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People stuck around for a bit, helped me put away the table, bring Olu his chairs back, bag up the recycling. They’re people who believe something good can still come out of this mess. They stick with what they know, even when it’s a losing hand. I’ll just open my hands; the international sign for money lost. I’m going to take some sucker’s money.” “They read the Poker Report,” I told him. A ten came on the flop, then another ten on fourth street. “That’s a tough hand to beat.” Andrew was out of the tournament but he had brought a bottle of Jack Daniels with him. Now I knew I was just another sucker in her eyes, something to destroy on her long march to the sea. I sat outside with Andy Miller and Tim, who had won ,000 a week ago but lost tonight beneath the Windy blitzkrieg.

The country’s already trillion in debt—what’s

People stuck around for a bit, helped me put away the table, bring Olu his chairs back, bag up the recycling. They’re people who believe something good can still come out of this mess. They stick with what they know, even when it’s a losing hand. I’ll just open my hands; the international sign for money lost. I’m going to take some sucker’s money.” “They read the Poker Report,” I told him. A ten came on the flop, then another ten on fourth street. “That’s a tough hand to beat.” Andrew was out of the tournament but he had brought a bottle of Jack Daniels with him. Now I knew I was just another sucker in her eyes, something to destroy on her long march to the sea. I sat outside with Andy Miller and Tim, who had won $15,000 a week ago but lost $25 tonight beneath the Windy blitzkrieg. The country’s already $11 trillion in debt—what’s $1 trillion more? Would we still play poker, or would we only play poker? Sometimes it’s a game for suckers, but the best players are optimistic realists. When he came back, the bottle was almost empty, it was 10 at night, and he was still wearing his sunglasses. I had thought Windy had invited me over because she liked the Poker Report and wanted to be friends.People were knocking elbows, and when I got up to go to the bathroom three others had to get up just to let me by. I felt bad for the new players; even Tom, who by now I thought might actually be telling the truth. Then Steve wanted to play me and Andrew, and I was a little intimidated at first because everyone’s always saying what a good player Steve is. But the thing is, even with all their professional-seeming moves and attempts at highbrow conversation, we won that game too. They had with them a six-pack of red-and-white tall boys and a carpenter named Chris Cooney. Miller’s beard was grown out, so it was like his curly hair, circling his entire face, sharpening his nose and cheekbones. He looked like he read Nietzsche and threatened teenagers with screwdrivers on the train.

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People stuck around for a bit, helped me put away the table, bring Olu his chairs back, bag up the recycling. They’re people who believe something good can still come out of this mess. They stick with what they know, even when it’s a losing hand. I’ll just open my hands; the international sign for money lost. I’m going to take some sucker’s money.” “They read the Poker Report,” I told him. A ten came on the flop, then another ten on fourth street. “That’s a tough hand to beat.” Andrew was out of the tournament but he had brought a bottle of Jack Daniels with him. Now I knew I was just another sucker in her eyes, something to destroy on her long march to the sea. I sat outside with Andy Miller and Tim, who had won $15,000 a week ago but lost $25 tonight beneath the Windy blitzkrieg.

The country’s already $11 trillion in debt—what’s $1 trillion more? Would we still play poker, or would we only play poker? Sometimes it’s a game for suckers, but the best players are optimistic realists. When he came back, the bottle was almost empty, it was 10 at night, and he was still wearing his sunglasses. I had thought Windy had invited me over because she liked the Poker Report and wanted to be friends.

People were knocking elbows, and when I got up to go to the bathroom three others had to get up just to let me by. I felt bad for the new players; even Tom, who by now I thought might actually be telling the truth. Then Steve wanted to play me and Andrew, and I was a little intimidated at first because everyone’s always saying what a good player Steve is. But the thing is, even with all their professional-seeming moves and attempts at highbrow conversation, we won that game too. They had with them a six-pack of red-and-white tall boys and a carpenter named Chris Cooney. Miller’s beard was grown out, so it was like his curly hair, circling his entire face, sharpening his nose and cheekbones. He looked like he read Nietzsche and threatened teenagers with screwdrivers on the train.

“There’s a flashlight behind the toilet if you need a light,” Steve told me. I remembered my first game of Peach Grove with Steve, Eli, Ben, Cooney, and Windy. In fact, that night was when my interesting year really got started. Though maybe, now that I think about it, I’ve only heard this from Steve. The end was dizzying: Andrew violently throwing down the last of his cards. We opened our tournament with a $5 buy-in, progressive blinds, winner take all. A woman in a bar might refer to him as devilish, or devilishly handsome, or wicked, depending on what she was into.

You almost want to yell something, like “Raise your arms! And you could see how people become desensitized to violence. If there was a loser for the night, it was Dollar Dan Weiss, a distant relative of Harry Houdini and one half of the fabled San Francisco band the Progressive Reading Series All-Star Minstrels. Which is a little scary, because Tono’s a known cheater. Ben, who’s never done a bad thing in his entire life, becomes someone different when Tono’s in town. When I walked in the door, he immediately offered to pay for my dinner if I’d go pick both of ours up at the grocer’s around the corner. By the time I returned with two pints of piping-hot white-bean-and-pork soup, Steve had his poker table, all red felt and busted legs, set up. The walls of the room are covered with the innards of old pinball machines, guitars hanging from a line in the window. Richard is a loose player, even with his sunglasses on. The fog was rolling in and the doors to the bars were closed.

Do not write that I called Sarah a bitch.” “The poker report never lies,” I said. The man’s arms are at his sides; the fist is coming toward him. The back of the fingers line up against the man’s cheekbone, the knuckles rolling into the jaw; a spray of spit flies from his mouth. And there was Sarah, only playing when the cards were perfect, smiling like a carnivore at a meat convention. First, there was some provocation, and then the larger country flew an armada of bombers across the border, and soon everything was burning. Still, I decided to go to Steve’s house in hopes that he was feeling generous, as friends sometimes do. I fled the poker game $25 poorer, sped home through the Mission, streets empty and flat.

When he thought he had a flush, he didn’t, and when we played high-low Isaac didn’t qualify. Before, it was like a secret, but now it’s a flashlight she’s shining in your eye. Jason Roberts, Tom Barbash, and Adam Krefman all brought beer. Weekly had just inexplicably dubbed “Mc Sweeney’s boyish publisher,” was also in attendance. In this regard, Steve and I speak the same language. It was the day before Rosh Hashanah and I was going to see Jenny Traig. My girlfriend before her would take my money when I won, so I was playing without incentive. Hours later, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the stains from the bathroom floor, chipping the grout from between the tiles, sick with the smell of bleach and industrial cleaners. Between hands we tattooed each other with blue India ink, one dot at a time.

And we all sat calmly laughing, unaware of our own cruelty, even as Sarah did to Isaac what a butcher does first to a plucked chicken. Since her wedding, a couple of weeks ago, Molly has carried her beauty differently. Like many publishers, he doesn’t know when to fold. We were going to have to keep our cards close to our chests. The moment I walked in the door, Steve asked for his change from the soup, which I was hoping to pocket, and for my buy-in. ” It was a look I know he’d given many times in his life. I wrote it all down in my small notebook, riding in the breeze, no-handed across the cracks in the road. I thought there was probably a law against writing and bicycling at night. I stuffed the little pad in the pocket of my down jacket. He took me as far as Whiz Burger, then turned around. I hadn’t thought my losses would be so quick and staggering. It’s almost three months now and I haven’t won a game of cards since we met. For no reason I thought about a story I heard this week, about an old man who left his wife for a much younger woman, and the incredible price he paid. The games weren’t for money but they were filled with the heavy air of potential violence.

trillion more? Would we still play poker, or would we only play poker? Sometimes it’s a game for suckers, but the best players are optimistic realists. When he came back, the bottle was almost empty, it was 10 at night, and he was still wearing his sunglasses. I had thought Windy had invited me over because she liked the Poker Report and wanted to be friends.

People were knocking elbows, and when I got up to go to the bathroom three others had to get up just to let me by. I felt bad for the new players; even Tom, who by now I thought might actually be telling the truth. Then Steve wanted to play me and Andrew, and I was a little intimidated at first because everyone’s always saying what a good player Steve is. But the thing is, even with all their professional-seeming moves and attempts at highbrow conversation, we won that game too. They had with them a six-pack of red-and-white tall boys and a carpenter named Chris Cooney. Miller’s beard was grown out, so it was like his curly hair, circling his entire face, sharpening his nose and cheekbones. He looked like he read Nietzsche and threatened teenagers with screwdrivers on the train.

“There’s a flashlight behind the toilet if you need a light,” Steve told me. I remembered my first game of Peach Grove with Steve, Eli, Ben, Cooney, and Windy. In fact, that night was when my interesting year really got started. Though maybe, now that I think about it, I’ve only heard this from Steve. The end was dizzying: Andrew violently throwing down the last of his cards. We opened our tournament with a buy-in, progressive blinds, winner take all. A woman in a bar might refer to him as devilish, or devilishly handsome, or wicked, depending on what she was into.

You almost want to yell something, like “Raise your arms! And you could see how people become desensitized to violence. If there was a loser for the night, it was Dollar Dan Weiss, a distant relative of Harry Houdini and one half of the fabled San Francisco band the Progressive Reading Series All-Star Minstrels. Which is a little scary, because Tono’s a known cheater. Ben, who’s never done a bad thing in his entire life, becomes someone different when Tono’s in town. When I walked in the door, he immediately offered to pay for my dinner if I’d go pick both of ours up at the grocer’s around the corner. By the time I returned with two pints of piping-hot white-bean-and-pork soup, Steve had his poker table, all red felt and busted legs, set up. The walls of the room are covered with the innards of old pinball machines, guitars hanging from a line in the window. Richard is a loose player, even with his sunglasses on. The fog was rolling in and the doors to the bars were closed.

Do not write that I called Sarah a bitch.” “The poker report never lies,” I said. The man’s arms are at his sides; the fist is coming toward him. The back of the fingers line up against the man’s cheekbone, the knuckles rolling into the jaw; a spray of spit flies from his mouth. And there was Sarah, only playing when the cards were perfect, smiling like a carnivore at a meat convention. First, there was some provocation, and then the larger country flew an armada of bombers across the border, and soon everything was burning. Still, I decided to go to Steve’s house in hopes that he was feeling generous, as friends sometimes do. I fled the poker game poorer, sped home through the Mission, streets empty and flat.

When he thought he had a flush, he didn’t, and when we played high-low Isaac didn’t qualify. Before, it was like a secret, but now it’s a flashlight she’s shining in your eye. Jason Roberts, Tom Barbash, and Adam Krefman all brought beer. Weekly had just inexplicably dubbed “Mc Sweeney’s boyish publisher,” was also in attendance. In this regard, Steve and I speak the same language. It was the day before Rosh Hashanah and I was going to see Jenny Traig. My girlfriend before her would take my money when I won, so I was playing without incentive. Hours later, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the stains from the bathroom floor, chipping the grout from between the tiles, sick with the smell of bleach and industrial cleaners. Between hands we tattooed each other with blue India ink, one dot at a time.

And we all sat calmly laughing, unaware of our own cruelty, even as Sarah did to Isaac what a butcher does first to a plucked chicken. Since her wedding, a couple of weeks ago, Molly has carried her beauty differently. Like many publishers, he doesn’t know when to fold. We were going to have to keep our cards close to our chests. The moment I walked in the door, Steve asked for his change from the soup, which I was hoping to pocket, and for my buy-in. ” It was a look I know he’d given many times in his life. I wrote it all down in my small notebook, riding in the breeze, no-handed across the cracks in the road. I thought there was probably a law against writing and bicycling at night. I stuffed the little pad in the pocket of my down jacket. He took me as far as Whiz Burger, then turned around. I hadn’t thought my losses would be so quick and staggering. It’s almost three months now and I haven’t won a game of cards since we met. For no reason I thought about a story I heard this week, about an old man who left his wife for a much younger woman, and the incredible price he paid. The games weren’t for money but they were filled with the heavy air of potential violence.

Some of the most serious mistakes in the history of America were made by me.” It was a shocking thing for him to say. Adam Krefman had stolen my folding chairs, so I borrowed chairs from Olu, my downstairs neighbor. We started out with Texas Hold ‘Em, which would rule the table for most of the night. Steve says, to all who will listen, that Andrew is the worst euchre player of everyone he’s ever played. I say this not to make Andrew look bad but, rather, to make Steve and the others look jealous.

At the beginning of the debate, Mc Cain admitted it was mostly his fault. “It’s market fundamentalism, a misplaced, uninformed belief that the market always corrects itself. Those are just the names of the games, but it’s the people that matter. No more fistfuls of dirty bills with drugs still on them, just a clean check every two weeks like clockwork. Geri Doran and Steve Elliott were talking about poetry.

All my career, I’ve worked to remove oversight from giant corporations. They wore low-cut shirts and giggled a lot, exploiting stereotypes and pretending like they didn’t know how to play. I was getting my shit together, and Steve gave me a look that said “People with their shit together don’t come to poker night empty-handed.” “Don’t get my first check till next week,” I shrugged. Tom was playing the Indigo Girls or something on the radio until we complained.

The five of hearts came on the turn, and then the five of diamonds on the river. Tom laid down one last large bet, I matched it, and then we showed. It had now been four straight hands and I’d stayed in till the end on every one only to lose. “Slow it down.” Eli was sitting next to my right, his old voice like gravel. The chips on the table weren’t really mine, so I felt like I was playing without consequences. Everyone knows Andrew and I should have won that game. He asked if I had gotten super with guacamole and sour cream. He shook his head, taking two plates from the shelf. He had been done wrong and the game hadn’t even started.

When you’re playing with nothing to lose, I figured, the only thing you can do is win. At the end, we were all “in the barn,” as it’s called, and then I got a useless hand, and Jeff called diamonds (again), and Eric, coincidentally, had, yet again, all diamonds, as I recall, and somehow they won, and no one could question anything because Eric, rather strategically, started talking about his 2-week-old baby, how little sleep he’s gotten, and the cheating incident was temporarily forgotten. It was just the two of us, but already things had reached the tipping point.

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A few more hands went by, with Otis taking one, Jason taking one, Josh scoring a couple of full houses in a row, and me losing every time. Then we smoked cigarettes on the fire escape and talked about the view. Things were going to have to change on a massive scale. We were on a sunken futon, waiting on the remaining players, watching a Larry David rerun. He was followed by Ben and Ben’s little brother Andrew, who is in town for his 21st birthday.

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