An Open Letter To The Cranky Old Lady At My Blackjack Table This Weekend

Dear Bitch (may I call you "bitch"?),

I'm going to assume you know what you're doing, based on your advanced age, that sizable stack of chips sitting in front of you, and your audible exasperation at my decision to stand on 12, but just in case you forgot a few key points [see "advanced age" above], I thought I'd offer some helpful hints.

First off — just a quick reminder to start — we are at the $10 minimum table at Foxwoods, not the high roller room at the MGM Grand. Just putting that out there, in case you were confused.

Second, blackjack is a card game — the operative word here being "game," implying a sense of playfulness and fun. Your attitude and general demeanor imply neither of these things.

Also, it's called "gambling" for a reason: there is risk involved. Sitting at an open table means you risk people at that table occasionally making stupid impromptu moves like standing on 12, just like I am risking my health by exposing myself to your steady stream of secondhand smoke. That’s just how casinos work.

And finally, next time you feel the urge to loudly declare to a stranger, "You're gonna stand on 12? Jesus Christ, I have to leave now," maybe you could spare us the gin-soaked preamble and just, you know, leave. After all, like the song says, you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to shut the fuck up — you don't make the rules and I'll play any way I want.

Best of luck!
Becca

Fear And Loathing At The Convenience Store

FLASHBACK — August '08:

It's 3:46 am and I'm on my way home from a relatively early night of poker when I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a raving case of the munchies.

"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..." — Hunter Thompson

Luckily, I live on Long Island, where there is conveniently located, roughly every 4 yards along any given stretch of highway, a 24-hour 7-11. I stop into the first one I spot. A taxi and an Entenmann's delivery truck are the only other vehicles in the parking lot, so I pull up right in front of the entrance and am about to sprint out when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes.

...ok, if you must know, a smoke break between games had turned into a round of Ultimate Frisbee in the dark on the front lawn and my socks had gotten wet so I removed them, and — as everyone knows — wearing sneakers without socks gives you the cooties, so I wisely decided to spend the rest of the evening barefoot.

However, I am now in dire circumstances. The risk must be dismissed and my task undertaken.

Of course, because I'm now so close to my ultimate destination I can almost smell it (actually, I probably could smell it — it being a 7-11 and all), it takes me about half an hour to get my laces unknotted and the damn things back on my feet. It appears hand-eye coordination is one of the first faculties to become affected in these sorts of situations.

Inside, it is glaringly bright and absolutely freezing. I assume heightened sensitivity to light and temperature are the next symptons to present themselves. I beat a determined path for the snack aisle. I am on a mission, and, for some reason, I am under the impression that only Fritos will do.

So, of course, at first glance, I don't see them anywhere.

"Ok, don't panic," I think. Or say out loud. There's no one else in the store, so who knows at this point. "They have to be here somewhere. Someone always brings them in when we have holiday parties at work, so you know they exist. And by that conclusion, they should, in all likelihood, be here somewhere." But what if that anonymous work-person had just stockpiled a whole bunch of bags before 7-11 discontinued carrying them — then what do I do? Are Dipsy-Doodles the same thing? No, they used to sell them in the cafeteria in high school; those things sucked...I wonder if that same old lady still works in the senior cafe...hey, was Mr. Barone gay? Did we ever find out? Whoa, stop! Focus! Task at hand!

I decide to apply some scientific principles to my search and methodically scrutinize each and every shelf, bag by bag, until, finally, I come upon them, second shelf from the bottom, hidden behind some Cheetos. Not even the good kind, but those mutant-looking crunchy ones. Gross.

The guy behind the counter rings up my purchase, and I manage to count out 3 singles and hand them over to him without incident when I notice he's wearing surgical gloves. The only reason I can presently fathom for this is that he's just brutally murdered the real 7-11 clerk in the back room and I've just happened to walk into the store right in the midst of it and interrupted the grisliness.

Either that, or he's been handling the chili cheese dogs. Those things are lethal.

Seconds or decades later, lying in bed with my hard-earned snack and my entire stack of Weetzie Bat books, I think to myself (or say out loud), "Man, I can't believe I haven't done this since college...have I ever been missing out!"

For Fellow Poker Aficianados: The Battle Of Wits Has Begun

Ok, riddle me this:

The game is No-Limit Texas Hold 'Em. Four players remain.

Player 1 is first to act, second in chips, goes all in with A-J off-suit.
Player 2 is short stack, also goes all in, with pocket Aces.
Player 3 is third in chips, also goes all in, with a pair of Queens.
Player 4 is chip leader, calls Player 1 with K-9 suited.

Flop comes out Q-J-10; rainbow — no flush opportunites. So now:

Player 1 has a pair of Jacks.
Player 2 still has a pair of Aces.
Player 3 has trip Queens.
Player 4 has the straight.

The turn is a 4 and there's a 6 on the river — no change.

Player 4 wins the hand and the game, knocking out all three remaining opponents.

Question: Who comes in second — the next-best hand (Player 3, with three of a kind), second in chips pre-flop (Player 1), or the last to call all-in (Player 3, by position)?

Answer: Who cares? Player 4, the one who cleared house, was me.

Things You Wouldn't Necessarily Guess By Looking At Me

1. I play poker.

[Yes, I realize the hand pictured is only a pair of Aces and not a royal flush. It was pre-game — I didn't set up the props.]

2. I used to be a roller girl.

Peta Sassin, #AK-47, Long Island Roller Rebels

3. I wanted to be a WWE Diva.

...

*Ok, I swear to God I own an autographed Polaroid picture of me and Lita, and I just tore up my place looking for it, but it is nowhere to be found. I'm scouring the attic for it next time I visit home. I will produce this priceless piece of photographic evidence if it is the last thing I ever do, damn it! I dare you to doubt my integrity!