SpongeBob ShovePants and the Blind Straight Flush

“When you use your IMAGINATION you can do anything!”
–SpongeBob SquarePants

At the poker table you often meet fascinating people and see events that you wouldn’t dream were possible. During this past trip to the poker tables of Biloxi, I meet one of the wildest gamblers I’d ever sat beside and observed an incident that I never would have believed had it not occurred in front of my own eyes.

I sat down to a ½ No Limit Hold’em table early Friday afternoon next to a young guy from Jacksonville. His forearms were covered in tattoos and he was knocking back tall vodka cocktails. Around his neck hung a jewel encrusted SpongeBob SquarePants medallion because he liked the popular children’s cartoon.

“SpongeBob ShovePants” liked to play just about every hand. He called large bets with hands that had little chance of winning. He urged other players to put their entire stack into the pot with him before the cards were dealt. His chip stack went up and down like a rollercoaster without tracks. “SpongeBob ShovePants” played poker like it was Russian Roulette; it was frequently all or nothing.

After watching his reckless, financial self-destruction for awhile, “SpongeBob ShovePants” leaned over to me and complained that the cards were simply against him. I kept my thoughts on the matter to myself, but he persisted. To prove his point, before the cards were dealt for the next hand, “SpongeBob ShovePants” put the remainder of his chip stack into the pot blind.

The hand ran out with an older man matching his Ace-King with two more Kings: a monster, virtually unbeatable. However, there were three clubs on the board, making the flush possible. I peeked over as “SpongeBob ShovePants” rolled over one club…then, you guessed it, a straight flush! He jumped out of his chair and started shouting like he had won the lottery.

Although the odds against what had just happened would have been too unbelievable to include in a movie, the money he won on that miracle long shot only lasted “SpongeBob ShovePants” another couple of hands before it was gone. In a little over an hour, he dumped about $1000 into the game. After he left the game, four other players got up. I was sad to see him go.

Don't Scare the Fish!

“There is a lot of money to be made off of stupidity”

-“Alabama Man” 

After playing poker for so many years, there really isn’t too much that bothers me at the tables. One glaring exception is when seasoned, skilled players are condescending or impatient to others who are just learning the game.

A lot of people gravitate to poker as a form of entertainment; winning money isn’t their primary goal. They just want to have a good time and don’t care if it costs them a few hundred dollars. This is an attitude that is often hard to find in poker and it should be greeted with a smile and nurtured with kindness.

Playing cards in Biloxi last week, I was moved to the left of a jovial man from Alabama. He was swilling Coronas like an unemployed Charlie Sheen and punctuating his dialogue with profanity and bleary-eyed laughs. Talking with him, it was apparent that a few hundred dollars didn’t mean too much to him. The way he played poker confirmed this suspicion. His goal was simply to have a good time and there was no denying that he succeeded.

Although I had just sat down, I noticed immediately that no one else at the table was enjoying the “Alabama Man” show. There were a lot of shared grimaces and mutterings about “idiocy.”

The dealers and other players complained about nearly everything this poor fella did. They objected to his language, to his failure to follow the action, and to his general poker strategy. Essentially, they objected to him as a person.

Sensing the animosity at the table, “Alabama Man” began to consider abandoning cards and returning to the casino’s dice game.

One especially egregious example of this behavior occurred from a younger kid at the table who had amassed a large stack of chips. When the kid made a river bet, “Alabama Man” drunkenly shoved out a sloppy pile of chips with each hand in an attempt to raise the bet. The kid complained that “Alabama Man’s” hands crossed the table’s betting line a split second apart and the raise shouldn’t count. Then, in the very next breath, the kid said that he had a good hand and wanted the raise to stand. His fundamental dislike of “Alabama Man” was at war with his desire to make money. It was a weird example of the competing instincts within a lot of poker players.

Moments like these at the poker table bother me. Oftentimes players who are technically proficient fail to understand this basic premise of the game: DON’T SCARE THE FISH! Laugh at their jokes, listen to their stories, offer condolences for their losses, and complement the good plays when they make them. Be friendly because they are your true poker friends. When they are kind enough to throw a party, sit back, enjoy yourself, and have a big ol’ piece of fishcake.

From our discussion together, it was clear “Alabama Man” understood this basic carnivorous principle. Although he may have been a red-shirted rube at the poker table, he was all shark in business. He looked me dead in the eye and opined, in a self-assured and slurred tone, “There is a lot of money to be made off of stupidity.” I nodded my head in quiet agreement.

Haters Gonna Hate

“I Just Watched Bobby Bellande
Win a Hand

 and Started Breaking Shit”

It was 2:53 in the morning, and I was dead asleep, when I got this text message from an unknown number.

Sure, I knew of Bobby Bellande, who used to go by Jean-Robert, complete with the pretentious French pronunciation. He is all over the television, playing poker in the WSOP and on Poker After Dark. He has a semi-popular Twitter handle (@BrokeLivingJRB) that tracks his life of glamour. He even appeared on a season of the reality show, Survivor. And, yes, who wouldn’t be sick of his whole knit cap wearing, chauvinistic, smugness. But I’m not a terribly violent person, so I guess I feel that smashing my belongings just because Bellande is on television might be a bit of an o-ver-re-action.

The Chris Moneymaker poker boom of 2003 has elevated many top card players to the level of pseudo-celebrity. Names like Phil Ivey, Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan, and Daniel Negreanu have become B-list household names. However, this national attention has cultivated hordes of “haters” that lurk in poker forums, spewing vitriol upon the minds of anyone within range. Even though the “haters” often know little more about a person than a few brief television appearances, they form strong, and sometimes even violent, opinions on what is usually very little evidence.

This “hater” phenomenon is a strange part of human psychology that the anonymity of the internet only seems to amplify. We often see it at the poker table as a player gets fixated upon revenge after losing a hand. Some players even utilize an obnoxious and abrasive personality as they try to induce tilt in their opponents and get them off their best game. However, it is always better to avoid pulling such blinders of rage over one’s eyes. They have been the death of many chip stacks. All energy wasted on hate is energy that cannot be harnessed for self-improvement and pursuing personal goals.

Hatred is an obstacle of success and happiness.

P.S. I never figured out who sent that text. Don’t want to. Isn’t it better that way?

The Ass Dart

There are many reasons I love my brother Joe, but the biggest are probably that hanging out with him is always a good time and that he has a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever met.

Over the years, Joe has developed a proclivity towards perverse prop bets. His outgoing personality relishes the performance, enjoys the pressure, and savors the accomplishment.

For example, I designed a noxious concoction specifically for him, called the “Chocolate Olive Drop.” We had a standing wager on whether he could get it down without gagging. The specific ingredients varied slightly, depending on availability, but the drink usually consisted of a large tumbler full of whiskey, chocolate milk, lemon juice, clam juice, and, of course, a couple of olives. The combination of liquor and milk is off-putting enough, but just as the alcohol starts to kick and mix with the acidic lemon and briny clam, down come those olives, like bowling balls, rolling right over a man’s puke button. The “Chocolate Olive Drop” is a drink designed to make a man lose his lunch, but my brother is a tough customer and he is a lifetime winner on his encounters with them.

The wackiest prop bet I ever witnessed Joe undertake started innocently enough. We were killing time at my parents’ house with a friend of his that was having some girlfriend troubles. My brother was really looking for a way to cheer up his buddy and distract him from his troubles. As luck would have it, we just so happened to be messing around with a blowdart gun. So, when I casually inquired how much someone would have to pay Joe to shoot him in the ass with the gun, a price of $40 was quickly settled upon.

Before I knew it, I had shot him in the ass. Somehow, we talked him into getting shot four times. We made him go bare ass to earn the money, and had got the video set up just right (above). If you look close, the red marks from the previous shots are visible. Nice grouping!

Feeling Blue in Paradise

This time a year ago I was in the Caribbean islands for a friend’s wedding, surrounded by white sand and crystal blue waters. I was even planning on proposing to my girlfriend on the final day. However, despite being in a virtual heaven on earth, I was sitting in a tiny bar, in front of a video blackjack machine, totally bummed out, absent-mindedly choosing hit or stand, not caring at all whether I won or lost. My favorite team, the Washington Capitals, had just been eliminated from the playoffs. I hadn’t even been able to watch the game.

It has been extremely stressful to be a Caps fan over the past five years. Tonight, they will play their 5^th Game 7 during that stretch, more than any other team in the NHL, except one…their opponent, the defending Stanley Cup Champions, the Boston Bruins.

As a diehard, Capitals fanatic, I can remember each game like it was yesterday:

April 22^nd, 2008- In their first playoff appearance in four years, the Caps managed to storm back from a three games to one deficit against the Philadelphia Flyers. The game eventually went to overtime before Joffrey Lupul tucked a rebound past Cristobal Huet and my head collapsed into the carpet.

April 28^th, 2009- The Caps once again clawed back from three games to one, against the New York Rangers this time, and the game fell on the same night when I hosted my weekly poker game. When Sergei Federov blasted a goal with five minutes left, I celebrated so loudly, my friend across the street thought I was getting robbed.

May13^th, 2009- Against the Pittsburgh Penguins, my most hated sports franchise, the Caps got embarrassed in front of a home crowd, 6-2. The following day, with my girlfriend out of town, totally alone, a bottle of good bourbon helped me discover the wisdom of country music.

April 28^th, 2010- After winning the President’s Trophy for the best regular season record in the NHL, the Caps were heavy favorites to battle for the Cup. This time, it was the Caps that stormed to a commanding three games to one lead against the lowly Montreal Canadiens before completely choking. I’m not embarrassed to admit that, for the first time in more than a decade, I cried.

The Caps have faced the Bruins twice before in the playoffs. Each team has won one series. Both times the winner has gone on to the Stanley Cup finals. I have little faith the Caps will prevail tonight. My stomach churns a horrible knot and I feel on the verge of utter collapse. Time moves with sting of a thousand pin pricks until the puck drops.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. 

Ah, Las Vegas

 

My recent trip to Las Vegas was my sixth visit to the international gambling Mecca, but I hadn’t been in years. Here are some of the lesser known truths about Sin City that I had forgotten.

1)      Get ready to wait in lines. The airport taxi cab line is longer than the wait for Space Mountain. It may be the worst, but is by no means the last line to encounter for a weekend in Vegas. The buffet, the nightclub, and even the card room are often protected by monstrous, snaking queues that challenge your resolve to enter.

2)      Taxi cabs can be unpleasant. Up front, next to the driver in a full cab, I was bombarded with the aroma of a week-old, soiled, adult diaper. One member of our group climbed into a back seat and found his hand in a fresh puddle of love pudding. Always look before you sit! For a full night on the town, limos are worth it.

3)      You don’t actually need sleep. Coming from the east coast instantly throws your internal clock out of whack. No, the casinos don’t pump in pure oxygen, but the city runs on the swirling mess of adrenaline produced by lust and greed. It is very hard to get more than four hours of rest at a time. Meh. Sleep when you are dead.

4)      People get cranky when they lose. I should have remembered this one. While everyone smiles upon arrival, the faces are not nearly as cheery waiting at the terminal for departure. The city is built upon the graves of losers. Get a long last look; it may be awhile before you return.

“It Couldn’t Have Happened to a Nicer Guy”

Years back, when I ran a weekly poker game, I started using a phrase after someone beat me in a pot that began a funny trend. Instead of getting mad, I would simply look over at my opponent and say, “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” Among my friends, it became an inside joke that could usually provoke a good chuckle after a tense moment. Other people began to use the line and it was all in the good fun of a weekly home game. I was greatly amused to see Jason Alexander (of George Costanza fame) use the same line a few years later on ESPN.

Playing poker among friends is obviously a much different experience than playing with strangers. It is often more driven by entertainment than the desire for profit. Poker competition among friends develops a special light-hearted type of tension as the chips move from person to person. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy” was intentionally designed as a way to diffuse this tension. Handling the strain of defeat with grace and class is a skill that must be practiced and mastered.

Ultimately, poker, like most games, reveals the true soul of a person. Emily Post, in her immortal treatise on manners, writes,

“Nothing more quickly reveals the man whose gentlemanly appearance is only a veneer than the card table, for that veneer melts equally with success or failure. Being carried away by the game, he forgets to keep on his company polish. If he wins, he becomes grasping or overbearing because of his skill; if he loses, he complains constantly about the cards he has been holding and sneers at the luck of others.”
 

Hence, years of playing poker has taught me a lot about myself as well as important lessons in patience and fellowship, even when confronting opponents whose gentlemanly veneer has become badly tarnished in the swings of luck.

The Old Gunslinger

Eye to eye, his halitosis encircled me
like the hot steam from an irritated dragon.

When I first entered graduate school, I was assigned an assistantship with one of the most respected professors at the University of South Carolina. With enough publications to his credit to fill a bookshelf, he had earned the reputation of one of the leading authorities in his field. Through decades of toil, he had built his own publishing house from his blood and sweat: the caffeine highs of long editing sessions. He was driven by the pride of achievement; he savored the challenge of late nights becoming early mornings. When we meet, he sat at the absolute pinnacle of the profession and I was far off, miles below, climbing the foothills at the base of the mountain.

My newly appointed academic mentor was also an extremely tough man to work for. For a fresh-faced graduate student, it was like teaching a toddler to swim by throwing him into a vat of boiling oil. Because I misunderstood the starting date of my job, I arrived a day late and our first conversation ended in him screaming, over the phone, “get the hell out of my life!” Frequently reduced to tears, librarians were so terrified of him, they let me take books without a card; I just had to mention his name. The new student that filled my position after I started teaching quit after one day. Even his sneeze was intimidating; it rang out through the office hallways like a man being stabbed to death in cold blood.

More than earning my degree, my proudest moment in those early years of graduate school was the day I took money off that old bear in a wager.

The life of a research assistant is menial and tedious. That particular day, he had tasked me with searching the works of a dozen authors for books dedicated to a certain publisher. I discovered one book with a combination of the publisher’s name and his secretary’s. When we reviewed my handwritten notes, he snapped to attention at the strange entry I had found. Eye to eye, his halitosis encircled me like the hot steam from an irritated dragon. “I don’t believe you,” he cracked. As if sharing some sort of primal instinct, each of us immediately dropped our hands down and to our sides, the way gunfighters reach for their pistols. Up we came simultaneously with our wallets. And the bet was on.

Unfortunately for me, graduate assistants are some of the poorest, employed people on the planet; all I had was $5. His wallet was stuffed with a knot of bills so large it could barely close. Had it been a few years later, when I actually had a poker bankroll, I would have fleeced the old man for every penny he had.

Even in defeat, there was a twinkle of pride in his eye. He had turned a feckless neophyte into a hardened perfectionist like himself. The memory has been more valuable to me than a thousand dollar session of cards.

Body Shots

A number of years back, when I was first learning the game of Hold’em, some friends and I were sitting around with nothing to do. We had finished all the beer on the premises and the only other libation was a bottle of tequila (Cuervo, I believe). Because none of us particularly cared for the beverage (myself especially), we decided to play poker, with the loser of every hand taking a shot of the noxious liquid. After about half an hour, the bottle was empty, to a room full of regret.

Now sufficiently lubricated, a couple of the guys (for this was a particularly masculine endeavor), decided that we could continue to gamble by exchanging punches to the gut, instead of shots of rotgut. The rules were simple. We dealt the cards face up to two players, a practice in poker commonly called a “coin flip.” The loser received a punch from the winner in the stomach. This game, “Body Shots,” as it might be called, was infinitely more entertaining than traditional poker and elicited riotous cheers from the onlookers. We played until the wee hours of the morning.

The utterly barbaric and juvenile game of Body Shots illustrates several unavoidable truths about the nature of gambling:

1) Gambling is intimately connected with personal risk.
2) The risk of gambling inevitably takes the form of physical pain.
3) Gambling has a curiously self-destructive element.

And, finally…

4) Gambling is more fun, yet vastly more self-destructive, with the addition of alcohol.

Shooting Craps in The Last Frontier

I recently returned from a dream Alaskan vacation. Each day offered our group once in a lifetime experiences; we jumped off a mountain on the world’s longest zip line, had a much too close encounter with a mother grizzly and her cubs, and watched a bunch of killer whales devour a sea lion. It was truly amazing.

Our transport for the journey was a monstrous, luxury liner, complete with all the amenities: gym, swimming pools, spa, theatre, and about nine different bars. We spent the daylight hours exploring the natural beauty of Alaska; nights, however, were reserved for the casino. It was a smallish affair with about 10 tables and slot machines that still paid out in buckets of coins.

We quickly fell into a routine of bar-hopping around the ship, grabbing a couple slices of late night pizza before stumbling into the casino around 11 (which, of course, was about 3 in the morning back home). Our group made fast friends with the bartender there, who went by the nickname “Turkish Rasta.” He showed me the brilliant secret of topping off my Red Stripe beers with a shot of Captain Morgan. Delicious genius!

Cruise ship casinos are tricky. The Hold’em table was entirely electronic with a rake that ran up to $15 for a single hand. No thanks! For convenience sake, we stuck by the craps table, positioned directly next to the bar.

Craps is a great game that offers good odds and is typically the loudest table in a casino. When I’m shooting craps and drinking, I love to talk up the game. You really gotta focus and visualize your number. See the dice in your mind and be the dice as you cast them down the table.

My favorite thing to do is bring out the positive energy by reminding everybody how lucky everything is:
Dice bounce up on the rail? That’s lucky.
Dice hit your arm? That’s lucky.
Dice knock a chip out of the dealer’s stack without knocking the entire stack over? That’s super lucky.
Pretty soon the dealers were saying it too. Either way, our trip was blessed with some incredible luck; we watched one player hit nine points in a row, as well as about five pure winners.

Everybody wins!

Time Warp

Instantly, I was teleported into a future

where this moment was but an insignificant incident,

lost in the miasma of memory.
 

After running bad to start a recent two week Biloxi vacation, I was down about $550 and only had one more, measly $100 buy-in. So, I decided to take a few days off, enjoy myself, meditate a little on what I needed to do, and look for a soft Friday night table at Beau Rivage. When I wandered into the poker room and took a seat at a ½ No Limit Hold’em game, I discovered an anomaly of time and space that I had never experienced before.

I immediately noticed an elderly woman on my right whose shock of white hair rose up like the Bride of Frankenstein. She sat like a flesh-colored statue, draped with a jet-black, fur shawl, reminiscent of someone hunting Dalmatians for a new coat. Only a single, claw-like hand, adorned in golden rings and nail polish of the same color, protruded from its shadows to handle her chips and cards. In half an hour of play, she spoke not a word and didn’t play a hand. Like a lot of weak players, she was timid and even broadcast intended folds by the way she held her cards. I instantly knew I was better than her, wished I was sitting on her other side, and began to salivate over her stack. Easy pickings.

After a couple of limpers, I was sitting in the big blind and looked down to see A-7 suited in spades. The flop was exactly what I had been waiting for: J-9-5…all spades! I had the best possible hand and watched as Bride of Frankenstein bet out a single $5 chip. “Weird,” I thought to myself, but just called, setting the trap and got another player to call as well.

The next card was a beautiful 6 of hearts. I still held the nuts. B. of F. pushed out $10. I flat called, as did the other player. The river card was the 8 of spades, not the best card, but, still holding a monster possible hand, I began to think about how to make the most money. B. of F. dropped another $5 chip in front of her. “Super weird,” I thought. Rarely do you ever see someone reduce the size of their bet as the size of the pot grows or such a tiny river bet, not even one tenth the size of the pot…total amateur hour.

I made my move and raised to a modest $25. The other player, I was hoping had the K of spades, folded. I watched closely as B. of F. picked up some chips with a quivering hand and added them to her original bet. It seemed like she was just trying to call and the kindly dealer helped her by moving out the chips. To my surprise, she min-raised me to $45. WTF!?!

After the other weird moves she made during the hand, this didn’t faze me all that much. I was thinking of money, her money specifically, and how nice it was going to look sitting in front of me. I looked down at the roughly $60 remaining in my short stack, paused, and then said, “all in.”

As B. of F. studied the cards on the table, I cautioned myself to be nice and give the dead money time to pay me off. “Come on old lady,” my soul arrogantly mused, “I need those chips.” Instantly, I was teleported into a future where this moment was but an insignificant incident, lost in the miasma of memory. I had robbed this helplessly enfeebled senior citizen, used her money as a tool to extract hundreds more from the table, and had a fantastically leisurely conclusion to my vacation. There were days on the beach, racing jet skis, succulent steak dinners, and all the booze I could dump down my bloated gullet. It was probably only about 20 seconds or so in real time, but, in my mind, I lived out an entire week.

When she finally called, I turned up my nut flush and heard an impressed whisper from across the table. And then it happened…

she rolled over pocket 5s

and the final card on the board magically

 metamorphosed from an 8 into a 6,

giving her the winning full house!

In an instant, I was sucked out of the time vortex of my reverie, all the fantasies built on the presumed domination of the weak and ignorant, and I was back in the present again, sitting beside an elderly woman with horror-show hair. I had made the most basic of poker mistakes, usually reserved for first-time players; I misread the board!

“Nice hand,” I said and stood up. She said nothing, but simply began stacking my chips.

Always Show Your Monsters

A few years back, I was playing poker at Caesars, Las Vegas for the first time. Their card room, a stylish forum meant to host big events, was still quite new. The action was pretty good, although nearly any place in Sin City can produce a respectable game these days. It is a clean, well-lighted place with high ceilings and a great poker atmosphere. There are tons of flat screen televisions lining the walls, which were not on the typical sports or news channels, but constantly cycling through various numbers that I barely noticed.

After a few orbits at a $1/3 NLH game, I was dealt pocket 7s and saw a flop bring…two more 7s. BINGO! When you have the deck completely crippled, like flopping quads, it is very hard to actually get paid. It is a long shot that any one else has anything decent and you are usually lucky to get a token bluffer making a tiny stab at the pot, which is all I earned in this instance. After my opponent folded, I exercised monk-like discipline and quietly slid my cards to the dealer, showing no one.

The following day I learned what a mistake it was to keep my hand a secret. It turns out that the number cycling televisions, that I paid little attention to, were advertising high-hand jackpots. Had I simply turned up my four sevens to show off my luck, I would have won over $300. When I watched an elderly player collect on a made straight flush, all I could think to myself was, “Ugghhh…”

This example doesn’t illustrate the real reason that you should showoff your monster hands. Showing monsters is good for the game. By “monsters,” I am referring to the ultra-rare hands, like quads and straight flushes, not full houses or below. Flashing a monster can help to alleviate some of the tedium of a long session at the table; it energizes the game a bit, particularly those players who are new to the game and play only for the entertainment factor. Furthermore, showing a giant hand like this builds a friendlier table. The friendlier the table, the easier it is to beat. If your opponents are distracted by socializing, they will not play at optimal levels. Seeing you flash your cards will subtly influence them to show theirs and earn you information in the future. Showing your monster also manipulates your table image. People will remember the beast you had in the pocket and give you a little more room to get creative.

Visiting Churchill Downs

There he was, by God—a puffy, drink-ravaged, diseased-ridden caricature…like an awful cartoon version of an old snapshot in some once-proud mother’s family photo album. It was the face we’d been looking for—and it was, of course, my own. Horrible, horrible...

-Hunter S. Thompson

“The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved”

A few years back, I happened to be in Louisville, attending an academic conference with a good friend and native Kentuckian. After reading our papers, I insisted, being the inveterate gambler that I am, that we visit the sacred dirt of Churchill Downs. In the spirit of things, we had a couple slugs of Basil Hayden before departing…only good bourbon for this adventure. Why not, after all? When in Kentucky…

It was the off-season and there were no races. There were, however, still plenty of gamblers milling about and betting on races around the country via simulcast. Immediately, in the spirit of things, we ordered up a couple of mint juleps. They arrived in commemorative Derby glasses. Delicious!

Outside, there wasn’t a soul around. We were able to stroll down to the Winner’s Circle and run our fingers through the earth that had been trod by such legends as War Admiral and Secretariat. I vaguely considered running the final 20 yards to share the energy of the victorious beasts that trod before me, but under the elegant shadow of history, I filed that in the “maybe later” category.

We headed back inside and indulged in a few of the generously tall $2 beers. When I found the $2 pulled pork slider tray, I thought I’d walked into heaven. After studying a racing form, we picked a winner our first try and won another of our bets to cover our alcohol and cab fare.

Feeling great, we left the ponies to the serious gamblers and headed back to the hotel. The heavy consumption of bourbon somehow managed to become a theme of the evening and the strict attention to memory became rather Swiss cheesy. So here is all that I can recall:

There was a lesson in bourbon by a bartender who could have had a Master’s Degree in the subject…did we actually walk under some giant, neon guitar, or did I just imagine that?...some random girl, neither of us had set eyes on before, felt the need to come and tell me that my buddy was “an asshole”…just a couple of fingers and a few cubes for me, thanks…convinced a teacher from Mississippi State was trying to philosophically trap me, every time he started to speak, I cut him off with a smile and “oh no, not this time Mississippi State”…goddamn elevator keeps trying to tell me what to do…my comrade in booze ended up meeting the woman of his dreams, an ex-ballerina, and by the fates, she was living in the same city as us, over 500 miles away…hello, cowgirl in the sand. hello, ruby in the dust.

The friendly custodian of libations at the hotel bar gave us free samples of their finest bourbon: some beautiful brown elixir from the Van Winkle line. Only in Kentucky would a hotel bar even have such a valuable and esoteric product. I was at Borgata, the nicest casino in Atlantic City, and the best bourbon they had at the bar was Knob Creek. Not bad, but with the rivers of money flowing through that place, the manager should have been hoisted up by his genitals next to all that ultra-swanky Chihuly glass sculpture. God bless the magical Bluegrass State!

The Legend of Boobarella

Charles Town has joined the growing trend of adding casino facilities to racetracks, and created Hollywood Casino. It is a much larger and more stylish facility than one would expect from the mountains of West Virginia. Watching the hundreds of players lining up for the slots and crowding the table games is like witnessing the slow death of Atlantic City. Many cities, all across the country, are desperate for a piece of the gambling industry and states no longer seem content to let Nevada and a few others monopolize this lucrative market uncontested.

A little while back, I was playing some $1-2 NL Hold’em at Charles Town when there was a sighting of a legendary creature, known, in most circles, only as Boobarella. Boobarella is the poker equivalent of Sasquatch and Santa Claus, all rolled up into one. She is an extremely rare, almost mythical beast, but when she appears, there are presents for everyone. She is from the same family of poker degenerates as “Drunkie Red Nose,” who haunts the swamps of Tunica, and “Twitchy McSniffles,” who likes the low limits in Downtown Vegas.

This particular Friday night, Boobarella wandered down from the mountains of Appalachia and took a seat at my table. She looked to be about 57, but might have been aged a few decades by years of “hard livin’.” Boobarella had selected a low cut pink top that would be inappropriate in most social situations, including being a 57 year-old-woman, of her generous proportions, in any situation. The eyes that sat above her exposed cleavage had the glint of someone who has traded sex for money, drugs, or perhaps both, at one time or another in her life, and maybe recently. Her tone of speech and topics of conversation suggested the same.

Although her teeth were not her own, Boobarella was in a wonderful mood. She regaled us with tales of her broken marriage and the man she chose over a glamorous career in Hollywood. On her lap, she clutched a large purse, from which she regularly produced bottles of pills and bags of candy, before gobbling up the contents. A nomadic individual by nature, it is the custom of Boobarella to play a few hands before mysteriously disappearing for long periods of time. Where she goes, we can only speculate.

Unfortunately, luck was not on Boobarella’s side this evening. She got run over like a baby ocelot at a fur trapper convention. After bleeding off several hundred dollars, she began to playfully accuse people of picking on her. It was about one in the morning when Boobarella desperately shoved in the last of her money with King-2 suited. It was not a winner.

If she didn’t met the guidelines of mentally disabled, there are certainly some psychological acuity tests that Boobarella would not perform very well on. As he riffled the remnants of her stack, a friend of mine reflected that he almost felt bad taking her chips. Not me. Other people’s money is easy to spend. Some nights, the hopelessly fishlike creatures, like Boobarella, bite back. And when they do, they don’t contemplate how bad it feels to win.

Good Luck, Bad Luck, Who Knows?

I read a parable the other day about the nature of luck. It goes like this: One day a man’s favorite horse runs away. His friends say he is unlucky, but the man says,

“Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

A few days later, the horse returns with a herd of beautiful, wild stallions. His friends all tell him that he is very lucky. He simply says,

“Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

The following week, while his son is trying to ride one of the new horses, it breaks the boy’s leg, crippling him. The man’s friends all offer consolation, saying they are sorry for his bad luck. The man replies,

“Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

A month later, his country declares war and, because of his injury, the man’s son is exempted from military service. Shortly after this, the unit his son would have been a part of was ambushed, and all the men killed.

“Good luck, bad luck, who knows?”

There is a common debate in poker about how much of the game is luck and how much is skill. Everyday people at poker tables around the world reiterate the same cliché: “I would rather be lucky than good.” Personally, I would rather have it the other way around. Luck only exists in the short term, skill lasts much longer. Every time I take a bad beat, I try to remember all the bad beats that I have given out over the years. My own preferred saying about luck is: “It all comes out in the wash.” Unlucky one day, lucky the next, ultimately, skill determines long term success.

At the top of the ledger where I record my poker results, I have taped a small saying from a fortune cookie. It reads: “Behind bad luck comes good luck.” It is a very handy saying to ponder during the rough stretches all gamblers encounter. It helps cheer me up as I review the long list of numbers, filled with lucky ups and downs. Also, just as importantly, it helps to balance my mood after a big win and evens out the emotional highs and lows that can be absolutely torturous.

Who is to say whether winning at gambling is actually lucky at all?

Penny Poker Rage: Microchip Muscles and the Loser’s Theme Song

Ever since I moved my address to a new state and lost my regular poker game, I try to get my Hold’em fix online. I prefer to stick with the micro or low stakes, just to keep fresh for my casino trips or to practice the madness of mutli-tabling. If you have never tried 9 tables at once, then let me assure you, the game is evolving into new realms of undiscovered chaos.

As I finished a session the other day and prepared to stand up from the virtual table, a player with the screen name “Eagle1512” sat down. What ensued was among the strangest and most entertaining examples of poker tilt I’ve ever seen on micro tables. I copied the chat box transcript and present pieces of it here, for educational purposes.

Eagle1512: ust dumping will tell what i have
Eagle1512: but all in every hand
Eagle1512: i will not lie

This was quite an eye-catching way to open the conversation at a new table. Many people are essentially donating at the table, but few are conscious about it and even fewer like to broadcast the fact. It is always hard to trust anything said at the poker table, so I had to stick around and see the results.

Eagle1512: 10 J off
Eagle1512: k 6 off
Eagle1512: Q3 OF DIAMNDS

After each of these claims, Eagle shoved an absurd 40 times the big blind. After no one called, he showed his hand and built a bizarre “come bust me” credibility. I figured we would see someone wake up with a real hand, bust him, and that would be the end of it.

Eagle1512: aC6H

After this 4th pronouncement, his strongest hand yet, a player with the screen name “jerrekjones” called, turned up a shocking 10-3 off-suit, sucked out, and won. Clearly jerrek didn’t care, but why wait until Eagle’s hand got stronger and his own hand was so weak? I made the decision that if Eagle reloaded, I was sitting back down. Maybe this was a vengeful ex-wife or a parent teaching an under-aged child a lesson about gambling.

Eagle1512: GOOD FOR U
Eagle1512: EVEN ON THESE TABLE IDIOT S THAT MAKE CALLS LIKE THAT ARE REWARDED
Eagle1512: THIS SITE IS A RIGGED PIECE OF C HIT

It should be noted that Eagle has shifted to caps lock at this point, online poker’s version of screaming. This moment also marks the introduction of personal attacks and profanity into the conversation. I like to call this phenomenon “microchip muscles.” People will spout out with offensive language online that they would never use in a face to face discussion, simply because they know they are in absolutely no physical danger. In addition to microchip muscles, we are also treated here to the “loser’s theme song.” It has two primary components: the other player is an idiot and the game is fixed. Eagle delivers these in textbook unison.

Thanks to the information age, I was quickly able the retrieve public data surrounding Eagle’s player history. In roughly 4,000 hands at micro and low stakes, across three different sites, on all of which he was a loser, Eagle was down over $500. Apparently, Eagle had met a lot of “idiots” online and found out that all poker sites are “rigged,” probably just like his own home game.

Eagle1512: I TOLD U WHAT I HAD AND CALLED WITH 10 3 OFF YOU PHUCKING MORON
Eagle1512: BUT THE SITE REWARDED UR STUPIDITY
Eagle1512: I HAVE DUMPED MY LAST FEW DOLLARDS AFTER GETTING TOTALLY PHUCKED BY THIS SITE THE PAST 2 DAYS
Eagle1512: REMEMBER TO MAKE UR TRAILER PAYMENT

After roughly 15 minutes of this, I found the premise of what I was witnessing becoming more and more humorous. Soon, the enraged Eagle began to attack jerrek’s nationality (Canadian) and cite scholarly evidence from the annals of world history. I have removed jerrek’s replies because they are actually rational and not nearly as hilarious.

Eagle1512: JUST REMEMBER AS S HOLE IF IT WASN'T FOR THE YANKS YOU WOULD BE SPEAKING GERMAN @&@ HOLE
Eagle1512: AND IF CANADA WAS WORTH ANYTHING IT WOULD BELONG TO THE USA
Eagle1512: YOU GUYS DID $!#$ ON A LITTLE DEFENDED BEACH U BUNCH OF CANADIAN PUSSIES
Eagle1512: OBVIOUSLY U HAVE NO GRASP ON REALITY OR HISTORY
Eagle1512: SO YOU SPEAK THE SAME MONKEY LANGUAGE AS THEY DO BIG PHUCKING DEAL THEIR ARMY IS A BIGGER BUNCH OF PUSSIES THAN YOURS
Eagle1512: IN THE WAR OF 1812 WE KICKED ENGLANDS #&& AGAIN DUMB PHUCKER

So, in summation, Eagle sits down, announces a strategy by which he would intentionally break himself, goes broke, and then explodes at the result. Unfortunately for me, he never reloaded…another 80 cents. That’s right, all of this rage was over the contents of a couple of couch cushions.

I conclude with Eagle’s closing remarks and wonder why people across the globe often have such a bad opinion of Americans.

Eagle1512: UR COUNTRY SUCKS AND SO DO U
Eagle1512: U DUMB ASSS DIK BREATH

Eagle1512: GO WIPE THE CUM OFF UR CHIN

The Absolute Stone Cold Nuts?

Any half decent Hold’em player can look at a flop and determine the best possible hand. For example, if I said the flop was K-J-10, all different suits, then it would be rather easy for you to tell me that “the nuts” would be A-Q, completing the straight. This is both the right and wrong answer.

Awhile back, I was playing 1-3 NL in Tunica when I encountered a hand identical to this example. With only on opponent, I was first to act and holding A-Q with a K-J-10 rainbow flop. I checked the nuts, setting a trap. The villain was a Tunica regular, an older man whom I had played with several times before. He was a silent person who never said a word at the table and a patient player who only bet premium hands. When he put in out a small bet, my unconscious poker instincts must have felt it was slightly suspicious. I just called; the turn card brought a four and a second spade. Still holding the nuts, I checked and the silent old man bet out, bigger this time. He didn’t have much more than one big bet left in his stack, so I check-raised all in. With the speed he called, I instantly knew before he turned over his hand what I would see: a matching A-Q. However, and this is the point of this particular recollection, his hand was suited in spades, giving him a flush draw as well. So, while we both had the nuts, his hand was the absolute stone cold nuts. Fortunately, fate was kind to me on this hand and the river card was a harmless blank.

When I first started playing Hold’em, I used to laugh derisively at commentators who pointed out the potential of backdoor flush draws as even worth mentioning. Now, years later, I understand how backdoor odds must always be considered in the play of a hand. A-Q might be the best hand, but it isn’t always the absolute stone cold nuts.

My First Live Royal Flush

When I began to take poker more seriously I played mostly online. The 20-30 sit’n’gos I averaged each week dwarfed the one single live tournament I played during the same time period. Therefore, it was no surprise when I caught my first ever Royal Flush online. It was rather anti-climactic; my opponent was all-in preflop, so I didn’t even get to bet it. I guess I wasn’t surprised when I also caught my second Royal Flush online as well. Or even my third (strangely, they were all in diamonds). After awhile I began to find more opportunities to play live and I spent a lot less time in the virtual poker room, waiting for the day the Poker Gods would bless me with my first live Royal Flush.

I kept playing and loving the game while waiting and waiting for the ultimate poker hand to come my way in a live game. Because I have always been borderline obsessive about statistics and record keeping, I know the exact date: the 2nd of March, 2008 and the suit was clubs. We were playing our regular friendly .25/.5 No Limit Hold’em game. I was sitting in the big blind and everyone except the small blind folded. There was no action until the river when I hit the gutshot Royal Flush bingo card, turning my 10 high into the stone cold nuts. My opponent checked and I bet the minimum 50 cents. His cards were in the muck almost before I got my bet out. I turned over the rarest of poker hands, one that I had waited almost 400 live games to catch, and raked in the absolute minimum profit.

The appearance of a Royal Flush is among the most anti-climatic experiences a poker player can have. Probability dictates that the deck will usually be crushed and the hand will receive little action. Your best hope is that some high hand or bad beat jackpot comes into play. So, as lucky as you have to be to catch a Royal Flush, you have to be even luckier to actually get paid for it.

C’est la vie…deal.

Stepping into a Casino for the First Time

"We're goin' out where the sand's turnin' to gold"

-Bruce Springsteen "Atlantic City"

I suppose any gambler can recall the first time he or she stepped inside a casino. There is a certain spine-tingling magic that lurks in the air and fuels the lungs. Just like the yellow brick road begged Dorothy to follow, a casino’s overly imaginative carpet patterns coax visitors through a forest of neon, tables, and slots: oh my! The natural adrenaline rush of gambling can fight a body’s sleep requirement for days upon days. This phenomenon is doubtlessly the source of the urban legend that casinos pump oxygen into gaming floor.

One lazy college day some friends and I were watching the movie Rounders. This was long before I found an interest in poker and, because of a general Matt Damon repulsion (at that time), we actually found it rather boring. However, the moment Mike McDermott and Worm headed for Atlantic City, we immediately turned the movie off (or maybe we left it playing, who can say?) and headed straight for the door. We were in “America’s Favorite Playground” (as Atlantic City was called in those days) shortly over an hour later.

Wandering around Trump Plaza, I soaked up this strange, new experience which I had awakened to. I looked over all the action and tried to decide where to test my luck first. Because the $5 blackjack table was full, I put a “nickel” on the outside of a roulette spread. My bet hit and paid 2 to 1. I won my very first casino bet and was on my way to infinite riches!

When I finally got a seat on the cheap blackjack table, it was on the third base side. The action got around to me and, not knowing the game, I hit against a dealer stiff card. A small, smoky-faced wrinkled man was so upset by the play that he yelled at me, picked up his chips, and left. "Wow! This place is serious," I thought to myself as I sat like a wide-eyed deer staring down an eighteen wheeler.

All in all, my first sojourn into a gambling house was quite an experience. It goes without saying that I had a mind-blowingly good time and did my best to return as soon as possible.

A Winning Vegas Wedding

Before I had ever attended one, Vegas weddings triggered for me images of Elvis and Brittney Spears. However, after watching two friends get married in a nice little ceremony in the back of the MGM casino, I learned that even a Vegas wedding can be somewhat “traditional.” Afterward, we drank overpriced champagne before a lavish dinner at Craft Steakhouse. All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable time.

Because we played poker together regularly, a few of us, including the bride and groom, decided to try a tournament at Paris the following night. With five entrants, we excitedly discussed the strong chance of one of us cashing and we even pooled money for a first out booby prize. Busting first of our group was the highlight of an uneventful tournament for me, but two of us did make the final table, including the bride, who won the whole shebang! After she pocketed almost a cool thousand dollars, we strolled over to the Bellagio for celebratory drinks, railbirded a few well-known pros in their high-limit room, and then watched the famous fountain out front explode into the night sky.

Of course it takes a great deal of luck to win a poker tournament, but it wasn’t luck that propelled my friend to victory (she had used up all her luck finding a great husband). I know she won because she can play a mean game of cards, but I could never help but think there was something more to the victory. Looking at the happy couple posing with a mountain of chips and the winning hand, I get the sense that it was also the completely content state of mind found in a new bride. There is certainly a direct correlation between happiness and ability at the poker table. If you take a seat filled pessimism and distraction, you will usually lose, but if you are unencumbered with these emotional sandbags, then fortune will find you.

The Five Foot Chili Dog

“Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk.
That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

-Ernest Hemingway

While Spain and the Netherlands battled in the World Cup final, there was a different kind of foe stretched out before me: five feet of chili dog.

The room was crowded with people, so I could barely see the game, but the chili laden beast, staring up at me with cheese-filled eyes, was impossible to miss. Beside the monster was a bevy of condiments, toppings, and a stopwatch. Sitting in a small pile and pinned under my phone there was also $215 in cash.

Sometimes, in moments like these, it’s wise to retrace your steps and to consider if bizarre circumstances like these could’ve possibly been avoided.

I have made many bets in my life, both commonplace and unusual, but this was the first time I literally put my money where my mouth is.

When a popular fast-food chain began to offer a foot long chili on its menu, I was immediately intrigued. After eating one, I began to speculate aloud how many more my hungry belly could consume. Sitting at dinner a few days later, I resumed my musings, declaring I could eat five. The gauntlet thrown, a handshake later, and the bet was on. I did some research on the internet and began training, drinking gallons of water a day and eating everything in sight to stretch my stomach. When I breezed through a three dog trial run in nine minutes, I had little doubt about my chance at success. The night before the challenge, I ate half a head of lettuce and a full bag of grapes.

I was so well-prepared, eating the chili dogs was actually somewhat anti-climactic. I cut each one in half and covered it with religiously chopped up onions and sacred jalapeno slices. My only scare came on the final half dog which had become soggy and fallen apart. The wet, chili-soaked bun triggered my gag reflex for a moment and almost got me disqualified for breaking the no puking rule. But I braced myself, piled on more jalapenos, and powered through to the last bite. It took just under 16 minutes and I felt as though I could probably do another two feet if the price was right. I sat back, collected the cash, and nursed a stomach pregnant with a chili dog baby.

It will be a long time before I undertake another eating bet and even longer before I eat another chili dog.

What’s that you say? 25 tacos? Hmmm…how much?

The Man Who Ate Cheese: The Grossest Poker Story Ever Told

A few years ago I was playing in an underground poker game when I heard the kind of story that instantly sears itself onto the brain.

The atmosphere surrounding the game, a healthy mixture of fun and danger, is important to note when considering the details of the story. It was the kind of poker game run by some midlevel bookmakers with security doors and video cameras. The guys were very friendly to all the players, but had the usual guns and muscle around to ominously back up the smiles. You know, the free pizza and soda buffet; but I tell you things got uncomfortable for a half hour one night when the cameras captured a random police cruiser flashing outside.

After a few sessions at a good game, you slowly get to know the dealers and players. Between all the bluffs and calls, the same stories are told and retold. It is a natural way to fill the silence between riffling chips. The outrageous and humorous stories passed around the table, “poker stories,” come to define players' identities as much as the way they play their hands. They are typically brief, only the duration of a hand or two, and sometimes smothered in a gravvy of bravado.

At this particular game, there was an older gentleman who was the source of the grossest “poker story” I’ve ever heard.

I first heard the story a couple weeks earlier from one of the burly dealers. Though the story borders on unbelievable, I knew it was generally believed by a group of guys who knew the subject better, and had seen far more in their lives, than I. Its disgusting details are the only reason I ever had to doubt it. True or not, it remains the grossest “poker story” I’ve ever heard.

The "gentleman" was a retired car salesman, who had likely dabbled in other, less above the board businesses. Despite the old man's advance years, he was a still a large, lumbering, who enjoyed a drink, and no doubt had experienced more than one fight in his life. Although he was battling some serious health problems, in his flippant behavior, I could detect the possibility of truth behind the tale.

Apparently, the older "gentleman" I sat beside at the poker table had been involved in a fight during his younger years. As he pounded the victim, who owed a debt, his opponent began to vomit.

Our hero was less concerned about the puke and more intent upon sending a message. From the puddle on the ground, he plucked up a yet undigested piece of cheese, and, you might easily guess... ate that cheese, right it in front of his face, just to fuck with him.

I'm not sure if after hearing these details if any of us remembered to ask if he ever got the money back.

Usually, a man carelessly wth money, as this "gentleman" certainly was, has purchaced a good share of stories in fair trade.

Dealers Are Human Too

To those unfamiliar with poker, it may come as a surprise that professional dealers make mistakes. For the most part they are like well-oiled, flawless poker machines, but for every 50 hours or so of grinding, I seem to see a mistake. I don’t mean a simple misdeal…those occur quite often. The mistakes I’m referring to are the more egregious type: misreading the board and pushing the pot to the wrong player. However, on my last run at Tunica, I saw an error that put these simple mental lapses to shame.

I was playing $1/3 No Limit Hold’em at The Horseshoe on a very busy Saturday night. It was at the tail end of an innocuous hand for what was about a $35 pot and I was only half paying attention. An elderly gentleman to my right, who had been playing solid poker all night, tossed up his cards and inadvertently hit the river card, knocking it out of place. The dealer instinctively straightened the cards, looked at them and then pushed the small pot to the gentleman’s opponent, a younger guy who seemed to be more interested in entertaining his friends sitting behind him than playing cards. No big deal, seen it a million times. After the hand was over, the attentive kid to my left told us what we all missed, including the dealer, the elderly gentleman, and the “entertainer.”

When the dealer straightened the gentleman’s hole cards,
he accidentally swapped one for the river card!

In an instant, the gentleman’s hand went from being a Q-10 to a 10-7. With another 10 on board, he still had a pair of Tens, but the “entertainer’s” hand went from a lowly Queen high to a winning pair of Queens! With the next hand underway, the table was atwitter with shocked murmurs as the events were made public.

As bad as the dealer’s mistake was, it was the gentleman’s duty to correct it immediately. From our conversation together, I knew the gentleman had been playing cards since he was 17 and his girlfriend’s mom was stealing his winnings. I can only assume he momentarily forgot his kicker and didn’t want to make a fuss over what might be nothing. In what I estimated to be roughly 50 years of poker, he admitted he had never seen that happen before, and chances were the mistake was his.

The “entertainer,” being endowed with a courteous demeanor, offered to estimate the pot size and return it to its rightful owner. The gentleman declined, apparently eager to have the incident disappear forever into the realms of poker obscurity.

Falling Up an Escalator

We have a patron down! Patron down!

 

A couple of years ago, I innocently visited Iowa for a cousin’s wedding and ended up in a bloody casino escapade.

Weddings are almost always among the most fun events to attend, especially big ones. My Iowa relatives truly went all out to make sure everyone had a great time. It was a monstrous event with a cathedral style assembly hall filled with hundreds of people. I let them know my appreciation by periodically bellowing “IOWA!” as loud as my lungs would permit. The groom’s friends, being the youngsters they are, put on a good show and even had me playing the drinking game with a dangerous punch: Flip Cup. Ahh…good times.

It had been years since I visited Iowa. Life out there has a slightly different pace to it; everything is about a half hour drivem through endless corn fields, and every breath delivers the faint hint of cow manure.

In Iowa, there seems to be a universal bonfire that you eventually discover at some point in the night. After the rehearsal dinner, I was heavily plied with alcohol when we ended up there, and somebody mentioned a casino located in nearby Des Moines. My card playing cousin was miraculously sober, so off we went.

It turns out that this beautiful country is literally infested with places to gamble; God, I love America!

Prairie Meadows Racetrack and Casino doesn’t have the opulence of Vegas or the beach of Atlantic City, but it has the only thing that matters: action. Drunk as I was, I deftly sniffed out the poker room on the top floor and was saddened to discover an hour long waiting list for the tiny room. Dejected, I returned to find my cousin parked at a roulette table with a stack of chips.

Now, I know I was severely intoxicated because I actually decided to pass the time by playing a few spins of the wheel (by the way, if you ever catch me playing roulette, I freely invite you to give me a good healthy smack in the face). However, I hit a lucky streak that night and my patented “IOWA!” cheers reverberated around the casino. I was making such a scene that people started yelling back “CAROLINA!" One woman, playing blackjack at a neighboring table, even had me placing bets for her. What can I say? Stupidity is infectious.

The hour passed rather quickly; in no time I was racking my chips and heading upstairs to claim my seat in the poker room. The difficulty arrived when I tried to utilize the escalator; in my state of intoxication, operating the device was surprisingly challenging.

My sandal refused to obey my commands and tripped on the first step; I fell hard on the sharp metal, and my chips scattered about in the chaos. Stunned at the sudden turn of events, I desperately tried to scoop them up, fearing they would be lost in the teeth of the machine as it approached the top. In the final panicked moments of the ride, I scooped up the last one and rolled forward off the final step.

Dazed, and trying to figure out what just happened, I looked up to a security guard speaking hastily into his radio:

“We have a patron down! Patron down!”

In the moments it took to force myself back to my feet, two more guards had come running. Despite the long scrapes, and blood trickling from my leg, I insisted I was fine and tried to slip around them as I counted my money. I was half sure they would try to kick me out, right then and there, through door, or even window.

When I miraculously escaped to the poker room and located my seat, I noticed all the players eyeing me with more suspicion than is typical when at a new game. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a security guard motioning me out of the room. “Damn,” I thought to myself, but it turned out, that unknown to me, I was bleeding rather profusely from the chin, no doubt aided by the alcohol in my bloodstream.

After being bandaged, I returned to play some cards.

I’m sure the players were licking their lips to get their piece of this new arrival reeking of booze, but I had to disappoint them and showed I could actually play, even in my condition. I hit a couple of sets and ended up making a few bucks.

I’m not sure why, but the casino has a no profanity rule that my drunken attention span couldn’t seem to grasp; my foul mouth violated it worse than a hotel heiress in The City of Lights. It all goes to show how far a casino will go to keep an inebriated patron inside…as long as he is gambling.

Dude, I Can See Your Cards!

In the world of amateur poker, there are loads of players who don’t understand the basic premise of protecting their hand. They lift them too high, hold them too far out, and unknowingly show the world their holdings. Many good natured people (myself included) will be kind enough to help these players and tell them to protect their hand. I’ve seen it many times and it often becomes the source of drama…

Years ago, when I started to get more serious about the game, I organized a weekly tournament among friends. In our very first game, we all gathered around a hastily constructed table, made of two pieces, and short of chairs, the girl to my left took a low seat on the couch. It was her very first time playing the game, and, in the friendly nature of the game, she was intentionally showing me cards and even occasionally asking advice. A few hands were inadvertently lifted cards high enough that they crossed my field of vision. I wasn’t deliberately looking, but she lifted them so high, they often interrupted the casual angle of my eyes. It was just that kind of game. One hand, she lifted Kings out of the pocket. She happened to be in the hand against her husband and I watched her catch a third King and waited to see how much see could win. Then, amazingly, she decided to dump it! I was so astonished, that I made an absolutely colossal mistake; I told the table what I had seen. All the camaraderie of our group evaporated in an instant as I had all but accused the couple of cheating. As suspicious as the play was, I should have kept my fool mouth shut. To this day, there are few poker regrets I have bigger than this decision.

People often get very offended when you tell them to protect their hand. On my very first trip to Las Vegas, I was playing at the world famous Binion’s Horseshoe when the player on my right (a young guy, stinking of weed, in a Carmelo Anthony jersey) was lifting his hand way too high. Politely, I discretely told him to guard his cards, but he apparently took offense and asked to change seats. Another time, we were playing Omaha at my home game when a player made a big call and turned over Ace high to win! With two players, holding four hole cards each, the chance a simple Ace high is a winner is a marathon long shot. Everyone at the table was completely floored for a few hands before the player sheepishly confessed he had seen his opponent’s hand. He was trying to be a friend, but, as usually happens, the player took offense and stubbornly didn’t change a thing about the way he held his hand. Shockingly, he ended a loser.

When someone tells a player to protect their cards, they should be treated like a good friend. Instead of taking every dime a player has, this saint offers an olive branch worth its weight in platinum. If anyone ever offers you this token of good will, take the advice, swallow your pride, and give genuine gratitude.

"Drunkie" and Strangeness in Tunica

On a recent trip to Tunica, I sat on a poker table that epitomized the need to pick a good game. I was in no real condition to play, having worked all morning and driven all day, but I hadn’t played in awhile and had to scratch the itch. I took a seat in a $1-3 No Limit Hold’em game at Harrah’s and built my stack for a couple hours. One by one, the little fish went broke, until I looked around at the grizzled faces of local grinders and it was my turn.

There were a couple of weird hands and bizarre rulings that occurred before I went broke. A couple of younger men sat and one announced that he was teaching his friend to play. Anything said by a stranger at the poker table should be taken with a degree of skepticism, but on the first hand the “newbie” certainly went broke like a first-timer. During the hand, however, despite being warned earlier about speaking English, the men casually refused and the “newbie” chatted in an unidentified Asian language with his partner as he played the hand. The floor manager was called, but no penalty was issued and he lost the pot, so it was quickly forgotten.

The real strangeness occurred on another hand and involved the drunkest member of our table. On the turn, he faced a smallish raise from his only opponent. Our hero, “Drunkie Red Nose,” silently pushed out his remaining chips, a stack of red $5 chips, about three times the bet.

The dealer announced him all-in and counted down the bet.
“Drunkie” didn’t say anything.
His opponent thought for a moment, called, and the dealer counted out the call.
“Drunkie” didn’t say anything.
The dealer pushed all the chips together in the middle and dealt out the river.
“Drunkie” didn’t say anything.
The hands were flipped up: a third nine and good hand for “Drunkie,” but a nine with a better kicker for his opponent.
“Drunkie” didn’t say anything.
The dealer shipped the pot and shuffled the cards.

Now, after all that, “Drunkie” suddenly says he never went all-in. Hmmm…things just got spicy. The dealer, a younger baby-faced type, says it’s really too late to do anything. Yes, by rule, a single oversized chip would just be a call, but given the events and the tall stack of chips pushed out, it was the perfect ruling. The dealer should have shut it down there, but “Drunkie” insisted and the “Floor” was summoned. Amazingly though, the young dealer did such a poor job explaining the situation, and he and the manager obviously had history of some sort, that the ruling was reversed.

After a quick guesstimation, the winner was ordered to cut the approximate surplus from his stack and return it to “Drunkie”! This was an outrageous injustice! “Drunkie” never said one single word until he found out his very good hand was beaten by another slightly better hand. His opponent was so justifiably angry with the ruling that he racked up and left. “Drunkie” actually managed to make things worse, in the manner that only truly drunk people can, by apologizing. He tried to give the money back, but his opponent refused, more angry at floor than the drunken fool earnestly pushing money at him.

Top Ten Reasons to Hate Slot Machines

Here are the top ten reasons to hate slot machines:

10. They tend to attract large swarms of zombified patrons who stumble through the area and buzz about on motorized scooters.

9. They produce a distracting cacophony of dinging bells and ringing sirens.

8. After extended exposure to the noise, players begin to find it soothing and even an attractive reason to sit down.

7. The faint smell of decay.

6. They advertise themselves with large rolling progressive jackpots which belie the enormous number of life savings they have stolen.

5. Frequent player cards offer rooms, meals, and gift shop trinkets in order to deceive a loser into feeling like a winner.

4. It is easy to think their cherries, bonus rounds, and smiling Elvis faces present no real threat.

3. They are so entirely hypnotic. Eventually, players only notice the world with vague grunts and moans.

2. The machines attach themselves to person's brain so completely that a player cannot even recognize friends and family. You soon lose touch with everything else in the world...even zombies gnawing on your skull.

1. After playing for awhile, a nice warm bowl of brains begins to sound good.

Monkey Gambling

A few years ago, I met someone that swore she was “good at roulette.” When I asked what she meant, she (surprise!) couldn’t explain her special skill. Roulette can be a nice adrenaline rush as that little white ball dink…dink…dinks its way to a home, but it requires about as much skill to play as falling down the stairs (as well as some of the worst odds in the casino). The only way to beat the game involves cheating with a loaded ball, rigged wheel, or past posting. A large statistical analysis to determine biases in certain wheels is the only way to do it without cheating. Can knowing which bet on a roulette table offers the least house edge be considered a skill? If so, then the best roulette player in the world is the one that never plays. It short, there is no strategy in the game, hence, no skill. If you can work gravity, then you can play roulette about as well as anyone else.

“Monkey gambling” is a term which refers to games that have no strategy or skill component to them; a monkey has as good a chance of victory as the best player in the world. Even the basic physical mechanics of a game like roulette could be easily mastered by our hirsute cousins; pick up chip, move arm forward, and drop chip: done. A monkey could literally play the game as well as Stephen Hawking. The purest form of “monkey gambling” in a casino is the slot machine. Even pulling a handle is too much brain activity for slots players, so most machines now offer buttons for the convenience of their zombified patrons.

“Computer gambling” is at the opposite end of the spectrum from monkey gambling. This term refers to games that offer choices during play, and therefore contain elements of genuine strategy, but only one correct move. Blackjack is a computer gambling game because at any given time, there is only one best move. Given the composition of cards in the discard rack, slight variations from basic strategy are made to determine whether standing, hitting, splitting, doubling, or even insurance (a bad idea nearly 100% of the time) is the best play. The best blackjack player in the world could only be as good as a computer.

Poker is neither monkey nor computer gambling, although I’ve seen players who try each style. A couple years ago, animal trainers tried to enter a monkey in the World Series of Poker (see above). They took their chimp on television to demonstrate how it could really play poker; even though it could lift the cards and move the chips, it could not protect its hand, avoid string betting, or determine the strength of its cards. While any player at the monkey’s table would certainly beat the beast, organizers rightly refused to let the handlers enter the animal in the event. On the flipside, top computer designers have built machines good enough at poker to beat most amateur players. However, when pitted against professional poker players, the most sophisticated poker machine in the world still loses to the power of human imagination.

Top poker pro, Eric Seidel, captures this majestical element of the poker:

Imagination is at the heart of the game. Just as there is no right way to write a song or paint a picture, there is no right way to play poker. The best players are experimenting and adjusting all the time. The beauty of the game lies in this ever-shifting landscape, and it keeps us interested each time we sit down.

Now I’d like to see a computer, or even a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters, come up with that.