Friday, May 20, 2005

Bringin' on the Heartbreak

Seriously, I'd like to kill myself right now. I wrote a long post, began yesterday, finished last night. My son hit "recover post" before I could post it and I lost it all, but for a few sentences. Today, I wrote it again. Somehow, some way, I just lost it again. I feel like a pregnant woman who's two weeks overdue. I JUST WANT THIS THING OUT! I DON'T CARE WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!

I would like to stress that I fully intend to be the 'bringer,' rather than the 'receiver' of said Heartbreak. As does, I'm sure, the rest of the Blogger Regiment, set to alight upon Cibola in a swarm of decadence two short, a fortnight...from now.

We are gonna use Vegas up and put her away wet. She'll be walking funny for weeks.

Welcome to this week's giddy, over-anxious version of "The Countdown," our regular march toward Infamy. The ponies are turning for home, the crowd rising as one, the metaphors fast and furious.

This installment's font of misinformation concerns table image. Sure, a hundred weaving people descending en masse on the Excalibur poker room carries with it its own indelibile image. But you've only two weeks left to hone your individual persona, to find the exact fit for maximum profit or, more likely, learn to recognize who to avoid. Let's start with my personal favorite.

The Dean Martin: Everybody's digs the social drinker. A little goofy, occassionally charming, always entertaining. Your advantage here is that people like you. They are not concerned with the calculating moves you're making below the surface. They see only the "Good Time Charlie," and don't even mind when you're stacking off their chips. There's a fine line, though. Generally, this tactic works best when you can keep a steady buzz going, somewhere around the five drink level. Get too far past that point and you run the risk of becoming...

The Foster Brooks: Not nearly--as in, not at all--as endearing as the above, this image can quickly turn ugly. Knocking over chips, insensitive burping and frequent prompts from the dealer are all possible manifestations. The buzz is a buzzkill for the rest of the group and they will slowly begin to hate this player for it. Their only possible saving grace is that they are probably giving their chips away due to their inability to see/talk/think.

The Al Michaels: This jackass makes sure everyone knows what he thinks everybody has and what the pot odds are and how the dealer is getting ready to reveal the turn card. No table nuance escapes his commentary. He provides a far-from-succinct wrap-up of every hand. He is very likely to end up with a bottle to the skull.

The Mishca Barton: This savvy player can quote liberally from Caro's "Book of Tells." Like The O.C.'s over-wrought star, every card triggers an elaborate act. Flop a set? Here comes the tsk-tsk-ing, the head shaking. Four to the flush? Gosh, hope nobody draws out on me. Two overcards to a pocket pair? Fires out an emphatic bet, complete with follow-up stare-down. Like our beloved Marissa, this player makes me laugh.

The Harvey Keitel: The Hard Ass. You don't mess around with him and he's definitely not sitting to mess around, either. Like "The Wolf," he's no nonsense. He doesn't wanna hear any of your shit. Bet. Win. Ship It. Get it straight, gentlemen: He's not here to say please, he's here to tell you what to do.

The Steve: You don't know Steve, but you know A Steve. Steve was a guy who once lived in my apartment complex and was a very accomplished individual, according to him. If you've climbed K2, he's climbed Everest. If you've successfully bluffed a four-figure pot, he's taken half a mill off Raymer heads-up. He's most likely to eventually be found bound and gagged behind an off-strip dumpster.

The Blogger: S/He says 'jopke' a lot. S/He knows the correct rules for a straddle. S/He rams and jams with 72o with alarming frequency. S/He is having the best fucking time.


One more list before I take myself out permanently. Goddamn Fucking blogspot.

People with whom I'd like to sit in the WSOP

Gabe Kaplan: If only for the chance to say, "Nice Hand, Mr. Kot-tare"
Dutch Boyd: I'll call him Russ the whole time and drop an occasional "meow" when he's in a tough spot.
Evelyn Ng: Since the dear and patient wife can't come, having a stand-in hot statuesque Asian nearby will be soothing.
Otis: I'll just badger him the whole time. "Show 'em how big yer cock is, Otis!! Show 'em!"
Phil Gordon: So I can slip him April's room key.
Paul Phillips: Donkeys alwasy draw.
Isabelle Mercier: For research on my forthcoming post, "Isabelle Mercier smells SOOOOO good," a post guaranteed to send Gene on a tri-county ass-whuppin' spree.

Okay, labor over. I need a sedative and bed rest.


At 10:22 AM, Blogger BG said...

Maybe your take on Isabelle can be chapter one of our e-book "Isabelle and Us: A WPBT Adventure."

Al Can't Hang gets chapter two, "Who knew Isabelle could outdrink the boys?"

April (either one) can have a couple hours of girl talk and write the chapter, "I think Isabelle means it when she says size and income don't matter."

Then, of course, I write my chapter, "Isabelle Mercier: Best looking naked woman I've ever had the pleasure of doing."

Then we can have Pauly close it up with a green-haze rambling interview called, "Isabelle and Gene, 100 reasons I'd rather be celibate."

Just a thought.

At 10:46 AM, Blogger Human Head said...

O God, THE STEVE. The one-uppers of our lives.

Oh, how I loathe them.

At 11:28 AM, Blogger StB said...

To sit across from Dutch Boyd would be hilarious. Dropping drowning kitten references until he totally blows up would be a successful day of poker.

At 1:09 PM, Blogger Easycure said...

As long as I don't sit left of Gus, I'm happy.

Oh, and both you and Gene should check out my blog today.

At 9:35 PM, Blogger April said...

Note to self: Make sure Joe has one of my room keys during WSOP...

At 4:53 AM, Blogger Barrington said...

Wow, I know those drunk players... I think I've BEEN those drunk players.
Dunno who your Foster Brooks is, being a Brit.
Our version might have to be "Victor from Big Brother" (y'know, BB, that godawful "reality" mediocrity-fest that we - or the Dutch - foisted on you guys a few years back). A mate of mine was playing in a PokerStars media tourney recently, and made it to the final three, with chintzy glass trophies for the top 2. My mate eventually goes out to Victor, who is so HAMMERED he is spraying chips all over the floor and can't even see his hole cards, let alone the board. Mate is livid, as a matter of principle, not of chintzy crystalware.

At 5:27 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

For the love of God, I've never played a casino game that DID NOT feature and Al Michaels.

I'll take the drunk and the one-upper...I may BE the Dean...but PLEASE spare me from the chatterbox know it all.



At 6:43 PM, Blogger Gene said...

Dammit, I never should've written that post about how absolutely divine IM is. Goddam bloggers ruin everything. Now I gotta post about her like every other week just to keep my blog high on the Google hit list for her name. Just on the odd chance she comes across it and has a sudden desire to visit Pittsburgh.

But, seriously, um, what DOES she smell like? I'm already sighing and swooning.

At 12:32 PM, Blogger Unknown said...

I forgot about the cat drowning, I thought you were talking about "Super Troopers". :D


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