I felt cool, calm and collected and enjoyed Day 1 immensely. I never really got a major rush of cards, but looked for spots where raises and re-raises would have credibility. I like to think I picked my larcenous moments perfectly, but I was clearly lucky not to run into big hands when I did so. The man on my right, an options trader from Chicago, would flick the chips into the pot with a little clockwise spin sometimes, a "tell" I have noticed before that frequently indicates weakness or a speculative grade hand. The second time he did it I re-raised him and he folded, so I tried it twice more over the course of the evening with the same result. The only time I got in trouble all day was when he raised on the button and I had A Q, a potential trouble hand, but strong nevertheless in against a button raise. I sensed trouble, hesitated, thought about folding, and then thought about calling before deciding my hand had enough value to justify I raise. He called, and then called again on an 8 8 7 flop. I gave up on the turn (J), and he moved in, hinting later that he had A A or K K.
The last couple of levels I didn't make much progress, catching just enough legitimate hands to go with a few small steals and hold my ground. I dipped slightly before ending the night right where I'd been most of the day, a little above average with 52,000.
I was pretty tired, but for some reason John and I ended up staying up until three thirty in the morning, drinking wine and playing each other heads up.
Woke up pretty early, very grateful for an off day. Got a haircut, and then played golf for the first time in many years. John's a 6-handicap and I'm a total duffer, so he gave me a huge handicap: each of his strokes counted as two. We bet very small amounts of money on each hole and came out virtually even. It was tremendous fun, well worth a little scorn from the homefront about the wisdom of playing in the 107 degree heat.
Very tired, might make it to bed before midnight.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Old Guy fools everyone, especially me
On the first day of the Main Event, there's one old guy at our table who doesn't seem to have a chance. He's got a hat on commemorating the 60th anniversary of some World War II battle in 2004. He can't see the cards ("Is that a queen?" he asks after the dealer puts a King out there), has to be reminded to hold his cards so his neighbors can't see them, and falls asleep twice in the first two hours of play. He's got a very passive style, always calling and never raising. I'm quite confident he won't even make the dinner break, but somehow he does.
After dinner, though, it's a whole different story. Now he's raising, re-raising, seemingly making some astute folds. In the span of about forty-five minutes he takes down about 5 big pots without ever having to show his cards. We're all wondering what the heck he has and when someone finally calls him he's got a monster full house! He not only makes it all the way through day one but torments our one legitimate internet star with a re-re-reraise to take a big pot from him.
After dinner, though, it's a whole different story. Now he's raising, re-raising, seemingly making some astute folds. In the span of about forty-five minutes he takes down about 5 big pots without ever having to show his cards. We're all wondering what the heck he has and when someone finally calls him he's got a monster full house! He not only makes it all the way through day one but torments our one legitimate internet star with a re-re-reraise to take a big pot from him.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A tournament setback from President Obama
This year I'm staying at Caesar's, a significantly nicer hotel than the Rio, but still frowned upon by my high-rolling friends who prefer the Bellagio or the Venetian. We make the quick drive from the Rio on the dinner break but quickly notice that there are cops everywhere--in the elevators, guarding the rest rooms, and by all the doors. It turns out Obama is staying here overnight and giving a speech on behalf of Harry Reid at the Aria. Well, Mr. Phipps and Mr. Rosenbloom, if it's good enough for Obama it's good enough for me.
On our way back the parking garage is snarled in motionless traffic. The police tell us we won't move for half an hour until Obama's motorcade is clear. We decide to walk back, but aren't allowed out of Caesar's except at the front entrance on the wrong side of the Casino. I bribe the folks at the head of the cab line $20 for their spot in line, but the taxi is immediately stuck on the strip. We pay him $5 and decide to run the mile or so to the Rio in 95 degree heat. We have missed the start time and are anteing $25 a hand, and paying an average of $50/hand in blinds. (These are tournament chips, but it's really costing us about $750/hour to be absent.) It's pretty stressful, but we both have lots of chips and we're laughing as we jog. Just as we get to Flamingo we can see them open the street to traffic so I buttonhole a woman who's driving with her 12-year old son and offer her $30 to drive us to the tournament. She's not sure what to make of us, but her son persuades her to take the money. We hop in, hit all the right lights, and make there only about 8 minutes late.
On our way back the parking garage is snarled in motionless traffic. The police tell us we won't move for half an hour until Obama's motorcade is clear. We decide to walk back, but aren't allowed out of Caesar's except at the front entrance on the wrong side of the Casino. I bribe the folks at the head of the cab line $20 for their spot in line, but the taxi is immediately stuck on the strip. We pay him $5 and decide to run the mile or so to the Rio in 95 degree heat. We have missed the start time and are anteing $25 a hand, and paying an average of $50/hand in blinds. (These are tournament chips, but it's really costing us about $750/hour to be absent.) It's pretty stressful, but we both have lots of chips and we're laughing as we jog. Just as we get to Flamingo we can see them open the street to traffic so I buttonhole a woman who's driving with her 12-year old son and offer her $30 to drive us to the tournament. She's not sure what to make of us, but her son persuades her to take the money. We hop in, hit all the right lights, and make there only about 8 minutes late.
Monday, July 5, 2010
World's biggest asshole--almost
Monday morning I wake up, more than a little groggy. I have to admit that the short break between two trips has not been sufficiently rejuvenating, and I am not playing my best and not feeling my best. It's time to go home. Impulsively, I jam all my belongings into my suitcase and head for the airport, once again changing my $29 internet special flight to a $154 full fare to fly home 5 hours ahead of schedule.
Dana greets my early arrival with enough enthusiasm that I know instantly I've made the right decision.
In the days that follow, my exhaustion from the two trips to Vegas nearly equals her post-surgery recovery. I am oh-so-glad I came home and somehow find the energy--helped by copious naps--to earn her admiration for my efforts to nurse her back to health.
I'm writing this nearly two weeks after my last Vegas visit, finally able to accomplish a few things after ten days of compulsively searching World Series of Poker results, poker gossip, political machinations, and other trivia.
Just in time to head back to Vegas for the Main Event on Wednesday.
Dana greets my early arrival with enough enthusiasm that I know instantly I've made the right decision.
In the days that follow, my exhaustion from the two trips to Vegas nearly equals her post-surgery recovery. I am oh-so-glad I came home and somehow find the energy--helped by copious naps--to earn her admiration for my efforts to nurse her back to health.
I'm writing this nearly two weeks after my last Vegas visit, finally able to accomplish a few things after ten days of compulsively searching World Series of Poker results, poker gossip, political machinations, and other trivia.
Just in time to head back to Vegas for the Main Event on Wednesday.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Looking too damn young
Sunday I play in a 3700 person tournament, the $1000 "donkament." I last quite a while, milking my "tight old guy" personality while robbing them blind when they're not looking.
Halfway through the day two of my opponents make a bet on how old I am. One of them says 40, and the other says 44. (I'm actually 54.) Normally, their misestimates would be cause for jubilation. But given my default strategy of playing a tight old guy, I really prefer to look older. Oh well, let's just take the compliment and move on.
Halfway through the day two of my opponents make a bet on how old I am. One of them says 40, and the other says 44. (I'm actually 54.) Normally, their misestimates would be cause for jubilation. But given my default strategy of playing a tight old guy, I really prefer to look older. Oh well, let's just take the compliment and move on.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Unraveling
Everyone falls apart in their own way when they get overtired. I forget my toothbrush this trip, then break a new one in half when I tried to rip it out of the plastic it came in, leaving myself a two inch stub that’s barely workable. Now I’ve even lost that, and though I vow to buy a new one every time I leave the room I somehow haven’t gotten around to it. I brought four pairs of glasses on the trip, sat on one pair, lost another, and I’m down to my last two.
More disturbingly, three times today someone has tapped me on the shoulder to tell me I’ve dropped a dollar out of my pocket. Now, the ratio of hundred dollar bills in my pocket to one dollar bills is something like fifteen to one, but no one’s told me yet that I’ve dropped a hundred. Could it be that I’m subconsciously more careful with the big bills, or is that people will be more honest for a dollar than a Franklin? If I make the seemingly reasonable assumption that people will be 50% honest about a $1 bill and just take the hundred, then I have theoretically dropped $9000 out of my pocket. Perhaps it's best not to dwell on this; the bulge in my case money pocket is still reassuringly thick.
More disturbingly, three times today someone has tapped me on the shoulder to tell me I’ve dropped a dollar out of my pocket. Now, the ratio of hundred dollar bills in my pocket to one dollar bills is something like fifteen to one, but no one’s told me yet that I’ve dropped a hundred. Could it be that I’m subconsciously more careful with the big bills, or is that people will be more honest for a dollar than a Franklin? If I make the seemingly reasonable assumption that people will be 50% honest about a $1 bill and just take the hundred, then I have theoretically dropped $9000 out of my pocket. Perhaps it's best not to dwell on this; the bulge in my case money pocket is still reassuringly thick.
Michelle, part II
I've thought a lot about Michelle, the bartender at the Crown night club, and wondered whether our chance encounter was a genuine friendly moment or just a night club hustle. I haven't been to a strip club since my brother-in-law's bachelor party in 1995 and find them utterly distasteful. Still, I recollect from reading about them in some Bukowski novel that a classic hustle is for the the girl to invite you to buy drinks for two; you end up buying a $25 glass of champagne while she drinks an equally expensive glass of ginger ale. Could it all be an elaborate hustle? I'd prefer to believe it wasn't, but I really need to know. It's not that I mind being hustled--I enthusiastically bet $20 the first time I saw a Three Card Monte game in Manhattan, knowing I was going to be hustled. It's just that I don't want to think I've stumbled on to something real when in reality I'm just being taken for a mark.
My friends are still playing cards at midnight, but it's back to the Crown for me to find out.
At a mere 12:30 a.m. the Crown is in full swing. The narrow bar is totally packed, and Michelle is confidently perched there , dishing out cocktails at 90 mph while delightfully dressed in the same raunchy outfit as before. The left hand side of the bar is packed with NFL-sized black guys in suits, while the right side is 4 deep with a wedding party I guess to be from somewhere in Orange County. There's just enough psychic distrust between the two groups that I can get all the way to the bar between them, where I find myself next to a very inebriated bride.
You can really only appreciate what happens next if you've been 5'5.5" and tried to get a busy bartender's attention. In this case, the bride can't be ignored, so Michelle comes over and asks what I want. "A Heineken," I venture, and then add somewhat shyly "unless you're ready for a couple of shots." Finally recognizing me, she reaches over the bar, grabs both my wrists and squeals "You came back!" Next thing I know there's a Heineken in front of me and she grabs a couple of 6-oz glasses. She grabs a bottle of an exotic blend of Vodka I've never heard of and starts making some concoction. The NFL linebackers are thirsty, the wedding party is restless, but the bartender is ignoring all of them and whisking around a collection of mostly pink-colored liquids (grapefruit juice? sloe gin?) and taking her damn sweet time. Finally, while the rest of the bar is staring at me and having a WTF moment, the witches brew is complete, we clink our glasses in a toast and down the hatch, they're gone. It is at once an ultimately inconsequential and trivial moment and at the same time somehow triumphant; for some reason I get a huge kick out of it, and even today it is one of the fonder memories of my second Vegas trip.
Now it's time to pay the piper. I reach down into my pocket and wonder if, after leaving a huge wad in the hotel safe, I will have enough to pay for it. I am somewhat confused when it comes to $7 until I realize that Michelle has charged me only for the Heineken. I leave a huge tip and walk away, but all of a sudden I am immensely tired and want to be with my friend Stephen. I leave immediately, and go back to the room, still chuckling to myself.
My friends are still playing cards at midnight, but it's back to the Crown for me to find out.
At a mere 12:30 a.m. the Crown is in full swing. The narrow bar is totally packed, and Michelle is confidently perched there , dishing out cocktails at 90 mph while delightfully dressed in the same raunchy outfit as before. The left hand side of the bar is packed with NFL-sized black guys in suits, while the right side is 4 deep with a wedding party I guess to be from somewhere in Orange County. There's just enough psychic distrust between the two groups that I can get all the way to the bar between them, where I find myself next to a very inebriated bride.
You can really only appreciate what happens next if you've been 5'5.5" and tried to get a busy bartender's attention. In this case, the bride can't be ignored, so Michelle comes over and asks what I want. "A Heineken," I venture, and then add somewhat shyly "unless you're ready for a couple of shots." Finally recognizing me, she reaches over the bar, grabs both my wrists and squeals "You came back!" Next thing I know there's a Heineken in front of me and she grabs a couple of 6-oz glasses. She grabs a bottle of an exotic blend of Vodka I've never heard of and starts making some concoction. The NFL linebackers are thirsty, the wedding party is restless, but the bartender is ignoring all of them and whisking around a collection of mostly pink-colored liquids (grapefruit juice? sloe gin?) and taking her damn sweet time. Finally, while the rest of the bar is staring at me and having a WTF moment, the witches brew is complete, we clink our glasses in a toast and down the hatch, they're gone. It is at once an ultimately inconsequential and trivial moment and at the same time somehow triumphant; for some reason I get a huge kick out of it, and even today it is one of the fonder memories of my second Vegas trip.
Now it's time to pay the piper. I reach down into my pocket and wonder if, after leaving a huge wad in the hotel safe, I will have enough to pay for it. I am somewhat confused when it comes to $7 until I realize that Michelle has charged me only for the Heineken. I leave a huge tip and walk away, but all of a sudden I am immensely tired and want to be with my friend Stephen. I leave immediately, and go back to the room, still chuckling to myself.
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