to New Years Eve revelers,
If you don't want to kill your joy, avoid Steinbeck's novella of insight on this last day of the year. Avoid Grapes of Wrath too; that ending was more than a bit weird. I'm all for depressing novels, but they can sometimes be a bit too much at the wrong moments or the wrong moods.
According to Wikipedia (which is still asking people for donations when all it needs to do is add one small little adbar to reap beaucoup revenue), Steinbeck took the name of the novel from a Robert Burns's poem, To a Mouse. Which makes perfect sense, and I've used that tidbit of information to inflate my ever large hubris many a time to the right people. The original line from the poem reads--
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
Reversioned into coherent English by a Wikipedia author who, supposedly, doesn't get paid--
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
But I much prefer my version: The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry. 'Schemes' has a bad connotation, and I don't consider myself much of a 'schemer'. 'Oft' sounds kind of sexy in an archaic way. It's a word that most people can define using context clues skills they learned in 5th grade, but still adds a mystique to the conversation. That or they'll start considering you a pretentious ass who uses thesauri or Google to make yourself sound [even] smarter than you are. Either way, it is a win-win.
Though I confess I do use thesaurus.com and Google plenty of times to clean up my diction (poorly, I might add), the bit about 'go oft awry' dates back to 12th grade when I was still confined to rules of proper English in order to vanquish the English Literature AP test. On a tangent, I like blogs because the sheer amount of daily writing involved almost excuses wordiness, my prime offense.
English Lit class involved reading dry, supposedly wry texts from masters whom I wished the editors modernized to something readable. Not dumbed down to Jersey Shore level, but at least to a style you might see in Times magazine. Being in class also meant being a complete failure at trying to impress girls with my use of the English language. Besides the relatively large but slowly shrinking size of my savings account, my command of this mutt-language is the best thing I have going for me. Pretty sad, I must admit.
Anyway, it probably happened like this, the 'go oft awry' bit: We read stuff in class, probably pieces like the Burnsian poem. The teacher in a more optimistic mood asks a bunch of seniors 2 months from graduation, what a particular line means. After being beatdown with glares and sneers through most of my pre-adolescent and pubescent life, I'd learned not to raise my hand as often. But since the guy was in such a pleasant mood, I threw him a bone.
'That's nice, Mr. Nguyen. Though would you really choose to use "oft"? It's a bit archaic, isn't it?'
It's a peeve of mine when teachers address students by their last name. They try to elevate you to their level, yet this oddity (since every other teacher calls you by your first name) reminds you that they hold the superior position in the relationship. It is utterly condescending. Don't pretend I'm not your b--, smiley face.
'Yes, I'd rather stick with my choice of "oft", though I very well know that it is likely an old-form of "often" and though my classmates probably don't know that, I do, and I'm kind of the only person that matters to me.'
Okay, the story went nothing like that. In my lukewarm quest towards complete Advanced Placement domination, I deferred learning the important material by reading pleasurable stuff. Before this potent Netflix addiction, my past vice was reading for hours on end until the wee hours of the morning. And when I got to a particularly savory bit of writing, I'd write it down to pwn for my own use later. So was born the 'go oft awry bit'. Mr. Optimistic assigned us texts to read, and sat down to whatever he wanted to read, and if you wanted to learn, he was there to teach. Those teachers were swell.
Excuse the long, pointless story.
--
Last New Year's Eve, I was stuck in Dallas, down and out with a cold for the nth time. And I did nothing but attempt to console myself with largish quantities of cough syrup (sadly, it wasn't purple). In my drug- and cold-induced stupor, I thought about resolutions I had made. I was going to start setting down, find a nice girl, have her try to change me for the better as girls are wont to do, etc. Probably that summer, I would start looking at condos in the Addison area and join some book club or something. Start to put down true connections and such. My friends would have started their rotations by then in the Dallas area, and I'd have some people to help me meet new people. It was going to be all good and swell.
Then a month before Easter, the 'go oft awry' bit happened, and I was informed I would be 'displaced' which was the HR-approved term they used. Though it put me in a tailspin, I thought I was pretty well qualified to try to do non-retail stuff, like hospital or long-term care.
No dice. I spent the better part of three months depressed that employers refused to acknowledge my existence simply because I didn't have the 'experience' they were looking for. So I gave up going for hospital/clinical jobs.
Shortly after that decision, I landed a job doing the same work with more pay (the rate was pretty sick) and closer to home. The first cut is the deepest, as Sheryl Crow croons. I worked all the extra shifts possible since I felt the job wouldn't last all that long. And sadly, I was right.
So this is where I am today, chillaxing, figuring out my next move, wondering how many hours of Netflix I'll watch tomorrow when I'm hungover from tonight's festivities. I say 6-8 hours, and that's probably an underestimate.
--
Recently, I gave some advice to the newest brothers in my pharmacy fraternity. The first bit when like this:
Firstly, ‘things fall apart.’ Things Fall Apart is a book written by Chinua Achebe about a tribal leader in Africa who resists the change in his community by the white men. But by being so steadfast in his ideals, he eventually becomes frustrated and commits suicide, which is one of the chief sins in his belief system. It is a very sad irony. What does this have to do with...pharmacy? Things will change, for better or for worse. You must learn to cope and deal with all types of circumstances. Things will not always turn out as you expect them to, but if you realize this early on, it will not be as hard to handle when things do not go your way. Bend, but do not break. [end]
I thought about titling this post 'Things Fall Apart', but that's such a dreary opener. And it's not completely encompassing of my life this past year. I'm not dead, and I'm very much the better for my experiences this past year. I've paid off all my debt, and I finally have a virtual tabula rasa, a clean slate. I can do or not do whatever the hell I want. It's like ice cold lemonade sweetened with real sugar on a hot summer day when you're inside with the AC blustering hard to keep it a cool 68 degrees, after you've spent 2 hours mowing and edging the lawn of a house on the corner lot. Utterly magnificent.
Though I won't go so far as to say 'Things Fall in Place', I will say this past year has been more constructive than destructive. The most fitting epitaph for this year is, therefore, 'the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.'
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Never.. 2010, what a wondrous year!
Friday, December 31
Thursday, December 16
Job Search Begins in Earnest
To the pharmacy job-seekers,
Would you mind ever so nicely to forward me your contacts? Especially the really good sounding ones with hefty pay and minimal stress? Thanks in advance!
--
The Vegas chronicles can get a bit dreary for the non-poker folks, so I'll intersperse them with the regular dreary stuff. I promise at the end of the Vegas posts, there will be something about a 5-10, 6-4 in stripper heels, platinum blonde 'exotic dancer'. But it will likely be at least a week before then. I can be a tease, I know.
--
After getting back from Sin City, I reconciled my losses and partitioned my poker bankroll from my regular cash stash. Both were dismally low, so I supplemented with a drive-up ATM withdrawal which took more than 10 minutes because some lady in an SUV was having a pleasant conversation with the machine which included about 10-15 hand motions. Honestly, if you need more than 5 minutes at a drive-up ATM, do everyone a favor and go inside. There are actual human beings paid to service you when you need that many transactions, and they won't be snide and say stuff like, 'Did you know you could deposit your check at the ATM outside?'
When I got to the machine, it took me less than 2 minutes to get my dough, even without the quick-cash option.
With that little windfall, I paid back my bankroll for the night at the Spearmint Rhino, then paid my parents for the DSL and phone service. And then my cash was once more depleted. Though my credit cards, bank & saving accounts are relatively solid, it's the cash that makes me happy or depressed; if I had a $1000 in cash in which to roll around, I'd feel momentarily richer than if I had $10 with $10,000 in the bank. It's pretty stupid, my sense of wealth, but I digress.
On the last night in Vegas, I had come to a conclusion (more on this later), that poker would be, at best, a side-gig for me and that I should suck it up and go find a real job with a 401(k) and benefits. Because you can work an entire week as a poker player making all the right decisions and still lose money, whereas the worst pharmacist in the country is pretty much guaranteed at least $50/hr. But I still think poker is my lottery ticket to the big-time, especially tournament poker. I found out that cash game poker isn't my cup of tea since it can be static and boring, eventually shifting my play to autopilot which isn't winning poker.
I checked if this job in Houston was still available and it was. Reposted after a month in fact. That's always a good sign. Unlike poker, second-best is still pretty good if it treats you right.
But sleep can cure insomnia and cause amnesia, so I sequestered all the icky job seeking notions as soon as I touched down in H-town. You know, because I had to clean up and stuff, and reconcile bills, and wash clothes, and play on my PS3, and finish up the Battlestar Galactica series, and start on the X-Files, etc. And it's not like I wasn't still completely solid. The way I lived my life as a college student, I could go 4 years without seeing another red cent in earnings. Old world Asians are the camels of the money world--there is no such thing as interest and credit because we can do without. Except those degenerate gambling ones; they're like reverse camels, 'Spend it if you got it!'
So after initially planning to submit my resume on Sunday night, here I am on Wednesday, still messing around, wondering if I'm up to scratch to start a brand new career, preferably non-retail. A few years back, I had deluded myself into thinking it was a fear of success (if I succeeded, then there would be a longer path ahead) that handcuffed me from doing what I really wanted. Most assuredly it is a mortal fear of failure. Perfectionism, ironically, is a major flaw.
--
The PS3 game I've been playing lately is InFamous, a sandbox-style game where you take the reigns of Cole MacGrath, a guy with newly donned superpowers courtesy of an electrical explosion that wipes out half a borough. Funny how you never play the role of a Dwight from the Office. You choose to be good or evil, and the storyline progresses depending on the path you take. It's a pretty novel concept, I think, perhaps one of the first of its kind to take it that far.
The cool thing about the game is that there is almost no penalty for dying. You start off at the nearest checkpoint, and progress with a full energy bar to boot! So much for those Contra days when you had 3 lives to beat a near impossible game without the cheat code (or use a computer emulator with save states). After the first couple of missions, I got over my fear of simulated heights, being shot, and dying multiple times. And it's pretty fun to electrocute, sticky-bomb, and fry your enemies with lightning storms.
I would say that's the new culture of video games. Continue where you left off, with perhaps a slap on the hand. Even on hard difficulty. And that might be the new culture of this era. It's okay to fail, so long as you try. It's the quitting or not trying that's punishable by mediocrity.
--
And so this old dog (at heart) must learn some new tricks, must put aside all those messed up thoughts of superiority and/or inferiority, don the devil-may-care attitude of the new generation, take some lumps, and keep on moving towards less imperfection. Because perfection is a false idol and prophet which will lead all souls to mire in their illusions of grandeur.
But my resume/CV will still be grammatically perfect!
This time will be the last time
That we will fight like this..
Would you mind ever so nicely to forward me your contacts? Especially the really good sounding ones with hefty pay and minimal stress? Thanks in advance!
--
The Vegas chronicles can get a bit dreary for the non-poker folks, so I'll intersperse them with the regular dreary stuff. I promise at the end of the Vegas posts, there will be something about a 5-10, 6-4 in stripper heels, platinum blonde 'exotic dancer'. But it will likely be at least a week before then. I can be a tease, I know.
--
After getting back from Sin City, I reconciled my losses and partitioned my poker bankroll from my regular cash stash. Both were dismally low, so I supplemented with a drive-up ATM withdrawal which took more than 10 minutes because some lady in an SUV was having a pleasant conversation with the machine which included about 10-15 hand motions. Honestly, if you need more than 5 minutes at a drive-up ATM, do everyone a favor and go inside. There are actual human beings paid to service you when you need that many transactions, and they won't be snide and say stuff like, 'Did you know you could deposit your check at the ATM outside?'
When I got to the machine, it took me less than 2 minutes to get my dough, even without the quick-cash option.
With that little windfall, I paid back my bankroll for the night at the Spearmint Rhino, then paid my parents for the DSL and phone service. And then my cash was once more depleted. Though my credit cards, bank & saving accounts are relatively solid, it's the cash that makes me happy or depressed; if I had a $1000 in cash in which to roll around, I'd feel momentarily richer than if I had $10 with $10,000 in the bank. It's pretty stupid, my sense of wealth, but I digress.
On the last night in Vegas, I had come to a conclusion (more on this later), that poker would be, at best, a side-gig for me and that I should suck it up and go find a real job with a 401(k) and benefits. Because you can work an entire week as a poker player making all the right decisions and still lose money, whereas the worst pharmacist in the country is pretty much guaranteed at least $50/hr. But I still think poker is my lottery ticket to the big-time, especially tournament poker. I found out that cash game poker isn't my cup of tea since it can be static and boring, eventually shifting my play to autopilot which isn't winning poker.
I checked if this job in Houston was still available and it was. Reposted after a month in fact. That's always a good sign. Unlike poker, second-best is still pretty good if it treats you right.
But sleep can cure insomnia and cause amnesia, so I sequestered all the icky job seeking notions as soon as I touched down in H-town. You know, because I had to clean up and stuff, and reconcile bills, and wash clothes, and play on my PS3, and finish up the Battlestar Galactica series, and start on the X-Files, etc. And it's not like I wasn't still completely solid. The way I lived my life as a college student, I could go 4 years without seeing another red cent in earnings. Old world Asians are the camels of the money world--there is no such thing as interest and credit because we can do without. Except those degenerate gambling ones; they're like reverse camels, 'Spend it if you got it!'
So after initially planning to submit my resume on Sunday night, here I am on Wednesday, still messing around, wondering if I'm up to scratch to start a brand new career, preferably non-retail. A few years back, I had deluded myself into thinking it was a fear of success (if I succeeded, then there would be a longer path ahead) that handcuffed me from doing what I really wanted. Most assuredly it is a mortal fear of failure. Perfectionism, ironically, is a major flaw.
--
The PS3 game I've been playing lately is InFamous, a sandbox-style game where you take the reigns of Cole MacGrath, a guy with newly donned superpowers courtesy of an electrical explosion that wipes out half a borough. Funny how you never play the role of a Dwight from the Office. You choose to be good or evil, and the storyline progresses depending on the path you take. It's a pretty novel concept, I think, perhaps one of the first of its kind to take it that far.
The cool thing about the game is that there is almost no penalty for dying. You start off at the nearest checkpoint, and progress with a full energy bar to boot! So much for those Contra days when you had 3 lives to beat a near impossible game without the cheat code (or use a computer emulator with save states). After the first couple of missions, I got over my fear of simulated heights, being shot, and dying multiple times. And it's pretty fun to electrocute, sticky-bomb, and fry your enemies with lightning storms.
I would say that's the new culture of video games. Continue where you left off, with perhaps a slap on the hand. Even on hard difficulty. And that might be the new culture of this era. It's okay to fail, so long as you try. It's the quitting or not trying that's punishable by mediocrity.
--
And so this old dog (at heart) must learn some new tricks, must put aside all those messed up thoughts of superiority and/or inferiority, don the devil-may-care attitude of the new generation, take some lumps, and keep on moving towards less imperfection. Because perfection is a false idol and prophet which will lead all souls to mire in their illusions of grandeur.
But my resume/CV will still be grammatically perfect!
This time will be the last time
That we will fight like this..
Wednesday, December 15
Vegas Day 1, Part Deuce: The Donks Come Out At Night
To the donks who call to the river with middle/bottom pair,
Thanks!
--
So the soul crushing began at the Wynn poker room, a nice little place adorned in leather and wood and lace and sugar and spice. I really could care less as long as the action was good and the players next to me didn't smell. According to the Poker Atlas, the Wynn has a swank 26-table room that treats lower-limit players like crap (in terms of chip runners & cocktail waitresses, etc), which wasn't really a problem. It's not like I wanted some fruity 4-ingredient cocktail. Anyplace can pop the cap off a cold Heineken.
I look at the LCD screen at the entrance displaying the games available and found one to my liking: 1-3 NL, no limit with a $1 small blind and $3 big blind. Kind of strange since usually the big blind is twice the small blind, but Vegas is trying to appeal to lower limit players while still making a profit.
--
Session 1.0: Know When The Relationship Is Over
'Do you have your red card sir?'
I hand the dealer the red Wynn card I got an hour earlier. He scans it right there using a machine that sits on the table itself. Vegas is advanced with their comps.
My chips arrive, 40 reds, $200, the standard amount in a 1-2 NL game if you're looking to limit losses while still getting good implied odds to stack* another player. I figured a 1-3 NL game would be similar.
I toss away the first couple hands without a second thought. In cash games, one has to play super-tight, only staying in with the nuts. For new players, if you don't think you're absolutely good, toss that mess away, even if they're two face cards--you'll save yourself a lot of misery. The third hand of the session I would receive the second best hand in holdem: KK, which I like to refer to as Action Jacksons, since those old fellas look a lot like dead President Andrew Jackson on my favorite US bill. The cutoff had raised to $15, and I re-popped it to $45 to go. I get a caller and the initial raiser calls: 3 to the flop. Good start, playing against 2 players with a monster hand and an already monster sized pot over $130.
Flop comes Ad, 6c, 4d. F-- the Ace.. I remain nonchalant, and check to one of the two aces that were sure to be in the hands of my opponents. The first bets, the second calls, and I get out of the way, folding my monster pocket pair which I was certain was no longer good. Two more diamond rags come on the turn and river which would have made me the nut flush with my Kd, but I couldn't have stayed in. They turn their cards: 66 (flopped a set) and A6 (flopped 2-pair), the 66 won with the diamond flush. It sucks to be right sometimes.
The players to my right and left automatically read my hand from the action. 'You had Kings, right?' I laugh, 'Am I that transparent?' They also read me as a dangerous player since I laid down Kings without hesitation knowing it wasn't good. It's nice to have the good opinions of others, but it's nicer to have their chips.
A few hands later, I called a small raise with K9 on the big blind against 2 players. A king and some rags came on the flop to which I bet out on the flop, turn, and river. The guy to my left called me twice, but folded the river.
'I think you have the king, but I just can't call it.' I looked shocked as it dawned on me that there was a draw on the board, and I had given the guy good odds to draw out on me. It's not whether you're behind or ahead, it's whether you're getting a good price to draw.
After the fact, I put the guy on a medium pocket pair, maybe 9s or Ts with a 4-flush** to the hearts. I got lucky there even with my bad play. I stack the chips and came out about even. About 10 hands later the table broke since only 4 of us were playing and the action was literally raise, fold, fold, fold for a whole orbit around the table.
--
Session 1.5: Hand Caught in the Cookie Jar
Myself and another player were relocated to an uber-aggressive, uber-action table, playing automatic straddle and 7-2. The straddle is when the person to the left of the big blind raises blindly in order to get position preflop; the net result is that it's $6 to call instead of $3. The 7-2 game is if a player wins with 7-2, the worst hand in the game, everyone will award $5. Myself and the player from the last table refrain from their chicanery.
'How much will it take for you to take a 20-minute break?' one of the action-junkies ask. The players there didn't quite like our aversion to risk. I pretty much ignored them, passed the buck to the player from my table ('I'll take whatever she wants'). But eventually I start to straddle as well since the action wasn't too hot to handle, and I wanted to loosen up my image so they wouldn't auto-fold when I'm in a hand.
But I get nothing good, and I pretty much fold every hand dealt except my small and big blinds. On one of the big blinds, I get the Doyle Brunson***, T-2, to which I thankfully checked. Flop comes T-8-3. I check to see where I am. I flopped top pair but someone could have me outkicked. Two players check behind me, and the button makes a weak $20 bet at the $24-30 pot.
A semi-bluff if I ever saw one. Maybe he flopped middle pair or had a small pocket pair. With that much hesitation when betting, my Ts were definitely good.
'Raise..' I take a few seconds to calculate how much it would be to punish this guy for his lame attempt at my pot. '$50 more to go.' I casually lay out the chips in front of me in neat stacks of 4 and 10. He takes a Hollywood half-minute, and lays it down. I think to myself, 'That's right punk! That's my pot!' But outwardly, I breathe a fake/genuine sigh of relief, stack my chips, and tip the dealer. It was the epitome of the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar situation.
That pot left me about even, +$2 for the session. I stick around for another orbit and get up right before I had the play the big blind.
On a sidenote, I think there was a good loose-aggressive (LAG) player at the table. This player will be an action junkie but has supreme hand-reading skills and post-flop skills to bet with the thinnest of edges. He won quite a few small pots and seemed to know when to get out of the way when his hand definitely wasn't good and he couldn't force the other players out. Needless to say, I got the hell out of his way.
Session 1, Wynn, 12/7, 5-630p, 1.5hrs, 1-3NL, +2
--
Penn & Teller started at 9p, but doors opened an hour early, and there was the Mike Jones Jazz Duo, unfortunately not the Mike Jones from H-town though. Plus I needed time to record my notes from the action at the Wynn and reflect on my play. I think it was solid, leaning towards the conservative side. There's nothing wrong with that style, but you can feel like you're not doing anything for a long time while waiting for those premium hands.
The flaw I could see in my game was that the money definitely mattered to me, and I was under-bankrolled for that limit. When I considered making a move, I couldn't because I was handicapped by the weight of the chips in my hand. The nagging thought in my mind was, 'This is real money you're betting!' And so I might have played sub-optimally. Oh well, I came out $2 ahead, that works out to be $1.33/hr. A few dollars more, and I could be making minimum wage!
The Jazz musicians were good and my seat was even better. It was about 6 rows from the stage on the aisle seat of the left hand section. Penn & Teller were pretty cool, like their specials on TV. There was something very clean and crisp about their illusions, though their libertarian soapbox-ing got a little tedious. They debunked a lot of the cold-readers and other magicians and assured us that there is no such thing as real magic. Their magic reminds me of my teaching style: practical yet elegant.
I definitely would recommend the $100 price of admission. Totally worth it that close to the stage! The recession is good for some things.
The show ended at 1030p. Most Vegas shows are 1.5 hrs long. The trip back to the strip from the Rio was a bit harrowing. It was late at night, and I had to cross a couple of big intersections. I thought more people would be around walking back to the strip, but no dice. The solitary walk with only street lights to guide my path was disconcerting, and I kept my hands in my pockets, touching the several hundred dollar bills in my wallet.
I got to Caesar's Palace, the closest casino to the Rio, stepped to their poker room, and asked if there was a 4-8 Limit game available. 'There isn't, sir, but we can start an interest list for you.' 'Thanks, and could you put me down for 1-3 NL as well?' I hang around the sportsbook area looking at the pretty LCD screens with the multitude of sports. When that got tiring, I ogled the fine women walking in and out of Pure, the casino's nightclub. Somehow that 1.5 hrs at the Wynn made me immune to the bevy of skin that's endemic to the Vegas strip. I'd rather see some other ladies, QQ, that is.
A half hr later, I glanced at the wait list which hadn't moved. And so I moved out of the casino and to the Venetian. The Venetian is the second northernmost casino of interest for my poker playing. 'Do you have 4-8 limit available?' She looks at the computer for a moment and says, 'We do, that table over there.'
The chair had a premolded ass-print and was made of that fine material you'd see on furniture in Buckingham Palace except these were used by degenerates like me. It was remarkably comfortable, and I pulled out my cash to dominate this limit game. I figured since this was limit, I would have less problems playing under-bankrolled, since you can only bet a certain amount each round anyway. But the game is entirely different than no-limit. It is perfectly acceptable, even correct, to chase draws all the way to the river given sufficient odds. I can adjust, even though this is my first time playing limit holdem.
--
Session 2: The Donk Tipper
Donk, short for donkey, is a pejorative term for bad poker players who make the wrong plays frequently usually using aggressive bluffs with second or third-best holdings. Which is fine by me because these are the players who make poker profitable.
In limit holdem, the bets are structured. Pre-flop and on the flop, you can only bet/raise the small bet amount. On the turn and river, you can only bet/raise the big bet amount. In 4-8L, it is $4 and $8 respectively.
A guy had a couple of racks**** ready to leave the action, so I just buy my chips off of him. 'This money is good, right?' I respond, 'Of course, you can always trust a poker player.'
First hand, KQs with 4 callers to my raise. Good start. Flop comes Q, rag, rag. Even better, top pair, with second-best kicker. Nothing scary comes on the turn or river, and I get 2 callers all the way. Man, I love these donks! I flip over the goods and rake in the ~$50 pot. The guy whom I bought the chips from leaves, saying, 'Did I mention those chips were lucky?'
The guy to my right is drunk off his ass with a nice Irish red glow. Needless to say, his chips flowed my way more than a few times until he left, down probably a couple of bills but happy nonetheless. I suppose that's what Vegas does to you, even to the locals.
I managed to donate ~$30 twice to this lady 2 seats to my left when she caught trip queens on the turn (AQ starting hand) to my pocket Kings and once again when she hit a draw. It's not like I didn't respect her play, but I was playing loose surrounded by a sea of money ready to come my way. But I quickly fixed that chip leak.
Another player across the table, Middle Eastern or Indian, called me several times with second best holdings just to 'see what I had.' Bless his soul and his chips! For some reason, I thought he knew what he was doing because of his ethnicity, but after he bought in a second time, I figured him for what he was, an ATM. I kept the fish happy, and said stuff like, 'Man, you had to call with that,' and 'that was a really good draw, it was a gutshot but to the nuts!' But he left too around 330AM citing that he had a convention meeting that morning, 'I'm going to be sleeping on the desk..' That may be me as well in less than a year.. We'll see.
And then my luck started to turn south. My loose play caught up with me as I tried to part this other fool from his money, a Hispanic man who looked like a mustachio'd Edward James Olmos. Even after being told 5 times that he couldn't string bet, he still couldn't raise properly, and had to be reminded that the turn and river are $8, not $4.
The good Dutch player to my left and I marveled as he sucked out about 5 rivers against the varying decent-good players at the table. And after losing most of his $100 buy-in, he was now up a chip rack. And then he racked up again after he caught a miracle 4-outer to boat up (full house) against my top 2 pair. It's a good thing the price of tilting in limit holdem is cheap, since I called a preflop raise from the small blind with J2s, just to see if I could bust the guy. But when the flop missed me completely, he continuation betted. I folded and started to fume even more.
After the remaining bad players called it quits, I took up my chips and left too. Down $132 on a table rich with donks. How does that happen? So about $60 was just my bad play calling to that lady with my inferior holdings, but that meant I lost $72 somehow to horrible players. My goodness that river was beastly at the Venetian.
You're taught to grind when you have the best of it, to prop up your eyelids with toothpicks when there is money to be had. My friends, Mr. Olmos who racked up over $300 in profit was dying to give it all back, but the cards just wouldn't do it for me. Poker is a b--!
Session 2, Venetian, 12/8, 12-430a, 4.5hrs, 4-8NL, -132
--
That morning was the mass of the Immaculate Conception, so I had to get some rest to not sleep through service. I trudged the 10min back to the Imperial Palace, dumbfounded at how the cards had turned so bad. I showered only to discover that the drain was stopped up, so I MacGyver'ed by rinsing off my feet as I got out of the tub. It's a damn good thing this trip was solo!
Day 1, 6hrs, -$130
--
*go all-in, win, and get a stack of chips from your opponent
**4 of the same suit, 1 more for the flush
***He won 2 World Series of Poker with that hand, but that was in heads-up tournament conditions. In cash games, you throw that mess away with no doubt in your mind.
****A rack is 5 bays of 20 each, so a rack of $1 chips is $100.
Thanks!
--
So the soul crushing began at the Wynn poker room, a nice little place adorned in leather and wood and lace and sugar and spice. I really could care less as long as the action was good and the players next to me didn't smell. According to the Poker Atlas, the Wynn has a swank 26-table room that treats lower-limit players like crap (in terms of chip runners & cocktail waitresses, etc), which wasn't really a problem. It's not like I wanted some fruity 4-ingredient cocktail. Anyplace can pop the cap off a cold Heineken.
I look at the LCD screen at the entrance displaying the games available and found one to my liking: 1-3 NL, no limit with a $1 small blind and $3 big blind. Kind of strange since usually the big blind is twice the small blind, but Vegas is trying to appeal to lower limit players while still making a profit.
--
Session 1.0: Know When The Relationship Is Over
'Do you have your red card sir?'
I hand the dealer the red Wynn card I got an hour earlier. He scans it right there using a machine that sits on the table itself. Vegas is advanced with their comps.
My chips arrive, 40 reds, $200, the standard amount in a 1-2 NL game if you're looking to limit losses while still getting good implied odds to stack* another player. I figured a 1-3 NL game would be similar.
I toss away the first couple hands without a second thought. In cash games, one has to play super-tight, only staying in with the nuts. For new players, if you don't think you're absolutely good, toss that mess away, even if they're two face cards--you'll save yourself a lot of misery. The third hand of the session I would receive the second best hand in holdem: KK, which I like to refer to as Action Jacksons, since those old fellas look a lot like dead President Andrew Jackson on my favorite US bill. The cutoff had raised to $15, and I re-popped it to $45 to go. I get a caller and the initial raiser calls: 3 to the flop. Good start, playing against 2 players with a monster hand and an already monster sized pot over $130.
Flop comes Ad, 6c, 4d. F-- the Ace.. I remain nonchalant, and check to one of the two aces that were sure to be in the hands of my opponents. The first bets, the second calls, and I get out of the way, folding my monster pocket pair which I was certain was no longer good. Two more diamond rags come on the turn and river which would have made me the nut flush with my Kd, but I couldn't have stayed in. They turn their cards: 66 (flopped a set) and A6 (flopped 2-pair), the 66 won with the diamond flush. It sucks to be right sometimes.
The players to my right and left automatically read my hand from the action. 'You had Kings, right?' I laugh, 'Am I that transparent?' They also read me as a dangerous player since I laid down Kings without hesitation knowing it wasn't good. It's nice to have the good opinions of others, but it's nicer to have their chips.
A few hands later, I called a small raise with K9 on the big blind against 2 players. A king and some rags came on the flop to which I bet out on the flop, turn, and river. The guy to my left called me twice, but folded the river.
'I think you have the king, but I just can't call it.' I looked shocked as it dawned on me that there was a draw on the board, and I had given the guy good odds to draw out on me. It's not whether you're behind or ahead, it's whether you're getting a good price to draw.
After the fact, I put the guy on a medium pocket pair, maybe 9s or Ts with a 4-flush** to the hearts. I got lucky there even with my bad play. I stack the chips and came out about even. About 10 hands later the table broke since only 4 of us were playing and the action was literally raise, fold, fold, fold for a whole orbit around the table.
--
Session 1.5: Hand Caught in the Cookie Jar
Myself and another player were relocated to an uber-aggressive, uber-action table, playing automatic straddle and 7-2. The straddle is when the person to the left of the big blind raises blindly in order to get position preflop; the net result is that it's $6 to call instead of $3. The 7-2 game is if a player wins with 7-2, the worst hand in the game, everyone will award $5. Myself and the player from the last table refrain from their chicanery.
'How much will it take for you to take a 20-minute break?' one of the action-junkies ask. The players there didn't quite like our aversion to risk. I pretty much ignored them, passed the buck to the player from my table ('I'll take whatever she wants'). But eventually I start to straddle as well since the action wasn't too hot to handle, and I wanted to loosen up my image so they wouldn't auto-fold when I'm in a hand.
But I get nothing good, and I pretty much fold every hand dealt except my small and big blinds. On one of the big blinds, I get the Doyle Brunson***, T-2, to which I thankfully checked. Flop comes T-8-3. I check to see where I am. I flopped top pair but someone could have me outkicked. Two players check behind me, and the button makes a weak $20 bet at the $24-30 pot.
A semi-bluff if I ever saw one. Maybe he flopped middle pair or had a small pocket pair. With that much hesitation when betting, my Ts were definitely good.
'Raise..' I take a few seconds to calculate how much it would be to punish this guy for his lame attempt at my pot. '$50 more to go.' I casually lay out the chips in front of me in neat stacks of 4 and 10. He takes a Hollywood half-minute, and lays it down. I think to myself, 'That's right punk! That's my pot!' But outwardly, I breathe a fake/genuine sigh of relief, stack my chips, and tip the dealer. It was the epitome of the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar situation.
That pot left me about even, +$2 for the session. I stick around for another orbit and get up right before I had the play the big blind.
On a sidenote, I think there was a good loose-aggressive (LAG) player at the table. This player will be an action junkie but has supreme hand-reading skills and post-flop skills to bet with the thinnest of edges. He won quite a few small pots and seemed to know when to get out of the way when his hand definitely wasn't good and he couldn't force the other players out. Needless to say, I got the hell out of his way.
Session 1, Wynn, 12/7, 5-630p, 1.5hrs, 1-3NL, +2
--
Penn & Teller started at 9p, but doors opened an hour early, and there was the Mike Jones Jazz Duo, unfortunately not the Mike Jones from H-town though. Plus I needed time to record my notes from the action at the Wynn and reflect on my play. I think it was solid, leaning towards the conservative side. There's nothing wrong with that style, but you can feel like you're not doing anything for a long time while waiting for those premium hands.
The flaw I could see in my game was that the money definitely mattered to me, and I was under-bankrolled for that limit. When I considered making a move, I couldn't because I was handicapped by the weight of the chips in my hand. The nagging thought in my mind was, 'This is real money you're betting!' And so I might have played sub-optimally. Oh well, I came out $2 ahead, that works out to be $1.33/hr. A few dollars more, and I could be making minimum wage!
The Jazz musicians were good and my seat was even better. It was about 6 rows from the stage on the aisle seat of the left hand section. Penn & Teller were pretty cool, like their specials on TV. There was something very clean and crisp about their illusions, though their libertarian soapbox-ing got a little tedious. They debunked a lot of the cold-readers and other magicians and assured us that there is no such thing as real magic. Their magic reminds me of my teaching style: practical yet elegant.
I definitely would recommend the $100 price of admission. Totally worth it that close to the stage! The recession is good for some things.
The show ended at 1030p. Most Vegas shows are 1.5 hrs long. The trip back to the strip from the Rio was a bit harrowing. It was late at night, and I had to cross a couple of big intersections. I thought more people would be around walking back to the strip, but no dice. The solitary walk with only street lights to guide my path was disconcerting, and I kept my hands in my pockets, touching the several hundred dollar bills in my wallet.
I got to Caesar's Palace, the closest casino to the Rio, stepped to their poker room, and asked if there was a 4-8 Limit game available. 'There isn't, sir, but we can start an interest list for you.' 'Thanks, and could you put me down for 1-3 NL as well?' I hang around the sportsbook area looking at the pretty LCD screens with the multitude of sports. When that got tiring, I ogled the fine women walking in and out of Pure, the casino's nightclub. Somehow that 1.5 hrs at the Wynn made me immune to the bevy of skin that's endemic to the Vegas strip. I'd rather see some other ladies, QQ, that is.
A half hr later, I glanced at the wait list which hadn't moved. And so I moved out of the casino and to the Venetian. The Venetian is the second northernmost casino of interest for my poker playing. 'Do you have 4-8 limit available?' She looks at the computer for a moment and says, 'We do, that table over there.'
The chair had a premolded ass-print and was made of that fine material you'd see on furniture in Buckingham Palace except these were used by degenerates like me. It was remarkably comfortable, and I pulled out my cash to dominate this limit game. I figured since this was limit, I would have less problems playing under-bankrolled, since you can only bet a certain amount each round anyway. But the game is entirely different than no-limit. It is perfectly acceptable, even correct, to chase draws all the way to the river given sufficient odds. I can adjust, even though this is my first time playing limit holdem.
--
Session 2: The Donk Tipper
Donk, short for donkey, is a pejorative term for bad poker players who make the wrong plays frequently usually using aggressive bluffs with second or third-best holdings. Which is fine by me because these are the players who make poker profitable.
In limit holdem, the bets are structured. Pre-flop and on the flop, you can only bet/raise the small bet amount. On the turn and river, you can only bet/raise the big bet amount. In 4-8L, it is $4 and $8 respectively.
A guy had a couple of racks**** ready to leave the action, so I just buy my chips off of him. 'This money is good, right?' I respond, 'Of course, you can always trust a poker player.'
First hand, KQs with 4 callers to my raise. Good start. Flop comes Q, rag, rag. Even better, top pair, with second-best kicker. Nothing scary comes on the turn or river, and I get 2 callers all the way. Man, I love these donks! I flip over the goods and rake in the ~$50 pot. The guy whom I bought the chips from leaves, saying, 'Did I mention those chips were lucky?'
The guy to my right is drunk off his ass with a nice Irish red glow. Needless to say, his chips flowed my way more than a few times until he left, down probably a couple of bills but happy nonetheless. I suppose that's what Vegas does to you, even to the locals.
I managed to donate ~$30 twice to this lady 2 seats to my left when she caught trip queens on the turn (AQ starting hand) to my pocket Kings and once again when she hit a draw. It's not like I didn't respect her play, but I was playing loose surrounded by a sea of money ready to come my way. But I quickly fixed that chip leak.
Another player across the table, Middle Eastern or Indian, called me several times with second best holdings just to 'see what I had.' Bless his soul and his chips! For some reason, I thought he knew what he was doing because of his ethnicity, but after he bought in a second time, I figured him for what he was, an ATM. I kept the fish happy, and said stuff like, 'Man, you had to call with that,' and 'that was a really good draw, it was a gutshot but to the nuts!' But he left too around 330AM citing that he had a convention meeting that morning, 'I'm going to be sleeping on the desk..' That may be me as well in less than a year.. We'll see.
And then my luck started to turn south. My loose play caught up with me as I tried to part this other fool from his money, a Hispanic man who looked like a mustachio'd Edward James Olmos. Even after being told 5 times that he couldn't string bet, he still couldn't raise properly, and had to be reminded that the turn and river are $8, not $4.
The good Dutch player to my left and I marveled as he sucked out about 5 rivers against the varying decent-good players at the table. And after losing most of his $100 buy-in, he was now up a chip rack. And then he racked up again after he caught a miracle 4-outer to boat up (full house) against my top 2 pair. It's a good thing the price of tilting in limit holdem is cheap, since I called a preflop raise from the small blind with J2s, just to see if I could bust the guy. But when the flop missed me completely, he continuation betted. I folded and started to fume even more.
After the remaining bad players called it quits, I took up my chips and left too. Down $132 on a table rich with donks. How does that happen? So about $60 was just my bad play calling to that lady with my inferior holdings, but that meant I lost $72 somehow to horrible players. My goodness that river was beastly at the Venetian.
You're taught to grind when you have the best of it, to prop up your eyelids with toothpicks when there is money to be had. My friends, Mr. Olmos who racked up over $300 in profit was dying to give it all back, but the cards just wouldn't do it for me. Poker is a b--!
Session 2, Venetian, 12/8, 12-430a, 4.5hrs, 4-8NL, -132
--
That morning was the mass of the Immaculate Conception, so I had to get some rest to not sleep through service. I trudged the 10min back to the Imperial Palace, dumbfounded at how the cards had turned so bad. I showered only to discover that the drain was stopped up, so I MacGyver'ed by rinsing off my feet as I got out of the tub. It's a damn good thing this trip was solo!
Day 1, 6hrs, -$130
--
*go all-in, win, and get a stack of chips from your opponent
**4 of the same suit, 1 more for the flush
***He won 2 World Series of Poker with that hand, but that was in heads-up tournament conditions. In cash games, you throw that mess away with no doubt in your mind.
****A rack is 5 bays of 20 each, so a rack of $1 chips is $100.
Tuesday, December 14
Vegas Day 1, Part 1: Objects Are Farther Than They Appear
to Vegas Strip map-makers,
Vegas was fun, not amazing or great, just fun. Like the Wii which you play around with for a few months (if that) but inevitably put away because the novelty wears off and the graphics are subpar compared to the PS3. I seriously needed a vacation even before the job loss, and this had been planned for one of my off weeks.
But like the procrastinator I am, I didn't cram and memorize all the poker theory from the 9 poker books I have (no joke). And so the night before the flight out to sin city, I was still washing clothes and figuring out what to pack. I did take Caro's Book of Poker Tells, Sklansky et al's Small Stakes Holdem, and Jones' Winning Low Limit Holdem. They did help take me off tilt a few times during the trip and might have plugged some chip leaks, but weren't the boon to my small-stakes game as I thought they would be.
So thus begins Day 1 of 4, part 1 of 2, the chronicles of the destruction of my poker bankroll...
--
The flight out of Houston was at 10:30AM. Mama dropped me off at 6:30 on her way to work, so I had a good couple of hours at the airport with my poker books. But I didn't want to be a cliche, the hapless fool who thinks he can beat Vegas with his 'How to Win at Blackjack' or 'How to Count Cards', so I refrained and caught up on some NPR podcasts. Like the day before the big test, I normally defer all studying to the absolute very last moment. As a sidenote, poker is a beatable game since you're not playing against the house but against (as I would find out) idiots, who should hemorrhage chips your way but don't, and cause you to tilt even at limit holdem.
The flight was nice except for this one lady who kept recounting her story of her trip to Houston for some Catholic retreat with her sister. Along the way, she told me about how expensive her Lantus was (after I let slip that I was a pharmacist). I let her know about Victoza and Byetta since she asked, but wondered silently why she wouldn't just try something cheaper instead of the regimen of metformin and Lantus. Patient assistance programs are like drug dealers: the first hit is free.
Looking out the window at the vast shades of brown of sand, rock formations and canyons, I wondered who in their right minds would build a city in the middle of a desert. And then again once more in Dubai. Oh well, don't question, just enjoy.
The plane touched down shortly after 11:40AM. Walking into the airport terminal, I was greeted by the siren sounds of slot machines--sorry babes, you're not my type. McCarran is a thoroughly confusing airport, but I eventually made my way to the entrance where the prepaid shuttle sat outside. My plane ticket, shows, and shuttle were all prepaid online, which is nice not to shell out any dough but they all made it distinctly clear that gratuity was not included. I prepped a $3 tip, which was 50% of the $6 ride, but didn't give it to the driver because I had taken care of my own two small bags. Would you tip a carryout place? Perhaps I should've tipped considering the lukewarm luck that ensued.
Becky at the check-in counter at Imperial Palace was nice enough. She seemed like Harlequin from Batman except with dirty blonde curls. Most of the Vegas employees I met had this affected smile plastered on their faces, just glad to have a job. But I don't care if people fake it so long as they have the decency to fake it. As she handed me the room cards, she pointed the way to the elevators with her off-hand.
I passed by some cocktail waitresses on the way to the lifts (there were quite a few Brits there). Damn, black thong underneath see-through negligee! I lament, 'I'm just here to play poker, but they make it so hard..to keep focused!' Vegas is most assuredly not for the weak-minded..
The digs were nicer than I expected. Imperial Palace is a cheap place smack in the middle of the strip. Room rates for weekdays with all their deals can be cheaper than a motel in Victoria, TX. I flipped through the coupon books and trashed most of it, unpacked, washed up, and got ready to walk to the Rio to pick up the ticket for Penn & Teller.
If you've never been to Vegas, just be aware that all strip maps should include a disclaimer, 'objects are much, much farther than they appear!' I knew this since this was my second time, but I figured I was going to sit down to a buffet later that afternoon, so I'd need some exercise. A mile and a half later, I was at the Rio, navigating the maze of a casino to the theater, which was closed. Apparently I could've gotten the tickets at the front desk which was right at the front entrance. Great.
I trekked the 1.5 miles back to the strip and thought, 'Hell, might as well go to the very north of the strip and get it over with on the first day!' As far as I'm concerned, the very north is the Wynn, since I'm pretty sure the poker action at Riviera, Sahara, or Circus Circus would not warrant the time spent walking there.
So after 45 minutes from the Rio, I got to the Wynn. It's really good this was a solo trip because my friends would have been hating me at this point. I signed up for their club card to get the comps I would never use this trip (just for practice), and headed my way to the buffet.
As would happen frequently during this trip, I was just 2 minutes too late for the lunch price. It was 3:32... Oh well, it's Vegas baby! What's another $10?
The menu was exotic. There was some amazing Mediterranean dishes. I figured out that the yellow type of Indian curry was pretty much the same as Vietnamese curry (I think we borrowed that one). Everything was good, but nothing spectacular. As I would find at other buffet places, the sushi is seriously lacking. Midway through, I discovered that after walking a 5k, you really shouldn't sit down at a buffet. But for $35, I packed away the one meal of day in the mythical second stomach.
I tipped the lady $6 for having a less fake smile and headed to the poker room, satieted and ready to crush some souls.
Vegas was fun, not amazing or great, just fun. Like the Wii which you play around with for a few months (if that) but inevitably put away because the novelty wears off and the graphics are subpar compared to the PS3. I seriously needed a vacation even before the job loss, and this had been planned for one of my off weeks.
But like the procrastinator I am, I didn't cram and memorize all the poker theory from the 9 poker books I have (no joke). And so the night before the flight out to sin city, I was still washing clothes and figuring out what to pack. I did take Caro's Book of Poker Tells, Sklansky et al's Small Stakes Holdem, and Jones' Winning Low Limit Holdem. They did help take me off tilt a few times during the trip and might have plugged some chip leaks, but weren't the boon to my small-stakes game as I thought they would be.
So thus begins Day 1 of 4, part 1 of 2, the chronicles of the destruction of my poker bankroll...
--
The flight out of Houston was at 10:30AM. Mama dropped me off at 6:30 on her way to work, so I had a good couple of hours at the airport with my poker books. But I didn't want to be a cliche, the hapless fool who thinks he can beat Vegas with his 'How to Win at Blackjack' or 'How to Count Cards', so I refrained and caught up on some NPR podcasts. Like the day before the big test, I normally defer all studying to the absolute very last moment. As a sidenote, poker is a beatable game since you're not playing against the house but against (as I would find out) idiots, who should hemorrhage chips your way but don't, and cause you to tilt even at limit holdem.
The flight was nice except for this one lady who kept recounting her story of her trip to Houston for some Catholic retreat with her sister. Along the way, she told me about how expensive her Lantus was (after I let slip that I was a pharmacist). I let her know about Victoza and Byetta since she asked, but wondered silently why she wouldn't just try something cheaper instead of the regimen of metformin and Lantus. Patient assistance programs are like drug dealers: the first hit is free.
Looking out the window at the vast shades of brown of sand, rock formations and canyons, I wondered who in their right minds would build a city in the middle of a desert. And then again once more in Dubai. Oh well, don't question, just enjoy.
The plane touched down shortly after 11:40AM. Walking into the airport terminal, I was greeted by the siren sounds of slot machines--sorry babes, you're not my type. McCarran is a thoroughly confusing airport, but I eventually made my way to the entrance where the prepaid shuttle sat outside. My plane ticket, shows, and shuttle were all prepaid online, which is nice not to shell out any dough but they all made it distinctly clear that gratuity was not included. I prepped a $3 tip, which was 50% of the $6 ride, but didn't give it to the driver because I had taken care of my own two small bags. Would you tip a carryout place? Perhaps I should've tipped considering the lukewarm luck that ensued.
Becky at the check-in counter at Imperial Palace was nice enough. She seemed like Harlequin from Batman except with dirty blonde curls. Most of the Vegas employees I met had this affected smile plastered on their faces, just glad to have a job. But I don't care if people fake it so long as they have the decency to fake it. As she handed me the room cards, she pointed the way to the elevators with her off-hand.
I passed by some cocktail waitresses on the way to the lifts (there were quite a few Brits there). Damn, black thong underneath see-through negligee! I lament, 'I'm just here to play poker, but they make it so hard..to keep focused!' Vegas is most assuredly not for the weak-minded..
The digs were nicer than I expected. Imperial Palace is a cheap place smack in the middle of the strip. Room rates for weekdays with all their deals can be cheaper than a motel in Victoria, TX. I flipped through the coupon books and trashed most of it, unpacked, washed up, and got ready to walk to the Rio to pick up the ticket for Penn & Teller.
If you've never been to Vegas, just be aware that all strip maps should include a disclaimer, 'objects are much, much farther than they appear!' I knew this since this was my second time, but I figured I was going to sit down to a buffet later that afternoon, so I'd need some exercise. A mile and a half later, I was at the Rio, navigating the maze of a casino to the theater, which was closed. Apparently I could've gotten the tickets at the front desk which was right at the front entrance. Great.
I trekked the 1.5 miles back to the strip and thought, 'Hell, might as well go to the very north of the strip and get it over with on the first day!' As far as I'm concerned, the very north is the Wynn, since I'm pretty sure the poker action at Riviera, Sahara, or Circus Circus would not warrant the time spent walking there.
So after 45 minutes from the Rio, I got to the Wynn. It's really good this was a solo trip because my friends would have been hating me at this point. I signed up for their club card to get the comps I would never use this trip (just for practice), and headed my way to the buffet.
As would happen frequently during this trip, I was just 2 minutes too late for the lunch price. It was 3:32... Oh well, it's Vegas baby! What's another $10?
The menu was exotic. There was some amazing Mediterranean dishes. I figured out that the yellow type of Indian curry was pretty much the same as Vietnamese curry (I think we borrowed that one). Everything was good, but nothing spectacular. As I would find at other buffet places, the sushi is seriously lacking. Midway through, I discovered that after walking a 5k, you really shouldn't sit down at a buffet. But for $35, I packed away the one meal of day in the mythical second stomach.
I tipped the lady $6 for having a less fake smile and headed to the poker room, satieted and ready to crush some souls.
Friday, December 10
The CAGE Test
to alcoholics, again,
In school, they teach us about the treatment for alcoholism, which is (long story short) to stop drinking. Acute and chronic alcoholism can lead to liver failure, heart failure, and other things which I wish I had a pharmacist-intern to look up and do a report for me.
Once the liver is affected, there's not much treatment except to stop drinking, take some meds that may or may not work (pentoxifylline, steroids) and pray for the best. If the person has been clean long enough, they may qualify for a liver transplant, but I think most people feel shady for giving a liver to someone who lost the original of his/her own free will. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy mimics symptoms of traditional heart failure where the patients can feel like they're drowning when laying down. They're both crappy ways to go. If it was up to me, I'd want to OD on this new street drug called 'cheese'*.
So after a casual wondering and joking about my own drinking habits, I remembered there was a questionnaire to see if a person may have a problem. When I first learned about it in 1st or 2nd year of school, I answered 0 out of 4, but let's see how the hands of time has corrupted this once innocent soul:
C - Have you ever felt you should cut down on your drinking?
Sure, because it gets damn expensive. When you start your alcoholic career with the top shelf stuff that costs >$35/750mL, it adds up. And these single malt scotches, which are my new drugs of choice, are even more expensive with age. But the 18yrs are so smooth and leave the most delicious lingering vapors on the tongue long after the first dram.
A- Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?
Not really, because I usually beat them to the punch by telling them jokingly that I'm an alcoholic. And alcoholics of a feather flock together, so there would be some serious pot-calling-the-kettle-black action going on if that were to happen.
G - Have you ever felt bad or guilty about your drinking?
Only the two times when I woke up still drunk from the night before. Oh, and the time I 'redecorated' my friend's digs...twice..
E - Eye opener: Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?
I can honestly say never to this question. I believe in rehydration, bland carbs, and non-thought-provoking comedies like Scrubs or Chappelle's Show. And I never like having the same food or drink two days in a row, so I couldn't possibly imbibe the same vile poison the morning after.
--
So in short and honestly: yes, no, yes, no. But one must factor in the healthy dose of guilt that is cultured in every non-doctor** Asian male who is almost inevitably considered a failure in the eyes of his parents, myself not excluded.
But no, I don't truly consider of myself an alcoholic. I am a binge-drinker with a weak will, a hardy liver, and a short memory. And if I am to die anyway, I might as well die having a good time never feeling like I was deprived of anything again. [A higher power] knows I've long lived a life engineered for the joy of the progenitors and not the progeny.
--
*You must go to that link--I couldn't stop laughing the first time I heard it on This American Life!
**Only M.D. counts here. D.O. need not apply, so forget about my Pharm.D. meeting my parents' expectations!
In school, they teach us about the treatment for alcoholism, which is (long story short) to stop drinking. Acute and chronic alcoholism can lead to liver failure, heart failure, and other things which I wish I had a pharmacist-intern to look up and do a report for me.
Once the liver is affected, there's not much treatment except to stop drinking, take some meds that may or may not work (pentoxifylline, steroids) and pray for the best. If the person has been clean long enough, they may qualify for a liver transplant, but I think most people feel shady for giving a liver to someone who lost the original of his/her own free will. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy mimics symptoms of traditional heart failure where the patients can feel like they're drowning when laying down. They're both crappy ways to go. If it was up to me, I'd want to OD on this new street drug called 'cheese'*.
So after a casual wondering and joking about my own drinking habits, I remembered there was a questionnaire to see if a person may have a problem. When I first learned about it in 1st or 2nd year of school, I answered 0 out of 4, but let's see how the hands of time has corrupted this once innocent soul:
C - Have you ever felt you should cut down on your drinking?
Sure, because it gets damn expensive. When you start your alcoholic career with the top shelf stuff that costs >$35/750mL, it adds up. And these single malt scotches, which are my new drugs of choice, are even more expensive with age. But the 18yrs are so smooth and leave the most delicious lingering vapors on the tongue long after the first dram.
A- Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?
Not really, because I usually beat them to the punch by telling them jokingly that I'm an alcoholic. And alcoholics of a feather flock together, so there would be some serious pot-calling-the-kettle-black action going on if that were to happen.
G - Have you ever felt bad or guilty about your drinking?
Only the two times when I woke up still drunk from the night before. Oh, and the time I 'redecorated' my friend's digs...twice..
E - Eye opener: Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?
I can honestly say never to this question. I believe in rehydration, bland carbs, and non-thought-provoking comedies like Scrubs or Chappelle's Show. And I never like having the same food or drink two days in a row, so I couldn't possibly imbibe the same vile poison the morning after.
--
So in short and honestly: yes, no, yes, no. But one must factor in the healthy dose of guilt that is cultured in every non-doctor** Asian male who is almost inevitably considered a failure in the eyes of his parents, myself not excluded.
But no, I don't truly consider of myself an alcoholic. I am a binge-drinker with a weak will, a hardy liver, and a short memory. And if I am to die anyway, I might as well die having a good time never feeling like I was deprived of anything again. [A higher power] knows I've long lived a life engineered for the joy of the progenitors and not the progeny.
--
*You must go to that link--I couldn't stop laughing the first time I heard it on This American Life!
**Only M.D. counts here. D.O. need not apply, so forget about my Pharm.D. meeting my parents' expectations!
Wednesday, December 8
Radio Silence
to unanswered/unresponded comments, etc,
This will be my second day in Vegas, and though I have an internet capable phone with a relatively full-service web browser, it is surprisingly difficult to do anything with notes on Facebook or comments on Blogger.com. It may be my failing as an Asian male to know all things computer-related, but I'm simply not that guy. And if I am to answer this question of playing poker for a living (or as a side gig), I must devote time to the tables and not complain about how some programmer hasn't solved the issue of the missing scroll bar in a frame within a webpage*.
When I come back, I will boast... ahem, fill you in on all the details of my victories for your poker edification. And if I lose, I will gently sweep that fact under the rug as former President W. Bush tried to do with 'Mission Accomplished.' And hopefully noone will call me out on it. But if they do, it will be good for me to motivate me to hone my skills further or push me off the precipice of the 'this is a really stupid, inefficient way of making money' cliff.
--
*A real issue on the default browser on the Moto Droid. It won't display anything to scroll within a frame, and I haven't been pissed off enough to Google for a solution.
This will be my second day in Vegas, and though I have an internet capable phone with a relatively full-service web browser, it is surprisingly difficult to do anything with notes on Facebook or comments on Blogger.com. It may be my failing as an Asian male to know all things computer-related, but I'm simply not that guy. And if I am to answer this question of playing poker for a living (or as a side gig), I must devote time to the tables and not complain about how some programmer hasn't solved the issue of the missing scroll bar in a frame within a webpage*.
When I come back, I will boast... ahem, fill you in on all the details of my victories for your poker edification. And if I lose, I will gently sweep that fact under the rug as former President W. Bush tried to do with 'Mission Accomplished.' And hopefully noone will call me out on it. But if they do, it will be good for me to motivate me to hone my skills further or push me off the precipice of the 'this is a really stupid, inefficient way of making money' cliff.
--
*A real issue on the default browser on the Moto Droid. It won't display anything to scroll within a frame, and I haven't been pissed off enough to Google for a solution.
Monday, December 6
Vegas (and work) manana!
to the gamblers,
If you've never read the Theory of Poker, please sit at my table and buy in for the cash that you would have lost at the blackjack table anyway. If you can explain and apply 'reverse implied odds'*, then kindly look for your fish at other tables, because mine are spoken for. And I sure do hope there are plenty of fish in Vegas this week (in contrast to 'sharks' which is really a mispronunciation of 'sharps'), because I'd like to pay for this vacation I planned before my job loss.
During the 20+ straight nights of work a few weeks back, I had booked a trip to Vegas for one of my off weeks, and this is that off week. I had a show planned for each night to reward myself for the many hours of Hold'em I was going to play. And if I totally killed at the tables, I would go support some students and single mothers at the Spearmint Rhino, against my rule of never going to a strip club alone**.
But things change, and so if I do win, I'll put it towards my bankroll to support my second (and possibly primary career). If I lose, the experience will let me know if this plan to play cards for a living is a pipe-dream or if it is a truly serviceable option for making a decent wage.
Because I do think I have the potential to be a winning player. My mathematical skills are still prime, when I tilt*** it is almost always to the conservative side, I have a reserve of cash on hand, I can augment that cash if necessary by working crazy shifts, and I don't particularly need the money which would allow me the time to develop the textbook tight-aggressive style.
The question is if I can sit and grind all day long, no sexual innuendo intended. To play poker until the point of physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. Can I do it? This trip will tell.
Poker, shows, poker, eat, poker, sleep, poker, poker, poker...
Don't ask me if I planned to go to Pure, Jet or any other exotic nightclubs on the strip. First of all, I don't have any arm candy to get through the door. Secondly, I'm not going to Vegas to f-- people, I'm going to f-- them over, which is a subtle but important difference. The first instance generally involves hemorrhaging money (if not on escorts, then on the insane cost of drinks at these clubs), while the second involves parting fools from their money.
And I very much would like to be the hand of destiny which fulfills that proverb. Wish me good decision-making and a run of good cards. Or just luck--luck works too!
--
*A real concept: When the odds appear better than they really are and your hand can only get worse as the play progresses, which should generally lead you to fold since you won't be getting sufficient odds.
**Never have gone solo because late one night, at almost 2am last call, my friends were at the bar getting drinks, and about 3 'dancers' came by one after another to asked if I was alone and if I'd like their services like I was a defenseless mark in a dark alley!
***When emotions take over after a bad run of cards.
If you've never read the Theory of Poker, please sit at my table and buy in for the cash that you would have lost at the blackjack table anyway. If you can explain and apply 'reverse implied odds'*, then kindly look for your fish at other tables, because mine are spoken for. And I sure do hope there are plenty of fish in Vegas this week (in contrast to 'sharks' which is really a mispronunciation of 'sharps'), because I'd like to pay for this vacation I planned before my job loss.
During the 20+ straight nights of work a few weeks back, I had booked a trip to Vegas for one of my off weeks, and this is that off week. I had a show planned for each night to reward myself for the many hours of Hold'em I was going to play. And if I totally killed at the tables, I would go support some students and single mothers at the Spearmint Rhino, against my rule of never going to a strip club alone**.
But things change, and so if I do win, I'll put it towards my bankroll to support my second (and possibly primary career). If I lose, the experience will let me know if this plan to play cards for a living is a pipe-dream or if it is a truly serviceable option for making a decent wage.
Because I do think I have the potential to be a winning player. My mathematical skills are still prime, when I tilt*** it is almost always to the conservative side, I have a reserve of cash on hand, I can augment that cash if necessary by working crazy shifts, and I don't particularly need the money which would allow me the time to develop the textbook tight-aggressive style.
The question is if I can sit and grind all day long, no sexual innuendo intended. To play poker until the point of physical fatigue and mental exhaustion. Can I do it? This trip will tell.
Poker, shows, poker, eat, poker, sleep, poker, poker, poker...
Don't ask me if I planned to go to Pure, Jet or any other exotic nightclubs on the strip. First of all, I don't have any arm candy to get through the door. Secondly, I'm not going to Vegas to f-- people, I'm going to f-- them over, which is a subtle but important difference. The first instance generally involves hemorrhaging money (if not on escorts, then on the insane cost of drinks at these clubs), while the second involves parting fools from their money.
And I very much would like to be the hand of destiny which fulfills that proverb. Wish me good decision-making and a run of good cards. Or just luck--luck works too!
--
*A real concept: When the odds appear better than they really are and your hand can only get worse as the play progresses, which should generally lead you to fold since you won't be getting sufficient odds.
**Never have gone solo because late one night, at almost 2am last call, my friends were at the bar getting drinks, and about 3 'dancers' came by one after another to asked if I was alone and if I'd like their services like I was a defenseless mark in a dark alley!
***When emotions take over after a bad run of cards.
Saturday, December 4
Good Old Times
to the alcoholics,
There are two signs you need to look out for if you want to know if I've reached my 'buzz point': 1) I start getting real philosophical and honest to the point of political incorrectness, and 2) I start using the F-word as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, and even conjunction, preposition, and interjection. It's really quite extraordinary as I try to use correct grammar as I modify all the different forms of the F-word. In high school, my peers used to ask me calculus questions after I polished off a fifth of a fifth of Patron, and yes, I could still do calculus after all that. Now that I forgot all that calculus nonsense (which is good for nothing except telling people who know or care that you 5'd the Calculus BC AP along with 7 other tests), all I can do is tell you random stuff that doesn't really matter all that much but makes you think that I kind of know a little something about something.
But since I'm still slightly inebriated, I'll be a bit honest with you: Truth is I don't really know all that much about stuff that really matters (in my opinion). And it scares me. It is a wholly unsettling feeling that I'm not the badass I pretend to be at the important sh--.
At the 'buzz point', the next alcoholic beverage will send me straight to the porcelain god or passed out with a future trip to the aforementioned god (which likely has more followers than the traditional Dude whom* people praise). I feel completely honest with myself which is sad considering it takes a foreign substance to make me face up to my most protected thoughts. It is a precariously golden moment of [false?] enlightenment.
I tell people the honest truth about how my latest job got cut, and how I kinda expected it to happen and how I kinda wished it would happen.
I tell people that my job made me feel dishonest while I smiled and told customers I wished they'd come back when I secretly deplored them for ever gracing my sight.
I tell them that I have done absolutely nothing in the past 2 weeks and how it feels absolutely amazing to not have to work, disregarding the fact that they have to cram for finals in the next couple of weeks.
I abhor and then console myself for assuming the professional pharmacist role while giving a mini-speech to pharmacy students: I mustn't tell the kids that Santa Claus and the Easter bunny aren't real--they will find out for themselves soon enough if they don't suspect already.
Because who the f-- cares! I've paid my dues in time and money and mental health. It is the time for rebirth into the new me or the old me or the better me (or worse me).
--
Sometimes I think of myself as a broken man with no purposeful intention except the innate desire toward self-preservation through food, shelter, water, and sex. And is that all life amounts to for a young adult male? Food, shelter, water, and sex, and not necessarily in that order?
It is abysmal sometimes when I go out and get to that wasted, veritable state where I look at other guys and think that if they could get with that one girl they were staring at the whole night that their life would be magically cured, that somehow the other flawed human being would make them perfect. But sadly it likely isn't true. Two wrongs don't make a right, and two imperfect persons do not make a perfect one.
--
'I had a good time tonight.'
'Yea, it was kinda like old times a couple of years back when we were in school, when I was driving you around from place to place.'
'Yea, kinda like the good old times, bro..'
With that, my friend exited the car at the University parking lot. I checked the door locks manually to make sure it was secure (can't be too careful in the ghetto), made a semicircle out of the parking lot and onto the road to the freeway..
Cruising down Gulf Freeway, I activated the cruise control at 60 mph to take the speed variance out of the equation for the Friday night copper. But the folks in the right lane were moving at an even slower pace, so I disabled the crutch and took over completely.
And I started to think about my life and how it isn't really all that bad in perspective and how I can really start digging the person I am or will be. So after all the years in between high school and now, I've arrived at the same point where I've started, just a little different, hopefully a little more grown and a little less green. And you know what? That's okay..
With that, I cranked up the pathetic speakers in my ride and faded into suspended consciousness while navigating the miles of concrete, passing the familiar food dives and sleazy strip joints, past one of the adult video stores where that priest got caught for 'public lewdness' for touching himself, to mi casa in the suburbia boonies..
--
Don't live life on autodrive; don't live life like your choices don't matter. Because
'lately I, am beginning to find that I,
should be the one behind the wheel.'
..and when you feel inspirational (through natural or chemical means), write it down, because you'll forget it the next day when you're looking at the receipts and wondering how the f-- you spent so much the night before..
..but I suppose you got to pay tuition for those life lessons..
--
*yes, that is the correct use of the word 'whom', so I think..
There are two signs you need to look out for if you want to know if I've reached my 'buzz point': 1) I start getting real philosophical and honest to the point of political incorrectness, and 2) I start using the F-word as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, and even conjunction, preposition, and interjection. It's really quite extraordinary as I try to use correct grammar as I modify all the different forms of the F-word. In high school, my peers used to ask me calculus questions after I polished off a fifth of a fifth of Patron, and yes, I could still do calculus after all that. Now that I forgot all that calculus nonsense (which is good for nothing except telling people who know or care that you 5'd the Calculus BC AP along with 7 other tests), all I can do is tell you random stuff that doesn't really matter all that much but makes you think that I kind of know a little something about something.
But since I'm still slightly inebriated, I'll be a bit honest with you: Truth is I don't really know all that much about stuff that really matters (in my opinion). And it scares me. It is a wholly unsettling feeling that I'm not the badass I pretend to be at the important sh--.
At the 'buzz point', the next alcoholic beverage will send me straight to the porcelain god or passed out with a future trip to the aforementioned god (which likely has more followers than the traditional Dude whom* people praise). I feel completely honest with myself which is sad considering it takes a foreign substance to make me face up to my most protected thoughts. It is a precariously golden moment of [false?] enlightenment.
I tell people the honest truth about how my latest job got cut, and how I kinda expected it to happen and how I kinda wished it would happen.
I tell people that my job made me feel dishonest while I smiled and told customers I wished they'd come back when I secretly deplored them for ever gracing my sight.
I tell them that I have done absolutely nothing in the past 2 weeks and how it feels absolutely amazing to not have to work, disregarding the fact that they have to cram for finals in the next couple of weeks.
I abhor and then console myself for assuming the professional pharmacist role while giving a mini-speech to pharmacy students: I mustn't tell the kids that Santa Claus and the Easter bunny aren't real--they will find out for themselves soon enough if they don't suspect already.
Because who the f-- cares! I've paid my dues in time and money and mental health. It is the time for rebirth into the new me or the old me or the better me (or worse me).
--
Sometimes I think of myself as a broken man with no purposeful intention except the innate desire toward self-preservation through food, shelter, water, and sex. And is that all life amounts to for a young adult male? Food, shelter, water, and sex, and not necessarily in that order?
It is abysmal sometimes when I go out and get to that wasted, veritable state where I look at other guys and think that if they could get with that one girl they were staring at the whole night that their life would be magically cured, that somehow the other flawed human being would make them perfect. But sadly it likely isn't true. Two wrongs don't make a right, and two imperfect persons do not make a perfect one.
--
'I had a good time tonight.'
'Yea, it was kinda like old times a couple of years back when we were in school, when I was driving you around from place to place.'
'Yea, kinda like the good old times, bro..'
With that, my friend exited the car at the University parking lot. I checked the door locks manually to make sure it was secure (can't be too careful in the ghetto), made a semicircle out of the parking lot and onto the road to the freeway..
Cruising down Gulf Freeway, I activated the cruise control at 60 mph to take the speed variance out of the equation for the Friday night copper. But the folks in the right lane were moving at an even slower pace, so I disabled the crutch and took over completely.
And I started to think about my life and how it isn't really all that bad in perspective and how I can really start digging the person I am or will be. So after all the years in between high school and now, I've arrived at the same point where I've started, just a little different, hopefully a little more grown and a little less green. And you know what? That's okay..
With that, I cranked up the pathetic speakers in my ride and faded into suspended consciousness while navigating the miles of concrete, passing the familiar food dives and sleazy strip joints, past one of the adult video stores where that priest got caught for 'public lewdness' for touching himself, to mi casa in the suburbia boonies..
--
Don't live life on autodrive; don't live life like your choices don't matter. Because
'lately I, am beginning to find that I,
should be the one behind the wheel.'
..and when you feel inspirational (through natural or chemical means), write it down, because you'll forget it the next day when you're looking at the receipts and wondering how the f-- you spent so much the night before..
..but I suppose you got to pay tuition for those life lessons..
--
*yes, that is the correct use of the word 'whom', so I think..
Friday, December 3
Juiceless
to the exhausted,
'Juice' has a variety of dirty meanings, none of which I will reference any further than this point. If the title had been related to those dirty meanings, then this post would have been more appropriately named 'Juiceless & Happy'. But as it is, it is more like 'Juiceless & Even-Keeled' or 'Juiceless & Eh..' or 'Juiceless & I-could-go-for-some-lunch,-but-I'm-not-all-that-hungry.'
--
My first memory of 'juice' being anything other than fresh-squeezed* and pulpless** was when my older brother first described to me the intricacies of sports betting. In most sporting contests, there's a favorite and an underdog. If given even odds (1:1), most people would bet on the favorite and would therefore win more than 50% of the time. Bet enough money (or cycle your cash enough times), and you wouldn't have to work.
This would, however, bankrupt sportsbooks and bookies. So somewhere down the line, someone invented the idea of a spread, where you give points to the underdog to make it fair. In theory, the number of points or 'line' should match the final score. A line (or spread) might read 'New England vs Houston, Houston +5' which would mean that if you bet on Houston, you get 5 points toward the final score: NE 20 - Hou 21(26 with spread), win; NE 20 - Hou 14(19 with spread), loss; NE 20 - Hou 17(22 with spread), WIN. In the last case NE wins, but 'did not cover the spread'. A few years back in their nearly undefeated season, NE was crushing opponents, covering all kinds of ridiculous spreads like -14 (when you bet on the favorite, points are taken away, which is the same as giving points to the underdog). In football, anything over 6 points is likely a lopsided game.
In actuality, the sportsbooks don't care what the final score is or if the line even comes close to it. What they want is a line that will induce bettors to bet both sides equally, so that in the long run, they'll break even no matter the score. But how do they get their money then? One word: juice. The odds may seem close to 1:1, but it's usually 110:100 against. In order to win $100, you have to bet $110 and the $10 difference is the juice money which makes sportsbooks profitable in the long run.
In order to get even betting on both sides, the line or spread will move to entice future bettors. So if the line was initially Houston +5, and a lot of people like Houston, then the line might decrease to Houston +4.5 and so on until the bets balance out, but at whatever line you place your bet, that's the line you're stuck with.
There was a whole movie called 'Two for the Money' devoted to sportsbooks starring Matthew McConaughey (who shirtless for a good part of the show, which may qualify it as female porn) and Al Pacino. It's a horrible movie, except if you know about sports betting and want to impress a girl while she's mesmerized by a sweaty, ripped Matt. I've never tried, but in theory it should work.
So juice is that little extra bit at the end that might make a whole venture worthwhile when the initial work seemed arduous, awkward, mostly unpleasant***.
--
In non-jargon use, 'juice' usually refers to energy or electricity and the like. And I am wholly drained of all juice at the moment. And I've been drained for the past two weeks. The R&R hasn't spiked my energy or motivation one bit. There was that one Black Friday morning where I waited about 15minutes for my gaming system, but since then it's been all Netflix and shifting around to different parts of the sofa so the ass print doesn't become permanent. All this is actually pretty great, but I am concerned that I haven't grown tired after 2 weeks which is normally the breaking point.
It is like when the non-replaceable battery in my iPod nano gets entirely drained, and I plug it into the USB port of my computer (because it doesn't come with a wall charger****) and for about 5 seconds, nothing happens. Then the white apple with the bite mark comes on (for how much it costs, can't we get a whole apple?), followed by the little flashing green battery icon to which I greet with a sigh of relief.. and shame that I'm an addict to Apple juice*****.
--
*,**,***,***** - okay, I lied about the dirty meanings thing :)
****Seriously Steve Jobs-- $160 and you can't include the wall adapter which costs another $30?
'Juice' has a variety of dirty meanings, none of which I will reference any further than this point. If the title had been related to those dirty meanings, then this post would have been more appropriately named 'Juiceless & Happy'. But as it is, it is more like 'Juiceless & Even-Keeled' or 'Juiceless & Eh..' or 'Juiceless & I-could-go-for-some-lunch,-but-I'm-not-all-that-hungry.'
--
My first memory of 'juice' being anything other than fresh-squeezed* and pulpless** was when my older brother first described to me the intricacies of sports betting. In most sporting contests, there's a favorite and an underdog. If given even odds (1:1), most people would bet on the favorite and would therefore win more than 50% of the time. Bet enough money (or cycle your cash enough times), and you wouldn't have to work.
This would, however, bankrupt sportsbooks and bookies. So somewhere down the line, someone invented the idea of a spread, where you give points to the underdog to make it fair. In theory, the number of points or 'line' should match the final score. A line (or spread) might read 'New England vs Houston, Houston +5' which would mean that if you bet on Houston, you get 5 points toward the final score: NE 20 - Hou 21(26 with spread), win; NE 20 - Hou 14(19 with spread), loss; NE 20 - Hou 17(22 with spread), WIN. In the last case NE wins, but 'did not cover the spread'. A few years back in their nearly undefeated season, NE was crushing opponents, covering all kinds of ridiculous spreads like -14 (when you bet on the favorite, points are taken away, which is the same as giving points to the underdog). In football, anything over 6 points is likely a lopsided game.
In actuality, the sportsbooks don't care what the final score is or if the line even comes close to it. What they want is a line that will induce bettors to bet both sides equally, so that in the long run, they'll break even no matter the score. But how do they get their money then? One word: juice. The odds may seem close to 1:1, but it's usually 110:100 against. In order to win $100, you have to bet $110 and the $10 difference is the juice money which makes sportsbooks profitable in the long run.
In order to get even betting on both sides, the line or spread will move to entice future bettors. So if the line was initially Houston +5, and a lot of people like Houston, then the line might decrease to Houston +4.5 and so on until the bets balance out, but at whatever line you place your bet, that's the line you're stuck with.
There was a whole movie called 'Two for the Money' devoted to sportsbooks starring Matthew McConaughey (who shirtless for a good part of the show, which may qualify it as female porn) and Al Pacino. It's a horrible movie, except if you know about sports betting and want to impress a girl while she's mesmerized by a sweaty, ripped Matt. I've never tried, but in theory it should work.
So juice is that little extra bit at the end that might make a whole venture worthwhile when the initial work seemed arduous, awkward, mostly unpleasant***.
--
In non-jargon use, 'juice' usually refers to energy or electricity and the like. And I am wholly drained of all juice at the moment. And I've been drained for the past two weeks. The R&R hasn't spiked my energy or motivation one bit. There was that one Black Friday morning where I waited about 15minutes for my gaming system, but since then it's been all Netflix and shifting around to different parts of the sofa so the ass print doesn't become permanent. All this is actually pretty great, but I am concerned that I haven't grown tired after 2 weeks which is normally the breaking point.
It is like when the non-replaceable battery in my iPod nano gets entirely drained, and I plug it into the USB port of my computer (because it doesn't come with a wall charger****) and for about 5 seconds, nothing happens. Then the white apple with the bite mark comes on (for how much it costs, can't we get a whole apple?), followed by the little flashing green battery icon to which I greet with a sigh of relief.. and shame that I'm an addict to Apple juice*****.
--
*,**,***,***** - okay, I lied about the dirty meanings thing :)
****Seriously Steve Jobs-- $160 and you can't include the wall adapter which costs another $30?
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