When getting busted has a whole new meaning

It was a good poker week for Banky and the tart. I moneyed at Woody’s (3rd) and Banky won the Thursday league game last night. I fucking bubbled last night, which is worse than chumping. I hate the effing bubble. But c’est la vie! At least one of us brought home the bacon last night.

The big buzz around my little poker world, however, has to be the recent string of underground cardroom busts.

The part that bothers me about the busts is that in another article, a police officer was quoted saying something about the players being there “for their fix”. This is just such an inflammatory and ignorant thing to say. Not everyone who plays poker is a gambling addict. I have several friends who play in the clubs, and I certainly wouldn’t categorize them as going there to get a ‘fix’. They go because it’s a fun night out, and they are tired of taking money off each other at the same weekly homegames.

I wish my favourite hobby didn’t have such a seedy image.

I’m an enthusiast, dammit, not an addict.

Master of my own demise

hu•bris 'hyu brIs, 'hu- - [hyoo-bris, hoo-]
–noun
excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance.

See example: Pokertart pulling off an incredible bluff when shortstacked, and then showing said bluff, only to realize that this cripples her ability to pull same such bluff anytime soon in same game.

Bah.

Out 8th with Kh10h. I was first to push, got called by two better hands. Hit my 10, but still lost to QQ.

Banky was pissed last night after her got slow rolled when he went all-in. Banky announced “I have a pair” and flipped over his 77. Caller said ‘me too’, but didn’t flip his Aces over right away.

It was a dink move for sure, and Banky was not impressed. It’s been tough lately, because Banky has been getting mad after every league game lately….I understand his frustration, but it’s taking the fun out of the game for me.

Being a couple who plays poker together has some incredible advantages. There are times, however, when it’s very difficult – especially when you have very different emotional reactions to the game. I try to be supportive, but the peacemaker in me wants to make him feel better right then and there, when I know all he really needs is to be pissed off for awhile and then he’ll be fine.

Men really are from Mars.

-----

It’s time for a bit of a blogroll update…welcome to the tuckfards over at TuckFard Poker, and RaisingCayne, that Talkin’ Donkey.

Sleepy Tart

Sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep. I'm tired and I.
I want to go to bed.
ASLEEP by The Smiths from 'Louder Than Bombs'

Despite playing a ton of poker over the past several weeks I haven’t felt much like writing. Work is pretty busy right now, and when I can sneak a few minutes to myself, I usually try to catch up on poker blogs and Big Brother live feed recaps (I can’t help myself!)

Truth be told, I feel tired. I don’t think I’ve fully caught up on sleep since I got insomnia in Vegas. Banky and I keep saying we need to go to bed earlier and sleep later, but we don’t and it’s catching up on me.

I need to sleep more, eat & drink less, and spend some time with a book on the deck in my backyard.

Las Vegas has become like an old lover to me. Long gone are the heady days of new love. The surprise, awe, and delight are gone – replaced by familiarity, comfort, and expectation.

There are no certain things that mean Vegas to me….happy hour at the Pink Taco is one of those things. Nothing gets my Vegas trips off to a better start than excellent half-price margaritas, bowls and bowls of free chips with 3 types of salsa, and half price, and very tasty, appetizers.



Banky and I were set to arrive just after 10am on Friday. But due to a full-on cluster-fuck by American Airlines, our connecting flight in Chicago was cancelled and we ended up routing through Dallas and not arriving until well after 4:30 in the afternoon. For some reason, the usually extremely impatient Banky was very zen about the whole thing, while I was on cancelled-flight-tilt.

While waiting in line to check-in at the Golden Nugget, the prospects of Pink Taco Happy Hour looked dim, as the clock ticked closer and closer to 5:30, I thought there was no way we’d check-in and make it back to the Hard Rock in time. But miraculously, the line started to move quickly (after being standstill for 15 minutes), and we were in our room by 5:40. We put down our bags headed back downstairs, hailed a cab and asses were on barstools by 5:55. We had 1 hour and 5 minutes left – and what a happy hour we made it….

In 65 minutes, we downed 5 margaritas and shared an appetizer platter, all for $15 including a generous tip. Even though it was happy hour, our barkeep BJ (a name I found incessantly amusing) comped us all the drinks, and we even got an extra freebie when a rep from Terzon (I think) came in shilling his new tequila.

Nicely lubed, we donked off money at the pai-gow & black jack tables but the dealers at the Hard Rock were jerks, so before long headed back downtown for an evening of more drinking, donking, and general tomfoolery.

By the time we went to bed, I had been up for 27 hours. Nothing like an old lover to keep you up all night…