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? ...