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 weeks...er, 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.