In Your Head

I love Humberto Brenes. In a heterosexual poker fan kinda way. Humberto is a complete fucking lunatic, always good humored, and still manages to get into his opponents' heads.

Contrast this to Eric Molina, who is a complete fucking cocksucker. Eric Molina is the definition of doucheball: a 21 year old punk who has zero class, and has the potential to ruin the game of poker. Former New York City poker staple Shaniac wrote about his run-in with Molina, which was also shown this week on ESPN's Main Event broadcast. Here's the thing: it's one thing to talk trash to an opponent, event to bait him while you're in a hand, but Molina is the first guy I've ever seen who blatantly taunts opponents when he eliminates them!

What a classless little fuck. I was on TILT just watching him on tv! I was seriously worried that if I found myself at the table with him, I'd punch him in the face. I can handle trash talk, but if Molina busted me, and then told me "terrible call," as I got up to shake the hands of the other players at the table (which he did to at least two opponents in this week's broadcast) - he'd better be ready to rumble. Leave it at the table: don't taunt a guy after you've already eliminated him!

Prahlad "Spirit Rock / Mahatma" Friedman chose a different needling tact - very calmly, quietly, and persistently getting deep inside Jeffrey Lisandro's head by repeatedly suggesting that Lisandro had failed to post his 5,000 ante, and that the player next to Lisandro, Dustin Holmes has posted the ante twice. Prahlad refused to drop the subject, nonchalantly bringing it up 3 times over the next 3 hands, and then telling Lisandro that Lisandro was trying to "rob" Holmes of 5k, and that "Frankly Sir, I don't trust you." Lisandro went ballistic, threatening to "take his head off," as Prahlad coolly plead his case to the floorman, with his hands in the air making the "I didn't do anything motion." Now THAT is how you effectively get in someone's head: you don't have to taunt them and bash them repeatedly like Molina. It turns out that Prahlad was wrong about the ante too!

I also thought Jamie Gold did a great job keeping his cool when he got into a bigger dick contest with Molina during a hand, which ended with Molina saying "fuck" and Gold immediately pouncing with "PENALTY!" as he called the floor and was successful in imposing a penalty on the young dickeater.

As for the actual poker, I'm absolutely stunned by how bad the level of play is. Never mind the maniacal Dmitri Nobles, granted, you can't judge a player soley by the plays ESPN shows him making, but the amount of dead money is absolutely staggering, which is also why it's so fucking hard to survive these days: you simply cannot avoid putting your chips at risk against these internet/homegame maniacs.

The most shocking double-doucheball play this week benefited Erik Friberg, who open raised with KK, and was re-raised by TT. Doucheball2 cold called the re-raise from the BB with AK, and Friberg immediately moved all-in, for a larger-than-pot-sized re-re-raise. Doucheball1 thought for about 5 seconds before calling with his TT, and Doucheball2 thought for the same amount of time before calling with AK! Friberg tripled up, and rolled on to the final table.

Finally, what's up with players thinking that "gambling" is the object of poker? Molina repeatedly stated that he was a gambler, as if it was the most important trait in a poker player, and showed off for the cameras as he called an opponent's all-in blind preflop. In a previous hand, Lisandro moved all in with the nuts on the turn against his opponent's two pair. His opponent thought for 20 seconds, and said "Well, I came to gamble," as he called off all his chips and lost. It's one thing to call with two pair and run into the nuts, but it's the "gamble" philosophy that seems to be firmly ingrained in the World Poker Tour generation - they don't realize that a normal poker tournament is not like the final TV table of a WPT event.

Lisandro said it best: "You came to gamble, I came to win!"

until next time,
KD

I Remember

September 11th 2001

I remember what I was wearing - this horrible blue shortsleeve Van Heusen shirt - my boss still makes fun of me every time I wear it: "Do you work for the post office?"

I remember the first call I got about the World Trade Center. Alex called me and told me there was a bomb at the WTC.

I remember Eddie's scumbag client immediately selling 400,000 MDY's, and then buying them back a few minutes later when the news came that it wasn't a bomb, but "just a plane."

I remember Jeff, a pilot, turning to me and telling me that it's impossible to accidentally hit the World Trade Center with a plane.

I remember Jeff S. crying out in horror when the second plane hit.

I remember the order I had on my desk: it was a small order from Van Kampen - and I remember yelling at Sean, one of my salesmen. "Fuck this Sean - we're not doing this order - we're leaving." I remember his reply: "We'll do whatever the exchange does."

I remember Ralph saying that he heard there were as many as 10 hijacked planes, and I remember his genuine concern for his employees.

I remember The Towers falling. It was perhaps the only thing more impossible than the planes hitting The Towers in the first place.

I remember not knowing where to go - not wanting to go to Grand Central, so eventually a bunch of us walked up to Ryan's future in-law's apartment.

I remember bumping into Sid, who I'd worked with 3 years earlier and not seen since. I remember what I said to him: "Fucked up huh?" What else could you say?

I remember sitting at Ryan's, glued to the TV, running to crane our heads skyward each time we heard jet engines - not knowing that fighter pilots were patrolling Manhattan.

I remember what I got to eat: chicken fingers from a nearby deli - they sucked.

I remember people rushing to withdraw cash from the ATM's.

I remember deciding to finally go home, taking Metro North with Tom - we had to go to Whiteplains because the trains weren't running on our line. I remember what we talked about on the train ride - which was jam packed, standing room only like a subway: we wondered how the terrorists had managed to plant bombs, demolition style, in the World Trade Center - we couldn't believe that they could crumble like that otherwise.

I remember the newspapers the next day. The 60-sigma images of the planes crashing into the towers. Simple impossible to imagine or describe.

I remember Tom having to go pick up the car of a friend who died in the attack. He had to pick it up from the train station and bring it home to the friend's widow. I think he did this more than once.

I remember walking around aimlessly for the next two days - no job to go to, no real way to go help at Ground Zero. I remember downtown Rye being shutdown because of a bomb scare at a bank. The downtown was made up of about 6 banks, and my apartment was above 3 of them.

I remember lying in bed at night as CNN had a camera on the Empire State Building, reporting that it had been evacuated, afraid to turn off the television, for fear of seeing a pile of rubble when I turned it back on.

I remember calling my friend Ara, who was out at Chatham on the Cape - in his parents' house, which is as close to a paradise sanctuary as I could get. I had to get away. I remember my boss calling my cell phone, and telling me they needed me back. I remember telling him that I wasn't coming back - I was going to Boston to see my family after I left the cape. I remember him telling me "You do what you think is right," which was his way of reminding me that he needed and wanted me back. I remember telling him, "I'm going to Boston. Bye."

I remember when the market opened after several days. I was sitting on Ara's couch, in front of a big bay window looking out onto the beach. I remember the Fed slashing interest rates, and the chain emails that went around explaining how if everyone "in an act of Patriotism" bought 10 shares of their favorite stock, then stocks would be fine.

I remember the funerals at Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Every week - a massive procession of police and firemen. Bagpipes. I still cry when I hear bagpipes - but I think I've always done that.

I remember how I felt somehow cheated that no one I had known personally had died - and how angry I was at myself for feeling like that.

I remember the first time I played soccer with my current team: it was in December I think, on the rooftop of the parking garage at Pier 40, looking down toward the hole left by the WTC. I pulled my hamstring of course.

I remember the first time I went running down the West Side Highway after the attacks. Coming to the bend in the path where the World Trade Center should have dominated the skyline. And being brought to tears by the empty space. I remember then realizing how absolutely massive the hole in the SKY was.

I can't forget these things, and I don't want to. Wishing something never happened and wanting to forget that it happened are two different things. I am quite certain I will never forget the events of September 11th, 2001, and I value those memories, as unpleasant as they are.

-KD

5 Years Later

I was in New York City on September 11th, 2001. A few days later I wrote the message below, which I republish here, unedited.

xxx

Let me start by saying that since I am not at work, I have not seen any emails which have already been sent regarding this subject, but I wanted to share my long,rambling thoughts/feeling/ stream of consciousness on the matter.

Forgive the spelling errors, I am typing quickly. My view may be different than most in that a) I was in NYC (52nd street, right next to Rockefeller center) and I work on a trading floor, where information spreads instantly. In this case, we were preparing for the beginning of the trading day, when my desk actually had the first call on the tragedy, from one of our brokers in New Jersey whose office looks across the WTC (World Trade Center). He called and said the WTC had just been bombed. Our reaction was, of course, "no way", and we turned to NBC, which was just developing the coverage. An interesting note is how Wall Street reacts - terrorism, of course, is bad for everyone, so the S&P 500 futures, which trade before 9:30 am, immediately plummeted. Word soon came that it was not a bomb, but a plane, and, as if there was a sense of relief, the futures rallied back to the level they were at before the initial announcement -as if the world was saying "oh, it was just a plane, a tragic accident."

My boss, who is a pilot, turns to me and says "You cannot accidentaly hit the WTC - you can see it from 50 miles away. You have to try really hard to steer into it. This is intentional." Now, as the whole world is watching this incredible display, I am feeling a sense of surrealism, yes, it is tragic for a plane to hit the WTC, but life will go on. Suddenly there was an explosion in the second WTC tower, and I can only attempt to describe the atmosphere on the trading floor - I put my head in my hands and rubbed tears from my eyes - there's no doubt at all - this is obviously not an accident.

The indescribable feeling is that we are the USA - we are invincible, we do not know the feeling of being under attack - but we are now undoubtedly being attacked - by our own hijacked planes. Whispers spread that there are as many as 18 planes missing... Then news hits that the Pentagon has been hit by a plane...Shock - the Pentagon - isn't the Pentagon the CENTER of our national intelligence - isn't it supposed to be invincible? holy shit - we are really under attack.. I called my parents in the Boston suburbs (they are both teachers) - they were pleasantly unaware of the occurrences of the past hour - and I told them to stay away from Boston - I'm fearing that terrorists are going to crash multiple planes into our biggest cities- NY, DC are already hit - what's next? Chicago,Boston, S.F?

I called my fiance in Stamford,and begged her to get in her car and drive. "Where to?" she asked me - "West" I told her.. .away from any city. At work, many of us, including myself, live in Westchester - where were we going to go? - there was no way out of the city - no sense going to Grand Central- another possible target - perhaps to a friend's house in the city? Why not stay here - we shouldn't be a target. "We're right in midtown - right in Rockefeller Center" someone mentions.... hmmmm....

We called our offices in Chicago and San Fran, telling them to get the hell out of there, and I tried desperately to reach my friends in Boston, but was unable.. Cell phone circuits were jammed, land lines were jammed....Watching the two WTC towers, with gaping holes pouring black smoke out of them, I could only think of one thing - Armageddon - the movie - this looked JUST like Hollywood - so much so that I fear it desensitizes us... When I got home I put in my DVD of Armageddon and skipped to the scene where meteors hit NYC - if any of you have the DVD or VCR tape - go do this right now - the end of the scene, where they pan out and show the skyline, with the two towers, gashed by meteors, will strike you as horrifyingly prophetic... Deja Vu. Still, the feeling of being under a terrorist attack cannot compare with watching live on national tv as the WTC towers collapsed one by one -I must dwell on this point because I know that those of you who are not in or around NYC will not feel the same impact of this as New Yorkers do - but the WTC towers ARE NewYork, the skyline, the center of symbolic and ACTUAL commerce and finance, the symbol of American power(which of course is why they were targeted).

The towers were built to withstand the force of a Boeing727 flying into them - at the time, that was the biggest plane in the sky.... The way the towers crumbled, like an imploded building, made us all certain that there were bombs in the building - but a bomb in the lobby, even the size of the Oklahoma City bomb, would not bring down the WTC. Is it possible that the building was lined with bombs... It seems now that there were in fact no bombs, that the building simply could not stand the force of the plane embedded in it - again, perhaps my lack of engineering skill disadvantages me here, but I could not believe that the planes were still in the building, that the building had actually withstood the force of the plane, and the plane had not come out the other side.

When Oklahoma City was bombed, it was tragic, but it didn't hit home for me at all - it had no impact on my life -I read about it for a few weeks in Newsweek, saw horrifying death tolls, but was really, as most of you probably were, entirely distanced from it. This time, I have customers, brokers, friends, friends of friends, spouses of coworkers who all work in that building.. My bank is in that building... My brokerage account is in that building... I go to get Broadway tickets in that building.... As we are watching the footage on TV, I ask the guy across from me, "Chris -who else is in that building - Lehman? Merrill?" Chris says "My wife." - try to imagine how that hits you.

A kid who just started last week at work sat and stared at the TV, silently.. Lee, who works in the same office as I do later told me that the kid's father is a Fire Chief... Wow... My life, and the lives of all my coworkers, and everyone in NYC is forever changed, but the fascinating thing is that when I made it home to the suburbs, in Rye, the impact is so much less, and my fiancee who works in Stamford, CT, is at work today. I can't believe they have work - but when I think again, I realize that their lives may not be as affected, and I worry that I know now what it feels like when you think people don't care because they are not affected... But what do I expect? do I want people to walk around crying all day? I break out into sporadic tears, but I don't expect or want people to make a lifestyle out of mourning...I don't know....

A friend of Anya's was supposed to fly home from Newark to S.F. yesterday morning... That is one of the flights that was hijacked... she decided to stay another day in New Jersey... wow. Another of her friends was flying from Newark to Orlando - her flight took off, then immediately turned around and landed back in Newark....

How about those videos, from all different angles of the planes crashing into the towers - I hope to whatever powers may be that none of us will ever see an image like that in our lifetimes. Dead center, not slicing the sides, but barreling right into the WTC...Horrifying.. As Dan Rather began his national newscast"September 11'th, 2001, a day that none of us will forget for the rest of our lives." The scariest thought is that reports appear to show that the hijackers had little more than knives as weapons... To think that you can destroy NYC with knives, and some incredible planning... I don't think that people don't care, I hope I'm not misinterpreted, this event is unprecedented - unlike Pearl Harbor, unlike the Civil War (I don't know why people compare it to the Civil War when talking about the worst moment in American history) - this is the single worst moment in US history, and for that reason will not be glossed over, but I can't help thinking that Non-New Yorkers will not understand.

I tried to donate blood today, but the blood drive told me that they had so many donors that they were out of blood bags, and they were out of refrigeration space, and that Mayor Giuliani had asked them to stop drawing blood, since they had received so much supply, they had no place to put it yet. They simply took my name and phone number and told me they would call me. Driving home, I heard a girl call in on the radio who said that a classmate of hers got an email from his father that said "Son, a plane just crashed into the building two floors above me. I love you and I'll see you in heaven"... I can't even type that without crying.

I hope that all of you, and all of your friends and families are safe, and that we will all be able to get over this event, but I am fairly certain that my life,and the lives of all New Yorkers will be forever altered.

Young Guns

Sig and I were walking home today, west down 49th street. Outside of the NBC studios, there are some photographers snapping pictures of someone, who is surrounded by a tiny group of fans - he's signing autographs.

"What's going on here?" I ponder to Sig, as I try to figure out who it is.
"TWENTY FOUR!" Sig is all over it - as Jack Bauer himself is standing there, signing autographs. He's not as short as people claim - about five-eight, but he's really skinny.

"Jack Bauer in the FLESH!" I blurt out, "What's up, Emilio?" but not quite loud enough for him to hear... Pause right there... Re-read the previous sentence.

Before I can realize my mistake, I'm off on a tangent with Sig about why Charlie Sheen isn't here with his brother, and how Charlie Sheen has the brain capacity to rival Paris Hilton. It's not until I get on the subway that I realize: KEIFER SUTHERLAND IS NOT EMILIO ESTEVEZ. Holy Crap. Of course everyone knows Keifer is Jack "Do you know who the fuck I am?" Bauer, but I think I had them melded in my brain from the Young Guns days, where, incidentally, it was Estevez who was the star.

I spent the remainder of my subway ride pondering what I would have said to Keifer if I got the chance to talk to him...

*shouting* "PUT THE PEN DOWN JACK! SLOWLY! DO IT NOW!" he probably doesn't get a lot of that thrown back at him...

"What does E-cuth look like without makeup on?" I wonder if he has a father-daughter relationship with her on set... Would he know who I meant if I said "E-cuth"?

I realized, however, that the best possible thing I could have possibly done was calmly walk up to him and say, "Hey Mr. Estevez - I'm a huge fan." Talk about implied tilt odds. I mean - do you think Keifer ever gets mistaken for Emilio Estevez? Would he go all Jack Bauer on me, ranting "Look kid, Emilio was top dog in Young Guns, but that was nineteen-eighty-fucking-eight! I won a motherfuckin' Emmy this year! Do you think Emilio won shit for Repo Man or Men at Work?"

Would he go into a rage and revert to a British accent, yelling at me for being an ignorant American? Would he smile and laugh, thinking I was a plant for Howard Stern, and clearly joking? Would he take it as a complement? We'll never know.

ahhh... woulda coulda shoulda.

until next time,
KD

Barrow Street

I was telling JoeC earlier today that the Meatpacking District bottle service velvet rope scene isn't my style. Yeah, I know how to roll, but I prefer to relax in a lower key environment like my old standby dive, the Barrow Street Alehouse.

I've been going to the Barrow Street Alehouse since 1998, when I moved to New York City. Back then, Greg and I would go, Wall Street Rookies, not yet making the big bucks, and enjoy the low stools, sawdust on the floor, cheap drinks, house cat, and chunky waitress who gave us every other round for free. We'd tip her 50% and feel like the kings of the world - you can never get enough freeroll.

Now, eight years later, Barrow Street is still my favorite bar, and I once again live right around the corner from it. They've since replaced the sawdust and 2 foot stools with 4 1/2 foot high tables and high backless bar stools, but the downstairs area with darts, a pool table, and a love seat that I'm pretty sure is harboring more diseases than the CDC, is still untouched. Most importantly, BS Alehouse still serves top notch bar food, and the best Buffalo Chicken sandwich in the City.

So this afternoon when Greg IM'ed me "Where are we meeting?" I replied, naturally, "Barrow Street." Greg's only reply was a contented smiley face. Greg called me later to tell me that he was at Barrow Street, and I threw some food down for Oscar and headed over to meet him. Barrow Street is about 200 yards from my apartment, and I've been there countless times, but this time, as I walked through the doors, I was confused.

The walls were paneled in richly grained wood, and the scuffed floor was now pristine and coated with 1/8th of an inch of shiny polyurethane. The table and backless bar stools had been replaced by high end booths made of real wood and dark high quality leather. I walked in, and blinked 3 times. Greg was in a booth right by the door, and pointed at me, laughing at my confusion. I looked up, walked around in a circle 3 times, and looked at him: "What the fuck is THIS?" I asked.

Greg laughed "I know - they've gone high end - sit down," he urged me, but I had some business to attend to. I walked down the bar, like a kid who just found out that Hanukkah Harry doesn't really exist.

I approached the bartender: "When did THIS happen?" I asked, waving my arms.

"The booths came in last Thursday," he explained, as I looked for the old standby chalkboard which showed the list of draught beers - GONE. The tube tv's were replaced by an army of plasma screens, and the ladies room sported a nice new neon sign advertising it's location. There was only one question: what was downstairs? Would I find a lounge with blacklights, and 2 foot square velvet stools? Would there be waitresses in short black cocktail dresses, and flickering candles? I stumbled down the stairs, as if in a dream, and found some solace in seeing that the dungeon was still untouched: same dartboards, same pool table, same crappy concrete floor, same used-by-NYU-kids-for-heavy-petting loveseat stained by 1000 beer spills.

I slouched back up the stairs to find Greg, slumping into the booth, telling him "This sucks."

"I know," Greg commiserated, "but they have $15 all you can drink draught beer from 6-9pm!" Now, Greg can drink beer. He's a born and bred Revere, MA native, and he drinks beer at at LEAST twice the speed I do, so my EV sense is thinking "FREE ROLL!" Even if I breakeven on the arbitrage, I know Greg will crush it.

Our waitress comes over to take my order, as Greg is already enjoying a 12oz plastic cup of Oktoberfest: college style. When we're 1/2way through our first beer, we ask the waitress (who failed her test mightily when she took 5 minutes to bring me my first round) for another round. "You have to finish that round first - you use the same cup," she explained. No problem - do you know who the fuck we are? We've been coming here since you were in diapers, sugartits. We pound our beers, and I jokingly turn mine over my head and pretend to "flip cup" it, as Greg tells her, "Now, THAT is his cup, and THIS is mine."

"You aren't going to get the same cup back," she tells us.

"No problem, as long as we don't get someone else's," Greg answers, thinking we'll get new cups.

"No - you might get someone else's cup," she deadpans. And she's not kidding.

I interrupt: "Wait a second: he just wants to make sure he doesn't get someone else's cooties...or herpes... or chlamydia," and flash her a smile.

"You might get someone else's cup - we have no control of it," she is getting annoyed, not smiling.

"What do you mean - do you have a magic marker? I'll put my name on this one - I don't want someone else's cup." I mean seriously, I'm all for the college-throwback-refill-the-plastic-cup-all-you-can-drink gig, but I don't want some NYU whoo-hah's cup.

"I'm really busy - I have a lot of other tables to take care of - do you guys want another round?" She's legitimately pissed now.

"Look, can we go to the bar and get our own refills?" I try diplomacy.

"Sure, I mean, it's better for me if you order from me, but you can do that," she bargains.

"We'll take care of you, don't worry," and I mutter under my breath to Greg: "I'll pay you 20% to leave us the fuck alone."

Greg cackles out loud, and she shrugs and goes on to her other tables. Greg proceeds to make beer runs to the bar for the next two hours, ensuring that our cups are not tainted by the young blood in the bar.

I order a Blue Moon Belgian White, which comes with a lemon wedge on it. Greg laughs at me, but I gloat, "ah HAH! Lemon Wedge Cup Marker! Suck it!" and do a sitting dance in the booth. After a Magic Hat #9 and buffalo chicken sandwich for me, Greg, I think 3 beers ahead of me at this point, has to take off to meet his fiance uptown. He'd already put her off with a text message constructed on the fly, after I told him to make sure he avoided the MTV VMA awards in Rock Center when he took a cab uptown.

"IN A CAB, STUCK IN TRAFFIC" he enunciated word by word to me, as he typed into his phone. "MTV VMA AWARDS - GRIDLOCK" he mouthed, and shrugged, laughing. "SEND." I laughed hysterically, as Greg pondered "I have to remember not to answer the phone or she'll hear I'm in a bar."

I get the check, smile at the evolution of the Barrow Street Alehouse, and promise to myself: If they put a bouncer and a velvet rope out front, I'm finding a new home bar.

Until then, I'll meet you at Barrow Street.

-KD

Rude Awakening

4:25am. I am awakened by the boom of my own hand and head smacking against my headboard. Mrs. Dynamite bolts upright. Oscar bolts upright. What the fuck just happened? I immediately start to laugh as I realize:

I was having a vivid dream that I was back home on the street I grew up on, playing soccer. For some reason, I was guarding Chelsea and England superstar Joe Cole. My team was pressing the action, and I was talking some shit to Cole, as I defended him ruthlessly, shadowing his every move. Someone played a long ball for Joe, and he took off for it, with me turning to bolt with him as soon as the ball was kicked. The only problem was, I turned and bolted in bed too, and made it about 4 inches before I slammed into the headboard. Good morning!

Mrs. Dynamite was confused, but I couldn't stop laughing at the insanity of the situation. Then I remembered a great sleepwalking story from when I was in college. During the summer in my fraternity house, some people lived in rooms different from their rooms during the school year. One such case was Pascal, who lived one floor up from the room he had occupied during the school year. The problem was that the 5th floor and 4th floor had slightly different layouts: from Pascal's 4th floor room, he could stagger out of his room hugging the wall, and fall right into the bathroom. When he tried this stunt on the 5th floor, however, he fell right into Joe's room.

Pascal stumbled into Joe's room, wasted and barely conscious, and went right over to where the urinal was supposed to be. He unleashed a piss storm all over Joe's desk and computer, as Joe shouted in vain, trying to wake up the slumbering giant. Good times. What's college without a melange of drunken urinary exploits? My personal favorite is the picture I have of myself, a young MIT rebel, pissing on the Harvard Law School sign in an act of defiance and conquering. The picture was great because the stream of pee was captured like a strobe effect.

somehow, exploits like those are hard to justify nowadays...

-KD

Vegas: Summer Slam 2006 - Part II

If you haven't read Part One - what the fuck are you waiting for? It's some of my finest work...

I woke up Tuesday morning ready to get down to business. No more fucking around in the peach chip berry patch - I was ready to tilt some locals in the 2-5 NL game.

I rolled into the poker room, and sat in a 1-3NL rock garden for 15 minutes as I waited for a 2-5NL seat. I had free reign of the 1-3 game, but I decided I didn't want to spend the next 4 hours trying to steal $24 pots from the rocks, and took the 2-5NL seat.

Several wise locals left when I sat down, and the open seats quickly filled in as follows:

seat 1: local nitty lady
seat 2: local old Chinese guy
seat 3: local generic old White guy (GOWG)
seat 4: Tilty McTiltson: I'll explain (TILTY)
seat 5: FISH ON! (Fishy)
seat 6: young pro from St. Louis - played a very solid game (PRO)
seat 7: local Asian young gun - tight
seat 8: Kid Dynamite (KD)
seat 9: young Asian girl - local, tight (YAG)

So, the action was fair, considering the lineup, and my stack seesawed between $400 and $700. I was down to about $400 when I found AA in MP. Fishy raised it up to $10 UTG. I bumped it to $40, and YAG called, as did Fishy.

The flop came J-6-7 and Fishy bet out $25 into the $120+ pot. I raised to $100, and YAG smooth called, which I absolutely hated. Fishy overcalled.

The turn was an 8, and Fishy now checked it to me. He and YAG each had about $225 left, I had them slightly covered, and I pushed all in. YAG went into the tank, and I was praying she wasn't just acting, trying to seduce Fishy into another overcall with her set. She finally called, and Fishy called with a shrug.

I tabled my aces, which were good: Fishy had QQ, and I have no clue what YAG had.

I took another pot off the Pro, when I flopped and open ended straight draw in position, and smooth called his flop bet, and then smooth called again on the turn when I made my hand. I extracted another river bet, and was rolling.

Tilty donked off almost his whole $900 stack when GOWG opened for $30, and Tilty reraised to $100. GOWG came back over the top for $400 total, and Tilty thought for 2 minutes before calling. GOWG announced "I'm all in" for $400 more before the flop came down: jack high. Tilty said "I have to call you," and his queens were crushed by GOWG's aces of course. Tilty took his last $100 and raised the old Chinese guy on the next hand, cracking pocket jacks when his 6-4 turned trips.

Then he double through again when his A-6 offsuit made a flush on the river against YAG's pocket queens, and suddenly he was back to about $600 in chips, when he decided to fuck with KD.

GOWG limped, Tilty limped, and the Pro limped. I looked down to find AQ in the small blind. "I love the smell of AQ in the morning," I thought, "What better way to get stacked," as I raised $35 more. They all called!

The flop was a seemingly nice: 2d4dQh. I did not have a diamond. I led out for $105, and GOWG folded. Tilty INSTA-raised all-in, and insta-counted down his stack: $468 more. Pro looked at him and shook his head, saying "I'm laying down the winner," and it was back on me.

Now, I can't play AQ like a pussy just because it's a historic trouble hand for me, so I thought this one through - I took about as long as I've ever taken at a table, really going through everything in my head, and looking into my opponent's soul (although in a non-Hellmuthian, non-douchebally way.) "Unless you have a set of Q's, I think I have you beat," Tilty tells me.

I look at Tilty. He looks at me. He smiles. Hmmm... I shake my head. I sit silently for 2 minutes. "What do you think I have?" I ask him. "I think you have aces - they've been going around," he replies. "Hmmm - and you claim to beat aces? Or you think I'll lay them down?" I tried to get more information. "We'll see," he pulled back a little. I doubt he has a set of 2's or 4's: I think an all-in there with those hands is an advanced play, and I don't think he's thinking on that level right now. 2-4 two pair is possible, but even he may not have called my preflop reraise with that.

"If I fold will you show me?" I asked him. He paused a second too long, before answering "It'll cost you." "Fair enough - how much?" I'm going to open him up like a clam! "$20." he tells me. I nod. I don't put him on AA or KK - he's not going to play them like that preflop, and it's looking like KQ or QJ, or a flush draw.

I begin to count chips. I watch him as I pull out stack after stack of red chips. I get nothing from him. He looks at me again, and smiles again. I smile back. I have him. The nail in his coffin is the way he counted out his raise: I've done it many times just like he did: quickly and confidently counting down my stack - and it usually means weakness.

After 5 minutes, two people call for a clock. The dealer, of course, doesn't call the floor, and I continue to evaluate. After 6+ minutes, I have made up my mind, and slide my $468 into the middle, staring at Tilty. "I call."

Tilty tried to maintain his cool, but after about 1 and a half seconds, a look of terror came over his face, as he begged, "I need a diamond." I silently congratulated myself on a nice call, as the dealer burned and turned..... ten of clubs. I eyed Tilty, as the dealer burned and turned the river... a red... ace... of... diamonds... I shook my head. Tilty spiked the K-8 of diamonds on the table, and I shook my head again as I spiked my AQ facedown.

Now, this wasn't a bad beat - I'm only a 55-45 favorite against his flush draw + overcard (actually, it's more like 60-40 when you account for the fact that the Pro probably had diamonds too - which he claimed: 5d6d), but I'd taken so much time to make such a well thought out and proper call, that this beat hurt as much as any of the recent river cards which have been the thorn in my side.

I knuckled up, hunkered down and took another tough beat for $335 when I turned a straight on a flop with 3 spades which was checked around, and I misread an opponent - I thought her turn raise meant "bare ace flush draw" but in reality it meant "flopped flush." Then Tilty left, as did most of the rest of the table, and I took on the two Pros two my right and one other lady 4 handed, where I had KK cracked by a flopped set of sixes, which cost me another $300.

After all this pain, I was only down $190, but it felt like more as I'd been up $1k before. I decided to go donk it up in the Peach Chip game, where Big Show had a seat. I asked the floor, "Do you have a 1-3NL seat open," "Right there," she points to table 8. "No - I want that seat," I point to table 28, and she realizes who the fuck I am, and seats me to BigShow's right, which is a fair handicap because I'm a far better player than he is.

BigShow tells me "Watch out - someone took a card south!" "No way - how'd they know?" I think he's joking. "The shufflemaster caught it," he explains, and before I can even post my blind, the floor comes over and says "Sir, can you please lift your hands up." I oblige, lifting my hands up, and the manager lifts the padding from the rail, and pulls the Ace of Clubs out from directly in front of my chips.

I reacted just like MikeyMcD in the scene in the Lodge at Rounders when Worm catches the hanger dealing seconds to Mikey: I stood up with my hands above my head and pleaded "Whoa - I JUST sat down," as I'm worried that this looks seriously bad. The 7 of diamonds would be one thing, but the fuckin' ace of clubs - holy kaibash.

"It's ok sir, surveilance found the card - they have verified that it was purely incidental," and I breathe a sigh of relief, wondering what kind of doucheball could lose the fucking ace of clubs.

I proceed to get absolutely owned by a team of Asian fish in the 1-3 game. I can make nothing work - my only solace coming when one doucheball checked to me on the button, and I began to stack off 4-stacks of peach chips. As I'd stacked off my second stack and put my third stack down, he announced prematurely "I'm all in," and I had a sweet angle shoot, pulling back the third stack and the rest of my chips, and leaving the two small stacks I'd already completely released, as I mucked my cards. BigShow laughed in awe.

We left the Peach Chip game, as I ate another $60 loss in two hours, and headed over to the Mirage for some double deck BJ, where we had the pleasure of playing with a guy in the first base seat who played absolutely perfectly for about 3 hours - not one fucking mistake to mess up our table mojo.

I lost a bet on the RedSox, which BigShow booked for me, and another $310 in the Mirage game, but was satisfied by another patented blackjack angleshoot by the BigShow: he had A-4 against a dealer 6, and doubled down. As the dealer tried to throw the cut card into the shoe, another card got stuck to it, which I didn't even notice. She painted a 9 on BigShow's A-4, and he sprang to life: "Wait - this isn't my card - this is YOUR card. THAT is my card," He said, pointing to the unseen card facedown next to the cut card, but knowing it couldn't be worse than a nine, and that it would be nice to plug the dealer with the nine.

The pit boss came over and ruled that BigShow could have the other card, but that the dealer would take the next card, not the nine. BigShow shrugged, "Ok," and took the other card: a FOUR! I laughed at the huge negative Karma we'd just built up, but the dealer proceeded to bust, and BigShow was again successful with an advanced advantage play.

Back at the Frontier, we ran into some insanely superstitious Asian gamblers in the $25 double deck game. Our man in first base slammed a top of the deck blackjack 3 decks in a row, so on the fourth one, his buddy pulls out $300 in cash and drops it behind his boy's $50 wager. "Backing up his boy for the top of the deck BJ - advanced play!" BigShow and I admired the faith, but it didn't work this time, and the bravado induced a dealer 4-card 21.

BigShow's buddy had "gotten us a reservation" at Wynn's SW steakhouse, but at 5pm we decided we'd just go gamble instead, and we walked into SW to cancel the ressie. "Oh, we were just talking about you," the receptionist said, as we gave BigShow's name. "Really? What were you saying?" I was curious. "You know your meal is taken care of right?" She explained. Ahhh.. yesss.... of course.. we knew that. BigShow and I look at each other. He ad-libs "We just need to push it back, we can't make it at 8pm," and we settle on 9:30. Freeeeeeroollllllllll. I took $350 out of the Wynn $100 double deck bj table after we'd cleaned ourselves up, and we hit SW.

The hookup has set us up with a full comp, on account of his $15k per hand BJ and Dice play. He told us to ask for his man at the restaurant, Noey, who would take care of us, and to ask for the Kobe beef, which isn't on the menu. We ask the waiter, who goes to the kitchen, and comes back to tell us that they have no Kobe tonight. Noey, the sommelier, comes over to greet us, and tells us not to worry, he'll talk to the kitchen. After 3 minutes, Noey returns, telling us, "let me make a phone call." And 10 minutes later, he is sauntering back through the SW Steakhouse with a raw 16oz piece of Kobe in his hand - he'd gone to one of Wynn's other restaurants to get the meat for us!

I have had Kobe beef before, and didn't think it was worth the hassle and price, but this was far and away the best steak I'd ever had. Absolutely incredible and indescribable - each bite, which looked like normal sirloin, disappeared like cotton candy as it touched your tongue. Ludicrous. It was nice living the life of the real high roller - and also easy to see how the equation works from the casino's point of view - even if our dinner cost $500, that's basically the vig on less than ONE SHOE of play at the $15k/hand level.

We took it easy Tuesday night, and got up Wednesday to assault a cornucopia of double deck games across the strip. I hit Harrah's for $280, then Paris for $350 - although neither had the Frontier's desirable "double after split" rules. We ended up at the Mirage, and sat in a nice 2-5NL game, this time with BigShow to my right.

I waited 4 hands to post my BB, and on my second hand in the SB, I looked down at AhKh. UTG raised to $30 and was called by the player to his left. The next player made it $130 to go, and it was folded back to me. I thought for 60 seconds, and decided to move all in for $400. The UTG raiser and the caller insta-folded, and the $130 raiser went into the tank. He thought for 3 minutes, and finally made a defeatist call, admitting "I can just rebuild." His jacks held up, and I shook my head at his call, and my inability to catch a friggin card.

The game was the juiciest of the trip - stacked with players who overvalued top pair - but I could not make a hand to save my life. I was probably dealt 15 medium pocket pairs, and couldn't flop a set. I played very few drawing hands, but only because I wasn't dealt them. A wannabe pro to BigShow's right explained how he had the vanity plate TXHLDM on his car. "What kind of car - an IROC?" I was in his face - seriously what kind of doucheball has that plate? He said everyone thought it was about taxes or something, and pegged him for an accountant. "I peg you for a doucheball," I muttered to the BigShow, and then I challenged JohnnyJacks to a heads up PL Omaha match, after he said he was on the list (but the game clearly was not going to happen). He pussed out (probably a mistake - I'm no heads up PLO assassin), and I looked for another opportunity to exact my revenge, but failed time after time.

I was whittled down to a short stack, and told BigShow I was about to Juanda-fy the table - putting on a short stack exhibition for the ages. I double up twice, back to about $240, and then BigShow put a legitimate MUTHER FUCKING DISGUSTING BEAT on me:

He was UTG+1, and I had raising chips in my hand, looking at AJ. He raised to $20 before me, and I smooth called, as the rest of the table folded. The flop came down J-6-4, and BigShow bet $45. I raised to $140, and he moved all-in after 15 seconds. I shook my head, and called. "I have a big pair," BigShow told me. Ok - fine. If I ran into a monster, I ran into a monster. The turn was a queen, and BigShow asked "is that you?" I shook my head. When a ten peeled off on the river, he said "I have a set of tens," and he did. I calmly exited the table, and attempted to give BigShow a wet-willie as he cashed out at the cage, but he had the IPOD headphone defense up. I slugged him in the shoulder for his vicious 90-10 dog suckout, and was on FULL TILT. I made BigShow pay for his 2 out suckout by bitching about it nonstop for the rest of our trip.

We cruised over to the Venetian, and played in a nice $25 double deck game, dropping a few units before a gut-busting dinner at the usually solid Grand Luxe cafe. This time, the meal was a pure fat American fried downer, weighing heavily for the rest of the night. After dinner, we returned to the BJ pit, where the table limit had been raised to $200. I asked the pit boss to role it back for us, as the table was empty, and he obliged, but an hour later he raised the limit again, and told us we were NOT grandfathered in - which I have never heard of! We decided to head over to the Wynn for some Peach Chip fun.

My 1-3NL bad luck continued, as I got stacked early on set-under-set to a nice crazy Asian lady, and continued to run into roadblocks at every flop, as BigShow build up a $1200 profit in the game! It was uber-fishy, and at least he took some of the money I was unable to capture. When the Asian lady flopped a second set on me, I looked at her and laughed, and she cackled "I only like your money!" She seemed serious, as she liberally distributed my chips to the rest of the table.

My session was best summed up by the hand where I finally flopped a set: 2-2 on a K-K-2 board. Dirty Dave asked "What happened - KJ caught up to you on the turn?" No - at least that would mean I'd gotten action! Everyone checked to me on the flop, and I bet, POSITIVE that one of my 4 opponents had a king, but they folded like dominos. I laughed out loud and offered the tableside masseuse $10 if she'd give BigShow a wet willie. She declined, but a random dude at the table asked if he could claim it. I said sure, but he pussed out.

This is how fishy the game was: one fish sat down in the seat to my left, and turned to my chips, "Are these mine?" He asked. I looked at him. He was serious. "No, son. Those are mine. Get your own fucking chips," I told him, as other players watched in awe. I dropped $630 in 5 hours of peach chip hell, bringing my total poker loss on the trip to $1600.

We returned to the Frontier, where we were told that they indeed did NOT offer surrender. "Whoops - someone made a mistake the other night," I muttered, but the pitboss was clueless. I went on a rush, and like a true addict, bemoaned my $525 winning session: if I'd been playing the $100 game at the Wynn, I'd be up $2600! That's true degenerate thinking though, and I actually enjoy $25 blackjack more than $100, as I simply hate losing. Something about the utility tree, where although a big win is great, since I don't need the money, it doesn't seem to compensate from the anger of a big loss (which, still, shouldn't hurt as much if I can still pay the rent, but anyway...) Maybe I'm just a pussy when I don't have an edge.

We dragged ourselves back to Wynn, and played $25 PaiGow with two Asians at 4am. The Asian lady was betting $600 a hand, and the guy was betting $2100 a hand! I was just thankful that my ignorant Gaijin ass couldn't fuck up their hands by playing poorly - as a bad blackjack player could. Also, my PaiGow play is flawless, and nothing beats screaming paiGOW at 5am as you drop the $1.25 commission your winning bet. The lady hit quad aces for a nice bonus payout, and I staggered off to bed at 5:30, up $25, and captured 2 1/2 hours sleep before the brutal eastbound cross country flight home.

Overall, I finished up a few hundred in blackjack, and down $1600+ in poker. The games were ok - definitely different from the weekend games, but certainly beatable. The low limit no limit games (1-3NL) were very soft, but players frequently had short stacks to go along with their short skill. The Wynn 2-5NL games weren't consistently soft, but the Mirage 2-5NL game was definitely juicy.

As I left the hotel room, BigShow called after me: "We need to plan the next trip. How's October?"

until next time,
KD

Vegas: Summer Slam 2006 - Part 1

There are Those Guys you see in Vegas - you know, MOST of them in fact. The Meatheads, screaming "Vegas Baby!" every 10 minutes, and wearing straw hats and shirts that say "Porn Star" on them. They pound drinks on the plane and burnout before they even arrive in The Promised Land. I'm not one of Those Guys. I've been to Vegas. I'm not a rookie - I'm not an amateur - I go to Vegas enough that I don't have to act like a douchebag while I'm there because it will not be a once in a lifetime experience for me. Yeah, I'll wear a Party Shirt when I go out, but it won't be made of silk, and it won't have flames, dragons, dice or $100 bills silk-screened on it.

Of course, I will quote Swingers in every possible situation:

"We're gonna be up five HUNDY by midnight!" - all the time

"I'll have the pancakes, in the Age of Enlightenment" - any time we order food

"If you hurry back I have a shiny silver dollar with your name on it," - after each tableside cocktail order

"I'm gonna make Gretzky's head bleed for Superfan 99 here," - glaring at the dealer, after putting multiple units in play at the blackjack table resplitting 8's against a dealer 6

This trip was a focused mission: Kid Dynamite and the Big Show. No posse, no wives, no girlfriends - just bankroll, Tylenol, and the focus of a special ops assassin. I planned the details of the trip with an anticipatory eye that the Douchebags would never take the care to use, with a careful analysis of everything from ticket purchase, to flight time, to seat selection, to carry on packing procedure.

I know from prior experience that NYC--> Vegas airfare is a volatile beast: and I flat out REFUSED to pay the $650+ that Delta, America West and JetBlue each wanted for a round trip ticket, but with a mere 2 weeks until departure, I was playing a very dangerous waiting game. I felt like I was firing a 3-barrel bluff at the Peach Chip game, and just praying my opponent wasn't fishy enough to call me down with Q high. I was blinded by a memory of a prior trip I had booked on short notice, where the prices were similar, but as I checked each day, I had been able to scoop a ticket for sub $350 one day less than a week before the flight, like the Young Grasshopper snatching the stone from the Sensei's hand.

This time, I again waited... and waited... Unfortunately, the week before I was to go to Vegas, I'd be away from internet access, and may not be able to fully exploit potential fare bargains, so I scooped a $485 roundtrip rate on JetBlue 11 days prior to my trip. Of course, there were still issues to decide: do I take the 11am flight or sleep in and take the 1pm? Dirty Dave answered: "Easy - you're already missing work, so you take the 11am." As for seat selection, JetBlue complicates things by showing you a bullshit map of the plane that shows the seats at the back of the plane having "more" legroom or something (which empirical evidence suggests is total crap). As any experienced traveler knows, it's best to sit in the front of the plane, get the fuck off and beat the taxi line when you land. However, there was the additional potential for an "empty middle seat" freeroll in row 24, so I dropped the hammer on seat 24F.

Then, 3 days before my trip, some new terrorist shit goes down, and all liquids and gels are banned from carry on bags. I again consult my sensei, Dirty Dave, with my options:

a) check my bag and eat the time waiting at the baggage carousel.

b) ditch the toothpaste, deodorant and hair gel, carry my bag on, and replace the toiletries at a higher cost in Vegas, hopefully paid for by the winnings I incurred at the tables while I was NOT waiting for my bag at baggage claim.

Like Confucius, Dirty Dave replied, "Check the bag- the familiar toiletry brand will prevent you from TILTing off your stack with AQ..." and just like that, it was done.

The driver of the car I had called to take me to JFK was a tremendous character, but very hard to describe. When we drove past a film crew shooting on 10th street, he began to regale me with a story, in heavily broken and accented English, of a time back in his home village in Pakistan where they were shooting a movie. There was a scene where a man grabbed up a woman on the back of a carriage, but unfortunately, a Hero came to the lady's rescue, thinking she was being kidnapped. This hero (not part of the movie!) pulled out a machete, and the police arrived just in time, explaining that it was just a movie.

He then explained to me how in his village it was ok to look at someone else's wife once. The second time, you had a problem, and the third time, they would kill you. Also, it was ok for a man to have multiple wives, but a woman could only have one husband. Furthermore, if he were to marry a woman, and found out that she had a prior boyfriend, he would be justified in killing this ex-boyfriend. I sat back and smiled, enjoying his tales, and thanked him for the stories, as I arrived at JFK.

The airport security wasn't bad at all, and when I finally boarded my flight, I relished in the potential for an empty middle seat. As each person boarded, I sweated their seat selection - as if I'd just been called 3 times after raising in early position with AK and deep stacks, and was waiting for the flop. When they finally closed the plane door, my middle seat was still empty, and I let out a muffled howl, much to the confusion of the woman in the aisle. I was unable to find a way to comfortably optimize the two seats, trying to have the courtesy to not rub my ass up against the elbow of this woman, as I attempted in vain to curl my almost 6-foot frame into these two seats. After then trying the patented "diagonal straight legged stretch," also to no avail, I finally settled for some extra legroom, and, unable to sleep, was brainwashed into watching shitty daytime programming.

Seriously: what is the big fucking deal with JetBlue's in flight DirectTV service? Am I the only person in the world who couldn't care less about watching the Celebrity Poker Showdown marathon on Bravo, or Rachel Ray on the Food Network? (confession - those were the best shows I could find) I was happy to watch Sportscenter - but fine - that's 30 minutes - and ESPN airs it on a repeat loop all morning. By the 3rd hour of the flight, I was tempted to try to hustle one of the idiots in front of me, "Hey - I bet you this guy charges the mound."

Landing in Vegas, I was only mildly tilted by the baggage carousel, but quickly reversed that TILT when the taxi-line, which can be a serious Vegas buzzkill, was non-existent. I arrived at the Wynn before 2pm, and was told that there were no rooms with two beds ready yet, so I checked my bag and hit the Office - the Poker Room.

The Peach Chip 1-3NL game was soft, so I sat in it, and crushed it for 5 hours to the tune of $228, while I waited for the Big Show to arrive. Somewhere in the middle of my session, I returned to the front desk and secured a room: 1444. Now, I'm a somewhat superstitious guy, and everyone knows that 4 is the death number according to Asian gamblers. At the same time, there is another hard and fast rule amongst gamblers: you don't want to mess with Karma, which is why if you go to buy a lottery ticket, and you get the wrong numbers by accident, you HAVE to keep that ticket and buy the correct numbers: you NEVER cancel a printed lottery ticket, or it will win, of course.

So, I cringe, and ask the woman behind the desk, "Oy, you wouldn't give that room to an Asian guest would you?" "No way honey," she practically taunts me, "they'd never stay in any room with a 4 in it."

"Ummm, but this one is a good one, right?" I'm desperate now, despondent that I'd just been saddled with a triple 4: hoping that somehow MORE 4's would cancel each other out or something. "You bet - this is a VERY lucky room," she spews the corporate bullshit at me, and I promise to come back at the end of my trip and take care of her if she was right. It wasn't until later, when I finally made it to my room at 4am, that I realized that the situation was potentially even MORE dire: the hotel maintains the superstition of not having a 13th floor: so the 14th floor is really the 13th floor! Aiyahh!

Anyway, BigShow arrived, and I picked up from the Peach Chip game, as we headed off to play some blackjack. As our cordial dealer at the Wynn 6-deck shoe (the only 6-deck shoe we'd play all week) crushed me to the tune of $400, and laughed at our jokes, I asked her, "Have you ever met Steve Wynn?" "Yeah - but not really face to face," she explained. "Do me a favor," I asked her. "Sure - what's that?" She was eager to please. "Next time you see him, tell him to go fuck himself," I smiled, and she laughed out loud as BigShow let out a howl, nearly coughing his beer on the table like Men the Master.

Although I'd already enjoyed a fine poker-table-side tuna sandwich, BigShow was hungry, so we hit the PandaExpress at the Venetian food court. "Is that John Juanda?" I joked, pointing to an Asian guy 3 tables away. BigShow laughed and countered, "Luckbox?"

I took a second look at the guy, and fired again: "It's Billy Chen!" BigShow checked him out and agreed - holy shit - none other than two time 2006 WSOP bracelet winner Bill Chen. As we made our way down to check out the Venetian poker room, we bumped into Bill at the tournament sign up, where he explained that he was there for BARGE, and I salivated like one of Pavlov's dogs at the chance to circle Phil Gordon, who was sure to be in the House.

The Venetian poker room is nice: very roomy, spreading hold'em from 3-6 to 40-80, with 1-2NL and 2-5NL. They also have a decent daily tourney with 30 minute rounds and adequate starting stacks. The problem is, like the rest of the Venetian, they seem to pump some sort of horrible perfumed aroma into the place. I'm sure this aroma was scientifically designed to make people happy and dump their money in the casino, but I must be allergic to it because it drives me absolutely fucking crazy. I go on TILT just smelling the Venetian. The tournament didn't work out for me, and I went to the board while I waited for BigShow to bust out.

"Do you have any seats open?" I asked, ready to play anything. "I'll put you on the lists, Dear," the woman told me. "Nothing open at all?" I didn't come to Vegas on a Monday to wait on lists! "I have a stud seat: 1-5 limit," she told me, and I laughed: "I'll take it!" Do you know who the fuck I am? Kid Dynamite plays any and all games!

I sat down in the 1-5 Stud rock garden, where the players each had about $20 in front of them. On the first hand I folded an ace, drawing some eyebrows. "I'm a hold'em player," I explained, and they started salivating. "Hold'em players are the ones who love to play aces in stud!" they drawled, shocked. I just smiled. I played 5 hands before I was called for the $9-$18 limit hold'em game, stacking a guy for $13 in the process, when my 2-2-A-K-x-x-x crushed his 2-2-A-9-x-x-x busted flush draw.

I returned to the cage to color-change my chips: the 9-18 game uses the chocolate colored $3 chips. I posted the $6 small blind, and looked down at 3-3. The action went like this: UTG limps, UTG+1 calls, UTG+2 raises. folded to the button, who calls, as do I, the BB, and the two limpers.

The flop is K-6-2 with 2 spades. I check. BB checks. UTG bets. UTG+1 raises. Initial raiser makes it $27. UTG calls. UTG + 1 raises to $36, and the preflop raiser makes it $45. UTG and UTG+1 call.

The turn is a Q. UTG bets. UTG+1 calls. Preflop raiser raises. UTG re-raises, UTG +1 calls, Preflop raiser finally just calls. There is a MOUNTAIN of chocolate $3 chips in the pot at this point.

The river blanks off, and UTG checks (???). UTG+1 checks his busted flush draw, and the preflop raiser tables his AA, which is no good of course, UTG has a set of 6's (horrible river check!)

After 3 more hands, I'm called to the 1-2NL game, and carry my rack of $3's to this table. "I guess I'll go change these chips again, unless you guys want me to use the doodee colored chips," I mock, as a few players laugh. I go to the cage to change the chips, but BigShow sidles up, busted out of the tournament, so we decide to instead tackle the deep penetration double deck game at the Frontier.

At the Frontier, we benefited from a dealer who didn't know that they did NOT allow surrender, and even made the mistake of offering the angle-shooting BigShow the ultimate freeroll: she had an ace showing, and asked if anyone wanted insurance. BigShow turned his 16 over and said "surrender," which she obliged, BEFORE checking her hole card! She returned 1/2 of BigShow's bet, and then proceeded to turn over her blackjack, and sweep the rest of the bets! Angle Shoot of the Week by the BigShow.

When the pit boss came by later to change the decks, I asked her, as I've asked every pit boss for the last 4 years, "Can I have a joker," as she peeled them out of the new deck. She hands me the joker, and I'm flat out shocked. I look at her with my mouth open, "Can I have another one?" and she hands me a blue deck joker to complement my red deck joker. BigShow immediately pipes in "Let's go hit the PaiGow table," and I'm laughing out of control (in PaiGow, jokers actually play, which is only ONE of the reasons the casinos never EVER give them to a player.) I'm extremely grateful for the jokers, finally successful after years of asking, but turn to BigShow and mutter, "this probably means they're tearing the place down in 6 weeks."

I cash out of the Frontier +$257, and get a $16 cheeseburger at the Wynn to take up to my room before crashing at 4am. I lie in bed twitching like a cockroach - the burger, red bull, and vodka at WAR in my stomach and central nervous system, and I swear there are bedbugs eating me. I periodically turn on the lights to check and verify that there are actually not any bugs in the bed, and notice that BigShow is still not back. He rolls in around 8am, having hammered the Wynn craps game and double deck blackjack graveyard shift.

stay tuned for part two, which will include a world class call by Kid Dynamite in a big NLHE pot, taking cards off the table at the Wynn Peach Chip game, the best steak I've ever had, and BigShow sticking a fork in me by putting a violent bad beat on me at the Mirage NLHE game.

until next time,
KD

Vegas

Me and the Big Show are off to Vegas Monday through Wednesday. There is a chance I'll be able to bump into Chops, if he's not too busy hobknobbing with the kings of poker.

If you're in Vegas this week, look for me in the usual spots:

-Behind a mountain of chips in a NL game at Wynn or Mirage
-Tilting dealers in the IP Champagne Pit double deck blackjack game
-Angling for a cabana comp at one of any number of pools
-getting stacked in the WPT All-In Hold'em table game at Harrah's
-Screaming "Pai GOW!" as I scoop a Pai Gow hand at the Mirage
-Screaming "Hassan HABBBBIIIIIIIIIB" as I spike a 3 outer in NLHE
-The only guy under 70 years old in an early morning Omaha8 6-12 game
-Rocking the deep penetration double deck bj game at the Frontier
-Fully Tilted, wandering inside of Caesar's trying to find the way out.

trip report to follow, of course.

until next time,
KD

Oscar Update

Here are a few pics of my boy, Oscar, from our week off last week. He was in heaven; jumping in the long grass in Nantucket, playing with our friend's 140 lb. Newfoundland, Paco, riding in the Jeep, and chomping on a lobster tail in Hyannis. The high life - Stud. If anyone knows how I can get this guy on TV or in film, let me know.

-KD

Doucheballs

So I'm back from vacation - weekend in Nantucket and 3 days on the Cape. Oscar had the time of his life - pictures and stories to come. I'm off to Vegas on Monday for three days, and I'll have to bang out a quality post about my vacation tomorrow (along with plenty of Oscar pics - don't worry), but first, I must rant...

DOUCHEBALLS... 3 come to mind, first and foremost:

1). These fucking terrorists with the plan to blow up planes out of England. Apparently this is a big fucking deal, and these doucheballs were actually close to attempting some sort of shit, because the airlines have banning all sorts of carry on items including all beverages, and any sort of gel: like toothpaste or hairgel. This puts me to a very tough EV decision for which I must consult with Dirty Dave: when I go to Vegas on Monday, I am clearly planning on just carrying my bag onto the plane. However, with the new policy, I can't bring toothpaste or hairgel, and who knows if they'll change their mind about deodorant.

So, do I check my bag and blow another 25 minutes at the luggage carousel, OR, do I leave all that crap at home and pay the Wynn Gift Shop premium for toiletry items, using the 25 minutes saved to try to make up the cost by dominating the Peach Chip Game? A raw EV dilemma...

2) Maurice Clarett. From national champion and future superstar, to imminent convict with a $5 million bond on his head. Instead of a $5 million NFL contract, Clarett landed a $5MM bond after he was arrested following a police chase, wearing a bulletproof vest, and carrying 4 weapons, including an AK-47. The bail is so high because "they were concerned that Clarett was driving with the guns only a few blocks from the home of a woman who was set to testify against him next week in an alleged robbery outside a Columbus bar." Maybe Clarett didn't realize that you don't actually have to be a hitman to play for the Mahoning Valley Hitmen, one of five teams in the Eastern Indoor Football League, where Clarett was supposed to play because he fucked up his life and blew his NFL opportunities.

I hope Clarett and his people don't hunt me down for talking shit about him, but really, this guy is exhibit A in the "Wasted Opportunity" file. Congrats, Doucheball!

3) Jamie Gold: Final Table WSOP Main Event chip leader, and possible soon-to-be World Champion. Now, admittedly, Gold has certainly not achieved the same level of Doucheballery as the terrorists or Clarett, but his comments about how he'd rather come in second, and how he doesn't want to be famous certainly qualify him as a doucheball. The boys at Wickedchops have all the Jamie "don't call me Ari" Gold background details.

I worry that I'm being too harsh on poor Jamie, but when I read a quote like this: "There might be a story,'' Gold said, "if I dump at the end because I don't want to be famous,'' I really have to wonder...

until next time,
KD

Tipping Point

The Red Sox failed to make a big name trade as MLB's trade deadline passed. The Yankees dipped into their limitless coffers to fork out $22mm for Bobby Abreau, the best hitter available. Trot Nixon is out for at least 3 weeks, Jason Varitek twisted his knee, a virtual death sentence for a catcher, and David Wells failed miserably in his return from the disabled list, getting spanked for 8 runs in 4-odd innings. I went to bed thinking "this could be the turning point in the season, and not in a good way." With the Sox trailing 8-6, they'd fall into a tie with the Yankees for first place.

Then David Ortiz took over.

Big Papi's walkoff 3-run HR is simply superhuman - because he does it so often. Five walkoff hits in the last 51 days. Clutch? No. Invincible . Ortiz has approached a status in Boston that few before have attained. Boston's holy sports trinity has always been Larry Bird, Bobby Orr and Ted Williams, but it seems like Ortiz is approaching Bird-like status - simply as clutch as one can possibly be. Infallible.

And for anyone who is really wondering why opposing pitchers don't pitch around Ortiz in these situations, the answer is simple: with men on base, you cannot put Ortiz on to pitch to Manny Ramirez. Ortiz knows this, and made damn sure the Sox didn't lose Manny in the past offseason.

In other news, I was severely TILTED today when I head about this company. They sell ice made from spring water... But wait - it's not even frozen: you buy these little prepackaged water packs that look like miniature pudding containers, and then you put them in the freezer. WHAT THE FUCK? Seriously - I want to know who the fuck is buying these things. Why wouldn't you just buy a bottle of water and pour it into your ice tray if you're into purified ice? Even if you buy this dumb ass product, you still have to put it in the freezer! Aiyahh! I'm fucking steaming that there are a bunch of French doucheballs somewhere getting rich off this shit. FUCK.

that is all.

-KD

Hot

Vintage quote, perfectly applicable today:

"I'm a reasonable man, but this fucking heat is making me absolutely
crazy" - Col. Nathan Jessup (Jack Nicholson) in a Few Good Men

I don't know what the weather is like where you are, but it's fucking hot here. Wicked hot.

Today's Quote of The Day:

"I don't like to play extra innings" - David "Big Papi" Ortiz on why he hit a game winning walk-off opposite field single against the infield shift deployed by the Angels

Ortiz was also reportedly late for a charity event, hence the need for him to abandon his normal power swing in favor of some more delicate location hitting.

For all of your WSOP Main Event coverage, check out WickedChops, where Chops, Snake and Addict have invaded Vegas and are reporting with their usual flair.

Dr. Pauly is there too, of course, covering the event with his often immitated yet never duplicated style.

-KD

Friday Night Homegame

Friday night I hosted another edition of the Kid Dynamite home game. E-dub, H0nus, TwinC, Ranxx and Mergie showed up for 7 hours of dealers choice mayhem. All games had to be, as stipulated by Ranxx, "dealt in a casino," and included, PL and NL Holdem, PL Omaha, PL Omaha high-low, PL Stud eight or better, PL and NL Pineapple, and, as per E-dub: 3-6 limit hold'em.

TwinC traded on his tight reputation early, by getting me to laydown a set of queens on a K-Q-T flop in PL Omaha high. He showed a set of tens. I extracted my revenge by sucking out on him in pineapple, when my AdKd flush draw cracked his top two pair.

In stud eight or better, Mergie and I played a monster pot, when I jammed my low draw all the way. I started with 8-3-2 of clubs (with the ace and 4 of clubs dead in other hands), and raised to $5. On fourth street, I caught an offsuit 6, to Mergie's A-5. He bet $10. I raised to $30, he called. Fifth street gave me a 5 for a made low, and he spiked a nine. Mergie checked, I bet $75, he called. Sixth street paired Mergie's 9, and he checked again, to my 7. I bet $125, and he called again! On 7th street, I caught a 4 to make me a straight 6, and Mergie checked to me once again. We each had about $400 left, and I bet $150, which he called, hoping to chop the pot with his two pair. My small straight scooped a big pot.

I gave Mergie his money back 20 minutes later in the Omaha round though: in a raised pot, I held T-9-7-6 with the T-9 suited and the 7-6 suited. On the flop of A-8-5 with two spades (NOT one of my suits), Ranxx and TwinC checked to E-dub, who bet the pot of $35. I smooth called, and Mergie made it $140 to go with a pot-sized raise. It was folded back to E-dub, who mucked his top two pair, and I went into the tank, trying to count all my outs with my uber-wrap draw. Even if I took out the flush card outs, I still had a plethora of outs, and Mergie and I were both deep stacked ($800+), so I decided to just call.

The turn brought an offsuit 8, and I checked, with Mergie checking behind me, but not before making a comment about how he didn't know what I had, but he thought that he was good for at least 1/2 the pot on the low side. What? What the fuck? I forgot we were playing Omaha8! My hand was playable in Omaha HIGH, but not in O8. Major fucking blunder.

The river was a 9, making me a straight and I again checked to Mergie, who drunkenly mumbled, "I've got so much shit going on here, if you can beat me on both, good luck to you," and fired out $250. I called, and he showed the same 6-7 straight for high, and the nut low.

Moral of the story: when you're playing dealer's choice rotation, make sure you know what the fuck game you're playing before you get involved in a big pot with a hand meant for the OTHER game! I ended up getting quartered on the hand, as we chopped the high, and Mergie scooped the low.

In the end, Mergie dug himself out of a 3-buy-in hole, and even made it back to Hoboken in time to take a run at some of the young talent at his local bar. I'll have to get a full report later on his success rate.

until next time,
KD

Oppressionist Regime

So Foxwoods isn't the only poker room on Earth with Stalinist oppressionist rules: check out this shit from the Tropicana.

I notice on Friday morning as I'm playing 2-5NL, there's a pot in which I raise to $25, and I get called 3 times before it's reraised to $65. I see the dealer pulling out chips for the rake (10% up to $4). Now, the action is coming back to me, and this is my fucking pot, so I ask him, "You are pulling the rake already, even if there's no flop?"

"Yes, the money is committed to the pot," he tells me...

I shake my head and re-raise to $200... Anyway...

Later that night, different table, different dealer, I find AA and raise to $20. Everyone folds, and the dealer pushes me SIX dollars. I look at him, staring at the $6, like "What the fuck?"

"10% rake: $1 for rake." He knows exactly what I'm looking at.

"You do NOT rake the pot when someone steals the blinds," I'm in shock.

"Yes sir, that's the rule. Your $20 raise is really a call of $5 and then a raise of $15. When you have called the $5, there is $12 in the pot." Seriously - the Trop is really trying to TILT me, but I'm from the "nothing fazes Bill Gazes" school.

"You're kidding, right?" I can't believe it.

"No sir."

I later track down a floorman to confirm this, and the shift supervisor confirms that the dealer was correct.

Fahhhhhhhhhhhhhkkkkk.

-KD

Atlantic City Part II

Thursday night's antics were written up in Part One, Here.

Friday morning I woke up around 10am and figured I'd head over to the Borgata after checking out the action down in the Tropicana's poker room. However, the Trop's 2-5NL game was pretty good, so I sat down and stayed.

Kirk Acevedo, of Oz fame, was sitting in the 7 seat, while a gregarious school teacher from the Bronx sat in the 8, and a Russian with a booming voice was in the 10 seat. He'd shout things like "OK, SHOW US THE FLOP!" and "FLOOR, WE NEED TO CHANGE THE DEALER" at completely random times, and made for an enjoyable table. I was in the 3 seat, and the other seats were filled with fish who basically watched the four of us tangle for 8 hours.

I continued the frivolity by dropping the hammer early, when I called a raise in position with 7-2 offsuit, and then bet the 4 way pot when it was checked to me. As my opponents folded, I tabled the Hammer, and the schoolteacher laughed in appreciation and respect.

Early in the session a rookie UTG raised to $25, and I was next with KK, and a $400 stack. I made it $65 to go, and everyone folded back to the noob, who called reluctantly.

After the T-8-3 two spade flop he checked to me. I bet $100, and he thought for a solid minute before saying "$170 more back to you," as he pushed all in for $270 total. This kid was so nervous his head was literally shaking, which I read as strength, but my problem was I couldn't be sure he had TT and not JJ or QQ... After significant thought, I called, and was shown a set of tens. Blammo.

I rebought for $500, and spent the next 5 hours playing tremendous poker - just grinding away - relentlessly attacking pots, and dodging bullets. At one point, when Acevedo left, two guys sat down and I just started laughing: one was a dead ringer for the Bizarro Barry Shulman (Actually, he was 85% Shulman and 15% John Madden), and the other was a perfect Bizarro Johnny Chan, complete with vintage 1988 Chan haircut, and sunglasses. I stared at them in disbelief, wondering if this was some kind of Imperial Palace Dealtertainers act, and looked at the other players at the table for someone to appreciate the beauty of this gem, but alas, the other schmucks were lost in their own fish-itude.

I built my stack back up to $1050, which put me up $150 for the session. The Russian was now 1/2 drunk, and seemed eager to battle me for table dominance. When 6 players limped, I raised to $40 from the BB with AcKc, and only he called.

The 6s4c6c flop was solid for my hand, and I bet out $65. The Russian thought for several seconds before calling.

The Qh came off on the turn, and I fired out $150. Again, he thought for a minute, and called.

The river was the ten of spades, and I tried $150 more. This bet probably wasn't the right amount, as I can't really get him to fold a better hand, but I thought he was on a flush draw, and I didn't want to have to check-call a big bet, so I made it as a kind of blocking bet.

He insta-called, and when I said "Ace high," he slammed his Q-9 offsuit on the table emphatically. Nice flop call fucko. I knew it would just be a matter of time before I got my money back from him.

I didn't have to wait long for the opportunity: while the Russian was arguing with the dealer, who had ruled that an opening raise to $17 was not allowed (ie, the dealer said opening raises had to be in $5 increments, which was contrary to what I was told the night before), I decided to fuck with Karma by jumping into the fray.

"That's not true, you can open for whatever you want," I told the dealer.

"No, you cannot," he said.

I looked down at The Vortex: 6-8 offsuit, and, as the Vortex himself would have wanted, announced, "Raise: $17 straight - call the floor if it's not a valid raise."

The Russian laughed, as I'd come to his defense, and called from the SB as everyone else folded.

"I check in the dark," he told me, before the 3s-5d-9d flop came down.

"OK, I bet. $30," I responded, and he called quickly.

"I check in the dark again," he calmly tapped the table before the turn came out... In slow motion, like a dream: the seven of clubs. My money card.

Now, I'd been tangling with the Russian for 7 hours at this point, and I figured I'd have to start a bigger dick contest with him - bait him into proving to me that he was the boss of this table.

I bet out $50 - just continuing with my preflop raise and flop continuation bet - you better raise me.

"Raise: $100" He min-raised me.

Attaboy, perfect. The bigger dick contest is on, but right now I'm Johnny Fuckin' Holmes - BITCH! The key here is to threaten his dominance: make a DYKWTFIA (Do You Know Who The Fuck I AM?) raise right back in his face.

"Raise. $300," I retort, sliding out two stacks of red.

It took him less than 8 seconds to announce "I'm all in," which really meant he was playing for my last $290, since he had me covered. Hook line and sinker - revenge will be so sweet.

I quickly slid my remaining chips into the pot, standing up, and things happened very quickly: I barely had time to turn my hand faceup and shout "BRICK IT!" before the dealer spiked the 4 of diamonds on the river, and the Russian, also standing, screamed out "YES!" as he slammed his Qd2d on the table.

"JEEZUS," I bellowed, as all eyes in the room turned to our table.

I stormed out of the room, on mega tilt, and steamed all the way through the Trop up to my room. I was going to play the $10k first place guaranteed tournament: $100 buy-in with $100 add-on, and I needed to make some phone calls to my poker pundits to fix my broken will.

I called E-dub, who sympathized with my bad beat story, and offered to send over some Double-Doubles to nourish me for the tourney. Dirty Dave was on his way to Vegas, pulling a miraculous last minute switch after his flight from Boston was cancelled: true addict that he is, Dave took the commuter rail south to Attleboro, MA, then hired a cab to drive him to Providence, where he was re-booked to Vegas! Cha-Ching!

I then called the Vortex, who was supposed to be in A.C., but he told me that he'd cancelled his trip because it was raining, and his wife would be left with nothing to do while he played poker. I told him how I'd got Vortex-ed, and he said "You didn't play it right!" "What? I raised preflop just like you wanted, and then I got $600 in on the turn with the nuts! I can't play it any better!" He laughed, and wished me luck in the tourney.

The tourney structure was very fast: 4k in starting chips, with 50-100 blinds, and 20 minute levels. Subsequent blinds were 75-150, 100-200, 150-300 with a 25 ante, 200-400 with a 50 ante, and then 300-600 with a 100 ante. You could do an add-on for 4k more in chips after the 3rd level, but could not rebuy if you were busted.

After washing my face in the room, regaining my composure, and putting on the Tournament Assassin gameface, I was ready to rumble. I sat down and took 4 of the first 5 pots, raising ruthlessly and continuously: on a mission.

On the 7th hand, when everyone was finally seated at our table, I limped in early middle position with 9dTd, and we saw a 5 way unraised flop: Ts9s3h

The small blind comes to life, betting out 2k! What? I quickly decided he wouldn't do that with a set, and decided to just call, as I might be able to induce a fold if the turn blanked off - I wasn't sure I wanted to reraise him all-in, which would give him the correct price to call if he had a flush draw.

The turn was an offsuit 5, and he bet out $700. I quickly put him all in, for $1300 more, and he called after 15 seconds, tabling KT offsuit, and I had doubled up early.

I didn't really play another hand until the break, when I did the add-on for 4k in chips, and had 12k, with blinds at 200-400. The problem was, between the fish at the table, and the incompetent dealer we had, who went out of his way to slow the game down after I gently encouraged him to keep it moving (he'd pause to scratch his nose in the middle of dealing the cards, he'd take his time chopping out side-pots, he'd look around at the other things in the room - and he knew it was bothering me), my 30BB stack quickly became a 10BB stack, in the span of 2 levels, which encompassed 15 hands! AIYAHH!

Our table broke, and I was playing my small stack lethally - waiting for the perfect moment to step in. I doubled up with A-Ts, then stole a round of blinds, antes and a limper, when I came over the top with KQ and everyone mucked. When my JJ cracked AA by spiking a jack on the flop, I was suddenly the chip leader, and when the button and SB tried to limp in my BB, I put them both all-in with As9c, liquidating the button, who called with K7offsuit. My KK was cracked by a small stack's 8-9 when it made a straight, but I had about $45k.

The problem was, with blinds at 1k-2k, and 4 tables remaining (top 9 paid, with first place over $10k, and a steep dropoff after that), I knew it was still a major crapshoot, which led me to make this somewhat unorthodox play:

UTG, who was the only player at the table I respected, raised to 10k (200 ante, 1k-2k blinds). It was folded around to me in the SB, where I found A-J. Now, in a normal tournament, this is a pretty easy laydown. However, here, as I looked at my opponent's chips, seeing that he had a stack that was very close to mine in size, he said "We're about the same in chips."

Hmmm.. Yes, I know this... and I know that YOU know this, and I know that YOU know that I'm the one person at this table you shouldn't fuck with. There are a bunch of fish here, and we could try to pick off their $15k stacks instead of tangling with each other. Also, the exponential blind structure meant AJ was a playable hand, even in the face of a UTG raise. I decided I'd call, and try to freeze my opponent on the flop.

The flop came 7-5-5, which should have been a clue for me to check-fold, as now there is now way I can get him to laydown a medium pair like 9's through J's. Still, he couldn't call a bet with AK AQ, and I counted out 15k.

He thought for a long time, and I was pleased with my brilliant plan - until he uttered "all-in."

I was getting a nice price, but it would cost 15k of my remaining 19k to call, and I released my hand, as he showed me QQ. In retrospect, this raggedy flop was a poor one for me to bet at, as he'd call with hands worse than QQ.

Three hands later, everyone folded to me in the cutoff, and I moved all-in for 19,400 with 3-2 offsuit. When the button called after 30 seconds, I let out a sarcastic "faaahhhhhhhhhkk," and he showed A-J, which held up, and I was out.

Now, sometimes I'd be furious with myself at the way I blew up in the span of 2 hands in this tournament, but the massive blind/stack ratio, large number of players remaining, and top heavy payout structure gave me the perfect set of circumstances to take a few shots: there's no way to win this thing without taking a bunch of risks, so I wasn't upset as I thought about my play.

I returned to the board, and asked for a 2-5NL seat. The floorman told me "go buy chips."

"Where is the seat?" I asked him, wanting to see the table composition before I bought chips.
"I have 4 tables," he explained.
"OK, do I get to choose?"
"No, you'll be right here," he showed me an open seat two to the left of my nemesis: the Russian!

I licked my lips, eyed the 8 person line at the cage, and sat down at the table with cash for a full buy in.

After only 30 minutes, I played an interesting pot when 4 people limped to me in the SB, where I completed with Ts3s, and the BB checked.

The flop came Jd-Th-3h, and I bet out $30. A calling station in middle position called, as did an Enigma in the cutoff-1, before the Russian in the cutoff raised to $100. He had about $300 left, to my $430, and the Enigma had us both covered.

I'm in an interesting spot here, as I may be up against JT, but I'm not folding, and although I can raise to price out a flush draw, I think I can get a bare jack to overcall if I just call, and I also think that the Russian or the Enigma will call me on the turn with a flush draw, getting a much poorer price to do so.

I finally smooth call, an the MP calling station folds, but the Enigma calls.

The turn is the beautiful ten of clubs, which means I'm committed, and will either get stacked by JT, or rake a nice pot. I bet out $150, and the Enigma calls quickly, but the Russian is fuming. He's cursing to himself, and now I think he just had a big jack. He finally mucks, to my dismay, after chiding the dealer "You can't find nothing but TENS in the deck?!?!?!"

The turn is a brick 6, and I slide my last $182 into the pot, counting it off.

Enigma goes into the tank, holding his cards up, staring at them, and he's about to fold them, when he has a second thought and pulls 4 red chips off of a stack, sliding the remaining tower forward along with a second stack, calling.

I slyly spread my beauty: TEN-THREE-SUITED, and rake a sizable pot.

The only other story worth mentioning was a six-sigma character who joined our table, talking 100 miles a minute, and raising with impunity, pulling out things like blow-pops, and Fun-dip from his bag, and throwing them on the table, sliding them toward other players or the dealer. He'd also pick up the house phone behind him when he was in a hand, having a mock conversation with himself: "Yeah, I raised, he called, and I have shit. What do I do know?" He later pulled out his cell phone and showed me naked photos of his girlfriend.

I finished the evening session up $347, and managed to get my room rate cut in half by persistently nagging the woman in charge of the poker rate, and snagging a reduced rate which another player had reserved but not shown up for.

In the morning, it was raining again, and the depression of Atlantic City was taking it's toll on me: that's what happens when you go solo! I packed my stuff and stopped in the poker room, planning to play if the game looked good. There was a list going already, at 10am, so I jetted over to Bally's where I picked up a bus home. In an odd coincidence, the last guy onto the bus decided to sit in one of the few last vacant seats, the one next to me, and I recognized him from Playstation. Halfway through the trip, he turned to me and said "Were you playing at the Taj?"

"No, I know you from Playstation." He grinned, and extended his hand, figuring it out.

"How'd you do last night?" I asked him, as he'd come down to play 15-30 Omaha hi-low.

"I'm on the bus," he smiled sheepishly.

"I hear you bro. I hear you."

Final tallys:

Thursday: 5 hours + $136
Friday Day: 7.5 hours, -$900
Friday Night: 3 hours, +$347

Total: 15.5 hours, -$417

until next time,
KD

Meet me Tonight In Atlantic City

"Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City" - Bruce Springsteen

I haven't been to A.C. since 2000 I think, when I visited the Trop on a Friday night with some friends from work. I remember it vividly because I had tweaked my back so badly that I couldn't take my shoes off - pure, debilitating pain, only mildly eased by the seemingly endless string of pocket aces I encountered in my low limit hold'em session.

Now, all grown up, I was ready to trounce the fish in the 2-5 NL game, but first things first: bankroll. I IM'd Dirty Dave Thursday afternoon, telling him that, like a true pro, I'd already scouted out the Citibank branch locations in the area: NONE.

"Ahhhhh... The essence of the EV hound: Capitalization," Dave responded. Yes... Indeed - nothing worse than being lucky enough to find a six sigma game and not have the bankroll on you to withstand the variance. So I wanted to make sure I was rolling with ample ammunition. Later that afternoon, when I heard one of the locals complain to his buddy that the reason he was waiting for his marker to come through was because he didn't want to be walking around with $4k in his pocket, I decided to just keep my mouth shut. Please... $4k? That's lunch...

Nevertheless, there's still no real easy way to get to A.C., so I had to settle for the bus. Clearly not glamorous, and I took an endless amount of shit from my colleagues at work all day long about who I'd be sitting next to on the bus, but when I got to Port Authority, it was a piece of cake. There were probably 15 people on the whole bus, so I didn't have to crowd in next to some wacked out Asian slot jockey drinking onion juice from a mason jar.

Backing up, I had arrived at Port Authority 30 minutes earlier than the targeted 3:30 bus to the Tropicana. The ticket-takers at the 3pm Greyhound bus to Resorts explained to me, "No, you should wait for the Tropicana bus, so you can get the bonus there." You see, you get a voucher for $20 in free play or free food or some combination thereof, for whatever casino you go to.

"Umm, I think I'll just get on this bus, and then take a cab to the Tropicana from Resorts," after all, I'd get a Resorts bonus anyway on this bus, and I clearly figured to make more than $20 in 30 minutes at the poker table anyway!

The bus ride down was smooth, apart from a woman two rows behind me yapping loudly in Spanish, but the approach to Atlantic City is a real downer. Vegas it is not. While Vegas was engineered and then rebuilt with visual perfection in mind, all of Atlantic City seems to be like Caesar's Palace: a melange of shit thrown together and built upon, constantly added to, never done right. It just looks depressing. I elected to not wait the extra 30 seconds on the bus to receive my Resorts bonus, instead choosing to get my ass to the Tropicana ASAP. Passing up such a freeroll is a violation of all my gambling ethics, but I knew they were trying to pull the old "deal him a hand where he has to split 8's or something else to make him dig into his pocket for the extra bet" maneuver. You have to wake up pretty early in the morning to trap Kid Dynamite with that crap.

Exiting into the Resorts bus area was pure depression. I had been clinging to the hope that I'd appreciate Resorts, the original A.C. casino, and see some old school nostalgia, but all I saw were old school old folks, done pumping their $20 in nickels into the slots, lifelessly waiting for their buses back to The Home. I ran like a crazed rat in a maze trying to find a cab out of this dump, eventually hailing some off duty guy from a side street.

This cabbie was an old white guy, writing on a sign in his lap like the one a begger would hold. I craned my neck to read his masterpiece: "Wanted: washed up crack whore. Retarted children ok. Black girls welcome," was all I could see, as he covered up his work, but I liked this guy already. The cab ride was only about a mile, but fuckin'A the A.C. cabs are expensive: the meter starts at $2.90, and seems to tick $.20 every 5 seconds. I later noticed that the catch is that there is an $11 maximum, which basically means almost any ride will cost you $11.

I stroll up to the front desk at the newly (2 years ago) renovated Tropicana, and hand my i.d. and credit card to Magdelena, the desk clerk. "Vhat kind of vrooom vooold you like?" She asks me, in a Russian accent. "Non-smoking, king bed," duh.. Do you know who the fuck I am? I'm surprised that she apparently DOES know who I am, as, after punching the keyboard for 3 full minutes, she calls the manager over to help her find "something high," which, in Tropicana parlance, means a room in their new Havana Tower.

Magdelena hooks me up with the Havana Tower upgrade, and I'm thinking "FREEEEEEEEEROLLLL" as I take the elevator up to the 54th floor to find a perfectly nice room with a fantastic view of the sprawl that is A.C., including all the casinos, the new Borgata, and the ocean.

I quickly change into my standard poker room gear: Red Sox hat, hooded World Series Champion Sweatshirt, card capper, bankroll: Let's roll. I hit the poker room, and find an open seat in 2-5NL, $500 max buy in. The game was pretty boring: there were about 6 locals who were rocky, and a few local young guns were later mixed in. The youngsters could mix it up, and had the potential to bluff you off a hand, but it usually wasn't hard to figure out where you stood in a hand against them: they tended to play too tight, especially coming from the game I'm used to in the city.

A super tight old lady local made a comment when I followed up a $20 preflop re-raise with and $80 pot sized flop bet, saying "You have nothing - that bet screams of weakness." I raised an eyebrow at her. "Really? Do all of my pot sized bets scream of weakness? Don't I always bet the pot?" "No, you sure don't," She told me, and I made a mental note to be sure to hammer any pot I was in with her, as she interpreted my larger bets as weaker hands. Unfortunately, I didn't get the opportunity to play a big pot against her, so I resorted to showing her my hammer - I mean, The Hammer.

I made it $15 with the 7d 2d and got called 4 times. The 5-6-8 two diamond flop hit me about as hard as it could, and I bet out $45. Everyone folded, and I shook my head and tossed my hand faceup, "Best hand I guess," I shrugged, as I could see the locals seethe. Next orbit I raised again out of position, this time with AdKd.

When the flop came with 3 rags, I bet the pot into my grinder local opponent, explaining "I don't have deuce-seven of diamonds," and he shook his head and mucked A-K faceup, complaining "I can never hit a flop." Now this would have been the perfect time to evaluate my implied tilt odds by tabling my own hand faceup, and explaining, "No, I just play it better than you do," but I decided it would be easier to win at this table if I used the license to steal pots, rather than inciting the locals to play back at me - in which case I would have to make real hands.

The one enigma at the table, a loose cannon Ghetto Basher who seemed to bet with impunity but was very difficult to read put a series of beats on me when he proved I wouldn't be able to push him out of pots. I decided I'd have to make a hand.

When he called a raise I made from the cutoff with AhJh, I was ready to take another crack at him on the JsTsTc flop. He bet out $25, and I smooth called.

The turn was the 9c, and he bet out again. $45. Hmmm... I smooth called again.

The river was a card that didn't really help me: the Ace of diamonds, giving me two pair, but I was either already way ahead or drawing to a jack. GhettoBasher bets $70 into me, and I shake my head, realizing that seemingly pretty ace didn't help me, before I call. He tables 3s4s sheepishly, and I rake the pot.

In the only other partly interesting hand from the night, GB raised to $25 UTG, and one of the YoungGuns called, before I re-popped it to $125 from the cutoff with AcKc. GB stared me down. I stared back at him. Bring it on, Muthafucka. He mucks. YoungGun seems anguished. "You have aces or kings?" he asks me. I ignore him. He's talking to himself out loud. I look him right in the eye, a look that conveys one message: "Do...you...know...who...the...fuck...I...am...?"

He mucks QQ faceup (I told you they were tight! smooth call then fold with QQ here?!?!) as I tell him "Excellent laydown."

I end the 5 hour session up only $136, and promptly give back a quarter of that at JakesDogHouse, the specialty dog store the have there for some reason (I guess for people like me who miss their pets!) buying things for Oscar: a sleek Patriots doggy hat, and a soft chewey bone that squeaks and rattled.

stay tuned for part II of the trip report to come...

-KD