The Poker Report
9-19-01
"Feeding The Addicted Since 2001"
The Mysterious Bartender With The Golden Hair
It’s Sunday night and I’m going to eat spaghetti at Dorothy’s house in Glen Park. The sky is a thick dark grey and the air filled with shimmering patches of wet and cold. Monday is tow day. It’s time to move my car.
There’s no sound when the key turns. No light. No click. No juice. My poor car. How longs it been? It’s the only car on the street. Every other car has moved in fear of the inevitable government crackdown. I don’t even drive the thing I never drive this car.
I reach in the back for the cables and stand on 17th and Harrison prepared for my doom. In less than two minutes my bartender from the Uptown arrives. She has clear white cheeks, golden hair. She’s driving a convertible with some guy named Ross. The top is down and they look like they’re going to the beach.
She says, "Hey Steve, need a jump?" The corner is deserted. The battery two metal conductors under a blizzard of caked acid. I say, "Hey, funny to see you here."
Ross is efficient. He knows how to handle time. He’s played this game before. My bartender says, "Just stay out of his way." The car starts on the first try.
"Goodbye Steve. My shift starts at nine." And with that she is gone, dissapearing into a western fog. I figure I’m having a lucky week. A week for betting big. I can’t possibly lose.
Notes From The Bottom Of The Totem Pole
By Guest Editor Chris Donahue
Tuesday's poker was different. We had beef stew and ten players, instead of no stew and four players. All sorts of characters showed up -- a first appearence was made by Rebecca, a Stegner Fellow Friend of Steve's. Steve clearly saw the need to impress, and spoke in verse the entire evening. He spoke of his tatoo remodel, and of well-proportioned women from Laos with platform shoes and hair dye. His motives
were unclear.
Cooney...well, never mind. He played, he stoppedplaying, he listened to the A's game, and he was insulted by Steve while still in the room. In the interest of diplomacy, Cooney took no aggresive action, and quietly wheeled his bike towards the
Richmond.
There was big money on the table, as the rookies and the Abbies were quickly cleaned out. Ben was off, but kept contributing. John Berry struggled, but re-discovered his love for scrotum and turned things around. Dave Johns came in with big hopes and big
hair, and jangled the players with his string raises. Shaw pulled the unthinkable, and stuck his head in the sand after the second round of clue.
Who was left? Of course there was Donahue, playing as usual with skill, cunning and panache. He won Disneyland games, he won hold-em with aces over sixes. He won big, he lost small. He walked out $20 richer.
Steve played poker last night, and talked and talked and talked. And like anyone who gets dealt threes and nines on his down cards in baseball, he won a little. At least he fed us stew.
-Chris 6-finger Donahue
Easier Than Kicking Over a Cradle
Last night was a night of horrible, drunken, debauchery and the morning a codiene filled grey sky. My table is littered in piles of poker chips. One stack in particular a bustling metropolis of red white and blue in front of an old wooden chair. Last night was a crowded night, so crowded I had to climb onto the roof and steal the folding seat that’s been sitting there through all the rains. Ten hungry gamblers gathered around the table. There was a new player. Rebecca, from Indiana, and before that New Orleans, and further back still the rolling hills of Georgia where her parents still reside. Rebecca lost her ten dollars quick and learned her first real San Francisco lesson: Nothing’s free and your new friends will take all of your money and not feel bad or offer to give any back.
Jeremy came by a little late and found himself sitting on the arm of the couch. Cooney came early and played well for a bit and then all of his money was gone. It was like magic. He hid behind me, waiting for me to tell the secret of cards in his abscence, whispers of double trump, rumors of nines in the hole, but I was wise to the corn stalk in front of the stereo and kept my lips tight.
The games were baseball, hold-em, and CLUE, with some buck ‘em thrown in to test a mans courage. With ten people at the table hold-em was a big money maker early with Ben getting paddled by two pairs on the river. The game thinned after a few early suckers went bust and that’s when we gravitated towards baseball and CLUE. Shaw became the first man to ever leave a game of CLUE in the second round, setting a new precedent for caution, because everybody knows, oh lord how we know, you should never bet more than you can afford to lose.
The more drunk I got the smarter I felt. And when I had two wildcards in the hole for two games of baseball I felt like a fucking genius. I had so many chips that people started buying in directly from my pile. I could hardly see the action, I didn’t even bother to turn over the seventh card for fear all my chips would avalanche across the table and bury Shaw or Jeremy.
Today I am badly hungover and my memory is poor. I can’t remember who won or lost, but judging by the excessive cash in my back pocket I can only assume that everybody lost, or if they won, they didn’t win much. Between drum beats I ask myself what I should buy, a new battery for my car, an onion calendar for Abby, lobster and steak for next weeks gathering? It really is just a tremendous amount of cash and with money comes responsibility.
My guilt from stealing from my friends is assuaged by the knowledge of the fine beef stew I made them. Like in Cuba, they may be poor, but I will not let them starve.
Steve Elliott
Editor in Chief
The Poker Report
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