If I had to estimate, and poker players are professional estimaters, I would say I have spent an average of five minutes outside per day this week. It has been severely cold in Atlanta, and I have been busy. It is family time anyway, so I can't complain.
I have finally sent off my first wave of applications for MFA (Masters of Fine Arts) graduate programs. For a solid two months I have been carving away at a fiction manuscript to accurately represent how well I am capable of writing. Now comes the exhalation of the process. All I have to do now is tailor my manuscript to program requirements, pay the fees, and wait. I apologize for boring you with the details, but these particulars have been, well, my entire life for a few months now.
Poker, for the first time since high school, has served me more as a distraction than a job, as I have toiled away at my writing. Of course that means I have had plenty of time to try to lose money online. But try as I might, I am showing solid profits online. On. Every. Site. Something just started to click for me one day, I suppose. Perhaps it is the disciplined lifestyle I have forced upon myself of late.
My game of choice has been heads-up no-limit, although I exclusively play tournaments all day every Sunday. I've been having more deep runs in tournaments than I used to as well. I attribute it to a confidence in my online game and the discipline to never ever ever spaz out in a pot without a very good reason. This does not mean I've been nitting it up. I play as many hands as I can justify early on in tournaments, and it's working well. Compared to the heads-up cash game regulars, even the low stakes ones, your average online tournament player is far behind the curve. They play poorly, but in just the opposite ways as live cash players. Online, they just want to bluff me every hand. The problem is that on Full Tilt, my 'Fold' button mysteriously disappears after the flop comes out. I've been meaning to contact Full Tilt about this, but like I said, I've been busy. As is, the situation has been working out so I don't mind.
Lately, I've been reflecting on the heads up matches I play every night. They are unlike any other kinds of sessions online or at the casino. At times you play just a few hands with an opponent before they quit you or 'hit and run', then other times you end up playing someone on two to four tables all night (I haven't had much of this lately). Having played heads-up semi-regularly for about a year now, I think about the format wildly differently than I when I started.
Heads-up is far more psychological than any other form of poker. You derive your edge from being able to understand how your opponent plays his entire range of hands, how those tendencies change or remain static, and sensing when you have broken the spirit of your opponent (at which point he or she either tends to give up or go fucking nuts, at least at the lower stakes). I began playing heads up as sort of an ego thing. Those regarded as the 'best' players in the world were those who reigned at the top of the heads-up ladder and would play anyone. Heads-up always made for the best stories of the poker world, too. First Durrrr, Galfond, Ivey, and Antonius (am I forgetting anyone?) wore the crowns. Then Tom Dwan issued the Durrrr Challenge and the fireworks really began. A year or so later, along came Isildur1 and dethroned Durrrr at Hold 'Em then lost millions playing Omaha. Now it seems we have a new champion in Jungleman12. Being a very competitive person, I felt the need to test myself. I wanted to see how far up the ladder I could climb. It has taken a year to climb the first rung, and beyond, who knows? I feel confident in my game, and driven to keep at it. I will surely update you as I continue on the quest.
When I play these heads up matches, I find myself wondering who my opponent is. You can't see them, which something I'm still not used to because of my background playing live cash for so long. Heads up can be an intensely personal game. My opponents have wished death upon me countless times. Usually I respond with politeness. Last night my opponent I had traded stacks back and forth for a couple of hours. Neither of us was winning much, if any. He began to ask me what I had on big hands, to which I responded, "Right, like I'm going to tell you what I had." This was after he had to fold to my shove on the river. Then, out of nowhere he began to berate me every hand, after playing calmly and solidly for two hours. His words rarely made sense. I would reply, "Huh?" He replied, "Don't listen to me." It was a strange encounter.
The part of it that sticks with me is that he played well for a long time, and if he kept it up, I wouldn't have beaten him out of too much in the long run. But skill level isn't everything in poker, and this concept becomes that much more exaggerated in the heads-up format. In the end, it really isn't about the cards, but about who sits across the table, from both ends. If you know your opponent, and also know yourself, poker becomes much less frustrating.
I'm heading to Biloxi next month for the tournament series. I'm sure I'll see some of you there. Now to finish these infernal applications...
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
New Orleans, My Home
New Orleans has taken me back again, and I don't know why. It needs another college grad turned poker player like it needs another hurricane. Yet here I am, wondering what the city has in store for me now, at age twenty four.
There has been no shortage of offers to move elsewhere. Florida, ground zero for a whole new wave of live poker revival. Vegas, which will always be there. Los Angeles, which intrigues me every time I visit. Yet, I stay in Louisiana, where most of my friends have gotten stuck like flies on flypaper. I would hate to end up a fly.
There's something else to the equation. Lately, poker has taken me on quite the ride: swift, sharp upswings followed by severe downswings. My variance had never been this catastrophic before. Finally I decided to step back and take a semi-hiatus of sorts. I haven't played live cash in over a month. I've been hitting the online tournament grind on Sundays, and some online cash here and there.
My break from day to day poker has been a mixed bag. It's given me perspective that is hard to see when you're living the grind. I realize poker has afforded me the ability to travel, make and spend money, and meet some of the most eccentric people on the planet. I've seen the dark side of poker and gambling, how it can change people. I've also seen countless success stories, mostly with regard to young ambitions people who probably would have risen to the top of any field they decided to enter. I can't go a single week without hearing about one of my friends winning tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands.
The time away has given me more time to write, compose my MFA applications. My stress level has fallen, as I'm not required to perform at the table, and I don't have to spend long days in the casino, truly an awful workplace environment. But now the stress is starting to creep up. Money is tighter than I'm used to. Most of all, writing lacks the instant gratification reward of poker. For the most part, I'm feeling old and unaccomplished. Boohoo. I know.
So I've been looking hard around the bars, college campuses, parks, and broken avenues of New Orleans trying to figure it all out. Each year seems to bring a new turning point in my life, which I probably should not complain about. At least my life has not gotten to be watching sitcoms, bitching about politics, and raising a family. For this I am thankful.
Poker has not seen the last of me. I still play regularly, and that will not change. But for now, it is time to construct some balance and stability in my life. It is time to write, perhaps to teach.
There has been no shortage of offers to move elsewhere. Florida, ground zero for a whole new wave of live poker revival. Vegas, which will always be there. Los Angeles, which intrigues me every time I visit. Yet, I stay in Louisiana, where most of my friends have gotten stuck like flies on flypaper. I would hate to end up a fly.
There's something else to the equation. Lately, poker has taken me on quite the ride: swift, sharp upswings followed by severe downswings. My variance had never been this catastrophic before. Finally I decided to step back and take a semi-hiatus of sorts. I haven't played live cash in over a month. I've been hitting the online tournament grind on Sundays, and some online cash here and there.
My break from day to day poker has been a mixed bag. It's given me perspective that is hard to see when you're living the grind. I realize poker has afforded me the ability to travel, make and spend money, and meet some of the most eccentric people on the planet. I've seen the dark side of poker and gambling, how it can change people. I've also seen countless success stories, mostly with regard to young ambitions people who probably would have risen to the top of any field they decided to enter. I can't go a single week without hearing about one of my friends winning tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands.
The time away has given me more time to write, compose my MFA applications. My stress level has fallen, as I'm not required to perform at the table, and I don't have to spend long days in the casino, truly an awful workplace environment. But now the stress is starting to creep up. Money is tighter than I'm used to. Most of all, writing lacks the instant gratification reward of poker. For the most part, I'm feeling old and unaccomplished. Boohoo. I know.
So I've been looking hard around the bars, college campuses, parks, and broken avenues of New Orleans trying to figure it all out. Each year seems to bring a new turning point in my life, which I probably should not complain about. At least my life has not gotten to be watching sitcoms, bitching about politics, and raising a family. For this I am thankful.
Poker has not seen the last of me. I still play regularly, and that will not change. But for now, it is time to construct some balance and stability in my life. It is time to write, perhaps to teach.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
John Dolan
Hello again,
I've been busy for the last month or so. I relocated to New Orleans for the umpteenth time and have been putting in the hours trying to correct my financial situation. Europe and Vegas proved very expensive, so funds have been low. Things are turning around now anyways.
Before I start blabbing about all my recent ups, downs, and crazed wanderings around the country, which will come later this week, let me introduce you to a friend of mine: John Dolan.
John and I lived together this summer in Vegas, along with a dozen or so other players depending on the week. Some of you may have seen his face on ESPN. He is a killer at the table and he's about to PLAY THE FINAL TABLE OF THE MAIN EVENT OF THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER IN A MATTER OF HOURS!
Good luck, John. You deserve this as much as anyone.
I've been busy for the last month or so. I relocated to New Orleans for the umpteenth time and have been putting in the hours trying to correct my financial situation. Europe and Vegas proved very expensive, so funds have been low. Things are turning around now anyways.
Before I start blabbing about all my recent ups, downs, and crazed wanderings around the country, which will come later this week, let me introduce you to a friend of mine: John Dolan.
John and I lived together this summer in Vegas, along with a dozen or so other players depending on the week. Some of you may have seen his face on ESPN. He is a killer at the table and he's about to PLAY THE FINAL TABLE OF THE MAIN EVENT OF THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER IN A MATTER OF HOURS!
Good luck, John. You deserve this as much as anyone.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Good Riddance, You Awful Desert
Well...I'm leaving Vegas tomorrow. Off to California to play at the Commerce and then to San Diego to see some old friends. A week without poker is all too welcome.
Vegas was a bust. It always seems to turn out that way. The cash games eventually turned around for me, but not enough to pull me out of the hole. I still stand by the decision not to play a single tournament. Only one or two of my roommates had much of anything to show for tourneys here, and they're all heavy hitters.
George Steinbrenner died this morning. I never paid much attention to him, and can't sit through a baseball game; but I happened to catch several clips of his bio throughout the day. Apparently, he just decided one day to buy the Yankees and put together a team of venture capitalists to purchase the team for $8.8M, or something to that effect. I guess that's how it happens if you want something in life.
Now if I could just figure out what I want. I've made some guesses, and have started to shape a few ideas in my mind. Articles of this plan include putting in lots of poker hours, online and live, while creating a home environment where I can totally escape. I've entertained notions of moving to Florida, the so-called site of the next 'poker boom', but to do so would smother myself. I need writing. I need music. I need old friends who have never played poker in their lives. I need a break.
Vegas was a bust. It always seems to turn out that way. The cash games eventually turned around for me, but not enough to pull me out of the hole. I still stand by the decision not to play a single tournament. Only one or two of my roommates had much of anything to show for tourneys here, and they're all heavy hitters.
George Steinbrenner died this morning. I never paid much attention to him, and can't sit through a baseball game; but I happened to catch several clips of his bio throughout the day. Apparently, he just decided one day to buy the Yankees and put together a team of venture capitalists to purchase the team for $8.8M, or something to that effect. I guess that's how it happens if you want something in life.
Now if I could just figure out what I want. I've made some guesses, and have started to shape a few ideas in my mind. Articles of this plan include putting in lots of poker hours, online and live, while creating a home environment where I can totally escape. I've entertained notions of moving to Florida, the so-called site of the next 'poker boom', but to do so would smother myself. I need writing. I need music. I need old friends who have never played poker in their lives. I need a break.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fast Forward to WSOP
It seems I have gone astray. I lost myself somewhere between Rome and the inhospitable desert basin of Las Vegas. Allow me to fill you in.
Europe is too far removed from here and now for me to even attempt to describe, hopefully I'll find some time in the future to compile my recollections. I will tell you that, from above, the Alps are like craggy islands amid a cloudy sea.
Only know that there were long rides on rails and wings stretched out like smooth taffy in the fabric of time. Then all of a sudden I fell off that last tongue of transit, a short hop Chicago to Atlanta, and everything came back into focus. Almost as if Europe had been an extended daydream. Things definitely get strange in a foreign country, alone.
A week of down time with the parents then I started West. I slept on a couch in New Orleans during the WSOP circuit event, playing mostly cash games and launching into a serious downswing. I managed to dig myself out somewhat by the main event.
Ryan, James, and I left NOLA one evening late in May. We drove through the night and day didn't stop until we reached California, to stay a week in Commerce. The 5/10 NL action kept up 24 hrs a day and I made a good bit of cash until I lost a preflop all in with AQs to T4s. I've been running poorly ever since. But I did catch a front row seat to witness Bill Chen pick up a chick at the casino pub, so it's not all bad news.
Now in Vegas, I've been grinding my ass off day in and out. Ryan and I have a running bet that we each have to play 8 hours a day or pay the other $100. It's a small sweat but keeps me motivated at a time when I can't ever remember running worse. I've lost with AA, KK, QQ, and AKs all in preflop more than I have in the last 12 months. In response, I've dropped down in limits and have been putting in the hours.
I've got some money on the line for World Cup and the US Open (Christ Phil, get it together!). I'm sweating all my soccer matches on this extremely large, though remarkably crappy TV at my new place. By the way I'm living with about 15 other people in an 8 bedroom mansion, and it's way way too packed. We've got pool and ping pong tables, hot tub, pool, personal chef and all the more mundane amenities. But despite how clean and open the house comes across at a glance, there's a cheap tacky veneer slapped over all of it. My room flooded yesterday. I lucked out to only have a heap of wet clothes to bitch about.
Everything is hectic and hot here in Vegas. The women are more cutthroat than I am, and it's impossible to find a quiet moment to write. I'll update more once my cash game results start turning around.
-BT
Europe is too far removed from here and now for me to even attempt to describe, hopefully I'll find some time in the future to compile my recollections. I will tell you that, from above, the Alps are like craggy islands amid a cloudy sea.
Only know that there were long rides on rails and wings stretched out like smooth taffy in the fabric of time. Then all of a sudden I fell off that last tongue of transit, a short hop Chicago to Atlanta, and everything came back into focus. Almost as if Europe had been an extended daydream. Things definitely get strange in a foreign country, alone.
A week of down time with the parents then I started West. I slept on a couch in New Orleans during the WSOP circuit event, playing mostly cash games and launching into a serious downswing. I managed to dig myself out somewhat by the main event.
Ryan, James, and I left NOLA one evening late in May. We drove through the night and day didn't stop until we reached California, to stay a week in Commerce. The 5/10 NL action kept up 24 hrs a day and I made a good bit of cash until I lost a preflop all in with AQs to T4s. I've been running poorly ever since. But I did catch a front row seat to witness Bill Chen pick up a chick at the casino pub, so it's not all bad news.
Now in Vegas, I've been grinding my ass off day in and out. Ryan and I have a running bet that we each have to play 8 hours a day or pay the other $100. It's a small sweat but keeps me motivated at a time when I can't ever remember running worse. I've lost with AA, KK, QQ, and AKs all in preflop more than I have in the last 12 months. In response, I've dropped down in limits and have been putting in the hours.
I've got some money on the line for World Cup and the US Open (Christ Phil, get it together!). I'm sweating all my soccer matches on this extremely large, though remarkably crappy TV at my new place. By the way I'm living with about 15 other people in an 8 bedroom mansion, and it's way way too packed. We've got pool and ping pong tables, hot tub, pool, personal chef and all the more mundane amenities. But despite how clean and open the house comes across at a glance, there's a cheap tacky veneer slapped over all of it. My room flooded yesterday. I lucked out to only have a heap of wet clothes to bitch about.
Everything is hectic and hot here in Vegas. The women are more cutthroat than I am, and it's impossible to find a quiet moment to write. I'll update more once my cash game results start turning around.
-BT
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Amsterdam
My first taste of hostels. This means lockers, weird showers, dealing with roving packs of screaming European children on a field trip, and rooming with strangers. My particular strangers turn out to be four computer science grad students from Germany (at least the hostel arranges the rooms by age group). Two are faceless German lightweights, too incapacitated by Dutch reefer to ever formally introduce themselves to me. Another is a straight-edge Russian girl, along to babysit zee Germans. Delightfully simple-minded, she can't fathom why I would devote myself to something as "useless" as fiction writing (you can bet I keep my mouth shut about poker this time around). A geek from Chicago, happening to be studying abroad, completes the group. He and I get along well and discuss his beloved "theoretical computation" studies over a few pints in the hostel's own bar. On my last encounter with said geek, he encourages me to take a strong dose of hallucinogens and sit alone in a dark closet. I reply, "You really are an evil little leprechaun with bad ideas. I think I'll go to the Van Gogh museum instead."
Amsterdam accepts me with only a few hours of foreboding rain each day. Within three days I walk the entire length of the city, cross stitched with canals. Every few hours I stop into a coffeeshop (CS) and partake, deeply, then am on my way again with a fruit juice and more ground to cover. Everyone in Amsterdam partakes. I encounter a varied, colorful, often giggling cast of travelers in the bowels of many a CS.
I make friends with Marco and three other Italians from Naples, none of whom speak much English. The two girls sit there laughing and being gorgeous while Marco pushes his new hash on me. He displays for me a smoke contraption which I have never seen: a hollow wooden popsickle with something like the fat end of a golf tee inserted into the orifice to form a seat for the plant matter. Damn innovative Italians. Marco eventually surges forth into the depths of the psychoactive unknown, finishing his hash when everyone else declines. He becomes comatose, his only connection to the outside world being the word "Isolator", which he mumbles over and over. I promise to look them up in Naples then with wonderful difficulty climb a ladder out of the CS basement.
The last night in town, I wander into the Holland Casino and find a soft little 5/5 No Limit game. The Dutch turn out to be generally amiable table personalities, and don't mind losing money. I play for a couple hours, mostly bluffcatching, and pick up a couple buy ins without any big dramatic pots.
I'm back out into the city by midnight and wind my way around alleys til I find a packed little bar where the Bucket Boys perform. I buy a local brew served in an oblong flask and sat in something like a paper towel mount for a handle. It does the trick. An hour in, I'm shooting the shit with the bassist, who plays a broomstick and string tied to a dirty old water jug. At intermission we discuss land, music, and travel. He informs me that Amsterdam was originally a swamp, which engenders a new sense of affinity for the place. Sometime after screaming along the lyrics of "Beer, Marijuana, and Wine" (That's all we can find!) I meet a trio of locals who drag me to THE bar, where they claim all THE locals go, especially those who work in the CS's all day.
It's a little hole in the wall I would have never found on my own. Sure enough everyone looks like they just got off work and need a little slump time on the bar. A couple guys make the rounds peddling reefer and hash. The main attraction in the bar is a pair of pool tables in the back, around which floated slow thick plumes of smoke, nightclub lighting, and plenty of girls done over in what I like to call dirty-classy. Real hot. But I'm far too drunk to even attempt spinning game. I'd rather just gamble.
I arrange a pool match between two douchebags who act like they're the Amsterdam Billiards Gang, and myself and a local I showed up with. They won't play for money, just drinks. Like I need another fucking drink. My state of mind at that moment is something like "whatever. competition? gogogo."
The first game is an absolute slaughter. My partner makes two balls and I knock in the eightball after they had already sunk all their solids. Somehow I end up buying four drinks. I finish mine and am halfway through the one my buddy didn't want when douchebag #1 approaches me for a rematch, 1v1. He wants to put 20 Euro on it too. Game time. I spill my drink trying to set it down, at which point I insist we add a drink to the wager, and I give the 40 Euro to a girl to hold because I'm just barely sober enough to spell escrow.
He breaks. Nothing. I scratch. He makes three balls. I make five balls. He makes three balls. I run the table out. Dutch beer please, thank you. I collect my spoils, take one sip of the beer before hiccuping and realizing I need to head for the hostel. Now.
Outside I do the classic spin-around off balance and shout for a taxi maneuver. Somehow it works. I almost lose it in the cab, but arrive just as I was about to roll down the window and hold it until I reach my toilet. I get the room to myself tonight but could care less. Five hours til check out and hungover travelling, hurray!
Amsterdam accepts me with only a few hours of foreboding rain each day. Within three days I walk the entire length of the city, cross stitched with canals. Every few hours I stop into a coffeeshop (CS) and partake, deeply, then am on my way again with a fruit juice and more ground to cover. Everyone in Amsterdam partakes. I encounter a varied, colorful, often giggling cast of travelers in the bowels of many a CS.
I make friends with Marco and three other Italians from Naples, none of whom speak much English. The two girls sit there laughing and being gorgeous while Marco pushes his new hash on me. He displays for me a smoke contraption which I have never seen: a hollow wooden popsickle with something like the fat end of a golf tee inserted into the orifice to form a seat for the plant matter. Damn innovative Italians. Marco eventually surges forth into the depths of the psychoactive unknown, finishing his hash when everyone else declines. He becomes comatose, his only connection to the outside world being the word "Isolator", which he mumbles over and over. I promise to look them up in Naples then with wonderful difficulty climb a ladder out of the CS basement.
The last night in town, I wander into the Holland Casino and find a soft little 5/5 No Limit game. The Dutch turn out to be generally amiable table personalities, and don't mind losing money. I play for a couple hours, mostly bluffcatching, and pick up a couple buy ins without any big dramatic pots.
I'm back out into the city by midnight and wind my way around alleys til I find a packed little bar where the Bucket Boys perform. I buy a local brew served in an oblong flask and sat in something like a paper towel mount for a handle. It does the trick. An hour in, I'm shooting the shit with the bassist, who plays a broomstick and string tied to a dirty old water jug. At intermission we discuss land, music, and travel. He informs me that Amsterdam was originally a swamp, which engenders a new sense of affinity for the place. Sometime after screaming along the lyrics of "Beer, Marijuana, and Wine" (That's all we can find!) I meet a trio of locals who drag me to THE bar, where they claim all THE locals go, especially those who work in the CS's all day.
It's a little hole in the wall I would have never found on my own. Sure enough everyone looks like they just got off work and need a little slump time on the bar. A couple guys make the rounds peddling reefer and hash. The main attraction in the bar is a pair of pool tables in the back, around which floated slow thick plumes of smoke, nightclub lighting, and plenty of girls done over in what I like to call dirty-classy. Real hot. But I'm far too drunk to even attempt spinning game. I'd rather just gamble.
I arrange a pool match between two douchebags who act like they're the Amsterdam Billiards Gang, and myself and a local I showed up with. They won't play for money, just drinks. Like I need another fucking drink. My state of mind at that moment is something like "whatever. competition? gogogo."
The first game is an absolute slaughter. My partner makes two balls and I knock in the eightball after they had already sunk all their solids. Somehow I end up buying four drinks. I finish mine and am halfway through the one my buddy didn't want when douchebag #1 approaches me for a rematch, 1v1. He wants to put 20 Euro on it too. Game time. I spill my drink trying to set it down, at which point I insist we add a drink to the wager, and I give the 40 Euro to a girl to hold because I'm just barely sober enough to spell escrow.
He breaks. Nothing. I scratch. He makes three balls. I make five balls. He makes three balls. I run the table out. Dutch beer please, thank you. I collect my spoils, take one sip of the beer before hiccuping and realizing I need to head for the hostel. Now.
Outside I do the classic spin-around off balance and shout for a taxi maneuver. Somehow it works. I almost lose it in the cab, but arrive just as I was about to roll down the window and hold it until I reach my toilet. I get the room to myself tonight but could care less. Five hours til check out and hungover travelling, hurray!
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Paris: Part II
I wake and check my watch: 8PM. Crap! I have to check out of this hotel by 11AM, my sleeping schedule’s off, and I’ve done exactly squat about making a train reservation for Amsterdam. What’s more, I don’t have as much time to go beat up on French fish at the ACF (that’s the Aviation Club, for any newcomers). Or do I?
First stop: train station, to book something. Closed until 6 AM. Godspit! What the hell is going on in this city? Alright, maybe I’ll just play poker for ten hours and hope my freshly battered bankroll holds out all night. On second thought I’d either kill myself or start shitting baguettes if I spent that kind of stretch in that smug stuffy attic. Best to jerk around Notre Dame first and shave off as much inert live poker time gristle as possible.
The pedestrian square before Notre Dame cathedral lays naked and open to chill gusts from every direction, especially those speeding over the nearby Seine. I shiver uncontrollably just trying to get my camera out to snap a few mediocre nighttime shots of the gargoyles and buttresses and whatnot. Time to get the hell out of here.
The ACF staff performs the routine fingerprint scan, plops me in an encouraging 5/5 Euro No Limit game, and hits me up for a 15 Euro meal all at dizzying speed. But I must wait an hour for the sandwich and Orangina. I start out playing fairly tight, feeling out the table and chowing down. But as tends to be the case, I slowly start running over everyone. They don’t like it. Even the dealers don’t like it because with the incredibly high rake, I’ve turned into a very stingy tipper. Then they find out I’m American, and really don’t like it. At some point or another every single person in the game (save a laid back guy next to me) complains about my play or whispers to a neighbor while pointing at me. Ha.
On top of all that, throughout the night a peculiar theme of play emerges that makes me look like a lucky bastard. I often find myself value betting extremely thin only to be way behind versus opponents who are slowplaying huge hands; nevertheless, I hit my two to six outs every single time and take their monies.
But the fun continues. I raise KsTs and get six callers. Flop: 987, two spades. I bet and four people happen to go all in by the time it gets back to me. Of course I get my money in and hit the flush on the turn. Everyone’s drawing dead. The self-appointed leader of the ACF BToye Hate Committee (meaning the guy who let me stack him the most times) explodes in flurries of French moaning and yelling, attracting the whole room’s attention. Even his dearest undersecretary notifies him that I had draws to a straight and flush (Couleur?). I point at my cards, saying, “Yep. Couleur.” And draw a laugh from my new friend next to me.
For my last trick of the night, I kind of limp-trap a guy with A8. He had kept abusing his straddle with terrible overbets, so I just wait for him to put a third of his stack in preflop with queen hi and then force him to sheepishly part with the rest of it. He is baffled when the hands are turned over. From there I lose some small pots, double up a short stack, and move to a table with better players who can actually put me in some tough spots. It’s not quite 6AM, but I’m satisfied with my redeye session and pick up early. I make back about 80% of what I lost yesterday, but considering the lower stakes and how shallow the game played, I’m virtually ecstatic as I count my big weird Euro notes and shuffle back to the train station.
The teller for international reservations chides me for not booking earlier. She explains today’s trip to Amsterdam, which can be managed in three hours with an early and not too expensive reservation, will take me ten hours. I’m on top of the world after my win, so whatever babe. And she was a babe. Pull me slowly along rolling tracts in novel foreign districts, babe. I accept.
Worst fucking decision of my adult life.
I have less than two hours. I rush to the hotel and jam my pack full of every bulky bulging clump of my mobile existence. It fits! I do the fly-by hotel check out because the clerk and I are tight like that. The metro is a grind. I sweat out the seconds at every stop. Sliding somewhere along the rails a warm affinity for this vast grubby underground creeps up on me. Despite all its dubious exudations through filthy drains and between grimy tiles, despite the constant vetting by Parisians being stylish, nosy, stylish again fucking Parisians; I feel at ease in this place and could spend hours in the jog of the trams, intermittently hassled by jaunty street musicians...
Nearly missed my stop. The station is a miserable rat race. I realize I know nothing about trains. When I finally locate mine about a second before it leaves, there are a million people on the thing and a conductor explains to me in poor English that it’s standing room only as he shoves me through the door. So I stand against a window for the initial two hour leg, tightly packed with others in the same predicament, as all the adrenaline of my morning scurrying trickles out of me.
Cue nausea. Cue late arrivals and sprinting across stations. Cue fractured nonsleep even when I fight for a seat. Cue chest lurching. Cue day from hell.
Then waiting for me at the end of the line is Amsterdam, wet and unhappy. In my state, long since food or free from headache, I cannot make any damn sense out of the tram system and all the help desks are closed. I’ll spare the details, but it takes three goddamned hours, a good part in pouring rain, to find my hostel. I even get removed from one of the trams for being “incompetent”. I swear the cord connecting my brain and spine is about to snap any moment when I finally spot my place. I pay the desk man and hop into bed without dressing it in the complementary sheets. I don’t think I have ever slept better.
First stop: train station, to book something. Closed until 6 AM. Godspit! What the hell is going on in this city? Alright, maybe I’ll just play poker for ten hours and hope my freshly battered bankroll holds out all night. On second thought I’d either kill myself or start shitting baguettes if I spent that kind of stretch in that smug stuffy attic. Best to jerk around Notre Dame first and shave off as much inert live poker time gristle as possible.
The pedestrian square before Notre Dame cathedral lays naked and open to chill gusts from every direction, especially those speeding over the nearby Seine. I shiver uncontrollably just trying to get my camera out to snap a few mediocre nighttime shots of the gargoyles and buttresses and whatnot. Time to get the hell out of here.
The ACF staff performs the routine fingerprint scan, plops me in an encouraging 5/5 Euro No Limit game, and hits me up for a 15 Euro meal all at dizzying speed. But I must wait an hour for the sandwich and Orangina. I start out playing fairly tight, feeling out the table and chowing down. But as tends to be the case, I slowly start running over everyone. They don’t like it. Even the dealers don’t like it because with the incredibly high rake, I’ve turned into a very stingy tipper. Then they find out I’m American, and really don’t like it. At some point or another every single person in the game (save a laid back guy next to me) complains about my play or whispers to a neighbor while pointing at me. Ha.
On top of all that, throughout the night a peculiar theme of play emerges that makes me look like a lucky bastard. I often find myself value betting extremely thin only to be way behind versus opponents who are slowplaying huge hands; nevertheless, I hit my two to six outs every single time and take their monies.
But the fun continues. I raise KsTs and get six callers. Flop: 987, two spades. I bet and four people happen to go all in by the time it gets back to me. Of course I get my money in and hit the flush on the turn. Everyone’s drawing dead. The self-appointed leader of the ACF BToye Hate Committee (meaning the guy who let me stack him the most times) explodes in flurries of French moaning and yelling, attracting the whole room’s attention. Even his dearest undersecretary notifies him that I had draws to a straight and flush (Couleur?). I point at my cards, saying, “Yep. Couleur.” And draw a laugh from my new friend next to me.
For my last trick of the night, I kind of limp-trap a guy with A8. He had kept abusing his straddle with terrible overbets, so I just wait for him to put a third of his stack in preflop with queen hi and then force him to sheepishly part with the rest of it. He is baffled when the hands are turned over. From there I lose some small pots, double up a short stack, and move to a table with better players who can actually put me in some tough spots. It’s not quite 6AM, but I’m satisfied with my redeye session and pick up early. I make back about 80% of what I lost yesterday, but considering the lower stakes and how shallow the game played, I’m virtually ecstatic as I count my big weird Euro notes and shuffle back to the train station.
The teller for international reservations chides me for not booking earlier. She explains today’s trip to Amsterdam, which can be managed in three hours with an early and not too expensive reservation, will take me ten hours. I’m on top of the world after my win, so whatever babe. And she was a babe. Pull me slowly along rolling tracts in novel foreign districts, babe. I accept.
Worst fucking decision of my adult life.
I have less than two hours. I rush to the hotel and jam my pack full of every bulky bulging clump of my mobile existence. It fits! I do the fly-by hotel check out because the clerk and I are tight like that. The metro is a grind. I sweat out the seconds at every stop. Sliding somewhere along the rails a warm affinity for this vast grubby underground creeps up on me. Despite all its dubious exudations through filthy drains and between grimy tiles, despite the constant vetting by Parisians being stylish, nosy, stylish again fucking Parisians; I feel at ease in this place and could spend hours in the jog of the trams, intermittently hassled by jaunty street musicians...
Nearly missed my stop. The station is a miserable rat race. I realize I know nothing about trains. When I finally locate mine about a second before it leaves, there are a million people on the thing and a conductor explains to me in poor English that it’s standing room only as he shoves me through the door. So I stand against a window for the initial two hour leg, tightly packed with others in the same predicament, as all the adrenaline of my morning scurrying trickles out of me.
Cue nausea. Cue late arrivals and sprinting across stations. Cue fractured nonsleep even when I fight for a seat. Cue chest lurching. Cue day from hell.
Then waiting for me at the end of the line is Amsterdam, wet and unhappy. In my state, long since food or free from headache, I cannot make any damn sense out of the tram system and all the help desks are closed. I’ll spare the details, but it takes three goddamned hours, a good part in pouring rain, to find my hostel. I even get removed from one of the trams for being “incompetent”. I swear the cord connecting my brain and spine is about to snap any moment when I finally spot my place. I pay the desk man and hop into bed without dressing it in the complementary sheets. I don’t think I have ever slept better.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Paris: Part I
Starting at L'Arc de Triomphe, a sunlit torrent of traffic and amateur Asian photographers, I wind my way down the Champs-Élysées. I have two missions before midday: locate a poker room and then a hotel. I quickly find Cercle Gaillon, one of the only rooms in Paris without a membership fee, only to find a note on the door explaining it will be closed for two weeks. At this moment I realize I'm dying to play some cards. Maybe it's the thirty six hours of travel, or perhaps it's the urge to start the trip off with a solid win and whisk away all short term cost burdens. Regardless, I lower myself to approaching the Aviation Club of France (ACF) where they charge a 100 Euro annual membership fee. I don't go in, but haggle with the doorman over the dress code: “You change, come back later, non?”
Via metro, I drag my pack to Rue Cler, a perfect Parisian sidestreet complete with cartfulls of local vendibles tumbling out of every shopfront. A true French market. I have found France! And it is thick with Fromageries, Pattiseries, and Boulangeries. On the same street I find a three star hotel and book a couple nights.
Looking to kill a few hours before I return to ACF, I visit the Eiffel Tower, overrated and awash with tourists. Luckily I took a WWI-intensive history course at LSU that gave me an appreciation for its historical significance, which I marvel at for a few moments before pushing on to Monmarte. The cemetery sits in the Northern, hilly sector of Paris, where the Moulin Rouge and the rest of the smut district has sprung up around it. The centuries-old tombs lay on several tiers, gradually stepping up to the edge of the urban basin that has filled in over the years. Monmarte puts New Orleans cemeteries to shame. I think it would be something to sneak in at night, like I used to as teenager, but won’t for many obvious reasons.
From there I head straight to ACF, sports-coat and all. The registration process takes awhile and a fingerprint. The place is small and swanky. Eventually I sit in a 5/10Euro game and play about ten hands. I get it all in preflop with AKs vs KJs vs AA, with even more dead money in around the table (the game is wild). I reload, pick up AK a couple more times but have to give up on terrible flops in four way pots. Then I see a flop five ways with 55. A45r, middle set. Some French businessman donks huge into everyone, and I get in all in with him, for barely more than a minimum raise left in my stack. He has A8s, and it comes 6, 7. I haven’t brought enough cash to put another bullet on the table; I haven’t really even come with much more to spend on the trip. Oops.
The metro is closed so I take an overpriced cab. The only thing I notice on the ride home is that there appears to be a rave at the Eiffel Tower. Supposedly this epileptic display at the great phallic monument happens every night. I couldn’t care less with my face blotted against the cab window. I slowly realize the repercussions of tonight’s loss: a tighter spending allowance, reduced threshold for further gambling, and general emotional malaise. In a sense I’ve been relegated to some ethereal Euro trip losers bracket, but not totally eliminated; although I am the one who forced the variance.
Outside my hotel two drunk skinheads chant, “White powwwwer!” and “Sieg heil!” in thick French accents. It’s off-putting and I cross the street, given that I’m dressed preppier than usual and still have a good amount of cash on me. I’ve heard about the National Front, a borderline-racist political party in France, chiefly concerned with keeping out Muslims. I have no interest in these idiots’ party affiliations, but think it very strange for this encounter to take place openly on the streets of Paris.
I dedicate the next day to the Louvre. To see everything in the museum would take multiple visits, and who knows how long it takes to truly appreciate the entirety of the collection. Louvre management allows non-flash photography in every wing of the museum; needless to say, I went a little trigger happy with my camera. I wander around to a soundtrack of Jesu, Seven Fields of Aphelion, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and other lo-fi post rock. The collections of sculptures absolutely floors me. After an hour I’ve only made it through seven or eight rooms. That is how this place works, nearly everything ranks as a masterpiece and deserves some reflection. But there is also a slow fading of my capacity for wonder and awe. You can only see so many consecutive great works of art before becoming desensitized. By the time I reach Mona, I’m thinking cool but why is she so famous again? C’mon be in awe, try try to be in awe...ah there we go. And then it was gone again.
Four hours later I step out into the rain of Jardin de Something Important, operating as the Louvre courtyard. Brain circuits fried, I manage to input a croissant before heading to my bed for a nap. When I wake up I’m going to get my money back from those French bastards at the ACF.
Via metro, I drag my pack to Rue Cler, a perfect Parisian sidestreet complete with cartfulls of local vendibles tumbling out of every shopfront. A true French market. I have found France! And it is thick with Fromageries, Pattiseries, and Boulangeries. On the same street I find a three star hotel and book a couple nights.
Looking to kill a few hours before I return to ACF, I visit the Eiffel Tower, overrated and awash with tourists. Luckily I took a WWI-intensive history course at LSU that gave me an appreciation for its historical significance, which I marvel at for a few moments before pushing on to Monmarte. The cemetery sits in the Northern, hilly sector of Paris, where the Moulin Rouge and the rest of the smut district has sprung up around it. The centuries-old tombs lay on several tiers, gradually stepping up to the edge of the urban basin that has filled in over the years. Monmarte puts New Orleans cemeteries to shame. I think it would be something to sneak in at night, like I used to as teenager, but won’t for many obvious reasons.
From there I head straight to ACF, sports-coat and all. The registration process takes awhile and a fingerprint. The place is small and swanky. Eventually I sit in a 5/10Euro game and play about ten hands. I get it all in preflop with AKs vs KJs vs AA, with even more dead money in around the table (the game is wild). I reload, pick up AK a couple more times but have to give up on terrible flops in four way pots. Then I see a flop five ways with 55. A45r, middle set. Some French businessman donks huge into everyone, and I get in all in with him, for barely more than a minimum raise left in my stack. He has A8s, and it comes 6, 7. I haven’t brought enough cash to put another bullet on the table; I haven’t really even come with much more to spend on the trip. Oops.
The metro is closed so I take an overpriced cab. The only thing I notice on the ride home is that there appears to be a rave at the Eiffel Tower. Supposedly this epileptic display at the great phallic monument happens every night. I couldn’t care less with my face blotted against the cab window. I slowly realize the repercussions of tonight’s loss: a tighter spending allowance, reduced threshold for further gambling, and general emotional malaise. In a sense I’ve been relegated to some ethereal Euro trip losers bracket, but not totally eliminated; although I am the one who forced the variance.
Outside my hotel two drunk skinheads chant, “White powwwwer!” and “Sieg heil!” in thick French accents. It’s off-putting and I cross the street, given that I’m dressed preppier than usual and still have a good amount of cash on me. I’ve heard about the National Front, a borderline-racist political party in France, chiefly concerned with keeping out Muslims. I have no interest in these idiots’ party affiliations, but think it very strange for this encounter to take place openly on the streets of Paris.
I dedicate the next day to the Louvre. To see everything in the museum would take multiple visits, and who knows how long it takes to truly appreciate the entirety of the collection. Louvre management allows non-flash photography in every wing of the museum; needless to say, I went a little trigger happy with my camera. I wander around to a soundtrack of Jesu, Seven Fields of Aphelion, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and other lo-fi post rock. The collections of sculptures absolutely floors me. After an hour I’ve only made it through seven or eight rooms. That is how this place works, nearly everything ranks as a masterpiece and deserves some reflection. But there is also a slow fading of my capacity for wonder and awe. You can only see so many consecutive great works of art before becoming desensitized. By the time I reach Mona, I’m thinking cool but why is she so famous again? C’mon be in awe, try try to be in awe...ah there we go. And then it was gone again.
Four hours later I step out into the rain of Jardin de Something Important, operating as the Louvre courtyard. Brain circuits fried, I manage to input a croissant before heading to my bed for a nap. When I wake up I’m going to get my money back from those French bastards at the ACF.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Breaching Paris
The guard at the ATL security checkpoint tells me I forgot to sign my passport. Off to a great start. 30ish French woman with a Costello hat circuitously paces around the terminal, approaching several times as if about to offer conversation, then coyly scampers off. Only old Frenchmen seem to travel ATL to Paris, and they are all dignified. Eight hours in a plane isn't as long as it sounds; all French stewardesses are underwear models on their days off; these statements are somehow connected.
Walk a mile through beauty shops in Charles-de-Gualle. AirFrance won't let me fly round trip to Paris, so it's Paris-London-Paris both ways with an annoying little chunnel ride each time. London looks exactly like Lock-Stock, and every dwelling has two brick chimneys. I jerk my way around transit, Paddington to King's Cross, stop at a sushi bar with conveyor belts. The fried tofu starts to kick in as I board the Eurostar, zzz...
I come to with the Asian man next to me waiting to exit the train to tell me I dropped my ipod. I'm the last off the train and feel delirious. Paris, Gare-Nord, metropolitan hub. Rush hour. The Tourist information line is overwhelming. A million Parisians skitter around and in front of me. Stupid travelers take forever to buy metro passes. I am a stupid traveler and buy an all-encompassing overpriced tourist pass including museum discounts, and don't realize this until my last day there.
I have no idea how long I have been awake for now. I stumble and shake as I try to keep up with the locals. That first metro ride is a complete blur. Somehow I manage to make it to street level at the stop directed by my couchsurfing host. I change directions several times, consulting city maps until I find her place. The door has a keypad. I try lots of buttons and the pay phone across the street to no avail. Eventually one of her neighbors lets me in.
Melodie, my host, greets me warmly into her tiny apartment. She has lived in Norway, Mexico, New Mexico, Bulgaria, and has the push pins in her wall to wall maps to prove it. We play guitar and banter. I let it slip that I play poker for a living, which instantly provokes her concern for my moral wellbeing and financial stability. Godammit. I don't know why that information always induces strange reactions from the girls of my generation.
I'm exhausted but she convinces me to go out and meet some other random couchsurfers in the middle of downtown Paris; feeding me French white beer is a substantial part of her plan and works well. We arrive at a happening little square around a 16th? century fountain. The night proves uneventful, as the people we meet are essentially squares, from what I can tell through the language barrier. The Norweigan was particularly disappointing, not being a dragon-slaying black metal guitar god, but a novice tango-dancing Prufrock.
I sleep restlessly on a bare mattress until woken up early by Melodie, who must depart for work. She explains she cannot host me the second night, like we agreed, because I toss and turn in my sleep, which will hinder her from getting rest, and she must leave for Berlin in a day blah blah blah. Excuses quickly fill the confined quarters of her apartment. I react cordially, and thank her for her hospitality. So continues the saga of women ejecting me from their apartments/vehicles/company at odd hours and angles; it is hard not to take a little measure of pride in such a thing. But more on that anon.
I leave in good spirits. It's fucking Paris outside! All day! I begin my time here the only way I know how, with a morning stroll down the Champs-Élysées...
Walk a mile through beauty shops in Charles-de-Gualle. AirFrance won't let me fly round trip to Paris, so it's Paris-London-Paris both ways with an annoying little chunnel ride each time. London looks exactly like Lock-Stock, and every dwelling has two brick chimneys. I jerk my way around transit, Paddington to King's Cross, stop at a sushi bar with conveyor belts. The fried tofu starts to kick in as I board the Eurostar, zzz...
I come to with the Asian man next to me waiting to exit the train to tell me I dropped my ipod. I'm the last off the train and feel delirious. Paris, Gare-Nord, metropolitan hub. Rush hour. The Tourist information line is overwhelming. A million Parisians skitter around and in front of me. Stupid travelers take forever to buy metro passes. I am a stupid traveler and buy an all-encompassing overpriced tourist pass including museum discounts, and don't realize this until my last day there.
I have no idea how long I have been awake for now. I stumble and shake as I try to keep up with the locals. That first metro ride is a complete blur. Somehow I manage to make it to street level at the stop directed by my couchsurfing host. I change directions several times, consulting city maps until I find her place. The door has a keypad. I try lots of buttons and the pay phone across the street to no avail. Eventually one of her neighbors lets me in.
Melodie, my host, greets me warmly into her tiny apartment. She has lived in Norway, Mexico, New Mexico, Bulgaria, and has the push pins in her wall to wall maps to prove it. We play guitar and banter. I let it slip that I play poker for a living, which instantly provokes her concern for my moral wellbeing and financial stability. Godammit. I don't know why that information always induces strange reactions from the girls of my generation.
I'm exhausted but she convinces me to go out and meet some other random couchsurfers in the middle of downtown Paris; feeding me French white beer is a substantial part of her plan and works well. We arrive at a happening little square around a 16th? century fountain. The night proves uneventful, as the people we meet are essentially squares, from what I can tell through the language barrier. The Norweigan was particularly disappointing, not being a dragon-slaying black metal guitar god, but a novice tango-dancing Prufrock.
I sleep restlessly on a bare mattress until woken up early by Melodie, who must depart for work. She explains she cannot host me the second night, like we agreed, because I toss and turn in my sleep, which will hinder her from getting rest, and she must leave for Berlin in a day blah blah blah. Excuses quickly fill the confined quarters of her apartment. I react cordially, and thank her for her hospitality. So continues the saga of women ejecting me from their apartments/vehicles/company at odd hours and angles; it is hard not to take a little measure of pride in such a thing. But more on that anon.
I leave in good spirits. It's fucking Paris outside! All day! I begin my time here the only way I know how, with a morning stroll down the Champs-Élysées...
Monday, March 29, 2010
Hopping the Pond
I've been in Atlanta for the past two weeks, putting the final touches on my plan to backpack solo through Europe. It's amazing how much time and money you can eat up preparing for a trip like this. I'm pulling it all off about as cheaply as possible, with advanced airfare, youth Eurail pass, and staying in hostels; still I'm slightly alarmed at the overall price tag. I expect my bankroll to take a sizable hit over trip, factoring in not only travel costs but also the two months without any income. And screw the whole "separate poker and life bankrolls" ideal; it's just not realistic if you want to enjoy yourself. I'd rather go broke than not make it to Europe before I'm 30.
In addition to staying at hostels, I'll be using the couchsurfing.org service. If you're unfamiliar with it, I suggest you check it out. It's a global community of travelers who offer host fellow wanderers as they pass through. The site offers a member-to-member vouching system as well as optional identity and location verification processes. By being selective, both parties can ensure personal safety. I've met nothing but outgoing, inspirational people through couchsurfing; entertaining international guests and showing them my view of New Orleans has been the highlight of my experience and has definitely broadened my horizons. Check it out.
Between packing and putting together an itinerary, I've gotten back to regularly grinding online. I played what felt like a million tournaments, cashed in only two. Suddenly reacquainted with the pulsating levels of stress and anxiety those goddamned things bring into my life, and feeling as though I was being swallowed by kudzu, I promptly returned to playing heads up cash. What a fucking difference! Not to lose 5 out of 6 times I play, and even then barely turn a profit, if at all. I cannot fathom how kids make runs at winning the Tournament Leader Board, grinding away day and night for an entire year. How do they have any hair left?
I gladly suffered a significant upswing the first week of playing cash, though it's been a bit more up and down since. I've gotten my main account back to a healthy level, which I'll put more time into once I get back from Europe. It's strange how you can travel around, playing live cash games and never really have "time" to play online. What I mean by that is I find myself so well-adjusted to live cash, find it so comfortable and profitable, that making the switch to playing primarily online would not only take months to adjust to, but would also significantly decrease my winrate for an extended amount of time. One does not simply go from playing 5/10 and 10/25 live to the same stakes online, there is an enormous fissure between the two. Online games have espoused a higher average skill level and monumentally larger swings than their live counterparts.
But there is another part to the puzzle. Whenever I'm isolated in Atlanta, with online games as my sole outlet, my overall skill level seems to make new leaps and bounds. I hardly go a day without having some great revelation about poker. I post on forums, watch training videos, review my sessions, and am generally more focused on improving my game. Then when I play online, it is against people who actually have the capacity to put me in difficult spots over and over, and there's no substitute for this when trying to iron out the wrinkles in your game. I can tear through weeks of live sessions without second guessing myself about a hand. Don't get me wrong, it makes a great day job, but that endured lack of brain function can make you impotent as a poker player. You could consistently beat a 5/10 live game and never show a profit at 1/2 online. That is why you must always always keep studying.
My recent urge to dramatically improve my game has made me consider trying my hand at coaching, at least for small stakes players and relative beginners. But like all things, it'll have to wait until I return from Europe. By the way, that continent is going to be nursing an ghastly bruise when I'm done with it. I'll make sure to report on the cash action at the major Euro casinos, and how myself and all the money mysteriously seem to leave at the same time.
In addition to staying at hostels, I'll be using the couchsurfing.org service. If you're unfamiliar with it, I suggest you check it out. It's a global community of travelers who offer host fellow wanderers as they pass through. The site offers a member-to-member vouching system as well as optional identity and location verification processes. By being selective, both parties can ensure personal safety. I've met nothing but outgoing, inspirational people through couchsurfing; entertaining international guests and showing them my view of New Orleans has been the highlight of my experience and has definitely broadened my horizons. Check it out.
Between packing and putting together an itinerary, I've gotten back to regularly grinding online. I played what felt like a million tournaments, cashed in only two. Suddenly reacquainted with the pulsating levels of stress and anxiety those goddamned things bring into my life, and feeling as though I was being swallowed by kudzu, I promptly returned to playing heads up cash. What a fucking difference! Not to lose 5 out of 6 times I play, and even then barely turn a profit, if at all. I cannot fathom how kids make runs at winning the Tournament Leader Board, grinding away day and night for an entire year. How do they have any hair left?
I gladly suffered a significant upswing the first week of playing cash, though it's been a bit more up and down since. I've gotten my main account back to a healthy level, which I'll put more time into once I get back from Europe. It's strange how you can travel around, playing live cash games and never really have "time" to play online. What I mean by that is I find myself so well-adjusted to live cash, find it so comfortable and profitable, that making the switch to playing primarily online would not only take months to adjust to, but would also significantly decrease my winrate for an extended amount of time. One does not simply go from playing 5/10 and 10/25 live to the same stakes online, there is an enormous fissure between the two. Online games have espoused a higher average skill level and monumentally larger swings than their live counterparts.
But there is another part to the puzzle. Whenever I'm isolated in Atlanta, with online games as my sole outlet, my overall skill level seems to make new leaps and bounds. I hardly go a day without having some great revelation about poker. I post on forums, watch training videos, review my sessions, and am generally more focused on improving my game. Then when I play online, it is against people who actually have the capacity to put me in difficult spots over and over, and there's no substitute for this when trying to iron out the wrinkles in your game. I can tear through weeks of live sessions without second guessing myself about a hand. Don't get me wrong, it makes a great day job, but that endured lack of brain function can make you impotent as a poker player. You could consistently beat a 5/10 live game and never show a profit at 1/2 online. That is why you must always always keep studying.
My recent urge to dramatically improve my game has made me consider trying my hand at coaching, at least for small stakes players and relative beginners. But like all things, it'll have to wait until I return from Europe. By the way, that continent is going to be nursing an ghastly bruise when I'm done with it. I'll make sure to report on the cash action at the major Euro casinos, and how myself and all the money mysteriously seem to leave at the same time.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Mondocity
The past 48 hours have been wild. Beginning with Sunday night at Harrahs, playing in one of the deepest 2/5 games I've seen in recent memory; at least seven spots around the table had 3k+ stacks. Without even playing all that aggressively, I still manage to entangle myself in two of my biggest pots of the year.
In the first hand someone straddles for 10, three limps to me, I make it 75 on the button with 43hh and somehow get called in five spots. The flop comes 9d 4s 2d, which checks around. Turn 3c. A fairly solid Asian regular leads for 200 out of the blinds; another Asian man, who's stuck and tilting, flats the 200. At this point I have roughly 3k in my stack, the regular covers, and the flatter has only about 575 back. I raise to 800, for value. The reg calls. The flatter folds, which is terrible with any two cards. I river gin: 4c. Reg checks; I throw out 1200 and he instacalls. He didn't show but either had A5 or an overpair.
The second hand took place about an orbit later. Another straddle and three limps. I raise to 75 with black TT, the same regular calls on the button (after the first pot he never folded to another one of my raises) and some guy in his 50s, who had been sitting deep in 2/5 all weekend, calls out of the straddle. Flop T85 rainbow. Check. I bet 110. Call. Call. Turn 4, which puts out a flush draw. Check. I bet 300; reg calls; straddle raises to 750. Behind that, the straddler has 2k, so even if he ginned a 76, it's not a bad spot for me, since I can cheaply boat up and stack him some of the time. I call; reg folds. The river is an offsuit 2, virtually a total brick. The straddle thinks for a second and ships it in for 2k. Everyone, including about 15 railbirds, snap their heads my direction and my insides perform strange lurching maneuver #3.
By the way, why the hell does Harrahs feel the need to advertise their largest game (which isn't even all that big) front and center at the edge of the poker room, feet from one of the main pedestrian walkways in the place? Has no one ever complained about the smokers on the rail, the low constant roar of the passing degenerate mob, and slew of slot machines, above which vaguely satanic Happy Days clips loop in sequence to the series theme song, as inescapable and persistent as a bad acid trip. Would you be surprised if I told you it was difficult to concentrate? Not to mention, no cash player in their right mind wants total strangers to see them sitting with several thousand dollars, except on the days we feel particularly narcissistic at the prospect of some pretty young thing passing by and oohaahing momentarily, which is just as good as staring into a mirror, when you get down to it. Once or twice a week the floor opts to relegate the main 2/5 game to the back room under the jackpot ticker. This is where the game belongs.
Back to the hand in question. Finally I arrive at the first spot, since returning to Harrah's 2/5, in which I honestly have no idea what to do. Of course top set is a very strong hand, especially with the board not being too terribly wet at any point. But after playing with this villain a few times over the weekend, I had seen him splash around but never put 200+ big blinds into a pot without being nutted. I didn't see him as the type to barrel off huge on the river on any draw he might have turned, and I wasn't sure if he would even jam a lower set, but rather bet maybe 3/4 his stack. All considered, I think a fold is correct. I called. He flips over 76o and I don't feel much of anything as I muck. Perhaps the first pot I won desensitized me to losing this one. Regardless, I have been working on tilt more than anything in the past few months and it's done more for my game than any single other thing, but I'll share my thoughts about that another time.
I stay in the game about an hour longer and lose a few more small pots, booking a significant loss for the session. It's the first road bump I've hit in awhile playing cash games. I leave and pick up my roommate, Mike, from work. We take in a few bars then finally pass out around six.
At ten AM a mutual friend of ours, who I'm subletting from for the time being, shows up to grab some belongings. We talk for 30min or so at which point he leaves and we find it pointless to try to get back to sleep. Both of us hungover, but neither the still-buzzed nor in-pain variety, we decide to make a push for Mandina's for some good authentic New Orleans lunch. It's noon by the time we arrive, and they are still running a special on 1/4 loaf (oyster) po-boys and a cup of (turtle) soup. We also split a plate of crab fingers in wine sauce, which is extremely heavy due to all the bread crumbs. By the end of the meal I'm sopping up the sauce with gratis garlic bread to extinguish any trace of residual inebriation. I'm stuffed. Somehow after two beers, Mike looks at me and asks, "Whats next? Crawfish and a beer at the Bulldog?" I ask him about six times if he's serious, to which he replies "yes" every time. Not being one to break up a party, I drive us to Magazine. On the way, windows down, we belt out Biz Markie lyrics passing by OPP, which keeps up throughout the day because it feels so damn good to start up 'YOU - GOT WHAT I NEE EED. BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND. BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND.' The Big Fisherman is out of crawfish so we buy four crabs. Either the bartender at the Bulldog was having a bad day or just didn't like us bringing food over, but we sat on the patio so we didn't have to look at her anyway. We absolutely defile our crabs over a couple Stella drafts and fall into a conversation about primal nature. I still have wet crab bits lodged under my fingernails when Mike says, "What's next?"
We cut across town and stop in at a Walgreens to get Mike some sunglasses before heading to the Fly. Mike checks out behind two nuns in full regalia buying tampons and snacks. He's more buzzed than I am goes into hysterics, which makes me lose it too. We hop down the street to a daiquiri shop, where Mike orders us a blend of their three strongest flavors with an extra shot of everclear. Mine is offensively alcoholic. Somewhere between there and the Fly, the words 'Mondecadence' 'Mondocity' and 'Monsplendifference' come into being. We throw frisbee-golf frisbees out on the grass until a news team from WWL approaches us and invites us to join them on their blanket. They are all roughly our age and explain that they work the graveyard shift at the station; between them they are a producer, weatherman, and photographer. Mike talks weatherguy's ear off about the Chaos Theory, which is eventually taken to be an insult to his expertise. We are about to leave when a tugboat pulls up no more than 20 meters offshore and starts making doughnuts in the water and blowing every horn in its arsenal. I'd never seen anything like it. The whole congregation on shore starts waving, dancing, laughing. Some kids slacklining near the water start yelling that the tugboat was about to open fire on everyone; I have no idea what they were on. Even so, the tugboat lingers there long enough to be considered uncomfortable. When it leaves, we leave.
The next stop was Kyoto for a single piece of Yellowtail and Mackerel, which turned into Yellowtail, Mackerel, Squid, Uni, Octopus, some idiotic Roe concoction, and two of the biggest bottles of Kirin Ichiban I'd ever seen. After awhile the staff is ready to get rid of us, and I know it even if Mike is completely oblivious. By the time we exit there is no doubt he has fully transformed into Mad Mike, an alter ego I haven't seen since college. I elect to steer us to Monkey Hill, a nearby bar I had never been to. Terrible call on my part. Overpriced drinks, upper class feel, and an self important young professional clientele, all of which clashed with what I had in mind. I buy a couple rounds of JWalker Blacks, neat. Mike runs off the only two girls in the place, and we soon stumble out. 9pm, time to pack it in. My car breaks down twice on the way home, but we make it. I'm in bed six hours ahead of schedule, and poker is the last thing on my mind, which comes as a rare blessing these days. Thank god for Mondocity.
In the first hand someone straddles for 10, three limps to me, I make it 75 on the button with 43hh and somehow get called in five spots. The flop comes 9d 4s 2d, which checks around. Turn 3c. A fairly solid Asian regular leads for 200 out of the blinds; another Asian man, who's stuck and tilting, flats the 200. At this point I have roughly 3k in my stack, the regular covers, and the flatter has only about 575 back. I raise to 800, for value. The reg calls. The flatter folds, which is terrible with any two cards. I river gin: 4c. Reg checks; I throw out 1200 and he instacalls. He didn't show but either had A5 or an overpair.
The second hand took place about an orbit later. Another straddle and three limps. I raise to 75 with black TT, the same regular calls on the button (after the first pot he never folded to another one of my raises) and some guy in his 50s, who had been sitting deep in 2/5 all weekend, calls out of the straddle. Flop T85 rainbow. Check. I bet 110. Call. Call. Turn 4, which puts out a flush draw. Check. I bet 300; reg calls; straddle raises to 750. Behind that, the straddler has 2k, so even if he ginned a 76, it's not a bad spot for me, since I can cheaply boat up and stack him some of the time. I call; reg folds. The river is an offsuit 2, virtually a total brick. The straddle thinks for a second and ships it in for 2k. Everyone, including about 15 railbirds, snap their heads my direction and my insides perform strange lurching maneuver #3.
By the way, why the hell does Harrahs feel the need to advertise their largest game (which isn't even all that big) front and center at the edge of the poker room, feet from one of the main pedestrian walkways in the place? Has no one ever complained about the smokers on the rail, the low constant roar of the passing degenerate mob, and slew of slot machines, above which vaguely satanic Happy Days clips loop in sequence to the series theme song, as inescapable and persistent as a bad acid trip. Would you be surprised if I told you it was difficult to concentrate? Not to mention, no cash player in their right mind wants total strangers to see them sitting with several thousand dollars, except on the days we feel particularly narcissistic at the prospect of some pretty young thing passing by and oohaahing momentarily, which is just as good as staring into a mirror, when you get down to it. Once or twice a week the floor opts to relegate the main 2/5 game to the back room under the jackpot ticker. This is where the game belongs.
Back to the hand in question. Finally I arrive at the first spot, since returning to Harrah's 2/5, in which I honestly have no idea what to do. Of course top set is a very strong hand, especially with the board not being too terribly wet at any point. But after playing with this villain a few times over the weekend, I had seen him splash around but never put 200+ big blinds into a pot without being nutted. I didn't see him as the type to barrel off huge on the river on any draw he might have turned, and I wasn't sure if he would even jam a lower set, but rather bet maybe 3/4 his stack. All considered, I think a fold is correct. I called. He flips over 76o and I don't feel much of anything as I muck. Perhaps the first pot I won desensitized me to losing this one. Regardless, I have been working on tilt more than anything in the past few months and it's done more for my game than any single other thing, but I'll share my thoughts about that another time.
I stay in the game about an hour longer and lose a few more small pots, booking a significant loss for the session. It's the first road bump I've hit in awhile playing cash games. I leave and pick up my roommate, Mike, from work. We take in a few bars then finally pass out around six.
At ten AM a mutual friend of ours, who I'm subletting from for the time being, shows up to grab some belongings. We talk for 30min or so at which point he leaves and we find it pointless to try to get back to sleep. Both of us hungover, but neither the still-buzzed nor in-pain variety, we decide to make a push for Mandina's for some good authentic New Orleans lunch. It's noon by the time we arrive, and they are still running a special on 1/4 loaf (oyster) po-boys and a cup of (turtle) soup. We also split a plate of crab fingers in wine sauce, which is extremely heavy due to all the bread crumbs. By the end of the meal I'm sopping up the sauce with gratis garlic bread to extinguish any trace of residual inebriation. I'm stuffed. Somehow after two beers, Mike looks at me and asks, "Whats next? Crawfish and a beer at the Bulldog?" I ask him about six times if he's serious, to which he replies "yes" every time. Not being one to break up a party, I drive us to Magazine. On the way, windows down, we belt out Biz Markie lyrics passing by OPP, which keeps up throughout the day because it feels so damn good to start up 'YOU - GOT WHAT I NEE EED. BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND. BUT YOU SAY HE'S JUST A FRIEND.' The Big Fisherman is out of crawfish so we buy four crabs. Either the bartender at the Bulldog was having a bad day or just didn't like us bringing food over, but we sat on the patio so we didn't have to look at her anyway. We absolutely defile our crabs over a couple Stella drafts and fall into a conversation about primal nature. I still have wet crab bits lodged under my fingernails when Mike says, "What's next?"
We cut across town and stop in at a Walgreens to get Mike some sunglasses before heading to the Fly. Mike checks out behind two nuns in full regalia buying tampons and snacks. He's more buzzed than I am goes into hysterics, which makes me lose it too. We hop down the street to a daiquiri shop, where Mike orders us a blend of their three strongest flavors with an extra shot of everclear. Mine is offensively alcoholic. Somewhere between there and the Fly, the words 'Mondecadence' 'Mondocity' and 'Monsplendifference' come into being. We throw frisbee-golf frisbees out on the grass until a news team from WWL approaches us and invites us to join them on their blanket. They are all roughly our age and explain that they work the graveyard shift at the station; between them they are a producer, weatherman, and photographer. Mike talks weatherguy's ear off about the Chaos Theory, which is eventually taken to be an insult to his expertise. We are about to leave when a tugboat pulls up no more than 20 meters offshore and starts making doughnuts in the water and blowing every horn in its arsenal. I'd never seen anything like it. The whole congregation on shore starts waving, dancing, laughing. Some kids slacklining near the water start yelling that the tugboat was about to open fire on everyone; I have no idea what they were on. Even so, the tugboat lingers there long enough to be considered uncomfortable. When it leaves, we leave.
The next stop was Kyoto for a single piece of Yellowtail and Mackerel, which turned into Yellowtail, Mackerel, Squid, Uni, Octopus, some idiotic Roe concoction, and two of the biggest bottles of Kirin Ichiban I'd ever seen. After awhile the staff is ready to get rid of us, and I know it even if Mike is completely oblivious. By the time we exit there is no doubt he has fully transformed into Mad Mike, an alter ego I haven't seen since college. I elect to steer us to Monkey Hill, a nearby bar I had never been to. Terrible call on my part. Overpriced drinks, upper class feel, and an self important young professional clientele, all of which clashed with what I had in mind. I buy a couple rounds of JWalker Blacks, neat. Mike runs off the only two girls in the place, and we soon stumble out. 9pm, time to pack it in. My car breaks down twice on the way home, but we make it. I'm in bed six hours ahead of schedule, and poker is the last thing on my mind, which comes as a rare blessing these days. Thank god for Mondocity.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Back Underwater
The series at the Beau Rivage wrapped up a couple weeks ago and I got the hell out of Biloxi. I couldn't stand the same food, mediocre cash action, and nothing to do winter beach drag any longer.
The trip was a success for most of us there. I busted my ass for a solid profit in cash games and Ryan shipped Event 7. Tyler, the sicko, final tabled his third main event in a row at the Beau.
Now back in Nola, I'm reacquainting myself with the nightlife. Friday turned into real bender, starting out at happy hour at La Petite, hopping rides around town with randoms until ending up shambling out of Snakes at sunrise. God I love this city.
My plan was to couchsurf here for the entire month of February, biding my time until I hop over to Europe in March. But as it turns out, the people I call friends all seem to hold something against central heating and long couches. Somewhere toward the end of the first week I lost the drive to continually tuck myself in with enough booze to trick myself that I was sleeping comfortably. I broke down and arranged to share an apartment with an old friend. He's a singing-songwriting bartender-cowboy, so we've been passing around the guitar and the bottle quite a bit. Someone has left me a bed, desk, and a bookshelf full of lit classics and philosophy, both of which I have been devouring as fast as possible but I know I won't finish whole stack before I have to move again.
Harrahs has been good to me since I've returned. Despite the large number of regulars, the action keeps up. Virtually every time I play, someone I've never seen before shows up with a couple K to blow. For some reason Amarillo Slim has been in town, showing up at 4pm every day demanding to play Omaha, or so I hear. They spread it for him at least once, even though it died within a few hours. Also a 5/10 game broke out twice this week. Things are on the up and up at Harrahs. I attribute it to the Saints.
Oh, by the way, the Saints just won the motherfucking Superbowl. In case you didn't hear because you've been stuck in a hole somewhere or out licking mushrooms, which is exactly what you probably should be doing, given that the Earth is about to slip right off its orbit and send us all into oblivion. Speaking of which, Endymion starts in a couple hours and I should go prepare myself.
The trip was a success for most of us there. I busted my ass for a solid profit in cash games and Ryan shipped Event 7. Tyler, the sicko, final tabled his third main event in a row at the Beau.
Now back in Nola, I'm reacquainting myself with the nightlife. Friday turned into real bender, starting out at happy hour at La Petite, hopping rides around town with randoms until ending up shambling out of Snakes at sunrise. God I love this city.
My plan was to couchsurf here for the entire month of February, biding my time until I hop over to Europe in March. But as it turns out, the people I call friends all seem to hold something against central heating and long couches. Somewhere toward the end of the first week I lost the drive to continually tuck myself in with enough booze to trick myself that I was sleeping comfortably. I broke down and arranged to share an apartment with an old friend. He's a singing-songwriting bartender-cowboy, so we've been passing around the guitar and the bottle quite a bit. Someone has left me a bed, desk, and a bookshelf full of lit classics and philosophy, both of which I have been devouring as fast as possible but I know I won't finish whole stack before I have to move again.
Harrahs has been good to me since I've returned. Despite the large number of regulars, the action keeps up. Virtually every time I play, someone I've never seen before shows up with a couple K to blow. For some reason Amarillo Slim has been in town, showing up at 4pm every day demanding to play Omaha, or so I hear. They spread it for him at least once, even though it died within a few hours. Also a 5/10 game broke out twice this week. Things are on the up and up at Harrahs. I attribute it to the Saints.
Oh, by the way, the Saints just won the motherfucking Superbowl. In case you didn't hear because you've been stuck in a hole somewhere or out licking mushrooms, which is exactly what you probably should be doing, given that the Earth is about to slip right off its orbit and send us all into oblivion. Speaking of which, Endymion starts in a couple hours and I should go prepare myself.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
When Biloxi Freezes Over
Biloxi has been cold in every sense of the word. I’ve fallen into a routine of playing every noon-event tournament for eight or so hours, busting sometime between dinner break and the bubble, then stumbling back to the condo where dire cold and piercing winds wait for me on what seems like a mile long trek from the last parking spot to my door. This was not how I envisioned moving into a condo on the beach. That being said, I’m very pleased with the condo itself. It came with all the furniture and appliances I could ever want, a huge interior space, and a wrap-around balcony overlooking the coast.
Fortunately, things seem to be warming up. The cold has been less bitter the last couple days. I scored my first cash last night in the 1k. I hardly made any profit but after nine bricks in a row, I’ll take it. One of my horses survived to day two, so I’ll be leaving soon to go sweat him and finally play some cash games.
At a live tournament series like this one I’m always torn between playing every noon event and solely grinding cash. Usually I end up with some desperate mix of both, where one side cancels out my losses for the other, depending on how I’m running. And if you get stuck in neutral for several months like this, it can be extremely frustrating. This time around I’ve decided the noon events have way too much value to pass up, with the fields being as soft as they have; but I’m also resolving to put in as many hours as possible for cash and try to outrun some short term variance.
The tournaments are getting tougher as of Friday. PCA wrapped up, so all the sickos must have decided to make the short plane-hop over. In the $550 I picked up the worst table draw I think I’ve ever had in a non-main event gulf coast tournament. That’s not to say I necessarily knew all the players by name, but there were at least five to six good young internet wizards at my table all day. Even worse, my table was not scheduled to break, ever. At some point Ryan Welsch joined the party and I bubbled soon after.
Now it’s time to go lay on my balcony for the ten minutes of sun they’re issuing us per day in Biloxi. I’m sure to drag myself to the Beau Rivage soon after. Before I go let me sincerely thank GulfCoastPoker.net and Bill Phillips for throwing Fade Everything up on the site. GCP occupies a vital niche in the southern poker community, keeping everyone informed and in touch, both of which are essential to keeping the poker economy chug-chugging.
So keep on chug-chugging.
Fortunately, things seem to be warming up. The cold has been less bitter the last couple days. I scored my first cash last night in the 1k. I hardly made any profit but after nine bricks in a row, I’ll take it. One of my horses survived to day two, so I’ll be leaving soon to go sweat him and finally play some cash games.
At a live tournament series like this one I’m always torn between playing every noon event and solely grinding cash. Usually I end up with some desperate mix of both, where one side cancels out my losses for the other, depending on how I’m running. And if you get stuck in neutral for several months like this, it can be extremely frustrating. This time around I’ve decided the noon events have way too much value to pass up, with the fields being as soft as they have; but I’m also resolving to put in as many hours as possible for cash and try to outrun some short term variance.
The tournaments are getting tougher as of Friday. PCA wrapped up, so all the sickos must have decided to make the short plane-hop over. In the $550 I picked up the worst table draw I think I’ve ever had in a non-main event gulf coast tournament. That’s not to say I necessarily knew all the players by name, but there were at least five to six good young internet wizards at my table all day. Even worse, my table was not scheduled to break, ever. At some point Ryan Welsch joined the party and I bubbled soon after.
Now it’s time to go lay on my balcony for the ten minutes of sun they’re issuing us per day in Biloxi. I’m sure to drag myself to the Beau Rivage soon after. Before I go let me sincerely thank GulfCoastPoker.net and Bill Phillips for throwing Fade Everything up on the site. GCP occupies a vital niche in the southern poker community, keeping everyone informed and in touch, both of which are essential to keeping the poker economy chug-chugging.
So keep on chug-chugging.
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