|random thoughts and thoroughbred selections|
|"All life is 6-5 against" - Damon Runyon|
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Friday Night, 5PM
JS: You wanna do something tonight?
BG: Yeah, sure... I have an idea though. Are you sitting down?
JS: How soon can you get here?
And so it began. Little River Casino, about 100 minutes North of where I'm at, but accessible nonetheless. I wanted to get a little live poker under the belt before Vegas, and I knew JS would be up for it. He was, and we hit the road.
I got seated right away at a new $100 min/max buyin NL table ($1/$2 blinds), and we were under way.
I dropped a buy-in on hand one. Did I mention that? No? Well, I'm a fucking retard sometimes, and thought I could maybe buy some dude out of the pot. Top and bottom pair for two pair for the dude, and I missed my flush. RELOAD!
There were a couple hands of note:
I was sitting between a married couple, about my age. The wife had fantastic tits. Just like I like a girl - pretty face, curvy as hell, big tits. Awesome. Anyway, I was the button and the husband was the SB. I was dealt TT and with six (!) already in the pot in front of me, I just limped. SB completed, BB checked.
Flop came KT9 rainbow.
Checks from the blinds, UTG opens for $10, folds around to me and I raise to $35. I've got $55 left in my stack.
SB check-raises all-in. He's got me and the UTG guy covered.
UTG folded, and I took a long time to figure this out. I looked at him and said, "You know, the big neon sign over your head is saying QUEEN JACK, QUEEN JACK." I got a reprimand for saying that from the dealer, as "speculating" wasn't allowed - not even if it was only a call/fold situation for me at best. Whatever.
I thought about it, and figured he couldn't have KK, and I was willing to risk he didn't have QJ.
I called, he turned over K9 and didn't improve. I doubled up to $185. Awesome.
Over the next little while I rolled all the way up to the $260 neighborhood, making my first buy-in back, and then some.
Then I ran into this hand. JJ on the button.
The solid player in EP opened up for $15 pre-flop. I called.
Flop came 943 rainbow. EP bet $15, I called.
Turn was an 8. EP bet $25, I called.
River was an Ace. Action killer for me. I figured he was on Ace/Big, or maybe possibly a bigger pair than me - although I didn't think so. He bet $30, I folded face up. Half the table (the idiots and morons) oohed and ahhed.
Dude turned over pocket threes. He raised in EP to $15 on a $1/$2 table, and except for that Ace it couldn't have fallen any better for him. Caught his set, was against a bigger pair than the board, and disguised his monster so well that I had no clue all the way down. Probably a brilliant strategy on his part, although Iggy said (after analyzing my play) that I was lucky I didn't lose more money on that one. I guess calling and not raising like a chickenshit isn't always the worst strategy.
Anyway, went from $100 down instantly to cashing out $6 up for the night (three hours). Felt good about my play, and got in a little blackjack (down $50) on the way out the door too.
Vegas cannot get here fast enough.
Auntie PitBull over at Poker Perspectives had a piece she posted sometime yesterday regarding finding the World's Perfect Underwear.
I, of course, immediately advised her to cease and desist all underwear shopping talk from her poker blog post haste, as I have obtained a patent or trademark or hold all rights reserved and do not remember having her ask the NFL permission to rebroadcast their game without their express legal consent.
She has since apologized, and I had since tried my best to rebut her claim that I may "one day stumble onto perfection" and find that perfect underwear myself.
Actually, I believe I have found said underwear. However, in a case of too little/too late, I have likely put myself in a position of scouring department store last-chance potpourri resellers and - gasp - ebay (link to the underwear in question), to try and secure America's last remaining unworn pairs of these boxer briefs.
I struggled to find a picture of this underwear for you, but came up empty online (except for this ebay auction). I actually tried to take a picture on my own, but wasn't about to try a self-portrait showing off my nearly translucent skin (but well-shapen ass). I then found that filling the underwear with plastic bags and Amazon.com's inflatable packing material would help them stand on my kitchen island for photo purposes, but the overall "cottage cheese" effect was neither funny nor not a sad statement on my Saturday night social life.
So I went virtua-shopping to try to find a cheesy men's underwear site to which I might dupe you into thinking I was buying things like this from their catalog. I thought better of it. But then I wandered a little bit around the site and saw this.
Who recognizes this? Anyone? Anyone?
That is likely from the same manufacturer that produces Melissa here (safe for work). Yes, instead of paying a model for a few hours of her time, this retailer instead has purchased fully articulated sex toys for roughly $6500 apiece to permanently model her underpants.
Instead of spending $6499.00 plus $450.00 shipping and handling on a sex partner, you could probably fly Elena into your life via the Frantana Russian Amputee Matchmaking Service. Really, this is the best thing that could have come from Chernobyl. I bet you could get thirty days of sex, a wedding, and twenty years of sullen resentment for that same $6499 (plus $450 s&h).
I could be wrong, and I kinda hope I am, but in the spirit of the absurdity of the REALDOLL, here's their FAQ (not exactly a cut/paste job here or anything):
* What sort of people buy REALDOLL? - If you're somewhere between cutting holes in a watermelon and sneaking into the house of the lady across the street to sniff her shoes, REALDOLL is for you.
Al pointed out to me today that Shane @ the Nickerblog is signed up to play in next week's blogger tourney in Vegas.
Go read the post which I've linked on Shane's name, and file away the following for use in putting good ol' Shane on tilt early and often:
"Wow, I can't believe I hit my two-outer! You know what they say... Any given Sunday..."
(Turning over pocket Queens to match one on the board for a set) "Look Shane, Charlie's Angels."
(If he plays pocket Queens) "Nice job Shane. Charlie's Angels: full throttle."
(While raking in a pot) "Thanks for calling there Shane, that was just the sweetest thing."
(While staring him down to get a read) "Aw Shane, don't hide behind the mask."
"Is it still cloudy outside? Looked like a vanilla sky to me."
(After showing him a bluff) "Look at these two Shane, they're some very bad things."
(After catching a miracle) "I must be living a life less ordinary to land a hand like that!"
"C'mon Shane, don't take all day to decide. I have to stand up in my best friend's wedding later today."
(Hopefully after losing a pot to the Minnesota crew) "What's the matter Shane? Not feeling Minnesota?"
(Spiking a Queen on the river for the win) "Ooh, she's the one!"
And, of course...
"C'mon Shane, show us what you had. Enquiring minds want to know!"
I'll be passing out laminated cards with the aforementioned quotes to everyone seated with Shane prior to the tourney. Nothing like being prepared.
(Just kidding, it's all love my man...)
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
It's Late, Here's Part II
Urge to ramble? Why not?
Bounced out of the tourney tonight in forty-something-est place, which wasn't so bad considering I was goofing around just a little too much at the outset. I did manage though to push about $25 of profit into the plus column playing $1/$2 for the 90 minutes prior. Good stuff.
It was good to see some of the usual suspects, and some of the unusual as well. We actually had a Grubby sighting, which is a good sign. God knows he can walk into a Kroger out there and play slots for a couple hours, so every hour spent not pulling a lever is an hour he can chalk up to the "marginally more productive" column.
I kid... far be it from me to rip on him for gambling -EV games like that. I mean, if money were no object, I'd be between the track and the craps/blackjack tables far more than poker anyway. Not that I'm necessarily any good at any of those games, but damned if I don't enjoy the shit out of the action. I'd much rather be actively playing blackjack than passively folding rags at the poker tables. Either way I barely know what I'm doing, but at least I'm doing something along the way, right?
So to prepare my liver for Vegas in just over eight days, I've been in Southern Comfort training for about three weeks now. Almost every night over that span I've had at least one double SoCo Manhattan, and have certainly consumed my share of maraschino cherries along the way. Maybe, at some point soon, I'll feel good enough to bring Scotch back into the equation.
This, of course, spawns a quick short story.
I'm a Michigan State kid, and when I was in school up there we had a pretty decent basketball team. Better than our football team, less good than our basketball team is now. Anyway, these were the Respert/Snow "Fire and Ice" teams, and back (around) 1995 we made the NCAA Tournament and had an opening round game against Utah's own Weber State University and their star guard Harold "The Show" Arcenaux (which I've got to be misspelling). My boy Stinky came over to watch the game, and since he was always "well-equipped," he brought a pretty damn good bag of green. I provided a fifth of Chivas.
Steve and I split the bag, smoking constantly through the game. I also started in on the Scotch. Big time. Stink had a glass, I knocked off the bottle.
And a whole fucking bunch of weed.
And I woke up the next morning, late March, on the cement slab bordering the pool area at about 6AM. My apartment door wide open, wearing sweats and a tee picking gravel out of the side of my face.
I've never been that drunk before or since, and I've got to figure a whole bottle of Scotch and three hours of bong hits probably don't mix.
Since that point, I've had a stretch with SoCo Manhattans (a wagon I'm back on - or off, however that works) and Bombay Sapphire Gin, but damned if I don't miss Scotch maybe a little extra special much.
In the words of Rod Burgundy, "Scotchy scotch scotch..." Man, I miss the stuff.
Oh, and weed. It's no longer "socially acceptable" to be a smoker. Or something like that. It's hard to listen to Redman on my iPod (currently) and not think about getting baked. Dammit.
Actually, I bonded with that ex-stripper I used to date over a bong. That's really where our relationship was born. I kissed her for the first time in a darkened living room in my college house while the closing credits of the C. Thomas Howell epic "Soul Man" played in the background. The song over the credits is one of those 80s songs intended for widespread play at Proms and Homecoming dances from coast to coast, and certainly had a high cheese factor to go along with it. I pulled her away a minute or two into the song and said, "You know, if this were 1986, we'd be so cliche right now."
I'm pretty sure that was the comment that got me into her pants. Not that that should be chalked up as an Everest-caliber accomplishment. She fucked everyone in my circle except the friend of mine that fell for her first. Poor guy got a heart tattoo with a fissure down the top and a keyhole. Then he gives her an antique key on a rope, and tells her that she holds the key to his heart.
Or something. Didn't work. I got to pork her though, and I'll be the first to avow he wasn't missing a ton.
Or I'm really, really terrible in bed. At least I don't usually have to shower after. Three minutes is hardly enough time to get sweaty.
She was a stripper back in the day, and had admitted to getting paid previously for "extra efforts" at a bachelor party. Of course, in college that's a tick in the plus column. I'd have banged a reformed Haitian whore for the cache in those days. Shit, nothing beats telling your buddies "my ex-girlfriend used to pork that guy from 'The Real World.'" Which is true, actually.
So I've basically got no more than three degrees between me and any MTV Real World personality due to this fact. I also only have three degrees between me and the President (a friend works for a Congressman, who has direct ties to GWB), and met the guy who played the human cop on the TV version of "Alien Nation" at a golf outing.
So fuck y'all, I'm prime time.
Here's a little mental telepathy for you. I went back and edited this paragraph out, go ahead and assume you're reading something entirely different right now, and tell me if you're seeing the circle, square, star, or wavy lines on the back of the card using only your mind. Go ahead. I'll wait.
See you tomorrow.
Part II Coming Up
We've got to quit meeting like this.
Either that, or I've gotta cut down on writing those posts of lamentation (uh, see below) when I'm having a lousy day at work. Seriously, the only thing that brought me any joy today at all (besides the companionship my friends give me on the IM all day was stumbling across a name that just made me giddy.
The (presumably) guy's first name was "Dhamodaran." How bad did I want to ask him "What's your price for flight?"
Go ahead... sound it out. I'll still be here.
I couldn't get it out of my head all afternoon. There you go.
Maybe my irritation is carrying over from the weekend. I mean, Saturday I got soundly smoked at the track, and Sunday afternoon I dropped $45 in 45 minutes playing $1/$2. I should have let one of those hands go, but on two others it was me versus the table maniac who happened to land just marginally better hands to my semi-monsters.
Whatever, it's only money. But then I flipped on "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."
What's wrong with white people? Seriously. I ask again, "What the fuck is wrong with white people?"
Now, the crew visited a reservation in Arizona to build a house for a Native American couple whose daughter had been the first female casualty in the Iraqi War. They were good people, took in their daughter's children when she was killed, and really deserved a good deed.
By the way, the soldier in question was the roommate and best friend of Jessica Lynch, which I'm sure was a pure sweeps week coincedence.
Anyway, these fucking white people... everything is soooo spiritual, and the dead soldier's spirit was guiding them, and they were trying to become one with nature and the sky and that was the daughter's spirit in the wind and oh my god would you people just shut the fuck up?!? Do you do this when you run into Christians? Buddhists? Black people? "It's so wonderful these people and their four hundred years of oppression just making them soooo strong! Let's go sit in the desert for ten minutes and pretend we know what it was like in the shoes of their ancestors!"
Look, I'm all for doing good things for good people, and this show gets it right far more often than it gets it wrong - even at its most syrupy. But is it possible for white people to respect the diversity of other people without putting on a grass skirt and doing the hula with a tear of contrived emotion escaping from their eyes? Can we treat Native Americans with respect and equality without putting a feather in our hair and pretending we know jack-about-shit about the "spirits of our elders?"
Goddamn, I haven't been this embarrassed to be white since Bill Maher told Jiminy Glick "Your arms are too short to box with God." And if you saw that, you're with me so far.
What that show needs is a snarky gay guy. Seriously. Too many tears being shed, you need some condescending levity to balance it out.
Insult to injury today, my "lucky numbers" on my Michigan Lottery scratch-off ticket (well, one of my tickets anyway) were 02 and 19. Why is that significant? Ex-wife's birthdate. Oh, and last time we talked? She had forgotten mine.
No, the ticket wasn't a winner. But I am amused that the "wrong" numbers they print on the losing tickets are oh-so-very-close to the "lucky" ones. I mean, they could just throw 88 and 76 and 54 up there, and I don't come any closer to winning than 01 and 20 and 18 get me. I want to meet the retard that says "Almost Merlene! Tear me off another one of them Money Multipliers!"
Oh, and Al? I did buy $10 worth of lottery tickets for the Mega Millions lotto tonight. Al promised he'd do the same in the Powerball and we'd split whoever wins, which works out beautifully for me. The Mega is at $70M, and the Powerball is $180M. Now that's a deal. I'm getting a $110M overlay on Al. Ha!
Don't forget about Pauly's freeroll on Noble tonight. I've gotta eat and get something to drink before the 9PM tourney. Back atcha later.
Tony Pierce had a terrific post yesterday about Blogger Burnout. In it, he detailed the following:
heres when you will experience "blogger burnout":Sheesh.
#s 1,2,3,5,7,9 Not Guilty
#s 4,6,8,10 Guilty As Charged
I don't know that I could remotely come close to adding to this list, because it's a great barometer indicating when a blog goes from casual and improvisationally motivated, to self-conscious and unreadable. I think there's a little bit of me that's burned out, and certainly a lot bit of me that's teetering on the brink of self-conscious. Ask Pauly. He'd agree.
As for Tony's list...
1. when your internal dialogue gets hijacked by your concerns about what your readers will think. - I've become a different sort of blogger since people started reading me. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but different nonetheless. Instead of the 5,000 word brain dump I had been doing three to five days a week, I'm picking and choosing my spots and content now. Why? Some of it is burnout to be sure, but I'll get into the other reasons below.So am I burned out? Yeah, to some extent. There have just been too many times lately where I've been too wrapped up "in my writing" to just pop open Notepad and start typing. For better or for worse, I've went from "goofy blogger" to "writer" in my head, and I don't think that's necessarily a fair self-assessment. I mean, am I a writer? Sure. Frankly, I always have been. Anyone (and I mean anyone) who puts forth the effort to create written word for someone else's consumption can and should call themselves a writer. But one article in a "major publication" and I start getting sensitive about my content.
I really have got to knock this shit off and get back to basics. Vegas couldn't be coming at a better time for me, as all these experiences are definitely going to give me (and the rest of us) the stories I (we) need to just get back to nuts and bolts. More than anything, I'm looking forward to sitting at my computer upon my return, and hammering out 2500 words about the previous weekend with a grin from ear-to-ear.
Until then? You have my commitment that I will stop trying to be a better blogger, and just fucking write again. I miss goofing around here.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Disclaimer: What the hell do I know about gambling? This is my totally unscientific look at the morning line odds coming into next week's trip. I have no idea, for instance, which April is going to outlast the other. I'm just having fun.
Number of gambling dollars I lose for the trip: Over/Under $750
Number of times anyone says, "Now which April are you again?": O/U 86.5
G-Rob's Otis-fall-down-go-boom line: O/U 1.5
Number of times Otis says, "I'm ill equipped" - O/U 3.5
Number of times Pauly disappears for no less than 20 and no more than 45 minutes: O/U 4.5
Number of times "I love your blog" is said to and by any blogger: O/U 411.5
Number of non-poker table games played, average blogger/trip: O/U 3.5
Number of times someone uses the word "Junk" in Bob's presence: O/U 51.5
Bottles of Southern Comfort drank, Al/trip: O/U 7.5
Number of times Al is referred to as "a machine:" O/U 8.5
Number of people who tell Al he married over his head: O/U 9.5
Number of times AlCantSeeColors is corrected before throwing the wrong color chips in the pot: O/U 8.5
Number of non-SoCo drinkers Al talks into a shot of the stuff: O/U 12.5
Bloggers who end up having to go see the Bellagio Fountains: O/U G-Rob
Number of wives along for the trip who end up angry at their blogger husbands at some point: O/U 3.5
Number of bloggers who make the money in Event #2: O/U 1.5
First blogger to yak, WPBT after-party: O/U 90 minutes
Number of bloggers who forget his real name, and are going to feel stupid calling Human Head "Human Head" out loud: O/U 13.5
Cash game hours played, blogger crew total: O/U 1850
Keno hours played, blogger crew total: O/U .25
$.99 Golden Gate shrimp cocktails consumed, blogger crew total: O/U 44.5
Hammers dropped in victory, blogger crew total: O/U 100.5
Hammers taken to showdown in victory, blogger crew total: O/U 13.5
Warnings given for profanity to bloggers at the Excalibur: O/U 22.5
Number of bloggers/wives caught playing slots with Grubby: O/U 3.5
G-Vegas vs. Minnesota, Cage Match: G-Vegas (-130) / Minnesota (+160)
G-Vegas vs. Southern California, Cage Match: G-Vegas (+200) / So. Cal (-180)
G-Vegas vs. Austin, Cage Match: PICK 'EM
Last Longest, Event#2
Bob - 12/1
Joe - 6/1
EasyCure - 8/1
Russ - 6/1
Otis - 9/2
Proposition Bets, WPBT Tournament
April H. (+130) vs. April (-140)
Bill Rini finish position minus Felicia's finish position: O/U 28.5
Grand Haven Bloggers: On_THG (-140) vs. BG (+120)
AlCantHang (+220) vs. EvaCantHang (-180)
Brothers Duel - Add finishing positions of brothers together to determine winner - low net total wins:
BG and Bob: O/U 41.5, (+280)
Pauly and Derek: O/U 38.5, (+120)
Otis & Brother: O/U 36.5, (+110)
Lefty and CJ, O/U 43.5, (+320)
Last longest, by location:
South Carolina 4/1
New York 5/1
Non-Felicia Female to last longest:
April H. 8/1
More later maybe... Iggy and Al are on my ass to put something up RIGHT NOW.
Bill Simmons @ ESPN
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