A photographic accounting of the events described here can be found in my photo section.

It is said that the men of my generation shuffle through existence apologetic and emasculated under a heavy yoke. Testosterone-based drives are stigmatised as neanderthal and the physical attributes developed over the countless millennia for everyday survival have reduced to redundant side-effects, useful for opening jars and reaching objects off high shelves.[1]

Future generations will no doubt also look in hindsight on this time as an awkward phase in our development as a species; today men understand that there is a whole universe of unacceptable behaviour - traps just waiting to be tripped at any moment - and self-censor their own behaviour often to the point of absurdity. On the other hand, men are still viable targets for sexist 'blowback' humour based perceived stereotypes, resulting in television idols such as the tragically socially retarded and isolated Raymond, who apparently is Loved by Everybody, but at what cost?

There exist, however, primal pockets of resistance. Our culture holds anomalies that a self-effacing automaton of a man may seek for refuge from this cultural oppression. One such bastion is The Poker Night.

Saturday night found a shady group of unkempt gents cloistered in a smoky room. We joked, smoked and gambled our way through a gruelling nine-hour 'Texas hold-'em' fest. No quater was given, no elbow room for weakness. Pleasantries were left at the door. Social mores became irrelevant. It was a deadly showdown.

Director Bob put himself forward as rookie of the match, an effective strategy for avoiding alpha-male clashes. His delight continued unabated through the night, even when he was forced to delve past his cash reserves and blew his inheritance (presumably pilfered from his parents.) He left skimped with empty pockets. Total sympathy for his plight: none. This is no amateur hour, baby.

Kris, ever the level-headed ice man, came back from near devastation to finish up ahead. An early bad run did nothing to dampen his cool resolve, and his unabated persistence saw Lady Luck as his bitch.

The most excitable of the group (at least in the earlier hours) was Cam. He burned bright like a candle in an incinerator, and left early in the pursuit of another agenda. Later in the night he brought back some tottie (such irreverance is allowable even when referring to The Poker Night, such is its power!) but according to the house rules that night, couldn't bring them in (while they had their tops on, at least.) So he departed again.

Ben proved to be the true master of the game. His technique left him unobtrusive in the corner until a single hand almost beggared Scroop. He made his move near the last leg of the night, and in a single hand jumped from a break-even at best to the prize pig. He left soon after, disproving the theory of the Gamblers Syndrome.

Mike has a reputation as a reckless maverick when it comes to poker. He practices the art of 'poker technique without any technique.' Unfortunately, this playing style left him standing by vending machines begging for change.

Shane was the paradox of the table. The guy I would vote most capable and probable of kicking someone else's ass, he came sporting a little perfume-smelling envelope with kisses on it, containing his gambling allowance. If he was anyone but Shane, he would have been laughed out of the house. Because he's Shane, we all nodded sagely at the prudence of the frugal.

Scroop fared well over the course of the night. His common sense almost saw him cash in near the end of the evening (while marginally profitable), but Kris and I managed to keep him playing. I spent the last few games elicting his profits from him. He brought the exceedingly large and totally non-phallic stogie, which was passed generously and frequently to the left-hand-side (me.)

I spent the first half of the evening playing host - cooking, serving drinks and the like. Then I rained down some DOOM on the heads of my DOOMED mates, to end up ahead over all.

Sunday was written off. My children will inherit the headache I earned Saturday night. The cough I developed will be haranguing me the length of my days. The always-present mess in our house has given notice and is moving out in disgust.

But I will look forward, always forward, to the day of the next The Poker Night. I will suffer these pains in selfless service to my fellow man, in recognition of shared genetic pride.

Footnotes:
[1] And I don't doubt that leaps in jar-opening technologies and compact step-ladders will further reduce usefulness of the next generation's stock, until this gender becomes a genetic cul-de-sac.