Vegas Leap Year 2008: Part III: The Abyss

I'm sure you've already read Part I and Part II.

Saturday I woke up rested but still reeling from the beating I'd taken at the 5-10NL table the day before. I focused on the positive: that I'd gone 3 for 3 with my advanced "handicap by name" horse picking technique, where I hit on Friday with 1) Kennan's Josh, 2) Big Pooch and 3) Tug River Princess. Big Show and I stopped by the sports book, where I picked up 10 different racing forms to scour for good horse names as we strolled over to Chipotle to fuel up.

I perused the forms as I pounded a chicken fajita burrito, and knew I'd found a grand slam with Bologna Lips in the 4th race @ Meadowlands. I also bet "Juiced" in honor of the Clemens debacle, and some other horses with names so stupid I can't even remember. Shockingly, the momentum failed, and I went 0 for Saturday on my horse picks. Fahhhhk!

We decided to dominate the Venetian $500 Saturday NLHE tourney, even though I've been focusing on cash games lately. I stepped up the aggression early on, and quickly had my table trained to recognize that Kid Dynamite was not to be fucked with. One donkey to my left commented out loud about how relentless I was and how he didn't want to see me at the final table. I mentioned that I didn't think he'd have to worry about that, and that he was indeed correct - he did NOT want to see me at the final table or at any other table he was at, as I smiled politely. This guy ordered a hot tea with honey and lemon - aka - The Dirty Dave - which nearly caused me to jump out of my chair. He then bought me a complimentary hot chocolate, after I told him they were top notch at the Venetian. After half the field got eliminated, I was moved to Big Show's table, where he gave me the rundown on the donkeys there, including a tricky guy in seat one who thought he was the shit.

I took one look at Mr. Smooth and looked at Big Show, announcing from across the table, "I've played with him before," as I looked at the guy and smiled. He was the Mirage Bully from my January 2005 Winter Assault trip report - and I remembered the hand I'd stacked him on more than 3 years ago. I looked at the guy and nodded. He smiled back. "I've played with you before," I explained... "Mirage. You used to be a dealer right?"

"I deal at the Wynn," he told me.

"You used to deal at the Rio, right?"

"YES! A LONG time ago," the guy was pretty surprised that I'd thrown this info at him.

"I remember the hand I stacked you on - I had a set of deuces and you turned Q-5 into two pair," I recited. I remembered the hand well. I was not surprised that he could not recall the hand.

Now, when I explained this table talk to the resident pro in my local game, he questioned why I'd want to put it out there that I had that kind of recall and attention to detail. The answer was simple - in a tourney where the blinds and antes are high and I want all the respect and steal equity I can get, I want my opponents to know one thing: DYKWTFIA!??!?! (in case you're knew to Kid Dynamite's world, that's DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?!?!!?)

Mr. Smooth nodded with respect and I knew I wouldn't have to worry about him trying to take advantage of me. When he reraised my open raise with 8-8, I laid it down and was shown JJ. Four hours into the tourney, with half the field gone, I couldn't avoid busting out against him though, when my stack dwindled and I open raised with A-8 suited in late position, only to run into his pocket tens, and, priced in, called off the rest of my chips. His hand held up, and I retreated to the Venetian pool deck to recap the weekend action via phone call with Dirty Dave as I reclined on a chaise lounge in the setting sun. After calling US Airways to successfully upgrade my return flight to first class, I was in a better mood, and dialed up Dirty Dave.

Dave commiserated my NLHE cold decks from Friday, and admired the advanced blackjack tilt plays Big Show and I employed. He got me pumped up to make another casino pit assault that evening, which commenced soon thereafter when Big Show busted out 30 minutes later. Big Show joined me poolside, but we quickly got kicked out of the pool for being too jacked and tan - I don't know how they could tell through my Columbia full zip pullover - maybe it was just that the pool was closing.

Now - I promised my most loyal reader Bones that this trip report would not contain any pee or poop references, but Big Show had the funniest line of the trip in the Venetian bathroom. We were taking care of business at the urinals, with a little Asian guy at the pisser between us, when Big Show looked in my direction and asked "How desperate are you?"

Hmmm... Tough question - I'd been lamenting on my beats at the poker table, but when this question is posed in the bathroom by the Big Show as he's looking at me over the head of a little Asian dude, the implications can be dire. I tried not to laugh, pursed my lips, and asked, "Do I even DARE ask why?"

"There's a $1 chip in the pisser," Big Show explained, as we burst out laughing.

"If it were a yellow chip ($1k) I'd go after it bobbing-for-apples style," I retorted, which prompted the discussion of how big the chip would have to be for you to fish it out of the pisser. Big Show said he'd go after a redbird ($5)... No no, I'm kidding... It's important to consider that the Venetian does NOT have the antisplash.com blue AstroTurf in the urinals - the chip is floating by the piss-mint. We left it for a future patron, but I'd bet my bankroll it didn't last 90 minutes in there. There is ALWAYS someone desperate enough in Vegas.

Since it was a new month, March 1st, I had another $25 match play which I wanted to slam on the Pai Gow table. There was a guy who was banking every other hand, as per the rules at the Venetian, and this caused all sorts of controversy with the match play. In Pai Gow, you can BANK the game, which means you cover all the bets on the table, and the players play against YOUR hand instead of the dealer's hand. They told me I couldn't use the match play card when this guy was banking, since he couldn't be made to pay it off. I politely explained that this was absolutely absurd, and they should call their supervisor, as the guy could still bank, and the Venetian would just have to cover this $25 if I won. This nearly caused an international incident with the 20 Asian pit personnel in the pit, who conferred and concluded that the match play could NOT be used when the guy was banking - which I'm POSITIVE cannot be correct.

The thing with Pai Gow is that there are so many ties, so I had to keep taking this thing down every time the doucheball in the one seat banked. This guy was a professional Pai Gow player - at least he thought he was, and I started calling him Monopoly Man out loud, as he had a shiny bald head and a bushy moustache. Big Show set the over/under on MM's net worth at $400k, and I instantly took the under. I begged the Big Show to let me pull out two dimes and bust this guy, which of course would have made the Big Show's weekend, but I pussed out and steamed every time I pulled back the match play card and won - at least I was putting beats on Monopoly Man. Eventually, I managed to win the math play freeroll, which prompted a joint "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!" from the Big Show and Kid Dynamite.

I was SEVERELY tilted when we went for a walk through the high limit salon which is adjacent to the pit we were playing in, and I had barely taken two steps before a female Asian pit boss materialized in front of me and actually put her hand on my chest, stopping me and asking me for ID! Now, one of the great things about casinos is that they never know who has money and who doesn't, which is why they are usually not rude to people like this, and in this case, the pit boss clearly did not know who the fuck I was. I handed her my ID, and after 10 seconds snatched it back out of her hand. "I'm not done!" she hissed at me, and I explained that I was a guest of the casino with a line of credit, I was 31 years old, and she better FUCK OFF promptly, only not in those exact words. I retrieved my ID, and peed all over the floor in the high limit private bathroom (I kid I kid - I live by the Golden Rule: if you wouldn't want someone else to pee on the floor, don't pee on the floor yourself, even if the pit boss is a b-yatch).

Big Show and I went in search of food, and ended up at Emeril's Table 10 in the Palazzo, where we sat at the bar and had a few appetizers each. The food was decent, and primed us to continue our assault on the double deck blackjack game outside the high limit salon at the Palazzo. We were again comped cigars, and I put the waitress on mega-tilt by asking her for a glass of port. "I don't know if we have that," she wined, but I told her to run along and ask the bartender, and she returned promptly with a suitable result. Even the pit boss was tilted, raising an eyebrow and asking "What are you drinking?"

"Port," I replied matter-of-factly, before rolling over a blackjack, standing up, and bellowing "and I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!" Big Show convulsed with laughter as he tried not to throw up. I'm not afraid to admit that I engage in blackjack racial profiling. I don't like to play with people other than Big Show to start with, and if a doucheball who clearly doesn't know how to play comes to my table and fucks up my mojo with suboptimal play, I'm SUPER easily tilted. So I took proactive measures when a likely candidate strolled up, and told Big Show we were leaving immediately. We walked into the Salon, and quickly convinced the pit boss to cut the limit on the baccarat table from $200 to $100 so we could break our baccarat cherry, and do what we've been wanting to do for the past several trips: rip up a whole shoe of cards at the baccarat table!

It was not at all hard to tell that we'd never played baccarat before, and our antics thoroughly entertained the pit boss and dealer. The great thing about baccarat is that no matter how big a donkey you are, the house edge is the same: there are no strategy decisions, only a decision on who to bet on: Player or Bank. Whomever has the highest bet on each side gets to turn over that side's respective cards, which caused Big Show and I to bet against each other sometimes, just so we could taunt each other, and BOTH rip up the cards.

The other great thing about baccarat is that the players DEVOUTLY chart the results on a little piece of wide graph paper they give you. Like it fucking matters. My chart was a world class piece of work, which included stock trend graphs, haiku, smiley faces, "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE" written all over it, and a phenomenal array of gibberish written in both red and black ink - my biggest regret of the weekend is not saving it. Before each bet, Big Show would inquire "what does the chart say?" "Player - definitely," I'd tell him, and we'd get down on the player, and alternate who got to rip up the cards.

Suddenly, a South American cartel guy sat down at our table in the two seat, with a guy who looked just like Turtle from Entourage, his buddy, in the one seat. It turned out they were Mexican, but I'll call him Escobar anyway. I was in the four seat, which of course isn't numbered "4" because four is an unlucky number in Asia - my seat is numbered "5"... Anyway - Turtle and Escobar were a strange mix, since Escobar looked to be about 55, and Mexi-Turtle was around 28. Big Show muttered to me "this could change our dynamic a bit," and he was right, as Escobar's $500-$1000 bets quickly sized us, and meant we suddenly no longer got to rip up the cards unless we dared to bet against him! We loved Escobar's panache though, as he'd ask the dealer to turn over the cards: "Show me one card," then pause, consider it, breathe deeply, "And the other," while we had just had the dealer flip over the hand that we'd be going up against.

After dropping $5k in cash on the table, losing it, and losing another $6k in cash, Escobar pulled out another $5k and laid it on the table. At this point, the pit boss - in baccarat it seems there is always a pit boss standing over the table - steps in and says "Sir, I need more identification before I can complete this transaction." Wow. Talk about doing your job - the insinuation was immediately clear to me, having worked on Wall Street and having had to undergo training in regulations related to money laundering: this guy looked like a cartel member, and he wasn't putting any more cash on the table without them running his passport. It didn't matter that Escobar had been walked over to the table by a Palazzo host - the host had failed on his promise to deliver Escobar's player's card, and this pit boss had seen enough and wanted more ID. The game came to a halt, as we sat silently while Mexi-Turtle tried to negotiate and explain that the passport was in their room at Caesar's. Escobar encouraged us to play on without him, and finally got his visa issues straightened out, before dropping another buy-in and leaving.

Somehow during all this, I found myself stuck $2k, and gave the pit boss the signal that I needed another $2k marker. Although I'm really not a big gambler, I found myself betting $500 a hand in baccarat - a game in which I certainly had no edge and had never even played before. This was not normal behavior for me! I was supremely tilted, and felted again, as I signaled the pit boss for another 2 dimes. Fuck it - if you're going down, go down in FLAMES - I was staring into the abyss.

Down a full $5k, I consulted my chart as Big Show went to the bathroom, probably to avoid watching the Kid Dynamite Trainwreck. I pressed my bets from $500 to $700 to $1100, winning five hands in a row, and almost instantly erasing my debt. Suddenly, the fucking pipe smoker - and I don't mean this guy chugged cock - he was ACTUALLY smoking a pipe, bumps his bet to $800 to cover my $700 bet, and before I even know what happened, the dealer has shipped him the cards. This is after I had won 5 hands in a row! You don't need to have a PhD in Baccarat Etiquette to know THIS IS NOT SOMETHING YOU FUCKING DO! I was somewhat surprised that the dealer hadn't even given me the heads up - not so much as a glance to see if I wanted to get into a bigger dick contest with the PipeSmoker and up my bet to keep control of the cards and the streak. Of course, we lost the hand, and I steamed about as hard as I ever have in a casino, as I eyed the guy and tried to give him a mental vibe that he'd just fucked up in a way that was not even possible to describe, and I wanted to fight him to the death. He didn't receive my telepathy, so I took the $2500 I had in front of me, and walked out of the baccarat pit down $3500, dragging Big Show to the $200 double deck table right outside the salon.

We absolutely SLAMMED the double deck game - where I made back the $3500 in less than THREE shoes! I won hand after hand, pressed my bets, doubled down and won - and was suddenly even. Having stared into the abyss and come out alive, I told Big Show: "I'm done for the night. I just want OUT of this. I want to buy back my markers and be even with the Palazzo." Big Show appreciated the sentiment, called me a pussy, and continued to battle solo at the table, while I walked back to the Salon.

I approached the pit and handed a different pit boss there my card, asking him if my markers had been sent to the cage yet. He retrieved the pit boss who'd presided over my game, and whispered in his ear that I wanted to buy back my markers. The pit boss who'd written my markers immediately had a look of disbelief on his face; shocked that I had managed to get out of the hole, and not realizing I was standing there. I tossed him two chips: a $5k chocolate and a $1k banana, and he retrieved my markers, which I promptly shredded and threw in the toilet, once again having escaped the clutches of the Palazzo.

After wandering back and forth between the Palazzo and Venetian for about an hour, I bailed on the night, and headed to bed before 3am on Saturday - and new record pussy performance for a Vegas Veteran. The near-death baccarat experience had taken its toll on me, and I needed rest before our final assault on Sunday morning.

Sunday:

We woke up and hit Chipotle again - Big Show couldn't handle it and went with pizza instead. After lunch, we walked south on the strip, marvelling at the mass of development underway. It's shocking to stand there by the City Center project and realize how far behind the ball those guys are - they are about 5 years too late.

Before heading to the airport, we had a few hours to hammer the Palazzo double deck blackjack game, but we couldn't avoid the ceaseless flow of ignorant doucheballs. Dirty Dave explained to me later that this was the Sunday through Wednesday convention crowd. At one point, we even asked the pit boss to RAISE our table minimum in an attempt to keep out doucheballs, but even this failed to deter them, and I went and steamed off $800 at the Pai Gow table before Big Show and I shared a cab to the airport.

The first class treatment soothed me - yes, thank you, I WOULD like a warm cookie, which I would be happy to eat with a fork and knife - and I dozed intermittantly on my trip home, pondering the next trip to the Desert.

until next time,

KD

Vegas - Leap Year 2008: Part II

Friday, Feb 29th, 2008

If you missed Part I, I don't know what's wrong with you, but go read it right now.

Now that I'm mature (read: I no longer have any sort of physical all-nighter stamina) I've learned that it's ok to get a little sleep in Vegas. The days of three night trips with 6 hours of total sleep are long gone for me, but I have to say that I was a little embarrassed with the solid eight hours I got on Thursday night. Friday morning, nevertheless, did NOT leave me feeling like a million bucks, but Big Show and I had business to attend to: negative EV was lurking all over town waiting for us.

We stopped at the Club Gracie player's club desk to validate the free match play coupons the Venetian had mailed to us: I had a $25 freeroll and Big Show, courtesy of his reckless blackjack assault last trip, had a $50 match play. We put the validated match plays in our pockets to save for later, and went in search of chow.

Big Show wanted to "save" Chipotle for Saturday, so we hit Wasabi Jane's in the Venetian food court for lunch. This is basically the rich man's Panda Express - it's the same shit, with a slightly Japanese tilt, and hopefully less gastro-assault aftermath effects. The steak & cheese sandwich I'd had the prior night after 2am at the Grand Luxe Cafe wasn't exactly easy on the stomach.

Adequately fueled, Big Show and I hit the Venetian poker room, where we were promptly seated next to each other in a 2-5NL game. Early on I got called down by a Nascar cockchugger when I held AK and it was the only hand his 99 could beat on the T-8-2-4-Q board. "That's what I put you on" he explained after he called my river bet, and I laughed and told him I'd consider it a loan, not a deposit. Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to stack this d-ball, as I was called for the 5-10NL game which was just starting.

I'd asked the Big Show late the prior night if he thought that the leap year would be a positive sigma gambling event or a negative one. We concluded that gambling on a leap year had to be hugely positive EV, but unfortunately, my Venetian 5-10NL session did not back up this theory.

Despite a fantastic game - one of the top 5 crazy games I've ever played in, wilder even than Six Sigma Sunday in terms of sheer pot size, I was unable to make anything good happen. My AK ran into a donkey's 2-5 on a K-2-2 flop where I had to pay him off as he'd raise me there with any king and probably any ace. Then, I made a nice raise on the button with 4-4 when the flop came A-2-5 with two clubs and a weak tight doucheball made a weak bet. I pushed on him, a pot sized raise back to him, and he called me with JTc. The turn was a 3, giving me a wheel, and the river was a 4, putting a wheel on board - that's how it went for me all day.

Yellow $1k chips were flying in the game, as a true local maniac sat down to my immediate left. I picked up JJ and came over the top of the donkey's open raise, all in. The maniac called me cold (with SEVEN high!!!), but I knew I was dead when a tight Russian assassin re-raised. I couldn't crack his KK, and then dumped another buyin after that.

Down 3 full buyins, I was pretty steamed, especially since the game had been so good and I couldn't harvest any of the berry patch, but Big Show's boss had set us up with a top flight dinner at SW Steakhouse on his tab, which promised to be a rewarding freeroll. After changing into sharper attire than my uber-intimidating long sleeve Puma t-shirt I'd terrorized the poker table with, we met Big Show's brother in law and his buddy, and walked over to the Wynn.

Dinner was no joke - as Noey, the somelier and our host, remembered us from our prior journeys, and removed the menus from in front of us, letting us know we'd be in his good hands. He slammed us with a nice shellfish platter, crab legs, and a fantastic bottle of wine, then a small scallop dish and a tasty salad with bacon and blue cheese, before levelling us with the knockout blow: the Kobe beef. I'm not one to leave food on the plate in front of me, especially when we're talking about the best steak I'd ever had, but it was so rich I couldn't even finish the last two slices, which were eagerly absorbed by Big Show. Big Show's bro-in-law had no luck pawning off any of his Chivas aperitif on me, as my eyes teared from a mere whiff of the swill.

After dinner, we started walking through the Wynn, but I quickly lost track of the Big Show when I wandered through the Wynn poker room, which was cranking at full blast with volatile cash games in the wake of the Wynn Classic tourney that was going on. I called Big Show's cell, and he answered in muted tones.

"You're on the shitter aren't you?" I had a good read. He confirmed as much, and I had some similar business to take care of, but ran into the crowd coming out of the Avenue Q theatre, and had to go in search of a less trafficked poopatorium.

I found a nice oasis over by the Blush "uber-lounge" and texted Big Show from the throne "In the shitter by Blush." Yep, I'm not afraid to admit that I'll send text messages from the toilet. In interesting urinal-spray-absorption news, the Wynn no longer uses the blue AstroTurf from Anti-splash.com - they have a new piss flow mediation brand.

After exercising the SW Steak position, I met up with Big Show, and we returned to the Palazzo to dominate the double deck BJ game. We sat down at the quarter table, and whipped out our match play cards. Big Show got maximum value from his by spiking a top of the deck blackjack, which of course prompted him to stand up and scream "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE," confusing a new batch of casino personnel. When a chooch sat down at our table, I, having no tolerance for sub-optimal play, quickly called an audible to move to the black chip table across the pit.

This decision worked well, as we crushed the game for several hours, drinking the Palazzo's milkshake repeatedly, and each putting together a win in the neighborhood of 2 dimes. THe cocktail waitress came by with champagne, which got me going in full swing. Maybe Leap Year was positive EV after all! Since we were pretty much unwilling to play with other people at the table, we didn't get to meet any crazy characters like Androgynous Kim Jong Il. We became the characters ourselves, as my relentless "I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE" exclamations along with Big Show's pleas of "MONARCHEEEEEEEEEEEE" instead of MONKEY confused and tilted dealer after dealer.

Having recovered a portion of my poker losses from the day, and again showing pathetic staying power, I retired to the room after dumping a buy-in in the Let-It-Ride game.

until next time,

KD

I Drink Your Milkshake!

Pump up the volume, and prepare for Part II

Vegas - Leap Year 2008 - Part I

The key to success in Vegas is avoiding TILT. I know this. I know the plethora of pitfalls - the TILT-traps lurking all over the place. Still, somehow, I am never able to make it two hundred yards from my apartment door on the way to the airport without being simmered into a potentially furious state of bajungi TILT.

If you live in New York City you've been in enough dirty cabs with completely incompetent drivers to know that the smart play when you're going to the airport is to call a car service. You can get a nice town car for virtually the same price as a cab, and you have the expectation of a more comfortable ride, and hopefully a driver that knows how to avoid some of the airport traffic pitfalls. Of course, you have to give a little to get a little - and what you give is usually your olfactory sanity: the town cars are frequently perfumed with a more potent brain throbbing odor than the Venetian's signature smell.

As I looked out the window on Thursday morning at 8am, wolfing down a bowl of cereal, and searching for my car, my wife remarked, "Why do you bother with them? Why don't you just take a taxi?" I gently explained my reasons (see paragraph above!), but she was smirking and shaking her head when I was on the phone with the car service 10 minutes later, being told that my car was on 35th and 2nd Ave. Now, they are already 10 minutes late, and at least 20 minutes away. I not so politely informed the woman on the other end of the phone that this was not acceptable, and she suavely quashed my rant by telling me that she agreed with me. I hung up the phone, now on full tilt, especially since you can't SLAM a cell phone down, and hightailed it out the door to find a cab. There are times in New York when you can't find a cab: in midtown at rush hour, in the Village at midnight on Friday, and ANY time you are trying to get to the airport to make a flight. Of course, I'm standing in the street wearing a zipper down fleece, prepared for Vegas 70 degree weather, not the NYC 20 degree ice box I was now stuck in due to the complete incompetence of Allstate Car and Limo - NEVER use those cockchuggers. I managed to hail a mini-van cab - and since it was 8:30 on Thursday morning and I was going TO JFK instead of FROM JFK, was able to relax as we hit virtually no traffic.

I had time to stop at the US Airways check-in counter and move my seat to an exit row aisle, which turned into a nice parlay when the middle seat was empty as well! Alternating between the pages of Carl Hiaasen's Basket Case and 30 minute naps, I survived the flight (a mere 5 hours due to beneficial tailwinds) in good shape, save for some mild starvation. I hit Chops with the patented "The eagle has landed" text, which was quickly greeted with a "sweet - i was waiting for that" reply, followed by "Pure 9pm heads up red carpet." Chops, media mogul that he is, has VIP access to the red carpet session for the National Heads Up Poker Championship.

A bonus when you arrive in Vegas at noon on Thursday is that the cab line at McCarran is also non-existent, and I pulled out my sunglasses as I told my driver: "Palazzo." He repeated it back to me in a voice that sounded far too much like "The Plaza," so I reconfirmed, and he smiled knowingly. Cabbies in Vegas are always a fantastic source of information, even if not all of it is true. Hey - as long as the fucker doesn't try to take me "the fast way" on the highway, I'm happy to listen to stories about what's going on in town. This time, we talked about real estate - the incredible amount of development that's going on in Vegas still. Any doubts I had about the scale of the bubble were erased when we pulled up at the Palazzo and the cabbie handed me his card, telling me he was also a real estate broker. How do I short Las Vegas real estate? Man - getting back my deposit for a unit at the Cosmopolitan was probably the best financial decision I've made in the last 5 years.

I breezed through check-in at the Palazzo, handing the woman my credit card, as I confirmed, "The room is complementary, right?" Indeed - courtesy of the play of Big Show and Kid Dynamite at the Venetian on our prior trip, we'd been taken care of this time. Freerollllll! I dropped my bag in the room, which looked just like the rooms at the Venetian, and headed downstairs in search of sustenance. The Palazzo gaming floor is very spacious - high ceilinged and wide-aisled, it has a nice, roomy, not at all claustrophobic feel. I strolled into Dos Caminos - an upscale Mexican-fusion New York export, and had a margarita and some chipotle brisket taquitos at the bar, before heading over to the Venetian poker room.

Mildly tilted by the ill-advised directions I was given, I wandered aimlessly through the Grand Canal Shops as I checked in with Big Show who was still at work. Eventually, I found my way out, and was quickly seated in a 2-5NL game at the Venetian, where I sat down and raised the first FIVE hands I was dealt (99, AK, KQ, KQ, AK) - all the while trying to explain to the table that I had monster hands and was so lucky - shrugging as I continuation bet flops that missed me completely and taking down pots that surely did not belong to me. I escaped disaster when a doucheball limp-reraised me preflop and then check-raised me on the flop - oy vey - DYKWTFIA?!?!?! Several hands later I looked into the soul of another cockchugger to make a tremendous call, only to have him suck out and chop the pot with me. Unfortunately, an hour later, I started a trend for this trip - as I ran into an opponent holding the nuts for the first of at least 50 times.

Moving to the 5-10NL game, I treaded water for hours waiting for the Big Show. The game was mediocre - with several young pros I recognized from my previous trip - and I ran into the nuts two more times, stacking myself in the process. Finally, Big Show sent me a text letting me know he had landed, and I racked up down $650 and headed for the room. I explained to Big Show that Chops had the hookup at Caesar's for the NHUPC event, but that it was doubtful we'd be able to get into the party they had for the heads up bracket draw at Pure. Still, we decided to head over there, and dumped a buy-in at the Let-It-Ride table at Caesar's before the cellphone sprang to life: "CHOPS HERE."

We cruised over to the red carpet outside Pure, where Chops was set up with his camera girl Denise, doing interviews for Rawvegas.TV. Even though I thought I'd be infinitely more entertaining than Denise with the red carpet questions, she's a Playboy playmate, and her boobs are marginally nicer than mine, so Chops would not relent to my pleas to let me handle the mic. Rapidly a crowd gathered, as the who's who of poker royalty showed up. Everyone was there - but the great thing about these poker players is that they're just normal people - with a few notable exceptions they really don't know how to act like, or want to act like celebrities. Big Show was pretty grossed out by a few toothless Matusow groupies - a husband and wife team where the wife made Mikey sign her magazine and her jean jacket. When it became clear we wouldn't be able to get into Pure for the party, Big Show and I headed back to the Palazzo to dominate their double deck blackjack game.

Somehow, after squeezing out a blackjack at one point, I stood up and exclaimed "I. DRINK. YOUR. MILKSHAKE!" In the style of Daniel Day-Lewis's Daniel Plainview from There Will Be Blood. Now, it may not sound like much, but I can assure you it was hilarious, and UBER-tilt inducing for the dealers. They found it funny... for like the first 3 hours... Then, I could see carotid arteries throb each time Big Show or I would belt out I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE after spiking a five card 21 or a blackjack. Sadly, we couldn't get our dealer to return the favor by taunting us when he rolled over a blackjack - which would have lessened the pain.

Finally, bombed and tired, Big Show and I took a walk around the casino floor around 3am, surveying the desperation and business proceedings. As the hookers at the bar trolled for customers, I pondered aloud to Big Show, "Maybe we can get a whore to eat her own poop..."
He just laughed in awe, as I hit the elevator and crashed for some much needed rest:

stay tuned for part II.

-KD

Wii Fit

Tremendous Wii Fit parody.

Smoking Guns

I'm going to try not to get into a 1500 word rage on the Clemens-McNamee hearing, but there are a few things that need to be mentioned:

Yahoo News had a great story today about McNamee's account of the infamous Jose Canseco Pool Party, explaining how he specifically remembered that Clemens was there:

From the deposition of Brian McNamee, pages 26-27:
Q: We've received evidence that there was a team party at Canseco's house, but that Mr. Clemens was golfing that day and wasn't at the party. It sounds like you have a pretty clear recollection of seeing Mr. Clemens at this party along with some family members, is that right? Are you certain about that?

A: Roger showed up after golf, I believe. Maybe he was golfing. I don't know if he was golfing. He might have showed up a little bit later, but no, he was there the whole time for the most part. He was in the house. I could tell a specific story about him being there, which was involving Jose (Canseco), Jose's wife and Roger's wife when they went inside, when the guys showed up. I mean, they talked -- no disrespect, but they talked about how great Jose's wife's augmentation job was to Debbie and showed her. And then Debbie showed her her augmentation job.

This is where a better blogger would give you a picture of both Mrs. Clemens' bombs, and Mrs. Canseco's bombs. Come to think of it, i'll never think of "Canseco bombs" as long home runs anymore.

Simon On Sports offered up a pretty good, brief summary of the proceedings, in simple picture form.

Finally, I'm going to stand on my soap box (is that when it's called when you get 50 hits a day? maybe a match box?) Anyway, it's my blog, so I can write whatever the fuck I want, and I want to say that Congressman Burton from Indiana is an ignorant doucheball and he's lucky I'm not one of his constituents or I'd be using my free time to expose him for what he is and get him removed from office. Burton's fact-ignoring attack on Brian McNamee was ridiculous, and exposed how absurd these hearing are in the first place: a bunch of unqualified congressmen taking sides and trying to discredit either McNamee or Clemens. Burton actually quoted the fact that the announcers for the Blue Jay's game the day following the party in question (at Canseco's house) mentioned that Clemens was not there, THEREFORE, McNamee is a liar and cannot be trusted. Douche. He clearly didn't know about the "augmentation comparison."

Congressman Chris Shays from Connecticut earns runner up douche of the day awards for trying to make a name for himself by ranting about McNamee being a drug dealer. Hey Shays - you can't have it both ways - if McNamee is a drug dealer, then Clemens is a drug user.

Finally, I'm very confused about the quoted testimony of Clemens' nanny. McNamee claimed that the nanny would be able to corroborate his claim that Clemens was at the Canseco party, and he even gave a somewhat freaky and vivid description of the bikini and board shorts she was wearing as she chased the Clemens tots by the pool.

Congressman Waxman mentioned that when the committee finally got ahold of Clemens' nanny (after Clemens claimed he was "doing ya'll a favor" by contacting the nanny first, in direct defiance of the request of the committee) the nanny confirmed that Mrs. Clemens and the children were there and even spent the night at the Canseco house, and that Roger was there too. Then, the day after the hearings, there was a news story quoting the nanny as saying that Roger was NOT at the party, and that he is a very nice man, and that she told the committee as much. I don't know if Waxman "misremembered" the testimony of the nanny, much like Roger claims that Andy Pettitte "misremembers" Rocket telling him he used HGH, but I don't know where the conflicting information came from.

I leave you with an article from SportsPickle, explaining why we shouldn't worry that Congress is spending it's time with this Clemens bullshit: excerpts: "Major League Baseball umpires will gather between home plate and the pitcher’s mound today to discuss many of the biggest issues affecting America, as the Congressional panel spends its time determining the level of steroids use in baseball...The umpires will discuss the Iraq War, health care reform, global warming, border security, energy independence, taxes, torture, Social Security, and the minimum wage."

until next time...

-KD

ANOTHER Sign of the Apocalypse

Never mind that the temperature today here in NYC, on February 6th, was almost 70 degrees, how about this latest news in the Clemens steroid saga?

"Brian McNamee has given federal investigators bloody gauze pads and syringes he used to inject Roger Clemens with steroids and human-growth hormone in 2000 and 2001, a lawyer familiar with the matter said Wednesday."

Now, I'm no fan of Rocket Roger, but I can understand what his lawyer was feeling:

“It is just not credible — who in their right mind does such a thing?” Clemens’s Washington attorney, Lanny Breur said.

He saved bloody gauze pads for seven years?!?!?!? What the fuck?

Our country is at war, our economy is floundering, our congress is investigating baseball players possibly using drugs, and our senate is wasting its time looking into weather or not the Patriots may have taped part of a Rams' practice. Great stuff - and people think George Bush is the problem?

Oy vey.

-KD

Best Super Bowl Ad

Stupor Bowl

This cheers me up... the best commercial from the Super Bowl - the Tide talking stain.

Gotta give credit to the G-men. They walked through the top three teams in the NFC on the road, and then somehow pulled out somewhere between 6 and 600 favorable sigmas on their final drive to beat the Patriots, including a riCOCKulous first down hurl to David Tyree, who made a circus catch (pinning the ball against his HELMET!) as Rodney Harrison desperately tried to break up the play, and Asante Samuel stood still watching along with Ellis Hobbs.

Fuck. What really bugs me is those Schadenfreude-a-licious cockchuggers on the '72 Dolphins. Mercury Morris took a break from slamming 8-balls of coke long enough to make a new commercial relishing the Pats' defeat. Was it me, or was Don Shula missing from that commercial? He must have been getting his diaper changed. If only Eli hadn't put together the miracle drive to beat all miracle drives, we'd never have to hear from these doucheballs again - but the Patriots' perfect regular season is without a doubt marginalized by their failure to win the Super Bowl - no one can argue that.

Peter King summed up the game pretty well when he quoted Michael Strahan, who, relishing in his team's victory and attempting to explain it, was quoting the inimmitable Mike Tyson: "Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face."

You can't blame this game on the officials, but I am a little surprised that not one of the myriad articles I read today mentioned the highly questionable call when Patriots linebacker Pierre Woods (who?!?!?!) recovered an Eli Manning fumble in the first half on the Giants' side of the field, only to have the Giants' linemen flip him over and rip the ball from his hands.

If there was a line in Vegas earlier in the season for "Which Manning will hand New England their first defeat of the season?" I think it would have looked something like:

Peyton - 1200

Eli + 950

And Coughlin putting together the perfect game plan - outcoaching Belichick?!? Coughlin didn't even use his challenge flag!!! Are you fucking KIDDING me? I would have bet that there would be a safety in the game before I bet that Coughlin would make it through the game without making an asinine challenge. These are definitely signs of the apocalypse. I'm going to start building my bunker.

I think I'll watch the Tide talking stain ad again...

-KD

Go Pats!

Anthem Time

Wait Til Next Century did a writeup on some past National Anthem performances that wasn't quite as good as the one I did last year, but he did embed the top notch Chicago NHL All-Star game performance, so props for that.

Jordin Sparks, the reigning American Idol, will do the Anthem this year.

Vegas Watch did a piece on a number of Super Bowl prop bets, including the Sparks Anthem over/under, which is set at 1 minute 42 seconds. As I found out last year, when Billy Joel rushed through the Anthem in the rain, just because all of the past performances you can find on YouTube are longer than that doesn't mean we should ignore the other factors. Last year I overestimated Billy Joel's performance flair and lost my bet with Dirty Dave.

Sparks is a mere pup at 18 years of age - so maybe nerves will be a factor? On the contrary - she's had plenty of exposure from Idol, and will probably embrace the chance to show off her pipes. Go with the Anthem Over and the Pats minus the points.

-KD

Can I Get A Jersey?

From Peter King's MMQB column:

"Transaction of the Week: Noticed this in the paper the other day, under baseball transactions in something called the Golden Baseball League: CALGARY VIPERS -- Agreed to terms with OF Jorge Poo Tang."

Wow. Just wow. Where can I get a Poo Tang jersey? That's even better than the Alexander Semin jersey!

-KD

Double Stuf Racing League?!?!?!?!

Yes - the Manning brothers REALLY did this commercial. I saw it with my own two horrified eyes today WHILE Peyton was crashing and burning at home as a massive favorite against the Chargers (who, in case you were wondering, stand NO shot against the Patriots next week.)

Ok, so, if you want to throw up in your mouth out of shock and disgust at the levels Peyton Manning will stoop to, go to the homepage for the DSRL. Now click on the video on the right hand side of the screen - don't worry, despite the name Double Stuf Racing League, it's not pornographic, except for the part where the Manning brothers furiously scrub their tongues with open faced Oreo cookies, like they're trying to erase the taste of some sour twang. Sour twang - I like that - good name for a band.

Doesn't Peyton Manning have an agent who's supposed to advise him not to do commercials like this? Big Show surmised that Eli must have really needed the money and that Peyton, TV whore that he is, was more than willing to help his little bro.

And oh, Jeremy Green published his postmortem on the Pats-Jags game, blaming the Jags defense for the loss...

-KD

Mea Culpa?

I'm always amused by articles like this one from Jeremy Green, explaining how the Jacksonville Jaguars will beat the New England Patriots this weekend.

What's most amazing about Green's piece is that he commendably managed to write a pro-Jacksonville piece without using the most prolific and asinine Jacksonville cliche soundbite of the past month: that they are a "Southern football team that plays like a Northern football team," and that the Jags are "Built for Northern, hard nosed, cold weather football."

Look, it's fine for a columnist to try to make a name for himself by issuing a ridiculous, counter-trend thesis with the tiny prayer that the multi-sigma event will actually go his way and attract "I told you so" recognition. HOWEVER, when the Pats beat the Jags on Saturday I'll be looking for Jeremy Green's mea culpa on Sunday morning.

-KD

The O-Dog

Oscar kinda has his own blog now. Mrs. Dynamite spends a lot of time working on the SnifNYCDogs blog, which is a blog of dog-related activities in New York City. Obviously, the O-Dog is the star of the blog - and will soon be the pioneer test subject and early adopter for the cool technology that SnifLabs is developing.

-KD

Happy Whatevs

Vegas: Winter 2007 Part III: Fight Night

If you missed part one or part two, go read them now, I'll wait.

Saturday

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.

Sunday

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,

KD

Vegas Winter 2007 Part II: Culture Clash

Friday

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.

-KD

Vegas - Winter 2007 International Incident

Thursday

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.

-KD

Here Comes Another Bubble

Good Stuff

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.

-KD