Gamble, gamble, gamble, die...
Last night, A. interrupted our preparations for Führertag (the upcoming joint celebration of his mother and Hitler's birthdays) to drag me to a nearby bar for a pair of poker tournaments. It seems my pal has been driving his asthmatic ass all the way out to Herndon every Thursday night to play in those free Hold'em games that seem to be all the rage with the chain-smoking alcoholic set. We probably pass each other on the highway as I wend my way to B.'s house for a subdued evening of Survivor and Ugly Betty. Anyhoo, I generally don't have to be dragged anywhere to play poker, but between the $175 I made at work and the $25 I made playing with B.'s circle Saturday I can't quite get a hard-on at the idea of playing for nothing but points and potential gift certificates for shitty bar food. It's not that my interest in poker is waning, but rather that I particularly enjoy playing with people I know (well, more people than A.) and, of course, having money on the line makes it both more interesting and more rewarding.
Perhaps my mindset affected the cards because I had a fairly miserable evening. I went out in the first half-hour of tournament one when, after losing more than two-thirds of my stack with aces-and-queens versus trip-queens, I felt obligated to push all-in pre-flop with ace-six offsuit. An asshat with an entire pitcher of beer to himself called me with five-eight off-suit and somehow spiked two pair on the flop. This meant I had to kill two and a half hours until the nine o'clock tournament. Happily, S., who had stopped by to feed her own poker bug, went out not too soon after and began talking my ear off. A. lasted maybe a half-hour more before joining us at the bar where I ate deep-fried grease and gradually succumbed to the exhaustion S.'s logorrhea provokes in all but the deaf and mentally-challenged. I wouldn't have even played the second game had A. not been my ride.
The second game was in some ways worse than the first. I grabbed no cards and consequently played nothing, having learned that the combination of massive quantities of alcohol with the free nature of the tournament inspires absurdly loose and aggressive play from people unafraid of going out at any time. My play was, by necessity more than choice, tighter than a thirteen-year-old virgin's ass. I played nothing and lasted until the four tables merged down to two. At which point, the blinds were large enough that both A. and my hands were forced.
When he was the big blind (for half-his remaining chips), he pushed all-in with two-three-offsuit. A single caller's Ace-10 didn't stand up in the face of such overwhelmingly impressive face cards; A. magically doubled up, after spiking a two on the turn. My own turn came next. I was the big blind for just shy of half my stack. I pushed all-in with the highly dubious Ace-Jack-suited combo, knowing full-well that there was no way a respectable hand would hold-up on that table, especially in light of the three callers. I ended up with fuck-all, beaten by a pair of twos who was herself beaten by a pair of threes.
I wandered off to pay my tab while A. sought to survive on his pathetic short stack. We had been at the bar so many hours that my original bartender was nowhere to be found and, because her replacement had no idea where she kept the credit cards, neither was my Visa. He looked in the cash register, under the bar, amidst the napkins, beneath the false floor panel... no luck. Eventually, he tracked the barmaid down in the toilet, returned with a grin and opened the ice box. A stack of credit cards had been placed in a plastic cup and dropped within. I paid my tab, over-tipped and returned to find A. still nursing the same sad stack, as I feared I would.
Happily, the universe dealt him pocket sevens, obligating the all-in. The betting escalated and he picked up three callers, two of which were also all-in. The result was three separate pots on the table, the time-consuming creation of which proved unnecessary when the big-stack flopped an ace-high straight. Having watched one of the players consume now two entire pitchers of beer by his lonesome, I figured it was just a matter of time before he splashed the pot with something more than his chips. We took off, I was dropped off, and I trudged into my apartment feeling more than a bit off. Too much activity meant my weekend flew by with little to no recuperation of sleep or sanity. I was so busy between making the trivia game board for Führertag and cleaning up the apartment that I didn't even manage to read the comic books I picked up on Casual Saturday. And Sunday?
All I had to show for my Sunday was a leather jacket that reeked of cigarette smoke and a liver drowning in cherry vodka.
Perhaps my mindset affected the cards because I had a fairly miserable evening. I went out in the first half-hour of tournament one when, after losing more than two-thirds of my stack with aces-and-queens versus trip-queens, I felt obligated to push all-in pre-flop with ace-six offsuit. An asshat with an entire pitcher of beer to himself called me with five-eight off-suit and somehow spiked two pair on the flop. This meant I had to kill two and a half hours until the nine o'clock tournament. Happily, S., who had stopped by to feed her own poker bug, went out not too soon after and began talking my ear off. A. lasted maybe a half-hour more before joining us at the bar where I ate deep-fried grease and gradually succumbed to the exhaustion S.'s logorrhea provokes in all but the deaf and mentally-challenged. I wouldn't have even played the second game had A. not been my ride.
The second game was in some ways worse than the first. I grabbed no cards and consequently played nothing, having learned that the combination of massive quantities of alcohol with the free nature of the tournament inspires absurdly loose and aggressive play from people unafraid of going out at any time. My play was, by necessity more than choice, tighter than a thirteen-year-old virgin's ass. I played nothing and lasted until the four tables merged down to two. At which point, the blinds were large enough that both A. and my hands were forced.
When he was the big blind (for half-his remaining chips), he pushed all-in with two-three-offsuit. A single caller's Ace-10 didn't stand up in the face of such overwhelmingly impressive face cards; A. magically doubled up, after spiking a two on the turn. My own turn came next. I was the big blind for just shy of half my stack. I pushed all-in with the highly dubious Ace-Jack-suited combo, knowing full-well that there was no way a respectable hand would hold-up on that table, especially in light of the three callers. I ended up with fuck-all, beaten by a pair of twos who was herself beaten by a pair of threes.
I wandered off to pay my tab while A. sought to survive on his pathetic short stack. We had been at the bar so many hours that my original bartender was nowhere to be found and, because her replacement had no idea where she kept the credit cards, neither was my Visa. He looked in the cash register, under the bar, amidst the napkins, beneath the false floor panel... no luck. Eventually, he tracked the barmaid down in the toilet, returned with a grin and opened the ice box. A stack of credit cards had been placed in a plastic cup and dropped within. I paid my tab, over-tipped and returned to find A. still nursing the same sad stack, as I feared I would.
Happily, the universe dealt him pocket sevens, obligating the all-in. The betting escalated and he picked up three callers, two of which were also all-in. The result was three separate pots on the table, the time-consuming creation of which proved unnecessary when the big-stack flopped an ace-high straight. Having watched one of the players consume now two entire pitchers of beer by his lonesome, I figured it was just a matter of time before he splashed the pot with something more than his chips. We took off, I was dropped off, and I trudged into my apartment feeling more than a bit off. Too much activity meant my weekend flew by with little to no recuperation of sleep or sanity. I was so busy between making the trivia game board for Führertag and cleaning up the apartment that I didn't even manage to read the comic books I picked up on Casual Saturday. And Sunday?
All I had to show for my Sunday was a leather jacket that reeked of cigarette smoke and a liver drowning in cherry vodka.