a bit of time has passed and my little sony vaio has been chugging away over the past couple of weeks datamining hands from full tilt. since my first update, the number of hands in my db has more than tripled and now numbers more than three-quarters of a million hands.
from an absolute standpoint, i haven't had a lot of luck recently and my actual win rate per hand has dropped more than 10%. but with this more statistically relevant sample of data, let's see how i fare relatively to my competition.
> 100 hands played: 1814 0f 5377, 66th percentile
> 1000 hands played: 263 of 736, 64th percentile
> 2500 hands played: 80 of 266, 70th percentile
> 5000 hands played: 29 of 114, 74th percentile
> 10,000 hands played: 8 of 30, 73rd percentile
what i find interesting about these numbers is that my relative rank rises as the minimum-hand requirement increases even though the percentage of winning players in the group grows as well -- at 100 hands played 59% of the players are losers; at 10,000 hands played 83% are winners.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
$200 and a sprained wrist
for two years, i avoided the slopes. after a six months in lake tahoe, my daily routine consisiting of strapping into a snowboard and riding the chairlift, the snow-capped mountains lost some of their allure.
at least that was my story when people asked.
it was only partly true.
yes, i no longer possessed the motivation of a few years back, when i would wake at 4:30 a.m. call in sick from my car on interstate 80 as i sped towards the hill. but equally responsible for my absence, i didn't relish the idea of sucking. not compared to the average winter warrior, but relative to myself. and with each passing day, i knew i'd drifted a step further from my prime.
it started the following year. i met a bunch of friends i'd worked with at the resort for a week of boarding. they had spent the past season in telluride. i recovered from a car accident then wrote film reviews for a website in san francisco. and it was pretty obvious.
by the end of the first day, they ahd showed off numerous aerial maneuvers and hazardous rail slides. all i had to show were a pair of tired legs that could barely keep myself upright during a high-speed heel side turn. my friends, who i had matched spin for spin less than a year ago, were now a completely different class of rider.
so i stayed away.
but i did miss it sometimes -- the liberation that comes from floating two stories above the ground as you clear a 40-foot tabletop jump and the coarse swoosh that accompanies a carved toe-side turn. so after some prodding from a friend, i relented, and accepted an invitation for some president's day boarding.
the evening before, as i dusted off my snowboarding bag and unzipped it to make sure all my equipment still resided inside, my mood suddenly elevated. perhaps, all the skill would rush back, i thought to myself. buoyed by this unexpected elation, i began imagining, then acting out, the impressive spins i would toss as i sped down the hill. the glory days of my 24th year, when i cruised into the terrain park and threw a switch five and built a ramp taller than myself on the hill in back of my house to huck inverted spins, would all be revisited tomorrow. sure there would be signs of rust. i wouldn't be quite the same caliber rider -- it would be foolish to expect that after so long away -- but the magic would start to show a bit more with each passing run.
the day's beginning seemed auspcious. the first run was shaky, but each moment on my board increased my comfort level, and after 90 minutes i felt poised to make the previous night's visualizations reality.
half an hour later, i didn't hit the wall, i hit a building. the legs turned to jello and my only motivation for turning was to balance the pain between two different muscle groups. a lunch break didn't help. neither did taking a run off. and finally, as if there hadn't been sufficient disappointment already, i took a nasty tumble on a large patch of ice on the day's last run, -- literally five feet from the parking lot -- and sprained my wrist.
so that's what i have to show for my glorous return to winter sports. $56 for a lift ticket , $35 for gas and rental car, and $15 for a dessicated slab of tri-tip and two bottles of water. quite the aching muscles today as well, for which i'll be spending $90 for a massage on thursday to try and alleviate.
sure was fun though. no joke.
at least that was my story when people asked.
it was only partly true.
yes, i no longer possessed the motivation of a few years back, when i would wake at 4:30 a.m. call in sick from my car on interstate 80 as i sped towards the hill. but equally responsible for my absence, i didn't relish the idea of sucking. not compared to the average winter warrior, but relative to myself. and with each passing day, i knew i'd drifted a step further from my prime.
it started the following year. i met a bunch of friends i'd worked with at the resort for a week of boarding. they had spent the past season in telluride. i recovered from a car accident then wrote film reviews for a website in san francisco. and it was pretty obvious.
by the end of the first day, they ahd showed off numerous aerial maneuvers and hazardous rail slides. all i had to show were a pair of tired legs that could barely keep myself upright during a high-speed heel side turn. my friends, who i had matched spin for spin less than a year ago, were now a completely different class of rider.
so i stayed away.
but i did miss it sometimes -- the liberation that comes from floating two stories above the ground as you clear a 40-foot tabletop jump and the coarse swoosh that accompanies a carved toe-side turn. so after some prodding from a friend, i relented, and accepted an invitation for some president's day boarding.
the evening before, as i dusted off my snowboarding bag and unzipped it to make sure all my equipment still resided inside, my mood suddenly elevated. perhaps, all the skill would rush back, i thought to myself. buoyed by this unexpected elation, i began imagining, then acting out, the impressive spins i would toss as i sped down the hill. the glory days of my 24th year, when i cruised into the terrain park and threw a switch five and built a ramp taller than myself on the hill in back of my house to huck inverted spins, would all be revisited tomorrow. sure there would be signs of rust. i wouldn't be quite the same caliber rider -- it would be foolish to expect that after so long away -- but the magic would start to show a bit more with each passing run.
the day's beginning seemed auspcious. the first run was shaky, but each moment on my board increased my comfort level, and after 90 minutes i felt poised to make the previous night's visualizations reality.
half an hour later, i didn't hit the wall, i hit a building. the legs turned to jello and my only motivation for turning was to balance the pain between two different muscle groups. a lunch break didn't help. neither did taking a run off. and finally, as if there hadn't been sufficient disappointment already, i took a nasty tumble on a large patch of ice on the day's last run, -- literally five feet from the parking lot -- and sprained my wrist.
so that's what i have to show for my glorous return to winter sports. $56 for a lift ticket , $35 for gas and rental car, and $15 for a dessicated slab of tri-tip and two bottles of water. quite the aching muscles today as well, for which i'll be spending $90 for a massage on thursday to try and alleviate.
sure was fun though. no joke.
Monday, February 12, 2007
and the grammy goes to...nobody gives a shit
to my surprise this morning while reading the ny times, the grammys took place yesterday. now i talk a lot of shit about the oscars, but at least they have some credibility. the grammys, well they rank somewhere behind the academy, golden globes, independent spirit awards, top ten lists from notable critics, tonys, emmys...well, you get the idea.
ah, but you say, what evidence do you have to substantiate your view? and i say, the winner of the pop performance by a duo or group with a vocal, my humps by the black eyed peas.
ironically, despite being one of the ten worst songs ever forced upon human ears (hopefully dogs with their higher listening frequencies are spared), a cogent argument could be made that it is only the third worst song fergie has been involved with (fergielicious and london bridge were inexplicably shut out).
finally, some housekeeping. is this not the worst fucking name for an award ever concocted. i lose interest in hearing the winner before the announcer gets through the title. should any award really include two prepositional phrases? would the grammy nominating board be unsure if they could nominate a duo if the award were renamed best vocal performance by a pop group (maybe since the nominees were obviously chosen by those with sparse brain activity)?
perhaps, the people who named the award also chose the winner of it.
ah, but you say, what evidence do you have to substantiate your view? and i say, the winner of the pop performance by a duo or group with a vocal, my humps by the black eyed peas.
ironically, despite being one of the ten worst songs ever forced upon human ears (hopefully dogs with their higher listening frequencies are spared), a cogent argument could be made that it is only the third worst song fergie has been involved with (fergielicious and london bridge were inexplicably shut out).
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
In the back and in the front (lumps)
My lovin' got you
without context, i might confuse this for the work of a retard with a serious stutter. but hey, i guess that's why i'm not a judge.My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump.
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
My lovely lady lumps (lumps)
In the back and in the front (lumps)
My lovin' got you
finally, some housekeeping. is this not the worst fucking name for an award ever concocted. i lose interest in hearing the winner before the announcer gets through the title. should any award really include two prepositional phrases? would the grammy nominating board be unsure if they could nominate a duo if the award were renamed best vocal performance by a pop group (maybe since the nominees were obviously chosen by those with sparse brain activity)?
perhaps, the people who named the award also chose the winner of it.
fuck the shins
living in palo for a year, i missed the easy access to shows in san francisco more than just about anything else.
well at least i thought.
turns out, san francisco gets skipped over more often than it should. now, the shins have blown up, despite their most recent album being their weakest by many orders of magnitude (song 2, australia, however, is one of their five best songs). yet in their previous pass through the bay area, the closest they came to san francisco was santa cruz. and now, they're shunning the bay area enitrely, opting for stops in seattle (twice), portland and los angeles as their big west coast stops.
what the fuck?
well at least i thought.
turns out, san francisco gets skipped over more often than it should. now, the shins have blown up, despite their most recent album being their weakest by many orders of magnitude (song 2, australia, however, is one of their five best songs). yet in their previous pass through the bay area, the closest they came to san francisco was santa cruz. and now, they're shunning the bay area enitrely, opting for stops in seattle (twice), portland and los angeles as their big west coast stops.
what the fuck?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
man rule
never go to a strip club without lining something up for after
frankly, i've never understood the appeal. they're expensive, and worse, provide little hope of an interesting end to the evening.
yet, i seem to be the minority in this position. a group ventures out for a big night, and when some start to lag, a suggestion is made for a trip to the titty bar, generally to the ovation of others. as if this somehow turns to the night into a rousing success.
i found myself at a bar. saturday night, so no surprise. but the group was not a regular one. obligation lead me, as this was a sendoff of sorts to an old friend moving out of the bay area. revelry was to ensue.
but to my chagrin, only two shots were purchased (one fernet for me, one fernet for him). and without the contribution of others the night spiraled downward, first to mediocrity, then twenty minutes later, to abject boredom (* i was having an on night, hence i entertained, but reciprocation, absent).
i prodded the guest of honor, putting him in postion for a free drink from our six-foot blonde bartender recently transported from seattle. he declined. she offered water instead. he accepted.
"i'm such a bad bartender," she said. "i'm supposed to be selling drinks."
uh, yeah. dance on the bar. get us drunk. something to make my trek through the sheets of rain falling on san francisco worthwhile.
and then the inevitable. one person called it a night. like dominoes in a row, others announced their fall. i resisted, saying no going away party should be ending at 12:30 a.m. the word club was tossed out. my heart sank. then the words gold club. my heart sank a bit further.
so there i was, sitting three rows back from the stage, debating whether i needed a seven dollar pint of bud light to make this bearable. i handed a stack of ones to my friend and he moved toward the stage area. a few mediocre talents took their turns on stage, shed their tops, scaled the silver pole in the center of the stage, then rotated their bodies around the pole till gravity returned them to the floor. (side note, do strip clubs have poles for phallic reasons or just to show off the artistic ability of their employees?)
for their efforts, a gaggle of onlookers stuffed their g-strings with dollar bills.
but really, where does the enjoyment coming from? i've never used the services of a professional woman, but at least i understand the draw. strippers, that's like paying thomas keller to cook a meal, then leaving before your first bite. at least, no one's stupid enough to do that.
frankly, i've never understood the appeal. they're expensive, and worse, provide little hope of an interesting end to the evening.
yet, i seem to be the minority in this position. a group ventures out for a big night, and when some start to lag, a suggestion is made for a trip to the titty bar, generally to the ovation of others. as if this somehow turns to the night into a rousing success.
i found myself at a bar. saturday night, so no surprise. but the group was not a regular one. obligation lead me, as this was a sendoff of sorts to an old friend moving out of the bay area. revelry was to ensue.
but to my chagrin, only two shots were purchased (one fernet for me, one fernet for him). and without the contribution of others the night spiraled downward, first to mediocrity, then twenty minutes later, to abject boredom (* i was having an on night, hence i entertained, but reciprocation, absent).
i prodded the guest of honor, putting him in postion for a free drink from our six-foot blonde bartender recently transported from seattle. he declined. she offered water instead. he accepted.
"i'm such a bad bartender," she said. "i'm supposed to be selling drinks."
uh, yeah. dance on the bar. get us drunk. something to make my trek through the sheets of rain falling on san francisco worthwhile.
and then the inevitable. one person called it a night. like dominoes in a row, others announced their fall. i resisted, saying no going away party should be ending at 12:30 a.m. the word club was tossed out. my heart sank. then the words gold club. my heart sank a bit further.
so there i was, sitting three rows back from the stage, debating whether i needed a seven dollar pint of bud light to make this bearable. i handed a stack of ones to my friend and he moved toward the stage area. a few mediocre talents took their turns on stage, shed their tops, scaled the silver pole in the center of the stage, then rotated their bodies around the pole till gravity returned them to the floor. (side note, do strip clubs have poles for phallic reasons or just to show off the artistic ability of their employees?)
for their efforts, a gaggle of onlookers stuffed their g-strings with dollar bills.
but really, where does the enjoyment coming from? i've never used the services of a professional woman, but at least i understand the draw. strippers, that's like paying thomas keller to cook a meal, then leaving before your first bite. at least, no one's stupid enough to do that.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
now you know
few things in life can really be measured.
that's probably a good thing. for chances are, there would be a lot of damaged egos if the truth came out. everyone secretly thinks they're a top dog. and the ones that don't you never see anyways. they're depressed, holed up in their parent's basement with the light switch down.
but there are exceptions. one of the world's leading researchers in video game culture once told me world of warcraft -- just look at the level of your character -- and a big reason why people loved the game so much. poker's another.
using a piece of software called poker tracker you can record nearly fifty thousand hands a day. it's remarkable, really. run a few simple arithmetic calculations and there you have it, the wheat separated from the chaff -- and which one you are.
so here it is, my rank after almost 200,000 (35,000 of which i played) hands of $200 buyin no limit.
all players: 2295 out of 6927, 66th percentile
players with at least 100 hands: 621 out of 1854, 66th percentile
players with at least 500 hands: 121 out of 395, 69th percentile
players with at least 1000 hands: 58 out of 186, 68th percentile
players with at least 2000 hands: 14 out of 58, 76th percentile
since i'm a statistics retard, i don't know which is the most meaningful sample. but the results look pretty conclusive to me.
apparently, i'm signficantly better than average, but well within one standard deviation of the mean. if this were an iq test, an equivalent score would be about 110.
ouch.
that's probably a good thing. for chances are, there would be a lot of damaged egos if the truth came out. everyone secretly thinks they're a top dog. and the ones that don't you never see anyways. they're depressed, holed up in their parent's basement with the light switch down.
but there are exceptions. one of the world's leading researchers in video game culture once told me world of warcraft -- just look at the level of your character -- and a big reason why people loved the game so much. poker's another.
using a piece of software called poker tracker you can record nearly fifty thousand hands a day. it's remarkable, really. run a few simple arithmetic calculations and there you have it, the wheat separated from the chaff -- and which one you are.
so here it is, my rank after almost 200,000 (35,000 of which i played) hands of $200 buyin no limit.
all players: 2295 out of 6927, 66th percentile
players with at least 100 hands: 621 out of 1854, 66th percentile
players with at least 500 hands: 121 out of 395, 69th percentile
players with at least 1000 hands: 58 out of 186, 68th percentile
players with at least 2000 hands: 14 out of 58, 76th percentile
since i'm a statistics retard, i don't know which is the most meaningful sample. but the results look pretty conclusive to me.
apparently, i'm signficantly better than average, but well within one standard deviation of the mean. if this were an iq test, an equivalent score would be about 110.
ouch.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
buy my friendship, it's cheap
i describe myself as selective about the people i keep company with, so i was shocked to find this to be true. once could be luck, twice could be coincidence, but three times? that's a pattern.
case 1: i strolled down to haight street to meet a friend at a local bookstore. for me, it was a pause before the bar. for her, she needed a book, not to read, but to give. she was headed to a birthday party at a bar. someone she knew, but not a resident of the inner circle.
like any normal person, i've been to many birthday parties for acquaintances where a group of friends meet at a bar. and in all those times, i've always given the honored guest the same gift: liquor. usually in a shot glass.
so i wondered silently. how would i feel if a young lady i didn't expect a gift from came bearing one? i'd think of her much more highly, that's for certain. even if i didn't like the gift.
cost -- $12.95(?) for a compilation of essays and critiques on music.
case 2: while washing my hands at a friend's house, i suddenly found myself rapt by a romantic scent that filled the air. it was soft and sweet and recalled those moments when a waft of air escaped from a bakery while you passed by.
i sniffed the air several times, pausing briefly in between each inhalation to shift my head toward where the fragrance was strongest. it was my hands. or rather the soap i had used to wash them. mango and white sugar.
as i exited the bathroom, i simply commented "i love the soap in your bathroom". the next time i ventured to the apartment, i had a gift waiting for me. and i think ever more highly of that person with each wash of my hands (at least until the bottle runs out).
cost -- $10 (?) for a bottle of archipelago sugar hand wash.
case 3: in the cooking class i'm taking at city college, a classmate said he'd be missing class the coming week and asked if i could pick up an extra copy of the handouts. the following friday he emailed me asking when would be a convenient time to swing by and pick them up. and since i would be waiting for the cable guy to show from 6-8, i told him to just come by after work.
he did. and brought a creme puff to show his thanks. now ignoring the inherent awkwardness that ensues when one straight man brings another straight man a pastry, i was taken aback by the thoughtfulness of this person i barely knew. especially since my favor was no more than common courtesy.
cost -- $1.95 for a beard papa caramel creme puff.
in conclusion (i haven't used that prepositional phrase to start a paragraph since english class, sophmore year in high school), all it takes to win me over is a gift, small or big, as long as it's unannounced and unexpected.
case 1: i strolled down to haight street to meet a friend at a local bookstore. for me, it was a pause before the bar. for her, she needed a book, not to read, but to give. she was headed to a birthday party at a bar. someone she knew, but not a resident of the inner circle.
like any normal person, i've been to many birthday parties for acquaintances where a group of friends meet at a bar. and in all those times, i've always given the honored guest the same gift: liquor. usually in a shot glass.
so i wondered silently. how would i feel if a young lady i didn't expect a gift from came bearing one? i'd think of her much more highly, that's for certain. even if i didn't like the gift.
cost -- $12.95(?) for a compilation of essays and critiques on music.
case 2: while washing my hands at a friend's house, i suddenly found myself rapt by a romantic scent that filled the air. it was soft and sweet and recalled those moments when a waft of air escaped from a bakery while you passed by.
i sniffed the air several times, pausing briefly in between each inhalation to shift my head toward where the fragrance was strongest. it was my hands. or rather the soap i had used to wash them. mango and white sugar.
as i exited the bathroom, i simply commented "i love the soap in your bathroom". the next time i ventured to the apartment, i had a gift waiting for me. and i think ever more highly of that person with each wash of my hands (at least until the bottle runs out).
cost -- $10 (?) for a bottle of archipelago sugar hand wash.
case 3: in the cooking class i'm taking at city college, a classmate said he'd be missing class the coming week and asked if i could pick up an extra copy of the handouts. the following friday he emailed me asking when would be a convenient time to swing by and pick them up. and since i would be waiting for the cable guy to show from 6-8, i told him to just come by after work.
he did. and brought a creme puff to show his thanks. now ignoring the inherent awkwardness that ensues when one straight man brings another straight man a pastry, i was taken aback by the thoughtfulness of this person i barely knew. especially since my favor was no more than common courtesy.
cost -- $1.95 for a beard papa caramel creme puff.
in conclusion (i haven't used that prepositional phrase to start a paragraph since english class, sophmore year in high school), all it takes to win me over is a gift, small or big, as long as it's unannounced and unexpected.
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