Vegas: March 2007: Part II: DYKWTFIA?

If you haven't read Part I, what the fuck are you waiting for?

Friday In Vegas.

I awoke with a number of thoughts and burning questions rushing through my head:

1: Man, I'm so lucky Mrs. Dynamite lets me jaunt off to Vegas at will. Being a softy, I lob her a text message: "I miss you." Yeah, Kid Dynamite is whipped. Completely.

2) Why does my calf hurt? Oh yeah - I almost forgot about the Mirage's attempt to tilt us last night: We were dominating the double deck blackjack game late night, and they decided to close the poker room crapper "for cleaning," around 2:30 am... for about THREE hours! We retaliated by dashing off to the sports book head instead, whenever the situation warranted. Since we were drinking heavily, and I have a bladder the size of a baseball, this resulted in frequent trips to the inconvenient bathroom. On one of these junkets, I missed one of the steps by the circle bar, and tweaked my left calf. While it appeared the Mirage may be succeeding in their attempt to take me off my game, and had even managed to inflict a calf injury somehow in a double deck blackjack game, we re-gained the upper hand when our dealer mentioned: "You know, there's a nice bathroom right behind this table in the high limit slots salon."

Big Show and I looked at each other, and dashed to check out this new found oasis. I beat him to the solo-bathroom: a luxe escape, with real linen towels, air freshener, mints and hair products! Jackpot! Suck it Mirage!

where was I... oh yeah.. Friday morning...

3) Where the fuck is Big Show? In all of our trips to Vegas, which now number almost 30 I believe, I don't think Big Show has ever awakened before me. This must be the result of his 3 hour power nap the night before. I knew I'd find him in the Office, and quickly showered and pumped myself up for some Mirage No Limit domination, and hopefully some serious sigmas.

I arrived in the Mirage poker room around noon, and found Big Show sitting in the 1-2NL game which I cannot beat. Danielle, my favorite floor person in all of Vegas, didn't have a 2-5NL seat for me yet, and I ran through the list with her: "10-20 limit?" "It's full." "Omaha eight?" "You're too young," she laughed, and I regaled her with the story of how I tilted the crap out of the game last trip by playing a non-nut hand and nearly caused 3 heart attacks and oxygen tank failures at the table. Since I didn't want to play heads up 40-80 limit hold'em with some resident cock chugger, I decided to destroy the 1-5 stud game while waiting for my 2-5NL seat!

Yeah baby - DYKWTFIA? I will take on any game at any time. This seems like a good time to mention that I've never played more than 10 minutes of stud in my life. Still, that couldn't stop me from crushing the game for $35 (BOO YAH!) in 15 minutes before Danielle called me for the 2-5 NL game.

The 2-5NL game was unspectacular. As usual, I was the dominant force at the table, but, even with my headphones on, I was steadily building into a state of full TILT, on account of Mr. "What's It Look Like?" Normally, being a Beantown original myself, I love people from Boston: the ignorant accents, the passion for the Sawx, etc. This doucheball, however, was driving me fucking crazy by asking "What's it look like?" every time someone bet. I'd say "THIRTY," as I stacked off red chips, and he's still say "WHAT'S IT LOOK LIKE?" What? Did you read a book or see a movie that made you think that was a cool thing to say? It looks like fucking THIRTY - that's why I said "THIRTY" when I bet it, so you wouldn't have to ask me what the fuck it looked like.

There was a multi-sigma Chinese guy to my immediate left, whose only English consisted of: "All in," "No pair," and "first time poker." He'd push all in, win a pot. Then he'd push all in, get called, declare "no pair," and nod as his opponent raked in his chips. Then, he'd reach into his pocket and buy another $400 in chips, and laugh "First time poker!" "Yeah, keep trying," we commiserated, as I begged for the chance to get a piece of the action: The guy was in for 2 grand, and I had none of it so far.

I finally captured some of the sigmas in this hand: Mr. "What's It Look Like" (WILL from here on) opens for $15 in EP. He gets called twice, including a call from a woman who hasn't played a hand yet to my immediate right. I am on the button with QQ and a $650 stack. I make it $60 to go. Chinese Maniac (CM) cold calls $60 from the small blind, and the big blind cold calls also. Now WILL surveys the situation, and calls, as do the two players between him and I. I can immediately put the big blind and the lady to my right on pocket pairs, and WILL has either 99-JJ, AK or AQ. CM can have any two cards. I know full well I'll have no clue where I stand in this pot, and can only hope that I'll be able to gain some insight from my position on the button.

The flop is a beautiful: T-T-T. To the FELT! Everyone checks to me. Ok, I bet $200 into a $300 pot, begging that one of these idiots will call me with their under-full. CM quickly moves all in for $340 total, the BB folds, and now it's on WILL. "Holy crap - this is so sick," he's whining. Jeezus you dipshit - you've clearly watched too much poker on TV. Just because Antonio and Phil Laak say "this is so sick" a lot doesn't mean THIS hand is sick. You have AK and you should throw it in the muck you fucking cockchugger - what do you think I have? DYKWTFIA?!??

He eventually mucks (AK), as do the other two players. I call, and turn my hand over. CM nods, says "no pair" and I drag a nice pot. WILL then pipes up "that woulda got interestin' on the turn - I had haaaaaahhhhts too," as he would have picked up a heart draw. "Congrats - I flopped a full house," I pointed out, and he nodded: "Ohhhh yaaaahhhhh."

Shortly thereafter, CM got up to go get some food, and I didn't want to wait for him to come back - the game was boring, and although I'd love the chance to attack his stack again, I couldn't be sure he'd return, and there was negative EV awaiting us all over the strip. I prodded Big Show out of his 1-2NL slumber, and we went off to fuel up... at.. CHIPOTLE!!!! The Chipotle rebuy! A patented, and highly risky play.

Big Show executed the Guac Freeroll AGAIN, but I settled for a guac-less fajita burrito, and we planned our assault. We decided to head over to Caesar's, where the National Heads Up Poker Championship (NHUPC) was being filmed.

The Caesar's poker room was abuzz, as poker royalty was all over the place. We quickly walked right into Shawna Hyatt, and Gus "The Great Dane" Hansen, as Big Show hypothesized on the lines Gus was feeding to her. Fossilman was eliminated from the tourney, which we couldn't really get close to, and wandered out seeming somewhat annoyed. "Twenty bucks if you tell him a bad beat story," I propped to Big Show, but he only laughed.

Scotty Nguyen took a lot of time to glad-hand with his fans outside the poker room, as did Shannon Elizabeth. I quickly texted MO, who has a collection of blurry, impossible to identify pics of celebrities on his cell phone: "standing next to shannon elizabeth." He replied instantly: "200 bid for cell cam pic of shan e-liz," and Big Show and I laughed hysterically, as Big Show realized, "we could just take a pic of a random person - you can't tell anyway on the cell phone cam!"

After gawking at the poker pros for 20 minutes, we got bored and decided to keep moving up-strip. I called Chops on our way out the door and he explained that he was on his way into Caesar's to pick up some press credentials for the NHUPC. Hmmm... The wheels were turning as Big Show and I agreed it was worth a shot to stick around. We quickly found Chops at the entrance to the poker room. He was with a coworker from RawVegas.TV, and they quickly claimed their passes. The press guy then turned to me, "and you are?" "Kid Dynamite," DYKTWFIA?!?!? I didn't miss a beat - but he simply stared at me. "With WickedChopsPoker," Chops filled in, and just like that, Big Show and I had all access passes too, courtesy of the immortal Chops.

We blazed past the crew of NBC doucheballs, flashing our passes in their mugs, and Chops introduced me to the smartest man in the room, Brian Balsbaugh. Balsbaugh formed a company, Poker Royalty, to act as agents for the poker pros, to help them optimize their bankrolls, fame, and exposure.

I tried to help Chops come up with an idea for a RawVegas Prop Bet that Gavin Smith could win, as Joe Sebok had been kicking his ass. Tug of War? Hot dog eating contest? I eventually settled on belly flop contest, and Chops seemed to like the idea. Hopefully it will come to fruition.

Chops, Vegas mover and shaker that he is, had to go back to "the office," so Big Show and I decided to take a break from the NHUPC scene as they were going on lunch break anyway. I couldn't focus on poker at the moment, with so much buzz in the room, so we decided to instead crush the THREE CARD POKER table right near the sports book and poker room. On the first hand, I refused to play the "pairs plus" sidebet, severely tilting our old school dealer, Billie. After clarifying the rules, I got on board with the pairs plus, and manged to spike 6 straights, and take about 25 units out of the game. Our dealer, Billie, who'd been dealing at Caesar's since 5 years after they opened, also threw us these monstrous Caesar's medallions, which would surely come in handy as intimidating bling later, especially when combined with our NHUPC press passes.

We cruised back inside for the start of the next session of the NHUPC, featuring Scotty Nguyen vs. Phil Gordon, Jamie Gold vs. Jennifer Tilly, Michael "The Grinder" Mizrachi vs. John Juanda, and Mike "The Mouth" Matusow vs. Kid Poker Danny Negreanu as the feature match. This really isn't much of a tournament, as rapidly escalating blinds and antes quickly turn it into a push-fest.

As I confidently strode to the set, some uninformed NBC cockchugger put his hand out: "Can I help you?" I thrust my chest out, attempting to intimidate him with my pecs (I'd done some push ups before getting dressed that morning) and giving him a clear view of my all access press pass. "I'm just going up there," DYKWTFIA?!?!! I explained. "Who are you with?" What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?

"WickedChops," I explained patiently, but was somewhat unprepared when he retaliated with:

"What's that?" What? DYKWTFCI? (Do You Know Who The Fuck Chops Is?!?!?!) I thought "I'm with Chops" would open up every door in Vegas - places only the highest of high roller and inside men get to see - but here I was, being cock blocked by some NBC flunkie, even after busting out my "open sesame" pass code.

"It's a website," I explained, being elusive, and taking another step forward, not to be denied.

"Oh, do you need access for your laptop?" Was he trying to trick me?

"No thanks, my map is in my head," a la Sean Connery in The Rock. Kid Dynamite does not need a laptop. He writes a running diary real time in his head.

Thus, we scampered onto the set, and took a spot in the bleachers. It's pretty friggin' boring to watch, as we quickly realized, but were able to share several exciting moments when Negreanu twice went runner-runner to suckout on The Mouth and stay alive, before finally sucumbing to The Mouth. Over at Phil Gordon's table, Phil had Scotty all in, and drawing dead to three outs. Scotty spiked a miracle on the turn, and Phil slumped in his seat, but Phil re-sucked out on the river to slam his own 3 outer, and claim the match. "NICE SUCKOUT," I bellowed over the crowd, hoping to set Phil up for a vicious circling.

We exited the NHUPC set, and there was only one thing left to do: Circle Phil Gordon. This is where I, Kid Dynamite, became a complete pussy and blew the opportunity of a lifetime. I had a black $100 Caesar's chip in my pocket, which was the perfect bait to use for Phil: "Hey Phil - Roshambo for a hunge," I'd say, as I pulled the black chip out of my pocket with my thumb and forefinger around it. He'd look at it, I'd shout "BOO YAH!" and slug him right in his rotator cuff.

Perhaps it was his guido-esque Full Tilt leather jacket that intimated me, or the fact that I was worried I wouldn't be able to reach his shoulder, as he's about 6'9". I was somewhat concerned that he'd decide to pummel me if I ambushed him like this, or, more likely, I just completely pussed out and left shaking my head at my own incompetence - another optimal opportunity blown. I fear I'll regret this non-circling for a long time.

We proceeded over to the Flamingo, for an extended double deck BJ session, which will be recounted in Part III, along with the conclusion of the trip, featuring:

-The only six deck shoe we played all trip: at Harrah's

-Wynn Peach Chip cold decks

-Hollywood preflop action in the Wynn Peach Chip game

-Mirror ceiling heat at the Frontier

-a first class upgrade for the flight home

until next time,

KD

Blowjobs, Mortgages and Responsibility

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Vegas Summer 2007: Short Stacked and Steaming

Thankfully, neither of the adjectives in the title apply to my poker experiences in Vegas this weekend, but I did manage to find myself short stacked in an impossible to make up blackjack scenario, and steaming by the pool as I threatened to combust under the relentless glare of the Vegas sun on my uber-pale white skin. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

The car picked me up Thursday at 4:30pm at my apartment, and, being the pro I am, I was untilted by the barrage of potential tilt-inducers thrown at me: the car had that horrible incense smell - not unlike the smell inside the Venetian, which Big Show speculated may actually be vaporized Red Bull. The driver, a clean cut young Hispanic gentleman, exhibited a propensity for gunning the car at stopped cars in front of him in a desperate attempt to cover the 15 open yards of road in the heavy traffic on the Long Island Expressway in the shortest amount of time before coming to a dead stop again. Halfway through our hellish journey to JFK I realized that he was sick - as he was sniffling and sneezing every several minutes, digging in the front seat for something to wipe his nose with. Now, I'm a germ-a-phobe already, and when you throw the wear and tear of a Vegas weekend into the mix, I was certain that it would be impossible to avoid coming down with something this weekend - most likely the hard to avoid Vegas Flu - which is the product of stale plane air, various hotel room germs, and 2 hours of sleep a night.

I met Mikey at the airport, pounded a double vodka&cranberry, and boarded my JetBlue flight, knowing I'd need some rest on the plane if I was going to survive the night. I had confided in Dirty Dave that I was having serious stamina problems, but he was convinced that the desert air would cure all my ills. Never mind the fact that I was unlikely to go outside - at least the oxygen rich casino air would help - if my NYC smoke-free-softened respiratory system could re-adapt to the abundance of cigarette smoke I was sure to encounter.

My exit row seat provided ample leg room, but made it tough to lean against the window, due to the curve of the exit door. Hey JetBlue - YEAH- there IS something you can do to make my flight more comfortable: Shut the fuck up!!! The happy and extremely loud voice of the stewardess came blaring over the public announcement system all too often, advising me that I could order a PPV movie at my seat, get as many free packs of cookies as I'd like, and that they'd be coming around with another beverage service. All I wanted was a few hours of sleep, which I managed to snag, despite the presence of some true chooches on the flight.

One douchebag, and I am not making this up, although it's so perfectly stereotypical that anyone who has encountered one of these douchebags will swear I was just relying on the existing image, was whistling like he was hailing a cab, and shouting "Vegas BABY!!!" every so often. Hey Spanky - act like you've been there before. When he roused me out of my last nap, shortly before we landed, I turned to scout out exactly who this cockchugger was. I knew Dirty Dave would never believe me when I told him that this guy was ACTUALLY wearing a Kangol cap, with a cigarette tucked into the brim. "Kid Dynamite," you're thinking, "come on - there is no way you really ran into the ultimate vegas stereotypical douchebag." Now, the thing is - even though chooches are a dime a dozen, they come in a variety of styles: the sombrero wearing chooches, the wool scully clad chuggers, the BIG TEN athletic shirt sporting glory hounds (GO TERPS!!!), the sunglasses at night spiked hair glamour boys, and the Kangol cap d-bags.

I had encountered one of the rarist breeds: the Kangol cap WITH tucked cigarette. Now the cigarette was not tucked behind his ear, mind you, it was tucked into the brim of the cap, pointing straight down - in the patented mark of the uber-douche. Unfortunately, there was no one I could turn to and offer 25-1 odds that this guy was staying at either the Palms or the Hard Rock. Exiting the plane, the older gentleman behind me, a few rows in front of the UberDouche, ranted "He should be arrested." I smiled and responded "It's not his fault he's a complete idiot," and sped toward the cab line - which was completely empty! I basked in the freeroll, and cruised over to the Venetian.

We met Dave, Brian and Ted near the check-in desk, dropped our bags in the room, and went back downstairs to grab some subpar food in the food court by the casino floor. The other guys went to putz around at the sportsbook and the craps table as we waited for BigJosh to arrive, and I attacked the double deck blackjack pit solo. This was my first Vegas trip in a while without the company of my faithful degenerate gambling companion, the Big Show, and despite the fact that we were rolling 18 guys deep for Brian's bachelor party, I was basically alone in my willingness to gamble outside of the craps table. Mikey made a brief stop at my blackjack table - spiking two blackjacks and a hard 20 in three hands, and executing a professional Hit and Run.

After dumping a buy-in at the blackjack table, I saw BigJosh from 40 yards away at the dice pit - his 7 foot frame is easily visible. I arrived just in time for his roll, which was a bonanza - a 45 minute clinic in how to effortlessly slam points of all varieties - fours, tens, fives - it didn't matter - Josh nailed them all, as I carried on the bachelor party tradition started by E-dub at my own BP a few years ago, by randomly adding more odds bets to Brian's passline wagers. I'm not a craps savant, but I used to be good at math - and I caught the dealer mis-paying one of my bets. As he tried to argue his case, the boxman said "The kid is right" and threw me the difference. Craps dealers seem to be the most mathematical and intelligent dealers in the casino - but maybe that's just because the amateur players have no clue what they are doing! When he fucked up a second time, severly shorting my payout, I caught it again, and laughed at the long shot that was me managing to notice this twice, in my imparied state. DYKTWFIA? I can do craps math even after 12 various sundry vodka drinks - none of which included Red Bull. When Josh finally passed the dice, I'd won back the blackjack losses, and made a small profit for the evening. We proceeded to the circular main bar on the Venetian casino floor, and watched the hookers try to snag a fish for the evening.

I laughed as one guy fed a lady some quality bullshit about being from New Zealand, and asked her name. "Jesse," she replied, as he inquired, taunting her, "Chesty??!?!" while eyeing her bombs, which were bigger than her head. After he was done fucking with her, I commended him on his New Zealand angle, but reminded him that he didn't need to charm hookers, he just needed to pay them.

Suddenly, a roaming magician came by, and dazzled the crowd with a display of street magic that would put David Blaine to shame. Now, I was drunk but not stupid, and I consider myself smarter than the average bear - but Cameron Shadow was fucking INCREDIBLE. I was less impressed with his ability to make a cigarette levitate - as I know they sell that very trick upstairs in the Magic Shop at the Grand Canal Shops - but when he made the serial letter mark on a dollar bill move, and handed the newly defiled bill back to its owner - it was just the beginning. He had a person pull a $20 out of their wallet, write his name on it, and hold it in tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Then Cameron handed the person a small lemon - took the bill from him, and held it over the fruit, shaking it once or twice at the lemon, which was in the random person's hand. As Cameron made the bill disappear with sleight of hand and pulled a knife out of his pocket, we knew what was coming - he sliced the lemon in half, and something was sticking out of the flesh - a folded up bill, which the person pulled out to show that it was the one with his name on it.

As we left, jaws open in awe after several more up close demonstrations of various tricks, we hit Grand Luxe for some early morning sustenance. After sitting down, the 7 of us waited several minutes for a waitress, as we considered the menu. After 12 minutes or so, a waitress did a fly by, explaining "I'll be right with you, boys." After another 8 minutes, we got up and left - annoyed by the gross incompetance at Grand Luxe. As we exited, the host, completely ignorant to the fact that he'd recently seated us, and that we should NOT be leaving yet, said "thanks for coming," to which Mikey smiled, "Thanks - great meal."

Fully tilted, I figured there was no better thing to do while drunk and steaming at 4am than check out the action in the poker room. Although Paul X-22 Magriel was sitting in the 1-2NL game, his froglike tongue wagging back and forth, I realized I was in no shape to play, and joined the guys in Dave's suite where we tried to order some room service. When we realized it would take another hour for food, I abandoned the effort, as Dave shouted from the other room "Who left a shit in the toilet?" "That's Ted's calling card!" Brian replied, as Ted came out of the bedroom, proudly smiling: "Didn't you like how I left the tp so that you could still see the poop?"

I smiled, glad to see that although I wasn't in the company of the gambling addicts who could keep up with Big Show, I was nonetheless surrounded by degenerates of the highest caliber. I returned to my room to get some rest, as Dave ranted about the current state of his "ball bag," after a full day of work and a night of drinking and gambling.

Vegas baby. Vegas.

stay tuned for Part Two.

-KD

Cops and Robbers

Finally! Something to write about! Unfortunately, the topic is a total cockchugger: the shutdown of my poker club.

Last week, another club on the east side of town was robbed. My immediate reaction: "Fuck." The reaction of the management and security at my club: *shrug* - and instead of tightening things up and laying low, they let in all the doucheballs from the other club!

Now, for some reason, when the other club got robbed, all people were concerned about was beefing up front door security. I had a different concern: the COPS! When a NYC talking head is spewing quotes like:

"I told the NYPD about the existence of this illegal gambling hall weeks ago . . . We're lucky that no one was hurt, but a bust could have prevented this dangerous armed robbery from happening. At least now this den of inequity (SIC) is closed for good"

It doesn't take a fucking CSI to figure out that the cops are going to have to do something to save face. Now, the cops clearly know about the club, and the club KNOWS that the cops know about the club, so they apparently made the level two thinking error of assuming they would be ok. How wrong. When I woke up Friday morning at 3:45am to see my cell phone flashing, and found a one word text from the Vortex: "Raided" - I knew our berry patch had been uprooted.

Since Channel 11 news was on the scene, turning it into a ridiculous, sensationalized story, I can't imagine this will be a case of "oh - we'll be open by Monday."

So, now I'll have to find another way to get my poker fix - like surfing the 2+2 message boards for ridiculous topics like this thread with a bold claim by David Sklanksy. I'm blatantly misquoting and oversimplifying, but Sklansky's basic thesis is that no one who is a certified Jesus Freak can beat him in a math test, because Jesus Freaks, are, by definition, not smart. Great stuff.

In more interesting poker discussion, Brian "SbRugby" Townsend made a recent post on his blog about a very important, very situation specific topic.

"An example of this would be if you were playing someone HU and raised preflop. The flop came down Kh Qh 2c you hold A8o and bet the pot and are called. The turn brings the 5 of clubs and your opponent checks and you check. The river brings another five and your opponent bets pot. Many players would say "I have ace high I fold" and if they held QJo instead they might say "I have middle pair I call." But the best players realize that these two hands have the same value on the river as an opponent value betting a queen is unlikely. I feel mediocre players would be more likely to call with the queen and top players would call equally with both hands. This is one of the little things that I look for when I am up against a new opponent, and to be honest very very few players call with QJ as often at A8 in that scenario, probably myself included, but the truly great ones call equally with both hands."

A key concept articulated by one of the games fastest rising young gunners.

In non-poker news, Mrs. Dynamite and I cooked some good stuff this week, including roasted vegetable meatloaf with potato and corn salad.

In even more important news, Oscar finally made his first visit to a hospital as a therapy dog! After passing the therapy dog test, we had to make it through all of the red tape at St. Vincent's, but both Mrs. Dynamite and I, as well as Oscar, are now fully registered as volunteers. Oscar even has an ID badge:

until next time,
KD

Odd Lots

I can't believe I hammered out this quality post including a) my dog, and b) porn, featuring the O-Ring Blowout, and no one seems to care. What's the matter with you people?!?! No one had a comment on this subject?

Chops called me a poker blogger today. At least he did it in a post about porn. As Vortex constantly reminds me, I stopped writing about poker long ago - which is probably a good thing. However, Jay Greenspan did send me this stellar video today. Check it out - quality stuff.

And speaking of poker, Soxlover proved he can still talk trash, as he taunted some online cockchugger with barbs I appreciated so much I'll repost them here:

devinr12: dude i am a professional poker player

devinr12: i play 5-10NL

SoxLover: that is sad

SoxLover: you totally dropped out of college didn't you?

devinr12: actually yeah

SoxLover: lol. wow

SoxLover: i feel like i should dump to you, your life is going to suck so bad

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

Vegas Summer 2007 Part III

If you haven't read Part One or Part Two go do so immediately...

So where were we? Ah yes - I'd survived my liquidity crisis at the Venetian double deck blackjack table, and gone to see what the boys were up to before getting ready for dinner.

Let simplify Friday night down to two pieces of wisdom: 1) When you're going out for dinner in Vegas, especially with a large party - just suck it up and go to a quality place. If you try to save $30 a head by going to one of these places that has 300 seats and less than top notch food, you'll end up vastly OVERpaying for the dog food they serve you with attitude. 2) Do NOT, under any circumstances, try to roll 19 guys deep at a gentleman's club. Just don't.

So anyway, after a vicious series of clusterfucks Friday night, Saturday began in unusual Vegas fashion for me: at the pool! We had two cabanas at the Venetian pool - the only problems were a) it was 105 degrees outside, b) I will get skin cancer if I sit in the Vegas sun for more than 4 and a half minutes and c) IT WAS ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE!

Still, I hid in the shade of the cabana long enough to down a burger for nourishment, and then head off to the poker room. (Warning: ACTUAL POKER CONTENT imminent!)

I sat in the 2-5NL game for 1 orbit while waiting for a seat in the 5-10NL game. After calling a raise with 88 and flopping top set on a draw heavy board (8-7-3 with two hearts), I raised the preflop raiser's flop bet and took down the pot. On the next hand, I again called a raise with 33, and saw a nearly identical flop: 8-6-5 with two hearts. I decided to get all fancy 2+2 style on the preflop raiser, and just call his flop bet, seeing what developed on the turn.

When the ultimate scare card - the 4 of hearts peeled off on the turn, the preflop raiser checked to me. I smiled on the inside, as I laughed at how easy this game was, and bet out $120. The preflop raiser promptly checkraised me all-in for about $250 more. Fahhhhhhk. I mucked, asking him innocently, "That card didn't scare you at all? Maybe just a little bit? I thought it was a pretty scary card."

He shrugged "I didn't think you had the flush," and now another doucheball piped in "Me neither." I laughed and racked up my chips - realizing I'd given my opponents too much credite - assuming they had brains - and heading for the 5-10NL game that I'd just been called for.

I rounded my stack up to $800 and surveyed the scene: There was a short stacked young gunner who was playing tight seated two to my left, with a Russian former NYC Cab Driver (Russian) between us. On the other side of the table was a Southern Card Rack (SCR), a Middle Eastern Putz (MEP), The Poor Man's Gary Busey (BUSEY), and an Eastern European Calling Station (EECS).

The first hand I played was my old nemesis A-Q. After 1 limper, I made it $50 to go and was called 3 times - I'd be third to act post flop. I kinda liked the flop of K-8-4 rainbow, as I thought the rest of the table viewed me as a tight aggro player, and would assume I had something like at least A-K when I fired out $150 after it was checked to me. It was folded back to Busey, who leaned around the dealer, asking "How much you got left?" I showed him that I had about $600 left. "That's it?" He asked - being a total dick. "That's it," I answered. He nodded and said "All in," just for emphasis - as he had about $4k in front of him.

I laughed and mucked - hey douchball - this isn't my first time at the table! The only question I was asking myself is if I'd make the call with AK there - I don't think so. I made a mental note that I'd be stacking this cockchugger imminently. As it turned out, I had to wait about an hour, until Busey's $20 straddle was called, and I made it $60 to go with TT. Busey called, as did the limper, and we saw a flop of 9-8-4 with two clubs. Busey and the limper checked to me, and I fired out $200. Busey nodded, and like the payoff wizard he was, called. The limper folded, and I watched as the dealer peeled off the 7 of clubs on the turn.

Busey looked up from his food and checked again. Although I couldn't really hate this card more, I thought that Busey would bet here with a made hand - hoping I wouldn't believe him - as he would be wrong to try to trap me - given the tight play I'd exhibited, even if he had proven that he was a calling station. "All-in - $450" I said, sliding my chips forward and counting them down. He nodded, and called - I cringed.

The river was an offsuit jack, and I quickly turned my hand up, declaring "I have a straight." Busey considered the board - eyed me annoyingly - and mucked his hand. I don't think the jack helped me - as he was the type to show his cards if he'd received a bad beat - he likely had something like A-9 or A-8 with the Ace of clubs.

I gave some chips back another hour later in this frigid deck: The Russian opened for $50, and I was next with KK. I made it $160 ($1400 stack), and it was mucked around to MEP - who was a total donkey and moved all in for $600. I began salivating. When the action came back to the Russian, he now moved all in for $790. I jumped out of my seat, not believing the action. "Wow, really?" I couldn't believe I could lay this hand down in this game, especially since I'd already labled MEP as a douche-royale, and these stacks were not deep enough. I took 30 seconds before saying "I call," and turning to the Russian: "You have aces?" "No - queens," he admitted. I turned to the MEP and stated: "YOU don't have aces." He nodded - he did. What? Faahhhhhhhhkkk. Frigid. At this point, the new young gunner to my left said "I guess this would be a bad time to tell you I folded a king," and I groaned.

We turned our hands up, and amidst the oooohs and ahhhhs there were suddenly 20 people standing around our table to see the flop of Q-Q-T. FAAAHHHHHKKKK!!! I couldn't even win the side pot!

Fortunately, Busey still had money left, and was kind enough to double me up again an hour later when I finally found AA. Again the Russian opened for $50, and again I made it $160. Busey cold called $160 from the $20 straddle, and the Russian called as well. The flop was 9-9-5, and Busey bet out $200. The Russian folded, and I instantly pushed in my last $450 - $250 more to him. He shrugged, called, and when I tabled my AA he mumbled something about needing a 4. The kid to my left thought he said he had 4 outs (7-6? 8-7 ??), but in any case, when the J and Q peeled off, he mucked his hand, and I was up again.

The Young Gunner scooped a big pot with A-Q unimproved when he raised preflop, bet the K-8-4 two club flop, and moved in for about 2 times the pot when the turn bricked off. The Russian took the chips he'd gotten with his flopped quad queens and called after some deliberation. It seemed that the Young Gunner had to have at least AK, but when the river bricked off, he said "I missed." The Russian nodded "Me too," and finally the Gunner turned over his AQ. The Russian turned over Ac9c, and the Gunner scooped about 3 dimes - much to his surprise.

Later, SFCEO (Southern Former CEO) sat down in the one seat, and asked the waitress what kind of white wine they served. She began to consult a list of ONE in her head... "Ummm.. Chardonnnay...... ummmm..." The CEO interrupted her "Please bring me the driest white you have," and a look of horror came over the waitress's face. Seeing this, I tried to stifle a laugh, which ended up erupting like a snort. She looked at me for help, and I laughed "Just ask the bartender - he'll know," as the CEO looked at me with wide eyes - shocked by her ignorance.

"Come on," I told him, "To be fair, what kind of doofus orders a dry white wine in the poker room?"

Well, I'll tell you what kind of doofus - the kind of doofus who thinks like this: Busey is clearly on tilt - MEGA-tilt. He has had aces 5 times - and cannot get away from them - each time paying off $1k plus in turn and river bets -and his stack has dwindled. YoungGun opens a pot for $60, and Busey in the SB steams "TWO HUNDRED." Now the CEO thinks for 45 seconds, and mucks reluctantly. The YoungGun mucks too, and I look at CEO, inquiring, "Ace jack?" cause that's the kind of hand this idiot would really like to play here stuck between two raisers. "Nooooo - I'd play Ace Jack there - I had pocket jacks." The Young Gun practically knocks over his chips in disbelief - and I stare with my mouth open, as JJ, aka FridayInVegas is practically the nuts right there against the steaming Busey. CEO explains "You see, if I had Ace Jack it makes it less likely that he has aces there," and my brain immediately shut down as he proceeded to have a discussion about it with the Russian - WHO AGREED!!!

When the Russian and the MEP finally left, I got up to cash out, logging a $687 profit for the four hours, and decided to abuse the Venetian's Pai Gow pit a bit. I sat for an hour, pounding 6 vodka-grapefruits and taking $300 out of the game before I went upstairs to freshen up for our big Saturday night at Tao. We pre-partied in Dave's room, with ample booze and appetizers, before heading down to Tao - preying there would be no more clusterfucks. No matter how carefully you plan, nothing is certain when you have a 19 man party in Vegas. We'd been set up with a booth and a six bottle minimum, and had only to endure the last minute plug job the hostess laid on us, telling us we'd have to get 7 bottles, since it was "a big night." No shit - it's Saturday - it's ALWAYS a big night on Saturday - nice bait & switch you filthy bottle whore - but what could we do - Dave handed over his credit card, and we were led to a quality box above the main dance floor.

I couldn't help thinking it was an error when we ordered Jack Daniels for one of our bottles, and of course I was right, as it was the only thing left at the end of the night. Several bottles into the evening, on our way to 10 bottles, Brian somehow escaped eviction when, in an attempt to "slap an icecube out of Brendan's hand," he instead slapped a full vodka tonic over the ledge of the skybox onto the floor below. I don't know how he talked his way out of that one, but several hours later, we were in a real jam when Brian was down on the dance floor and his little brother Mikey, sloshed out of his mind, attempted to lob a drink to him. I watched from 8 feet away in slow motion as this train wreck unfolded, springing to life screaming "NOOOOOOO," almost exactly like Apollo Creed's trainer in Rocky IV when Drago knocks Apollo out (killing him) and Apollo's head slams against the mat - you KNOW the scene I'm talking about.

Too slow to stop him, I winced as Mikey tossed the drink over, and security suddenly swarmed us like wasps. After tense deliberations which lasted a full 20 minutes, Dave managed to negotiate our continued occupation of the skybox, offering to let the bouncer throttle him if anything else went wrong.

Dirty Dave would never believe that the boys brought back a group of legitimate bona fide KCSH's to our booth - Kansas City Sweat Hogs!!! The girls were probably surprised with the ferocity with which we guarded our booze - Andy whispered to me "If she even LOOKS at our vodka, I'm throwing her the FUCK out of here." See, us happily married men have different priorities - booze over flooze.

We eventually staggered out of Tao after 4am, where I decided to drop a buy-in at the PaiGow pit before retiring to bed for the night.

Sunday morning, I woke up and beat up the double deck blackjack pit for a few hours, doubting that Mikey would awake from his coma in time for our 1pm flight. As I stacked green chips into a tower, Mikey finally called me and stumbled down to the casino floor lugging his two athletic bags, and sweating a mixture of vodka and tequila.

As we headed off to the airport, I realized he was still trashed, and he managed to get himself subjected to a full search at security when he left his sunblock in his bag. The young Irish TSA worker swabbed Mikey's bag with a pad, as I prayed Mikey didn't have any illicit substances. "It's gonna screen high for alcohol and stupidity," I joked to the agent, who replied honestly, "that's ok, if that was illegal they'd fire ME." We ultimately made it through security, and back to NYC in one piece, where I began plotting our next trip...

until next time.
KD

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

Vegas December To Remember 2006: Marty Up!

Friday.

As always, I had the trip details fully planned. Not the rookie "pimp shirt and straw hat to impress the young sluts" details - the "there are 30 free seats on the 3:20 pm flight out of Newark, so even though I'm booked on the 4:30pm flight, it shouldn't be a problem to walk on to the earlier flight" details. The fact that the early flight was on a smaller, less comfortable Boeing 737 instead of the 4:30 flight's 757 was a sacrifice I was willing to make - yeah, I'm willing to bet I'm the only guy who knew that it was a different kind of plane. Like I said, this isn't amateur hour.

I consulted with Dirty Dave, as always, Friday morning, explaining to him that Continental offered the option to change your flight to the earlier flight on that day for $25. He suggested I just book it, and not worry about it.

"But Dave, we're talking EV here!" I'm always looking to save a unit.

"Friday afternoon to Vegas? Those seats could disappear in a hurry," Dave cautioned with the words of an experienced Sensei, but I decided to roll the dice.

I arrived at Newark airport around 2pm, and as I was walking through security, my phone rang: an automated message from Continental airlines, telling me that the 4:30 flight was now delayed until 7pm. Fuck. Dirty Dave was right again - there was the 3 sigma event that would result in a rush on the 30 open seats on the earlier flight. The problem was, I was too early, there wasn't even anyone at the gate yet.

I took my place 8th in line at the Continental customer service line, staffed by a single agent. Twice I called the 800-number to try to do the transfer on the phone, but I gave up, not wanting to wait 10 minutes on hold, and figuring it would be easier to do in person anyway. 30 minutes later I was "next" in line when the couple behind me got through to customer service on the 800-number, and made the exact switch I was trying to: 4:30 Vegas flight --> 3:20 Vegas flight. I jokingly handed my boarding pass to the woman on the cell phone, and mouthed "change mine too," with a big grin. The guy she was with urged her "yeah - change his too," and then two more people handed her itineraries! She hooked me up, getting my flight changed, while I made small talk with the guy - who told me they were staying at the Imperial Palace, which sent off my Spidey sense: why would two normal looking people from the NYC area be staying at the IP... unless... they were bloggers? I calmly waltzed up to the agent to pick up my new boarding pass, and waited for the couple, offering to buy them a drink.

We cruised over to the airport bar, and, armed with vodka&tonic, rum&coke and gin&tonic, made more Vegas small talk. "We're kinda meeting some people out there," the guy explained, vaguely. "Not the blogger crew - is it?" I was straightforward. Two shocked looks came back my way, as the guy asked "are you going for that too?"

I explained that I wasn't really part of the blogger cool crew, but that I did indeed write a little. The woman exclaimed with a flourish, "Well, meet the Boy Genius!"

"Holy Shit - BG in the flesh? You're the horse racing degenerate!" Thankfully, BG knew to take this as a complement. I extended my hand and explained, "Kid Dynamite, I've read your stuff."

"And may I present Maigrey, the Poker Princess," BG introduced, as she took a mock bow.

"Bobby Bracelet is your real brother right?" I asked, and BG admitted as much reluctantly. He got Bob on the phone, and I finally got to talk to the Legend himself. BB told me that there was actually a solid chance he would be booking a last minute flight to Vegas, but that I had to keep it quiet. I resisted the urge to try to pick off BG with inside information on a prop bet, instead lifting his offer when he let me choose what kind of product the group of salesmen gathered at the table behind us sold: tangible (ie, drugs) or intangible (ie, HR, payroll). I eyed the group of young, coed boozers, and said "intangible." BG went right over to them and got the answer: Payroll! I had him on tilt before we'd even boarded the plane, as I collected on the wager.

After three drinks, I decided I'd check on the status of our newly delayed earlier flight, and found that after pushing it back an hour, they'd re-instated the initial departure time! We scrambled for the gate, and BG flaunted his Elite frequent flier status by waltzing onto the plane, larrying his drink, while I had the presence of mind to bring mine with me.

***

Touching down in Vegas, I bid farewell to BG and Maigrey, and double timed it to the taxi line, prepared for the worst. I called Dirty Dave from the line, and he mocked me, asking "Taxi Tilt yet?" but the line was less than 15 minutes, and I'd located the Big Show in the Wynn poker room before 7:15pm. I dropped my stuff in the room, and repeatedly tried to raise Chops on the cell, but got a "THAT NUMBER IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE" message. The fucker got a new cellphone THAT day, and didn't give me the number. D-ball.

We decided to head over to the Venetian to check out the 8pm tourney which has a fairly decent structure, and attempt to find Chops, as he'd mentioned that he and Snake would likely be there. I did manage to find the dynamic duo, easily identifiable by Snake, a dead ringer for Jared Leto. It was great to finally meet Chops, the legendary Vegas porn producer, and likeminded blogger. Snake isn't nearly as degenerate as he should be, given his rock star looks, stable of Atlanta hookers, and Wicked heritage, but then again, I don't know what I expected from him at a poker tournament. (note: Chops is not, in fact, a porn producer, and Snake may or may not have a stable of Atlanta hookers.)

We ground it out in the 70 person tourney for several hours, before I bowed out in 21st place. Snake held on for 15th, and Big Show bubbled at 11th. After doubling my stack courtesy of a total doucheball in the 2-5NL game, Big Show and I left to go crush the Venetian double deck blackjack game, with Chops still alive and fighting at the final table! By the time Chops stopped by to tell us he'd taken down third place, I was down $304, and we said our goodbyes before heading back to the Wynn to regroup.

Saturday.

Big Show and I hit the Wynn's Terrace Point Cafe for breakfast at around 10:30. A 20 minute wait for an outside table evaporated instantly when I explained to the hostess DYKWTFIA - that she was talking to Kid Dynamite and the Big Show - in the flesh! Cheeseburgers and fries fortified us for a leather ass session in the poker room, and absorbed residual toxins from the night before.

There was a blogger tournament scheduled at Caesar's at 1:30, but as much as I wanted to meet some of the people whose prose I've been reading, I couldn't tear myself away from the 2-5NL games at Wynn and Mirage. We started out at Wynn, and I treaded water in a mediocre game for several hours. Eventually, Big Show and I headed over to the Mirage, where the games were actually softer - I think it's due to the lack of walk in Fish traffic at the Wynn. It's not that the Wynn games were especially tough, just not nearly as juicy as I'd expected - and nothing like the game at the Venetian the prior night, or the Mirage that same day. In a bizarre twist, both Big Show and I managed to get felted in the first orbit of our respective 1-2NL games at the Mirage, which we sat in for less than 15 minutes while waiting for 2-5NL seats.

I played some of my best poker, and had all of the young nits at the table fearing me like the grim reaper. One cockchugger asked the dealer to rabbit hunt a flop, after I'd made a big re-raise and then preflop laydown with QQ, and my opponent showed me KK. The dealer obliged, as I eyed Big Show across the table and tried to figure out if I'd fucked the hand up. As she flipped up a Q high flop, the table erupted, but I was stone cold. I got my revenge the next day, when I played with the same rabbit hunting mother fucker (more on that to come.)

Big Show took a series of beats, and I was unable to make anything exciting happen, so after 8 hours big show made an Orange Chicken run and we recessed to a dinner of Panda Express in the Mirage sportsbook. Big Show and I were dragging a little, but we decided to roam the strip, checking out the legendary Pinegar Twins on the dueling pianos at Harrah's (you know, the twins who both look like weathered Tara Reid?), and observing the action at the outdoor Carnival Bar.

We returned to our old favorite, the IP, but the lack of cellphone service prevented me from bumping into the ample assortment of blogger colleagues who were likely there at that very moment. Big Show and I dropped almost two dimes in less than an hour, and our favorite pit boss Frank offered to buy us breakfast. "No thanks, I don't want to get sick," Big Show replied without missing a beat, and we laughed our way out the door.

Feeling our age, we dragged ourselves back to the Wynn, where I couldn't make it to the room before succumbing to the effects of Panda Express. Big Show hit the room to change, while I annihilated the first stall in the Wynn Shops crapper, and scooped two passes to Lure - the Wynn's "Ultra Lounge" on my way upstairs.

Changed into more presentable gear, we made our way back to Lure, where, before we even had a drink in our hands, we ran into old friends of the Big Show. This group of degenerates was on their way to Tryst - the Wynn's nightclub, and big Saturday night scene. We were invited to tag along, but were mindful of not wanting to fuck up the reservations this crew already had. Somehow, in a feat of pure will, the leader of the group bullied the Wynn club host into letting all FOURTEEN of us in on the same table reservation - and I don't even think he greased the host! The two bottle table for 7 became a table for 11 dudes and 3 girls, and still with only two bottles required! This was almost a positive EV play, as we dodged $30 cover charges!

Lure is pretty insane - a big open club with a giant waterfall in the middle, and wings on both sides of the ensuing pond. As Big Show and I pounded pint glasses of red bull, vodka and cranberry, two young sisters dancing on the banquette made eyes at us. I made a motion like I was throwing up in my mouth, and the sisters suddenly disappeared.

We decided to take a lap around the club, and, swimming our way through the sea of bodies, came across none other than Tiltboy Phil Gordon himself! I grabbed him by the back of his leather jacket, as I shouted at the Big Show - "Holy Shit - PHIL GORDON!" Phil, not quite sober himself, took the assault well, honored that we had recognized him, and extended a hand in thanks. I'd waited so long for this moment, that I blew my shot - I failed to circle him, instead just shaking his hand and continuing through the mob.

In a move of unprecedented Ghetto-tude, the gentlemen occupying the table nearest the dance floor began throwing fistfulls of $1 bills in the air, which threatened to cause a frenzy. Big Show used his height to grab some of the loot, but was embarrassed when he realized they were singles, and there was a serious awkward moment as people came to this realization, each urging the person nearest to them "No, YOU take it."

Thoroughly plastered now, we somehow decided that the Wynn poker room would be a good idea, and sat down in a shorthanded 1-3NL Peach Chip game. I picked up AA on the first orbit and trapped Big Show for 1/3rd of his stack, and somehow managed to avoid giving it back 5 minutes later when I wriggled out of a trap set by a SSS - Sober Sneaky Scandinavian. He flopped a set vs. my top pair, and made a tremendous overbet on the river, attempting to convey a bluff. Somehow, blood alcohol content over .15, I managed to sniff out a problem and muck my hand, and as Big Show got felted yet again, we called it a night.

Sunday.

Big Show got up early to lay down some NFL wagers, as I tried to resist the allure of the trappy road chalk - in this case, Atlanta - 3. Dirty Dave had assured me that it was ok to fall off the wagon to get felted by trappy road chalk in Vegas, but I was not gonna do it this time. Even if I KNEW that ATL and New Orleans were locks today - I had quit NFL gambling. When these two games came through easily, I was, of course, severely tilted.

I called Bobby Bracelet at 9:30 am, as he'd left me a message earlier at 2:30 when he did in fact make it to Vegas. Surprisingly, he was still rolling dice at the IP - an impressive show of endurance.

When Big Show returned, we cleaned up and headed downstairs, veto-ing the poker games at the Wynn, and heading back to the Mirage. We were on the list for a newly starting 2-5NL game, and killed time in the blackjack pit by the poker room, playing face up double deck (booo!) until I got the signal from the poker room that our game was starting.

Again, I couldn't take advantage of the fishy table - suffering some vicious cold decks (flopped flush under flush and managed to lose only 1/2 my stack!) while Big Show continued to run into brick walls. There was only one player at the table who I could beat - the knobgobbler who had asked to rabbit hunt the deck on my QQ vs KK laydown the prior day! I doubled through or felted this dipshit FOUR times, setting a new personal record. When he left, Big Show and I did too, returning to the Wynn to prepare for another big dinner at SW Steakhouse.

Playing Wynn Pai Gow before dinner, we received the ultimate accidental insult from our dealer: "Did you guys just get here? You look fresh." He was attempting a complement I think. I turned to the Big Show: "Holy Shit. We have a serious problem. I cannot BELIEVE he just said that." We were forced to implement the Pai Gow Martingale system to punish the Wynn for it's indiscretion, and took several units out of the game, obviously frequently punctuated by one of us screaming "PAI GOW" at the top of our lungs. Marty up!

After feasting on Kobe strip, and listening to stories from Big Show's friends that were so funny I almost threw up at the table from laughing so hard, we continued to drink hard, and eventually ended up back at the Wynn Black Chip double deck game late night.

I sat down, and managed to lose NINE hands in a row, working myself into a state of unprecedented tilt. On the tenth hand, I had a hard 16 against a dealer 7, and was already standing up to walk away from the table in disgust, when the dealer painted a four on my hand,, and I made a comeback. I doubled up the next hand, and blackjacked the next, and suddenly I was only down a few units! The Wynn doesn't use mechanical shufflers to do the work between shoes in their double deck game, and when a kid hopped in for one hand on the top of the deck in a new shoe, spiked a blackjack, and walked away, I was incredulous.

"What the fuck was that? Top of the deck? He must have shuffle tracked it!" Now, I was joking of course, but this drew an INTENSE amount of heat from the Wynn pit personnel. Two pit bosses came over and casually joked back, "What do YOU know about shuffle tracking?"

"Huh? Who doesn't know about shuffle tracking?"

"About ninety nine point six percent of the population," he replied without a smile.

The Chinese dealer joked in broken English "They from that school - M.I.T."... now, you see, we actually ARE from MIT, a fact I'm sure the Wynn could easily verify, and some of my best friends are blackjack masters from the legendary MIT team. Big Show doesn't even have to mutter "How's the back room in this place" - the heat is on.

Not content to slither away, and impressed by the sudden flurry of activity in the pit behind the table, I raised my voice in the best line of the weekend: "If you're looking for me in Griffin, I have a moustache in that picture!"

The pit manager standing over the table offered me a black magic marker, joking, "Here, hold this up." I promptly felted myself in rapid fashion, and ventured alone to the Pai Gow table.

After being up several hundred in Pai Gow, I pressed my luck and lost a series of multi-unit hands, again finding myself felted, while the Big Show had joined me and was rapidly ascending the prescribed Martingale progression. His $75 bet had become $150, then $300. When he got to $600, he was moderately tilted, threatening to give back his blackjack winnings.

"Marty up! Last night in Vegas!" I urged him, and he pushed two hands at $1200 before finally scooping a pot and breaking even at the Pai Gow table, bellowing what was probably the loudest "PAI GOW" on record at 4am in the history of the Wynn casino.

After a few hours of restless sleep, I woke up, cleaned up, and packed up, making the always depressing Vegas Exit.

final PnL:

Friday:

Venetian Tourney: $-180

Venetian 2-5NL: +$613, 2.5 hours

Venetian double deck: -$304

Saturday:

Wynn 1-3NL: $-23 2 hours

Wynn 2-5NL : $-43 2 hours

Mirage 1-2NL: -200 0 hours

Mirage 2-5NL: +260 6 hours

I.P. double deck: $-750

Wynn Pai Gow: $+495

Wynn 1-3NL late night: $+27 1 hour

Sunday:

Mirage 2-5NL: +$36 5 hours

Wynn double deck: $-1000

Wynn Pai Gown: $-500

grand total: $-2059 playing table games

17.5 hours of poker: +$490

until next time,

KD