet section had not a single potato on it.
The next variety in the row was a French fingerling. The tunnel ended here. I looked around and soon discovered a small cave-in on the adjacent row, in the Austrian Crescent fingerlings. After a little digging, I determined that the damage in that row was not too bad. In that they are not quite ready to pick, I will hope that the gopher discovers the row of over-matured lettuce, or even the Jerusalem artichokes and leave us our winter stores.
And heaven help it if I see the bastard.
As always, I started my harvest at the end of the row, furthest away from the gate to the paddock. That way, as I work down the row and fill my bucket, I have a shorter distance to the storage shed where I will shelf the forty or so pounds of spuds that the bucket will hold. There was a small cave-in at the beginning of the row. Underneath, a gopher tunnel.
It was a small tunnel, maybe an inch and a half in diameter. Just a baby. The damage was minimal, maybe one or two potatoes chewed on per mound. Yet, as I continued down the row, the tunnel grew in girth, and the number of chewed potatoes increased. The last mound in the russet section had not a single potato on it.
The next variety in the row was a French fingerling. The tunnel ended here. I looked around and soon discovered a small cave-in on the adjacent row, in the Austrian Crescent fingerlings. After a little digging, I determined that the damage in that row was not too bad. In that they are not quite ready to pick, I will hope that the gopher discovers the row of over-matured lettuce, or even the Jerusalem artichokes and leave us our winter stores.
And heaven help it if I see the bastard.
Holding Down the Fort
My dear wife comes home in 3 days. This will be the longest that we have been apart since we have been married. Man-o-man, I miss her something fierce.
The cats miss her too. For one, she knows what wet food each prefers. It turns out that I have been feeding them the exact opposite of their individual preferences. They have all been eating what I’ve put in front of them each morning, but as of yesterday they all have begun to turn their noses up at what is offered. The youngest of the two could stand to lose a little weight; yet the oldest two, one with diabetes and the other with renal failure, have to eat on a regular basis.
The cats also miss their couch companion. It is not uncommon to see 3 cats laying on the couch of a night as my dear wife catches up on reruns of “Will and Grace” or watches a late night session of congress on CSPAN. I’m usually hold up in the basement playing poker, reading about poker or working on an art project, but when I am upstairs, they pretty much avoid me, unless I force myself upon them. I like to pet kitties too, you know. The Dear Wife points out that I don’t spend as much time with them as she does; therefore, they’re going to stay aloof. Still, nobody gives a head scratch as good as I do. Where’s the love?
There was no love at Poker Stars last night. Again I lost to a set with AQ. No, make that to a boat. I got aggressive at the wrong time, representing Kings full with Queens. 2s full took it down. Not believing another player, I re-raised on another hand, and got re-raised, to which I had to fold. Same player later gets it all in with a lousy pairs of threes and gets stacked. Maybe I gave him too much credit, who knows.
The reason for this aggression? Probably because I let a player draw out a bit earlier. I raised the flop and was called and then didn’t fire again. Shame on me. Just bad poker.
I’m not concentrating. I’m reacting instead of analyzing. Tilting.
I miss my dear wife. That may account for part of it. I feel like I’m wandering around in a haze most of the day. I manage to get the routine chores done, set an extra task for the day (today it is harvesting potatoes), wait for the nightly phone call, and recall that there were other things I have yet to take of before I can settle in for the night and play some poker. As I write this, I remember that a neighbor called to check in on me and in her message she requested that I call her back. Excuse me a minute…
OK, one more thing taken care of. The neighbor is also a dear friend of the dear wife, and I suspect she misses her as well. I am the conduit.
Where was I? The dear wife would say that the fog is status quo. Indeed, I am like the absent-minded professor, lost in his own thoughts. It can get a little aggravating sometimes, and perhaps more than a little at other times. If anything, having to do a lot of the things she usually takes care of this past week, and spacing on other things has shown me just how frustrating I can be, and how much I depend on her.
Is this a sweet sentiment? I’m not so sure. I am aware that to some I may be coming across as a little chauvinistic.
“Have you eaten anything?” This is a question my dear wife asks me about this time almost every day. The answer is usually a negatory. Today, as every day this past week, my stomach has had to ask me that question, already knowing the answer. I could stand to lose a few dozen pounds anyway. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich I just fixed and ate should do the trick. And just so you know, I eat a lot of PB&Js and always have, regardless of whether my dear wife is around.
The protein helps clear the brain, and I think a bit about what I am writing. Perhaps what it really comes down to is that we have a rather sizable house, a lot of land and animals that demand seemingly constant attention, and to find enough time in a day to do all that needs to be done and then to find a little more time for things like this blog and poker, well, something has got to give. When we are both here, it’s a bit different. There is time for TV and poker in our lives.
It takes both of us to keep this place running smoothly, and I think my dear wife may know this better than I. After all, over the course of the last five years, I have gone away more than she has, a week to help my mother with her house and yard, to Las Vegas twice for a week at a time, weddings and funerals in my family, and she has stayed behind to attend to the ever-present responsibility that is this farm. I’m not saying that she never gets away from this place; it’s just that I do more than she does.
So, what does my dear wife suggest I do as compensation for taking care of the place for eleven days while she helps her parents to move into their new house? She tells me to book a long weekend in Vegas. And people wonder why I have chosen to refer to her here as “dear wife”…
So, I have booked a room at The Orleans for 3 days over the Columbus Day weekend. Another person I know from PA will be in LV at the same time. (Click on “Raise or Fold” for her insightful and well-written poker blog.) In the meantime, I have to start bringing my A game to the table. I owe to both my dear wife and myself.
But right now, I have to go dig up some spuds.
The cats miss her too. For one, she knows what wet food each prefers. It turns out that I have been feeding them the exact opposite of their individual preferences. They have all been eating what I’ve put in front of them each morning, but as of yesterday they all have begun to turn their noses up at what is offered. The youngest of the two could stand to lose a little weight; yet the oldest two, one with diabetes and the other with renal failure, have to eat on a regular basis.
The cats also miss their couch companion. It is not uncommon to see 3 cats laying on the couch of a night as my dear wife catches up on reruns of “Will and Grace” or watches a late night session of congress on CSPAN. I’m usually hold up in the basement playing poker, reading about poker or working on an art project, but when I am upstairs, they pretty much avoid me, unless I force myself upon them. I like to pet kitties too, you know. The Dear Wife points out that I don’t spend as much time with them as she does; therefore, they’re going to stay aloof. Still, nobody gives a head scratch as good as I do. Where’s the love?
There was no love at Poker Stars last night. Again I lost to a set with AQ. No, make that to a boat. I got aggressive at the wrong time, representing Kings full with Queens. 2s full took it down. Not believing another player, I re-raised on another hand, and got re-raised, to which I had to fold. Same player later gets it all in with a lousy pairs of threes and gets stacked. Maybe I gave him too much credit, who knows.
The reason for this aggression? Probably because I let a player draw out a bit earlier. I raised the flop and was called and then didn’t fire again. Shame on me. Just bad poker.
I’m not concentrating. I’m reacting instead of analyzing. Tilting.
I miss my dear wife. That may account for part of it. I feel like I’m wandering around in a haze most of the day. I manage to get the routine chores done, set an extra task for the day (today it is harvesting potatoes), wait for the nightly phone call, and recall that there were other things I have yet to take of before I can settle in for the night and play some poker. As I write this, I remember that a neighbor called to check in on me and in her message she requested that I call her back. Excuse me a minute…
OK, one more thing taken care of. The neighbor is also a dear friend of the dear wife, and I suspect she misses her as well. I am the conduit.
Where was I? The dear wife would say that the fog is status quo. Indeed, I am like the absent-minded professor, lost in his own thoughts. It can get a little aggravating sometimes, and perhaps more than a little at other times. If anything, having to do a lot of the things she usually takes care of this past week, and spacing on other things has shown me just how frustrating I can be, and how much I depend on her.
Is this a sweet sentiment? I’m not so sure. I am aware that to some I may be coming across as a little chauvinistic.
“Have you eaten anything?” This is a question my dear wife asks me about this time almost every day. The answer is usually a negatory. Today, as every day this past week, my stomach has had to ask me that question, already knowing the answer. I could stand to lose a few dozen pounds anyway. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich I just fixed and ate should do the trick. And just so you know, I eat a lot of PB&Js and always have, regardless of whether my dear wife is around.
The protein helps clear the brain, and I think a bit about what I am writing. Perhaps what it really comes down to is that we have a rather sizable house, a lot of land and animals that demand seemingly constant attention, and to find enough time in a day to do all that needs to be done and then to find a little more time for things like this blog and poker, well, something has got to give. When we are both here, it’s a bit different. There is time for TV and poker in our lives.
It takes both of us to keep this place running smoothly, and I think my dear wife may know this better than I. After all, over the course of the last five years, I have gone away more than she has, a week to help my mother with her house and yard, to Las Vegas twice for a week at a time, weddings and funerals in my family, and she has stayed behind to attend to the ever-present responsibility that is this farm. I’m not saying that she never gets away from this place; it’s just that I do more than she does.
So, what does my dear wife suggest I do as compensation for taking care of the place for eleven days while she helps her parents to move into their new house? She tells me to book a long weekend in Vegas. And people wonder why I have chosen to refer to her here as “dear wife”…
So, I have booked a room at The Orleans for 3 days over the Columbus Day weekend. Another person I know from PA will be in LV at the same time. (Click on “Raise or Fold” for her insightful and well-written poker blog.) In the meantime, I have to start bringing my A game to the table. I owe to both my dear wife and myself.
But right now, I have to go dig up some spuds.
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