A week of mistakes and run-good, not the formula I promulgate. My bomb pot play, so beautifully centered on poker theory, has kind of collapsed as I try not to overfold to players who have no idea what is going on. What they don’t talk about is overcalling just leads to overfolding. I do it all, spread my bets, and get wiped off the bomb pot board.
At least I’m persistent.
My hold’em remains good, although I had to will a two-outer into existence at the Wynn. Inside every live poker player is a sort of “set counter” – Billy, for instance, likes to complain about his rate being off. Maybe my meter is well calibrated because I felt like I was about a two to one favorite to hit ten percent once I check raised all-in over three players.
Foolish, but in the margins of our thoughts, dumb, hopeful shit emerges.
Still, that fun pot wasn’t the star of the night. The real spot of the week I merely witnessed later that evening. Dan Arfin or his blonder twin had (probably) isolated Carbuncle and seen a flop. Now Carbuncle is a dreadful player, yet by the end of this hand there is some light in his game I want to point out.
One of the reasons he is such a bad player, aside from obviously unfortunate genes, is that he forks his range preflop. Yes, the old limp weak, raise strong tactic. You might think, how does he survive at 2/5 300 cap with such a strategy?
The secret is a job. Some of you should investigate this phenomenon.
So, Carbuncle is easy to play against, if you have any sensitivity to the game. Dan (we’ll call him Dan, he played like Dan, complained like Dan, argued like Dan, overbet like Dan) isoed five times the limp, which is small enough to get Carbuncle to call; I had used six earlier to get him to muck.
Everyone else folds, and we see Q 7 6. Carbuncle now leads. Because there is no range incentive to lead here, it is going to be effectively always an equity driven wager. Even the draws will probably be open ended: 45, 78 could be there. Usually, sadly, pathetically, it will be a queen finding out what’s up, however.
C’mon Carbuncle, do better.
Dan now raises. Looking at this gaunt, sullen man, a misreg’s misreg and ranter of exquisite expertise, you would normally deduce a strong hand getting value. Of course, Dan is no regular 2/5 player – I can’t be as sure as I would like to be of what’s going on.
Still, winning two-five players, of all the groupings of players, are our community’s value bettors, as in they aspire to nailing down this aspect of the game. Two-fivers are obsessed with thin value bets to the point it even hinders their ability to move up because they don’t learn their opponents’ full ranges very well. Blame General Bart, if you must.
It even spills over into the conversation: if one misses a thin value bet, he often wants to discuss it later, to ward off any Missed Value Shame. Anyway, we should be raising this lead more often and balanced. Overall, that’s just not the play from the regs, in part because the lead is generally felt to be so top pair-centric itself.
The pool often knows its own waters best.
And bluffing people with jobs is also dangerous, Mystery Dan.
(Is it him? It has to be him… except that blonde shag on his dissatisfied, street jew face…perhaps he’s imbibed so many chemicals that his hair color has changed as the minerals in his body reorder themselves.)
Carbuncle calls and I have a feeling the game is about to get worse. Don’t felt yourself, Carbuncle! I’m more friendly! I make harmless jokes and thank the dealers! I wear a funny hat!
The turn four should be a somewhat interesting card, and Carbuncle makes it at least a question by leading again. (He persists – you know he’s good at his job from this alone. Get Carbuncle on the project.)
Yes, the lead/call/lead: good lord. This is some bad shit, a bad batch. Throw this out, Carbuncle.
Now it would make sense if the majority of the bettor’s range had improved but saying you have exactly eight-five is just too thin, just not right. Unlike the 2/5 pool, a player should be thinking about the bulk of his range, not whether you can get a call for value. This is fish stuff, buddy. You better have it because I want you here.
The player who I think is Dan takes his time, but it’s a special kind of time. He’s not lost, he’s wondering if he can get value here. He’s in the two-five zone. Would Carbuncle have limped eight five suited? And not gone for a check raise? No, he finally decides. Dan has four black chips already in his hand and drops them into the pot like a dispenser, and declares “three-ninety.”
Three ninety? Not four hundred? Poker players are so exasperating. C’mon, Dan.
Carbuncle quickly decides to call. We only have to wait for him put together with his fingers which are all thumbs. This is torture.
The river pairs the six and Carbuncle just instantly rips it in. Dan of course, flicks in a chip, knowing he is winning.
Here’s where it gets interesting. Carbuncle flips over Q4, to which you might say, “this is the worst fucking played hand ever and get me a seat in this game.”
Yet, what if it’s not? What if Carbuncle is bluffing here? The combo makes some sense. Will Dan call with aces now? A better queen? Can he dodge being bluffed?
In other words, there has to be some EV here in this river play, as poor as everything else was. Salutations, Carbuncle. Rest up. Do better. Stop whining when the dealer gives you instructions. Wear a hat.
Do it again and do it better. It’s all we can do.
Dan says nothing about this catastrophic donation. Just a normal day’s work, I’d imagine. He is a workaholic trashman, collecting and sorting. He’ll relax only when the day is done.
Still, I feel like someone should say something. It’s not a hand funeral, maybe it is fish funeral? No – it’s a stack funeral we need. Maybe play “Taps” on your phone with a Casio ring tone. Fire off a kazoo. (Where do you actually get a kazoo?) Something to acknowledge the ridiculous punt and the infinitesimal, unnecessary redirection of the economy. A dispensary just scored. I hope Dan likes that Nevada-grown store: think global, trip local. You don’t want what’s in the mystery meat.
It’s been a long week. I’ve moved temporarily and am looking for a new place. The family needs me, so another trip north is coming all too soon. I’m grateful to have kept winning, while also remaining squarely aware that I am off-kilter and not playing as well as I’d like. The bomb pot punts are galling – I could be up 20k on this leg of Return to the Wild. Some hints, too, of frustration underneath my better table behavior.
The grind awaits. The chips clacking tell me, the felt whispers it, the drawn faces mimic it back to me: stay on the grind. It makes sense. I’m not special. I feel so mentally free, so wise, yet the lost illusions of youth and the simultaneous absence of its energy peck at my mind and my results.
We just have to keep it up, keep doing it, whatever it is. You have your job, Carbuncle, and Fake Dan has his.
+10,058
