Poker Aggravations 101

In an earlier issue, Warren Karp wrote about the one thing in poker that upsets him the most: being slow-rolled.

Well, yes, that's pretty bad, annoying enough to put anyone on tilt, even Mother Teresa or Mr. Rogers. But is that all that bothers Warren? Is the man on Prozac or something? Hell, I can think of 100 things in poker that drive me crazy. But, as I've pointed out before, I don't get paid by the word, so let's just pick a few at random to show how easily I get upset.

Call me mister, please: Following World War II, there was a Broadway musical (later a movie) called Call Me Mister. The title derived from the premise that millions of newly discharged GI's wanted to be called "mister" because they were weary of being addressed as "private" or "corporal." Well, there's a name that an occasional Asian player might use in referring to me, and it's one that annoys me even more: "Papa."

Yes, yes, I know that in the Asian culture, "papa" is a common term with no negative connotation. In fact, it's used respectfully and even affectionately. Well, be that as it may, whether it's used jocularly or respectfully, it still nettles me when I hear it. First of all, "papa" labels me as ancient. It calls to mind an image of a frail, stooped-over, 90-year-old patriarch hobbling along in some mud hut village. Second, it carries the suggestion that I'm that player's father. Well, perhaps I am, from some long-forgotten liaison, but before you claim a blood relationship, you'd better supply some DNA substantiation, pal.

There's a joke that goes: Did you hear about the new Mexican/soul food restaurant? It's called, nacho mama. Well, I'm nacho papa, kid, so find something else to call me, like "sir," or "pal," or "chief." Or just call me mister.

Don't bug the writer: I do tournament write-up reports for several casinos. The aggravations are too numerous to list in one column. First, I stay up all night, night after night, recording the action at the final table. This is especially heinous at those tournaments using TEARS-type structures in which the levels inch up with excruciating slowness and final tables stretch into eight-hour marathons. Then, bleary-eyed and fighting to stay awake, I try to decipher my scrawled notes at 6 a.m., praying that I get at least some of the hands right. Then I crash into bed at the casino hotel or some nearby motel, only to be repeatedly awakened by the phone or door-knocks from sadistic housekeeping maids who can't understand or simply ignore the "Do Not Disturb" sign on my door.

That's bad enough. But what really sends my blood pressure soaring is when I'm standing by the final table, struggling to follow the action, and some railbird yells at me to move out of the way so he can see better. I am not a particularly violent man, but each time that has happened I have come very close to committing mayhem.

Pointing is impolite: Dealers, as we well know, are a long-suffering bunch held hostage to a host of indignities inflicted on them by loutish players, which is not to say that they don't create their own share of grief at times. There's one habit that some dealers have (usually women dealers, for some reason) that really sets my teeth on edge. It's when they impatiently point at you like a schoolteacher to let you know that it's your turn to act. They'll do this a split second after the cards are dealt, sometimes before you've even had a chance to look at your hand. Hey, you don't have to tell me that it's on me. It's not like I'm playing in a $1-$2 game. OK, so maybe I am playing in a $1-$2 game, but that's beside the point. If I'm in the No. 9 seat and first to act after the button, I might get pointed at even as the dealer's hand is still covering the flop and obstructing my vision. And, as much as I hate to be pointed at, even worse, much worse, is to have the dealer smack the table in front of me, as if to wake me up. Grrrr.

Please, dealer. I know that the more hands you can get out the more tokes you will accumulate, but just keep in mind the highway safety slogan: "Speed Kills." Keep speeding and someone might kill you.

Cut the clichés: I wince whenever a player feels compelled to mouth some hackneyed poker quip that might have been humorous 50 years ago but is now as stale as month-old bread. If everyone calls a pot, somebody is bound to shout: "Family pot!" If a dealer asks a new player if he's from a broken game, there's a good chance that he, or some other comedian, will crack, "Broken home." If everyone checks a pot to the big blind, every so often that person will declare "Let 'em live" instead of the perfectly serviceable "check." Maybe I'm just being cranky, but as a celebrated journalist, I shudder to hear such trite phrases several times a night.

Now you see it, now you don't: I am seated at a table, starving, my stomach rumbling, getting weak and dizzy from lack of nourishment. For an hour I have been frantically waving for food service. I'm becoming paranoid, convinced that I'm being discriminated against just because I'm at a $1-$2 table. Finally, a food server with nothing better to do stops by. I frantically give him or her my standard order of moo goo gai pan with a side of chopped liver. Another hour goes by while players at higher-limit tables who ordered long after me have been served and already have finished their meals. Finally, finally, my food arrives. I gratefully gobble down several forkfuls and turn back to play a hand. After my A-2 gets counterfeited on the river for the fourth straight hand, I sigh and return to my food … only to discover that an overzealous porter has wheeled away my food cart!

This confirms Shapiro's law of inverse food service: The longer it takes to get your food, the quicker it will be taken from you.

That's all I can stand to write about. Where are my blood pressure pills?