First, let me explain that this blog isn't about me. I've done the 'about me' blogs for long enough. I am not Gareth Chantler. I don't think anyone can say they are. I've come to realize Gareth Chantler is an idea more than a person. The idea is that your dreams and desires can all come true.

When I was 12 years old, I was drinking a big glass of mountain dew in the basement. My dad came down in his underwear drinking a giant carton of milk. He asked me if I knew anybody from my class at school that enjoyed a nice little swish of creamy dairy. My dad, mid-thirties at the time, had been enjoying various dairy products for the last 6 years. Things like cheese, milk, mayonaisse, and sour cream were all a big part of his life. I was lactose intolerant.

I remember in '97, I was at the big game. Crowd was staring right at me. Just standing there with the bat in my hands, waiting for that big pitch. Ball came flying towards the catcher's mitt and I froze, thinking about my Uncle's last words before he died. His eyes turned to me and as they were rolling up toward the back of his head, he let out a long gasp and said, "let 'er rip". I didn't realize what he had meant, but with the whirling white demon soaring recklessly at my forehead that day, it clicked, and there I was, hoping my dying Uncle's words were some sort of sign from God that today was my day, that in front of all these people (all African-Americans by the way, so the pressure was on. They love baseball) I would be a fucking hero. I heard the catcher whisper in my ear, "Swing. Swing you little cutie." I licked me chops and turned back, winking at him as I unloaded all of my 14-year old boy strength in a twirl of the bat. The crack of the wood, the sound of thunder, a hotdog with mayo being jammed down my throat by my naked dad the night before in our backyard under the stars. This was my mother fucking moment. That ball was flying, and here I was just watching, like I didn't even know what my next move would be. And not just my next move in the game, running from base to base, but my next life move. I had all the time in the world, and I had my whole existence laid out in front of me like a McDonald's menu board, begging me to get a mcchicken with mayo so I could squeeze the buns and let the white creamy sauce plop into my dad's hair like shampoo. "soak it all in there dad" I'd whisper as I licked the sides of my McChicken. My baseball coach came running out from the dugout, his name was Bernice and he was a monster of a man, totally huge, totally black, totally clueless to why I just stood there with my jaw looking like it was going to stay frozen forever. The catcher swiftly removed his protective headgear, unleashing the most epic afro I'd ever seen. "Run to first base" he said. I looked into the crowd for daddy. "daddy!" I started screaming as loud but as feminine as possible. "Daddy, I hit the baseball. I did it daddy. I did it!" So here I was, fourteen, pale-white like bird shit dropping into snow, playing a game white people hate, out of my comfort zone, only white kid on the rooster, standing at home plate with a pink bat in my hands and a bandana around my left leg, watching a beautiful mayonaisse-colored baseball that I'd hit sail out of the park. How long could this moment last? How long would the African-American community accept me as one of their own? My team toppled me as I rounded third and touched homeplate, securing our first victory of the season. We hit the showers before we even shook hands with the losing squad.

And that brings me to today. I'll never forget. I'll never forget 9/11. I'll never forget Rodney King. I'll never forget John Wilkes Booth. I'll never forget running to the gas station wearing nothing but skin-tight underwear to buy 2 cartons of milk. I can't forget, because I know that everytime I step up to the plate, I'll feel it coming down on top of me like a piano falling from the sky. I was looking forward my whole life, but now I'm looking back. I'm looking back, remembering my uncle's lips as they pushed out all I would ever need to hear for as long as I would live: "Kiss me, kiss your sweet uncle's moist lips one last time."

Sorry for the long delay in posting. CR blogs have been being mean to me. So I have a little backlog of posts coming up, so keep checking out this space in the coming weeks!

In poker especially, being results-oriented is looked down upon as wrong or negative. Winning a big pot but making some -EV call pf will be frowned upon regardless of the outcome. But what if the outcome is more important than the path taken? People knowledgable in a game will always criticize something they see as fundamentally flawed, regardless if it works. But I truly believe this is a lot of times backwards thinking.

For example: Kevin Martin is a professional basketball player. However, put this guy in a gym with professional scouts, give him no identity to their knowledge, and let him shoot a jumpshot. I promise you, regardless if it goes in, every one of them will criticize it. "Bad form", "Bad technique", "Shoots from the left side", "Wrong". We could ask them if it was an okay shot since it went in, and they would give us that good old answer that, "You're being results-oriented". Then let him shoot 100 more times, and as he makes about 90-95 of them, let them keep telling them he's doing it wrong. How can a guy doing something so fundamentally wrong, being doing it so right? Be doing it so successfully? Isn't it entirely possible that fundamentally flawed is less important than results? If someone is playing fundamentally-flawed poker but has over a 10-year span a winrate of 5bb/100 and $100k winnings, isn't it possible that fundamental poker might just not be the best idea for them? Could their flawed strategy actually be optimal in every instance they are at their table?

Are the 2010 Super Bowl Champion New Orleans Saints a legitimate champion, or are we being results-oriented? A turning point in them winning the game came when they elected to go for an onside-kick after halftime, a play that has approximately 1 in 4 chance of working. Can we tell them that they're champs, but they don't really deserve it as they played the game "wrong?"

For games that are completely 100% math-based, being results-oriented is actually wrong, as you're mathematically making bad plays and it will even out over time. However, poker is not 100% math-based. There are endless variations and infinite ways to be creative vs whichever opponents you face.

In Nikachu's most recent video, he talks about a 6-max regular playing a nitty style, and not adapting to aggressive regulars by loosening up. His stats were given as 14/7. I promise you so many poker coaches will tell you he's "too tight", yet he has a winrate of 10bb/100 and $200k in winnings. Do we really believe that he'd be winning at a higher percentage if he played a proper TAG style?

I hope my thoughts on this inspire at least a few people to listen to what's working best for them, in any aspect of life, no matter how many people tell you it's wrong. And I leave you with this quick true story: in 1966, a man named Don Haskins was appointed head coach of a college basketball team Texas Western. Against the wisdom of others, he recruited african-america players who he was told "lacked fundmantals" among other things, yet they went on to use their "flawed" abilities to win the national championship. Maybe we're just being results-oriented, maybe they just got lucky and solid fundamentals will prevail. Maybe. Maybe.

Update:

25NL - 8948 hands, 4.53 bb/100
10NL - 21,493 hands, 7.21 bb/100

I honestly feel I'm on a pretty big downswing, though my stats don't really indicate it. Every session I play lately is losing or breakeven, and when I finally am up a few bi's in a session, I will lose them back. The most +ev spots vs massive fish are not going my way. I'm trying to stay focused as difficult as it is. Playing a lot of 10NL because I don't trust my apartment's internet for 25nl. I like the way I'm playing lately at least, if that means anything.

This goal failed...unfortunately I have dipped down to 900 recently. I feel I'm improving and will keep working hard on my goal of 1300 eventually I will attain

Let me preface this entry by saying that I went through the American school system in grades k-12, so my opinion here is based off personal experience and research done through the internet and library.

You know what the biggest problem with the world is today? Well, that's a MONSTER question. Let's start with something simpler and work our way up. How many pies has your household bought this year? Think about it...can't be more than 5-10 can it? And why not? What is so important for you to buy instead of a warm blueberry treat? Thin, flaky crust in a perfect circle, filled with nutritious fruit. And yet, you can't manage to consume more than 5-10? Shame on us as consumers, and as humans.

There are starving children across the country, and here we are DECLINING TO EAT PIE?

pre-black friday I was playing 25NL on Stars. Post-bf, I decided to deposit $25 on Colt Poker and play 4NL. With bonuses I've tripled my roll. The game is ridiculously easy, but I think I have plenty of room for improvement. HUD's don't work on the site I don't believe, so I've had to pay really good attention to my tables, forcing me to play 2 tables/time.

According to PTR, I'm at about 10bb/100. If anyone knows about what bb/100 is attainable at these stakes and how many buy-ins I'll need to move to 10NL safely plz comment and let me know.

I'm having a good time playing now that I feel my game has improved a lot from what it once was. I still enjoy watching videos and browsing hands in the micro NL section cuz I feel that helps me get better. Hopefully I can keep building a roll and moving up!

This is it ladies and gentlemen, my final post before Swampocalypse takes over. I love you all.

-Teamwillow

It was the middle of the school year and I was having trouble making friends. I decided that the best way to make new friends would be get invited to a pajama party. I had heard from my sister that her first slumber party was the best day of her life. They gossiped, stayed up half the night, drank milkshakes, and played board games. I knew I had to have a party, or at least position myself to be invited to one.

One day at school, I was at the principal's office. "Hi Principal Wesley." I said. "Are you finished with the morning announcements?" "Actually," He said, "I'm looking for someone to do them for me. I have to run to the bathroom quick. Whaddya say Casey?" "You bet!" I said. I sat down at his desk in front of the microphone. I saw a drawer was halfway open, so I reached in and discovered files with students' last names on them. I looked for birthdays until I found an upcoming one. "Jimmy Baxter. Birthday in one week." I said to myself. I put the file back and read the announcements.

Later that day in the cafeteria, I saw Jimmy eating a Twinkie. He was sitting between two girls. I brought my lunch tray to the table. "Afternoon James Thomas Baxter." I said. I had recently learned his middle name was Thomas from his file. "Can I help you?" He asked. "Maybe you can, maybe you can't." I circled the table slowly. "Jimmy, we've known each other for two years now, and it seems that maybe we don't know each other as well as we should. For example, you probably don't know that I have a little brother named Pete." "Actually I did know that, my little brother knows Pete." He said. "Or that we have a dog named Hank." "Knew that too, from Pete." "But maybe none of that matters. Maybe we know too much about each other, but all I know is that we should maybe take it to the next level. Word around the school is you're having a sleepover party for your birthday." "I'm not." As he said this, the girl sitting next to him whispered something into his ear. He looked up and said to me, "Wait, you mean the birthday party slumber party? Yea, I'm having it this Friday. You got your invitation didn't you?" "Surprisingly, no!" I said. "Well, you'll be getting one soon I'm sure." The girls next to him giggled.

I went home that night and combed my hair in front of the mirror. I thought about all the neat things we would do at the sleepover party. From the cake, the opening presents, the giggling, the gossip, board games, and if we get tired, we can all squeeze together on Jimmy's floor and sleep. My sister came into the bathroom as I daydreamed. "What gives Casey? You've been brushing your hair for hours." She said. "I'm going to Jimmy Baxter's sleepover party. I want my hair to be perfect." "Congratulations about the party Casey. You're brushing it wrong by the way." "Whaddya mean? How am I brushing it wrong?" "You have to do it with certain stroke tempos. For example, since you have hair four inches of length, you have to time your strokes to a four-stroke syllable. So you say a word or two that has four syllables, and make sure that your stroke finishes on the end of the syllable. That way you have perfect timing." "Gee thanks." I said. I thought of the first thing I could with four syllables - Ji-mmy Bax-ter. "Jimmy Baxter, Jimmy Baxter, Jimmy Baxter" I said as I stroked. This would be the best slumber party ever, I thought to myself.

The next day, I made a list. I started by separating the list down the middle into two sections. The list was addressed to Jimmy Baxter, and it was things I wanted him to have at the party and things I didn't want at the party. In red pen, I listed things I didn't want: Water balloons, television, soda, potato chips, toy cars, fixed bedtime, girls, little brothers or sisters, or music. On the list of things I wanted, I wrote: Sunglasses, pancakes for breakfast, Ghost stories, raffles, gossiping, biking, ice cream, cake. I ran the letter out to the mailbox.

As I got to school, everyone was laughing and pointing at a picture. As I moved closer, I saw that the picture was an enlarged copy of me in my underwear, cowboy boots and cowboy hat. I had dressed up as a cowboy in my sophomore year for Halloween. Someone must have taken the picture from my mom's photo album. As I looked around, Jimmy Baxter was laughing at the picture as well. When he saw me he approached. "There's your invitation to my sleepover party Casey." He said. I smiled. I just knew he would invite me. As he walked away, I noticed the picture had no date or time. "What time's the party at?" I yelled at Jimmy, but he was already gone. With a smile on my face, I grabbed my school bag and ran inside, eager for the day to begin.

In third period, I told my English teacher that I had to use the bathroom. It was a lie, but I felt it was necessary. I went to the math class, where I knew Jimmy Baxter had third period algebra. I knocked on the door. As I entered, I felt the eyes of thirty students looking straight at me. Mrs. Ellis asked if there was something I needed. I spotted Jimmy Baxter sitting in the back. I marched to the front of the room. I turned to the class. I pulled out a piece of paper. I started to read, "Ten things I hate about slumber parties. I hate the wait for an invitation, when an invitation isn't there. I hate it when you play with a toy car, I hate dragon lair. I hate playing army in combat boots and playing read my mind, I hate sleepovers so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme. I hate the way a party's always bright, when finally on our beds we lie, I hate it when we all laugh, even worse than when we cry. I hate it when we're all around and when we play ball, but mostly I hate the way I don't hate slumber parties, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all." I took a bow, tears streaming down my face, and ran out of the room.

As I left for my car after school that day, I noticed a sleeping bag in the front seat of my car. It had camouflage on it, and a bunch of cool tiger stripes. Jimmy Baxter came up behind me. "Nice huh." He said. "A camo bag?" I asked in disbelief. "Is it for me?" "Ya I thought you could use it, you know, when we have our sleepover." He went on to explain that he'd been a real jerk, and that he was actually planning on not having a sleepover party. "You can't just buy me a sleeping bag every time you screw up you know." I said, lightheartedly. "Ya I know" he said, "but then there's always blankets, quilts, and who knows, maybe even one day a pillow."