by john | Nov 11, 2009 | Uncategorized
Because sometimes it’s all just a slimy mess around here. And the last couple of weeks have been pretty hectic. Since I got back from West Virginia, I’ve spent a few days in Atlanta, presented a seminar at a church construction trade show, lost $15 in a home game, won a poetry contest, and become (along with Special K) a real live podcaster.
Yeah, Special K and I are launching the Gambling Tales Podcast, which we’re tagging as the best in lies and legends about gambling and gamblers. Our first episode should be up on iTunes any day now, and features the inimitable BadBlood telling one of the few bad beat stories that I’ll listen to without charging the teller $1.
Speaking of bad beats, there were certainly a few laid down at the WSOP final table, more than one by our young champion Joe Cada. I think the kid will be a fine ambassador for poker, and I like the fact that his backing arrangements were all out in the open. It does the game no good for it to be a big secret that people are backed in poker tournaments, it makes things look even more shady than they really are.
I watched a little of the coverage, and thought that ESPN did a better job this year than last year. At least we got to see more than two hands of heads-up play! I did love the way they captured Ivey’s nonchalant response to the 3-outer that Moon laid on him to send him to the rail. Ivey got his money in with the best of it, and that’s all you can do as a poker pro – get your money in ahead and deal with the cards as they fall.
by john | Oct 26, 2009 | Uncategorized
So after spending 18 hours over 2 1/2 days to book a loss of $85 playing Hold’em this weekend in wild and wonderful West Virginia, I decided to throw caution and the remainder of my bankroll to the winds and take a shot at the recently opened 2/5 PLO game.
This is not recommended practice for someone with less than $500 in his pocket. Just sayin’.
But I took a shot for a couple of reasons. 1) I really wanted to play some Omaha, and it was the only game running, and it was atypical that they spread PLO in that casino, as they typically only spread 2/5 NLO, with an uncapped buy-in and a ton of $1,000 preflop raises. Maybe someday.
2) I thought that even with my mediocre skill in PLO, that I quite possibly had an edge over most of the players. While my home game is a haven for bad play on my part on that of others, the lessons in PLO I’ve picked up at Lee Jones’ place and Bad Blood’s joint this year put me in a position to, in my mind, have an edge over the self-taught gamblers who were more prone to play uncoordinated hands.
So I sat down with $200, by several hundred bucks the shortest stack, and proceeded to fold almost every hand for the first orbit. I picked up AAKx single-suited in early position and raised pot after most of the orbit had gone past, and saw a three-way flop. I flopped an ace, bet the pot, and took it down uncontested. I then proceeded to see a LOT of aces over the rest of the evening. I played for about an hour and a half, losing only those pots where I limped in and folded the flop, and cashed out up $450 to go to dinner.
There was a seat open in the same game when I got back from dinner, and it was to the immediate left of the player voted most likely to raise pot preflop, so I took that gladly, and put another $200 on the table. I bounced up and down a little until I got into a big mess where I flopped middle set on an A-J-8 board and called a big bet on the river by the guy who limped with his single-suited aces. I don’t like limping with Aces in early position, which is what he did, but it worked out for him to the tune of half my stack. From there I dwindled to about $125 when I decided to hit nothing but the nuts for the next two hours. I flopped nut straights that held, top sets that improved, and finally busted most of the rest of the table by running disgustingly hot.
We were three-handed when I dropped the ultimate cooler hand on the guy to my right. I had the button and limped blind, because there wasn’t really anything I wouldn’t play three-handed. He potted from the big blind and I looked down to find Ah-Ad-5h-x. I repotted, the small blind got out of the way, and BB called. Flop comes down Ax-Qh-9h, and bells are ringing in my head. But that might have been because I was in the middle of a massage as well as flopping the nuts with a nut flush redraw. He checks, I pot, he calls, and I’m confused. He’s shown a lot of restraint, and usually folds when I fire the flop bet unless he has a monster. So I re-check my cards, and yup, I’m ahead.
The turn brings the 4h, and he checks again. I pot again, and he calls again. Now I’m totally confused, because I’m pretty sure I’ve got a lock on the hand (barring quads), and this isn’t a guy to call off his chips when he’s way behind. But the river doesn’t pair the board, so with no quads there I have the nuts, he bets, I move all in, he calls and I double up after he shows Q-Q-Kh-Jh for the second nuts all the way around. Serious cooler on his part, and he was a little pissed at himself for not giving me credit for the nuts.
Eventually I ran it all up to a little over a grand, then gave a little away on a hand I should have gotten away from. I filled up on the river on a board of 7-10-4-8-7 with sevens full of eights, but called a value bet from the straight flush who tabled 5s-6s. No way I should have called there with the 6th nuts, so I only played a couple more hands and racked up. Certainly my biggest casino win in a long time, and it went a long way to erasing what had been a horrible run so far this year.
If any of you have ever played in my home game, then you’ve met Nate. Nate was the crazy old guy that chased everything in the world, and stacked your ass when he got there. I’m still not sure if Nate was the worst poker player in the world, or the best, but he was as gracious in losing as he was in winning. Nate passed away last Thursday night after a sudden heart failure at the age of 81 or 82. He was one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met, on the felt or off, and he will be missed. Somewhere, there’s a card game where Nate just hit a two-outer and tilted Jesus, I can tell.
by john | Oct 1, 2009 | Fiction
September 22, 2009
Still counting the days by how often the bucket of Frosted Flakes and milk comes around. Today I saw how it gets in here at least. I had figured that there was some opening in the main door, like a doggy door, and I was right. I sat right next to the door and fell asleep there so I’d wake up when they fed me, if that was how they were doing it. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep before I heard the slot open in the door, and I woke up instantly, trying to get some glimpse of outside light to figure out what time it was. But I guess they blacked out the room outside of this one, too, because I couldn’t see shit. Just a bucket sliding out with cereal and a carton of milk and a plastic spoon in it.
So I don’t know where I am, I don’t really know what day it is, and I don’t know what they want from me. Whoever has me hasn’t spoken to me once in the four days I’ve been here. The longer I’m here the more freaked out that makes me, like they’re not talking to me to keep from getting attached or something. Like how you treat an animal that you brought in just to kill – you don’t want to get attached.
At least lunch was different today. They brought me McDonald’s. It was a little cold, so I guess I’m a little bit of a drive away from anything, but it was soooo good to taste a hamburger and fries! When I was done, I looked around and said “Thank You. I don’t know if you watch me, or how, or whatever, but if you can hear me, thanks. That was really good.” A week ago if somebody told me that I’d ever thank someone for giving me McD’s like it was a 5-star restaurant I’d have laughed in their face, but now it just felt so good to remember that there was a world out there, that the whole world didn’t end right outside my walls.
I started working out today. I figured I was bored enough, and if I ever got a chance to try and fight my was out of here, I’d better be ready. I was disgusted by the terrible shape I’m in, though. I could only do seven pushups and only 20 situps before I was done. I did a few jumping jacks to warm up, but my equipment choices are a little limited in my two-room shack. Maybe if I exercise every day, I can get strong enough to try and bust through a door, or a window, or something. There’s got to be some way out of here. I’ve got a life to get back to – parents, a girlfriend, school. I can’t die here. I’m not ready to die yet.
by john | Sep 30, 2009 | Fiction
After re-reading what I stuck up here yesterday, I decided to blow it up and reconstruct the whole concept. So I kept the first-person point of view, but decided to tell the story through diary entries. I have an idea that this could be kinda long, but we’ll see where it goes.
September 18, 2009
Although, to be honest, that’s a little bit of a guess. I don’t really know what day it is, jut like I’m not really sure it’s even day. All I know for sure is that I’m in trouble, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get out of it, and I’d like to leave some kind of record of what happened to me if somebody ever finds this notebook. Which I guess is doubtful, but it’s about the only thing I’ve got right now, so I’m gonna hang on to that if it’s okay with you.
I guess I should start at the beginning. Or at least close enough to give you an idea of who I am and what the hell I’m talking about, huh? My name is Jason Shorham, and I’ve been kidnapped. I don’t know by who and I don’t know where they’re keeping me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get out of here. By the best guess I can come up with I’ve been here for three days, and I haven’t seen anyone in that time. I’m being held in a cabin with one big room, one smaller bedroom, a kitchen, kinda, and a bathroom. It’s pretty comfortable, actually. I guess as jail cells go it’s really nice, except for the fact that all the windows and doors are boarded up so that I can’t even see whether it’s day or night and I can’t get out. Even the fireplace is blocked up with metal sheeting so I can’t even look up the chimney or try to climb out up it. Which with the way my luck has gone this week would be something I’d try, then get stuck up there and die. There’s a bed in the bedroom, and one lamp. There’s a couch in the big room, which I guess would be a living room, and a desk, which is where I found this notebook and some pens. Other than that, there’s a whole lot of nothing. The bathroom has a shower and toilet, and some towels and toilet paper, but nothing to read, which sucks. So while I guess it’s okay for prisons, there’s not much to recommend this place as a vacation spot.
I don’t know why I’m joking. I’m fucked. I’m probably about as fucked as fucked can get. I’m kidnapped, in the middle of nowhere I assume, in a log cabin with boarded up windows and doors, and I haven’t seen any food in three days. Yeah, I’ve been here three days I guess. Or at least I’ve gone to sleep three times and woken up three times, so I’m guessing it’s been three days. I don’t have any way to tell time, the fuckers that took me took my cell phone (of course) and like everybody else nowadays I don’t wear a watch. Why would I? I never go anywhere without my cell phone and usually my laptop, too. But I didn’t dress for kidnapping when I left home this morning. Or Saturday morning, however long ago that was. Fuck this, this is stupid. Nobody’s ever gonna read this shit, and if they do it’ll be because I’m dead anyway, so what do I care?
September 21, 2009
Me again. But then again, who else would it be? It’s not like there’s anybody else here. I figured I might as well write this shit down. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. My social calendar, as they say, is more than usually empty of late. Like I said before I’m not really sure of the day, or if it is day. I can’t manage to beat on the board on the windows enough to get any light through them, so I sleep when I’m tired and get up when I feel like it. Perfect life, right? Yeah, except for that whole locked in a cabin where you have no fucking idea what’s going on part. At least there’s food. I didn’t mention that my captors do feed me, so it looks like there’s a plan to keep me a live for a little while, anyway. I wake up, and there’s food in a bucket in the middle of the floor. Nothing specific, just some bread, some ham or deli meat, crap like that. Nothing to drink but water out of the bathroom sink, and I only have one cup to drink out of. It’s plastic. I guess they think if I had too much glass around I’d try to use it as a weapon, or maybe off myself. But they left me the lamp in the bedroom, with a regular lightbulb, so I don’t know what that’s about. So I started tracking my days by how many times I get fed. I figure when they send down cereal and those little paper cartons of milk, it’s breakfast. When they send down real food later, it’s lunch. There’s only been two meals a day so far, so I’m counting breakfasts to figure out what day it is. But who knows? They could be totally fucking with me and giving me a breakfast every three hours and maybe I’ve only been here for like two days. But that doesn’t make any sense. I know it’s been most of a week at least just by how much my beard’s grown. And how gross my clothes are starting to feel. If you’ve never worn the same underwear every day for a week, then just trust me, it’s not the best thing in the world. I rinsed out all my clothes in the bathroom sink, but then I was just naked and cold and when I put everything back on it didn’t really feel clean anyway, so I just decided fuck it. I’ll try and keep up this journal just to have something to do. I’m sure at some point whoever took me will figure out they aren’t getting any money and let me loose.
by john | Sep 29, 2009 | Fiction
A blend of an odd dream I had, an audiobook I’m listening to and a movie that Suzy made me watch part of inspired the beginnings of this story. It’s pretty dark. Lemme know what you think.
I never saw the face of the man that destroyed my childhood and made my life into something entirely unexpected until he was lying dead at my feet in the middle of the South Carolina woods with a pool of blood spreading out from the back of his head. Up until I leaned over, and with fear-palsied fingers pulled the ski mask and sunglasses off his face, I had no idea what the man who had controlled my every moment for six months looked like. Aside from the unfamiliarity of the face, the sheer blandness of his features took me aback.
This man, who had taken me prisoner, made me into something I never imagined I could be, and had now ultimately died at my hands, looked like nothing. Not even the pudgy innocuousness of a Gacy or the rakish handsomeness of a Bundy. He looked like nothing. Completely normal. Medium blue-grey eyes, mousy brown hair, slightly out of date chin beard. Nothing to distinguish him from thousands of other suburban soccer dads out there in the wide world. Nothing to make anyone think that he might be evil personified.
I stood there with a tree branch in my numb fingers for a while, I don’t really know how long, until finally I threw the branch down next to his body, which was starting to ooze other fluids than blood as the bowels and bladder released with death, and I walked out of the woods and tried to find my way back to something like daylight.
