Money Hater

We arrived in Los Angeles on a Tuesday evening, but would not be able to move into our house until the following Monday at the earliest.  So, we were homeless for a week.  Fortunately we have a friend here who owns a home and is very generous with his couch and spare bedroom.  We stayed with him for a few nights and then spent a few nights at Commerce.  Our friend (we refer to him as The GoldenBoy for reasons that I may or may not elaborate on in the future) insisted that we were welcome to stay with him as long as we liked,  but my father once told me that “fish and houseguests both stink after 3 days”, so we decided to give the GoldenBoy his space and get out of there.

While at Commerce I played with a gentleman who I had never seen before.  He quickly made an impression on me by both (a) adding a new and exciting twist to dealer beratings and (b) indirectly accusing me of stealing.

I get into a pot where I find myself raised on the turn.  I call this turn raise and then fold to a river bet.   Once I fold the river and the dealer is about to push the pot to the winner, Angry Armenian starts in on the dealer.

“Dealer, he (pointing at me) was one chip short when he called the raise!!!  Why don’t you pay attention to the game!!!  Now count the pot.  Count it dealer and pay attention!!!”  (I should point out that it seemed that this guy had no problem with me.  He just wanted to rip the dealer.)

I looked at him and said, in a slightly frustrated tone, “Why didn’t you say something when the chips were in front of me and easily counted?”  He ignored me, for he was fixed on this dealer that he caught in his elaborate little trap.

It was clear that Angry Armenian was stewing and looking for something other than “dealer you kill me” to bitch about.   Of course his hatred of the dealer was spawned because this dealer indeed kill him, but he showed uncanny discipline by remaining silent until the only way to verify my alleged error was to make the dealer tediously count the pot.  This would serve two purposes.  First, it would humiliate the dealer in front of all the players.  This is always good.  Second, it would allow Angry Armenian extra time to berate the dealer and make disparaging remarks to the other players about her.  Most hot-blooded little gambooolers do not have such control.  They typically will immediately seize any opportunity to berate the dealers .  Not this guy.  He was cold and calculating.  He knew what he was doing.

Angry Armenian had a very specific pattern of arm motions when he was berating the dealers.  When he first decided he was going to get after a dealer, he would make a chopping motion with his hand, with emphasis always coming on the downstroke.

Once he was really lathered up, he would then turn his hand palm up with his fingers pointed at the dealer.  (Imagine making the “walk like an egyptian” motion, but with your palm up and your arm extending out in front of you instead of to the side.)  Every time he would emphasize a point, he would extend his arm a bit.  Back and forth,  back and forth, in a halting, hostile fashion.

This phase of the rebuking would continue until he was wide open and near the zenith of his berating.  At this point he would have his arm at chin level, fully extended toward the dealer with the palm up.  He would typically no longer be looking at the dealer, but rather at another player at the table who he felt was sympathetic to his cause.  He would be explaining why this dealer is so awful with a passion that is usually reserved for Sunday sermons.

I got to experience all of this while the dealer sheepishly counted the pot, which, in spite of Angry Armenian’s best laid plans and assertions to the contrary, happened to have the correct amount of chips in it.

My brother and his wife welcomed their first child, Nathan Robert, into the world on Thursday, September 18th.  I am now an uncle.  In fact, I am now THAT uncle.  You know, the one that no one really wants to talk about because there isn’t much that can be said that won’t raise the eyebrows of everyone within earshot.  Everyone has an uncle like that.  The one that isn’t married and doesn’t have a job and gambles too much.  I never though I’d be that guy, but here I am.

The time has come to leave Minnesota. I spent 14 years here and for the most part loved it, but a change is needed. There is simply too much opportunity in California to pass up, not to mention the fact that the last time Pasadena saw a Minnesota-like February was during the last ice age.

I may be back in a year. Who knows.