Monday, April 30, 2012
An Audience with the God of Poker;
or,
an Allegory for What Happened to Me Last Night
or,
an Allegory for What Happened to Me Last Night
Like Gregor Samsa in that long-ago tale*, I recently awoke from uneasy dreams. Unlike Samsa, instead of finding that I'd been transformed to a giant beetle, I awoke to find myself in an anteroom with which I was completely unfamiliar. The walls were covered by rich dark wood paneling, and were stuck here and there with wall sconces out of which a gentle yet strong light emanated. At the front of the room sat a stately mahogany desk and behind it sat a slender, blond gentleman, with an officious demeanor, who was speaking on the phone with someone. It did not seem to be going well.
"No...sir...sir...you can raise your voice all you like but that doesn't mean you're going to be connected. That's just not how it works...no...sir...SIR! I do not have to take abuse from anyone, let alone some random caller looking for an audience...I am hanging up the phone now. Please don't call back."
He exhaled deeply in exasperation, shook his head as if to shake off the bad vibes of the phone call, and turned his head toward me. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"
For a panic-stricken second I had no idea what to say. Then, as if it was planned all along, I knew why I was there and who I was there to see.
"I'd like to speak to the God of Poker. I have an appointment."
"Your name, please?" he asked, his tone indicating doubt.
"It's probably under Crafty Southpaw."
"Hmmm, let's see, Southpaw, Southpaw...ah. Oh, I see." A microsecond pause. "My apologies, sir. You can go right in."
I walked through the anteroom, heels clicking smartly on the marble floor. A pair of gigantic double doors opened without a sound, and without any visible mechanism, to let me through into the office of the God of Poker.
It was less than imposing.
As I walked through the door, I noticed a threadbare poker table, with a dealer chained to his seat. I noticed his toke box was welded closed. The God of Poker was not playing; he was at his desk, with his back to me, staring at a window.
"Which of these raindrops will hit the windowsill first?" He asked, to no one in particular. I'll bet you twenty million bucks it's this one."
"Me?" I said, a little bit confused.
"Yeah, you," he said. "Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter. Listen, I need something from you."
"You and everybody else," he said, and I thought for a moment I detected a little sadness in his voice. "What do you need?"
"I'm tired of treading water at poker," I started. "It's not like I'm throwing my fortune away, but I'm not making huge coin, either. I need to get some words of wisdom from you."
"You need me to tell you something magical to make you better at poker? Is that it?"
"Well- yeah, that's about it," I stammered.
"Sixty-three bucks," he said, with the slightest edge to his voice.
"What?"
"Sixty-three bucks. Hand it over."
I reached into my pocket and sure enough, I had $63, to the penny. I handed it over and he folded the bills, thumbed through the wad to count it, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye.
"You ready?" he asked. "You want to take notes or something?"
"Do I need to?"
"Probably not. Well, here it is: Don't ever limp into a pot pre-flop. If it's worth one blind, it's worth three. And if it's not worth three it isn't really worth one. Raise the blind, call a raise in front of you, or fold. Got it? Don't limp into a pot pre-flop."
I waited a long second to make sure he wasn't just pausing for dramatic emphasis.
"That's it?" I asked, trying not to sound incredulous. "Don't limp into an unraised pot?"
"Yup. You're welcome, by the way."
"No, yeah, thank you," I found myself saying, almost mechanically. I made a mental note how ingrained it is to automatically thank someone who made it known he was expecting it, like when you're four years old and an adult hands you something and asks you what the magic word was. "But, um, I actually already knew that. Known it for a while actually."
"But do you do it? I mean, all the time?"
"Well, no, not all the time. There's a time and a place for a pre-flop limp, especially if the table is right for it."
"Then you don't do it," said the God of Poker. "What I said was, don't EVER limp into an unraised pot. Sometimes you do. And sure there are a lot of definitions of 'sometimes,' but it's more or less agreed that 'sometimes' DOES NOT mean the same thing that 'never' does."
I bristled a bit at his patronizing tone, but I must admit that it felt a tiny bit gratifying to see him becoming more engaged in the conversation. Indeed I could see an occasional flash of emotion around the edges.
"Do you understand me?" he asked, and met my gaze.
"Yes," I replied.
"Do you?" he asked, still looking hard at me.
"Never means never," I told him, and his expression softened at once.
"Good," he said. "Anything else?"
"No thanks, but I really appreciate this, Poker God."
"Call me Mitch. And OK, but you know I could have made you into a poker genius if you'd asked me."
"Oh. Could I..."
"Too late," said Mitch. "Thanks for coming."
Damn. Well, at least I learned something valuable, even though it cost me two greens, two redbirds, and three whites.
___
*Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
What is Beauty in Music?
Most of you know I'm a huge Beatles fan. But those of you who inexplicably hate the Beatles can nonetheless relax; this post isn't about them. It's about one song from one artist: Picture in a Frame, by the incomparable Tom Waits.
Tom can be a challenging listen; he's not for everybody. But he has very few casual fans. Those who like his work, love it. I won't bother describing him, because if you don't know his stuff I can only describe it in terms of other music that you also don't know: picture Captain Beefheart on a three-day bender, and you're close to the mark. See? I'm sure that brings nothing to the table.
Suffice it to say that he challenges people's opinions about what beauty is; what that special quality is in music that connects people to their souls so directly. Like I said, I'm a gigantic Beatles sound. Their music has given me thousands of hours of pleasure - but it's never made me cry. Tom can make me cry, even still if I'm in the right mood. Even in the middle of the most abstract song, almost a tone poem with words just as unconventional, he can sometimes hit you from left field and leave you with a lump in your throat. Witness these lyrics to "A Little Rain:"
She was fifteen years old, and she'd never seen the ocean
She climbed into a van with a vagabond
And the last thing she said was "I love you, Mom"
And a little rain never hurt no one
Powerful stuff - and a reading of lyrics doesn't really do it justice. You can listen to it here if you want:
But really, that's not the song I wanted to talk about today. That honor belongs, as I said earlier, to Picture in a Frame, about the closest thing Tom ever comes to a straightforward love song.
The lyrics are simple to the point that one could be forgiven for calling them juvenile, if one didn't see the frightening depth therein. The melody and the changes, too, are deceptively straightforward.
The whole point is that this song, such a small song, such a simple song, conveys a depth of emotion about a man's relationship with the woman he loves that the simplicity is forgiven, and indeed forgotten, and you are left with an idea of the earth-shaking love he has for that woman by a simple series of proclamations:
Please listen. Enjoy. And let the music show you what real beauty is.
Tom can be a challenging listen; he's not for everybody. But he has very few casual fans. Those who like his work, love it. I won't bother describing him, because if you don't know his stuff I can only describe it in terms of other music that you also don't know: picture Captain Beefheart on a three-day bender, and you're close to the mark. See? I'm sure that brings nothing to the table.
Suffice it to say that he challenges people's opinions about what beauty is; what that special quality is in music that connects people to their souls so directly. Like I said, I'm a gigantic Beatles sound. Their music has given me thousands of hours of pleasure - but it's never made me cry. Tom can make me cry, even still if I'm in the right mood. Even in the middle of the most abstract song, almost a tone poem with words just as unconventional, he can sometimes hit you from left field and leave you with a lump in your throat. Witness these lyrics to "A Little Rain:"
Well the ice man's mule is parked outside the barnThe song gives two verses and a bridge of that sort of weird, almost nightmare imagery, until the last verse slaps you into a stunning change of emotion that will absolutely crush you, even if you're ready for it:
Where a man with missing fingers plays a strange guitar
And a German dwarf dances with the Butcher's son
And tonight a little rain never hurt no-one
She climbed into a van with a vagabond
And the last thing she said was "I love you, Mom"
And a little rain never hurt no one
Powerful stuff - and a reading of lyrics doesn't really do it justice. You can listen to it here if you want:
But really, that's not the song I wanted to talk about today. That honor belongs, as I said earlier, to Picture in a Frame, about the closest thing Tom ever comes to a straightforward love song.
The lyrics are simple to the point that one could be forgiven for calling them juvenile, if one didn't see the frightening depth therein. The melody and the changes, too, are deceptively straightforward.
The whole point is that this song, such a small song, such a simple song, conveys a depth of emotion about a man's relationship with the woman he loves that the simplicity is forgiven, and indeed forgotten, and you are left with an idea of the earth-shaking love he has for that woman by a simple series of proclamations:
The sun come up, it was blue and gold
The sun come up, it was blue and gold
The sun come up, it was blue and gold
Ever since I put your picture in a frame
I come calling in my Sunday best
I come calling in my Sunday best
I come calling in my Sunday best
Ever since I put your picture in a frame
I'm gonna love you 'till the wheels come off
Oh, yeah
I love you baby, and I always will
I love you baby, and I always will
I love you baby, and I always will
Ever since I put your picture in a frame
I love you baby, and I always will
Ever since I put your picture in a frame
Ever since I put your picture in a frame
Please listen. Enjoy. And let the music show you what real beauty is.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Ashamed to Be a Bruins Fan Today
...and it's not why you think.
Sure, the B's kind of spit the bit a little; losing in the first round is never acceptable for a defending Stanley Cup Champion. As a fan I'm upset and disappointed, but not ashamed.
I'm a season ticket holder, and unlike baseball and football, that means that you're guaranteed your seats throughout the playoffs and the Championship. Last year, the tickets I sold to the Stanley Cup Championship games alone - to say nothing of the playoff rounds - made me almost $5,000. So as a season ticket holder, I'm deprived of a prime money-making opportunity and I'm upset and disappointed, but not ashamed.
After the Bruins lost, there were a number of angry Tweets aimed at the Capitals and the dude who scored the overtime game-winner, Joel Ward. That would normally make me grimly happy, but not ashamed.
I'm ashamed because rather than call Ward lucky, or a hack, or a no-talent bum, or a flopper, or any one of a dozen things you can say about a hockey player when you don't like him, a good many of these tweets called him a nigger.
And that makes me ashamed. Because it reinforces every negative stereotype about Bostonians, about the complexion of hockey fans, and the ignorance of the world around us.
This guy, Joel Ward, he'll never be confused with one of hockey's bright lights. He spent 10 years between major junior and the AHL before breaking in to the bigs five years ago. Never scored more than 20 goals - scored 6 goals all regular season. Just one of hockey's grinders on a third or fourth line - if he's on your team you like him OK and if he's not he's just a random piece of shit enemy sweater. And that's all good; hockey is a game where it's ok to hate your opponent, in fact it makes for better hockey when you do. And of course fans follow suit, and that's OK too. And yes, he's one of the few black hockey players in the league.
But to call him a nigger is just embarrassing to the game. To take what has to be thus far his career highlight - literally the highest point he's attained in a lifetime of hockey - and cheapen and degrade it by calling him a nigger is just the lowest thing you can do. And it's not like these tweets just shout the word at him and call it a day. Here are some examples (and I'm including the name of the sender in hopes that someone out there flames him but good):
Sure, the B's kind of spit the bit a little; losing in the first round is never acceptable for a defending Stanley Cup Champion. As a fan I'm upset and disappointed, but not ashamed.
I'm a season ticket holder, and unlike baseball and football, that means that you're guaranteed your seats throughout the playoffs and the Championship. Last year, the tickets I sold to the Stanley Cup Championship games alone - to say nothing of the playoff rounds - made me almost $5,000. So as a season ticket holder, I'm deprived of a prime money-making opportunity and I'm upset and disappointed, but not ashamed.
After the Bruins lost, there were a number of angry Tweets aimed at the Capitals and the dude who scored the overtime game-winner, Joel Ward. That would normally make me grimly happy, but not ashamed.
I'm ashamed because rather than call Ward lucky, or a hack, or a no-talent bum, or a flopper, or any one of a dozen things you can say about a hockey player when you don't like him, a good many of these tweets called him a nigger.
And that makes me ashamed. Because it reinforces every negative stereotype about Bostonians, about the complexion of hockey fans, and the ignorance of the world around us.
This guy, Joel Ward, he'll never be confused with one of hockey's bright lights. He spent 10 years between major junior and the AHL before breaking in to the bigs five years ago. Never scored more than 20 goals - scored 6 goals all regular season. Just one of hockey's grinders on a third or fourth line - if he's on your team you like him OK and if he's not he's just a random piece of shit enemy sweater. And that's all good; hockey is a game where it's ok to hate your opponent, in fact it makes for better hockey when you do. And of course fans follow suit, and that's OK too. And yes, he's one of the few black hockey players in the league.
But to call him a nigger is just embarrassing to the game. To take what has to be thus far his career highlight - literally the highest point he's attained in a lifetime of hockey - and cheapen and degrade it by calling him a nigger is just the lowest thing you can do. And it's not like these tweets just shout the word at him and call it a day. Here are some examples (and I'm including the name of the sender in hopes that someone out there flames him but good):
Joel ward you fucking nigger you suck 6 goals all season you fucking plug nigger bitch
stupid nigger go play basketball hockey is a white sport zvanasse30
It sucks that the nigger scored the goal. colinalexanderr
Do I need to go on? Jesus Christ! It's 2012! I don't mean to sound naive but I'm kind of surprised that this level of hatred still exists.
As a kid growing up in suburban Boston, a period when the B's made the Stanley Cup Finals three times in six years (70, 72, 74) and won twice, my childhood was Bruins-heavy. We had a Bobby Orr jigsaw puzzle. Every family had ceramic Orr and Espo figurines in their house. And even though I didn't become a ravenous hockey fan until some time later (think Bourque - Neely - Janney, about 25 years ago), the Bruins were kind of the birthright of every Bostonian my age. And until now it was something I could take pride in.
But these idiots and their ignorant rants against this guy - I just can't believe it. It stuns me.
Listen, say what you want about the guy: he's got limited talent, he got supremely lucky being in the right place at the right time for the juiciest rebound known to mankind, whatever. That's actually true (even though the least talented NHL player still has more talent in his pinky than 20 amateur players). But to call him a nigger in a rant is classless and low, and those who do it denigrate the sport and the team that they purport to love.
One of the very first things I ever wrote was an observation that we as a society give words more power than they deserve, and I still believe that. I yearn for the day where the word nigger transitions in meaning to "dude" or "guy" and has all racial connotation stripped from it - in other words to rob the word of its negative power - but that day has not yet come. This whole episode is just sad.
I think this is what the people of Vancouver felt when they looked up from their tv's having lost the finals last year to find their city in flames: embarrassed for their city and tarred and feathered by the brush of public opinion, even though they themselves did nothing.
The hockey world - indeed the world at large - has a darker view of Bostonians today because of these people and their ignorance, and I have a difficult time saying that the world is wrong.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Day 1 in the Can, I'm Nobody's Biggest Fan, Are You Sure You're a Man?
So it's just after midnight, Tootsie is snoring softly and contentedly in a comfy chair, and I'm back from a session at the tables that provided decidedly mixed results. I'm a little tired so I'll leave the snark behind and just go over a few key hands.
Key Hand 1: Second hand overall. AhKh. Raised PF, called by seat 2. Seat 2 checks flop blind. I bet out maybe 2/3 pot. Snaps. Turn a fourth high card. I bet around 35, get snapped again. River brings a 10 that gives me Broadway. Seat 2 checks dark again, I bet huge, he calls, I win. I haven't sat down for five minutes and I'm up $133.
KH2: KK. It was raised to me to 12, I re-raise to 35. Two callers. Ace comes up on flop, bet and raise in front of me. I weep a little for the hardness of the world and fold.
KH3: A7s00ted, raised in front of me. Called enthusiastically. Whiff the flop, cbet, take it anyway.
KH4: 1010. Raise pre. Flop KKA. Someone bets in front of me. Foldyroo.
KH5: KK. Raised to 6. I re-raise to 25. Two callers. K on flop. I bet big with shaky hand and I swear to god I think my penis came out of my pants. Everyone folds. I curse myself.
KH6: KK yet again. I raise big. Seat 10, whom I honestly do not know is male or female, calls with J8. Turns a straight. I hate s/him. This one lost me a lot of money.
KH7: J10. Raise, 1 caller. J on flop. Bet, call. Turn, bet, call. Starting to get spooked. River is check check. He has me outpipped with JQ. Lost a lot of money on this one too.
KH8: AQh. raise, 1 caller. Flop comes AQ7. bet, raise, shove, call. He has a set of 7's. I rant a little bit, not at him but at the world in general. At this point I'm down to about $90.
KH9: AA UTG. Raise to 6. Folded around to seat 2 (a different guy from hand 1). He raises to 15. Shove, call. AA holds up and the Kid is BACK BABY!!
There were a few small wins after that, but I realized that it was almost 1:00 AM and I was turning Tootsie into a poker widow. I colored up my white chips, toked the dealer and tipped my cap. Final Day 1 tally: up $26. Not the best day but it beats a sharp stick to the eye.
One downer, on my AA hand, as it was running, he turns over his KK and with a knowing look, says to me, "aces?" I nod with what I hoped was sympathy and said, "sorry. Well, not really, but you know what I mean." And I realized that that was a pretty shitty thing to say. And for some reason rather than immediately apologizing and saying that I didn't intend to sound like a jackass, I just said nothing - so he's the guy who's not my biggest fan I mentioned in the title to this post.
Will keep y'all posted about Day 2 when it's done. Meantime, stay cool mah brothers and sisters.
Key Hand 1: Second hand overall. AhKh. Raised PF, called by seat 2. Seat 2 checks flop blind. I bet out maybe 2/3 pot. Snaps. Turn a fourth high card. I bet around 35, get snapped again. River brings a 10 that gives me Broadway. Seat 2 checks dark again, I bet huge, he calls, I win. I haven't sat down for five minutes and I'm up $133.
KH2: KK. It was raised to me to 12, I re-raise to 35. Two callers. Ace comes up on flop, bet and raise in front of me. I weep a little for the hardness of the world and fold.
KH3: A7s00ted, raised in front of me. Called enthusiastically. Whiff the flop, cbet, take it anyway.
KH4: 1010. Raise pre. Flop KKA. Someone bets in front of me. Foldyroo.
KH5: KK. Raised to 6. I re-raise to 25. Two callers. K on flop. I bet big with shaky hand and I swear to god I think my penis came out of my pants. Everyone folds. I curse myself.
KH6: KK yet again. I raise big. Seat 10, whom I honestly do not know is male or female, calls with J8. Turns a straight. I hate s/him. This one lost me a lot of money.
KH7: J10. Raise, 1 caller. J on flop. Bet, call. Turn, bet, call. Starting to get spooked. River is check check. He has me outpipped with JQ. Lost a lot of money on this one too.
KH8: AQh. raise, 1 caller. Flop comes AQ7. bet, raise, shove, call. He has a set of 7's. I rant a little bit, not at him but at the world in general. At this point I'm down to about $90.
KH9: AA UTG. Raise to 6. Folded around to seat 2 (a different guy from hand 1). He raises to 15. Shove, call. AA holds up and the Kid is BACK BABY!!
There were a few small wins after that, but I realized that it was almost 1:00 AM and I was turning Tootsie into a poker widow. I colored up my white chips, toked the dealer and tipped my cap. Final Day 1 tally: up $26. Not the best day but it beats a sharp stick to the eye.
One downer, on my AA hand, as it was running, he turns over his KK and with a knowing look, says to me, "aces?" I nod with what I hoped was sympathy and said, "sorry. Well, not really, but you know what I mean." And I realized that that was a pretty shitty thing to say. And for some reason rather than immediately apologizing and saying that I didn't intend to sound like a jackass, I just said nothing - so he's the guy who's not my biggest fan I mentioned in the title to this post.
Will keep y'all posted about Day 2 when it's done. Meantime, stay cool mah brothers and sisters.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Bringing the Funny, Fifth Grade Style
Well Blogger has "upgraded" me to the new interface, so now I get to see what all the kerfuffle is about and perhaps encounter the same paragraph rendering issue that Auntie Jo did. So as a test I thought I'd tell a funny story about one time when we were at the Garden, taking in a Bruins game.
(per duggle, making a small edit and re-testing)
(note to Boston sports team haters: at very least until tomorrow, my Boston Bruins are the defending Stanley Cup champions, and even if they lose tomorrow to Ovechkin and the Caps, they still bring the pain in a big way and are every inch the squad that team president Cam Neely wanted to build: a tough, scrappy, grinding-in-the-corners team that will outwork you and be a difficult team to play, win lose or draw. So haters: suck it.)
So anyway one thing that Josie and I have in common is that neither one of us particularly likes the standard stadium food offerings. An overcooked sausage that's been sitting in its own grease for three hours on a soggy bun? No thank you. If I'm there and hungry I usually make a beeline for the deli kiosk, who will sell you a real sandwich - like corned beef with mustard on a roll, just like real food purveyors - and it's as delicious as a $9 sandwich ought to be.
This particular day I got the afore-mentioned corned beef, made in front of me, beef right off the slicer, piled high and lovingly on a bun and bedecked with mustard from a squeeze bottle that made a farty noise just like it should. Jos got some other sandwich that had been pre-made and was disappointed with it, I seem to recall. So ostensibly to make her feel better I started laying a little foundation of "eh, you know, this sandwich isn't really that great," etc. I picked up my pickle wedge - half-sour, my very favoritest kind of pickle in all of pickledom - and made a face like it smelled bad. I handed it to her and said "smell this and tell me if you think it's right." She leaned in and gave it a smell - and I in my big booming baritone yelled "PICKLE SNIFFER!!" It was so funny that even she laughed.
Comedy gold, my friends. Comedy gold. Yes, you can take it and use it for yourself, and I'll tell you in advance: you're welcome.
OK, here we go, let's see if I have paragraphs.
(per duggle, making a small edit and re-testing)
(note to Boston sports team haters: at very least until tomorrow, my Boston Bruins are the defending Stanley Cup champions, and even if they lose tomorrow to Ovechkin and the Caps, they still bring the pain in a big way and are every inch the squad that team president Cam Neely wanted to build: a tough, scrappy, grinding-in-the-corners team that will outwork you and be a difficult team to play, win lose or draw. So haters: suck it.)
So anyway one thing that Josie and I have in common is that neither one of us particularly likes the standard stadium food offerings. An overcooked sausage that's been sitting in its own grease for three hours on a soggy bun? No thank you. If I'm there and hungry I usually make a beeline for the deli kiosk, who will sell you a real sandwich - like corned beef with mustard on a roll, just like real food purveyors - and it's as delicious as a $9 sandwich ought to be.
This particular day I got the afore-mentioned corned beef, made in front of me, beef right off the slicer, piled high and lovingly on a bun and bedecked with mustard from a squeeze bottle that made a farty noise just like it should. Jos got some other sandwich that had been pre-made and was disappointed with it, I seem to recall. So ostensibly to make her feel better I started laying a little foundation of "eh, you know, this sandwich isn't really that great," etc. I picked up my pickle wedge - half-sour, my very favoritest kind of pickle in all of pickledom - and made a face like it smelled bad. I handed it to her and said "smell this and tell me if you think it's right." She leaned in and gave it a smell - and I in my big booming baritone yelled "PICKLE SNIFFER!!" It was so funny that even she laughed.
Comedy gold, my friends. Comedy gold. Yes, you can take it and use it for yourself, and I'll tell you in advance: you're welcome.
OK, here we go, let's see if I have paragraphs.
Monday, April 23, 2012
In Which I Give "Ouch" a Concrete Definition
Those of you who know me, really know me, will understand the thundering impact of this statement: Today I went to the doctor.
For those of you who don't know me: I fucking hate doctors. Hate them hate them hate them. I hate doctors and I hate hospitals even worse.
Why? Doctors will only tell you bad news. Period. Your blood pressure is high. Your blood sugar is high. You're eleventy billion pounds overweight. Your dad was dead by the time he got here. It never ends with these people.
They're cold and detached and yes, I know that to an extent they have to be, because if they let themselves feel emotion about death they'd cease to be effective, but I don't have to fucking like it, and I don't.
Anyway I promised Tootsie that if by Monday I was still in pain from the fall I took, that I would head up to the urgent care facility. I was, so I did. And they took X-rays and poked me and prodded me. Someone purporting to be a doctor stuck two fingers in my ass. I did not let the fact that he was not wearing gloves, nor the fact that under his lab coat he was wearing a UPS uniform, stop me from enjoying myself.
Bottom line, I am the proud owner of two broken ribs, whom I've named Mary Kate and Ashley, both for their similarity to the alledgedly anorexic twins and to each other. I was given a four-day course of pain killers and told that I could expect pain of this nature for three weeks. I was not given ample time to ponder the wisdom of that sufficiently, else I would have pointed out the seeming disparity there.
Now I would like to send out a message to certain people, they know who they are, who suggested I get looked at by a doctor: There. You happy now? I saw a god damned doctor. In response to my question regarding treatment options for broken ribs, she actually used the expression "We don't do anything." So I almost killed myself getting out of a wet shower, endured pain getting into and out of my car to the tune of getting kicked in the ribs six fucking times, and disrobed in front of four total strangers (five, if you include the UPS guy, but really by that point, Spencer and I were not exactly strangers), only to be given a short supply of some limp-wristed painkillers and sent on my way. I'm never listening to you ever again!
Finally, one very profitable poker hand to share with you. It fucking kills me to say it, but I owe this one at least partially to Josie: I called a standard PF raise with J10 suited despite being in bad position, like UTG +2 I think. But the flop - oh, that magical flop - came A J 10 rainbow. I bet decent sized and quickly, to hopefully give the impression that I was just c-betting and that someone had an A. Two folds and an insta-call and I was heads-up. Turn blanks. Another quick bet, about 2/3 pot or close to it, and another quick call. River blanks and I'm only vulnerable to KQ, a few sets, or a freak aces up. Same old: quick bet, now around $30 or $40, and a snap call. And just this once, the poker gods saw fit to run this one exactly to plan, all praise and glory to the poker gods, ommmmmmm, and my two pair held up. And yet another player who put too much faith in top pair learns a sharp lesson. Or doesn't. And I'm like $80 up.
So there you go: Mary Kate, Ashley and I are going to relax on the couch. I'll try and update mid-trip.
For those of you who don't know me: I fucking hate doctors. Hate them hate them hate them. I hate doctors and I hate hospitals even worse.
Why? Doctors will only tell you bad news. Period. Your blood pressure is high. Your blood sugar is high. You're eleventy billion pounds overweight. Your dad was dead by the time he got here. It never ends with these people.
They're cold and detached and yes, I know that to an extent they have to be, because if they let themselves feel emotion about death they'd cease to be effective, but I don't have to fucking like it, and I don't.
Anyway I promised Tootsie that if by Monday I was still in pain from the fall I took, that I would head up to the urgent care facility. I was, so I did. And they took X-rays and poked me and prodded me. Someone purporting to be a doctor stuck two fingers in my ass. I did not let the fact that he was not wearing gloves, nor the fact that under his lab coat he was wearing a UPS uniform, stop me from enjoying myself.
Bottom line, I am the proud owner of two broken ribs, whom I've named Mary Kate and Ashley, both for their similarity to the alledgedly anorexic twins and to each other. I was given a four-day course of pain killers and told that I could expect pain of this nature for three weeks. I was not given ample time to ponder the wisdom of that sufficiently, else I would have pointed out the seeming disparity there.
Now I would like to send out a message to certain people, they know who they are, who suggested I get looked at by a doctor: There. You happy now? I saw a god damned doctor. In response to my question regarding treatment options for broken ribs, she actually used the expression "We don't do anything." So I almost killed myself getting out of a wet shower, endured pain getting into and out of my car to the tune of getting kicked in the ribs six fucking times, and disrobed in front of four total strangers (five, if you include the UPS guy, but really by that point, Spencer and I were not exactly strangers), only to be given a short supply of some limp-wristed painkillers and sent on my way. I'm never listening to you ever again!
Finally, one very profitable poker hand to share with you. It fucking kills me to say it, but I owe this one at least partially to Josie: I called a standard PF raise with J10 suited despite being in bad position, like UTG +2 I think. But the flop - oh, that magical flop - came A J 10 rainbow. I bet decent sized and quickly, to hopefully give the impression that I was just c-betting and that someone had an A. Two folds and an insta-call and I was heads-up. Turn blanks. Another quick bet, about 2/3 pot or close to it, and another quick call. River blanks and I'm only vulnerable to KQ, a few sets, or a freak aces up. Same old: quick bet, now around $30 or $40, and a snap call. And just this once, the poker gods saw fit to run this one exactly to plan, all praise and glory to the poker gods, ommmmmmm, and my two pair held up. And yet another player who put too much faith in top pair learns a sharp lesson. Or doesn't. And I'm like $80 up.
So there you go: Mary Kate, Ashley and I are going to relax on the couch. I'll try and update mid-trip.
A Trip Back to Where it All Began
Tomorrow, Toots and I are heading to Uncasville to spend a couple of days basking in the gratis glory of the Mohegan Sun Casino. She was the recipient of a gesture of largesse from her boss, who told her to get out of here, you crazy kids, and have a good time.
So I will be spending most of my time in the poker room, hoping the list for the $1/$2NL game isn't that long, and hoping for all the world that I don't duplicate the results of the last time I played poker there - which was actually the very first time I ever sat down at the felt and compared my skill to that of others.
It did not go well.
It was around 2002 or 2003. It was right around Moneymaker time - but I had caught the bug the previous year, with Robert Varkonyi. Does anyone remember him? He was this nebbish little dude who never played a big tournament and who won the 2002 WSOP and 2 million squeeds. By the way, no flash in the pan, he; thus far he's cashed in three WSOP main events, finishing 177th out of over 6,000 in 2007 for over 50 grand, and cashing small in 2011, around 500th place or so. Anyway, for me, it was Varkonyi who captured my imagination, so I perceived myself as having a one-year head start over everyone else. So brimming with completely unfounded confidence I walked into the poker room, found a 2-4 limit table with an empty seat, and sat down.
It was then that I learned that one doesn't just sit down at a poker table, that there is a desk at which one must register, and that I should hie myself there and get out of that seat right the hell away.
You know how it goes from there, right? We all probably remember our first time with a wince and a cringe. I tried checking pre-flop, I stuck money in with hands I had zero business being in, and generally wore a big sign that said "N00b fishcake" in big letters, that lit up when it was dark.
I remember nobody at the table saying a word, but I caught a few sideways glances which spoke volumes. Let me tell you guys something: the old saw that says "look around the table - if you can't spot the fish, it's you" was 100% accurate for me.
I lost my stake in perhaps 45 hard-charging minutes, and I vowed that I wouldn't sit down at a casino poker table again unless and until I got a lot better. It was an expensive education. It took me a while to figure out, for example, that I preferred NL to FL; longer still to realize that I'm shit in tournaments but reasonably successful in cash games. In fact, a propos of nothing, I sat down last night at BCP for a $.50/$1NL game and was up by almost a full buy-in before I started falling asleep and giving some of it back. God help me, I just love winning at poker.
Of course every bit of knowledge or insight I gained came at a cost; when FullTilt (ptooey! I spit on their grave) was around I would bust out regularly and have to refill my account. But eventually I got the requisite 100,000 hands under my belt and learned the thousand or so things you need to know about the odds, one's opponent, and oneself to make a go at being a successful poker player.
At this point the biggest hole in my game is my reaction to a losing session. Logically, intellectually, I know that I will have a losing session here and there; but they really spook me, so much so that no matter how much success I've been having, a losing session will prevent me from driving to Foxwoods and playing cards for months. I have to learn to handle that better; to realize that it's part of the game, and that hitting one's stop-loss means get up from the table, head over to the buffet (after first making sure that it's prime rib at the carving station), drown my sorrows in sweet meat drippins, and drive home.
I have had enough success at 1/2NL that I'm ahead at that game, so logic would dictate that I should keep playing, which will have the added side benefit of me getting better. I should, I ought to, I'd better - hollow phrases all, that shrink next to a phrase like I will. Overcoming that is the next mountain to climb, and if I make that, there actually might be some real money coming my way.
I really ought to try. In any event, that's where I'll be this week. I'll let you know how I do.
So I will be spending most of my time in the poker room, hoping the list for the $1/$2NL game isn't that long, and hoping for all the world that I don't duplicate the results of the last time I played poker there - which was actually the very first time I ever sat down at the felt and compared my skill to that of others.
It did not go well.
It was around 2002 or 2003. It was right around Moneymaker time - but I had caught the bug the previous year, with Robert Varkonyi. Does anyone remember him? He was this nebbish little dude who never played a big tournament and who won the 2002 WSOP and 2 million squeeds. By the way, no flash in the pan, he; thus far he's cashed in three WSOP main events, finishing 177th out of over 6,000 in 2007 for over 50 grand, and cashing small in 2011, around 500th place or so. Anyway, for me, it was Varkonyi who captured my imagination, so I perceived myself as having a one-year head start over everyone else. So brimming with completely unfounded confidence I walked into the poker room, found a 2-4 limit table with an empty seat, and sat down.
It was then that I learned that one doesn't just sit down at a poker table, that there is a desk at which one must register, and that I should hie myself there and get out of that seat right the hell away.
You know how it goes from there, right? We all probably remember our first time with a wince and a cringe. I tried checking pre-flop, I stuck money in with hands I had zero business being in, and generally wore a big sign that said "N00b fishcake" in big letters, that lit up when it was dark.
I remember nobody at the table saying a word, but I caught a few sideways glances which spoke volumes. Let me tell you guys something: the old saw that says "look around the table - if you can't spot the fish, it's you" was 100% accurate for me.
I lost my stake in perhaps 45 hard-charging minutes, and I vowed that I wouldn't sit down at a casino poker table again unless and until I got a lot better. It was an expensive education. It took me a while to figure out, for example, that I preferred NL to FL; longer still to realize that I'm shit in tournaments but reasonably successful in cash games. In fact, a propos of nothing, I sat down last night at BCP for a $.50/$1NL game and was up by almost a full buy-in before I started falling asleep and giving some of it back. God help me, I just love winning at poker.
Of course every bit of knowledge or insight I gained came at a cost; when FullTilt (ptooey! I spit on their grave) was around I would bust out regularly and have to refill my account. But eventually I got the requisite 100,000 hands under my belt and learned the thousand or so things you need to know about the odds, one's opponent, and oneself to make a go at being a successful poker player.
At this point the biggest hole in my game is my reaction to a losing session. Logically, intellectually, I know that I will have a losing session here and there; but they really spook me, so much so that no matter how much success I've been having, a losing session will prevent me from driving to Foxwoods and playing cards for months. I have to learn to handle that better; to realize that it's part of the game, and that hitting one's stop-loss means get up from the table, head over to the buffet (after first making sure that it's prime rib at the carving station), drown my sorrows in sweet meat drippins, and drive home.
I have had enough success at 1/2NL that I'm ahead at that game, so logic would dictate that I should keep playing, which will have the added side benefit of me getting better. I should, I ought to, I'd better - hollow phrases all, that shrink next to a phrase like I will. Overcoming that is the next mountain to climb, and if I make that, there actually might be some real money coming my way.
I really ought to try. In any event, that's where I'll be this week. I'll let you know how I do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)