wherein our hero lives happily ever after
2008.12.16
I wake up and feel like a giant heel from a Merrie Melodies cartoon. After a spell of lying in bed smothered in self-pity, I realize that I really do need to check out and go to the airport at some point today, and all this wallowing is cutting into my play time. It doesn't help that the view from my room looks directly down onto the poker room, just sitting there, taunting me. I don't generally like playing with a deadline, as it encourages ugliness, but I'm past that point. I'm not looking to get even, I'm simply looking to remind myself that I can play this game.
I walk up to the board where they point me to a game so fresh they haven't finished selling chips. I'm always happy to join a new game, so I sit in my second-favorite seat, #9. Number nine. Number nine. The button is drawn and I'm UTG. New game, first hand. I cannot resist. Straddle! A few limpers to my QTo, and a pot-sized raise takes it down. Cocktails!
May I please have an orange juice and a bottle of water?
With a crazy gambling image firmly established, I tighten up while doing my best to give the appearance of action. I'm mildly chatty, but not nearly the endlessly rambling douchebag I can sometimes become. I aim for affable without becoming overbearing. I reconsider my previous aversion to daytime play, as I'm finding the table rather soft and predictable, without the crazy high-variance drunken moves that appear at 2am.
My nemesis is a friendly fellow in the 5 seat who seems to have a clue of what he's doing, but takes it a little far sometimes. I've built up a bit and fire with AK on a K-high drawless flop. This elicits a raise from him, so I push with a low SPR. He tanks for a while, and I do my best to throw out a confusing yet subtle array of tells and false tells, until he finally calls with KJ. His excuse is that my straddle raise on the first hand got him to do it. Kickass. The fates piss on my head when his J hits on the river, but hey, that's poker. Rebuy! Later in the session, after I've built up a bit, I'm able to get the chips in again, this time with top two against his top pair, only to watch the bottom card run for trips. I feel the fates spraying my face with urine, smearing it on my glasses, all the while chanting, "I'm not touching you! I'm not touching you!"
I can make no hands. I still haven't seen AA (or even a big pair), and I either miss completely with everything else or suffer suckouts. Despite this, I'm able to build up a mild profit when I see it's about time to leave for the airport. Figuring I should get the most for my money, I order one last white russian for the road. After consuming it I prepare to leave, which includes checking the flight status. Delayed! I raise! Cocktails!
With a second white russian in my hand, it's now truly time to leave. Considering how cold the deck has been to me, I consider my mild loss a success compared to last night. As I'm standing up the dealer pitches me a card. This never ends well.
QTo! I did so well on it with the first hand, might as well play it hard now. I have my chips racked and my jacket on, but surely they'll think I have a real hand, rather than a desperate play at one last score before leaving town. Flop of AJx and I bet out only to get called and raised, and I'm done. "This is my least favorite dealer ever," I say with a smile and a wink, taking my now slightly-less-mild loss to the cage.
A plane, train, and automobile later (not in that order), I'm home safe and sound, scratching my cat behind his ears. Despite the pain of my spiraling nosedive the previous night, my cash play the rest of the week softens the losses, and the tournament puts the overall trip as a solid leader. I've laughed, I've loved, I've learned. I've gotten in more live cash game play than I've seen in a long time, and after a few stumbles played one of my best tournaments, resulting in my biggest single-game payday to date. I've returned home with renewed confidence and vigor, ready to take on the world. All without killing a stripper.
How much are flights in January?
THE END
... ? ...
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
PART THE SIXTH
wherein our hero takes it long and hard
2008.12.15
Convinced that evening is the best time for poker, I sleep in. Not wanting the delicious weed to go to waste, I roll up a fatty and spend the afternoon gazing out at the snow on the mountains and contemplating the usual stuff: life, the universe, everything. You know how it goes. After a couple of hours of giving my navel a complete and thorough gazing, I realize it's getting late and I'm hungry. I tidy up, shower, dress, and head out. On the elevator I'm treated to "The Girl From Ipanema", so I know it's going to be a good night. Dinner at the Stage Cafe, then right to the tables.
I sit down at a good one. There's an iPod grinder, but it's mostly nice older gentlemen, younger folks yukking it up, and the requisite Asian gamboolers. They're all pushing a lot of chips around, and I want a piece. Several large stacks on the table, but they're more lucky than good. At center stage is a world-traveler kind of girl, apparently just in Vegas for a while, no permanent address. I'm reminded of the Canadian woman I met my first day who was still in town due to a lost passport. Then of myself, who's here longer than planned and spent part of the afternoon working out how to share a permanent residence. This town sucks you in. Practically every vice is socially acceptable. Encouraged, even. I'm going to end up dead in a ditch some day.
I straddle my first hand and find QQ. Sensing that I'm a stoned goofball, the grinder tries to push me off of it, but I stand firm and take it down. This game is easy!
I order a white russian because they're oh so delicious. I've noticed they tend to inspire others to order the same once they see me enjoying it so thoroughly. It's not long before I discover the fatal flaw of this plan: by the time the new drinks arrive, I've finished mine, and those fresh beverages look so tasty I want one for myself. Where'd I put that petard?
By this point I've won a Venetian tournament, I've done okay at the cash games, and I'm generally getting along well. Needless to say, I'm pretty high on myself. Or maybe it's the pot. Either way, my game falls apart. I'm straddling, raising with any ace, pushing suited jacks hard, betting all flops and all draws, calling trouble hands out of position, check-raising with thin semi-bluffs, so forth and so on. I'm a good player, I can make it work! Gotta spend money to make money! This is all building my image for those big hands later! I'm a master of psychology! Who says it makes no sense to be crazy action on a crazy action table? Waitress, may I please have another white russian?
The seat to my left opens and the iPod grinder trips over himself moving to it.
In addition to my rather suspect play, I can't make a hand. I lose a few flips, suffer a couple suckouts. I don't think I've seen AA since the tournament a few days ago. Cocktails!
Now I've put a few buyins on the table and have managed to build above starting stack when I peel up KK in EP. Finally! I raise and pick up a few along the way, including a timid middle-aged man across the table and the calling station to my right. Flop KK8, jackpot! If I check now they'll get suspicious, right? Time to triple up! I bet! Does the word "crippled" mean nothing to me? Do I really think anybody's going to bluff-raise me or draw to anything? Folded to the timid guy with the short stack who pushes. Folded the rest of the way to the calling station who has me covered and may be crazy but is no fool. He folds. I call and instantly say, "I have quads." Guy vomits a little in his mouth as he walks away, leaving his 88 to die.
Win the minimum, lose the maximum, that's how I play it. Considering the preflop action and the shallowness of my stack, I very likely could have gotten more dead money in there from the station at the very least. I don't like slow-playing and it seems whenever I do it's a slow-play contest between me and a second-best, and the lack of action prevents stacks from going in. But here slow play is the only move, and I screw it up. I'm awesome at teh pokerz. Cocktails!
Soon I'm bleeding so much, I need an extra-wide with wings. I may as well curl up in a fetal position while they take turns wailing on me with a crowbar. I'm watching it happen and know I need to buckle down and show patience and discipline, but I'm too deep into this table. All I need are a couple of big lucky hands, then I'm back on top! I usually have a decent instinct about the game, and whenever I go against it I lose. I know this. But that little bit of gray matter governing my rationality has long been hogtied and gagged by the mischievous duo of vodka and kahlua. Alcohol makes me feel I'm smarter than myself, which is dangerous considering that's not a high bar in the first place.
It's not long before I'm down to $100, in for three and a half buyins. I pull the last bill from my pocket and order another stack of red. The dealer pauses. "It's cool, I'm under the cap." That's not the problem. I look to the felt and spy a sad lonely $20. You know those pathetic guys you see pulling their last crinkled bills from their pockets and pissing them on some desperate longshot play? There but for the grace.
Unsurprising to anybody, I finally bust, slinking away from the room, sad and dejected. How could this have happened? I'm better than this! I know how to play this game! I retreat to my room to reload and head back down. It's well past midnight by now, only the degenerates left, and I have a flight the next day. I can climb back!
A few hours and a few bills later, my table breaks and I accept my fate. I'm done.
I should have stood up the moment I sat down, but I didn't, and this is the result. I violated my Rule A#1: Respect The Game. No matter the stakes, no matter the situation, no matter the opponents, I must respect the game. I didn't do that. I became over-confident. I was cocky. It's easy to blame the alcohol, but I made the choice to consume it. I thought I was better than that, I thought I could handle it. I watched Grumpy succumb to the very same affliction less than a week prior, and I somehow thought the rules didn't apply to me. To become good at this game one must numb the pain of losing. As Grumpy told me, he's so used to that, he forgot that it's okay to win sometimes. We all of us convince ourselves that we're better than we are, and we give ourselves over to the party atmosphere of Vegas. No wonder the games are so soft here. People like me play in them.
Exhausted and well past the threshold of misery, I dry the tears from my pillow, pay $14 for a pan & scan version of Pineapple Express, light up the roach from earlier, and promptly fall asleep.
... next up: Can I make it to the airport with any money left at all? ...
2008.12.15
Convinced that evening is the best time for poker, I sleep in. Not wanting the delicious weed to go to waste, I roll up a fatty and spend the afternoon gazing out at the snow on the mountains and contemplating the usual stuff: life, the universe, everything. You know how it goes. After a couple of hours of giving my navel a complete and thorough gazing, I realize it's getting late and I'm hungry. I tidy up, shower, dress, and head out. On the elevator I'm treated to "The Girl From Ipanema", so I know it's going to be a good night. Dinner at the Stage Cafe, then right to the tables.
I sit down at a good one. There's an iPod grinder, but it's mostly nice older gentlemen, younger folks yukking it up, and the requisite Asian gamboolers. They're all pushing a lot of chips around, and I want a piece. Several large stacks on the table, but they're more lucky than good. At center stage is a world-traveler kind of girl, apparently just in Vegas for a while, no permanent address. I'm reminded of the Canadian woman I met my first day who was still in town due to a lost passport. Then of myself, who's here longer than planned and spent part of the afternoon working out how to share a permanent residence. This town sucks you in. Practically every vice is socially acceptable. Encouraged, even. I'm going to end up dead in a ditch some day.
I straddle my first hand and find QQ. Sensing that I'm a stoned goofball, the grinder tries to push me off of it, but I stand firm and take it down. This game is easy!
I order a white russian because they're oh so delicious. I've noticed they tend to inspire others to order the same once they see me enjoying it so thoroughly. It's not long before I discover the fatal flaw of this plan: by the time the new drinks arrive, I've finished mine, and those fresh beverages look so tasty I want one for myself. Where'd I put that petard?
By this point I've won a Venetian tournament, I've done okay at the cash games, and I'm generally getting along well. Needless to say, I'm pretty high on myself. Or maybe it's the pot. Either way, my game falls apart. I'm straddling, raising with any ace, pushing suited jacks hard, betting all flops and all draws, calling trouble hands out of position, check-raising with thin semi-bluffs, so forth and so on. I'm a good player, I can make it work! Gotta spend money to make money! This is all building my image for those big hands later! I'm a master of psychology! Who says it makes no sense to be crazy action on a crazy action table? Waitress, may I please have another white russian?
The seat to my left opens and the iPod grinder trips over himself moving to it.
In addition to my rather suspect play, I can't make a hand. I lose a few flips, suffer a couple suckouts. I don't think I've seen AA since the tournament a few days ago. Cocktails!
Now I've put a few buyins on the table and have managed to build above starting stack when I peel up KK in EP. Finally! I raise and pick up a few along the way, including a timid middle-aged man across the table and the calling station to my right. Flop KK8, jackpot! If I check now they'll get suspicious, right? Time to triple up! I bet! Does the word "crippled" mean nothing to me? Do I really think anybody's going to bluff-raise me or draw to anything? Folded to the timid guy with the short stack who pushes. Folded the rest of the way to the calling station who has me covered and may be crazy but is no fool. He folds. I call and instantly say, "I have quads." Guy vomits a little in his mouth as he walks away, leaving his 88 to die.
Win the minimum, lose the maximum, that's how I play it. Considering the preflop action and the shallowness of my stack, I very likely could have gotten more dead money in there from the station at the very least. I don't like slow-playing and it seems whenever I do it's a slow-play contest between me and a second-best, and the lack of action prevents stacks from going in. But here slow play is the only move, and I screw it up. I'm awesome at teh pokerz. Cocktails!
Soon I'm bleeding so much, I need an extra-wide with wings. I may as well curl up in a fetal position while they take turns wailing on me with a crowbar. I'm watching it happen and know I need to buckle down and show patience and discipline, but I'm too deep into this table. All I need are a couple of big lucky hands, then I'm back on top! I usually have a decent instinct about the game, and whenever I go against it I lose. I know this. But that little bit of gray matter governing my rationality has long been hogtied and gagged by the mischievous duo of vodka and kahlua. Alcohol makes me feel I'm smarter than myself, which is dangerous considering that's not a high bar in the first place.
It's not long before I'm down to $100, in for three and a half buyins. I pull the last bill from my pocket and order another stack of red. The dealer pauses. "It's cool, I'm under the cap." That's not the problem. I look to the felt and spy a sad lonely $20. You know those pathetic guys you see pulling their last crinkled bills from their pockets and pissing them on some desperate longshot play? There but for the grace.
Unsurprising to anybody, I finally bust, slinking away from the room, sad and dejected. How could this have happened? I'm better than this! I know how to play this game! I retreat to my room to reload and head back down. It's well past midnight by now, only the degenerates left, and I have a flight the next day. I can climb back!
A few hours and a few bills later, my table breaks and I accept my fate. I'm done.
I should have stood up the moment I sat down, but I didn't, and this is the result. I violated my Rule A#1: Respect The Game. No matter the stakes, no matter the situation, no matter the opponents, I must respect the game. I didn't do that. I became over-confident. I was cocky. It's easy to blame the alcohol, but I made the choice to consume it. I thought I was better than that, I thought I could handle it. I watched Grumpy succumb to the very same affliction less than a week prior, and I somehow thought the rules didn't apply to me. To become good at this game one must numb the pain of losing. As Grumpy told me, he's so used to that, he forgot that it's okay to win sometimes. We all of us convince ourselves that we're better than we are, and we give ourselves over to the party atmosphere of Vegas. No wonder the games are so soft here. People like me play in them.
Exhausted and well past the threshold of misery, I dry the tears from my pillow, pay $14 for a pan & scan version of Pineapple Express, light up the roach from earlier, and promptly fall asleep.
... next up: Can I make it to the airport with any money left at all? ...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
PART THE FIFTH
wherein our hero does nothing exciting at all
2008.12.14
I don't wake up from sleep. What do they call it when you stop being passed out? Whatever that is, I do it at noon.
The plan today is poker, just poker. Whatever I feel like playing, I'm going to play. No pressure, no goals, keep it solid.
I find a passive NL game and run the table. I get a few others to straddle, and I repeatedly take down a pile of limps. It helps that I run well (good? no adverbs in poker?), and I steadily build up a few buyins. Nothing major, just a lot of pressure plus a few decent hands. The tables dry up a bit and I take a break for dinner.
I'm in the mood for Fixed Limit. The juicy games in the Bay Area are FL and I need some practice at it. The 3/6 looks incredibly nitty, but the 2/4 is chock full o' of yuks and I sit down, also throwing my name on a 4/8 interest list. (I need to stay mid-strip next time.) They're also taking signups for a tournament in a couple of hours, $80 for 3k in chips, 20 minute rounds. What the hell, I'm a tourney rockstar, right?
The table is typical intro-stakes Limit, and I surprise myself by showing incredible patience yet applying appropriate aggression and not missing those river value bets. The key is respecting the table: when I fail at that, I lose. I'm near a few fun folks of various ages, talking about music, cruises, resorts, videogames, writing, and hippies. One woman keeps taking cigarette breaks with a buff stud fifteen years her junior, claiming when she returns that nothing's going on despite her husband not having joined her this trip. I'm able to break even in two hours, which is a success as far as I'm concerned, considering I usually bleed at these tables.
I take special note of a young dealer named Chris whose attitude is the best of all I've seen at MGM. Someone makes a comment about dealers not wanting to deal the low limits, and presses Chris for his feelings on it, to which he replies that he enjoys welcoming new players and takes pride in adapting to the particulars of a game. I toke him a few extra in the down just for that. Many dealers seem annoyed to be working at all, let alone the low stakes tables, which is all there is at MGM so they have a rough road ahead if it pains them so much. Chris runs a good game.
Called for tournament, here we go! I'm on Table 1 Seat 2, my exact favorite spot. Building up slowly for a while, a few people bust out and they bring in alternates. One guy has what seems like more than starting stack, and I ask what table busted. None, he just came in. His hands stay in front of his chips, so after he folds his first hand I ask for a count. Despite others at the table assuring me it's 3k, he's 200 over and quickly hands them to the dealer, who calls the floor to take them. The kid seems to know everybody there, even discussing with a dealer at great length about something or other they had going on somewhere. I'm not pointing fingers, I'm just saying this all seems a little strange.
I can't make much happen, but the kid goes on a tear, hitting monster hands and brutal suckouts. My starting stack doesn't grow much, so I'm short after a few rounds of play. The best hand I've seen in a while, I open-push 87s in LP to have the kid tank from the BB. He calls with T9 of my suit and I'm done. Oh well.
Back to cash, where I pump away at NL. I find a festive group with some cute thirty-something hipster girl with a penchant for a pants-off dance-off. She's fun and flirty and snorts when she giggles. Everybody's loose, having a good time. I'm playing it a little wild, pushing the boundaries of what I was working earlier, and it's paying off fairly well. I'm playing almost a third of my hands but making it seem like every hand. The local young grinder to my left clearly has it in for me, and can't believe it when I use a pair of 4s to pick off his busted draw river bluff into four people. I had a read. He's similarly shocked later in the night when I fold my TPWK nut draw on a board of AT84 when he pushes into my turn bet, but I don't have enough clean outs to go the distance.
I lose a couple of other key pots, including one in which I misplay AJ TPTK (some would say by playing it at all). I misunderstand who has what stack. I see a bet and an all in. One is an older gentleman who I'm pretty sure has a Jack. The other is a calling station who could have anything. Thinking the station is all-in, I sadly learn when I push that I have it backwards and the kid had merely called the all-in, taking another chunk of my stack with his slow-played AA. He hits me for considerably less later with AA in a similar situation: I learned my lesson the first time. Were it not for my mistake I'd have left up, but as it was lost half a buyin for the night. As I'm experimenting with expanding my play, I consider it a draw.
These drinks are getting tastier every time.
... next up: You make a mean Caucasian, Jackie ...
2008.12.14
I don't wake up from sleep. What do they call it when you stop being passed out? Whatever that is, I do it at noon.
The plan today is poker, just poker. Whatever I feel like playing, I'm going to play. No pressure, no goals, keep it solid.
I find a passive NL game and run the table. I get a few others to straddle, and I repeatedly take down a pile of limps. It helps that I run well (good? no adverbs in poker?), and I steadily build up a few buyins. Nothing major, just a lot of pressure plus a few decent hands. The tables dry up a bit and I take a break for dinner.
I'm in the mood for Fixed Limit. The juicy games in the Bay Area are FL and I need some practice at it. The 3/6 looks incredibly nitty, but the 2/4 is chock full o' of yuks and I sit down, also throwing my name on a 4/8 interest list. (I need to stay mid-strip next time.) They're also taking signups for a tournament in a couple of hours, $80 for 3k in chips, 20 minute rounds. What the hell, I'm a tourney rockstar, right?
The table is typical intro-stakes Limit, and I surprise myself by showing incredible patience yet applying appropriate aggression and not missing those river value bets. The key is respecting the table: when I fail at that, I lose. I'm near a few fun folks of various ages, talking about music, cruises, resorts, videogames, writing, and hippies. One woman keeps taking cigarette breaks with a buff stud fifteen years her junior, claiming when she returns that nothing's going on despite her husband not having joined her this trip. I'm able to break even in two hours, which is a success as far as I'm concerned, considering I usually bleed at these tables.
I take special note of a young dealer named Chris whose attitude is the best of all I've seen at MGM. Someone makes a comment about dealers not wanting to deal the low limits, and presses Chris for his feelings on it, to which he replies that he enjoys welcoming new players and takes pride in adapting to the particulars of a game. I toke him a few extra in the down just for that. Many dealers seem annoyed to be working at all, let alone the low stakes tables, which is all there is at MGM so they have a rough road ahead if it pains them so much. Chris runs a good game.
Called for tournament, here we go! I'm on Table 1 Seat 2, my exact favorite spot. Building up slowly for a while, a few people bust out and they bring in alternates. One guy has what seems like more than starting stack, and I ask what table busted. None, he just came in. His hands stay in front of his chips, so after he folds his first hand I ask for a count. Despite others at the table assuring me it's 3k, he's 200 over and quickly hands them to the dealer, who calls the floor to take them. The kid seems to know everybody there, even discussing with a dealer at great length about something or other they had going on somewhere. I'm not pointing fingers, I'm just saying this all seems a little strange.
I can't make much happen, but the kid goes on a tear, hitting monster hands and brutal suckouts. My starting stack doesn't grow much, so I'm short after a few rounds of play. The best hand I've seen in a while, I open-push 87s in LP to have the kid tank from the BB. He calls with T9 of my suit and I'm done. Oh well.
Back to cash, where I pump away at NL. I find a festive group with some cute thirty-something hipster girl with a penchant for a pants-off dance-off. She's fun and flirty and snorts when she giggles. Everybody's loose, having a good time. I'm playing it a little wild, pushing the boundaries of what I was working earlier, and it's paying off fairly well. I'm playing almost a third of my hands but making it seem like every hand. The local young grinder to my left clearly has it in for me, and can't believe it when I use a pair of 4s to pick off his busted draw river bluff into four people. I had a read. He's similarly shocked later in the night when I fold my TPWK nut draw on a board of AT84 when he pushes into my turn bet, but I don't have enough clean outs to go the distance.
I lose a couple of other key pots, including one in which I misplay AJ TPTK (some would say by playing it at all). I misunderstand who has what stack. I see a bet and an all in. One is an older gentleman who I'm pretty sure has a Jack. The other is a calling station who could have anything. Thinking the station is all-in, I sadly learn when I push that I have it backwards and the kid had merely called the all-in, taking another chunk of my stack with his slow-played AA. He hits me for considerably less later with AA in a similar situation: I learned my lesson the first time. Were it not for my mistake I'd have left up, but as it was lost half a buyin for the night. As I'm experimenting with expanding my play, I consider it a draw.
These drinks are getting tastier every time.
... next up: You make a mean Caucasian, Jackie ...
Saturday, December 13, 2008
PART THE FOURTH
wherein our hero bids farewell and searches for a foghorn
2008.12.13
10am wakeup call! 11am checkout time! Three nights of a few hours sleep each. With that candle lit on both ends, you get twice as much light! Surely nothing bad can come of this. Grumpy! Get your ass out of bed and start packing, just in case I can't make it work! "mmphrgrrr..okay." Get down to the front desk, wait in line. No checkout extension, no matter how many times I bat my eyelashes. Run across the casino to the poker room, plead my case for the room rate. Done, done, and done. Grumpy! You can relax! "mmphrgrrr..okay."
Sleepy, Grumpy, and I are the only three to make it to the MGM Champagne Brunch. We're all rather impressed on first pass. Make your own omelet! Piles of bacon! Blueberry blintzes! Pizzas! Sushi! And look at all those desserts! Unfortunately, it's a ruse to temper the disappointment upon discovering it's a pile of blandness, no matter what I try. The omelet is okay, but the bacon, potatoes, waffles, and smoked salmon don't inspire any dancing taste buds. Before I wave the criticism wand around too much, I should entertain the rather likely possibility that the lowest common denominator here is my tongue, considering how poorly I've been taking care of myself on this trip. Sleepy, Grumpy, and I chat and bond over breakfast, coming to the realization that we're all students of math and psychology who eschew popular notions of traditional employment. Funny how we're in the same place at the same time.
Nobody else shares my complete degeneracy, so they're all flying home today. First out is Grumpy, so Sleepy and I bid our farewells and mosey over to the Tropicana around 2pm, where we find Dopey and Sneezy just getting out of bed. It's possible they were just getting into bed. We remind them they need to pack and leave.
Many people in this particular subculture feel that traveling to a destination with party supplies is justifiably necessary risk, but returning home with them is inexcusably stupid. Others might suggest it's the latter all the time, but we'll table that discussion for now. Sleepy returns to her room to pack, leaving me with Dopey and Sneezy to share a rather sizable joint as Dopey rolls up another similarly packed to the gills. For the road or a gift or something, right? No, it's to light upon completion of the first. Can't let it go to waste, right? I see something just for me, wrapped in plaaastic. On top of that, there's a container of something else and a special piece of chocolate. I say there ain't nothin' I'm going to do with most of it, but I don't blame him for not wanting to carry it, and it's nice to share.
As we get up to leave, I take note of the considerably soupy haze capturing the sunlight. So pretty. Ooh, distraction! Thinking nothing of it, we open the door only to stumble upon the cleaning staff, who greet us with a startled fear as a cloud of smoke comes billowing cartoon-like from the room. I unsuccessfully suppress my giggles while stumbling to the elevator, where we find a car empty save for another custodial employee. It's at this point Dopey notices his shirt reads "cannabis" and both he and Sneezy slowly contemplate their destination. The employee pipes up, "You're going to the airport? You guys reek." I snicker that I'm not going to the airport, only those two chuckleheads, as we amble out to the lobby. The other two look appropriately concerned (or maybe just confused) so I wave my goodbyes and wander back to the MGM.
Mid-way over the bridge I consider the notion that, as a pack-mule, I'm likely responsible for the bulk of the reeking, and I'll shortly be walking through many family-friendly areas of the MGM on a Saturday afternoon. I walk with deliberate haste but not, y'know, trying to look like I would rather be anywhere else in the world, finally reaching the elevator lobby. Crowded with families and suitcases. What an incredibly awkward twenty-four flights this will be.
Suddenly, genius strikes! The lobby on my floor has seven bays, whereas this contains only five. I slip past the families with suitcases and through the ornate fancy "Don't open me!" door at the end of the lobby and spy two more elevators, one proclaiming to be present and awaiting command. Failing to find any security devices, I press the button and the elevator happily opens. It's sleeker with considerably more mirror than the others, and whisks me to my floor without complaint.
Success! Except... oh crap. I'm to meet Sleepy and Doc one floor up! And my room is aaallll the way and the end of the hall and it's soooo faaaaaar. I figure one floor won't kill me and press the button only to hop into a car with Sleepy and Doc! Serendipity! We get to their room where I babble at them as they try to ignore me so they can pack, and a short while later they're gone.
I'm alone in Vegas on a Saturday night with a nice room on the strip, a pile of bills from a tournament win, and a bag full of happy time. It's on!
Where does a degenerate go at a time like this? To the poker tables! I ease into a 1/2 and order a coffee, no, an iced coffee, no, an iced mocha. Wait, does that even have caffeine in it, considering that was the point here? Oh boy, this is off to a great start. Finishing the mocha, I figure what better to follow it than a white russian, which I've always wanted to try, and this is as appropriate a time as any. (Report: they're tasty!)
Almost a buyin down before I realize I'm hungry and playing like crap, so I visit the Studio Cafe and enjoy a $15 reuben that isn't worth $15 but oh well, and generally try to sober up a little while passing the time by browsing on my iPhone (I love living in the future: the toys are neat). Realizing I'm in no shape at all to play well, I figure I want to be on the ball for the late evening crowd. I crawl to my room, the idea being to take a nap before heading back out around 10 or 11, hopefully having sobered up a little by then. I turn on my favorite hippie noise and place head on pillow.
And so ends Saturday.
(Two out of three ain't bad!)
... next up: Grind, Grind, Grind ...
2008.12.13
10am wakeup call! 11am checkout time! Three nights of a few hours sleep each. With that candle lit on both ends, you get twice as much light! Surely nothing bad can come of this. Grumpy! Get your ass out of bed and start packing, just in case I can't make it work! "mmphrgrrr..okay." Get down to the front desk, wait in line. No checkout extension, no matter how many times I bat my eyelashes. Run across the casino to the poker room, plead my case for the room rate. Done, done, and done. Grumpy! You can relax! "mmphrgrrr..okay."
Sleepy, Grumpy, and I are the only three to make it to the MGM Champagne Brunch. We're all rather impressed on first pass. Make your own omelet! Piles of bacon! Blueberry blintzes! Pizzas! Sushi! And look at all those desserts! Unfortunately, it's a ruse to temper the disappointment upon discovering it's a pile of blandness, no matter what I try. The omelet is okay, but the bacon, potatoes, waffles, and smoked salmon don't inspire any dancing taste buds. Before I wave the criticism wand around too much, I should entertain the rather likely possibility that the lowest common denominator here is my tongue, considering how poorly I've been taking care of myself on this trip. Sleepy, Grumpy, and I chat and bond over breakfast, coming to the realization that we're all students of math and psychology who eschew popular notions of traditional employment. Funny how we're in the same place at the same time.
Nobody else shares my complete degeneracy, so they're all flying home today. First out is Grumpy, so Sleepy and I bid our farewells and mosey over to the Tropicana around 2pm, where we find Dopey and Sneezy just getting out of bed. It's possible they were just getting into bed. We remind them they need to pack and leave.
Many people in this particular subculture feel that traveling to a destination with party supplies is justifiably necessary risk, but returning home with them is inexcusably stupid. Others might suggest it's the latter all the time, but we'll table that discussion for now. Sleepy returns to her room to pack, leaving me with Dopey and Sneezy to share a rather sizable joint as Dopey rolls up another similarly packed to the gills. For the road or a gift or something, right? No, it's to light upon completion of the first. Can't let it go to waste, right? I see something just for me, wrapped in plaaastic. On top of that, there's a container of something else and a special piece of chocolate. I say there ain't nothin' I'm going to do with most of it, but I don't blame him for not wanting to carry it, and it's nice to share.
As we get up to leave, I take note of the considerably soupy haze capturing the sunlight. So pretty. Ooh, distraction! Thinking nothing of it, we open the door only to stumble upon the cleaning staff, who greet us with a startled fear as a cloud of smoke comes billowing cartoon-like from the room. I unsuccessfully suppress my giggles while stumbling to the elevator, where we find a car empty save for another custodial employee. It's at this point Dopey notices his shirt reads "cannabis" and both he and Sneezy slowly contemplate their destination. The employee pipes up, "You're going to the airport? You guys reek." I snicker that I'm not going to the airport, only those two chuckleheads, as we amble out to the lobby. The other two look appropriately concerned (or maybe just confused) so I wave my goodbyes and wander back to the MGM.
Mid-way over the bridge I consider the notion that, as a pack-mule, I'm likely responsible for the bulk of the reeking, and I'll shortly be walking through many family-friendly areas of the MGM on a Saturday afternoon. I walk with deliberate haste but not, y'know, trying to look like I would rather be anywhere else in the world, finally reaching the elevator lobby. Crowded with families and suitcases. What an incredibly awkward twenty-four flights this will be.
Suddenly, genius strikes! The lobby on my floor has seven bays, whereas this contains only five. I slip past the families with suitcases and through the ornate fancy "Don't open me!" door at the end of the lobby and spy two more elevators, one proclaiming to be present and awaiting command. Failing to find any security devices, I press the button and the elevator happily opens. It's sleeker with considerably more mirror than the others, and whisks me to my floor without complaint.
Success! Except... oh crap. I'm to meet Sleepy and Doc one floor up! And my room is aaallll the way and the end of the hall and it's soooo faaaaaar. I figure one floor won't kill me and press the button only to hop into a car with Sleepy and Doc! Serendipity! We get to their room where I babble at them as they try to ignore me so they can pack, and a short while later they're gone.
I'm alone in Vegas on a Saturday night with a nice room on the strip, a pile of bills from a tournament win, and a bag full of happy time. It's on!
Where does a degenerate go at a time like this? To the poker tables! I ease into a 1/2 and order a coffee, no, an iced coffee, no, an iced mocha. Wait, does that even have caffeine in it, considering that was the point here? Oh boy, this is off to a great start. Finishing the mocha, I figure what better to follow it than a white russian, which I've always wanted to try, and this is as appropriate a time as any. (Report: they're tasty!)
Almost a buyin down before I realize I'm hungry and playing like crap, so I visit the Studio Cafe and enjoy a $15 reuben that isn't worth $15 but oh well, and generally try to sober up a little while passing the time by browsing on my iPhone (I love living in the future: the toys are neat). Realizing I'm in no shape at all to play well, I figure I want to be on the ball for the late evening crowd. I crawl to my room, the idea being to take a nap before heading back out around 10 or 11, hopefully having sobered up a little by then. I turn on my favorite hippie noise and place head on pillow.
And so ends Saturday.
(Two out of three ain't bad!)
... next up: Grind, Grind, Grind ...
Friday, December 12, 2008
PART THE THIRD
wherein our hero plays like superman and falls off a horse
2008.12.12
I rise at the crack of 9:30, recalling viewing hints of sunrise prior to slumber. Plan is to leave the next morning, but I want to stay. Call the airline for a Tuesday flight: afternoon at 4:20, perfect. Bashful is leaving for home today, so I let him rest, instead harassing Grumpy to get a move on to meet Sleepy in the lobby to get deep stack tourney action. Grumpy has only played a few tournaments ever, most of them at my house, and so far has a good track record. Sleepy has played many and done well, but all in the lower-buyin level, so very short stacked. Not that $150 and 7500 is expensive or terribly deep, but it's world's better than what you get for $40-$60 anywhere. I had called ahead of time and the brush over-hyped it (takes a crowd to draw a crowd), making us feel if we didn't get there early we wouldn't get a seat. We arrive by 10:30 and nobody's there. No worries, it at least assures us seats on tables that break later, which is never a bad thing.
Elf needs food, badly! Grumpy wants to eat at some super expensive place, but I'm thinking The Lux is right there and looks pretty good. I tell him if I win the tourney, I'll buy him a $40 french toast. The Lux has a surprisingly wide selection of vegetarian items. You know it's good when it doesn't read, "and for our malnourished stinky hippies, we have marinara sauce." I like a tender juicy steak as much as the next omnivore, but I seek out veggie options because they're better for the heart and delicious. Last time in Vegas I stayed downtown with Grumpy, who is a vegetarian, and we wandered by quite a few restaurants with nothing but meat! meat! mmm! meat! grind it into sauce! cook it into bread! blend it into water! MEAT! Back to The Lux, service is friendly, food is excellent, and price is merely moderately rather than insanely overpriced. Compared to similar south-strip locations, it's a friggin' five-star banquet. Protein and vitamins and caffeine for the tournament, here we go!
I babble a bit about my strategy to Grumpy and Sleepy at breakfast, annoying them but helping myself psyche up and order priorities. Tournament is my best game. When learning poker, I appreciated the fixed problem of the tournament. I'm not a star or anything, but I hold my own and get better after every one. I have a good sense of when to put on the aggression. I also get lucky with cards. Me and the Lord, we have an understanding.
I take down a few of the first few hands, which is incredibly easy to do and helps establish a presence. I build up to over 11k by first break and feel pretty good. Piss break and recon with the other two, we're all holding steady, although Grumpy doesn't like his table. We go off our separate ways to center ourselves for the next rounds.
Disaster. I don't remember how it happened, if it was poor play or an unlucky hand, but I started a downswing. I overcompensated. I bluffed OOP with AJs that didn't hit. Played speculative hands far too often and too far. Lost balance. The last hand before the break, I tried a steal with AJo in EP, even more of a hit. Down to under 4k and spiraling at the break.
Focus, damnit, focus! I see the other two are low as well, so I psyche them up by saying we've still more chips than most shorter-stacked tourneys at this time, and it only takes a couple of hands to get up there. Again having successfully used them as props to get my own head on straight, I walk around a bit, swinging my arms and jumping about. Move blood to the brain, get it cranking. I walk the casino, concentrating on steady breathing and aligning my body with itself. I'm no Phil Laak, but I do what I can. At least I'm a tall skinny goofy white dude.
We're at 100 left, which is almost to that freefall when people are afraid to spend chips, yet somehow find themselves ultrashort and busted. I'm able to hold steady, win a few blinds, when tables start falling like dominoes. Being later in the rotation we get a lot of fresh chips at our table, and through steady play I bring myself back up to average. It's a short stack considering players left and blind level, which means I can turn on the mathematically proper aggression while others are erroneously thinking they have the luxury of slow play.
By now Grumpy has busted, claiming his table sucked. Sleepy was down to about 2.5k for a while before putting them in with the right hand and has built back up to 8k or so. I see our table about to break and have my chips ready to dart to my new seat, at Grumpy's old table. He's right, this is not a fun table on which to start the day. One guy is full decked wraparound mirrored sunglasses and WSOP hat. I look forward to playing a hand with him so I can give him the staredown, only to adjust my hair in his glasses and go, "Oh, I still have cards? I fold."
This speaks to my attitude, which needs some adjustment. I become very talkative, try to loosen people up, come across as carefree and dangerous. It works, but I can push it too far and become a giant flaming pile of douchebag. Like I said, I'm new at this. I get my first hand, AKs. Take it down on a flop nobody else hit either. "Gotta knife someone the first hand, otherwise they don't respect you." (See what I mean?) I'm not at this table too long before it breaks and then another. I've enough chips to lose a blindsteal and still have wiggle room, so I steal the blinds as much as I can. I'm lucky when someone pushes his 77 into my AA, and ride through to the final two tables, which are effectively the money bubble (18 pay). Sleepy has built up, too, so we're both almost assured to cash.
Can't find much, despite my desperate desire to take advantage of the money bubble. Sam Grizzle, two to my right, is getting micro-stack and wins against someone with far too weak cards to call even a shorty all-in. Sam works it for a while and builds back, at one point folding after putting in at least 2/3 of his stack when he simply didn't have it (many lack this discipline), but ultimately finishes in nineteenth place.
Money!
People really want to make the final table. A lot a lot. They don't want to take chances. I do a lot of pushing with reasonable hands (only suspect was A6o in EP, called by A5o, chop chop), and am able to triple my stack without seeing a flop ('cept that A6). Then I lose a bunch with JJ vs QQ (If I never played a hand with a Jack, I'd be okay.), but build it up again. I finally get lucky and pick up AA right after a run of pushes, and the guy tanks for an eternity before folding KQs. Damn. Then, two hands later, AA again, and another long tank, this time a medium A. It's okay, at this point two rounds of blinds and antes ain't nothin' to sneeze at, and I glide to the final table. Sleepy has finished at 15th (money!), and kindly gives me the rest of her sandwich as by now I'm a little hungry. Grumpy had brought me a sandwich of my own earlier, but I left it on a table behind me and it got snagged. I really wanted my sandwich! Bastards!
"Ten way chop is almost $2k each, guys, that's basically third place money." Nobody's biting. A lot of people are interested, but they don't know to speak up. I ask individually and almost everyone is game, except for the young Canadian with the chip lead. He says something about wanting to wait for a few players, and I can't disagree with that, but at least the idea is out there. Shorty to my left is more than happy to do it now. I let it be known that I will do an even chop at any time.
I build up and down, and I try not to make it so obvious how much my stack grows when everybody folds to my push preflop, because I don't want them doing the same thing. A couple more bust, and the shorty to my left gets a couple of good hands in a row, ultimately busting two people on one hand, propelling him to chip leader with over 400k at a time when the blinds just went up to 54k per orbit of six, most everybody sitting on 150k. Now I'm able to make my case that it makes no sense at all for us to keep playing, so how 'bout an even chop for $2600 each? That's between 2nd and 3rd money. New chip leader (same guy who wanted even when short) is all, "whoah, how 'bout equity?" and I sigh. The shorties are happy to get anything at all and my equity is more than an even chop, so I make a few feeble protests and drop it. After ten hours of play I get my payout, encourage 5% to everybody, see them throw 1% if that, and kick in about 6% of mine.
Whew! All things considered that was, y'know, pretty cool.
Head back to MGM, where I half-heartedly play some HORSE with a bunch of people from some internet poker gathering whose first question is, "What is your blog?" I dump off a rack in short order before slapping myself and building back a stack before the game breaks. After six hours of sleep in three days and the grueling 10-hour tournament, I'm ready for sleep.
Oh, crap, we're supposed to check out in the morning. Call the front desk. I'd like to extend my stay until Tuesday. "Very good, that will be..." HOW MUCH?! I can't extend the poker rate? They transfer me to VIP Marketing or some made-up title. "Sorry, sir, you have no hours of play on your card." Bullcrap. What about poker? "You need to play an average of $150 per hand." You obviously have no idea how poker works, I'll just talk to the poker room people in the morning. Which means I have to wake up early and race around the casino and then be ready to pack up and leave by 11am if need be. Poop.
Still, not a bad day. And now I owe Grumpy a $40 french toast.
... next up: Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll! ...
2008.12.12
I rise at the crack of 9:30, recalling viewing hints of sunrise prior to slumber. Plan is to leave the next morning, but I want to stay. Call the airline for a Tuesday flight: afternoon at 4:20, perfect. Bashful is leaving for home today, so I let him rest, instead harassing Grumpy to get a move on to meet Sleepy in the lobby to get deep stack tourney action. Grumpy has only played a few tournaments ever, most of them at my house, and so far has a good track record. Sleepy has played many and done well, but all in the lower-buyin level, so very short stacked. Not that $150 and 7500 is expensive or terribly deep, but it's world's better than what you get for $40-$60 anywhere. I had called ahead of time and the brush over-hyped it (takes a crowd to draw a crowd), making us feel if we didn't get there early we wouldn't get a seat. We arrive by 10:30 and nobody's there. No worries, it at least assures us seats on tables that break later, which is never a bad thing.
Elf needs food, badly! Grumpy wants to eat at some super expensive place, but I'm thinking The Lux is right there and looks pretty good. I tell him if I win the tourney, I'll buy him a $40 french toast. The Lux has a surprisingly wide selection of vegetarian items. You know it's good when it doesn't read, "and for our malnourished stinky hippies, we have marinara sauce." I like a tender juicy steak as much as the next omnivore, but I seek out veggie options because they're better for the heart and delicious. Last time in Vegas I stayed downtown with Grumpy, who is a vegetarian, and we wandered by quite a few restaurants with nothing but meat! meat! mmm! meat! grind it into sauce! cook it into bread! blend it into water! MEAT! Back to The Lux, service is friendly, food is excellent, and price is merely moderately rather than insanely overpriced. Compared to similar south-strip locations, it's a friggin' five-star banquet. Protein and vitamins and caffeine for the tournament, here we go!
I babble a bit about my strategy to Grumpy and Sleepy at breakfast, annoying them but helping myself psyche up and order priorities. Tournament is my best game. When learning poker, I appreciated the fixed problem of the tournament. I'm not a star or anything, but I hold my own and get better after every one. I have a good sense of when to put on the aggression. I also get lucky with cards. Me and the Lord, we have an understanding.
I take down a few of the first few hands, which is incredibly easy to do and helps establish a presence. I build up to over 11k by first break and feel pretty good. Piss break and recon with the other two, we're all holding steady, although Grumpy doesn't like his table. We go off our separate ways to center ourselves for the next rounds.
Disaster. I don't remember how it happened, if it was poor play or an unlucky hand, but I started a downswing. I overcompensated. I bluffed OOP with AJs that didn't hit. Played speculative hands far too often and too far. Lost balance. The last hand before the break, I tried a steal with AJo in EP, even more of a hit. Down to under 4k and spiraling at the break.
Focus, damnit, focus! I see the other two are low as well, so I psyche them up by saying we've still more chips than most shorter-stacked tourneys at this time, and it only takes a couple of hands to get up there. Again having successfully used them as props to get my own head on straight, I walk around a bit, swinging my arms and jumping about. Move blood to the brain, get it cranking. I walk the casino, concentrating on steady breathing and aligning my body with itself. I'm no Phil Laak, but I do what I can. At least I'm a tall skinny goofy white dude.
We're at 100 left, which is almost to that freefall when people are afraid to spend chips, yet somehow find themselves ultrashort and busted. I'm able to hold steady, win a few blinds, when tables start falling like dominoes. Being later in the rotation we get a lot of fresh chips at our table, and through steady play I bring myself back up to average. It's a short stack considering players left and blind level, which means I can turn on the mathematically proper aggression while others are erroneously thinking they have the luxury of slow play.
By now Grumpy has busted, claiming his table sucked. Sleepy was down to about 2.5k for a while before putting them in with the right hand and has built back up to 8k or so. I see our table about to break and have my chips ready to dart to my new seat, at Grumpy's old table. He's right, this is not a fun table on which to start the day. One guy is full decked wraparound mirrored sunglasses and WSOP hat. I look forward to playing a hand with him so I can give him the staredown, only to adjust my hair in his glasses and go, "Oh, I still have cards? I fold."
This speaks to my attitude, which needs some adjustment. I become very talkative, try to loosen people up, come across as carefree and dangerous. It works, but I can push it too far and become a giant flaming pile of douchebag. Like I said, I'm new at this. I get my first hand, AKs. Take it down on a flop nobody else hit either. "Gotta knife someone the first hand, otherwise they don't respect you." (See what I mean?) I'm not at this table too long before it breaks and then another. I've enough chips to lose a blindsteal and still have wiggle room, so I steal the blinds as much as I can. I'm lucky when someone pushes his 77 into my AA, and ride through to the final two tables, which are effectively the money bubble (18 pay). Sleepy has built up, too, so we're both almost assured to cash.
Can't find much, despite my desperate desire to take advantage of the money bubble. Sam Grizzle, two to my right, is getting micro-stack and wins against someone with far too weak cards to call even a shorty all-in. Sam works it for a while and builds back, at one point folding after putting in at least 2/3 of his stack when he simply didn't have it (many lack this discipline), but ultimately finishes in nineteenth place.
Money!
People really want to make the final table. A lot a lot. They don't want to take chances. I do a lot of pushing with reasonable hands (only suspect was A6o in EP, called by A5o, chop chop), and am able to triple my stack without seeing a flop ('cept that A6). Then I lose a bunch with JJ vs QQ (If I never played a hand with a Jack, I'd be okay.), but build it up again. I finally get lucky and pick up AA right after a run of pushes, and the guy tanks for an eternity before folding KQs. Damn. Then, two hands later, AA again, and another long tank, this time a medium A. It's okay, at this point two rounds of blinds and antes ain't nothin' to sneeze at, and I glide to the final table. Sleepy has finished at 15th (money!), and kindly gives me the rest of her sandwich as by now I'm a little hungry. Grumpy had brought me a sandwich of my own earlier, but I left it on a table behind me and it got snagged. I really wanted my sandwich! Bastards!
"Ten way chop is almost $2k each, guys, that's basically third place money." Nobody's biting. A lot of people are interested, but they don't know to speak up. I ask individually and almost everyone is game, except for the young Canadian with the chip lead. He says something about wanting to wait for a few players, and I can't disagree with that, but at least the idea is out there. Shorty to my left is more than happy to do it now. I let it be known that I will do an even chop at any time.
I build up and down, and I try not to make it so obvious how much my stack grows when everybody folds to my push preflop, because I don't want them doing the same thing. A couple more bust, and the shorty to my left gets a couple of good hands in a row, ultimately busting two people on one hand, propelling him to chip leader with over 400k at a time when the blinds just went up to 54k per orbit of six, most everybody sitting on 150k. Now I'm able to make my case that it makes no sense at all for us to keep playing, so how 'bout an even chop for $2600 each? That's between 2nd and 3rd money. New chip leader (same guy who wanted even when short) is all, "whoah, how 'bout equity?" and I sigh. The shorties are happy to get anything at all and my equity is more than an even chop, so I make a few feeble protests and drop it. After ten hours of play I get my payout, encourage 5% to everybody, see them throw 1% if that, and kick in about 6% of mine.
Whew! All things considered that was, y'know, pretty cool.
Head back to MGM, where I half-heartedly play some HORSE with a bunch of people from some internet poker gathering whose first question is, "What is your blog?" I dump off a rack in short order before slapping myself and building back a stack before the game breaks. After six hours of sleep in three days and the grueling 10-hour tournament, I'm ready for sleep.
Oh, crap, we're supposed to check out in the morning. Call the front desk. I'd like to extend my stay until Tuesday. "Very good, that will be..." HOW MUCH?! I can't extend the poker rate? They transfer me to VIP Marketing or some made-up title. "Sorry, sir, you have no hours of play on your card." Bullcrap. What about poker? "You need to play an average of $150 per hand." You obviously have no idea how poker works, I'll just talk to the poker room people in the morning. Which means I have to wake up early and race around the casino and then be ready to pack up and leave by 11am if need be. Poop.
Still, not a bad day. And now I owe Grumpy a $40 french toast.
... next up: Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll! ...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
PART THE SECOND
wherein our hero watches women dance on tables
2008.12.11
Most of the crew has been up all night, and nobody seems able or willing to rise in time to hit the Venetian, so change of plans. Luxor tournament with Bashful and Doc! We get there and holy crap. It's something like $20+12, or equally as ridiculous. Tiny starting stack, blinds exponentially increase every fifteen minutes, eleven-handed. I'm all-in with top two on KQ9 and I know it's JT before I see it. Them's the breaks. On the way out we watch a bit of a ballroom dance competition or exhibition or whatever and are enthralled. I gotta learn more tangos, that sh*t is sexy as hell.
Daytime I don't remember, which likely means smoking up, but by evening we're interested in another cheap tourney and hear Hooters has what we crave. I can't imagine who would play in Hooters, except for ball-and-chain middle aged schlumps who accept it as a sorry substitute for a strip club while "stay(ing) in Vegas". Regardless, everybody tells me how awesome the cheap poker is, and I could go for some wings, so we head in.
Smoking at the tables! What is this, 1995? Is Lollapalooza in town? Turns out the tournament list is empty, but would we like to all play against each other? One person says how it's better than losing money to some random stranger, and it takes a bit for me to convince her that the vig is losing money to a random stranger. We ultimately pass. As it turns out I think this happened the previous night anyway (but it's good filler here), so let's get to when Bashful, Sleepy, Grumpy, and Doc follow me to the Hard Rock Poker Lounge!
I had heard a bit about this place, saw some carefully staged photos. Not what I hoped, but in line with expectation. It's a nice room, I'll give it that, but the loud music has headache potential. It's fancy, but not all that different from anywhere else, except the table felt signage is enough to cause seizures. I had Papa Roach staring me down for an hour. At least it's 9-handed. The place is empty, only three tables going, so no sitting in the fancy area next to Billy Bob. The players are mostly very friendly. My first table has a guy telling stories of games he's played with the big names. They're all long-time buds. I look under the table to pick up a few names that he let spill over the rail. And yet, he still doesn't know how to protect his hand.
There's a glorious adaptation of the Mississippi Straddle in effect. Button has first option for it, then UTG. Action up to two raises is completed around the board before the straddle acts. About half of each table is taking the button straddle. Gotta say, I'm a fan.
I finally get my table change to the one with all the laaddiieess on it, cuz chicks suck at poker, amirite? More than that, women tend to get the goofy dudes relaxed and drunk, and I dig that. I also dig that Hard Rock gives out higher shelf to the poker room. At least it's not the well. A player suckers me into trying one of the many multi-layered shots she's ordering, and I go along to help the mood. They called it a Surfer, and I drink enough to make the glass look empty in the holder. No idea what's in it, but it has a hint of licorice. Tasty! Save the rest for later.
Turns out two of the women are out-of-towners (the accents were the first clue) just holding tight while the boys hit the tables, so not much going on, and I can't catch anything huge. I build up okay, and after a while there's some turnover to a lot of local casino employees, and they all seem to know the staff. The play is decent, but rather loose. A lot of moves being made, so high variance if you want to dance. I hold tight and built up a modest profit that I dump into a mild profit on the last orbit. Oh well, at least on the way out I catch a glimpse of some cute young thangs all dolled up in leather 'n stuff writhing around against poles in the middle of the gaming pit. The dudes at the tables? Watching their games. Or sports.
I believe everybody did well enough here, or at least didn't lose much. Sleepy is mostly a FL player and is just getting started in NL, so far so good. Grumpy has stabilized and is grinding out some profit. Don't call it a comeback.
... next up: Venetian Deep Stack, baby! ...
2008.12.11
Most of the crew has been up all night, and nobody seems able or willing to rise in time to hit the Venetian, so change of plans. Luxor tournament with Bashful and Doc! We get there and holy crap. It's something like $20+12, or equally as ridiculous. Tiny starting stack, blinds exponentially increase every fifteen minutes, eleven-handed. I'm all-in with top two on KQ9 and I know it's JT before I see it. Them's the breaks. On the way out we watch a bit of a ballroom dance competition or exhibition or whatever and are enthralled. I gotta learn more tangos, that sh*t is sexy as hell.
Daytime I don't remember, which likely means smoking up, but by evening we're interested in another cheap tourney and hear Hooters has what we crave. I can't imagine who would play in Hooters, except for ball-and-chain middle aged schlumps who accept it as a sorry substitute for a strip club while "stay(ing) in Vegas". Regardless, everybody tells me how awesome the cheap poker is, and I could go for some wings, so we head in.
Smoking at the tables! What is this, 1995? Is Lollapalooza in town? Turns out the tournament list is empty, but would we like to all play against each other? One person says how it's better than losing money to some random stranger, and it takes a bit for me to convince her that the vig is losing money to a random stranger. We ultimately pass. As it turns out I think this happened the previous night anyway (but it's good filler here), so let's get to when Bashful, Sleepy, Grumpy, and Doc follow me to the Hard Rock Poker Lounge!
I had heard a bit about this place, saw some carefully staged photos. Not what I hoped, but in line with expectation. It's a nice room, I'll give it that, but the loud music has headache potential. It's fancy, but not all that different from anywhere else, except the table felt signage is enough to cause seizures. I had Papa Roach staring me down for an hour. At least it's 9-handed. The place is empty, only three tables going, so no sitting in the fancy area next to Billy Bob. The players are mostly very friendly. My first table has a guy telling stories of games he's played with the big names. They're all long-time buds. I look under the table to pick up a few names that he let spill over the rail. And yet, he still doesn't know how to protect his hand.
There's a glorious adaptation of the Mississippi Straddle in effect. Button has first option for it, then UTG. Action up to two raises is completed around the board before the straddle acts. About half of each table is taking the button straddle. Gotta say, I'm a fan.
I finally get my table change to the one with all the laaddiieess on it, cuz chicks suck at poker, amirite? More than that, women tend to get the goofy dudes relaxed and drunk, and I dig that. I also dig that Hard Rock gives out higher shelf to the poker room. At least it's not the well. A player suckers me into trying one of the many multi-layered shots she's ordering, and I go along to help the mood. They called it a Surfer, and I drink enough to make the glass look empty in the holder. No idea what's in it, but it has a hint of licorice. Tasty! Save the rest for later.
Turns out two of the women are out-of-towners (the accents were the first clue) just holding tight while the boys hit the tables, so not much going on, and I can't catch anything huge. I build up okay, and after a while there's some turnover to a lot of local casino employees, and they all seem to know the staff. The play is decent, but rather loose. A lot of moves being made, so high variance if you want to dance. I hold tight and built up a modest profit that I dump into a mild profit on the last orbit. Oh well, at least on the way out I catch a glimpse of some cute young thangs all dolled up in leather 'n stuff writhing around against poles in the middle of the gaming pit. The dudes at the tables? Watching their games. Or sports.
I believe everybody did well enough here, or at least didn't lose much. Sleepy is mostly a FL player and is just getting started in NL, so far so good. Grumpy has stabilized and is grinding out some profit. Don't call it a comeback.
... next up: Venetian Deep Stack, baby! ...
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
PART THE FIRST
wherein our hero arrives and brushes death by whiskey
2008.12.10
The miracle of flight makes me sleepy, so after being jostled awake at landing I meet up with Bashful at baggage claim. We cab to MGM, home base for the week. Slick and balla at the front desk, I fold the $20 and slide the card. "Any upgrades available?" Yes weeknight, booked weekend, can't do it. I get handed my $20. Guess the $40 poker rate doesn't make one a high roller. Or maybe they were full. In any case, epic fail. At least I'm up $20!
Keep in mind I have precious little experience playing poker. I've dealt a whole lot and I've a bunch to say on the subject (ldo), but real live play not so much. I haven't even played extensively online. Home games and the occasional cardroom tournament, that's the bulk for me.
I sit down at the 1/2NL, which (don't laugh) is a big game for me. Gotta start somewhere. I've incredible comfort at the tables, I just suck at playing them. Sneezy and Dopey are already there, so we do the head nod thing and settle in. Play solid, up a little, until I make my fatal transgression: I ignore my instinct. I'm largely a visceral player, and I have a strong feeling my flopped BB Special trips are no good, yet still find myself calling off most of the stack I had ground (grinded?) up. I should write a book.
Sleepy and Doc cruise in and give their hellos. They originated this trip and had arrived the previous day to play a specific tournament. It is unfortunately suggested that we dine at the Rainforest Cafe, and we acquiesce considering we have not yet gained our bearings and nobody has eaten all day. Overpriced crappy corporate chain restaurants are not what I want in Vegas: I prefer overpriced crappy unique corporate spots. Still, food is food, and it's nice to meet up with everybody. I just didn't expect to be harassed by a gorilla in a Santa hat.
Back to the felt where I grind up solid for a while. My table's not hot, and I pass up one change before finding one that's more my speed. Nice and friendly, people who know enough to follow basic strategy but suck enough to tell me exactly how they play. One woman, for example, was whining for an hour about how she lost with AA against some stupid hand or another. Eventually it's revealed she called the entire way. Guy bluffed flop, semi-bluffed turn, and hit river. Gee, that sure was a harsh beat, brood on it some more while I steal your loose calls. Most of the table is weak passive, and I build up profit over what I lost earlier.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I get a phone call from Grumpy, who is on the tarmac and sounds three sheets to the wind. I'd not be surprised to learn he's hired a driver to pick him up immediately from the plane and drop him off next to the lion habitat. He gets seated at the table neighboring mine and I hear "rebuy!" and "cocktails!" far more often than I should. I occasionally walk over and suggest he take it easy, but I don't linger for fear of feeling 18 little daggers pierce my face.
I'm lucky to hit my hand of the night. A small EP raise that everybody calls, as do I with 99 from the CO. Bad Beat Lady pops it to $20 from UTG, a limp-reraise she pulls every time. Again everybody calls and I know it's not getting opened again, so here we go. Flop of K98 and I feel it move. Surprisingly, the BB bets $100. Considering the draws and the crazy gambooler to my left, I push for $350 or so. Gambooler, who has me covered, instacalls and proceeds to stand up and do a victory dance while starting to table his had. I see a K before I yell "whoooooahhh!" BB protests that he gets to see the hand, but I insist that it did not affect my action and he should act knowing what everybody else did. He tanks for an extremely long time before open-folding 98. Button has K8. BB was drawing dead, button's excitement and my reaction to same cost me a few bills. At least a K didn't spike.
A while later and gambooler is done (apparently this was the tail of a huge losing streak on the tables). Grumpy has busted again and decides to take the seat. Two minutes later, his old table has broken. "Cocktails!" With his presence the dynamic shifts dramatically, and I just don't have it in my heart to circle with the other vultures. I'm sitting on a nice payday, I want to play the Venetian tomorrow, time to call it a morning. I hear later he built his last $200 up to almost $2k before ultimately returning it all.
... next up: The Glory of the Hard Rock Straddle ...
2008.12.10
The miracle of flight makes me sleepy, so after being jostled awake at landing I meet up with Bashful at baggage claim. We cab to MGM, home base for the week. Slick and balla at the front desk, I fold the $20 and slide the card. "Any upgrades available?" Yes weeknight, booked weekend, can't do it. I get handed my $20. Guess the $40 poker rate doesn't make one a high roller. Or maybe they were full. In any case, epic fail. At least I'm up $20!
Keep in mind I have precious little experience playing poker. I've dealt a whole lot and I've a bunch to say on the subject (ldo), but real live play not so much. I haven't even played extensively online. Home games and the occasional cardroom tournament, that's the bulk for me.
I sit down at the 1/2NL, which (don't laugh) is a big game for me. Gotta start somewhere. I've incredible comfort at the tables, I just suck at playing them. Sneezy and Dopey are already there, so we do the head nod thing and settle in. Play solid, up a little, until I make my fatal transgression: I ignore my instinct. I'm largely a visceral player, and I have a strong feeling my flopped BB Special trips are no good, yet still find myself calling off most of the stack I had ground (grinded?) up. I should write a book.
Sleepy and Doc cruise in and give their hellos. They originated this trip and had arrived the previous day to play a specific tournament. It is unfortunately suggested that we dine at the Rainforest Cafe, and we acquiesce considering we have not yet gained our bearings and nobody has eaten all day. Overpriced crappy corporate chain restaurants are not what I want in Vegas: I prefer overpriced crappy unique corporate spots. Still, food is food, and it's nice to meet up with everybody. I just didn't expect to be harassed by a gorilla in a Santa hat.
Back to the felt where I grind up solid for a while. My table's not hot, and I pass up one change before finding one that's more my speed. Nice and friendly, people who know enough to follow basic strategy but suck enough to tell me exactly how they play. One woman, for example, was whining for an hour about how she lost with AA against some stupid hand or another. Eventually it's revealed she called the entire way. Guy bluffed flop, semi-bluffed turn, and hit river. Gee, that sure was a harsh beat, brood on it some more while I steal your loose calls. Most of the table is weak passive, and I build up profit over what I lost earlier.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I get a phone call from Grumpy, who is on the tarmac and sounds three sheets to the wind. I'd not be surprised to learn he's hired a driver to pick him up immediately from the plane and drop him off next to the lion habitat. He gets seated at the table neighboring mine and I hear "rebuy!" and "cocktails!" far more often than I should. I occasionally walk over and suggest he take it easy, but I don't linger for fear of feeling 18 little daggers pierce my face.
I'm lucky to hit my hand of the night. A small EP raise that everybody calls, as do I with 99 from the CO. Bad Beat Lady pops it to $20 from UTG, a limp-reraise she pulls every time. Again everybody calls and I know it's not getting opened again, so here we go. Flop of K98 and I feel it move. Surprisingly, the BB bets $100. Considering the draws and the crazy gambooler to my left, I push for $350 or so. Gambooler, who has me covered, instacalls and proceeds to stand up and do a victory dance while starting to table his had. I see a K before I yell "whoooooahhh!" BB protests that he gets to see the hand, but I insist that it did not affect my action and he should act knowing what everybody else did. He tanks for an extremely long time before open-folding 98. Button has K8. BB was drawing dead, button's excitement and my reaction to same cost me a few bills. At least a K didn't spike.
A while later and gambooler is done (apparently this was the tail of a huge losing streak on the tables). Grumpy has busted again and decides to take the seat. Two minutes later, his old table has broken. "Cocktails!" With his presence the dynamic shifts dramatically, and I just don't have it in my heart to circle with the other vultures. I'm sitting on a nice payday, I want to play the Venetian tomorrow, time to call it a morning. I hear later he built his last $200 up to almost $2k before ultimately returning it all.
... next up: The Glory of the Hard Rock Straddle ...
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