Tommy Angelo

If life is like a giant river, deep and wide and long and moving, then I don’t want to ride it on a jet ski. That’d be too noisy, and too fast. And I don’t want a cruise ship with extra little boats hanging from it in case something goes wrong. And I don’t want a submarine to lurk around in. And I don’t want a barge to haul tons of crap around with. If life is a river, just give me a raft, and that will do fine. On a raft, I’ll cruise at whatever speed the river wants me to, and whichever way I look, I’ll see beyond my vessel.

Acting last is like taking a drink of water. We don’t have to understand why it’s good for us to know that it is. And the benefits are unaffected by our understanding of them.

(From “Elements of Poker”)

Last week something died. It happened right across the street and I took pictures. One way of thinking of what happened is that one organism of one species was dismantled by several organisms of another, like what hyenas do to a gazelle and what slugs do to a lettuce plant. Another way to think of it is that somebody took out a tree. Either way, the way I think of it is that death happens, and it’s always just fine, no matter who does it, who it happens to, or why.

The first three pictures were taken from my balcony, 30 feet up. The last one is of ground zero.

A few hours before this picture was taken, the tall tree on the left looked a lot like the one on the right. (It’s a little tricky to see what’s going on here because behind the tree on the left (the one being cut down) is a third redwood tree that has had the top half cut off.)

Some fun facts about Coast Redwoods. In a Coast Redwood forest, it’s pretty much all redwood trees. They “compete” for sunlight by growing really tall. The tallest ones are 380 feet. And sometimes the lowest branches are way high. When they stand alone in a city, like the two trees in these pictures, there’s plenty of sun for everyone, so they top out at around 170 feet no matter how old or thick they get, and they have branches all the way up the trunk, giving them a Christmas tree look.

The next picture was taken right after the top came down. The guy tied the top part of the tree to his gondola, then he buzzed part way through the tree with his chainsaw, and he used the crane itself to tug on the tree until the top part split away and fell, but not to the ground. It remained suspended by the rope (as it is in this picture), and then it was lowered carefully to the ground.

If a tree falls in the neighborhood, does it make a sound? (Answer: yes.)

Next came the making of a stump.

I’m a treehugger. And a people hugger. Heck I’d be a slughugger if they had arms and weren’t slathered in slime. Years ago I would have thought there was “something wrong” with the scenes you just saw. Now I don’t see it that way. Now I see every death of every kind as the most inevitable occurrence there can be, and each death serves as a happy reminder as to why I’d best get my hugs in now.

This is an image I made in photoshop that I was going to put inside the back cover of my book and then decided not to.

When I play no-limit hold’em, sometimes I’m a minimum wager wagerer. And I don’t mean minimum wager wagerer as in “one who tries to bet the smallest amount that will get them to fold if they have nothing,” such as when the flop is A-A-6 rainbow and a bluffer bets half the pot or thereabouts. I’m talking here about minimum wager as in the absolute lowest legal limit. Sometimes I do it because I think it’s the best play and sometimes I do it because I’m a silly boy.

Last week I made three minimum wagers in one night, at The Venetian. The first two were about 20 minutes apart in a $2-5 blinds game.

Four players limped, including the small blind, and I checked in the big blind. The pot was $25. The flop was a scattered rainbow. I flopped no pair and no draw. The small blind lifted his hand to check, and I put my thunb on the trigger. As soon as his fingers hit the felt, I frisbeed a $5 chip from my stack. It landed without a bounce, just across the betting line. The script from this point typically takes one of two lines. If anyone raises, I’m out. If more than one person calls, I scrutinize them, and usually I come to the conclusion that they won’t call a big bet on the turn, because history has shown that usually they won’t. Sometimes I’ll get a feeling that a caller is sandbagging with a hand that can stand a big turn bet, such as an overpair or a set or top-pair-top-kicker, but that’s really rare, because 1) they usually don’t have a hand that good, and 2) if they do, they usually can’t stand to just call a one-chip flop bet. It’s an awkward spot for them, but not for me, because I’ve often been down this road less traveled.

Two players called the $5 bet and the small blind folded. So now the pot was $40, and I would be first to act on the turn. As soon as the turn card hit the table, I bet $50, using two backspun green chips. I mucked and tipped in one motion, a few milliseconds after the second guy folded.

So now I was well on my way to establishing my preferred image, which is WET (weird-tight).

One round and two hands later, I was on the button with pocket fives. Several players limped, I called, the small blind called, and the big blind checked. The pot was $30. The flop was K-T-5 twotone. The small blind bet $20, and everyone folded to me. We both had about $1,000. I thought he was more likely to have a draw than a pair/two-pair/set, but I wasn’t sure enough either way to make any big calls or big laydowns based on this inkling.

I made it $60. He called, and based on the way that he didn’t fold and didn’t raise, I became more sure that he was on a draw, but not super sure. The turn paired the king. I didn’t think this was the kind of player who would call a half-pot-or-bigger bet here with a draw (possibly drawing dead), and I didn’t think he’d be able to contain himself if he had three kings, so when he checked the turn, I was ready. I bet $5 into the $150 pot. There were a couple snickers from the other end of the table, which is a common play from the kibitzers on a hand like this. The small blind took a little while here, I think he was tempted to raise, but then he just called the $5. The river was an offsuit ace. That card made a straight if he had QJ, and it made top pair if he had the nut flush draw, and when he checked, I didn’t get any kind of read on whether he had anything or not, so I went ahead and slung a $100 chip out there in case he did. He folded right away.

Soon after that I moved to a $5-10 blinds game. I bought in for the minimum $400. There was no maximum buy-in. Two rounds later, there was one guy whose stack had gone from $6,000 to $2,000 while I watched. He was frustrated and tilty. During his downswing, which spanned five flops, he had shown two hands to his neighbor before folding while saying, “So you think I’m running good?” This made me think he actually had run good to get up to $6,000, and his neighbor must have said something like “You’re running good.”

On my next button, I made my stack $2,000. I start many tables this way, buying in small and then adding on later. When I have the small stack, I play very few hands, and when I have the tall stack, I play a few extra pots against certain players. I don’t know what sort of image this rates to generate. What would you think?

The tilty guy opened for $40 UTG. Folded to me on the button. I had 86o. I called and both blinds folded. Headsup. We both had $2,000. This was the first hand of the session that I called preflop. (I had reraised preflop a couple times when my stack was $400, and everyone folded.)

The flop was 9-7-5 with two hearts, giving me the okeydokes. My opponent bet $100 into the $95 pot. I made it $300. Right away he said “Call” destitutely, and then he put two $100 bills in. Would he call like that with just two overcards? I didn’t think so. Would he just call with an overpair? I didn’t think so. So I had to put him on a flush draw. I was ready to bail if a heart came and he acted weak and bet strong. The turn was an offsuit deuce. He checked. I bet $700. “Call,” he said right away. Then he put the money out. The river was an offsuit three. The instant it hit the table, he pulled his cards up off the table so that his neighbor could see them and said, “Is this what you call running good?” I didn’t think he had even ace-high. If I had to guess his exact cards I would say jack-ten of hearts. He checked. I bet $10.

On June 19, I woke up in Ohio and I went to bed in California. Meanwhile, there were delays. My flight from Cleveland to Houston was a little late getting off the ground, which gave me only 20 minutes or so to walk from gate E14 to gate C32 at the Houston airport, a distance of eight restrooms and two Starbucks. When I got to gate C32, they were still boarding. I stood in line. I scuffled forward with my linemates. I handed my boarding pass to the attendant. The machine rejected my pass. “Where do you think you are going?” she asked. There have been many answers to this question over the years. Now I understand that there was, is, and forever shall be only one answer. “I am already there.” But I didn’t think that was the best answer in this situation, so I said, “San Francisco.” The attendant said, “Well this plane is going to New York. The gate for your flight has been changed. Your flight is departing from Gate 42. Walk back to the intersection and turn right.” She pointed toward a distant Starbucks.

I started walking like a trotting horse struggling to contain a gallop. Then I remembered. It’s all about just remembering. I remembered that nothing matters, as does everything. I remembered that if I miss my flight, I will retain total control over my own disappointment. I remembered that I have been training myself and taming myself for five years so that the thought of and the act of spending the night in an airport not only doesn’t hurt, but is actually perceived as and cashed in as an opportunity for even more training and more taming. Suddenly, I was walking calmly to gate 42, and I was smiling at people and myself, because I was free. There was nothing to fear at gate 42. So I was naturally experiencing the journey, because there was simply nothing else to do.

As I approached gate 42, I saw a standing crowd, so I knew my plane had not left yet. Years ago, I would have been walking quickly and nervously to gate 42, and upon seeing the crowd, I would have felt a huge sensation of relief. This time, seeing that I had not missed my flight gave me a very small tinge of relief, which I have come to understand to mean that I would have felt an equally small amount of anxiety had there been no crowd. And that’s what this is all about, this mindfulness thing. It’s about little or no anxiety or unhappiness about anything, even major physical damage or illness.

The woman with the microphone told us that the flight crew wasn’t here yet. The crew would be leaving nearby Hobby Airport soon and they’d be here in an hour or two. The crowd produced a collective groan. And now I had a fresh excuse to feel frustrated and disappointed. Which meant I had a new opportunity to put my training into practice. And I did. I stood tall, and I breathed in with full awareness that I was breathing in, and when I breathed out, I sent compassionate waves of understanding and mending to my crowd mates. It’s okay. It’ll be all right. We’ll get where we are going eventually. Let’s just relax together and enjoy the ride as best we can.

When I moved to California in 1997, my bankroll was about $100,000. That was the barrier between floating freely on the breeze, and crash landing in the dank underworld of employeedom. Of this $100,000, about $40,000 of it was in the form of actual money. About $20,000 of it was money that credit card companies said they would lend me. About $10,000 was how much I thought I could borrow from my brothers if I was about to move onto a park bench. And the rest of my bankroll was tied up in my rather fine piano. (I didn’t know if there were park bench dwellings in the area that could accommodate my piano, so I was uncertain which of those last two pieces of my bankroll would be drawn on first.)

Given that I was going to have easy access to 24-hour-365-days-per-year mid and high stake poker games for the first time in my life, and given that I tended to sometimes play too long at stakes that I couldn’t really afford, my bankroll was in jeopardy from the instant I disembarked at San Francisco airport with my one way ticket to pokerdise. So, I devised some backup plans, some ways that I might generate income without actually having to get a jjj…, a jjahhh… you know, the J-word.

One of them was to give music lessons. I knew I would be meeting hundreds and hundreds of new people, many of them over and over, in the most intimate setting there is for clothed people: a poker table. To break the ice, and advertise, and maybe even build a little client base just for fun, before I even needed to, I had a custom hat made that I wore to the poker games now and then.

Five years later, I had not taken on music students, and it had been several years since I wore the hat. I was doing some packing, preparing to move. I was rummaging through dark corners of closets and ancient boxes with the excitement of an archaelogist — one never knows what one might find, and when — and I came across the Ask-me-about-music-lessons hat. I put it on my head, for no reason. A short while later, I headed out to the casino to play poker.

I was sitting there at the poker table, just sitting there, just playing, and I noticed a fellow looking at me with a frequency and intensity that told me there was something about me on his mind. I soon learned that the thing on his mind was not so much about me as it was above me. It was my hat. He looked at me with a cautious smile, and he said, “Okay. I’ll bite. Go ahead and tell me about music lessons.”

Instantly I remembered the text on my hat, and I replied, “I think they’re a really good idea.”

I was in the big blind in the $10-10-20 game. The player under-the-gun opened the pot for the minimum, $40. He had about $7,000. Everyone folded to the button, who called the $40. He had about $6,000. The small blind folded. It was my turn. My stack was $5,000, and my hand was Q-9 suited. If I wanted to see the flop, it would cost me $20. (Click here for an explanation of the Bay Area’s three blind structure for no-limit.)

Many times in this situation, I have folded. And many times in this situation, I have called. And sometimes in this situation, I have raised.

This time, I folded. Why? I have no idea. Just as I wouldn’t know why if I had called.

What I did know is that whichever option I chose would remain forever unquestioned. Why do I play one note on the piano instead of any other? What is most beneficial to me? What is most enjoyable? To question the notes, or just play them?

The flop came J-10-8 rainbow. My Q-9 lay in the muck, so I didn’t check, and I didn’t bet. The UTG player bet $60 into the $110 pot. The button made it $200. The UTG player raised again, the button raised again, and even though I would have flopped the nuts, I didn’t regretfully imagine myself putting lots of +EV chips into this pot, as the UTG raised the rest of his stack, and the button called.

Both players turned over their cards. The UTG player had pocket jacks. He flopped top set. The button showed 9-7. He flopped a straight. I didn’t see any way that this hand would be settled soon, and I did think I would be able to figure out what happened, so I didn’t resist my urge to go fill my coffee cup.

When I returned to the table, the dealer was shuffling. That was fast, I thought, and my poker sleuther told me the reason, which a glance around the table confirmed. The player who had flopped top set had a $7,000 stack, and the player who had flopped a straight had $6,000, which meant that the turn and river must have been a queen and a nine, putting a queen-high straight on board, making it a split pot. The player who had JJ was shaking his head in gratefulness. The player who had 9-7 was shaking his head in disgust. The chit chat revealed that the 9-7 player now had some tiltiness fluttering around inside, just below the surface.

There but for the grace of folding go I, I thought.

This morning there was food in my mouth. I was chewing it up and I knew so. Then I started thinking about something else. Blogging. What might I write about today at my new play place? I put some more food in my mouth, which distracted me away from thinking about writing, what with all the crunching (it was a highly milk-resistant strain of cereal) and the various flavors and textures (I had added some dried cranberries, some cinnamon, and some pine nuts). Then I remembered what a friend and experienced blogger had told me about what makes a good blog good. She said to write with authenticity about the goings on in my life. Okay then, today I’ll do that. This morning there was food in my mouth. Then there wasn’t, then there was, then there wasn’t, then there was, then there wasn’t, and then, all of a sudden, I had something to write about.

So far this year I’ve been playing almost entirely no-limit hold’em almost entirely at Lucky Chances Casino, near San Francisco. This area of the country lays claim to lots of things that have never existed anywhere else, such as The Golden Gate Bridge, Jerry Garcia, and the triple blind structure in their no-limit poker games. I intend to write blog posts about no-limit hands I’ve played or watched, so in this post I am going to describe the blind structure for future reference.

The Bay Area’s Three-Blind Structure

The three-blind structure has a small blind and a big blind, posted by the two players left of the button, just like every other hold’em game. And it has an additional small blind that is posted by the player on the button. The minimum opening bet is the sum of the blinds. (This means there are no free plays from the big blind.)

Here are the four main no-limit blind structures you’ll find today in the Bay Area:

$1-1-2, minimum opening bet is $4

$2-3-5, minimum opening bet is $10

$5-5-10, minimum opening bet is $20

$10-10-20, minimum opening bet is $40

The Kill

Any player can put out a “kill” before the cards are dealt. The amount of the kill is double the big blind. When a pot is killed, the minimum opening bet doubles. For example, in a $1-1-2 game, the kill amount is $4, and if a pot is killed, the minimum opening bet is $8.

The player who posted the kill is last to act before the flop, meaning the action skips over him and comes back to him. It used to be that kills were allowed from all seats at all casinos. Now there are some casinos that do not allow the button to post a kill.

Some casinos allow two kills. For example, in a $2-3-5 blinds game, one player could post a $10 kill, and another player could post a $20 kill. When that happens, the minimum opening bet is $40, and before the flop, the $10 kill is next to last to act, and the $20 kill is last to act, no matter what their actual seats are.

Let’s say the game in nine-handed, and there is one kill out, posted by the player in the cutoff seat. The player under-the-gun opens for the minimum, and the next player raises. The next three players fold. The action now skips over the cutoff, and the button is next to act. Let’s say the button folds, the small blind fold, and the big blind calls. Now it’s the cutoff’s turn, and after that, the action goes back to the original order of things for the second round of preflop action, which means the action does not go to the player left of the cutoff, which would be the big blind, but rather, it goes to the opener. Yes it’s a little bit complicated. But then, so was Jerry.

How and Why?

How did it get this way, and why has it stayed this way?

I don’t know how the three-blind structure came to be. But I do know when. A really long time ago. Long before California legalized hold’em in 1987. I do know why it has survived the last 20 years. I’ll write that up down the road.