Friday, December 28, 2007

Happy Whatevs

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Vegas: Winter 2007 Part III: Fight Night

If you missed part one or part two, go read them now, I'll wait.
I awoke to find Big Show missing, and relieved that Tubbo had crashed on the couch instead of living up to his threat to "canoodle" me. After showering up, I found Big Show attacking the Venetian double deck game. He quickly cashed out and we got our daily 5 minutes of fresh air on the walk over to Chipotle, where we fueled up for an aggressive day at the poker tables.
Although there were at times several tremendously juicy fish at the Venetian 5-10NL game who were willing to put in their entire $2000 stacks with top pair, I was unable to make anything good happen against them, and instead found myself on the short end of pocket kings vs. a flopped set of jacks.
A bunch of bloggers were at the Venetian for a special tournament, and I finally met the immortal Doctor Pauly. I also said hi to The Bracelet, Ftrain and Falstaff. This was the second time I was in Vegas at the same time as the blogger posse, and the second time I'd stayed on my own path with the Big Show instead of partaking in the blogger agenda.
After 6 depressing hours in the 5-10NL game, I finally bailed to go get cleaned up to watch the fight: Mayeather-Hatton: Undefeated. Now, the sportsbooks can't show the fight, because MGM owns the rights, so the way it works is that MGM properties sold tickets to closed circuit viewings (read: a ballroom with 50 tables set up and the fight projected onto 8 big screens around the room) for the masses who couldn't get tickets to the MGM arena. Even these closed circuit viewings were tough tickets, and Big Show's VIP connection fell down on us at the last minute, even after promising us we would be all set.
Springing into action, I immediately suggested we cruise over to the under the radar Treasure Island - the former crown jewel of the MGM empire - back when it was the Mirage empire. Ok, so the T.I. was never the actual crown jewel - it was always the Mirage's retarded little brother, but anyway - they'd have the fight, and it had to be a better shot than the Mirage or their properties down by the MGM.
We speed-walked to the T.I.'s ballroom, where I was informed by the ticket checker that there were possibly some tickets that had been released - we should check downstairs at the Mystere ticket office. After cruising back downstairs and waiting in line for 10 minutes, we had the pleasure of paying $50 each for a seat at the closed circuit viewing. Open bar? Free food? Nope. Nope. Not so much as a free drink ticket included. Worst beat of the trip, but anyway; Tubbo and Big Show arbitraged the situation by bringing up chicken fingers and beers from the deli downstairs - where the beers were $2 less.
Estimates of the number of British hooligans who came for the fight ranged from 80,000 to 200,000, and the Ricky Hatton song got annoying real quick. Still, it was more fun to route for Hatton than Pretty Boy Floyd, although Floyd almost won me over when he entered the ring to The Boss's Born In the USA. This fight, despite both fighters being undefeated, was like watching Rocky come to life. Hatton IS Rocky, and Floyd IS Apollo.
Earlier I had argued with Big Show about the price on the fight: I wanted Hatton + 200, he wanted Mayweather - 180. I explained that the line was +185/-215, so +200 was mid market. He and Tubbo didn't realize that the line had changed, and the normally robust Big Show proved to be a giant pussy in basically saying "I don't want anymore action." I took solace in buying a ticket at the Venetian sports book at a worse price (+185 at 3pm, which promptly went to +275 by the start of the fight!!!!), explaining to Big Show; "Hah - Fuck you - either I win this ticket, and I'm happy, or I lose, and I'm paying the book instead of YOU! CHUG IT!" This was the reason I was able to celebrate and dance in Big Show's face when Hatton got knocked out, as I didn't have to fork the cash over to him.
So, dragging early on our third night in Vegas, we somehow came up with The Worst Idea In History - which was to take a cab over to the MGM post fight. Arriving at the MGM we found a scene that looked like the Running of the Bulls met an English soccer game. A pure, impenetrable mass of humanity. The bright side was that there was no riot. We fought through the casino, but quickly bailed on that idea and walked across the street to the immortal Tropicana, where I'd never been.
Upon entering the Trop's bus-depot like side entrance, I realized that I had been there. As we made a quick lap through the casino I realized why I'd blocked it out of my memory - it totally chugged cock. As we exited through the other side door, we came upon what I crowned "The most depressing place on the strip," which reminded me of the bleachers at Baby's the old club in the Hard Rock - carpeted steps with vending machines at the bottom, and a variety of drunken lightweights and people seeking warmth from the cold passed out. Not a happy scene.
Being a mere 100 yards from the former San Remo, now Hooters Casino, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to see how this re branding was working. Strangely, Hooters seemed to be doing good business, but without any of their trademark Hooters charm - the dealers were by and large below average in looks, and they were wearing mostly standard garb - with only a sparse few in Hooters outfits. However, they did not let us down in the intelligence (lack of) department; resulting in the first favorable dealer error of our trip!
Feeling like crap, I put the waitress on severe tilt by ordering the Dirty Dave: hot tea with honey and lemon. Now, Dave has made this a Sunday morning poker room staple, as a cure for all of Saturday's ills, but I'm reasonably sure that I'm the first person ever to order it on Saturday night in the history of Hooters. The waitress looked at me like I just told her I was a hot air balloon pilot. She stared at me. I stared at her. "I'm serious," I told her. She didn't move. "Really. I need to get right - THEN I'll start drinking," I explained, which seemed to pacify her, as she went off and eventually returned with 3 different tea choices for me, along with some detailed recommendations of which I might like.
We were seated at a Let It Ride table, where I was losing my L-I-R virginity - a rarity for me to find a casino game I'd never played. Within the first hour, Big Show and Tubbo both squeezed out open ended 4 card straight flushes, which are the holy grail of this game. They each had two outs to a 200-1 payout, but each missed his draw. After being felted and rebuying, I went on a hot streak, and managed to spike a straight, and then a flush - which is a big hand in this game. I'd tilted the dealer by refusing to bet the extra $1 bonus on each hand, which basically would help me if i managed to make a royal flush. When I made my straight, she paid me off for the $25 bonus anyway, as Tubbo, Big Show and I instinctively fell silent, until Tubbo cried out "Who's the big winner?!?!?! KD's the big winner!!!!" in the style of Trent from Swingers.
When I made my flush, an 8-1 payout, smoke started coming out the dealers ears. "What's 8-1 on $30?" She asked out loud. I stared at her. "2400?" I volunteered. She pursed her lips. She Big Show's jaw dropped. My jaw dropped. She asked the pit boss: "What's 8-1 on $30?" He looked at her and walked away.
"I think he's going to get a calculator!" I told Big Show, being honest, but he was almost too stunned to laugh - even the fucking PIT BOSS didn't know! Eventually, using all her fingers and toes, she came up with the correct answer, $240, all on her own! The thing is, this dealer wasn't a typical Hooters employee like you're thinking! She was a short pig with the mandated "you're not hot enough" uniform: long sleeved white t-shirt under yellow short sleeved collared shirt, and long black pants.
Despite the positive EV of retarded dealers, we packed up at Hooters and returned to the Venetian where we played a mammoth double deck blackjack session with Androgynous Kim Jong Il. This guy - I THINK it was a guy - was a spitting image of what would happen if Kim Jong Il starred in the classic Saturday Night Live "It's Pat," sketch. So AKJI (Androgynous Kim Jong Il" is in the first base seat, with Big Show in the middle and me one to the right of 3rd base. We're playing black chips, and AKJI is playing two hands. He gets a blackjack on the top of the deck in at least one of his hands EVERY FUCKING SHOE. Meanwhile, I'm on a blackjack frigid streak, 0 for my last 8 hours. I put Big Show on tilt by ordering a Kahlua on the rocks to drink!
The night before at Harrah's, as we screamed "MONKEY!!!!!" every time we needed the dealer to bust, one dealer informed us that the phrase was originally "monarchy," which seemed to make sense, as one would call for a monarchy card: king, queen, jack. Thus, without confirmation of the fact, Big Show would proceed to scream MONARCHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE every time for the rest of the trip, tilting all casino employees within earshot.
The pit boss at the Venetian inquired, "Why are you yelling monarchy?" Big Show looked at him but declined to comment, so I just replied "Would you prefer if we yell PAI GOW!" Anyway, I had an epic hand where I had 2's split twice and doubled twice, getting 5 units in play against a dealer 5. I made a few 18's, but the dealer turned over a ten in the hole and then a 4, and swept my chips. With a massively favorable deck now, I feigned tilt, and pushed $600 out on the next hand, which I promptly won to get right. AKJI put me on the worst kind of tilt when he refused to split 9's against a dealer 6 - which must be one of the highest EV plays one can have the opportunity to make in a casino. However, Tubbo encountered a character in his 6 deck shoe who made what was officially The Worst Play I've Ever Seen. This stereotypical rich Southerner had $1k bet, and decided to split 7's against a dealer 10. Of course, he busted one hand, and received an Ace on the other. The proper play on a soft 18 vs. a dealer 10 is to hit, but this guy thought for 45 seconds about DOUBLING his bet! In the end he elected to stay, watched the dealer bust, and broke even on the hand.
This nauseating play broke my will, and I hit the room for some much needed rest.
First thing Sunday morning, we called Dirty Dave to get the hot plays for the NFL. He put us into a jackpot 3-team parlay that ended up going 0-3. Perfect. Then we hit the Grand Luxe, to claim our breakfast comp we'd earned the previous evening. I was severely tilted when I was informed that since it was 11am, I could no longer order from the breakfast page, which contained the omelet I desired. Instead, I could only order one of the omelets listed on the lunch page. I stared at the waiter, not comprehending. "So you don't have omelets right now?" I asked. "Just these omelets here," he pointed. "But you DO have eggs right? I mean, it's 11:00 on the nose - they can't make me the omelet from the OTHER page?" He was having none of it, and I settled for a bagel with lox, which chugged cock.
We put together a new parlay, consisting of the Denver-KC over, which basically got there in the first half, the Cleveland-Jets CLE money line, which worked fine, and the Pats-Steelers over 47 1/2. With the score 17-13 at the half, we were sitting pretty, especially when the Pats scored two more TD's to make it 31-13 with a full quarter remaining. We needed a score of any kind, and didn't even think we'd regret that the Pats had missed a field goal, and the Pittsburgh had failed to score from first and goal in the 3rd quarter. Savvy gamblers that we are, we quickly realized that Pitt wasn't going to be kicking any FG's, and we needed the Pats to score a TD on their current drive with 9 minutes remaining, otherwise our sure thing was going to be in serious danger of going down in flames. As Randy Moss dropped the TD catch on 3rd down and the Pats kicked a field goal to put us within a hook of the number (34-13), I buried my face in my hands and lamented the oncoming train wreck.
Pittsburgh managed to get inside the 25 with under 4 minutes left, but, refusing to give up, was obviously not going to kick a field goal. Instead, they failed to score and turned it over on downs. What made this especially painful was that when the Steelers got the ball back with 90 seconds to play, they gave up! Electing to run draw plays instead of airing it out to score! I mean, I can understand not kicking the field goal earlier, but what the fuck - either you're giving up, or not. If you're not giving up, then try to fucking score! Despite cashing a winning Patriots ticket, the UNDER beat in the parlay put me on bajungi tilt, which worsened considerably when we ran into JC, who put the monster kaibash on me, and resulted in me dropping a full blackjack buyin - which was my FIRST losing session of the trip at a casino game!
Big Show and Tubbo headed off to the airport, and I hung with JC a little, grinding out a small Pai Gow win, before I hit the poker room to kill my final few hours playing in a nice little shorthanded 5-10NL game with 2 pros and a few fish. Unfortunately, just as the game filled up with Euro-tourist fish, I had to go catch my flight. My cabbie put me on the kind of tilt I only dream of, when, after asking me "You want to take the strip or the highway?" I replied "The quick way." He didn't know I've been here 30 times, and responded "The highway." Now, 90 seconds later, I tell him, "This is NOT the quick way," at which point he gets all defensive, and shows me his sheet, where the last customer from the Venetian paid the same rate my meter came to - cause he took that doucheball for the long ride also! For those of you unaware, the highway route basically takes you all the way around the entire airport. So, instead of cruising down the strip, making a left, and entering the airport, you do a 7 mile loop around it, and come in the same way. Since there was no Strip traffic on Sunday night, I was on mega-tilt all the way home to New York.
A Quiznos sub at the airport placated me slightly, as did the fact that despite giving back more than 1/2 my winnings in my final 6 hours in Vegas, I was leaving a winner, which is something you can never complain about. The Lords of Tilt threw me a final curveball, when the guy jammed into the middle seat next to me was the poor man's Biz Markie. Unfortunately, this guy lacked the smooth rhyming skills, but snored like a buzzsaw, and spread his legs at a 90 degree angle.
I pulled my hood over my head and entered an altered state of consciousness.
Trip diversity displayed:
Casino games: Blackjack, Pai Gow, Let it Ride, Roulette
Poker: 4-8 Limit, 1-2NL, 2-5NL, 5-10NL
Drinks: Vodka & grapefruit, Vodka & cran, beer, hot tea, Kahlua, Kahlua hot chocolate, Captain & coke
until next time,

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Vegas Winter 2007 Part II: Culture Clash

So I neglected to mention why I titled part one of this Vegas trip report "International Incident." Ricky "the Hitman" Hatton, the pride of Manchester England, was in town to take his undefeated record up against Pretty Boy Floyd Mayweather's undefeated record. Hatton's people were everywhere - noticeable on the plane from New York, and all over Vegas. I quickly jumped on the Hatton bandwagon as these English boxing hooligans would be constantly drunk and screaming out their theme song in support of their man, to the tune of "Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland:"
There's only oneeeeeeeee Ricky Hatton
There's only oneeeeeeeee Ricky Hatton
Walkin' along, singing this song,
Walkin' in a Hatton wonderland.
Not much of a song, I know, but they make up for it with unabashed drunken enthusiasm, singing this song all over town 48 hours before the fight. Unfortunately, I didn't know that this was the ONLY song they had for Hatton, and it became tedious quicker than you could imagine.
I mentioned to Big Show that I wanted to see if we could get a line on "There will be a riot in Vegas this weekend," on account of the perfect storm consisting of Ricky Hatton's crowd meeting Floyd Mayweather's crowd, with the rodeo cowboy crowd thrown in as a jackpot wildcard. Of course, the standard douchebag crowd always presents the freeroll for riotous behavior. I made the Riot Line: Riot +150. I'm talking full fledged Holyfield-Tyson kind of riot.
We pondered this over a noon brunch at Carnegie Deli in the Mirage. Big Show and I split a brisket and a pastrami sandwich. The pastrami was decent, the brisket was a little bland, and both were slightly too fatty. The English couple next to us each ordered BLT's, which looked to contain 2 full pounds of stacked crispy bacon each. Oy Vey.
Returning to the Venetian, there was still not much going on in the poker room, so we resumed our assault on the double deck blackjack table for a few hours, booking another win before settling in to play some poker. I put my name on the 2-5 and 5-10 NL lists, having just missed the last 5-10NL seat, and slummed it with Big Show in HELL - the 4-8 limit game! We raised and reraised pots continually, and when we finally made a hand, would get paid off graciously. I made a beautiful chip stack honeycomb tower, and Big Show retaliated by building a replica of the Luxor with stacks of 4 which could be easily grabbed to bet and raise with. Big Show wasn't kidding when he claimed he thought it was probably the juiciest game in the room. However, I was fully tilted by the slow pace and asinine play, and jumped at the chance when a new 5-10NL table opened up.
I ground away at the 5-10NL game for several hours, working up a decent win, before I was moved to the main table right as one of the young local pros took a sick 5 outer in a $5500 pot. I was seated to his immediate right, with a loose tourist to his left, and another local young gun to the tourist's left.
After the kid calmed down, he took the time to point out a character at the next table who claims to be the mack daddy of poker, and was promptly moved to my immediate right. This guy, I couldn't make this up, takes out a 2x4 inch business card from a metal case and slides it to the tourist two to my left, extending his hand and introducing himself. You have to click the link to get a more complete picture. I almost thought he was kidding. Coach Roberto was a local, and his shtick clearly put the kid to my left on severe tilt. "He'll probably sign one of these for you if you want," I needled the young gun, as he rolled his eyes and bit his lip - clearly boiling inside. So Roberto hands his card to the tourist, who looks at it and says dryly "So you won a tournament with Aces," which causes me to laugh out loud uncontrollably. I politely slide the card back to Roberto, who tells me "You can keep it." "No thanks - that's ok," I'm trying not to laugh, but the tourist honestly wants the second card and grabs it, saying his buddy may be interested. Coach Roberto was a perfectly nice gentleman, and played a solid thought not scary game (the young guns to my left were infinitely more dangerous). His card mentioned game theory, but I didn't want to explain to him that I was reasonably sure I'd already FORGOTTEN more about game theory than he'd ever know. He did manage to FELT the young gun to my left in a $3700 pot when Coach Roberto made a preflop raise and flopped a set, fading the kid's flush and gutshot draws.
Tubbo arrived, and I got up from the table to go with Tubbo and Big Show to get some food. The 2lbs of Carnegie Deli meat was still rumbling - and there really is no better word - RUMBLING - in my stomach, so I could only manage to throw down half a turkey panini before we went in search of negative EV.
We made it over to Harrah's for some nice double deck blackjack action, and were tilted this time by the skunked cigars Tubbo had brought for us. Now, you can't complain when one of your buddies goes out of his way to pack cigars and bring them for you, but Big Show put on a pathetic show in managing to choke down only about 2 inches of his (ZING!). A latino SoCal gang banger was in the 3rd base seat at our table, and promised us he'd bring us some good cigars if we came back tomorrow night. Hector parlayed his $100 into $1600 before taking it almost all the way back down to the felt with some reckless play.
Further tilt ensued when we discovered that Harrah's does not allow double after split in the double deck game. "WHATTTTTT? Do you know who the fuck I am?" I stared at the dealer. "Some poker players who lost and are now playing blackjack to get even?" He quickly shot back! I looked at Big Show, pursing my lips and nodding respectfully at the dealer's SEMI-successfull read, and correcting him, "Not bad, but we didn't lose today." Of course it's not hard to tell the poker players in the blackjack pit from the variety of extremely intimidating yet non-douchey chip tricks we constantly employ.
Tubbo wanted to book a win, so we got up, and as we were walking away, spotted a roulette wheel which has run red 5 times in a row. "Get down on black?" Big Show never learns. "Come on man, don't fight the tape - it's a momentum market," I explained for the tenth time, as I bet my stray chips on red. "RED - winner," the croupier paid us, and I didn't move. He stacked the winnings into a new bet, as Big Show confirmed with me, "Let it ride?" "Big MO baby! MOMENTUM!" Red came up again, so we parlayed it one more time, and reaped the reward of our third consecutive red. We picked up our chips and cashed out, looking back over our shoulder to see the streak broken as we laughed and high-fived, "market timing bay-beeee!"
Late night Venetian Pai Gow has been a tough game to crack, but we took another shot at it, working a relentless Marty strategy, which resulted in me having to increase my bet by a factor of 10 in short order. After some sweat, I got even, and Big Show was similarly successful. I retired for the night, while Big Show and Tubbo went to roll the bones unsuccessfully for another few hours.
next up: Fight Night.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Vegas - Winter 2007 International Incident

I'm not an amateur. I'm not a doucheball. I don't wear my sunglasses or wifebeater on the plane, I don't drink from a plastic yard glass in the airport, or anywhere else for that matter, and I don't scream "Vegas Baby!" Ever. The main goal on the mentally and physically taxing flight from NYC to Vegas is always the same: 1) don't get tilted and 2) try to get some rest.
Why then, are the Black Car companies constantly trying to violate the first of the two very simple rules? Mrs. Dynamite doesn't like to take a car - she just hails a cab. However, since nothing tilts me faster than NYC taxis, and a town car only costs a buck more, I go that route almost every time. The main method the car services provide in terms of tilt induction is to show up late. While I've been on a hot streak lately, with my last several cars coming on time, I can't seem to avoid the most powerful weapon the drivers employ: SMELL. I know what you're thinking - this isn't a toxic curry b.o. I get assaulted by - it's the uber-perfume of fake flowers or air cleaner so vicious it makes my medulla throb.
So I get in the car, and am immediately in a quandary. I can't breathe solely through my mouth for an hour, and I'm only wearing a sweatshirt in the 30 degree weather, so I can't open the window to alleviate the floral assault. I fight it for as long as I can, then, like Luke leaning toward the Dark Side, I embrace the odor and give in to it. It's like the smell at the Venetian - only much much worse. On the bright side, I can't even smell it after 20 minutes. Unfortunately, I also can't feel my toes or remember my name.
Arriving at the airport for my noon flight, the doucheballs are not hard to find. There is a pack of d-balls, clearly of Da Bronx variety, annoyingly eyeing my Red Sox sweatshirt. I send Dirty Dave a quick text notifying him of the doucheballiness that is abundant already, and he responds "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Terps!" I quickly explain that these are not the ACC variety of doucheballs, but rather, the much lower class Fordham sub-sector, easily identifiable by flat-brimmed Yankee hats. If you EVER see someone with a flat-brimmed Yankee hat, you know you're dealing with a special kind of doucheball.
Then, like something out of a nature movie, an entirely different species of douche strolled up - the douche-WASP. Identified by their casual business attire, the douche-WASPs were carrying Bud Light bottles at the airport gate, prominently displaying the bottles much like the way a poison frog displays bright colors to advertise it's wares - only I guess this was the opposite - they were trying to attract attention, not repel it. I was in awe. Hey guys - really? You felt the need to show everyone how cool you were by hanging out at the gate an hour before your flight drinking Bud Lights? Is the hot airport pussy flocking to you like a moth to a flame? No? Didn't think so.
I can deal with doucheballs, but I can't deal with SARS, and after moving my seat to get away from the young dude coughing with his mouth open, I inadvertently planted myself in close proximity to a party of 7 Chinamen hacking some sort of serious shit, without covering their mouths of course. Talk about tilt. Kid Dynamite is a germaphobe - there you have it.
After I suffered through the latest issue of Newsweek, which chugged cock, Delta began the boarding process. I couldn't figure out the system - they board by zone, and you'd assume they board from the back of the plane to the front, right? No. I think it's completely random. Fuckwads. Patiently awaiting my turn, I handed the gate agent my boarding pass, which she scanned. The machine beeped and she told me "seat change - lots of those today." Before objecting, I noticed that I still had an aisle seat, and elected not to whip out the DYKWTFIA? Karmically, the tide quickly turned in my favor when, despite the "full flight" the flight attendants kept preaching about, I had an empty middle seat next to me. Jackpot.
The Fordham D-balls were several rows in front of me, and, amongst the group of 6 I counted the following: 1 desert camouflage bandana. 1 jungle camouflage zip down sweatshirt. 1 pair of sunglasses worn on board. 1 wool knit cap. 1 face-frame style beard (WICKED douchey). 1 spankhound chanting "Mayweather!" And of course, 1 wifebeater t-shirt. I calmly put in my headphones and resolved to endure the 5 1/2 hour flight, and that's really what it is: endurance. This is a long, painful flight.
I make it to Vegas and breeze through the empty cab line at the airport, arriving at the Venetian in short order. The room is comped, somehow, courtesy of the Big Show, who will be arriving in short order, and I check in, activate my line of credit, and drop my bags in the room before heading to the poker room.
The 2-5NL game was nit central. The players do not believe it's legal to raise from first position with The Vortex (68s), and the mere verbal claim that I had done so resulted in a near lynch mob. Later, a somewhat bizarre guy on the button bumped it to $30, and had the small blind re-pop him to $130. Action came back around to the cutoff, who smooth called the $130, and now the button made it $430 to go. I was sitting all the way across the table, and the guy to my right whispered "he has aces." I threw out a $5 chip and said "I'll take "NOT ACES." He faded in a hurry, but the guy to my left quickly took the action, explaining to me, seriously, "The third raise means aces 95% of the time." I asked him if he wanted any more action, but he declined. Now the small blind popped it one more time, all in for $680, the cutoff folded, and the button stopped to think.
"Ship it," I told Mr. 95%. "What? We won't know until we see his hand!" "He's thinking. That means NOT ACES," you dipshit. Turns out the button called with TT, which held up against the sb's AK. At least the nit-factor is going down a little!
I ran over the game for a little while, sucked out with QQ vs AA when I spiked a set, and was starving by the time Big Show showed up around 7pm. We quickly hit the Panda Express in the food court, which was clearly a mistake, resulting in gastrointestinal trauma for the rest of the night. Fueled up, we returned to the Venetian casino floor to dominate their double deck blackjack game.
After several hours of play, we were each holding a nice win, and the cigar girl strolled by. We knew from prior experience that the pit boss should be more than willing to comp us a simple cigar, which Big Show requested.
"Sorry, I can't," the pit boss replied, "I can buy you a pack of smokes though."
"But we don't smoke," Big Show replied, and we stared at her like she had 3 heads. Standoff.
"We don't control the cigar concession, sorry," the pit boss continued.
"Wait a second," I chimed in, "You can buy us dinner at Grand Luxe, but you can't buy us a cigar?" We were seriously confused, and starting to get severely tilted.
"That's correct," from the pit boss, but no logical explanation.
Big Show and I looked at each other, and the TILT factor was palpable. "How much money are we going to steam off at this table because we don't want to pay for a $15 cigar ourselves?" I asked him.
"At LEAST a full buy in," he knew it was gonna happen, but we maintained our focus and continued to grind up our win.
An hour later, the cigar girl strolled by again, and the pit boss chimed in, "I can buy you one of those cigars!"
"What did you think we were talking about?!?!?!" We were incredulous, as that's all we'd wanted in the first place. "Ohh - I thought you wanted one of the special ones from the Salon," the pit boss explained, as we were in the pit right outside the high limit salon area. So we finally got our cigars, free of charge (SHIP IT!), and smoked them as we again encountered a communications breakdown, this time with our dealer.
"How much do we have to bet in baccarat if we want to tear up the cards?" I asked him, as this would give us great pleasure - in baccarat, you are allowed to destroy the cards as you look at them. "I've seen guys bet $200,000 a hand," he explained.
"No no, what's the MINIMUM?" Big Show tried to help this idiot understand the question.
"Some guys bet $15k a hand, some guys bet more," the dealer replied. What the fuck language am I speaking?
"I understand that," I interrupted again. "What is the minimum we have to bet though to rip the cards up?"
"A lot of guys just bet $5,000," the dealer was really trying to tilt me by completely ignoring the question and feigning ignorance of the US American language. He appeared to be Bulgarian or Croatian or something like that, but was no fool, and seemed to comprehend fine.
"Say WHAT again!" Big Show grunted, imitating Jules from Pulp Fiction, as I laughed and gave up the line of questioning, and put aside my dreams of shredding a baccarat shoe for the moment.
Having thrashed the double deck game, we made a quick hit and run at the Pai Gow pit, before deciding to play some late night drunken low-limit no limit hold'em.
We sat down next to each other at a 1-2 NL table which became 7 handed, and I won the first 8 hands in a row by raising and re-raising, firing at flops. Big Show eventually laughed "that's EIGHT in a row." "Maybe I should slow down?" I inquired. "Why? Wait until they put money in the pot." If someone called a flop bet, or bet into you, it was an easy laydown. Otherwise, we'd continue to abuse the game. One Canadian doucheball tilted Big Show by wearing a big dopey ski hat, and thinking he was a pro. Big Show was in the bathroom when this idiot raised with JTs, and then explained to me, with his loony accent, "That's a good hand, a money making hand, eh?" "You're a douche, EH?" I muttered to myself, and resumed my abuse of him and the other helpless ducklings, before we quickly tired and retired to the room to refuel for the night.
more to come.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Here Comes Another Bubble

Good Stuff

Monday, December 03, 2007

The Fat Stripper

When you see a sign that says "The Fat Stripper" what do you think of? I'll give you a hint - this post is NOT a Vegas trip report.
What if you saw that sign on the window of a retail store while walking down the street? If I told you that the store sold fruit smoothies, you might eventually figure out that there is a gigantic difference between FAT stripper, and fat STRIPPER. Most of us, upon seeing "The Fat Stripper," probably assume, as I did, that fat is an adjective... I peeked in the window, wondering where they were hiding her in this little store, before it hit me - "OHHHHHHHHH... it's a shake that makes me skinny!"
The idiots at the smoothie store are probably wondering why no fit girls are coming in and ordering The Fat Stripper... "I don't get it... it SHOULD be delicious - blueberries, strawberries, fat free yogurt.... why don't our customers want it?" In the words of the classic Seinfeld sketch: "Who are the ad wizards that came up with THIS one?"
The Big Show and I hit Vegas on Thursday. Trip report imminent when we return.