The Poker Project (playing and writing about poker in the U.S.)

Easy Come, Easy Go

"The crowd roared and roared. An appetite that would never be satisfied sharpened and stretched."

—Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, Chain-Gang All-Stars

“Hey sugar,” Chiprunner Toshika tells me as I wait outside the room for a seat. Sugar, baby, darling, usually female signs of affection, although once, a male Harrahdise dealer whose name I don’t know called me baby.

It’s Monday, New Years Eve’s eve. Dealer Frank’s Santa hat is gone, replaced by a black Sinatra hat with a silver band that reads HAPPY NEW YEAR. There are two open seats, one at table 5—nittily reg-filled—and one at Table 6. After sliding me a rack of reds and greens, Chip Runner Monica says nothing, so I take it upon myself to select Table 6. It’s clearly a good choice: deep stacks, laughter, recs I recognize from playing the last five days in a row. “Anyone leaving?” Junior, a superreg’s superreg, asks. He hovers expectantly behind our now-full table with his own rack of reds and greens.

I know what’s coming. Floorman Steven reassigns me to 5, telling me there's a waitlist for 6. Junior and I fist-bump as I get up, I ask Steven for a transfer, and I take Seat 7 on 5. Before I'm swiped in another seat opens on 6, and Steven scurries over to another superreg sitting in the third $1/$3, telling him that he can transfer. Suddenly I no longer want to move, I don’t want to be another sniper parachuting in to extract chips from dead money. I settle into my seat and start tapping away on my phone.

Seat 8, a young white guy with about $200 in front of him, is standing over his seat with his cards held out in front of him. He’s got a monster draw in a three-handed bloater: 98hh on 56Jhhx. George’s pocket Aces are face-up on the other side of the table. “I have a set,” Miss June says from the 6. She’s a petite white woman with straight gray-brown hair. After counting out the main pot and the side pot, Dealer Shenia burns and turns the Nine of diamonds. “That doesn’t help me if she has a set,” the guy on my left says.

The river's the Three of hearts. Groans break out across the table. George shakes his head. The kid grins and sits back down.

“Every time,” Joan says, laughing bitterly. She turns in her seat and reaches into a small black wallet, unzips it, removes some greens. “It happens every goddamn time. I knew he was gonna get it."

“You felt it?” I ask.

“Every time.”

“What a game."

“They usually get it on the turn. No suspense at all.”

On the other end of the table, someone's saying that the pot's winner had a lot of outs. "All the board needed to do was pair with a heart," June says. "There were a lot fewer outs than any heart."

She keeps on like this for a while. "It’s frustrating," she tells me, "‘cause it’s usually in really big pots.”

“That was a big pot,” I concede.

“You wouldn’t even remember it if it was a small pot. The last couple weeks it’s been happening a lot. It gets old.”

A few minutes later June's texting someone, probably her husband, another reg who's one table over. I steal a glance and see a text box that starts, just flopped a set, and I avert my gaze. Reading more feels too invasive, plus I already know how the story ends.

Someone taps my shoulder. It’s Bread Truck. “I just heard that Turkey got fired. Do you know what happened?”

This is news to me. I’d seen Turkey dealing only a few nights earlier. “I’ll ask around,” he says, and he goes back to his seat.

Tiny and Joan are debating the merits of Ace-King. “Ace-King is the number one hand that sends people home,” Tiny says.

Floorman Steven tells me that my table transfer is ready, but I wave him off.

UTG straddle, some limps, I bump it to $30 with red Ace-King in BB, the straddle and CO call. Flop 567cc, I check, straddle bets $30, CO piles all in for some ridiculous amount—$600 or $700. Because of the recent table talk I want to show June my hand, but with action behind me I just fold. The straddle calls and loses to the CO’s 29cc.

Next hand the CO limps again and I bump it up with Aces. “I don’t want to do it again,” he says, folding. I show and we laugh. “I told people I had a blackjack hand!” he says.

Ace-King again. Third monster in a row. I 3!, get called, and win with a flop cbet.

The CO’s chips are in a rack. “Going to play blackjack?” I ask.

“No, a concert.”

“Playing or attending?” With his graying hair pulled into a small ponytail, he could easily be a musician. But no, he’s going to see Billy Strings. “Best guitarist in the world,” he tells me. “It’s like Pink Floyd and bluegrass. He plays three shows every New Year's Eve.

A guy in glasses and a puffy green jacket moves over from another table and takes the 1. “You’re back,” the 8 Seat says. “They get you?”

“No. I thought it was action. But everyone left. They moved from there to there,” he says, nodding at Table 6.

The ponytailed music lover’s chips are back on the table. “Concert get canceled?” someone asks.

“Missed my bus,” he says. Sounds like he’s joking, but fifteen minutes later and he’s still here. He flops a boat and stacks the green vest for another $500, racks up. “For real this time?” I ask.

“For real.” For real, he’s gone.

Steve and Wild Bill roll in a little before six, cheerfully pressuring me to hop in the $200 Weekly. I tell them I’m a definite maybe, and a few minutes later I say **** it, rack up, buy in with a stack of reds and four greens, and am sent to one of the tables in the back, on Bill’s direct left. I could be wrong, but this might be the first bounty donkament I’ve ever played. Beside my 12,000 starting stack is a small white BOUNTY button, which is worth $50 bucks to anyone who busts me; and I can, of course, earn $50 for busting them.

We end up with thirty runners. Three tables condense to two. Dom takes the 8 Seat with a single messy stack, greets the table, asks Dealer Mel to switch the TVs to the football game. “Is he allowed to barber pole his stack?” Bill asks Dealer Gina.

“So how did you lose your chips?” Dom asks Bill. "I only see 4,000. We started with twelve."

“They must have shorted me.”

Bill raises and gets called by two players. He sits with his hands clasped in his lap, calm and observant in a flat-brimmed GCP hat, and when they check to him on a K56 he lightly taps the rail with his fist, signifying a check. Same action on the Js turn. On the river he bets 500 and gets snapped by the big blind. “Ace,” he announces, and shows Ace-Eight, which is good.

Steve comes over, eyes Bill’s two stacks of blacks, says, “Isn’t the guy with all the black chips the one who’s opening all the pots?"

First break. Steve and I pass each other outside the bathroom and elbowbump. "How we doing?" he asks, and I tell him 17k. He’s got about the same coming back to blinds of 300/600.

On my way back through the room, Bread Truck tells me how Turkey got axed. Not long ago Turkey was dealing to a woman who kept making eyes at him, or so he thought, and so he looked up her number in the system and sent her a bunch of horny texts. “When the casino heard from her, they found out this wasn’t the first time,” Bread Truck says.

“Damn,” I say.

Not long after the break I collect my first bounty, busting a blond-haired woman’s pear of Fives with Ace-King. After the hand, Bill tells me that he knew I had an Ace based on the way I snapped my cards. We talk for a while about this aural tell, which I find interesting. “It’s very distinctive,” Bill says of the Ace-snap. “Once you start hearing it, you keep hearing it.”

Blinds 400/800. Bill goes almost-all in, leaving one chip behind. He sits slightly forward, both hands guarding the edges of his cards.

“I’m all in,” Dom says. Bill puts in his last chip, and his TT beats Dom’s 44.

Utg shove, folds to Bill who checks his cards, thinks, folds in what looks like slight frustration. He leans back, pushes his glasses up and readjusts his hat. After folding, Bill tells me that he did the Ace-snap for me preflop. Being the inattentive schmuck that I am, I didn’t hear it.

“Ace no good,” UTG says. I had the hand that never loses.”

“Deuces?” Bill asks.

“Jacks.”

Blinds 600/1200. We redraw for the final table, which happens to be our table. I switch to Seat 1, Steve takes Seat 10 with a mountain of chips and a stack of bounties; he must have busted half the field. “I want that bounty right there,” he says, pointing to Bill’s stack in Seat 5.

“All right, guys,” Floorman Mel says. “We’re down to ten players, we’re paying the top four. Blinds are six-twelve-twelve, there’s thirteen minutes on the clock."

Dealer Jay announces the blinds again, wishes everyone luck, and says, “I’m putting a bounty on Seat 10.”

“Not surprised to hear that,” I say.

“Dollar? One stinkin’ dollar?” Steve says.

“I think there’s a $50 bounty,” Dom says. “So $51.”

“You get fifty from the house and a dollar from me,” Jay says with a smile. A friendly, sarcastic southerner in his fifties, he’s got the Ace of Spades tattooed on his left wrist and lots of stories from his time in the Marine Core—or, as he calls it, Uncle Sam’s Camp for Misguided Children.

Immediately Steve busts the guy on his right AK > 99, and we’re down to nine. “You can kill that chair, and everybody can get a little space,” Jay says.

A few hands later Bill goes almost-all in. “All in,” an old guy with a bushy black mustache says from the 7 Seat.

You are ahead, sir,” Bill says. He puts in his last chip, shows J9o, and loses to AK.

800/1600, and I’m super short. My sense of modern donkament poker, from watching highroller streams, is that ten bigs is the new twenty bigs: there’s less pre-flop ramming and jamming than there used to be, in other words, and more maneuverability with a short stack. I’m less likely to panic with five or ten bigs, but the downside is that now I’m in the big blind with crumbs. I decide to get it in with A9o and no fold equity against Mr. Mustache’s raise from the CO. He shows Ace-Ten, the flop comes with a Nine.

“Skill game,” I say.

Steve incinerates his stack in impressive fashion and we're down to six.

Six-handed play is lasting forever. We’ve gone through two dealers and another break, and still nobody busts. I don’t regret impulse-regging, but I also wish that I wasn’t in this position—the shortest of the short stacks, poised to bubble after three hours of play.

I minraise with Ace-Jack and call a shove from a stoic bald guy in the 4 Seat. Flop comes with an Ace, he rivers a set. I shove my five bigs from utg with A7o and get called by the BB’s Ace-Jack. Flop comes with a Seven, easy game.

Lucky Louie, a leathery-faced pony-tailed Cajun in his sixties, is running like God. He minraises from UTG and tries to call Dom’s minreraise, but accidentally puts in enough for a min-re-reraise. Dom calls the floor, Mel agrees that Louie has reopened the action, and Dom ships in the rest of his stack, which Louie reluctantly calls. The two chip leaders are playing a huge pot. “You’re going to win,” Dom says, showing AA, and sure enough Louie binks a straight with his Ace-Jack.

“I don’t know why we play this game,” Mr. Mustache says.

Stone bubble. There’s me in the 1, Lucky Louie in the 2, the bald-headed stoic in the 4, Mr. Mustache in the 7, and a younghead in the 9. With the blinds going up in two minutes, I tank for about ten seconds on the button, pretending that I have a decision, but I’m really timing my action so that the short-stacked younghead will get whacked by the blinds.

Blinds up to 4K/8K. The younghead dubbles through Louie. “Easy come, easy go,” Louie says mildly.

Action folds to me in the small with Jack-Eight sooted and eight bigs. I ship, Louie snaps and shows TT, flop comes with a Jack. The stoic grimaces. “Easy come, easy go,” I tell Louie, and we share a chuckle.

Finally Mr. Mustache gets so short that he calls off the rest of his nub with 67o and loses to the stoic’s T8o. The stoic busts next and then, as we’re three-handed, Louis limps the button, I check 24o from the big, the flop comes 835ddx, I check, Louie minbets. I glance right at the younghead who’s sitting on seven bigs or so. I’ve got around the same, Louie has piles. Unsure what to do. After a few moments I slide a bounty chip into the middle, signifying all-in, and Louie snaps with Q8o and holds.

Mel’s in the Loser’s Lounge waiting to deliver my prize, $495 + a $50 bounty. I tip the staff ten bucks and do some accounting: a meager $335 profit. Louie and the younghead have already chopped, $1,400 for first, a gee for second, and I’m brooding over my bustout hand, wondering if I should have played my Four-hi more passively, probably so, I notice that recently I’ve been spewily busting out of donkaments. Rationally, I know that I should be happy with third after grinding a short stack for hours and binking multiple three-outers and nearly bubbling, but that’s the thing about donkaments: they’re designed in a way that sows discontent, the endless scroll of the clock, seeing how much more you would have won if you could have laddered just a few more spots, just one more pay jump, just a little more.

The best thing about busting is that I don't have to play any more. On my way out I check my hours: one day left, 5.5 hours to go.

Awaiting the publication of Bob_124's Book of Aural Tells. If not in audio format it might well contain some poetic moments. Trying to think of what seven-deuce sounds like. The auditory opposite of a snap, perhaps? A card barely flapping in the wind?

Maybe an audible sigh unless the 7-2 game is on 😀

grunching, haven't read that post yet, waiting until i have the time to set aside and fully digest and appreciate it

but the biggest and most reliable live tell in poker is the audible sigh of "oh no i hate this situation" followed by brief tanking and then jamming - it's always the mortal nuts

Ooooh, cliffhanger, does he get in the 5.5 hours? 😀

I played this New Years Eve, booking 5 hours and dragging just 2 pots to book a solid loss and end two streaks (ended a 17 month win streak, plus it was my first losing December @ 1/3 NL in 14 attempts).

My own personal fave New Years Eve story was from a few years ago pre-Covid. I posted this somewhere (Chat thread?) but can't find it so I'm going by hazy (mis)memory.

I went into that New Years Eve session on the verge of booking my best hourly since my glory years of 2012-2013. I played all day and it was now 5:30pm, where I was absolutely buried. I broke out my calculator, did some quick math, and realized my hourly for the year was now below my desired target unless something magical happened in my last hour (having to hard leave at 6:30pm to make a party).

And then Frank sat down.

Frank is the biggest whale in the pool. I think a farmer of some sort, with the story being that he simply sells a cow whenever he needs to make up for a bad night of poker.

He busts his first BI on his first hand dealt to him. He busts his second BI on the second hand dealt to him. I buckle in.

It's not a matter of whether he raises preflop with every single hand he is dealt in this 1/3 NL game, it's just a matter of how much. Sometimes it's $20. Sometimes it's $40. Sometimes he even looks at his cards. We're 10 handed, so I can't get too out-of-line (especially with everyone in full on tarp Frank mode), so I wait... even though my clock is ticking.

About a half hour to go in my year... and I get AA! It's go time! Head down, I wait until it's my turn to act and the going rate is... $3, WTF? I look up and Frank is involved in a conversation with the waitress and so he's decided to fold his one and only hand of the night. I take down a few BBs preflop. Sigh.

About a half hour later, I'm resigned to my fate. I only have one more orbit, I'm stuck gobs on the day, and to top it all off Frank is now called to the action table. The sharks at the action table gleefully wave him over. Frank scans their table, mutters under his breath that he doesn't even really want to go there, but begrudgingly accepts the floorman's invitation. By this time he has run his multiple BI's into quite a few disorganized mountains of chips, and so he still takes hands while he slowly starts racking up.

Frank raises blind to $20, there's a reraise to $60, and I look down at... AA! I have about $400, and figure this is it. I ship it. Frank looks at his cards, shrugs, and calls. He claims 44 but whiffs, and I ship a monster pot.

As I'm raking in the pot and Frank is raising his last hand at the table, I look down at... AA again! I 3bet and this time just take down some dead money preflop. But those two pots are big enough to turn my session around and help me ship my biggest yearly winrate since the glory years.

Nowadays, I don't stay nearly as late at the poker room. Used to be the rule with the wife was that I had to be home by 10:00pm. But now I like being home by 7:00pm so we can have dinner together. And so I very rarely see Frank any more (who's more of a late night guy). But he's still around and still a legend, and I think even still has a few cows left, and I'll never forget that last hour of poker with him on that New Years Eve.

GcluelessstorytellingnoobG

I saw the request for "best thread of 2024" in NVG, and I was about to nominate this one for best writing and most interesting discussion, but fortunately avoided looking a like a fool - when I reread the post it wanted threads created in 2024 so deleted my post. But this is my favorite thread.

love the book title, Dr.! I propose we split the book's profits 50-50—what's half of a penny?

I love the "do you really have it?" speech followed by the tank jam 😆

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poker would be so much more fun (and chaotic) if you could bet articles of clothing, car and house keys, and, yes, livestock. BcluelesscownewbB

Much appreciated. always glad when you pop in for the luls JRR!

New Year's Eve

It's four p.m., and I can already tell today’s gonna be a shitshow. Every type of southern bro and broette under the sun is here. Walking in front of me is a white-haired good ol’ boy dressed in khakis and bright red shoes and a matching red GEORGIA 15-0 belt. The LSU game on the sportsbook’s jumboscreen. A pack of young men holding empty plastic Bud Light bottles the size of baseball bats. Music a little dancier than usual. Lines for the ATM eight people deep.

Eight games are going in the cardroom, mostly hold ‘em with one PLO and one $15/$30 Omaha. Now, on my sixth straight day of playing, I recognize not only the regs but also the reg-tourists who have been ducking in and out the whole long holiday weekend. I join a fresh $1/$3 in the middle of the room with Dealer Darrell. “All in every hand!” Ivan says, calling out to Darrell from one table over. “Wait till I get there!” Darrell says.

Work Harder sits on my direct right in the 2, and the table fills up with serious recs, two Georgia fans who drove down from Atlanta, the stoic from yesterday’s donkament, nobody especially tough but nobody giving it away either. I’m dealt out of the game for almost an hour and decide to pull an early escape chute. I move to a table closer to the sportsbook and instantly turn a set of Threes, dragging my first pot of the day at what appears to be an extreme rec table: a happy Asian reg-tourist in the 1 and three women in a row, one of them dressed in the kind of tan wide-brimmed hat that Canadian Mounties wear. On her left in Seat 4 is another Georgia fan. Seat 5 get up, scurries back and asks if she can leave her chips at the table before scurrying away again.

“Caint spell sugar without GA,” the 2 Seat, a southerner with a manbag slung around a Cirrus Aircraft fleece, says after he raises and the Georgia fan calls. She smiles and calls him down with Ace-Seven off, which isn’t good. The hand reminds me of an old blog post from an old Harrahdise reg, a woman with a wicked sense of humor who outlined a cutting-edge last-resort end-of-the-year strat: If you can’t beat the New Years donks, be a New Year donk. Donkeys don’t have fear. Donkeys don’t back down. Donkeys don’t give up. Donkeys don’t burden themselves with considerations such as pot size, table image, or stack size. Have an Ace? Reraise that ****. Two sooted cards? You need to call that three-bet out of position. Someone reraised you? ALL IN.

To the donkey, odds and logic don’t matter. Yes, the donkey will fold, but only in the oddest, most nonsensical situations. If someone minbets the river into a gigantic pot, then and only then is folding acceptable.

ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY DONKEY

The Georgia fan is a pleasantly aggressive buttonclicker, but she’s no donkey. To be honest, I’m not sure if anyone’s a donkey these days. The term feels like an outmoded insult from a bygone era, replaced by recs and fun players and VIPs and other euphemisms.

Seat 5 racks up and Junior, who looks like a pudgy James Harden, takes the open seat. He’s dressed in a red flat-brimmed Bulls hat flipped backwards on his head, matching red sweats, a white teeshirt, and a blingy watch. Not long after Junior sits down Sedu, a Harrahdise legend dressed in a Saints vest and thick black glasses, strolls in. They spot each other and lose their ****. Lots of hugging and bro bumping and jubilant male screams. One of the puppyish superregs bounds over and asks Sedu how long he’s back in town, wishes him a happy New Year.

It’s around 7, the low bass of the club is distantly throbbing, the Georgia fan raises to $25, I reray to $70 with two Kings from the button. “You’re mean!” she says, smilingly slamming in a call.

“Mean for that money,” Junior says.

The flop comes Ace-hi all diamonds, I have the King of diamonds, I extract another small bet before checking it down and winning.

Junior’s in a good mood. He limps along and calls the button straddle’s raise and instafolds the flop before his opponent can bet. “Button’s good,” he says, reaching over and moving it along. “You see how fast that was?” Junior asks no one, his mischievous eyes gleaming. “**** it. I ain’t got diamonds, I ain’t got no King, **** it. Two tears in a bucket.”

One table away, Sedu is getting up as Darrell arrives. They warmly shake hands and Darrell calls out as his friend is leaving, SAYDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Dealer Florence, wearing a purple-feathered HAPPY NEW YEAR headpiece, relieves Dealer Frank, who’s wearing his black Sinatra hat. The room isn’t quite half full. A few open seats. Lots of carousers hanging around the blackjack tables behind us in twos and threes, sipping drinks, chatting, watching. ATM lines ten people deep.

I check my phone. It’s almost eight. Can’t leave yet.

“Oh, no! Get this NIT outta here!” Junior’s eyes light up as he needles Will, a young white southerner taking the 9 Seat. Will puts his Bud Light in the seat holder, leans across the table, and daps Junior’s outstretched fist. “Only $200?” Junior glances at the Mountie and the Georgia fan and says, “These women have more money than you. You gonna let ‘em disrespect you like that?”

“You know how I play,” Will says with an aw-shucks grin.

It doesn’t take long for Junior’s mood to turn. Will calls Junior’s raise, flops a set of Nines, and doubles up. You can almost see steam rising above Junior’s Bulls hat: a red teakettle, whistling.

Junior slams five reds into the pot and says to no one, “Hey, let’s gamble. Put some money in the pot." For an hour he’d been playing passively, limping in with Ace-Three sooted, just calling a raise with Ace-King, that sort of thing. But no longer. Everyone folds, Junior raises again to $25, gets called in two places, declares that he doesn’t even have a pair, bets again, everyone folds, he shows Deuce-Three off and mutters, “Tight asses. Tight. They tight, bro. Trying to get ‘em to gamble.”

“I had third pair.” Will says.“Guess what I folded?”

“Two Deuces?”

“Threes.” He bursts into laughter. In one hand is Will’s beer and in the other is his phone, which he can’t stop checking.

“You was good! You a nit. You ain’t nothing but a nit.” Junior raises again, scolding and goading the table into coming along, telling no one in a plaintive frustrated voice, “I’m gambling, man. I’m doing anything, man. I’m ****in raising just because—out of spite, man. Let’s gamble, man. I’m doing anything. Today is New Year’s, man! Let’s gamble, man. Let’s have some fun. I’m gonna show you the Deuce-Three offsuit.” And then, to Will: “You don't gotta check your phone and ****, let’s gamble.”

Between swipes Will’s laughing and the rest of the table is loosening up, but the jovial mood doesn’t ease Junior’s frustration. He keeps needling Will, and now the needles are barbed, they’re meant to sting. “He got no money. He got no money, and only made $85 with a set of Nines. Mother****a’s scared with his own pocket pair.”

“You know how I play,” Will says again.

“Listen,” Junior tells no one: “he had to look at his phone, see what time it was. Bro! Bro—you got Nines! He took three hours to call with three Nines! You ain’t never getting no action from me, dawg. He’s scared, looking at his phone.”

“It’s my baby momma,” Will says, swiping and furrowing his brow.

“You’re full of ****.”

Will shows us his phone. On his screen is an essay or a legal document or something. “What are you doing over there? Reading a book?” I ask.

Will takes a sip of Bud Light and says, “It’s my children’s mother. We have a court order, and she’s refusing to let me see my kids. So now I gotta spend another ****ing ten thousand to get a ****ing lawyer, and take her back to court for a second time.”

“Sorry," I say. "That’s way less fun than a book.”

“And we have a court order. She’s in contempt of court.” Will takes another sip. His smile is gone now, and his eyes are angry. “I didn’t get to see my kids on Christmas, I didn’t get to see ‘em on New Year’s, I didn’t get to see ‘em on Thanksgiving.”

“That’s tough, bro,” Junior says. For the first time his voice is soft, serious. “I wish you the best with that.”

“She’s a bitch, brother. I ****in’ hate her.”

A little after eight, Junior racks up. “I can’t take this no more,” he tells no one. “Ima book this $200 loss and go eat with my girl.” He fist bumps a few of us and he’s gone.

I check my phone. Forty-five minutes to go. The noise level is loud enough that it’s hard to hear Dealer Marguerite narrate the action. ATM lines fifteen deep. The Mountie leaves, replaced by a stone-faced Gigachad who looks like he could compete on The World’s Strongest Man. The Georgia fan’s gone, replaced by the puppyish tryhard. Will leaves, replaced by a cheery tourist who refuses to chop against the reg-tourist in Seat 1. They play a huge pot, straight against straight, and as Marguerite's splitting up the pot the puppyish superreg lectures the tourist about the importance of chopping the blinds. Harrahdise dealers are doling out HAPPY NEW YEAR Sinatra hats like Frank is wearing, and headpieces like Dealer Florence is wearing. Giga squeezes one atop his muscular head, the tourist takes one, I take one. There’s not much table talk now, maybe because of the lineup or because it’s tough to hear anything above the din. Slowly but surely, the game is becoming action.

I check my phone. One more orbit.

“You ain’t gonna spend the New Year with us?” Dealer Steph asks me as I rack up. I politely smile and shake my head, wondering to myself where in the city I would less rather be. Only Bourbon Street comes to mind.

I double-check my poker tracking app, click Stop, silently tap the table, and then I'm gone.

***

Thanks again for the anti-sweat, Mark, as well as the Taytay and Dirk pics! Results here

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I have never heard of either :(😊

But absolutely loved The Substance, and am planning on watching Anora this WE

And nice write ups Ben, as always!

And also had to google MLA :p

Me too

I demand a recount!

Way to go. Glad you made it! Thanks for the stories.

Quite a lot, relatively speaking, since I'm living in a Dickensian world these days. If you put "inspired by" me beneath the title we could have a deal.

Btw: I was thinking that "superreg" is more derogatory than "donkey" but it's possible I'm overly sensitive. At least you took the time to explain the metaphor rather than just add an adjectival expletive to it. Now awaiting an etymology of poker idioms that makes reference to Don Quixote.

The scar can also be under the boob, on the areola, and the more advanced surgeons do it through the belly button where there won’t be any scars.

Source: years of porn and strip clubs

No shame at all, gentlemen. As I briefly mentioned, my sense of the MLA from years of rumors and hearsay and

https://thepointmag.com/examined-life/pilgrim-tinder-creek/

The Point Magazine

Pilgrim at Tinder Creek | The Point Magazine

But is it? I'm pleased to report that, last week, your fearful hero finally visited the infamous conference. After successfully snagging my badge,

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I traipsed over to Donna Harraway's panel, which was legitimately good, mainly thanks to DH being a intellectual badass of impressive proportions. Next up was the Judith Butler panel, which was less good (but still fine) and a packed house (fortunately I managed to elbow a few Victorianists into the aisle and snagged a seat). You can see Judith's blurry silver-haired head just to the left of the podium.

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After two 90-minute panels and a bit of chatting with overeducated strangers, I'd had my fill. I strolled around with a teacher-friend who was presenting a paper the next day, and then we left. Overall, didn't seem like an anxiety-ridden shitshow at all. I'm guessing this is largely because job interviews have moved to Zoom, thereby removing a big stressor for attendees, and maybe people have just decided to chill out a bit.

Cliffs: lolMLA

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Now this is interesting to me: why is "superreg" more derogatory than "donkey"?

I feel like "rec" and "reg" are two of the more neutral designations, although everything depends, I suppose, on who's doing the judging.

OODLES of knowledge being dropped itt!

😀

good spot to ask the age old question of the true definition of a reg

i've seen it be:

1 pros (in contrast to "rec")
2 highly competent players
3 regulars regardless of skill level

i kind of lean between 2 and 3 where it's assumed they are competent unless they get the badreg modifier and anyone who plays for a living would be a reg but a more appropriate designation would be "pro"

my power rankings are

pro
reg
badreg
rec
tourist
whale
donkey

whale goes above donkey because a whale generally understands they are engaging in -ev behavior but don't care whereas a donkey thinks cold calling a 4bet with 44 to set mine with half their stack is a good play because "if it hits I triple up"

Disagree on the whale vs donkey. Donkeys are plentiful and they can be recs or tourists. Donkeys can know they’re -ev too but don’t care because they only have 2 buy-ins to torch.

Whales are few and far between and can be donkeys, tourists, or recs. All of them play bad to varying degrees but the main difference is whales have deep pockets. I have seen whales get downgraded to recs when their financial situation changed and they were no longer able to play all night and dump 15 buy ins.

I'm in camp 3. When I use "reg," I mean someone whose butt is frequently in a cardroom's seat. By "superreg" (possibly a neologism that will appear in the coauthored tome Reg or Rec?: Cardroom Epistemologies According to bob_124 and Doctor TeeJayOh), I mean someone who more or less lives in the cardroom. In Nola, the King of the Superregs earns the coveted Who Loves It More award, which is doled out annually at Poker Gras.

So "reg," for me, is a near-neutral term that depends on modifiers for more precise meanings: badreg, misreg, action reg, weak reg, etc (not to mention the Benabadbeat original...regthing .). Same with recs.

I suppose the Holy Grail would be recpros: the Andrew Robls and GEEMEN of the world who play a few times a month and earn ungodly sums. But to each his own.

even moar knowledge being dropped!

I’ve been playing for 30 years and just now realized there is a term for my poker end goal: recpro. Bravo

I imagine that if you were a MLA badreg, after elbowing the Victorianists, who were still deciding whether to cite George Eliot or Dickens in their question to JB, you didn't instinctively seek out the busiest floor-supervisor to request a change of seat closer to the podium (and better view of the speaker's hair). Being as you are a co-operative reg, albeit with a regretful knowledge of the stark reality of zero-sum scenarios, I'm confident this thought didn't even cross your mind.

Bob's Best of 2024

Bedda late than never I suppose.

Favorite Book: This was one ez, Claire Keegan's

https://groveatlantic.com/book/small-things-like-these/

Grove Atlantic

Small Things Like These | Grove Atlantic

Favorite TV show: Honestly can't think of anything that jumped out, and now I'm trying think of the last really strong show I've watched—maybe the last season of Succession. I guess I'll go with The Penguin.

Favorite movie: haven't watched many movies this year, but The Subtance, as mentioned above (and co-signed by Dubn 😀), was compelling and outrageous.

Favorite album: At the end of each year, I make it a point to peruse a few Best Of lists, which is how I stumbled on the only album of 2024 that I thought was truly great. RIP to one of the GOAT songwriters.

favorite poker content: another ez one

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Gambledore!

https://www.pokernews.com/news/2024/11/vladimir-korzinin-craziest-hands-47352.htm

pokernews

Rise of 'Gambledore’: Craziest Hands from Poker's Newest High-Stakes Wizard

If anyone has favorite recs, pass 'em along!