Take it easy guys, he's only 22. If I were 22 and already crushing 10/20 at Bellagio I would change my name to Sir. Olivia Von de Rothschild and wear a monocle while toking on a pipe everywhere I went. How's that for pretentiousness?
I think it's fantastic that we have productive poster with literary ambitions, obvious skills, and great stories to tell, and I'm as exited as anybody about Scansion's next installment, including lyrics and the works
Take it easy guys, he's only 22. If I were 22 and already crushing 10/20 at Bellagio I would change my name to Sir. Olivia Von de Rothschild and wear a monocle while toking on a pipe everywhere I went. How's that for pretentiousness?
***For context, please read last year's TR first (found here); much of this one will contain references from it)***
The Sequel
“I see. But have you ever heard of the Curse of the Traveler?”
“No, what’s that?”
“It involves experiences and their value. The more places you see, the more things you find that appeal and attract you. However, none of these places you visit have them all.”
“But the more you see, the more options you have to choose from, obviously.”
“Yes, but you’re not the same person you were when you began this journey. You have a larger body of experiences to reflect upon, and there are a greater number of things you discover that you love. As a broader person, chances are that the next place you visit has an even smaller percentage of these things, as the number you enjoy has simply increased. But you still find new, fascinating parts of each culture, landscape, cuisine, and lifestyle in these new places that it fuels an addiction to continue searching for your proverbial Final Destination. Which in turn, makes it less likely you will find that place, as you’ve developed this yearning for everything you’ve seen that any current residence doesn’t provide.”
“Well. I could always find a way to reconcile this fact – perhaps there’s a right place for me as a permanent residence, then places I enjoy temporarily?”
“The curse doesn’t stop there.”
“What else is involved?”
“Thing is, you’re meeting many people from all walks of life in your travels, and you develop a certain expertise in engagement – as you’re never in one place for too long, you learn to quickly foster deep connections by actively trying to understand others, willfully listening to their experiences and observing their way of life.”
“A wonderful skill, I’d imagine.”
“Yes, and you do learn to single out those who are worth cultivating a relationship with, because of the sheer number of people you meet. You find inspiring figures in obscure places, individuals who’d be famous if they’d allow the world to see them, and those with certain values that will force you to question your very approach to existence itself.”
“So, what is the problem exactly? This is obviously a very good thing by nearly any measure.”
“The problem, my dear friend, is simply that you will leave. Your skill in developing relationships has come from the obvious intuition that you won’t be around for long. Eventually, you will miss all of them.”
“Yes but –“
“Then you’ll become conscious of this fact, and try to change. You settle down, you stay somewhere and call yourself one of them, dutifully cultivating relationships once again, but this time with some sort of permanence in mind.”
“Ah, so that’s the key to escaping the curse. Recognizing your own wanderlust as ultimately damning, and finding solace in life’s imperfect nature, both in the landscape of where you call home and the people whom you declare your love.”
“Not quite, for a specific reason. Those who you’ve decided to settle down with haven’t lived a similar lifestyle, seen what you’ve seen, or met who you’ve met. You’ll want to communicate your experiences just slightly more than your peers want to hear them, and you’ll never quite be understood just as deeply as you’d hoped. They don’t see you as an entire culmination of your travels, and they will never be capable of bringing out parts of you that you’ve been forced or opted to develop throughout the years. What they don’t see will be disheartening, and you will always feel a tinge of loneliness.
“…Then what?”
“Then, perhaps, you’ll leave again.”
Great thread Scansion, really, really enjoyed reading this it puts in to words how I feel but I would never have the talent to write something this good.
Is this your own writing or from somewhere else ? Either was great thread and an absolutely amazing explanation of the travelers mindset, I may have to steal this !
I say close it up.
When one starts a thread that becomes successful and anticipated, that should create a pact between writer and reader to update at an acceptable time frame. Especially when he finds the time to create other threads and post replies elsewhere.
Just move on and write a book Zach. The concept and story and style are good enough, and it doesn't seem you are that motivated to tell it here.
I say close it up.
When one starts a thread that becomes successful and anticipated, that should create a pact between writer and reader to update at an acceptable time frame. Especially when he finds the time to create other threads and post replies elsewhere.
Just move on and write a book Zach. The concept and story and style are good enough, and it doesn't seem you are that motivated to tell it here.
Good lord there are some entitled folks in this thread. It's been 3 weeks. He's allowed to do things other than provide you a daily/weekly/whatever-it-is-you-want update. Let him update as he feels, what's the point in closing a good thread
Good lord there are some entitled folks in this thread. It's been 3 weeks. He's allowed to do things other than provide you a daily/weekly/whatever-it-is-you-want update. Let him update as he feels, what's the point in closing a good thread
Mostly a tongue-in-cheek response - except for the book part.
I'm not afraid to label myself a fanboy here. His writing and his poker ability are terrific. It took him five and a half months to get through last years story, and so yea, quicker would be better, but I'm willing to wait.
"The best way out is always through." - Robert Frost
All I am is a man
I want the world in my hands
I hate the beach
But I stand
In California with my toes in the sand
Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let's have an adventure
Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered
Touch my neck and I'll touch yours
You in those little high waisted shorts, oh
She knows what I think about
And what I think about
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no
'Cause it's too cold
For you here and now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
And if I may just take your breath away
I don't mind if there's not much to say
Sometimes the silence guides our minds
So move to a place so far away
The goose bumps start to raise
The minute that my left hand meets your waist
And then I watch your face
Put my finger on your tongue
'Cause you love the taste, yeah
These hearts adore
Everyone the other beats hardest for
Inside this place is warm
Outside it starts to pour
Coming down
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no, no, no
The Neighborhood - Sweater Weather
June 4, 2013
One of the early morning runs I'd developed a habit of, despite the daily ritual of waking up either hungover or drunk, left me trotting through one of the many beautiful parks in Spain's most central city. Nearly two months after what I hadn't dealt with, a steady stream of alcohol, women, clubbing - or discotecas as is native - I'd kept myself together. The summer abroad trip I'd signed up for had a noticeably easy schedule, as even our professors recognized that sitting through grammar classes to learn spanish wasn't the real way we'd understand either the language or the culture. I'd taken full advantage of not only this freedom, but both the mental escape from everything my home country had bombarded my mind with, as well as the cheap booze and classmates willing to party abroad.
Not to be deterred by neither the difficulty nor the irony of plugging in my headphones for the regular half-marathon in between six-packs and cigarrettes, my morning run reached a point where I literally didn't know which direction to go, and before addressing this present problem of finding my way back to the spanish hostel our class is staying, I drift to what I've been avoiding.
The pain. The girl. The everything of my emotions that shut them off, ruptured and numbed my ability to feel, poisoned my sobriety, shattered the ever-building confidence each day had built as I worked towards that foggy goal. In some sense I knew at some point I'd need to approach this, play with it, sense its meaning and engage in the dirty, tortuous task of watching myself hurt as I live through that advice that seemed so astute: if you're going through hell, keep going!
So I sat down on a bench in Madrid, and I fell apart.
June 28th, 2013
The night Bjorn arrives in town, a Nobu dinner is planned involving a few players I know and respect. One of them roomed with Bjorn and I last year - Alex “rumnchess” Livingston. Bjorn, still dumbfounded as to how I could win almost 50k in less than a week’s worth of 10/20, thinks about how to respond to the fact that I want to do a “cash out”. Still more than happy to be staked, it makes sense for me to lock up some money now to support what in recent years has become a very dismal life roll.
We set some terms, and I toss a few flags and change across the table for his cut. Something tells me nobody in the restaurant is going to bat an eye at this amount of money floating around; Jonah Hill and his crew walked out a few minutes earlier and from the way the waiter mentioned how his dinner was, they spent well into five figures. As my brother’s gone now, I have an extra bed and it looks like Alex might need a place soon so we’ll probably end up staying together. He’s likely grinding 5/10 and some mixed games, then potentially 1-2 bracelet events, similar to me.
A few hours later I sit down in a seemingly easy Friday 10/20 game with $5k and immediately recognize the casual nature of the table. The regulars I respect have their shoulders relaxed, their observations lazy, and their guards down. An orbit in and I see the issue - two loud, European players seem to consider limping a mandatory action and bantering with each other the more important task at hand than sizing up the nature of a three-bet. I take a few pots down isolating these guys, but a missed draw leaves me with a little over $4k and an aggressive image. It seems that while everyone with a clue will be able to print money against them, there's more money to be had in recognizing the simplicity in which one of the winners at the table will approach playing a heads up pot with another. I get confirmation of this with how easily my first two 3bets get through - twice a reaction of pure surprise as though I wouldn't even think of doing this light, followed by a swift flick into the muck. Surely nobody would get out of line at a table like this -- that much is obvious to everyone. But the only thing obvious to me seems to be the simple helpful fact that anything obvious is exploitable.
I isolate two jacks to $120 in late position after four limps and am called in three places. A rainbow 789 flop is the kind I can lose a lot of money on if I’m not careful. When checked to, I bet less than half pot for a few reasons: first of all, these guys aren’t going to recognize that I’d bet bigger with two pair or better, so I can be exploitable. Secondly, they’ll call with any weak combo draw, making the times I chunk in the $240 and run into sets not frequent enough to offset the money I’m getting them to put in behind with the rest of their calling range. Third, I think I can play pretty well to whatever line they decide to take with the better part of that check/not-folding range, the part that beats two jacks already.
The first player folds and I get called by the second, one of the weaker players who seems alert and aware of what’s going on, dynamically turning his head to satisfy his curiousity of what I’m looking at, who’s turn it is to act, and the board, perhaps even reminding himself what the hell he has. The last player to act seems mildly disappointed that he was priced in preflop. He slides his cards forward.
A turn jack completes the rainbow as well as many of the combo draws in his range. There are a few things that could happen here. He’s not aware enough to think about much else but check/calling a ten, and I don’t think he’ll lead a blank river with one after such turn action, so betting twice seems too thin. If I don’t bet, he’ll lead the river with a ten, so I lose about one bet in either instance, assuming I’d bet a similar amount on the turn that he’d bet on the river. Betting might make him call with some hands, but fold second-pair type stuff. Will he call a river bet more often when I check back the turn with hands that he folds to a turn bet? How often does he call a second bet when the board pairs on the river? Does he raise/call or bet/call when he fills up with 98 type hands?
I check back, and the river is a ten. He checks, and I immediately know my only option is to bet – a lot. He’s so infrequently checking with a queen that an overbet is clearly the most profitable play. If I bet half pot, perhaps he folds occasionally, but he’s likely calling, and almost always just for the chop. He’s not one to recognize why overbetting in my spot is ideal, and if he was I’d be more wary as he could be capable of trapping. If I bet pot, perhaps he’s usually folding, but still might find the herocall. But the additional $500 will get him to fold nearly always; risking $1.5k to win $500 with whatever counterfeit hand he’s shown up with won’t be worth it. I slide fifteen black chips forward.
He reacts immediately, frustrated at seeing the likely chance that we’d chop it up quickly dashed. At least I know I can’t lose now, as he’s revealed that he won’t be snapping with Qx. As soon as he starts playing with his cards, I know it’s over and a moment later the pot slides my direction, while our villain shakes his head and comments about this “thief” betting so big. I sense he has a certain admiration for the fact that I put pressure on him, and as he watches me stack the chips, one of the good players uses “sickness” in a sentence.
Respect from a casual player is something that needs to be treated carefully, but can result in some very easy decisions. Someone who wants to discuss hands with you after the fact, opening themselves up about their thought process because they feel they have an opportunity to learn, won’t be too tricky to play against. The discussions, of course, are not genuine. You develop a faux-strategy voice – identifying the supposed key parts of a hand, declaring a certain decision correct in a tone that makes any questioning or disagreement seem amateurish. Often citing losses as coolers, or suggesting a more aggressive line which in fact might be not too far from theoretically correct, but given the player’s inexperience, will likely get them into trouble for more money. All the while, this practice becomes so common to other regulars that they see it as little more than glorified trolling.
After winning a few medium-sized pots with big pairs that hold, and flopping a set multiway in a game that only gets better as the night progresses, I see my chip stack again hit the five figure mark. At 5am I 3bet J7o on the button to a young American’s open who I peg for being the best player at the table, and he flats. We’d both folded to each other’s 3bets, and he folded to my 4bet earlier. The flop is Q74 and he checks to me. The idea here is to decide whether I’m going to try and get him to fold the 88-TT part of his range, while occasionally getting value from AQ/KQ type hands if I improve. Betting the flop here usually means betting the turn, and potentially shipping the river. Checking, however, would be to try and get to showdown cheaply and beat the fair number of whiffs he’ll show up with – namely AJ/AT type hands, maybe a conservative AKo or the JT that might bet a lot of turns when I check back the flop.
This time I opt for a bet, with plans on playing a big pot. He calls and the turn is a four of clubs, making a backdoor flush draw. Surprisingly, the handful of black chips he sends cascading forward leave me a little confused. While this is rarely something I’d do, I’ll need to decide upon what makes sense for him to somehow show up with that involve a turn lead. Perhaps he just floated and is deciding to take the pot away here; if I cbet the flop with air, it’s going to take some guts to do anything but fold now. Why not just check and figure out what my second barrel looks like, then? Maybe he doesn't trust himself – check/calling again with AT is going to be tough, and maybe now he folds out some of my bluffs that beat him – hands like the one I have. Would he lead a queen? That makes little sense. I can’t figure it out so I make the call.
The river is a jack, which improves my hand, but not against essentially anything he can have. He leads again for nearly the size of the pot, and despite the time I’ll take in the next minute or two to figure it out, there’s really not too much more thinking to do. He either played a big queen/big pair oddly, or floated the flop then turned his hand into a bluff. The former is pretty likely; the latter makes more sense to me but people just don’t do this stuff a ton.
I find a little bit of the feeling that I sometimes do when contemplating a herocall, and it’s not the helpful “this would be spew” reminder. Something about the bet doesn’t seem right; it’s as if there was no thought into worse hands that might make a call. The lack of meticulous effort into sizing tips the scale – him and his odd line are going to have to show me the winner. I make the call, and am shown ATcc.
Poker, the proverbial microcosm for life. The game I'd forsaken for years with that bitter aftertaste of a nosebleed shot gone wrong -- and the supposedly exploitative nature of a career I'd decided was against my life path. But finding myself yet again, knee-deep in metagame and an ear to ear grin threatening to spill from my cheeks, my mind filled with the moment and my chip stack yet again crawling towards the betting line, I ask for a color up as the words of Albert Camus quietly remind me of poker's deepest beauty, humbly resting at the bottom of all this: Only in our games do we know exactly what we are supposed to do.
Mostly a tongue-in-cheek response - except for the book part.
I'm not afraid to label myself a fanboy here. His writing and his poker ability are terrific. It took him five and a half months to get through last years story, and so yea, quicker would be better, but I'm willing to wait.
Sorry for the slow responses.
I won't bother with excuses; another post to be coming shortly.