Most Annoying Poet

So I was at a Bachelor Poker Tournament hosted by a local magazine the other night.

There's a long story about how I got invited to this thing, but it's not that interesting. The point is that I was invited and I brought my friend J-Fo along for the ride.

The first thing we noticed when we arrived was that was an awful lot of women in the room, and very very few bachelors. There were 5 in total. And about another half dozen guys who had all been brought there by their girlfriends. Apparently the Bachelor part of the Poker Night was a bit of an afterthought, and it had originally been conceived as a Women's Poker Night, which explains the odd gender ratio. Some people actually had to pay to get into this thing, but J-Fo and I were there on a whim.

After about a half hour of nervous mingling, somewhat smoothed by a ticket for a free drink, we were all invited to come inside the Poker Room and take a ticket that would tell us where we were sitting. J-Fo and I were separated and left to fend for ourselves at tables of eleven strangers each, about 5 tables in total. We were allowed to play a practice hand of Texas Hold'em Poker after receiving brief instructions and cheat-cards that told us what hands were higher than others. The dealers were serious about their jobs, and the Poker Guys running the joint could have come out of any Harvey Keitel Las Vegas film. We were instructed to keep our drinks off the table and our cards on it, face down. We could peek, but weren't to pick them up. We were also told to keep a stack of our house chips on our cards - something to do with the fact that if someone else's card hits yours, the cards are redealt. I think...

A buzzer goes, the Casino Guys watch over us like mother eagles, and we begin to play. I'm not the first one out at my table, but I have one big win, and a series of big losses that means I'm out about an hour into the evening. Just before the blinds go up again, the bosses call a ten minute pee break, and I retire to the bar to reconoitre with J-Fo.

She's doing all right, I guess. Still has a big stack of chips in front of her, anyway. As it turns out, at her table she was seated next to one of the few Bachelors at the party. Her assessment? She whispers, "He's INSANE," as we huddle in the bar. Almost on cue, he turns up next to her, babbling something incoherently. Apparently he thinks he's pretty funny. He has been pissing off the dealers and the other players by not playing the same game as everyone else. He has chosen to take this as a big joke, and while neither J-Fo and I are really poker players, or really care about the outcome, we have come in good faith to try to participate in a social activity with other people. Not so, Bachelor #1, who has made himself annoying by placing outrageous bets and tossing money and cards around the tables. No one finds him as amusing as he finds himself. He is bouncing in place, next to J-Fo, as she tries to introduce us. "This is my friend, Falcon. She brought me here," she offers cheerfully. He replies with something completely incoherent about running a communist table. I try to hitch a ride on the mental train he's running through town, but he doesn't stop to let me on. This is a guy who is always "on," always being "wacka wacka," always trying to be "funny." I hate these guys. They are pathologically unable to hold a conversation, obsessed as they are with being "funny," which in their case translates to being as bizarre and anti-social as possible, at the same time that they refuse to let anyone around them participate in normal human social activity. They are really noisy ants at the human picnic.

After ten minutes, it's back to the tables for the competitors still in the game. I'm out but I'm waiting for my friend, so I hang around the bar with some others who have also been relieved of gambling duty. Here I meet Bachelors #2 and #3.

I am standing with two other gals, one a nice lady in her forties who works as some kind of accounting consultant, and a shy gal who is in customer service for a wireless company. Bachelor #3 arrives and disappears practically within the same breath. He seems like a nice enough fella, he sells transformers, or super-conductors, or semi-conductors, or semi-transformers, or something technical that I don't understand. He is an earnest fellow, too young to be so serious, and seems slightly confused by the evening. He disappears in a puff of smoke.

Bachelor #3 is the eponymous Most Annoying Poet of this story. He buys the three of us ladies a glass of shiraz, which is nice enough, but he tarnishes it by being pretentious with the waitress at the Stampede Casino. Here they are used to two types of wine, "white," and "red," but Poet Boy needs to show everyone that he doesn't really belong here by asking them for a recommendation - something not too heady, but full bodied and blah blah blah who's listening not me. He then begins a game of hosting that is only slightly more socially ept than Bachelor Wacka Wacka. He asks us each what we do for a living, and waits patiently until he can reveal his Big Important Job. "So, what do you do?" asks the Nice Lady. He looks away for a moment, setting up for the punch, "I'm a Poet. Quite a good one in fact. In fact, I'm an Internationally Renowned Poet." He's pleased with himself now. He takes a backhanded stab at self-deprecation which is intended to impress with its "humility." He comments that being an Internationally Renowned Poet is kind of like being an Internationally Renowned Croquet Player. It's a pretty obscure kind of fame. Nonetheless, he REALLY wants us to know that he REALLY IS world famous. Yes, yes, yes, we get it.

We are talking about pop culture, and I am trying not to behave like I'm in a press interview, which I am more familiar with than I am with making small talk at Bachelor Poker Parties. Here is the difference between Poet Boy and I. I am trying not to break out too much "stock interview material" because it's not my job to be entertaining or impress anyone. I'm just making conversation with strangers. Poet Boy, on the other hand, is laying out his stock material like he's putting in laminate flooring - he's determined to fit it all in there and anyone be damned who gets in the way. He is one of those guys who will ask you a question and not let you answer it, because what he really wants is to answer it himself.

He describes his latest poetic project: to write a really long poem, translate it into a four letter alphabet, and have some scientist/geneticist friends of his translate that four letter alphabet poet into a genetic sequence that he will then have INJECTED into a one-celled organism, an E. Coli bacteria or something, replacing its own DNA sequence with that of the Poem.

Huh?

Okay, is it just me, or is this about the most egocentric thing a guy can do? I know that all artists want to pretend they're gods, but this is just making it a bit literal. "Look! Everyone! I have created Life in my own image! I have written a Poem that is a Living Thing!" Um, hubris, anyone? The only amusing thing I can make of this is wondering what effect such a genetic poem sequence might have on an E. Coli bacterium. What would happen to it? Would it get artistic ideas of its own? Change its name to e.e. coli?

The Most Annoying Poet in the world does not find this amusing in the least. He grins, sort of, but he is taken aback that anyone would think this isn't The Most Fascinating and Engaging Project In The World. I expect he is used to people either saying, "Wow! You're SO COOL to even THINK of something like that!" or else making poetry undergrads cream themselves over something so mastabatory and academic at the same time.

We eventually have a brief argument about the Nature and Meaning of the Universe, until he excuses himself, still grinning but probably relieved at getting away from this Argumentative Woman (me) as much as I was grinning and relieved of the company of this Pretentious Ass.

I turn my attention back to the Poker Room - and wouldn't you know it? The winners at each table have gathered for a final showdown of skill and savvy, and who is right in the thick of it? My friend J-Fo. While I was baiting the self-important World Renowned Poet, she was in there kicking butt the whole time!

The game takes on the glitzy, smoky glamour of a celebrity poker match. The final table is made up entirely of women, the bachelors and boyfriends having been smoked out by these sly dames. It's exciting! Chips worth thousands and thousands of dollars are being piled into the centre of the table and swept back and forth as people win and lose more (imaginary) money than I will make in a year.

Sidenote: Here is my problem with gambling. I sat at that poker table with a stack of chips in front of me, which, had it been REAL money, I would have just as quickly taken off the table and said to my other poker players, "Have fun! I'll be at Gravity Pope." Gambling is stressful. I hate making decisions and poker is full of them. I am a "pair of shoes in the hand" kind of gal and don't like speculating. Not to say that I don't take risks in life. I take tons and tons of stupid risks all the time. But most of them are emotional in nature, and I figure this is one arena (money) where I can hold back.

Okay, back to the game. While I have been yabbering on here, the competition has slowly been eliminated one by one until only two fierce competitors remain - a gal who is late for a stagette party at the nightclub Tantra, and my friend J-Fo. Every time she wins a hand I cheer and point, "That's my friend!" I beam to the others. The Most Annoying Poet in the world asks how I can really be happy for my friend. Aren't I bitter about my own lack of success tonight? Wouldn't I rather be in the spotlight myself? Uh, short answer is "no." Unlike the Most Annoying Poet in the World, I don't feel like I'm in competition with the rest of the world and particularly with my friends. I don't need to show off every moment of the day, and don't need to sulk when I'm not the Special One at the party. I have plenty of Special Times, believe me (refer to above comment where I take ridiculous emotional risks - I have been the star of my own story for a long time, I don't need to be the star of everybody else's story too). Anyway, I'm am VERY exciteed and VERY proud of my friend. She is kicking some serious ASS! Go, girl!

In the end, the two gals are sweating it out. This is high stakes. The blinds are up to $2000! (see, I did manage to learn what "the blinds" are - I did learn something useful). The pressure is immense. J-Fo is making a big gambit. She's had some crummy cards, and the two have had several hands that were so close - it came down to holding a six vs. an eight. J-Fo seems calm, cool, and collected. Later she will tell me she was shaking, she was so nervous. This last hand should decide it, and...!!! J-Fo bets it all. "All in!" she says and pushes all her chips to the centre. The other gal calls and they lay down their cards. J-Fo.... loses this hand. Awwwww!

Ah, but before you get all sad and whistful, listen to what the top two got as prizes. First place got a spot in the Big Stampede Poker night - a chance to play against 1300 professional poker players for a possible $50 000 pot. Sounds like a lot of stress, and no chance to actually win. These guys are pros. On the other hand, what did second place come home with? J-Fo got a gift bag full of Prada perfume, plus a Caban waffle robe and eye mask, etc. Who needs winning when coming in second means getting the goods you really want?

In my head of course, J-Fo is the biggest winner anyway, just for coming out and trying something new and kicking ass at something she didn't even know she was good at.

And the biggest loser? The Most Annoying Poet in the world. The only one he went home with was himself - but come to think of it, that's the only person he was interested in anyway.

And me? I have a good story to tell, so I win too.

- Falcon.