Pretty self-explanatory. Now, if it were't for the dumb tourney shit that I've been doing, I'd actually show a profit (+$0.60/hour baby!)...
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"She'll hold together... hear me baby? Hold together."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Before and After
Pretty self-explanatory. Now, if it were't for the dumb tourney shit that I've been doing, I'd actually show a profit (+$0.60/hour baby!)...
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"She'll hold together... hear me baby? Hold together."
Saturday, July 19, 2008
And The Moral of That Story Was...
... I can't take a compliment.
"Poker, poker, it's all skill. Start with the worst hand and go uphill."
--- Mike Matusow
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In totally unrelated news, having recently stumbled across Blurb.com, I've semi-decided to start compiling all my stupid little "Deck" shorts into Blurb-book form. Get your pre-order in now. Or don't.
Please don't.
I'll also try my hand at writing something longer... say 10,000 words? Fingers crossed realll hard.
"Poker, poker, it's all skill. Start with the worst hand and go uphill."
--- Mike Matusow
-------------
In totally unrelated news, having recently stumbled across Blurb.com, I've semi-decided to start compiling all my stupid little "Deck" shorts into Blurb-book form. Get your pre-order in now. Or don't.
Please don't.
I'll also try my hand at writing something longer... say 10,000 words? Fingers crossed realll hard.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Guess What? I'm Finally a Winning Poker Player
... at $0.02/$0.05 6-max NLHE on Stars at least (4,000 hands = not a large enough sample to be sure, but Icanhazgoodfeeling about this one):
Now, contrast that to my sordid history on FullTilt, over roughly 19,000 hands of $0.05/$0.10 6-max NLHE, and 2,000 hands of $0.10/$0.25:
So now do I qualify as a micro-stakes grinder... maybe?
-------------
Nathan, I'm assuming you're still ahead in our little poker vs. stocks bet.
Now, contrast that to my sordid history on FullTilt, over roughly 19,000 hands of $0.05/$0.10 6-max NLHE, and 2,000 hands of $0.10/$0.25:
So now do I qualify as a micro-stakes grinder... maybe?
-------------
Nathan, I'm assuming you're still ahead in our little poker vs. stocks bet.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thank You (pt. 3)
Last week, he'd been running colder than the broken freezer in his apartment. There were two days where he was 0 for 12 in preflop all-in coin-flips. From both sides, he'd taken it: QQ vs. AK (flopped top set, then came runner-runner straight), AQ vs 99 (rivered the last 9 after the big blind had exposed 9 4 offsuit), 22 vs. Q9s in a 4-bet pot (nobody's fault, they'd been shorthanded and playing 100 BB deep, and the guy on the button had been punishing his cut-off opens a helluva lot), and even AK vs. 33 twice against the same donk (one of them Deck had AsKs, and bricked out on the river even when the board had come Qs10h8s10s and half the deck would have been winners). How the hell the guy had ever managed to call a 5-bet shove with 33 while sitting 225 BB deep was beyond Deck, maybe even beyond the realm of human understanding entirely; it was probably only something a guppy could explain to you.
He still hadn't fixed the freezer yet (it was leaking cold air somehow, and it'd gotten to the point where he didn't need to turn on his AC anymore, even in the middle of the day), and yet, today, for some reason, he had been winning coin-flips. Plural.
Focus you broke fuck, he thought as he slapped himself back into the here-and-now. You're still fourth out of four, and the big money's only in the top two spots.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out a bit, and tilted his head up and over his shoulder to glance at the payouts again, glowing on a soft blue TV screen: heavenly white letters spelling out what each place was worth. What he would be worth, if he finished there.
Ninth had been a measly $154; the guy who had finished there seemed glad to have the seventy-some-odd extra dollars in his pocket, even if it had cost him over four hours to get it.
First place was $3,072. Right now, in fourth, he was worth $538.
Not too shabby, was not the thought running through his mind right now.
Goddammit, forget about her. Now is not the time, do you hear me? He could hear himself thinking those words, but he didn't give a damn.
"Need your ante bud," the dealer mumbled and nodded towards Deck, as he swiveled around from left to right and dealt out the next hand.
Deck absentmindedly tossed a couple of yellow chips into the pot. He made himself think back to the payouts. They'd been published on the flyer now crumpled in Deck's pocket with the percentages of the prize pool for each place, before they knew how many people would register (minimum of 36 players, capped at 180).
Now, on the screen, it said,
He was pretty damn sure those numbers couldn't have come out all whole like that, so he let his mind start wandering, trying to figure out which places had been rounded up, and which had been rounded down. It seemed like, if he did finish fourth, he'd at least be picking up a few extra cents than he could have expected from the strict percentage payout. Not that it mattered.
Of course it doesn't fucking matter, you idiot. It was just a damn kiss.
Two damn kisses, he offered up weakly in a sort of stubborn protest against that part of his mind that was trying and failing to slap him out of his reverie.
"Action's on you mack," the dealer said and tapped the table at Deck.
He sat up, looked around in confusion for a moment, and found the two not-so-shiny pieces of plastic floating on the green felt in front of him, the two cards that held his fate. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at them.
Pondering this point, at the same time Deck's hands had already reached out across the felt sea, and were bending back his fate just enough so that he could at least take a peek. Even if he didn't want to know for sure, he still had to peek.
The first one was... a diamond. Nothing across. And the second... a heart. Also, nothing across.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've tossed a deuce-trey off, he told himself.
Whatever or whomever was supposed to respond, didn't. Instead, all Deck heard was a silent plea that seemed to fill his brain and his body. Wistful, earnest, sincere, and pleading. Wordlessly, he felt it inside himself. An indescribable urge, an urge that stopped him from mechanically tossing this red, nothing across hand back into the muck for the millionth-and-first time.
Ok, so now what? You want me to look again? It's not like they're gonna change, he quipped back to whatever had just caused him to hold on to... to what he was holding on to, he didn't even know.
Again, silence. But now a different urge emerged. His hands reached back down to the table, and this time, instead of picking up his cards, they picked up a stack of black chips. 1000 each, so the 20 his left hand was counting out was a raise of 20,000. Deck wasn't sure, but he thought he only had about 60-or 70,000 to begin with. This was not going to be pretty.
"Raise, 20,000 to call," announced the dealer, who was growing a little impatient. Whatever this guy was doing, he should just go ahead and get it over with, he thought. For Chrissake, he only had 60-something left. With these blinds at 4,000/8,000 with a 1,000 ante, he wasn't going to last long anyways. It was a miracle he'd made it even this far. And besides, he was already working three more downs than he'd been planning to today. Just knock the poor bastard out, so I can go home sooner, he thought.
The button and the small blind both folded, and the big blind peeked down at his cards, glanced over at Deck's dwindling chip stack, and announced "all-in" with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.
Great, now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Deck wasn't sure he'd get an answer from himself. Instead, to his own surprise, his hands started reaching for the rest of his chips, and before he could stop himself, before he could even get a chance to look at his cards again, his right hand had pushed the last of his chips across the thin white pass line.
"All-in and a call," announced the dealer, giving the floorman on the other side of the room a heads-up, that it was time to start counting out the fourth-place money.
"Turn up your hands gentlemen," the dealer asked the two players.
The big blind was so excited, he had trouble picking his cards up off the felt. "Two queens," the dealer announced for everyone's benefit, but Deck barely heard him. All he could do was stand up, already feeling like he was falling further and further down, down, and away from this final table, this final chance. The dealer irritably stretched out and grabbed Deck's cards and threw them down, face-up, on the felt, and Deck finally saw his fate revealed.
"Two red aces," the dealer grumbled, annoyed that it seemed this tournament wasn't going to be over any time soon...
He still hadn't fixed the freezer yet (it was leaking cold air somehow, and it'd gotten to the point where he didn't need to turn on his AC anymore, even in the middle of the day), and yet, today, for some reason, he had been winning coin-flips. Plural.
Focus you broke fuck, he thought as he slapped himself back into the here-and-now. You're still fourth out of four, and the big money's only in the top two spots.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out a bit, and tilted his head up and over his shoulder to glance at the payouts again, glowing on a soft blue TV screen: heavenly white letters spelling out what each place was worth. What he would be worth, if he finished there.
Ninth had been a measly $154; the guy who had finished there seemed glad to have the seventy-some-odd extra dollars in his pocket, even if it had cost him over four hours to get it.
First place was $3,072. Right now, in fourth, he was worth $538.
Not too shabby, was not the thought running through his mind right now.
Goddammit, forget about her. Now is not the time, do you hear me? He could hear himself thinking those words, but he didn't give a damn.
"Need your ante bud," the dealer mumbled and nodded towards Deck, as he swiveled around from left to right and dealt out the next hand.
Deck absentmindedly tossed a couple of yellow chips into the pot. He made himself think back to the payouts. They'd been published on the flyer now crumpled in Deck's pocket with the percentages of the prize pool for each place, before they knew how many people would register (minimum of 36 players, capped at 180).
| 1st | 40.0% |
| 2nd | 25.0% |
| 3rd | 13.0% |
| 4th | 7.0% |
| 5th | 4.6% |
| 6th | 3.4% |
| 7th | 2.7% |
| 8th | 2.3% |
| 9th | 2.0% |
Now, on the screen, it said,
| 1st | $3,072.00 |
| 2nd | $1,920.00 |
| 3rd | $998.00 |
| 4th | $538.00 |
| 5th | $353.00 |
| 6th | $261.00 |
| 7th | $207.00 |
| 8th | $177.00 |
| 9th | $154.00 |
He was pretty damn sure those numbers couldn't have come out all whole like that, so he let his mind start wandering, trying to figure out which places had been rounded up, and which had been rounded down. It seemed like, if he did finish fourth, he'd at least be picking up a few extra cents than he could have expected from the strict percentage payout. Not that it mattered.
Of course it doesn't fucking matter, you idiot. It was just a damn kiss.
Two damn kisses, he offered up weakly in a sort of stubborn protest against that part of his mind that was trying and failing to slap him out of his reverie.
"Action's on you mack," the dealer said and tapped the table at Deck.
He sat up, looked around in confusion for a moment, and found the two not-so-shiny pieces of plastic floating on the green felt in front of him, the two cards that held his fate. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at them.
Pondering this point, at the same time Deck's hands had already reached out across the felt sea, and were bending back his fate just enough so that he could at least take a peek. Even if he didn't want to know for sure, he still had to peek.
The first one was... a diamond. Nothing across. And the second... a heart. Also, nothing across.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've tossed a deuce-trey off, he told himself.
Whatever or whomever was supposed to respond, didn't. Instead, all Deck heard was a silent plea that seemed to fill his brain and his body. Wistful, earnest, sincere, and pleading. Wordlessly, he felt it inside himself. An indescribable urge, an urge that stopped him from mechanically tossing this red, nothing across hand back into the muck for the millionth-and-first time.
Ok, so now what? You want me to look again? It's not like they're gonna change, he quipped back to whatever had just caused him to hold on to... to what he was holding on to, he didn't even know.
Again, silence. But now a different urge emerged. His hands reached back down to the table, and this time, instead of picking up his cards, they picked up a stack of black chips. 1000 each, so the 20 his left hand was counting out was a raise of 20,000. Deck wasn't sure, but he thought he only had about 60-or 70,000 to begin with. This was not going to be pretty.
"Raise, 20,000 to call," announced the dealer, who was growing a little impatient. Whatever this guy was doing, he should just go ahead and get it over with, he thought. For Chrissake, he only had 60-something left. With these blinds at 4,000/8,000 with a 1,000 ante, he wasn't going to last long anyways. It was a miracle he'd made it even this far. And besides, he was already working three more downs than he'd been planning to today. Just knock the poor bastard out, so I can go home sooner, he thought.
The button and the small blind both folded, and the big blind peeked down at his cards, glanced over at Deck's dwindling chip stack, and announced "all-in" with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.
Great, now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Deck wasn't sure he'd get an answer from himself. Instead, to his own surprise, his hands started reaching for the rest of his chips, and before he could stop himself, before he could even get a chance to look at his cards again, his right hand had pushed the last of his chips across the thin white pass line.
"All-in and a call," announced the dealer, giving the floorman on the other side of the room a heads-up, that it was time to start counting out the fourth-place money.
"Turn up your hands gentlemen," the dealer asked the two players.
The big blind was so excited, he had trouble picking his cards up off the felt. "Two queens," the dealer announced for everyone's benefit, but Deck barely heard him. All he could do was stand up, already feeling like he was falling further and further down, down, and away from this final table, this final chance. The dealer irritably stretched out and grabbed Deck's cards and threw them down, face-up, on the felt, and Deck finally saw his fate revealed.
"Two red aces," the dealer grumbled, annoyed that it seemed this tournament wasn't going to be over any time soon...
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
More on this later...
(12:06:28 AM) cody: anyways, what's a non-sperm topic we could talk about
(12:07:01 AM) jluva45: ...we could talk about my sperm
(12:07:07 AM) jluva45: oh wait, oh wait, non-sperm
(12:07:21 AM) jluva45: umm, we could talk about...other sperm
(12:07:40 AM) cody: got sperm on the mind huh
(12:07:01 AM) jluva45: ...we could talk about my sperm
(12:07:07 AM) jluva45: oh wait, oh wait, non-sperm
(12:07:21 AM) jluva45: umm, we could talk about...other sperm
(12:07:40 AM) cody: got sperm on the mind huh
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