Originally Posted by prahsk87
Why would Rast still sell pieces of himself if he satellited in? Or was he referring to pieces he had agreed to sell before he won the satellite?
Re: Rast - big-bet mixed to Burning
I think Rast was describing his investment strategy with regards to any tournament he enters. He majored in math, is pretty much a scientist when it comes to poker (think Economics 101). Rather than simply running it up, as many younger players with a similar bankroll to him would have, he sold off a significant amount of his action in the HRB.* This was done he said to reduce variance.
Rast actually hinted that he may have had an obligation to sell pieces... I think he said he agreed to sell people who took action in the 2014 $1m One Drop at 5% markup, pieces at face value in this year's SHR tournament.
Then Rast unexpectedly won both the 25k satty and the actual $500K - awesome. However much he wanted to keep more of himself, some part was agreed upon in terms of swaps (reduces variance) and pieces. And then his father wanted a piece, and some guy took 9% (same % taken of Esfandiari in 2012) for luck. How could he say no?
I think the only one who got a piece of Rast in the $25k satty was Gruissem. Run $2,300 into $32,000 through .35% of Rast, donated by Rast? That is how you do it without $25k I guess. Now at a say 5% markup, would this be a good investment? I'm sure some ppl can do the math.
* I like the acronym HRB for Super High Roller Bowl, somehow.
The interview segment talked about is number 4: "Brian Rast talks about his investment strategy for the Aria $500k and how winning the $25k satty did not make him take a recklessly large piece of himself."
This is the playlist for the entire interview.
Usual Poker closes shop for the season. Current writing is at EnduranceWriter. Unless an interesting poker interview comes along with Brian Rast, or someone.
I thank those who have, since my time covering poker has lapsed, followed me here and are mildly curious to see what I pull out of my ass, writing wise.
It is an exciting time to be an author, there are a lot of platforms reaching maturity that will enable the next (r)evolution - the fabric-driven community, where ability of creatives to one-click buy and sell, put out a donation box, is integrated.
My interests may not intersect with everyone in the poker community, but I am relieved to find, after the Usual Poker project (2015 edition), that my instincts have proved correct... there are some outside-the-box thinkers who are not complete adrenaline junkies, have an appreciation for the subtle, multilayered storyline. I've met some at the table - have promised myself I will not play another tournament until a reasonable benchmark of success as writer has been reached.
How's that for intention? (Eat you heart out Negreanu.)
On the occasion of release of a 1989 acoustic demo of Pennyroyal Tea.
What I find interesting about Kurt Cobain is that he came from a pretty fucked up place and was somehow casting about for a new (not always happy) reality. He was chasing the sun in his own way. He couldn't find a way out - ended the mess with a gun and left a muddle of original thought amidst the noise & desperation.
To snatch a few seconds of inspiration from the mess, that is why I am chasing the sun.
Meanwhile my protagonist Kyle in Cowachunga has a bad case of the Subterranean Homesick Blues. Fortunately there is a Mustang and an open road to rectify the situation.
From Cowachunga, two weeks earlier than Chapter 1.
The intricate streets of San Francisco left far behind, the Mustang slid through the Sierra foothills with quiet authority––its engine a continuous rumble, an insistent request for acceleration. The muscle car had at first seemed a relic of a bygone era, an overcharged cough under predatory hood. Now on the unfurling two-lane road its true purpose was revealed––eight cylinder domination.
Kyle half-regretted the way they had tied up with excess horsepower. Dylan had been on his laptop in the hostel lobby, content to select the cheapest option, a Ford Focus. Kyle had looked over his friend’s shoulder and said “looks like there’s also a convertible. Not much diff.” Dylan had latched firmly onto Kyle’s suggestion, preferring power over sociability and mileage. Sure enough, they had wound up with a vehicle that, on the first dozen or so city streets, verged on absolute disaster. Abrupt stops at traffic lights on thoroughfares shared with cable cars, an ominous rumbling under the hood sending pedestrians scurrying.
Now the muscle car was in its element. Despite reservations, Kyle had to admit that there was something exhilarating about the thrust. If fear & loathing were twin guideposts, the very concept of a road trip was ingrained in this Mustang’s DNA. With the top down, it attained something close to driving perfection.
Tonight with luck they would be in Vegas––it had been a late start, thanks to a late night with two Dutch girls met at the Green Tortoise. Shots of absinthe mixed with an unknown combination of fluids in a North Beach dive––the proprietor calling it foggy nipple in sinister 3am whisper, looking down his handlebar mustache. That morning Kyle had understood the name, immersed in a foggy insistence of flesh. Fingering his supple partner in the too-short bed carpentered into a Victorian picture window. Its cramped dimensions fair price for a 180 degree view of Broadway and ‘40s all-night strip club quintessence. Her name... what was her name? Marie. Dylan had been in the bunk just feet away with… oh fuck, what was it?
Opening his eyes after an all-too-brief nap, Kyle took the In-N-Out cup from sticky cupholder. He creased the now square cup and tipped it at an angle––a last trickle of ice and watery root beer navigating his throat. The grade steepened, Dylan in the drivers seat, tying off ribbons of road with tourniquet precision. Pulling the curves at just the right moment, inches from barrier and significant drop. Letting up just enough to allow further acceleration.
This is writing as I go, without a net. The agent cannot sell my first novel, I take matters into my own hands.