and then blow on some other guys, er, cards.
By Frankie's definition, I think I've met a lady, insofar as she is Luck incarnate, carnality notwithstanding.
The story goes like this: I'm playing hold 'em, getting no love from the dealer (some might go so far as to call him a flip-flopper, but your faithful chronicler is above such low-brow wordplay). Anyway, I busted out of the main Monday night tournament without even making the top 15, after a series of lackluster hands (or at least some hack-hustler betting). I can't say that I blame Fortune, since she was right there all the time, I just wasn't reading her signals correctly.
Which is understandable, or at least should be. Sending mixed signals is the Fates' stock-in-trade; it's sorting through the noise that makes a gambler (or suitor) successful. The form in which She revealed herself last night was particularly well suited (no, that wasn't a card pun) to such tactics, and not above capitalizing on it. By all accounts she placed the establishment in danger of running out of alcohol altogether, and I'm not sure she paid for her own drinks once.
If you're wondering what this has to do with poker, I'm getting there (poker, I just met her! (ok, that one was)). During the second tournament (called Turbo, since the blinds go up every time you blink), the Lady was in full force. Now, no one said She could aim. Indeed, in the first hand, five players out of eleven went all in before the flop. I guess I'm not the only one easily enamoured. Fortunately for me, I wasn't among them, as the winner had a big slick of diamonds, which took a flush, knocking out a Siegfried & Roy, a Barbara Feldon, another set of Hilton Sisters, and an a Jack-queen or something). I didn't win those chips to begin with, since I didn't play that hand, but I got them in the end.
After waiting patiently all night, Luck came and sat down next to me, and explained that I should buy her a shot. Although in flagrant violation of the beer-before-liquor-never-been-sicker rule, she seemed willing to take her chances along with my money. While she was negotiating with me thus, my cards seemed to be FedExed from Mt. Olympus or something, because I couldn't lose. In the span of five hands, I had gone from fourth place to second, and won it in another two. I wish I could narrate all the ins and outs of how I did it (for the readers' benefit and my own) but I can't for the life of me remember any of it. This Fate might have been part Siren, part Medusa, but more power to her; she got me more face cards in ten minutes than I'd seen in two weeks.
Anyway, I agreed to her proposal, and told her to put whatever she wanted on my tab. (Note: I'm not a sucker in general, but the way I figure it, by being way too single for way too long, I've missed out on buying things for pretty girls, which means I have too much money to spend on junk at places like Old Navy and Del Taco, so really, it was an investment...right).
Who'dathunk you could hold fifteen dollars' worth of suds in a shot glass?
I don't care, I won, and I can always make more money doing things that aren't nearly as enjoyable as playing poker. It doesn't look like dancing is one of them in my case though, as I found yet another way to cause excrutiating pain inadvertantly.
I finally got the cute bartender to dance with me (she was off-duty), and we were doing fairly well, a swing to "Friends in Low Places (hopefully not new orleans)". Anyway, she hits her foot on the leg of a table and just about cries, which doesn't really add up; bartenders tend to have pretty strong feet, it being in the job description. Turns out she had a brand-new tattoo on that foot, and she wasn't even wearing a sock (presumably so she could show it off). Just goes to show ya, there's more than one way to skin a cat.
// Post-Katrina Update
For those of you not lucky enough to be sitting at around 7000 feet, well above the hurricane's level, you're probably thinking that the tone of this article could stand some improvement. Then again, if you're lucky enough to have power to read this, then you could do a whole lot worse. I thought about delaying the publication of this one, but then again, it seems ironically appropriate that I wrote about the fickleness of Luck on the day before she sacked a dozen or more floating casinos.
I was just about to suggest over at HalfBakery that they make the next round of riverboat casinos be aboard submarines, then figured some other nut would've already thought of that, and I was right. Interestingly enough, the Kentucky legislature had an idea in that same vein, but for a different purpose altogether.
By Frankie's definition, I think I've met a lady, insofar as she is Luck incarnate, carnality notwithstanding.
The story goes like this: I'm playing hold 'em, getting no love from the dealer (some might go so far as to call him a flip-flopper, but your faithful chronicler is above such low-brow wordplay). Anyway, I busted out of the main Monday night tournament without even making the top 15, after a series of lackluster hands (or at least some hack-hustler betting). I can't say that I blame Fortune, since she was right there all the time, I just wasn't reading her signals correctly.
Which is understandable, or at least should be. Sending mixed signals is the Fates' stock-in-trade; it's sorting through the noise that makes a gambler (or suitor) successful. The form in which She revealed herself last night was particularly well suited (no, that wasn't a card pun) to such tactics, and not above capitalizing on it. By all accounts she placed the establishment in danger of running out of alcohol altogether, and I'm not sure she paid for her own drinks once.
If you're wondering what this has to do with poker, I'm getting there (poker, I just met her! (ok, that one was)). During the second tournament (called Turbo, since the blinds go up every time you blink), the Lady was in full force. Now, no one said She could aim. Indeed, in the first hand, five players out of eleven went all in before the flop. I guess I'm not the only one easily enamoured. Fortunately for me, I wasn't among them, as the winner had a big slick of diamonds, which took a flush, knocking out a Siegfried & Roy, a Barbara Feldon, another set of Hilton Sisters, and an a Jack-queen or something). I didn't win those chips to begin with, since I didn't play that hand, but I got them in the end.
After waiting patiently all night, Luck came and sat down next to me, and explained that I should buy her a shot. Although in flagrant violation of the beer-before-liquor-never-been-sicker rule, she seemed willing to take her chances along with my money. While she was negotiating with me thus, my cards seemed to be FedExed from Mt. Olympus or something, because I couldn't lose. In the span of five hands, I had gone from fourth place to second, and won it in another two. I wish I could narrate all the ins and outs of how I did it (for the readers' benefit and my own) but I can't for the life of me remember any of it. This Fate might have been part Siren, part Medusa, but more power to her; she got me more face cards in ten minutes than I'd seen in two weeks.
Anyway, I agreed to her proposal, and told her to put whatever she wanted on my tab. (Note: I'm not a sucker in general, but the way I figure it, by being way too single for way too long, I've missed out on buying things for pretty girls, which means I have too much money to spend on junk at places like Old Navy and Del Taco, so really, it was an investment...right).
Who'dathunk you could hold fifteen dollars' worth of suds in a shot glass?
I don't care, I won, and I can always make more money doing things that aren't nearly as enjoyable as playing poker. It doesn't look like dancing is one of them in my case though, as I found yet another way to cause excrutiating pain inadvertantly.
I finally got the cute bartender to dance with me (she was off-duty), and we were doing fairly well, a swing to "Friends in Low Places (hopefully not new orleans)". Anyway, she hits her foot on the leg of a table and just about cries, which doesn't really add up; bartenders tend to have pretty strong feet, it being in the job description. Turns out she had a brand-new tattoo on that foot, and she wasn't even wearing a sock (presumably so she could show it off). Just goes to show ya, there's more than one way to skin a cat.
// Post-Katrina Update
For those of you not lucky enough to be sitting at around 7000 feet, well above the hurricane's level, you're probably thinking that the tone of this article could stand some improvement. Then again, if you're lucky enough to have power to read this, then you could do a whole lot worse. I thought about delaying the publication of this one, but then again, it seems ironically appropriate that I wrote about the fickleness of Luck on the day before she sacked a dozen or more floating casinos.
I was just about to suggest over at HalfBakery that they make the next round of riverboat casinos be aboard submarines, then figured some other nut would've already thought of that, and I was right. Interestingly enough, the Kentucky legislature had an idea in that same vein, but for a different purpose altogether.
