Runout

"You ever wonder how these terms come about?"

BAM, BANG, BANG, bang, and then a softer plop as the 13 caromed off the 9 and into the bottom right corner pocket. The cue ball bounced sharply off the left side pocket point and came to rest 2 inches from scratching in the opposite side.

"I mean, why would it be called a runout?"

He strode around to the right side of the table, carefully placed his left hand in front of the 7 to form an open bridge, and leaned down, down until his chin stubble gently grazed the familiar warmth of the well-used cue his right hand was gripping. The 12 was not quite resting against the end rail, and the 3, 8 cluster meant he didn't have as much angle on the shot as he would have liked. A little right English should do the trick.

"Where is there running involved, honestly? You get to the table, you break, you shoot, you shoot, and you keep on shooting."

A soft clap, as the cue ball kicked quickly off the rail after contacting the 12. The English took it all the way around the table, hitting 2 rails and coming to rest 2 inches from the left rail. The 12 exited stage left, just like it'd been told to.

"And it's not like you're in much of a hurry really. The table ain't going nowhere. You just have to focus on every shot, make sure you get position on the next."

This one seemed a little easier. There wasn't anything really in the way. The 15 was less straight on, so he could use that angle to follow off one rail and come back into the center of the table.

"But then again, walkout wouldn't make much sense either, would it now?"

Like clockwork, the cue ball rolled lazily off the 15 and into position behind the 10. There was the 3, 8 cluster still, but he couldn't do too much about that right now. Something to put on the to-do list.

"I mean, I guess there is a certain ring to the term, running balls, or running out balls. It makes sense in a way a fella like myself can't really explain too well."

Head down, eyes forward. Blink a couple times, get those eyes focused on the right spots. It was uncanny how he could see the object ball and the cue ball with equal focus. Smoothly, slide the stick back and forth. Keep that arm fixed, and just let the elbow bend back and forth. Back and forth.

"Maybe it's about winning, you know, like a race. Racing has got to be one of the oldest forms of competition. And winning games, running racks or balls, it's all about racing that other guy."

Like watching a replay stuck on loop, that elbow just kept swinging the stick back and forth. Back and forth. He needed to roll the ball up and follow this 10 about 3 inches. The margin of error was about half an inch either way. He had to go get this just right.

"I'd call this more of a marathon, myself. I ain't a sprinter, no sir, not anymore. Maybe back when I was young like yourself."

He allowed himself an inward grin that nonetheless crept into his face a little. Once more the cue slid back and slid forward sharply, the motion identical to the last dozen or so. Except this time the blue-chalked tip struck out a little further, and seemed to prod the 10 along. The cue ball would have stopped on a dime, if there had been one there.

"Anywho, running out, shooting out, winning, it's all the same, right? You just gotta do things the way they need to be done."

He walked back to the bottom end of the table. The 9 rested against the left rail near this end of the table, just under the edge of the shadow cast by his head standing in front of the bleak wash of fluorescence coming from the ceiling. The 11 and 14 were frozen together, back up table. Although...

"You know what's funny, now that we're talking about running and racing? I used to be able to run a 5 minute mile. No bullshit."

With that 2 near the left edge of the top left corner, it seemed the 11 was on-line to carom off into the pocket. He hadn't seen that when he was shooting. He just figured he needed the space to play a safety and snooker the cue ball into the jaws of the right corner pocket, behind the 8. But now, he figured what the hell. It was like finding $5 on the sidewalk.

"Yup, those were the good days back in college. Only really started playing this game then. Actually had good grades too, at least for a couple semesters."

A little left English was in order, to adjust for the off-angle carom. No big deal. If it goes, it goes. He leaned down again, carefully tucking his shirt in first. That 1 ball sitting by the side pocket was like a land mine. This was no time for a foul on a wardrobe malfunction. Two, three practice strokes. Then he just shot it. Shots like this, shots that were 20% vision, 20% execution, and 60% luck, he couldn't see the point of extra strokes. Get down there and shoot it for Christ's sake. With a firm hit, the 11 sped smartly, smack, off the right side of the 2 and straight into the pocket.

"Of course, then I got hooked on pool like you might on heroin. My roommate and I pooled our money and bought an $800 stick our second year. We both played with it, and just used house cues to break. My God, I treated that baby better than I would have my girlfriend."

The cue ball had gotten a little loose on him. He could still see the 14, but this was going to be tricky to make it into the same corner as the 11. Maybe a bank, rail-first, into the right corner. Probably not with the way these rails were playing. He'd made maybe 3 bank shots all night, and none of 'em had been rail-first. So that left a masse then.

"Of course, there was never actually a girlfriend. What sort of woman would be interested in a pool bum? At least a surf bum ends up with a nice tan. We ended up playing pool instead of going to lectures in the morning. Sometimes I'd bring a textbook or two, to read while I was waiting and he was at the table. Got more work done there than anywhere else."

It was sharp alright; these short-ranges masses were never fun, especially with cue ball so far from the rails. Not only did he have to lean his body precariously out over the table, but he also had to strike down on the ball from an almost vertical angle. No practice strokes this time, even less point. Just pull the trigger and pray a little. He almost chuckled at that, praying. God was not all that fond of pool players, in his experience. BANG, the stick drove down like a jackhammer, and the cue ball squirted just barely around the edge of the cluster of solids and squarely into the 14. Another soft plop as the 14 drooled slowly into the pocket.

"Graduated with a miracle of a 2.2 GPA and this feeling in my legs like I couldn't stand still anymore, so I turned down the internships and put the grad school applications in a box, and grabbed the cue and called my roommate. Yeah, why the hell not, we could try our luck on the road, for a few months at worst. Shits and giggles, you know?"

The problem with that kind of masse shot was, he had almost no control over exactly where the cue ball would end up. And he was now stuck all the way uptable, a veritable sea of aquamarine felt between the cue ball and the barely visible 9 lying propped against the left side rail. Well, it was definitely going to be a squeeze.

"We didn't know what the hell we were getting into, but we both had a little money left over and figured we couldn't lose that much over the course of a summer. Hell, it's the sort of thing you do once in your life at least, and hopefully when you're young. Those guys that hit the road in their 40s, with a mid-life crisis and 2 ex-wives in the rearview mirror, man those guys are just pathetic. But us two? We were just being dumb."

He wasn't 100% sure the cue ball would fit between the 5 and 6. It was what he liked to call a "Straight of Gibraltar" shot. Elevate the cue about 15 degrees... a little bit of curve would help the cue ball reach the 9 at a better angle. Softly now, this didn't need to be too hard. The softer the better, since a lot of times that ball will just get slowly sucked into the pocket.

"Anyways, we lasted about 3 weeks, before we realized we had just barely enough gas and food money to get home. We actually won a little that first week, but that didn't last too long. Maybe they were all in on the hustle, guys throwing games so other guys could clean up. Sometimes the whole world seems to be in on the joke and you just don't get it."

Tap. That was all, was a tap, as the cue ball gently, ever so slightly bent through the narrow opening, crawled across the table, and touched the 9. It was like a pat on the back. The 9 ball took the hint, and obediently, deliberately, slowly, was guided by the rail down, down into the pocket. The cue ball even came back off the side rail, giving him a little breathing room.

"So, there went $3000 bucks towards our hustling education. I mean, looking back, it was probably worth it. I learned a hell of a lot about adjusting to different opponents, different tables, different cues, different anything. We even played this chick who offered to blow us instead of paying us the $200 she lost. My roommate took her up on that. Me? I wasn't in the mood for leftovers."

Compared to the last three of four shots, the 8 ball was easy. The 3 blocked it off from a large portion of the table, but he had managed to find an angle from this end of the table. Just a straightforward shot, keeping that 8 on the rail for about 3 feet. He made these shots about 94 out of 100 times. He didn't want to say 95, because multiples of 5 seemed to represent distinct levels of confidence, and he didn't want to be pretentious.

"So how'd I get here, still playing pool and not working a real job? You know, it's kind of a long story."

Four, five, six times the cue slid back and forth, even paced and methodically. It could have been a wire, for all its precision. His muscle memory was photographic. Then, firmly, smoothly, inevitably, the cue ball jumped out ahead of the stick, clapped the 8, and kicked off a few inches. The 8 ball meanwhile headed towards the pocket with a sort of resolute certainty. He didn't know why he gave the balls personalities. But the 8 ball was one he would always treat with a little more respect than the others. His glance shifted towards the stack of forty Jeffersons and Grants sitting on the top of the light fixture hanging over the table. $1400. Half of those had been his, and the other half would now join them.

"Rack 'em up, and I'll see if I can't tell ya most of it."

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Well whaddya know, it's that time of year again. When I dust off the old blog and pretend I can write things. Fun.

Instead Of or In Spite Of

So. Why do conversations start with "so" so often? I dunno.

So... what else is there? Well, there's the ELE lab I should have written up 2 days ago when I had the chance, the Kant that I could have been reading the past 3 or 4 weeks that leads into the midterm paper that's due midnight Sunday when it's actually Monday, the get-rich-quick-by-winning-an-algorithmic-investing-competition which I should be working on since it's something I'm legitimately semi-interested in, the card room 2 miles down the road where $220 fell out of some senior citizens' wallets and into mine because Joey was 2 hours late and that's how I spend free time, the $219 pool cue I got as an early birthday gift from my parents (on Halloween, strangely), the ~$300 trip to Boston to watch the Red Sox play Game 7 of the ALCS, the Bartending 101 class I just paid $100 for, the "I'd Eat That" t-shirt I designed with a picture of a cute puppy dog waiting for me in a mailroom in Princeton, NJ, the erratic sleep cycle I'm working on which is why I'm awake at 2:56 AM, the (second) trip to Gainesville in a week that I got back from yesterday morning which included $26 on dinner as my way of celebrating my poker exploits, a half-baked birthday party, stealing 2 cases of beer from the birthday boy, a drunken/hookah filled poker game, and napping in fits on the loveseat while scrunched into a W-shape, and ... what am I missing? Oh yeah, the sobering realization that this is not the life I really want to be living.

It's not all bad though. It's not even a little bad. In fact, it's pretty much 99.99% good. What do you call it when you start complaining about something that for all intents and purposes must seem like a pretty damn good life from what you might call an objective point of view? Ungrateful? Spoiled? Unappreciative? Crazy? Depressed? Doesn't everyone wonder what would happen if instead of lazily piloting their cars along the black asphalt, following the straight and narrow yellow line to my left or the intermittently existing whiteness on my right, they just hooked the steering wheel hard right and the car with it into that truck coming up alongside? Maybe you really can pass under the trailers of those things, just like in the movies. What the hell, it'd be a bloody good show either way. Well, bloody at least. Good? Why not?

Maybe the problem is not in the 99.99% that's good. Methinks I hear Captain Obvious waiting in the wings. Show yourself! Never, he shouts from the shadows, and slinks back into the recesses from whence he cometh. Is my English get worse?

What I would not give for that last 0.01%. She has no idea. If I ever get to meet her though, I'd want to know if she of all people knew what I meant.

Never (or Always) Go on Air Tipsy / Someone Out There Cares

I believe the first part of the blog title is fairly self-explanatory... Well, we went on a beer run tonight, picked up 4 six-packs of varying beers (hey broski, two Heinekens!), including some kickass Victory Stouts (at least I think that was the name). Then my roommate Sam and I decided we absolutely had to see the new Resident Evil movie. Why? God knows, but Milla Jovovich is reason enough for me.

The movie was not all that great, typical RE stuff, and like many reviews had mentioned, it played out on screen much more like a video game than an actual movie. This may or may not be a problem for some portions of the movie-going public, but hey, it's Milla FUCKING Jovovich. Still, the movie did leave a lasting impression on me. I mean, going to the radio station at 2 AM and staying in a lonely basement for 2 hours is fun enough already, but when your mind is focused on fucking flesh-eating zombies, well, that's just infinitely more interesting. If there had been any kind of sudden noise, I swear I would have shit my pants.

However, the couple beers I knocked down right before going on air (which by the way is like a huge deal or something... apparently intoxicated people won't make good, professional DJ's?) did manage to take the edge off, and luckily I found a shitload of hip hop material I had not noticed before. Namely, "La di da di."

Apparently I was not the only one who found my show thoroughly enjoyable tonight/this morning. Granted I was above the legal limit, but my listeners are always fair, experienced judges. Anyways, just as I was getting ready to pull my last track and sign off for the night, the phone rings. Actually, the phone doesn't ring in the studio (duh) because that would be terrible for our sound going out over the airwaves if phones began ringing while DJ's were on the mic speaking. So technically, the phone begins flashing, because instead of ringing we installed this giant fucking strobe-light like mechanism. To be entirely honest, I debated whether or not to pick up the phone, but my conscience won out in the end (the same one that managed to not feel any guilt about drinking in the first place), and I picked up.

"Hello, WPRB."
"Hi, umm, which DJ is this?"
"Hi, my name's Cody."
"Cody? Hi. I just wanted to call in and say, well actually I used to work at WPRB, but anyways I was working tonight in Philly, and I just had a really bad night at work and it was really depressing. But on the way home I started listening to your show, and I don't know but it just really really cheered me up a lot to listen to your show, so thanks."
"Aww, well sure, glad to help."
"Yeah, it actually made me cry a little, I just, I dunno, but it was really good. I love your show."
"Thank you, that's sweet."
"Ok, well, goodnight, bye."
"Bye."

And that is why, the world is a good place. Thank you, anonymous girl working in Philly, for that little reminder. :-)

My $1,000 Jersey

Looking back on that last post, I wish only one thing.

That I had quit.

Still, it's not all bad. I finally cashed out, and today got my check in the mail and took it to the bank. The story of the 3 weeks or so after that last post isn't pretty though. I took that $3.4K, ran it down to $2.8K on a standard downswing (granted, it was my first one at this level), straightened myself out and floated up to $3.2K, but I still hadn't had enough. Oh no. At this point, I realized I was about 5,000-6,000 Frequent Player Points away from earning myself a custom order Full Tilt Jersey, as seen on ESPN and all that bullshat. Why? 'cuz if John f-ing Juanda has one, then I need one...

Well, in my last 2 weeks that I had to cash out using my school address before I had to go home, I realized I would need to 7-table the $0.50/$1.00 NLHE game. Yup, SEVEN TABLES. Suffice it to say, I did not yet have the amount of multi-taskitude and focus needed for this. With a combination of below average luck and above average donking, I managed to drop $1,000. The good news is that I did get to 25,000 FPPs, so the next time you see me at a poker table, I'll be proudly wearing my new custom Full Tilt jersey, which cost me $1,000 basically.

Oh, and I just found out, there's a guy on eBay who's selling them for $69.95. Apparently he's racked up enough FPPs to make a business out of this. Although, if he had 400,000 FPPs he could get himself a plasma TV instead. Meh. I still think my one grand was a good price/deal.

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Princeton, New Jersey. Hey, that's funny God, thanks... Fucker.

Playing poker over the last 6 months: $2,046.84
Stamp for the envelope that safely brought the check to my mailbox: $0.14
Waiting for the bank to actually cash this check: Priceless

Y'all must be sick of hearing nothing but good news...

So here it is, and first of all, lemme just say, FUCKKKKIIINNNNN AAAAAAAAA

Hehehe, so now you have a general idea what this is all about.

Well, given the recent success in poker, it was time to move up in limits. I decided to try out the $1/$2 NL game today. Started off, nothing special, then somewhere, I bluffed a medium sized pot off of a guy, so I had $270 at one table (bought-in for $200).

Then, this hand comes up... 9-7 of spades on the button, middle position raises to $8, two players call, so I call. Four to the flop, which was 9-7-3, with 2 hearts. Original raiser bets out $30, one guy calls, and I move all-in, trying to force an overpair like QQ, KK, or AA to call. Well, it worked, the first raiser folded, and the second caller thought for a while, then called, and flipped up QQ. I knew I wasn't a huge favorite (on the flop: 74.6% favorite), and I got ready to sweat the shit out of this hand. Turn was an offsuit 4, a complete blank. Now I only need to sweat 8 outs on the river (on the turn: 81.8% favorite).

And the river is the fucking Queen of hearts, and believe me when I tell you, that HURT LIKE A BITCH.

It's not like I've never been outdrawn before, but that was a fucking $570 pot I just lost.

(total is still in the mid $3k range, nothing disastrous, but winning that pot would have been fucking sweet, not to mention, well-deserved)

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Just needed to vent, time to jump back in the fray...

More of the same

Jesus, variance is soooooo trying to catch up to me. I've been starting out the last two days all on some horrible downers for the first hour. Again, down about -$350 in the first hour. At one point, I was up $400 from the initial 100BB buy in of the 4 tables I was on, and was barely even. Still, just grinding it out. I don't even know how I do it. Hope I'll be able to keep on dodging any negative variance. This last month has been a pretty good run of cards, but I hope even if the cards level out, I'll be too enough to fake it till I make it.

Yeah, I said it.

Net total: +$3,070.75

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I just noticed... since my post on April 11th, it's been 7 days. And I've made $2,000 in profit. QUIT SKOOOOL, PL4Y P0K3R 4 LYFE!!!!!

Know How to Win Big, Know How to Win, Period

So, as amazing as winning $1.2 grand in 4 hours was yesterday, today started out almost the exact opposite. Whereas that averaged out to an hourly win rate of +$300/hr, today started out more along the lines of -$300/hr. No kidding, in the first hour, I'd either bluffed off, or called off, at least $300, playing 4 tables of 100NL.

No worries. Part of it was advertising, part of it was variance. Hey, I know what I'm doing now. Hunker down (only a little), and start hitting a few hands. I did just that, took down a big pot with a set of 10's, got lucky to hit a combo-draw on the river, called down a few bluffs, etc. Soon enough, that -$300 deficit was mostly gone.

And after 3 hours of solid, disciplined poker, I dug myself completely out of that early hole, and would up with a small profit (small = < $50, I know, I'm greedy). So, you have to know how to win big at times, but more importantly, is knowing how to grind it out, and play focused and disciplined poker even when you start off in a deep hole. Lesson learned, and applied.

Net total: +$2,976.85

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This poker thing is alright.

Dude, so I just finished 4th in this tourney...

... 4th place, 613 entries, $24+2, Fulltilt $11k guarantee.

Prize money: +$1,287.30

What I really can't believe, is I actually lasted this deep in an MTT. MTT's hate me. Guess not today... biggest hand, 88 vs. KK, but I hit an 8 on the flop. Gave me 22K in my stack, and let me stay alive.

Final table, pretty standard, came in as 8th out of 9 players, outlasted the other short stacks. Got dealt AK, doubled against AJ, then later got 88, and beat out AQ on a coin-flip. Even my bust-out hand, I'm fairly proud of. J-10 of spades, called a raise preflop, flop came A-10-9, two spades. I open-pushed all-in, and guy made a gutsy call with A-7. 51% favorite on the flop. But I bricked out. Grrrrr. First place would have been $3,600... Anyways.

Net total: +$2,935.60

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JESUS H. CHRIST!

Steady, steady...

A good two hours of solid poker. 3-tabling the 100NL HE tables on FullTilt is so freaking automatic for me now. So long as the luck factor stays minimized. Example, biggest hand today, AA v KK. Guy limps from UTG, UTG+1 limps, fold to SB, he calls, and I raise to $5 with AA in the BB. UTG reraises to $15. Everyone else folds to me. Basically, with his limp-reraise, UTG has defined his range to basically be QQ+, AK, maaaybe JJ once in a blue moon. Against that range, I see him having a hell of a hard time laying down QQ or KK preflop, and hell he might even call with AKs. So I just push, $80 more back to him, insta-call, yup KK. Board bricks out (no funny straights to chop either), and if my 80-20 hands keep holding up, life will be just gravy.

Net total: +$1,575.85

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Maybe when they fixed my laptop and replaced the hard drive, they updated my luck chip...

Alright, This is Fucking Scary...

That I can be running this good/lucky for this long at poker? Jesus H. Christ, think of the eventual downswing... it's gonna be apocalyptic.

Played another couple hours today, 450 hands, made another $230. I don't think it's 'cuz I'm good anymore, I just think this is setting me up for something bad later on in life.

Still, have to ride the hot streak for all it's worth.

Net total: +$1,460

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I've been trying to play the $19K and $26K guarantee tourneys on FullTilt ($24+2 buy-in), but apparently I just can't outdonk these guys. Not playing optimally, and not getting any breaks in the tourneys either. Oh well, I can live with dropping a few buy-ins in these MTTs if that's the price for keeping my cash game skills extra-sharp.

Live Update

In the span of 60 short minutes, I made $220 today.

The best moment of the day? I busted a guy (let's call him, Poor Bastard) when I had AA, he had AK, and the flop came A-K-8. I took down the very next hand with a big bluff with 7-6. Then, on the immediate hand after that bluff, I got AK of clubs in the big blind. 4 players called a raise to the flop, and it came Q-10-3, with two clubs. I checked to Poor Bastard (who rebought in for another $100), and he bet out for $9 (about a 2/3 pot bet), and I check-raised to $30. He pushed all-in, and I had an easy pot-odds call getting 2:1 on my money with 12 outs and two cards to come. He showed Q-10 for top two pair, but fortunately I hit my flush on the turn.

So, I took $200 from the same guy, in less than 2 minutes.

Ouch.

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Poker, poker, it's all skill, start with the worst hand and go uphill...

Net total: +$1,250

My Long, Tormented Journey

To commemorate the milestone I achieved today, I've decided to chronicle for you, very briefly, the details of my long, tormented journey through the bowels of online poker hell...

Midnight, 11/12/2006: I turn 18.

15 minutes later: I deposit $200 onto Bodog, using their checking account deposit service.

About 1 week later: I deposit another $300 onto Bodog, after already having lost the first $200.

Late-November: After haggling with a Neteller customer service rep for about 10 minutes, I set up an online account to transfer money from my bank account, through Neteller, to other poker sites (besides just Bodog, which at this point, I have decided is rigged). I have also withdrawn the $200 remaining in my Bodog account back into my bank account. Net total: -$300.

2 minutes later: I deposit $600 onto FullTilt Poker, in order to collect the 100% bonus (up to a maximum of $600), which the site gives to new players. By a conservative estimate, I need to play about 24,000 hands of poker to earn all of this $600 bonus.

About 2 days later: I have a local maxima of $940 in my account, after winning about $300 in the first 2 days after I deposited. At this point, I've earned back the money I lost on Bodog, and look to be on my way to a successful poker career. Note, I'm playing mostly $0.25/$0.50 NLHE (no limit hold'em) full ring games, and $10+1 STT SNG (single-table tournament, sit'n go's). Net total: +$40.

A month later, in mid-December: After that initial streak of wins at $0.25/$0.50 NLHE, I get a little greedy, start playing 4 tables simultaneously, and also venture into other games, like $2/$4 PL Omaha, $4/$8 Stud, $4/$8 Stud H/L, and $4/$8 Razz. After losing a few hundred dollars at these games, I move down to the $2/$4 limits, and continue to lose. By the day after Christmas, I have exactly $86.45 in my account. This represents a total loss of: -$813.55. Meanwhile, I loaned $40 to Mike G., and in the span of about 2 weeks, watched him make a profit of $700. Jesus hates me. Net total: -$813.55.

Fast forward, late-February: For some strange reason, I've refound my footing at this point, and am hovering around $600 in my account. By now, the original bonus of $600 is completely gone, meaning that had I been playing without it, I would be broke. From winter break, I've been playing almost exclusively $.15/$.30 NLHE 6-max deep tables (meaning you can buy in for 200 times the big blind, i.e. $60, instead of the usual 100 BB). Also, I've finally managed to get "good" at the $10+1 STT SNGs, and begin to actually show a net profit from those. Also, I was forced to deposit another $100 solely for identity/account verification purposes. I also withdrew $100 of winnings during this period. Net total: -$300.

Mid-March: I get a random email from FullTilt Poker, which says I've qualified for a new $300 bonus, but that I only have 14 days to earn it. I decide to play 4 tables of $0.25/$0.50 NLHE full ring, to try and earn the bonus as quickly as possible. After some experimentation, I realize I need to play about 16000-17000 hands at this level for me to earn the bonus. Given the time restraint of 2 weeks, this is deemed impossible unless I play about 4 hours every day... With no other choice, I decide to jump up to $0.50/$1.00 NLHE, and play 4 tables. This means putting most of my bankroll ($400 of my $600) into play. I've also moved up to playing the $20+2 STT SNGs, and they seem easier to beat than the $10+1 tourneys. And surprisingly, I don't lose.

2 weeks later: Because of the interruption of Spring Break, I am unable to earn all of my $300 bonus, and only manage to earn about $180. Still, at the end of the 14-day bonus period, I find myself with roughly $800 sitting in my account. Net total: +$0 (or, -$0, if your glass is feeling half-empty).

Present-day: Deciding that I've improved enough (based on the latest run during my bonus collection), I settle down to playing $0.50/$1.00 NLHE exclusively, with the occasional $20+2 SNG thrown in for variety. In fact, I earn about $300 from these SNGs. I also seem to have figured this cash game business out, and go on an incredible winning streak that is so far still holding up. Right now, I have $1,832 in my account. Net total: +$1,032.

That's right.

I have earned an overall profit of $1,032 for my last 5 months playing poker. And it was fucking painful. In fact, that $1,000 has come entirely within the last 2-3 weeks...

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Live update: Playing the $11K guarantee on FullTilt, I just busted out, holding QQ. Villain in MP min-raises to 240, I raise the size of the pot for a total of 900 back to him, and he calls. Flop J-7-6, all spades, and Villain open-pushes all-in. I call, holding the Q of spades, and wondering what the hell is going on. Villain flips up 2-3 of spades... I miss my redraw outs.

Here's to donks (myself included at times). Cheers.

I Would Write Some Commentary...

... but stuff like this is just too perfect on its own. I'm pretty sure that any extra social commentary on my part would only detract from the awesomeness.

What follows is excerpted from a NY Times article on an online sexual predator sting operation in Polk County, FL:

A videotape of the scene, posted on The Sentinel’s Web site, shows Jonathan K. Thompkins, a 19-year-old food preparation worker from nearby Melbourne, Fla., being arrested after he appeared at the house, apparently expecting to go skinny-dipping with a 13-year-old girl.

When he was met by investigators at the front door instead, Mr. Thompkins is heard on the tape saying, “I knew it.”

Mr. Thompkins told reporters that he went to the home with plans to meet with the girl and “just to go into the pool, and whatever happens, happens.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he told them. “My mom raised me better.”

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Poor mom.

Things I Didn't Plan on Doing but Ended Up Happening Anyways Over Spring Break

In the interests of keeping things simple, here goes:

1) Wait in line, a hell of a lot
(a) flight canceled Friday, waited in line for 4 hours, ended up spending two extra days in Princeton and flew out Monday
(b) waiting for a shuttle bus in the rain for an hour in Miami, at the Sony Ericsson Open
(c) extra-long security at Tampa International Airport on the way home... ergh, back to school
2) Be in a car, traversing all of the freakin' state of Florida
(a) Oldsmar to Gainesville, Gainesville to Tallahassee, Tallahassee to Gainesville, Gainesville to Oldsmar, Oldsmar to Ft. Lauderdale, Ft. Lauderdale to Miami, Miami to Oldsmar
3) Make a drunken ass of myself
(a) well, maybe that was to be expected, but not exactly in the way that it worked out being
(b) 7(?) consecutive vodka shots = loss of all basic common sense and decency
3) Play tennis
(a) my parents' fault, they made me
4) Not play poker
(a) I wanted to, but I never got around to it
5) Get myself sunburnt to a red crisp like a bloody Indian
(a) not the gas station kind, the last-of-the-freakin'-Mohicans kind
6) Take a zillion photos of Maria Sharapova
(a) she's a hottie
(b) my God, the legs on that woman, they just go onnnnnnnn forever
(c) perfect skin tone too
(d) so photogenic
(e) not to mention, being kickass at tennis

Yay Spring Break!

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I apologize profusely for hitting you with my car Wednesday morning. Really, that was completely unintentional. I was just a little drunk still, and I didn't think you were crossing in front of me.

Beating (or Dodging) Expectations

Though a Part I generally implies the existence, or at the very least the imminent existence, of what is usually known as "Part II," I've decided to buck the system. To you, the disappointed reader, I say, "Nuts."

For the sake of completeness, here's a summary of what happened after that last post... got to Chinatown, walked 5 blocks in a random direction, found out from an irritated traffic cop that my random direction happened to be the right direction, bought a ticket using Chinese with the ticket lady, shivered for 30 minutes waiting on the sidewalk and eating my $0.92 hot dog which for all I know may have been more literal than usual, got a front seat on the same sort of bus we used for Mu Alpha Theta competitions, dozed off (and on), listened to my iPod, stopped at a gas station in CT and bought dear Dinah an "I <3 NY" piggy bank, got to Boston, and navigated by way through the mass transit system known as the "T" with some navigational assistance, and found myself waiting outside a Bed, Bath, and Beyond to see one of just a handful of familiar faces here in the North (the capital "North," i.e. the Union in the Civil War). Spending a day at an all girls school was less awkard than I imagined (except for the part where I went to the bathroom, by myself; I'd never been in a girl's bathroom before, and it was strannnnnge). We (Dinah, myself, and her roommate Emily) had a lovely time freezing our butts off walking to the U.S.S. Constitution, but the ship did not disappoint (Dinah I think, was the most satisfied). We also hit up the MFA (Museum of Fine Arts, dummy), which was phenomenal. To cut things short, after a delicious dinner at Brown Sugar Cafe (my favorite Thai place in the world), the return journey was much the same, except I found myself waiting at the Grand St. subway station for 45 MINUTES for a train, and yes... it was colder than the proverbial witch's teat.

Anyways, I just came home from my Wednesday night precept for POL 240: International Relations, and the stimulating discussion has left my brain buzzing and in the mood to write a long, sexy essay... sadly, I don't need to write an essay for Politics. I have a 5-7 page essay due for my Writing Seminar, but as you can plainly tell I'm writing here instead, and it does not seem very likely that this blog post will somehow mutate into that essay, especially given the severity of the run-on-ness of this sentence.

Besides, I see it as an incredible compliment to myself that I feel like I can write this essay in less than 11 hours (yes, that makes sleep optional), when other kids might use a month, a week, or 12 hours. Oh yeah, I'm just that good.

Life's a busy blast. I barely have any time to pee.

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In other news tonight, a Princeton student was found dead in his dorm room yesterday. The cause of death was unknown, though roommates say pride was probably what caused his fatal fall from the top bunk bed.

Running Away from a Final Exam (Part I)

Last week, Tuesday. Wake up, check the clock. Around 1:30 PM, pretty standard for a non-class day. Doze off for a bit; again, pretty standard. Wake up again, this time to loud conversation in the living room. Something like, "Hey, is the power out for you too?" Lovely.

3 hours and the longest heads-up match of poker of my life later (my roommate Keith won, and now I owe him my pride... shucks), the power was still out. It being 5:30 PM now, and it being New Jersey where the sun doesn't like to linger in the winter, it was fast getting dark out. The funny thing about power outages? No WiFi, and no email. So I packed up my bags, got my laptop, and decided to head to the Frist campus center to set up my new office/home away from home. Before I left, I decided to make a few phone calls, to let people know how miserable a condition I was in with my lack of electricity. Among them was a call which was inspired by a random idea I'd had: with my one and only final coming up Saturday morning, I was going to have nothing to do for the rest of the week but maybe possibly glancingly study on Friday. Therefore, it seemed a perfect opportunity to call up dear Dinah all the way up in frigid Boston, and suggest a visit. She agreed it would be a mah-va-lous idea.

12 hours later, after spending the entire night in the campus center playing online poker (down $250 at one point, finished down $20), I headed back to my dorm after receiving a "Hey, power's back" email. Napped from 8 AM to abou 12 PM, at which time I woke up to take a shower, and then pack some clothes for my trip to Boston. Luckily, I ran into a friend who was going up to NY Penn Station too, to catch a train home to Connecticut. We left campus at 1:30 PM (cue travel time clock).

Coming out of Penn Station around 3 PM, we ran into two guys wearing jackets with "ESPN" and "Cold Pizza" lettering on them ,and one of them was holding a camera. Yup, an ESPN camera crew. The guy approached us and asked if we wanted to do "a little trivia game." Of course, why the hell not? Getting on ESPN = every boy's dream, even a Chinese boy's. Anyways, my friend went first, and I wasn't allowed to look. Then came my turn.

"Ok, I'm gonna show you two pictures, and you're gonna try to tell me who they are, ok?"
"Yeah, sure."

First up, some non-descript, athletic, football player looking white male, mid 20s. No idea who he could be, but the guy kept pressuring me to say a name.

"Come on, just say a name."
"I have no idea who this guy is."
"Just guess, come on, you gotta say something."
"I dunno!"
"Say a name, just say it!"
"... Mike Piazza."

Of course it was not Mike Piazza. I actually do know who Mr. Piazza is and what he looks like. I knew that was not Mr. Piazza. But the guy just kept pressuring me and pressuring me. I can tell right now I would not stand up well under torture or interrogation.

The second picture was, obviously, Peyton Manning. After the two of us had left and walked a couple of blocks, my friend suddenly turns to me with an epiphany (he had guessed Eli Manning for the first guy, a much more reasonable assertion).

"Oh my God, we're such fucking idiots... the second guy was Peyton Manning, right? I'll bet you anything the first one was fucking Rex Grossman!"

But really, who would recognize the Bears quarterback's headshot like that? I mean, it's Rex fucking Grossman, who the fuck cares? Still, I felt like an idiot, like somehow I should have been able to preemptively guess that based on predicting the second photo was going to be Peyton. Didn't help that I was caught on ESPN film, wearing a Princeton sweatshirt, loudly proclaiming to the world, I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT SPORTS AND THINK THAT REX GROSSMAN AND MIKE PIAZZA LOOK ALIKE, oh, and I GO TO PRINCETON.

Still, I had to trudge on, even burdened with the knowledge that my first time on national TV, I would come off as a geeky looking Chink who knew nothing about sports or about the upcoming Super Bowl. Beautiful. It was 3:25 PM by now, and I was planning to catch the 4:00 PM Chinatown bus (Fung Wah, not Lucky Star, because Fung Wah was the one with the bus drivers who couldn't speak English, the buses that caught on fire on the interstate, and even the one bus that flipped and killed a few dozen people... me, I like adventure). I found my way from Penn Station to 34th St. and Herald Sq. station, and after studying a subway map for quite some time (HEY EVERYONE, LOOK AT ME, I'M FROM OUT OF TOWN), decided I could safely take either the B or D line train down to Grand St. Lo and behold, within 5 minutes, the D train came, and I sat down by a window so I could look out and check the walls of the upcoming stations, cuz you know, you can never trust the subway guys on the intercom, who could either be too drunk to know what's next, or could just be messing with people like me.

Sadly, I found Grand St. with no problem, and when the doors opened up, a flood of Chinese faces rushed in (I'm not being racist, I know how we look, they were ALL CHINESE). Yup, I was in Chinatown.

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In next week's exciting installment, I eat a $0.92 hot dog made out of God knows what kind of meat, and manage to not die. Yay!