Tales From Motor City Detroit Poker Room
Posted by lotgrinder
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lotgrinder
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Tales From Motor City Detroit Poker Room
Tales From Motor City Detroit Poker Room
I was barreling down I-75 Southbound in Detroit, Michigan and on my way
to the "Beaver Friendly Community" known as Powerhouse Gym.
This gym is located in the downriver area where I grew up and infested
with a bunch of juiced up muscle heads getting their grunt on. Every now
and then there's some hot young ass to stare at. But, this gym is
mainly for male power lifters or people too cheap to pay whatever it
costs to join an upscale fitness center. While I was driving down the freeway I looked up at a billboard that
said, "Live Like A Champion. Go Vegan." I immediately thought, "fukk
that hippy $hit. I don't need to go vegan. I am already a champion. I
was born a champion."
We all were as a matter of fact.
Think about it.
We were all the sperm that won the most important race of our life.
The race from our father's nut sack to our Mother's egg.
So, don't ever let anyone call you a loser.
Because when it was all on the line, when it was a matter of life or
death, you found a way to dig down deep and win the race that brought
you the gift of life.
Next time you're feeling down and out, remember you defeated 20-250 million other sperm depending on who you ask.
No one can take that away from you.
Anyway, I arrive at "The Beaver Friendly Community" and this overweight
mentally challenged kid sporting a red bandana that I frequently
converse with comes up to me and says, "Yo man. I just wanted to say
goodbye. You won't see me for a few months. I'm tired of this place. I'm
going to go to Planet Fitness. Get lean and mean for the summer. Get me
some pussy."
I'm like, "Hell yeah bro. If you're looking to get lean Planet Fitness
will be better for you. Plus, they'll be more girls there and you can
work on getting that pussy hoss."
"Fukk yeah. That's what I'm talking about," he replies. "I'm tired of
lifting for power and being surrounded by all these meatheads. I'm doing
it all wrong. I gotta lose weight first if I want bitches. They don't
care about power."
I continued to egg him on, "Bro. You need to go complete cut down. Lean
and mean look. Then take some six pack pictures for your Facebook. You
can do it. I see you in here all the time. Just keep putting the work
in."
"Fukk yeah man. I can't wait," he says as he gives me a fist bump then
goes back to the chest machine he was using to grip it and rip it with
terrible form. I believe this is the mentality most of the men have at
Powerhouse gym. I would have to say the community is anything but,
"Beaver Friendly."
So, shortly after that conversation I'm grinding on the treadmill,
listening to Slick Idiot's "Excess" and watching this guy in a wheel
chair work out his chest, arms, and shoulders for over a hour. Whenever I
see something like that, then think about all the deadbeats at home
doing nothing with their life, it instantly amps me up and I've just
gotta come home and hammer on the keyboard for you all.
That man in a wheelchair can't move his legs.
But, he's in the gym grinding every day.
No excuses.
What are you doing with your life?
So, I finish the workout, then it's home for a quick shower, and I'm off
to Motor City Casino for a night at the $2/$5 No Limit Hold Em table.
As always, whenever I walk into the casino I am in a good mood. I am one
of the few in this world that gets to make a living at a game others
can only play for recreation.
Most people whose dreams of ever playing any sport or game for a living have been shattered.
They've had to be traded in.
My dreams are still alive.
I make my own hours. I'm my own boss. I get as much overtime as I want. I
never have to worry about a lay off and I can get a raise any time I
want as long as I put the work in.
I've cleared $14,000.00 doing what I love and I'm not even two months into 2014.
I'm still not satisfied, though because the truth is I can be better.
I lost three days at the poker table because I took MDMA on my birthday.
I lost another day at the poker table because I tried marijuana in "Wax" format.
I lost another two days because I sipped on too much Patron.
As poker players we need to race to a $100,000.00 bankroll and drinking,
drugs, parties, or hanging out with people that influence you to do all
those things that keep you connected to failure.
I consider failure to be not reaching your full potential.
Sure, there's nothing wrong with recreational drug use or drinking.
But, there's not much right with it either.
I know I can grind harder and I'm going to.
Whatever you're grinding for, striving for, I hope you grind harder to, don't forget about all those goals you set for 2014.
Lets get it.
So, I'm walking into the poker room and I see my boy Chuck off to the
side on the cell phone. Now, this is the only I ever met in a poker room
that sports a flat bill baseball cap with a sticker on it who I can
honestly say I like.
Hard not to when he tells me stories like these..
I guess Chuck has been super active in supporting both of his kids
sports teams, school activities, field trips, etc, and he had just got a
call from a school authority when I was walking in. The lady informed
him that he'd no longer be able to attend field trips, participate in
school activities, or help out with any of the sports teams his kids
were on. She then proceeded to read off a long list of his non-violent
criminal activity. All of the charges+convictions were over ten years
old.
After the lady went on too long reading over the background check they
must have done on him Chuck stopped her and said, "You know what? You
need to slow down bitch. What if I brought out a laundry list of all the
dicks you've sucked in your life and scolded you with it? How would you
feel? We've all got a past, you know. So, why don't you chill out?"
"How did she take that?" I asked.
"You know what Justin. The bitch actually apologized. I must have talked some sense into her, ya know?" He replied.
"Good for her," I said.
Still felt bad for my boy, though because I know he does a lot for his
kids. He talks about them all the time at the poker table. One of the
few guys that genuinely seems to be happily married. I don't know what's
more awesome about this guy, though. The fact that he said that to the
school authority or the fact that he paid a message therapist over $200
for a 90 minute massage in the poker room or the fact I've actually seen
this guy smoke wax out of what looks to be an e-cig at the poker table.
Speaking of e-cigs...
What do you do in a hand like this?
$2/$5 NLHE
Your stack is at $1,000.
Villian 1 is an Asian wearing Beats By Dre headphones in a hoodie lip singing some $hit rap song. He has over $1,000.
Villian 2 is a middle aged greaseball with what looks to be a half
gallon of motor oil dumped into his slicked back hair. He has on a nice
dress shirt and is puffing on an e-cig. He also has well over $1,000.
Villain 3 is a $hit reg. One of those guys that believes, "It's all
luck." He's recently got his pocket aces cracked and his $1500 stack is
now down to around $700.
We are on the dealer button with AhJh and there's been 6 limp ins for $5. We jack the price of poker up to $45 to go.
The tilting $hit reg from UTG calls quickly. Greaseball heems and haws,
then calls. Asian with the Beats By Dre then says, "pot odds" and calls.
Flop is 6h 4h 4c.
This is a flop that missed everyone most likely.
It checks to us on the button and we bet $125 into the $180 or so pot.
Turn is a Kd which SMASHES our perceived raising range as all villains may be putting us on Ace/King.
It checks to us again here.
Should we bet or should we take the free card?
A little later after this hand the poker table gets onto talking about good cops/bad cops.
One man tells a story about a drug addicted girl holed with whatever
gang banging loser had enough drugs to support her nasty habit. As her
and her man are doing what they do best (getting high) shots ring out
from downstairs at the house. Her man runs out from the bedroom and is
sprayed with bullets as he's coming down the stairs. While he's taking
the shots, he manages to fire off some of his own that land and the last
man standing limps out the house bleeding profusely and stumbles to his
car. That man dies driving to the hospital.
Before two cops show up on the scene, the girl creeps out of the bedroom
to see the carnage of a drug deal gone wrong and flees the house. When
the cops get there it looks as though it's a wet dream. A pile of drugs
and stacks of $100 bills up on the counter. The dead bodies and blood
all around tell them there's no way this is a set up to see if they'll
steal the drugs or money.
The two cops decide to steal all the cash and report only the mass amount of drugs.
For a few days, they think they've gotten away with it.
Then the girl comes down to the police station to report what she
witnessed and is questioned about what she saw while fleeing the drug
house. This is when the police learn about the large sum of money on the
counter and start to investigate where it went. Ultimately, two cops
are busted for corruption and this is just one of the stories I know
about bad cops.
The next man's story is dark. But, an uplifting sort of dark like the book "Solipsist" written by Henry Rollins.
Here's a passage from it...
“Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel.
This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is
making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind.
Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you
are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with
concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a
life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine
stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and
you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure.
Such life saving power when you smile. You will never know how you have
cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me
to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have.”
This man's story is about a sixteen year old who he said was his best
friend. It happened well over twenty years ago when you had to look for
prostitutes in the classified section of the newspaper. This sixteen
year old youth was shy, frail, and had a face full of acme. While all of
his friends were losing their virginity, he was trapped at home playing
video games. Feeling that he just needed to put some points on the
board in order to get some things going, this kid picked up a newspaper
and dialed a prostitute.
As instructed, the youth took his parent's car and drove to a run down
motel where he was supposed to wait in a room for the girl to show up.
When the youth arrived, he did as he was told and went to the room where
the girl was supposed to be waiting. As he approached, he saw the light
was on and the door was open. So, he went inside, closed the door, and
waited nervously for the prostitute to arrive.
Well, when that door opened, it was no prostitute. It was an undercover
detective and the youth had trapped himself right into a police sting
that was meant to crack down on Johns seeking prostitutes via adds in
the newspaper. The detective had a long talk with the youth, told the
kid that he should start hitting the gym, that his acme would eventually
go away, and eventually he'd find a girl that liked him for him and he
would never have to pay for sex. The detective then told the kid to,
"Get the hell out of here and never come back."
A call was never placed to the youth's parents.
So, remember...
As easy as it is to hate police.
There's good cops. There's bad cops.
I wish I knew who that detective was because I'd surely like to buy him a beer.
That's all for now.
Over and out,
-LG
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