Dream

Debbie and I are visiting our condo in the mountainous country to the north of our city. There is various sorts of dream hugger-mugger that I can't recall; then we are driving in our SUV(*) along the dirt road that leads back to the highway. Away from the buildings, we stop to admire the scenery. "It's amazing," I say, "that all this belongs to us." Over there is the chalky cliff-face that is just perfect for use as a screen for outdoor showings of movies. We can invite our friends!

Rather than getting on the highway and driving home, we cross over to the other side, and more unremembered dream hugger-mugger takes place. Debbie has to drive home, and I want to stay behind. That's okay, because I can take the bus home -- the stop is right over there. Too bad the bus is leaving right now, and it could be a while before the next one comes along, this being the mountains and all. Oh, well. Deb goes home, and I stick around.

Still more unremembered hugger-mugger. Then I go to wait for the bus. I climb up the steep embankment to get to the highway, cross quickly in a gap in the traffic, and stand at the bus stop. Soon I am joined by my friend Sabyl Cohen, who is waiting for the same bus. We get to talking. "It's interesting," she says, "that when we come here, the locals think of us as tourists. That's so unusual." "I guess they don't think you are a tourist when you go to Las Vegas, then," I reply. "Certainly not!" says Sabyl (who in waking life is a professional poker player). In one of those unnoticed dream transitions, we are no longer at the bus stop but in the kitchen of a cabin with unfinished wooden walls, still talking.

There is a sound, and we look out the windows. An airplane is flying low overhead. It looks like a jet plane, a Boeing 737, but the engines sound like propellers rather than jets. It appears to be in trouble, circling to make an emergency landing in the smoothest place the pilot can find. The plane comes around and approaches an open space, a grassy meadow. Its passengers have crawled out and are dangling from the landing gear, and from the wings, in order to cushion the landing. As the plane comes to a halt, I leave the cabin by the front door and hurry down the stairs, to join the rescue work. Running up to the crash site I see that, miraculously, most of the passengers are unhurt, although here and there are a few with broken arms or legs. I join the quickly growing crowd of people gathering to help.

(*)Relax; we don't really drive SUVs in waking life. We don't have a condominium in the mountains, either.

Sometimes the Bear Eats You

I played in the Oaks Club's hold'em tournament this evening. I got off to a reasonable start at an easy table, but I got burned shortly before the end of the rebuy period, and went down in flames not long after the start of the next round.

Here's the hand that crippled me. I was in the cutoff seat (one out from the button) in seat six; I had a stack of 1000 "dollars" (tournament chips have no real value except insofar as they represent equity in the prize pool; but they have printed denominations). Alex Alaskar was under the gun in seat 10 with somewhat more than enough chips to cover me. The blinds were 40 and 60. Alex opened for a raise, and the action was folded around to me. I've got the ace and queen of spades. Maybe I should have reraised, but I'm weak-tight when UTG opens for a raise. (But then, it was Alex Alaskar, a notorious loose cannon.) I cold-called the two bets, and the big blind came along for the ride.

The flop came down as the ace of hearts, six of diamonds and three of hearts. I had flopped top pair with a pretty good kicker, and heaven only knew what Alex had. He bet into me. I raised. The big blind dropped out. Alex reraised, and I just called him.

The turn card was the ten of diamonds. This was a trouble card: "in the playing zone" as Jim Brier and Bob Ciaffone would put it, and it put a second flush draw on the board. Alex said something indistinct, and reached for his chips. I thought he had said "I bet," and I was waiting for him to put a bet out before I acted. After a moment or two he said, "It's on you." I bet my top pair, and he called me.

The river card was the four of clubs. Alex bet into me immediately. Yes, he's completely capable of playing 7-5 like that and rivering a straight, but he's also completely capable of a bluff in that spot. I called him down. He showed me his two pair: the three and four of diamonds. I told you he's a loose cannon.

After that it was only a matter of time before the blinds got me, unless I got lucky. I didn't get lucky; I caught an offsuit A-9 when I had slightly more than enough chips to come in for a raise. I raised, got called in two spots, and threw my last two chips on the ragged flop. The caller dropped out, but the big blind stayed with me. Naturally, he had a pocket pair and had flopped a set. IGHN.

I didn't go home; I went into the main cardroom and got into the $20-limit lowball game. If I'd caught any cards, I'd have killed that table, it was so soft. But to beat duffers you have to show them the best hand; and I got dealt a bunch of beautiful draws that didn't get there. I sat between Chinese Jennifer and a player I didn't know, an elderly black man who played and moved quite slowly and gave off amazingly clear tells when he had good hands. He also gave off an unmistakable odor of stale urine. I put up with the smell, though, because he made plays like: opening under the gun, and then drawing two cards; calling two bets in his big blind and drawing four cards (!); and drawing three and betting into a crowd when he paired up.

It would have been hog heaven for me, except that I couldn't catch any cards until late in the evening. I wound up buying in for $600 (three buys of $200 each), and walked away with $405, for a net loss of $195.

Debbie had played in the tournament also, and had busted out not long after I did. She played live games also -- she was able to win her tournament buyin back. She came to me at 11:00 PM to check in with me about sticking around or going home. I figured that there was plenty to do tomorrow, so I decided to book a loss and go home.

Patti Beadles won the tournament, by the way, for the second week in a row.

*Tap Tap Tap* Is This Thing On ... ?

As an afterthought to getting the spicejar.org server up and running, I thought I'd see what I could do with Moveable Type. I've been inspired by the blogs of other people, particularly those of Teresa and Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Avedon Carol, and David Scott Marley.

So here I am announcing to the universe, "Sir, I exist!"