Jun 22
Looking up a definition for ‘minutiae’, as I usually look up words whose meanings or spellings I suspect but cannot guarantee, I found that its primary definition declares it to be the small details that distinguish a fingerprint. I just learned something new, maybe you did too. My shoulders slump under the weight of increasing knowledge.
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I am wasting time now because I’ve decided to just stay up all night. The stupid World Cup decided that it would be fun if the United States played Ghana while everyone on the west coast was asleep. I understand that it’s some kind of hilarious joke.
Dilemma: I want to watch both the USA vs Ghana game AND the Italy vs Czech game. We need both the US and Italy to win and I’m considering which game to tivo and which to to watch live. Who were the Ad Wizards that decided to have the two most important soccer games in the entire world scheduled at the exact same time? It’s way too much to hope for that one game won’t be littered with constant updates of the other, so either way the surprise will be ruined. If the USA loses to Ghana I don’t think I’ll have the heart to watch the Italy game.
Solution?: I considered placing a bet against the United States. I figure that if the US loses the game at least I’ll win some money. But if they win the game and I lose my bet I’ll still be happy because we won the game. It’s a sort of emotional hedge. I don’t bet on sports, though. Nothing good has ever come of it.
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I got a message on MySpace from Melissa. She thinks I’m hot and wants to do stuff with me.
greetings honey,im melissa i thought i would message you because i loved ur profile<333 i have new pics up at my homepage~ click here
See Ya 22465
It seems legit.
Gina wants to be my friend, too. She lives in Vegas and just finished making a porn site. The best part of her myspace page is clearly the near-topless picture of her where 147 pervs left comments. Hey baby, I’m Michael. Let’s play whatever fantasy you want.
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I have been intending to write a new post for several days now. Actually, in that time I have decided on no less than three post topics, but as I never got around to writing any of them they will have to be condensed into this post or left for a later time. I’ve actually been incredibly busy lately. I have been building a website for my friend’s band and the crushing despair bred of self-doubt has led to several re-writes. I am humble and honest enough to recognize my devastating short comings when it comes to graphical creativity. I can build just about anything that you tell me, but when it comes to designing that anything for myself I’m quickly reduced to a Michael Scott level of incompetence. Staring at my handicraft I feel like Billy Madison showing off his blue duck.
“Well, I made the duck blue because I’d never seen a blue duck before and I wanted to see one.”
At any rate, though the site will likely undergo a few hundred more revisions you might as well take a look. Parts of it make me happy. Other parts make me want to throw up.
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I went and played poker again a few days ago (shocking I know) and had a fairly interesting session. If I am going to maintain my current frequency of play I am not going to be able to recap every game. This is especially true because after playing cards for 7 or 8 hours just about the last thing that I feel like doing is writing about playing cards. This past session was particularly entertaining to me, however. And not just because I won.
Bad beats happen all the time in poker. It sucks to be on the rape-end of the beat, but on some level you know that it’s bound to happen from time to time. And as much as it hurts to watch someone take a beat, it’s all kinds of awesome to watch when that person can’t handle the pain. During this past session a middle-aged woman dressed like a Las Vegas Whore joined our game. I disliked the woman from the very start and I will tell you why. Before she took her seat the woman watched the game for about fifteen minutes. Not such a big deal except she watched the game while hovering directly over my left shoulder. That too wasn’t such a big deal except that while she was watching she felt it necessary to give a running commentary on the play of each hand. Even that wouldn’t have been so obnoxious if she didn’t so obviously consider herself the world’s best poker strategist and therefore think everyone else to be completely clueless. The bright anger-making cherry atop the hate sundae being constructed before you is the expected final observation that the woman was clearly NOT an expert and her comments were NOT at all relevant. Still, that didn’t stop her from constantly seeking my confirmation of her lunatic ramblings.
For instance, and I’m not making this up, a hand arose where two players ended up betting $80 a piece (through a series of raises) preflop. The flop came 5 – 6 – 9. One player only had $15 left and immediately went all-in. The other player immediately called.
“Oooohhh… he’s got 7 – 8 suited.” The woman whispered into my ear.
“What the fu…?”
(the all-in player turns over pocket 10′s and the other player turns over A-Q suited)
“Wow, what a bad play. How can he call that with only Ace Queen? He has ace high and there is a possible straight on the board.”
“Umm… You’re serious?”
This happened over and over again, the lady always insisting that the person betting had the stone nuts no matter how unreasonably unlikely that holding could be. And with every claim came the implication that I must either agree with her or be a moron.
When she finally took a seat in the game it took less than two orbits for her to go broke. Whore (based on the ridiculous outfit she was wearing) limps into the pot. Lady #2 makes a small raise. Whore makes a small re-raise. Lady #2 goes all-in for a LOT more. Whore calls. Lady #2 turns over Ace-Queen suited. Whore turns over Ace-5 unsuited. The AQ held up and my new favorite slutbag completely lost it. She started yelling at the lady who beat her. She yelled at the dealer. She yelled about a bad beat, and then she yelled at me when I tried to explain that she was pwned the whole way. Without chips and without class the woman stormed away from the table.
An hour later the woman returned, though! She took the empty seat next to me (super great woohoo) and pulled out $150 worth of 10s and 20s and threw it at the dealer. The woman wasn’t yelling anymore but she was still a bitch. My night was made complete fifteen minutes later, though, when the lady went broke for the second time. After a rainbow flop of A – J – 3 the woman check raises another player (the same lady #2 from before) up to $50. With a little hesitation the other player makes the call and the turn brings a King. The woman immediately goes all-in for her last $100 and the other player immediately calls. The woman turns over Ace-Ten while her opponent flips up King-Jack: a turned two-pair. The river bricks out and once again the woman goes ape shit. She screams at lady #2 for making such a bad call on the flop. She curses the dealer and curses her fate of being dealt such a horrible bad beat. Not at all shy from my previous tongue lashing I once again point out that it wasn’t a bad beat. Most of the money went into the pot on the turn, when the woman was already way behind. That comment made me no friends.
After listening to a bit more screaming about the lady’s call of $50 on the flop with only second pair I again offered an olive branch.
“Yeah I know what you mean. I totally hate it when I get other people to put in a lot of money when they’re way behind.”
My olive branch wasn’t accepted in the spirit of peace that I’d hoped. For a moment I thought I might get slapped.
As far as my own play is concerned, I actually think I played really well throughout the night. In fact, I was complimented by several different players at various times. And I wasn’t just given the occasional, “Nice Hand.” After playing a particularly cagey hand in which I managed to convince a man to give me an extra $40, the man turned to me and, despite losing money, shook my hand and told me that I played it “very well”. The money is nice, but when the money comes with a handshake it’s even better.
In my favorite example of why I’m such a cool guy… a young player sat down to the table with his friend. Both guys exemplified the typical frat guy: aggressive and cocky and chatty to the point of obnoxious. In their first two orbits I played three big hands against one of the guys. We sweated out an enormous pot as we both moved in for about $300 off a 5-high flop, but our anxiety became relief as we both turned up pocket queens. I then made two huge calls against the guy. In the first pot I stared down a big river bet while holding J-2 offsuit against a board that read 2 – 8 – 9 – 10 – J. I thought for a minute and made the call, almost sheepishly revealing my two pair. The kid shook his head and mucked.
“Dude. Weren’t you afraid of the straight?”
“Yeah.”
A few hands later I correctly called the same kid’s large river bet with Q-9 offsuit on a board that read 4 – 6 – 9 – K – 5 with three hearts.
“Fuck man. I need a cigarette.”
The kid’s friend then commented, “Yo, I thought you were trying to quit.”
“Yeah, but this has been a stressful fucking half-hour.”
It was beautiful.