SKITTLES.

So officially since the kick-off of this blog, I finally hit the tables at Foxwoods. AND, out of stupidity (even more so since I knew I was violating improper bankroll management rules), I moved UP on my blinds to the $2-5 NLs. Frankly, I should be posting more, but I've been busy with some friends in town, and just a lot has been going on adjusting as a post-graduate. Oh wait, what? I'm still stupid.

Oh, I will hopefully NEVER: a) talk about bad beats. Everyone's gotta go through them, and I'll hopefully take my fair share & b) talk much about the technicals in poker unless there is an interesting sliver of theory I would like to address. Which I actually will for self-reference's sake.

The first night on Monday was ridiculous. It was a mixture of amazing flops, bad LAG players across the board, and cold-hearted calls. I think the only premium hand I was dealt with was QQs, and even so, the flop blew out overs. I pretty much ran over the table, and I didn't even play a full session: an hour and a half, tops. I came with $300, leaving with $1300, EVEN AFTER the fact I tipped the dealer $25 every single time someone pushed all-in against me (three people did) & I showed a winning hand. It was the talk of the table: one player said I rightfully should, since it seemed to be giving me a lot of good luck; another player was bitchy at me and the player sandwiched between us, saying, "It's your call, it's your call" if we didn't look at our cards quick enough. He was CONSTANTLY griping about how he received an amazing bad beat (his AAs vs. Q-rag, with the Q tripping on the river). I felt for him, but man, talk about the lack of sportsmanship. If I was a in a bad mood/getting run over, I'd just be quiet, and smile in resignation (which I did the very next night). My winrate was roughly 1.2, and when I hear about online limit guys generating 2-3 BB/100, I get somewhat turned on. That is RIDICULOUS, and it's for even larger blinds. Think about the VARIANCE! KICK A CAT DANG, SKITTLES.

Enter after going to the bars in Boston, around 3 AM Friday night. I have this sensational idea to go to Foxwoods again. When I checked in, I thought it was going to be a soft table until probably three minutes in I recognized that these people grinded. Not grinding my crotch dry-humps style, but like the bad kind. Grinder-Rounder-Gosu. This black dude was KILLING it too. It was MJ Magic Wade because he just had SIC flops with a nice set-up. The opponents would hit top pair; he'd have sleeper trips or two pair. A guy got cleaned flopping a low-straight; he made his high-straight on the turn. I had the unfortunate event of flopping bottom two pair, while he made another straight on the turn.

The worst one was this Slavic dude he just kept finger-raping hand, AFTER HAND. Case in point:

Slav: A-9 clubs.
100-Cent: 66.

Flop: 6, X, 3, all clubs. Checked all around, some guy bets out, Slav RE-RAISES some ridiculous amount, 100-Cent calls behind.

Turn: X. No help to better either hand. Slav checks, 100-Cent checks.

River: 3. Slav bets out, 100-Cent goes ALL-in.

Slav literally jumped out of his seat, running his hands through the rough, oiled hair. For a second, I saw the monkey brain flashing the natural flight-or-fight lightening when his entire stack is threatened, and I swear I'll never forget this: the image of a man who knows he's beat. He counts his bills/chips, shoves it towards him in disgust, "TAKE IT."

100-Cent shows the house, and he FREAKS. Security came.




And wow, these people are cheap-ASSES. They tipped $2 the most. I guess I probably need to start thinking like that too, if I am to survive & manage a bankroll.

But yeah, I realized I need to liquidate some stock, pull up the tent pegs, and run with this. I never chased a dream to burn myself to the ground, so I suppose this is my moment to live a spectacle worth writing. I'd write more, but this entry is becoming almost too-lengthly, so I'll call it a night.

It Began With a Woman and a Cello.

I thought this would be mostly about poker. But I suppose it'll insert some life indigestion as well.

Just the other day in the most appropriate setting ever, I had a musing about girls during a worship set at church. It wasn't my fault really. It was simply the circumstance presenting itself and my brain acting funny. Don't tell me you never made a mental jump from animals to kite-flying and it didn't feel good.

Anyways. The brunette wasn’t attractive, but appealing enough for you to perhaps flirt with the idea. And she was playing PRO-cello for the worship team. From the vibrato in her fingers and the head-bobbing sway, all signs pointed towards the passion she had for praising God. It confounded me how quickly I began to admire her. For the non-musicians out there, playing music, especially for an audience can be an intimate AND nerve-wrenching experience.

And it hit me that every single meaningful small attraction that I had for ANY human being began with a thing that had a glimpse of some super-hero talent. Stuff that you'd never attach with an everyday gal's performance inventory and thus challenges me to explore deeper.

Acid piano. Modern dance. StarCraft. Throwing a football with alarming accuracy to my face at 30 yards. When a girl can impress me with an x activity, that is amazingly awesome.

Unless of course the chick was just skanky hot, and the sports-sex-with-no-meaningful-relationship-scenario becomes an increasingly strong argument. Go me.