I'm too tired to make a coherent, flowing post. So, you get a bullet post containing mostly poker related, some tidbits far removed from this blog's purpose. Without further ado, I give you;

A Week in My (sometimes) Poker Life
by Chachi Arcola

In the past week, I've played in 4 of the newer $36 MTT on Doyle's room and cashed in three of them. Each tourney had approximately 150 players entered, and I finished 11th, 18th, 50th(ick) and 6th last night, respectively. In last night's 6th place finish--while in the middle of a silly-assed fantasy football draft, mind you--I held the chip lead from the 5th level until the final table, and damn it, I stand by my previous post on being the chipleader; It's fan-fucking-tastic.

An interesting hand came up with the blinds 1000/2000, no antes. We're playing short-handed and playing hand-for-hand to boot, and I'm dealt 66 in the SB. There's one EP limper, I complete and the BB checks. Flop: 6-9-4, two suited cards, not matching either of my 6's. Instead of getting cute, I bet right out with the size of the pot(T6000) and the BB calls. The limper folds. Turn is a queen that doesn't complete a flush draw and I push all in(about T20,000), figuring that the BB will fold his flush draw for fear of going out on the bubble. He was the 2nd biggest stack at the table, so I didn't think he'd want to jeopordize his whole tournament when he was assured of making more than bubble money.

Instead he insta-calls with 94o, gets no help on the river and goes from 2nd to 19th in one unraised pot gone horribly awry. If you were that guy, could you have gotten away from the hand?

Of course this one, lucky hand made me the huge chipleader with more than 2-1 on anyone else at the final two tables. From that point on, I didn't waver that much in chipstack size, sitting right around T50,000 until we got down to the final table. Still the chipleader, but not by as wide a margin.

And then, Card Dead City, baby. I just didn't get any cards when people would raise all-in, and getting sucked out on by A2s while holding AQo didn't help much either. That's the how my tournament game has been playing out lately; play well enough to put myself in a position to win, and then get unlucky. That's how it goes, I suppose.

How many people reading this have won more than one of these medium/big tournaments? If so, how? I just don't get how people consistently get by the luck factor.

What is it about a full moon that makes those of the female persuasion absolutely bonkers?

Hey, it was a full moon this weekend, wasn't it?

Why yes, yes it was. 'Nough said.

Hold your thumb and forefinger about an inch or two apart. Go on, nobody's watching. Got it? Don't be a pansy. Good, that's about how close I am to having a bankroll large enough to buy that damn laptop I was pissing and moaning about just one week ago. To say that I'm experiencing the upside of the variance teeter-totter would be an understatement. Or maybe it's just that I'm so wicked awesome, I don't know. It's just too early to tell.

I do know that I've been running decent in $20+2 SNG's on stars, winning 2/4 and placing in the other two. I even dominated one guy so badly heads-up that he sat out with T3000 left and let me blind him down for my win. Either that or he had to crap really badly. I didn't ask.

I'm running so much better in the .50/$1 NL 6 max tables on Doyle's, occasionally taking a stab at the $1/2 NL 6 max. In my opinion, the $1/$2 tables are just as soft, if not softer, than the lower limits, but my bankroll cannot sustain more than a two buy in loss at the level. Not right now, at least. These make up the bulk of my online winnings to date, and it would be a crime to leave them before they dry up, and that doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon.

Vegas in December? Really? And nobody will make fun of my long underwear undershirt this time? What about the fact that my liver processed nary a drop of Soco during that whole June weekend?

You can keep your pocket aces in Hold 'em. Pure rubbish. Go ahead, love your rolled up aces in 7-stud like your plane is going down. I don't care what you say, this is by far the prettiest starting hand in all of poker. And it was all mine! Mwahahahahhahahahha.

Jinkies. Or was it Zoinks?

As you can see by the picture above, I was stupid enough to heed the call of The Bob for a limit O8 tourney last night at 10:15pm. Joanne was silly enough to come along for the ride, too. See her in the bottom left hand corner? It would be so much easier on all the sweaters if Stars would put as many playing bloggers on the same table as possible. But do they do that? Well, in this case, yes. Drizz only had to have one table open when I was moved to Joanne's table.

Yeah, limit O8? So damn boring it almost made me cry. Then again puppies make me cry. Also when there's an underdog team in a movie that wins a championship, that also makes me cry. If those Hollywood type people every made a movie about a team full of ragtag, unloved puppy baseball players, well, I'd be a downright mess.

I like limit ring games, but limit tournaments just don't do it for me. I suppose I could've had something to do with being only dealt 9's and 8's when the first card into my hand was an ace. I don't know O/8 all that well, but I know that hand is unplayable. Another reason I wasn't all that enthused by this tournament was due to the knowledge that I'd be able to start it, but not finish it as I had The Girl coming over after she got done with work.

And then she has the nerve to show up and say "I can entertain myself, go ahead and finish your tournament". How dare she? Luckily enough for me, I had just fivetupled up the hand right before she said that. Sucker.

An hour and a half later, right about 12:30am, all I wanted to do was go to bed. I didn't care about cashing, because I knew once we made the money, I wouldn't want to stop until I made the final table. I didn't even care about winning, but the damn RNG wouldn't let me lose! My high-water mark was right around T13,000, and I know I was in the top 15 with three to the bubble. I felt confident I was going to make the money, no problem.

4 hands later I was out of the tournament in 29th.

3 hands earlier I was dealt AKKA. Suffice it to say, I completely overplayed it and lost the high to(I think) the eventual winner's two pair, 4's and 2's. What a fun way to cripple myself! Much more fun than stepping out in front of a modified Lark, that's for sure.

So, what else? Lemme see...

I "cashed" in a WCOOP FPP PLO satellite last Friday, and I have one word for the level of play in the tournament: gooey.

What do you mean I don't have the straight? I have the queen in my hand! See? Eight-nine-ten-jack on the board, and my queen on top of that. I win, right? Right?

No, sir, you lose in everything, including life.

I won more chips off of other's sheer stupidity than my own gifted play or an exceptional rush of cards. I'll take it! My goal for the next month or so is to play in more of these and see where my FPP's take me. Right now, I don't have squat.

Last night after coming home from the bar, I lost the biggest pot of my poker 'career'. While many bloggers can swing a couple thousand dollars in any given session, this beat left me frustrated and slightly(read:monumentally) pissed even after I woke up this morning. After checking the hand history this morning, it just got worse. I think I've shaken it off well since then, but for fuck's sake, how many babies did I kick in another life to deserve this sort of karmic bitchslap?

One more than necessary, I guess.

And before you say that I shouldn't be playing while drunk--which is the truth--I will say that I didn't fuck up this hand. I played the only way I could. Poker Savvy's Bad Beat-o-Meter tells me that I was a 77% favorite on the flop, and that my beat was 'soul-crushing'. Silly fuckers assume that I had a soul to begin with. I don't know about crushing my soul, but I do know that it twisted the knife a little farther than any beat had before it.

It was close to 3am, and I made the mistake of telling myself "just one more hand". As a snowboarder growing up, I knew better than to say it. If you ever ended day of snowboarding at one of Minnesota's ginormous mountains with "just one last run", you were sure to get hurt. It never failed. The last time I made this faux pas, I ended up in the emergency room at 4am with the head of bone sticking out of my palm. I'm missing a knuckle because of it. Seriously. Bad JuJu, man. You don't fuck with the Just One More Demon.

Immediately after my drunken mouth uttered these four fatal words, I cringed and hoped for the best. The best was pocket 6's in the BB. The best got even better(yeah, I know that goes against the concept of 'best') as the flop came out J-6-J. Sweet fucking full house, man. I'll bet this here, take down the pot and go to bed on a note akin to Tiny Tim's highest falsetto.

As an aside, I was priveleged enough to see Tiny Tim in concert a few months before he died. He was just as weird looking in person. That's not important to this story at all, I've always wanted to tell someone, anyone that I met Tiny Tim. Anyhow...

I didn't take down the pot, though. The button raised my bet. By a lot. Could he really be playing J-6 on the button? No fucking way. Jacks? No, he would've raised preflop. Well, considering the shit play I've seen lately, anything is possible. But, what are the chances he'd flop the better full house? If it had been Drizz or Joespeaker playing this hand, he definitely would've been holding J-6. But, I'm not them, so I thought I was pretty safe.

And safe I was, because right after I pushed and he called, I saw that he was holding jack...nine? Really? You're shitting me, right? Why would he put $250 in the center of the table with a nine kicker? Outside of the fact that he's a mongoloid, he put his entire stack at risk because he knew that a nine was coming on the turn. Duh. Of course it came on the turn. There's no reason to delay the soul-crushing until the river, right? I mean, after the nine fell, I still had out. An out. One.

No 6 on the river, and IGTBN, drunk, pissed, and my bankroll $250 lighter than it should've been.

I woke up this morning and was all like, man, losing that huge pot with set over set blew donkeys. I felt I was owed that pot. But, this'll learn me for checking the hand history after being too drunk to remember how awful that turn was. Rehashing it just made things worse.

Like I said, I've taken worse beats before, for roughly the same amounts of money. I mean, I still have a decent enough bankroll to work with, and I've definitely had to maneuver with much, much less. Then, why the pissed-offedness?

It took me a few hours to realize why it affected me more than the others. The past few weeks, I've been building my bankroll with the intention of buying a pretty new laptop. The one I currently own shuts off if you bump it slightly against a brick wall, and runs painfully slow. So, I'm in need of a new one.

I equated that one lost pot with a huge step back in reaching that goal of being able to purchase, which is quite possibly the worst mindest to have as a poker player. One endless session blahblahblah. Being short term goal oriented will result in a kick to my mangina with each and every sizable pot I lose, leaving me a bitter person. Nope, can't do it.

Which leads me to question how a "professional" poker player does it. Now, I'm not talking about those that makes mounds(heh, I said mounds) upon wads of cash. I mean those pros that depend on good results to pay the rent, child support, etc. How can you detach emotion to something as important as a decent life? I don't have an answer to that. Do you?

So, I still want a frickin' new laptop--and I will get there--but it will take a little longer than I had planned, but it's not at the forefront of my brain-type-thing .

And oooh, looky: I just won a good pot when my aces held up against queens. Back on the horse, I am.

Ha, I said 'pot'.

All this time, after all of these years that I've been trying to figure out just how a guy like me, happens to have girls like them("them" in a collective girl-I've-dated sort of way) find interest in me, I finally realize what it is that girls want. Hold on, you don't get the goods quite yet.

You see, it's much easier than I ever imagined. Girls aren't that tough to please. Men, you don't have to drive a Bentley. You don't have to even be all that attractive, which can be proven by all the couples I see walking around Uptown, and all I can think is "Aw, the poor blind girl doesn't know she's holding hands with a hideous He-beast." If you were to pick one average guy and one average girl and put them in a locked room together, you can be sure that the man would think "Ah, I've seen better", while the girl will say "He'll do."

So, if it isn't looks, and money isn't involved, what's the key? What's the key to nailing chicks? Well, I'm here to tell you.

Last night, I was sitting at home playing poker on my naked lady machine(which is weird in and of itself because I always assumed that the naked lady machine was to be used solely for looking at naked ladies. Who knew?) and chatting with some online poker, uh, peeps. I'd just gone through a fucking fabulous run of cards where I made more money in an hour than I do in half a week at my 'real' job, which understandably put me in a good mood. You know how at the end of a porno when the girl gets a facial and seems happy about it, only to have her mood sour when she gets painted in the eye? No? Liars. I could've been shot in the eye by easy money and still would have been in a good mood. Yeah, I'm easy money's dirty, dirty whore.

So, it's too early to go to bed, I'm up a few hundred dollar and not yet drunk. Oh yeah, and happy. What's a guy like me to do at a time like that?

Off to the bar!

As amazing as it sounds, I, Chad, haven't been to the bar all that much lately. The Hell, you say! No, really, I'm telling the truth. Outside of a few hours--or a few happy hours--here or there, my time spent inside drinking has been limited. So sad. Not to fret, though, because I'm sure I'll ramp it up once the weather turns to shit and I get my new laptop. Hopefully the laptop comes before the bad weather does.

So, I jump in the shower, scrub myself up and down with Eric's buffpuff, get dressed and head out to the bar. Wait, shit, I forgot my phone. Gotta unlock the two locks on the outside door, trudge up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, and then down the hallway to my room to grab my phone. Great, got it. Let's go!

Back down the hallway, locking the apartment door behind me, almost falling down the stairs, then finally locking both locks behind me on the outside door, and then finally on my way to bar. That is, after a quick breath check into my cupped hand, which I should know better than to do when I really don't want to go back upstairs.

But, rinse, wash, repeat to get my gum, and then I'm finally off to the bar. I swear, this time it's true.

I lied.

You see, I have a problem with sitting at a bar by myself with nothing to do. Normally I'd bring my laptop along for the adventure, but I just didn't feel like packing it all up in the super backpack, only to have the bar's wifi connection crap out on my like it always does. In place of the laptop, I grabbed a small pad of paper avec pen, should the inspiration choose to grab hold while sitting with a pint attached to my lower lip. It rarely does, but hey, you never know.

The first bar was dead. No whoores, no hussies, fuck, not even any dudes that dig dudes, and in my neighborhood all three factors combined are a strong indication that somebody, somewhere, is about to load the pig cannon. There was, however, a guy in a motorized wheelchair that sped in, downed a beer in less than a second, burped in my general direction and then left just as quickly as he'd entered, but that didn't quite justify another liter of beer on my part. Off to a different bar I go.

The next bar, my bar, was just as dead, but I figured that I'd have one more pint, maybe write a little, and be home in bed by midnight. Little did I know that I was about to discover the answer to one of life's greatest questions: "How do I get a girl to like me?"

I mosied up to the bar and before I even had a chance to sit down, the bartenderess mouthed "Lite?" and I agreed with a nod and a smile.

Gotta love being predictable.

While sipping on the beer, I pulled the notebook out of my back pocket and set it on the bar, not because I felt like writing, but because it just wasn't that comfortable sitting with a pen jabbed in my ass. To some of you this called foreplay, but to me, it's just sick.

Ah hell, the notebook needs lovin', too, and it is right there in front of me, I might as well write about my night of poker, right? Right. Just as I began waxing retarded about a card game, a girl came up to the bar to order a drink. I didn't pay much attention, as there was nothing out of the ordinary about her. Sure, she had tattoos and all that jazz, but she was just your average girl out for the night.

A few seconds later, a guy entered the bar, walked right behind the girl and goosed her. Well, I think he goosed her. I really wasn't paying that much attention, and a little embellishment never hurt anybody. So, he goosed her, and more importantly, it appeared that they knew each other well. I assumed it was her boyriend and went about my business of not writing.

As I'm about to close my notebook and head the to bathroom, I heard the girl say something to the guy to the effect of "Holy fucksticks, this guy sitting by himself, writing in baby blue notebook is Jude Law hot". Ok, so she didn't say those words exactly, and I may or may not have added the part about Jude Law on my own, but she did say something about me specifically. This I know. I'm sure I was not supposed to hear this, but the specifics told me that he was not "with" her.

I returned to my stool at the bar with the girl saying "Get out! LITERALLY" to her friend, which must have been his key to leave so that she could talk to me. So crytpic and sly, this one. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was trying to get my attention. Nope, none for me thanks. I'll just act like my beer is amazing the fuck out of me, like it's the best lite beer on earth, all the while not trying to make eye contact.

And than I did something stupid: opened my notebook and started writing.

"So, what are you writing? Lyrics? Are you writing lyrics?" she asked. For every guy that likes to write, there's a million girls that think he's writing lyrics to some gay song.

I.Am.Fucked.

"I, uh, no. Just some random crap." I stammered. It just sort of spilled out of my mouth. Why? I have no idea.

"Are you writing a book? Is it..." she questioned again.

"No, and it's not poetry, either" I interrupted her before she even went that route. Trust me, she was headed there. They all are.

"Well, then what are you writing about?"

This morning as the water splashed over my face and ran down my body, I still couldn't figure out why I answered the way I did. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't all that nervous, but there's no logical thought process that fully explains my response.

"Uh, ok. This is going to sound really geeky, but I'm writing about poker. I have a bunch of poker friends online that I talk about poker with, and I was just jotting down some topics that I could bring up at a later time". I said.

Where in the fuck did that come from? Not that I had any reason to lie, but surely I could've come up with something better than "I'm a geeky poker rube". Lying would've been so much better. The truth has escaped from my mouth before my brain had a chance to filter it.

To say that she became completely disinterested would be a gross understatement. It was as if someone removed her battery and she just sort of powered down right there at the bar. Not that I really was out to talk to her in the first place, but damn, game over.

"Uh, oh. That's...cool. Well, it was nice to meet you." she said as she looked at her watch and quickly walked away.

What did I learn out of all this? I discovered the answer to "What's the key to nailing chicks?"

Don't act like me. Don't imitate me. Don't emulate my actions. I clearly do not know what I am doing.

Seriously. That's my gift to all of you. Lie if you have to. Tell them you're writing poetry about kittens and how you're finding your way in life, or some shit that women are likely to be interested in. Tell them you're writing a novel about the black market on Kate Spade bags. Hell, if you're really all about getting laid, just don't open your mouth. It adds to the mystery.

But don't, under any circumstance, believe that they'll be impressed when you tell them that your little notebook holds topics on a card game. It will not work out in your favor.

If you look in the comments of my last entry, you'll see that the guy that outed me as a poker blogger at one of the local freerolls replied. Now, I wasn't trying to make him look like an ass for possibly misreading his hand. I know I've done it, in much more important settings than a free tournament. Though, I'm not sure the rubes sitting at a 2/4 table at Canterbury knew the difference. But, the one thing I will say is this; guy whose name I do not know, if you play this Thursday at Rock Bottom, do not try to bluff that guy. He'll call you without cards in his hand. He will suck out on you, that's a given. After the 10th time he had to be told he had cards, I gave up.

It also helps that the guy that replying has a blog of his own, so now I don't feel like a huge frickin' freak.

As far as the freerolls go, they're more of 'real poker' than I thought they would be. Sure, you have the occasional stragglers that have never played before. And there's the people that think they're king high will hold up against an all-in with 7 people still left to act behind him. Of course it does, too. But the quality of play hasn't been beyond incomprehensible. It's been as good as I can expect; mediocre.

As far as all that goes, though, I don't think I'm going to be playing in many more of them. Sure, it's a lot of fun to hang out with some buddies and play poker in a live setting without investing a lot of dough. But the problem is that I've come to the realization that making money and building a bankroll are big motivators for me. I want to get better. I want to move up in limits. I love poker, but it's not always about having fun. Even without playing in any other bar freeroll series in the Twin Cities, I'd wager that Riverush is the best amongst them and I'd recommend them to anyone. But I'm spending more in beer and time than I'm getting in return from placing high in the tournaments.

"Just don't drink while you play", you say.

"Fuck you" I reply without nary a pause.

We all know that's not going to happen. If I'm going to willingly step foot in an establishment that serves me the tipple, then tipple I will. Even though I rarely drink enough at the events to get drunk, even if I only have 3 beers a night--at 3 nights a week--that comes to right around $60 a week to drink, and not get close to drunk. I do not subcribe to 'social drinking'. If I'm only going to have one or two beers, I might as well not even drink. Saves me money, and also from the disappointment that I'm not drunk. So, while I'm at the bar wasting four hours and spending $20, only to come out empty handed, I could be at home killing the 6-max NL games on Doyle's, working my way towards that new laptop I so desperately need want. Or at the very least making chicken scratch on the low-limit Stars MTT's.

Let it be so.

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Even though I don't make a shit-ton of money playing tournaments, I feel that part of my game is finally starting come around, especially after reading HOH'emI/II. The first book I like to describe with an appropriate "No shit, Dan?". Most of it common sense, and if I'm grossly overestimating what passes for common sense these days, then, well, I must be a real fucking genius. Just like Val Kilmer in Willow. Or something.

My early tournament aggression/chip accumulation needs to be tweaked like a stiff nipple, but Volume II has helped me by clearly explaining one area that I was just too dumb to understand: pushing in late stages before it becomes too late.

Thought process 6 months ago

I have an 8xBB stack near the tournament bubble and I'm dealt A6o UTG . All of the stacks left to act are much bigger than mine, much bigger. Well, I'm the first one in and I need to double up because the blinds are going to get to me and I have less than 10xBB blah blah blah. Let's push and hope to get lucky.

Huh, wouldn't you just know it; I got called by AK and 10's and I'm out on the bubble. Again.

Instead, you decide to fold and wait for a better spot..

(My only peeve with the HOH books is that much of the time the player in the book does the exact opposite of what it is I know I should do. I wanted to check, not push my 50xBB stack in against a larger stack while holding 2's. GODDAMNIT!)

First, an M of 6 isn't that desperate, even if the I have to give up my blinds coming up. Also, there are so many people left to act behind me that it's more than likely I'll get called by any decent Ax or any middle pair. That's trouble.

The main improvement in my game has come from being more patient when I'm shortstacked. True, there are times that I should be pushing with crap in hopes that either I don't called or get lucky, but there has to be a better spot than UTG with a crap ace with everyone at the table left to act. In the past, I used to do it over and over again. Because I'm not that bright. Hell, that A6 would be a great hand in LP when I'm first to open the pot, but not so much in EP. They might as well be UNO cards in EP.

First off, can I make a motion that we strike the word 'blog' from the world's collective memory? Just wipe it out like in that movie starring Will Smith. Was that Bad Indepence Boys(in Black) I, or II? No matter. I'd like that, though, I really would. Who's with me? Because if you're not with me, you're against me. And you don't want to be against me.

Last night was another installment in the Riverush Poker series, being hosted by one of my favorite brewpubs in Minneapolis: Rock Bottom Brewery. I know it's a chain brewpub, but goddamn it, sometimes this guy just needs to throw a wrench in his beer-drinking spokes. I can't survive on Miller Lite alone.

After 5 weeks and 11 tournaments, I find myself tied for 3rd with my roommate. 1st place is currently being held down by another buddy, with 2nd locked securely be a guy that is actually a decent, solid player. Strange for a freeroll, I know. As far as rankings go, well, they really don't mean shit. Almost everyone that plays will get into the finals, and points are pretty much just for bragging rights. But it's nice to say "I'm #3! I'm #3!", even if it's while sucking my thumb in the fetal position, hunkered down in the corner of a soiled bathroom stall, all because I'm not #1.

So, back to the freeroll. I'm sitting in what would be the 5s. Since there's no real dealer spot, I could very well be in the 1s or 9s, but this is my story, so I'm sticking with the 5s. My buddy, Antony had just been moved to my table and settled in the 8s. True to form, he starts telling jokes, and in no time has made new best friends out of everyone else at the table.

"So, how did hear about Riverush?" he asked of the guy sitting immediately to his left.

"I was looking for something else and stumbled across someone's write up in a random poker blog." the guy said.

This is the point in the conversation I should've stood up and went to the bathroom. Across the street, in the next county, wherever. The last place I wanted to be was sitting at the table listening to my buddy talk, because I knew where this going. And I didn't like it.

Did I get up? Of course not.

"Oh? Which blog? My buddy has a poker blog." Anthony divulged while pointing in my direction. I used the "who me?" defense, where you look behind you expecting that someone is standing directly behind you, and hopefully they're talking about them. When you turn back around, you point to yourself and say "who? ME?"

I still don't know how Anythony knew I have a site solely devoted to poker, because I never told him. And though I realize that people actually read this drivel periodically, I still haven't come to terms that friends come here and read this, even if I don't tell them about it. It makes me wonder who else is out there lurking, not telling me that they're reading.

Mom? Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to go ahead and publicly apologize for being an embarrassment to the entire family.

"What's the name of your blog, Chad? Pokeramarama? Blogspot, right?" Anthony asked, rendering the who me? defense useless because he used my name.

"Yeah, yeah. That's where I heard about Riverush!" the other guy interrupted before I could answer.

Again, a little weirded out that he hit my site's adress right on the nose. And even more weirded out that some random guy from Minneapolis had read my blog. But this time I couldn't act like I didn't hear them and confirmed that I am, indeed, the infamous 'Ramarama'.

"You bettah recognize, bitches"

That's what I wanted to say. But I didn't. I tried to change the subject tout de suite, but it didn't work. The guy sitting on Anthony's other side even asked him to repeat my site address because he wanted to check it out, too. Oy. How am I supposed to berate everyone when they all read this? You can see my dilemma.

So, hello to the guy that got knocked out because you thought you had the straight(you didn't), and to the guy that outlasted me by one spot, only because you had more chips than I did going into the hand. Honestly, how can I expect my 10's to get run down by quad 3's? QUAD FUCKING 3's!

Goddamn, I suck at poker.