Once I had gotten my website going, I had thought that I would write a day-by-day Poker Journal of all of my future trips to Las Vegas. When this first five-part series took over twenty hours to write, I let that idea go. This trip, then, in the summer of 2005, is the only one about which I wrote.
Las Vegas for five days. Forty-one hours of poker. Free food. Freeway driving at two in the morning. Watching Cloutier play in the $5,000 buy-in no-limit at the World Series of Poker and win it all. What did he win? $600,000. The whole experience was great, and the homies and I are going back in about three weeks. For now, though:
13 June 2005, the First Day:
You know how you make travel plans and those plans always begin with getting an “early start?” Has that ever really worked out? I told myself that I’d pack and Mapquest and plan by Sunday evening and then be on the road by 7:30 Monday morning. “Sunday evening” became 1:00 a.m. and 7:30 became 9:13, so that’s already ninety minutes that I’ve lost. I tell myself that I’ll make up time on the road. I’m one of those people who hates making stops and who actually times them for efficiency, but I got stuck waiting in line at the Tehachapi AM-PM and lost ten minutes there. And then there was Barstow, where the 58 connects to the 15. Road work? One lane all the way through Barstow? It took me over an hour to go a few miles, taking away sixty minutes of poker action. Screw Barstow, man, screw the hell out of it.
I got into a game at 6:00 p.m., and right away ran into some cheaters, a husband and wife team. This was their scam: they both showed up with a rack of blue (one-hundred one-dollar chips), sat next to each other across from the dealer, gave most of their racks away in about a half hour, so that we’d all think that they were dead money and bet into them, then all of a sudden started winning. They were sitting right next to each other and instead of lifting up their cards from a corner, official poker-style, they’d lift them off the table and turn them over pretty far so that they could see each other’s cards. I was two positions to the left of the dealer, and there was this cool guy from Africa with a great accent sitting to my right. After about ninety minutes, both cheaters were up pretty huge, which is never a pattern you see. Players who lose a lot early will tend to lose all night, even if they do slow their losing down. Big losers tend to be first-time players, and they play too many hands because they don’t yet have an understanding of what a really good hand looks like (it’s not a pair of 4s), or they’re hoping to catch a card to go with their J-5. The learning curve can take four or five hours, or a few days, but there’s no way it happens in an hour and especially not for two people, and especially not to the point that they both start killing. Never happens.
So, their wild fluctuation in chips made me nervous, and Guy From Africa With a Great Accent was a little suspicious too. We started talking about how there might be something going on. Finally, after the dealer told them to protect their cards, that is look at them in a way that doesn’t allow anybody else to get a peek, we knew that something was up, as they say . Our suspicions thus confirmed, Guy From Africa With a Great Accent says to the dealer, “They’re together, and they’re looking at each other’s cards.” Right away, the woman, who offers no protestations of innocence, offers to switch places with Guy From Africa With a Great Accent. (BTW, don’t think that I’m being a jerk because I didn’t get this guy’s name; I played for a little over forty-one hours, and I never heard one name being exchanged.). They switch, but it’s pretty clear to me that they’re still cheating. She’s now acting two plays ahead of him, and they keep looking at each other before either takes an action. Then I notice that whenever it’s the wife’s turn to act, the husband has a stack of chips in his hand that he either does or does not tap, sending her some kind of message. At this point, I decide to not hide my suspicions, and I look directly from him to her, back and forth, when it’s her turn to act. I also make sure that he sees that I’m looking at the chips in his hand. If they weren’t cheating, he would have kept playing with his chips, but he stopped. Then, after a few hours, they were both broke. Yeah, there was some nefarious stuff going on, but Guy From Africa With a Great Accent and I put them in check.
How did I do? Not too badly, considering the drive and fending off the poker chicanery. I won a few hands, but not enough. My two best hands were when I caught a 4 on the river to make a straight to the 5, splitting a $95 pot with the guy to my right, who had made the same sraight on the turn. He acted like a jerk about the fact that I caught at the end, but I explained to him that it only cost me $3 to try to win a $92 pot, a 30.67-to-1 payoff, when the odds of my catching a 4 were one in 11.5, which meant that the pot odds were way in my favor, and I had to try to catch a four. He knew his poker, so he seemed to agree, but there's no way to feel okay about somebody taking $47.50 from you.
Later, I drew American Airlines, bet it up the whole way, and caught an ace on fifth to make a set that beat out top two pair on the flop. That was cool.
Day One Total: I played for a total of six hours and nineteen minutes and lost seven dollars.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
A Bitch of a Week, Pokerwise/Seriously, I Never Learn
This was the first Poker Report in which I made reference to Bert's delicious barbecuing . Seriously, if he endorsed a grill, I'd buy it, even if I don't have a place to keep it or to even barbecue. It's also the first Poker Report in which I started referring to Bert as the inventor of stuff.
Last week was Memorial Day, a day I had off from work, thank Christ, and I got a call from Bert, inventor of the Bert Death Spiral and toothpaste. There’s going to be a barbecue at his house, and there’s a good chance that a poker game might break out. Barbecue and the possibility of poker? I’m there, dude, I’m there. I got there pretty quickly, 'cause I like to haul ass in my ride, but I would have gotten there even faster if I hadn't seen CHP cruisers all over the goddamn place. I get there, and, because Bert, besides inventing the Bert Classic and the automatic teller machine, can work a grill, the food was tasty.
We retire to the kitchen table (we had been outside, enjoying the lovely weather), and set up for the game. There were three of us: my big bro; Bert, inventor of the Bert Light and the internal-combustion engine; and me. What happened, transpired, went down? There’s no gentle way to say this: my big bro beat the hell out of me, almost as if we were little kids again and I had dented his Tonka truck. I lost $33.25, which isn’t a lot, but this was the most I’d lost in nearly two months, and it happened in about only two hours. Early, he out-boated me when he caught on fourth, slow-played it, and let me hang myself with my aggressive bets on fourth and fifth. Toward the end of the game, when I was on a bit of a run and looking at the possibility of getting close to even, he caught on fifth to out-boat me again. That was cold-blooded.
Bert had been way down, too, but he managed to get close to even by taking my money for the last half hour. Then I had to drive home and get ready for work the next day. Great.
3 June 2005: You know how I’ve played a few times with that one guy who gets a little carried away? Well, because my usual Friday-night game wasn’t going to happen (everybody was booked), when one of my co-workers suggested a game at his crib, I didn’t have a reason to say no. So we played again, this time with a bunch of co-workers who hadn't played with us before, and, while that one guy seemed to hold it together a lot better than he had before, he still got loud and a little mean, and, of course, I was distracted and unhappy, just like I knew I would be.
I’ve just never felt comfortable around people who’ve had a few too many; I keep waiting for the thing to get ugly, and, even if it doesn’t, its mere possibility makes me all jumpy.
I know what you're thinking: Well then, you whiny bitch, why don’t you just say that you can’t play? Excellent question.
1) I have a hard time saying no to people. Seriously, it’s sad that I don’t want to let people down.
2) I try to have faith in people and I believe in redemption, so I have to believe that it might turn out okay.
3) It’s poker, bro, it’s poker, you know?
Well, I paid out again, though not that much. I did manage to hold it together much better than I had before. I just played a lot less hands than I ordinarily would have because a lot of people were staying in, hoping to catch to their drawing hands. People trying to catch usually pay out to tactical/seasoned players, except when so many people stay in that one of them is bound to catch. There were a ton of family pots (where everybody stays in for the showdown), and there was no way I was going to stay in for those. All in all, even though I lost, I didn’t feel too bad because I kept my head straight and didn’t let the nincompoopery bother me too much.
Poker Problem: What is up with my right knee?
Last week was Memorial Day, a day I had off from work, thank Christ, and I got a call from Bert, inventor of the Bert Death Spiral and toothpaste. There’s going to be a barbecue at his house, and there’s a good chance that a poker game might break out. Barbecue and the possibility of poker? I’m there, dude, I’m there. I got there pretty quickly, 'cause I like to haul ass in my ride, but I would have gotten there even faster if I hadn't seen CHP cruisers all over the goddamn place. I get there, and, because Bert, besides inventing the Bert Classic and the automatic teller machine, can work a grill, the food was tasty.
We retire to the kitchen table (we had been outside, enjoying the lovely weather), and set up for the game. There were three of us: my big bro; Bert, inventor of the Bert Light and the internal-combustion engine; and me. What happened, transpired, went down? There’s no gentle way to say this: my big bro beat the hell out of me, almost as if we were little kids again and I had dented his Tonka truck. I lost $33.25, which isn’t a lot, but this was the most I’d lost in nearly two months, and it happened in about only two hours. Early, he out-boated me when he caught on fourth, slow-played it, and let me hang myself with my aggressive bets on fourth and fifth. Toward the end of the game, when I was on a bit of a run and looking at the possibility of getting close to even, he caught on fifth to out-boat me again. That was cold-blooded.
Bert had been way down, too, but he managed to get close to even by taking my money for the last half hour. Then I had to drive home and get ready for work the next day. Great.
3 June 2005: You know how I’ve played a few times with that one guy who gets a little carried away? Well, because my usual Friday-night game wasn’t going to happen (everybody was booked), when one of my co-workers suggested a game at his crib, I didn’t have a reason to say no. So we played again, this time with a bunch of co-workers who hadn't played with us before, and, while that one guy seemed to hold it together a lot better than he had before, he still got loud and a little mean, and, of course, I was distracted and unhappy, just like I knew I would be.
I’ve just never felt comfortable around people who’ve had a few too many; I keep waiting for the thing to get ugly, and, even if it doesn’t, its mere possibility makes me all jumpy.
I know what you're thinking: Well then, you whiny bitch, why don’t you just say that you can’t play? Excellent question.
1) I have a hard time saying no to people. Seriously, it’s sad that I don’t want to let people down.
2) I try to have faith in people and I believe in redemption, so I have to believe that it might turn out okay.
3) It’s poker, bro, it’s poker, you know?
Well, I paid out again, though not that much. I did manage to hold it together much better than I had before. I just played a lot less hands than I ordinarily would have because a lot of people were staying in, hoping to catch to their drawing hands. People trying to catch usually pay out to tactical/seasoned players, except when so many people stay in that one of them is bound to catch. There were a ton of family pots (where everybody stays in for the showdown), and there was no way I was going to stay in for those. All in all, even though I lost, I didn’t feel too bad because I kept my head straight and didn’t let the nincompoopery bother me too much.
Poker Problem: What is up with my right knee?
Books Fail Me Yet Again
This post is from early in the history of out poker game. I stopped doing the "It's biblical" bit a long time ago because everybody had stopped laughing. I'll give it a few years, and then I'll bring it back out again.
It’s pretty clear: all my fancy poker learnin’ isn’t doing it anymore. No matter what techniques and strategies I use, I’m not winning the big pots like I used to. It’s time to put the books away. New poker strategy? Get them drunk. In service of this new strategy, I first stopped at the neighborhood grocery store on the way to Friday night’s game in order to pick up some limes for the Coronas I was going to purchase at the local liquor store. I get to the liquor store, and it’s locked up tight with a little handwritten sign taped to the inside of the doors: be back in five minutes. Great, the one time that goddamn liquor store is closed in all the years I’ve driven by it is when I need to get my friends really, really drunk.
I, myself, stopped drinking because I got tired of waking up after having slept under people’s cars. SUVs have plenty of room underneath, but they let too much cold air in. True connoisseurs know that the VW Passat gives you the right balance of coverage, clearance, and wind-blocking capabilities, especially if parked near a curb. Also, you feel kind of classy waking up underneath such a well-built and aesthetically pleasing vehicle. No, actually, I’m one of those nerds who doesn’t drink or smoke. I do, though, love to snort Ajax. It’s a good buzz. That end-of-the-world burning in your throat and stomach? The burning’s just the Ajax cleaning you up all pretty inside. And, really, stomach linings are overrated. The convulsions? They’re convulsions of cleanliness, and totally worth it.
Respect to Ivan, Respect: At the start of the game, Ivan bought in for thirty, which was ten less than his usual buy-in. He burned through that in a hurry. He bought in for another twenty-two. Twenty-two? That was what he had left in his wallet. He burned through that pretty quickly, too, which was bad for him, but good for us. We were all expecting him to buy in again, but he just sat and watched for a little while. Finally, he said that he was going to leave. Leave? My man, Ivan, poker player deluxe and programmer/designer of this here site, leave? Leave he did, and we debated whether he would come back. We were all pretty sure that he would return shortly, but that seemed less and less likely the longer he was gone. We were getting ready to give up on him, but Ivan’s hardcore, and he finally returned, twenties in hand, ready to take care of business. Now, Ivan’s burned through his money on other nights, said that he was done, but always bought back in. And this is the thing: every time that he buys back in, he always makes money. Even if he ends up down for the night, he gets much closer to even than he had been when he took a break. Ivan ended up making thirty dollars, which was an eighty-dollar turn-around from when he took his little break. Respeck.
It’s Biblical: Ozzy is a really good poker player, so being heads-up against him is already bad enough. To top it off, he is also my big bro, so that makes those confrontations even more difficult. Every time that everybody else folds out and it’s him against me, I always say, “Brother against brother. It’s Biblical,” you know, to get religion and Christ involved. Which one of us is Cain and which one is Abel? Whichever one does the ass kicking, that’s my brother. A big part of poker is understanding your opponents, and on this he will always have me beat. Think about it. He’s seventeen months older than I am, so, in the sense that he had cognitive function before I did, he’s “known” me longer. For at least the first year of my life, when I was as cognizant of the world as a dish rag, he could have been studying me the whole time, eyeballing me as I crawled around like a turtle, looking for tendencies, habits, and defects in my bravery and character. It’s not fair, goddamn it, it’s not fair.
Bad Beat of the Night: We’re playing Omaha, and I’ve got some medium-highs singles. There’s a fifty-cent value bet by Jesse behind me, but we all call it. The rainbow flop (three different suits: club, spade, and heart) gives me a monster hand, the nut straight to my ten. Very few cards are going to be able to hurt me, so when Jesse bets the max, two dollars, I re-raise the max. We lose Bert, Ozzy had already left because he was double-booked, so we’re down to three: Ivan, Jesse, and yours truly. Fourth street is a low heart and doesn’t look like it was of much use to anybody, unless somebody paired it for a second pair or completed a set (three of a kind with two of your hole cards) with it. Somebody having just made a set or two pair is actually good for me, because the odds of them hitting for a boat or four of a kind are slim, and if they bet it up, I’ll pull more green from them. I bet it, Ivan calls, but Jesse folds. We’re heads up and I feel pretty good. Fifth comes down, and it’s a heart that doesn’t pair. It’s of no use to anybody at the table, I don’t think, unless somebody was on a runner runner flush draw, but with these bad-ass players and with the money it cost to catch, who would be? The thing about Omaha, though, is that you can be playing one hand and accidentally hit a better hand on fourth and fifth that you weren’t even thinking about. I had done it earlier in the evening when I made a four-flush to my king on the flop, completely missed the flush, but made a nearly unbeatable straight to my nine and got paid off pretty decently. Maybe Ivan had paid in to make one hand but had ended up making another. And, at this point in the game, Ivan had been in the middle of his comeback streak, and sometimes players on a roll will stay in pots they would ordinarily get out of. They’ve got money to play/attack with, so they’ll try to drive you off of your hands. They also have a psychological advantage. They’re up, you're down, and everybody knows it. They can get you to fold just because they’re in your head. But Ivan, it turned out, wasn’t trying to drive me out or punk me; he was just putting his money in to see what would happen, even though he had rags the whole way. What happened? Ivan, who had been on a miracle draw the whole way, hit runner runner for a flush to his king of hearts, taking the pot, and a little bit of my delicate soul.
Poker Problem: Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
(For Christ's sake, don't snort Ajax.)
It’s pretty clear: all my fancy poker learnin’ isn’t doing it anymore. No matter what techniques and strategies I use, I’m not winning the big pots like I used to. It’s time to put the books away. New poker strategy? Get them drunk. In service of this new strategy, I first stopped at the neighborhood grocery store on the way to Friday night’s game in order to pick up some limes for the Coronas I was going to purchase at the local liquor store. I get to the liquor store, and it’s locked up tight with a little handwritten sign taped to the inside of the doors: be back in five minutes. Great, the one time that goddamn liquor store is closed in all the years I’ve driven by it is when I need to get my friends really, really drunk.
I, myself, stopped drinking because I got tired of waking up after having slept under people’s cars. SUVs have plenty of room underneath, but they let too much cold air in. True connoisseurs know that the VW Passat gives you the right balance of coverage, clearance, and wind-blocking capabilities, especially if parked near a curb. Also, you feel kind of classy waking up underneath such a well-built and aesthetically pleasing vehicle. No, actually, I’m one of those nerds who doesn’t drink or smoke. I do, though, love to snort Ajax. It’s a good buzz. That end-of-the-world burning in your throat and stomach? The burning’s just the Ajax cleaning you up all pretty inside. And, really, stomach linings are overrated. The convulsions? They’re convulsions of cleanliness, and totally worth it.
Respect to Ivan, Respect: At the start of the game, Ivan bought in for thirty, which was ten less than his usual buy-in. He burned through that in a hurry. He bought in for another twenty-two. Twenty-two? That was what he had left in his wallet. He burned through that pretty quickly, too, which was bad for him, but good for us. We were all expecting him to buy in again, but he just sat and watched for a little while. Finally, he said that he was going to leave. Leave? My man, Ivan, poker player deluxe and programmer/designer of this here site, leave? Leave he did, and we debated whether he would come back. We were all pretty sure that he would return shortly, but that seemed less and less likely the longer he was gone. We were getting ready to give up on him, but Ivan’s hardcore, and he finally returned, twenties in hand, ready to take care of business. Now, Ivan’s burned through his money on other nights, said that he was done, but always bought back in. And this is the thing: every time that he buys back in, he always makes money. Even if he ends up down for the night, he gets much closer to even than he had been when he took a break. Ivan ended up making thirty dollars, which was an eighty-dollar turn-around from when he took his little break. Respeck.
It’s Biblical: Ozzy is a really good poker player, so being heads-up against him is already bad enough. To top it off, he is also my big bro, so that makes those confrontations even more difficult. Every time that everybody else folds out and it’s him against me, I always say, “Brother against brother. It’s Biblical,” you know, to get religion and Christ involved. Which one of us is Cain and which one is Abel? Whichever one does the ass kicking, that’s my brother. A big part of poker is understanding your opponents, and on this he will always have me beat. Think about it. He’s seventeen months older than I am, so, in the sense that he had cognitive function before I did, he’s “known” me longer. For at least the first year of my life, when I was as cognizant of the world as a dish rag, he could have been studying me the whole time, eyeballing me as I crawled around like a turtle, looking for tendencies, habits, and defects in my bravery and character. It’s not fair, goddamn it, it’s not fair.
Bad Beat of the Night: We’re playing Omaha, and I’ve got some medium-highs singles. There’s a fifty-cent value bet by Jesse behind me, but we all call it. The rainbow flop (three different suits: club, spade, and heart) gives me a monster hand, the nut straight to my ten. Very few cards are going to be able to hurt me, so when Jesse bets the max, two dollars, I re-raise the max. We lose Bert, Ozzy had already left because he was double-booked, so we’re down to three: Ivan, Jesse, and yours truly. Fourth street is a low heart and doesn’t look like it was of much use to anybody, unless somebody paired it for a second pair or completed a set (three of a kind with two of your hole cards) with it. Somebody having just made a set or two pair is actually good for me, because the odds of them hitting for a boat or four of a kind are slim, and if they bet it up, I’ll pull more green from them. I bet it, Ivan calls, but Jesse folds. We’re heads up and I feel pretty good. Fifth comes down, and it’s a heart that doesn’t pair. It’s of no use to anybody at the table, I don’t think, unless somebody was on a runner runner flush draw, but with these bad-ass players and with the money it cost to catch, who would be? The thing about Omaha, though, is that you can be playing one hand and accidentally hit a better hand on fourth and fifth that you weren’t even thinking about. I had done it earlier in the evening when I made a four-flush to my king on the flop, completely missed the flush, but made a nearly unbeatable straight to my nine and got paid off pretty decently. Maybe Ivan had paid in to make one hand but had ended up making another. And, at this point in the game, Ivan had been in the middle of his comeback streak, and sometimes players on a roll will stay in pots they would ordinarily get out of. They’ve got money to play/attack with, so they’ll try to drive you off of your hands. They also have a psychological advantage. They’re up, you're down, and everybody knows it. They can get you to fold just because they’re in your head. But Ivan, it turned out, wasn’t trying to drive me out or punk me; he was just putting his money in to see what would happen, even though he had rags the whole way. What happened? Ivan, who had been on a miracle draw the whole way, hit runner runner for a flush to his king of hearts, taking the pot, and a little bit of my delicate soul.
Poker Problem: Who's gonna ride your wild horses?
(For Christ's sake, don't snort Ajax.)
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Pimp Hand Is Strong
Another early Poker Report. You will note that this post is full of street lingo. I must have been going through a phase.
Last night, Bert kept his pimp hand strong, and he put us in check the entire game. Every time one of us got uppity, he put the smack down with a quickness.
Last night, Bert kept his pimp hand strong, and he put us in check the entire game. Every time one of us got uppity, he put the smack down with a quickness.
The night started off horribly for me. I bought in for $100 so that I wouldn’t go short-stacked if I took a few beats. Strategically and psychologically, there’s nothing worse than playing short-stacked. Most nights, even if I’m not getting paid off, a good part of the hundred will last until the end of the session. Well, after an hour last night, I was already down forty, and it kept going to hell from there. By around eleven, after two hours of play, I was down to fourteen dollars and I was getting ready to buy in again because I’m not going to bitch out and I won’t stop until the game stops, no matter what. Word.
What Is This, Some Kind of Joke?: We’re playing Omaha, about three hours in, and I pick up my hole cards to find A-A-K-K, one of the big slicks being suited. If the other big slick had been suited as well, this would be the best possible starter hand because then I’d have a shot at two different nut flushes to my aces. As it is, I’ll be drawing to one nut flush, one nut royal flush, the nut straight, two nut fours-of-a-kind, two nut boats, and two nut sets. In other words, the world is mine, and I should expect the checks to rain down. Before the flop, I bet the max, and the other four players stay in. The flop comes down, and it completely misses me: no ace, no king, no high straight draw. The only possible hands that open up are medium-to-low straights, and a flush away from my suited big slick. Still, the board doesn’t pair, and there are no made straights or flushes. There’s a possibility that my pairs are leading, so I bet when it comes to me. We drop a player and fourth comes down, again missing me by a mile, but opening up both a made flush and a made low straight. The best I can hope for now is that an ace or a king comes on fifth, and I make a set. The problem is, though, that it’s already likely that a set would get cracked with what’s already on the board, so I’d be looking for four outs out of forty-four cards, a one in eleven shot, just to make a hand that I’ll have to pay for with fourth- and a fifth-street bets and/or calls just to get my ass kicked at the showdown. When Jesse bets in front of me, I don’t have to think long and hard to know that I have to fold. I don’t even get to fifth street with the best Omaha starter hand that I’ve ever had or that I have ever seen in all of my years playing poker. At least I didn’t pay extra into the pot, but that’s barely any consolation.
Bad Beat of the Night: But my A-A-K-K beat wasn’t even a bad beat. In fact, it was a good lay down, and I got much props for cutting out early like I did. The bad beat happened early in the game, and it hurt like a mofo. I’m holding 5-7 unsuited, which isn’t much of a hand, but nobody bet it up on the draw, so I stay in for the free flop. The flop comes 5-7-2 rainbow. I have top two pair, and two shots at hitting one of the four cards that gives me a boat. It comes to me, I bet the $2, Bert calls, everybody folds, and he and I are heads up. The next card, a jack, doesn’t help me, but it doesn’t help toward a straight or a flush. Bert might have paired a jack, but I still think I’m in the lead. I check it, though, to get Bert to pay into the pot ahead of me, which he does. I come over the top with a re-raise, and Bert calls for a total of four dollars each on the round . Fifth street comes down, and, life is sweet, it’s a 5, giving me a 5-5-5-7-7 boat, nearly an unbeatable hand. This time, I come out betting the max, four dollars, Bert re-raises the max, which is starting to make me nervous, but I re-raise the max as well. I think my last play gets Bert thinking because he only calls my last bet. When I turn over my cards for the boat, I’m sure that I’ve just won this monster pot, a total of$36, until Bert turns over 7-7, making his boat 7-7-7-5-5. He had led me the whole way. When I had two pair, he already had three of a kind. If no help had come for either of us on fifth, I’m sure the showdown wouldn’t have been as expensive as it turned out to be. I still would have lost, but I wouldn’t have taken such a big hit early in the game. At the end of that hand, though, I actually saved $4 because Bert could have raised instead of just flat called. The only reason I can think of for why he didn’t was that the jack coming down on fourth may have led him to think that I was holding pocket jacks and had made the J-J-J-5-5 boat. If he had bet the last $4, I would have had to call.
After Bert beat me like a disrespectful ho, he had what every poker player wants: an early lead so that he can use his stacks as weapons and as leverage, putting everybody else on the defensive and then revealing vulnerabilities in our strategies and in our characters, vulnerabilities to be exploited mercilessly. I, on the other hand, became gun-shy and, like a nitwit, stopped betting when I should have bet, limiting the size of my pay offs and letting the other players catch free cards. I did get my head together eventually and started to make a minor comeback in the last two hours, managing to get back most of the eighty-four that I had burned through earlier in the game. By the time we called it quits at 1:45 a.m. (because I had to work the next day), I was only down $21.50.
Poker Problem: How come I never get to bestride the narrow world?
The Highest That I've Ever Been
I think that I'm hilarious. Most sensible people disagree. The below was one of the first "bits" that I posted on my website. See for yourself how deluded I am.
We've all been high at one time or another. Some of us were young when we first started. These people were rich or had connections. We hated these people. Others of us were scared to get high and managed to put it off for a long time.
The first time that I got high was in 1999. Somebody else, who shall remain anonymous, had set up the transaction, but we had to get to Los Angeles to complete the deal. We get to the place, and it's swarming with people, which made me a little nervous, but I was already plenty nervous for other reasons. Would I freak out? What were the chances that I could die? What was the food going to be like? Right at the end, there was some confusion as to whether we were at the right place, but everything worked out and the airplane took off on time.
Also, I've climbed Half Dome twice. I was pretty high then, too. And I was a little oxygen-deprived.
(If you disapprove of drug humor, I apologize.)
We've all been high at one time or another. Some of us were young when we first started. These people were rich or had connections. We hated these people. Others of us were scared to get high and managed to put it off for a long time.
The first time that I got high was in 1999. Somebody else, who shall remain anonymous, had set up the transaction, but we had to get to Los Angeles to complete the deal. We get to the place, and it's swarming with people, which made me a little nervous, but I was already plenty nervous for other reasons. Would I freak out? What were the chances that I could die? What was the food going to be like? Right at the end, there was some confusion as to whether we were at the right place, but everything worked out and the airplane took off on time.
Also, I've climbed Half Dome twice. I was pretty high then, too. And I was a little oxygen-deprived.
(If you disapprove of drug humor, I apologize.)
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Let's Ride the Pony, Gentlemen
One of the funniest things ever uttered at our game came from Ivan, poker player deluxe and programmer/designer/host of my now-dead website. It was so funny that we still talk about it, though he said it over two years ago.
It was another mediocre evening, but on the last hand of the night I had a chance to come out a little more ahead than I did. I was holding K-8 unsuited, Bert, a truly good player, was holding K-7 unsuited, and we were heads-up. That’s right, every card but a seven helps me. Do the math: three cards help him, and forty-eight help me, which means that I’m a five-to-one favorite to the river. Life is beautiful, so goddamned lovely. The flop comes K-3-7, giving me top pair, but giving Bert top two pair. Essentially, my hand is already blown, and now every card but an “8” helps him. He’s now a huge favorite. Of course, I don’t know this, so, after Bert checks it, I make the max bet, and Bert very calmly calls it, slow-playing his monster hand. Then, miracle of miracles, an “8” hits on fourth. Bert checks, I bet the max again, and Bert, still thinking he’s slow-playing his monster, simply calls. We’re back to every card but a seven helping me. What comes down on fifth? A seven, giving him a boat. I still think I’m way ahead, but Bert makes the max bet after fifth: four dollars. I look at the board, understand that the seven helped him, so much that he’s going to come out blasting, backtrack through the hand, understand that if the last seven helped him, then so did the seven on the flop, which means that he had a seven in his hand, which means that, at the very minimum, he’s made three sevens. If this were the case, I could try to re-raise another four dollars and try to drive him off of his hand. But if he were only playing off of the seven, he would have folded earlier when I was making the max bets, so he’s probably holding a king as well . It’s looking pretty probable that he has the boat, and it’s going to cost me four dollars to find out. A better man than me probably would have laid his hand down, but the curiosity was killing me, so I called. He turns over his K-7, and I’m out about ten dollars on the last hand of the night. It hurt, but it also felt kind of good, if you know what I mean.
Poker Problem: Why must the innocent suffer?
It was Ivan’s turn to deal. After he deals, we all look at our cards in order to make our decisions for the first round of betting. Ivan, to “get the party started right,” then says, “Let’s ride the pony, gentlemen.” There was a horrible, awkward pause because this was the least, ahem, “manly” thing ever uttered at our game. A million insta-jokes ran through my mind—1) That’s not really my thing, dude. 2) I’m flattered, but that’s not really how I roll. 3) Wait a minute, I didn’t know this was going to turn into that kind of game. 4) Sorry, but I left my chaps at home. 5) If you try to touch me, I’ll kill you. —but I let it slide by.
To help out all you youngsters out there from committing this type of “party foul,” I’ve put together a list of allowable phrases to utter after the deal:
1) “Let’s do this.” Short, to the point, and it sounds really cool. A classic.
2) If you want to give a little extra flavor that phrase, you can add one word and say, “Let’s do this thing.”
3) For extra street cred, you can change the “i” in thing to an “a” and say , “Let’s do this thang.”
That’s about it, except if you really want to sound badass and sort of ridiculous, in which case you might be able to get away with, “Come with it, bitches.”
It was another mediocre evening, but on the last hand of the night I had a chance to come out a little more ahead than I did. I was holding K-8 unsuited, Bert, a truly good player, was holding K-7 unsuited, and we were heads-up. That’s right, every card but a seven helps me. Do the math: three cards help him, and forty-eight help me, which means that I’m a five-to-one favorite to the river. Life is beautiful, so goddamned lovely. The flop comes K-3-7, giving me top pair, but giving Bert top two pair. Essentially, my hand is already blown, and now every card but an “8” helps him. He’s now a huge favorite. Of course, I don’t know this, so, after Bert checks it, I make the max bet, and Bert very calmly calls it, slow-playing his monster hand. Then, miracle of miracles, an “8” hits on fourth. Bert checks, I bet the max again, and Bert, still thinking he’s slow-playing his monster, simply calls. We’re back to every card but a seven helping me. What comes down on fifth? A seven, giving him a boat. I still think I’m way ahead, but Bert makes the max bet after fifth: four dollars. I look at the board, understand that the seven helped him, so much that he’s going to come out blasting, backtrack through the hand, understand that if the last seven helped him, then so did the seven on the flop, which means that he had a seven in his hand, which means that, at the very minimum, he’s made three sevens. If this were the case, I could try to re-raise another four dollars and try to drive him off of his hand. But if he were only playing off of the seven, he would have folded earlier when I was making the max bets, so he’s probably holding a king as well . It’s looking pretty probable that he has the boat, and it’s going to cost me four dollars to find out. A better man than me probably would have laid his hand down, but the curiosity was killing me, so I called. He turns over his K-7, and I’m out about ten dollars on the last hand of the night. It hurt, but it also felt kind of good, if you know what I mean.
Poker Problem: Why must the innocent suffer?
My Book Makes a Great Gift
I had originally put up this somewhat funny post after my book had come out and nobody had bought it. How to deal with the pain? With a lot of edgy dumb jokes. Tragically, my current sales rank is seemingly permanently stuck in seven figures.
Why the hell isn’t my book selling? I stopped checking my Amazon.com sales rank when it sank into six digits. Now, it’s almost at seven digits. I am mortified. There’s one way to get that number up: buy my book for somebody else. You don’t even have to read it. It’s probably best that you don’t.
People for whom you could buy my book:
Atheists: there’s some quality God-doesn’t-exist stuff that will cater to their bitter, angry beliefs. Man, are they bitter.
Christians: there’s some blasphemous God-doesn’t-exist stuff that will cater to their bitter, angry beliefs and get them good and riled up.
Chicanos: I’m a Chicano, so mostly just out of ethnic loyalty. Help a brother out, you lazy Mexicans.
Other Minorities: it’s hard to tell us apart and we’re all pretty much the same anyway.
White Folks: to see how the "darkies" live.
Democrats: it will speak to them on religious/political/ethnic grounds.
Republicans: they can wave it over their heads and condemn it on religious/political/ethnic grounds. Burns real nice.
Depressives: the cover’s black, just like their broken little hearts. Also, the poems are bleak as hell, thus reinforcing their feelings about the meaninglessness of life. They can read it while listening to Joy Division and weeping gently.
People That You Hate: it will make them into depressives and you will ruin their lives.
The book also makes a great gag gift. Really, who gives a goddamn about poetry? When the recipient opens the package—What? What is this? Poetry? You bought me a book of poetry? Dude, that is hilarious!—the both of you can just laugh and laugh.
Why the hell isn’t my book selling? I stopped checking my Amazon.com sales rank when it sank into six digits. Now, it’s almost at seven digits. I am mortified. There’s one way to get that number up: buy my book for somebody else. You don’t even have to read it. It’s probably best that you don’t.
People for whom you could buy my book:
Atheists: there’s some quality God-doesn’t-exist stuff that will cater to their bitter, angry beliefs. Man, are they bitter.
Christians: there’s some blasphemous God-doesn’t-exist stuff that will cater to their bitter, angry beliefs and get them good and riled up.
Chicanos: I’m a Chicano, so mostly just out of ethnic loyalty. Help a brother out, you lazy Mexicans.
Other Minorities: it’s hard to tell us apart and we’re all pretty much the same anyway.
White Folks: to see how the "darkies" live.
Democrats: it will speak to them on religious/political/ethnic grounds.
Republicans: they can wave it over their heads and condemn it on religious/political/ethnic grounds. Burns real nice.
Depressives: the cover’s black, just like their broken little hearts. Also, the poems are bleak as hell, thus reinforcing their feelings about the meaninglessness of life. They can read it while listening to Joy Division and weeping gently.
People That You Hate: it will make them into depressives and you will ruin their lives.
The book also makes a great gag gift. Really, who gives a goddamn about poetry? When the recipient opens the package—What? What is this? Poetry? You bought me a book of poetry? Dude, that is hilarious!—the both of you can just laugh and laugh.
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