The sun has finally come out this morning. The rains have subsided for the time being. Starbucks is quiet, with a few onlookers at the food counter wondering what salad or overpriced sandwich they'll eat for lunch. I'm still trying to figure out the Starbucks appeal. It's a branding iron. The cattle must have their Guatemala Antigua blend.

I have an uneaten banana staring at me as if to say, "What are you waiting for? I'm here." My routine the past few weeks has been to visit the local grocery store for a banana and yogurt. Then I settle down at Starbucks for a few hours of reading, writing, and googling online. My banana knows I'll eventually get to her, but she's impatient. The yogurt has already served its purpose. Life does have its small pleasures.

I've been on CraigsList looking for writing jobs in the Las Vegas area. I found only one descent lead. Most of the posts are junk ads for web sites seeking content. For the most part I think it's waste of time. However, in the real estate area I have made contact with a few Las Vegas agents and local investors.

I finished the book Grant and Sherman by Charles Bracelen Flood. I was emotionally moved by the description of the two-day parade that celebrated the end of the war, the armies of the east and west, the coming together of Grant and Sherman at the reviewing stand. What a scene it must have been. Five weeks after Lincoln was assassinated, the parade was a celebration with 80,000 soldiers marching before a crowd that cheered, roared and cried for a group of men who saved the nation. I wish I had been there.

I love reading about the Civil War, the stories of men and their relationships with each other. I read earlier this month, for example, about Grant moving on Fort Donelson. The fort was deserted by most of the generals and many of the soldiers, leaving in command an old acquaintance of Grant, a fellow named Simon Bolivar Buckner. Buckner loaned Grant some money years before when Grant was penniless, getting off a boat in Manhattan. Now Buckner finds himself surrendering to "Unconditional Surrender" Grant at the fort after a couple of days of fighting in the rain and swamps of the Tennessee River. Grant walked with Buckner down to the dock to see him off, as Buckner was being sent back to Cairo as a prisoner of war. Grant pulled him aside and said, "…you are seperated from your people…perhaps you need some funds...my purse is at your disposal."

I also read the story of Voltaire P. Twombley, a soldier involved in the fight to capture the fort. Three flag bearers had fallen to musket rounds, and Twombley was not afraid to become the fourth. He hoisted the flag and ran along the side of his commander, Brigadier General Charles F. Smith, to take the slopes of the fort. A musket ball hit Twombley hard enough to knock him down, but being that it was shot from a far distance, it did no critical damage. Twombley won the Congressional Medal of Honor for his role in the battle. That name is a strange one, though.

TPT Archive: Exploring The Life of a Poker Dealer

Exploring The Life of a Poker Dealer
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails in April, 2007)

A few weeks ago I observed a dealer audition in the poker room, and I must admit it was entertaining. A group of dealer-wannabes were gathered at Table 2 to demonstrate their skill at running a poker table. Two casino employees and a group of applicants were at the table with chips. The applicants took turns dealing the hands, attempting to shuffle, pitch, count chips, and run a game while the bosses took notes. A nice crowd of onlookers gathered around to make the would-be dealers as nervous as possible.

The applicants included a man in his 40s, a college kid, a couple of 20-somethings, and at least one middle-aged woman. They all looked nervous and eager to please. Dealing cards can't be that hard, can it? And based on the tips I've thrown their way, they probably make pretty good money. So I can understand the allure of dealing cards for money.

The life of a dealer is fascinating to me as a writer. It's another part of the game I want to explore. While watching the live broadcast of the EPT this month, one of the players spoke of the dealer and said, "She's one of the best dealers in the world. I've seen her at most of the major tournaments."

That sounds like a nice gig if you can get it--travel the world dealing cards. And of course this years winner of the EPT, Gavin Griffin, is a former dealer. In fact, many young professional players have "Card Dealer" on their resume. I met a fellow player a few weeks ago, a high school football coach, and he said his wife was a poker dealer for private high stakes games in the Dallas area. "She makes great tips," he said.

TPT Archive: Winstar's New Poker Room Worth the Wait

Winstar's New Poker Room Worth the Wait
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails on Friday, April 12, 2007)

I was sitting at home last night and channel-surfing through the air looking for something to watch on TV, and there was absolutely nothing on...all these channels and the best I could come up with was a "Stargate SG-1" marathon on the Sci-Fi channel. Give me a break.

So after a minute or two of considering my options, I decided to make the 10 minute drive to the Winstar and check out the new poker room. I'm glad I did.

The new poker room is located in the building to the right of the main casino entrance, next to the humungous bingo hall. There is no direct entrance into the room itself, you must walk through the main casino and turn right until you hit the tunnel that leads you to the new digs. Last night being my first visit, I walked through the bingo hall instead...it was a little closer that way. But when the bingo hall closes for the night, that's not an option. So if you come, park near the southern entrance to the casino, and once inside turn right and look for the hallway leading to the poker room.

My first impression was, "Wow...this is cool." Of course, compared to the old room, my brother's garage would be an improvement. But this new room looks terrific. The wood paneling, flat screen TVs, and huge open space with numerous tables is going to make the room an attraction for the whole region. One of the nicest additions is the Player's Lounge, a nice sized room with comfortable leather chairs and sofas. It provides a relaxing place for players to wait until they get a table slot. The new room also has it's own grill for hot and cold food.

At the table, the first thing I noticed was the space...the poker tables are no longer butted inches apart like in the old room. The room provides plenty of area to stretch out in. I also immediately noticed the relative peace and quiet, as compared to the noise-fest in the old room. There are no slot machines whirring in the background, no screaming echoes from the main casino, no reverberating "all-in" yells from a table across the room. "A player can actually hear himself talk in here," I was thinking.

I was talking to another player in the Lounge, and he said, "Man, this sure beats the old place."

"Yea. Our baby has grown up." I said. "It looks like the Winstar has hit the big time." I was also thinking it was about time the Winstar put our rake money to good use.

TPT Archive: Greg Raymer Not the First to Have Weird Shades

Greg Raymer Not the First to Have Weird Shades
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails on March 1, 2006)

Stu Unger wore weird sunglasses long before Greg Raymer. While watching the 1997 WSOP on ESPN Classics the other night (or should I say morning...like 2 a.m.), Stu Unger was sporting some nifty "rounder" sun glasses. At times they would fall down his nose and he'd peer over at Gabe Kaplan and say something important like, "Man, what a hand that was."

Gabe of course was his usual jolly self, talking it up with a young Phil Hellmuth. Phil provided some nice commentary; but Phil...get rid of that ugly shirt. This was Phil in the early days, prior to dressing like Darth Vader. I love watching these classic matches.

This particular WSOP was held outside of Binion's in the heat of the day, under a very bright sun. Nice touch. I'm not sure there is such a thing as "sweat equity" in poker, but if there is, they all used it. Of course in 1997, they didn't show the player's cards like they do now. I would have enjoyed watching Stuey (Gabe always called Mr. Unger "Stuey" or is it "Stewy") bluff at the pot, which he did on a regular basis. At the end of the table with those round sunglasses, he looked like a piece of Raymer's intestine hanging out on the felt, at times in a slump. Two Stuey's equal one Raymer, at least. Maybe three. But you can forgive Mr. Unger from looking a little anemic. He had a rough couple of years prior to this event.

TPT Archive: Jackpot Jason and My $597 Payday

Jackpot Jason and My $597 Payday
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails, October, 2006)

The Winstar Casino offers a few bonus prizes for players, especially during weekdays when the poker room is not so crowded. For example, on Tuesdays during the day if a player gets their pocket Aces cracked, they win $100. It's a reason to play during the day, and if you’re like me and have the flexibility to arrange your schedule it makes sense to play during that time. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, the "high hand" each hour receives $100. But the main prize that most players covet is the Bad Beat Jackpot. The Jackpot prize grows each day until someone wins it. The Bad Beat must come via two hands: Aces full of Kings or better. For example, a recent Jackpot went to a player who had AAAKK, but was beat by someone with the fourth Ace, giving them quad Aces. The player who suffered the bad beat didn't know about the Jackpot, got upset and left the table moaning about his bad luck. He was called back, of course, and told he had won over $8,000.

The Bad Beat Jackpot is paid out this way: the player who receives the bad beat gets 50% of the pot, the player who gives the Bad Beat by winning the hand gets 30% of the Jackpot, and the remaining players at the table evenly split 20%. So, if a Bad Beat of Aces full of Kings or better occurs at your table, you will win at least 20% of the Jackpot pool.

The night I won the Bad Beat Jackpot was over $20,000. Jason was the dealer, and most of us at the table were not really paying attention to what was happening. In fact, casino rules dictate that the players should not speak about a possible Jackpot hand, because it may make a player stay in the hand longer than he normally would. In order to pay out the prize, the casino double checks both the video and audio (or so I've been told) before rewarding the prize. Therefore it was to our advantage at the table to not be paying too much attention. It just happened.

I noticed it was possible when I heard Jason quietly ask the player in Seat 9, "You have a Jack?" The player nodded. I immediately looked at the board and saw the community cards 8-J-J-8-J. The betting was over, and Jason looks to the player in Seat 3. "Well, let's see it." The player turned over pocket 8s. The player in Seat 9 immediately turned over J-9 suited. Quad Jacks beat the other players quad 8s. We had a Jackpot!

At that moment, our table erupted. Some players screamed, some laughed, I pounded the felt and yelled, "Yeehaw!"

Jason the dealer immediately said, "Nobody move. They have to take a picture and verify it." So we all stood up and began to congratulate each other on our good luck. The player with the quad 8s had just won over $10,000. The player with the quad Jacks, over $6,000. My prize, along with the remaining players, was $597.

What I didn't know at the time was that the winning of a Jackpot was a chance for the casino to put on a little show. First, it took them 45 minutes to verify the video and audio and declare a legitimate winner. In the meantime, we continued to play as normal but were very excited as you can imagine. Then, a casino staff member brought the prize money in cash, each prize in a separate envelope. By this time a crowd had gathered. Players from nearby tables and other casino staff were standing around. Jason, as the Jackpot dealer, was had the duty to count out each person's winnings in $100 bills. First, those of us splitting the 20% of the Jackpot were each awarded our $597, a $100 bill at a time, with much fanfare. Then, the player in Seat 9 who won the pot with quad Jacks was awarded his $6,000 in the same way, one bill at a time. Lastly, the Bad Beat winner received his $10,000 when Jason counted out over one hundred $100 bills. I had never seen $10,000 in cash before.

A picture was taken of the two big winners, each holding their $100 bills fanned out for the camera with smiles from ear to ear. Congratulations were given to everyone again and we all began to tease the $10,000 winner. "Dinner is on you," someone said. "Don't spend it all at the blackjack table."

Jason the dealer also came away a winner. All of us tipped him in various amounts and he walked away with $1500 or so. In coming days Jason would deal another Jackpot hand, and then another. When I saw him recently, I told him from now on I'm calling him "Jackpot Jason."

TPT Archive: Someone Call 911, Gus Needs a Donut!

Someone Call 911, Gus Needs a Donut!
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails, October, 2006)

It was a normal afternoon session at Table 3. I sat down with my usual chip stack to begin play. Nothing unusual was noticed except for the man sitting next to me. Gus (not his real name...I don't know his real name) was sitting on my left directly across from the dealer. From what I could observe Gus was elderly, overweight, messy, and not a very good player. I say he was messy because there were remnants of a previous snack still clinging to his chin and lips, maybe a cookie or cracker. He did not speak. His expression was emotionless and I thought he might be on the verge of going to sleep.

I first noticed his glasses, thick and heavy resting midway down his nose. Those glasses became a crucial part of routine which caused me to experience an ethical dilemma. I'm from the old school and still believe you play poker with fairness, and a certain amount of ethics. There is nothing lower on the food chain than a card cheat. Therefore, when I noticed the routine Gus employed to preview his hole cards I was faced with an ethical decision. Gus would regularly expose his cards to me.

The routine would go something like this: Gus would receive his two cards face down on the felt. He would pick them up with both hands, then lift them high off the table and bring them within inches of his nose. Once in place, he would hold the cards with his left hand and then lift his glasses with his right hand. Once his glasses were in the right position, he was able to see his cards. Hand after hand it was the same routine. He would hold the cards with his left hand up to his nose, adjust his glasses with his right hand, then make his decision to fold, raise, or call. The only problem with this routine is that he exposed his cards. All I had to do was glance his way when his right hand grabbed his glasses. His right hand no longer shielded his cards from view and left both cards open for preview by any player on his right.

What was I to do? I certainly was not going to cheat and take advantage of him. Or should I? Should I tell him? Should I remind the dealer that is was wrong for players to lift their cards off the table? (Some dealers are stricter than others and will often remind players to not lift their cards off the table.) I tried my best to not look his way, but his cards were so clearly and regularly exposed I couldn't help but seem them at times.

I see neither honor nor advantage in cheating, even when the opportunity is so readily available. As I have stated, I'm from the old school. I like to believe I have the same code of honor as others from the old days, as evidenced by Doyle Brunson and others: cheaters deserve to be run out of town, if not shot on sight. Some young players I’ve seen need to understand that poker players, gamblers in general, do have a code. The code is you don't cheat, you keep your word, and you pay your debts. (Jamie Gold should take note!)

So when Gus continued to show me his cards over the next few minutes, I considered my options. However Gus made any decision mute, for he was moments away from taking a trip to the hospital.

It happened this way. I took a bathroom break and a walk around the casino for about 15 minutes, all the time thinking about cheating and ethical issues and gamblers. I soon made it back to Table 3 and sat down, glancing at my cards and chip stack. No more than a minute or two went by when I heard the dealer yell out for the pit boss, "I need help!" I then heard the dealer say that Gus was unresponsive and just staring down at the table. I immediately glanced over and saw him, crumbs from a previous snack still hanging from the corner of his mouth. I noticed he was just staring at the table. Not really asleep, his eyes open, but totally unaware or unable to move or speak.

"We've called the EMTs," the pit boss quietly said. "An ambulance will be here shortly."

"Do I need to move?" I asked. After all, I'm sitting next to a guy who is having a seizure or something. "What do you want me to do?"

"Right now, we're just waiting for help," said the boss.

The dealer on the other hand, knew exactly what to do when you have a guy in a coma at the table: deal cards and keep playing. So the dealer dealt us a hand! Get the picture in your mind: eight players, one dealer, one guy in coma, the pit boss and a security guard standing by, and we are dealt cards and are expected to keep playing as if nothing was happening. Had the Titanic had a poker room, I'm sure players and dealers alike would have gone down with the ship.

"Are we going to keep playing?" I said loud enough so everyone could hear me. "Let's not let a guy having a heart attack keep us from playing." I sounded a little miffed. I'm not sure what the other players were thinking. What was I supposed to do? I'm sitting with a guy in coma on my left and I'm supposed to go on with the game? I glance over at Gus and he's still just staring down at the table, in a trance, unaware.

I finally had to acknowledge the absurdity of the situation and said, "I'm taking a break. I can't play until Gus is cared for." By that time, a casino staff person was trying to speak to Gus and arouse some kind of response. Nothing. Nada. The rest of the players at the table remained in their seats and actually played a hand while Gus was being probed and jostled. "Is he having a heart attack, or what?"

After a few minutes, play at the table did cease and the other players joined me and got out of the way. Most of us were standing around near the front wall watching the scene unfold. There was Gus, still unresponsive, at the table alone with casino personnel trying to make sure he was kept safe until the ambulance arrived. Twenty minutes later the EMTs arrived with a stretcher.

It was a weird scene. I guess it happens occasionally. The poker room was full of players and all of the tables were in action except for Table 3. The EMTs moved the stretcher through the gawking crowd and finally made it over to Gus, who was still staring at the table. They administered oxygen, checked his vital signs, and after a while placed him on the stretcher. On his way out, I did notice he was somewhat awake. He was clear headed enough to mention that his wife was playing the slots somewhere in the casino. She would have to be located and notified of his situation.

We finally made it back to Table 3 soon after Gus left. We all received a food comp for our trouble, and play resumed. An hour or so later someone brought us the news that Gus was a diabetic and he needed insulin, or something, He had gone into diabetic shock, or whatever. He was okay.

"Well, I should have brought him one of those stale donuts from the snack area," I said trying to be funny. "It gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘Pass me the sugar.’"

A week later I returned to the poker room and saw Gus at Table 9, playing the game as usual. Gus had not changed his routine, even after diabetic shock. He held the cards with his left hand inches from his nose, adjusted his glasses with his right hand, and exposed his cards. The player to his right, of course, glanced over and had smile on his face.

TPT Archive: Death Makes a Visit to Table 3, Seat 9.

Death Makes a Visit to Table 3, Seat 9.
(previously posted at Texas Poker Trails, October, 2006)

When he first sat down at the table, I barely noticed him. I was playing Table 3 at the Winstar Casino and was not particularly doing well. Grinding it out at the table, playing for hours without making or losing much money; just existing in that netherworld of the poker universe where your senses are dulled by hour after hour of lousy cards. I was staring mostly at my chips and practicing my hand tricks, tossing chips between fingers, shuffling small stacks, paying attention to mostly the dealer and occasionally the players around me.

Table 3, Seat 9 opened up when a young player tossed in his last few chips as a donation. He was disgusted and broke. A middle-aged man sat down and began to play. He was just another guy, another player, someone who enjoys playing cards like the rest of us. I barely saw him.

Then something happened.

I first noticed him leaving his seat to answer his cell phone. Like a thousand times before, a player's phone vibrates (or worse, it rings loudly with some God-awful ring tone) and he or she must leave the table to answer it. I noticed him speaking on his cell phone just a few feet beyond the dealer's position. After a short time, he sat back down and began to fumble with his chips. He looked distracted. He looked up and asked for a rack, "I've got to leave." His voice was broken, shallow, almost a whisper.

We at the table thought nothing of it until a few minutes later, maybe seconds. This was just a guy who got a phone call and had to leave. He only played three hands, maybe four. We found out from the dealer what was happening.

"That guy just found out his son was killed in a car crash," the dealer said. I immediately turned around and looked at the man, standing with poker room personnel at the Cage; they were helping him cash out his chips and offering support for his obvious grief. The news spread quickly about his situation. He was standing at the counter with chips in hand, trying to get a grip on how his life had changed in the last few seconds. He was weeping, struggling to find a way to cash out, make it to his car, then home, or the hospital, or the morgue. "What do I do? Where do I go?" How does a father process the news that his son has just tragically died?

I hated to stare at the man, but I did. On his right was the poker room manager, two security guards were standing just behind him. The Cage is located in the right front corner of the poker room, so to his left was the front wall. He was facing the glass enclosure waiting for his money. His grief was enormous. He placed the rack of chips on the counter and broke down. Placing his head in both hands, he began to cry uncontrollably in the corner of the poker room, leaning into the wall to avoid collapsing.

As I watched the man weep for his son, I noticed above his head the neon message sign: "Splashpot Mondays," "Jackpot is now $14,360!,"Aces Cracked on Tuesdays pays $100." The wall-sized projector screen showing the player waiting list was on the front wall just beyond the message sign, naming scores of other gamers waiting to play $4/$8 Limit and $1/$2 No Limit. The sounds of chips and dozens of voices continued to fill the room like every other day. "Seat open on Table 15," a dealer yelled. "Food service on Table 5," someone else yelled. While a grieving father's heart was being torn apart weeping for his son near the Cage, the heart of the poker room never missed a beat.

At Table 3 we were subdued, quiet, trying to understand what just occured. "I can't believe they told him here," I said. "Why didn't they wait until he was surrounded by family or friends?" Others made similar comments. We could not understand the reasons for giving someone such tragic news over the phone. Why not tell him to hurry home, then tell him? Was he going to be able to drive home? His son was only 16?

"Puts this game in perspective, I guess," the player in seat 8 finally said. "I guess losing or winning a few bucks is not that important." I shook my head in agreement with him, and we all continued to play the game. After a while, though, I decided it was time to go. I left having lost a few dollars, but it didn't matter.

Texas Poker Trail is Now The 7 Seat...A Blog Makeover

For the past year I've been writing a poker blog at TexasPokerTrails.com. However, I felt it was time for a makeover and name change. So now Texas Poker Trails has been closed and replaced by The Seven Seat (sevenseat.com), or if you prefer, the 7Seat.com.

I'll be posting here a few older pieces I've written from earlier days at TPT. I'll title them with the header "TPT Archive:........"

My Darkroom Collection: Children

This is one of my personal favorites. I was on assignment at a picnic-like event, I can't remember what exactly (the published photo in the newspaper is in a box somewhere), but I do remember the moment I took this shot. I was walking through the park area and saw this old lady sitting in a lawn chair. This beautiful young girl sat on the arm of the chair and embraced her. Just as I lifted my camera, the girl looked back across the old woman's shoulders and I took the shot.

The contrasting features in this photo are obvious. I love the white hair of the old woman, the embrace, the look of innocense and peace on the young girl. Youth and old age, the beginning of a life with its hope for the future and the end of a life with its memories of other days.

I took this photo on assignment for Stephen F. Austin State University. It was 1988 or 1989, and the event was the Lumberjack Festival on campus. These kids were dressed up as beer bottles.

Boo, Mike, Wayne

I really like these old photos of Boo and my two older brothers.

I'm not sure wear this photo of Mike and Wayne was taken. My memory is of a boys camp in the east Texas piney woods, a rustic camp setting for troubled teens. Mike and Wayne were asked to perform for the group by someone like the Baptist Student Union on campus at Stephen F. Austin State University, or perhaps by our father who was a volunteer music director at a small country church in the area. I have little memory of the event.

This photo of Boo was taken in New Orleans. She is holding Jaalam, my nephew. It really shows my mother in the prime of her life. All I remember of the trip to see Mike and his family at New Orlean Baptist Theological Seminary is that I got food poisoning and threw up most of the weekend. In fact, I believe the reason for the trip was Mike's graduation from the seminary.

I'm Coming Back.

I studied photography in college, primarily photojournalism. I always loved the action of real life photography. For a degree I had to shoot fashion shots, spending time in the studio working with models that were recruited from among my friends on campus. I had to shoot product shots for print advertising. I must admit I hated the studio. And working for hours trying to adjust the lights on a bowl of cereal was not that exciting.

I wanted to be among people, on the street, in a football stadium, at a press conference, following a presidential campaign. I've shot photos of Presidents Bush Sr., Ford, and Clinton. I've covered high school football games, parades, political campaigns, and other forms of everyday life. For me, art is in the reality of people and the world in which we live. I want to shoot life as it happens, and look for the beauty that is there, in its simplicity.

I can walk down the street and see expressions of our existence in various forms: the golden chain hanging from the umbrella pole at a Starbucks, cigarette butts collecting near a drain pipe, a mother caressing her infant struggling with a grocery cart, flood victims clinging to their porches while watching their neighbors homes float down a swollen creek.

Life equals art.

But my photography career ended roughly around 1993. I began to do other things. I developed other interest like real estate, writing, church, family. My photography slowly became a memory, something I "used to do" when I was younger. But the love for it was always there.

So now, as I reach the time of my life where middle age is a reality and old age approaches like an uninvited guest, I desire to spend more time with a camera. I also want to post some of the photos I've taken from another time, another life.

So I guess I'm back.

Jaalam Aiken's Photo Creations

My nephew has become an excellent photographer. Check out his work at JMAPhotoCreations. I especially like his work with photoshop enhancements and use of light and framing.

Jimmy, Jerry, Troy and Super Bowl XXVII

This picture of Jerry Jones and Jimmy Johnson was taken backstage after the Cowboys Super Bowl parade in February of 1993. The Cowboys won Super Bowl XXVII, beating the Buffalo Bills 52-17. I was covering the parade freelance, selling some photos to local newspapers in north Texas. The photo is not that great, but I only had one shot. Jerry and Jimmy were bouncing around backstage and I quickly got them to stand still long enough for a pose.

Earlier the same day, during the parade, I was riding with Troy Aikman and Jason Garrett in an open car. The parade route wound its way through downtown Dallas with thousands of fans encroaching on the players. Although Troy is smiling in this shot, he and I and Jason were all nervous about the crowd. It was indeed a dangerous situation. At one point, policemen on horseback were called in to seperate the crowd from the open vehicles. Other journalists were packed in around us and were saying it was like being in a war zone.

-

The following year when the Cowboys won their second Super Bowl, the parade was held in downtown Dallas, but that year the players were on huge open flatbed trucks high above the crowd. Police barriers were also more established and security was increased. Troy would go on to become a member of NFL Hall of Fame and Jason Garrett is currently the Offensive Coordinator of the Cowboys.

Family Ties

I've been scanning and storing digital images from old photos of the family. This photo was taken in 1961 (or 62?) when my mother remarried. The wedding was held in my grandmother's house. What a group of misfits. I'm the small one, front right, looking up at my new stepfather's mother.

I like the expression on my older brother's face. He seems to be saying, "I can't believe I'm having to spend an entire Saturday doing this." More than likely, my sainted mother standing behind him just pinched his rear end.

CraigsList Shopping

I've spent a few hours today just looking through CraigsList at various job postings. I've been looking for work in real estate or writing and found some leads. I emailed two resumes for writing gigs, and one to The Real Deal online magazine which is expanding its coverage from New York into the Vegas market.

The job market looks pretty strong in Vegas, and I found a number of writing opportunities. The best of both worlds, I guess, would be to write about the Vegas real estate market.

___________________________________

I'm beginning to sell off much of the junk I've collected over the years. I'm scaling down to just those personal items that have value for me. Much of what I own can easily be sold. Everything I sell now can be replaced later, right? When you get down to it, most of what we own is junk. I have very few things I really cherish, and most of those things will fit in a box. I like the idea of scaling down, cutting back, clearing out the storage, unloading years of stuff that I pretend gives meaning to my life. It is a silly idea: collect what we think is valuable stuff and then place it in storage (or the garage) where we never see it.

The Timing of Suck-Beats and Other Frustrations

When my KK found its way to the showdown, alas it was worthless. Man, the timing of suck-beats in poker is really amazing. Last night I was down to my last $15 or so after my second bad session in a row. I figured I had one hand to get back in the game, and I get KK. Great, I’m thinking. I’ve got a real shot here to win a nice pot. Congressman J.B, sitting on my left, raises. Three callers come to me, and I call (probably a mistake). The flop comes 8-2-x. Great flop for me! The House Rep bets out. The 4-seat calls and I call. The turn is an 8. Great! I’ve got two pair now, KK88. Will they hold up? (You know what’s coming.) The river card is a blank and doesn’t appear to help anyone. So I’ve got my eye on the nice pot, when the player in the 4-seat turns over 8-2 off-suit! OUCH! The guy calls a raise with 8-2 off-suit (only the second worst hand in Pokerdom) and flops two pair, then gets his full house on the turn. I’m toast, of course. And the Congressman turns over AK.

It’s not bad beats that rankle my nerves. It’s the timing. Most times when something happens like this you just shake it off and go on. But I really wanted to turn a bad session into something positive. If I had won that pot I might have gone home with a loss, but I would know that all was right with the world. Why did the P-gods choose this particular time to shoot another missle at me? Amazing.

Bad beats I can deal with on a regular basis. It’s the timing of those beats that really make you feel like your intestines have been ripped out and left for the buzzards to chew on.

It helps to write about it. I know what you’re saying. “Don’t tell me your bad beat stories, I’ve had my share. It’s poker. So get over it.” I understand fully. There’s nothing worse than hearing others whine about bad beats. It happens to us all. They are a big part of playing this game. And usually I can deal with it. But today, I’m on tilt. So understand if I have to get it out of my system. I rarely if ever write about bad beats, and bad beat stories bore me to tears and I try to avoid those who like to share them. Sometimes you just have to share your story. It helps. I'm reminded of the two men at the WSOP last year who set up a table and charged players $5 to hear their bad beat stories.

The issue I’m dealing with is the timing. It’s like a double knock to the system. Not only do you receive a hit by the beat itself, but the timing of the beat is a second knock to the groin. Had the same hand occurred an hour earlier, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But at that particular point in my day, at that precise moment, when the clock hit 9:30 p.m. on Saturday night July 8, after a nine hour session of ups and downs and beats, when you feel like something really positive is about to take place to make you feel like the day has all been worth it, you’ve been playing well and the results are not there but that’s okay because there will be days like this, the P-gods decide they are going to hurl one last salvo at the spirit of a player who was only praying for one small stack of chips to make the pain of a losing session more tolerable while driving home.

Before leaving I leaned over to the Congressman and said, “How do professionals learn to deal with this game? Playing day in and day out--the highs and lows and bad beats.”

“Well, they just learn to enjoy the game, the people, and learn to deal with it. You have to be patient in this game.” The Congressman leaned back in his chair and took a long deep breath while looking at his own small stack.

I enjoyed playing with the House Rep who serves our state in Washington. He told me he plays online for play money and likes tournaments. I told him I voted for him, but he still beat me out of a couple of pots with some nice aggressive betting. He would raise with top pair, some times having only a mediocre kicker. So when he and I were heads up with a J-x-x-x-x and I had KJ in the hole, I called his bets down. He turns over AA of course, and won a nice pot. I put him on a weak J, which of course turned out to be a poor read.