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?"