After my minor morning tournament success, I decided to play in the late night tournament, the 11 PM. Those can be a little more fun since the tourists have been boozing it up all day.
My play was fairly strong and solid for the 1st part of the tournament—up to the initial break. I was aggressive and had only one show down. I think I chipped up to about 10,000 right before break. One hand really helped me and demonstrates really how clueless some players are.
I looked down at A,10 off suit and so raise to 400 when blinds are 50/100. A serious raise as I was in middle/late position. The button calls and everyone else folds. I had watched the button play and was not terribly impressed. Although, I thought that I would like to have sex with her if circumstances conspired to put us together. She was maybe 40ish; and had that lived-in look that many middle-age women have. One’s mind wanders sometimes.
The flop is 8c,kd,8s. I am first to act and want to stay aggressive. I hope this flop missed her, but I am certain she’s playing paint. She had been playing that way generally; she was a calling station. So I fire a bet; 1,000,-two black chips. Call. I am certain she caught a piece of this flop now. I think she has big slick, but I don’t know. But I am sure she caught some of the flop, however and because she simply called, I think she has a King. Next card is Qh so the board reads 8c,Kd,8s,Qh. Hmmm. I check, and she checks behind me. The last card is a miracle Jack. Broadway. Lucky. I bet 2,000. She calls, and I take the robust pot.
What did she have? She had K.Q. I was amazed she did not come over the top. She flopped top pair and only called. I could see her not coming over the top on the flop. She had two pair: Ks and 8s. Since I raised perhaps she put me on A,K, like I thought she might have. But after the turn? She had top two-K,Q, and she checked? This is a terrible play by her.
Let’s consider the situation. If I had flopped a strong, monstrous had like, say, a full house, maybe I raised with K,8—but not likely, or maybe I had A,8 and flopped a set, but raising with A,8 is unusual, or maybe I raised with pocket 8s, for the unbeatable quads, the call still makes little sense.
For starters, if those situations were true, there is no way I am betting on the flop, at least most of the time. If I have that dominating of a hand, with possible exception of A,8 or rag 8, I am not really concerned about anything and want to extract as many chips from her as I can by allowing her to “catch up,” as it were. So my bet on the flop communicates quite a bit. It says, in the very least, “something makes little sense here,” for some of the reasons I just pointed out. So her play should have been to re-raise me to at least 3000. That’s a difficult bet with a scary board, but seriously, what could I have had? Pocket A,A were the only thing to be realistically afraid of, and if one thinks a player has A,As, and one calls to see what the flop brings, then after said flop provides nothing, the obvious choice, the only choice is fold. The only other reasonable assessment by her was that I had A.K. So the check on the flop is maybe okay.
It is easy to analyze after the fact, but this seems clear, especially after the turn that she needed to bet or re-raise any bet. After the turn, she said top pair and checks? No way. She has to realize that. A poor play that I liked because she chipped me up; and she was sexy. Things don’t last forever, however.
Those players in the tournaments I play in abound. They often chip me up, unless they get lucky, which happens enough. Despite my strong play, alas no success here. At least no cash, but I did go deep in the tournament. Sometimes going deep is a win, a moral victory, which means “you’re a loser.”
Although this hand did not bust me out of the tournament, (I hung on far a long time after) it was the hand that sealed my fate. A little after the first break, the table I was on got broken up. I was sent to another table, right next to this fairly hot chick. She had on a tank top, revealing her ample and lusty breasts. Plus she was friendly—from Texas. She smiled a lot, and I immediately thought it would be great to sex her. She was pretty, friendly and a little flirty. I am positive every dude at that table had similar thoughts.
I saw her in the earlier tournament and knew she had a husband—good looking guy. Perhaps they were here for a swinger’s convention, I thought. Maybe they get off on having a guy fuck her as the husband watches. The trick was, how best to find this out without appearing to look like a complete perverted degenerate. I did not find out. I am still not sure how to broach that subject. The thing was, I put a brutal beat on her later in the tournament, which is like getting fucked, but without the fluids or mutual fun.
Anyway, I am in the small blind, next to a huge chip stack. Fucking shitting position to be in. I do have a nice chip stack, 9,000 or so. Strong for this point in the tournament. Everyone folds except the button, the hot chick in town for the swinger’s convention. I look down at Frosty The Snowman—pocket 8s.
The blinds are 200/400. I make it 1,200 to go. There is really one way to play middle pair. Be aggressive or hope to flop a set and play passive. I was aggressive, figuring the big blind would fold. The big blind calls, and hottie from Texas dumps her hand, complaining about the raise, but not in an irritating way. I thought it cute. Anyway, I am concerned about the big blind. I had not been able to see him play, but he did have a stack. He could be a guy who calls everything and has gotten lucky; or he could have a hand. Not good. I am praying for an 8. But God does not listen to atheists, so the flop comes Js,9c,Jh. Fuck, a big miss. However, I want to be aggressive, (I see no other way to win this pot) so I fire a 2,000 bet, hoping the jacks missed him and he would respect my pre-flop raise. He smooth calls. Fuck, fuck, I am fuct, I think. The next card is a blank, like a 6 or something. I check; he checks behind me. Hmmm. The next card does not help me and I check. He bets 4,000. In this hand I’ve lost 3,200, a third of my fucking stack. (This happens all too often to me.) I debate for awhile about this and almost talk myself into the call. Perhaps, he’s totally full of shit and is using the big stack to push me around. I even count out the call to see what I would have left. Not much at all. So I fold. Turns out that was the correct play. He told me later on break that he had a full house. I guess, he could have been lying, but he was flirting with the Hottie, discussing a bad beat he had given to her; he fucked her too, so I think it was a moment of truth.
Anyway, that hurt and the next hand, the table is broken up. I am put across the table from Macy and thus can intermittently look at her tits. This is a much better table. The Big Stack, who eventually knocks me out, is at the table too. Turns out, he played well. Not in very many pots, but played aggressive when in. Oh well.
So I am getting kind of short stacked after being blinded down a couple of times without a hand. I am the cutoff and need to make something happen. The blinds are at the doorstep, for fuck’s sake. I look down at A,J off suit, so all-in. Fold, fold and then Macy looks at her hand and starts to complain about the all-in, and so on. She does so in a flirty, non-threatening way. She calls my all-in and the table folds. She turns over Queens after I show my small penis of a hand. She has me dominated, but seems resigned to a brutally fucking by pointing our how her queens had lost to Big Stack’s ducks earlier in the evening. It sort of turned me on.
At this point she is 70% to win and not be metaphorically fisted by me. Come on Ace. The flop is ugly. The flop is 10,2,9. Now she is 84% to win. Shit! the turn is a 7 and she is still 84% to win. Then I call out, 8, come on 8. And the river is an 8. She got total fucked by me, which is what I wanted all along, but not exactly in this way, you understand. A straight to the jack. Hey maybe, I can get back into the tournament here. However, even with the double up I am only at 9,000. Not enough with 2,000/1,000 blinds.
Macy is polite about the bad beat and I apologize for it, but I am not even close to being sorry about this. She smiles and goes to the rail to watch the table. Two hands later, my demise comes hastily. I have Jacks and push all in. There are two callers, so I am sure I am fucked. Yep, I am up against 88s and AAs. Bad luck. AAs win. As I walk to the rail, however, Macy rubs me on the back and says “it’s alright,” or something like that, and I feel my dick twitch. It’s nice to be rubbed by a new female. Hmmm, perhaps I should figure out how to broach the swinger’s thing. In the end, I bummed a smoke and lost more money playing blackjack. Have I ever pointed out how fucking stupid I am? Blackjack is a loser, for losers. What was I doing?
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Public Restroom Gift
It is easy to determine the quality of the food you eat by the manner in which it leaves your body. You know what I mean.
I had to drive to Marquette, MI recently, and it’s a long drive—7 plus hours solo. I wanted to make good time so I left early. One of my many foibles includes the delicious taste of breakfast sandwiches from fast food joints. I love them despite fully understanding how terrible they are for my health. Nevertheless, on this morning I order a combo sausage egg croissant—actually two of them. I am a growing boy after all. The order also included, per my choice, a large cup of coffee.
For those you do not drink coffee, let me point out something. Nothing is a better expectorant for one’s bowels than coffee. Dulcolax ain’t got shit on coffee. It seems to stimulate, loosen and hasten all at once.
So after I eat my glorious American morning breakfast, speeding down, or rather up I-75, I feel as though I can evacuate my bowels with prejudice, but cling to some notion of “making good time” and thus leave the fetid stew a brew in my bowels. However, being that I am seated, it seems that the urge is blunted, if ever so slightly. No way could I be walking around with the steaming stew.
Well, I drive for a good three hours and need to stop for gas. The urge has sort of settled a bit by this time. I would not say I was comfortable, but at some point it became manageable. I can deal with it, as the urge had not increased in any significant way.
But once I pulled into the local gas station and before I even got out of the car, my bowels dispatched a warning shot down my ass cheeks. “Oh fuck,” I thought as I strained every available ass muscle to pinch off the rest of the lava flow. I heard my bowels gurgle.
How did my bowels know that I was close to a toilet? I was fine for hours, and then once I stop, wham, the gathering masses make their presence felt. And felt in a burning way. It’s amazing.
So I walk into the station to relive myself and find the bathroom being cleaned. “Christ almighty,” I think. Still straining my ass cheeks, I walk out and begin pumping the gas. I hear gurgling noises. I am being warned.
I walk back in and the lady cleaning informs me that the women’s bathroom is open and that I should use it.
So I quickly rush into the nearest stall and let the deluge begin. It was a torrent of several burning steams. More mushy than solid, like milky oatmeal. Only this oatmeal burned as it left. And the smell. Christ the smell. Vile, simply vile.
Anyway, I am oddly feeling good despite my asshole feeling like lava had spewed from it, when the bathroom door opens. The crack between the bathroom door and the wall was wide enough to get a good look. I see a fat, meaty white calf through the crack. The foot was jammed into a shoe that looked like it was straining to stay together. The shoe laces were missing and the tongue was distended out like panting dog. Before she goes further, the attendant informs her that I am in the bathroom. Out goes the gross calf.
So I am still sitting in my own stench, forcing the last stubborn stew from my body, when the fat, milky, gross calf comes back in.
“Are you still in here?”
“Did you see me leave?” I am not sure else I am supposed to say. I wonder if her bowels were threatening her, too.
Eventually, I get up to leave the stench, and turn around to flush. And there I see what came from me. Not a pleasant sight, to be sure. Caked onto the bowl, just above the water line, is a nice nasty splotch of shit, like brown mashed potatoes—homemade, given the impressive lumps. It was like the shit exploded from me and went everywhere. Not down, but out, to the right and left and everywhere in between. The equivalent of G-force power. Nasty.
The toilet was more of the residential type as opposed to those industrial ones that seem to able to suck anything down. No this one was nice and sedate. I flushed and the gentle, creek stream of water flowed leisurely down over the shitty lump barely taking anything with it. The shitty lump was too strong for the flow. I flushed again. Stubborn was the lumpy shit, and it did not move.
There was no way I was washing the shitty lump from the bowl—that was the cleaning lady’s job. Besides, it’s always nice to leave presents.
I left and smiled at the vile old fat lady, who was languishing outside the door. I can only imagine her reaction as she looked at what I left her. First the smell, like whiffing ammonia and having to violently jerk your head away from it, then the awesome, shitty lump. I giggled all the way to the bridge thinking about it.
I had to drive to Marquette, MI recently, and it’s a long drive—7 plus hours solo. I wanted to make good time so I left early. One of my many foibles includes the delicious taste of breakfast sandwiches from fast food joints. I love them despite fully understanding how terrible they are for my health. Nevertheless, on this morning I order a combo sausage egg croissant—actually two of them. I am a growing boy after all. The order also included, per my choice, a large cup of coffee.
For those you do not drink coffee, let me point out something. Nothing is a better expectorant for one’s bowels than coffee. Dulcolax ain’t got shit on coffee. It seems to stimulate, loosen and hasten all at once.
So after I eat my glorious American morning breakfast, speeding down, or rather up I-75, I feel as though I can evacuate my bowels with prejudice, but cling to some notion of “making good time” and thus leave the fetid stew a brew in my bowels. However, being that I am seated, it seems that the urge is blunted, if ever so slightly. No way could I be walking around with the steaming stew.
Well, I drive for a good three hours and need to stop for gas. The urge has sort of settled a bit by this time. I would not say I was comfortable, but at some point it became manageable. I can deal with it, as the urge had not increased in any significant way.
But once I pulled into the local gas station and before I even got out of the car, my bowels dispatched a warning shot down my ass cheeks. “Oh fuck,” I thought as I strained every available ass muscle to pinch off the rest of the lava flow. I heard my bowels gurgle.
How did my bowels know that I was close to a toilet? I was fine for hours, and then once I stop, wham, the gathering masses make their presence felt. And felt in a burning way. It’s amazing.
So I walk into the station to relive myself and find the bathroom being cleaned. “Christ almighty,” I think. Still straining my ass cheeks, I walk out and begin pumping the gas. I hear gurgling noises. I am being warned.
I walk back in and the lady cleaning informs me that the women’s bathroom is open and that I should use it.
So I quickly rush into the nearest stall and let the deluge begin. It was a torrent of several burning steams. More mushy than solid, like milky oatmeal. Only this oatmeal burned as it left. And the smell. Christ the smell. Vile, simply vile.
Anyway, I am oddly feeling good despite my asshole feeling like lava had spewed from it, when the bathroom door opens. The crack between the bathroom door and the wall was wide enough to get a good look. I see a fat, meaty white calf through the crack. The foot was jammed into a shoe that looked like it was straining to stay together. The shoe laces were missing and the tongue was distended out like panting dog. Before she goes further, the attendant informs her that I am in the bathroom. Out goes the gross calf.
So I am still sitting in my own stench, forcing the last stubborn stew from my body, when the fat, milky, gross calf comes back in.
“Are you still in here?”
“Did you see me leave?” I am not sure else I am supposed to say. I wonder if her bowels were threatening her, too.
Eventually, I get up to leave the stench, and turn around to flush. And there I see what came from me. Not a pleasant sight, to be sure. Caked onto the bowl, just above the water line, is a nice nasty splotch of shit, like brown mashed potatoes—homemade, given the impressive lumps. It was like the shit exploded from me and went everywhere. Not down, but out, to the right and left and everywhere in between. The equivalent of G-force power. Nasty.
The toilet was more of the residential type as opposed to those industrial ones that seem to able to suck anything down. No this one was nice and sedate. I flushed and the gentle, creek stream of water flowed leisurely down over the shitty lump barely taking anything with it. The shitty lump was too strong for the flow. I flushed again. Stubborn was the lumpy shit, and it did not move.
There was no way I was washing the shitty lump from the bowl—that was the cleaning lady’s job. Besides, it’s always nice to leave presents.
I left and smiled at the vile old fat lady, who was languishing outside the door. I can only imagine her reaction as she looked at what I left her. First the smell, like whiffing ammonia and having to violently jerk your head away from it, then the awesome, shitty lump. I giggled all the way to the bridge thinking about it.
Report From Feltlines--Stratosphere
Stratosphere
Buy-In 60
30ish players
4-way chop 319
So I have wanted to explore some of the other tournaments around Vegas, but, of course, some basic criteria must be satisfied from me to even consider. I had been looking at the Stratosphere tourneys for a while and made the decision last Sunday.
I did some initial research and knew that the starting chip stack was 5,000 for $60—acceptable. They did have an ante, but that forced bet happened well into the tournament, so I was not terribly irritated by it.
Generally, I played real well and picked off a few pots with marginal hands. In my assessment, taking down pots, at least a few, with marginal hands is key to getting to the money. You can’t do it often, sooner or later some plays back at you, but it works intermittently. I usually look when the blind increases are coming and take a stab in late position if the pot has not been significantly raised. And it worked a few times.
Key Hands
I assessed the play of seat 10—let’s call him Superfly. I was in a hand, big one, later and the information I collected helped me out. He was cream colored with cool shades and a loose afro--Superfly. He was in a hand with the only other player at the table that I considered a threat. Superfly raised and the player in the big blind called. The flop: 10,8,9.
A fairly dangerous flop; big blind checks and so does Superfly. The next card is a 6—making any seven for the straight. Of course, the straight could have been realized from the flop. At any rate, the big blind bets, Superfly raises, and the big blind goes all-in. Superfly calls and both turn over their hands. The big blind hand A,7 and Superfly had 8,8. So Superfly allowed the big blind to catch for free. Superfly flopped trips and checked. I think this is a terrible play. Now Superfly is way behind as a result. The river comes a 9—Superfly rivers a 9. Amazingly lucky. The big blind was 70% to win after the turn. But Superfly's spectacularly poor play was not penalized--it was rewarded. He rivered a full house.
Even if Superfly was concerned about the straight on the flop, he still needs to bet. He needs to bet the size of the pot, at least. The bet probably would have told him where he was in the hand. If he got re-raised, then he needs to worry; if just a call, he can assume the big blind is drawing, generally. Trickier players would perhaps smooth call to extract more chips if they flopped the nuts outright. But even if one flops the straight, there is still much to worry about—namely a better straight coming. Still, though, Superfly must bet there.
After Superfly lucked out, I glanced at the German woman sitting next to me, and she gave me a furrowed brow look. “I did not get that either,” I said to her. She was a dealer in Germany and played a straightforward game. I outplayed her several times in the tournament. But this information was helpful.
Fast forward to a few hands later and boom, I get A, Q suited in late position. I raise and Superfly from the blind calls. Hmmm, with what is he calling, I wonder.
Flop is K,10, 5; so I miss, but still have a draw. He bets, 800 and I call hoping for a jack. I think he has Big Slick, but not sure. Turn is an Ace; he bets like 900 or something, I immediately come over the top, all-in, putting the pressure to Superfly, and he eventually folds. He thought about it; he must have caught a little piece or was on a draw. It didn’t matter; he was not a solid player and was lucky to still be playing. When the Ace came, I had top pair and still had a straight working, so I thought it was a great opportunity to put on the pressure. If he calls, and I am behind, I still have a chance—a slim one, perhaps.
Although the play worked, in retrospect, the quick all-in by me was an indication of the strength, or lack thereof, of my hand. Quick bets usually indicate weakness, and so it did here. A little weakness, not pussy weakness, but still I need to be aware of this. Superfly did not reveal his hand, so I have no idea what he had. Didn’t matter though, I outplayed him.
Later in the tournament, I still continued to pick off several blinds from the small and big blinds as well as from the button. If I was on the button, in one of the blinds and no raises were in front of me, I raised or bet the flop every time. This chipped me up, a lot. It helped me when I got unlucky in a hand, since I still had chips.
Guy Lafleur
I was next to this player, let’s call him Guy Lafleur, because he was a hockey player from Quebec. He was in the minor leagues. At any rate, he had pushed all-in a few times and was on tilt. So he goes all-in, and I look down at A,Q. Given his loose play, I quickly called. Guy had K,9. I am of course a favorite here, but he gets lucky, per usual—what a bunch of shit—that hurt and left me a little short, but not too bad because of my earlier blind stealing. He hits a 9, a fucking 9.
Sweet Payback; or Fuck Canada and Spain
Eventually, the blinds and antes shrink me into a small stack approach. I went dead for a spell. So, I get A,J and shove all-in. Everyone folds. Next I get A,Kd and shove all-in. Two times in a row and everyone folds. Now I have some chips. Skip one hand, and I get A,A. Normally, I bet simply raise with this hand, but because I had to moving all-in, I assume someone is going to look me up, so I push all-in. Guy immediately calls with his French/Spanish accent. “I call.”
He turns over Big Slick. I have dominating hand, over 90% to win. This is the same fucker who should have been long gone by me. A,Q against K,9 and he wins—bullshit. So the flop comes J,10, 8. Guy has a goddamn straight draw. For once, the odds held up and I double up. So owed me, and I told him that. This double up allowed me to fuck the Tight German.
The Tight German: I was in two hands with the German and completely dominated her. I would have liked to do that sexually with her, but no luck. She was tall, skinny with juicy tits. Well, I don’t mean lactating, just ample, fresh, bouncy, fun, ripe. You get the idea.
She was an straight A,B,C player. So late in the tournament, she raises. I am in the big blind and look at 8,8s. Most of the time, this is a raise, but the raise from the Tight German slows me down; I simply call. I hope to spike a set and take all her chips. I really think she has a big pair. The flop is nothing: 4,5,9 or something like that. I am out of position and can’t bet into her raise, so I check. She checks behind me—ah ha. She’s weak—big slick—and missed. The next card is a 10, and I bet. She folds and turns over her big slick. Had she bet after the flop when I just checked, she likely would have take down the pot right there. Probably.
Same type of thing happened again with us. I had a middle pair—6,6 this time-and called her raise. The flop brings a 6 for me. I hit a set, but because the board had straight and flush implications, I couldn’t afford to slow play, so I bet. She folds.
The Tight German gets knocked out along with another player. She had 10,10s in the blind and was against A,J and A, nothing, 6 or something. Of course, one of the two aces left comes, and two are gone. Now four are left and the payouts are to three. Chop, should I suggest a chop?
I am in good chip standing, 2nd on the table, and Guy is seriously low. I almost decided against asking. But only three places, and although I was sitting okay, I knew that all-ins by the short stacks was coming and at that point, it is almost luck. No real poker playing going on. Third place was 126, 2nd 250, 1st was 774. A four-way chop was 319. So I agreed, but think that I should have waited until Guy went out, then asked for the chop. I just like to collect money when I can. With my stellar luck, I would bust out in 4th place, which has happened to me several times—I mean 5-6 times that I can remember. So 319 sounded good, and the tournament was over.
Buy-In 60
30ish players
4-way chop 319
So I have wanted to explore some of the other tournaments around Vegas, but, of course, some basic criteria must be satisfied from me to even consider. I had been looking at the Stratosphere tourneys for a while and made the decision last Sunday.
I did some initial research and knew that the starting chip stack was 5,000 for $60—acceptable. They did have an ante, but that forced bet happened well into the tournament, so I was not terribly irritated by it.
Generally, I played real well and picked off a few pots with marginal hands. In my assessment, taking down pots, at least a few, with marginal hands is key to getting to the money. You can’t do it often, sooner or later some plays back at you, but it works intermittently. I usually look when the blind increases are coming and take a stab in late position if the pot has not been significantly raised. And it worked a few times.
Key Hands
I assessed the play of seat 10—let’s call him Superfly. I was in a hand, big one, later and the information I collected helped me out. He was cream colored with cool shades and a loose afro--Superfly. He was in a hand with the only other player at the table that I considered a threat. Superfly raised and the player in the big blind called. The flop: 10,8,9.
A fairly dangerous flop; big blind checks and so does Superfly. The next card is a 6—making any seven for the straight. Of course, the straight could have been realized from the flop. At any rate, the big blind bets, Superfly raises, and the big blind goes all-in. Superfly calls and both turn over their hands. The big blind hand A,7 and Superfly had 8,8. So Superfly allowed the big blind to catch for free. Superfly flopped trips and checked. I think this is a terrible play. Now Superfly is way behind as a result. The river comes a 9—Superfly rivers a 9. Amazingly lucky. The big blind was 70% to win after the turn. But Superfly's spectacularly poor play was not penalized--it was rewarded. He rivered a full house.
Even if Superfly was concerned about the straight on the flop, he still needs to bet. He needs to bet the size of the pot, at least. The bet probably would have told him where he was in the hand. If he got re-raised, then he needs to worry; if just a call, he can assume the big blind is drawing, generally. Trickier players would perhaps smooth call to extract more chips if they flopped the nuts outright. But even if one flops the straight, there is still much to worry about—namely a better straight coming. Still, though, Superfly must bet there.
After Superfly lucked out, I glanced at the German woman sitting next to me, and she gave me a furrowed brow look. “I did not get that either,” I said to her. She was a dealer in Germany and played a straightforward game. I outplayed her several times in the tournament. But this information was helpful.
Fast forward to a few hands later and boom, I get A, Q suited in late position. I raise and Superfly from the blind calls. Hmmm, with what is he calling, I wonder.
Flop is K,10, 5; so I miss, but still have a draw. He bets, 800 and I call hoping for a jack. I think he has Big Slick, but not sure. Turn is an Ace; he bets like 900 or something, I immediately come over the top, all-in, putting the pressure to Superfly, and he eventually folds. He thought about it; he must have caught a little piece or was on a draw. It didn’t matter; he was not a solid player and was lucky to still be playing. When the Ace came, I had top pair and still had a straight working, so I thought it was a great opportunity to put on the pressure. If he calls, and I am behind, I still have a chance—a slim one, perhaps.
Although the play worked, in retrospect, the quick all-in by me was an indication of the strength, or lack thereof, of my hand. Quick bets usually indicate weakness, and so it did here. A little weakness, not pussy weakness, but still I need to be aware of this. Superfly did not reveal his hand, so I have no idea what he had. Didn’t matter though, I outplayed him.
Later in the tournament, I still continued to pick off several blinds from the small and big blinds as well as from the button. If I was on the button, in one of the blinds and no raises were in front of me, I raised or bet the flop every time. This chipped me up, a lot. It helped me when I got unlucky in a hand, since I still had chips.
Guy Lafleur
I was next to this player, let’s call him Guy Lafleur, because he was a hockey player from Quebec. He was in the minor leagues. At any rate, he had pushed all-in a few times and was on tilt. So he goes all-in, and I look down at A,Q. Given his loose play, I quickly called. Guy had K,9. I am of course a favorite here, but he gets lucky, per usual—what a bunch of shit—that hurt and left me a little short, but not too bad because of my earlier blind stealing. He hits a 9, a fucking 9.
Sweet Payback; or Fuck Canada and Spain
Eventually, the blinds and antes shrink me into a small stack approach. I went dead for a spell. So, I get A,J and shove all-in. Everyone folds. Next I get A,Kd and shove all-in. Two times in a row and everyone folds. Now I have some chips. Skip one hand, and I get A,A. Normally, I bet simply raise with this hand, but because I had to moving all-in, I assume someone is going to look me up, so I push all-in. Guy immediately calls with his French/Spanish accent. “I call.”
He turns over Big Slick. I have dominating hand, over 90% to win. This is the same fucker who should have been long gone by me. A,Q against K,9 and he wins—bullshit. So the flop comes J,10, 8. Guy has a goddamn straight draw. For once, the odds held up and I double up. So owed me, and I told him that. This double up allowed me to fuck the Tight German.
The Tight German: I was in two hands with the German and completely dominated her. I would have liked to do that sexually with her, but no luck. She was tall, skinny with juicy tits. Well, I don’t mean lactating, just ample, fresh, bouncy, fun, ripe. You get the idea.
She was an straight A,B,C player. So late in the tournament, she raises. I am in the big blind and look at 8,8s. Most of the time, this is a raise, but the raise from the Tight German slows me down; I simply call. I hope to spike a set and take all her chips. I really think she has a big pair. The flop is nothing: 4,5,9 or something like that. I am out of position and can’t bet into her raise, so I check. She checks behind me—ah ha. She’s weak—big slick—and missed. The next card is a 10, and I bet. She folds and turns over her big slick. Had she bet after the flop when I just checked, she likely would have take down the pot right there. Probably.
Same type of thing happened again with us. I had a middle pair—6,6 this time-and called her raise. The flop brings a 6 for me. I hit a set, but because the board had straight and flush implications, I couldn’t afford to slow play, so I bet. She folds.
The Tight German gets knocked out along with another player. She had 10,10s in the blind and was against A,J and A, nothing, 6 or something. Of course, one of the two aces left comes, and two are gone. Now four are left and the payouts are to three. Chop, should I suggest a chop?
I am in good chip standing, 2nd on the table, and Guy is seriously low. I almost decided against asking. But only three places, and although I was sitting okay, I knew that all-ins by the short stacks was coming and at that point, it is almost luck. No real poker playing going on. Third place was 126, 2nd 250, 1st was 774. A four-way chop was 319. So I agreed, but think that I should have waited until Guy went out, then asked for the chop. I just like to collect money when I can. With my stellar luck, I would bust out in 4th place, which has happened to me several times—I mean 5-6 times that I can remember. So 319 sounded good, and the tournament was over.
Report From Feltlines-Sahara Tourney
Sahra 11 am tournament
52 Players.
5th Place, but I still got fucking screwed.
It’s been a while since my last report. I have cashed in 2 out 3 of the tournaments that I have not yet to report. And my cashing streak over the last six tournaments, 4/6 or 67%. Not too bad. Any at this early morning tournament, I played a fairly ABC game, and it got me to the money. However, I still think that I need to mix it up a lot more to be really successful. I did steal a pot early in the tournament, but slowed down after pocket 3,3s almost killed me. I was forced to play kind of short stack as a result of my crazy pocket pair play.
Early in the tournament and position, I look down at 3,3s and fire off a 400 raise. Blinds were 50/100, I think. Three callers behind me call the 400 raise, and that really sucks my dick, I think. The flop was terrible for me, just terrible. A,K,10—two were suited, if I remember correctly. I am first to act, and I should have checked and given up to any raise, but I thought I’d get cute. Thought, I’d mix it up. So I fire off a bet of 1,200 and got two callers. Fuck, I think. How fucking stupid was this play? Real stupid. One of those players hit the flop, no question, but I thought that maybe with the straight out on the board, I might be able to scare them out of the pot, all the callers. But now I have two behind me and I just donkeyed off 1,200. Man that was stupid because there is no way I can call any bets. The turn was a Q, which was an even better card to sink my stupid, piece-of-shit-threes. So I checked with my testicles shrinking under the stupidity of my play and sure enough, a bet came and I checked out. However, despite this donkey play, I did recover and made it to the money.
So now I was short stacked and playing that way. In fact, I think that is the strongest part of my game now-playing short stacked. I was in the small blind, and I looked down at pocket 7,7. As you know from my earlier posts, I play middle pair 90% of the time one way. “All-in, bitch,” I think as I push all my chips forward. The big folds and the button hems-and-haws but eventually calls. So I flip over my sevens, and he turns over J,10. What? Jack fucking ten! What an idiot. Honestly that was in my opinion, a horrible call, even though he was roughly a coin flip. He had no way of knowing and at best, as was the case here, he was a coin flop--at worst a much bigger dog. He did not have a made hand. My hand did hold up and the Mexican went on tilt, moving all-in the next several hands—he was eventually picked off, like apples from a tree.
The Tattooed Swede: There was a Swede at the table with a tattoo that ran the length of his right arm. He was wearing a tank top with a stylish leather vest over it. I assumed that he was a fisting gay sadomasochist, expect he had a roomy girl chat with him about marital-esque things: money, or the room key. His tattoo was one of those tribal designs that resembled meandering lines coming to a gradual point. Fucking stupid tattoos, if you ask me. To what tribe does this guy belong—the Vikings. I knew he was from Sweden because someone asked him. He looked like a Swede, too. Thin, pointy nose, pale skin, etc.
This guy was so lucky. However, he failed to raise pocket pairs and made bad calls all night. For example, he did not raise QQ and allowed several players into the pot. The board had flush and straight possibilities, but no one in the hand hit. He simply called down to the river. He did not pre-flop raise. Another time he flopped Broadway and checked all the way down, even though flush possibilities were present.
The Tattooed Swede had a huge stack initially. But he eventually busted out. He made several terrible calls, and it eventually caught up with him. He did, however, make it far and doubled up several times. He was like fucking herpes or something. Would not go the fuck away.
Chipping up but not for Less: At specific levels, the house chips up the chip stacks. For example, they will remove the 25/green chips; next the 100/white chips and sp on. The problem is that getting chipped up makes your stack seem small, like one’s pool chilled penis. Anyway, I thought it a good idea to count my stack and not panic—still the same amount. It seems as though when I have less chips, because there are not as many physical chips—not as many to shuffle, etc, that this causes me to push in with marginal hands when I really did not need to. It causes me to play with a short stack mentality unnecessarily. This awareness helped keep me in the tournament, even though I wanted to push for all my chips a few times, but really did not need to.
A Key hand late helped me to the money—it pushed me there. I am the small blind, and I have K/3. A shit hand really but because I am already committed, I call the big blind and there are three to the pot. If there are no raisers, I always complete the big blind bet from the small blind—always no matter what I have.
It was late in the tournament with, say, 12/13 people left. Flop is K,4,5-last two hearts, so I look down to my to pair of Kinks, nothing 3 and push all-in. I am first to act, so I want to push all draws out and hope that someone else does not have a better king—a little risky. The big blind folds, but the long hair, dirty/crooked teeth, from, I assume, the Dirty South, debates. He is the kind of guy that develops pools of small bubbly salvia at the corners of his him—Yum. He calls with A,6 hearts. I wish I could remember exactly what the amount was, but he had more chips. I think it might have been 12,000 or something. So a nice bet, and it really crippled him.
After the flop, I am a coin flip, and I think “heads, let it come heads.” He has many outs—all the hearts, plus any Ace-12 outs. I think it was the right call for him to make at that time. I won the coin flip and doubled up. Sometimes, you just can’t get unlucky. I was good at that until we got to the final table.
The Money By Attrition: So finally I made it to the final table and counted my chips -30,000. Not bad. Enough to play with here. However, I went completely card dead and could not do much. And at this point, antes are being collected. So a few circuits around the table and I am getting a little short. I can’t take chances because there is always all-in action pre-flop or on the flop. Everyone is pushing. I outlast a few players and eventually get to the money. Attrition. The money by attrition.
So eventually, I get to the point that I have to push since my chip stack was too small. I was in the money, but really wanted to move up. First place was 1,000 bucks. For a $40 tournament, that’s pretty good with only 52 players and second was 700. But, alas, no fucking luck. What can you do?
I look down at A,4 with just the button left to act and push all-in. The big blind calls with his big stack. The right call, but sucks for me. He turns over K,Q off. A good enough hand to call, given his chip stack. Of course, a queen comes and sends me home in 5th place. One fifty for a 40$ tournaments is nothing to sneeze at, but still, still would have liked to move up.
52 Players.
5th Place, but I still got fucking screwed.
It’s been a while since my last report. I have cashed in 2 out 3 of the tournaments that I have not yet to report. And my cashing streak over the last six tournaments, 4/6 or 67%. Not too bad. Any at this early morning tournament, I played a fairly ABC game, and it got me to the money. However, I still think that I need to mix it up a lot more to be really successful. I did steal a pot early in the tournament, but slowed down after pocket 3,3s almost killed me. I was forced to play kind of short stack as a result of my crazy pocket pair play.
Early in the tournament and position, I look down at 3,3s and fire off a 400 raise. Blinds were 50/100, I think. Three callers behind me call the 400 raise, and that really sucks my dick, I think. The flop was terrible for me, just terrible. A,K,10—two were suited, if I remember correctly. I am first to act, and I should have checked and given up to any raise, but I thought I’d get cute. Thought, I’d mix it up. So I fire off a bet of 1,200 and got two callers. Fuck, I think. How fucking stupid was this play? Real stupid. One of those players hit the flop, no question, but I thought that maybe with the straight out on the board, I might be able to scare them out of the pot, all the callers. But now I have two behind me and I just donkeyed off 1,200. Man that was stupid because there is no way I can call any bets. The turn was a Q, which was an even better card to sink my stupid, piece-of-shit-threes. So I checked with my testicles shrinking under the stupidity of my play and sure enough, a bet came and I checked out. However, despite this donkey play, I did recover and made it to the money.
So now I was short stacked and playing that way. In fact, I think that is the strongest part of my game now-playing short stacked. I was in the small blind, and I looked down at pocket 7,7. As you know from my earlier posts, I play middle pair 90% of the time one way. “All-in, bitch,” I think as I push all my chips forward. The big folds and the button hems-and-haws but eventually calls. So I flip over my sevens, and he turns over J,10. What? Jack fucking ten! What an idiot. Honestly that was in my opinion, a horrible call, even though he was roughly a coin flip. He had no way of knowing and at best, as was the case here, he was a coin flop--at worst a much bigger dog. He did not have a made hand. My hand did hold up and the Mexican went on tilt, moving all-in the next several hands—he was eventually picked off, like apples from a tree.
The Tattooed Swede: There was a Swede at the table with a tattoo that ran the length of his right arm. He was wearing a tank top with a stylish leather vest over it. I assumed that he was a fisting gay sadomasochist, expect he had a roomy girl chat with him about marital-esque things: money, or the room key. His tattoo was one of those tribal designs that resembled meandering lines coming to a gradual point. Fucking stupid tattoos, if you ask me. To what tribe does this guy belong—the Vikings. I knew he was from Sweden because someone asked him. He looked like a Swede, too. Thin, pointy nose, pale skin, etc.
This guy was so lucky. However, he failed to raise pocket pairs and made bad calls all night. For example, he did not raise QQ and allowed several players into the pot. The board had flush and straight possibilities, but no one in the hand hit. He simply called down to the river. He did not pre-flop raise. Another time he flopped Broadway and checked all the way down, even though flush possibilities were present.
The Tattooed Swede had a huge stack initially. But he eventually busted out. He made several terrible calls, and it eventually caught up with him. He did, however, make it far and doubled up several times. He was like fucking herpes or something. Would not go the fuck away.
Chipping up but not for Less: At specific levels, the house chips up the chip stacks. For example, they will remove the 25/green chips; next the 100/white chips and sp on. The problem is that getting chipped up makes your stack seem small, like one’s pool chilled penis. Anyway, I thought it a good idea to count my stack and not panic—still the same amount. It seems as though when I have less chips, because there are not as many physical chips—not as many to shuffle, etc, that this causes me to push in with marginal hands when I really did not need to. It causes me to play with a short stack mentality unnecessarily. This awareness helped keep me in the tournament, even though I wanted to push for all my chips a few times, but really did not need to.
A Key hand late helped me to the money—it pushed me there. I am the small blind, and I have K/3. A shit hand really but because I am already committed, I call the big blind and there are three to the pot. If there are no raisers, I always complete the big blind bet from the small blind—always no matter what I have.
It was late in the tournament with, say, 12/13 people left. Flop is K,4,5-last two hearts, so I look down to my to pair of Kinks, nothing 3 and push all-in. I am first to act, so I want to push all draws out and hope that someone else does not have a better king—a little risky. The big blind folds, but the long hair, dirty/crooked teeth, from, I assume, the Dirty South, debates. He is the kind of guy that develops pools of small bubbly salvia at the corners of his him—Yum. He calls with A,6 hearts. I wish I could remember exactly what the amount was, but he had more chips. I think it might have been 12,000 or something. So a nice bet, and it really crippled him.
After the flop, I am a coin flip, and I think “heads, let it come heads.” He has many outs—all the hearts, plus any Ace-12 outs. I think it was the right call for him to make at that time. I won the coin flip and doubled up. Sometimes, you just can’t get unlucky. I was good at that until we got to the final table.
The Money By Attrition: So finally I made it to the final table and counted my chips -30,000. Not bad. Enough to play with here. However, I went completely card dead and could not do much. And at this point, antes are being collected. So a few circuits around the table and I am getting a little short. I can’t take chances because there is always all-in action pre-flop or on the flop. Everyone is pushing. I outlast a few players and eventually get to the money. Attrition. The money by attrition.
So eventually, I get to the point that I have to push since my chip stack was too small. I was in the money, but really wanted to move up. First place was 1,000 bucks. For a $40 tournament, that’s pretty good with only 52 players and second was 700. But, alas, no fucking luck. What can you do?
I look down at A,4 with just the button left to act and push all-in. The big blind calls with his big stack. The right call, but sucks for me. He turns over K,Q off. A good enough hand to call, given his chip stack. Of course, a queen comes and sends me home in 5th place. One fifty for a 40$ tournaments is nothing to sneeze at, but still, still would have liked to move up.
Small Poker Tournament-Fiesta
The Fiesta 6 PM Wednesday tournament
40 Buy-In
2nd Place
This is a tournament I play in often, simply because it is near my house. I’d rate it a B-. My main concern with this tournament is the antes, which begin after the third level. That is too soon, I think. Otherwise, for a cheap tournament, it is generally pretty solid. The starting chip stack is 6,000; real nice for a cheaper tournament. Generally, the cheaper tournaments, say 25-50$ or so, offer players 1,500-3,000 in starting chips. I never play in those tournaments, because the chip stack is too low to really play solid poker. If blinds are 25-50 starting, (very standard), within an hour the blinds are 100-200. Any raise in these “short stack” tournaments means either you will be crippled for the rest of the tournament, or you need to simply push all-in. So 6,000 in starting chips is solid, but, of course, the antes mitigate that slightly.
I have played in this tournament many times and do well. I have cashed, chopped and won it more than once. I’d say, (I have only recently started recording all my poker stats) that I get to the money here about 30-40% of the time. This is a guess, but there was one stretch were I cashed it 3 out of 4 times or 4 out of 5 times. I used to play it a lot. So, I feel pretty comfortable and because it’s away from the Strip; many of the players are familiar faces. So I have a fairly solid read on most of them. The players are old and older. No women, just retirees and the occasion younger person playing for whatever reason. My presence brought the median age down to, say 55, from 60.
Here are a couple of key hands that allowed me to, once again, get to the money—in this case, 2nd place. (I was better than the winner, but that’s the way things go.) Early in the tournament, I was in the big blind. There were two or three callers, but no raises. I look down at 7,7. As you know from my last post, I play middle pair a certain way—sometimes it hurts me and other times, not so much. So, I push all-in. I have a hand, and I will “go to war” with a hand. The button hems and haws about the call, so I believe that he has Ace/Big. At least that’s what I assume he has; otherwise he’s call more quickly.
Eventually, he calls with A,7 suited, a fairly poor call, I think, although, because of the fact that his hand is suited, I am only 64% to win here. The caller I have noticed by playing with him that he takes chances far more often than other players. At any rate, the flop was no good and my 7,7s held up, although I had to dodge a spade on the river.
There were two hands, I played back-to-back the same way and it had the effect of slowing the play down—I loved doing this. I was in the cut-off or early position, and I look down at A,A, American Airlines, so I raise to 300. It was early in the tournament and the 300 represented a fairly strong raise. I was not happy when four called behind me. I have poor position. So the flop is 5,4,7 rainbow. Not really a scary flop considering the pre-flop raise. I mean, most 6,3s or 6,8s will usually fold against a raise. Since I was first to act, though, I check, planning to hammer anyone who bets. This is kind of scary, because I could be giving a free card to some players, but I am sure someone will take a shot at the top. The next player also checks, then a bet of 900. A fold, then to me. Awesome, I come over the top for an all-in. I love check raising. A fold, then the initial bettor looks at his hand, not at all happy about my move. He folds and I get 900 extra chips from this hand. I am sure that if I push all-in, he folds and if I simply bet, he might just call. I am not sure what he has, but no free cards is my rule--never.
In the very next hand, I am in the big blind and I have Big Slick. I raise from the blind and get heads up with the Secret Asian Man (I know the song is Secret Agent Man, but this is funnier.) The flop is 5,K,8. I check again, then SAM, bets and you guessed it, I come over the top for an all-in move, putting the squeeze to him. He thinks about the situation and even shows me his hand to “get a read on me,” he claims. I wish I would’ve have guessed his hand first. He calls, claiming he got a read—maybe he did. He also had Big Slick, and we split. However, these two plays made players slow down a bit against me. If they were in a hand with me, they knew it could be for all their chips.
One hand really helped me and knocked out two players. I am at the final table, but the tournament only pays to four places. So, I am still a little ways from the money. I am on the button and look down at A,10 off. The were no one in the hand except the blinds—at this point there were also a nice amount in the pot because of the antes—200 per player at this point. So I bet, like 8,000, when blinds are 1,000-2,000. The small goes all-in and so does the big—shit. As I assess the situation, I consider that a) it was only 3,000 more to call into a pot that had around 15,000 in and b) both players were short stacked and had no move other than to call all-in. The antes were eating them up. So because of the situation, I called hoping for the best. The hands were A,5, A,4 and mine A,10 all off suit. Shit, I am much better than I thought; however I am only 53% to win with the other hands are roughly A,5 21% and A,4 at 17%. I win the hand with a straight on the river, and this is a nice chip stack I rake in.
Basically, I wait it out, and eventually make the money, but with a short stack. It looks like I am destined for 4th or 3rd place. But then all the remaining players, expect me are all-in. Two of the players are knocked out and I just move up to 2nd place, but I am against a monster stack. So I was heads up was really short stacked, against a monstrous chip stack and really made a go of it for a brief moment. For example, first to hands two back-to-back all ins and folds, I have some chips. However, the big stack had a monster stack and even a double up did not alter the balance much. I look down at A,7 off suit, which is a great hand heads up. The basic medium hand in heads up is Q,7, so I am pushing with any Q, really. The big stack called with Q,5. It really was a no-brainer, for him as he was already in for 8,000 and I had about 15000 more to call. The flop teased me. 10,6,7. Whoo! I hit a 7. Nice maybe I can come back. I had jokingly asked if he wanted to chop when we got heads up. The next card was a Q and that was it. Second place. Not bad considering, I was sort of short stacked with 5 players left. The tourney paid out 4 places, there is only 35 players, give or take. Three tables with a few alternates. The table agreed that we’d pay the bubble his entry fee. But 2nd place. I am going to play in a higher entry fee tournament sometime this summer. The Venetian, the Wynn and Cesar’s Place all have deep stack tournaments. That’s my goal, sooner or later.
Romanticism and the Open Road
I have grown up believing in a romantic view of the open road and driving long distances. You know that prevailing idea-the open road, wind in your hair, capriciously going where you choose, meeting interesting and provocative people, seeing cool things-that horseshit view. Perhaps, “On the Road” and “Thelma and Louise” colored that perception; although admittedly I never read “On The Road” and it’s not in my queue and “Thelma and Louise” had, how shall I put it, not a great ending, but nevertheless still this romantic view of driving across this country prevailed in my thoughts. That is, however, until I did-several God damn times.
It is my intention to clear up this perception, using my most recent experience to help elucidate those who may otherwise be ill-informed. You see, I have driven from Las Vegas to Michigan and back; prior to that I did the Michigan to New Mexico and back-Michigan to Phoenix and back; New Mexico to North Carolina and back. Fuck, that’s a lot of driving. Yes, I do fly too. My experience is vast and unparalleled.
Let me be perfectly clear, nothing, and I mean nothing, is romantic or more generally, remotely pleasurable in driving long distances. In fact, it is a horrendous experience, replete with an aching ass and back, immense boredom, punctuated with bouts of sheer terror or agitation, and feeling generally shitty. Quite a confluence of emotions. Let me explain:
Aching Back and Ass:
Sitting for long periods of time exerts a fair amount of pressure on the ass and tends to cut off the circulation in the legs. In fact, I heard somewhere that people should walk around on long flights to encourage circulation in the legs, lest serious medical conditions develop, like blood clots. So one tries to lean on one ass check for a few hours, then shift over to the other ass check, but this is hardly effective.
The back, more specifically the spine, is not supposed to be in the C-shape that invariable it is in while seated-it should be in an S-shape. Hours after hours of seating makes the back ache and I swear I could feel my kidneys throbbing, though that might have been more to the road diet than posture—perhaps a combination of the two. (More on the road diet later.) But, one might say, you may remedy this with pillows and other aids in an attempt to alleviate the pressure and ameliorate the poster. Indeed, I did employ the use of pillows in an attempt to force my back into the C-Shape that it should be in normally. That has the effect of making one look like you have a stick jammed up your ass. Oh what the other road companions must have thought driving past, to see a very erect driver, head almost hitting the roof of the car. “What the fuck is up with that guy,” they must have thought. But still, one cannot be in that state for too long; it is not comfortable.
The shifting from ass check to ass check does little to succor, so one must be more adventurous. At varying points, depending largely on the terrain ahead, I would stretch my right leg out from the driver’s side foot area, across the stick and console into the passenger’s side foot area. This allows, as I pointed out, to stretch at least one leg, but also to air out the balls—a brief respite of relief in an otherwise hot and sticky environment, if you know what I mean. But this creates problems. Cruise control is nice, but of course, the other driver’s incessantly conspire against using cruise control by cutting in front of you just before you pass them, as they try to get around that semi. Most of the Interstate is but two lanes, thus drivers are forever cutting in front of you, as you are happily cruising at 80, right foot in the passenger’s side, balls airing comfortably. This happens all the time. Try quickly swinging your foot over to apply the brakes lest you smash into the fucking Toyota that has the bumper sticker “Bush/Cheney: Real American Heroes.” Double fucking assholes—cutting in front of me and participating wrongly in the democratic process. However, after several near misses, I did become adroit using my left foot to handle the braking and what not.
Immense Boredom:
I have long invited and recommended to those in similar driving plights to use “books on tape” to assuage the sheer boredom that accompanies hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of driving. Sometimes, it can help pass the time. But that has limits and if you select a boring book, well boring and more boring does little to pass the time. I had Moby Dick and, errr, despite my literary education, thought the book indefatigably boring. Christ, on and on about different whales. Shit, come to the point, Melville. Despite a noble effort, could not finish. Thus, I was left to the radio.
I am amazed at how many religious and conservative talk shows there are. These people hate everything not white and cornbread feed. Jesus was there with me in the car, if I ascribed to the dogma; all I had to do was open up my heart. I did open up, but let loose a fart instead. Jesus smells like shit, methinks.
At times, nothing could be heard on the radio-AM or FM. I hit scan and let it run until something happened. Through large parts of Utah especially, nothing could be heard. I would think the Mormons could penetrate every where, industrious as they are.
But mostly there was nothing to do and nothing to listen to. Thus, thoughts were all that was left. Mine being unimaginative and pedestrian, I was left to sheer boredom. So bored dental work would not have induced me out of the ennui.
Bouts of sheer terror and agitation:
Emotions, as with most things, are often more clearly rendered and comprehended when immediately juxtaposed with its closely-related opposite relative. Thus, while humming along at 82, using but one finger to control the vehicle, mental activity gone into a reptilian lethargy, a truck casually meanders into your lane, I fully appreciated the terror of becoming a driving accident statistic.
But not all situations were as dramatically illustrated. Consider this, for example: after driving all day and into the night, I thought I saw little creatures on the side of the highway and occasion run onto the road. Sometimes, it was the simple reflection of the car’s headlights and my brain filling in the rest. So I would slow down, swerve over or say, “What the hell did I hit.” But nothing was there, ever.
What’s ever more thrilling is driving through the mountains at night. All you can do is put your hands at 10 and 2 and hug the inside lane. Signs that say “Exit for Runaway Trucks” do nothing to comfort the weary driver.
Agitation comes into play almost immediately following terror. For instance, when the meandering moron moves into my lane forcing me to left-footedly jam on the brakes, I discover agitation instantaneously following the terror. Of course, sometimes the agitation is more general in its application and development.
There are those who wish to drive in extreme excess of the speed limit. The 90 plus people. As for my 4-cylinder, that is not in my capabilities, but even if it were, I would not go but 7 or 8 miles above the speed limit. Old fucking man, you think, get the lead out. I have been labeled such. Yet, that seems sufficient and keeps me from getting speeding tickets. But as semi-trucks most go 55 to 60 and me wanting to hum along at 82, airing my balls out, oscillating between left and right ass check, it does not take long to see that on a 2-lane highway, problems can develop.
When I came upon a slower moving vehicle and moved lanes to get around him, inevitably I would look up to see some Mustang or Land Rover in my read view mirror riding my ass. Of course, I would not release my cruise control, so overtaking the slower truck, did not happen quickly. Slowly I would get around, but at the cruise control’s pace, this could take a full minute or maybe more. All the while, getting my ass eaten out by the fucking Mustang.
Feeling Generally Shitty:
Feeling generally shitty should be no surprise given all the joys that driving across country affords one. However, there is more to feeling generally shitty then an aching back and a sweating ass crack. Let’s review my road diet: McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and Taco Bell. Throw in some coffee and donuts from the gas station and no wonder I felt great.
Super Size Me no doubt. Let’s see day one:
Breakfast: Mickey D’s breakfast burrito combo—which tasted like shit
Lunch/Dinner: A Baconnator combo from Wendy’s. A had a diet soda, though. I could begin feeling my arteries clogging. Plus coffee.
Day Two:
Breakfast: Burger King-breakfast burrito combo. It also tasted like shit.
Lunch: I thought, healthy, eat something good for you. Taco bell soft taco supreme combo meal, with a Mexi-melt to boot. Wolfed down almost before I got onto the Interstate.
Dinner: 10 piece McChicken nuggets with a double cheeseburger, but no fries, fucker. Fries and bad for you and well, this was a little, feeble attempt at being healthy.
Needless to say I suppose, after this road diet, the Tracer’s cabin was, errr, gaseous to noxious.
It is difficult to eat right on the road. Convenience and ubiquity are strong influences when you are trying to drive 2,000 miles in a couple of days. Being delayed while you eat a Chicken Cesar salad only means longer time on the road. Shit no. “I have a number 3 with a diet,” so I can be back on the road with my aching back, sweating ass, sheer boredom and fucking asshole drivers. Terrific.
Of course, with a diet like that finding the appropriate place to vent all that healthy food became an immediate need/then uncomfortable reality. Thank goodness for the clean Mikey D’s somewhere in Utah.
How Goddamn romantic is that? You tell me.
It is my intention to clear up this perception, using my most recent experience to help elucidate those who may otherwise be ill-informed. You see, I have driven from Las Vegas to Michigan and back; prior to that I did the Michigan to New Mexico and back-Michigan to Phoenix and back; New Mexico to North Carolina and back. Fuck, that’s a lot of driving. Yes, I do fly too. My experience is vast and unparalleled.
Let me be perfectly clear, nothing, and I mean nothing, is romantic or more generally, remotely pleasurable in driving long distances. In fact, it is a horrendous experience, replete with an aching ass and back, immense boredom, punctuated with bouts of sheer terror or agitation, and feeling generally shitty. Quite a confluence of emotions. Let me explain:
Aching Back and Ass:
Sitting for long periods of time exerts a fair amount of pressure on the ass and tends to cut off the circulation in the legs. In fact, I heard somewhere that people should walk around on long flights to encourage circulation in the legs, lest serious medical conditions develop, like blood clots. So one tries to lean on one ass check for a few hours, then shift over to the other ass check, but this is hardly effective.
The back, more specifically the spine, is not supposed to be in the C-shape that invariable it is in while seated-it should be in an S-shape. Hours after hours of seating makes the back ache and I swear I could feel my kidneys throbbing, though that might have been more to the road diet than posture—perhaps a combination of the two. (More on the road diet later.) But, one might say, you may remedy this with pillows and other aids in an attempt to alleviate the pressure and ameliorate the poster. Indeed, I did employ the use of pillows in an attempt to force my back into the C-Shape that it should be in normally. That has the effect of making one look like you have a stick jammed up your ass. Oh what the other road companions must have thought driving past, to see a very erect driver, head almost hitting the roof of the car. “What the fuck is up with that guy,” they must have thought. But still, one cannot be in that state for too long; it is not comfortable.
The shifting from ass check to ass check does little to succor, so one must be more adventurous. At varying points, depending largely on the terrain ahead, I would stretch my right leg out from the driver’s side foot area, across the stick and console into the passenger’s side foot area. This allows, as I pointed out, to stretch at least one leg, but also to air out the balls—a brief respite of relief in an otherwise hot and sticky environment, if you know what I mean. But this creates problems. Cruise control is nice, but of course, the other driver’s incessantly conspire against using cruise control by cutting in front of you just before you pass them, as they try to get around that semi. Most of the Interstate is but two lanes, thus drivers are forever cutting in front of you, as you are happily cruising at 80, right foot in the passenger’s side, balls airing comfortably. This happens all the time. Try quickly swinging your foot over to apply the brakes lest you smash into the fucking Toyota that has the bumper sticker “Bush/Cheney: Real American Heroes.” Double fucking assholes—cutting in front of me and participating wrongly in the democratic process. However, after several near misses, I did become adroit using my left foot to handle the braking and what not.
Immense Boredom:
I have long invited and recommended to those in similar driving plights to use “books on tape” to assuage the sheer boredom that accompanies hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of driving. Sometimes, it can help pass the time. But that has limits and if you select a boring book, well boring and more boring does little to pass the time. I had Moby Dick and, errr, despite my literary education, thought the book indefatigably boring. Christ, on and on about different whales. Shit, come to the point, Melville. Despite a noble effort, could not finish. Thus, I was left to the radio.
I am amazed at how many religious and conservative talk shows there are. These people hate everything not white and cornbread feed. Jesus was there with me in the car, if I ascribed to the dogma; all I had to do was open up my heart. I did open up, but let loose a fart instead. Jesus smells like shit, methinks.
At times, nothing could be heard on the radio-AM or FM. I hit scan and let it run until something happened. Through large parts of Utah especially, nothing could be heard. I would think the Mormons could penetrate every where, industrious as they are.
But mostly there was nothing to do and nothing to listen to. Thus, thoughts were all that was left. Mine being unimaginative and pedestrian, I was left to sheer boredom. So bored dental work would not have induced me out of the ennui.
Bouts of sheer terror and agitation:
Emotions, as with most things, are often more clearly rendered and comprehended when immediately juxtaposed with its closely-related opposite relative. Thus, while humming along at 82, using but one finger to control the vehicle, mental activity gone into a reptilian lethargy, a truck casually meanders into your lane, I fully appreciated the terror of becoming a driving accident statistic.
But not all situations were as dramatically illustrated. Consider this, for example: after driving all day and into the night, I thought I saw little creatures on the side of the highway and occasion run onto the road. Sometimes, it was the simple reflection of the car’s headlights and my brain filling in the rest. So I would slow down, swerve over or say, “What the hell did I hit.” But nothing was there, ever.
What’s ever more thrilling is driving through the mountains at night. All you can do is put your hands at 10 and 2 and hug the inside lane. Signs that say “Exit for Runaway Trucks” do nothing to comfort the weary driver.
Agitation comes into play almost immediately following terror. For instance, when the meandering moron moves into my lane forcing me to left-footedly jam on the brakes, I discover agitation instantaneously following the terror. Of course, sometimes the agitation is more general in its application and development.
There are those who wish to drive in extreme excess of the speed limit. The 90 plus people. As for my 4-cylinder, that is not in my capabilities, but even if it were, I would not go but 7 or 8 miles above the speed limit. Old fucking man, you think, get the lead out. I have been labeled such. Yet, that seems sufficient and keeps me from getting speeding tickets. But as semi-trucks most go 55 to 60 and me wanting to hum along at 82, airing my balls out, oscillating between left and right ass check, it does not take long to see that on a 2-lane highway, problems can develop.
When I came upon a slower moving vehicle and moved lanes to get around him, inevitably I would look up to see some Mustang or Land Rover in my read view mirror riding my ass. Of course, I would not release my cruise control, so overtaking the slower truck, did not happen quickly. Slowly I would get around, but at the cruise control’s pace, this could take a full minute or maybe more. All the while, getting my ass eaten out by the fucking Mustang.
Feeling Generally Shitty:
Feeling generally shitty should be no surprise given all the joys that driving across country affords one. However, there is more to feeling generally shitty then an aching back and a sweating ass crack. Let’s review my road diet: McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and Taco Bell. Throw in some coffee and donuts from the gas station and no wonder I felt great.
Super Size Me no doubt. Let’s see day one:
Breakfast: Mickey D’s breakfast burrito combo—which tasted like shit
Lunch/Dinner: A Baconnator combo from Wendy’s. A had a diet soda, though. I could begin feeling my arteries clogging. Plus coffee.
Day Two:
Breakfast: Burger King-breakfast burrito combo. It also tasted like shit.
Lunch: I thought, healthy, eat something good for you. Taco bell soft taco supreme combo meal, with a Mexi-melt to boot. Wolfed down almost before I got onto the Interstate.
Dinner: 10 piece McChicken nuggets with a double cheeseburger, but no fries, fucker. Fries and bad for you and well, this was a little, feeble attempt at being healthy.
Needless to say I suppose, after this road diet, the Tracer’s cabin was, errr, gaseous to noxious.
It is difficult to eat right on the road. Convenience and ubiquity are strong influences when you are trying to drive 2,000 miles in a couple of days. Being delayed while you eat a Chicken Cesar salad only means longer time on the road. Shit no. “I have a number 3 with a diet,” so I can be back on the road with my aching back, sweating ass, sheer boredom and fucking asshole drivers. Terrific.
Of course, with a diet like that finding the appropriate place to vent all that healthy food became an immediate need/then uncomfortable reality. Thank goodness for the clean Mikey D’s somewhere in Utah.
How Goddamn romantic is that? You tell me.
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