The Poker Project (playing and writing about poker in the U.S.)
07-02-2017
, 12:44 PM
Interview with Matthew Janda, June Results
This month I interviewed Matthew Janda, author of the popular Applications of No-Limit Hold 'em and (just released) No Limit Hold ‘em for Advanced Players: Emphasis on Tough Games. We discussed his interest in poker theory, his new book, and life in medical school.
[7] play 50 hours
actually played a decent amount online, but not counting that towards my hours.
[10] study 20 hours
Spent some time with Janda's book. It is good.
[30] write 40 hours
spent some time in Oxford Missippi with some writers. The police booted us from Faulkner's Grave but otherwise the weekend was a success. Talked some poker and responded to the inevitable question--"But how much do you lose?"--many times
Chatnooga
Unfriendly Horse
Ginormous Copper Mine
My New Ride
As that last pic indicates, I'm in Vegas! #Bustosoon
Dude...do you really expect me to read TWO FULL PARAGRAPHS of text? I'm on the Tweetin and Play Money Grind!
This month I interviewed Matthew Janda, author of the popular Applications of No-Limit Hold 'em and (just released) No Limit Hold ‘em for Advanced Players: Emphasis on Tough Games. We discussed his interest in poker theory, his new book, and life in medical school.
[7] play 50 hours
actually played a decent amount online, but not counting that towards my hours.
[10] study 20 hours
Spent some time with Janda's book. It is good.
[30] write 40 hours
spent some time in Oxford Missippi with some writers. The police booted us from Faulkner's Grave but otherwise the weekend was a success. Talked some poker and responded to the inevitable question--"But how much do you lose?"--many times
Chatnooga
Spoiler:
Unfriendly Horse
Spoiler:
Ginormous Copper Mine
Spoiler:
My New Ride
Spoiler:
As that last pic indicates, I'm in Vegas! #Bustosoon
Quote:
I think it is much more useful to see those writings as mirrors, not escapes.
Reminded me of this, which is dated, but perhaps relevant
That is, I read most of these things as reflections of our anxiety about technology, about how it is, at best, a double-edged sword and at worst, a failure compared to its promise.
Reminded me of this, which is dated, but perhaps relevant
Quote:
For all the spectacular, life-preserving and survival-enabling successes in medicine and infrastructure, for all the progress in the global quality of life that has been seen (and not for one instant losing sight of the distance yet to go), it is increasingly clear that turning to technology for our happiness leads us down a cul-de-sac of unmet expectations, lined with Likes and tweets, poorly lit photos and ubiquitous product placement. This realization has left us a bit bereft and can, I would claim, be seen as part of our current structuring of the notion of apocalypse as being an absence—explained or not—of the technological utopia that was assumed to be well on its way.
Culturally, we are obsessed with what comes after that event, from the long-running television series Lost and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to S.M. Sterling’s “Emberverse” books and the legally-questionably similar television show Revolution to the massive phenomenon of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games and their film adaptations to the televised version of Robert Kirkman’s graphic novel, The Walking Dead. While simple climate change is a more likely cause than a sudden eruption of zombies or an inexplicable alteration in the laws of physics that prevents combustion from releasing sufficient energy to run an engine or fire a gun, each of these struggle with the question of how to reconcile the loss of the modern world with survival in dramatically changed circumstances.
Culturally, we are obsessed with what comes after that event, from the long-running television series Lost and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road to S.M. Sterling’s “Emberverse” books and the legally-questionably similar television show Revolution to the massive phenomenon of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games and their film adaptations to the televised version of Robert Kirkman’s graphic novel, The Walking Dead. While simple climate change is a more likely cause than a sudden eruption of zombies or an inexplicable alteration in the laws of physics that prevents combustion from releasing sufficient energy to run an engine or fire a gun, each of these struggle with the question of how to reconcile the loss of the modern world with survival in dramatically changed circumstances.
07-07-2017
, 01:18 PM
07-07-2017
, 10:59 PM
July Goals (I am in you, Vegas! I am in you, Rio!)
Every year is the same. The first two weeks are filled with extreme confidence, excitement, optimism, even lots of bragging. A few weeks later, and you can feel the frustration of all the bad beats, the long runs followed by bustouts or annoying min-cashes. Bankrolls drying up. Lots of ‘FML’ and other colorful acronyms. And then of course, in the final month, you see the dark side of poker. Talk of suicide. Talk of drinking oneself into submission. Hatred for fellow players. Etc Etc Etc. Every year. Same ****.
--Will “Monkey” Souther
Been WSOPing for about a week. I think I'm close to achieving veteran or at least non-newbie status (this is my third in a row. How many do I need?)
A friend DMed me this rant that offers some nice talking points about the summer:
I share my friend's frustration and would add that the media do little to shed light on these issues (and others like the monotony and volatility of the grind). Sadly, much poker writing is merely veiled marketing for poker/wsop/caesars.
I however have no allegiance to the poker media or the WSOP, nor do I own a niche poker site. I'm what you might call a purist: I write for the writing, and will stop when I have nothing to say. This, I think, will eventually ensure my doom. Nevertheless, a guy’s gotta do what he thinks is worthwhile imo, and so i’m here working on a longish piece, aimed at general readers, that aims to present the wsop as it is--the ups and downs of tournaments, the cash grind, the dinginess of the Rio, the LOLegionnaire Maker, playing (or not playing) the Main. All of this will be told not as a polemic but as a story with characters (#realNolagrinders).
Which makes me wonder: what details MUST be included in a story about the 2017 WSOP? Please share!
Some of my own answers would be:
Hash House
Belligerent salespeople in the hallways
Crushed dreams
Scalding heat
Grinder gear
Kevmath
Massage girls
The roped-off orange Lamborghini L640 blocking your path into the Pavilion Room with an accompanying sign that says, Bad Beat? Now Try your Luck on the Streets. 4 Hours Starting at $399.
Not happening 
have fun, and lemme know if you're at the Rio!
Every year is the same. The first two weeks are filled with extreme confidence, excitement, optimism, even lots of bragging. A few weeks later, and you can feel the frustration of all the bad beats, the long runs followed by bustouts or annoying min-cashes. Bankrolls drying up. Lots of ‘FML’ and other colorful acronyms. And then of course, in the final month, you see the dark side of poker. Talk of suicide. Talk of drinking oneself into submission. Hatred for fellow players. Etc Etc Etc. Every year. Same ****.
--Will “Monkey” Souther
Been WSOPing for about a week. I think I'm close to achieving veteran or at least non-newbie status (this is my third in a row. How many do I need?)
A friend DMed me this rant that offers some nice talking points about the summer:
Quote:
So based on twitter this is what the wsop has ahead of me this year...
1. Marked/markable cards. Been marked since start of tournament and little to done to fix except in 10k events.
2. Hallway harrassment to buy chargers or whatever. Every day.
3. Floor people that dgaf and are ironfisting ****.
Conclusion: wsop officially and boldly and overtly doesnt care about their customers. Willling to submit them to awful treatment by staff and vendors (they profit on but players dont), give them an inferior and possibly unfair playing experience and basically goes mute on all these issues.
Not to mention, that hash house probably still closes at noon evem though caesers owns kt and the rio could profit huge most of the month with it open.
Oh yeah, legionaires disease and faulty toliets abound.
Meanwhile the fancy pants players only ***** about the POY system under the pretext they dont want Chris Ferguson to win because of the poker community, the same community taking it up the ass on all the issues they are silent about.
Meanwhile, i own a small niche poker site, and would be foolish to publically attack the monopoly. So instead, I vent to you Bob
.
So based on twitter this is what the wsop has ahead of me this year...
1. Marked/markable cards. Been marked since start of tournament and little to done to fix except in 10k events.
2. Hallway harrassment to buy chargers or whatever. Every day.
3. Floor people that dgaf and are ironfisting ****.
Conclusion: wsop officially and boldly and overtly doesnt care about their customers. Willling to submit them to awful treatment by staff and vendors (they profit on but players dont), give them an inferior and possibly unfair playing experience and basically goes mute on all these issues.
Not to mention, that hash house probably still closes at noon evem though caesers owns kt and the rio could profit huge most of the month with it open.
Oh yeah, legionaires disease and faulty toliets abound.
Meanwhile the fancy pants players only ***** about the POY system under the pretext they dont want Chris Ferguson to win because of the poker community, the same community taking it up the ass on all the issues they are silent about.
Meanwhile, i own a small niche poker site, and would be foolish to publically attack the monopoly. So instead, I vent to you Bob
.
I however have no allegiance to the poker media or the WSOP, nor do I own a niche poker site. I'm what you might call a purist: I write for the writing, and will stop when I have nothing to say. This, I think, will eventually ensure my doom. Nevertheless, a guy’s gotta do what he thinks is worthwhile imo, and so i’m here working on a longish piece, aimed at general readers, that aims to present the wsop as it is--the ups and downs of tournaments, the cash grind, the dinginess of the Rio, the LOLegionnaire Maker, playing (or not playing) the Main. All of this will be told not as a polemic but as a story with characters (#realNolagrinders).
Which makes me wonder: what details MUST be included in a story about the 2017 WSOP? Please share!
Some of my own answers would be:
Hash House
Belligerent salespeople in the hallways
Crushed dreams
Scalding heat
Grinder gear
Kevmath
Massage girls
The roped-off orange Lamborghini L640 blocking your path into the Pavilion Room with an accompanying sign that says, Bad Beat? Now Try your Luck on the Streets. 4 Hours Starting at $399.
have fun, and lemme know if you're at the Rio!
Last edited by bob_124; 07-07-2017 at 11:06 PM.
08-01-2017
, 09:47 AM
WSOP Wrap-up, August Goals
My third WSOP is in the books. Each one has been fun in different ways. I lived in a poker house for my entire stay, which really helped with morale/support and cost. I also defended my media tourney championship,
wrote a few Pokernews pieces, and worked on a story about Nola grinders in the Main. Didn't play much at all. A random highlight was chatting with Norman Chad for 5-10 minutes while he was out on the floor getting material for the ESPN broadcast. I've always enjoyed his commentary/shtick, and it was nice to see that he's just as friendly and self-effacing in person.
Grinder's Heaven/Hell
World Series of Pool
Zion
fishing lake in Kansas
Was planning to be in Chatnooga for July but my girlfriend got into NEH nerd camp in Boston, so I tagged along
I read Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son and would highly recommend it. Back in Nola by mid-August
August Goals
[ ] visit Cambridge
[ ] end stint as homeless vagabond
[ ] play 40 hours
impressive avatar!
My third WSOP is in the books. Each one has been fun in different ways. I lived in a poker house for my entire stay, which really helped with morale/support and cost. I also defended my media tourney championship,
Spoiler:
Grinder's Heaven/Hell
Spoiler:
World Series of Pool
Spoiler:
Zion
Spoiler:
fishing lake in Kansas
Spoiler:
Was planning to be in Chatnooga for July but my girlfriend got into NEH nerd camp in Boston, so I tagged along
Spoiler:
I read Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son and would highly recommend it. Back in Nola by mid-August
August Goals
[ ] visit Cambridge
[ ] end stint as homeless vagabond
[ ] play 40 hours
impressive avatar!
08-03-2017
, 09:26 AM
What about Bob?
Big Easy Ballers
2016
thank you the cockeyed court
on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads
made of some runny-nosed kids
a shambles, and the 61-year-old
after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut
from my no-look pass to seal the game
ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods
and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar
grinning across his chest
—Ross Gay, “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude”
Darrell Guillory dribbled hesitantly in the corner and fed me in the post. I spun left and heaved a jump hook at the rim.
BRICK
A piercing whistle saved me from another missed field goal. I had been hacked by my defender, a sweaty chubster whose workout regimen probably consisted of power-curling donuts from the box to his mouth. To his credit, the guy was a superb fouler.
I rarely played basketball these days, but I made an exception for Darrell. It was hard to turn down a man who loved the game as much as him. As our player-coach-manager, Darrell used an advanced recruiting strategy: he sought out the tallest players in Harrah’s poker room. There was nowhere for me to hide. Thanks to our excellent height and terrible opposition, we were leading the D-minus division of the Metairie Basketball League.
The Big Easy Ballers. Kings of a small world.
The ref tossed me the ball at the foul line, where I waited hands on knees, chest heaving. I was sore, exhausted, and ready to be done with this game—preferably for good. I took a deep breath and three dribbles, bent my knees, and flicked my left wrist. The ball floated towards the rim and fell pathetically short. There was confused silence, laughter, and then, from the bleachers:
“AIRBALLLLLL!”
“Get that ***** some oxygen!”
“Damn, I thought Dirk could shoot!”
“That ain’t Dirk, that Larry!”
“It don’t matter, he still can’t shoot!”
This was gonna be a long season.
**
“Ready, champ?” Darrell strolled up to me with a wide grin. It was a Wednesday, early evening, and we’d both wrapped up another Harrah’s day grind—Darrell, as dealer; me, as player.
“Ready when you are, champ,” I said. I had been wanting to interview Darrell for a while. A veteran dealer for almost twenty years, Darrell was jovial, efficient, and professional. He was also a familiar face inside the casino. He was chatted up half a dozen times on our short walk from the poker room to Starbucks.
We sat in the corner and Darrell discussed growing up in Lake Charles, meeting his wife, Phlicious, and being featured on ESPN’s coverage of the 2006 Circuit Event. And, of course, winning a title with the Big Easy Ballers. “I told everybody how bad I wanted this,” he said, eyes gleaming. “This team is, by far, the best team I’ve put together in the eight years I’ve been playing. The best team.”
“How sweet is this championship?” I asked.
“This championship is so sweet that it’s probably why I want to take a season off. We had to win this one.”
We talked for almost an hour. Then I thanked Darrell for doing an interview and asked him if there was anything else that he wanted to discuss.
“I got some questions for you, man,” he said with a grin.
“Ask away,” I said.
Darrell: We’ll go with basketball first. You’ve been playing all your life. You were the star player on your team in highschool. You had the height, so of course everybody was looking at you.
Bob: I always wanted to be a dribbler and a shooter, so I resisted playing down low. I was lucky because we had a 6’9’’ freshman and another 6’4’’ guy—we had some height—so I actually played a swingman in highschool even though I was 6’5.’’ That really helped me in college, where everybody’s taller and faster. I came from a farm town and we always lost to the inner city schools, year after year after year. But my senior year everything came together: we won the first section title in 40 or 50 years. It’s what I look back on most fondly in my sports career.
So you’re averaging 24 points a game in New York, you get recruited, you go to college, you played your freshman and sophomore year. Why’d you give it up?
There were a couple of reasons. It mainly had to do with losing passion for the game and seeing the shape that college basketball has taken. Some people in the program were thrown away like garbage if they weren’t playing well. I wasn’t treated unfairly, I don’t think, but others were. Also, I wasn’t on scholarship, which led me to ask: why am I doing this? Because I like it? Because it’s a challenge? I’m a big believer in balance, and I had no balance then. I would wake up and go to class, down to the gym for individual workouts, back to campus for another class, down to the gym for pickup and weights, to the library for mandatory freshman study hall—and this was in the offseason. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it. It was that I couldn’t answer the question: “why am I doing this?” So I made the decision, probably three-quarters through my sophomore year, that I was done.
How did the coaches take it?
They took it OK. My parents took it really hard. My dad took it really hard. As any dad would, I think. To this day, I don’t think he understands why I quit. After I left the team, he started calling up all these other college coaches. And they start calling me and offering me scholarships to play for their school. I told them, “I appreciate the offer, but I just want to stay here and not play basketball.” My dad couldn’t process that. He thought that my coached screwed me over, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to focus on academics. And, overall, things worked out. I played two years of basketball and I also had a normal college experience. I studied abroad in Australia, I went to grad school. So I was able to turn the corner and get into a career. If I had played basketball, I could have played in Europe or something for a few years.
So when’d you get your passion back for basketball?
It’s not back.
Still not back?
No, man.
But you’re having so much fun with us, dude! Two more basketball questions. How many times do you get the “Dirk?”
All the time. You know what it is? I gotta get a haircut. My hair’s curly like Dirk’s.
How many times have you taken advantage of it?
I dressed up as Dirk for Halloween one year. I might have signed an autograph once.
So how’s your poker game? How’d you get into poker?
I got into poker after college. I just started playing with friends. My background’s mainly online. While I was in grad school—I studied English, novels and short stories and stuff—poker worked out a different part of my brain. I’ve only been playing live for the last few years. I like and dislike aspects of it. Live poker is a very slow game. I work on my game, I try to improve, but the priority for me is my writing. I see poker as an interesting subject to explore through writing.
Any regular jobs?
Yeah. I do some teaching, some freelancing, and I work for a medical school back in Houston. Fortunately all of it’s very flexible, so I can come to the casino whenever.
How long you been in New Orleans?
About a year.
You making this the mainstay?
I kind of used my book idea as an excuse to move here, because I love the city. I’ve wanted to be here, I’m happy being here, and I’ll be here for at least a few years, if not longer. I’m not going anywhere.
Big Easy Ballers
2016
thank you the cockeyed court
on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads
made of some runny-nosed kids
a shambles, and the 61-year-old
after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut
from my no-look pass to seal the game
ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods
and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar
grinning across his chest
—Ross Gay, “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude”
Darrell Guillory dribbled hesitantly in the corner and fed me in the post. I spun left and heaved a jump hook at the rim.
BRICK
A piercing whistle saved me from another missed field goal. I had been hacked by my defender, a sweaty chubster whose workout regimen probably consisted of power-curling donuts from the box to his mouth. To his credit, the guy was a superb fouler.
I rarely played basketball these days, but I made an exception for Darrell. It was hard to turn down a man who loved the game as much as him. As our player-coach-manager, Darrell used an advanced recruiting strategy: he sought out the tallest players in Harrah’s poker room. There was nowhere for me to hide. Thanks to our excellent height and terrible opposition, we were leading the D-minus division of the Metairie Basketball League.
The Big Easy Ballers. Kings of a small world.
The ref tossed me the ball at the foul line, where I waited hands on knees, chest heaving. I was sore, exhausted, and ready to be done with this game—preferably for good. I took a deep breath and three dribbles, bent my knees, and flicked my left wrist. The ball floated towards the rim and fell pathetically short. There was confused silence, laughter, and then, from the bleachers:
“AIRBALLLLLL!”
“Get that ***** some oxygen!”
“Damn, I thought Dirk could shoot!”
“That ain’t Dirk, that Larry!”
“It don’t matter, he still can’t shoot!”
This was gonna be a long season.
**
“Ready, champ?” Darrell strolled up to me with a wide grin. It was a Wednesday, early evening, and we’d both wrapped up another Harrah’s day grind—Darrell, as dealer; me, as player.
“Ready when you are, champ,” I said. I had been wanting to interview Darrell for a while. A veteran dealer for almost twenty years, Darrell was jovial, efficient, and professional. He was also a familiar face inside the casino. He was chatted up half a dozen times on our short walk from the poker room to Starbucks.
We sat in the corner and Darrell discussed growing up in Lake Charles, meeting his wife, Phlicious, and being featured on ESPN’s coverage of the 2006 Circuit Event. And, of course, winning a title with the Big Easy Ballers. “I told everybody how bad I wanted this,” he said, eyes gleaming. “This team is, by far, the best team I’ve put together in the eight years I’ve been playing. The best team.”
“How sweet is this championship?” I asked.
“This championship is so sweet that it’s probably why I want to take a season off. We had to win this one.”
We talked for almost an hour. Then I thanked Darrell for doing an interview and asked him if there was anything else that he wanted to discuss.
“I got some questions for you, man,” he said with a grin.
“Ask away,” I said.
Darrell: We’ll go with basketball first. You’ve been playing all your life. You were the star player on your team in highschool. You had the height, so of course everybody was looking at you.
Bob: I always wanted to be a dribbler and a shooter, so I resisted playing down low. I was lucky because we had a 6’9’’ freshman and another 6’4’’ guy—we had some height—so I actually played a swingman in highschool even though I was 6’5.’’ That really helped me in college, where everybody’s taller and faster. I came from a farm town and we always lost to the inner city schools, year after year after year. But my senior year everything came together: we won the first section title in 40 or 50 years. It’s what I look back on most fondly in my sports career.
So you’re averaging 24 points a game in New York, you get recruited, you go to college, you played your freshman and sophomore year. Why’d you give it up?
There were a couple of reasons. It mainly had to do with losing passion for the game and seeing the shape that college basketball has taken. Some people in the program were thrown away like garbage if they weren’t playing well. I wasn’t treated unfairly, I don’t think, but others were. Also, I wasn’t on scholarship, which led me to ask: why am I doing this? Because I like it? Because it’s a challenge? I’m a big believer in balance, and I had no balance then. I would wake up and go to class, down to the gym for individual workouts, back to campus for another class, down to the gym for pickup and weights, to the library for mandatory freshman study hall—and this was in the offseason. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it. It was that I couldn’t answer the question: “why am I doing this?” So I made the decision, probably three-quarters through my sophomore year, that I was done.
How did the coaches take it?
They took it OK. My parents took it really hard. My dad took it really hard. As any dad would, I think. To this day, I don’t think he understands why I quit. After I left the team, he started calling up all these other college coaches. And they start calling me and offering me scholarships to play for their school. I told them, “I appreciate the offer, but I just want to stay here and not play basketball.” My dad couldn’t process that. He thought that my coached screwed me over, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to focus on academics. And, overall, things worked out. I played two years of basketball and I also had a normal college experience. I studied abroad in Australia, I went to grad school. So I was able to turn the corner and get into a career. If I had played basketball, I could have played in Europe or something for a few years.
So when’d you get your passion back for basketball?
It’s not back.
Still not back?
No, man.
But you’re having so much fun with us, dude! Two more basketball questions. How many times do you get the “Dirk?”
All the time. You know what it is? I gotta get a haircut. My hair’s curly like Dirk’s.
How many times have you taken advantage of it?
I dressed up as Dirk for Halloween one year. I might have signed an autograph once.
So how’s your poker game? How’d you get into poker?
I got into poker after college. I just started playing with friends. My background’s mainly online. While I was in grad school—I studied English, novels and short stories and stuff—poker worked out a different part of my brain. I’ve only been playing live for the last few years. I like and dislike aspects of it. Live poker is a very slow game. I work on my game, I try to improve, but the priority for me is my writing. I see poker as an interesting subject to explore through writing.
Any regular jobs?
Yeah. I do some teaching, some freelancing, and I work for a medical school back in Houston. Fortunately all of it’s very flexible, so I can come to the casino whenever.
How long you been in New Orleans?
About a year.
You making this the mainstay?
I kind of used my book idea as an excuse to move here, because I love the city. I’ve wanted to be here, I’m happy being here, and I’ll be here for at least a few years, if not longer. I’m not going anywhere.
Last edited by bob_124; 08-03-2017 at 09:38 AM.
08-31-2017
, 01:11 PM
August Results, September Goals
[X] visit Cambridge
I had an enjoyable few weeks in Boston, where I visited my old stomping ground and caught up with some good friends. The city's one of my favorite places in the summer, and one of my least favorite in the winter!
[X] end stint as homeless vagabond
sick brag/beat: From July-Aug I probably slept in 15 different beds (or on the ground). I just moved into a new Nola place yesterday and really like it. I also started teaching a fall class—a seminar called "What is Identity?"—and expect to learn a lot. Reading a lot of good stuff that I'd never heard of before. Loving my student submissions:
Part of my plan for the fall is to write in the shadow of some of these readings on identity, keeping poker in mind. How do you tell the story of someone's journey into (and out of) poker? Personal and social identity—and how these identities change over time—seem crucial to answering this question.
(You're at the table grinding and someone asks: "What do you do?" How do you answer?)
In particular, I've been thinking about the relationship between "outsiders" and "insiders." Play long enough, and you acquire a new set of eyes: suddenly you recognize regs, distinguish fish from whales, decipher what certain bets "mean," grow comfortable with different stakes and games. A Bellagio reg "sees" his poker room differently than a weekend tourist, of course. But how does this process take place? How does the weekend tourist become the Bellagio reg? I think it would be fun and informative to take readers on this journey from outsider to insider, which would offer a kind of demystification of the poker world—its languages, customs, communities.
[23] Play 40 hours
Not so worried about this. I've mapped out the fall and should still be able to hit my yearly target.
Since I've been back in town, I've enjoyed playing and studying quite a bit. That will definitely help with volume, so let's hope it continues.
September Goals
[ ] write 50 hours
[ ] play 50 hours
[ ] study 20 hours
[ ] reread Alvarez, McManus, Whitehead.
almost forgot!
[X] visit Cambridge
I had an enjoyable few weeks in Boston, where I visited my old stomping ground and caught up with some good friends. The city's one of my favorite places in the summer, and one of my least favorite in the winter!
[X] end stint as homeless vagabond
sick brag/beat: From July-Aug I probably slept in 15 different beds (or on the ground). I just moved into a new Nola place yesterday and really like it. I also started teaching a fall class—a seminar called "What is Identity?"—and expect to learn a lot. Reading a lot of good stuff that I'd never heard of before. Loving my student submissions:
Spoiler:
Part of my plan for the fall is to write in the shadow of some of these readings on identity, keeping poker in mind. How do you tell the story of someone's journey into (and out of) poker? Personal and social identity—and how these identities change over time—seem crucial to answering this question.
(You're at the table grinding and someone asks: "What do you do?" How do you answer?)
In particular, I've been thinking about the relationship between "outsiders" and "insiders." Play long enough, and you acquire a new set of eyes: suddenly you recognize regs, distinguish fish from whales, decipher what certain bets "mean," grow comfortable with different stakes and games. A Bellagio reg "sees" his poker room differently than a weekend tourist, of course. But how does this process take place? How does the weekend tourist become the Bellagio reg? I think it would be fun and informative to take readers on this journey from outsider to insider, which would offer a kind of demystification of the poker world—its languages, customs, communities.
[23] Play 40 hours
Not so worried about this. I've mapped out the fall and should still be able to hit my yearly target.
Since I've been back in town, I've enjoyed playing and studying quite a bit. That will definitely help with volume, so let's hope it continues.
September Goals
[ ] write 50 hours
[ ] play 50 hours
[ ] study 20 hours
[ ] reread Alvarez, McManus, Whitehead.
almost forgot!
Spoiler:
09-05-2017
, 11:53 AM
Poker Faces in the Crowd: Simkha Blank
I spoke with Simkha Blank about travel, health, live reporting, PLO, and her recent memoir Volatile: A Memoir of Poker and Bipolar Disorder.
Yeah, that's what I'm thinking at the moment. I also think outsider --> insider --> outsider could also work. Seems fitting, given how few people stay in poker for the long haul.
The goal (Capote): "The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final? As an orange is final. As an orange is something nature has made just right."
I'm thinking instead that, following Heidegger, I'll contrive to use "always already" in every sentence. That will give the story a certain temporal weightiness. As it were.
**
A few thoughts on my reread of Alvarez. A pleasurable read: silky, precise sentences and poetic character descriptions.
Description of Vegas is excellent, but probably overfamiliar and even cliche. He freakifies Vegas’s nameless denizens in a way that feels cold rather than compassionate, conservative rather than tolerant. Odd, since I felt differently a few years back.
It's amazing what's possible in three weeks of consistent reporting. He includes mini-profiles of dozens of Vegas pros.
Alvarez is “in” the book more than I remembered.
So many descriptions of the grind--the shallow banter, the degen atmosphere, the unreality of high stakes--still ring true today. A few things are entirely different, esp the role of technology in shaping the cardroom experience. At one point Eric Drache feels like he’s “anteing himself to death,” and says he’d pay $100 for a news ticker that scrolled across the table: anything to alleviate the monotony of staring at the same haggard faces every day. (Woulda been nice if Alvarez had said, Bro, do you even read?! Bring a book!). Obviously we have the opposite problem today.
Still my favorite poker book. On to McManus.
I spoke with Simkha Blank about travel, health, live reporting, PLO, and her recent memoir Volatile: A Memoir of Poker and Bipolar Disorder.
The goal (Capote): "The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final? As an orange is final. As an orange is something nature has made just right."
**
A few thoughts on my reread of Alvarez. A pleasurable read: silky, precise sentences and poetic character descriptions.
Description of Vegas is excellent, but probably overfamiliar and even cliche. He freakifies Vegas’s nameless denizens in a way that feels cold rather than compassionate, conservative rather than tolerant. Odd, since I felt differently a few years back.
It's amazing what's possible in three weeks of consistent reporting. He includes mini-profiles of dozens of Vegas pros.
Alvarez is “in” the book more than I remembered.
So many descriptions of the grind--the shallow banter, the degen atmosphere, the unreality of high stakes--still ring true today. A few things are entirely different, esp the role of technology in shaping the cardroom experience. At one point Eric Drache feels like he’s “anteing himself to death,” and says he’d pay $100 for a news ticker that scrolled across the table: anything to alleviate the monotony of staring at the same haggard faces every day. (Woulda been nice if Alvarez had said, Bro, do you even read?! Bring a book!). Obviously we have the opposite problem today.
Still my favorite poker book. On to McManus.
09-05-2017
, 01:30 PM
09-05-2017
, 07:04 PM
Quote:
reread Alvarez, McManus, Whitehead
Spoiler:
Quote:
I'm thinking instead that, following Heidegger, I'll contrive to use "always already" in every sentence.
09-07-2017
, 07:05 PM
Quote:
Great interview that you have done here with, Simkha Blank.
This was the highlight of the interview for me. I believe this response from Simkha is really quite brilliant.
I think that more people should realize that they are playing a game when they are at the poker table. Emotionally divesting from the game of poker, I think, would pay huge dividends for many players, myself included, as well as the overall health of the game.
This was the highlight of the interview for me. I believe this response from Simkha is really quite brilliant.
I think that more people should realize that they are playing a game when they are at the poker table. Emotionally divesting from the game of poker, I think, would pay huge dividends for many players, myself included, as well as the overall health of the game.
Hmm who dat?
In other words: my kinda man!
Last edited by bob_124; 09-07-2017 at 07:16 PM.
09-22-2017
, 11:53 AM
What About Bob?
The Conclusion (in which Nothing is Concluded)
2017
It is 7:15 in the morning, a Monday morning, and the sun, bright and clear, is a stark visual contrast to the inside of the cardroom. After sixteen hours of solid poker-playing I have just stepped outside of the Rainbow Club. Bone-weary and depressed, I’d been trying to get even the whole night but never succeeded. I’m looking forward to a good ten hours’ sleep.
Walking to the car a friend approaches and says, ‘Look. I’ve got an idea. We’re both stuck. Let’s have some breakfast and then start the game at nine. The day crew is easy. We’ll both get even.’
I think about his offer for a short second, but all I can see is bad hand after bad hand dancing before my eyes. Uncertain feelings about the gains and losses of poker, and over ten thousand hours of ethnography-cum-poker-playing (or is it the reverse?) merge into one confusing mess. I take a deep breath and find some comfort in the crisp air. I straighten my back.
‘You’re on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go!’
—David Hayano, Poker Faces
It was 8:15 in the morning, a Wednesday morning, and the sun, bright and clear, lit up the Mississippi River. Entrepreneurs hurried through the Central Business District in suits and skirts; I trotted to Harrah’s New Orleans in shorts and a hoodie. I had a full day of work ahead of me.
The security guard waved me inside with a bored look of recognition. Not long ago I’d been, like the new kid at school, an outsider to the time-honored members of the poker room. Now I was one of them—a Harradise regular. It was no grand achievement. Hang around long enough and, like it or not, you earned entry to a small world. You learned who plays the best, who smells the worst. You heard ceaseless gossip and speculation: Where does he get his money? How could she call that raise with those cards? You spent Friday night with the same stoic faces, with the same mustard-drenched Lucky Dogs, with the same brass band bopping past the blackjack tables—oh when the Saints! go marching in!—celebrating with a jovial crowd in tow. Then you stayed late with these strangers and pined for that witching hour when, like David Hayano, you might get even.
I was no David Hayano. I rose early. I rarely chased losses. Sometimes I dreaded going to the casino. All things considered, though, I liked Wednesdays. It was my once-a-week day grind. With luck, I’d join a shorthanded 1/3 game and earn extra chips for the weekly 11 a.m. tournament. More likely, I’d start a fresh game with day crew regs who sipped coffee and waited for aces.
There’s nothing quite like an empty poker room. Lonely black chairs, TVs entertaining no one, that nagging sense that you should be somewhere else—they all greeted me when I reached the check-in desk. So, too, did a man in a black Spider hat who glanced up from his newspaper and nodded at the lone game behind him. “2/5 from last night. Big one. Guess we’ll be waitin’ a while.”
Spider was right. This was no ordinary game. Six players hunched over imposing chip-towers of reds and greens and blacks and purples; a few oversized oranges crowned the tops. Some of these men resembled tent dwellers underneath the I-10 freeway—they twisted uncomfortably in their seats, vaguely scratched themselves, kept time by the grime on their grubby hands—awake because they had nowhere to go, nothing to do. But there was always poker.
“Forty grand on that table, easy,” Spider said quietly. “Crazy game with crazy players.” He muttered to himself and returned to his newspaper.
Sitting in such a high-variance game was, for Spider, out of the question. But what about for me? I wasn’t sure. Incinerating a few grand would suck, of course, but my biggest problem was mental. I had strolled into the office ready for a stress-free day grind. Did I really want to throw my schedule out of whack?
Hell yes I did.
Missy, the night shift manager, slid me a grand in red and black. If I got stacked, I’d have just enough cash to play the $130 Weekly. And I could always take the walk of shame to an ATM.
Spider’s head whirled around with an expression of shock and confusion, as though, by merely taking an open seat, I was hurdling some invisible boundary.
“Well—good luck!” he called after me.
**
“You’re here early, Bob,” The Best Player in Nola said.
Very early,” The Best Player in Nola added.
“Looks like I’m late,” I said, settling into seat six. Nola’s Finest smirked and didn’t reply.
I knew both of them. Smartly dressed in thick black glasses and a Ralph Loren pullover, Seat One had, even at this early hour, a chipper disposition. His eyes shed a certain brightness, a kind of eager glimmer. Each hand, to him, was a gift.
Seat Three’s youthful face, on the other hand, was lined with fatigue. It was impossible to tell whether he was up or down, judging by his 10K stack, but one thing was clear: he didn’t want to be here. And yet he was. How could he leave? The Best Player in Nola knew that there were certain games—often but not always at night—when he could erase a month’s deficit in a single hand. These opportunities were short-lived. Suddenly the whale busted, the game broke, and the newspaper crew was fighting for twenty-dollar pots. So he did what was necessary. He grinded the vampire shift and worked overtime. Again and again, year after year, he made good decisions with no audience to admire or cheer or care. Maybe this was a glimpse of real heroism.
Then again—I watched the sleepy behemoth in the eight seat, the addled septuagenarian in the ten seat, the sweaty sloth in the five seat—heroism wasn’t exactly what came to mind in this absurd space. As much as we liked to see ourselves as Heroes and Villains, maybe we suffered from wishful thinking. Maybe there was a reason why, out of all the places to be on a Wednesday morning in New Orleans, we were flinging chips around a filthy felt table. Maybe the truth was simple: we were ****ing degens.
The dealer tapped a green button, a fresh deck rose to the tabletop, cards skimmed across the purple baize. Darrell dealt in turn and oversaw a round of betting. Eight pushed two reds across the betting line, One flicked in two greens.
“Fifty to play,” Darrell said.
Flanked by Nola’s Finest, The Best Player in Baton Rouge sourly called from the two seat. He was clinical and ruthless and here for one reason—money. The primary source of that cash, a Moby Dick of ineptitude, slouched to my right in a raggedy flannel. Casey sipped Bud Light and brooded quietly over a messy pile of greens, blacks, and a wobbly tower of purples. He sluggishly bet the flop, then the turn, then the river.
“Four hundred to call,” Darrell said.
Seat One peered brightly at the board—ten, eight, seven, five, deuce, rainbow—and casually flicked his cards into the muck. “I might have to pay you off,” Baton Rouge muttered. He looped one hole card beneath the other, over and over, in his stubby hands. Finally he rolled his eyes and tossed in a purple.
Casey showed 97o. It was good.
“That’s a thin bet,” Baton Rouge sneered. “Thin. But good.” He waited expectantly as Casey dragged the pot with disinterest. Then he added: “No dancing this time? You were really grooving a few hours ago.”
Casey shrugged and stared at nothing.
Darrell tapped the green button, a fresh deck rose to the tabletop, cards skimmed across the purple baize. I folded eight-four and followed the action, which limped around to Three’s button straddle. Studying his opponents with a haggard, resolute gaze, he angrily tossed four greens into the pot. Then he said, pointing first to his chips and then to his cards, “I do this **** with this **** because I know you’re gonna call. That’s what we do. We’re addicted gamblers.”
“That’s why we here,” Casey said.
None of the other limpers spoke. They merely paid the new price of admission and waited for the flop. I wondered if Three’s little speech was an act, if he really was frustrated. Maybe he was using his frustration to craft profitable spots. I didn’t know.
The action was ferocious. Day grinders trickled into the room and chatted in hushed tones, marveling at how each pot was somehow bigger than the last. After getting stacked by Seat One, the enormous man to my left lumbered away like a drunken elephant. Suddenly we were six-handed.
Casey raised to forty over a button straddle. Peeling apart my two hole cards, I saw the ace-jack of spades. My turn.
“Re-raise to one-fifty,” Darrell said. Casey scanned me with a weary, nonchalant expression and called.
The flop was jack, five, four with two diamonds and Casey bet two black chips. I called. On the turn, the ace of diamonds, he bet three blacks. I called again. The river, a nine, was another diamond. Casey reached into his wobbly tower of purples and tossed one across the betting line.
“Five hundred to call,” Darrell said.
The purple disc was decorated with the Harrah’s logo and a cackling jester. For a long time, I sat and stared at that wide-mouthed smile. It was undeniable: the jester was laughing at me.
One chip. Four diamonds. Goddamn those diamonds. Given my decision to call both the flop and turn, I’d given Casey room to bluff. But how likely was that? Plus, even if he was spazzing with air, he might have rivered the best hand. I imagined losing to three-deuce with the deuce of diamonds, to pocket fours with a diamond, to nut flushes—all were possible. In one miserable hand, I would ship my month’s rent to a drunken gambler. Nola’s Finest would roll their eyes. Casey would spring from his seat and snort with belly laughter, his lumpy ass jiggling in a wretched victory twerk.
I squirmed in my seat. Why had I put myself in such a ****ty spot? What was I afraid of?
“That’s a bad card,” I said. Casey shrugged and stared at nothing. Darrell waited patiently. The Best Player in Nola traded glances with The Best Player in Nola. Hovering behind them, Spider watched with wide, bewildered eyes.
I could have flipped a coin, to be honest, except for one strange detail. I knew the answer. It had been echoing inside my head, soft and insistent, ever since I’d gone into the tank. Was I hearing the right answer? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, there was only one thing to do—listen, and act.
I tossed in a chip.
“Call.”
The Conclusion (in which Nothing is Concluded)
2017
It is 7:15 in the morning, a Monday morning, and the sun, bright and clear, is a stark visual contrast to the inside of the cardroom. After sixteen hours of solid poker-playing I have just stepped outside of the Rainbow Club. Bone-weary and depressed, I’d been trying to get even the whole night but never succeeded. I’m looking forward to a good ten hours’ sleep.
Walking to the car a friend approaches and says, ‘Look. I’ve got an idea. We’re both stuck. Let’s have some breakfast and then start the game at nine. The day crew is easy. We’ll both get even.’
I think about his offer for a short second, but all I can see is bad hand after bad hand dancing before my eyes. Uncertain feelings about the gains and losses of poker, and over ten thousand hours of ethnography-cum-poker-playing (or is it the reverse?) merge into one confusing mess. I take a deep breath and find some comfort in the crisp air. I straighten my back.
‘You’re on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go!’
—David Hayano, Poker Faces
It was 8:15 in the morning, a Wednesday morning, and the sun, bright and clear, lit up the Mississippi River. Entrepreneurs hurried through the Central Business District in suits and skirts; I trotted to Harrah’s New Orleans in shorts and a hoodie. I had a full day of work ahead of me.
The security guard waved me inside with a bored look of recognition. Not long ago I’d been, like the new kid at school, an outsider to the time-honored members of the poker room. Now I was one of them—a Harradise regular. It was no grand achievement. Hang around long enough and, like it or not, you earned entry to a small world. You learned who plays the best, who smells the worst. You heard ceaseless gossip and speculation: Where does he get his money? How could she call that raise with those cards? You spent Friday night with the same stoic faces, with the same mustard-drenched Lucky Dogs, with the same brass band bopping past the blackjack tables—oh when the Saints! go marching in!—celebrating with a jovial crowd in tow. Then you stayed late with these strangers and pined for that witching hour when, like David Hayano, you might get even.
I was no David Hayano. I rose early. I rarely chased losses. Sometimes I dreaded going to the casino. All things considered, though, I liked Wednesdays. It was my once-a-week day grind. With luck, I’d join a shorthanded 1/3 game and earn extra chips for the weekly 11 a.m. tournament. More likely, I’d start a fresh game with day crew regs who sipped coffee and waited for aces.
There’s nothing quite like an empty poker room. Lonely black chairs, TVs entertaining no one, that nagging sense that you should be somewhere else—they all greeted me when I reached the check-in desk. So, too, did a man in a black Spider hat who glanced up from his newspaper and nodded at the lone game behind him. “2/5 from last night. Big one. Guess we’ll be waitin’ a while.”
Spider was right. This was no ordinary game. Six players hunched over imposing chip-towers of reds and greens and blacks and purples; a few oversized oranges crowned the tops. Some of these men resembled tent dwellers underneath the I-10 freeway—they twisted uncomfortably in their seats, vaguely scratched themselves, kept time by the grime on their grubby hands—awake because they had nowhere to go, nothing to do. But there was always poker.
“Forty grand on that table, easy,” Spider said quietly. “Crazy game with crazy players.” He muttered to himself and returned to his newspaper.
Sitting in such a high-variance game was, for Spider, out of the question. But what about for me? I wasn’t sure. Incinerating a few grand would suck, of course, but my biggest problem was mental. I had strolled into the office ready for a stress-free day grind. Did I really want to throw my schedule out of whack?
Hell yes I did.
Missy, the night shift manager, slid me a grand in red and black. If I got stacked, I’d have just enough cash to play the $130 Weekly. And I could always take the walk of shame to an ATM.
Spider’s head whirled around with an expression of shock and confusion, as though, by merely taking an open seat, I was hurdling some invisible boundary.
“Well—good luck!” he called after me.
**
“You’re here early, Bob,” The Best Player in Nola said.
Very early,” The Best Player in Nola added.
“Looks like I’m late,” I said, settling into seat six. Nola’s Finest smirked and didn’t reply.
I knew both of them. Smartly dressed in thick black glasses and a Ralph Loren pullover, Seat One had, even at this early hour, a chipper disposition. His eyes shed a certain brightness, a kind of eager glimmer. Each hand, to him, was a gift.
Seat Three’s youthful face, on the other hand, was lined with fatigue. It was impossible to tell whether he was up or down, judging by his 10K stack, but one thing was clear: he didn’t want to be here. And yet he was. How could he leave? The Best Player in Nola knew that there were certain games—often but not always at night—when he could erase a month’s deficit in a single hand. These opportunities were short-lived. Suddenly the whale busted, the game broke, and the newspaper crew was fighting for twenty-dollar pots. So he did what was necessary. He grinded the vampire shift and worked overtime. Again and again, year after year, he made good decisions with no audience to admire or cheer or care. Maybe this was a glimpse of real heroism.
Then again—I watched the sleepy behemoth in the eight seat, the addled septuagenarian in the ten seat, the sweaty sloth in the five seat—heroism wasn’t exactly what came to mind in this absurd space. As much as we liked to see ourselves as Heroes and Villains, maybe we suffered from wishful thinking. Maybe there was a reason why, out of all the places to be on a Wednesday morning in New Orleans, we were flinging chips around a filthy felt table. Maybe the truth was simple: we were ****ing degens.
The dealer tapped a green button, a fresh deck rose to the tabletop, cards skimmed across the purple baize. Darrell dealt in turn and oversaw a round of betting. Eight pushed two reds across the betting line, One flicked in two greens.
“Fifty to play,” Darrell said.
Flanked by Nola’s Finest, The Best Player in Baton Rouge sourly called from the two seat. He was clinical and ruthless and here for one reason—money. The primary source of that cash, a Moby Dick of ineptitude, slouched to my right in a raggedy flannel. Casey sipped Bud Light and brooded quietly over a messy pile of greens, blacks, and a wobbly tower of purples. He sluggishly bet the flop, then the turn, then the river.
“Four hundred to call,” Darrell said.
Seat One peered brightly at the board—ten, eight, seven, five, deuce, rainbow—and casually flicked his cards into the muck. “I might have to pay you off,” Baton Rouge muttered. He looped one hole card beneath the other, over and over, in his stubby hands. Finally he rolled his eyes and tossed in a purple.
Casey showed 97o. It was good.
“That’s a thin bet,” Baton Rouge sneered. “Thin. But good.” He waited expectantly as Casey dragged the pot with disinterest. Then he added: “No dancing this time? You were really grooving a few hours ago.”
Casey shrugged and stared at nothing.
Darrell tapped the green button, a fresh deck rose to the tabletop, cards skimmed across the purple baize. I folded eight-four and followed the action, which limped around to Three’s button straddle. Studying his opponents with a haggard, resolute gaze, he angrily tossed four greens into the pot. Then he said, pointing first to his chips and then to his cards, “I do this **** with this **** because I know you’re gonna call. That’s what we do. We’re addicted gamblers.”
“That’s why we here,” Casey said.
None of the other limpers spoke. They merely paid the new price of admission and waited for the flop. I wondered if Three’s little speech was an act, if he really was frustrated. Maybe he was using his frustration to craft profitable spots. I didn’t know.
The action was ferocious. Day grinders trickled into the room and chatted in hushed tones, marveling at how each pot was somehow bigger than the last. After getting stacked by Seat One, the enormous man to my left lumbered away like a drunken elephant. Suddenly we were six-handed.
Casey raised to forty over a button straddle. Peeling apart my two hole cards, I saw the ace-jack of spades. My turn.
“Re-raise to one-fifty,” Darrell said. Casey scanned me with a weary, nonchalant expression and called.
The flop was jack, five, four with two diamonds and Casey bet two black chips. I called. On the turn, the ace of diamonds, he bet three blacks. I called again. The river, a nine, was another diamond. Casey reached into his wobbly tower of purples and tossed one across the betting line.
“Five hundred to call,” Darrell said.
The purple disc was decorated with the Harrah’s logo and a cackling jester. For a long time, I sat and stared at that wide-mouthed smile. It was undeniable: the jester was laughing at me.
One chip. Four diamonds. Goddamn those diamonds. Given my decision to call both the flop and turn, I’d given Casey room to bluff. But how likely was that? Plus, even if he was spazzing with air, he might have rivered the best hand. I imagined losing to three-deuce with the deuce of diamonds, to pocket fours with a diamond, to nut flushes—all were possible. In one miserable hand, I would ship my month’s rent to a drunken gambler. Nola’s Finest would roll their eyes. Casey would spring from his seat and snort with belly laughter, his lumpy ass jiggling in a wretched victory twerk.
I squirmed in my seat. Why had I put myself in such a ****ty spot? What was I afraid of?
“That’s a bad card,” I said. Casey shrugged and stared at nothing. Darrell waited patiently. The Best Player in Nola traded glances with The Best Player in Nola. Hovering behind them, Spider watched with wide, bewildered eyes.
I could have flipped a coin, to be honest, except for one strange detail. I knew the answer. It had been echoing inside my head, soft and insistent, ever since I’d gone into the tank. Was I hearing the right answer? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, there was only one thing to do—listen, and act.
I tossed in a chip.
“Call.”
Last edited by bob_124; 09-22-2017 at 12:18 PM.
09-22-2017
, 11:17 PM
10-01-2017
, 10:54 AM
September Results, October Goals
What better way to spend Saturday afternoon than to stumble upon a Harrah's Seven Star Parade in the French Quarter!
[46] write 50 hours
[49] play 50 hours
[17] study 20 hours
[
] reread Alvarez, McManus, Whitehead.
made it through Alvarez and part of McManus, which I'll finish this month + Whitehead. Also picked up John McPhee's Draft No. 4, which I'd recommend to anyone interested in the craft of writing and the philosophy of composition (stuff like structure, interviewing, editing, revision)
October Goals
[ ] Play 50 hours
[ ] Write 50 hours
[ ] Finish WSOP story
I was informed that the food in the Harradise Diamond Lounge is abysmal; obviously had to see for myself
Big Easy Ballers on their way to 0-5
Nola rooftops
Never got into the live streams all that much. I've also been enjoying the return of PAD. Hopefully they can keep things interesting. I didn't watch much of the PLO.
What better way to spend Saturday afternoon than to stumble upon a Harrah's Seven Star Parade in the French Quarter!
[46] write 50 hours
[49] play 50 hours
[17] study 20 hours
[
] reread Alvarez, McManus, Whitehead. made it through Alvarez and part of McManus, which I'll finish this month + Whitehead. Also picked up John McPhee's Draft No. 4, which I'd recommend to anyone interested in the craft of writing and the philosophy of composition (stuff like structure, interviewing, editing, revision)
October Goals
[ ] Play 50 hours
[ ] Write 50 hours
[ ] Finish WSOP story
I was informed that the food in the Harradise Diamond Lounge is abysmal; obviously had to see for myself
Spoiler:
Big Easy Ballers on their way to 0-5
Spoiler:
Nola rooftops
Spoiler:
Never got into the live streams all that much. I've also been enjoying the return of PAD. Hopefully they can keep things interesting. I didn't watch much of the PLO.
10-06-2017
, 11:45 AM
Steffen Sontheimer on Thinking about Thinking, Transhumanism's Simulation Theology
I've been thinking about how to explain poker theory to people who know nothing about cards/put poker in the context of game theory, and it seems that the most useful analogy is with rock/paper/scissors. It comes up again and again. Poker Masters champ Steffen Sonthemeimer explained this relationship on a recent Joey Ingram podcast and I'm paraphrasing here (discussion starts at 1:33, in response to the question: What accelerated your poker thought process?)
Answer: Thinking about the way you want to think about something. To have a certain pattern of thinking that's NOT looking at your two cards and doing something to your opponent (I want to make him call; I want to make him fold). It's more like having a thought pattern that says, after a flop falls down, OK. How do ranges perform here? What sizings do I want to use overall, then put hand in the right line I want to use.
I like to have the big picture and put everything together. Think in three steps:
step #1: What would be right? It's always nice to know what would be GTO, the solver solution, etc.
Step #2: What's villain doing wrong. You can only know that answer if you know step #1. Many guys will say, this dude's overcbetting. But they don't even know what cbetting frequency would be right.
Step #3: To which degree should I exploit? Will I see this person once in my life and therefore jam 72o because he's overfolding? Or should I stay reasonable and aim for a smaller exploit.
[joey rambles for a while]
I like to break things down until things get very easy. My example for that would be RPS:
step #1 would be to know that the perfect GTO solution would be to take 1/3 rock, 1/3 paper, 1/3 scissors--totally randomized.
step #2: What are people doing wrong? Do we have population reads? Do we have gender reads? Do we have nation reads? Stuff like that. I would assume you'd take rock more often, because every male is doing that.
step #3: How should you exploit? The World Championship of RPS is a thing. When you have a read that your opponent prefers rock, then it's obvious that you should just go with paper--IF you're playing him only one time. But what's my plan if I know that he'll take rock a little too often AND we'll play nine times in a row? Do you go with 40/30/30, leaning a little towards paper? How do you exploit that?
This is the same with poker...whenever you exploit someone, you get exploitable yourself. If your opponent is a thinking human being, he might figure out that you're four-betting light if he sees you 4-bet 72o, even if it might be +EV that single time. On the other hand, if a Sunday Million winner sits at 50/100, then I don't care about the long game at all; I'll go for the maximum exploit.
**
The bolded seems important in the LOLivepoker context
**
"One day, it occurred to me: perhaps God was the designer and Christ his digital avatar, and the incarnation his way of entering the simulation to share tips about our collective survival as a species. Or maybe the creation of our world was a competition, a kind of video game in which each participating programmer invented one of the world religions, sent down his own prophet-avatar, and received points for every new convert."
MEGHAN O'GIEBLYN, Ghost in the Cloud: Transhumanism’s simulation theology
I've been thinking about how to explain poker theory to people who know nothing about cards/put poker in the context of game theory, and it seems that the most useful analogy is with rock/paper/scissors. It comes up again and again. Poker Masters champ Steffen Sonthemeimer explained this relationship on a recent Joey Ingram podcast and I'm paraphrasing here (discussion starts at 1:33, in response to the question: What accelerated your poker thought process?)
Answer: Thinking about the way you want to think about something. To have a certain pattern of thinking that's NOT looking at your two cards and doing something to your opponent (I want to make him call; I want to make him fold). It's more like having a thought pattern that says, after a flop falls down, OK. How do ranges perform here? What sizings do I want to use overall, then put hand in the right line I want to use.
I like to have the big picture and put everything together. Think in three steps:
step #1: What would be right? It's always nice to know what would be GTO, the solver solution, etc.
Step #2: What's villain doing wrong. You can only know that answer if you know step #1. Many guys will say, this dude's overcbetting. But they don't even know what cbetting frequency would be right.
Step #3: To which degree should I exploit? Will I see this person once in my life and therefore jam 72o because he's overfolding? Or should I stay reasonable and aim for a smaller exploit.
[joey rambles for a while]
I like to break things down until things get very easy. My example for that would be RPS:
step #1 would be to know that the perfect GTO solution would be to take 1/3 rock, 1/3 paper, 1/3 scissors--totally randomized.
step #2: What are people doing wrong? Do we have population reads? Do we have gender reads? Do we have nation reads? Stuff like that. I would assume you'd take rock more often, because every male is doing that.
step #3: How should you exploit? The World Championship of RPS is a thing. When you have a read that your opponent prefers rock, then it's obvious that you should just go with paper--IF you're playing him only one time. But what's my plan if I know that he'll take rock a little too often AND we'll play nine times in a row? Do you go with 40/30/30, leaning a little towards paper? How do you exploit that?
This is the same with poker...whenever you exploit someone, you get exploitable yourself. If your opponent is a thinking human being, he might figure out that you're four-betting light if he sees you 4-bet 72o, even if it might be +EV that single time. On the other hand, if a Sunday Million winner sits at 50/100, then I don't care about the long game at all; I'll go for the maximum exploit.
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The bolded seems important in the LOLivepoker context
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"One day, it occurred to me: perhaps God was the designer and Christ his digital avatar, and the incarnation his way of entering the simulation to share tips about our collective survival as a species. Or maybe the creation of our world was a competition, a kind of video game in which each participating programmer invented one of the world religions, sent down his own prophet-avatar, and received points for every new convert."
MEGHAN O'GIEBLYN, Ghost in the Cloud: Transhumanism’s simulation theology