Running Bad: The Pop Culture Edition

For about a month now, I’ve been searching in vain for some results at the poker tables. My play? Comes and goes. Good and not so good. But the results?

 Universally horrible.

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Fifty-Fifty

What is the odds this gets posted?

What is me repeating the number of scotchs drunk because I’m wasted?

What is my new favorite tournament on Full Tilt?

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Locals Only

Congratulations are in order for the charitable Jerry Yang for his win in the World Series of Poker Main Event. By all appearances, he provides a nice counter-point to last year’s champion in the humility department.

He’s also from my neck of the woods. IE! IE! IE! Oy! Oy! Oy!

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Joe Speaker’s Raw

I’m about ready to snap. It’s been a terribly difficult week for a number of reasons and right now I feel like my nerve endings are poised for a freak out of monumental proportions. One I’ll be very embarrassed by later.

So I figure I’ll just ramble here for a little bit, since this won’t be my first embarrassing moment on teh intarwebs.

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Where Everybody Knows Your Game

The Gold Coast is less a casino than a corner pub. Vegas locals leap from table to table, greeting the dealers by name.

The usual, please.

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My New Toy

Those of you who have read me for a long time will know that I’m all about the group. Selfless. Community-oriented. Unlike other (read: better) poker players, I am not about to keep a good thing a secret.

Which is why I get my as stuffed in blogger tournaments, because I’ve told everyone how I play. You’re welcome.

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Pay That Man His Money

Erick Lindgren is insane. When the Hall of Fame for Prop Bets is erected in Primm, NV, that golf course stunt should be at the center of everything, with all lesser wagers emenating from a gold pantheon.

Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme, but still. That was awesome.

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The Scene of the Crime

We’re going to have to start today’s highly anticipated photo post off with a downer.

I’m kidding. Wait’ll you see these donkeys.

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The Scent of Love

When F-Train is down ten bucks before everyone even arrives (because of prop bets based on WHEN people would arrive), it’s safe to assume things are gonna get out of hand.

Chicago…meet Out of Hand.

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The $40 Cure

I was in bad shape. The Wrigley Field bleachers were all I’d imagined them to be in my mind. Hot, sweaty, perfect. The beer went down like water. The game played out just under our noses. The thunderstorm came just in time to cool us off. As with any experience, I simply soaked it all in, marvelling at the intimacy of the setting. I didn’t plan anything past the moment I was in. Though I figured I’d grab a buzz, it was shortly after the game ended that I knew I was in trouble.

Walking right into a pole was my first clue.

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