Last weekend I had to make a run to the upscale, snooty french boutique, Target. You know, nothing but the best for me, Right? Right. As I walked back into the Men's department(can you tell I'm not a clothes snob?), I noticed a rack of baseball caps. This rack was huge and held close to a hundred hats, ranging from High Life, to Guinness and just about any other popular beer related product that you can fit on a hat. Much to my disappointment, there wasn't one with a Pacifico logo on it.

Fucking French.

As I'm perusing the selection, I came across the following hat.


Texas Hold' Em Player


My initial thought was that this hat needed to be destroyed, for if it fell into the wrong hands, the world would learn of the worst kind of evil; a fishy player that wears their ignorance on their sleeve. Only people that have barely played the game call it Texas Hold 'Em. To anyone else, it's No Limit Hold 'Em, or Limit Hold 'Em. Using "Texas" when explaining it to people bothers me. After that the initial hat destroying reaction waned, I felt bad for the person that would eventually buy this, but then I thought : No, this will just give me more people to mock, and too many is never enough!

I win!

This, in addition to the chip displays at both Marshall Field's, and Borders, it causes me a little bit of worry, though. To quote the venerable Susan Powter, "STOP THE INSANITY!" Marshal Field's; the same store that carries the Greg Norman line. This is not right, I tells ya!

Dear Marshall Field's-
There is something seriously wrong when you start carrying poker chip sets. I am onto your deal with the Devil. Stop immediately.

In love with The Shark,

Chad

Growing up, I played golf almost every day during summer break. I'd get out of bed around 10 am, grab my clubs, a CaprisSun pouch, a donut, and walk to the 6th tee of my local course, not caring if I had anyone else to play with. Much of the time I golfed alone, and that's the way I liked it; there was nobody around to slow me down. There are many times that I'd play before the dew was burned away by the sun, and until the dew starting to creep back in at sunset.

I'd be playing so fast that eventually I'd catch up to a foursome of players that had obviously never played before. Worm-burners, shanked wedges, whiffed drives, terrible etiquette; you name it, and I can god-damn-guarantee that I've seen it. It would slow me down, throw me off my rhythm, cause me to curse internally, and I guess you could say that I'd go on golf tilt. My game would suffer and the fun I was having before I came upon these shitbags ceased.

Wait for it....wait for it...

When do the waters become so rife with fish that the game of poker starts to lose the inherent fun factor?

I understand that golf and poker are completely different in that the former is played against an inanimate object not easily manipulated, and the latter is played against the player; most of them more malleable than PlayDoh. I know that shitty players are necessary to the game of poker in order to make money. But, when do to the slow, craptastic players with terrible etiquette become so prevelant that it takes the fun out of it? Making money, for me, isn't always the portion of the game that produces the most happiness. It helps, but it's not all of the equation.

I wish I could say that this was brought on by a bad run of cards, or a series of horrendous beats. That's not it; I've finally pushed my bankroll into 4 digit territory and I feel like I'm playing well. And there's the added motivation of needing to improve my game before the next WPBT event in June. I just don't know how to explain it.

But, there's got to be a saturation point, right?

Am I really late in posting this? I thought everybody was lying!

I wasn't expecting to take a break from writing on this site, but it happened. I've been writing much more on another blog I have. I feel bad not keeping up here, but I haven't been playing all that much poker as of late, and I don't want to overrun RamaRama with non-poker related posts.

It seems that every few months I hit a wall where I need something to draw me back in from other distractions. The last time this happened, Small Stakes Hold 'Em by Ed Miller was the hook back into the poker life. After finishing that book, up until about a week ago, I was playing a minimum of 4 hours a night. You couldn't tear me away from my computer, and I felt that I was starting to understand subtle differences that I hadn't noticed before. All the time spent at the table helping my game, without question, and I'm so far ahead in my understanding of the game now than I was even just a few months ago, that to look back on when I thought I knew what I was doing, that it's just laughable. Hardy har har.

I was running extremely well on Doyle's Room-still am, in fact- but like many other bloggers, I was getting absolutely plastered on Party Poker. I couldn't do a damn thing right, and I started to get frustrated. I was getting robbed in the $25 NL games, so I switched to SNG's. At one point, I bubbled in 5 consecutive. That's no way to build a bankroll.

So, the frustration turned to self doubt, and eventually that manifested itself into a form of boredom. I couldn't sit down for more than 5 minutes without getting distracted by something, anything. I'd check other websites instead of paying attention to the tables I had open. Now, I can multitask, but I was missing hours of hands because I was off seeing if Fark had updated lately, or if Outlook Express was really eating all incoming email. When you start to get suspicious of email program, and it's hurting your game, it's probably a good idea to take a step back and find out why it's happening.

I keep with this game to make money, but that's not all of it. I'd rather not get trapped into the false mindset of thinking that I'm a decent player, when the only players I can beat are the shitty ones. Sure, money is money, but the victory is hollow and short-lived. It doesn't mean a damn thing, and I want to be three or 4 steps above the fish, not just a quarter of one step, even if that quarter step is still profitable. The money isn't enough for me, I guess.

Jesus, why didn't anyone tell me that I was about to get with the Tangent Truck?

Anyhow, I've only played a few hours in the last week, but I think I'm back again. Yesterday I was looking at my roommates collection of books, and he has Zen and the Art of Poker, and Super System, neither of which I have read. After starting in on the first few pages of Zen, immediately after I read almost all of poker feeds that have been backing up.

Poker is a discipline that you'll never stop learning, and the minute you think everything has been learned, you get fucked right quick. That was my problem; I stopped learning for a few days and it caused me to get fucked, not so much in a monetary sense, but definitely in regards to my motivation levels.

Wow, who would-a-thunk that I could write so much crap about nothing? Oh well, it worked for Larry David.

Setting: Crowded bar. Loud music. Plenty of attractive people all around.

Ok, imagine yourself as a woman at bar with a bunch of friends, enjoying a night out. For some of you, this will be easier to do, what, with already having a vagina, and all. Damn that vagina.

You're just sitting there, drinking, laughing, having fun with a group of your girlfriends, when all of the sudden, you turn around and there's a guy right there, ready to introduce himself to you. Or "hit on you", whatever. You hadn't seen him up until now, even though you've been at said bar for hours. Now, he's not gorgeous, but not unattractive, either. Just a normal guy. What do you do?

What-do-you-do?

Does this creep you out? That was a little over-aggressive, don't you think?

You never noticed him, but he sure in the hell noticed you, and approaching probably wasn't a spur of the moment thing. He sat back, watched you from afar, and picked his spot to hit on you. Let me reiterate that you didn't goad him on at all, by giving him "eyes", or anything like that. He basically just blindsided you. You never even knew he was there, let alone gave any inkling that you wanted him to go out of his way to approach you.

Flattered, or uncomfortable?

Ok, switch positions for a second and imagine that you're the guy. Stop playing with your new-found penises and listen for a second. You're at the bar with some buddies, and you notice her. She's with a bunch of her friends, and absolutely gorgeous. If you were ever asked to draw up your perfect women, it's very possible that she is the epitome of it. At least, physically, because she could have the personality of a turd for all you know. For as much as you try, you just can't get her to look your way. You walk by repeatedly, but she's too enthralled with her conversation to notice. You even fake cough as you walk by, with the hope that she might turn her head your way. You conveniently position yourself in her line of sight, but all to no avail. Is she really that aloof, or just ignoring me?

Hmmm.

Well, without a good read on her at all, you decide to suck it up, pull your balls out of your mom's purse, and introduce yourself. You figure if you're far too passive, you'll never get to talk to her and that's not good, now is it? For all you know, she could see you as the modern day Quasimodo. You'll know when you talk to her which group you've been put into; doable, or oh dear God, did your neck puke? You're setting your self up to be shot down, Big Time. Walking over there, you clear your throat, adjust your crotch, tap her on the shoulder and squeakily eek out a "Hi, I'm..."

Shot down. Why? Because you're stupid.

Here's where I try to tie this in with things I see all the time when I go out, so try and follow along. When my buddies and I go out, they are the guys that hit on women. Non-stop. And how many times do they end the night with a freshly-shorn minx on their arm?

Rarely.

My friends hit on women with blind aggression, and more often than not, the women will just stare at them like a dog trying to figure out a newborn baby; turning their head to the side as if the guy is speaking in clicks and whistles. While this is funny for me, especially when it's a buddy doing the hitting on, it does them no good.

Me, I'm the guy that likes to gain some sort of "read" on a girl before I even think about talking to her. Repeated eye contact, or even a well timed smile is a good indication that you've got her weak hand dominated, and you should go talk to her. Either that, or she's trapping you. It's not that hard to understand.

Even if the girl is my idea of perfection, it's wasted time and energy if I don't have a clue what she's thinking or even notices that I exist. If I can't put her on a hand, I need to be careful. Does this make me smarter than most men? No, I wouldn't go that far. Does it work for me, though? Hell yes!

I think that women are afraid of outright agression. Why is it that so many guys are retarded when it comes to this? Jeremy and I had this "friend", Neil, who was the most aggressive guy you've ever met. If there was a decent looking girl in the bar, you can be sure that he's hit on her, or will by the end of the night. He'd even hit on the uglies. I don't think that he ever went home with a girl, which was of course his intent, and women knew that. He lost every damn hand he played.

Not that this is much import to the story, but Neil was much more sleazy than that, too. Just to give you a taste, when I was "dating" Alicia, he once asked me "If you ever don't want to see her anymore, I'll take her!" What kind of ass says that?

Anyhow. Not that hooking up is ever my prime objective when I go out-that's reserved for getting my buzz on- because women sniff that shit out a mile away. If it happens, it happens. You can't play it the same way every time, or they'll catch on.

This is where "selective aggression" comes into play. You pick your spots wisely, and when you see an opening, go for it. Jam the pot, figuratively, of course. If the girl across the bar is smiling at you, it's probably because she's into you, not because she's got a weird tic that makes her perma-smile at the creepy guy when she feels uneasy.

Ever been to a bar and noticed a decent looking guy garnering the attention of all the girls, even if there are other, more attractive men in the room? Of course you have. What's he doing that's so special? Playing his cards right, so to speak, that's what. And so many guys play theirs wrong. Oh so wrong.

Agreed?

The popular guy has women, for the most part, figured out. I see all this, because I rarely play my cards at all. I like to observe people and then laugh at them when things go horribly awry.

I'm not the smartest guy by any means, but when I do play my cards, I try to play them right. I'm this close to dialing in to a spot between blind aggression, and pansy-assed passivity. I know that it's not going to work out sometimes, regardless of how I play my hand. The law of averages says that I'm bound to lose at one point. Just ask the girls that I've creeped out, pissed off, or just flat out left baffled in the 12 months. You'll be at it a while.

Tight-Agressive is the way to play your hand against women; Don't overplay it too early, and when you've got the best of it, Jam the pot.

When did this turn into an advice column? God damn. My point to this whole thing is this;

Why are guys so fucking dumb?

Scenario:

You're on the button and dealt Das Hiltons Sisters. 3 people limp in front of you, and instinctively you raise it 5 times the big blind. You get 3 callers; the big blind, UTG+2 and UTG+3. The flop comes out 3-4-7, rainbow. It's checked around, and you make a pot sized bet of about $7. Big blind raises all-in for around $50, UTG+2 folds, and UTG+3 calls that for the rest of his stack, about $40.

There's no way you can't call this. You call. The BB turns over 99, and UTG+3 turns over...46s. Really? Was he kidding? Sadly, no. He called a raise with that, and put all of his chips in the middle with a pair of 4's. Nice!

The turn brought another 7, and as the river is being dealt, you scream HIGH CARD, MOTHERFUCKER! at the sceen. As you know, screaming helps. The screen listens and gives you an ace of diamonds on the river. You drag a $100 pot.

What a way to end the night after people had been cracking your premium pairs all afternoon, wouldn't you say?

I've been playing this game for over a year now, and it still amazes me how damn bipolar it really can be.

While it seems that in every other blog I read, someone else is talking about a crazy downslide, that's the exact opposite from where I'm headed. Wait, I don't mean at Party. I've been getting the sandpaper draped pole, sans lube, right in the keister playing at the Party tables. Doyle's on the other hand, is a completely different scenario.

In the past two weeks I've dropped 50% of my Party bankroll, while my Doyle's roll has jumped an unreal 1500%. Neither amounts of money were huge to begin with, but when I add the two sites together, my bankroll has more than doubled. While the players at Doyle's are truly horrific, there are few things that attribute to my recent swing towards the good.

• Structure-
  At either site, I'd regularly play at the .25c-.50c NL tables. The major difference is that the maximum buy-in at Party is $25 while at Doyle's it's $100. That's odd considering that the max buy-in at the .50c-$1 tables is also $100. This means that at Doyle's, you get plenty of play for your buy-in. It also means that many players buy-in for way under the maximum. They putting themselves at a enormous disadvantage for a few reasons.
  
  1--raises hold no weight-- If the small stack has a superior hand on the flop, yet there are numerous drawing hand possibilities on the board, it's damn near impossible to bet the big stack-that just happens to have a nut flush draw-out of the hand for, say, $7. It's much easier for the big stack to play that draw all the way to the river when they know for certain that it's going to be "only a few more dollars".
  2--minumum expectation from monster hands--Let's say that the small stack of $10 holds AA in the BB. Even if there are 4 players that are willing to play the hand down to the river, the most he's going to win is a little under $40. Then you have to take into consideration that the short stack doesn't really want all 4 of those people in the hand, because he's more likely to get drawn out on. See, me and math, we don't get along, but it doesn't take Johannes Kepler to realize that their expectation for that hand isn't going to be anywhere near $40. Without the benefit of a large stack, they're leaving money on the table.

I realize that this isn't groundbreaking theory that I'm laying out, but there are times when I want to grab these players, and say why are you being so nice to me? I'm glad they don't understand, but you'd think that they'd realize something isn't right after the 7th $10 buy-in done in an hour.

• Player recognition-With the smaller overall player base, there are only 3, maybe 4 of my tables going on at any one time. This means that I get to play with most of the same people constantly. Good for me, bad for them. There are only a handful of players that I would call "tricky", and know enough to stay away from. Coincidentally, those are also the same players that always buy-in with a large stack them. Ok, so not so much a coincidence. The fewer number of players also means that I have a good read on which players are known to push with mediocre flush draw. Or, say, will push in their entire $50 stack, trying to bluff out 4 opponents. The guy holding quads didn't seem too afraid of the raise.
  
  Isn't that what PokerTracker is for?
  
  Sure, it would be useful. That is, if I'd been multi-tabling. Did I forget to mention that? Oh, I'm sorry. I meant to say that right away. I've earned this 1500% profit over the past two weeks by one tabling. And I freely admit that, right now, I'm a mediocre player at best. Just think what a reasonably good player could be making by two-tabling! Doyle himself would be coming to you for a loan. And you'd be able to turn him down because, well, Doyle, I don't think you're good for it. Think about the possibilities.
  
  

There is one thing that I'd like to warn you about, though; BSS is rampant. BSS, or Big Score Syndrome for the anagram challenged, is an affliction that forces a player into calling with all of his chips just with a draw, in hopes of doubling up. It doesn't even have to be a draw to the nuts. Any draw will do, regardless of how minute the chances of it hitting. Up against a made full house, and the only thing that will save you is the case 2? Don't worry, just blame BSS, and it'll hide that you're really a bumbling retard. It's a disease. You can't help it. While this may not be a bad tactic to employ in a tournament, it is terrible ring game strategy. If you bust out of the tournament, you can always go back to the ring game to win a buy-in back. If you bust out of a the ring game, you bust out of the ring game. There is no more money.

These players are just looking for the one time hit. The adrenaline rush you get by winning a big hand. All the while the grinders like me sit back, enjoy a beer, and wait to bleed them dry.

The bar was dead and I was fairly sober, which, considering how much beer I'd consumed while watching the Mediocre Bowl, surprised me. Never underestimate the leveling effect of a fatty, heart-attack inducing meal, I guess.

After eating my last Scoop and rinsing my mouth out with the final swig of Special Export Light, I decided to grab my laptop and put the bar's sparkling new WiFi connection through a series of tests. The wireless connection was fair at best, which only means that I won't be playing any tournaments there. It's suitable for ring games, though. The only problem was that, even though the bar offered the connection for free, they had one power outlet in the entire bar--directly behind a load-bearing column. Not a huge problem, as I really don't need to be spending more than a few hours belly-up, anyhow.

Late in the night, near bar close, I was up abour $40 and that more than paid for the few beers I drank. Sure, the WiFi is free, but the booze is fucking expensive. Playing poker on my laptop at the bar is really no different than being in a casino. There is noise, distractions, distractions with boobs...you know, other things to satisfy my self-diagnosed, adult-onset ADD. As long as I don't decide to prove my bravado by two-tabling with 10 beers settling in my belly, I'd safely say that bringing my laptop to the bar isn't -EV. Too bad I can't pay the waitress in digital chips.

As I was closing out my tab, and about to close out my session, I was dealt a hand that could potentially make my night a substantial loser--pocket kings. We've all had it happen. You have a decent session, and after telling yourself just one more hand, you actually get a hand that's worth playing. A monster. I cringed as the flop brought an ace, but breathed a booze-filled sigh of relief as the only other player in the hand folded to my pot-sized bet. Good, I'll just close this and go home with that to top off my night, right?

Not so lucky, because on the very next hand, I'm dealt kings again. Here we go. Let's lose everything you've worked hard to steal from the others at the table, shall we? Sure, why not.

I bumped up to 5 times the BB from LP, and was called in two places; the button and the BB. At this point, my stack was sitting somewhere around $120 after moving from another table-which is an annoying little gripe I have with Doyle's. The tables break up far too often-, the button had a little more than I did, the BB, relatively little. I think he had around $20. I didn't have a problem with whatever the BB held, because his puny chip stack couldn't put so much as a ding in my fender. The button, though, scared me a little. When someone can take an entire nights profit in one hand, it becomes harrowing.

Flop-K-Q-x all hearts.

Hey now, I've got trip kings! I'm a virtual lock on the hand, right? OF COURSE I AM!

The blind checks, I fire out a pot sized bet, which the button doubles. The blind goes all in for another 5 bucks or so, and I reraise, thinking that the button couldn't possibly have flopped the nut-flush. I wanted him out of the pot that was rightfully mine. He proves my wrong by putting his entire, $130 worth of pixilated chips into the center of the digitally rendered table.

Now, here's where I ask for advice from people much better than I.

Is there any way that I can possibly lay down trip kings to someone that I have absolutely no read on? Is there ever a right time to muck this hand? Could you fold it? This isn't even a rhetorical question, I'd really like to know how many people actually could lay it down, and your reasons behind it. I'm not gay, but comfortable enough with my sexuality to admit when a guy is attractive, and these were easily the three best looking men on the planet, if not the universe. And they belonged to me.

Of course, I couldn't lay it down and I winced as the button turned over ace-crap of hearts. I don't even remember what the BB held, but I'm pretty sure that I yelped loud enough to get a handful of bar patrons to glance nervously in my direction.

The pain turned to bliss, the yelp melted into inner applause, and the turn reinforced my blatant heterosexuality as I mouthed "I love you" to the beautiful queen of clubs. I pissed off an anonymous man half way across the country with my re-suckout, and I've never been happier to see a person leave the table.

So, could you have laid it down?

Blogs at bars

You've got to respect the Bacon Brothers, but that doesn't mean that I have to like what they put out.

This is my first installment of what I'd like to call "Blogs at Bars". This weekend I found out that my favorite bar is now offering free WiFi internet access, which in this city, is unheard of. I'm going to come here alone anyhow, so I might as well bring my laptop and see what transpires, right?

So far tonight, I've had the following conversations regarding my online poker playing at the bar;

1--"So, what, are you playing that Texas Longhorn?"

I am not kidding. And immediately after that, he introduced me to his friend as "the guy from Texas". The closest I've been to Texas is the few times that I flew over it on the way to Mexico. For all I know, I could've been above Arizona. It all looks the same from the 30,000 ft.

2-" Is that Party Poker?"

Anyone that's ever played at Party Poker immediately recognizes it. I was not playing at Party, though. I was at Doyle's. They look nothing alike. He then followed up my site assessment by saying that he plays at Party, and had recently had a run at 15/30.

Bullshit. No fucking way. There is no way this guy has ever played 15/30. Not even if God Himself came down from the Heavens and said that he was telling the truth would I believe him.

You wouldn't think that I could possibly, ever be up for the night when I'm sitting at a bar, but I am. Pretty easy way to make a booze fund, if you ask me. I want to write more, but I'm going to enjoy this Blue Moon and the $125 full-house suck-outs I was just blessed with.

Drink all around!

[more poker content later in the day. hopefully]

Back when I was in 8th grade, I was never one of the cool kids. I was always middle of the road, never one of the "popular", but never classified as a "nerd", either. You'd never know it by seeing me now, but when I was 13, I was one of the smallest boys in our grade. A tiny, skinny, blonde rat of a child, that couldn't wouldn't have been able to hold his own in a fight, even if it happened to be with a mentally challenged 3rd grade girl. I was that small. It wasn't until 9th grade that I started my growth spurt.

In 8th grade, we had to take gym class. I'm sure our school was like many others in that gym class was mandatory. I've always loved gym, and always been above average athletically. Always fast, and fairly coordinated for being so underdeveloped. During the year I was 13, I had gym 2nd hour. The way that our school was set-up, you'd walk into the gym, and the locker room was to your left, down a set of stairs, and in the basement.

This particular locker room always scared me, because it was a small, enclosed area. Also, there were no individual showers, only a gang shower. You know the ones I'm talking about; just a big pole with many shower heads prodtruding from it, in the middle of a tiled room. Having not even started puberty like many of my classmates-hell, I don't think I'm entirely done with that process-the thought of having to take a shower in a gang shower was a frightening. Luckily, puberty saved me this embarrasment. Yes, puberty saved me. See, little kids don't stink. Unless they pee their pants, or it's been weeks since they've touched water, it's just a fact of nature that little kids don't stink. The don't have the abundance of highly overproductive sweat glands yet.

This particular day started like any other. As first period let out, I made my way down to the locker room, and opened my locker. The room, I'm sure, was full of immature shit like fart noises emanating from armpits, and towel snapping. Normal 8th grade locker room behavior. Being miniature, I was rather good at avoiding confrontations with the towel snappers, and if I found myself in such a situation, I was always fast enough to avoid getting welts.

I changed, made my way back upstairs to the gym, and there were only a handful of people up there, including one of my friends, Sean. He and I were approximately the same size, though if I remember correctly, he was smaller. Believe me, that's difficult. Anyhow, we're goofing around, and notice a small gym mat sitting on the floor. The kind of gym mat that's thin, has multiple colored sections, and normally attaches to the wall with velcro so that basketball players don't crash into the brick wall, in the event they come through a layup too fast. For whatever reason, this one wasn't on the wall. Being the little spazzes we were, we started goofing around on the mat, when someone-and I can't remember who-screamed out "WRASSLE!". So we did. All kids have wrestled at one point in their lives, and it's not until I got into college that I realized that wrestling is inherently gay. Oh boy, let me roll around on a sweaty mat and get my balls wrenched on for a bit. That'll be fun. We were little kids and didn't know any better, though. So we wrestled. As with many wrestling matches, this one ended up with us fiercely battling with our little boy muscles, when we fell.

The mat that we were on had 7 sections to it, and was easily foldable. As we were rolling around on the mat, another guy, Dennis, decided that it would be funny if he rolled us up inside the mat like a burrito. Around this time, more kids are in the gym, laughing and cheering. Yeah, fun times. Dennis gets the mat completely around us, and we're basically stuck there, grappled. Stuck. I can't see anything but the bottom of legs, so it was one hell of a suprise when someone gets the bright idea to jump up and down on us, repeatedly. Hard.

See, herein lies the problem. At the time Sean and I were binded together, my stomach was pressed up against his hip, and if you can't see where this is going, you're dumb. With every jump, I got more and more concerned that the outcome would be anything less than horrific. I was going to have to change schools. I was going to be ridiculed everywhere I went. Kids would whisper to eachother, and laugh at me. Did they stop jumping? Of course not.

"Sto...guh. Stop! Plea...oof. Please stop jumping. Urrrrrrrrrrr."

That didn't work, and I quickly hoped for death, so that at least I'd have a reason for what was about to happen. I'm sure that Sean was thoroughly confused when he felt something warm against his hip. Warm and wet. It was at that moment that the jumping stopped and we were unrolled. Freedom! I took off like a cracked out midget, and headed directly to the locker room, hoping that the liquid hadn't seeped all the way through my shorts and underwear. I wasn't so lucky. It took Sean-winged by a few other kids-a few minutes to make it downstairs as well.

"Did you piss on my new Opus shirt?"

Sean's parents had just bought him a new Bloom County t-shirt. I never understood that cartoon. It wasn't funny in 8th grade, and it's still not funny now, although Sean thought he was the coolest while wearing it. It didn't look so cool with a big ring of my urine on it, though.

"Uh, no. It's spit." I said sheepishly. I wasn't very bright.

"You're telling me that you spit that much on me?" he said while pointing at his shirt. "It's YELLOW!"

What else could I possibly say to this? I had another 10 years before I'd ever be able to use "Sorry man, I was drunk." as an excuse. The force of being jumped on while my bladder was trapped caused me to piss on his new Opus shirt. He quickly went to change, and I did the same. I threw out my underwear, and freeballed it for the rest of the day, but I still had to get through gym class.

I went upstairs and sat in my rollcall row, the teacher asked my why I wasn't dressed, and Sean screamed "HE PEED ON ME!". He looked at me with a "Is this true?" expression on his face, and when I avoided eye contact, he shook his head and moved along. Kids laughed. We were playing hackeysack that day, so at least I wouldn't have to run around in my jeans. I, the kid that pees on other kids, had to play hackeysack with someone nobody wanted to partner with; the new kid, Ray. He was big, and doofy, and smelled like poop.

In case you're wondering, I never did take a shower that day. When you think about it, it's pretty funny that I sat through the rest of the day, and nobody said anything about me smelling like pee. Kids are kids. They'll call you out when you smell funny, and not feel a bit of remorse about doing it. I'm not sure why they never did. Lucky for me, this whole thing blew over pretty quickly, and was never left with any derogatory nicknames. At least, not for this incident.

Tentative Wednesday night schedule:

4:30 pm: Look at clock, note that I still have 1/2 hour left of work.

4:35-4:55 pm: In 5 minute intervals, curse the clock for making 30 minutes take so damn long

5:00 pm: Thank the clock for being so kind. Clean kiss marks off protective clock glass. Leave work.

What? I said CLOCK glass.

5:15 pm: Arrive at home, and start preparing a dinner of boneless, skinless chicken breast and egg whites. If I want to be a champion, I need to eat like one.

5:45 pm: Note that "eating like a champion" is for superstitious people. Superstitious people with shitty taste buds.

6:00 pm: Put the entire Survivor anthology in MP3 playlist for later, including Eye of the Tiger 6 times in a row. Decide if I Love a Rainy Night by Eddie Rabbit should be included in this queue. Realize that it shouldn't, but add it anyway, because I can never say no to Eddie Rabbit.

6:15 pm: Shave and shower in preparation for my victory speech after winning the tournament in a new world record of two hands.

6:30 pm: Write note on hand so that I remember to tell Shana to "drop that zero and get with a hero". It doesn't matter that I'll just get flustered, my palms will sweat, smudging the ink, and I'll undoubtedly reverse the order. My charm and wit will get me by.

6:45 pm: Play a few practice hands at Doyle's Room. Mentally curse the players for being so bad, and then follow it up by cursing myself for not being able to win their money. Blame the cards.

7:15 pm: Start rockin' Survivor playlist. Try to feign stupidity when roommate asks "Was that really Eddie Rabbit I just heard on repeat 6 times?"

7:30pm: Delete every Eddie Rabbit song I own. And every song pertaining to love, rain, or night.

7:45 pm: Fire up PokerStars. I'm not even trying to be funny here. That's what I'm really going to do.

Tournament Time:

I want to do good tonight, but really, who doesn't? I wish I could just proclaim myself the winner right now. I could go on and on about how I'm going to check raise everyone and their grandmother. Or, how I'm going to run over each table I'm at, building up a chip stack so huge, that you won't even be able to see my player icon through the plateau of chips. Or even how I'm going to donate all my winnings to those "less fortunate". I could write about all that, but I won't. I'm far too modest for that. Not to mention good-looking, independently wealthy, musically inclined, or that I'm so in tune to the intricacies of poker that I don't play with the pros for fear that I'll embarrass them. Consider yourselves lucky that I'm modest.

I remember my first time playing in a WPBT event. The tourney was being held at Pacific Poker, and to say that I was nervous would be a gross understatement. I was worried that I'd be outclassed, outmatched and any other "out" that you can work in there. Well, except for being "outted". That would be just wrong.

Looking back at my first tourney experience, and after playing so many hands at the blogger table recently, I realize that I had nothing to worry about. I do, however, wish that someone had given some tips on how to play in these events. I didn't fare all that bad in my first go, finishing in the teens out of sixty some odd players, but I can't help but feel that I would've done better, if only I'd had a little pre-tourney pep talk. You know, something to make me feel that I fit in. Something that prepared me for what I was about to experience. See, that's why I'm here. Now, what I'm about to tell you is highly regarded as "classified information", and by divulging it, I'm exposing myself to many verbal lashings from my blogger brethren. But, if you're a newbie in search of some guidance, you've come to the right place. Even if you're a seasoned WPBT Pro such as myself, just read along and laugh in my face if you like.

Must do's:
1-Upon immediately being seated at your opening table, type "Which one is Iggy?" in the chat box. Also, make sure that you believe everybody that fesses up to being him, even if their screen name oddly matches up with another website. Really, don't we all have a little bit of Iggy inside us?

2-You must play The Hammer at least once, if not every time it's dealt to you. If you choose not to play it for whatever reason, never, and I repeat never tell anyone that you folded it. It's looked upon as being very weak, and the vultures will prey on your still breathing lungs.

3-Speaking of The Hammer, you must:
a: be very afraid of any board containing both a 7 and a 2, regardless of what you hold. Chances are good that somebody is holding two pair, and if you can't beat two pair, fold. Fold pocket aces without even thinking once, let alone twice.
b:Make sure that a board containing a 7 and a 2 doesn't pass you by without typing "THE HAMMER!" in the chat box. Everyone is thinking it, so you might as well be the witty one. Right? Of course I'm right.

4-If you're ever seated at a table with Sean or BG, and feel like fitting in, make sure you bring up "nut cancer" as a conversation starter. They go coo-coo for nut cancer.

5-Never miss an opportunity to tell the people you're chatting with how much you love their blog, even if you don't have a clue if they actually have one. For the ones that do, it'll make them feel honored, hopefully honored enough to bestow some of their chips upon your stack. For the ones that don't, it'll make them think that you're either drunk, senile or both. Either way, it's a win/win situation.

6-Employ the very powerful "Minimum Raise Strategy", or Mrs. for short. It's not only highly technical, but well-respected, too. If some hunyuck types "Min raises make baby Jesus cry" into the chat, it's just because he's jealous of your superior skill. And really, if it did make baby Jesus cry, he wouldn't be crying because he's so sad, but because he's so damn proud of his poweful little poker player.

7-Top pair, top kicker will win you a shitload of chips. Sure, you just as easily lose with it, but for the sake of my argument, this glass is half-full. This is a hand that you must move all your chips to the middle, no matter the texture of the board. What's that? There's 4 to the flush on the turn and you hold none of that suit? Who cares, you've got top pair, top kicker! Push! You say there's a broadway straight draw on the river, with 6 people still betting like the chips are on fire? Hey, no problem, top pair, top kicker never let us down before! Push! Get your chips in the middle before it's too late!

8-If you're ever involved in a hand with some dumbass with the screen name "Donegal", fold. He's good. Like, really good. Like, Zeus good. I'm not sure just how good Zeus is as a poker player, but come on, it's Zeus. It's best to steer clear of him even if you're dealt pocket aces, because he'll suck out on you. Hey, why are you giggling? No, it's not a stupid screen name! Oh that's it, I'm coming after your chips, you gigglepuss, you. This means war.

There, I hope that helps anyone entered in tonight's WPBT event. The only difference between this and a blogger table is that there's never been a time that $1000 has been sitting on a blogger table.

Now, where did I put that Eddie Rabbit album...