TALES FROM THE FLOOR
By Johnny Coldeck
I don’t know how it is in other clubs, but opposite-sex pairing opportunities are pretty limited in our little cardroom. If a man is willing to relax his standards a bit, or perhaps eliminate standards altogether, there is a possibility of getting a date at the table. Before all you guys primp and pimp, however, maybe we should examine the selection together.
Our first contestant is Trailer-Park Tammy, a semi-single wealthy business co-owner. Not unattractive and extremely proud of her recently-purchased bosom, she is a potential party partner for the brave soul willing to venture into her personality and unnaturally-pointed appendages. A very sweet lady upon entering the cardroom, she turns just a little rough after a couple of drinks. Well, okay, there are horny truck drivers in Arkansas who would turn red from embarrassment while she is speaking. Another minor peccadillo she has is a tendency to flaunt her wealth whenever she loses a pot. Statements like, “You think I give a *&%# about the two hundred dollars? That’s probably more than you make in a week!” and, “You want to compare W2s? I bet I paid more taxes last year than a little *&%#@* like you has ever made!” are commonplace with Trailer-Park Tammy at the table. Nevertheless, her firmer-than-normal implants (you could put an eye out with those things) and willingness to make new friends do offer possibilities….
For those men who don’t like to talk, there is always Chatterbox Candy, a forty-something part-time card-player and silence-filler extraordinaire. I don’t have the exact figures on the number of words used by the average American each day, but I’d bet dimes to dollars Candy has them quadrupled before breakfast. She doesn’t always play when she comes in the room- sometimes she will just stand behind the players and talk. The patrons and staff have learned to avoid eye contact (a must if you plan on using the latrine in the following two hours) and not to make supportive comments like, ”Really?” and “Hmm” which may further encourage conversation. She also has a potentially-unattractive habit of contorting her face and making a chewing motion (it looks like she is trying to eat her cheekbone), but, not to worry, this only happens when she isn’t talking. For the man of few or no words, however, she is available….
Since I feel the National Organization of Women organizing a march, and I know all the members won’t fit into our little cardroom, perhaps we should turn our attention to the male candidates. Let’s be honest, guys, not many of those sitting around a card table at three a.m. on a Tuesday night are likely to be good catches, okay? But let’s see if we can find some matches for the lovely ladies here.
Contestant Number One is Junkman John, a surprisingly-still-single local business owner in his late thirties. As far as anyone knows, he only owns the one oil-stained blue shirt, nametag on one side and pocket on the other, which has never been washed. We have all wondered why he doesn’t buy some nice clothes- all the money he must save on toothbrushes and deodorant alone should put him in a new Armani suit for each day of the week! Still, ladies, he has some credentials worth mentioning. He is a business owner (five acres of car skeletons with real possibilities!), an animal lover (four mongrel pit bulls sleeping under the junk cars) and has the ability to drink 20-30 shots of Jim Beam and still be loud enough to be heard in three counties (communication is an important part of relationships, right, ladies?) . Anyway, for the woman of vision, show up in our cardroom at two or three in the morning on a Monday night (or whenever you hear a bellowing voice), and I think you have a shot at Junkman John….
We can bring it up a notch with Contestant Number Two, Treetop Tom. With a great job trimming roadside trees for the county and a full benefit package, Tom would definitely be a “catch” for the right lady. Not only that, but he looks like a T.V. star! Okay not really a television star per se, but, well, you know that one advertising campaign, “So easy a caveman could do it”? He looks like that guy, except Tom is a little shorter, more (ahem!) robust in stature, slightly hairier and his skull appears to be a lot thicker. Well let’s just say it- he looks like a cartoon caricature of the caveman guy. Anyway, the right lady would never have to worry about losing an argument to Treetop Tom; he is as intellectually-challenged as his appearance would suggest. Still, it’s a great county benefit package….
Well, there we have it- dating opportunities galore in your local cardroom! Now, I try not to get involved in the personal lives of our patrons, but let’s be sensible here, folks. While there are some wonderful people from all walks of life playing cards all over Northern California, one of the .com sites might be a better option for the lonely hearts in the area. Besides, I already listen to enough bad beat stories….
Tales from the Floor is written anonymously by the manager of a small Northern California cardroom. The intent of the stories is two-fold: to present an industry-eye view of cardroom life; and to give a burned-out, jaded and politically-incorrect cardroom manager a chance to vent. Amazingly, Johnny Coldeck is twice divorced and currently available as well....
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tales From the Floor
Bad Beats
At our little cardroom, I charge $5.00 to listen to the, “So this guy called my raise with Jack-3…” stories, so the last thing I want to do is write about them. Some of our more colorful regulars, however, don’t seem to be as immune to the bad beats as others are, so the stories of what happens after the beat are probably worth discussing.
Bearded, burly and surly Teamster John has never learned to handle the suck-outs with dignity. One night last month, he left his usual punching bag (his rig) at home and walked to our club in search of a game. This was good news for his fenders but bad news for his body shop and, as things turned out, not so great for his friend Crazy Mike. Anyway, after the inevitable felting, Teamster John disappeared without a word from our little club for the short walk home. He returned about two hours later with Crazy Mike (who was still in his pajamas, by the way) to tell his story. Apparently, Teamster John decided to take his frustrations out on some trash cans by the side of a local business. While we presume the trash cans were innocent, they did turn out to be booby-trapped, and set off a silent alarm inside the business. While the understanding and gentle methods of our local law enforcement personnel are not the topic here, suffice it to say that Crazy Mike wound up in his jammies at the local bail bond office. After retrieving Teamster John from the jail, they both bought back in and played awhile, so it was a pretty good late game that night.
There is some debate about how Concrete Dan received his moniker. Some of our regulars claim it is because he pours concrete for a living, while others believe he is so-named for his inability to grasp abstract concepts. After a week of losses, Concrete Dan started poor-mouthing, talking about rent, car repair costs and other items of no interest to the other card players. After one particularly tough evening, he stormed out and punched through his windshield, bringing his losses from $1200 to $1400 for the evening. One of our players rushed out the door to calm him down when they heard the shattering glass, the end result being two more buy-ins and an additional $300 loss for Concrete Dan. No one knows if this had a positive effect on his personal finances.
In our cardroom, the current record for number of broken chips after a single bad beat stands at seven ($35 in chips). Competition remained stiff until we adopted the “you break it, you bought it” policy, so it appears Hippie Frank will retain his dubious title. A gigantic man of considerable emotion, Hippie Frank had a promising sports career in college, although no one has yet dared to ask him which sport he actually played. He apparently took a break from college life to experiment with mind-altering substances and just lost track of time. Gainfully employed when he first came to our little cardroom, he took a break from corporate America to try playing poker for a living. It’s been two years now, so I figure Hippie Frank lost track of time again. Anyway, it does appear that the lack of a steady paycheck affects a person’s attitude toward the bad beats.
Is there a moral here? I guess if you are struggling with bad beats, keep your day job, pay your bills and take your pills as prescribed!
“Tales From the Floor” is written anonymously by the manager of a small Northern California cardroom. Johnny Coldeck is widely known for his tirades and has coined several phrases which are now widely used in poker. The phrase, “I can’t beat that kind of skill!”, when spoken after a suck-out, is actually under copyright and should not be used without prior written permission. These days, he combats the emotional swings of bad beats with a simple strategy; always get the chips in way behind and fire the dealer who doesn’t get him there.
Bad Beats
At our little cardroom, I charge $5.00 to listen to the, “So this guy called my raise with Jack-3…” stories, so the last thing I want to do is write about them. Some of our more colorful regulars, however, don’t seem to be as immune to the bad beats as others are, so the stories of what happens after the beat are probably worth discussing.
Bearded, burly and surly Teamster John has never learned to handle the suck-outs with dignity. One night last month, he left his usual punching bag (his rig) at home and walked to our club in search of a game. This was good news for his fenders but bad news for his body shop and, as things turned out, not so great for his friend Crazy Mike. Anyway, after the inevitable felting, Teamster John disappeared without a word from our little club for the short walk home. He returned about two hours later with Crazy Mike (who was still in his pajamas, by the way) to tell his story. Apparently, Teamster John decided to take his frustrations out on some trash cans by the side of a local business. While we presume the trash cans were innocent, they did turn out to be booby-trapped, and set off a silent alarm inside the business. While the understanding and gentle methods of our local law enforcement personnel are not the topic here, suffice it to say that Crazy Mike wound up in his jammies at the local bail bond office. After retrieving Teamster John from the jail, they both bought back in and played awhile, so it was a pretty good late game that night.
There is some debate about how Concrete Dan received his moniker. Some of our regulars claim it is because he pours concrete for a living, while others believe he is so-named for his inability to grasp abstract concepts. After a week of losses, Concrete Dan started poor-mouthing, talking about rent, car repair costs and other items of no interest to the other card players. After one particularly tough evening, he stormed out and punched through his windshield, bringing his losses from $1200 to $1400 for the evening. One of our players rushed out the door to calm him down when they heard the shattering glass, the end result being two more buy-ins and an additional $300 loss for Concrete Dan. No one knows if this had a positive effect on his personal finances.
In our cardroom, the current record for number of broken chips after a single bad beat stands at seven ($35 in chips). Competition remained stiff until we adopted the “you break it, you bought it” policy, so it appears Hippie Frank will retain his dubious title. A gigantic man of considerable emotion, Hippie Frank had a promising sports career in college, although no one has yet dared to ask him which sport he actually played. He apparently took a break from college life to experiment with mind-altering substances and just lost track of time. Gainfully employed when he first came to our little cardroom, he took a break from corporate America to try playing poker for a living. It’s been two years now, so I figure Hippie Frank lost track of time again. Anyway, it does appear that the lack of a steady paycheck affects a person’s attitude toward the bad beats.
Is there a moral here? I guess if you are struggling with bad beats, keep your day job, pay your bills and take your pills as prescribed!
“Tales From the Floor” is written anonymously by the manager of a small Northern California cardroom. Johnny Coldeck is widely known for his tirades and has coined several phrases which are now widely used in poker. The phrase, “I can’t beat that kind of skill!”, when spoken after a suck-out, is actually under copyright and should not be used without prior written permission. These days, he combats the emotional swings of bad beats with a simple strategy; always get the chips in way behind and fire the dealer who doesn’t get him there.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
January 28th, 2009- This is what I deal with every day, folks!
Johnny Coldeck’s Tales from the Floor
We need to quit passing out fliers at the local trailer parks for our little card room. Sure, we get the new players, but I’m not sure it’s the caliber and breeding of player we were hoping to attract. This month we acquired two new players, neither of which could be classified as “high-brow” by any stretch of the meaning.
Carney Joe, a former circus performer, still expects the special attention and privileges he received during his heyday, but it is his relationship with his overbearing wife which presents the most challenges to our staff. Joe hobbled in twice this week, sporting a bulky cast on his left foot (we don’t know). I should say at this point that the front of our place has large windows situated in such a manner that the players can see the legs of passers-by. Anyway, we had a nice little game brewing on Wednesday, and Joe called a twenty-dollar raise from the big blind, when he suddenly sprang from his seat and pulled a David Copperfield, vanishing into thin air! The USA’s best 100 meter Olympiad would have taken the silver to Carney Joe and his gimpy leg making it to the back door of our bar this day. Now, the inductive reasoning capabilities of our poker players would rival those of Sherlock Holmes (okay, at least Watson). It took us a mere four minutes to piece together The Mystery of the Disappearing Gimp. The big clue came when one of our female dealers burst through the front door milliseconds after the event, apparently late for her push. She made it in time to see only the confusion on the faces of the players at the table, and perhaps to feel the small vacuum in the space-time continuum created when Carney Joe violated the laws of physics by exceeding the speed of light. Anyway, by the time Joe called from his cellular phone, we had it figured out. When he asked, “Well, Johnny, am I busted?” all I needed to say was “Coast is clear, Joe, come on back.” Nope, it was Karen the dealer and not his wife this time.
Closely behind Carney Joe and his marital bliss came boisterous, loud, fun-loving and obnoxious Car Dealer Mike. Now, I have never sold cars myself, but after watching this guy play cards for a little while, I’m thinking about taking it up. He quickly became the most frequently-requested player at our establishment, racking up legendary losses. Now, I am kind of an old-school poker room manager, willing to do nearly anything to get an action player into the game. When Car Dealer Mike called last week and told me that he really wanted to play but his car was in the shop, I rushed a dealer down to pick him up and called a few of the regulars to help “stabilize the game” (don’t be afraid to tip your floorman, folks). Anyway, four hours and $4500 later, he “got up slow, talking low” from our 2-3 no limit game. One of our players who does business with him told me the rest of the Car Dealer Mike story. It turns out that his car was not “in the shop” at all, but in fact was sold that day to a private party about a block from where my dealer picked him up. The sale price? $4500, of course. Car Dealer Mike is now safely in rehab somewhere and we all wish him well. Lay off the hard drugs and by all means gamble responsibly, folks….
“Tales from the Floor” is written by the anonymous manager of a small Northern California Cardroom. The intent is to offer insight and anecdotes into the real world of poker from the perspective of an industry professional. Some of the stories are funny, others tragic, but all are real events occurring daily in small cardrooms across the country. The names and some of the less significant details have been changed to protect involved parties (not always the innocent). Any resemblance to your own life is cause for introspection, perhaps, but is unintentional.
We need to quit passing out fliers at the local trailer parks for our little card room. Sure, we get the new players, but I’m not sure it’s the caliber and breeding of player we were hoping to attract. This month we acquired two new players, neither of which could be classified as “high-brow” by any stretch of the meaning.
Carney Joe, a former circus performer, still expects the special attention and privileges he received during his heyday, but it is his relationship with his overbearing wife which presents the most challenges to our staff. Joe hobbled in twice this week, sporting a bulky cast on his left foot (we don’t know). I should say at this point that the front of our place has large windows situated in such a manner that the players can see the legs of passers-by. Anyway, we had a nice little game brewing on Wednesday, and Joe called a twenty-dollar raise from the big blind, when he suddenly sprang from his seat and pulled a David Copperfield, vanishing into thin air! The USA’s best 100 meter Olympiad would have taken the silver to Carney Joe and his gimpy leg making it to the back door of our bar this day. Now, the inductive reasoning capabilities of our poker players would rival those of Sherlock Holmes (okay, at least Watson). It took us a mere four minutes to piece together The Mystery of the Disappearing Gimp. The big clue came when one of our female dealers burst through the front door milliseconds after the event, apparently late for her push. She made it in time to see only the confusion on the faces of the players at the table, and perhaps to feel the small vacuum in the space-time continuum created when Carney Joe violated the laws of physics by exceeding the speed of light. Anyway, by the time Joe called from his cellular phone, we had it figured out. When he asked, “Well, Johnny, am I busted?” all I needed to say was “Coast is clear, Joe, come on back.” Nope, it was Karen the dealer and not his wife this time.
Closely behind Carney Joe and his marital bliss came boisterous, loud, fun-loving and obnoxious Car Dealer Mike. Now, I have never sold cars myself, but after watching this guy play cards for a little while, I’m thinking about taking it up. He quickly became the most frequently-requested player at our establishment, racking up legendary losses. Now, I am kind of an old-school poker room manager, willing to do nearly anything to get an action player into the game. When Car Dealer Mike called last week and told me that he really wanted to play but his car was in the shop, I rushed a dealer down to pick him up and called a few of the regulars to help “stabilize the game” (don’t be afraid to tip your floorman, folks). Anyway, four hours and $4500 later, he “got up slow, talking low” from our 2-3 no limit game. One of our players who does business with him told me the rest of the Car Dealer Mike story. It turns out that his car was not “in the shop” at all, but in fact was sold that day to a private party about a block from where my dealer picked him up. The sale price? $4500, of course. Car Dealer Mike is now safely in rehab somewhere and we all wish him well. Lay off the hard drugs and by all means gamble responsibly, folks….
“Tales from the Floor” is written by the anonymous manager of a small Northern California Cardroom. The intent is to offer insight and anecdotes into the real world of poker from the perspective of an industry professional. Some of the stories are funny, others tragic, but all are real events occurring daily in small cardrooms across the country. The names and some of the less significant details have been changed to protect involved parties (not always the innocent). Any resemblance to your own life is cause for introspection, perhaps, but is unintentional.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
