Running Loaded

I enjoyed my relatively brief spell in the DADI last night, which ended, as all poker tales do these days, with me losing a race to a bully big stack (last night's special guest star in the ongoing saga of Speaker's Bankroll Depletion was smokkee), who pushed over-the-top with his 14 outs (twice) and I called with my top pair. No miss, no drama (his overcard paired on the turn, his flush completed on the river) and I was off to pummel the nearest throw pillow.

I was feeling a little frisky drunk, however, so I was simultaneously playing the Crazy Re-Buy on Stars, where I cruised into the third hour with an above par stack before losing three straight races, the first two to shorter stacks, the last...well...it didn't matter since I had an M of 4 at the time. I guess I'm numbed to my bad runnin' (and all to frequent poor play) these days, because I've been through it before. I'm definitely due for a little pullback from the poker machine. Always refreshes me.

Strangely, I feel like I've been on a downswing for almost 8 months. And, for the most part, I have. Yet, I've had three big tourney--and one big cash game--scores and am virtually even in that time. Now, even is not the goal of any player, but staring at the catastrophic losses of February and March, even don't loook so bad. And considering my middling play, I feel fortunate. So I can turn my attention to other pursuits with a clear head and hopefully come back with a better mindset.

That said, I might hit a card room tomorrow night with some of LA's finest. Live is different.

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From the Statistical Anomaly Dept.: The A's are 7-6 since the break. I've seen all, or part, of a half-dozen of those games. Their record under my watchful eye? 0-6. Ken Macha may be a Moron, but I'm the fucking jinx.

Here's an old time baseball story I like to tell. I was probably 7 or 8 and went with my Dad to Candlestick to see a Giants-Dodgers tilt. Both my parents are Giants fans and while this wasn't my first trip to the Wind Tunnel By the Bay, it WAS my first to see the reviled Boys in Blue. I remember my Dad telling me about the history between the clubs, those first seedlings of Dodger Hate being planted. I remember the muddy parking lot, the bone-rattling chill off the water. But most of all, I remember being accosted by a drunk and toothless man almost immediately after we exited the car. He had items for sale and he jammed them in my young face, bumper stickers for only a dollar. I pulled way, frightened, but also curious, to read the sentiment:

Fuck the Dodgers.

Welcome to the rivalry, son.