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Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Where I decide to write again 

A lot has happened since I dropped off the face of the earth following The Bash. My head is pretty fried up at the moment and the world is spinning off it's axis. Not even sure if that's a bad thing but I've been spending quite a bit of time to myself. Very little poker and some quality time in my own head. Scary place in there but entertaining none the less.

The last time I wrote the Mets hadn't yet completed their second straight collapse. Now the Phillies have finished off the Brewers in the NLDS and the Eagles have already managed to choke away the season by the beginning of October. There some election coming up shortly but thank god we have the Canadians to help me form my opinion of who should be our next leader. I managed to lose my cell phone, not once but twice, since the Bash and what a nice quiet break. I haven't pulled up bloglines or read a single writeup in over a week just to get away from everything.

Sweet mental release.

But enough of that happy horse shit. Time to start getting some thoughts down in vapor-ware and get back on that old bitch of a horse. Let's start off with a little fun from Friday before the Bash. The agenda was booze then poker/booze then booze. I'm going to type this our freeform without the benefit of spell or fact checker. Arena rock is writing music of choice and I'm going head's down typing. Here's hoping it makes sense.

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Friday aka The Day of Bad Beats

Friday morning/afternoon was spent waiting for the rest of the blogger contingent to hit town including Otis, BadBlood, Drizz and BuddyDank who showed up a little late courtesy of the Otis.B.Dart Navigation system. Most eventually made their way to the pub for some pre-gaming with booze and prop bets. I only had one thing on the agenda before hitting the poker later that evening. I needed fundage, hit the bank to pull a nice chunk of change for the band, booze, poker and other various gambling antics. Since Riggs was playing the part of soccer mom I found another ride to my local banking establishment.

Bad Beat #1 - Stack of Grants

Nothing like waiting until 30 minutes before the bank closes on a Friday to make a withdraw. I walked up to the nice old lady teller with my slip and she gave me the evil eye. She looked at the slip and back at me several times before saying "ah ah, I'm sorry sir. But I don't have that kind of money in my draw. You do realize we close at 6?"

It was slipping away when the other teller came to my rescue saying she should have enough to cover my withdraw. I was mildly amused, it was a bank after all. Don't they have stacks o' cash back in that vault?

After about 45 minutes of confirming my identity (this is not my normal branch) she finally started running cash through the counting machine. Many times. As she handed over my "bricks" she made what would be an innocent statement to a normal person but hell of earth for a superstitious degenerate gambloor.

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't have any 100's so I gave you all 50's and 20's"

I wouldn't touch the money and received more strange looks. I tried to explain the horrible luck associated with 50 dollar bills but she didn't seem very amused. They were already passed closing time and I was making the entire staff wait til my transaction was complete.

Fantastic way to start my gambling, drinking weekend. A big stack of bad luck bills stuffed in an envelope that I already had my grubby hands on twice while I counted. I tried to offset any ill side effects by cashing them in at the pub but I had a feeling it wasn't going to work out in my favor.

Bad Beat #2 - Where I drank every ounce of Soco in the building

One of my concerns Friday evening was making sure everyone had a ride to the poker game about 20 minutes away. My fears were eased when I realized most everyone was already gone leaving just myself, Riggs and the Canadian Invasion left at the pub. All six of us piled into Riggs Man Truck where we ended up beating most of the other players. The food was set up buffet style and a nice lady was taking the drink orders. Double Southern Comfort neat. Standard fare, easy enough.

When nice double shot arrived the kind hearted devil woman took my name down on the order slip and said something worse than the bank teller a few hours before.

"I'm sorry sir, but that is the last of the Southern Comfort we have."

God damn 50 dollar bill strikes it's first blow. There were vague promises of the owner to run out and buy some more bottles but they never appeared. The tournament lasted from 8ish to 6 god damn 30 in the morning and I survived on one shot of Soco and my gross body weight in Red Bull. That was a literally sick one outter. Being sober, you'd think I would make a nice run at the poker tournament.

Bad Beat #3 - Riding Bitch

The tournament was a blast. I got the TV table seat with Riggs, Falstaff, BWoP and Drizz. Being a charity rebuy tournament, I made my action perfectly clear before the first card was dealt. I was pushing in the dark for the first three hands, come along for the fun at your own peril. Smack, bam, pow and the rebuys were piling up. Hand number four I actually looked at before pushing allin and finally winning a hand. Falstaff quickly picked up on the rebuy fever and I'm farely certain our table set the record for rebuys during the evening. Nearly two hours for the rebuy period and if a hand was worth playing preflop, it was worth playing for every chip. BigDave the Tournament Director rarely left our table. We even got the local yokels caught up in the rebuy craziness, with all the chips on our table we figured at least a few of us would be at the final table (two made actually did, Falstaff and the guy to my left of who chopped top prize).

At the end of the rebuy period I was sitting with about 10 times my starting stack and was ready to play some poker. Until someone hit a two outter and I was sent in search of the rail and the non-existing Southern Comfort. The two outter is not the bad beat for this portion of the story.

A bunch of my blogger friends made it deep but it was tough to do battle with the Riverchaser portion of the crowd. As we started nearing sunrise they began to break up the cash game and head back for the food and/or refuge. It was my tournament so I felt compelled to wait until the very end to find the rest of the crew sitting at a local diner. It was a rowdy bunch sitting around the cocked up 8 person booth with The Rooster holding court over the Canadian Invasion. He was also making every effort to hook one of the crew up with the crypt keeper waitress with the open arm wound.

Pork flesh in all varieties (all hail scrapple) and two tables worth of food at 6am with blogger friends. The Bash was off on a proper note even if I was sober. Everyone crammed their food down when we began making arrangements to get back to my little shit town and realized our math was very very bad. Very bad. There was no possible way to fit everyone in Rigg's truck, think "OJ Simpsion Al Cowlings era Bronco". Someone would be forced to ride bitch in the back of the Man Truck.

Since I was the host of the tournament and The Bash the next day, I was the obvious choice to climb through the back window and spend the next twenty minutes hitting every damned pothole with a nine iron shoved up my ass and a child seat stuck in my kidney.

"Smile Al!" Kat yelled and the pictures started snapping. God damn Canucks and their cameras.


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