Sick of Poker

I’m pretty sick, undoubtedly due to torrential rain being poured onto my bare head while participating in the downtown protest/riot, and partially due to lack of sleep associated with magnificent weekend Bashing, the kind I don’t regret. The worst part of it all, without any inkling of suspicion, is the fact that I’ll be absent from another Wednesday night at the Echo Park Poker Tour.
My past glories at Lance’s venue feels centuries behind, like a faded memory that grasps to be acknowledged clearly once last time.
And through the viable illness excuse, as I’ve frequently realized, majority public opinion normally remains on the side of hoping your condition improves. And then there’s Lance, who decides to go Isaiah Washington on me for bailing out yet again.
Non-compliance can sometimes lead to tasteless derogatory comments thrown my way. At least Lance can take comfort knowing that I won’t be taking his hard earned cash tonight.

The flashbacks have been never-ending this evening, with fondness and innate warmth for the tournament replaying in my head. For instance, I recall the night when Roxie made her debut at The Tour, intimidating everyone with her quick calls and the violent bloodshed that followed.
She even got to face off against Poker Guy, striking fear in his conventionally steady demeanor. She was dubbed “The Assassin” by Lance, who was smart enough to dump his cards whenever Roxie chose to play. Out of the 17 players that night, she took out 7. I miss Poker Guy, whose wisdom at reading faces, tells, and cards only make me a better player through experiencing his expertise.
He finds resourceful ways to get under a player’s skin. It never bothers me since I’m immune to his distinguished tactics, the kind that throw amateurs into rounds of bundled inner questioning.
I yearn for the spiteful look Catrina gives me while I’m playfully trying to cheat and see her cards.
I also really long for the sight of Patches, the greatest Lion I’ve ever come to know.
I like the fact Patches never complains or roars. And then there’s Joel, probably the steadiest player of the usual crowd, always making a run for the money and often leaving with at least $50, if not more. He repeatedly makes accurately valuable decisions.
He once got cashed out by Lance and hit pay dirt upstairs with some loose honey. And who can forget Rollo, a man of past shadiness that has enlightened me as to his way, who recently became the object of affection for one of my friends. Maybe she’ll win him, and I’m betting on it.
Aside from missing the poker clan, I miss getting crappy cards when I’m chip leader.
I miss seeing the straights that beat the strong two pair.
Or freakish stuff like the four aces that led to R.J. winning a tournament, which baffled just about everyone.
I guess I really don’t miss the freewheeling R.J., who certainly has it in for me after the atrocious ways I’ve managed to shatter his tournament dreams on numerous occasions. He’s had his wins, but never with my involvement.
R.J. isn’t a huge threat to me, but I’m always afraid when facing off against Skip, and because of his sick track record of luck I’ve generally taken the right route of folding unless I have the nuts.
His moves can be devastating, much like his prosperous closing techniques impulsively exploited on inebriated females. And I definitely miss the arbitrary simpletons filled with foolish hope that come to play only to throw their money away.
The Echo Park Poker Tour always lives up to expectation, sometimes exceeds it, garnering the freshest talent around town, surely there to fill my wallet with indispensable blood monies. Even Wayne has plundered his fair share of booty.
And here I am, droopy eyed with glossy redness, fostering the dreariest of moods with intermittent throat pains and coughing, my only hope coming in the form of an endless “Moonlighting” marathon and Robitussin DM (which hopefully loads me up right). Bruce Willis rules.