Hungover I am. A little, green booger of a Jedi I am not.
I have a few things to spout off about here, so please forgive me on the off chance that I ramble. On the off-off chance that I puke on this entry, I apologize in advance.
Last night I experienced a hand that made me realize just how far I've come in this crazy game of poker. I'm sitting on a .50c-$1 NL table with a full buy-in stack of $100, when I'm dealt JJ in the BB. 4 people limp and I raise it 4x the BB. All 4 call. There is $17 in the pot.
Flop: 5-J-9 rainbow
I've got The Nuts. Big nuts. I couldn't have any more of The Nuts if Jesus was throwing cards at my junk. This is a situation where I could've slow-played it to trap more people, but I felt someone had to have hit something on this board. Either that, or they already had a made hand pre-flop. So, I played it fast and made a $17 bet right off the bat. I was hoping to look like I didn't have already have a set and that I was trying to steal the pot. Well, it worked. Not that any of these low-limit hacks would be able to recognize it, though, but my plan worked.
Immediately UTG pushes all in for another $30, while the other two people folded. Insta-call by me, of course. The cards are turned over, and what does the villian hold and what cards came on the turn and the river?
Please guess. If anyone gets close, I owe them a six pack of Car Bombs in Vegas. If you're spot-on, well, I'll think of another prize, because it warrants a decent reward. Drizz, you're out of the contest because I already bitched to you about it.
I'll admit that this was a bad beat. A beat that I'm not whining about. Had it happened to anyone else, I would've cringed, and possibly felt a little bad for the poor shlub. But it didn't happen to your Average Joe, it happened to me.
I didn't throw anything. I didn't even get pissed. All I could say is "Huh." while I reloaded to a full stack, waiting for the next hand to be dealt. A few months ago I would've walked away from the table, pissed, letting it affect my game. Last night, though, I was calm and the beat didn't even phase me. Is this what enlightenment feels like? At that moment, I finally felt like I "got it". I understood. I didn't let it get to me, and after dropping almost a full buy-in in a few hands, I ended the night only down $10. I worked my stack back up and didn't go all Eddie Cibrian or anything.
I make no sense. I just wanted to name drop Eddie Cibrian. It's the dimples.
The only thing that did annoy me is that the villian pulled a hit-n-run. WITH MY MONEY! Asshole. I tagged him knowing full well that by the time we both sit at the same table again, he'll have none of my money left for me to recover.
EPT Monte Carlo:
I don't know how I stumbled upon it, but I came home from the bar a few nights ago and found the bit torrent of this tournament on my desktop. I watched the first few minutes of the first episode, and I have this to say:HOLY FUCK+italics+underlining. Can anyone tell me the name of the brunette Shana Hiatt wannabe? Jesus-tap-dancin'-Christ, I think I love her. Then what am I so afraid of?
Cold shower commencing...now.
Most of you don't know this, but I've been priveleged enough to encounter the ACHE and even lived to not tell about it. Drizz, Halverson and I spent an afternoon with The Hang at a Minnesota bowling alley on a Saturday afternoon back in January. I think it had something to do with a football game, but my brain chooses not to remember the particular reasons behind our drink-fest. I wonder why that is?
Without a doubt in my head, I know that the afternoon was a little subdued by Al standards. It might've had something to do with the weather being stuck at a miserable negative 30F (Hey, nice job on planning a trip during the coldest day of the year), but whatever the reason, I know that Al's volume goes to 11. He was sitting at around a comfortable 7 in Minnesota. I can handle 7. Hell, I can probably even stretch it to a 10. 11, though, everyone should be afraid of 11. There's not a liver alive that doesn't quiver at the mere thought of a double-one day.
Liver, quiver. Look at me, I'm a fuckin' poet.
One word of advice for those unfamiliar, or unprepared for the shit-storm that is the ACHE: Sip the Soco, don't slug it. I made this critical mistake from the get-go, and ended not only shit-faced by 2am, but bourbon-faced as well. My first double Soco shot didn't go down quite as smooth as I'd hoped, with half of it spilling onto my unshaven face. Not quite the grand first impression one hopes for when meeting a drinking legend.
It was like taking a swing during batting practice in front of Kirby Puckett(the old Kirby, not the present day, one-eyed slob Kirby), and not just whiffing by a mile, but hitting yourself in the back of the head with the bat, twisting an ankle in the process and immediately followed by crying out for your mommy. Embarrassing.
It's been four months since that day. I'm prepared, are you?
Go Chad, Go Chad. OO OO! Cabbage patch.
Tomorrow is my birthday. My 30th birthday. I'm not announcing this in hopes that you'll donate to my bankroll, though that would be a nice gesture. Any donation is a good donation. No, I'm announcing it because on Friday, after I shake off my hangover, I'll be heading to Canterbury Park for a little live poker action. I only know of a few people in the greater Twin Cities area that read this, but each and every one of you should stop down and play some cards with me. Plans? You already have plans? Yeah, plans to stop by Canterbury and toss around blue plastic chips with me!
If there's one complaint I have about the card room, it's the chips. Why is it that only $10 chips are Chipco? I want $1 Chipco chips, damn it! Lucky fucking 30/60 players.
Did I mention that I'm hungover?
With that, I bid you adieu.