If you haven't heard by now, the Excalibur poker room has fired all its dealers and is preparing to turn into an all digital poker room. That's right. The place where I cut my teeth on $2-$6 spread limit is turning into a live-online poker room. No old school dealers. No cranky floor people. No dirty chips. The Castle is crumbling.

I knew my old friend was dying the night we Stormed the Castle with about 40 people. It started fine when we greased the floor guy to open a table just for us. By the end of the night, though, we had turned the room upside down and I was sarcastically apologizing to the floor for having too much fun.

Over the next few years, watching the Excalibur Hospice Experience just got to be depressing. The room changed locations and dispatched with the big screen TV. The spread limit games disappeared in favor of more standard white-chip games. The floor people became increasingly cranky and no longer appreciated our business. It stopped being a fun place more than a year ago. In just a few days, it will be no more.

It's as easy admission to concede The Castle had become a novelty item for most of the old crew. If we wanted to play serious poker, we went to MGM, the Venetian, or Caesars. The Excalibur is where we landed late night for irresponsible chip slinging and debauchery.

Still, like the high school girl who first taught us how to be bad, the Castle maintained a hold on a nostalgic corner of our dirty memories. From my brother, Dr. Jeff, leading a room full of cowboys in the scream of "Monkey!" every time Whiplash the dog came on the big screen to G-Rob falling on his knees in yet another lost wheel spin prop, I had more laughs in that poker room than any other.

My Castle Highlights

* Getting a guy from Albania to talk like Teddy KGB while simultaneously singing the Albania song from Cheers.

* Whiplash the Monkey

* Meeting Iggy for the first time

* Eating horrible not-gumbo with Al from the player buffet while Felicia Lee picked off every one of my tells.

* Winning $1,800 in a $1/$3 game with Spaceman, Bill Rini, and Pokerati Dan. Still sorry about that, Bill.

People literally ran from across the Rio floor to her side. Gamblers left their still-active machines empty and pushed in to stand as witness to the winnings as they climbed from 1,000 to 2,000, to finally 8,000 credits. Hands fell on her back, simultaneous congratulations and comfort.

I stood there as well as the woman sobbed with neither ability nor desire to stop. It was God in that machine. It was clear. The lights, the ringing, the sobbing.

I did the math. On her 5-cent video poker machine, the woman had just cleared a sob-inducing, God-beseeching $400.

***

A couple of days later, I overslept and woke up at 11:24am. Due at the Rio at noon, I took a quick shower and ran downstairs. The cab line was long and I made undesirable decision to make the quick-hoof across the street, through the Gold Coast, across another street, and through the Rio casino to the convention center.

As I stood on the corner at Flamingo, a car horn beeped. I looked left and there sat my angel of the morning. She was an event planner who did some work for my client. She offered me a ride, and already sweating and late, I took it. Barely awake, I sat behind my shades and made small talk in the rental car's air conditioning. Traffic was horrible, even for the short ride to the Rio. The driver threw her head over her right shoulder to check her blind spot. Just as she was turning back forward, I watched as the car 30 feet in front of us slammed into the back of another car. I barely said a word as my morning's chariot got on the brake and stopped just short of the wreck.

Minutes later, still sweating, I tried to barrel through the Main Event crowds and make it to my desk. Along the way, I heard the yelling.

"Jerry Yang prayed for that six! Jerry Yang prayed for that six to make his straight and God sent it to him!"

The man wore the ubiquitous John 3:16 shirt and didn't stop yelling as people shoved by.

"Jerry's mother prayed for that six!" he screamed.

***

It had been several months since I had watched Ricky Fohrenbach stand by the final table of the 2008 PokerStars Caribbean Adventure and beg "One time!" He had jacks against tens all-in pre-flop.

One time?
The kid knew how to play poker. His praying, no matter where it was directed, seemed unnecessary. It was like praying to survive wisdom teeth removal when you were going in for brain surgery the next day.

No surprise, Fohrenbach's jacks held up one time. The next time, all in against ElkY's AK, the jacks were worthless.

One time, indeed.

***

I took my kid to see his favorite musician yesterday. It's a guy who sings songs about Mount St. Helens, Pissing Outside, and words that start with Cat. As we stood in the 90-degree heat and watched my kid smile, the guy behind the guitar said he once had someone ask him, "Do you have any songs about God?"

The answer: "Well, they're all about God."

***

The Devil walked into the Rio late one night during the 2008 World Series and stood in a dark corner. His long black hair fell down over his black leather jacket.

He stood by himself and surveyed the floor.

It occurred to me that night, after way too many nights of thinking about the guy, that the Devil wasn't merely surveying the floor. He was looking across his domain.

Wayne Newton walked in on the first day of the World Series this year to offer the "Shuffle up and deal!" proclamation.

I wish I'd thought to ask him if he had any songs about the devil.

I had slipped out of the giant party at Rain as Dita Von Teese was splashing around in giant champagne glass. It has been another sweaty mess where I was one of a few people not playing the fool and not getting too drunk on free booze. I was a full mental mess and immersed in the kind of self-pity that is both embarrassing and all too common. It was a full-blown cliff-diving Otis that greased the floor guy $20 to put me in the room's big game, the list be damned.

The big game was only a $1,000-cap $2/$5 game, so it was nothing in terms of the money I had in my pocket at the time. It was probably only a need to be in the middle of the action that made me want to be there in the first place.

As I stood waiting for the first open seat, I watched the tourist take pictures of Chris Moneymaker and Jim Worth. These are both guys with whom I've spent a fair amount of professional time, my writing going alongside their playing. It would be nothing note-worthy to have played with them. It was simply something I wanted to do at that moment. Plus, it was The Thing going on in the room at the time. A life of chronicling The Thing of the moment instead of participating in it has left me wanting, if ever so briefly, and in ever-so meaningless fashion, to participate.

A few friends wandered by and said hi. Moneymaker asked me how I'd gotten on in a similar game a few nights before. It was a brief and meaningless chat, but one that drew the attention of a few people who were crowded along the rail. People started to look at me and talk about me as if I wasn't there.

"Who is that?" someone asked.

"His name is Brad," someone else said.

"He's a pro player," someone else said.

This conversation was repeated around me like a game of Telephone until it reached the two guys who stood immediately on my right.

The big one was a tall--no, huge--burly guy with a graying beard. His name was Paul. Paul Eskimo Clark, in fact.

He asked his friend, "Who is that?"

It was a question he could've turned to his left and asked me directly. Instead, he asked the guy on his right.

"His name is Brad," the guy said. "He's a pro."

Eskimo grunted. "Never heard of him."

And that was the defining moment for this last trip to Las Vegas

There's something to be said for being us. That is, there is something to be said for constant table chatter in the pit. It's, for better or worse, a distracting sideshow of blue conversation, massive money swings, and wild screaming. It's obnoxious, but by the point we get there, we simply don't care.

It paid off this time, though, in the form of dealers who just blindly ignored our losing hands and paid us off. Pai Gow push? Pay the men. Absolute losers in Texas Hold'em Bonus? Ship it. G-Rob and I alone probably swung $1,000 together on bets we should've lost but got paid on anyway. Who said the economy is tanking?

It's hard to be an honest man in Vegas. I had to catch myself from pointing out my losing hands. To fight the inherent honesty, I just looked at G-Rob. He's experienced in this sort of deception. One smirk from him was all I needed.

The dealers may be friendly, but the pit boss is always watching. When Blood went on his massive run at the Palms, he once won a huge hand, gestured like he would soon own the casino, and screamed out, "Call the Maloof Brothers!"

The pit boss, a dead ringer for Lorne Michaels, just deadpanned, "We'll be fine." Damned cooler. Within half hour of his arrival, Blood realized his run was over and stacked up.

Speaking of coolers, one night at Green Valley Ranch, I went on a tear at Three-Card Poker, a game I'd never played before. I hit a big bet with trip queens. Again, it set us on a run toward obnoxiousness that had our dealer flustered, paying off losers, and generally fucking up at every turn.

"You okay?" we asked.

"No," she said. "A friend of mine found her son dead this week."

I'm pretty sure they don't teach that kind of conversation in dealer school.

The pit boss noticed the dealer was in no shape for us. She brought in the cooler of coolers and we bolted. Thank goodness for every other table game in that joint.

See, I said I'm here to work and not play. And that's true. In past years, I've probably spent four or five nights out of every seven playing something...poker, Pai Gow, blackjack, something. It's what Wil and Ryan described in 2006 as "a regretful evening."

This time, there has been very little of any of that. But, I've been fortunate in what I have played. In just a few hours of playing, I'm up about $3,500 playing poker and $1,200 playing table games. For me, that's pretty damned good, which is why I'm probably done for the trip. It can't go anywhere but down from here.

How well am I running? Well, I turned psychic.

Late night at GVR, I got suckered into a poker game. Somebody started prop betting on the Amy the Dealer's age. I set the line at 29, because I absolutely rule at setting lines on things that don't matter. I wish I'd taken big wagers, because I would've got it all. Who needs the over or under when you nail the line like that?

I wasn't done, however. People then started guessing the girl's middle name. Most people guessed Marie. I shook my head, tilted it for a second, and said, "No, she looks more like an Amy Katherine."

I wish I had a picture of that girl's face as a reminder of the night I was psychic.

She accused me of being a stalker.

Finally, while Blood and G-Rob were tilting an entire poker room, CJ offered to show me his Roulette and Craps systems. I've played both games before but never with any success. My favorite moment out of that hour was me stacking piles of chips and questioning how in the world I could possibly be winning and how CJ could possibly be this smart.

The croupier just looked up and said with a straight face, "He's telling you right."

Thanks, ma'am.

The Arrival

Lucky in life, unlucky in flights.

I think that's probably the slogan I live by. My problems on planes have been long discussed. This time, my flight to connect in Charlotte was diverted to Greensboro because we were running out of fuel as we waited for a storm to clear. After an hour on the ground, we were finally headed back to Charlotte and eventually to Vegas. I lost at least a couple of hours of gambling time... maybe that's a good thing.

I stepped off the plane a tired man. It only took one breath of the energy-infused Vegas air to change that. Or maybe it was the sound of the Wheel of Fortune slot machine which triggered my brain to boost my adrenaline.

Coming down the escalator, I saw three massive billboards side-by-side: Bette Middler, Elton John and Cher. I was 12% more gay by the time I got to the bottom. I stopped and stared at the sign for Bite just to return to normal.

The Visit

It's a blur, but isn't every visit it to Vegas? I was there for about 66 hours. I spent about 20 hours sleeping. But those are just numbers. Numbers like this:

The house edge on the first game I played in Vegas, Texas Hold 'Em Bonus: 2.037%

That's not so bad, especially since the bets go up during each hand which brings down the element of risk to just 0.5335%. Of course, we're degenerates. We needed action. That meant shelling out even more for the BONUS bet. The house edge on that bet is 8.5405%. That's a bad bet.

I lost money. Bad Blood cashed out ahead by more than $3000.

Or this:

Odds my flopped two pair with K5 would double up against the jackass who called me with top pair: 83%

The 5 on the turn sealed it and the table ATM pushed nearly $700 my way. Before the end of the night, he would double up Bad Blood and he would get in a three-way all-in with Otis with the sickest river card I saw all trip. I'll let him tell you that story. In just 2 1/2 hours, the three of us took almost five grand off that table. Blind monkeys were crushing that game. G-Rob dropped $1500.

Or this:

Number of times my set lost to a lower pair that became quads: 2

Telling bad beat stories is no fun. And no one wants to hear them anyway. Thankfully, the first time it happened it was a $4/$8 limit game and the second time was the $340 nightly tournament at the Rio while I was already short-stacked. Losing to quads in a NL game would be much more costly.

The Departure

All trips to Vegas come to an end, and most of them at least a day after they should. Sin City has a way of getting your heart pumping at the beginning just so it can suck the life out of you by the end. These casinos don't just take your money, they trade on your soul. You rarely feel the same at the end as you did at the beginning.

And yet I can't wait to get back. I love it there... even when I'm hating it.

ENVY

I got up at 3AM EDT here in G-Vegas on Thursday morning. I did 2 hours of TV and a few hours of unusually uninteresting work before leaving for my flight. It is a 2 hour drive to Atlanta. It was a 4.5 hour flight to Las Vegas, landing at 4:15PM PDT.

That's a good long day.

I stopped at the Rio. I met Otis. I met Badblood and Pauly, just back from a trip to the strippers. I met Change100. She's looking good.

By 6PM PDT, Badblood and I were playing poker at the MGM. As always, the players were lousy. Granted, we were playing $1/$2NL, which is always a soft game, but the players at MGM are almost always especially dumb. I won a couple hundred. Blood lost $500.

Blood was having a difficult day.

Otis called and we went back to the Palms. Otis brought my bag which I left with him after the flight. We sat down at Pai Gow.

I got crushed. Blood did too. Otis was injured but not crushed.

In fact, Blood was so badly tilted after several buyins at Pai Gow, he left to play and lose at roulette insead.

He accomplished both goals.

Then he came and lost more money at Pai Gow.

I was getting killed but Blood was getting angry. He was about to get a lot angrier still. We went to the silliest game on the casino floor... Super Texas Holdem Bonus!

Here's another game with a "bonus" round.

Badblood buys in for a few hundred... loses... and gets so angry he's stopped talking to anyone.

I've developed a great deal of concern for my friend at this point.

He buys in again... and loses again. Now I'm worried.

He buys in again... and now... I'm not worried... I'm flat out jealous.

Within 2 hours of his last $300 buyin, Badblood has a stack of $4000. He's playing any two cards blind for $200 each. He wins every time.

Our dealer, a Romanian woman, is so amazed she refuses to leave when her shift is over... brushing her replacement away.

Badblood stands, pounds the table, yells, "I'm pushing the button! I can NOT lose! I drink your milkshake!"

And he wins again.

Badblood gets moodier and angrier as he wins.

"Everyone is against me!," he screams, "and I will drink EVERYONE'S milkshake!"

He can not be stopped.

Once he cashes out, up at least $2500 for the -EV night, Otis and I decide to stop playing and losing by playing the to the best of our ability. Now we're playing blind $200 hands as well.

And we start winning too.

Before long Otis and I have recouped our losses.

It's now 6AMPDT. I haven't eaten or slept since getting up for work 30 hours earlier. There is only one thing to do. $2/$5NL poker at the Palms.

That was a big mistake for me. It was a continued heater for Blood and Otis.

Blood wins another $1K. Otis wins big too, bluffing me off a big hand. I'm not not only envious of my closest friends in the world. I actually hate them a little.

I cashed out and went to bed at 8AM PDT. They kept playing. The donkeys at the NL game are just handing out money. Handing it to everyone but me.

When I flopped 2 pair with A3o, I bet $300 into a $250 pot. The foreign guy with an untraceable accent called. On the turn the board read, A349. I pushed an he called. He shows 25o. I am stacked.

My money and the rest of his would be divided among my friends.

C'est la vegas.

LAS VEGAS IS A STRIP MALL

There was a time, before every town had an Interstate off-ramp, when naming a city said as much about a different culture within as its location on the globe.

Now everywhere is a clone.

In G-Vegas, the big strip, Treebark Road, has all the big chains. It has a P.F. Chang's and a Carrabas. It has a Home Depot and a Wal-Mart. It is 5 lanes wide and could, except for a different, essentially randomized, distribution be any street anywhere in America.

Las Vegas is no different.

There are 10 different shows all branded by the same sterile Comedy Central comics. Ten more headlined by your local adult contemporary FM. Even the "hip and trendy" joints are sterilized copies of something corporate and stale. Wolfgang Puck has a half-dozen restaurants, many of them in the half-dozen Harrah's brand casinos.

Those casinos all have the same number of "Wheel of Fortune" slot machines, just in case you're jonesing for the 7PM slot on your local TV dial.

On Sunday, before heading to the airport, BadBlood and I ate breakfast at McDonalds. That was after we stopped to buy his wife a C.S.I. Las Vegas T-Shirt that was on sale in a dozen different stores. The stores themselves no different than the garbage stores that line the streets in Myrtle Beach, New York City, and San Francisco.

Even the people look the same. Las Vegas hipsters have a uniform. White, pin-striped, button down shirt... blue jeans... square toed shoes. Everyone in Las Vegas dresses like Otis at a karaoke bar.

Las Vegas has a four-story M&M store.

Las Vegas is hot asphalt and second-rate chains.

LAS VEGAS IS A NOVELTY ACT

The casinos themselves are a knowing act of self-parody. The goofy dark ages castle at "Excalibur" is a silly mash-up of Arthurian legend, fairy tales, and neon. Across the street at "New York, New York" there is a Manhattan skyline with a tribute outside to the victims of 9/11.

"New York, New York" is exactly what people from Des Moines think Manhattan is like.

On Friday night, our party had a meta-Vegas experience. We saw a parody lounge act at the "Green Valley Ranch". I will say the "Steel Panther" show was one of the highlights of our trip.

"Panther" is a mocking and somewhat condescending tribute to '80s hair band rock so convincing that only people who actually do love the music could pull it off. They did. Down to the matching leopard skin tights.

Otis, BadBlood, and I found a spot in the front of the stage and showed devil dorns to Bon Jovi, Poison, and the original tune "Asian Hooker." Luckbox hung out near the back because parody rock "isn't his thing."

Professional Poker Player, and one of the few genuine people in Vegas, Brandon Schaefer offered to buy our drinks. We accepted.

During one of the many pauses in the music for wacky and hilarious banter (sample: "Hey dude! Check out the boobies on that girl!") the singer and lead guitar turned their focus to me.

"Hey! Look at that tall guy in the Target outfit!"

"Dude, did you just get off work at Target?"

"You look like you just got dressed after a half-off sale at Sears." [Luckbox edit: I believe the line was, "You look like what happens when a Sears explodes."]

Noticing Otis beside me, they continued:

"And look, his gay boyfriend is here too!"

Good Times.

Again, parody of imitation is actually entertaining. I loved the show.

LAS VEGAS IS A FAT SUBURBAN MAN

My concert appearance did stand out. I dressed the way I dress. Everyone else was looking far more hip, including my new gay boyfriend.

At the Palms Casino, home of the best looking women on the planet, I stood out even more. I wouldn't have looked more out of place as a background dancer in a 50-cent video.

But everyone there WAS like me.

Vacationers in Vegas are trying hard for something that isn't there. Unlike a vacation at the beach, where no matter how much you over-estimate the adventure to come there is actuallly an ocean, Vegas promises something that was never possible at all.

After two days of partying like a 21-year-old kid with a fat wallet and no goals, I spent Sunday sober and sore. I played blackjack late that night with Badblood and Luckbox and watched those that played along.

First, silent rich guy and obnoxious large-breasted hooker.

Second, two twenty something drunk girls doing their best to look carefree.

The hooker seemed more honest. Everyone knew who she was.

The falsity of everything in Vegas leads its visitors to believe that they are characters in the big play. They act the role they felt determined to re-enact long before they arrived.

It sinks in soon that only their dreams are well-cast.

They, themselves, are as young again as the Rio is like Brazil.

It always takes at least two days. The dream dies. We are left without it. Inside the hole where our dreams had been, there is only another hole. It won't help to double down.

Of course,

I had a blast.

My long week actually started last night, at the company softball game. I would imagine Otis and GRob might be able to talk about my softball prowess, or lack thereof. I think I'm pretty solid. I've got an above average glove that can play just about anywhere in the field. My bat is below average, but I'm adept at going the opposite way, and that at least gets me on base.

That's not to say I haven't had my "Not Top Plays" moments. I broke my toe at a company game in G-Vegas when a sinking line drive dipped under my glove and hit my foot. (I did manage to finish the game.) A few years later, at a company game in Knox-Vegas, the first baseman short-armed my throw from short and I nailed a woman in the side of the head. She quit the league.

Our current league attempts to even the gender playing field by forcing the guys to bat with their opposite hand. I'm not exactly the best hitter anyway, so this didn't help. My strategy is to hammer the ball into the ground and get it rolling towards third. I can usually beat the throw. Yeah, it's that bad. The good news is that Lady Luck swings a hot bat. She's clearly the best hitting woman, and one of the best hitters, on the team. It wasn't enough, however, to get us the win last night.

I got home by 10:30pm, was in bed a little before midnight, and was awakened by a call from work at about 2am telling me 11 people had been shot. I didn't think I heard it right. Thankfully, that number was high, but it was a rather tragic day nonetheless.

I'll be very happy when I've put E-Vegas behind me for a few days. It's been a long time since I've been to Sin City. Otis and Bad Blood are already there. G-Rob gets in a few hours before me. Then we're all back in Vegas yet again. I have plans... I'm just not sure what they are yet. If you're fortunate enough to join us, you can be part of the them. See you there!

I received a dubious reprieve this year. Questions were hashed and rehashed, decisions were made and remade, and when it all came out of the oven, I was "granted" a four-week leave from covering the World Series of Poker. This life change caused no small amount of consternation for this humble writer. More than half of my pscyhe was comforted by the change. It meant four more weekends to take my family on weekend day trips. It meant I got to watch my boy really swim for the first time. It meant I got to enjoy all of those comforts of home, carnal and otherwise, that I just don't get in Las Vegas.

It also meant that I was forced to do the one thing I hate about any form of writing. I had to watch from the bench for four weeks while Pauly churned out his best content in years, Gene took over my Video Poker quads dominance, and the rest of the elite blogging team in Vegas tore up what is reported to be the best-run Series since it moved to the Rio. I hate being relegated to anything, even if it means I'm relatively more sane for it.

My month-long pass is about to expire. This time next week, I will be up to my uvula in work and grousing like I have for the past several years. The shortened time-frame and additional responsibilities are sure to keep me out of too much trouble, and for that I'm actually thankful. Still, Vegas is a tough place to be for more than five days. For a few days, it's fun to be Hank Rollins' happy asshole. Any more than that and it becomes an amber-soaked zombie walk through one's personal hell.

As I wrote these few paragraphs, I went back and reviewed my postings from Vegas 2005-2007. I considered a brief retrospective. Then I decided against it.

I am a different person this year. I can't say how or what's changed, but I know I am different. Whether it's because I will be there for a shorter time or whatever has clicked in my head, I'm optimistic about the survivability of this trip. I actually feel like it will be successful, whatever that means.

I write this now so I can look back on it in three weeks when a normal life seems like a memory.

So, Hank, I'm going to Vegas in a few days. Chances are that I will gamble. My hope is that I come out the other side as a non-asshole, life-having, non-dick.

"Hey, baby. The G-Vegas guys are going to Vegas at the end of the month," I told her.

"That sounds like fun... you should go, too," she responded.

And that was that. The good news is that Lady Luck really, really likes the G-Vegas guys since there were such great guests at our wedding. She also knows that despite their proclivity to drunken insanity, that I have a unique ability to weather their storms.

The final details are as such:

I fly out Thursday June 26th, landing in Vegas shortly before midnight.
I fly back Sunday June 29th, leaving Vegas just after 6pm.

That's two and a half days of poker and stupid table games. I may actually even partake of a cold beverage or two. Lady Luck even told me she doesn't care if I hit a strip club, although that's not in the plans.

I'm really looking forward to seeing the hard-working WSOP bloggers (and Michalski). I frankly can't remember the last time I saw Pauly and Change100. I've even heard it's a certain blogger's birthday and I can't imagine why he wouldn't want to celebrate it in Vegas!

My only disappointment is that I won't get a chance to be part of the big blogger gathering kicking off this weekend. Instead, I'll be at the ultimate tourist destination (Mobile, AL) for a news director's conference. Bet you all wish you were there!

And for the rest of you who will be in Sin City at the end of this month...

See you in Vegas!!!!

Option 1: The Lie

Considering we've been married for just a few months now, I'm not sure this is even a reasonable option.

"Hello, Dear, I won't be around a whole lot from June 27th to June 29th. I've got this big work thing going and it's going to keep me really busy."

Running a good bluff is hard. You have to pick the right spot against the right opponent at just the right time. Those of you who have met Lady Luck may know that she's not likely the right opponent and I can assure you this isn't the right time.

Option 2: The Beg

I'm not a proud man.

Option 3: The Trade

This one has promise. I'll simply find out what good friend she'd like to visit and I'll buy her a plane ticket there. It's tit for tat. She likes to travel. I can't imagine this would be the right occassion for her first trip to Vegas, so it's more likely she'd like to go somewhere else.

Option 4: The Kidnapping

On the evening of June 26th, I simply up and disappear. Left behind is just a note suggesting I've been kidnapped and demanding some kind of ransom. I don't think I'm worth a whole lot, so the note could ask for something like $10,000. That would be more than my wife could scrape together in a couple days (especially on a weekend) and give me plenty of time to "escape" my kidnappers by Sunday.

****************

That's the best I got. Maybe you've got something better. I'm really thinking about going with Option 3. My G-Vegas friends can tell you that anything titled "Option 4" is a bad idea. That's a long story. A really long story, and one that should never been told. Nonetheless, something's gotta break right. And if it does, I'll be visiting Sin City for the first time in a long time.

Now about that flight...

AIRFARE

I'm a gloom and doom guy about the state of the economy. Reckless gamblers and greedy investors killed the housing market but real estate will rebound. I'm less hopeful about the oil market. If people pay $4/gallon for gasoline, they have less money to spend on anything else. That sort of thing trickles down to everything eventually. (Unlike Reaganomics, this trickle-down theory isn't based in fantasyland.)

Thus, your hero just spent $800 to get decent flights from G-Vegas to Las Vegas. That's about twice what I paid 2 years ago. It is also an affront to all that is good and decent in the world.

ACCOMODATIONS

As a further sign of Vegas' troubles with room occupancy, I could have added a room at the MGM Grand or a dozen other strip casinos for about $45/night. That's a pretty sharp discount on a regular mid-summer rate. I declined the offer, however, and made plans to sleep on the floor of Otis' room.

Who goes to Vegas to sleep anyway?

That reminds me of a trip to Amsterdam for New Year's Even in 1994/1995.

I went with my then-girlfriend (now Wife) and two college buddies. We bought the airfare on a whim and took a train from the airport to downtown with no plan at all. That first day we crashed in the youth hostel closest to the terminal and then moved to another one called the "Sleep Inn" for the next few days.

The stay at the "Sleep Inn" was about $14 a day but putting actual clean sheets on the rubber mattress each day was another $2. Almost everyone there payed the extra $2 except my buddy Pat who considered it a needless expense. Pat took well over $1000 to Amsterdam but considered $2 for acutal bedsheets "needless."

Pat was an interesting dude.

After 3 days and nights at the hostel, we finished our trip with a few nights at the Amsterdam Hilton. Pat was happy to pay his share for that.

PLANS

Badblood and I always start with a few dozen hours at the MGM Grand. It's our favorite poker room on the strip. So much so, in fact, that after our last trip together 2 years ago we actually discussed how "easy" it would be for us to make a living in that place.

The MGM Grand poker room is SOFT.

We'll probably play silly late night table games with Otis at some point. This is for two reasons:

1) Drunken late night table games are fun.
2) As we are crashing in Otis' room for our trip it does make sense that we'd at least acknowledge his existence at some point during said trip.

It should be espiecially enjoyable this time since, as Otis noted in the pevious post, he's going to be newly on the ground there and won't have the 1,000 yard stare that he usually wears after a few soul crushing weeks on the strip.

Also, evidently, Otis is on a first name basis with the devil. That should be memorable.

GOALS

I'm taking about 5 times what I spent on airfare as my gambling roll this time. That means I'll probably split time at $1/$2 and $2/$5 NL. I hope to roughly double that roll on the trip.

That said, the last several times I've gone to Vegas I've done exactly that... at poker... and then given most of it back in the aforementioned late-night drunken table adventures.

Last time it was blackjack and 3 card poker with a trio of extremely drunk Irishmen.

I'd list "self-control" as a goal in this regard, but I'm trying to be at least semi-realistic.

My BUST Evidence The Worm Is Turning

1. Tough times on the Las Vegas strip.

Once thought to be "recession proof," the Las Vegas strip is showing a decline in growth that was almost unheard of for the past few decades.

Newsweek reports gambling revenue has fallen just one time since 1970. That was immediately after the terrorist attacks in 2001. People were afraid of air travel and tourist desinations like Las Vegas weren't immune.

Now?

The Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Bureau says so far this year those same gambling revenues are DOWN 4 percent.

The number of Las Vegas conventions, by the way, is down too. So are daily room rates and average room occupancy.

2. Actual, honest to God, money problems at the casinos themselves.

First, there's the Tropicana. The Associated Press was among the first to report the company filing for Chapter 11 Bankrupcy protection.

That began when the New Jersey Tropicana lost its liscence because it "could no longer provide a first-class casino experience."

THAT was triggered by layoffs and lousy revenue in the previous year.

PROPERTIES INVOLVED:

_Tropicana Casino & Resort, Las Vegas.

_Bayou Caddy's Jubilee Casino, Greenville, Miss.

_Casino Aztar, Evansville, Ind.

_Horizon Casino Hotel, Vicksburg, Miss.

_Horizon Casino Resort, Lake Tahoe, Nev.

_MontBleu Resort Casino & Spa, Lake Tahoe, Nev.

_Tropicana Express Hotel & Casino, Laughlin, Nev.

_River Palms Resort & Casino, Laughlin, Nev.

_Sheraton Hotel and Belle of Baton Rogue Casino, Baton Rouge, La.

Meanwhile, many publicly traded casinos have also shown poor performance. The stock price of MGM Mirage, owner of Bellagio, Mirage and eight other Strip resorts, has halved, from $100.50 in October to about $49 on Friday. In recent weeks the company eliminated 440 middle management jobs to save $75 million annually. "We made a structural change in our company to become more efficient and provide the same level of service, but we did have to advance that effort because we were also seeing a softening in the marketplace," says MGM Mirage spokesman Alan Feldman. (source: Newsweek)

3. That WSOP Main Event.

Almost certainly as a result of several major online poker rooms pulling out of the US market and fewer online satellite tournaments, the numbers went back down in 2007.

2007 Jerry Yang wins the Main Event at the WSOP. (6358 entries... 20% fewer than the year before)

So What Gives?

Both Newsweek and this great article (and from a great site) from Slate make the case that as Las Vegas diversifies into more of an overall tourist trap with less emphasis on gambling, it becomes more vulnerable to swings in the overall economy.

I'd allow for that possibiliy, but it doesn't fully account for the decline of Tropicana's other properties.

Nor does it allow for the full fallout from the UIGEA.

Forty-eight different states allow some form of legal gambling. It would take more digging to discern whether that expanded access has decreased tourism in Vegas and Atlantic City as gamblers seek out legal options closer to home.

That may be the case.

Still, wouldn't the stock price and revenue firgures for the casino chains remain steady if the revenue were INCREASING in other places to compensate for Nevada problems.

Gambling may never be a bust.

But is this the steady hiss of a slow leak?

You might have noticed we've been making a few changes around the site. We've added a section for The Nuts on the left and added some bio and about information in the "Players" section. After reviewing Luckbox's new bio and the YouTube video inside it, I remembered why I knew George Danzer. If Danzer knew I was great friends with the reason Nobles won that hand, he might not have been as friendly. It's a good thing Danzer was on walkabout when Nobles sprang from the table and yelled for the Luckbox.

Regardless, the KK vs A8 hand vs Nobles is one of the top reasons George Danzer's face is familiar to many folks. So, as expected, the story came up at the table. A friend of mine commented to Danzer that his behavior following the beat was just about as good as could be expected. Danzer, at least for one ugly moment on television, set an example for a generation of poker players.

It's been nearly two years since that sickness and Danzer barely seems like he remembers it. He does, of course. How could anyone not? For the stoic German, though, the emotion he showed on TV was as much as you'll ever see. A lot of us could learn sometime about how to take a beat and be over it so fast.

Danzer is planning a return to the WSOP this year, but first he's setting out on a personal journey. With only his backpack, Danzer is going trekking into the wilderness for a month. He'll be by himself.

"Like Into the Wild," he said.

We can only hope it ends better for Danzer than it did for Chris McCandless. Danzer's intention is to go into the WSOP with the clearest head he can.

Here's to hoping he can avoid the likes of the Nobles'-style beat. If anything, Danzer can feel good Luckbox is sitting this year out.

I stopped paying attention to writer-things. My eyes were set firmly on other eyes, hands, necks, and lips. Whether it was a good run of luck, some good timing, or a combination of both, I was able to build a stack and use it to my advantage.

My single biggest hand before the final table came at our fine organizer's expense. Prior to the hand, I had forced Falstaff off a raise and watched him muck. Then one or two hands later, he pushed all in and I was fortunate enough to have queens. I put it all in and got ready to see his cards. Then Change100 tanked. I figured her for jacks, tens, or AK and wasn't really sure what I wanted to see happen. After what seemed like forever, she mucked her tens. Falstaff had fives, my queens held, and I had a big stack.

It's fair to say that I don't remember much of what happened for the next couple of hours. Though sober, I was tired, hungry, and completely focused on only the game. Before the final table began, one player quietly asked me what I thought about a chop. As one of the two top stacks, I said I'd rather wait for a while. After that, I played as aggressively as I know how, but was completely wrapped up in my own little world. In fact, over the course of final table play, I only remember a couple of voices with any clarity.

The first was Schecky. He was either doing a very fine job of trying to get in my head or just very talkative. The second was Fuel55, who stood behind me and once tried to get me to refuse a three-handed chop and then muttered incredulously when I jammed on the button with T4o (I ended up getting my third big suckout of the tournament on that hand when KuroKitty called with KT and I flopped a four).

Beyond that, I know I won some hands, lost some hands, won some races, lost some races, and got heads up with The Rooster.

How's that for the most uninteresting tourney report ever issued by these fingers?

***

It might have been my emergence from focus that ended up losing me the tournament. Still, a sense of understanding about what was happening around me was welcome. What had once been half a dozen people standing around and watching poker was suddenly a crowd of familiar faces. For the past several hours, I'd rather forgotten everything except trying to win. Now, I took half a second to relish the moment. I knew it wouldn't last long. Though the heads-up battle has been described as epic, I don't remember it as such. It seemed to be over as soon as it started.

I made a quick decision that I wasn't going to give The Rooster the opportunity to dictate the terms of the heads-up match. With the blinds as high as they were, there was very little opportunity for post-flop poker. My decisions were made before the match even began. It would be up to The Rooster to decide when he was calling and when he was folding.

If there was a surreal moment for me, it was the split second between the time I looked at my final hand and the time The Rooser announced "Call!"

I peaked at K9o and said nothing. I simply put my hands around my chips and started to move them. They had barely moved an inch when The Rooster nearly jumped from his seat and said, "Call!"

Without going into it what was actually happening in my head at that second, that fraction of time defined who I was, who I am, who I hope to be forever.

Oh, and I was surpised to see I was ahead, too. The Rooster's snap-call didn't mean I was beat. It meant he was tired of my aggression. In this case, it also meant I was better than 60/40 to win. By the river, we had seen no kings, nines, queens, or eights. I had to dodge six cards when that final piece of plastic hung in the air.

An eight.

It was what it was.

***

What struck me most in the half an hour after the final card fell was the sense of inevitability that struck just before the river. There was a part of me that knew I was going to lose. My head had spent nearly nine hours focusing. Though I'd managed to take second place cash, the sense of disappointment was heavy. All at once, I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to play poker. I didn't want to gamble. I didn't want to party.

I wandered around for a while and eventually made my way back to the Geisha Bar for a drink. I quickly realized I was ill-equipped to do anything but go to bed.

And that's what I did.

***

It's been a few weeks since that night and, I'll admit, the disappointment hasn't worn off. I still wish I'd managed to find a win. I think there was something in my poker psyche that needed the victory. In another sense, though, I think it might be good that I didn't win.

There was a time a couple of years ago that I not only felt but knew I was a good poker player. There was no question in my mind. I had the game and the results to prove it. I played mid-high to high cash games for two years and did rather well for myself. I had about 18 months in which I did very well in online tournaments with large buy-ins. That, of course, was all in the days of Party Poker. When Party left the U.S., it took something in my head with it.

Since then, the games have gotten fewer and tougher. The players have gotten better. My confidence has been shattered. I look back at my numbers since I closed my account at Party and realize it all led up to a losing year in 2007.

What's interesting is that, while I played this year, I never really played. I never put any real money online and didn't play many big tournaments. Still, it was a losing year. I have a negative ROI in MTTs and nothing on which to hang my hat.

The funny thing is I still have a modest roll. Even after using some of it to buy my wife and her friend a four-night cruise, I still have a roll I could use to get back in the game seriously. I've actually been toying with that idea. I've seriously considered using 2008 to try to make a run and try to find that poker player I was two years ago. I've been close to making the decision to do it several times, but I can't pull the trigger.

The simple fact is, I'm not the same poker player I was two years ago. I'm not the same person. I'm not as disciplined. I'm not as driven. I don't have the time required to be a good player. I have other goals.

What's more, the poker world isn't the same anymore. Even if I could find the player I used to be, I still stand a decent chance at not being successful. The fields in the $150+ online tournaments are not the berry patches they used to be. The cash games are much, much tougher.

It's a sad realization. Though I never aspired to play professionally, there was a time I defined myself, in part, as a poker player. I don't think I can do that anymore. Do I know how to play? Yes. Am I any good? Sometimes. Am I ready to find out if I can compete in today's poker world? I just don't know.

I realized this week that I am at a poker crossroads and I'm very close to making the decision to turn away from the game. That's not to say I'm going to quit, per se. I'm not sure what it means. I actually considered depositing a rather large amount of cash on the only site at which I can play. Then, because I'm a longtime player there and can't get rakeback, I decided not to. Funny, huh? It's pretty clear my decision-making machine is not working at full speed.

I've said it before: I love this fucking game. I just have to decide if I am okay having poker as a hobby and not an integral part of my life. If I can be half-pregnant in this case, then that's okay. If not, I think it may be time to put myself on the Poker Pill and find something else to do for a while.

Anyone wanna gamble on Wii games?

The night before, after a big meal, Iggy had asked me if I was going to take the tournament seriously. He knew me, my tendency to stay up too late, to drink too much, to look upon things with less importance than they deserve.

"Oddly," I said, "I'm going to play to win."

He looked at me with a small amount of surprise. "So, you're going to bring your A-game." He nodded and left it at that.

That morning, as I laid in bed, I told my roommates, "I'm going to try to win this thing." They, too, nodded but didn't say anything to encourage or discourage me. After all, they were my friends, but there would also be a last longer.

Finally, in the waning moments before the tournament began, I called home to tell my wife and kid I loved them. I also told them something I normally don't. "Wish me luck. I'm going to try to win."

Why this tournament was any different, I don't know. My record in blogger tournaments is not the best. I won some of the first few blogger events online and won a Mondays at the Hoy earlier this year, but I've never even cashed in a live blogger tournament. Still, at least to people who know me well enough to know I was not being cocky, I was getting as close to calling my shot as I could.

I was going to play to win.

***

I walked around the room for a few minutes and compared seat numbers with people I knew. I couldn't make a match. Nobody was sitting at my table? Really?

It was then the size of the event started to become clear. Remarkably, I would end up at a starting table at which I knew a lot of the players.

1) Change100
2) Friend of Blogger #1
3) The Bracelet
4) B.W.O.P
5) Friend of Blogger #2
6) Otis
7) Austin April
8) Jim E.
9) Jen Newell
10) Friend of Blogger #3

It was an interesting and fun table. Change100, a laid back and sweet girl off the table, turned into a frigid, mute bitch (in the nicest possible way, of course). The Bracelet was only playing hands in even-numbered levels. B.W.O.P was celebrating any hand with a jack in it. April was looking to go get food. Jim E. was pushing the action. Jen was playing a lot of hands.

Despite all of this, I managed to finish the first three levels with 7,400. I only had one big hand (QQ) during the allotted time, and that one didn't earn me much. I stayed ahead of the game stealing and strong-arming obvious weakness. It was fairly routine, ABC poker with a little bit of bullying thrown in for good measure.

The next three levels would prove to be the point at which I stalled. I stayed alive stealing blinds and pushing people around. I picked up a few chips when I had to call Robert's short-stacked all-in. He was short enough that he had to push with just about anything. I had to call 500 to win more than 3,000. It was pretty simple, but I felt bad when I saw his KK. I felt worse when my AT connected on the flop and sent Robert out.

Still, at the end of level 6, I only had 7,625. While I'd been rather comfortable with my play in the first three levels, I couldn't help but realize that I had tucked my tail between my legs during the next three levels. In fact, when our table broke and I got moved to the first table of death (featuring Iggy, Schecky, and Miami Don), I felt like my tourney was about to end. At one point, I picked up pocket eights under the gun. These weeks later, I can't remember if I just wussed out or I actually picked up something on Don. Regardless, I folded, Don raised, and I remember feeling as though I had wussed my way into staying alive.

And so, how does this sissy-boy manage to end level 9 with 33,200 in chips? Well, he starts by sucking out on Byron. I had reached a push or fold point. I spent a few months in a cave in the Troublecat Tutelage program and put his sage advance to use. That's how I ended up with Td2d all-in against Byron's JJ. The flop was 235 with two diamonds. I knew at that point I was going to win. The turn gave me my fourth diamond...it also happened to be a jack. I dodged Byron's outs and accepted my role as Suck Out King.

It was not too long before I was moved to my fourth table of the day...and immediately to The Rooster's right. That's when things started getting very interesting. I won't go through all the hands we played and didn't play. Here's the only one that mattered at that point.

Fifteen thousand chips was not going to last forever in the ninth level. Furthermore, The Rooster had been playing lots of pots. He had been winning and losing massive amounts and had just settled back into a comfortable stack. He had also started floating the idea of a 20-player chop. So, when I picked up A5 in the small blind and it was folded to me, I put it all in. I figured he could lay down most marginal hands and I could pick up the blinds.

The timing could not have been worse. The Rooster had pocket tens and made the easy call. When the flop brough QJx, I started wondering where I'd be drinking that night. When the turn gave The Rooser his set, though, something in my head clicked. I suddenly had one more out than I had before. I heard myself muttering, "Give me a king, give me a king, give me a king..."

And there it was.

And I heard myself again, "Give me a kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnngggg!"

I really don't like myself very much and I think I've made that abundantly clear in the past. However, one thing upon which I pride myself is my table demeanor and etiquette. I am a good winner and a good loser.

So, there I sat, raking more than 30,000 in chips and wondering who the hell had just called for the suckout, hit it, and screamed like a 15-year-old kid who just got laid for the first time. I was embarassed, sat down, and collected myself. As soon as I found The Rooster at the break, I apologized. He didn't seem to have noticed and absolved me of my guilt.

A Rooster's Absolution. It could be a self-help book.

And, in a way, it was. But not in the way I thought it would be.

Despite laying a spirit-breaking beat on Scott at the MGM, I was beginning this Saturday (it was now after midnight) with the belief that I owed nobody anything. Friday had been a massacre, the kind of gut-wrenching fast-fuse day that barely gave me time to wonder what had happened.

Now, I was walking across the other catwalk to the Excalibur, a place I had once vowed to never enter again. Although the hotel had comped me three nights, I didn't feel like I owed anything for the stay. To that point in this trip, I had given the house no action and wasn't sure I'd find the time to.

And yet, there lingered a debt that I couldn't help but forget. I had vowed to play one Pai Gow session with Maudie. As she was among the small cadre of bloggers holding up the Sherwood Forest bar, the time felt as right as any. However, by the time we reached the Pai Gow tables, every seat was full.

Undeterred and bouyed by changed luck, I went on a short walkabout. I landed in the Excalibur's high stakes pit. Unlike most fancy holes, high stakes didn't mean much here. The betting limits here were in line with the regular pits in other casinos. After confirming with Maudie, Grubby, and BadBlood that a quarter a hand was okay, I locked us up four seats at the High Stakes Pai Gow table.

That's when the oddest thing happened.

We put our money on the table and started getting our chips lined up. I noticed a female pit worker and started chatting her up. I figured it was as good a time as any to start working on steak and eggs. Not surprisingly, what with this being the high stakes pit, I didn't get much of a response from the lady.

"Are you having a bad night?" I asked. "Everything okay?"

She didn't indicate anything in particular, so I chose to indicate that we four Pai Gow ruffians would try to brighten up her night. There entered a male pit boss who, rather unprovoked, looked at me with disdain and no small amount of aggression and said, "She was talking to me, not you."

I barely even knew what it meant, let alone knew how to comprehend a pit boss coming in from nowhere to speak to me like a bouncer in a redneck bar. I told myself that, regardless of winning or losing, the guy had ruined this particular Pai Gow adventure for me.

Salvation came in the form of a call from Joe Speaker. Across the way, he and Betty Underground were preparing to depart their Pai Gow table and were good enough to lock up four seats for us. By the time I arrived, Underground had draped herself across three seats in an act of supreme kindness.

Our new seats secured in the low stakes area, we sat down and continued to bet big. It started off poorly and we received an early drubbing from a group of bloggers at the Let It Ride table. Note to all Pai Gow players: There is nothing worse than losing at Pai Gow when your friends have managed to find a way to win at Let It Ride.

With an quick IV drip of Greyhounds, however, we began to win, win, and win again. I slipped into a sort of zone that is now more familiar than exciting. Of course, you wouldn't know it by reading Pauly's account. He wrote:

Otis was betting heavily. He had gotten comped at the Castle for his excessive Pai Gow binges and he was pushing the action. At one point, he won a sick amount and jumped up while pounding on his chest.

"This is why I'm great at this game!" he screamed.

Again, I found a way to double my not unsubstantial stack. I had almost decided it was time to call it a night when again appeared one Shane Nickerson.

Nickerson had been fully involved in the Let It Ride embarassment and I wasn't sure I could trust him anymore. Though he had bought be a beer earlier, his antics at the Let It Ride table cast some suspicion on his dedication to the Pai Gow cause. He was reluctant to sit, but he did.

As I introduced him to the finer points of the game--bonus bets, Greyhounds, dealer interaction, and taunting other tables--I started to notice a light in his eyes. There is a point in every player's career in which it is clear that he gets it. When Nickerson looked up and said, "I can't believe I haven't been playing this game all night," I was nearly certain he was about to become part of the fold.

Before I knew it, he and I were the only people left at the table. We checked our watches and did the math. If we quit soon, we would be able to get a few hours of sleep before the tournament at 3pm. We set our hard out and placed a few more bets. My stack still looked very impressive and I laid down one final bet. I was sure Nickerson was going to act in kind. When the hand was over, I colored up (I enjoy little more in a Pai Gow game than getting purples when it's time to color) and said, "I'll meet you at the cage."

Nickerson mumbled something and nodded.

I walked across the casino floor, cashed in my chips, and wrapped the bills around their friends. I stood for a moment and waited for Nickerson. When he didn't appear after a couple of minutes, I walked to the bathroom. When I came back, Nickerson had still not arrived.

Thinking I had, perhaps, missed him, I started back toward my room. Along the way, I came within sight of the Pai Gow pit. Sitting in the middle seat where I'd left him was one Shane Nickerson.

I nodded to myself and smiled.

Another convert.

***

The running number was 25,000.

That is supposedly how many Brits had traveled across the pond to see Ricky Hatton fight Floyd Mayweather at the MGM Grand.

Despite speaking English and being even whiter than most Caucasion Americans, there was no mistaking the Brits at 100 yards. It was in their hair their dress, and, holy hell, their singing. The Brits traveled in packs and went few places without a song. The most common was a barely intelligble version of "Winter Wonderland."

"There's only onnnnne Ricky Hatton, only onnnnnne Ricky Hatton, walking along, singing a song, walking in a Hatton wonderland...." (Translation ripped mercilessly from I Am Livid.)

We sat at the MGM Grand for most of Friday afternoon. I was simmering on work tilt, but enjoying the Brit show. The fight weigh-in was scheduled for 2:30pm and by 2:00, the sportsbook was standing room only and backed up nearly to the lion exhibit. The songs and screams about Manchester were loud enough that we couldn't hear each other while we played cards.

Marty, our newest devotee of no-limit hold'em, sat next to me and prodded me to stand in the middle of the crowd and accuse the crowd of being Australian.

"I'll give you $25," he said.

This is the same guy who cooked up a plan to get a t-shirt made reading, "Hatton is a pussy." I was pretty sure he was ready to test the British patience and use me as his guinea pig.

Little did either of us know, I would find another way to get my ass kicked. And the story would not be nearly as fun.

***

I think I paid out somewhere in the nieghborhood of $10 worth of bad beat stories at $1 a piece this past weekend. As I don't feel like giving each of you a buck, I'm going to skip over the hours between 12:01am and 7:00pm Friday. Suffice it to say, I took five of the most ridiculous beats I have experienced in live poker.

At a $2/$5 table, I had just told the story of a guy who had re-bought for his chips and didn't last long enough to reclaim them from the chip-runner. Less than five minutes after telling that story, I became that guy. It was that kind of day. It was during this period that I first thought the MGM massage shirts read MASSACRE and I jotted in my notes, "Like a natural gas fire."

I was on such tilt, I don't know what I meant. I only know that Marty had stopped trying to get me killed by the Brits and had started asking, "You wanna take a walk? Go do something else?"

When I cashed out at 6pm for dinner, I didn't even want to go. I wanted to keep playing or get obscenely intoxiciated. Or both. Instead, I went for a great meal with some old friends, lost a few prop bets, and listened to my brother (medical consultant in residence to the blogging community) talk about how he has "lady hands" and thus cannot digitally extract vibrators from his patients' bums. Bets were made and won on the number of extraction attempts and successes. Pauly and Derek ran hot. I lost on the odd/evens on the final dollar digit on the bill, but set a perfect line on the number of people to order Michael Mina's lobster pot pie. If I'd managed to not order it myself, I wouldn't have lost. That's a lack of discipline, right there.

Back in the MGM poker room, I got on every list they had and settled into a slow, careful funk. I hated everything and was on the verge of a solo rage for the ages. I was five minutes from embarking on this trip when I got called for a $1/$2 NL game. As I was waiting for my chips, Miami Don came over and said, "Otis, we've got a seat if you want it."

I didn't even look at the line-up. If I was going to go down in flames, I might as well do it with friends.

***

"There are softer spots in this room," I mumbled.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, I sat at the toughest cash table I'd face all weekend. I don't recall everyone in the game, but over the course of my time there, I saw Zeem, Chad, ScottMc, WeakPlayer, Miami Don, and Blinders.

I stacked off to Chad once in a kicker battle, re-bought and told myself that if I couldn't start playing better, I was on my way out the door for a few hours by myself. That's when it happened--the most embarassing move I would make all weekend.

I had AK and came in for a raise. ScottMc popped me back and I pulled my "Oh, realllllllly?" maneuver. I don't think I've ever played with Scott before, so I kep his range exceptionally wide. I made the call out of position.

Why exactly I decided to check dark, I don't know. I only know I did. And I know I saw the flop come down AQx. Scott made another bet, and because I had checked dark, I had no way of knowing what the bet meant. It could mean as much as AA, as middling as AQ, or as little as some underpair. Hell, it could even be AK.

Now, I made what was the only smart move in the entire hand. I figured out where I was with a check-raise. Thing is, my chips hadn't hit the table before Scott cupped his hands around his mouth and said, "Allllllllllll innnnnnnnnnnn" in a deep voice.

That's pretty much where I went over the edge. After 22 hours of the worst beats ever, I was stuck bad and wrapped up in a hand with a player who is now wearing a sign that says, "You are beat, Otis!" around his neck. There is now no hand he can hold that I can conceivably beat. At best, he's holding AK and I know that's not the case. I might be lucky enough that he has AQ, but it's far more likley he has a set.

So, of course, I call.

Scott is a nice damned guy, which goes beyond and sometimes against his great abilities at the poker table. He wasted no time showing me his QQ for the flopped middle set. Knowing I need runners to win, I start planning a graceful exit and wondering where the solo rage will take me. I was at once a nihilist.

I'm still not sure the next ten seconds happened.

The groan and cheer rose up from the table as the board came runners to give me aces full. Having not yet revealed my hand, I fanned my AK to the table and buried my face in my other hand. The chips landed in front of me. Now, I could no longer hate my luck.

I could only hate myself.

Scott took it much better than he should've. For my penance, he only required I post this list:

1) That was the worst suck-out ever
2) Scott is a better player than Otis
3) I am a donkey

Or something like that. My notes don't make a lot of sense.

The only thing I remember with any clarity is Miami Don looking up from his vodka and remarking wryly, "Otis, I think your luck just changed."

And somewhere in the distance, a Brit sang.

***

I wasn't in Caesars poker room for five minutes Thursday afternoon before I heard someone say, "hammer."

She was a thin Asian girl sitting at the first table inside the door. I couldn't put her on being a blogger immediately, but the word set my sights. As I waited to be called for my seat, I kept an eye on the girl and watched her play. By and by, she raked a big pot with garbage cards after picking up a couple of draws and finding her outs. In the back of my mind, I knew it must be the Black Widow of Poker. Later, I'd discover I was right. Later, I'd discover the Black Widow was one dangerous bitch. Still dreary from a long flight, big lunch, and dirty martini, I didn't pounce. I let her rake the pot and went about my business.

And what business might that be?

My last trip to Vegas had been one in which I couldn't lose. I killed the Pai Gow tables, I killed the poker tables, and I did well in tournaments. Resting somewhere near the base of my brain was the belief that I couldn't repeat the magic weeked and knock out another big winning weekend. I sat in a cash game for an hour before the 3pm tournament started. I followed my brother, Dr. Jeff, to the cage to cash out. I never saw it coming.

Sue, the cashier, took my chips and said to her co-worker, "Oh, this is Dr. Jeff's father!"

I took a quick breath and stared at the lady. It hadn't been three months since a pit boss on the Strip had made the same insulting mistake. The age difference between Dr. Jeff and me is not a full four years. Sure, I have graying hair and a few early onset wrinkles, but gimme a break. I stared at her for another couple of seconds before stealing a look over my shoulder. There stood Dr. Jeff smirking. Bastard had greased the cashier.

With chagrin in my lungs, I started toward the tournament. Despite a illness that was refusing to fully present itself, I felt oddly optimistic. I felt sure of myself and capable of beating the ugly structure. And I should've. There was nothing except me keeping me from making the final table. With 18 players remaining, I let hubris get the best of me. I ignored a 100% dead-on read and crippled myself. I stood up and wondered what in the hell I had just done. What's more, I couldn't help but watch the sense of fearless optimism run out of the poker room, through the sports book, past Pure, and out into the middle of the Strip. There it died a horrible death under the wheels of a rolling escort service billboard.

Maybe things weren't going to go as planned after all.

***

The plan was simple. Play poker during the day and have fun at night. By the time the tournament was over and I had donked off a little more money at the cash game, night had fallen, Marty had arrived in town with his happy-happy-no-sick medicine, and I had decided it was time to stop with the poker.

Maybe you don't know this. Maybe you are the high-on-the-hog type that refuses to indulge in the cheap and sickly side of Vegas. But, when it's closing in on 10pm and your feel a little hungry, stepping into the back of O'Shea's and grabbing a giant, nasty burrito from the food court is one helluva a cure for tilt.

That's what I did.

Tilt monster sated, I wandered into the IP. It smelled like money that had been buried in old soil with something dead. Its noise was half-hearted and just gearing up for the weekend, but half-deep into the fray stood a well-juiced clan of poker bloggers. They were all that was keeping the place from simmering to a death juice demi glace.

I bypassed the hookers and kept my hand on my roll. I didn't plan to do anything but sit at the bar and drink. I didn't plan to gamble, rage solo, or lose myself on the first night of what was sure to be an epic trip. I don't even rightly recall how I ended up in the one-seat of the Pai Gow table. All I remember was someone muttering, "Jesus, Otis," as I put my five hundred bucks on the table and put out my first bet.

***

At one point during the weekend, someone asked me why they never see me play Pai Gow in a respectable hotel. In fact, I have. I have played many an hour at the Rio. I play the same game with the same limits, but the results are never the same. To properly play Pai Gow, I have to be somewhere that is on the verge of implosion, a place that not only doesn't look with disdain on a $25 bet, but appreciates it. What's more, when than $25 bet turns into a $150 bet, they pay attention. It's not about how much you win or lose. It's about the steak and eggs. Further, when you stand on the rail of your chair and scream Pai Gow as loud as you can, security doesn't come and ask you to keep it down.

I remembered Angela the Pit Boss from the year before. She is a surly yet attractive blonde. She growls and roots against you, but does it in an endearing way. Just when you think she is ready to 86 you for something, she'll sneak up behind you, steal the cards from the table, and set your hand as a winner.

I recruited a good starting table that included some of the best Pai Gow players around. Marty, Dr. Jeff, Gary C., and the Pai Gow Princess made up the starting line-up. Over the course of the night, we'd be joined by Al Can't Hang, BadBlood, Pauly, and others. I, however, was in my own world. It seemed every bet was a winner. Nothing could cool me. Nothing could dampen my spirit. Even when BadBlood took a tour at the roulette table and won, I was not disheartened.

As focused as I was, I started to note a crowd forming around the table. Instant Tragedy had arrived and was sweating my cards. I was sure that nothing could bring me down from the Pai Gow vein mainline high. Then, Al got it in his head that he was bad luck. I don't even recall why he thought it. All I know is that there was suddenly a pretty Asian girl giving me a rubdown.

I went comatose.

The lack of sleep, six pack of Greyhounds, and adrenaline rush from the Pai Gow table suddenly turned into a smooth trip to sleepyville. I can only remember three things from that ten minutes.

1) Asking, "Hey, what is your boyfriend going to do if he sees this?"
2) Seeing flashbulbs and thinking, "I will really have to explain this to my wife."
3) Hearing the Black Widow of Poker say, "Al, how much longer do I have to do this?"

Apparently Al convinced the Black Widow to use her Asian massage techniques on me to pay me back for whatever bad luck he thought he brought me. I looked at the two stacks of green chips and thought, "Bad luck?"

I tried to tip BWoP for her services, but she refused. It would become a recurring theme in the night. Nobody would take my damned money. When I tried to slide $20 to Angela the Pit boss, she slammed the chips on the table and showed her palms to the camera.

"No money," she said.

"Well, then how am I supposed to take care of you?" I replied.

"Gifts," she whispered.

"Where in the hell am I supposed to find gifts at this hour?"

"Gift shop?"

"And what the hell am I supposed to buy there?"

She paused in the same way she had several times throughout the night when I asked a question I shouldn't.

"Blow-up man. And some toys."

Later, I went to the gift shop for a pack of gum, but couldn't find anything that suited Angela's whims.

On my way back, I ran into Garth, Falstaff, and Betty Underground. Falstaff was engaged in tense negotiation.

"I'm trying to round up $100 to get Betty to ride Garth around the casino," he said.

I reached into my pocket. That would be worth the price of admission just to see the look on Garth's lady's face. Underground, however, was having none of it. Again, no one would take my damned money. I went back to my table and reflected for a moment on what was happening.

There were a few dozen people turning the Imperial Palace into the biggest party on the strip. Though Pure popped and Drai's was still about to get down, the poker bloggers were in town and moving en masse. By ourselves, we were creating more noise, bedlam, and action in this rundown hotel than the rest of the gamblers combined. It was a sight to behold, these kindred spirits from all over America and Canada (not to mention the Irish, Aussies, etc.) ramming and jamming with every ounce of their being. They were people who would never have met, but for silly internet friendships made over the love for poker and writing. It was, in short, perfect.

It was also the last happy moment I would experience for the next 18 hours.

Previously:

WPBT Holiday Gathering: A prelude

***

The night before I left for Las Vegas, I worked together a regimen of Airborne and Zicam. I figured, if I was going to lie to myself and believe I wasn't actually getting sick, I might as well slurp down a placebo cocktail and hope for the best. The anticipation for this adventure was greater than any since 2004. It came together in such perfect fashion that I knew it was going to be an important trip.

My relationship with the Excalibur has been an odd one. It was home to most of the blogger shenanigans in 2004. Since then, it's conservative attitude, lax comping policies, and general surliness had turned most of us away. However, when I received a comped three-night stay in the mail, I knew where I would be sleeping during this year's blogger event. Embarassed that I was going back on my word to never stay there again, I created my code acronym, the Otis F.A.R.C.E (Free-Ass Room, Courtesy Excalibur) and booked the trip.

Wednesday night at 9pm, I was edgy and tired. I rolled up every bit of cash I had hidden away in the house and sat it beside the $57 worth of medicines I bought at CVS. I hit the hay early and tried to drift off. Just after 11pm, I got the first text message from Vegas. Dr. Jeff, an early arrival, sent this dispatch: "Excal--all wheel spins doubled all weekend."

By 5:35 am Thursday I had picked up BadBlood and we were on our way to the airport. The air was frigid and we only cut through it with a sense of anticipation. At the airport, the gate agent looked us up and down and said, "Must be going somewhere warm to not be wearing a coat." We nodded, but didn't give up any information. The lady snagged our boarding passes and gave them a glance.

"You know, it's winter in Las Vegas, too," she said.

It was likely a sign of too much optimism that we completely disregarded her warning and boarded the first leg of our flight. I felt the sickness start to come on a little stronger as I settled into seat 2A. Yonder Mountain String Band and String Cheese Incident guided me over the Blue Ride Mountains and did their best to calm me down. My head against the airplane hull, I stared out over Appalachia. Low clouds looked like an infinite carpet of brain tissue. I searched for any relevance and could find none. Dreamy, sleepy, and sick, I couldn't get a handle on what I was about to do.

Just a few hours ahead rested the potential for great success, great failure, or a great letdown for two months of anticipation. I gave up on predicting what would happen. I couldn't lay odds on what kind of luck Al Can't Hang would bring me or whether he would try to win back my favor by paying someone to give me a Pai Gow massage. I couldn't predict how likely it would be that a pit boss would suggest I go to the gift shop and buy $20 worth of adult pleasure items. I had no way of knowing The Rooster would play such an odd and important role in my weekend.

I only knew I was going to Las Vegas for the third time this year and I was ready to put everything on the line for one last grasp at making something important happen in 2007.

Though my eyes and heart would deceive me a couple of times, it would soon become clear that the word on the back of the shirt at MGM was not MASSACRE. It was:

MASSAGE.

Now back at home, I once again realize the small difference between the two words lies not only in the spelling.

Everybody has something to hide except me and my monkey, after all.

As I've beeen in hard core nostalgia mode, here's a look back through Up For Poker eyes at how all this silliness got started.

WPBT Vegas circa 2004

Otis

"I'll see your Guinness and raise you one egg salad."
Three tables, one playground, half-drunk"
"Let's Get to Saturday, shall we?"
Decisions, decisions"
"The Holiday Classic through Otisian eyes"
Bordering on the Adriatic
From rock gardens to Sherwood Forest."
You don't have to go home...

G-Rob

"That's It for the Other One"
"The Bus came by... and I got on"
"Playin' in the Band"
"Going down the road... Feelin' bad"
"Another Damn trip report....I'm almost done...really!"

CJ

"Day 1: Cowboys and Hookers"
"Day 2: Doubling Up on the Italian Pirate"
"Day 2: Gawking at the Pros"
"Day 2: My Worst Beat and then Revenge"
"Day 3: The Aladdin... Bring Your Rod and Reel"

If you've been to Vegas during the National Finals Rodeo, you know that the oxygen bars change shingles for the weekend and start selling testosterone bong hits. It's the type of envorinment in which you hear phrases like, "Ten gallon hat? I've got your ten gallons right here, buddy." That the phrase means absolutely nothing means just as much.

Because G-Rob has decided to sit out this year's trip, Las Vegas city leaders had to figure out another way to make sure the testosterone level stayed at an acceptable level. Methinks Vegas went a bit overboard.

In the span of just a few days this weekend, Sin City will play host to:

Mayweather vs Hatton at the MGM Saturday night

UFC matches Saturday Night at the Palms

The National Finals Rodeo

WPBT Holiday Classic, Winter Gathering (or whatever we're calling it now)

I've actually received word that human growth hormone developers will be in town on research.

If you read this and plan to be in Vegas this weekend, you are likely planning on playing poker. For the female set, this should be exceedingly easy. Be yourself. Be a woah-man and use your sexuality for all it is worth. If you are a man, however, you stand little chance of trying to be more aggressive than the people you will meet at the tables. These are people who have come to Vegas for either a) seeing blood or b) trying to ride an animal that has something tied around its netherparts.

Thus, it's time to start re-tooling your table image. If you can't be more aggressive, you might as well hit your opponents where it hurts. Threaten their manhood with your enlightened view of the world. Here are a few helpful tips that will help you tip the testosterone tables back in your favor. (Some of these tips have been cribbed from a December 2004 Up For Poker post).

1) Engage every cowboy you find in a conversation about how they get their rodeo animals to buck. Pretend you don't understand and ask them to demonstrate on the dealer. Or better yet...ask them to demonstrate on you.

2) Find your PETA hat from your activist days and wear it everywhere you go.

3) Use phrases like, "That Mayweather is so dreamy. He knocks me out without ever throwing a punch."

4) When sitting at a cramped table, whisper to the cowboy next to you, "You know, I'm from Texas. You know what they say about Texas. You know, steers and queers? Well, buddy, I seem to have misplaced my horns."

5) When asked what you're listening to on your iPod, answer, "It's an audio book titled 'Pink Poker.' Have you read it? I just got to the chapter on what to do when a muscled-up UFC fan shows aggression. It says I should...lay down. But it doesn't say whether I should lay face up or face down. What do you think I should do?"

6) When playing poker with fans of any of the above sports, employ the "Point and Poke" upon winning a hand. Make sure your poke goes somewhere near your opponent's belly and follow it up with "Got you! I got you, baby boy!"

7) Use the word "marvelous!" every other sentence.

8) When beaten by an opponent, say, "Nice hand, sir. You know what would look even better on you? Jazz hands." Follow this up with a standing demonstration.

9) Midway through a hand with a fight fan, whisper, "I'm not implying anything, but if you are, I am very discrete."

10) In case of emergencies, use the following phrase. "Just read a new book. Said Waylon Jennings was gay. I think that is so refreshing."

*Disclaimer: None of the above should be tried without having at least five friends within punching distance.

***

People need a place.

People need a place of absolution, therapy, and acceptance. Regular or irregular, if the place doesn't exist on some level, people live entirely in their heads. It's that soft place between the ears where depression and anxiety breed. Even if it's a gym, a church, or a bar, it's better than nothing. Without the place, it's a short, slick road to unhappiness.

It's probably clear by now, I don't spend a lot of time in gyms and churches. I seek absolution and therapy in dark hideaway bars where Versace can be mistaken for an import beer and the women are not the least bit in danger of getting too much attention. It's a place where the corner seat at the bar is almost always open and happy hour is actually cheap. This place has had different names and been in different cities over the years. It's been Culley's Pub, Johnny's Beanery, the Corner Pocket, The Bait Shack, Zorba's, Shaum's, and most recently, Leeg's.

We found Leeg's by accident. It was the second closest dive bar to my house and the first one that was open on a night we needed a bar. If you look at me, my life, and my circle of friends, there is no good reason why I would end up as a patron there. However, once inside, I realized it was, in spirit, all of the above places. It was unpretentious, haphazard, and populated by the right kind of people. It's not necessarily home, but when I need to run somewhere for a quick beer, it's where I go.

I looked around and smiled to myself. Someone had scrawled a PBR special on the mirror behind the bar. A 50-something woman was playing a bowling video game. Two guys in trucker hats--and not as a fashion statement--shot pool. A small dry-erase board had been tacked to the wall on which the owner had written, "Saturday, Dec. 1, Christmas Party!, $25, Open Bar." I considered the Sunday morning regret and shook my head. That would be one ugly way to celebrate a birthday weekend.

Blood walked in from the rain with a rueful smile and took a seat on the bar's corner. I pointed to the dry erase board. He squinted at it and seemed to shudder a bit. We had a drink, talked poker, people, and family. As it usually does, the conversation drifted to next week's trip.

"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, "what are you plans for Vegas?"

The blogwash is thick with plans right now. Finely-tuned agendas, loose agendas, and agendas without agendas are all over the place. I have a loose plan in my head, but it's largely alterable. My answer to Blood was pretty simple. "Play poker during the day. Have fun at night."

My August jaunt to Vegas saw me execute the same plan and it was the best trip I'd had to Vegas since the first WPBT gather in 2004. I play cards until early evening and then hang out with the folks I came to see in the first place. If that means playing cards with those folks, cool. If it means hanging out at a bar, Pai Gow table, or sports book, cool. If it means raging solo for a while then re-joining everybody, cool.

I tried to figure out why my last trip went so well. Vegas, after all, is always Vegas. Apart from the skyline, little ever changes. How one trip can be better than another can seem a mystery. Of course, it's not much of one.

See, Vegas is a place for me in that it is a place where I can can be absolved of my sins, given therapy for the life stressors, and be accepted for the semi-degenerate I really am. People, after all, need a place. However, for me, Vegas is not so much my place as the place where I find my people.

The great thing about this trip is that it usually coincides with me reallly needing it. The better thing about it is the situation as it stands now. I not only need it, I actually want it. For the first time in a while, I'm actually excited about going to Las Vegas. Now, the only thing that can let me down is me. And I'm not going to let that happen.

***

The tab for our drinks came to a whopping $11. It was my turn to pick up the check. I left a few bucks on the bar, grabbed my jacket, and walked for the door. As Blood and I made our way out, the bartendress called out, "See you, guys."

I lifted my hand in a short wave.

Something that is becoming increasingly clear to me...if you really open your eyes, it's pretty easy to spot your sense of place. It's only up to you to make sure you do something about it.

Drizz and I have had many a conversation about the World Series of Pai Gow Poker. Pauly and I thought about doing it during the middle of the other World Series (no, not that one--the other one). We never managed to make it happen. In fact, we never really came up with the mechanics of it.

So, as a mental exercise (albeit, a mental exercise akin to doing bicep curls with a stein of beer), I started thinking about how the WSOPGP might work.

Rules:

1) Each player buys in for $210

2) $10 from each buy-in goes to the worst hand fund. At end of designated time period, the player who drew the worst seven card hand gets the pot.

3) $50 from each buy-in goes to champion's fund.

4) $150 from each buy-in goes in play.

3) Players may bet any amount they like out of $150 stack for a period of one hour.

4) If a player goes bust, he/she may not rebuy

5) During play, chips may be used for bets, bonus bets, bribes, and tokes. No money, however, may be taken off the table once it is in play. If you choose, you may use pocket cash or chips not in play for tokes.

6) In a one table scenario, at the end of a one-hour period, the player who has the most chips collects everything left on the table plus all the money in the champion's fund. In a two-table scenario, the top two chip stacks split the money 70-30.

I'm not entirely sure I'm up for the kind of organization this would require. However, you never know. I'm just throwing it out there to see what kind of interest there would be.

All else fails, we'll scrap the idea again and just play Pai Gow like we normally would, which is to say, completely foolishly and bent on regret.

If you're not familiair with my particular style in the Pai Gow pit, I'll refer you to How to Play Pai Gow Poker. It is a must-read if you have any hope of holding your own at a Pai Gow table. It also serves as a good warning should you decide to slide into a seat at my table.

If none of that tickles your fancy, consider the night I took Wil Wheaton to the Gold Coast for what was supposed to be a night of $5 Pai Gow and turned into...well this:

The $5 tables were full. We begged for four empty seats together, but the pit boss wasn't having it. Suddenly, The Mark was spreading six grand in hundreds across an empty table. I dropped a roll of $4,000 on top of it. Thirty seconds later, a new boss was there.

Finally...

Five more Pai Gow Memories

1. New York, New York -- Rolling with the 'Lou crew late night. Joey Two-Hands has taken his three sheets and fashioned them into a super kite. Molly, the dealer, has been putting up with his antics for her entire down. Two-Hands is flirting and popping tiny breath-mints like they were trucker speed. What's more, he's betting for the dealer...with breath mints. At one point, Two-Hands lays one of his best lines on Molly. She responds, deadpan, "What did you just slur to me?"

2. Gold Coast -- Up until late 2006, the Gold Coast's chips were decorated with famous cowboys and rodeo clowns. Pauly was on a work-bender and got a rare night off. Using his rare night off to get in rare form, he created "Clown or Cowboy." The two-chipped chip-based shell game went something like Pauly recorded it here:

I'd yell out, "Yo, Otis... Clown or Cowboy?"

I'd turn over the chips and mix it up. He'd point to one and yell... "Cowboy!"

I'd flip it over and it would be the clown.

3. Barbary Coast -- I learned to play Pai Gow Poker at Barbary Coast before it became Bill's. It was where I learned everything I know--except for how to go the distance. I woke up in my Bally's hotel room one morning to discover my brother had never returned home from the night before. It was going on 11am and he had not come home for the night. I worried the youngster had fallen victim to one of Vegas' many pitfalls. Ultimately, he walked in the door. His body was sagging under the weight of 100 strands of Mardi Gras beads (a one-time token of appreciation from the BC staff). He draped the beads over my head, paused for a moment, and then with a voice I've never heard him use before or since, he screamed, "Pai Gow!"

4. Luxor -- It was Marty's bachelor party and after three nights of revelry, he was waning. I, however, was having a fantastic Pai Gow night. It was nearing 2am when I held out my hand and handed him four pills. He took them before asking, "What was that?" I only answered mysteriously, "They will make you feel better." In fact, it was only Advil and No-Doz I'd picked up for him on my run to the bathroom. He didn't know that, though. And that made it all the more fun. Oh, and I won a lot of money that night.

5. Gold Coast, Redux Redux -- It was proving to be the best and worst Pai Gow night of my life. I put down the single biggest bet I've ever wagered in a game. The dealer dealt the cards and I...pushed on the hand. My friends looked at me and quietly suggested it was time to pull back the bet and call it a night. I didn't say a word. I left the bet in the circle and waited. The cards came out and I squeezed them so no one else could see. I set my hand and leaned back in my chair. My friends wanted to know how we were looking. I didn't say a word. The dealer set her hand and I didn't say a word. One by one, the dealer flipped up the players' hands. I looked across the table at one friend and gave the slightest of winks.

Winner winner...steak and eggs dinner.

***

Despite the fact G-Rob and I live ten minutes from each other, more than half of our communication occurs via instant message. A few days ago, the little organge box appeared at the bottom of my computer screen. G-Rob was lamenting how postively gloomy Up For Poker had become. What was once a fun little place for trip reports and poker talk was now a source for all things bad happening in poker.

That, in a word, sucks.

It occurred to me this morning that I never posted much of anything about my Vegas trip in August for Marty's bachelor party. Now, after two straight months of work, it's all rather a blur. Still, there are some highlights and lowlights that I think deserve a little something. Maybe this will help us get out of this funk.

His Calling, Uncalled For

I arrived a night earlier than the rest of the party. I headed to a poker room and got on the list. While waiting, I got in a conversation with the brush. He was in a debate with another employee about who sang "Flowers on the Wall."

"It's The Statler Brothers," I said.

"Are you sure? I thought it was somebody else."

I whipped out my Blackberry and proved it to him. That began a fifteen minute conversation about music, how all the old stuff is better than the new stuff, and how there isn't much for kids to really appreciate these days. Just when I thought the coversation was over, I heard something.

The dude--a forty-something white guy--was rapping. Unprovoked.

It went on for a couple of minutes, this inspirational, how all-chicks-aren't-bitches rhyming thing. When it ended, I couldn't say anything.

"I wrote that for my daughter," the guy said.

"Good work," I said.

The Angler

Thursday brought the rest of the crew. We decided--after a breakfast at Fatburger--that we'd play at Caesars for the day. I figured I'd play in their afternoon tourney.

"The juice is just sick," I said to Chilly. "No one should play in this tournament."

"So, are you playing?" he asked.

"Well, yeah."

It took us seven hours to reach the final table. I was playing some of my better tournament poker of the year and was quite pleased with myself. Happy about a second consecutive final table appearance at Caesars, I was in a good mood when we convened. My good mood clouded my judgment when the shortstack at the table suggested we all throw a little bit of money in the middle for the bubblers (only six players were scheduled to be paid). My judgment was further clouded when this dude collected all the save money. My judgment was further clouded when the guy announced (after one player had already busted) that we were actually about $25 short.

So, when the dude busted out, I should not have bee surprised to look down at the remaining money and see the guy had taken his full share.

If I ever needed a reminder about the cardinal rule in poker, that was it: Whe you enter a poker room, leave trust at the door.

After he was gone, we cut a deal, I ran nines into jacks, and busted in seventh place. My hourly rate was not what one would've desired.

Four-wheeling it

Dr. Jeff and I were walking back to our hotel one night when we saw a commotion ahead of us. And why wouldn't there be? The girls were beautiful, both decked out in black cocktail dresses and out for a night on the town that any single guy would love to chaperone.

As we got closer, we noticed these girls had not properly timed their revelry. They were surrounded by security officials. What's more, the girls were completely unconcious. And they were both being transported in wheel chairs.

I considered trying to get their numbers for Drizz, but they didn't seem like they were going to wake up.

It really was Mr. T

At first I still wasn't convinced it was Mr. T. Then people started flocking and taking pictures with their cell phone cams. Then the German oompah band started playing "The A Team" theme song and Mr. T stood and started shadow boxing on his chair.

I'm not sure I have been more socially happy all year long.

Bacon Martini

I've actually already written about this, but most of you don't read my other blog. Here's a snippet.

"Who invited the frat party?"

I stopped short. "Frat party?" I looked back at the guys behind me. Sure, Marty, the bachelor, no longer had bright red punk hair. Sure, my hair has been cropped back from shoulder length to a manageable mess. But frat party? That was just insulting.

"We're the farthest thing from a frat party," was all I could really manage over the noise. I started pointing at my friends. "Doctor, D.A., Bar Owner..." When I realized I was making her case for her, I shut up and ordered four Bacon Martinis.

"What's in it?" I asked the bartender over the lead singer's scream.

The guy looked at me like I was his mother. "Bacon and vodka."

More...Bacon Martini.

Competition for its own sake

I'd put in my best session on poker on Friday afternoon, winning five buy-ins and having a ball in the process. I dedicated Saturday night to silliness.

After a big dinner at the Luxor Steakhouse, those players among us decided we wanted to put together a low-stakes private game. With no real hope of being able to do it on short notice, I ran to the Luxor poker room and inquired. A few minutes later it was set up (although the plan had changed to a $50 SNG instead).

With a few minutes to kill, we needed something to do. I devised a quick plan. Soon was born the Marty Memorial Penny Slots Tournament. It was a timed event in which we all put $20 into a bank of penny slot machines and went nuts. Whoever had the highest balance at the end of a set amount of time would get everyone's remaining balance. It was a flawed plan, what with the likelihood that we would all go busto. And most of us did. Joey Two-Hands, however, hit bonus after bonus. In just a couple minutes, he had turned his $20 entry into $300+, not to mention what we all had on our machines, which happened to be between one cent and 13 cents per person. Dutifully, Two-Hands collected all the tickets and went to the cage.

"I'd like to cash this please," he said and handed the woman a ticket. She slid a couple of pennies across the counter.

"Now this one," he said, and handed her another. Again, a few more pennies. After three more tickets and several more pennies, he said, "Here's the last one."

That money came across in Franklins.

The Marty Memorial SNG

We packed that table and played it like the turbo SNG it was. The cocktail waitress assigned herself to us. The floorman recognized us, but we didn't recognize him.

"I saw you yesterday at the MGM," he said.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "I stacked you."

That probably wasn't the nicest thing to say.

If memory serves, Dr. Jeff and Chilly got heads up in the event. I think Dr. Jeff won. By that time, I'd run to the bathroom and was staking out our next adventure.

Throughout the trip, Dr, Jeff and I had been accused of being twins several times. Despite the four-year age difference and the fact he has red hair and I don't, people had a hard time believing we weren't twins.

When we recovened, I was told the cranky Asian dealer had asked Dr. Jeff if we were related.

"The twins thing again?" I asked.

"She asked if you were my father."

Tilt.

The End

The rest of the night was rather a blur of high-stakes Pai Gow (take THAT Luxor!), late night poker, and staying up until 9am with Joey Two-Hands.

I re-booked my flight and left that night.

***

So, there. Maybe that will help us, as my kid says, "blow out our angries."

And if that doesn't help, check out The Vegas Year. Somehow, I've missed this blog over the past year and just found it today. Lines like, "I flopped the flush draw cause I'm popular" just make me giggle. I look forward to meeting Robert in a few weeks.

Happy November, all.

And really, why would I? It's not like I've been away long enough to miss the lights, the food, and the action. I can still smell the Double Down on my clothes and still have visions of seeing Mr. T dance to an oompah band. Oh, and I guess I never told those stories. That is to say, I'm not even caught up from my trip in August. I couldn't conceivably consider going back and getting more backlogged.

And really, it's not been my finest poker year. It's been one of those Cha-Cha years. Step forward, step back. Caesars' tournaments treated me pretty well. MGM was kind in the cash games. I had a mediocre Series. Online went South in March. In short...blah.

So, why would I want to go out to Las Vegas again?

Well, a couple of things happened. The first was what inspired the title of this post. For now, that's going to remain a secret--not because it's cool, but because it's embarassing on a couple levels. Only two other people know what this title means and they are actively participating in the F.A.R.C.E.

But, really, something else happened. I saw the list of attendees, started waxing nostalgic about Whiplash the dog, Mr. Otis the horse, and Mr. Al, the king of the Mandalay Bay sports book. I thought about turning the Excalibur poker room upside down and bringing G-Rob to his knees with wheel spin prop bets.

Oh, and I might have thought for a second about Pai Gow.

Two days ago, I sent Falstaff an e-mail reading, "Um...looks like I'm in." I have spent the last two days firing e-mails to people who had not yet pulled the trigger. So far, the recruiting effort has gone well.

And, so I am in. Unlike last year, this is not a last-minute decision. Unlike last year, I'm not going to catch the flu. Unlike last year, I'm not going to give all my WBPT tournament chips to an Irish guy.

So, for what it's worth, I'm bringing my b-game, my roll, and a good attitude to Vegas for what will surely be farce one way or another.

I looked up at him. "Is that here in Vegas?"

Neil is a friendly guy and not one to poke fun. Still, the look on his face made it clear that I was being a bit dense. "Yeah," he said.

"Somewhere off-strip?" I guessed.

"Um, no."

As it turns out, the Fireside Lounge is at the far end of the strip and connected to a place called the Peppermill. It's been there for, well, forever and, as far as I can tell, pretty well known to everybody except me.

The next few minutes became a game of "Have you been to?" with Neil asking the question and me answering "no" every time. After Neil walked off, I stood wondering how in the hell my British friend had seen all these cool places in Las Vegas in just a few days, while I've been there more times than I can count and have never seen one.

The answers were pretty easy. First, when I go to Vegas, I rarely leave the sight of a poker room. If I do, it's usually to sit at a bar or sleep for a few hours. I know the poker part of the Strip pretty well. I know some of the nice restaurants. I know the Pai Gow pits and the video poker bars. That's, sadly, about it.

Holy hell. I don't know Vegas.

Neil is a poker player, but he is an artist first. Artists need a spring of inspiration and experience is the perfect petri dish. It doesn't matter if he's not carrying his camera. He's living and his art lives through his experience. That's how he saw a different Vegas so fast.

This past weekend, some of the local G-Vegas boys got together for a friendly game of $5/$10 HORSE at BadBlood's house. It was a game of good-natured ribbing, donkish poker play (yeah, I was the loser), and well-constructed prop bets. Oh, and a couple players drank wine our of beer steins. It may not have been the best poker ever played, but it was a change of pace.

I guess we all get in ruts from time to time. We do what feels comfortable or familiar until we are so bored with what's normally fun that we forgot why we were doing it in the first place. I think the best way to rekindle the spark of the things that have always made us happy is to try to dive head first into the agar and swim. That's why I let Absinthe get me into really expensive meals, Pauly give me music, and just about anybody buy me a beer I haven't drank before.

Las Vegas sucked me into a rut a couple of years ago. Sure, I've sought out ghosts in the downtown area, but I can't claim to really know the city. My history with it is superficial and rather bland by Vegas standards. Part of my problem is that I've never had a car in Vegas. I always stay on or near the Strip and don't have a need for a vehicle. The closest I ever came to finding a different side of Vegas was the night Absinthe and I took a $40 cab ride out to the Henderson and ended up at a closing sushi joint where people were singing bad karaoke. We ended up in a poker room fit for a meth heads and got blissfully rolled by a bellman turned cabbie.

So, now, despite my better judgment, but with all the anticipation you can imagine, I'm headed back to Vegas for a longtime friend and former blogger''s bachelor party. Sure, as usual, I'm going to binge on poker. Still, I'm going to be in Vegas for a few days and would like to spend at least a little time going to a couple places I've never been.

So, this is where you come in, folks. Fill me in. What has my foolish consistency cost me in experience? Where should I go? I'm going to be with a bunch of 30-something married guys and, yes, taking a cab or walking wherever I go. I have no need for dance or strip clubs. I know the poker rooms and just about anything that happens at the Rio or Gold Coast. It can be in a casino, or out of a casino, a bar, diner, or whatever you think might inspire me to love Las Vegas in a different way. I'm not sure I'll ever battle my rut effectively, but at least I'll have some ammo this week if someone says, "Hey, what do you want to do?"

We've had a good time together. I like the way you know what I like to drink. I like the way you hit me in the head with the deck for two hours and then crack kings like a champ. I treat you right. I mean, how many guys will straddle nearly every time he has the opportunity and then never, ever raise? Oh, and remember the time I folded my fifteen outs twice and gave up the 1200x the big blind pot? Those were good times.

I've been trying to find a way to say this. I can't think of any other way.

There's somebody else. She's got a hold on me that I can't escape.

I'm leaving.

So, seat open. Please water the plants.

Love,
Otis

P.S. Lock up a seat for me sometime late Summer.

***

In all seriousness, this sort of sucks. Over the past year, I've really enjoyed the one or two times a week I've been able to get out to the underground games around town. I've met a lot of good people (and a few real pricks) and look forward to the time I get to hang out.

Alas, work calls. I'm getting ready to head out for my annual adventure and I'm not sure how soon I'll be back. While I still have a few days, the time in the interim is best spent nuturing my very understanding family.

So, find some other fish to pick on for the summer, and then I'll be back to blow off my roll to you later.

As for Up For Poker, one of two things will happen.

1) I'll roll up into Working Otis and completely ignore my space here
2) I'll go on an annual freak-out and kick out the jams here as often as possible.

Both of those possibilities are equally possible.

Here's a bit of my freak-outs from my first two years at the World Series.

2005

A Month In Las Vegas--An arrival
Limit Poker With the Russians
Nuts with Jennifer Tilly
Johnny Fuckin' Chan--Watching Chan win his tenth bracelet
Are you a card player?--My definitive statement from 2005
Leaving Las Vegas--My first escape

2006

Pai Gow with Wheaton--Monster Pai Gow for the strong-of-heart
Poker People--A look at the darker side of the WSOP
Escaping Las Vegas--My last night at the 2006 WSOP
Snickers for Wil Wheaton--Looking for ghosts at Binions
A bit on Jay Greenspan--Pimping a fellow writer
Mad No-Max--An incomplete tale of the biggest $2/$5 game I ever played in

***

See you all on the other side...or, I suppose, in Vegas.

I only told a couple of people I was going to go. At first, it was because I wasn't sure whether I was actually going to be able to make it. Professional concerns had manifested themselves into something I was privately calling, "a real fucking issue." And, anyone who has ever dealt with professional concerns will tell you that that kind of issue can quickly make a guy take stock of what kind of man he really is.

After I was sure I was going to go, I still didn't tell people. I don't know why, exactly, but a lot of it had to do with the post I wrote this time last year. If you don't recall it, here's a snippet:

There are times in life when you we all reach a point at which we say, "What am I doing with my life? What am I doing to myself?" Less than one week before this moment I had turned 32. All in all, I didn't consider it a bad age, as many of my friends are approaching 40 and still rolling along well. Still, on this night, I felt old and used up. A decade earlier, a 36-hour bender would've been easy. Now, it was cause for concern. I felt terminal.

It was Friday night and I had forced myself, in an act of personal punishment, to walk once again from the MGM to the IP. There would be no cab ride for a guy who had once again treated his body like a playground and lived through an ugly, hungover day with little more to show for it than yet another Otis Got Drunk story.

Indeed, I knew there was a problem when I asked myself why I even bothered going to Vegas, playing poker, and hanging with the Bloggerati. As I walked by the Barbary Coast and shielded my eyes from the roaming cowboys' belt-buckle reflections, I didn't like myself very much. It was one of those moments where you ask yourself, "What do I contribute, anyway?" and hear nothing but piped-in Muzak in response.

Looking back, I remembered how much I disliked myself that night. I remember how sick I felt, both physically and emotionally. It was a life hangover that was positively distasteful. What's more, it had nothing to do with my favorite collection of people in the world. There are few things I enjoy more than closing down a bar with the likes of Iggy, Pauly, Al, and Daddy. That said, the acid stomach--both actual and metaphorical--had plagued me for the better part of a year. I'd looked for areas of improvement in both poker and life over the next eleven months and found none of it. I treated myself and my game badly. The World Series was a debacle. Everything else around it was just as bad.

So, I went to Las Vegas with no other plan than to like myself more when I got back on the plane to come home.

And guess what? I do.

I won't go into the specifics, because it was more a personal journey of raging solo than a reason to pontificate here. Although rather unplanned (and unfortunate), it resulted in me spending far less time than I would've liked with some of my favorite people in the world.

In the end, though, it worked out for the best. If there is any one word that sums up what I've lacked in the last few years, it is this: discipline. I've failed to find the discipline to better myself and better my game. This past weekend was a test to determine whether, with a little bit of effort, I can make myself any better. Apparently, it's possible...if I want to.

Thanks to all of you who were there with a hug and a smile this weekend. You folks are the reason I still write here. And, truth be told, you're the reason I'll always try to maintain my perfect record for showing up at the greatest cat-herding event in the world.

"So, what now?" we asked each other.

"Let's go back and walk through the poker room and show off our gelato," we agreed.

And back we headed, dodging the line of paparazzi that had formed outside of Pure. I get the impression that Red Carpet events are really losing their uniqueness. Now, some girl I never heard of had her own red carpet an her guests were people I'd never seen before. Regardless, the paparazzi were clicking and shooting away. I wanted to scream, "Hey, I got Absinthe here! Son of a bitch made Day 3 of the WSOP! Oh, this guy, my date, the guy who bought me gelato? Yeah, he's mother fucking Wil Wheaton! He's widely read!"

The problem with all this (and my love for ice creams that have less than 35% air in them) is that by the time we got back into the poker room, I had eaten all my pistachio gelato. I tried to pretend I was still eating and show off for my friends who were stuck at the poker table, but I looked more desperate than I looked like I was enjoying myself. I was licking the inside of a plastic cup, like, "Yeah, bitch. I'm enjoying this stuff."

Wil and Absinthe looked at me like they had finally tired of my gelato fetish and bid me goodbye. And there I was left with nothing to do but leave or play cards. My gelato was gone. Wil and Absinthe were gone. G-Rob had been saying he was going to leave his table for the past four hours. Badblood was waiting on the drunk Norwegians. Pauly, Craig, and Change were whooping it up in the limit section of the room.

And, so, I sat down at the first table I could find. It was a $2/$5 no-limit, no-max game. To be honest, I'm always more comfortable buying into games with a max buy-in. I feel like it keeps lesser players from buying in and using a big stack and hyper-aggression to bully around people who buy-in with a reasonable amount of money.

This night, however, I was looking foward to the game. There was something in the air, something in mood of the table, and something in the gelato that made me want to play.

Before you wait for Part 2 of this small story, you should know I won all of $20 after playing for about five hours. This is not a big win story. This is a story about finding Ray Bitar in the one-seat, a bi-polar englishman in the two-seat, a tightbox in the four-seat, a tough Norwegian in the five-seat, an up-and-coming punk in the six-seat, a maniacal Asian grandfather in the eight-seat, and me cuddled up next to the dealer.

I bought in for a grand and settled in to watch $40,000 appear on the table.

***

"Motherfucking loser," he muttered through a double vodka and thick undetermined accent. This guy is short, swarthy, likely in his early 40s, and a much-too-familiar face around the Amazon Ballroom.

"Floor!" The dealer, a tight-rule white boy, was having none of the fuck-talk. There are rules around here and saying fuck happens to be in violation of one, unless you're playing in a cash game, in which case it's okay to say cocksucking motherfucking motherfucker. However, in tournaments, saying fuck will get you ten minutes of stolen blinds and rail-steam.

Because the guy wouldn't shut up otherwise, I was happy to see him on the rail for ten minutes. I wasn't in the mood to hear him coffeehouse with the Asian guy at the other end of the table.

There are tons of these guys around the room. Some are fun, like the afro-topped black man who shoves online poker hats on his head and drinks brandy from a snifter. One night he told me, "If you don't like a song, don't listen to it." The advice came in response to absolutely nothing I'd said. He just said it, and, at the time, I took it as some of the most sage wisdom I'd heard in days.

There's the hillbilly. He looks to have no teeth. He has a face that would send Phillip-Morris' stock tumbling. He wears free t-shirts and a hat that looks like it was fashioned by an old lady in Appalachia. He always looks angry, but that could be a by-product of his toothlessness. He's always here, but I've never seen him in a game.

There are lots of those people. Some poker players describe them as parasites. They feed on the misery that bubbles up underneath the bracelet-winning celebrations and million-dollar wins. They are sports-bettors, tax-shelters, underground businessmen who know how much money is in the room and know they can get a piece if they hustle just right.

Fuck-man is always saying fuck. It's his adjective, his verb, his noun. He's in games as often as he can get in. He's a baby whale, seeming to always have money to blow, but not enough to get him in the real games. He's the type of guy that is always allowed to buy into $500-max games for $1,500. He is action animated.

When he got back to the table, he busted out in fifteen minutes and asked the table if anyone had ever spent any time in the Clark County jail. He was drunk and ready to drive.

In the weeks since I first ran into fuck-man, I've taken to viewing him as the icon that symbolizes the part of the World Series of Poker that you don't see in Harrah's commercials.

Two nights ago, as I walked down an empty corridor, I watched the guy steal two things from a vacant vendor booth. I looked for security, but by the time I found a guard, the guy had bagged his booty and made tracks for the door, a common petty thief with a penchant for the word fuck.

Thievery here comes in many forms. Last night, a friend's laptop was stolen. That and fuck-man's early-morning heist are the most blatant form of crime. The hustlers, con men, and impersonators work out of radar's reach. By the time you realize who they are, they are gone, mere whispers of your future embarassment. I've not yet fallen victim, but I'm always wary of the people I meet.

That is a long way of saying, there is a less-than-quiet desperation at the WSOP that you won't see in a segment of The Nuts on ESPN. There are people for whom you would refuse to open your front door in the middle of the day. There are people you would let borrow your car--only later to find that borrow meant steal and you had police reports to fill out.

I'm fortunate that I've found many good and sane peoople here that help me stay level-headed. I had a wonderful conversation last night with the wife of a poker pro who personifies what makes up a good person. Still, there is a sickness here. There has been a lot of talk about how Harrah's and ESPN have turned a one-time gamblers' convention into a corporate, homogengized money machine. A lot of that talk is true.

But what you won't see unless you're here for more than a couple of days is that this giant corporate machine is still more wild west than it is new big business.

I am no victim, yet. Here's to hoping I make it through the next three weeks with money in my pocket, a firm grasp on my morality, and the ability to sleep for more than a few hours without waking up to nightmares.

FIRST POKER TRIP TO VEGAS

The first time I played poker in a Las Vegas casino was in December of 2004. It was the silly blogger junket du jour, and I'd been a poker blogger for all of 3 weeks. Luckily, I was close friends with the other donkeys on this site, and I found my way into a cool circle of friends.

One thing it took me years to learn, blind internet airfares are usually not your friend. That December I stepped of the plane at about midnight Vegas time and caught the shuttle to "Excalibur". Everyone else was already at a table.

At the time, the Excalibur room ran NLHE on $1/$2 games with a $100 max buyin. I felt fairly confident about my skills and bought in without thinking. Then, 8 minutes later, I bought in again. Ten minutes later I bought in a third time.

I got crushed on the trip.

I lost every dollar I took.

THE SECOND TRIP FOR VEGAS POKER

I learned a valuable lesson on that silly first trip. I sould avoid drinking one beer per hand. Honestly, that first night, I stayed up from my arrival...until after the blogger tournament the next afternoon. The bender on the following day was 10 times worse. I was there, ostensibly, to play cards. Still, I lacked focus and, eventually, lacked money.

The following summer we went back for a blogger doohickey at the Aladdin. Still not hip to the whole airfare thing, my wife and I checked into the Plaza at midnight and I dumped her in the room while I hit the MGM. This time, still smarting from December's ass-whoooping, I sat down at a 2/4 HE game with a few bloggers and a coupla local retards. I cashed out for about half my stack after a guy (later named "Brownshirt") sucked out a dozen times.

At least this time I had the smarts to not lose my entire bankroll in the first 3 hours. I paced myself somewhat. In fact, once I was down to my final $200 or so, I stormed back. On our final day in town, a Sunday ( we were booked on the damn redeye that night), I took 8 buyins from the dopey "Luxor" game and finished even-ish for the trip.

The tide began to turn.

THAT'S A DOUBLE BREAK-EVEN

I had very much the same experience when the great AlCan'tHang, BG, Otis, and I crashed the WPT in Nassau. That was in January of '05. We stayed at the Atlantis Casino, where a cheeseburger costs roughly the GDP of Haiti, and I lost money in the first 3 sessions. I even dumped myself out of a $150SNG when my pocket kings hit pocket Aces on the third friggin' hand.

On my last night there, I played $200NL and ran crazy over the game.

I cashed out with just enought to break even fort he trip.

VEGAS POKER...PLAYING FOR TRIPS

So, back again, blogger get-together in December of '05. This time I really felt my game was staring to grow. Because I'm 100% results oriented, just like a good dokney, I left feeling much the same.

The first night was kinda lame actually. Guess why? That's right...my flight arrived in the middle of the damn night. It's like 3AM EST when these things touch down. You'd think a person with an IQ higher than 80 would make some sort of scheduling adjustment.

Actually perhaps that sort of person WOULD adjust. I, however, did not.

Here's the tale of the tape by casino for that December voyage:

Imperial Palace +$125
Aladdin +$300
Excalibur +800
MGM +$1900

I didn't have a losing NL session during my stay. I felt like a shark. I'm not. But for a few days I felt like one.

TUNICA TOURNIQUET

A few months later, January or March I can't remeber, Senor Blood and I drove to Tunica where we met Otis, CJ, and Iggy.

At least I had an excuse for showing up in the middle of the night. It's a LOOONG drive from G-Vegas and Blood drives like a granny. When we got to the Grand Casino we found a few no-fold-em limit games and a $2/$5NL game with no max buy. I tried $300 and felt I played well. Then I busted and rebought.

I ran the next $300 up to $900 and closed the night a winner.

The next day was special.

Blood and I started the day at the Gold Strike/Tooth/Nugget/Fist and played some $1/$2NL with no max buy. We both bought in for $200 and by the time we stood up for dinner I had won more than $1000.

After the comp buffet we went back to the Grand and I played $2/$5 for $600. 5 hours and one $1000 hammer bluff later, I cashed with a profit of $1200. It felt pretty damn good and the $2200 was my most profitable single day so far.

The next day I donated about $1000 back to the good folks of Tunica. In part, I felt invincible and it's nice of the game to remind me otherwise.

SINCE THEN

I play $200-max NLHE almost exclusively these days and it's been a pretty sweet racket. I'm more confident in my play than ever and I've found that I can catch myself drifting away and losing focus. If I'm too tired or too bored to play good poker I've learned to walk away.

I've learned that I'm not at the poker table to have fun. I'm only there to win.

Winning is actually pretty fun.

SO, AUGUST

Blood, CJ and I will head out West on August 2nd. I'm planning to play at LEAST 1 WSOP event, possibly 2. I'm planning to focus primarily on the $2/$5 games. My bankroll is in a pretty comfortable place and so is my game.

I think I can win, but now I want to PROVE IT.

I want to turn the corner, from worst player alive, to..I dunno 3rd or 4th worst. I want to prove to myself THIS YEAR, that I'm finally ready to take the next step.

I think I am.

WPBT Aladdin Classic

G-Rob
The Smell of Lose
With a little help from my Friends
It's a transitional tale
Trigger the Blastoplast
Aspartame and Splenda

CJ
Day 1: The $1200 Legend
Dude, Do You Know How to Spell?
Stargazing at the Rio... and I Mean OTIS!!!
Quads
G-Vegas vs. The LA Crew
WPBT ACC Final Results
WSOP Exclusive

Otis
AMILV--Day 1
AMILV--Day 2
AMILV--Week two begins
AMILV--Johnny F'n Chan

WPBT Holiday Classic

G-Rob
"That's It for the Other One"
"The Bus came by... and I got on"
"Playin' in the Band"
"Going down the road... Feelin' bad"
"Another Damn trip report....I'm almost done...really!"

CJ
"Day 1: Cowboys and Hookers"
"Day 2: Doubling Up on the Italian Pirate"
"Day 2: Gawking at the Pros"
"Day 2: My Worst Beat and then Revenge"
"Day 3: The Aladdin... Bring Your Rod and Reel"

Otis
"I'll see your Guinness and raise you one egg salad."
Three tables, one playground, half-drunk"
"Let's Get to Saturday, shall we?"
Decisions, decisions"
"The Holiday Classic through Otisian eyes"
Bordering on the Adriatic
From rock gardens to Sherwood Forest."
You don't have to go home...

How to Play Pai Gow Poker (Version: Otis)

First, if you don't already know the rules and basic strategy of Pai Gow, go learn. That's not what this is about. This is about how to play optimal Pai Gow Poker while under the influence.

1. Play drunk-- If you are not already intoxicated when you sit down at a Pai Gow Poker table, you're going to have to start getting there as soon as you sit down. Summon the nearest cocktail waitress with the following phrase: "Hey, darlin', you have time for me right now?" Smile when you say it. Then put a dollar chip beside your drink holder and say, "There will be one of those sitting there at all times. Just take it whenever you bring the next drink." Then smile again.

2. Beg the dealer to deal him/herself a Pai Gow-- Ideally, you want the dealer to draw the worst possible cards and let everybody win. You should beg for this at all times and appear genuinely hurt when the dealer draws even halfway decent cards. However, if the dealer cooperates, you must--must--yell "Pai Gow!" at the top of your lungs. Make sure your table yells along with you. High-five each other and stack your chips.

3. Act smug-- After you have completed #2, people at nearby tables (usually those who are losing at roulette) will start to stare at you with annoyed looks on their faces. Look at them and offer a smug smile that says, "We win, you lose, sucker." After you've done this a few times, wave them over and ask them if they'd like to play a game where they can win. If they won't come over, make sure to wave every time you win.

4. Beg for the Dragon-- In some casinos, you are offered the option of playing an empty seat's cards in addition to your own. This is usually called The Dragon. Every player can take the option in rotation. It is your job to beg for it every time it is offered. If necessary, offer to buy the Dragon from your tablemate. If he refuses, look very smug when he loses both hands. Then wave at him like you've been waving at the roulette players.

5. Play the bonus-- If your Pai Gow table offers the option of a bonus bet for high hands, you must--must--play it. If you don't have dollar chips/coins, ask for change. Keep in mind, you will never, ever win. However, each time you drop the coin in the slot, thoughtfully tap the felt and say, "This is the time. I feel it."

6. Make sure the pit boss notices you-- Your antics to this point will surely have drawn the pit boss' eye. He may think you're running some scam. Set him at ease. Call him over and ask him about life, things, and whatnot. If he says, "Life is not whatnot," laugh like you think it's funny. About two hours into the game, start talking about how good steak and eggs would be. If he fails to get the hint, you need to add a bit to your Pai Gow cheer. Any time the dealer draws a Pai Gow, scream, "Pai Gow--Steak and Eggs!!!!"

7. Consume the Official Drink of Pai Gow-- If you want to be a real champ, order a Greyhound every time the cocktail waitress comes along. If she is especially cute, see if you can draw her into a quiet lament about how Salty Dogs aren't allowed because the salt can get on the felt. If she sheds a tear, give her a red bird and tell her to go have a Salty Dog on you. It's up to you how many sexual overtones you want to use.

8. Engage the dealer-- It is your job to be or act inordinately interested in the dealer's name, pronounciation of the name, and country of origin. Do not let up until you could write a paper about all three subjects.

9. Do not be ashamed-- While Pai Gow games work better as group activities, do not be ashamed if you are the only one at the table. At 2am, you have a job to do, and if you have to go it alone, so be it.

10. The Disclaimer-- I play Pai Gow as described above. Please be aware that any of the above can result in going broke, getting slapped, getting barred from the casino, or waking up with a hella hangover.

So, um...who is with me?

In a comment on Tri-Clops.com, the UFP boys' issues blog, serial commenter Team Scott Smith asked my opinion on the best way to hit a Vegas poker trip on a limited bankroll.

Before I head for another Top Ten list (the lazy but quick way to write), walk with me into the Excalibur Poker room. See, it was here I first met the poker bloggers. It was here I embraced my inner donkey. It was here that I realized that Vegas not only offers to fill you full of drink for free. It also allows you to grub for free. It ain't good, but it's the way to roll low.

With that in mind, here is another in a series of pre-Vegas Top 10 lists.

How to Roll Low in Vegas and Still Have Fun

1. Drink for free-- Now, this is a bit of a misnomer, because you aren't really drinking for free. It's going to cost you on average a $1 tip for a drink at the tables. However, a buck is much cheaper than paying for drinks at the bar. If you're on a limited budget, never, ever buy a drink at the bar. Even if you're at a bar with friends, don't buy. The only exception to this rule is the Otis Quads Method, under which you can turn $20 into $200 without much thought at a video poker bar. There, you'll get free drinks for your play. Be aware, this is a learned skill and is not to be experimented with unless you are prepared for disaster.

2. Eat for free-- Find a poker room that offers free food. The Excalibur has a nightly dinner buffet that offers--in rotation--Mexican, Italian, faux Cajun, and American food. It's free to players in the room and it will fill you up. It's not gourmet, but it's free. The Mirage puts out finger sandwiches and cookies early in the morning. I believe the Aladdin does as well. Eat as much as you can. If there's no free food in the room, pay a little homage to the Tilt Boys and order a meal in a glass (bloody mary with extra olives and celery). It's free!

3. Eat on the cheap-- If you're failing to fill up on the free food, I would suggest you are not working hard enough. Your punishment should be not eating. Seriously. It's not as important as people say. However, if you still feel like you should be nourishing yourself, don't get sucked in by the restaurants. Do not get me wrong. I love a nice sit-down meal. But that's for when you've got some money in your pocket (with money in your pocket I can recommend Delmonicos in The Venetian). So, find a freakin' snack bar. And I don't mean a deli. Find a snack bar and fill up. New York/New York has $2 slices of pizza. Little John's (or is it Friar Tuck's?) has 2 fer $2 tacos. Also, don't forget Fat Burger. Oh, and don't be buying a soda. Take your food back to the table and get a free drink.

4. Play small to start-- Just as there is no pride in playing big, there is no shame in playing little. If you don't wanna risk more than $200, do not play anything above $2/$4 limit or $1-3 spread limit. Given, you'll get eaten up by blinds and tokes, but if you take $200 to the the next biggest game ($4/$8), you're just one bad session from being bust for the trip. If you feel like you can risk $500, feel free to move up to $4/$8 limit, $2-$6 spread limit, or even a $1/$2 NL game. Just be careful. No need to be creative. It's not easy to find a $2/$4 or $1-$3 game, but they are out there. They are readily available at the Luxor, MGM, and Excalibur. Before my game took off, I once spent 13 hours at a $2/$4 table. And I had fun.

5. Be prepared to nut-peddle-- At the lower limits, creative play means you'll likely lose. Nobody is going to lay down their hand, which means bluffs are worthless. It's all about value betting the hands you know you are going to win and pushing the edges. Sit back and wait for your winners, drink your free drinks, eat your free food, and wait for the monkey to come on the big screen.

6. Conserve-- Budget a given amount you're willing to risk per day on the trip. You're going to want to have fun and if you go broke on the first day, you will have nothing to do for the remainder of your vacation. Trust me, you don't wanna be broke in Vegas.

7. Play a tournament-- Now, this is contrary to my belief that most low-limit tournaments in Vegas are crap-shoots and not worth your money, but if you're on a strict low-rolling budget, consider entering a $25-$30 tournament. It's a good way to play poker for a few hours without risking very much money. What's more, if you you hit the lottery and win the thing, you'll be rolled for the rest of your trip.

8. Talk to folks-- This is "blogger trip specific" but if you're there for a meet-up, your best conversations will happen off the poker tables. Sure, you're going to have a good time when slinging chips, but you're going to get to know people at the bars, waiting for a table, or having a quick bite to eat (make it free!). Talking is a great way to spend time but not money.

9. Pick your spots-- While I would suggest you not do any -EV gambling, if you feel you must, find cheap tables. Usually you'll find them in cheap casinos. The Boardwalk and the Barbary Coast usually have lower limits. You could also go downtown where the tables are the cheapest. However, you're going to get eaten up by cab fare that way. Also, I'm a big proponent of Pai Gow, the slowest of the -EV games.

10. Don't worry-- If you spend every hour counting how much you have left in your pocket, you're not having any fun. You're not a pro player, so make sure you have fun and don't worry so much.

How do I know all this? Because I've done it all. I'll admit, it's nice not to worry so much these days. However, I still enjoy the time I spend scrounging for free food and drink and playing fun poker.

That do, Scott?

THE OFFICIAL SEMI-ANNUAL BLOGGER-VEGAS PROP BETTING LINES

1. Speaking of tradition, this one's a classic. I have to admit, Otis is on quite a roll here, without a single Bradoween crash. It was a stunning turn of events and devastating to your humble bookmaker. On the other hand, during our last homegame, drunked Otis crawled into bed with an even more drunken TheMark. Therefore the new bet here:

HOW MANY TIMES WILL OTIS FALL OR SNUGGLE? OVER/UNDER 2

2. Bradoween brought its own strange baby. At one point, I ran to the back deck to see TeamScottSmith leap from the top of one tree to the top... or middle after some snapping of twigs... of another. Later the same Smith climbed to the top of a much taller and more dangerous tree.

HOW MANY TREES WILL TEAMSCOTTSMITH CLIMB IN VEGAS? OVER/UNDER 1

3. During our first Vegas gathering, Otis and I shared what can now only be described as a sort of pseudo-hallucinogenic visit to the 5AM bar. It was a weird mixture of the real and false, like watching C-Span on acid. By then we'd both gone about 32 hours without sleep.

WHICH BLOGGER WILL GO ON THE LONGEST SLEEPLESS BENDER? PICK ONE

4. Last night I drove a single mile down the road, to the casa de Blood, and found the master of the house inside. I asked her where BadBlood was, and she pointed to the corner of the room where he sat with 4 dozen Bibles in his left hand. He was flexing and curling with the word of God, and I was puzzled by the serene look on his face. BadBlood was praying nobody would ever find out his awful secret... he can't arm wrestle left handed.

a.) HOW MANY BLOGGERS CAN BEAT BADBLOOD AT LEFT-HANDED ARM WRESTLING? OVER/UNDER 5

b.) POKER GEEK TO BEAT BADBLOOD - 1,000/1 odds

c.) G-ROB TO BEAT BADBLOOD WHILE EATING A TURKEY SANDWITCH - 3/1 odds

5. The first time we invited some very generous pro players to visit our conclave, it was an unmitigated disaster, at least for some of us. The aforementioned bender took place the day AFTER a much longer and more destructive streak and this meeting of the minds happened right in the middle. I remember they had some pitchers of water set out for us, and I remember drinking them ALL DRY. God I was thirsty. This summer, when we played the Aladdin classin, CJ issued a stern warning about the hooliganism, and sobriety was much higher.

NUMBER OF BLOGGERS WHO ARRIVE AT THE WINTER CLASSIC TOTALLY SOBER? OVER/UNDER 35

6. In the Aladdin classic I played uncharacteristically tight. I finally found AA in middle position and pushed. I was called by an earlier raiser who held 66. I was thrilled when Joe Speaker told me he'd folded a 6. Less thrilled when the case 6 appeared on the flop. Last December, at Sam's Town (which, as the crow flies is about 4,000 miles from the strip), I went out 18/30 when I got shortstacked and pushed with a naked ace. Felicia auto-called and won.

FIRST PERSON KNOCKED OUT OF THE WPBT WINTER CLASSIC? G-ROB, NO OTHER ANSWERS ACCEPTED

7. When we flew down to Nassau for the PokerStars WPT event, Al and I spent some serious time in a bottle. At one point, we drank the bar completely OUT of Sothern Comfort. The bartender spent the next 30 minutes rummaging through the Atlantis resort for more. Of course, it's blogger tradition to have SoCo shots and we'll all have a few. So the question is:

WHEN WILL THE FIRST BLOGGER LEARN THAT HIS/HER CURRENT BAR IS OUT OF SoCo? NAME THE SPECIFIC TIME AND DAY

8. While most of our Vegas time will be spent in the card room, there are few things better than a blogger party in the sportsbook. Last December we took over the one at Mandalay Bay (which is quite nice) and sang the Sand Diego Super Chargers song with Al. I won good money there. Plus the Bengals covered the spread against the Pats, which won me a full $100. This time, I'll be in the book somewhere when the Kentucky Wildcats play the Indiana Donkey Felchers on Saturday afternoon.

HOW MANY BLOGGERS JOIN ME THERE? OVER/UNDER 1 (Daddy)

9. Now for the ones that we just need a name to answer.

WHO WILL WIN THE TOURNEY? PICK ONE

WHO WILL LOSE THE MOST MONEY ON STUPID -EV GAMES? PICK ONE

WHO WILL PASS OUT FIRST? PICK SOMEONE WHO ISN'T BG

HOW MANY PEOPLE WILL HIT ADULT ESTABLISHMENTS WITH MR. BLOOD? OVER/UNDER 13

WILL THERE BE ANY DAMN DRAMA WITH SO MANY PEOPLE COMING THIS TIME?
(Hasn't happened yet, but perhaps we've been lucky.)

0) First, before doing anything, read Pauly's blogs. A year ago at this time, he inspired me with this:

Here's my formula for packing...
1. Underwear = amount of days traveling + 1
2. Socks = amount of days - 1
3. Pants = amount of days divided by 3
4. Dress shirts = 1 per week
5. T-shirts = amount of days divided by 2
6. Cash = $1000 per day in Vegas

Folks, that is a formula for success and pure Pauly. But, if you will, please let me further expand the rubric.

1) Pack one bag and make sure you do not check it at the gate. Carry it on. One of the greatest time-wasters in all of Vegas is waiting for cabs. Sometimes it's a necessity. When you're at the airport, however, it is not. If you check your bags, you are playing a very -EV game with the baggage carousel. If you have one carry-on, you are already 10-20 minuntes ahead of all the baggage-checking tourists. That alone can cut an hour out of the time it takes you to make it off the plane and to your hotel. If something bad happens and you do get stuck with a long line (it happens if a big plane lands ten minutes ahead of yours), try to find a porter who looks grease-able and slip him $10-$20. This will occassionally work. If it doesn't, the lines aren't unbearable. But, the one carry-on bag rule still applies. Why? Well, even if the line only takes 15 minutes, trying to lug one or two bigger bags through the throngs of humanity can be a burden. One duffel or carry-on with wheels is the way to go.

2. You do not need everything in your closet. Pauly has written at length about this is in the past and heeding his advice is always a good idea (unless, of course, he's been awake for three days and smells of stripper perfume, at which point I'd suggest weighing your decision carefully). A few thing to keep in mind. You likely will miss out on a lot of sleep. It's like you're only there for a couple of days. Denim is heavy, so I'd recommend you wear one pair of blue jeans on the plane and pack something else in a khaki or otherwise lightweight fabric. If you're going in the winter, it will be colder than you think. But sweaters are heavy as well. As such, I like a fleece or some sort of warmish sport coat that can be worn against the chill and worn inside, but if it gets too warm in the casino, can be taken off without making you nude. A pair of socks and drawers for each day. One fewer shirt than you think you need.

3. Personal health and well-being are a big part of making your trip/bender a good one. If you are a drinker, I have found a cocktail of OTC products that works very well to make the morning after much easier to handle. I calll it the Otis Cocktail. Before going to bed, stop and get a bucket of ice. Stand at the sink and drink two bar glasses of ice water. Then, take three advil, two Pepcid (or other acid reducing product), and two Pepto Bismol tablets. Wash them down with one or two more glasses of ice water. Take a glass of water with you to bed and have a drink or two when you wake up having to go to the bathroom. Then, when you wake up for good, repeat the cocktail, but substitute the advil with two Excedrin Migraine. Those pills are laced with caffeine and can give you that extra jolt you need to start the day. Then, throughout the following day mix a good blend of caffeine and water as you sit at the tables. It ain't perfect, but it's the best I know.

4. Cash is king, as we all know. It is a matter of personal preference whether to keep your pocket cash and poker bankroll separate (I've done both and prefer the division of money, but it's up to you). However, one important thing to think about is denomination. For instance, in many (if not most) casinos, $20 bills don't play. That is, if you're playing in a game with a buy-in of more than $100 and your stack is running low, it will do no good to back it up with $300 in $20 bills. They won't play. You'll need $100 bills for that. At the same time, you don't want a pocket full of Franklins. Otherwise, what are you going to tip with? A good mixture of denominations is key. (Also, remember Pauly and Grubby's advice about $50 bills being bad luck).

5. For all of those still thinking about #2, and saying "But, wait I wanna go clubbing?" I can't help you there. I'm not a club-boy. Clubs are good for trolling for girls, but I'm all married and stuff and don't really know how to talk to girls. However, if you wanna go clubbing, it shouldn't add to much to the weight of your carry-on because the kids ain't wearinig much these days. Oh, and if I were to go to a club, it would be Drais for reasons you will only know if you go sit at the Barbary Coast around 4am.

6. If you're a blogger, a 4" notebook and pen is a good idea. I'm okay without it, but, again, if you're a drinker, it ain't bad to have a little memory backup.

7. Technology is another matter of personal preference. Me, I pack the laptop, cell, and charger. Pauly recommends a camera, which is not a bad piece of advice. However, I usually don't carry one when I'm not working. Unless you have a camera small enough to fit in a pocket, it can be quite a burden and, if you're like me, you stand a decent chance of leaving it somewhere.

8. Print out Bill Rini's list of phone numbers and keep them in your pocket. It's nice to know where people are. At the same time, don't abuse the technology. Indeed, we'll all want to hang together, but I can attest that you can run up quite a bill with dial-a-shots across the poker room. A quick "Where?" text message can go a long way.

9. Back to money. This has it's own section because it shouldn't be with any of your regular bankroll. You never know when you will need a ride, or a buy-in, or a drink, or anything when you've just went broke. Now, I'm not saying it will happen, but if you keep a lot of money in your hotel safe and have had a bad run at the tables, you need a little sumptn extra to either get you back to your room or hold you over until you can recoup. Keep a stash in an unused pocket, your shoe, your bra, whatever.

10. Finally, the intangible: Bring a good attitude. It's all just fun. We're all just folks. And it's all about a good time. If you don't pack that good stuff, it ain't worth going.

Up For Poker is issuing a challenge to any other threesome in a last-longer for the WPBT Winter Classic. Here's how I figure it will work:

1) Final results of the three entrants will be added together, lowest total wins.
2) Each member of each team will throw in $5 and the winning team will split the last-longer prize pool. (All teams are playing against all teams and the winning team will win the total prize pool.)

So find your team, and leave it in the comments. I'll bring a list to Vegas and you all can hand over your money. After all, you think anyone can beat the combination of Otis' skill, G-Rob's agression and my luck?

Fatigue is not what you think. It's not what you feel after being awake for 40 hours during which you treated your body like a human alcohol dumping ground. It's not what you feel after sitting at a poker table for 13 hours without food. It's not even how you feel the morning after a party hosted by Al Can't Hang. Fatigue is the byproduct of real life.

Most of us live our lives held down by high-test corded guy wire. We don't like it, but we accept it. Without the wires, we would spin out of control like a TV tower in a hurricane. We know we need the help.

But, over time, say the course of a year, those wires get tired. It's different for everybody. And it happens at different times. For me, it was the autumn of 2003. For many people I know, the time is right now. I'm not sure what disturbance has occurred in the force, but it seems I know more people in the middle of Life Fatigue than I know people who are in a good place.

Why bring it up? Well, glad you asked.

The November Slide

Yin and Yang are some confusing bitches. You've likely noted here a spate of tournament results. While obviously not the most informative of postings, they were well-deserved and long overdue wins for the founder of Up For Poker, CJ, and his minions.

And yet, while CJ, Dr. Jeff, and even G-Rob had some wins, the November Slide was hitting the poker blogging community and its readers like never before. Personally, I had the worst poker month of my life and a couple of times actually questioned the legitimacy of the game. I literally laughed out loud in an empty room. It was spooky at times.

And yet, somehow I remained centered. This was in large part to the onslaught of real life November Slides going on around me. While many of you don't know my friends, suffice it to say I've seen some of them endure the worst real life variance swings you can imagine.

One night during the Slide, Mrs. Otis looked at me and asked what was wrong. I almost answered truthfully. I almost told her that in six straight important tournaments, I'd gotten my money in as a huge favorite only to be beaten by incredible two-outers or runner-runner every time. As the words crept to my lips, a sick sense of guilt slipped over me and I realized how selfish I was about to sound.

"Nothing is wrong," I said. Why? Because, really, nothing was wrong.

More outs than doubts

When I busted out of Event #2 of this year's WSOP, my body shut down on me. I fell into a sweating, heaving, malnutrioned mess in my MGM bed. It was getting dark in Vegas and I didn't care if I saw a poker room again for a few days. And yet, I knew the Castle was in need of storming. And so, I went.

Thusly, the Castle endured the Storm, but my mind was elsewhere. Somehow, even drawing to 15 outs didn't get my dander up. I wandered and collected an assembly of bloggers to accompany me to what has become my albatross. Thirty minutes later, I was explaining to Drizz, Spaceman, and Heather that there were a couple of rules to Pai Gow poker that you won't read in Harrington on Pai Gow Vol. 1. First, if the dealer turns up a Pai Gow, you must scream "Pai Gow!" at the top of your lungs and order another drink in celebration. Further, you must smile widely at the people who are losing at roulette and make sure they hear about your good fortune. There is nothing more fun than taunting losing roulette players (redundancy offered for effect there). There were other rules, which I'll outline in a future post. As for strategy, I let Heather take over on that, as, in some remarkable twist of royalty-dubbing, she had recently taken on the name Pai Gow Princess.

We blogger-types have been afforded a tremendous opportunity. Somehow we have stumbled our way into friendships that I would've considered impossible two years ago. It's only been a few months since I had z-e-r-o reservations about welcoming a blogger contingent into my home. The members fit in so smoothly, several times I thought they had been there forever. But, that's not the case. One year ago at this time, I knew the UFP crew and BadBlood. That was it.

My, how times have changed.

You know when you're sitting at some negative EV game and you've got a big stack of reds you don't feel like carrying around? You do the most logical thing and ask the dealer to color you up.

Well, that's sort of how the last year has been. Over the past twelve months, I've been walking around with a bunch of parts of a whole in my mental pocket. And now, for one weekend, I get to color them all up.

In recent days I've gone back and read some of my UFP posts and re-lived some of the great moments I've been afforded. It's solidified something I've come to appreciate.

I am one lucky son of a bitch.

Life is about to get really interesting again. I see more poker in my future. And I see more friends. With my already perfect family life, I couldn't ask for much more.

Some people make lists. Me, I tattoo things on my brain. As we head into the coming week, this is what is inked on my medula oblongata:

You cannot force fun.
You cannot dodge bad luck.
Luck is temporary.
Appreciate.
Be good.
Be bad.
Be.

When PokerStars announced it was sponsoring the Blogger Championship in October, I once again realized how damned nice it is to work for a company that "gets it."

Further, when Wil Wheaton announced he was coming to the WPBT Winter Classic., I was proud to know that a member of Team PokerStars was going to be on hand to compete with he best bloggers in the land.

And now...this.

PokerStars has generously offered (and I have accepted on the WPBT's behalf) to put up some great stuff for the Winter Classic. So, when we all head out to Vegas here in a few weeks, we will not only be competing for each other's money. Here's what else will be in the prize pool.

* PokerStars will be adding $2000 to the prize pool of the WPBT Winter Classic. If my rudimentary math skills are serving me well, that means (based on 100 players) we'll now be playing for $7000 instead of $5000.

* The winner of the WPBT Classic will receive the the coolest (and, frankly, most expensive) item from the PokerStars FPP store: the wool PokerStars letterman's jacket (since we don't know who will win, we'll get it ordered for the winner after weekend is over--although if CJ's rush lasts another month, we might as well just order the large now).

* Famed poker author and player Nolan Dalla will be on hand to talk to all of us about this crazy game we play and all that he's seen during his time in the business. If you haven't already met Nolan, he is one of the coolest poker writers and players in Vegas. He's written for just about every poker publication and also serves as media director for the WSOP. Oh, yeah...he also just happens to have co-authored the best poker book of the year, which leads me to...

* Every member of the Winter Classic Final table will receive a signed copy of Nolan's book, "One of a Kind". This book has already received rave reviews and could soon be the basis for a blockbuster Hollywood movie.

* And if you're not CJ, Bill Rini, Felicia, etc...and figure to be at the bar within the first few levels, PokerStars will have some great shirts, hats, CDs, and other stuff for the bust-out inclined.

So, thereya go. PokerStars gets it and I'm proud to work for them. There's no quid quo pro, here. It's just PokerStars being cool. However, if you'd like to thank them via your blog, it'd make me happy.

Now, find a way to make it through the next 17 days without getting so excited your wife/husband/boss decides to keep you at home.

HDouble sat with CJ and I for a couple of hours, slinging chips and laughing with us. As I sat there, I knew that he knew the answer to a question I'd been laboring over for months. He knew if Iggy was a little person or some rabid practical joker. It seemed so crude to bring it up, though.

As we sat, the Missouri crew and G-Rob finally found their way into the poker room. They all bought in for some chips, and I found myself inordinately interested with how they were faring. CJ and I had a bit of a view of G-Rob's stack and monitored it closely.

I knew that HDouble was supposed to have a pretty, Nordic wife.

"You come by yourself, Hank, or did you bring someone along?" I asked. Maybe I was just making small talk. I dunno. A part of me thinks I was setting myself up for a joke I didn't even know was coming.

HDouble indicated he'd come alone this time.

I had been pointing out various bloggers to CJ as they walked by. Eventually, CJ pointed over to Pauly's table, where a long-haired guy was squatting next to the one-seat.

"Who is that?" he asked.

I'd seen the guy walk in a little earlier in the night. Maybe it was Grubby, I thought. However, I figured since Grubby had been MIA all night long that there would've been some grand celebration when he arrived. So, I made the next logical choice.

"Pauly said his buddy Ferrari was coming. Maybe that's who it is." I said. I didn't look at Hank when I said this.

I consider myself a pretty good multitasker. My wife gets vaguely annoyed when I try to play poker, watch TV, keep an eye on the dog and kid, read a newspaper, and carry on a conversation with her. But I can do it.

Part of my professional training has included being able to listen passively for a spot in a conversation where active listening is required. At any given time, I can write, listen to a police scanner, carry on a conversation with someone in the office, and listen to Yahoo! Launchcast. If somebody gets killed within a 20-mile radius, I'll hear it on the police scanner. If somebody at work needs me for something, I'll hear it. If Steve Earle slips into a cover of "Willin'," I'll hear it.

Keep that in mind for a couple of paragraphs.

I was in the middle of a hand, which drew my concentration ever so slightly away from talking with Hank and CJ, from watching G-Rob and Marty's stack, from ordering another in a long series of beers, from trying to figure out why my cell phone had started shooting every call to voicemail, and, yes, from the guy who was now kneeling beside me. It was the same guy CJ had asked about earlier.

"Otis," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a definitive statement. He knew who I was.

"Hey, man." I was being friendly, despite the fact that my brain was trying to work its way around how to play the hand sitting in front of me.

The guy said his name was something or other, then went on to mumble something about really liking my blog.

"I'm a friend of Hank's," he said. "We drove in together, and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your writing."

Now, something should've clicked right there. Just thirty minutes earlier Hank had said he'd made the drive alone. I'd actively listened to that conversation.

And, so, the long-haired guy kneeling on my left kept talking. G-Rob's stack kept flucuating, the cocktail waitress kept bringing beer, and, for the love of all that's holy, I was still involved in a hand.

Do I raise? Do I cold call?

Passively, through increasingly drunk ears, I listened to the guy who was still talking. And just like when I hear 10-89 (local police ten-code for death) pop out of the police scanner, I heard something from my left that made me slip back into active listening.

The word was "dwarf."

Fold.

I turned to my left and saw the smile creeping in the corners of the guy's mouth. Indeed, he had said "dwarf."

Somehow, I just knew.

I bounded from my chair and wrapped the guy in a hug like I would a brother I hadn't seen in years.

"You son of a bitch," I said.

Iggy had arrived.

Damn, I loved that moment.

After the first WPBT event, everyone said it could never be re-created. When last June rolled around, I was determined to do it. I planned everything down to the minute. In doing so, I worked against my goal.

The beauty of the first WPBT event was that, with the exception of tournament day, nothing was planned. Like the WPBT itself, everything happened organically. Planning for events like these is like like planning how to play Ace-King to the river before you've ever seen a flop. The beauty of it all is the mid-game, mid-hand, mid-party gear shifts we're forced to confront.

While this past June was a great time, I felt like I'd over-scheduled my time. Every moment of every day was planned down to the minute. I found myself sticking to a schedule and organic happenings didn't happen. Don't get me wrong. I had a great time. How could I not? Still, what I did was more fertilized than organically grown.

And so it happens that there have been calls for me to organize another Storming of the Castle.

When I made the decision to attend this December's WPBT Winter Classic, I made one rule for myself. No schedule. The only thing on my schedule is the WPBT event on Saturday. Other than that, I'm going to go where the games, friends, and drinks take me. If I end up downtown playing craps alone at 5am, well, so be it.

And, yet, I love the Castle. I love to storm it. So, what do I do?

Well, this is what I've come up with. I'm making no plans. I'm not blocking off any time for it. That said, I wanna do it.

So, here's the deal, if you're at all interested: If it should happen that a group of bloggers in my presence decides Storming the Castle is a good idea, I'm going to text message five people. If they see it as a good idea, they can text message five people. And so on. Yeah, I know, flash mobs are so 2002 (note: any cultural phenomenon that appears on a TV crime drama is now passe).

So, here's my five. Pick yours and program your phone accordingly. And those of you without a cell phone (ahem, Iggy), go buy one, you Luddite.

CJ
BadBlood
Al
Pauly
Wil Wheaton

And if it doesn't happen...well that means I'm spending more time in the organic garden.

...and because I was bored...

#1-- Mean Gene has finally gotten off the spinster wagon (what am I saying...?) and decided to cowboy up and join us in Vegas. THAT is the best news I have heard in a while. I have an odd feeling he's going to turn out to be some famous professional wrestler or something. Prop bet that Gene is actually Rowdy Roddy Piper?

#2-- Bill Rini is doing a bang up job organizing the December WPBT meet-up. His newest addition to the fesivities is pretty damned cool and I encourage everyone to kick my ass in it.

#3--In non-Vegas news, Dr. Pauly has some new events going at PokerStars .

That's all for now. Work and a scary experiment are going to keep me pretty busy for the next few weeks.

Dr. Jeff and I will be wheels down before noon on Thursday December 8th and wheels up late Sunday night. And, yeah, we'll be at the host hotel this time. Not that we'll be seeing much of the room anyway. Otis=rowdy.

It had been three weeks in what I was beginning to think of as the Lost City. I had already seen too much. I'd seen old men, drunk on booze and too many hours at the table, fall to the floor in a heap of old skin and liquor fumes. I'd seen poker mensch Barry Greenstein in a cab line, holding his books like children, and dodging the drunken twenty-somethings on their way to yet another club. I'd seen a guy sitting at a video poker bar at six in the morning and smirking at the poker players across the way like he'd prefer to eat them with BBQ sauce. At first, the way the guy drank coffee, talked to the hookers, and kibitzed with the bartenders, I thought he was a cop. Then, he struck up a conversaton with me and let on that he had been up for two days, had just popped a tab of ecstacy, and was going to stay up and play the next WSOP event in seven hours.

"You play better on x?" I asked, finishing off my beer and looking toward the elevator.

"The decisions are a lot clearer," he said.

The three weeks had been tough. Though I knew people, I still didn't know people. My work colleagues were involved in their own work and in bed well before I was done with work. Dr. Pauly was hiding under a massive workload and milking the high life at the Redneck Riviera for all it was worth. Everybody else was playing cards. So, I played cards, or else I slept.

When you're in Vegas for an extended period of time, it is easy to stop believing in people. Even when you grow up like I did, never being suspicious of people and always believing there is a good side to everybody, you start to see true greed and malevolence where you once believed it couldn't exist. You find yourself clinging to the faintest shreds of friendship on the hopes that, when it's all over, you'll still have an innocent soul. Over the course of those three weeks, I found myself seeking out an odd couple named John and Marie who played $10/$20 almost every night. In the odd hours just before sunrise, they were people who knew my name and always greeted me with a smile.

But that was about it.

***

Looking back over the past 31 years, with the exception of my family, there have only been a few people who have directly and dramatically impacted my life and future. Most of those people have been close friends or people who would go on to be close friends. I think only twice have complete strangers had such an effect.

The first was a guy named Andy.

There was a time when I was stuck in Mississippi, living lakeside in a one bedroom apartment, and staring so deeply into my navel that I eventually convinced myself I had belly button cancer. Andy, who went on to become my boss in TV for six years, took a shot on me when he didn't really have to. During my tenure under him, I did everything I could to make him proud. And I did, I think. I won a couple big awards and, generally, kicked ass as long as I could before television ate my soul.

When my soul was most of the way through television's digestive tract, Wil Wheaton came along.

The story has been chronicled here before, so I won't go deeply into the details. Suffice it to say, Wil is the reason I'm doing what I'm doing today. When he was offered an opportunity, he pointed at me and said, "Give this guy a shot." That was eight months ago and until earlier this month, we had done no more than exchange a couple of e-mails.

***

I had moved out of the Rio the day before and headed over to the Mirage. The change of scenery, while not necessarily convenient, was welcome.

I was due back at the Rio at 11:30am for a media event my company was hosting. When I arrived, the room was already buzzing with media types and deli sandwiches. In the middle of the room stood John Vorhaus.

I've always been a little in awe of John. I may be wrong about this, but I believe he pioneered the concept of "live blogging" a tournament as it is known today. When Wil pointed Stars my way, Mrs. Otis ran to the store and picked up a copy of one of Vorhaus' books.

"Study up on your competition," she said at the time.

I walked up to John and shook his hand when it was unencumbered by the sandwich meat he had piled on his plate. I'm relatively certain he had no idea who I was and even more certain he had no idea why I thought he was the bees knees. Nonetheless, he was friendly and, through bites of his food, accepted my fawning.

I went to work, snapping the pictures I was supposed to snap, and meeting and gretting with the best of them. Before long, I spotted John talking to a familiar face. I think I actually walked over and said something about "two of my heroes standing in the same room." Before I blushed, I snapped a picture, and went back to hiding in plain sight.

***

Wil was there to play in the main event of the World Series of Poker. After suffering a bout of mono and riding a hell of a rollercoaster, he'd made it to Vegas. I could see a bit of tension in his eyes and I knew he didn't need me waxing silly about how much he'd affected my life. So, I tried not to.

When the main event day came, I tried to be casual about sidling up to his table and knocking off a few shots of him and Darwin holding court at the table. I tried not to wince when I saw Paul Darden sitting at the table as well. And when Wil's luck finally ran bad enough to end him to the rail, I tried not to be the "aw, you'll get'em next year" kind of softy.

I think I failed on every count.

Wil was unsure of what he was going to do after the main event. Part of him seemed to want to go home. Part of him seemed to want to stay. He ended up staying to play in another event and we talked about how we should grab dinner or a beer or go play cards when we found the time. Of course, there is no time in Vegas.

When Wil departed his next event, he called my phone to tell me the news. I asked if he was going to stay in town for another day or so.

"No, I think I'm going to go home to my wife who doesn't fucking call my pocket jacks with K4 off," he said. He said he was in the middle of the room and getting ready to leave.

By and by, Pauly and I worked our way through the crowd and found Wil in the middle of a conversation with Chris "Jesus" Ferguson. It was a conversation they couldn't finish, because every time they tried, a fan would come up and ask one of them for an autograph or picture. Pauly and I stood by, railbirds to two kinds of celebrity.

In the days leading up to Wil's departure, he'd gotten back to writing and was turning every narrative corner like he was on rails. When we finally had a chance to chat for a second, I let him know as much.

That was half of what I wanted to do. I wanted to fawn over his writing and then buy him an entire bar full of Anchor Steams to thank him for making my life what it is today.

But before I could finish my fawning, Wil said he'd read one of my "Month in Las Vegas" entires titled "Card players."

"That would make a nice forward for a book," he said.

And before I knew it, Wil was wading back through the crowd and toward his wife and family.

I, myself, waded back toward my work station, absorbing the odd moment. Nine months ago, I thought, I was carrying a TV tripod down an icy street and doing one of a dozen live reports on yet another ice storm in northern South Carolina. Now, Wil Wheaton is introducing me to Jesus and complimenting my writing in the middle of the damned WSOP.

It was only after the moment became a memory that I realized I never properly executed my mission that week.

All I had planned to do was sincerely, personally thank Wil for giving me a shot when he didn't know me from Adam, Eve, the serpent, or the rainbow. And what did I do? Well, I guess I got so caught up in the chance to thank him, that I never really did it.

So, Wil...thanks, man. Your next case of Anchor Steam is on me.

I'm not really sure how it happened, to be honest. Fourteen hours before, I'd been covering the WSOP and wishing for a few hours sleep. Just an hour before I'd been sitting at a video poker bar with Pauly, drinking a cold beer and thinking back on the crazy life we'd led in the past four weeks.

Mike, a friend of Bill Rini who I'd met a week or so earlier, had looked down the bar at me and shook his hand like he was about to roll the point for the tenth straight time. "Otis?" he said, and shook his hand again.

I stood more quickly than I thought I should. Before I knew it, I was walking for the craps table.

As Mike walked with me, he said, "Poker players always have one leak."

My stride might have slowed a bit as I absorbed that.

A leak? I don't have a leak.

Twenty minutes later, I was $100 up as Tiny Tim rolled the point for the third time.

Pauly screamed, "Thank you, Jesus!" and pulled several redbirds up into his rack.

For the next hour or so, Pauly would thank Jesus while Grubby and I would scream the number that was rolled, no matter whether it hit us or not.

"Five!" we'd yell in unison before looking down to see if we had any money on the number. The table behind us would let out a fantastic group cheer and we would cheer with them, because, hey, it's fun and we had Jesus on our side.

"Thank you, Jesus!" Pauly was on a roll, which is a good place to be when you're playing craps.

***

So, playing craps wasn't really in the plan. Ever. The only plan was to work and, when not working, play poker. But after several weeks, I just wanted something different. I wanted something with non-stop action and, even more, a place where everyone was on the same side.

At one point during the game, Mike looked down at his rack and fingered through his chips.

"Don't count," Grubby mumbled, as if it were a mantra. "Never count." He might have been Rain Man.

"There's not a lot of variance in craps," Mike said.

The words hit my head but didn't go in my ears. I was caught up in Tiny Jesus' fervor and his ability to turn craps water into come betting wine. In fact, it was almost a full five minutes later when I actually heard Mike's joke.

No variance in craps, indeed.

***

Perhaps if I'd been in a better state of mind, perhaps if I had taken some time to consider the implications of playing craps with Jesus on my last night in Vegas, I would've learned some lesson. Maybe something like always max out your odds, stop betting on the come when you already have every number covered, etc.

But I learned nothing other than this: Sometimes you just have to step away from it all, drink a beer, and have fun. That's why we play poker in the first place. If we were doing it to make money, and I mean, really make money, well then, we'd be playing more than writing, right?

Perhaps not. Perhaps that's a bit too far. But I know this. I play to have fun and when I'm not having fun, I don't want to play.

It's a bit like writing, I suppose. For, the only reason I sat down to write this post is because the echo of Pauly screaming, "Thank you, Jesus!" is still in my head and has become on of my fond memories from my last stint in Vegas.

Sometimes we just have to have fun, folks.

Otherwise, what's it all about?

Thanks to Pauly for sending it along to me...

It was an obvious question. From the Wynn to Mandalay Bay, the only thing going on besides the National Hall of Fame Dance Competition was the World Series of Poker. At least 10,000 of the people in town were either card players or relatives of one. Since I was going to the Rio, I had to either be a card player or the prodigal father of some Jon Benet Ramsey-esque tart in tight shorts and sequins. Just the other day I was walking behind a swinging, barely-covered ass with the words "Get Some" written across the cheeks. It was only after passing by that I realized the girl couldn't have been more than 14.

"I've played poker before, but my real game is video poker," the cabbie was saying as I took another look at the mountains on the edge of town. There is a desolate beauty to them that makes me feel happy and sad at the same time.

"I hit eleven royal flushes last year," he said.

Am I a card player?

Despite the fact I'd been working 14-hours days, I'd still been playing more live poker than at any point in my life. As a narcotics officer from the Denver area said to me one night, "When you're this far away from your family, you have to do something to pass the time."

I'd become a fairly familiar face at the $10/$20 tables. The locals knew my name, the dealers had nicknames for me and asked me how my workday went, and I only had to raise my eyebrows at John the cocktail guy to get him to bring me my beverage of choice.

My wins and losses were, if not well-documented in writing, sealed in my brain like a cobra and mongoose in a fish tank. There was the night I took 11 stacks of red off a single $10/$20 table. There was the night I played in the $225 last chance tournament and got my money in with JJ versus ATs and A6o and lost. A6, the big dog, took it down. And there were many other nights, as endorphin-pleasing and eye-sucking as you might imagine.

As the cabbie prattled on about video poker, I couldn't help but smile a bit. During some dinner breaks, I'd go with Pauly to the hooker bar (so named because the hookers congregate there late at night to pick up horny tourists). One night, Pauly took a phone call and I absently slipped $20 in the jacks or better machine. By the time Pauly was off the phone, I'd hit quad aces and profited $180. On two consecutive liquid dinner breaks following that night, I hit quad deuces and quad nines. Pauly was agog. What he didn't know was that I'd hit quad tens, jacks, and sevens at the All American Bar and Grill while waiting on my to-go breakfast orders on various nights.

There was a time many years ago when I was sitting at a Pai Gow poker table in the middle of the night with some friends. A pit boss told me he didn't play many cards, but he played piano. I said I'd been playing guitar for about 20 years. He laughed and wiggled his fingers like he was tickling the ivories.

"Not piano piano," he said. "You know, video poker."

A person who plays video poker fast would understand. The strategies are so easy and inculcated that it's possible to play the game, drive a car, date, marry, and divorce a woman, while still finding time to eat a steak sandwich and go to the bathroom.

But piano players aren't card players. Fortunately, my liquid dinner indiscretions notwithstanding, I'm not a piano player.

But am I a card player?

Over the past few years, I've played tens of thousands of hands online. I've played in home games, hotel conference room games, hotel room games, bar games, and country club games. I've played in Atlantic City, France, Monte Carlo, Austria, and more times than I care to count in Las Vegas. My biggest tournament win (not including the $12,000 Party Poker Million seat that I didn't end up using) was around $8000. My biggest cash game night was a profit of about $4000 in eight hours. My losses are what you'd expect when playing at levels that can win you that kind of money. They never come all at once. It's a gradual slide that you fight off like a drunk friend who wants to go to Waffle House at 5am. That is, you get him to pass out two or three times, but you know before sunrise you'll be eating some sort of scrapple on toast and wishing you were in jail.

Now, I've spent a grand total of three weeks at the World Series of Poker. I've seen and recorded the most brutal beats, the most fanstic plays, and the slings and arrows that go along with big-dollar tournament play. I've stood in awe in some of the name-pros and aghast at some of the others. Just tonight, I got caught in a literal sandwich between Phil Hellmuth and Howard Lederer. As they both walked into the tournament area, I was walking in the other direction. None of us gave any ground as we stepped in between two tables. Before I knew what was happening, I was staring into Hellmuth's armpit while Lederer's stomach pushed against my elbow.

All I could think is, I'm being sandwiched by my idol and the guy I'd most like to see audited by the IRS.

But idol worship is tenuous at the WSOP. I find that the people I disliked, I dislike even more. And the people I idolized...well, they just seem like everybody else now. It's not much different than looking at the same mountains as you drive to work every day. They look amazing for your first month, but after that, they sort of fade into the background and you find yourself listening to talk radio more than looking out the window.

The rumor (apparently now confirmed by several sources, but none of mine) is that Gus Hansen is broke. I don't know if it's true. I'm not sure I care, but it's the rumor of the week. He skipped the entire WSOP, showing up just a couple of days ago to walk the floor and leave.

I get the feeling that for a majority of tournament players, the fine line between being broke and being a hero is a hard one to walk. So many of the name-pros play nearly every event. Only a few make final tables. Even fewer make mutiple final tables or win a bracelet. I knew a guy in college (a guy I idolized for some time) who hit on anything that even smelled of femininity. He got rejected, sure. But he got laid more than anybody else I knew. I get the feeling tournament poker is much the same. Shoot ten times, score once.

There was a part of me a year or so ago that believed I wanted to be a fulltime poker pro. I never really admitted it out loud or believed it for very long. But there were those nights (usually after a major win or great session) that I thought I could do it.

Are you a card player, he asked.

Over the past week, I've seen quite a bit. Last night, a 75-year-old man fell down beside me. I thought he just tripped. When ten security guys came to his aid and eventually took him by force out of the poker room, I realized he was drunk. Thirty minutes later, another man who had been playing $1/$2 NL all night was nearly dragged from the room by security after spilling a drink all over a table full of people who hated him. Last week, a man literally stood in his chair and rained handfuls of $100 bills down on the table while he was making a bet. All the while, two guys were sitting over at a back table playing Chinese Poker for $100 a point.

And all around them there are people playing everything from $4/$8 to games that could fund the Salvation Army for a year. Ask any of the 2500 people in the poker warehouse if they are a card player, and 99% of them will look up from their cards just long enough to say, "What does it look like, asshole?"

So, this particular night, I'd gone to the Mirage. Minutes before I walked out the door of my hotel, I'd been in the cash game area of the WSOP and found myself tilting for the first time in as long as I could remember. A tattooed kid from Alaska entered the flop in a capped pot and called my kings all the way down to the river with an ace, which hit on the river. No draw, three outs. When he check-raised me on the river, I lost my cool for the first time ever at a poker table. "Did you hit that fucking ace?" He turned it up. I scanned the board and saw two spades. "Did you even have fucking spades?"

"Nope," he said, as he pulled in the mountain of reds. "I just felt it."

I composed myself, mentally elbowing my side, and reminding myself that I'm not the guy that gets mad at the table. "I picked up the remainder of my chips, said "good game, guys," and walked out.

I needed a change of scenery and walked straight for the cab line. It was full of drunk 20-somethings, chugging their drinks so they wouldn't have to throw them away before getting in the cab. In the middle of the storm was the venerable Barry Greenstein, clutching an armload of his new books. I wondered why he didn't have a car. By the time I was done wondering, I was sitting in the card room at the Mirage.

I sat down at a $6/$12 table and ordered a hot chocolate. Before long, two kids from Denmark, in town to play in the main event, sat down at the table. One beside me was painfully drunk and very talkative. For an hour, he and his buddy battled, essentially heads up for bragging rights, not caring much who got caught in the middle. When one of them left, the guy sitting to my right seemed embarassed. He explained that they'd been drinking for a long time and were just blowing off some steam.

The kid then said he wanted to play his best game, regardless if he was playing $40/$80 or $6/$12. I smiled and thought it impossible. Then he surprised me and seemed to sober up immediately. He started playing a good tight-aggressive game. He pegged me for a solid player, it seemed, and stayed out of my pots. Before long, we got to talking. For a solid hour, we talked bankroll management, strategy, and all things poker and poker life related. I realized, just about the time the floor people put out finger sandwiches and danishes, that I was having a good time again. When I check-raised from the big blind with an open-ended straight draw and pushed an early-position limper off the flop, my buddy from Denmark whispered, "I don't know if you had it or not, but I like the way you played that."

Ordinarily, I'd take that kind of comment as the ramblings of a drunk kid or a seasoned pro trying to needle me a bit. This time, though, I thought he was being sincere. And I found msyelf thinking, You know, I like the way I played that, too.

I left the game later, a little bit to the good, and hopped in the cab. Eventually, I would get back to the hotel, walk into the elevator and slump into the corner. Before the doors closed, Chris "Jesus" Ferguson jumped in with wild eyes and the look of a guy who has been at a club all night.

"Howya doing?" he said.

"I can't complain," I said.

"You're about the only one," he said with a smile.

As he got off on his floor, he said, "Seeya around." I looked at my watch and realized he had just a few hours to sleep before his tournament started.

In the taxi, the cabbie had asked, "Are you a card player?"

At the time, I barely thought before responding, "Yeah, I'm a card player."

It was an easy response to an easy question. But sometimes, responses aren't answers.

And frankly, I'm not sure I know the answer to that question. What's more, I'm not sure I want to know.

Give this a read.

Flipchip took a shot of Pauly, Dan, and me with the rest of the WSOP media crew.

(Picture courtesy of The Tao of Poker and LasVegasVegas)

* "Honey, you just can't be chickenshit at these things. You just wouldn't survive here. No offense." --Man on the phone with his wife explaining how his bluff got called to knock him out of the $3000 NL event

* "I'm on tilt." --James "KrazyKanuck" Worth sitting down at a lowly $125 single table satellite...with me...after he busted on the TV bubble in a $5000 event (Incidentally, I went on to chop that one, something I've done in my last three single table sats. Also, incidentally, the Kanuck is one really nice guy and it was fun to sit next to him).

* "Tell me your bad beat story: $5 $2.50" --Seen in magic marker at a manned table in the hallway.

* "You're still here." --Ernie, the room service waiter who served me two weeks ago, then went on vacation with his family, then returned to find me in the same room.

* "She's been classically trained." --Dr. Pauly, at the hooker bar, while a Rio cocktail waitress danced on an elevated stage.

8:00 AM Saturday (Vegas Time)

I had to get a wake-up call. In the wee hours of the morning, BadBlood and his lovely bride joined me in a Plaza 2/4. The only thing worse than the play was the players. To my left sat a larger woman, yes larger than me, with IPOD buds and a scowl. She called each pot to the river, lost, then in a calm and well-mannered voice declared her hatred for the rest of us. She wanted out, I could tell, but she kept tossing more money from her wallet to the game. I tried to put a read on her. I decided she was in some sort of pre-Bhuddist denial.

At about 2:30 I stumbled up to the 19th floor. I pressed zero on the 19th century relic of a phone and found the only cheerful person in this rotten ghetto hotel. "I need a wake up call for 8:00," I said.

"I don't think so," she replied with nerve shattering cheer.

"What?" I whispered.

"I'm just kidding," she said with the self-conscious laugh of someone who knows they aren't funny, "8:00 it is."

I passed out.

At 8:00, the Plaza came through. The phone rang and I rolled over. I could see the distant desert outside my window and the snow capped mountains beyond. I could feel the stirring of my stomach, running on pure booze for days. I could also smell something unnatural, the odor of a G-Rob bender. I took a shower and found the last of my clean shirts.

Downstairs I looked at McDonald's first, but the line was too long. I looked at Subway, but wasn't in the mood for reheated egg loaf. So, like a drunken game of craps, I rolled the dice, and hit the Plaza buffet. It looked like every buffet at every Best Western in every part of the USA: lukewarm scrambled egginess, soggy bacon-grease shavings, old potatoes shaved of sprouts, and WAFFLES!

I filled and cleared 2 full plates. Then caught a cab to the Aladdin.

The players were already gathered

The Aladdin CJ Challenge was only a few minutes away. I really didn't care who won but it was great to have everyone there. I struggled to guess how Maudie could look so sexy at that hour, and I assumed she stayed up all night getting ready. I wanted to get a glimpse of the Aprils too, to see if they were looking hot, but the bright lights of the poker room caught Otis' forehead just right and I was blinded for a half hour. If I won the tournament, he'd get hair plugs. It's for both our sakes.

I sat with some solid players, Joe Speaker, Felicia, FlipCHIP, and Marty. I was ready to be agressive. But how could I match the agression of my intestines? The Plaza strikes again. Midway through level one, I bolted for the bathroom and made my most loose agressive play of the week.

Back at the table, I was already bleeding chips. Middle pocket pair? 3 players and a danger flop. Suited Connectors? Unconnected board. And then, with only 900 chips in my meager stack, I found my 2 red aces. The good man under the gun raised the blinds to T600. I pushed ahead. Everyone folded and, of course, he had to call. I showed my monster and he showed the beast.

He had pocket 6s. Joe said he folded a 6. A 6 came on the flop. Adios G-Rob!

I Suck in Tournaments Anyway

I'm an excellent boozer. I found April at the bar and her bustout was even more difficult to bear. I went with beer until the cavalry arrived. Then I switched to SoCo.

Even while the tournament ran, I knew I needed more. BadBlood and I took seats at the first table up front. The game was NL with $1/$2 blinds, standard Vegas fare and standard Vegas play. Russ Fox massacared my first buy-in, but the second grew fast. I won back both buy-ins, my tournament donation, and the day's commute to the Plaza.

Of course, all the while, the lovely bride was sunning herself with Mrs. Blood. And, of course, she'd been in the company of said surrogate for most of our trip to Vegas. And, of course, the hammer was about to fall.

HERE COME DA JUDGE

The ladies hit Aladdin at about 5PM. Sure, I was running hot at the tables but the thermostat was yanked left. I needed a blanket.

All of us, the Bloods, and Russ and a token geek shuffled into the suprisingly bright midday light for the short walk to a drunken party. I love drunken parties and actually earned enough credits to make them my minor in college. Back then the wife and I were regulars at those events, like a hippy Norm and a skinny Kirstie Alley. Apparantly, two children ago, Kirstie grew up and Norm... the world passed Norm by.

ENTER THE ABYSS

I got in trouble. Saturday = Over.

I like to tell the wife she knew I was a drunk when she decided to marry me. She likes to add, "I've since sobered up."

C'est la vie. She makes me a better man despite my inclinations.

We left the party and walked over to the Excalibur mini-tram. We toured Mandalay Bay and walked all 26 miles to the Shark Reef exhibit before deciding the whole damn thing was too expensive. 26 miles later we found ourselves in a $14 dollar deli with at least a half-dozen hookers.

I didn't notice them when we walked in, I swear. But when I left the deli to find a bathroom (in Vegas there are no bathrooms IN the restaurant), I returned to find them all at the counter. The best of the bunch was a 6 foot blonde with a Hustler T-shirt. It said, "Relax, its only sex," on the back.

At the table next to us an entire family was enjoying their summer vacation, mom... dad... and 3 little boys. Mom did her best to hold it all together with a constantly babbling chatter, but all the sons and pop were sitting, mouths open, staring at the whores. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas... except the psycho-sexual scars, those are yours to keep.

SO NOW IT'S SUNDAY

I decided to make a break. The lovely hit the monorail for a last fling with Vegas and CJ, Lil' Willie and I hit the Luxor poker room.

The games were bizarre but so is my play. I was feelin' strong again. The only no-limit game was $50 max... with 3 blinds per hand. ($1,$1,$2). All three of us found an unbalanced table by the rail and let the chips fly. I was in the 1s, and a Luxor shill was in the 3, she said she was paid by the hour but used her own money in the game. I assumed that would make her more free-wheeling with the chips since there was a backup compensation. The opposite was true.

In the 6s was a man with at least $950. He'd been destroying the table for at least 8 hours. He knocked ol' Willie out when his A-3 flopped 2 pair over Willie's big slick.

After a solid hour of tight aggressive play I'd doubled up twice. After another 2 hours I was up $400. I cashed out up $500 and up for the trip to Vegas. Except for the whole ignoring the wife thing. I'm still deep in debt at home.

You need plenty of (Diet?) Coke in Vegas

So 2,000 miles from home and I'd managed to spend a solid 3 days playing poker with CJ and BadBlood. It was like a jet powered home game. Which is really what I wanted. I'm back home and I miss it all.

I look forward to each Thursday when I go over to casa Blood for our weekly showdown. I like poker there because I like hanging out with him, and Shep and Scott and the Rankster et al. Poker, and all its varieties, are just a substitute for what I really enjoy. Guys are funny like that.

When I first arrived at the MGM on Thurday night, I found Iggy and Bill and Al at the bar. They didn't want to play poker, its not WHY they came to Vegas, at least not REALLY. This is a place to hang and chill and shoot the shit. But I'm a funny guy like that. Despite the fact that I'm a "Professional TV personality", I'm not always comfortable just hanging out with a buncha doods. I need a reason to be. I need a competition to share. I play poker for that.

I play poker because it's a reason for a bunch of guys to spend 5 hours sitting around a table and drinking beer. I like to tell stories about stupid crap with people who feel financially obligated to listen. I play hold-em or omaha or stud because I can pay attention whenever I want and tune out the annoying crap while I "concentrate on a hand".

A few years ago I played frisbee golf with all my friends. We took it very seriously and went to the course almost every day.

Before that we were just drunks. We invented a game called the "drunk olympics" which only Otis or I could ever win. It was us taking turns inventing challenges which all involved a few drinks. The loser had to take more shots. In each round. I loved that too.

There are a million varieties, but they're all the same thing. Poker doesn't look or sound or feel like "Frolf" but I play it for the same reason. I enjoy the company of my competitors.

The people I went to Vegas with were a lot of fun to play poker with. That's why I'll go again.

Tournament play had ended early that night, and against my better judgment, I sat down to play in my regular $10/$20 game. I have a rule. If tournament play ends by midnight, I sit. If it ends afterward, I sleep.

This night, play had ended almost exactly at midnight. Choices suck.

It had been a tough night so far. Some dealer-abusing middle-aged, divorcee who claimed to be a $400/$800 player had sat down at my first table to verbally abuse his 21 year-old son for failing to check-raise with middle pair.

During my funk, I'd realized I smelled funk. I thought it was the Hawaiian guy next to me. When he left, I realized the smell was coming from me. I dialed back my brain and realized I might've forgotten to put on deodorant.

When you're winning (something that's easy to do in this enviroment), you notice all the exciting things about the room. Your reads are dead-on. The massage girls look exotic. The players at your table seem friendlier.

When you're stuck, the rose colored glasses stick thorns in your eyes. You notice the half-eaten lobster tail that's been on a tray in the corner for six days. The massage girls look used up. The players at your table are your high school nemeses.

When you're stuck, it's easier to smell yourself.

I'd just been beaten in a five-way capped pot with pocket kings by a guy who had called all the way down with J9 to hit his straight. That's when Jennifer Tilly walked out of the satellite area.

"Is that that movie girl?" the table speculated.

I mumbled something about her being Phil Laak's girlfriend.

"She's your ex-girlfriend?" they asked.

I stood from the table and walked around a little bit. In the lobby, Laak and Tilly had sat down at an expo booth, facing into the hallway like they wanted to sign me up for a credit card. Room service had just arrived and they were eating. Laak had the salmon and vegetables. Tilly destroyed a big steak and baked potato. She left the vegetables behind.

Something about Tilly being a massive carnivore changed my spirit. I walked back into the poker room and asked Mr. J9 if I could buy a $100 of my chips back from him. My stack of chips had grown smaller, but I had a few hundred bucks underneath and a lot more in my pocket. I hate looking at cash when I'm playing.

He pushed a stack of red across to me. I noticed I was under the gun and pushed $20 into the middle.

The dealer announced, "Live $20."

Mr. J9 raised his eyebrows. "Straddle, huh?"

"Steam straddle," I said.

I capped my cards without looking at them and called blind when an aggressive lady in the two seat raised it up.

I eyed the dealer and said as politely as I could, "Straddle flop, please."

He laid out 356 rainbow.

The big blind--a cowboy who had called two additional bets pre-flop--bet into me. The aggressive lady asked how that flop could've helped him.

"What can I do?" he said. "I flopped a straight."

I peeked at my cards and called his $10.

The aggressive lady put in two bets and the cowboy just called. So, did I.

Why? Why would I call again. I'd put $30 in pre-flop and I'd just called another $20. Why? Steaming?

Well, on that flop of 356...I held a seven...and a four.

A check-raise on the turn drove out the aggressive lady, but the cowboy called me all the way down.

Indeed, there is something about turning over the nuts in a monster pot that can change one's perspective.

Suddenly, I didn't smell myself any more.

So how did it come to pass that as 69 players dropped one-by-one, left at the final table were the two afterthoughts? It wasn't supposed to happen that way. And yet, there it was. The most unlikely showdown in WPBT history.

I suppose I should start at the beginning...

I was a mountain of nerves Saturday morning. I guess it's like organizing the biggest home game you could imagine. I was worried people wouldn't show or that we'd show up at the casino and the floorman would say he has no idea what we're talking about.

Amazingly, everyone made it, and most people were early. When I settled into the one seat of whatever table I was assigned to, I was finding it hard to concentrate on my play. I hadn't prepared myself mentally, and frankly, my tournament showings with the WPBT left a lot to be desired.

I decided early on to take Felicia's advice from the last WPBT live event, and play a little more aggressively. At one point, the dealer mentioned we were the tightest table he had ever dealt. I decided to use this to my advantage, and had little trouble taking blinds when I wanted to.

With the structure the way it was (and yes, it was fast), you needed to accumulate chips at a steady pace. Thankfully, I caught the cards when I needed them, too.

When we reached the third level, people started dropping quickly. In one 5 hand stretch, I was dealt Big Slick 3 times. With one of those hands, I knocked out two people. A few hands later, I knocked out another two short stacks when I called with J8o from the BB and flopped two pair.

When we got down to three tables, I was a huge chip leader. I know this because Joe Speaker delighted in telling me I was a huge chip leader. In fact, every time he did this, I managed to bleed chips at a rapid pace.

It started when I raised 3xBB with A6s. I was two from the button and was really just hoping to take the blinds. It was folded to the BB where Shelly pushed all in with pocket 6's. It wasn't much more for me to call so I had to. Usually when I made this move, I knew I'd be playing for all of their chips if they decided to play with me. I never improved and Shelly took a big chunk out of me.

A few hands later, I look down at A9s and I make another move. Mr. Subliminal is two seats to my left and after considering for a few moments, he announces, "Call" and flips over A2o. Unfortunately, the call doesn't put him all-in. He's stil got about 1500 behind him. Frankly, I was going to play for that 1500 except that the flop came down 2-2-x. Obviously, I folded.

Suddenly, I'm down to just 4000 with the blinds at 500/1000. I was in big trouble. As soon as I saw a playable hand, I pushed all-in, but amazingly, I didn't get called and I was up to 6500. A few hands later, Shelly raises in front of me. I didn't have much and with A3, I decided to make a stand, hoping she wasn't playing an Ace. She called my all-in with QJ, and when the flop came Q-3-3, I doubled up again.

And just like that, I was back. The chips started flowing my way again, and before long, we were down to the final table. I couldn't believe it. And with 10 left, I was chip leader (guess who pointed that out?).

I kept telling myself I would take things easy as the little stacks drifted away. One stupid decision and I'd be in bad shape. With 6 players left, I made that stupid decision.

I look down at pocket 3's and raise to 3xBB. It was a pretty standard play for me. At the other end of the table, a LA Crew groupie (Hank's buddy Matt) pushed all in. I knew he had a big pair. We were pretty close in stack size (I had him slightly outchipped) and he would only risk a stack that size with a hand that big.

So I thought and thought and thought and convinced myslef to call. Why? I don't know. It was a terrible play. Even if I just put him on overcards, why risk that huge stack on a coin flip, right? So of course, I call.

He flips Rockets and I never improve. I'm down to just 3500 with blinds at 1500/3000 and I'm the BB on the next hand.

The cards come out and I announce I'm playing it blind. What choice did I have, right? Obie tries to make things easier on my by raising to 6000. I tell him that I appreciate the isolation, but then Matt goes and calls. Ugh.

The flop is A-x-x. Obie pushes all-in, and I again thank him for his isolation. Then Matt calls. Ugh.

Obie flips AJo and Matt flips AQo. Suddenly, Matt's about to knock us both out. I was in bad, bad shape. I grab my first card and flip it over. It's the 9 of hearts. Ooooh... there's two hearts on the board. I say, "At least I'm on a flush draw" before flipping over my other card, the Q of hearts. And when the river heart fell, the crowd erupted. I was still alive.

When the orbit came around again, the blinds had gone up and I was barely able to make a raise. I decided I'd be playing my BB for all my chips no matter what I was dealt. Matt had raised in front of me and I pushed all in without looking. This time, I flipped over 94 of diamonds. This time, it was runner-runner flush that kept me alive. I'm not sure how I got so lucky.

A few hands later, The Tsunami Hitchhiker pushes from the SB. He has me slightly outstacked. I look down at QT, and with money already in for the BB, I'm almost forced to call. When he flips over Q8, I know I'm way ahead!

The flop comes down Q-high giving us both a pair. When the turn is an 8, I can't believe it. I'm about to go out in 4th place after all that fighting. I suppose I was satisfied, but I hated the bad beat. A meaningless card falls on the river and I feel empty. The adrenaline quickly seeped out of my body. I shake his hand and prepare to leave.

That's when we see it. Or more to the point, that's when the rest of the room points out what we missed. The flop was Q-T-x. I flopped two pair. The 8 was meaningless. I was still alive. I couldn't believe it. I went through all the emotions of being knocked out, but I was still alive.

It wasn't long before I knocked out The Tsunami Hitchhiker. We were down to just three. Matt's huge stack and the modest stacks in front of Bill Rini and myself. I don't know how it happened, because it was all a blur, but in just a few hands, Bill and I had whittled down Matt's stack, and in the end, Bill busted him.

We were heads up.

The most unlikely heads up in WPBT history.

I kinda liked my chances. I'm pretty happy with my heads up play in general, and I planned on being appropriately aggressive. I figured I'd try to chip away where I could, and when I got a hand where I figured I was ahead, I'd push all in.

That hand was A3o. When I pushed, Bill called and flipped KQ. The hand analyzer says I was a 58% favorite at that point. Not great, but I was ahead. When the flop came T-T-T, the most bizarre flop of the tourney, I was a 70% favorite. If I double up here, I'm a huge chip leader. When a K comes on the turn, it's almost over. Only an Ace or the case Ten wins it for me and my 9% chance never comes.

Bill Rini is the WPBT Aladdin Casino Classic Champion. I really wanted to knock out the LA Crew, but they did bring 32 representatives after all. I suppoe the odds were on their side. And for the record both the Michigan Boys and the Minnesota Trio were also represented at the final table by Boy Genius and Chad, respectively.

I don't know how it all happened, and I'm sure there was an awful lot of luck involved, but that win sure made the rest of the weekend a lot easier!

I want to thank all of you for making it easy on me. In the end, all the work was more than worth it. I'd also like to thank the fine people at the Aladdin Casino for running such a fine tourney. It was a blast!

Coming Up...
"The Grand Massage"

We were two tables of late night $10/$20. The Russian's table was the live one. A priest had wandered by my game twice and administered last rites.

Three times I'd considered getting up and going to bed, bit it was still relatively early, my work was done for the day, and I wasn't tired. The game was exhaustingly boring though. The die-hards at the table had done everything we could to get the action going. We straddled, we tried to drink a bit, and we even brought the rock into the game. It was all to no avail.

I was scanning the room for a rack to fill with my meager stack of blinded-off reds when the Russian's table broke and three of the players came to our short-handed table. The Russian took the seat to my right, while another player (also Russian, perhaps, but I'm not sure) took the seat to his right. We'll call him Eddie.

On the first hand, Eddie stood an announced he would play the entire hand blind. He put his chips on his cards and when it a raise came around to him, he grabbed a handful of checks, and said, "Hey, hey, hey, watch this..." Then he wound up like a fat minor league pitcher, threw his arm forward, said, "Blooooooooop!" and rolled out three bets.

I looked around at my old tables mates--every one of them locals--and raised my eyebrows. They nodded, and we waited.

Yes, on that first hand, the betting was capped pre-flop, capped on the flop, capped on the turn, and two bet on the river. Blind Eddie's T6o hit a runner-runner straight to snap off the solid's player's flopped set of nines.

"Fucking amazing," the guy said. "Fucking amazing."

And then the idiot stood and left. Like walking outof a goldmine beacause your pick-axe is scratched.

I ran to the bathroom and when I came back, a red-haired lady who I'd been playing with all night grabbed me and said, "Just sit back and wait for cards."

The sentiment wa unnecessary but nice. After all, the lady and I had spent a couple of hours trying to take each other's money and now, with six other players, we were looking to take the Russian and Eddie's stacks...and the stacks of bills behind. The game had shifted just like that.

And after all, now Blind Eddie and the Mad Russian were bothplaying blind, usually to the river, usually in pots that were three bet ("Bloooooooop!") or capped pre-flop.

Just three hands later I found pocket sevens UTG +2 and limped in, knowing full well I'd be playing them for thirty or forty dollars. Indeed, Blind Eddie and the Mad Russian raised and re-raised blind. Before he flop we had six players in a capped pot.

So, imagine my poker player's joy when the flop came out 753 rainbow. The boys came out firing and I slow-played my set until the bets got back around to me and gave me a chance to cap it. My former opponents got the message. get out and get out now.

The turn was a deuce. Three bets from me and the boys made it to the middle. I was ever-so-slightly worried that one of the boys had 4-6 for a flopped straight, but it didn't slow me down.

And then the beautiful river...another deuce. Not quite the nuts, but close enough for me. The mountain of red chips that slipped to my corner of the table was too big to stack before the conclusion of the next hand. I figured if I could catch one more hand, I could end the night with a very nice profit.

And then the worst possible thing happened.

I wasn't in the hand, but the field had limped around to Blind Eddie who had raised (he said blind, and I think I believe him). The Mad Russian three-bet and the rest of the field folded). So, the boys said they would check it down. Eddie showed KK. The Russian showed 6-9 offsuit.

The guy to my left exploded, screaming that he had had enough of it, accusing the pair of cheating, colluding, etc. Now the boys were screaming back. Then a guy who had just won $12,000 in a small tournament in the back of the room got into it, screaming, waving his brick of $100s around. The floor tried to come to the rescue, but it was too late.

While I sat in the middle, eying my chips, and hoping everyone would calm down, it happened. Blind Eddie grabbed his chips and bolted for the door. The the Russian stalked off. And there we sat, the same rock garden as before.

Now the original accusers who had been nice guys before were surly and calling the red-haired lady "chick" and "broad." And that was enough for me. I played the rest of the orbit and then racked up and went to bed. The game was done.

Rule #1: When you have a good thing, don't fuck it up.

The cards are dealt and I look down at the most powerful hand in poker, 72o. I'm UTG and correctly raise. There are, I believe, two or three callers, but none of my fellow bloggers. I was disappointed that no one raised.

The flop comes down 7-7-x. Um... jackpot!!!

I calmly look down at my chips and stack four $1 chips, tossing them into the pot. It actually felt good to not have to bluff with the hand. This time, I get just one caller, the old woman with the impossible-to-believe blonde hair. I begin to pity her, she has no idea what she's up against.

Then it happens.

The dealer peels the next card off the deck and rolls it over. The felt looks like a slot machine, and I'm the one pulling the handle. 7-7-7-x.

Quads. I believe it's just the second time I've ever had quads in a B&M casino. So what do I do? I think you'll all be proud.

I value check my nuts.

To my delight, the "blonde" bets. This is where I wonder if I made a misplay. I simply value call my nuts. I figured I could get more on the river with a smooth call. I think I should have raised.

The river is inconsequential. And I lead out this time. Should I have check-raised here, too? I was really hoping the "blonde" had a legitimate hand and would raise me. How could you possibly put me on a 7? Instead, she simply calls.

Before I even get a chance to show my cards, the "blonde" proudly displays her pocket K's. I would have been proud, too. In fact, if I had been her, I'd have lost a lot more money. She loses to just two hands: AA and 7x. I suppose you could put me on AA with my UTG raise, but that would make you a genius. How could you not raise me on the river, dammit!?!?

So I calmly flip my HAMMER and lay it down right beside the three 7's on the board. Suddenly, half the table erupts. My fellow bloggers are out of there seats with exclamations of "Hammer!!!!" and "Oh my God!!" I raise my arms in victory.

More bloggers are drawn to the table as the word of "Hammer quads" spreads from table to table. Unfortunately, no one has a chance to snap a picture because the dealer begins re-shuffling the deck. I hardly notice the "blonde" has begun racking her chips.

I stack my chips, allowing the glory to wash over me. Then I remember 4 of a kind means a spin of the wheel at the Excalibur. As I walk that way, I pass three tables of bloggers who had already heard the tale.

When I get to the wheel, I begin to tell the dealer behind the desk about the unlikely hand. As I begin to say, "And I can't believe she had pocket K's..." I notice she's standing right beside me, angrily checking out. I imagine she left the casino altogether.

But I suppose that's what happens when you doubt the power of the HAMMER.

I spun for another $100 and had nearly made back every dollar I lost at the $2-$6 game. Shortly after I got back to the my seat, we were joined by Hank. G-Rob was the first to realize he was overmatched so he went in search of a softer table.

A few hands of bleeding my chips away and I realized playing with Hank, Otis and BadBlood is significantly -EV. I would not advise it.

It was getting late anyway, and I had a tournament to host the next day. I gathered my chips and headed to bed. I figured no matter what I did the rest of the weekend, nothing would surpass the HAMMER quads.

When You Next Join Us...
"G-Vegas vs. The LA Crew"

Getting off the plane, I didn't try to sneak out into the aisle before was supposed to. At baggage claim, I didn't knock a lady over while trying to get my bags before her. Arriving at the hotel, I didn't jump a railing to get to the poker room two seconds faster.

I'd done all of those things before, but this time I didn't.

Maybe because I was just walking into the office this time.

***

So I worked, doing what I do, and occasionally stealing glances at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror. I should sleep. I'd been awake for 19 hours, working for about eleven.

But maybe I should go check and see if one of my featured players is still playing the Limit Hold'em Shoot-out.

Sure, I should.

***

I was walking faster this time, down a long corridor where the Arctic Cat convention had been eight hours earlier. A guy I know was walking the other way.

"Wait, wait, wait. Where you going?" he asked, now walking backward as I walked away.

"Just going to go check in and see if I've missed anything," I said.

"No...drinks," he said and rattled off the name of a bar.

"Might see you there," I said, knowing full-well I wouldn't.

***

My featured player had busted. Work was through for the day.

***

Five hours later, I laid in bed and listened to the desert wind scream through a little vent in my window. The sun was up and so was I. I've found myself in the middle of a month-long, marathon work session. My office is a poker room. My break room is a poker room.

This was the first day of a A Month in Las Vegas.

It lasted 25 hours.

I was scared.

I was scared for them. I know I shouldn't have been. We sent a strong crew after the prize. As thousands of people crushed their way into the ballroom, it became clear that this would be a WSOP like none other. In the end, more than 2300 people entered event #2. That's a record number for any event, exceeding last year's 2200 for the main event.

Finishing in the money would be remarkably difficult. I'll let them tell their tales, but in the end, our heroes were knocked out one by one. I know Otis made it to the top 500. I hope their all proud, because they played smart, strong poker and got their money into the pot in a good spot. If the cards fall a different way, who knows.

I played the role of spectator with Otis' brother, Little Willie. After a great meal at the Sao Paulo (we avoided the buffet), we headed over to the Excalibur, our second home. Little Willie had to work off his poker rate time and in a few hours, bloggers would be storming the castle. I suppose we were the advanced scouts.

Amazingly, seated next to me at the $2-$6 spread game was Vince, the unwitting non-blogger in the H.O.R.S.E. game the night before. It didn't take long for him to fit right in.

I guess I wasn't really playing poker, because I was throwing money away. We were straddling, playing blind and dropping hammers. At least once, we live straddled and blind capped a bet pre-flop. Now that's action!

I gave my money away at a record pace. I wasn't exactly seeing great cards, but that didn't matter. I was playing poorly. One time I laid down top pair and Heather scolded me. So the next hand, I played my top pair against her to the river and she took more of my money with her two pair. Yep, that's the way I was playing.

Eventually, a $4/$8 1/2 Kill game opened up and I had to move. As much as I enjoyed my 6 hours at this crazy table (and it was a blast!!!!), I couldn't keep bleeding money that way, and the answer in my mixed up mind was to move up levels. Right??

And it didn't take long for my to drop the biggest HAMMER ever seen. Or at least I think so... but that will have to wait for another day.

Coming soon...
"Quads"

I knew my time had come

The Rio was packed with those WSOP-wannabes. Event 2 was still underway and the stench of Hellmuth filled the room. We'd been warned that the game was soft. I also warned the waitress that I was well behind and would need her comfort.

An aside :

Ever wonder just how much of your Vegas bankroll is spent tipping? You tip the dealer on every winning hand. You tip the waitress for every round. In crowded rooms I always tip double what the other players do. It keeps the girls coming back. If I had gone to a bar, I'd have some estimate of what the booze cost, but if they're chips from a poker stack I really have no idea. On this trip the tips were a fair allowance.

BadBlood took a mighty suckout here. A fella called all-in while chasing his RUNNER-RUNNER flush. BadBlood made up for some of that by crushing me on an earlier hand. I came out even and the hands were pretty dull. I do remember this : Everytime the waitress came by she'd already have a full tray but she could never remember who placed the order. I'd just raise my hand and pull a bottle from the tray...every time she walked by...and hand her a tip. I never placed a single order. For some reason, it was always Corona, which means there was an angry bandito somwhere along the Rio Grande.

We played there for about 2 hours, which is far less time than we spent waiting for the table. The fabulous wives were done with their coasters and we were called to storm the castle. Most of the other degenerates were already there and the games were in typical blogger style. I sat down at a 4/8 half-kill and we put the whole table on tilt.

To enter the Delta

I sat down with CJ to my left. I think I was in the 4s. Further down, crap, was it Wes(?) in the 7s? and I know Otis was in the 9. Anyhoo, that's not the point. Actually, it is the point. But I suck at telling stories. Here goes nonetheless :

CJ caught the hammer (this is 7-2o for new readers) in EP and raised it up. He found 3 callers and the flop gave him trips.

All four players saw the turn which was CJs 4th 7.

CJ bet like he had it and 1 poor woman stuck around to find out. He showed his quads and she showed her dominated boat. She grabbed her chips and stormed away while CJ spun the Excalibur wheel.

Excalibur, which is exactly what a poker room would look like if poker playing 5th graders wrote a paper about the middle ages, has a cash wheel which players can spin if they lose with pocket aces or win with quads. CJ spun and took down another $100.00.

Another Aside

Since when are the dark ages an acceptable theme for anything? Yee-Haw! Ignore the purple sores! Kids Stay Free..Adults Die Young! The beer wenches dress like...um...beer wenches, the whole place is carpeted in a royal maroon and there's the unmisakeable feeling that all the customers are fools in a corporate King's court. Good thing the booze is free.

A few hands later, I also played the hammer. After a few more Otis did the same. Most important, it won every time. Soon the grumpy middle aged yahoos (I tried to tell them I was a bisquick saleman from Amarillo) were afraid of every 7 or 2 on every flop. If a 7 came, they were sure we had it and they were all ready to fold. Poker is stupid but its fun.

Soon, however, enough bloggers had joined our limit game to make it an impossible score. My bankroll sreamed in terror and my eyes scanned the room for the perfect NL game. I found it just a few tables back and the 1s was open.

Normally, I hate the 1 seat. I have a great view of the dealers left elbow but I can hardly see across the table. It makes it hard to read the morons. Fortunately, the monkeys here were unwilling to be read. 7 of the other 9 players were wearing shades. 6 were wearing hats. 4 of them were listning to I-pods so they could be entertained while they lost their tuition. Not a player at the table was a minute older that 22. There were some serious Poker-on-TV types here and I just hoped they thought "Celebrity Poker" was the real thing.

I sat down with about $200 bucks I'd brought over from the limit game. I was broke inside an hour. On one hand we had a raise from $2 to $10 and a caller behind that. I found pocket Q and made it $50 to go. The guy to my left called and the others all folded.

The guy to my left was one of those "community card" types. His buddies all pulled up chairs around him and after each deal he'd show them his cards. He had his own commentary on each hand designed to show his schoolboy chums his vast expertise on poker and he'd successfully proven his stupidity.

The flop comes all garbage and I kept my eye on his friends. All of them made it clear the flop was a whiff. One of them actually said, "Crap!". I felt good about betting my remaing $80.00, which he immediately called....With A-3 off.

The turn was an Ace. So was the river. I was too steamed to continue.

I stumbled away to find a new venue for my drunken moans and found my wife and Mrs. Otis cold chillin' in the Excalibur lounge. When I sat, both women were being carded by the wench-in-charge. I had another Corona just to piss off the bandito.

Moments later the act got to singin'. It's a Fleetwood Mac cover act and the first number was a medley of all the hits. The singer belted out the first familair tune and then strolled into the crowd with her cordless mic. She was rolling (frankly she was covered in rolls) into the second song, which I recognized but didn't know. Next thing I knew she was straddling my lap.

I like a good lap dance. I especially like a good lap dance from a lounge singer while my wife looks on. I have to admit I was aroused, and I let the singer know it. I bobbed my head to the rhythm and thrust my hips to the beat. She held out the mic so I could join her in the chorus, but remember I DON'T KNOW THE SONG!

So...I took the mic away...and sang my own words.

"I...I...I.IIIIIIIIIII...Don't know the words to this song!" I screamed. It was suprisingly in key by the way.

They clapped louder for me than they did for her. They should. I had bigger breasts.

My wife thought this was the perfect chance to instruct me of all the pleasures Vegas had to offer AWAY from the poker table. But I don't learn lessons well.

In fact, tomorrow, the worm turns. I made a poker profit from this stupid town.

-EV.

And speaking of -EV, Kevin himself was at the table. In fact, let me try to remember who filled table...

1s: World Reknowned Professional Poker Player Chris Halverson
2s: Drizztdj
3s: AlCantHang (Replaced by Bobby Bracelet)
4s: -EV (Replaced by Boy Genius)
5s: Austin Matt (reader)
6s: Maudie
7s: Me
8s: Chad
9s: Vince (poor soul who thought the H.O.R.S.E. game was a good idea)
10s: I can't remember... someone tell me!!!!

This experience was pretty much a blur. It was Hold 'Em when I sat down. The next dealer requested O/8. Then we convinced a dealer to deal us Pineapple. And finally, we started another round of Hold 'Em, but the game collapsed under it's own weight. I think it was like a black hole that was getting infinitely bigger by eating all of our chips.

I can hardly remember specific hands, but I do remember AlCantHang getting drilled by a couple of blind flushes, including one involving the JackHammer courtesy of Chris.

I also remember plenty of live straddles, especially with "The Rock" in play. It was four dollar chips tied up with a rubber band. I'm not sure there was a whole lot of good poker being played here, but I can assure you, it was a blast.

Except for one thing... if you didn't notice Austin Matt was a little drunk. I'm sure he didn't mean to get that hammered, but there were plenty of bad influences. He was slowing down the game quite a bit, and many of these H.O.R.S.E. games are slow enough. I felt bad for the dealers because it's hard enough to get tips without someone dragging the game to a halt. We even called the clock on Matt a few times and the floorman played along. Did I tell you how great the MGM was to us? (By the way, Matt was much cooler by day three when he sobered up!)

As I mentioned above, at one point we convinced a dealer to deal us Pineapple. If you don't know, Pineapple is a lot like Hold 'Em. Except you're dealt three cards instead of two, and must discard one before the flop. It's supposed to increase the overall value of the starting hands, but for some reason, it had little effect on our table. Go figure.

When the floorman stopped by, he asked the dealer a very reasonable question, "Do you know how to spell? I don't remember there being a "P" in horse."

Bloggers to the rescue! We reminded the floorman how common it was to have a silent "p" in words like psychology, raspberry and jopke.

Somehow, I managed to lose just $31. The only hand of my own I can remember is when Drizztjd allowed me to Catch the Antichrist on the river. It was limit Hold 'Em and I hammered my pocket 6's early enough that we got to see the river for free.

When the blogger table broke up, I wandered upon a raging $2/$4 featuring April, Chilly, Marty, Otis and G-Rob. When Otis got up to presumably rest for the WSOP (or some other nonesense), I took his seat. Unfortunately, G-Rob had already tilted away, so I didn't get to play with him either.

I quickly learned what tilted G-Rob was the luckiest fish in the room. He was Mizzou grad who enjoyed playing every hand (a Mizzou grad, go figure). At one point, this guy (dubbed Brown Shirt for obvious reasons) cracked Marty's hammer with A3s. Marty had flopped two pair. April and I nearly cried.

It was at that moment that I vowed I would not leave this table until Brown Shirt was broke. At about 5:30am, I left the table. I think I walked away up about $15... but it was a blast. We laughed constantly. It was definitely worth losing all that sleep.

Coming up...
"Stargazing at the Rio... and I mean OTIS!!"

I comb it for TV

The wife tells me there's a poker tournament simmering in the Cabbage pot. With Bad (and Mrs.)Blood, Dr. Pauly, Maudie, and Drightksdv (sp?) already signed up, I figured I should grace the room. It was already 11:30 and the match began at 12:00. No time for a shower, but I did manage a fresh T-Shirt. I wanted to blend with the locals. I thought my hair style accomplished that. I call it 'queer eye for the all night bender guy'.

If I remember right, which is a stretch, tourney buy-in was $50 with a rebuy at the same price. I took stock of my poker skills and my layover buzz and payed $100 up front. From that point, the Plaza took charge. I drew seat 9 at table 2. But just before I took the chair the TD announced we'd go to 11 per table, and one gigantic turdburger (new player 11 by the way) demanded my chair. Fortunately, idiocy prevailed again. .

First the Tournament Director started the tourney clock for the first level of blinds.

Then, he allowed 6 more people to buy into the tournament.

Then, he created a 3rd table which I was moved to.

Then, 15 minutes into the 20 minute level, I actually played a hand.

Then, in level 3, I went upstairs for a nice Vegas shower. Not a euphamistic "Vegas Shower", just an honest-to-goodness actual shower from a hot water nozzle conveniently placed about navel-high. My gut was filthy anyway.

OTIS AT 8 BOBBY AT 9..and WHO THE HELL IS RUSS?

Squeaky clean with another new shirt but I still wasn't refreshed. My head was packed in styrofoam and tin cans distorted the sounds. Luckily the entire world agreed to move in extra slow motion and I was up to speed.

Before leaving for the Rio, I found a blackjack table near the lobby with an older asian dude playing 3 hands. Every time he won a hand he yelled "Eureka!" like he'd finally make rent. I sidled up and played 2 hands for $100 a piece. Each time we got a new dealer my new gambling buddy would go Elivs-flirt, and each time he got shot down. He actually refered to a beefy, balding woman as "Toots".

-EV my ass!

But like all G-Rob gambling adventures, this one ended when the money ran out. It was time to find the Rio, and the WSOP. It was time to sweat the people I could glom onto for some sort of glory. Otis, Bobby and Russ were all still playing in Event #2 at 3PM. I wanted to catch the fever. Why not? I already had the other symptoms.

I rode over in a cab with the wife and the Bloods. We found Otis and Bobby seated like next door neighbors at a garage home game. Otis at table 8(ish) and Bobby nearby.

I also saw Spiderman, but he looked like shit. He left the mask at home.
I saw a dozen poker pros.
I saw a guy who said he saw James Woods.
I saw Phil Hellmuth. I'm taller than him.
I saw Bobby and Otis bust out of the game. Both made the proper plays and lost a race.
I still had no idea what Russ looked like. I was with him in spirit.

Please note, it was now 5PM, and I was stone cold sober.
The worm was about to turn.

SO WHY DO THEY CALL HIM "GREENWOOD PHIL"?

Yes, my wife asked that about a buddy of ours from home. He's from Greenwood. His name is Phil. We aren't creative.

Phil was there to play Event 2, but like so many others found he was too late to buy in. The entries were capped at 2,200. BadBlood and I, both jonesing for a gamble used Phil as a dummy. We signed up for a NL game, with Phil 4 names above ours. We let him play and then picked his brain. He said the tables were soft.

"EUREKA!"

It cost $450 per roundtrip ticket, plus another for each wife. We were thousands of miles from home. We had endured the worst hotel in the annals of history and turned out backs on dozens of long-distance friends. This is why we came.

At 7PM BadBlood and I continued our home game, side-by-side at the Rio.

Oh.

And I started drinking.

More tomorrow dear reader.....
I promise...tomorrow I'll tell the story of taking the mic during a lounge act at the Excalibur to perfrom a Fleetwood Mac song I didn't know.

Good Times.

Good Times.

I needed to find Little Willie, because he had the key to my room, but I'm never good at finding people in the crowd. It didn't take me long, however, to find the two biggest guns east of the Mississippi. Bad Blood and Mrs. Blood were sitting at a $2-$6 spread limit game. The guns so blocked the sun that I failed to notice a goateed Otis and the lovely Mrs. Otis at the same table. Little Willie was at the next table and I had my key. I was thinking about getting dinner.

It took my three trips up and down the elevator to find my room because I was completely lost. How I managed to get lost in the Excalibur, I'll never know. When I got back to the poker room, it was time to head to the MGM Grand. There was no time for food.

Let me start by saying the Grand's poker room is rather impressive. I would end up spending quite a bit of time there. Derek became the beginning of a poker blogger avalanche that would leave me wondering which member of the Minnesota mafia I had met. What I'm trying to say is that I have a hard time remembering names, and there were an awful lot to remember. Now if I only had remembered to eat...

The HORSE game was full and I told the nice people in the poker room that we'd take another table if they could set one up. In the meantime, I sat myself down at a $4/$8 half-kill table. I was a little apprehensive because I tend to play a little under that level, but I thought I'd give it a shot. Who needs food when you're killing at the table, right?

I could do no wrong. Early on, I played a hand blind out of the big blind. Next orbit, I straddled three consecutive hands because of the empty seats that filled up beside me. And I threw in an early HAMMER to set an image. It apparently worked. My chip stack was growing faster than I could count it. If only I had known the lovely cocktail waitresses would bring food right to you.

My favorite hand of the night, naturally, would be the HAMMER (this would be a theme). In MP, I raise, correctly, with 7-2 offsuit. The BB and UTG both called. Apparently, they don't respect me. They would learn. The flop came down 6-6-8. It's checked to me, and, naturally, I lead out. The BB calls me, but the other guy finally realizes the power of the hammer. The turn is a 9, and suddenly, I'm on an open-ended straight draw! The BB checks and I, figuring the free card might actually help, check behind him. The river is a deuce and I figure I'm beat. BB actually leads out for $8 this time. I can't fold (it's the HAMMER after all) and throw 8 more in the pot. He flips K-high. I flip the 72o. Ain't life grand? Eat that, Mr. Big Blind!!!!

Suddenly I look down and I'm at $1200. That's right, I said $1200. At a $4/$8 half kill table. That's like 75 BB/HR. I think that's a new record. I must be the greatest poker player ever. I even had to seek out my fellow bloggers and spread the good news. They were happy, but understandably skeptical. I couldn't understand why. I kick ass... that's just the way it is. I could probably buy my own restuarant at this rate.

That's when -EV stopped by to see just how soft this table was, and when I realized those blue chips were only worth $1. Um... so I was only up $300 at that point. I told -EV to go back and tell everyone. He said, "Hell no, I'm gonna tell 'em you're up $1400!!!" I tried my damndest to squelch the story, but eventually, the task was overwhelming. All I could do was eat my words. Damn, I'm hungry.

Next up...
"HORPSE" or "Dealer, Do You Know How to Spell?"

I ain't no grownup

At some point, probably 2 children ago, my wife became an adult, leaving me to play catch up. I'm more responsible now than I ever was before, but for anyone who's seen me in Vegas, I can still tie one on.

This is the way we arrived at the Plaza. She was tired from travel. I was thirsty for booze. She went to bed after at 12 hour trip. I went to the MGM Grand looking for my degenerate friends. I'd see her soon, two of her in fact. She could smell me coming before the key card hit the door.

MGM GRAND 1AM FRIDAY

I don't remember who I saw first. I think I saw Marty playing 2/4. More than anything I wanted to play that mixed game and that's where I headed first. CJ was playing there so was Maudie and Al plus, apparently, most of the population of Minnesotta. I hugged Maudie, promised a shot with Al, and went looking for some free cash and amber gold.

I took the 10 seat with Marty and Chili already there, Otis and April soon followed. 2/4 is not a game for the brilliant mind, not at a casino too expensive for the working class, not in a room that looked like a singles bar with cards.

It was here that the phenomenon of very large-breasted Asian women began. Our waitress, Susan, was tall, slender, and stacked. Apparantly, somewhere between the M&M and Coca-Cola museums, there's a factory where these women are, literally, pressed into service. An Orient Express of Southern Comfort and Heineken was taking shape already.

_____ Some Actual Poker _____

I flopped quad Jacks at one point. This after a capped pre-flop pot. I was on the button with 2 other players. The 3s bet at the flop and the 7 seat raised. I realized there was no chance of anyone folding and no reason to slowplay..so I re-raised and the 3s capped. They did it on every street, and I made a nice pot.

Shortly afterwards, the same kind of no-fold 'em play put me on tilt. I resolved to keep my limit play in monkey rooms to a minimum. Banannas!

_____ End Actual Poker _______

Of course, I still had a full fleged tilt and went on a bender of super F-Bombs. By number 25 or so I finally go a warning from a floor man with good timing.

"How many 'Fucks' before I have to leave, " I asked.

"One more," he said.

So I tossed him a dollar chip, said "Fuck," and asked him again.

"That bought you one more," he said.

After the tilt I went back to Al's table and found him in similar vein. We marched to a place that would set us straight at once. We ordered 2 doubles...neat...and found Bill, Iggy and Derek already having the same. Normally, I'd have launched into the typical, "Bill you blog cracks me up!" But in my job you meet celebrities all the time, and I've learned not to gush.

That's the reason I came to Vegas, I can play poker at home. More than anything I wanted to get stupid with people who have standards of public conduct just as low as mine. No offense people, but you're just as bad as me.

That said, I returned to the table and grabbed the rest of my chips. $-60 in post-tilt stupidity. The Celebritiy tour of Uber-degenerates was headed back downtown, and I was ready to party.

SUITE OF DESTRUCTION 3AM

I have a degree in philosophy. At times like this, and very few others, that education serves me well. I spent years reading the great texts and probing the Universe for the existence of God. More than anything it taught me to look for EVIDENCE. I found it at 3. Here's a sample proof :

If God exists as the force of everything Good.

If the Devil exists as the force of everything Bad.

If Evil cannot exist without Good as a counterpoint
--------------------------------------------------------------
Proof of the Devil means proof of God.

Surely it was the Devil who arranged this Plaza suite. Al AND Pauly separated by fewer than 20 feet of dirty lounge. The Vengeful Thor of hangover booze and Medusa of the illegal weed. I knew what would happen if I visited that room and I knew instantly I had to go. My wife was asleep. The inmate had an all night pass.

A big crowd of the kind of bloggers I love was there in the 7th circle. We all had a goal in mind. If we could get JUST INTOXICATED ENOUGH this portion of out trip reports could safely be qualified as fiction. Medusa spread her terrible tenticles and Thor let loose a mighty roar. The lightning killed me swiftly and the light of God shone true.

"My wingman's playing blackjack alone," yelled Al. Breaking the repose. He meant the Fat Guy downstairs.

"I'm up for blackjack," yelled Iggy and I.

And downstairs we went into a -EV landslide.

A NOTE FROM THE FUTURE

The next night when Bad and Mrs. Blood returned to this room for more 2/4 madness, the poker room manager took me aside before he'd sell me my chips.

"Last night we let a lot of things slide because you and your friends all had one table," he said, "but tonight you'll have to tone it down"

"We can't have all the swearing and screaming because the other players don't appreciate it"

I was tempted to point out that most of the regular players at the Plaza also don't appreciate a bar of soap, but I promised to keep it quiet this time.

FRIDAY MORNING AT THE PLAZA

Sure enough the Fat Guy was playing 21. I couldn't tell if he was winning but it was clear he was powered by the lightning of Thor. Meanwhile Iggy and I tried to rig up a NL blogger table, which we did. It was just as stupid as the online version.

By 4AM I kept thinking I should call it quits, but Joe Speaker and Bobby Bracelet were still playing and THEY WERE IN THE WSOP 8 hours later. Surely I could hang out for more. We kept drinking and I kept sinking lower. I broke even at the blogger game and joined Al for a game of craps.

I DID NOT BREAK EVEN THERE.

So...

At 7AM I stubled back up to the room. The damn key didn't work so I had to wake up the wife for admission. Moments later I slept on top of the sheets with my socks still on. And, little did I know, I was about to begin again fewer than 5 hours later.....

Which, obviously, is where I'll pick up again tomorrow...eh?

Oooops. Sorry. I like that show too!

There was a line at check in, but that's always expected. I used the time to call Al. He was at the MGM, with most of the other people I couldn't wait to see, and as soon as I finished the call I was ready to check in.

I gave the man my name and he started typing.

He asked if I wanted a king or queen sized bed. I said I reserved a king. He frowned and continued typing. The wife's eyes grew even larger and a storm was fast approaching.

Type

Type

Type

"Sir, I only have a room with two queen bed," he said.

"So why ask me which I prefer?" I wondered aloud.

More typing.

He then turned to the pretty woman to his left, who also started typing. It seems a queen size room would have to do, at least for tonight. But there WAS a silver lining....

"Here's a key to room 1707," he said, "its a king sized room for tomorrow. And here's a key to room 1703, a queen sized room for tonight"

I took both sets of keys and headed upstairs. The elevator took me to the 17th floor, which my wife noticed, had the same boiled cabbage smell we noticed in the lobby. At room 1703 the key worked and the door opened, to a room where the bed was unmade...

...and the TV was on.

...and someone else's luggage sat on the floor.

...and someone else was suprised to see us there.

Apparantly the clerk got the room numbers confused. It seems this is tomorrow's room and the key still works tonight. I think they were watching "SPORTSCENTER", and I DO like that show.

So, more cabbage, we went down a few doors to room 1707. That key didn't work. You know the type, of course, that little card that only works with just the right touch. I placed it, pushed it, rammed it, and eventually KICKED IT, right into the door itself.

That last bit provoked a good deal of suprise on the face of an non-English speaking Asian woman who was asleep inside that room. I'm a good sized man, about 6 foot 5 and FAT. The poor woman was scared to death.

And I was seriously PISSED as I marched back to the lobby.

"You gave me 2 sets of keys," I said, "one works and one doesn't BUT BOTH are to rooms with people already in them!"

He started typing.

It seems he wasn't SUPPOSED to give me 2 sets of keys after all. And it seems he MEANT to write 1907 on the second set, that was our room tonight.

On the 19th level of cabbage stew we finally found our room. Which, in Vegas, in June was 114 degrees. The air conditioner didn't work. They promised to fix it tomorrow.

The next night

After wandering the desert, I hit the vending machine for a bottle of water. The machiene didn't work. I went to the stairway at the end of the hall thinking a nice corned beef would be nice, and opened the door to the stairwell, which of course, led directly OUTSIDE.

I'd comment on a warm blast of desert air here but remeber the hall was hot too. Instead we walked onto a narrow balcony 19 floors above the "experience" below, a dizzying and mildly nauseating "experience" indeed.

On 18 I found the water I needed and went to the cabbage-a-vator instead. On board was a woman with a bucket of ice. She stepped off onto that floor and said the ice machiene was broken, which keeps the streak of bad luck alive in every floor so far.

In out next trip report

Well, its all positive from here. Even the expericenes at the PLAZA get better, but only because of the company we kept. I have plenty of wild tales to tell, but first we start with this warning :

NEVER STAY AT THE PLAZA.

After cab fare to the strip it is not a price bargain. And, of course, it is the worst. hotel. EVER.

Thursday June 2, 7:00pm:
Sushi with Felicia at Yami Sushi. See her blog for directions and details. Last year this event was fun enough to draw half a poker room away from the felt. I (Otis) couldn't make it last year because I was waiting on CJ to show up. This year I'm taking Mrs. Otis out for a 5th anniversary dinner. Still, if you haven't met Felicia, you need to. She'll put you in your place and then make you a better poker player inside of half an hour.

Thursday June 2, 11:00pm:
H.O.R.S.E at the MGM Grand. Wanna check out the new MGM Grand poker room? Well, Felicia has put her diplomatic skills to work. MGM has agreed to spread H.O.R.S.E for us Thursday night. It'll be a late game starting at 11PM. Otis and Felicia will be there for sure. I suspect Al will be there as well. We can seat ten, with two sitting out for the Stud rounds. Stakes can be as low as $2/$4. I'd sort of like to make this a blogger meet-up place for late Thursday. So come out and say hi. All else fails, there is a lot of poker there. And I hear bars, as well.

Friday June 3, 10:15am:
The bloggers playing in the WSOP Event #2 will be breakfasting together at the Sao Paulo Cafe at the Rio. This ain't any mandatory event or anything, but we're doing it so we can have one last moment of solidarity, grab a picture and such before going every man for himself into the felty fray. If you wanna stop by and give the boys a good luck hug, feel free.

Friday June 3, Noon:
$1500 NLHE WSOP Event #2, featuring a cavalcade of bloggers. The event will last until there is a final table or until completion of the 12th level (which would come sometime after 1 in the morning). Scott Fischman won $300,000 for first place last year with just 831 entrants.

Friday June 3, about 10pm or later:
Storm the castle!!! Should all bloggers be eliminated early, and I don't expect this to be the case, the bloggers will storm The Excalibur poker room for craziness not seen since Pauly held the Nuts against a guy who just got cold-cocked. The start time of this may vary greatly, but the event is expected to occur.

Saturday June 4, 9:30am:
Registration for the WPBT Aladdin Casino Classic ends. The tourney is scheduled to start at 10am, so please try to be in place as close to 9:30am as possible. Also, please try to be respectful of the poker room. What does that mean? Don't show up drunk off your ass. I don't mean to be harsh, but I've worked really hard on this, and I'd rather not be embarrassed. I'm just asking for a little respect, that's all. I'm not ordering you all to be stone-cold sober on 9 hours sleep... but I think you know what I'm asking. Thanks.

Saturday June 4, 10am:
The second WPBT live event begins with about 80 entries and countless side bets. Blogger pride is on the line. Beware the hammer! The final entry fee will be $65:

$60 gets $1,000 in chips
($8 goes to the house)
$5 add-on gets extra $500
Total $65 buy-in

20 minute blinds:
25/50
50/100
100/200
200/400
300/600
400/800
500/1000

Saturday June 4, 2pm:
Play begins again in the WSOP Event #2. Hopefully a few bloggers will be left, and perhaps even reach the final table! If that's the case, I'll probably race to bust out of the WPBT event so I can go railbird (as if I'll survive long otherwise). In case you're wondering this final table will be televised by ESPN. It will air August 23rd at 8pm.

Saturday June 4, 5pm:
WPBT after-party hosted by AlCantHang at LaSalsa Cantina in the Showcase Mall a block from the Aladdin Casino. There are 345,875 varieties of tequilla there, or so I've heard.

Otis' Words

"I'll see your Guinness and raise you one egg salad."

"Three tables, one playground, half-drunk"

"Let's Get to Saturday, shall we?"

Decisions, decisions"

"The Holiday Classic through Otisian eyes"

Bordering on the Adriatic

"From rock gardens to Sherwood Forest."

You don't have to go home...

CJ's Words

"Day 1: Cowboys and Hookers"

"Day 2: Doubling Up on the Italian Pirate"

"Day 2: Gawking at the Pros"

"Day 2: My Worst Beat and then Revenge"

"Day 3: The Aladdin... Bring Your Rod and Reel"

G-Rob's Words

"That's It for the Other One"

"The Bus came by... and I got on"

"Playin' in the Band"

"Going down the road... Feelin' bad"

"Another Damn trip report....I'm almost done...really!"

It actually was the best squeezins I'd ever had. Nonetheless, when I went to clean up the next day, I spied an unfinished shot.

Normally, bugs don't bug me, but this one did. That's because a Carolina mosquito had nose-dived in for a drink, got drunk, and drowned.

Actually, the only reason it bugs me is the shot glass it died in.

Now, if that's not a bad omen, I don't know what is.

When I looked closer, I discovered the bug had a look in his eye like I expect to when I sit down on Friday and Saturday.

Dead buggy money.

Damn it.

Thursday June 2, Evening:
Defending WPBT Vegas champ Felicia is inviting everyone to join her for sushi and karoake at Yama Sushi. Hopefully I'll be in town early enough to stop by, except I won't eat sushi! Click here for more info, or feel free to contact her.

Friday June 3, Noon:
$1500 NLHE WSOP Event #2, featuring a cavalcade of bloggers. The event will last until there is a final table or until completion of the 12th level (which would come sometime after 1 in the morning). Scott Fischman won $300,000 for first place last year with just 831 entrants.

Friday June 3, about 10pm or later:
Storm the castle!!! Should all bloggers be eliminated early, and I don't expect this to be the case, the bloggers will storm The Excalibur poker room for craziness not seen since Pauly held the Nuts against a guy who just got cold-cocked. The start time of this may vary greatly, but the event is expected to occur.

Saturday June 4, 9:30am:
Registration for the WPBT Aladdin Casino Classic ends. The tourney is scheduled to start at 10am, so please try to be in place as close to 9:30am as possible. Also, please try to be respectful of the poker room. What does that mean? Don't show up drunk off your ass. I don't mean to be harsh, but I've worked really hard on this, and I'd rather not be embarrassed. I'm just asking for a little respect, that's all. I'm not ordering you all to be stone-cold sober on 9 hours sleep... but I think you know what I'm asking. Thanks.

Saturday June 4, 10am:
The second WPBT live event begins with about 80 entries and countless side bets. Blogger pride is on the line. Beware the hammer! The final entry fee will be $65:

$60 gets $1,000 in chips
($8 goes to the house)
$5 add-on gets extra $500
Total $65 buy-in

20 minute blinds:
25/50
50/100
100/200
200/400
300/600
400/800
500/1000

Saturday June 4, 2pm:
Play begins again in the WSOP Event #2. Hopefully a few bloggers will be left, and perhaps even reach the final table! If that's the case, I'll probably race to bust out of the WPBT event so I can go railbird (as if I'll survive long otherwise). In case you're wondering this final table will be televised by ESPN. It will air August 23rd at 8pm.

Saturday June 4, 5pm:
WPBT after-party hosted by AlCantHang at LaSalsa Cantina in the Showcase Mall a block from the Aladdin Casino. There are 345,875 varieties of tequilla there, or so I've heard.

As it turned out, the lawn boy was a buddy of mine. Had it been G-Rob, I might've been a bit worried. As it turned out, it was another buddy who was just killing time while...well, while his boyfriend was busy.

***

I do my best to make sure Mrs. Otis isn't desperate. I make every effort to take care of my marital obligations and such. Still, Mrs. Otis knows about the other women. There's Nicky, Paris, Siegfried, and Roy. Not to mention the Brothers Hooker, the Kings of the Court, and a host of others.

Yeah, Mrs. Otis is one Desperate Poker Housewife.

Sure, she won Pokerati's Poker Wife of the Year and it was much deserved. Still, she's given to moments where my after-work late night poker sessions give her the red ass. And not in the good way.

Normally, as I am a complete ass, I push these thoughts to the back of my mind and concentrate more on whether I should once again try the old limp re-raise with aces under the gun.

But now we're about to try something completely different. We're going to Vegas.

***

There was a time many years ago where Mrs. Otis indulged me in taking a trip that was specifically designed for my interests. We hit Colorado with a rack full of skis and a cabinet full of booze. My college buddies met us there and we geared up for several days of deep powder and deep tumblers.

Oh, yeah. Mrs. Otis had never been on a pair of skis.

Now, I would like to say it ended badly because Mrs. Otis was a real bitch. In fact, she tried really hard but I ended up catching the flu and ruining the trip. She was a real trooper.

But now we're trying something different.

Yeah, we're going to Vegas.

***

Mrs. Otis has never been to Vegas.

***

Those of you have been with me to Vegas know how it goes. Otis says he'll meet you for lunch, but doesn't show up. He thought he'd play an hour-long session before the buffet, but is stuck a couple hundy and vowing to make it back. Catch you at dinner. Dinner rolls around and you find Otis in the same cardroom at a different table. He says he's up a couple hundy and can't leave the game because it's too good. So, you sit down and have a bowl of fake gumbo with him. By ten o'clock Otis has been up and down as much as five hundred and he's started drinking. Then, midnight rolls around and Otis is tipping the dealers ten percent of every pot and screaming for the big TV to bring back the monkey. At 2am you go to bed as Otis promises he'll meet you for breakfast. When you wake up at 10am, Otis is drinking Irish coffee. tipping the dealer 90% of every pot, and screaming for the monkey to get him some damned breakfast.

And that's not to mention the detour to the Pai Gow table while you were sleeping.

***

Mrs. Otis knows how to party. In Aruba she was seen dancing on bars, hanging out of windows, and wearing silly hats.

I think this fact may be my only hope.

Actually, there's another hope. She goes by the name of Mrs. Can't Hang.

***

Yeah, that's the ticket.

***

So, this is how I see this trip playing out. Mrs. Otis, Mrs. Blood, and Mrs. G-Rob are coming in blind with no idea what to expect. I suspect other members of the WPBT Desperate Housewives Club may be in the same boat.

See, Mrs. Can't Hang is a diplomat. I've seen her in action twice. She is the perfect balance of understanding wife and willing accomplice. She's happy to not only be along for the ride but actually participate.

Now, I don't want to out any undue burden on Mrs. CH, but I hope she serves as a shining example of how wives CAN have fun in Vegas.

***

Now, am I actually worried? Well, no. Not really. As I said, Mrs. Otis is a trooper and, when she wants to be, a party girl.

That's one of the reasons I love her, after all.

So, here is an open invitation to buy my wife drinks and tell her that Otis really will join her for breakfast.

As long as she doesn't mind leftover fake gumbo and Irish coffee.

Friday June 3, Noon:
$1500 NLHE WSOP Event #2, featuring a cavalcade of bloggers. The event will last until there is a final table or until completion of the 12th level (which would come sometime after 1 in the morning). Scott Fischman won $300,000 for first place last year with just 831 entrants.

Friday June 3, about 10pm or later:
Storm the castle!!! Should all bloggers be eliminated early, and I don't expect this to be the case, the bloggers will storm The Excalibur poker room for craziness not seen since Pauly held the Nuts against a guy who just got cold-cocked. The start time of this may vary greatly, but the event is expected to occur.

Saturday June 4, 9:30am:
Registration for the WPBT Aladdin Casino Classic ends. The tourney is scheduled to start at 10am, so please try to be in place as close to 9:30am as possible. Also, please try to be respectful of the poker room. What does that mean? Don't show up drunk off your ass. I don't mean to be harsh, but I've worked really hard on this, and I'd rather not be embarrassed. I'm just asking for a little respect, that's all. I'm not ordering you all to be stone-cold sober on 9 hours sleep... but I think you know what I'm asking. Thanks.

Saturday June 4, 10am:
The second WPBT live event begins with about 80 entries and countless side bets. Blogger pride is on the line. Beware the hammer! The final entry fee will be $65:

$60 gets $1,000 in chips
($8 goes to the house)
$5 add-on gets extra $500
Total $65 buy-in

20 minute blinds:
25/50
50/100
100/200
200/400
300/600
400/800
500/1000

Saturday June 4, 2pm:
Play begins again in the WSOP Event #2. Hopefully a few bloggers will be left, and perhaps even reach the final table! If that's the case, I'll probably race to bust out of the WPBT event so I can go railbird (as if I'll survive long otherwise). In case you're wondering this final table will be televised by ESPN. It will air August 23rd at 8pm.

Saturday June 4, 5pm:
WPBT after-party hosted by AlCantHang at LaSalsa Cantina in the Showcase Mall a block from the Aladdin Casino. There are 345,875 varieties of tequilla there, or so I've heard.

That's it. Those are the only planned events that I know of. If you've got others, let me know, and I'll add them!

A couple hours before I'd been drinking coffee with one of the marketing gurus. She'd mentioned it might be nice to get me in the commentary booth for a couple of the Costa Rican matches. The thinking wasn't all that wrong. I knew two of the Costa Rican players from previous tournaments and had some good "American" knowledge about their history. I figured it would just be, "So, Otis, tell us about these guys."

That, I thought, I can do.

And yet when the first Costa Rican match started with a player I knew pretty well, they'd not called on me. So be it, I thought. I'm not a TV guy anymore. I'm a web dude.

Austria and Norway were up next. Two stern-faced Mr. Unpronounceables were taking their seats and James, the producer, said, "Okay, you ready to do some commentary?"

Um...sure.

That's how it began. With 30 seconds to live-to-tape air, I sat down in the color commentators seat, arranged some hastily-compiled notes, and wondered what I had just gotten myself into.

Now, if you've never done broadcast work before, the pros will tell you it's a lot like riding a bike. What they won't tell you is that riding a bike on th street is a lot different than riding it down a mountain.

And somehow...I was scared out of my jeans.

Frankly, if the first 30 minutes of the first match never make air, I'll be quite happy. I likely sounded a bit like a kid who has been asked to recite the Declaration of Independence after having studied the preamble to the Constituion for three weeks.

But I got through it. Within a couple of matches, I was insulting my mother-in-law and using self-depricating humor as best I could. And it was, in a word, FUN.

Fortunately, I think, for me, the show will likely never air in the U.S. Last I heard it will be on the new Poker Channel on the Sky network.

The best part of all of it was my co-commentators. One is a radio guy from the UK who is as nice as you could possibly wants. He's not a pro poker player but knnows the game well. The other guy is a pro and a good one. What's more, he'll be playing with us in Event #2 of the WSOP in a couple weeks.

Which brings me to...

Vegas dreams

Yeah, it's started.

My travel and work schedule has kept me a bit to busy to daydream about the adventure we're all about to undertake. Now, I'm starting to think about it a bit more.

I've had no time to work on my tournament game recently. Based on my play a few weeks ago, I don't have very high expectations for Event #2. That, of course, is no way to go into a tournament. Hopefully between now and then my attitude will change.

As anybody who has played for a while can attest, once you play at a certain level/limit for some time, slipping back down in limits becomes easier to handle.

With that in mind, I tried a little experiement recently. I moved up to the $30/$60 game on Party for a few hundred hands. I don't have a big enough sample to form any decent opinion, but suffice it to say Jesse May was right when he said (paraphrasing here, because I'm too lazy to look up the quote) the only difference between $10/$20 and the bigger limits is that the chips are a different color. That is, there are good players and there are bad players. The poker is the same. In my first 200 hands, the deck hit me in the head.

On one particular hand, I found aces in the small blind, raised it up and got two callers. The flop came down AJx. Checked around to me, I bet and both callers came along for the ride. The turn was the case ace giving me quads. Again I bet and this time the big blind raised, the guy in the middle called, and I again raised. Both guys called. The turn was a blank. The pot was already substantial and I thought, "I wonder if I can make more than two big bets here?" Now, the smart money says just bet out again, pull in another $120 and call it a hand. But I wanted more. So, I checked and much to my delight, the big blind fired out a bet, got a call from the guy in LP, and I got my opportunity to raise. Two callers and I made $240 extra instead of $120. The big blind had QJ. I never checked to see what the other guy had. He'd steamed off $1000 in the past few hands and was likely chasing something.

Still, I'm not going to call those tables home. If I had enough time to concentrate on my game, I'd give it a go. But my head is all over the place right now and I don't trust myself not to tilt off a bunch of money.

Regardless, it gave me that ability to play at my normal limits with a little more confidence which I hope carries over to the trip.

So, there. Complete drivel from the guy who is supposed to do more writing than poker talk. Not sure what's wrong with me right now. I need inspiration.

Only way to find that is head back to the land of milk and honey. I left Vegas last December with enough to fill a novella.

I can't imagine this trip will be any less inspirational.

For you first timers...

That is, those of you who missed BLOG-CON 1, be sure to follow the Doctor's orders. Pauly's posted some sage advice on his site and you'd do well to take heed. I hope you're as excited as I am.

First : A recap

When we met in December, I was new to the blogger thing. I was, because I like to think I'm cool, the Dean Moriarty of the Otis post. You would've known about me but not from my own words.

I have to admit, I was more excited about the whole get-drunk-don't-sleep-play-poker-lie-to-tourists-mock-the-locals thing than any blogger camraderie. I knew of Pauly because Otis turned me on to our shared interest for long, hazy road trips. I knew about Al because....everyone does. I knew BadBlood because he's a townie and knew BG because I like good writing. That's it.

So when the jet touched down, and I looked out the left side window (a hint : if you're coming from the East, always sit on the left of a Vegas-bound plane), I was ready to see CJ and Otis and get my poker on.

Otis met me at the Excalibur's front desk and we weaved our way past a future favorite bar, past a future pestilence of an ATM, and into the poker room. He showed me around to the bloggers at play and I admit I was still in the old "yeah hey..what up?" mode. I just wanted to play.

So...2 buy-ins and a wicked tilt later...

I headed to the Sherwood Forest. Newbies, trust me here, you'll come to love this place. It's like a downtown diner on the low-limit floor. It's just a half arc of barstools and a smoke stained woman wearing beer wench rags, and I LOVE it. I was still on tilt but found a few familair faces and ordered a beer. Which I didn't actually pay for.

To my left sat a massive man with a proportionate grin. He was like the John Lee Hooker of the WWF. One burbon. One scotch. One...ok now...who the F drinks SoCo??? I finished my beer and he bought me another. I finished that and, it turns out, SoCo ain't half bad. Big Mike is a genrous man and an old friend of Al Can't Hang. Newbies you won't meet him this time, but someday you should. He's amazing.

I met Daddy (SnailTraxx) at that bar, and Iggy and Pauly and Derek and yada yada..you get the point. It was like I knew them all already. It was 5 AM and it could have been happy hour at cheers. Newbie, I don't know you yet, but there is in this Universe a certain sense of belonging that we all deserve to feel. I think you'll find it this June.

By the time the WPBT thing started

I was under duress. Granted, I think Al was worse, either that or he really is colorblind. (See, that's the kind of inside joke that cracks us Vegas-Vets right the f up) I think I finished 18th or 19th out of 30. Truth is, I was far worse at poker then and I ain't that good now. But out early and still without sleep, I had plenty left to do.

I had drinks with Al and Iggy and Daddy and Al.

I played 5 AM poker with Marty (JMC Automatic). Marty and I also had a bizarre adventure with a Crown Royal addict at the Aladdin who never once looked at his hole cards. That was a treat.

I had a lengthy "sit-in" with Pauly in his spacious suite.

I played poker with half the blogger crew.

I sang the San Diego "SUPER CHARGERS" theme song at the top on my lungs in a crowded Mandaly Bay sportsbook.

Did I mention I had drinks with Al?
Did I mention that Maudie is HOT!!!
Did I mention the 30 minute conversation with 2 really ugly hookers? (Ask me about that one in Vegas)
How 'bout the card room brawl?

So what can you expect?

Cool people.
Prodigious drinking.
Great poker.
Great stories.
Ugly hookers.

What more does a happy soul need?

See you there. 12 damn days!

Now...The quiz!

1. What blogger would you most like to have a drink with?

2. What blogger, besides Al, would you most like to have a drink with?

3. What blogger would you most like to talk poker with?

4. What blogger would you most like to talk to about the written word?

5. What single Vegas-trip event has you the most excited?

6. Will Otis fall down? (This, by the way, is the oldest time honored quiz question)

7. Who would be able to out arm wrestle Bad Blood?

8. Which blogger most resembles Patrick Swazee?

9. Which blogger is the tallest?

10. Which blogger would middle America find the most shocking?

11. How many Taco Bell tacos can you eat?

12. How many can I eat?

THURSDAY JUNE 2nd

10:30 PM Arrive in Las Vegas
10:31 PM Put loose change in airport slots
10:33 PM Explain principle of "EV" to wife
10:35 PM Find Cab to the "Plaza"

10:45 PM Arrive at hotel
10:46 PM Conclude stupid argument with wife about "EV"
10:47 PM Locate AL

11:00 PM - 4:00 AM Free Swim

FRIDAY JUNE 3rd

11:01 AM Locate aspirin
11:02 AM Cuddle with wife
11:03 AM Shower

Noon AM/PM Locate the Rio

12:01 PM - midafternoon Root for bloggers and get wicked drunk

Evening (PM) Lovely dinner with wife
Night (PM) Take picture of wife (and Mrs. Blood) riding coaster at NY NY
Late Night (PM) Get incoherent and play poker at Excalibur

SATURDAY JUNE 4th

WHATEVER TIME I'M SURE SOMEONE WILL TELL ME - Blogger tourney

AFTER THAT - Sheer insanity

SUNDAY JUNE 5th

12:01 PM Argue with housekeeping about checkout time
12:05 PM Find remaining bloggers
12:06 PM Find remaining money
12:07 PM Play actual poker

Midnight Catch f'n REDEYE home

So...who's with me?

I had already decided I wouldn't bet on the Eagles. I didn't want to jinx them and I'm extremely superstitious. I decided if I would bet on anyone, it would be the Pats. They were on a roll. But my brother was betting on Pittsburgh, I'd be rooting for Pittsburgh, and I frankly don't like the Pats.

I spent the entire walk to the Mandalay Bay convicing myself to bet on Pittsburgh. They were at home, had beaten New England once already, were 6 point dogs, and were 16-1 for crying out loud!!! So I had myself convinced, and threw $40 down the drain.

We hit the sports book at about 9:30am, two and a half hours before kickoff, and there wasn't an open table to be found. We made our bets (and got our drink tickets!) and sat down to consider our options. That's when we noticed one of the tables had opened and we quickly moved in hoping they were gone for good. They were.

It was a table with five chairs and we settled in, deciding we'd tell everyone we had friends coming. We didn't want to be distracted by any non-Eagles fans.

To pass the time, we bet the races. We used the very scientific method of picking favorite names and numbers and actually hit a few exactas. Then we moved on to the very unscientific method of analyzing past races and track trends, etc... and lost all our money back. At least we finished even.

It's about a half hour to kick off when my brother leans over and says, "That's Frank Nicotero." I wouldn't have been able to remember Frank's full name, but he did look a lot like the host of that wacky TV game show, "Street Smarts."

Frank was there with his brother Greg and a couple of friends, Mesner and Derek (if Frank or his crew ever read this, please let me know if I messed up any names). They were decked out in their Steelers gear and searching for a place to sit. Finally, Frank stopped at our table to see if they could join us. My brother was more than pleased to invite them to sit. And I didn't mind either once they assured us they were also rooting for the Eagles.

I'm gonna stop right here and tell you just how cool of a guy Frank is. Sure, he's no super-celebrity, but he's well enough known to be noticed, especially in Vegas where "Street Smarts" is widely syndicated. He and his friends were very cool and could have fit in with just about any crowd I've ever hung with.

The Eagles game was rather uneventful. Except for the fact my team had FINALLY made it to the Super Bowl!!!!!!! I couldn't have been more excited, and I'm not sure I've ever been so excited about a sporting event. But that's all I'll say about that game for now.

And that's when the craziness started...

Late in the fourth quarter, Frank, Mesner and Derek went to check into their hotel. Greg stayed with us, vowing to protect the chairs unless some attractive women showed. It didn't take long...

Monica came over and asked if she and her friend could have our empty chairs. We quickly said yes. They were long-legged, Rotherliesberger jersey-clad vixens. Monica's friend introduced herself as Big D. Apparently her name was Denise, and Monica later told us her real nickname is Sissy. Sounds like a witness protection kind of thing, and that wouldn't have surprised me.

By this time, the alcohol had been flowing. The nameless server girls from our last trip to the sports book were there again and didn't seem to care how many tickets we had. Until the shift change. That's when the new girl seemed to bristle at the idea we didn't really have enough tickets. I thought it would be a problem before she returned with plenty of drinks and enough tickets to cover us for the next 12 hours. What a girl...

Monica and Sissy seemed to have plenty of energy and I worried things might get out of hand. That's when Erica showed up, and things did get out of hand.

Erica was 5 feet of dynamite. What she lacked in long legs, she more than made up for in a brilliant smile and a body that knocked you over. She was also wearing her Rothliesberger jersey and was intent on cheering as loudly as possible for the Steelers.

The "Let's go, Steelers!" chants started long before kick-off and they came from our table. It didn't take long for the spirits of the most Steelers fans to damper, as the Pats jumped out to a 10-0 lead, and 24-3 lead by halftime, but Erica and her girls, and Frank and his crew were buoyed by plenty of alcohol.

Early in the day we noticed William Peterson, star of TV's #1 show CSI, was there with a few other people from the show. They had better seats than us, but I suspect we were having a much better time. At one point, William stepped up to the bar to get a drink where an apparent CSI fan engaged him in a conversation. That's when Erica made her move.

She slowly stepped up behind William and began pretending as though she was smacking his ass. She danced to a song, apparently in her head, using William as her drum. We were 10-feet away and couldn't believe what we were seeing. William may play a detective on TV, but he's clueless in real life.

That's when Erica decided she wasn't finished. She got down on her knees, in the middle of the sportsbook and acted as though she was licking Williams' butt. We erupted in laughter, but that still didn't get his attention. Instead, he just walked away and Erica came back over the to the table with a smile as wide as the Patriots lead.

I think it was about that time that the third round of shots arrived (it was Jager for the guys and tequilla for the ladies) and about that time Erica decided she knew how to change the Steelers luck.

(Those with modest sensibilities should stop reading now.)

"When the Steelers score a touchdown, I'm going to lick Monica and Sissy's 'cooters,'" Erica announced.

We sat, stunned.

I'm not sure we had collectively been that silent since about 10 that morning.

"Well, over the jeans, of course. Maybe more if they win!"

Apparently she felt that addendum would make it seem like a much more reasonable declaration to make in the middle a casino.

At 11:05 of the 3rd quarter, Jerome Bettis finally crossed the goal line, and I think it was me who said, "Promises are promises..."

I won't go into detail what happened next, but imagine in your minds Erica fulfilling that promise.

And that's about when security arrived. I didn't realize that was necessarily something that got you kicked out of the casino. I'd imagine the 24 cameras I could see from my seat were all trained on my table. As Erica was carded, she had some rather choice words for the security guy. Words that would have gotten you or I thrown to the curb. Instead, cute, little Erica got to stay. That was okay with me.

I think that's when the insanity peaked anyway. The alcohol was starting to get to people, expecially the ladies who were having trouble putting complete sentences together. Sissy was worried she had made a $200 with the Pats fans at the table in front of us. Monica was fading fast. And Erica... well, to be honest, she was still being Erica.

Despite some late charges, Pittsburgh never really got back into the game. I felt sorry for Frank and his crew, who really wanted to see the Steelers in the Super Bowl and who had a lot more money on this game than we did.

When the game finally ended, we said our good byes, and on the walk back to the casino my brother and I discussed whether or not we had really experienced what we thought we had experienced. It was one of those surreal experiences you'll never have again.

I doubt the words I've written can truly capture the sheer lunacy of that day, but I tried. I also have a feeling the tales of poker and gambling I have left will pale in comparison.

I was wrong. It was actually a couple of hours. At least I could console myself with the fact that I was going to be there for 5 days and losing a few hours wouldn't matter that much. Had the Boardwalk had a poker room, I would have been there, but I wasn't interested in passing the time at the blackjack table, and I didn't want to be in another casino when my brother finally arrived.

About 9pm that night, Lefty finally arrived. This was his weekend, so I wanted to make sure he had a good time. Soon I learned just how -EV he really was.

We headed downstairs to the modest floor of the Boardwalk Casino to find a $5 blackjack table. There were a few single deck tables, but they were paying blackjack at 6-to-5 and that takes away a great deal of your edge. Instead we found a table with a 6 deck shoe and proceeded to get killed.

I suggested we move to something else and my brother suggested his other favorite game: roulette. Great, why don't we just play keno?

We learned how to play roulette from our dad. He would cover and surround 17. That meant 9 numbers paid, 13-21. If a corner number hit, it paid for the bet. If a side number hit you made 27 bucks and if a 17 hit, it was a cool $135 profit.

When my brother and I played together we applied to the same strategy to 5 and 11 (our birthday is November 5th, get it?). Apparently our birthday isn't very lucky because it didn't take long for our money to disappear.

That's when my brother decided we needed to find the "Wheel of Fortune" slot machine. It's one of my mother's favorite games, and Lefty seems to love it as well. We pumped in some money into the quarter slot machine and started playing. I think we got the magic spin maybe once or twice, and we didn't exactly hit the jackpot. Before long, our money was gone.

I think Lefty was a little worried at this point. He had a wedding to pay for and in just a few hours on his first of five days in Vegas he had already dropped a chunk of change. I took solace in the fact that if I got to a poker table eventually, I'd be able to win back what I had lost.

We decided to go looking for a $5 Pai Gow table at that point. The last time my brother and I were together in Vegas, we spent countless hours playing Pai Gow at the Barbary Coast. Maybe our endless hours at that table convinced Vegas to eliminate all $5 Pai Gow tables, because we couldn't find one.

Instead we headed back to the Boardwalk for Lefty to grab some food. That's when he spotted the penny slots and figured that would be an easy place to waste some time without losing too much money. And it worked. We got a bit of enjoyment out of it without losing nearly as much as we lost elsewhere... but we still lost.

That's when we decided perhaps it was time to hit the sack. We wanted to get to the Mandalay Bay as early as possible Sunday morning to stake out a seat for the NFC and AFC Championship games. And it's a good thing we got that good night's sleep because Sunday would be the craziest day I've ever spent in Vegas.

And I'm not exaggerating. If you think the WPBT sports book experience was wild... multiply that by a million and you approach what I experienced. But that story... you'll have to wait for.

There's only so much one mind and body can take. I'd been running for days on a steady diet of two-dollar tacos, grapefruit juice, caffeine, and alcohol. I was, in a word, spent.

Across the way, in a sea of funk and booze-sweat, G-Rob stirred and I saw he, too, was in a way that could only be descibed as bad. We pondered our options while investigating the hotel room windows for the possibilities of opening the glass and jumping.

Instead, we ordered in breakfast, charging it to the room and saying something about the healing properties of pig and eggs. Later, scattered among the used dishes and the ashes of our cremated lifeblood, we solmenly agreed that while we were too old to live like this for this long, we were going to make it through the final day and night.

I riffled through my shaving kit for the bottle of pills I'd brought along. I shook out a handful of OTC snake-oil hoppers and downed them with the tap water. I only had two goals for the day: Make it over to the Bellagio and play in the Excalibur's Monday Night Football promotion.

In the mirror I saw that my eyes had started to sink into my skull I looked gaunt and like I'd been awake for four days. And my stomach felt like I'd been ingesting food through a tube.

I was in a bad way.

Still, I met my brother and the Missouri boys downstairs. Dr. Jeff suggested a winter walk along the Vegas strip would do me some good.

As we left the hotel, a woman pushing a stroller got the device stuck at the end of a motorized walkway. We stood and watched as a the walkway continued to move, spilling rider after rider onto the woman and her kid.

Omens, man.

This city was killing everyone.

Cold sweat and the Bellagio

The Strip was quiet. The cowboys had gone home and it was getting close enough to Christmas that even the most cold-hearted of America's degenerates had started thinking less about the Pig in a Poke slots and more about holiday ham. I downed 32oz of water as I walked, sensing that I would need much more if my body's cells were to attain anything close to hydration.

I've always thought the Bellgio is very easy to find and very difficult to get into. The entryways take a while to achieve.

Once inside, though, I felt like I might be okay again. I could hear the chips and cards again. My brother and I walked through the tournament area where I saw Marcel Luske and Humberto Brenes vying for a seat in the next day's WPT event.

Inside the poker room, Gus Hansen and Joe Awada were holding court at different tables in the high-stakes area. It was just 1:30pm on Monday and the room looked like a Friday night. The room was packed and the waitlist was long.

I felt them coming up under the collar of my shirt first, then breaking out in the middle of my back: the little beads of detoxifying sweat that indicate to me it's time to be somewhere--anywhere--else.

"I gotta be somewhere else," I said, Dr. Jeff has known me long enough to know that this wasn't a request. I could see, he was done with the room as well. With the Missouri boys back in tow, we headed back for home base, where Monday Night Football was scheduled to begin in a few hours.

Vegas, the city of giving

I went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed. Dr. Jeff gave me a couple of medical terms to explain what was happening to my body. At one point, I thought he said I was suffering from a nemesis.

Indeed, I was.

He left me to wallow for another hour, calling me on my cell around 4pm to say I better get my ass down to the poker room. It was filling up. We'd planned to sit together during the MNF promotion. Earlier in the day, we'd picked each team's score for each quarter, standing to win anywhere between nothing and several hundred dollars.

I freshened up and headed down, finding a seat at Dr. Jeff's table where G-Rob was heavily involved in a low-stakes game with an angry Israeli woman. Not one to disturb the peace process, I sat back, ate a suspect burger from the buffet, and watched as G-Rob (who had been drinking since breakfast) went into a slow bad beat burn.

At one point I found pocket eights in early position and raised it up. The increasingly angry Israeli woman to G-Rob's right called, and G-Rob re-raised. I cold-called, as did Mrs. Angry. The flop came down little, but gave me a set of eights. I bet out, got a call from Mrs. Angry, and a raise from G-Rob. I don't remember if it was here or on the turn when I made my boat that G-Rob and I went to war, capping the pot to the increasing chagrin of the lady, who eventually mucked what G-Rob said was AK.

When we reached the river, I turned over my full house and G-Rob's face sank even lower than it had been when I came in. He flipped up pocket kings. I breathed a sigh of relief, but not because I won (I knew I had him beat on the flop). I was relieved he showed his hand to show he was, in fact, strong.

The last thing I needed was the Israeli woman thinking we were colluding to steal her last hundred bucks.

Though I had picked the Chiefs to lose in the MNF promotion, I decided to go to the sports book and lay some money on them jsut so I could root for the home team. I put down a bet for Dr. Jeff, too.

The next few hours are a blur of winning. My body rebounded for the final time. I hit the first quarter score of the game and split the money with a few other people who had picked Titans: 7, Chiefs: 0. During a walkaround break, I went all Grubby and plopped $20 in a Monopoly slot machine and won a hundred bucks. And while G-Rob missed winning $800 on the second quarter score after a fluke last second play, the Chiefs won and we all won our bets.

Feeling more and more ill-equipped but determined to fight on for the final few hours, I dragged Marty and G-Rob through the pit and enegaged in a little single-deck blackjack. Just when the table was getting hot and our drinks had arrived, Dr. Jeff called me on my cell phone.

"You better get back to the poker room. There was just a big fight in here and I think it has something to do with Pauly."

I colored up in seconds, grabbed my drink, and made tracks back to the poker room in time to watch the flor crew pick up the final chips from the floor. I scooted over to Pauly's table where he told me the story.

I sat back and thought, "That should just about do it. This trip has now seen everything."

The End

And so, once more, I drank to excess and played cards until the early morning hours. After a thin attempt at fun at the Pai Gow tables, I returned to the poker room with Marty.

Earlier in the day I had accused him of being "The One Binge Boy" because in recent years, he's been good for one solid night of silliness and then he's cooked for the rest of the weekend. I think I hurt his feelings and pride, because for this final night in Vegas, he turned it up and was hanging with me drink for drink.

Around 2am, Marty got involved ini a hand with the table maniac, a guy who had been seeing questionable hands down to the river quite a bit. Though the exact sequence of events eludes me, the story looked a little something like this:

Pre-flop:
Marty: Bet
Manaiac:Raise
Marty: Call

Flop:
Marty: Check
Manaiac:Bet
Marty: Raise
Maniac: Call

Turn:
Marty: Check
Manaiac:Bet
Marty: Raise
Maniac: Call

River:
Marty: Check
Manaiac:Bet
Marty: Raise
Maniac: Call

Yeah, you read it right. Marty check-raised the guy three consecutive times. Marty flipped over AJ. He'd made hs pair on the flop, two-pair on the turn, and a boat on the river.

Now, I thought, I've seen everything.

That was until a few minutes later when water started pouring froom the ceiling, drenching a table with massive runoff from a kitchen above the poker room.

Okay. Now.

***

It's been a month since I got home from the trip and I've just now recovered. Much has been written abut the trip and almost everybody agrees the WPBT convention will never have the same energy as the first time. But almost everybody agrees, it has to happen again.

As we headed to the airport Tuesday morning, we all agreed that we didn't want to see Vegas again for a while.

Just yesterday, Marty e-mailed me and asked if I was going to the WSOP.

There was only one response:

Definitely.

To all the members of the WPBT who made it, thank you for giving me a fantastic collection of memories. Now, somebody needs to start planning for Part 2.

It started with contact I made with a PR person, Lindsay, who wanted my station in Louisiana to cover the arrival of a new riverboat casino in Lake Charles. It was a good story and we gave them some publicity.

After a few conversations, Lindsay became intrigued by this whole poker blogging thing and thought maybe the Aladdin might be interested in what we're doing. She set up a breakfast with the head of the Aladdin's public relations, Amy, and the poker room manager, Edna.

Sunday morning, I rounded up Bad Blood and G-Rob, we placed a few football bets and headed over to the Aladdin for breakfast. The PokerProf and his father met us there. I think it was extremely productive. Lindsay, Amy and Edna were all extremely pleasant. They seem very interested in helping us with a future event so stay tuned!!!! I'll have more on that at a later date!

Sports Betting is Evil

After breakfast, we headed down to the Mandalay Bay to join Pauly and Derek. When we arrived, we found almost the entire poker blogger group set up near the bar. Imagine, a group led by AlCan'tHang set up by the bar.

I settled in to see how my parlays would go and realized rather quickly that as much as I like sports, I have no idea how to bet it. My parlay including the "under" for the Giants/Ravens game was out the window early on (the Ravens alone scored 38). My other parlay also collapsed.

That's when I threw more money down the drain. One parlay ticket included a few over/unders. When the Chargers/Bucs started their fourth quarter shoot-out, my first parlay died. However, the Chargers did just enough to keep my second parlay alive.

I'd recount the whole Chargers' fight song merriment, but if you've been following any of these blogs, you've already read about it a million times. It was a blast.

Now, all that had to happen for me to win $110 was for my Eagles to beat the 10 point spread against the Redskins on Sunday Night Football. If they won by 10 points, I'd still win $60. I was feeling pretty confident. That's when I decided it was time for more poker, and I was itching to try the Aladdin's new poker room.

Worst. Poker. Players. Ever.

One of the beautiful things about the Aladdin poker room is that the low limits there appeal to beginner players. I sat down at a $2/$4 Hold 'Em game and settled in to watch my Eagles. When I got to the casino, I hit the sports book first and laid an extra couple of bets on the Eagles to win and the Eagles to cover the first half 7 point spread.

The football game was ugly. It was clear early on that the Eagles were planning to do enough to win, but not necessarily to cover. I lost my first half bet and at half time, laid another bet on my Eagles to cover a 6.5 point spread. That didn't happen either and my 4 separate bets on Philly (1st half, 2nd half, game and parlay) all went down the drain. I shouldn't bet on sports.

The good news is that the Aladdin has to feature some of the softest games in Vegas. Time after time, I had chaser after chaser on my premium hands. It did not take long for me to build up a stack. As the bad players passed money back and forth on bad play after bad play, I sat back and waited for the right hands.

It was like Party Poker in real life. You pick the cards and these people will play them. Granted, the pots won't get as big as they do at the Bellagio's $4/$8 game or even the Excalibur's $2-$6 spread game, but the players are so much worse they'll pay you off on your good hands every time.

And if you're looking for bigger pots, just sit down at the Aladdin's No Limit game. It features a unique $40 Min/$100 Max buy-in structure. That means at least some players will sit down at the table with an immediate disadvantage. It's something good players will take advantage of quickly.

Of course, with more bad players, you'll likely see some more bad beats, just like you do online. But the number of times those players won't hit will more than make up for the ones that do. There's a reason they're called fish. They live on the river. If you're a shark, you'll swallow up everything they bring to the table.

As much as I would have liked to have stayed, I had a red eye flight to catch and I had to get back to the Excalibur to check out. On the walk back, I ran into G-Rob and some of Otis' Missouri crew. They were in search of lower limits, and worse players. I told them the Aladdin was the place to go.

So my time in Vegas was drawing to a close. I found as many bloggers in the Excalibur poker room as I could to say goodbye. I felt like it all went by way too fast. I checked out, found a taxi, and it was so long Vegas.

It was one of the best weekends of my life, one I will never forget. And I can't wait for the next one! How's the weekend of Friday June 3-Sunday June 5 sound? It's just a thought... but I'm working on it...

The tram dropped me in the cavernous hallways of Mandalay Bay. I wandered in feeling like I should turn around and go back to my room to attempt sleep. I didn't feel like I could face the blogging posse without my gameface on. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window's reflection and realized that while I was still wearing my gameface, it had turned green. Or remained green. I wasn't sure.

I stood in the entryway to the casino and pondered the possibilities. I felt like sitting down.

Within a couple of minutes I sat down at a quarter Wheel of Fortune machine and rested. Okay, I thought. $20 in the machine. I decided that if I won anything or broke even, I would stay. If I lost it all, it would indicate I should just go back to the room.

Three pulls later I was up $20. I considered my gameface. While it was green, it was still there. And I thought for a moment that green might not be that bad. Maybe it was Philadephia Eagles Green.

Al and CJ would certainly appreciate that.

In need of a charge, he finds the super chargers

The Mandalay Bay sportsbook is enormous. Every possible sport fights with the casino lighting as it shoots from the dozens of television screens that rise two stories from the floor.

I thought that I'd have a hard time finding the bloggers, but with Al leading the charge, the group's rowdiness rose up from the din. I walked up, still unsteady, and greeted the group.

After some brief hellos, I remembered that in the past 42 hours, I'd only eaten two tacos and a bowl of non-gumbo. I wandered the casino until I found a deli, grabbed a chicken salad sandwich and rested. Still, I found msyelf ill-equipped for what had started happening in the sports book. Booze was already flowing like a sick kid's nose and my good sense was actually speaking up.

Steer clear, it said.

So, I wandered some more, walking an inordinate amount of time until I found the famed Shark Reef.

Now, here's an odd thing. Over the past 48 hours, I'd been buying racks upon racks of chips in the poker room, playing Pai Gow and Blackjack for $25 and sometimes $50 a hand. And yet, I stood at the entrance to the Shark Reef, I found myself dismayed at the $15 a head charge to get in.

Fifteen dollars to see one of the greatest wonders this end of the Strip had to offer? No, sir. I mean, sure, it's one thing to lay down a day's pay on the chance of hitting an open-ender (or better yet, the hope the dealer draws a Pai Gow), but $15 to see some of the greatest beasts of the sea in all their splendor? No, sir.

As I walked back through the marble caves, I couldn't help but remember that I'd loaded a $20 into a slot machine just 45 minutes earlier. Otis had his priorities way out of whack.

There was only one way to fix that.

***

I again returned to the sportsbook and told the assembled Bengals cheering section that I needed to get my head together. Fortunately, the Mandalay Bay poker room sits right next to the sports book.

I figured that I couldn't hurt myself too badly in a $4/$8 game and got sat immediately at a newly-formed must-move table. I looked around the table and quietly groaned. I was one of only three people under the age of 50. I was one of only three people at the table who didn't live in Las Vegas.

Still, I sat back and played my game, sucking back diet cokes and bottles of water every time the cocktail waitress came around.

The Mandalay Bay poker room, I found, is fairly nice. While the room is small in comparison to other rooms, the staff and dealers are very good and very courteous. The room has a bad beat jackpot and some giveaways. And frankly, the hostesses aren't that unattractive.

Every half hour or so, I'd check in with the bloggers to see how things were going. Everyone who'd bet the Bengals had moved into celebration mode when a fourth-quarter miracle made the group a few hundred bucks.

BadBlood arrived in the poker room and suffered a series of unthinkable beats at the $200NL table. I thought it must be signalling some omen that things were about to turn ugly for all of us. Blood is a helluva player and I knew that he hadn't walked blindly into the beats. They were first-rate bad beats and no one should suffer such carnage. The only saving grace was that before he sat down at the NL table, he'd dropped the Hammer at a $4/$8 table. That's always nice.

In the sportsbook, the bloggers had started singing a San Diego Chargers fight song. During a short break, I wandered in to find an old man directing Al and the boys, much like a choir director would in a Sunday morning. I longed to be part of the group's fun, but I had missed that boat a long time ago and returned to the poker room.

The only thing remarkable about that four-hour session was this: It was unremarkable. After four hours of tight-aggressive play, I was up a total of 50 cents.

I decided that my head was back on straight and I was doing nothing but wasting time.

I stood and walked back into the sports book and announced to Iggy and BG, "That was a colossal waste of time."

Iggy was a good cheerleader, reminding me that after blinds, rake, and tokes, I was probably up quite a bit.

As the group resumed its Super Chargers fight song, I decided that I needed to make some money.

Rebounding

Since I'd arrived in Vegas, I hadn't played any no-limit. I'd been inebriated for a few days and I don't like to play no-limit when I've been drinking. I checked my watch and found that I hadn't had a drink in ten hours.

Good enough, I thought.

Back at the Excalibur, I bought in for the only NL game they have, a $100-max buy-in with $1/$2 blinds.

When I sat down, I discovered how little $100 looks when one's opponents have been playing for a while and have doubled up a few times.

As I took my seat, the biggest stack at the table was all-in with some kid who talked a lot. The pot was about $400. The biggest stack (a guy who later said he played a rat in some Vegas stage production) sucked out a miracle river card and raked the pot. He had about $800 in front of him and was sitting only two seats to my left. I managed to avoid him at almost every turn.

Somebody once said that poker players have a hard time remembering the big pots they won, but they always remember the ones they lost. That happens to be the case for me as well.

I do recall that I doubled up in the first hour when my pocket queens held up. Then I cleaned out the kid again when I flopped two pair against his TPUK (that's top pair, ugly kicker).

At one point during the play, I played AK too strongly, making much too large a raise into a small pot and everybody folded. As I raked the few chips, I chastised myself, muttering, "That's what we less-experienced players call overbetting the pot."

The kid at the end of the table said, "What did you say?"

I repeated myself and he started to get steamed. I don't know what he thought I said, but he obviously thought I was needling him for folding.

"Dude, maybe you don't understand," I said. "It was me who overbet the pot. I ruined that hand for myself. You may not know this, but I hate myself. That's what I meant."

The kid eventually loosened up, but for the rest of the night he kept beginning sentences with the phrase, "That's what we less-experienced players call..."

I have to admit, even though the guy was a hothead, I sort of liked him. I liked him more when he rebought five times at the table.

By the time I reached the only hand I really remember, I was up about $300 and it felt good.

G-Rob had sat down after a long day in the sports book and was noticably ill-equipped. He was there long enough to see me make my only mistake of the session.

The guy to my right had been talking for a while about how he wanted to quit and go play blackjack. He'd run his remaining $20 up to about a hundred and was still talking about leaving.

I was in the BB and found T7 suited, a hand I'd fold to even a mininum raise (even though it is Daniel Negreanu's favorite hand...or so he says). Unfortunately, it was only called around to me and I checked my option. The flop came T86, giving me top pair, a gutshot straight draw, and a backdoor flush draw. I liked the hand, but wasn't sure how I was going to play it. The guy to my right bet $20 out of the small blind. As the pot was only $10, I wasn't obviously wasn't getting any odds to call. But, frankly it seemed much too much like an overbet to me. Why bet that much into a small pot? Seemed he wanted to take it down right there.

I made my first mistake right there. I thought too long. I hemmed and hawed and talked too much. While I didn't talk about my hand, I did talk (about what I can't remember) and I'm sure it was a tell that I was weak or on a draw (both of which happened to be very, very true).

Even if he only had top pair, he had to have me outkicked. And if he had me outkicked, I was left looking for one of the four remaining nines, one of the three remaining sevens, or a runner runner flush. The only move for me was to fold.

But something in me was feeling froggy. I had only shown down solid, winning hands since I had sat down. I had established myself as a very tight player. And a few minutes before I'd heard a call from the rail: "Otis can't hang!" It was Al, fresh back from the sportsbook and on his way to bed.

I looked down at my chipstack and I was up significantly.

"Al, I'm finally hanging!" I responded.

I'd erased all my losses for the trip and moved into the black. I spied the guy's stack. It would cost me $100 to put him all in.

And so I did. I grabbed a stack of red and put it in the middle. The concept was this: No matter what he had (unless he'd flopped the straight), he couldn't call for the rest of his stack. If he hadn't flopped the straight, he might've thought I had and that's all I needed to put doubt in his head.

Yeah, I know. My concept was way, way flawed.

The remaining players folded (one of them very reluctantly). And to my dismay, the guy to my right didn't think twice. He said, "Well, if you've got it, you got me," and put the rest of his stack in the middle.

I knew I was sunk.

Sure enough, he turned up T8 for top two pair. After the turn didn't bring one of my suit, I was left with only four outs, none of which came.

Though the mistake didn't hurt me financially, it didn't alter my mental state a bit. I'd just damaged my tight reputation and looked foolish in front of G-Rob. I'd made a very loose, over-aggressive play and it cost me.

Strangely enough, though, it didn't hurt that badly. In the end, I'd altered my table image to my advantage. Players started making loose calls against me and eventually I made back everything I'd pissed away plus about another $100.

I knew the session was coming to a close for me when a bunch of youngsters sat down and started jawing at each other. Strangely enough, -EV sat down next to me and it took us about 15 minutes to figure out who each other was. His girlfriend was with him, though, so we didn't get to talk too much.

Finally, I stood up, collected my winnings, and headed out to lose them.

I'd forgotten that my luck had started turning and I was about to head into the land of good wins and even greater stories.

Sherwood Forest, Pt. 2

I had a plan. Since I had not been able to sleep for days, I decided the only way to sleep was to...well, drink.

As such, the next few hours are bit of a blur. I know I played cards for a while and ended up back at the Pai Gow tables, where a guy sat down and won a bonus on his first hand. I was back to the cocktails in full force, knowing that I wasn't going to be playing poker again for a few hours, unless I couldn't sleep.

Most everybody else was fairly dead after a long day of football and cards. CJ left to go home. It left me and G-Rob playing single deck blackjack for $25 a hand at around four in the morning.

We broke even and when the deck went cold, we decided we too would turn in.

But after getting to the room, we decided we needed one more drink before we would rest well.

"Irish car bomb," one of us said.

"Irish car bomb," the other answered.

And so back we went to the scene of the crime. Sherwood Forest.

We made quick friends with Cantina the Bartendress. She was quite a talker and realized quickly that we were ill-equipped. We ordered a beer in preparation for the car bomb. You gotta prepare, you know.

We looked around and discovered we were surrounded by cowboys and hookers. The Nationl Finals Rodeo had ended that day and everybody was looking for one final ride.

After we reminded Cantina how to make a car bomb, she fixed us up and we proceeded to drop our shots into the beer. As G-Rob started to down his, I dropped my shot, missing the center of the pint glass by half an inch. Before I knew it, shattered glass and Guinness were all over the bar.

G-Rob laughed at me and said to Cantina, "Would you believe it? This guy is a surgeon."

G-Rob at some point had decided to cook up cover stories for us. Over the course of the next several hours, I would be a surgeon from Savannah and he would be a minor league baseball pitcher from Jacksonville.

"Really," Cantina said. "What kind of surgery do you do?"

I was stumped and covered in Guinness.

"Um...general," I said, wiping myself off. I'm not a good liar.

G-Rob laughed, "Yeah. General. He's the Surgeon General."

Cantina was nice enough to make me another car bomb for free, but then went and got all dark on us. She related a tale that we just couldnt believe. She said that at some point the night before, someone had jumped out of an Excalibur guest room and fell to their death. She was convinced it wasn't suicide, but murder. But she said we'd never hear about it because the Las Vegas media is controlled by the casinos.

When she sensed our incredulity, she brought Alaska-native Sam the Server out of the restaurant to back her up. For an eternity, Server Sam related tales of unions, union-busting, and the number of people who jump to their death every year in Vegas.

Later, I'd ask several more employees of the casino about it, and they would all nod quietly, indicating, "yeah, it happened, but we can't talk about it."

So wrapped up in the conversation as we were, we barley noticed when the hookers and cowboys started filling in around us. It was tight. One cowboy chatted us up and I told him story after story about how bad a pitcher G-Rob was and how he was never going to make it to the show.

Several times, I laughed out loud, "Your ERA sucks so bad!"

Surgeon General, my ass.

Another cowboy walked up and I asked what he did.

With an absolutely straight face, he answered, "I'm a buckaroo."

Um...right.

As the sun again threatened to rise, two hookers who couldn't land cowboys came up and grabbed us.

"Well, it looks like you're it," one of them said.

Oh, jeebus.

These girls were not attractive. They both looked used up and tired. Nevertheless, they were friendly and conversational. While G-Rob and I tacitly agreed that "never in the world would we ever consider...yadayada" we thought it would be fun to talk with them.

And so we did, for a very, very long time.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had vowed to help them land dates for the night. At one point I started trying to brush in cowboys who were walking by the bar.

As one guy in a cowboy hat walked by I said, "Hey, buddy, want a shot? Have a seat."

G-Rob pointed out that I had just become a pimp. And not a very good one.

I didn't quite grasp how stupid I was being.

I spotted two guys at the end of the bar and nodded toward them.

"How about those guys?" I said to the more conversational of the hookers.

"No way," she said.

"Why?"

She spelled it out. "V-i-c-e."

Oh.

It was there and then I ended my career as a pimp before it began. If I can't spot vice from the end of the bar, I'm no pimp.

As the conversation drew to a close, G-Rob asked the girls the wildest thing a john had ever asked them to do.

Good taste requires I leave their answers to something outside of a public forum. All I can say is, "Oh the toilet-drinking humanity." ("Oh the humanity" is a registered trademark of Guinness and Poker and the Hindenburg victims' familes).

And finally I was able to sleep.

Coming up:
*The final day, including The Bellagio, The Poker Room Brawl, and catching lucky
*Final thoughts

My parlay was Jacob Marley too. The Colts chose my trip to Vegas to suck nuts and provide none. So the Bengals were the bomb. The line is 11 and the B-girls are down by 20. The great and glorius Carson Palmer drives the team to the 5 only to...be a Bengal. But then, salvation, a fake field goal...a run for a score and my hunny is as good as...earned?

Now, by this point Cap'n Al is holding court while Mrs. Can't hang is snoring away beside me. It's not every day that I'm side by side with a man who dares me to drink more booze, and it's never been a day when I refused. Al ordered shots of booze like fish call a river. I was blazed.

Come 2PM Vegas Time

I was in full-Bengal headed glory. I think we all raked...Iggy..Dr. P...the whole damn crowd. (Bad Blood Costanza excluded). I needed another game and all the blogger action rode the Chargers game. Daddy, who sat right next to me, and who was one of the first people I spent any time talking to in Vegas was taking the Bolts to lose. But Al, had the chargers, and a song. A very very loud song....

San Diego...Super Chargers!
San Diego...Super Chargers!
Charge! Charge! Charge!

I was hooked. So now I am, by virtue of virtue's lack, hooked up with team Al. Which gave me my favorite memory of the day.

Mrs Can't Hang to Al : "Our bar tab is out of control. We can't afford it. STOP BUYING SHOTS"

Al to Mrs. Can't Hang : "OK"

*** Pause ***

Al to entire crowd of 15 bloggers : "So....who needs a shot!!!?"

I should have said, "no", in deference to the lady but I'm a bitch for peer pressure. Just ask Otis. SoCo is tasty.

With each score the song is back and the sportsbook loves it. My SoCo goggles were convinced of that. At one point a bald gambler in the table just in front of ours takes a break from what appears to be a very depressing bit of life lost to turn and conduct our chorus. Euphoria! More winnings! Sports gambling turns out to be the best expected value of the trip. Turst your heart. Follow the song.

As soon as the game ends our party breaks, except for the Can't Hang crew which will stay for the ESPN Eagles. Bad Blood, CJ and I actually take the tram from Mandalay to Excalibur. It's 2 friggin' properties away. Just on the other side of the Luxor. But this is Vegas, so we took the tram.

NOW HERE IT IS...THE LONG AWAITED AMAZINLY GOOD PART...

in our next installment.

Saturday 5:00 PM (Vegas Time)

8th floor, Tower one, Excalibur. The glory of just checking in was Otis and I could get dibs on the room's two beds. Tough titties to BadBlood and CJ. Otis was Gone in 60 Seconds, I showered, dozed and then...

Sunday 5:00 AM (Vegas Time)

As Lili Von Shtupp told sheriff Bart, "I feel we-fweshed"! 12 hours of unconscious bliss and it's again GAME-ON! I slid into my only other clean pants and the one back-up shirt and headed straight to the tables.

The room ain't busy but awfully familiar. At the 1-3 spread game I find Otis in the 2 seat, Iggy in the 4, Little Willy in the 7 and Marty VIII..sitting in 9. With an open seat next to Iggy, I was ready to roll.

The room smells stale at 5AM. The late night gamblers have left their half finished cocktails on scattered, and the half naked chubbies in dark ages robes haven't been too diligent. . The dealer says he's the former basketball coach at West Virginia and a half drunk Albanian who looks like Golem in Soveit-bloc chic is to my left. Behind Iggy I quickly spy a half eaten box of Krispy Kreme (Al's?), but am advised against its contents. No food. It must be southern comfort for breakfast and only a double shot will do. Good morning Vegas! Game-ON!

1-3 ran well. As well as can be expected. Iggy didn't stay long once Grubby dropped by and the long parade of fish dropped in and out of his now-vacant chair. But the man of the hour was "Albania". I'm not actually sure that was where he was from, but he weren't from around these parts and he was AWFUL at cards. He was also, by the way, awful pissed about the way things were going.

More than anyone, Marty had his number. Every hand, pre and post-flop, on every street..."Al-BAY-NE-UH!!". It was like a Daryly Strawberry nightmare but with more booze and less blow. Each chant another ant under his fairly dirty skin.

"Why you ALWAYS raise?"

"awww...AL-BAY-NE-UH....i must have the hammer!"

"What is hammer?"

"You're about to find out"

Albania folds. Poor bastard. I love Marty the VIIIth though. He'll figure prominently in a later tale.

After about 3 or 4 hours of Albania taunting and hammer bashing BadBlood and CJ drop in on the way to the sports book for some fabulous NFL action. I already knew where my money was. Bengals, with their high-scoring offense an 11 point dog at New England. Easy call. One bill. I also dropped 10 bucks on the mandatory..what the hell...3 team parlay sucker bet. And now here's a lesson friends...remember this:

On the way from the Excal to meet our friends at Mandalay, I asked Blood where his money went. He's a smart man that Blood, and I respect his opinion. He had smart money on the Giants and Ravens. The over/under was 35 points! With these two teams, that's a no brainer! I rushed back, dropped $40 on the under and headed to Mandalay. I later turns out Blood also picked the Pats. He's George Costanza folks, learn his instinct and do the opposite.

So now at Mandalay, the gang's all here. The bloogers grabbed the best seat in the house...a full table..with a view of the big screen...4 steps from the bar. I love these guys.

Next update...

Super Chargers...and Super Hookers.
Ok the hookers weren't SUPER....but damn they were interesting.

Or so I thought. Instead, I laid in bed for three hours, listening to my internal machine grinding on un-oiled gears against itself. For one very long hour between 6pm and 7pm, I considered the possibility that I might die in Vegas. A younger more jaded Otis would've thought the concept to be vaguely romantic, or at the very least, a good story to tell Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin during a Cloud Nine jam session.

This Otis, however, slipped further into self-loathing.

You're an adult now. You're a father now. You have responsibilities greater than pushing your physical limits to the extreme and hoping you survive. Grow up, you schmuck.

The words ran on a loop in my head until sometime around 7:15pm on Saturday night, I drifted off into unconciousness. With the exception of a 45 minute power nap, I'd been awake for more than 40 hours.

Re-birth

One thing Vegas works very hard to do is convince its guests that time is irrelevant. Still, it offers alarm clocks in its hotel rooms. When I opened my eyes to a red LED screen that began with the numbers 12:, I cringed. I couldn't believe I'd just slept away 17 precious hours while on vacation.

I stood and walked toward the shower, hoping to make it to Mandalay Bay in time to meet the rest of the blogger crew for the NFL games. As I fumbled around with my duffle bag, I looked toward the window. It was dark outside.

I'd only been asleep for five hours.

While part of me felt like I hadn't given myself enough rest, there was that atavistic part of me that celebrated.

It was only midnight, and I was sure to find friends still up and running.

Welcome to Albania, please show your chrome at the door

Freshly showered, I rode the elevator downstairs. I had a plan. Play cards with a fresh head for four hours, go back to sleep for five hours, then get up in time to lay down some money on the early NFL games.

Somebody once wrote something about plans, and mice, and men, and such. I forget.

When I arrived in the poker room, it was in full effect. At the very back of the room, my brother, Dr. Jeff, was entering his eighth straight hour at a low-limit spread game. My bar-owning, school-teaching, number-talking buddy from Denver, Joey Two-Hands, sat in the one seat.

"Hungry?" Dr. Jeff asked.

I thought about it. I hadn't eaten food in a very long time.

"There's this place back by the sports book," he said. "You can get two tacos really cheap."

I bolted back to Little John's Deli, ate me some tacos, and brought two back for Two-Hands.

By 1am, I was fully refreshed. Dr. Jeff always knew the right prescription. I vowed to follow my little brother's lead for the rest of the night.

The two seat was open and I sat down. What a good way to kill four hours until bed, I thought.

"Have you seen the monkey?" Jeff asked. I had not. He told me to just wait.

Within a few minutes, Jeff screamed, "MONKEY!" While the occasional outburst is not out of character for my brother, he usually doesn't break out the monkey-scream in poker rooms.

So, imagine my surprise when most of the poker room answered back in unison, "MONKEY!" and cheered like Dr. Jeff had just saved a nun's life.

I turned to look over my shoulder at the big screen TV. There, in giant monkey-assed technicolor, was Whiplash the Dog-Riding monkey. On Rodeo TV, Whiplash was the star. He rode that dog like Luke Perry in "Eight Seconds." I got the feeling the monkey knew how much joy he was bringing a room full of poker-playing degenerates. Either that or he was tied onto the dog and had no real choice. One or the other.

When it was over, I felt sad and Dr. Jeff could see it on my face.

"Don't worry," he said. "He'll be back in about two hours. Just watch for the clown. He comes up after that."

As I said, Dr. Jeff knows how to make people feel good.

Albania

The cast of charcters at the table was better than any table at which I sat the entire weekend. It was constatly changing. Lyle from the O8 game was there for a while (and is still the subject of a future post). Some retired restauranteur who never stopped talking sat there for a long time. A freshly-21-year-old kid from New Jersey sat beside me for a long time. I met his father later and wondered how the kid turned out to be such a balanced individual. The dealers were good, too, as they joined along in the monkey-fun and indulged our hammer-dropping silliness. One of the dealers dealt to me two nights later and remembered a line I dropped on G-Rob and Dr. Jeff:

"Well, since he raised and you called, I have to re-raise."

The dealer repeated it word for word 48 hours later. That either means he has a fantastic memory or we left quite an impression on him.

But above all the characters, Albania was the best.

Albania arrived in a quiet whoosh of funk and bed-fashion. I questioned for a while whether he had teeth. I could tell he was from out of town (way out of town) but couldn't get a read on his personality otherwise. That was until someone beat him on one hand and he degenerated into the quickest tilt I've ever seen. Then, I was fascinated by his rebound, as he came back two hands later and laid a beat on somebody, slammed his cards on the table a' la Phil Hellmuth and beamed with pride.

Finally, someone got up the courage to ask, "So, where you from, bud?"

His one word answer set the stage for the next several hours: "Albania."

Dr. Jeff and I looked at each other across the table. The song clicked with both of us at the same time.

To the tune of "When the Saints Go Marching In" we began singing, "Albania, Albania, you border on the Adriatic..."

The table looked at us, expecting an explanation. We could only offer that the song was from an old version of the show Cheers in which Coach was studying for some geography exam and needed songs to help him remember his countries. Sadly, for a long time, we couldn't remember the rest of the song.

Albania's catch-phrase was "You be nice to me, I'll be nice to you." Albania didn't like to be checked-raised, slow-played, or otherwise hammer-inflicted. Anytime he felt like he was wandering into a trap, he'd sit up in his chair, look at his opponent and say in his thick Albanian accent, "You be nice to me, I'll be nice to you."

He said it to Dr. Jeff at one point, to which Dr. Jeff with more poise than I'd expect from a guy 12 hours into a session, responded "How about this? I'll play my hand and we'll just see how it turns out." As it turned out, Dr. Jeff won the pot.

It was about that time I had a fantastic idea.

"Albania," I said, "do me a favor. Say this: Give that man his money."

For some reason, Albania indulged me. And suddenly, there, sitting at the back table of the Excalbur Poker room sat none other than Teddy KGB.

I couldn't have been more pleased.

I think it was around the time the room erupted in another monkey-cheer that I remembered the remaining lyrics to the Albania song:

Albania, Albania, you border on the Adriatic.
Your land is mostly mountainous
and your chief export is chrome

Actually, at the time, I accidentally replaced the word "land" with "hills," to which G-Rob (who had finally arrived at 6am after a 12-hour nap) said, "Your hills are mostly mountainous? What the hell does that mean?"

Prick.

Eventually, Albania refused to do his Teddy KGB impression anymore and got more and more cranky as the morning wore on.

I thought I might cheer him up by asking if he knew what Albania's chief export was, but it didn't seem to help.

On Roofies and Iggy's Greatest Tell

Before long, the table was starting to look like a Party Poker blogger table. G-Rob, Dr. Jeff, Marty, Iggy, and I were hamming it up with Albania and the others. Joey Two-Hands had already left to catch his 6am flight back to Denver, but the rest of us were going strong as the sun again started to rise on Las Vegas.

My plan to go to bed by 5am had again been thwarted and already I was facing the possibility of going into another day on no sleep. Still, I was feeling okay and having the time of my life.

When Iggy sat down in the four-seat, I couldn't help but revel in his love of the game and his fellow bloggers. Here's a guy who just quit a fairly lucrative job to go out on his own and play poker. He doesn't write a great deal about his play (which, frankly, I wish he would do more), but one can assume he doesn't build his bankroll playing $1-$3 spread at six in the morning. He was there simply to have fun.

All of that said, just because he's playing for little more than pride, he doesn't dial back his game. Within thirty minutes of him sitting down, I drew the Hilton Sisters and started to build a pot. Iggy and I went to war, raising, re-raising, capping pre-flop, then doing the same on the flop when no overs came. When an ace came on the turn, I still bet into him, but he raised me and I dialed it back. I check-called the river to see his pocket kings. Only on Party Poker, my ass.

"I like the way you slowed down on the turn," he said.

To this day, I still don't know if he was being sarcastic.

From the other end of the table, Marty asked Iggy his name.

"Hank," Iggy said.

"Hmmm," Marty said. "I thought I heard you say your name was Iggy."

Marty is a law-talking guy and is not to be trifled with. But he'd been up for a while as well, and he didn't press the issue.

As for me, I was still steaming from having my Hiltons cracked, and raised pre-flop with pocket sixes. Of course, Iggy called.

Note: I don't have any notes on this hand. I'm pretty sure this is how it played out. Iggy may want to correct me if I'm wrong.

The flop came down 589. Again, Iggy and I went to war.

Now, I know I'm not necessarily favored to win this hand. In fact, I should assume that Iggy is ahead. Maybe a set. More likely, A9 or A8. If he is ahead, I know that I only have six outs to catch up. Still, having played low-limit with him before, I know Iggy can sometimes be aggressive when he's way behind. I could only hope he was on a draw.

I think I maintained my poker face when the turn brought a seven, giving me the straight. I check-raised Iggy, who cold called and gave me a look.

The turn was a blank, as I recall. This time I bet into him and the sonofabitch raised me. I re-raised, and he capped.

But as he put in his final bet, he turned to the dealer and said, "You know, in a lot of cardrooms, when play gets to be heads up there's no limit on the number of raises."

It was at this moment that my heart sank and I picked up on Iggy's biggest tell: When he has the nuts, he'll turn to the dealer and ask for the game to be no-limit.

The dealer said we could do whatever we wanted, but I already knew what was about to happen. I put in my final crying call and watched Iggy turn up Vince Van Patton's favorite hand, JTo.

Iggy began raking the pot and eyed me from behind his locks, "Drawing at the dummy end of the straight," he said with a playful scoff.

In one moment I felt both chastened and so happy to be alive that I didn't mind losing another big pot to Iggy.

After a while, Iggy prepared to depart to play craps with Hdouble, Grubby, and Mrs. Can't Hang. As he left, he gave Marty his drink as a peace offering, admitting finally that he was, in fact, Iggy.

As Iggy walked away, Marty asked, "You don't think he'd slip me a roofie do you?"

"Nah," I said, thinking, but if he asks the dealer to go no-limit, I'd fold. That's his greatest tell.

Coming up...after the holidays...

*Playing the Rock Garden
*No-Limit---Making back the losses
*Sherwood Forest Pt. 2
*Social Anxiety Disorder and the Bellagio

***

If there had been a slow motion camera mounted outside Tower 1 of the Excalbur Hotel and Casino, it could've captured the next promotional advertisement for the Vegas Convention and Visitor's Bureau. The motliest of crews strode through the door, drinks in hand, eyes wild with excitement and adrenaline. In the commercial, each of them would exclaim in slow motion as they saw the bohemoth stretch Excursion, white like a good cowboy's horse, as long as the night we'd all just survived.

I was among the first to climb in. I crawled to the front of the passenger cabin and plopped into the seat. I had MapQuested the distance between the hotels before I left. I thought I remembered that it would only be a six mile journey. I figured there wouldn't be time for another good power nap, so I settled in to enjoy a few quiet laughs along the ride.

I'm not exactly sure what happened next. The Excursion seemed very full. Someone passed me a CD and told me to give it to the driver. I passed the disc through the portal and asked the driver to give us some privacy. The ensuing ten minutes are something I still haven't completely been able to get my head around. The CD had been a gift from BadBlood to Al. Though I don't have notes on this, I'm fairly sure it was titled the Devil's Greatest Hits (All Lucifer's Love Songs).

I don't think I talked much during the ride. The rest of the trip is just a few mental exclamations, psychic warnings that I was entering a level of debauchery that even Bacshus himself never envisioned for 10am.

Computer generated disco ball lights swam around my head, death metal pounded from the speakers, someone asked for Sinatra, Al hung from the windows and threw the goat to a state patrol officer, and somewhere in my professional head something screamed, "There are cameras in here! Someone is taking pictures! Jesus, there's a video camera! Damage control! We need damage control! Somebody get Major Tom on the phone because ground control just asploded!"

And then it was quiet. The ride--seemingly endless--continued. I pulled my hat over my face and acquiesced.

Whatever will be, will be.

Ill-equipped to meet or greet

After disembarking from the chariot, we stood and waited for Al to sign autographs (I guess this is true. It's what I've read). Like a line of school children heading to recess, we made our way to a ballroom where Dick Gatewood and the men from LasVegasVegas had put together a fine spread of food and drink for the weary travelers.

I found myself getting a little sad. I looked around the room at the famous faces, heroes who I'd intended on engaging in meaningful, thought-provoking conversation. Charlie Shoten was there and offered a fine line of philosophical thought. Tom McEvoy was there with his uber-strategic mind. Marcel Luske was there, his personality in tow. Ron Rose, the man who can't fail at anything, was signing copies of his book and ripping out pages that didn't meet Felicia's approval.

It was more than I'd hoped for and I was in no condition to engage anyone. For several minutes, I hated myself. What a degenerate I had become. I felt like apologizing to the Joes, but decided I wasn't in any condition to do that either. Instead, I poured myself a glass of juice and drank it on one drink. A glass of ice water met the same fate.

As I stood along the food table, trying to decide if I felt like eating (I hadn't had a bite since the non-gumbo off the buffet in the poker room), an angel appeared in the form of Mrs. Can'tHang.

She stood in front of me, her eyes awash with understanding and empathy. She pulled a bite from her coffee cake (it might've been a muffin) and directed it into my mouth. When she did it again, I decided I was going to be okay. Though I hated my degenerate side for ruining a good opportunity to network and learn, I felt at ease. I owe the Mrs. for that.

I saw Daddy sitting across the room and decided that a brief sitdown would be good for the soul. As I made my way in his direction, I found myself nearly running into Marcel. It felt as though a conversation was unavoidable. And before I could stop myself, I found myself talking.

"I like the way you sing at the table," I said.

Looking back, this was, perhaps, the stupidest thing I said all weekend (although something I said in an upcoming post about Sherwood Forest Pt. 2 runs a close second). I like the way you sing at the table? What in the hell had become of me?

Whether he took it as a compliment (which it was) or was merely humoring me, Marcel entertained me for a few minutes by talking about how singing is a calming influence when he's playing. He even talked about how much he liked to sing when away from the table. Though I felt like an idiot of the first order, looking back, I enjoyed that conversation more than I would've imagined.

Our conversation broke when the Poker Prof called the meeting to order and introduced Charlie Shoten. I found my seat behind Daddy and listened intently. With the good vibes coming from Mrs. Can't Hang and Marcel, I felt like I was on my way to recovery. Everything was going to be okay.

As Charlie spoke, Evelyn Ng walked in the door. My mind again shifted. The lack of sleep started getting to me again. I could tell that Daddy recognized this from his seat in front of me. More than recognizing it, I felt like he empathized. He vocalized what was going through my head. Loathe to misquote him, I only remember that his first few words were, "In terms of weird..."

He continued, but I already knew where he was going. Here we were, a couple of schlubs, surrounded by some of the greatest pros, on our way to a private tournament set up in our honor, working on a few minutes sleep, after a rock-star night and morning that we shoud not have survived, and Evelyn Ng just walked into the room on a virtual hydrofoil of beauty.

In terms of weird, indeed.

That's when I broke down. It all just became too much for one tired Otis to handle. I felt myself breaking up and didn't want to disturb Charlie's speech. As quietly as I could, I slipped out a side door into the faux open air of the Sam's Town Casino courtyard.

The wait (perhaps, The Weight)

G-Rob followed me. I think he was in much the same fix as I was. We wandered the casino until we found a bar, where I ordered a series of ice waters and Red Bulls. I don't really like Red Bull, but it seemed to be my only hope of making it the reamaining two hours until the tournament.

I got up to go to the bathroom and when I returned, G-Rob was gone. By some act of charitable fate, I found him and we wandered again until we found the food court. I was still feeling nourished from the Mrs.' coffee cake/muffin. G-Rob ordered a calzone from Sbarro and we sat. Every two minutes he'd ask me what time it was. When we realized together that only two minutes had passed, we'd sigh in unison, "Jeeesus."

G-Rob ate most of the calzone. I ate the remaining bite. After an hour or so, we decided we were again fit for public view and headed back upstairs where the meet and greet had returned to mingling. I sat outside, overlooking the courtyard, and pondering how I might find the will to continue.

Just then, the Missouri Boys walked up and greeted me. Marty said, "We ran into somebody who says he knows you."

Though a reasonable Otis would've been suspicous (nobody knows me), I agreed to go meet the phantom Otis-knower.

We walked fifty yards down the walkway and I spotted him.

There was my brother.

I could spend a few paragraphs talking about how my brother had convinced me he couldn't make the trip, that he'd re-worked his schedule so that he'd work two straihgt weeks after he got back so that he could meet me, and how almost instantly I felt a new spirit rising inside me.

Instead, I'll just say this: His arrival marked a turning point in the trip. And he couldn't have arrived at a better time.

At long last, The Holiday Classic

After getting the opportunity to meet another of my heroes, Linda from PokerWorks.com Table Tango, I followed the line of school children down to the poker room where Dick had the tournament ready to go.

I drew the seven-seat, directly between Al Can't Hang and Linda.

The Line-up at my table:

Seat 1: Glenn
Seat 2: BadBlood
Seat 3: Bill
Seat 4: G-Rob
Seat 5: Boy Genius
Seat 6: Linda
Seat 7: Otis
Seat 8: Al Can't Hang
Seat 9: Marty
Seat 10: Bob

I initially cringed. Frankly, I didn't want to get sat with Glenn, BadBlood, or G-Rob. I already knew that Glenn had a read on me and was masterful in his play. BadBlood and G-Rob know me and my style.

But, when I looked back and saw that CJ was sandwiched in between Max and Felicia, I decided I was going to be okay.

I wish I had taken more time to talk to Felicia before the tournament. I think I might've altered my ultra-tight aggressive strategy a bit. For, in the end, my tight play cost me a great deal, I think.

Though it has been chronicled before, G-Rob dropped the hammer on the very first hand of the tournament. That, along with my buddy Marty making the final table was the chief highlight for me.

You've read much better tourney reports from the other bloggers, so I'll just divulge the key hands I played.

I posted and folded for a couple of orbits before finding pocket tens. I put in a 3x BB raise and got a call from BadBlood. The flop had one overcard, but I got a sense that the flop had missed him completely. I put in a pot-sized bet and after some thought, he folded. I think he thought I might have the hammer, but couldn't convince himself of it.

A couple of levels later, after Linda had busted out, I had Boy Genius to my right. Everyone folded to us in the blinds. I had A8o in the BB. Genius put in a small raise, which I called, vowing to fold if the flop missed me.

The flop came down with an 8 and two of my aces' suit, giving me second pair top-kicker and a backdoor flush draw. Genius bet out. I had two choices: Fold like the wuss I am or put Genius to the test.

With the rapidly escalating blinds, I was in danger of busting out soon anyway. So, I pushed all-in. The bet sent Genius into the tank. I knew then that I had him. After a couple minutes thought, he folded, giving me enough chips to survive a little longer.

The pot made me feel a little froggy and with suited connectors I tried to steal the blinds from Glenn a little later. As I suspected, his read on me was rock solid. He put in a big re-raise and I had to fold.

An orbit later, I found suited Big Slick. The big blind sat at 300. I had somewhere in the neighborhood of 1900 in my stack. Glenn sat in the big blind. I thought for a moment and put in a bet of 900, nearly half my stack. Everyone folded to Glenn who considered the bet for a while. I'm now wishing I'd worn a ski mask to the tournament and brought a proxy bettor, because this time Glenn folded. I might as well have been playing my cards face up. Later he commented about the size of my bet. I still wonder if he'd have called if I had shaved a couple hundred off my raise.

Over the next several orbits, I made my mistake. I folded small-middle pairs three times to raises. Had I spoken to Felicia before, I suspect she would've correctly told me that with the current blind structure, I should've pushed in on one or all of the hands and hoped to win the coin flip. Those hands were my only chance of making it into the money. Instead, I folded them like the wuss I am.

Instead, I moved short-stacked into the one-seat of another table when we consolidated to two. For a few glorious orbits I got to sit with Max and Felicia. True to form, Felicia showed no mercy and stole my blinds on two consecutive orbits. I wanted to defend them, but I had no better than a Q5 either time. So, I folded them like the wuss I am. I made a mental note: Be more like Felicia next time. Maybe even change your name to Felicia. To avoid any trademark issues, pronounce your name differently.

Finally, perhaps it was an act of mercy, I found suited Big Slick when Pauly pushed in with pocket jacks. With a very short stack, I had no choice but to push in. I lost the coin-flip and left uncermoniously in 12th place.

After thinking about the tournament for a couple of weeks, I decided that when I chose to play, I played to the best of my ability. Winning and losing with that structure, though, I think is based less on how you play the hands you decide to play, but making better decisions on which hands to play. Simply put, I played too tight, allowed myself to go like Broomcorn's uncle, and folded small and middle pairs when I could've used them to double up. In a tournament that moves that fast, you've got to pick a place to double up and I didn't pick it correctly.

All of that said, however, the tournament was obviously not a crapshoot. When you find Felicia and Max in the top two spots, you know that there is talent involved.

Next time I plan to play under the name Felleesha Pescatore.

***

Like a proud brother, I watched Marty rise to the final table, eventually busting out in 8th place. For his first live casino tournament, I thought he played very well and made some good decisions. Plus, he outlasted me, so perhaps I have no room to talk about being proud. Maybe he should be proud that I didn't embarass him.

Marty collected his final table schwag and joined G-Rob and I for the ride back to the Strip. I had lost track of how long it had been since I had slept or had a decent meal. I was further dismayed by the lack of cabs outside Sam's Town (my only complaint, by the way...nice job, Dick, and thanks).

Finally, I thought, I can get a few hours sleep.

Or so I thought.

Coming up:
*Re-birth and Albania
*Playing in the Rock Garden
*No Limit--Making back the losses
*Sherwood Forest, Pt. 2

December 14, 7:00 PM (Eastern)

Wife of G-Rob : So, how much did you lose?

G-Rob : Some

Wife of G-Rob : Did you play badly?

G-Rob : Not at all. I dropped the hammer in a tournament.

Wife of G-Rob : Is that good?

G-Rob : No. Its the worst hand in poker. But let's see if we can buy our groceries with pride.

Back in Vegas 1 PM ish (Vegas Time)

Does it really matter who I'm seated with? Sure other, better bloggers have detailed notes (speaking of which, I'm patting Otis down from now on. Nobody remembers that much detail) but I do remember this much, I was with Otis, Bad Blood, and Al. The rest is hazy. Remember, I'm a lush.

But, alas the crowing achievement was the first hand of the game. I'm in the SB and LO...the hammer. I remember 5 limpers to me, so out of pure blogger loyalty, I raised it 300. Folds all around, and I have glory. That's the boobie prize for sure.

(Side note : last night I played with Maudie on UB and an aggressive all-in hammer play against two callers ended my night early)

I took the second hand of the tourney too. I was dealt AQ off on the button and with just 3 limpers I pushed all in. Two rounds of stolen blinds. YEE-HAW! I never won another hand. I was further crippled by AL CAN'T FOLD when with top pair and top kicker I raised it to another 3 hundred and he pushed all in.
A smarter tournament player probably would have called, especially since I'm positive he was banking on two over cards to draw. But because I foolishly wanted to ENDURE in the game, I folded and lost my bet. Dammit.

I made it to 19th, when in the SB I was dealt A 6 off and pushed in. Felicia, in the BB called me blind and showed 8 10 off. She caught a 10 in the river and I had plenty of time to play blackjack with Bad Blood. The good news is I won my tournament buy-in back.

4 PM (Vegas time)

So here we are a gaggle of losers. Otis, Marty (who finished 8th by the way), and I went searching for a cab and what would be my very first hours of sleep since getting to work at Midnight Vegas on Friday.
But 'splain this to me please. A giant casino like Sam's town with, I presume a gigantic number of tourists, has ZERO taxis standing by. We headed out the front door, we walked around to the side. We inspected the space near the dumpsters in the back, but apart from a flock of dim-witted hats there was NOTHING! Double dammit.

Finally we found a charming car hop who told us there was a WAIT LIST for cabs. Next one....30 minutes. The crash begins. Otis passed out on a bench. Marty pacing like an expectant father with an itchy bladder and me...ever used peyote? (For those of you who know my secret identity....neither have I)

When we did find a cab I climbed into the front...for the 37 hour ride to the strip. Otis was unconcious. I would've loved another round of rib-kickin' fun but he was too far away and the cabbie would likely not be amused. C'est la vie.

NOW....he good stuff...really I promise.
If it seems like I've blazed through all the actual poker content, I have. I mean REALLY good stuff ahead and its important to me that I get to tell it first before Otis spoils it with better writing and his idiot savant recall of detail.

SO..that said...I'm being concise.

Big Mike was buying. I considered my options. Some Vitamin C and Vodka sounded good, but since it was breakfast I opted for a Guinness. While we waited for my drink to arrive, I chatted with Robin Iggy and mentioned that BadBlood and G-Rob were still playing no-limit poker.

Mischievous eyes sneaked up from beneath the locks of brown hair. A smile crept in and turned up the corners of the van dyke beard.

Although I know I was moving under my own power and will, I felt drawn to follow the leader through the banks of slot machines. When we arrived at the poker room, I sat back and watched as Robin Iggy put on a show.

Much like he'd been sitting at the bar, Robin Iggy put his elbows down on the rail and shot lasers into BadBlood. I thought briefly to ask if he wouldn't rather just go smack Blood upside the head with a quarter-staff, then thought better of it. I know what Robin did to Friar Tuck, after all.

BadBlood was all in with big slick. It held up and he gave us a look like, "I can't believe what these guys will play." Then, as if drawn by the Jim Jones-ish Robin Iggy gaze, Blood stood and walked around the rail.

"I'm BadBlood," he said, extending his hand.

Robin Iggy shook Blood's hand, but said nothing. That smile was still there.

Blood turned to me. "Friend of yours?" he asked. I could see he was growing ever so slightly annoyed.

"I just met him," I said truthfully, although I was starting to feel bad. Blood obviously thought I had cooked up this gag in failed attempt at drunken humor.

Confused, annoyed, and looking a bit bedraggled, Blood went back to the table. As I sat down on a slot machine stool and wondered if my beer had arrived at the bar, Robin Iggy took up his perch on the rail again and again stared down BadBlood.

I'm not sure how much time passed before Robin Iggy let Blood off the hook. I think he mouthed the words, "I'm Iggy." BadBlood stood and came back across the rail.

After a brief conversation, Iggy came back to meet me.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He said, 'I believe you.'"

I briefly pondered the theological implications of the scenario, while Iggy talked about his reservations about renting a dwarf to play the role of Iggy in the Holiday Classic, now just slightly more than seven hours away.

Oh, jeebus, what's happening to me?

We made out way back to the bar, where my Guinness sat taking on the requisite room temperature, I took a drink and realized that I was not only ill-equipped to play cards. I was ill-equipped to do much of anything. That included drinking.

"I'm ill-equipped," I said out loud. Daddy heard me and offered some soothing words. I don't quite recall what they were, but he assured me I was going to be okay.

Several people have asked how I remember so many details from this bender. It's a legitimate question. When I'm drinking on my home turf, I am prone to blackouts that sometimes last for two or more hours, while at the same time, in Vegas I can drink for literal days and remember small details that should escape me.

I have only one answer. When drinking at home, I deal in in the realm of the quick-binge. That is, I drink as much as I can in a three-hour window. That usually results in some form of what Uncle Ted likes to call, "losing time."

In Vegas, however, the body conditions itself to function on one long, steady, mind-bending buzz. Losing time trends not to happen. Moreover, details tend to stick out. They burn themselves into my psyche and only by purging them here can I exorcise the demons so that they don't eat my medula oblongata for brunch.

All of that said, it was at this point that things start to get a little cloudy.

Somebody said something about an Irish Car Bomb. I'm pretty sure I said, "I'm ill-equipped."

Nonetheless, Big Mike had entered some sort of high-level negotiation with the bartender and it seemed rude to turn down the offer. Within minutes, the drink was in front of me. It didn't look right. The Baileys had somehow congealed in the bottom of the whiskey. It had a sickening layered look to it.

After it was over, Daddy didn't look so good. Again, things started getting gray. I'd stopped thinking of the boys as Robin and his Merry Men. These guys were male Sirens, calling from the rocks, singing a sweet Irish ballad that I was sure to follow until the hull of my already sinking ship was wrapped around some boulder.

Somehow, I culled this moment from the morning in something I wrote for my other blog:

It's 6am and I've just downed a glass of Guinness. Inside it was a half-shot of Makers and half-shot of Baileys. It's breakfast, after all.

I've propped myself up by my elbows on the bar and am sitting within whispering distance of a guy I'd first met face-to-face only six or so hours before.

"Otis, you should write a book."

The sun is coming up and it's painting the guy's face with an awkward mix of natural and fake light that would drive a professional photographer batty. Somewhere, a few seats down, a guy they call Big Mike is negotiating with the bartender to whip up another batch of what we just had.

I should write a book, they say.

I take a swig from the bottle sitting in front of me, scan the room for anybody who may be listening, and say half-outloud, but more to myself...

"A book. About what?"

As my liver negoitated with my brain for a few more minutes of visiting at the bar, Mrs. Can't Hang joined us. BadBlood and G-Rob joined us. Al joined us. Others were there, but, frankly, this is where things move from cloudy to tornadic.

I talked with Iggy for a long time on life philosophies, life histories, and the like. I tried to get him to lay out his suspect list for the coup d'tat on the trademark Guinness and Poker site. It was the one thing I couldn't get him to talk about.

Mrs. Can't Hang downed a shot of 7:30am tequila and played video poker. I counted the hours of sleep I would get if I went to bed at that very moment.

At some point, someone there (I know who it is, but I won't say. He/She can cop to it if they want) said the funniest thing I'd heard in hours.

"This is surreal. I'm sitting at a bar at 7:30 in the morning with Patrick Swayze and Tony Siragusa."

I digested that and expressed my thanks for the summation of the morning.

At 8am, just two hours before the meet and greet at Sam's Town was supposed to begin, I quietly slipped away from the growing group and rode the elvators to the tenth floor of the hotel. I found a smelly room, full of people, and no bed space available.

I collapsed on the floor and wondered if I would wake up in time for the tournament.

***

Something was very wrong. I knew that I had gone to sleep on one portion of the floor. At some point in the past 45 minutes, I had moved. Or somebody had moved me.

While odd, that wasn't what was wrong.

My ribs and stomach were starting to hurt. Something very wrong was happening to my body.

Through the clouds, I heard the voice of some Monty Python-esque god.

"Get up."

I think I answered, "No." I might've said, "I'm ill-equipped."

"Get up."

I smelled cigarette smoke and the pain was growing worse.

I opened my eyes to mere slits and looked up. There--more than six feet above me--stood G-Rob, his hair a mess, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was kicking me in the ribs and stomach. Repeatedly.

"Get up. Big Mike just called for a stretch Excursion to take us to Sam's Town."

Within a few minutes, unshowered, in the same clothes I'd been wearing for 36 hours, I stood up, grabbed my Otis jacket and hat, and followed G-Rob back to the elevators.

One thing I learned on this trip: When Big Mike is being generous, it is a foolish man who doesn't accept the generosity.

Coming soon:

* The WPBT Holiday Classic
* Sleepless at Sam's Town
* Re-birth and Albania
* Playing in the rock garden

How long can this prologue last?

The room was full. The waitlist was long. I was happy to only have to wait a few minutes for Ari to open a new $2-$6 spread table. I'd considered sitting at the NL game, but I was slowly beginning to recognize that I was ill-equipped to play a game where I would have to make stack-risking decisions every few minutes.

Ill-equipped. It would become a theme over the next 12 hours.

I drew the three-seat at the new table in the middle of the room. Most of my compatriots had gone to dinner, but I had stayed behind to wait for CJ who had promised to arrive sometime around 7pm. I stole a look at my cell phone and noticed it hadn't made any noise and I hadn't missed any phone calls. The voicemail box indicated I had a message, but I figured it was one I'd forgotten to erase.

The $2-$6 table was a practice in folly. The guy to my left was a "straddle the blinds then take a walk" type of player. He rammed and jammed every pot until the turn, at which point, if he hadn't caught, he'd simply fold. Then he would get up and walk around for almost an entire orbit. I thought briefly that he might be running a game with the woman sitting to his left, but after about thirty minutes of watching I decided he was just trying to build pots.

Now, there's nothing wrong with building pots. I do it when I have a good starting hand. That's part of the game. Still, this guy stuck out as a guy who should've been playing at either a higher limit or at a slot machine. He seemed to want to rake big pots (again, no crime in that), straddled, raised, and rammed and jammed for two streets, pulling the one-armed bandit and hoping he came up the bars on the turn. If not, he'd wait for the next hand. Or he would take a walk.

I sat back, hoping to catch a good hand in the big blind so I could exploit his poker slots play. I didn't, though, and started to get a little annoyed.

After about an hour, the guy had bled away about half his rack (for some reason, the Excalbur allows players to play out of their rack, something I don't like...simply because it takes people too long to pull out their chips when they are going to bet). CJ walked in and told me he couldn't get me on my cell phone. I told him to buy a rack and get on the list for my table. Oh, and I think I told him I'd been drinking for eight hours. I may not have. However, I've known CJ for years. And he knows when I've been drinking.

Finally, the rammer-jammer stood and I looked around for CJ. He had disappeared. I picked up my phone and dialed his number, thinking he'd stepped out for some grub (or to find the increasingly AWOL Grubby). I felt silly when I realized CJ was sitting just a couple tables away. Before long, he'd racked up and come over to sit next to me.

I have a hard time defining timelines when I'm drinking, but I know one thing for sure: CJ's arrival seemed to act as the catalyst for the weird to start turning pro (with my apologies to both good doctors, Thompson and Pauly).

Here ends the prologue

Anyone who has played poker for any decent length of time knows that sessions don't exist in a vacuum. One session is just one step in the greater marathon that is your poker playing life. That axiom notwithstanding, as I played that particular $2-$6 game, I found myself slipping into the belief that is was the first and last poker game I would ever play. As the cocktail waitress brought me beer after beer, followed by water after water, and the occasional Jack and Diet Coke, I found myself vowing to enjoy every minute of that game. No matter the consequences. There's something special about being able to sit next to a good buddy and jaw about nothing in particular.

And so we sat, playing, dropping the hammer, and laughing for hours and hours.

The stories are far too many to be told. I tried to drop the hammer on CJ's straight flush. He won. Then, CJ got dealt pocket aces, but the dealer accidentally flipped up one of the bullets, making it a dead card. The table exploded when, after the dealer dealt CJ his third card, it turned out to be an ace as well. The situation got funnier when CJ's pocket rockets (all three of them) got beat by a four flush on the board. The beauty was that at Excalibur, if you get your aces cracked, you get to spin the money wheel. I think CJ ended up mkaing more money spinning the wheel that night than he did actually playing cards.

By and by, I looked up to see a tall guy in a Dodgers cap. I recognized him immediately as HDouble. HDouble is my kind of guy. He likes good music. He's a thinking man's poker player. And, as it turns out, he's a fantastically nice guy. I'm still mad that my weekend got away from me and I didn't have a chance to go over to the Mirage with him for some $10/$20.

HDouble sat with CJ and I for a couple of hours, slinging chips and laughing with us. As I sat there, I knew that he knew the answer to a question I'd been laboring over for months. He knew if Iggy was a little person or some rapib pratical joker. It seemed so crude to bring it up, though.

As we sat, the Missouri crew and G-Rob finally found their way into the poker room. They all bought in for some chips, and I found myself inordinately interested with how they were faring. CJ and I had a bit of a view of G-Rob's stack and monitored it closely.

I knew that HDouble was supposed to have a pretty, Nordic wife.

"You come by yourself, Hank, or did you bring someone along?" I asked. Maybe I was just making small talk. I dunno. A part of me thinks I was setting myself up for a joke I didn't even know was coming.

HDouble indicated he'd come alone this time.

I had been pointing out various bloggers to CJ as they walked by. Eventually, CJ pointed over to Pauly's table, where a long-haired guy was squatting next to the one-seat.

"Who is that?" he asked.

I'd seen the guy walk in a little earlier in the night. Maybe it was Grubby, I thought. However, I figured since Grubby had been MIA all night long that there would've been some grand celebration when he arrived. So, I made the next logical choice.

"Pauly said his buddy Ferrari was coming. Maybe that's who it is." I said. I didn't look at Hank when I said this.

I consider myself a pretty good multitasker. My wife gets vaguely annoyed when I try to play poker, watch TV, keep an eye on the dog and kid, read a newspaper, and carry on a conversation with her. But I can do it.

Part of my professional training has included being able to listen passively for a spot in a conversation where active listening is required. At any given time, I can write, listen to a police scanner, carry on a conversation with someone in the office, and listen to Yahoo! Launchcast. If somebody gets killed within a 20-mile radius, I'll hear it on the police scanner. If somebody at work needs me for something, I'll hear it. If Steve Earle slips into a cover of "Willin'," I'll hear it.

Keep that in mind of a couple of paragraphs.

I was in the middle of a hand, which drew my concentration ever so slightly away from talking with Hank and CJ, from watching G-Rob and Marty's stack, from ordering another in a long series of beers, from trying to figure out why my cell phone had started shooting every call to voicemail, and, yes, from the guy who was now kneeling beside me. It was the same guy CJ had asked about earlier.

"Otis," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a definitive statement. He knew who I was.

"Hey, man." I was being friendly, despite the fact that my brain was trying to work its way around how to play the hand sitting in front of me.

The guy said his name was something or other, then went on to mumble something about really liking my blog.

"I'm a friend of Hank's," he said. "We drove in together, and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your writing."

Now, something should've clicked right there. Just thirty minutes earlier Hank had said he'd made the drive alone. I'd actively listened to that conversation.

And, so, the long-haired guy kneeling on my left kept talking. G-Rob's stack kept flucuating, the cocktail waitress kept bringing beer, and, for the love of all that's holy, I was still involved in a hand.

Do I raise? Do I cold call?

Passively, through increasingly drunk ears, I listened to the guy who was still talking. And just like when I hear 10-89 (local police ten-code for death) pop out of the police scanner, I heard something from my left that made me slip back into active listening.

The word was "dwarf."

Fold.

I turned to my left and saw the smile creeping in the corners of the guy's mouth. Indeed, he had said "dwarf."

Somehow, I just knew.

I bounded from my chair and wrapped the guy in a hug like I would a brother I hadn't seen in years.

"You son of a bitch," I said.

Iggy had arrived.

Pai Gow and The Human Response

When I next looked at my watch, it was nearing 2am. I think. The WPBT Holiday Classic was slated to begin in eleven hours. The meet and greet session with the pros was supposed to begin in eight hours. I realized I was fabulously ill-equipped to play poker at any level.

Well, almost any level.

I'd been playing poker for fourteen straight hours. I'd been drinking for almost that entire time. All of my old friends and new friends had arrived. And somehow I'd bled away a rack of chips.

I made a decision that seemed to be the best possible.

It was time for some Pai Gow.

I have an Otisian Axiom that goes a little something like this: When you're too drunk to play cards, play Pai Gow.

So, I stood, rounded up the Missouri boys, and headed for the Pai Gow tables.

A few years ago, the Missouri boys and I found heaven in the form of $5 Pai Gow at the Barbary Coast. We'd sit for hours, playing five bucks a hand, pushing nearly every hand, drinking free drinks, and watching the hot girls walk into Drai's for the late night dancing.

Since then, once we hit that point at which movement is ill-advised, we sit at a Pai gow table until bedtime.

And so we sat, screaming "Pai Gow!" at the top of our lungs when the dealer turned up her ten-high Pai Gows. Several bloggers walked by and I found myself outed as an occasional -EV player.

I'd like to write more about the experience, but, as often happens on my first night in Vegas, I was quickly becoming ill-equipped to play any kind of cards.

Even Pai Gow.

By 5am, I had dropped about $100 (unthinkable at Pai Gow) with $25 and $50 bets (oh, how I long for the days of the Barbary Coast).

The boys were looking for some grub and were about to go in search of the McDonalds.

"Gentlemen," I said, "I'm ill-equipped. I'm hitting the sack."

If I went to sleep right then, I could get a good five hours sleep, then make a slightly late entrace to the meet and greet at Sam's Town.

I was proud of myself. I'd survived being awake for 26 hours. I'd survived a 17 hour bender. I was still standing and not puking. I hated myself for losing a couple black chips on my first night in Vegas. But, I play well from behind and knew I'd make it up in the coming days.

Now, it was time to sleep.

I wandered through the casino until I found the signs for Tower 1. I wandered past the poker room where BadBlood and G-Rob were sitting at a NL table. Neither of them looked too happy.

I was within 100 yards of the elevator, just ten floors away from blissful slumber, when I heard it.

"O....tis."

There, at the bar, sat Daddy, Iggy, and Big Mike.

And they were drinking.

Still to come:
*Sherwood Forest, Pt. 1
*Oh, jeebus, what's happening to me?!
*The WPBT Holiday Classic
*Sleepless in Sam's Town
*Rebirth and Albania
*And more...

In the last posting we heard about "big Mike," the whiskey-guzzling mastadon of the legendary Al crew. His best work was still to come.

After rousting Otis from his brief and, eventually, painful nap, he and I were back in the forest. When we arrived we found what must have been the entire blogger contingent. Some, CJ and Maudie for example, were in fine form. Others, the Mike-impaired, were standing like saplings in a storm.

We made our unsteady way to the front of the casino, past the cadre of cowboys who like a cold OJ and bloody breakfast steak. The stretch Excursion was already parked outside.

Now, like me, you've probably been in a limo before. But its unlikely you've ever ridden in a chariot like this. The interoir was lined with leather bench seats from the driver's cab to the "she's an ENTERTAINER" style lounge that filled the rear compartment. Above the driver's partition was a glowing multi-colored square that looked like a ruibx cube at a Phish show. The smell of cheap Champagne still lingered as if the driver had just used a stained dish rag to smooth off the seats.

Posh? Could've been.

But remember this is Al's ride. And Al, great guy that he is, has a drunken middle school taste in music. Apparantly the great Mr. Bad Blood had supplied a CD burned with his favorite in soul-killing guitar. It's the kind of music you imagine Dylan Klebold would have loved. Imagine screeching speed metal at a volume that would make your ear drums bleed. It hurt just to be alive. Death metal indeed.

It took forever to make it to the tournament. Sam's Town is a hike. But we did arrieve in style. We piled out of the ride and into the casino like the short bus to homeroom. And THEN the fun got stupid.

Our blogger convention was in an upstairs ballroom. We were already late. The pros were already there and so were our still-sober counterparts. I saw Charlie Shoten and sidled up to try and hide my crooked vision. But after telling him I would "probably buy his book," I could tell he wan't buying my act.

I sat down.

Then...disaster.

Charlie began his presentation. It was clearly ad-libbed. Ironically he wanted to tell us what he'd learned about maintaining focus. I could only 'focus' with one eye closed. Even that pretense fell apart when a lovely asian pro made her grand entrance.

Now, these details are fuzzy at best, but apparantly "Daddy" said something outrageously funny to Otis. At least Otis found it funny. I turned just in time to see his face dissolving into a pained attempt at composure just before he darted for the door. I needed out too, and followed close behind.

So our two sorry selves headed back to the bar..time 11AM (Vegas)
The next two hours went very much like this :

"Hey what time is it?"

"11:01"

"Jeeezus"

Then,

"How about now?"

"11:04"

"Christ!"

All things were crashing down. The tournament was suddenly in peril. And I was about to barf.

Stay tuned....for the good stuff..

I'm still trying to be concise.

When we last left you, Maudie missed an opportunity to tell a casino host I was her boy toy, and we had been within card throwing distance of the greatest poker players in the world.

Back at the Excalibur now, it was time for more poker. I was immediately seated at a $2-$6 spread limit game with no bloggers. However, I did recognize a couple players from the night before and I was trying to remember what image I had developed for myself.

Let's see... I dropped the hammer a few times and I finished up. I guess that made me really lucky in their eyes.

I settled in and posted five blinds before I ever saw a hand past the flop. You'd think at that point the table would recognize a pretty tight player. Of course, that's assuming these fish actually realized players had table images.

Finally I'm dealt AQs and I raise to $6. I get 4 callers and immediately complain that no one respects my raises. I'm not sure anyone got the joke. The flop comes Q-x-x and I bet out $6 again. I think they all still called. The turn is an A. I bet out again saying, "Why don't you all call?" They did. The river Q fills my boat and they all fold to my $6 bet. What the hell were they in the hand for?

Next hand I'm pretty sure I flopped a set of 8's. This time, we didn't make it to the river and I take down another nice pot.

Next hand, the HAMMER. I raise preflop on the button to $4 and get 5 callers. The flop comes 8-8-2. It's checked to me and I bet $6. Everyone folds. That's when I triumphantly drop it on 'em. The one guy who played with me the night before said, "I remember that hand." To which I replay, "Gotta play the hammer!"

At this point, I'm up big for the night and settling in for a nice run. In the meantime, I'm running back and forth from table to table checking in on bloggers and explaining my latest triumph with the bloggers' favorite hand.

Back at the table, I look down at another AQ, this time unsuited. Three of us see a flop of Q-Q-x. I check, it's bet behind me, a call and I raise to $12. The original bettor reluctantly calls and the player to my right also calls. That's when I size him up.

The only thought that went through my head was Black Bart. He was a Cowboy through and through. But not one of those rough, weathered cowboys. No, this guy was flush with cash. His clothes, black cowboy hat and belt buckle screamed money. He hadn't exactly been giving his chips away at this point, but he wasn't winning, either. I wrote him off... no threat.

The turn was another blank, but it was the second diamond (foreshadowing alert!!, foreshadowing alert!!). I bet out $6 and get called by Bart. Hmmm. The river doesn't fill my boat, but it does bring the third diamond. I hardly noticed.

I bet $6 and Bart calls. "I hope you don't have the boat," I said. "I hope you don't have the boat," he responded.

What!?!?!!? That's what scremed through my skull. What the hell would make you say that? I suppose if you also had AQ, you'd be worried about the boat. I mean, really, what else could you have calling me down with?

That's when he flipped J3 of diamonds. J3 of diamonds!?!?!?!? That means he called a check-raise after the flop with runner-runner flush as his only hope for winning the hand. I was pissed.

I said a few things like, "You called with what? Nice hand. Great pot, I guess it was worth waiting around for," and more. I'm sure the table could tell I was upset, as much as I was trying to hide it.

"You're not upset I won that pot with that big stack in front of you, are you?"

I thought about that. How could I be upset? A really bad poker player just made a really stupid play and won a big pot. It happens.

"Nope, you're right, good pot. Flushes usually bring the chips," I told him.

In my head: "I'm going to take every cent you have before you leave."

It didn't take long, either. The next hand I'm dealt A2s. I raise preflop announcing that I'm on tilt and steam is coming from my ears. I get a bunch of callers, including Bart.

The flop is A-2-x. I bet out, "I'm on tilt!!! Call me!!!" Bart and a few others oblige.

The turn is a blank, there will be no flush this time. I bet again and get two callers, including Bart. The turn is nothing and when I bet this time, only Bart calls me with A-4. He didn't pair his kicker.

Just two hands later I get A8 of diamonds. I simply call this time and 5 of us see the flop. It's got two diamonds. I'm in this one to the river. In fact, I didn't even have to wait for it, the flush comes on the turn.

By the river, my flush takes down a huge pot, with a lot of money coming from Bart's two pair.

Less than an hour later, Bart gets up with his $6 and says goodbye. I told him I enjoyed playing with him, and I wasn't lying. I have to remember, if they're bad enough to suck out on you on a hand like that, they're bad enough to give you every chip they have, if you're patient enough to wait for it.

Bart got the last laugh, I'm sure, because he got onto his private jet to fly back to Austin with a wife who was either naturally or artificially well-endowed. I crammed into a airline seat 3 sizes too small for me with just my dog waiting for me back home. I now remember I do hate Bart. Bastard.

I ended that night winning $125. I headed to bed earlier than I might have considering the fishiness of the table, but I had to get some sleep. I had an important breakfast in the morning. There was actual work to be done... work to be done on behalf of poker bloggers!!!

Coming Up:
Sports Betting is Evil
The Aladdin: Bring Your Rod and Reel

I posted and folded for thirty minutes while the other table had fun. It's like being stuck on a see-saw by yourself when all your buddies are hanging like monkeys from the jungle gym and looking up Sally's skirt.

I wanted to look up Sally's skirt. Or, more to the point, I wanted to rake a pot off the old guys. My chipstack-libido got the better of me, as time and time again I tried to hang from my own personal jungle gym in such a way I could get a little glimpse of a win. Before I knew it, I was down about $85 at a piddly $2-$6 table.

I got nervous that my fellow bloggers would see that I was a loser. When they walked by, I'd lean over what remained of my buy-in and pretend I was experiencing prostate problems. To no avail, though. Pauly noticed I'd bled away most of my first buy-in. I hadn't been in the room for two hours and I'd already outed myself as a poor poker player.

And then the shift that would define the trip to Vegas happened. Sally climbed to the top of the jungle gym and stood there for me to look as long as I wanted. That is to say, I began a string of good fortune that would last for the next five days.

Within thirty minutes, my TPTK, Hilton sisters, and set of jacks held up. I made back every thing I lost, plus about fifty bucks. Then Ari called me over to sit in the ten-seat of the blogger table.

Turns out I didn't have a prostate problem after all.

On Tennis Balls and Soco Shots

Many bloggers have already written about how sitting down at a live blogger table isn't that much different than sitting at an online blogger table. That's true for the most part. The conversations are the same, the friendship gels in the same way, and the non-bloggers at the table look at us like we're the devil. I sat with Mas, BG, Pauly, Mrs. Can't Hang, and Derek, slinging chips for an hour or so, and expressing my desire to make a million dollars by re-inventing the hospital walker.

Anyone who has spent a great deal of time in a hospital has seen the dozens of people who walk around with their walkers. Two legs on every walker have tennis balls stuck to them. I suggested to the table of bloggers that a guy could make a lot of money if he could somehow outfit walkers with a high-tech, state of the art, tennis ball-like apparatus already installed on the walker. It would save the orderlies a lot of time that they'd normally be spending hiding out at local tennis courts, stealing tennis balls, and cutting them open with box cutters.

Then some smartass blogger said, "Or you could just put wheels on them."

Well, yeah, I guess you could do that, too.

***

Under no circumstances would I ever pretend to know how to successfully play O8. Under no circumstances would I sit down at a casino and play O8 against people who know how to successfully play the game.

Well, there is one circumstance: When Felicia and Al have cooked up a game in the back of the poker room and the stakes are only $2/$4.

And, so I moved to the O8 table and sat down to Al's right. I scooped a couple of pots early and decided that I was the best O8 player who ever lived. And then I looked across the table at Felicia who gave me a half-smile that indicated that I was not only not a good O8 player, but that I was well on my way to embarassing myself. It's a lot like thinking you have the biggest johnson in the room, whipping it out for all to see, then looking up to discover you're at a John Holmes Look-Alike Convention.

So, I did what every reasonable poker blogger would. I accepted Al's offer of a shot of Soco.

Enter blurry poker play.

When I emerged from my first-shot haze, I heard a delcaration blaring from the seat to my left.

"That's not gumbo. That's not gumbo. Gumbo only comes from New Orleans. That's not gumbo!"

Al was moving into a land I like to call, "Full effect." He had two dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts under his chair, a sideboard of Soco shots lined up at his sidetable, and a sure insistance that what I was eating was bad free buffet food.

Like always, Al was right.

A nice lady sat down to Al's left. Felicia quietly mentioned the woman fit Maudie's description. Always the interrogator, I politley prodded the woman. It would be just like a blogger to sit down and pretend to be somebody else. Before the weekend was over, I was pretending to be the Surgeon General.

"Ma'am, do you mind me asking where you're from? It wouldn't be Oklahoma, would it?"

The woman responded in the negative and eyed me warily. It didn't deter me, though. I was beginning to steadfastly believe I was sitting in the presence of Maudie.

At some point, she and Al had agreed to share a side table for their drinks. I turned away briefly then looked back to see the woman fanning her face.

"What WAS that?" she said.

Al looked at her with no small amount of confusion.

"I think I just drank your drink," she said, scanning the room for a bottle of water.

"That was, Soco, ma'am," Al said. "Would you like a doughnut?"

"That'll get you, Maudie," I thought to myself.

***

By and by, the real (and much, much sweeter) Maudie arrived and the O8 table broke as bloggers went in search of grub (and the ever-AWOL Grubby). I had dropped about $50, but had a bellyful of non-gumbo and SoCo.

What had began as a slow, boring losing session was quickly turning into a high-octane, do you want a doughnut, I've seen Sally's panties and I like they way they look losing session.

At some point I decided someone needed to get out of his damned mind.

I decided that would be me.

Coming soon to a blog near you:
*The Hammer and the Hdouble
*Meeting the Dwarf
*Pai Gow and the Human Response
*Sherwood Forest Pt. 1
*Oh, jeebus, what's happening to me?!

Let's start here : 12 AM Friday (Vegas Time)

This is the start of my work day. I'm always here this early. It makes for a nice commute. Sort of like playing automotive frogger with the early morning drunks. I had one story to tell before I got on the plane. One quick tale and then the high-tail to Sin.

Get this :

Someone broke into a trucking company in the southern part of the county. He stole a dump truck (the kind with tires bigger than men), and drove it downtown. Check that. He drove it to jail. Directly to jail. The idea, it turns out, was to ram police cars parked just outside, which he accomplished with great style. He then hopped out, ran to a nearby gas station, and called 911...on HIMSELF.

Why?

To tell dipatchers what he just did, and DARE them to catch him. He got away, but police took the payphone into custody. Just another day at the office. I love my job.

That story was in the can by 12:00PM (Vegas time)...the airplane...and further absurdity.. await.

The G-ster touched down 12 hours later...and was starting to feel the effects of what was already a long day. It was also a very long flight and, did you know, those in-flight beers are $5.00 EACH.

CJ met me at the front door of the EXCAL, and it was straight to poker. I knew I was in trouble. I saw Otis, and what turned out to be Pauly, playing some sort of limit game but I was too cool for that. I hit the NL. I should have known better. Here's a sample :

I'm in the SB and have 3 limpers to my K, 10s. I limp. So does the BB.
Flop is K, 10, 6. Two checks and a bet into my two pair. I bet the pot and the BB and original bettor call. Turn is a rag and after another check I bet big.

BB pushes all-in. I call.

River is another 6.

He limped with AA. His two pair whips my 3 pair. G-Rob rebuys. Agony ensues. This was my trip.

Friday...errr..Saturday...5:00 AM (Vegas Time)

So I limp away after losing another buy-in and wander back to the forest. Never was a bar so aptly named. It a haven for degenerates and whores, losers and the lost. A perfect place for G-Rob to find "Big Mike".

He offered me a drink. I drank. He offered another. I 'nothered. The blows kept coming. Let me just point out that in my neck of the woods, nobody out drinks the "G", but here in the forest, Mighty Mike is an Oak.

I met Otis and CJ there...and Al..and Iggy...and Maudie...and Blood...and Daddy.

I really liked Daddy, despite my discomfort with calling a man "daddy". We played a little more short-handed NL and the worm began to turn. So did my stomach....Is that SOUTHERN COMFORT??!

Back at the bar, Iggy kept demanding to know where I was a blogger, and as a two time contributor here, I wasn't sure how to answer. I felt like the blogger add-on I knew I was. But these things happen, c'est la vie.

Saturday, I guess, 9:00 AM

'Bout this time the buzz was a roar. Man cannont live on hard booze alone. I was starting to die. By this time, Otis had the good sense to bail. He stumbled upstairs to a Tower 1 room, and crashed on the floor. Of course, that sort of responsibility WILL NOT STAND.

"Where's Otis," Cried Iggy.

"Get him down here," belched Al.

This was a chance to make a good impression. I was the man for the job.
So upstairs I wandered..to kick on his buddy's door. An angry man answered..and this drunk man poured in. Otis was curled in a tight ball beneath one of those hotel comforters that you know doesn't get washed.

"Hey man," I very politiely said, "they're getting a limo".

No response.

So I tried "OTIS!". Puntuated with a sharp kick in the ribs.

No response.

Then the talking stopped and the massacre began. I reckon a good 20 hard blows to the middle of Otis. I doubt he felt a thing. And finally, I returned to the forest with the man himself.

Stay TUNED for the good part....
I'm trying to be concise.

I don't know what it was. Maybe it was that I've always considered Guinness to be the best of the breakfast beers. Maybe it was that I was wondering whether Iggy was going to make the trip. I dunno. All I know is that before I knew it, I was nearly shouting, "Guinness. Yes, a Guinness would be great."

And so I sat with the tan foam on my upper lip, recording a few notes in a pocket notebook, and wondering where the trip was going to take me.

That's when Mama Sneer walked to the bar. She'd walked in with her punk kid and taken a table near the back. As she approached the bar, she looked at my beer with disdain, as if to say, "Drinking beer at 7am. The devil's brews, you heathen."

I raised my glass, tilted it toward her slightly, and took a long drink.

Then, I overheard her order her coffee from the bartendress. As I watched the bartender pour the drink, I knew that I had mis-read the woman's look. It hadn't been disdain. It was enlightenment. The bartendress spiked the coffee with some Irish Creme and handed it to the heathen woman.

Yes, ma'am, here there be degenerates. Welcome to the Breakfast Club.

***

The flight was uneventful. It popped with the expected titter of the people who had not yet lost a month's pay at the roulette table. The guy next to me read the paper to his wife, much in the same fashion as the drummer's dad in the unfortunate movie, "That Thing You Do." I watched "Rounders" on my laptop and only got up to pee once. That's an accomplishement, if you ask me.

BadBlood had met me at the gate and sat several rows behind me on the plane, lamenting the girth of his rowmates. When we disembarked, we shared tales of the flight, called our wives, and found ourselves in a cab, checked into our room, and on our way to a poker table within an hour of wheels down.

I'd played in the Noon Luxor freeze-out before and knew well in advance that it sucked sideways. After the $3 add-on, players start with a painfully small 300T stack and face blinds that escalate faster than a meth geek on payday. Still, it was a good opportunity to ease into the weekend slowly. So, we went, registered, and headed over to the Nile Deli for a quick bite to eat. Egg salad on rye for me, roast beef for the Blood.

At around 11:45 am, we walked back to the poker room and found that we'd been seated together in the 8 and 9 seats. As we stood waiting, I spotted the blonde hair I'd been waiting to see. With little hesitation, I looked up and asked, "Felicia?" being sure to pronounce it as I had practiced. Fell-eee-see-ah.

I'll admit, I was nervous to meet Felicia. Her blog is one of the best and, frankly, she makes it a point to write that she's not a nice person. After meeting her, I found that she was disarming in her demeanor. If one understands her wit, she's actually quite easy to like. I found this quicky, as I had misunderstood her when she had pointed out Mas sitting at a $2/$4 table. She'd earlier indicated he was Asian. So, when I asked again which one was Mas, she looked at me and deadpanned, "Um, there's only one Asian guy at the table."

Her husband, Glenn was with her, and proved to be more than likable himself. He reminded me a great deal of one of my best friends. Warm, funny, affable.

Mas came over to join us for some pre-tourney conversation. We didn't get to spend a great deal of time together and I regret that. He laughed at my stupid jokes, which always endears me to people.

And so, I began one of my many missions of the weekend: to determine if Iggy, was, fact, a little person. I knew that Felicia had met him in the past and that she knew the answer. I opened the door for her to give me the answer I had so long sought. It wasn't as if I cared whether Iggy was a dwarf or not. It was that there was so much mystery surrounding the issue. I'm an investigative journalist. I can't stand not to know stuff.

But Felicia stonewalled. She would only admit that when she first saw a picture of Iggy, she thought he was a woman.

Like that helps me, I thought.

***

I think I was too obsessed with the concept of dwarfism and correctly pronouncing Felicia's name that I forgot to win the Luxor tourney. I played exceptionally tight, got blinded off for a couple orbits, go too much respect when I raised, then made the mistake of slow playing a set of kings. I barely lasted through the first hour.

To kill time while BadBlood finished his 7th place cash run in the tourney, I sat down at a $4/$8 half-kill table. It was a ram-jam table that was moving terminally slow because a fat guy in the seven seat was hitting on a oddly-dressed redhead in the eight seat. I folded four hands before the blinds got around the me, then picked up my chips before posting a blind. The poker room manager had just announced he was opening a No-Limit table. So, I moved to be free of the fat guy and the redhead.

As I left, a short, goateed guy was starting to get a little lippy. I didn't think much of it, and got distracted when I discovered the ram-jamming fat guy talker was moving to the NL table as well and bringing Veronica the redhead with him. Sonofabitch, I thought.

The NL table was structured with a max $50 buy and $1-$1-$2 blinds. We were shorthanded at first and the fat guy was pushing almost every pot to $25-$30 pre-flop. I decided just to sit back and wait.

While I was waiting, the goateed guy from the $4/$8 table lost his damned mind. He stood at the table and screamed at the dealer for mucking his hand, which he claimed was the nut straight. After several minutes of screaming, the dealer called the floor, who tried to calm down the short guy to no avail. A few minutes later, security arrived to escort the dude out.

He seemed short, but not midget-like, so I discounted the possibility that it might've been Iggy on a bender.

And, so I continued to sit back and wait, listening to the rolly polly impress the redhead with tales of commercial real estate and his ability to make tons of money in it. I considered asking the guy why he was playing in a $50 NL game and talking to a girl who looked like she was dressed to go to the office and kill Dabney Coleman with rat poison. Instead, I ended up all in with Veronica the Redhead and watched as she outkicked my top pair.

How embarassing.

So, I re-bought and found AJo before my chips landed in front of me. I raised it up pre-flop to $10 (remember, we were shorthanded and fat boy was playing every hand).

"I have a pocket pair," he said.

"Okay," I said.

He re-raised to $20 and I cold called, planning to bail if I didn't see an ace on the flop.

My chips arrived as the flop came down Axx, rainbow. I checked and the big boy bet $20. I pushed my remaining $30 into the pot, which he called.

I flipped up my ace and he moaned. "So, you're going to treat me that way, huh?" he said.

"I thought you might like to get back to your conversation with Veronica," I said.

He mucked his hand after the river didn't help him. I took my doubled-up stack, grabbed my chips, and cashed out to walk with BadBlood over to the Excalibur where he said many of the other bloggers were assembling.

***

BadBlood was near bubbly as we hit the motorized walkway. He'd cashed in his first Vegas tournament and we were on our way to meet the bloggers.

"We have to page Dr. Pauly," he said.

I agreed in earnest and did my best to avert my eyes as we walked into the poker room.

"Don't let them see you looking," Blood said.

Blood walked to the front counter and grabbed Ari, the manager.

"Could you please page Dr. Pauly?" Blood asked.

"Sure."

Ari jumped on the mic. I could barely contain myself as Ari and his accent hit the airewaves:

"Dr. Paury! Paging Dr. Paury!"

And there he was at a middle table, jumping up to greet us. The great Dr. Paury himself.

It is here, friends, that life in the Days of Otis, begins to take an odd but fantastically sublime turn.

***

So, when I sat down to begin the first of what will likely be many posts, I had no idea how to start. As I've reached this point, I realize, I still don't know how to start. This is, in fact, a prologue of sorts. I'm still deconstructing the week in my head.

As I've only covered the first few hours in Vegas here, I find myself left with way too many stories to tell.

Lord knows where this will go. I only know that we'll soon be reaching the following:

*Low-limit O8 and Soco
*The Hammer and the HDouble
*Meeting the Dwarf
*Pai Gow and the Human Response
*Sherwood Forest, Pt. 1, The Surreality of Car Bombs

After congratulating Felicia and Max, we figured out we were famished... and I rarely use that word. Since 10am Friday, I had eaten a McNugget Extra Value Meal, a tiny turkey sandwich on the plane and a few slices of various fruits. It was about 5pm Saturday and my body was screaming for something to fill me up.

I settled on the meatball sub and it really hit the spot.

From there, Maudie and I put our walking shoes on. I'd been to Vegas once before so I had a vague recollection of how to get from point A to point B, but there was still a good chance we'd get a bit lost. I figured we'd go down one side until we reached the Belaggio and work our way back.

About four times I said something to the effect of, "When we cross this street/walk through this tunnel/use this escalator, we'll be in the Belaggio." I apparently didn't know the strip as well as a I thought!

As we walked from casino to casino we were virtually assaulted by all of the flyer snappers, those strange people trying to give you flyers to everything from shows to hookers. Maudie wondered if they had a special training program, like a trade school where they learn how to effectively snap.

It was nice getting to get a taste of all the casinos again, but they all paled in comparison to what we found at the Belaggio.

It didn't take me long to find one of the biggest players in the poker world, and I mean that literally: T.J. Cloutier. I never realized how large of a man he really is, but as I was reminded, he was a football player once.

From there we saw Ron Rose, Mike Sexton, Robert Williamson III, Carlos Mortensen, Evelyn Ng, Kirill Gerasimov, Paul Darden, Chris "Jesus" Ferguson, Kathy Liebert, Eric Seidel, and those were just the ones still alive in the $3000 NLHE tourney.

While gawking, we were approached by a crotchety old man with an unplaceable foreign accent who informed us that Evy was about to get busted. He said he had just watched her play a terrible hand and that she wouldn't last long (she ended up placing in the money). I informed him that Evy happened to be one hell of a player... then it got ugly.

The guy, right in front of Maudie, told us that women shouldn't play with men, that they should play their own tables until there is only one left and she would get a seat at the final table. So it could be more fair for them because they don't have a brain for poker, he said. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

I informed him that a woman had won the tournament we had just played in, but that didn't matter. I told him that Jennifer Harman, Annie Duke, Kathy Liebert and others had bracelets proving they belonged, but that didn't matter. He was some old, senile man stuck in the 1950's. I ushered Maudie along before she kneed him in the groin.

That's when we got to peek inside the high limit room inside the Bellagio poker room. Inside were none other than Daniel Negreanu, Gus Hansen and Barry Greenstein all at one table. At one point, Jennifer Harman came by to say hi to Daniel. We were star struck.

I guess this is how baseball fans feel at the All-Star Game. Of course, the big difference is that those fans will never really get to face a Randy Johnson fastball or pitch to Barry Bonds. But I can check-raise Howard Lederer for the right price!

With stars in our eyes, we headed back to the Excalibur poker room where I settled into another $2-$6 spread game. It started slow, but picked up quickly. And you'll hardly believe the beat I endured!

Coming Up:
My Worst Beat and then Revenge
Sports Betting is Evil
The Aladdin: Bring Your Rod and Reel

Perhaps I should start that morning. I woke up (on the floor, remember) at about 8:30am. That's about an hour and a half after I went to sleep. I grabbed a quick shower and headed downstairs. I expected to find a group at the poker tables... but I was very wrong.

A large (and boisterous) group was already gathered at the bar. Al Can't Hang was holding court and Iggy was living up to his Guinness reputation. Soon word spread of a stretch Excursion that would take us to Sam's Town. That seemed to get everyone even more rowdy and the liquor flowed.

(edited for content, sorry)

The Excursion pulled up to Sam's Town and we rolled out onto the street and into Sam's Town. It took us all a few minutes to find the conference room for the breakfast and meet-and-greet and we were a little late (sorry PokerProf), but we made it.

I walked in the door and froze. Standing inside were Marcel Luske, Tom McEvoy, Charlie Shoten, Ron Rose, and Kirill Gerasimov. These men have collectively won millions of dollars playing tournament poker, and they were willing to spend their morning talking with a bunch of amateur online poker players (some a little toasted). It was all a little overwhleming, especially when the beautiful Evelyn Ng stopped in.

Soon, it was tournament time. I think by then, a few players had sobered up, others (um... Iggy?) never made it.

We drew for seat and I landed on table 4, seat 8. It seemed like a good enough seat until I found Max Pescatori on my right and Felicia Lee on my left. Then Charlie Shoten sat down in seat 2. That meant the three most experienced tournament players in the field were at my table and I was stuck between two people I considered the favorites.

To say I was intimidated would be an understatement. Really, I just didn't want to make a fool out of myself.

The first hand is dealt, and before I get a chance to look, the first roar of "the HAMMER" erupts from talbe 1. It seems that GRob managed to drop it on the first hand of the tourney. Congrats to him.

That's when I look down at my cards and see 72 offsuit. I really think had I been at any other table, I would have played this hand. I was even in the small blind (of T25) so I already had money in the pot. Charlie raised from early position to T100. The minimum raise and I still ended up folding.

I think you know what came on the flop: 7-2-x. I wanted to kick myself. I would have gotten off to a pretty solid start, but it wasn't going to happen.

Charlie was quickly working up a big stack, but Max wasn't going to let him run away. When Max turned the nut flush against Pocket Rockets, he knocked the first player out from our table and built himself a hefty stack.

I limped into a pot on the button with K8s and when the flop came A-A-x, I threw enough into the pot to take it down. It wasn't much, but it was nice to win a pot.

Soon after I caught my only slightly premium hand, AQs. I raised to 450T (3x BB) from MP and Charlie called me with his big stack. The flop a rainbow of under cards. At that point, I was down to about 1400T, but I figured I should make a play at the pot. I figured I had Charlie beat at that point so I tossed another 600T into the middle and got called.

I think my problem was the bet wasn't big enough. But if I bet anymore, I was virtually comitting myself to the pot, so I guess I should have pushed all in, right? I don't know. Anyway, a K came on the flop, I checked, Charlie bet, I folded and Charlie showed KJ offsuit. My read after the flop was right and now I wonder if I had pushed if he would have folded or if he would have called an busted me.

That was the last hand I would play before the first break. I know I'm a tight player, but I would have played marginal hands if I would have seen anything. Every time I caught something I thought about playing, a huge raise came in front of me.

By the time I hit the first break, I was down to just 425T and the blinds were about to go up to 150T/300T. When we sat down, I was resigned to going all in, especially considering I was the big blind. Amazingly, it was folded all the way around to Max, who apologetically raised me all in without looking at his cards. I figured it was getting any better than that and called blind.

Max flipped over 8-4 offsuit. That made me very happy. My first card was a 10, to which I said, "Well I'm ahead." Then I flipped an 8, to which much of the table said in unison, "No, you've got him dominated!" The flop didn't help Max and I doubled up on a world class pro.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't mean that much. I was up to 850T before losing another 150T in the small blind, leaving me at just 700T. A few hands later, I saw my first, and only, pocket pair of the tournament: 7's. Then I watched it get raised in front of me, then raised all in. I still didn't have much choice, I had to make a move.

I put my money in and got called by the other raiser. That meant I had a chance to actually triple up. When the cards were flipped, I was way behind. It was my 77 vs. KQ offsuit vs. pocket 10's. Ouch. The handy Hand Analyzer says I had an 18% pre-flop chance of winning.

When the flop came 4-7-8, I came out of my chair. Suddenly, I'm an 85% favorite! The KQ is dead, and it's just me and the Genius of the Poker. The turn is a J, no harm, right? I'm still an 85% favorite and the "Genius" has just 6 outs. That's right, just 6 outs.

Just 6 outs, right?

The 9 on the river was like a punch to the gut. It hurt. I kept telling myself, "Well, you were behind at the beginning, right?" But that didn't help. It was a bad beat. So instead of getting back up to about 2200T, I was uncerimoniously out in 23rd place. Dammit.

GRob was the unfortunate soul to land in my seat, and we was out soon after me. Otis lasted a little longer, but his coin flip failed and he was gone, and the Up For Poker crew was out. I have a feeling we'll do much better in the next event.

In the end, it came down to the two people I thought might get there: Max and Felicia. They agreed to a chop and on the last hand, Felicia sucked out on Max to take the title. I guess we were happy a blogger outlasted the pro in the end.

I've got to say the tournament, despite the bad cards, was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. I can't thank Max and Felicia enough for talking with me through the tournament. For an hour, I got to sit beside a player who is usually sitting beside players like Chris "Jesus" Ferguson. It was amazing.

Think about it. Max spent more than 3 hours playing with a bunch of rank amatuers and talking poker. How many pros would really do that? Max did, and I can't thank him enough. I only wish I had played better!

Coming Up:
Gawking at World Class Players
My Worst Beat and then Revenge
Sports Betting is Evil
The Aladdin: Bring Your Rod and Reel

I landed at about 7:10pm local time just itching to find a poker table. I can't believe I originally considered not coming. It took me a short time to find a shuttle to drop me at the Excalibur. I eventually hooked up with Otis, dropped my bags in our room and headed down to the tables.

The Excalibur has a pretty good sized poker room. It features $1-$3 and $2-$6 spread limit HE games and a $100 min/max NLHE game. Otis was playing $2-$6 and so I got my name on the list.

Unfortunately, they couldn't seat me with Otis right away, so I settled in to another table. It was a friendly enough table, but I wasn't seeing many cards and thus, I wasn't playing many hands. Thankfully, I was moved to Otis' table in short order.

That's where it started to get crazy.

Apparently, most of the poker blogger crew that had arrived before me had sampled much of Vegas' finest liquor. In fact, Bad Blood and Al Can't Hang were already in bed. Yes, read that again.

None of the other bloggers were at our table at that point, but it wasn't long before I was meeting Pauly and Maudie and HDouble and Boy Genius and others. We seemed to be everywhere.

The cards were working for me at the new table. I was catching hands and taking down pots. Soon, HDouble sat down with us and I think we began scaring the rest of the players. The Hammer was being played as often as rockets. It didn't take me long to drop one on the table.

HDouble began winning pot after pot with pretty marginal starting hands. He even began announcing that bad beats were on their way, but that didn't slow down anyone from giving him their money.

At one point, Otis took a pretty big pot off of me. I think I flopped a set of 8's but he caught the gutshot straight on the turn. It hurt, but at least it was Otis who took my money.

It didn't take long for me to get my money back. I'm dealt two black 6's and Otis raises in front of me. I call, hoping to catch a 6 on the flop. It didn't come, but it wasn't the worst flop ever: 2-3-5, all clubs. Otis checks, I bet out $6 and I believe Otis raised me. I was worried about a flush, but had to call.

The turn was the 4 of clubs. Jackpot. I've never had a straight flush at a B&M table before, but I think I hid it well. I was really hoping Otis didn't have the ace of clubs. That would be a hellish beat. He checked and I bet out.

"I can't call you," Otis told me. I said he could and that I wouldn't bet anymore. He paused, and then sheepishly turned over the Poker Bloggers favorite hand, the HAMMER. That's right, I cracked his HAMMER with a straight flush.

When I turned over my 6, the table erupted. It also meant I got to spin the Excalibur's money wheel that brought me an extra 20 dollars (and a really awful baseball cap).

My other big hand of the night came a few hands later, and it almost didn't happen. The dealer is tossing out the cards when an Ace of spades gets flipped in front of me, making it a dead card. I said, "Can't I check to see if I want it??" already knowing the answer.

When I peeked at my other card, I was crushed: the Ace of diamonds. The dealer just ruined my first pocket rockets of the weekend. I was crushed. I was already planning on how to bitch and moan about it. Then I peeked at my new card, and amazingly, it was the Ace of clubs.

I guess the bad news is that my chance of flopping a set diminished significantly. I raised anyway and got just two callers. The flop brought two hearts but nothing else that scared me. I bet out again and got one caller. The turn was a third heart, which didn't make me happy. I bet and got called again, putting a little more than $30 in the pot. The river was a fourth heart, ugh. I check as does the other player, but he flips the ten of hearts.

I'm not sure if he was playing for the four card flush or not, but he didn't exactly have the hand otherwise. And normally, I might be disappointed at having my Aces cracked, but I got to spin the wheel again and won $30, about the size of the pot I lost.

That was my last memorable hand of the night, and when I cashed out, I had won $38. If you don't count the wheel, I actually finished down $12, but I enjoyed playing, and it was just a few hours at the tables.

At one point, someone came over and started telling us how much they enjoyed Up For Poker. Otis and I had seen him playing with Pauly earlier and were trying to figure out who it was. HDouble was no help, so we figured him for a friend of Pauly's who just happens to read blogs. It didn't take long for the guy to break however, and tell us he was none other than the infamous Iggy, in the flesh.

That got us rowdy. We had no idea Iggy was going to make it, and most people didn't. Of course, HDouble knew Iggy and was playing dumb so he didn't ruin the surprise.

After poker, I joined Otis and his St. Louis crew at the Pai Gow tables for old time's sake. It was like a throwback to HeCon Vegas a few years back. I finished down about 5 dollars after a couple hours play... then I had to get some sleep.

Otis had already headed up to the room before me, or so I had thought. On my way up, I found out Iggy had stopped him at the bar. I had a feeling that was going to mean bad things. I tried to prod Otis to head up to bed, but it didn't work.

I took the key and got up there to find 5 people already asleep, four on the beds and one ond the floor. I found an open spot on the floor and settled in for as much sleep as I could get for the tournament. As it turned out, that meant just about an hour and half...

Then Day 2 began... and it was crazier than the first!

Coming Up:
Doubling Up on the Italian Pirate
Gawking at World Class Players
My Worst Beat and then Revenge
Sports Betting is Evil
The Aladdin: Bring Your Rod and Reel

***

That bag sits in my cloest right now. I call it a book-bag rather than a backpack because it's not one of those external-frame monstrosities that you see other backpackers carrying across Europe. Back in those days I was not flush with cash (not much has changed) and I didn't have the cash to drop on a suitable pack. Plus, I was only going for two weeks.

So, I packed as much as I could in the bag. A couple pairs of pants. A few shirts. A few pairs of socks. Five Snickers bars. Etc.

After a week of rambling across the Eurpoen countryside in one of the coldest winters in European history, my socks literally crunched when I tried to roll them up to pack.

Fortunately, I ate less on that trip than I drank. And I spent a couple lost days in Amsterdam. As such, I didn't care that much about what I looked like or how I smelled. And looking back at pictures of me and the boys standing on a rock in the middle of the North Sea and at a castle in Scotland, I think we don't look that bad.

I made it back home with the bag and my sensibilites in tact.

And, as I said, the bag now sits in a closet at Mt. Otis.

***

So, why bring this up now? Europe was many years ago. I'm older and, maybe, somewhat wiser now. So, I know that the bag is good for two things: Day-hiking trips and as a catch-all bag for our music festival adventures.

So, why, as I sit here in my final seven hours of work (like any work is getting done today) am I wondering if the bag should come back in all its glory as a mutiple-day trip bag?

Well, it's like this: Whereas in the past I prided myself on my ability to wait patiently, these days I just don't like to wait that much. And baggage claim in Las Vegas just isn't that fast.

So, if I could somehow fit my stuff in the one bag, I could carry it on the plane and hit the ground running at 9:30am PST Friday.

***

It was 2002 and Carmine was a playa.

The running joke--and we weren't even all that sure it was a joke--was that Chicago Carmine was connected. He purported to have the hook-ups in Vegas. Twenty-four of us were in-bound for HeCon: Vegas. Carmine was the unknown, but we had somehow come to count on him as the guy who could hook us up with whatever we wanted. VIP passes, limos, the works.

With that in mind, we were told to make sure we brought some appropriate attire for the places he certainly could get us into. You know, classy shit.

So, I packed accordingly and it required a piece of luggage that was bigger than I wanted.

The first night of the trip, I found myself in a limo en route to a place Jim McManus would eventually make even more infamous in the sub-title of his book, Postively Fifth Street. I found myself getting in free. Later, I found my friends pretending to be gay lovers because the....waitstaff...was a little too pushy with their sales pitches.

But that was about the end of Connected Chicago Carmine's hook-ups. I've found that's pretty much the case with most people who say they know people. That is, they know some people, but not a whole lot of people. And the people they know usually don't care whether you know them. I've also found that the people who really know people usually don't talk about the people they know.

Learning that comes with experience, I suppose. Much like packing for Vegas.

***

In 2003, I packed lighter for Vegas. My last trip had taught me that my money is better spent gambling and drinking with my buddies than forking over cover charges and ill-gotten gratuities. Though I was always intrigued by the scantily-clad 3:00am crowd at Drai's, I rarely stood up from my throne at the table to see what all the excitement was about.

And when I left Vegas last year, about half of what I packed had gone unworn.

***

Which brings us back to my 8:00am flight direct to Vegas. I just got off the phone with a very nice lady who confirmed my reservations, made sure I'm going to get my mileage points, and took down a phone number in case anything causes my reservations to change.

I've reached the point at which most of my thinking involves the next 24 hours of working, packing, and travel. I've got my bankroll in place, the appropriate account numbers memorized, my supplies for the trip purchased, my reservation confirmatin numbers in a file, and my listing of games and tournaments waiting to be printed.

I'm ready. Almost.

BG seemed almost embarassed that he was pre-packing for the trip. While I didn't do a test-run on the luggage like he did, I share in his embarassment. After all, we're heading out to meet a group of people who I suspect were not the genesis of the alread-trite description "metrosexual." Clothing, while not optional, is certainly not a priority.

As stated above, I'm not so concerned with what I'm bringing. As I've mentioned before, if you see me outside blue jeans and some cheap shirt, I'm likely at work or at a funeral. My plans in Vegas don't involve much of anything but playing poker and drinking with my buddies, both which require comfortable clothing. The only chance I'll need some decent clothes are if one of our group knows somebody that can get some line passes to a fun club and find some way to avoid those pesky two-bottle minimums. Or if BG can talk me into having a good meal at a decent restaurant.

I'm not a club-boy, though. And while I am a bit of a closet epicure, I'm admittedly damned hard to drag away from the fun I'll inevitably be finding.

So, now that I have my travel and gaming plans in order, I have little left to do but pack.

And I fucking hate packing.

***

And so tonight I'll have the battle with myself. Do I go bohemian and avoid baggage claim, or do I pack comfortably and wait at the carousel Friday morning.

As I actively consider this, I realize that I'll be arriving on the same flight as BadBlood and will likely catch a ride with him to the hotel. I wonder how he's going to pack. If he carries on and I carry on, we can beat tracks to the cab line quickly. But if we differ in how we pack, one person is going to be waiting on the other.

It's a bit of a curious question. Here's why: I've played with Blood many times in the past six months. Every time we've played together he's been wearing the same t-shirt. It's like that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry's girlfriend wears the same dress all the time. I've only see Blood away from the tables once before. I ran into him at a Sunday breakfast joint. He was wearing something different that time. He's a confounding man, friends.

Already set-aside to pack: Three t-shirts, two hats, two pairs of jeans, one pair of pants, five pair of boxers, one pair of shoes, five pairs of socks, a jacket, a laptop, and an assortment of remedies for whatever ails me.

I could fit all of that in one bag. But I fear it's not enough.

Or maybe it's too much.

What's really too much is this post. It's gone on much longer than I intended it to.

Forget it. I'm just going to steal Blood's t-shirt and wear it for five days.

That's it folks.

Next time you hear from me you'll either be reading the trip reports here or actually looking me in my crooked-nosed face.

Have a good weekend, folks.

***

1) Cowboys love it when you speak their language. With that in mind, be sure to include as many cowboy lingo phrases in your table-talk as you can. Be sure to call your cowboy opponent "Dude" as often as you can.

2) Cowboys like movies as much as anybody else. So, indulge them in a talk of the finest cowboy films. Make yourself even more likable by quoting their favorite lines. Be sure to repeat the following line as often as possible: "Excuse me while I whip this out."

3) Memorize every one of Byron "Cowboy" Wolford's stories and tell them as your own.

4) When heads-up with a cowboy, pause before you push all-in, and say, "Listen, Pard, wouldn't you rather settle this with a game of real cowboy poker?"

5) Employ the folowing phrase at every opportunity: "You ride bulls? Well, shoot, Pard, I drink Red Bull. We could be bull brothers!"

6) Every time you sit down with a cowboy, make the first words out of your mouth, "I'm a fast talking, hell raising, son of a bitch. I'm a sinner and I know how to fight." When he looks at you funny, say, "Oh, that's ALT-country. You probably wouldn't understand."

7) Engage every cowboy you find in a conversation about how they get their rodeo animals to buck. Pretend you don't understand and ask them to demonstrate on the dealer.

8) Find your PETA hat from your activist days and wear it everywhere you go.

9) When sitting at a cramped table, whisper to the cowboy next to you, "You know. I'm from Texas. You know what they say about Texas. You know, steers and queers? Well, buddy, I seem to have misplaced my horns."

10) Every time a cowboy bets into you--every freakin' time--you must say, "All hat, no cattle."

Rules: Maximum bet is $1. I collect your buck pre-tourney on Saturday the 11th. Maximum one bettor per prop bet. I pay off if you win before you leave Vegas. If you win after you've left Vegas, your bet is void. I am not responsible for collecting your bet. If you claim your bet here and don't pay me Saturday morning, your bet is void. In the event the prop bet is won before Saturday morning, I will pay off Saturday morning. In short, you claim your bet via the comments section here, pay me a buck on Saturday morning, and I pay off if you win before you leave. Again, only one person per bet below. The time-stamp on the comments section will determine who is the rightful bettor. Betting ends Thursday night at 8pm EST. I will print out the comments section before I depart and have it with me for confirmation

Are you XXXXXX from XXXXX blog?
Odds: 10:1

Your $1 bet will get you $10 if a blogger is recognized by a random player at a poker table without the blogger mentioning that he's a blogger. The recognition must be witnessed by one other person. This bet will not pay off in the event Felicia, Joe Jr., Joe Sr., or Charlie Shoten are recognized. This bet is only good for one payoff.

Otis wins! Otis wins!
Odds: 25:1

In the event I win the holiday classic, the winner of this bet wins $25.

Up For Poker Represent!
Odds: 15:1

In the event all three Up For Poker contributors make it to the final table (that's CJ, Otis, and G-Rob), the winner of this bet gets $15

A taste of his own medicine
Odds: 20:1

If someone knocks Grubby out of the tournament with The Hammer, the winner of this bet gets $20

Where did BadBlood go?
Odds: 2:1

If BadBlood should disappear and we discover he's made a trip to Industrial Road, the winner of this bet gets $2. BadBlood is not elligible for this bet.

Sneaky camera, hidden Grubby
Odds: 5:1

If someone can sneak a digital camera into the casino and snap a photo of Grubby playing slots, I'll pay $5 on a $1 bet.

Waita second...
Odds: 4:1

The winner of this bet will be the blogger who can engage me in conversation for no less than five minutes without me recognizing you and saying, "Waita second, aren't you XXXXX?" $4 on a $1 bet. Bet must be made in advance, which means you're ging to have to be damned sneaky. Or I'm going to have to be fairly inebriated.

Longer lasting...
Odds: 5:1

The winner of this bet gets $5 if Maudie outlasts Charlie Shoten in the Holiday Classic.

B.G.=D.R.U.N.K.
Odds: 5:1

The winner of this bet gets $5 if two or more people agree BG was at--one point during the trip--wasted.

CJ, meet Al Can't Hang
Odds: 7:1

The winner of this bet gets $7 if someone witnesses Al Can't Hang buy CJ two or more shots of SoCo and CJ actually drinks them himself. Both shots must be bought and consumed within a one-hour period.

HAPPY BETTING!

PS--I had several prop bets constructed that involved Pauly, but the odds were so unfavorable for the bettor, I decided not to include them. I mean, is anybody going to take .25:1 odds that Pauly can track down Paris Hilton and get her to whisper in my ear, "Dr. Pauly loves Paris."

Yeah, I got a lot of faith in the good doctor.

I don't take notes when I'm drinking. If I did, that would be about all I would've written down about my birthday celebration Saturday night. The rest of the time I spent trying to climb out of the bottom of various bottles. By the end of the night I was near comatose.

I've never treated my body as much like a temple as I should. Unless, of course, you're one of those people who worships idols like August Busch and Jack Daniels. Then I'd be your temple, bucko.

As I lay staring at the ceiling yesterday, I considered the implications of the hangover. I'm dreadfully out of practice. Since my son was born, I've largely stayed out of bars. I've played a lot of sober poker. Oh, and I've lost about 15 pounds. Not a good combination for a guy who like to party like AlCan'tHang.

It wouldn't be that frightening a prospect, but in just a few days I'll be leaving for five days of sure bedlam.

Still, deep down, I know that my body will rally. There's something about Las Vegas and New Orleans that has always turned off all ill-feeling sensors in my body and allowed me to survive for days on end on little more than booze and buffet food (or, in the case of New Orleans, booze and bignets).

I think a big part of my abilities in those cities is that, unlike a birthday celebration where a day's worth of drinking is crammed into a few hours, Las Vegas trips are a long, steady buzz capped off at 5am with a quick binge to put me to sleep.

Here's Otis Drinking in Vegas 101:

Breakfast--Diet Coke and water. Not together, mind you. I alternate between these two drinks for most of my mornings and early afternoon poker sessions. The water helps to rehydrate, the Diet Cokes provides the demon caffeine.

Lunch--When playing poker in late afternoon, I generally order one beer to put in front of me. I'll nurse it for an hour or so. I don't really think it will make my opponents think I'm the Drunk Guy, but if they want to believe that, fine with me. When in non-poker party mode, I often employ the method I found to be quite effective during a -EV marathon Pai Gow session in the bowels of the Barbary Coast two years ago. I place a dollar chip to the side of my stack and tell the cocktail waitress that on every orbit she makes around the pit, she can trade the dollar chip for a beer. That time, she averaged an orbit about every ten minutes.

Dinner--If I'm having a good session and don't want to leave for dinner, I pull from TiltBoy lore and order a Blood Mary with extra olives. That's dinner.

Midnight snack--It's the drink order that once caused a cocktail waitress to ask, "What are you? 75 years old?" Yes, friends, it's a little embarassing. When I'm full of beer and settled in for a long night of silliness, I order Greyhounds by the gallon. Either Vodka or Gin (depending on my mood) with white grapfruit juice. I'd rather order a Salty Dog (the same drink with a salt-rimmed glass), but most casinos don't permit salt-drinks at their tables for obvious reasons. So, while a little embarassed by drinking an old man's drink, I slurp with pride. Plus, think of the vitamin C!

Or....maybe I'll just go sober this trip...

While I mull that possibility, what are you drinking?

The month of November was about to close much as October had. My bankroll had been sliding precariously close to July levels. It was then, upon the encouragement of others, I had decided to ride the lightening and play above my head. It worked for three straight months. I built an impressive bankroll that allowed me to play safely at the middle limits. Something happened in early October that I still haven't fully grasped. My bread and butter $200 PL game was dead. My $10/$20 shorthanded play was showing its variance. I floundered around, jumping from limit to limit, no-limit to no-limit and couldn't win.

It was actually quite a shock to my system. I thought that my good three-month lightening run had been a good indicator of my playing ability. But as the slide started, I started to doubt myself. I still don't know what happened. I don't know if I was lucky for three months and unlucky for two. I don't know if maybe I shouldn't play in the bigger games. All I know is that I lost a nice chunk of my bankroll during October and November.

In an effort to save my remaining bankroll from what seemed to be inevitable depletion, I scaled back my big play and began to play one table at a time at $100NL.

Finally, the slide stopped and the gradual climb returned.

It was with all of this in mind that I sat down at 2pm Tuesday afternoon--nose running and head-a-sneeze--and logged on to Party.

I bought in for the $100 limit and sat back to think.

***

For some reason my mind started messing with phrases I heard recently. I'd seen a promo for the movie The Five People You Meet in Heaven. My pseudo-ephedrine addled mind co-opted the phrase and turned it around to The Five Outfits You'll Wear in Vegas.

My head started speaking in Martin Short's voice from Saturday Night Live's synchronized swimming skit.

"I'm not what you'd call a strong dresser," I said to the dog. She licked herself.

I can't dress myself to save my life. I'm a t-shirt and jeans guy. Often, I'll toss on a ball cap to hid my bed-head. I can match my tie to my suit. Beyond that, I have no idea what I'm doing.

That's why Vegas is so nice. Unless you're clubbing (my mind asks, They have baby seals in Vegas?) you only need to be comfortable. Still, I know when next Thursday rolls around I'll be digging through my closet looking for something to pack. Inevitably I'll end up with a few pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts, and a jacket. Maybe a sweater.

"You're not what I'd call a strong dresser," the dog said.

So, I licked myself.

***

I was up a couple buy-ins by 4pm. My big hands were holding up, my draws were hitting, and my bigger stack was commanding respect for my bluffs.

***

How in the hell does this happen? How does it happen that a casual conversation between Pauly, his brother, and BG turn into an epic Vegas pilgramage for blogging-kind?

Not only have more than two dozen people signed onto the trip, we're getting last minute add-ons like G-Rob and CJ.

And Mystery now surrounds the trip. As chronicled in today's issue of BG's blog, the Genius investigates the coup d'etat of the Guinness and Poker domain. I'll let you read his thoughts. Left unanswered is the question of whether the WPBT will be happily surprised by a neat practical joke or marred by a Judas in our midst.

Frankly, as my head swims with sickness, drugs, and the demon caffeine, I find myself a little frightened by the whole prospect.

To settle my nerves I decided to invite Linda from Table Tango to play in the tournament. I've always wanted to meet the lady who was poker blogging before anyone knew what a blog was. No word on whether she'll feel like playing with a bunch of booze-stinking ruffians.

"You're still not what I'd call a very strong dresser."

I don't know who said it that time, but I licked myself anyway since I was alone in the house.

***

By 7pm I was up six buy-ins. G-Rob and BadBlood were both online playing in SNGs and multi-table tournaments. They IMed simultaneously to tell me they had doubled up. That freaked me out a little bit.

***

This is odd, I thought.

I'm going to meet a bunch of people and I have no idea what they look like.

I mean, sure, I know what badBlood looks like. I've seen pictures of Pauly, Al Can't Hang, the Poker Prof, and Hank, but beyond that I could be sitting next to a blogger at the table and have no idea they were there.

That actually was a running fantasy of mine: Anonymously slip in next to a blogger at a table, be quiet for an hour or two, then drop The Hammer on them. When they look up to hate me, I'd just mutter something about how I learned it by watching Grubby or something. It would only be better if it were Grubby I was hammering.

***

By 9pm I was still at $700. I'd been going up and down a little bit, making some questionable calls, and starting to get a little more loopy as the Nyquil kicked in.

One more hour, I said.

***

I don't see myself sleeping much for the first couple of days in Vegas. I plan on playing all day on Friday. My buddies will be trickling in all night on Friday night. If I make it to bed at all, it will only be a for a few hours before the meet-up at Sam's Town.

My problem is that I can't even conceive of how fun this might be. For the past year I've been fantasizing about partying and playing with all of the bloggers out there. I want to drink with Al, learn from Felicia, commiserate with BG over women and food, live vicariously through the Prof, be entertained by Pauly's travel tales, have my picture taken by Joe Sr., and live inside Grubby's mind for a few hours.

Do I have time for all of this?

I mean, for the love of all that's holy, I turn 31 on Saturday. I've been out of social practice for several months now. My liver has returned to a healthy color and my hands are steady. And here I stand on the edge of a slippery slope.

***

It's 10:02pm when I decide I'm playing the final orbit of the night. I'm still hovering a little below $700 at $678. I figure a $578 profit is good for the day.

With AJhearts, I call a $4 raise from the small blind. Three callers.

The flop comes down with all diamonds, but AJ5.

We all checked to the original raiser (OR). OR fires a $30 bet into a relatively small pot. I think for a couple of seconds. That bet is way too big if he flopped the nut flush. Why price everybody out of the pot if you've got the nuts?

So, I sit and think. I put the guy on a big ace. Likely AQo, but possibly AKo. My medicine-head didn't think long enough to rationally weigh the consquences of a call. After all, if the guy is holding AQ or AK, his kicker is likely a diamond, which means he still has a ton of outs if I call with my top two pair.

I still have two hands behind mine. I made a decision that, in retrospect, was maybe a pretty bad one.

I re-raised enough to put anybody else at the table all-in.

The concept, while perhaps flawed, was this: I push the other two hands out of the pot with my big-ass raise that represents the nut flush. That way if the two hands behind me are holding a diamond in their hand, they won't be tempted to try to run me down. Once I've isolated myself with OR, I just have to hope I had the right read on him and he doesn't hit his outs.

In theory (or at least a sick dude's theory) it might've worked. What I didn't count on was a call from a guy to my left. So, he's all-in. The next guy folds. OR calls, although he has to know he's now beat. Either me or the other all-in guy has the nut flush.

And, yeah, it's not me.

My original read was sort of right. OR had A5 of spades and had flopped a worse two-pair than mine and now only had two outs. The other guy, obviously, had K8 of diamonds (aka the nut flush).

That left me with three outs (for those not keeping score, I needed one of the two remaining jacks or the case ace for a boat).

The turn was the four of hearts.

I was still going to walk away with a decent win for the day. I'd made a good read, but failed to consider the phantom hands behind mine. I was already planning to have another shot of Nyquil and hit the sack.

That's when the jack of spades hit on the river giving me jacks full of aces and the $396 pot.

After apologizing to Mr. Nutflush, I settled in for the remaining eight hands of the orbit. It was not to be however. After seven hours, the table broke, leaving me sitting sick and alone, up more than eight buy-ins.

I'm now a little nervous about going to Vegas. I just used up every bit of luck I had allotteed for the rest of the year.

Now, I'm off to find something stronger than Nyquil.

Where's Al Can't Hang when a guy needs him?

I picked my cell off the coffee table and flipped it open.

"Yeah?"

It wasn't the kindest response, but the kid was asleep, the wife was eying me warily (as she does when I get late calls), and I had been getting killed at an online table (KK cracked three times in one day, twice by the Hilton Sisters, once by a runner-runner straight).

"Ask me what I just did," he commanded. There was a sound in his voice that I know. That lilt just behind the uvula is specific to one kind of news. I already knew what it was going to be.

But I humored him.

"You know those huge multi-table tournaments?"

"Uh-huh."

"I just took first place."

I offered my sincerest of congratulations. In my whole poker life, I've only taken first place in tournaments with five tables or less. G-Rob had outlasted several hundred people and nailed first place with no less than the Hilton sisters on the final hand.

I waited as long as I could before I said the obvious. "You know what this means."

He knew what it meant.

Vegas.

G-Rob hasn't been to Vegas since HeCon: Vegas in 2001 (another story for another day). It was there he discovered the beauty of Raging Solo (all rights reserved). His record was an 18-hour solo rage that took him to nearly every hotel on the strip.

When the WPBT convention started growing and I discovered I could make it, I nearly begged G-Rob to go with me. As my poker wingman (and occasional bodyguard), he makes frequent appearances here on Up For Poker. Beyond that, he and Pauly would get along very well.

We'd broached the subject with his wife back in October. I'd tried to bring it up in casual conversation and was met with an immediate icy stare. Her response was something like, "Well, I guess the kids could do without Christmas presents this year."

That was sarcasm. I recognize that.

So, we let it die. G-Rob would have to wait.

But, wait! His bankroll was now flush with unexpected cash. It seemed a sure thing.

All day on Sunday, I checked flight prices, finding interesting possibililties. It looked like he could make it happen.

I got up this morning, anticipation bubbling in my empty stomach. I hurried into work. I was a couple minutes late for our morning meeting. I sat down next to him. He didn't look at me.

I knew what that meant.

"Pssssst." He finally turned around. I mouthed the word: Vegas.

The look on his face told the whole story.

After our meeting was over, he related the tale: The night that he'd won the tournament, the energy in his body was a great as it had been in recent memory (with the exception of what were surely some great sexual experienes with his wife). His wife shared in his giddiness.

But Sunday, he broached the subject of Vegas and was met with the same icy stare.

The ensuing conversation made G-Rob review his hand. A newly flush bankroll clearly translated into the nut flush in the game of going to Vegas. There was little chance his wife could beat it. However, he was playing the game of life.

In the game of life, even your nut flush gets beat by a pair of kids with a wife kicker.

G-Rob sulked around work for a while. It was sad to watch him. He's a big guy--some say freakishly large--and watching a guy like that in a sullen mood is enough to make even the most optimistic of souls turn fatalistic.

So, I sat down to write G-Rob's lament.

I'm actually quite lucky, really. Not only am I going to meet the bloggers I've always wanted to meet, not only am I traveling with elite blogger BadBlood, but some of my best friends in the world are meeting me there. Marty was the first to sign on, and started blogging to qualify himself for the blogger tournament. Then McCown, Cappy, Brother McCown, and Joey Two-Hands.

A down-on-his-luck Otis couldn't ask for much more.

My phone rang a few minutes ago. The caller ID indicated the call was coming from inside the building. So, I was surprised when semi-automated voice on the other end said, "Please stand-by for an update on Las Vegas."

Two minutes later, G-Rob was standing beside me. Actually he was hopping up and down beside me (which is quite a trick for a guy who is 6'5").

He'd called his wife and pretended to be a representative of the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Bureau. The LVCVB really, really wanted to meet G-Rob.

With a sigh, his wife said, "Does G-Rob want anything else for Christmas?"

The giddiness started to well-up. "Um...no."

With that, Wife of G-Rob relented. Minutes later, he'd secured the days off from work. Seconds later, he was kissing me on the cheek (I sort of wish he hadn't done that).

As I speak, our in-house travel agent is booking G-Rob's flight.

And now, my poker wingman and occasional body guard is walking around the office staring at his flight itinerery and giggling.

Now begins the work to see if the Sam's Town tourney will have space for him at the WPBT Holiday Classic.

And the wait. The eleven-day wait.

Oh, the hippitty-hoppitty humanity.

"Huh?" I said. I was getting ready to hire someone to pretend I was rich and ferry me to my hotel in an Escalade or something.

"You want a cab fast, man?" He had a south of the border accent and a look in his eye that he knew how to work the system.

I reached in my pocket, mentally doing the math on how to tip an unknown guy for an unknown service that may or may not be legit. I decided to try ten bucks.

I slipped it in his hand and he grabbed my bags. I followed him out a side door where I saw the cab line had grown exponentially. He threw up his hand and a cab zipped to the curb. The guy gave me a nod, I hopped in the cab, and directed the driver to the MGM.

As he pulled away, I stole a look at the curb where a blue sign hung on a sign. On it was the universal symbol of a handicapped person.

Somehow, within 30 minutes of de-planing, I had unwittingly been reduced to pretending to be handicapped in order to get to the casino faster.

I silently vowed to never tell anyone how much of a degenerate I had become. I also silently noted the quickest way to get a cab in Vegas and planned to try it again someday.

***

When I returned from Vegas, I left that part of the story out. I picked up my write-up after I had dropped my bags at the MGM and scampered across the elevated walkway, through Ney York/New York, mistakenly walking down to street level, climbing a fence, dodging traffic, and somehow finding my way onto the motorized walkway at Excalibur.

I wrote:

"You want us to move over?"

The guy must have sensed my impatience. He and his wife's ass were blocking the moving walkway leading into the Excalibur hotel. I needed to get through there and to the Luxor in time to sign up for the noon no-limit tourney.

"No, that's okay," I said as I placed my hands on the rubber handrail and jumped over to stable ground. "This will work better."

As I strode confidently toward my destiny, the guy yelled at my back.

"In a hurry to lose that $300, buddy?"

It was Sunday morning, 11:15am. I'd already been awake for nine hours and my poker jones was about to eat my liver (something I was sure I'd need later on in the day).

In the end, my anticiaption, while warranted, was unnecessary. The structure of the Luxor tournament was silly. Still, I continued to play there for reasons I still don't fully understand.

Why do I bring it all up again? Because in less than three weeks, I'll be back on the Strip, back at the tables, and undoubtedly back into a sublime level of frustration of not being able to get out of the airport fast enough.

***

Despite my spontaneous nature, I tend to plan trips to a silly extent. Two years ago, I organized a Vegas trip for 23 guys. It went off flawlessly.

For the upcoming trip, I didn't plan at all. I got permission from Mrs. Otis, I got permission from my boss, I booked my flight. I recruited a friend to accompany me. He booked a cheap room at the WPBT convention hotel which we planned to share.

However, as is my wont, I continued the recruiting. Before it was over, the travelers included: Otis, Marty, Cappy, McCown, Brother McCown, BadBlood and Joey Two-Hands.

Almost all of us are poker players to one degree or another. Marty and McCown have fallen in love with the game in the past year. Everyone already knows BadBlood. Two-Hands is a math genius and a champion drinker. The last time we were in Vegas together, he kept referring to a bald, tough-guy, poker player named Nick as Pauly. After repeateded insistance on my part that Joey stop calling Nick by the wrong name, Joey finally shut up. Until about ten minutes later when he looked the guy in the face and said, "Pauly, I love you."

So, after all the recruiting, I was fairly happy with the crew that would go to meet the rest of the poker blogging elite. But it seemed like I was forgetting something.

Oh, yeah...we only booked one room.

Woops.

When Marty booked the room, it averaged $60 a night, a steal on a weekend when many of the Vegas rooms are going to be filled with cowboys from the National Finals Rodeo. So, when I decided we needed a second room, I hopped online to find the rooms had tripled in price.

This leaves our little crew with some decisions to make.

I'm fairly married to the idea of staying at the same hotel as the other WPBT conventioneers. Sure, when it comes down to it, we're not going to be in the room that much and by the time it comes to bed down, it's not like any hotel is that far away. Still, I don't want to deviate from the home base. I'm like that.

So, while I'm not so hot on spending triple what the rooms were going for three weeks ago, I'm probably going to book another room for at least a portion of the trip. I may end up spending a few hours in the hotel's poker room to try to get the poker rate while I'm there.

Looking back, it seems pretty silly. Here we are, all adults making a decent living, likely to gamble several times more than we're going to pay for rooms, and here I am obsessing about a little hotel room. But, that's what I do.

Frankly, I think some enterprising Vegas entrepreneur should hit up the hotels to endeavor in a venture in which they offer personal sleeping pods for gamblers of our ilk. The room is only a place to keep our changes in underwear and shower once every 36-48 hours. If we sleep, it's rare and doesn't usually last for very long. A little pod big enough for my luggage and a cot would be all I would need.

***

So, here I sit, one day before Thanksgiving, considering a trip that is still 16 days away. In between now and then I have to contend with the in-laws, work two weeks, and recover from what is sure to be a painful birthday celebration on December 4th.

With work moving slowly, I'm toying with an agenda for the weekend (incidentally, I never follow my agenda and only compose them as an exercise that allows me to think about Vegas in what I convince myself is a productive manner).

Friday, December 10th

8:00am--Board plane, go to sleep, wake up in midflight, watch some DVD on my laptop after learning I can't get high-speed access on a bankrupt airline.
9:30am--Land in Vegas, try to remember whether I packed and if I did, whether I checked my luggage or carried it on.
10:45am--Check into hotel and check to see if anyone else from the WPBT has arrived
11:00am-Buy my first rack of chips and start playing
Noon-8:30pm--Gray area that will likely involve a lot of cards and a few drinks
10:00pm--Greet the rest of my crew as they arrive and get them sat down at a poker table

Saturday, December 11th

2:30am--Find a pai gow table.
7:30am--Go to sleep for a few hours before the first ever WPBT event
10:00am--Cab it to Sam's Town for the breakfast and meet and greet with the WPBT players and pros. Somehow I figure I'll end up playing there as I wait for the tournament to start.
1:00pm--Start playing in the WPBT Holiday Classic
1:09pm--Bust out of the WPBT Holiday Classic and meet Al Can't Hang at the bar for a shot or five.

From there, even in my exercised mind, it gets a little gray (charcoal). I'd be happy to take suggestions, because I've still got three more days to go after that.

God bless that God forsaken town.

The Otisian Plea yesterday was for three things. Discipline, more home games, and any way to get to Vegas.

Last night, I sat down at my regular online game. I pled for discipline. In a short session, I took in about 15BB. That'll do, thank you. (Although, I did fail myself a bit with last-hand-before-the-blinds-come-around-itis).

I asked for more homegames and BadBlood set a tenative date for one later this month.

And...I asked for a way to get to Vegas.

Pardon me, I'm crying.

(Ahem)

United Airlines will dump me in Vegas at 9:47am on December 10th. If everything works the way it is supposed to, I'll be hooking up with up-and-coming card shark, Marty, and some of the poker blogging world kings for five days of poker madness.

Now...if I can make this happen with my work schedule, anybody can.

So, who else is in?

***

The news broke this week in an exclusive story from the Associated Press. According to sources in the federal government, terrorist cells in Detroit and Spain were both found with video tapes of high-rise hotels in Vegas, specifically Excalibur, MGM Grand, and Bellagio. The federal officials allege that both Vegas city leaders and casino executives were asked to review the tapes, but most in the government and gaming community refused. The implication from the federal officials was that the folks in Vegas were afraid that if they saw the tapes, they would be forced to act, and any action or admission of the tapes could have an effect on the Vegas tourism industry. While the tapes seemed innocuous enough (in some cases, they looked like vacation videos), experts testified that the videos followed terrorist handbooks on how to disguise terror surveillance video.

Since the story broke, Mayor Oscar Goodman, law enforcement officials, and gaming executives have all denied the allegations. MGM officials concede that they saw the tapes and they've been working behind the scenes with security personnel.

While the key federal source in the story seems credible, we're instructed to not forget that he is currently under investigation for prosecutorial misconduct in a Detroit terror case.

All of these facts or fact-variations leave the casual reader and Vegas tourist in an awkward position.

First, you want to believe that anyone who has solid knowledge of any sort of terror threat would broadcast it to the public at large and let the public decide for itself how to react.

However, at the same time, one could easily believe that Las Vegas officials didn't see any clear and present danger in the tapes, and as such, didn't see any reason to alarm the public, and by extension, hurt the city's bottom line.

***

Since September 11th, 2001, I have stayed at a nice hotel in Midtown Manhattan. I had a drink with my wife on top of the Sears tower in Chicago. I played poker at Bellagio. I slept in the MGM Grand. I was propositioned by hookers in the Excalibur.

It's been a good three years.

About three weeks after the terror attacks on New York and Washington D.C., I stopped watching TV on any regular basis. I used to be an avid 24-hour news watcher. After the attacks, I couldn't stand it anymore. I started to get most of my news from online sites.

Since that time, I haven't allowed myself to be afraid of terror. I've tackled New York, Chicago, the Caribbean, Las Vegas, Atlantic City, and Dulles International. The only time I felt any nerves at all was when our plane left D.C. and doubled back toward the city after only ten minutes in flight. Smoke in the cockpit forced an overnight stay in D.C. and one less night in A.C. That was the biggest calamity I've faced in three years of America's fight against terror.

Now, I'm being told that one of my favorite vacation spots in the country may or may not be a terrorist target. The leaders of that city may or may not have hid relevant information about such terror potential.

And I'm conflicted.

***

An open letter to terrorists:

Up yours.

Signed,
Otis

***

In the little burg of Greenville, SC, the local police department is upgrading all its radios to 800 megahertz. The move will allow the department to better communicate with other agencies and departments in the area. When explaining the necessity, the assistant to the Chief brings up the inability of certain New York agencies to communicate during the terror attacks.

A forty-five minute drive through the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains drops you off at a nuclear power plant in Oconee County. For a period of time, the slightest mistrack by a amateur pilot would summon a flurry of F-16s from an nearby airforce base.

At the Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport mail facility, someone recently left a vile of Ricin poison for authorities to find.

In the middle of Greenville's downtown, a river falls over a 30 foot drop, shooting a new spray of water over a newly manicured park and multi-million dollar footbridge.

They call the bridge "Liberty."

***

Maybe it's because I didn't go upstairs at 9pm last night and log on to Empire. Maybe it's because I watched TV instead. For lack of something better to watch, I checked out "The Grid" on TNT, a fairly well-produced international terrorism drama.

The simple theme of the show is this: Terrorism is real.

However, as I watch, I can't help but thinking, "It's just TV."

Frankly, that's my biggest problem. I can't see terrorism as something real. Terrorists don't strike communities like Greenville, SC. I have a greater chance of getting hit by a car on Rutherford St. as I do getting hurt in some terror attack.

Even now, as the news screams about Las Vegas, I just don't get it. In fact, there's a part of me that wants to schedule an impromptu trip to Vegas in spite of the dire news.

There are those in the fear-mongering community who would suggest that my views are akin to the tunnel vision I get when I'm in Vegas. Pay no attention to the terrorist behind the curtain, so to speak.

There are other who would suggest that my simple acknowledgement of the fear-mongering is one step toward allowing the terrorists to win.

Just the other day on my other blog, the Sesame Street terror alert warning went from Bert, to Bert/Ernie (NYC, DC). I smiled, sickly, because I'd been waiting to see what would happen when the terror alert changes.

And Ernie has always sort of been my favorite Sesame Street character.

***

Perhaps it's my looking for a sense of place in the American dialogue, but I see myself as the prototype for the American terror watcher. I can't grasp the concept until it is real.

It has only been three years since I stood at our local airport, and explained to people getting off their plane that America was under attack and they wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. It's only been three years since a friend called from her Manhattan apartment to explain the chaos that was overtaking America's city. It's only been three years since I wanted to vomit every time I saw the planes hitting the towers.

Now, I feel guilty that I heed no warnings, that I openly taunt terrorists to take their best shot at America. I feel guilty, because when/if it happens, I will have been one of the people who wasn't paying attention.

At the same time, I feel a general and increasing unease at the beginning of every new day. I find myself watching television again and checking news websites on a more regular basis, only finding respite in the virtual world of online poker.

***

My friends who don't understand poker ask how I can spend so much time involved in a game. They ask how I can sit in front of a computer for hours on end, tossing around twenty-dollar bets like they were pennies. They half-joke about addiction and my need to see more sun.

I have no real justification, other than that I'm winning.

Still, there's a part of me that admits that poker is a world I understand. Poker is a world where I know when I'm up and I know when I'm down and I know that the successes and failures are based almost entirely on how I conduct myself in the game.

That is, poker is playing guitar on the back porch. It's sharing a six-pack with a buddy on the deck. It's tossing the ball with the dog.

They are the parts of my world that are constant in their ability to get better every time I do it.

They are the parts of my world that I know.

And everything else, everything I see on TV, everything that is in the news is the opposite. It's playing every hand blind and hoping the hands of fate don't feel homicidal.

At 30 years old, I feel guilty for embracing the things I know so strongly.

And I seek the courage to better understand everything else.

I got into Vegas Thursday night around 9pm, on the recently re-added nonstop on America West. Finally America West seems to be once again taking competition with Southwest seriously for the Austin-Vegas route, so prices have become more reasonable lately.

I went out to meet several of my college and gambling buddies for one of our several-times-yearly weekends of gambling, drinking, check-raising and general carousing.

After getting in, I headed over to the MGM Grand to check in to my room and got situated. I dropped off my bags, and changed into my first poker outfit of the weekend – my "You have no outs" t-shirt and my ridiculous green poker visor.

I was hoping the Las Vegas tram would be open, but the system is still in testing and now not scheduled to open until April 1, so I cab over to the Bellagio and meet up with the three of my buddies who are the early arrivers for the trip. We go put our names on the poker list, two of us for 15/30 and the other two low-roll it up on 4/8. Play some pai gow poker while we wait and end up $101.50. HOT.

I sat down at an absolutely awesome 15/30 game in the Bellagio poker room. Two things have happened since the last time I was in Vegas: I've gotten better, and the 15/30 players have gotten worse.

The table was a loose, gambling table where most flops were seen 4-way or more and any two cards were good at the showdown. I started up the trash talk by directing players to the 1-5 seven card stud tables after they lost showdowns, which served to liven up the table even more. Fellow check-raiser and world-class stud player "JZ" was at the table with me, and the banter was lively.

I played a pretty good number of hands and was winning handily after a couple hours. Here's an example of the types of hand action that we were seeing at the table:

I'm sitting on the button with JJ. Action goes call, raise, fold, fold, call, fold, fold, I call, SB calls, BB folds, UTG calls. Flop comes A48. SB bets, UTG raises, raiser calls, next player mucks, I muck, SB calls. Turn and river come 8 and K, both rounds go bet-raise-call-call, and UTG and SB end up splitting the pot with A6o and AQo! No idea what the third player was in with.

My one memorable loss from the evening was in a 6-way flop that came Q55 and was checked to me on the button holding 33. I put out a bet and was smooth-called by JZ holding Q5o... after demonstrating his abilities as a passive preflop calling station and ultra-aggressive post-flop any-two-worth-a-three-bet play, he was due for one payoff from me, and he got it there.

At the table we ran into an old friend we used to work with and play cards with in Austin, who apparently has been honing his play because he was significantly better than he used to be. By about 5am myself and him were the big stacks on the table with $1350 and $1100 in front of ourselves, respectively. Around then, 2 of the table loose-maniacs busted out, and were replaced by 2 well-rested, showered, rock-looking players. Probably should have been a warning sign, but I kept playing - and guzzling down vodka sodas - right down to about 7:30, by which we were 4-handed. I had been treading water, but got involved in two rough heads up pots which I got thoroughly beat on for about $150 each. I decided to call it a night/morning, and ended the session +$414.

Friday morning we woke around 11am and hit the Bellagio. I felt like complete, hungover, unrested, ass, not a good omen for the tournament at 5pm. But into Noodles, and one dim sum lunch and thirteen glasses of water later, I was feeling top of the world. After lunch I went to the poker room to register for the tournament, but to my dismay the tournament was already sold out and they were onto the alternates. I wouldn't normally take an alternate position – I think they're terrible value compared to sitting in the beginning of the tournament – but the Bellagio tournament was the big tournament that weekend so I took 15th alternate position and signed up for some 15/30 to warm up.

While we waited for our seats at 15/30, we settled into some pass-the-time $50 blackjack in the double deck pit outside the poker room. First, a small diatribe about continuous shuffle blackjack – I avoid it wherever possible. Why? Have you ever noticed that continuous shuffle machines have a small optical sensor on the card dispenser, right at the correct position to read the index of the card being dispensed? Can you think of a good reason to have that there, other than the machine keeping track of which cards it's dispensed – and therefore which are about to come back into it and be reshuffled into the machine? Neither can I. It freaks me out. If the purpose is just to count the cards being dispensed, they could easily do that without an optical sensor at exactly the position of the card index.

Anyway 30 minutes of blackjack later and I was up $165 and ready for my seat. JZ convinced me to finish the last few hands of the shoe. I reluctantly agreed. I had streak-bet up to $100 a hand, and the next hand got blackjack - $150, followed by $150 11 vs 7 double win, followed by $250 20 vs 17 win and the end of the shoe, a $700 wait that was well worth it!

My seat was ready and I settled into another nice, loose 15/30 game. I took notes on two hands during this brief session before the tournament.

I get dealt AA in middle position, raise into an uncalled pot, player to my left re-raises, called by both blinds, I call. Some players would criticize not three-betting in this position for value, but the way I had been playing in that session, three-betting would have cried AA and I think the marginal value of post-flop action outpaces the pre-flop value of a raise, which was certainly not going to knock any of the three players out. Flop comes 345 with two spades. Check to me, I bet, re-raiser calls, SB folds, BB raises, we both call. Next card comes off the 9 of spades. Check to me, I bet, my left raises, BB calls, and I muck my hand. I don't have a spade and am sure one of the two players had a spade draw on the flop. The last card comes off the J of spades, the BB check-raises and the player to my left flat-calls with the A of spades while the BB shows 25 with the 2 of spades!! I nearly puked when I realized how terrible my fold on the turn was – I hadn't been playing for long enough to realize how truly terrible the two players were. I mean the player to my left flat-called with the nuts, after being check-raised by the lowest possible flush! I was relieved that the last card came off a spade, because if I had seen a showdown where ace-high got beat by two 5's I would have been on pure aggression tilt for the rest of the day.

Next hand from this session: I got KJo in the BB. The terrible player friend to my left raises and gets five callers. I call and we have 7 to the flop. Flop is 459 rainbow. I check, player to my left bets, and everybody calls around to me. I figure, OK, worth a loose jerk, throw in three reds and the next card comes a J. I check, and the action is checked around. River is another 5, but I get the sense there's not one player with any pair other than maybe a baby pocket pair. I bet and everyone folds to the button, who raises. I think, guess I was wrong, and call him down. He flips over 72o – the hammer – for a stone cold bluff and I take down a pretty nice pot with top pair!

I ended the short session before I got called for the tournament up a few bets, but feeling relaxed and ready to bring my game. I was the 15th alternate and got called about 40 minutes. The crazy thing is there were 57 alternates signed up -- who would take being the 57th alternate?! By that point you begin the tournament with a stack that's about 60% of the average chip stack, it just makes no sense. Even taking 15th was hard for me to swallow.

I love the structure of the tournament – 40 minute levels, reasonable starts and increases in blinds, plus a nice overlay from all the alternates coming in short-stacked. I found the players to be decent but not nearly the caliber of WSOP play.

On my first table I was seated to the right of a very tight-weak player, who let me milk his blinds at just about every opportunity. I had no really playable hands for the first three levels (2 hours), so ended up just blind stealing with absolute garbage. By the end of three levels we were down to 100 players from 157, meaning all the alternates were in the tournament. I had worked my way up to $2550 in chips entirely from stealing blinds, and had been at a low of $1350.

After the break I saw this hand. Blinds were 100-200, UTG raised to 600, button re-raised to 1200. I was in the SB and looked down at AKo. I think one of the biggest holes in my game that I've patched up is playing AKo in positions like this where I'm already looking at significant represented strength. My new NLH tournament self made an easy fold, UTG called for a heads up flop. I kicked myself when the flop came K96 rainbow, until UTG went all-in and was called, flipping up pocket 9's against the button's pocket 6's!

My poor run of cards continued, but my good run of successful blind stealing did too and by the time we made it to 200-400 levels I had worked my way up to $3700 in chips when I got into this hand. It's folded around to one off the button, a chronic blind-stealer, who makes it $1500 to go. I'm in the SB and see JJ and move all-in. He calls me and flips up AQo. The dealer deals the flop and as he flips the cards in the air I see the top card of the flop is a sweet J! Unfortunately, when he spreads them, I see that the other cards are T9 giving my opponent an open ended straight draw. Luckily the turn and river come A5 and I double through.

A little later, my table breaks and I get re-seated to the left of the first poker personality I recognize in the tournament, Tomer Benvisitsi. I was somewhat surprised that I didn't recognize more players in the tournament, but I guess it doesn't draw them week-in and week-out. Tomer busted out as soon as I sat next to him so I didn't get a chance to play with him. Next time Tomer. By this point we were down to 58 players and I was still sitting on about $7k, feeling OK about my chip position but better about my play, which despite having almost no good hands had managed to build a respectable stack.

My table broke very quickly after I sat down at it, players were dropping like flies. I got reseated in the corner. We were down to 41 players when I got my this hand. I was dealt KK under the gun. Blinds were still at 200-400, and I still had about $7k. I made it 1200 to go, and was smooth-called by the player to my left, who I hadn't seen much of. His stack was slightly smaller than mine. The flop came A94 rainbow. I bet out 2000. He thought for a bit and just called me. The turn came a T. At this point I thought he either had something like AT and I was dead in the water, or he had made middle pair on the flop and figured me for something like pocket 8's. I also realized I had overcommitted myself on the flop and really should have gone all-in if I was going to make that bet, so I compounded my mistake by going all-in on the turn. Once again, he thought for a bit, and then called all-in and flipped over A5o. I was dead in the water, and kicked myself doubly because before the flop I had told myself to check and fold if the flop brought an A. No help came on the river, and I busted out a few hands later in 41st having to go all-in before the blinds hit me.

I was bummed for my terrible play on the last hand, but felt good about how I had played up to that point. I am definitely going to play in that tournament again next time I go out.

I met up with my friends and tucked into three things that cheer me up: a buttermilk chicken wrap from Sam's Snacks, heavy consumption of vodka-sodas, and a little trash-talking casino war. Yes, it's a stupid game involving no skill and huge house edge. But making war jokes with friends and dealers is fun. It also proved to be a very easy way to drop $100.

I went back to some tipsy 15/30 at a much tighter table than earlier, and managed to blow a couple hundred while I waited for a spot at the 2/4 no-limit game.

The Bellagio very recently changed their $100 max buyin 1/2 no-limit game to a $200 max buyin 2/4 no-limit game. On Friday night, it looked like a very lively game, and the list was a MILE long. Maybe longer than I've ever seen a single game list. I got a seat in about two hours.

The game was really lively, with a lot of loose aggressive types, including myself. I was already somewhat drunk, and managed to cultivate a very maniacal table image without losing any cash. It's nice to get into a NL game and go crazy early, but get enough good hands that you at least break even by the time your wild man image is firmly embedded in the minds of the players enough that they're due to pay you off.

Unfortunately, I never really got to the payoff part. Or I did, but did not get a payoff J My first big hand, an aggressive player made it $15 to go UTG. Two callers, and I'm on the button and look down and see KK. Sweet lord, I'm not going to allow myself to get killed twice in one day by KK! I make it $85 to go. UTG re-raises all-in for another $115. The other two players get out. I call, and to my terrible dismay see my opponent flip up AA. Yikes. Rebuy!

About two hours later, I've built my $200 rebuy stack up to $450, and then drained down slowly to $300 when I get into this hand. I'm in the BB. Mid position player calls, his left raises to $15, button calls, I look down and see KK. "Redeem thyself!" I mentally shout at my cowboys and raise to $50. Limper folds, the other two call and the board comes down Q93 rainbow. I check to the raiser, who thinks for a beat and makes it $50 and I instantly put him on AQ. I had been playing with him for about four hours and was sure he would have either thought longer and hollywooded it up with a set, or checked with a set or a mid pair. The button folded, and I raised him all in for $200 more. He instacalled and I felt good when he flipped over AQo. I'm a 4:1 favorite, until an ace falls on the turn. No waiting for the bad beat in this town!

That day will live with me as the day I was killed by cowboys; in the three times I played them, I got busted out of a tournament and taken for $500 in a 2/4 no-limit game. Coincidentally my net for that session at 2/4, which lasted until about 7am, was just under -$500 :(

I headed back to the MGM and got a solid Vegas four hours of sleep. I don't know what they put in the air there but I need some for my house. We woke up at 11am recharged and ready to go to the low-roller tournament at the Orleans.

Of the eight of my buddies out in Vegas, only me and one other have any real tournament experience. But the $73 buyin at the Orleans was low enough that I convinced 5 of them to enter with me. Fueled by Fatburgers and caffeine, we were ready to roll.

After registering, we realized that I had made a terrible mistake – it wasn't a no-limit tournament, it was a limit tournament! Huge error. I don't mind long-level limit tournaments like they play at the WSOP, but I *hate* short-level limit tournaments, and we were looking at 15 minute levels for a 135 person tournament. It also had $5 bounties for busting out players, another thing I hate since the bounties don't really give an incentive to bust out players more than already existed and just shrink the prize pool. Still, it was too late to de-register, so I took some nice trash-talking and berating from the friends, sucked it up, and got ready to play.

I hated the structure of the tournament. 15 minute levels are insane, especially when half the field is 65+ with a one arthritic hand minimum. Play started slow, we got $375 in tournament chips (rebuy of $600) with the levels starting at $10-20. I think in limit tournaments, you should start with at least 20-30x the initial big bet, and the blinds should not more than double every two levels of no less than 30 minutes. They get pretty nutty pretty fast when that's not the case, but hey that's just me. I can still play at that level, it just turns mostly into a game of swooping in and picking off short stacks who have been forced to go all-in.

The tournament started fairly uneventfully. Two of my friends had the dubious honor of being among the first ten to bust out, but I was staying alive. Playing tight and waiting for good spots. Unfortunately, they weren't coming very quickly. I was getting blinded down and not getting much opportunity to make good plays. I found that my stack had dwindled down to $375 and I was looking at $50-100 blinds after just under two hours of play. I was getting desperate.

I was sitting on the button, UTG raised with two callers. I looked down and saw AT of clubs, and decided to make a stand. I re-raised, and all three called. I had just $75 left so was ecstatic when the flop came down: ATT! All checked to me, I bet and got all three to call. UTG ended up having a mid-pocket pair, another player with ace-baby, and the last with a baby pocket pair. I quadrupled up to stay alive.

A while later, I had played very few hands. The levels were 100-200 blinds. I was dealt AT again, this time offsuit, on the button with about $1200 in chips. All folded to me and I made it $400 to go, called by the BB. The flop came AT3, another AT miracle. I was check-called until I was all-in and he flipped up A8o, giving me the winner and a nice double-up.

I was still short-stacked, but so was most of the field. I didn't keep track of how many players were left at what points, but I kept just below the average chip stack for the next few levels. I managed to make some nice increases at the hands of baby stacks, and keep treading water.

Before I knew it, we were down to 20 players left and I was still alive, but precariously short-stacked. By this point the blinds were at about 400-800 and I probably had 3000 in chips. I selectively stole the blinds, and won a few hands outright, but mostly was playing raw survival limit poker. It was tough. JZ made it to the second last table with me, but ended up busting out in 17th position. Meanwhile I treaded water, watching others bust out and just managing to stay alive.

The tournament paid ten spots, and everyone obviously knew it. Play got excruciatingly tight when we got down to 14 players left. I was in an absolutely terrible position; I was the second or third lowest chip stack, and the three players to my left were all among the top five chip stacks! My options for blind stealing were extremely limited, and I was facing sudden death at any time.

My chip stack dwindled further, but so did others; I went all-in a LOT of times during this period, mostly when facing sudden death in the next round of blinds. I survived my way, sputtering and choking, down to 12 players with the blinds at 1000-2000. I had 3000 in chips left and knew that I was going to die very soon. Worse yet, there was only one player with a lower stack, and she was behind me so I'd hit the blinds before her. Then, all of a sudden, a miracle – one of the mid stacks at the other table walked into a monster, but so did his opponent! A larger stack bustout and we're down to 11. I still have to best this woman, who was becoming my nemesis. Every time I thought she'd bust out she managed to squeak a win. In her defense, she probably thought the same about me.

With the BB about to hit me, and the action down to 6-handed, I was looking at being bubble boy. My buddies were all on the sidelines, cheering me on – the only peanut gallery there. I managed to double up playing A8 from early position, making it through another round of blinds, when I heard those two sweet words from the other table: "ALL IN". Play stopped at our table as we watched the action, which was fine by me because it meant more time until I got nailed with the upcoming BB. Sure enough, another mid stack busted out, and I jumped out of my chair and hollered. Both me and the other chip midget had made the final table! My buddies went nuts and did their best European soccer impersonations.

We got over to the final table, and although I was still in the money, things were looking grave. The blinds were at 2000-4000. I was a close contender for chip midget with 8000 in chips; the woman had 6000. Nine of us were sitting at the final table, ready to start the action; the tenth, who happened to be chip lead, had run to the bathroom.

I was calculating the odds of me making 7th instead of 8th when one of the players at the table spoke up and asked if everybody just wanted to do a 10-way split. It would equate to $746 each, which was between 4th and 3rd in terms of prize money. I usually hate deals, but this was the sweetest one I had ever been offered! I did my best reluctant buyer impersonation, and to my amazement all the players agreed! I couldn't believe it.

Well, almost all the players. Mr Big Stack was still in the bathroom. He came back and everyone was all smiles and speaking at once, getting him to agree to the deal. He said no, but one of the guys quickly said, "how about we all give you $20?" and he instantly agreed! I literally jumped out of my chair and screamed for joy. And then instantly realized that maybe I was acting too happy – which I evidently was, because the player to my right, who also had a large stack, said he didn't want to do the deal and just wanted to play it out! I was mad at myself, and the dealer started dealing out the first hand of the final table. Some of the players called over the floorman, though, and he said the deal was made since everyone had agreed to it at the same time. Sweet poker mama in poker heaven giving me a poker payout I was happy! I had been looking at $200-300 for 8th-10th and instead walked away with $720. Awwww yeah.

Saturday night we celebrated with dinner at Shintaro in the Bellagio, my favorite restaurant in the world. If you have never been there, go there. They have a $75 tasting menu that is absolutely amazing. Also if you have the tasting menu they will seat you on the balcony, which has four small tables and the best view of the fountain show you can get. They have a new chef and the tasting menu wasn't the best I've had, but one of the courses was mini deep fried shrimp in a chili sauce that we all agreed was the best shrimp we had ever had anywhere.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, which is my way of saying I was too hopped up on vodka-sodas to take notes. I played a drunken Saturday night of 2/4 NL at a very rocky table that was the polar opposite of Friday night and got sha-moked; I got reamed at pai gow poker, then won an assload in blackjack, then lost an assload in blackjack, then won an assload in pai gow poker, then lost half an assload in blackjack. I sat at a 30/60 table but after one round realized it was the scariest table I've ever played at in Vegas, including the table at the WSOP where I was sitting between Negreanu, Scotty Nguyen, Cloutier and Allen Cunningham. The players all seemed to know each other and kept looking at me and licking their lips and trying to cover me with olive oil and barbecue sauce, so I decided to move back to 15/30. I played poker until 9:30am, and so Sunday was mainly spent in a state of extreme tiredness. We ate breakfast at America in NYNY, which I have an inexplicable affection for, I slept a few hours at my friend's room in the Venetian.

My flight back Sunday night was not until midnight, so I hit the 15/30 tables again but immediately realized I was way too tired to play effectively. Instead, I frittered away the last few hours of my trip playing an assortment of pai gow poker, pai gow tiles, and blackjack, and getting somewhat smeared to the wall by all of them.

I made it back into Austin while the sun was rising, exhausted and ready to fall into the arms of my lady friend. And plan my next trip to Vegas :)

Celebrity sightings: there was a large 10/20 NLH game going at the Bellagio the whole time I was there. Chip Jett and Phil Gordon played in it. Chip Jett played through at least 18 hours straight, maybe more. Cris Carter (the wide receiver) was there, playing 20/40 omaha and getting killed, and then later I saw him jump into the 10/20 NLH game for a few hours. I actually put my name on the 10/20 list just to buy in for the minimum ($600) so I could make jokes to Cris Carter about catching cards, and to say I had played cards with him, but by the time I got called he and the other poker personalities I recognized were no longer in the gaqme. I also saw Phil Ivey, Mike Laing, Johnny Chan, and I think Can Kim Hua. Troy Aikman and Marshall Faulk were wandering around the casino but not the poker room. All in all, a great trip…