An Open Letter to Poker

Dear poker,

You used to be cool. Maybe not cool in the most elegant or swinging sense, but you always had a sort of seedy charm. That's all over now, poker. You have sold out. Look at yourself plastered all over mainstream television and magazines with your fancy new clothes, manicured hands, and faux chic hair cut. What happened to you? Where's the old poker? Remember him with his two bit ill fitting suit? His hair was greasy over bloodshot eyes. You stunk of cigars, gin, and desperation. You were a dangerous character, the kind of galoot which couldn't make it in polite society. But you were there slinking in the shadows with an undeniable charisma. You weren't in the front room, but you had guys slipping out into the back.

Now, look at yourself: squeaky clean and family friendly. What happened? You used to be a man's game, but now you're a video game. Men log on to point and click you all night without having to get dirty. They don't have to deal with your grime, the stink of pressure sweat, the steel eyed stares of lowlife characters. No. Now your a family affair. Hell, Disney practically owns you. Don't try to deny it. I see you there on ESPN in high definition and slick music. I know who writes your paychecks. Jesus, your about as masculine as a soap opera anymore. When you signed your deal with Eisner did it involve you giving up use of your testicles?

You used to be dangerous. Now you're nothing but a corporate shill. They've taken you and worked out all you're quirks and kinks - everything which was cool about you - and left us with nothing but a streamlined, efficient, and dull product. Not only have you lost your dangerous side. You've lost your fun side as well. They've not only ruined you for the hardcore hustlers out there, but for the fun loving everyman looking for a release. I remember a time - not even that terribly long ago - in college when game night was a total gas. It was just a bunch of guys sitting around talking trash and screwing around with games. You remember that don't you? All the fun we had together? Now, game nights a slog. People aren't around for a good time. They're around to win. Extraneous conversation is frowned upon. Now, you turn people into employees, going through the motions, all business. Everyone's too busy trying to remember odds and to worrying about winning to even care about fun. You've been co-opted. They've tamed you. Taking all your idiosacratic flavor and leaving us with a neutral blandness. Now whenever you come around its all Texas Hold'em, usually in tournament form. It's bland, monochromatic and sad. Hell, it used to be game night with you was a party. People calling out crazy games, making them up on the spot half the time. Think about it. When was the last time you were involved in a good game of Indian? Exactly?

Now, poker I want you to o to the mirror and take a good look. I want you to really look, study the image you see staring back at you. Who is that game in there? It's not you. It's certainly not poker. I know, I know. Everyone loves you now. Do they? Do they really love you? Or do they love the lie of you, the spiffed up, safe, as seen on television you? It's great to be loved, but it's even better to be loved for who you really are. Right now you have everyone in love with the lie, the clean cut corporate guy. But I know that deep down there still beats the heart of that bourbon swilling, backroom crawler. Under all that veneer, there's the guy who can break a man's legs in a back alley or keep guys laughing around a table in the garage. I know you're still in there somewhere. When the mainstream kicks you aside for the next big craze - probably Scrabble - and your left with nothing but your true nature, don't worry. I'll be there to welcome you back with open arms.

Shalom
James