Somebody in the Old School thread mentioned Sgt Rock's trip reports, which were, indeed, amazing. But that reminded me of Mark Stantz's trip reports, which, to my mind, have never been equaled in the online poker community.

I managed to find one and reproduce it here, trusting that Mark won't mind, or at least the statute of limitations has run out on his caring.

If anybody has his "I'm sitting at a bar in the Mirage, talking to a hooker, and wondering how I got here" trip report, please post it.

Regards, Lee

P.S. There is a reference in this trip report to a "Yui-Ben". Back in the Old Days, Yui-Ben was an RGP denizen who would go to Vegas and figure out ways to get free stuff. He did the Vegas World promos, he clipped coupons, he ate for free at more buffets than you'd care to count. Ultimately, getting stuff for free in Vegas became referred to as a "Yui-Bin":

"They gave me a free buffet just for touring their timeshare."
"Nice Yui-Ben there."

=========================================
See what people are saying about Mark Stantz's BARGE trip report:
-----------------------------------------------------------------

"...Fascinating reading ... a Freudian analysis would surely be most
enlightening..."

"...It went on way too long..."

"...In a world of alfalfa sprouts, jogging and perrier, this epic of
of whiskey, gambling, pornography, womanizing and embarrassing
bodily functions is strangely refreshing..."

"...Stantz is clearly a genius ... of course, Hitler was a genius,
in his own way ... What I mean, is that being a genius isn't
necessarily saying much good about a person..."

"...Probably not a bad guy, but I wouldn't let him babysit my kids..."

"...A minute by minute, thought by thought, beer by beer account.
Nothing is omitted. Especially a lot of things which probably
should have been omitted..."

Now here it is, so read it, okay? Don't make me make threats:
--------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, August 4th.
---------------------

Let's get this straight up front: fat people don't much like flying.
Not unless it's first class, or there's no-one in the middle seat. Otherwise
things get mighty cramped, especially if you carry all your weight in your
stomach, like I do. I'm flying Southwest, so first class is right out --
there isn't one. Nor is there assigned seating. So the goal is to sit in
one of the very front rows or the very back rows of the plane. In the very
front, people automatically walk by you before realizing the plane is full,
and wind up taking the middle seats somewhere else. In the very back rows,
they've broken down and grabbed an available middle seat before they get to
you.

I leave work at 5pm and get to the airport at quarter to six. On
the electronic schedule board, my flight number is flashing. What does that
mean? It can't be boarding yet...D'oh! It's going to be delayed. I wander
down to check-in but the counter isn't open yet, so I hike back to the bar
and have a beer. $4.95 for a beer. Great. Back to the check-in counter
again and now there's a huge line. I wait ten minutes to check in. I'm
number 66, the third boarding group. So much for getting the front row. As
a hedge, I go down to the gift shop and buy a copy of Penthouse. In the
departure lounge, I flip through it. Tanya Harding, huh? Well, we gotta see
that, gotta see that...Oh my GOD! Eeeew! I really _didn't_ need to see
that! Yuck yuck yuck. I contemplate having another beer but settle for two
slices of pepperoni pizza.

Finally they start loading us cattle onto the plane and sure enough,
the front seats are already maxed out by the time I get on board. I head to
the very rear of the cabin and take a window seat, toss my backpack under the
one in front of me, then drop the tray table down and lay Mr. Penthouse on
top of it, facing the isle. This sometimes works; somebody's going to sit
down next to you there, but then they spot the porno rag you've got on display
in all its glory and decide that you're really not the sort of fellow they
want to be trapped beside for the next hour and a half, and head back towards
the front of the aircraft looking for greener pastures. It helps if you leer
at them a bit. But no go this trip: some guy arrives and plops down next to
me. I have to cross my arms across my body and bring my elbows together to
narrow my shoulders enough so that they're not poking him. This sucks, man.
Should have bought something more hardcore than Penthouse, but it's too late
now, too late now, damn. Finally we take off only forty five minutes late,
and I'm flying sardine class, all the way.

We arrive in Vegas forty minutes late, and I'm the last one off
the plane, naturally, after having gone way out of my way to sit in the very
rear of the thing. I abandon Tanya in the magazine pocket of the seat in
front of me for some lucky 12-year old to discover on a future leg of the
aircraft's journey. Another bonus of flying Southwest airlines becomes
apparent: I get to wait two minutes for the little airport tram to run me
over to the main terminal. On the tram, I eat my Southwest honey-roasted
peanuts. Then it's down the escalator into the baggage claim area. They're
checking baggage tags today; my backpack was carry-on, and is untagged. I
make an effort not to get stopped when passing through security and catch a
cab over to the Flamingo. The cabbie informs me, when I ask, that Stupak
got final approval just the other day to take his tower up as high as he
wants. This was the subject of my conversation with the last cabbie I had
in Vegas the last time I was there, on my way to the airport for the flight
home. I had said I didn't think the FAA would let him get away with it, and
my driver at the time had said he thought they would. Then he tried to
convert me to Christianity. Good luck -- I'm an atheist. At least he hadn't
tried to talk me into taking a ride out to Nye county, or into buying a
souvinier menu, like half the drivers in Vegas always do (jeez, do I look that
hard up on first glance?) Just said, 'I'll be praying for you.' If you're
going to pray for me, do it when I _arrive_ in Vegas, not when I'm leaving.
Timing's everything. Now I'm arriving in Vegas again, but this cabbie
doesn't seem very talkative -- he mentions that the LV Hilton sign got
toasted in the thunderstorm last week, I knew that, of course, but otherwise
responds only to direct questions. My mentioning that I'm in town for a
big poker tournament does nothing to arouse his curiousity.

At the Flamingo, there's six of us in line, but only two agents
working the desks, so it's nearly ten before I get up to my room and
collapse onto the bed rubbing my shoulders, which are aching from having
been bent at a ridiculous angle for the entire flight. Banking around
Mt. Charleston I'd tried to stretch them a bit, and wound up elbowing the
poor sap next to me. Sorry about that bud, but it serves you right for
sitting there. But then I'd felt obliged to engage him in a little light
conversation. How you doing? Out for the weekend, or from Vegas? From Vegas
originally? Just moved? Dealing with the change of climate okay? I know,
it's a dry heat (so's an oven, dumb****, but I wouldn't want to live in one.)
Want to see a really disgusting picture of Tanya Harding with a handful of
semen? Not interested? Okay. He was nuzzling with his girlfriend at the
back of the tram car while I was eating my honey roasted peanuts when we got
to the airport. I wonder if he pointed me out to her as 'the psycho I sat
next to on the plane.'

By ten thirty I'd unpacked and hiked down to the Sands, cutting
through Harrah's and O'Sheas to avoid the hundred degree plus heat when
possible. At the Sands I had a coupla beers and a coupla Rumple Mintz's.
In Wisconsin, according to Tim Cahill, this combination is called a green
hornet (Heineken) and a little white guy (a shot of peppermint schnapps),
and is popular in winters, especially in the northern, icefishing communities.
At the Sands, I said to the bartender, 'Gimme a green hornet and a little
white guy,' but she didn't know what the hell I was talking about, which I
guess means they don't get a lot of clientele from northern Wisconsin there.
I asked about Bill, one of their bartenders, who's a student in hotel (casino)
management at UNLV, and who's pretty interesting to talk to because of his
knowledge of the gaming industry. But Bill wasn't on shift. Okey dokey.
Probably wouldn't remember me anyway. Then I asked the bartender if she'd
ever seen Tanya Harding naked. At this point, she thought I was a psycho.
You can tell by the way they look at you. So I hiked over to Treasure Island
to check out the poker scene. Talked briefly to the boardman; no 10-20, 6-12
was the biggest game. No thanks, I'll try the Mirage. Stopped at the Gold
Bar on the way to the tram and had another beer and a shot. Now I'm starting
to feel like I'm in Vegas again. All right! The tram is actually running,
unlike the last time I was here, and I'm at the front door of the Mirage in
five minutes. A visit to the local restroom is, at this point, now
imperative. I hike over to the lav by the poker room, keeping an eye open
for other rec.gamblers, but so far, none are in sight. Being a sit-down
man, and having grabbed a copy of the new 'card player' from the poker room
on the way, I chose to use one of the stalls instead of making my stand at
one of the urinals. They guy in the stall next to me was making a lot of
noise -- clearly he'd had Benny Binion's chili earlier in the evening, judging
from my experience on a previous trip. In between his grunts and splashes,
while I sat there reading 'card player', I ventured a quiet 'Presto', but
there was no response. At least, there was no correct response; the various
sounds of a human being being tortured continued. It was, as we Poker players
say, a four-flusher. As it turns out, we both elected to move on at nearly
the same time, and almost bumped into each other on the way to the sinks.
You'll never believe this! It was STEVE WYNN!!!!!! I was so flabbergasted,
I decided I needed to have another Rumple and settle down before going in to
play poker!

As is my custom,I hiked around the bar once to check for unaccompanied
hot babes to sit next to, but the Baccarat Bar was strangely empty. August
is the low season in Vegas -- too goddamn bloody hot for sane people then --
BARGErs, of course, are not sane people. At the bar, my bartender tipped me
off to the location of the coin return trays for video poker machines. These
are located under the bar, above knee level. It seems like people never
bother to check whether they're at a $1.00 or $0.25 video poker machine before
dropping coins in. Of course the quarters don't play in dollar machines;
they fall right through to the coin return. But the coin return is below
the bar, hidden by the cantilevered countertop, and the rest of the machine is
set into the bar itself, so the coin return is easily missed. And in Vegas,
most people don't think twice about loosing a quarter or five anyway. I
found $1.75 in the four machines closest to me, just sitting there, waiting for
me to pick them up. Amazing. If only the hot babes were like that. I toked
the $1.75 to the bartender. Then I was off to the poker room, where Boba was
handling the Hold'em lists. "Hi Boba, I'm Yogi." I was fifth or sixth for
20-40 and second up for 10-20. I got a 10-20 seat almost immediately ("Yogi,
10-20"), ordered a beer from Victoria, the cocktail waitress, and settled in.

The 10-20 was the usual tight Mirage game, where periodically you get
to thinking, geez, I could start stealing like mad from these misers, run all
over them -- I'm from California, I know how to play 86s like it's the
immortal nuts from under the gun -- but then you think better of it. A
button raise I thought was a steal attempt that was called by the big blind
(which I took to be a blind defense) turned out to be QQ vs ATs. Hmmm. Time
to start folding AJ in early position, AT and KJ in middle position for two
bets, and so on. Of course I get a bunch of these hands, none of which turn
out to be worth anything, so at least I get positive reinforcement. Then I
get dealt AA and raise; everyone folds. Well, it looks to be a long slow
road. I am up $60 by the time Boba moves me to a 20-40.

The 20-40 is much more live than the 10-20, but not California live.
Basically anyone with a good hand before the flop comes in, and then everyone
drops when the flop is bet unless they have sometime. So there's a reasonable
amount of money in the pot to take a shot at, and the winner is usually top-
pair big-kicker at the showdown, which happens only about half the time (as
opposed to a fifth of the time in the 10-20 game, and as opposed to California
3-6, where days can go by before there's a hand without a showdown.) This is
the sort of game I like best. Shortly I'm $600 bucks ahead and feeling good
about things. It's just like the best games back home, except that cash
plays on the table. I find it slightly disconcerting when someone reaches
down and throws a hundred dollar bill into the pot, but it's not particularly
frightening, just has more of the old-west-feel to it. Also the four and
eight chip game makes some real monster pots, takes forever to stack 'em.
Eventually nature calls so I take a hold button and use the urinal this time.
I'm always more comfortable peeing standing up after several drinks. Then
since I still have time left before the blind comes around, I grab another
Rumple from the bar (another lap reveals that no hot babes have shown up)
and tip the bartender $0.75 from a couple of coin returns. This video poker
coin trick is amazing. My sample size is still too small, but it could be
the Yui-Bin of the century.

Back to the 20-40 game, where the tide turns somewhat. I play KTs on
the button, and flop K T 8, but there are two hearts on the board and there is
action. The Ah falls on the river, and I know that if the flush didn't get
there, the straight certainly did, so I fold the river and give the pot
uncontested to the guy who bet it. A round or so later I'm betting AK with
a board of A J T x when the K hits and the same guy fires at me. Hmmm. Do
you have the Q, or are you just a hyperaggressive little punk who remembers
that I folded the last time in this situation? You would try to steal it
from me this way, wouldn't you? I gotta see it...gotta see it... I call and
he shows me QJ. It's Tonya Harding all over again. I really didn't need to
see that! Shortly after this I'm back to even again.

Then it happened -- and I really have no explanation for this, it was
just an egregious lapse of sanity, or some kind of quantum event that caused
my brain to misfire. I had 9d8d in middle position and decided to get cute
with it, calling two bets cold. A bunch of other people are in behind me.
Great, I much prefer them in. The flop came Ad Jc 7d, giving me a flush draw
with an inside straight draw. The opener fired, and I called. Lots of
callers. Button raised, opener reraised, I called three, lots of people
dropped. Three of us now. Turn card is the 5c. It's bet to me, I call and
I'm a little worried about the button. He could have a better flush draw than
I do. Hmm. I'm eyeing him carefully. He could also have AJ, in which case
he'll be raising behind me. But he just calls. Okay. He could still have a
better flush draw, I really don't know. Not a set, clearly. Maybe I'd better
not bet the river if the diamond comes though. Here comes the river card now,
it's the 6s. The guy in front of me fires, two handed. No diamond, no ten...
well, it was a good try. I fold. So does the button. The dealer reaches to
push the pot to the under-the-gun bettor, and as he does, I scan the board
again. Something here doesn't feel quite right. WAAAAHHHHH! I didn't notice
I'd picked up a second gut shot on the turn, and just folded the nuts on the
river! Let's see, that was about a seven or eight hundred dollar pot there.
Two, plus one two three, plus two small bets of it mine, that's seven small
bets of it mine, a hundred and twenty dollars gone. That's not too bad, but
it means I'm now stuck instead of being six and a half up. How long has it
been since I've screwed the poodle like this? Eight months? A year? Well,
it's got to happen to everyone, I'm sure I've picked up a pot or two from
other people making similar bonehead moves in that time. Still the most
expensive mistake you can make. What was my last bonehead play? Getting
into a raising war with a player who had a freeroll on me. (Another
rec.gambler witnessed that and game me no end of **** about it.) Okay,
but that's still not as dumb as folding the nuts on the river.

Well, here comes my next hand. Must not go on tilt, must not go on
tilt. What is it? TT. Fabulous. I wanted a 7-2 or something where I
wouldn't have to think. Where's the button? Yikes, I'm second to act, it's
my turn now. Okay, what do you do in a game with decent players who give
action and TT in early position? You fold it, you need a tight game to play
it and you've got to raise then. I fold. No ten. No ten. Please, no ten.
Flop comes A x x. Okay. Did that right.

I spend the next half hour trying not to go on tilt, and succeed,
but don't make any money. Then the game starts getting short handed. Lots
of people sitting in seats talking to players, or sitting behind them, but
not playing. We're six handed, the other game is six handed, one of the
players gets into an argument with a floorman about merging the games, which
the floorman refuses to do. I complain about all of the sweaters; if they
want to watch how I play, they should have to post blinds at the least. But
this is the Mirage where they put 50-100 games by the rail. No one cares.
Six handed, you've got to play some more hands. I start calling with K9 and
88 in three-way pots. In an hour we're five-handed and I'm stuck five-hundred
bucks. Still six players in the other game. What time is it? Nearly six in
the morning. I decide to quit.

Walking home, I'm sure that the spectacular ****-up with the 9d8d
kept me from ending up ahead for the day. I would have quit earlier with my
hotel and airfare back in my pocket. So here I am again, another one of the
lost souls hoofing it down Las Vegas Boulevard as the sun rises in the early
hours of the morning. It's deserted now, but for the few of us, and you can
tell that every person in sight has ended up stuck, every single one of us has
lost. The winners are asleep now. There are no joggers out here, no dog-
walkers, nor even any hot babes left, no cocktail dresses nor lacy stockings,
just slow moving folks with oily hair and five-o-clock shadows, slowly
dragging themselves back to their hotel rooms, finally accepting that this
isn't going to be their night.

I have taken this walk before, too often. The worst one I remember
from the Maxim back to the Motel Six, right about this time of night, a
couple years ago, back when they were running that promotion where they were
dealing every card. I was in the hole for $1100. That was big money then.
$500 ($485, if you want to be pedantic) is small money now, it's just a
rack, but the point has changed. I wasn't gambling they way the other weenies
out here were gambling, pumping dollars into 8-5 video poker machines five at
a time hoping to draw a royal and take down that monstrous 5000-1 payout. I
was playing the 20-40 at the Mirage, the staple game that anyone who considers
themselves serious about poker should strive to beat regularly. And I could
have done it. I've been serious about poker. I've logged ten times as many
poker hours as blackjack hours, maybe twenty, maybe fifty times as many. And
I'd blown it.

And I hadn't eaten in twelve hours, not since those two slices of
greasy pizza at the Oakland airport. Twelve hours. The Amazing Rumple Boy
needs a sandwich. I cross at Caesar's Palace, and pick up a Hot Pastrami at
Subway in the Food Court at O'Sheas, where the crap tables are closed, the
slots are deserted, and only a few hard-core blackjack players persist.
Shoe games. Dollar minimums. Back to the Flamingo, where I purchase a
toothbrush and toothpaste (knew I forgot to pack something.)

Up in my room, I flip on the TV while stripping off my clothes,
which go into a big pile on the floor. There's some idiotic video on,
produced by the Hilton Company, featuring some dopey couple in their hotel
room. At first, she's intimidated by all the games, but he says everything
will be okay. 'But honey! Roulette looks soooo complicated. Can't we just
stay upstairs in our hotel room all weekend?' Of course, she asked me this,
the answer would be an immediate, unqualified 'Yes!', but they're married
(supposedly) so naturally he persuades her to come on downstairs and try out
some of the exciting table games available here at the Flamingo Hilton Resort
Hotel in Beautify Las Vegas Nevada. At the end of the video, of course, she's
dragging him downstairs all the time and they're calling Mom and Dad to see
if they can watch the rug rats for a few extra days. 'Oh Mom! We're having
the time of our lives here at the Flamingo Hilton. Would it be too much
trouble for you to look after the kids for one more night?' Yea, right.
In real life, it would be 'Mom! Can you wire us another five hundred bucks?'
But at 6:30 in the AM, it's entertainment. I lay naked on the bed, watching
it, drinking water to rehydrate myself. Even the Amazing Rumple Boy needs
to recharge every now and then.

Then came the second spectacular ****-up of the night. While John
and Mary America were getting a craps lesson from some tough looking, Italian
guy in an expensive suit (a subtle Bugsy Siegel/mafia reference, made by the
Hilton Hotel Corporation, of all people?) I felt the urge to break some wind.
Being alone in my hotel room, I was spared the social ramifications presented
by this situation when it arises in public, and was free to let nature take
its course. We're having a great time here at the fabulous Flamingo now,
John and Mary, hooo boy. Splurrrt. Hey, wait a minute. That didn't feel
right at all. Slowly, and with that awful settling feeling of impending doom,
I turned away from the TV set to look over my shoulder, like some bit actress
in Friday the Thirteenth part N who's walking out of the shower in a towel
across a deserted camp dormitory when she hears a squeaking noise behind her.
And the verdict is...guilty. Oh Jesus H. Christ on horseback. I really didn't
need to see that! What brought this on? Forget the eight to one year time
frame between folding the nuts on the river: I don't think I've made this
mistake since I was three years old. Was this how the Captain of the Exxon
Valdez felt? But I'm not that drunk, and I drink Rumple all the time! After
lying there with all the weight of the world on me for a few moments,
thoroughly defeated and disgusted, fermenting in my own foul brew, I jumped
up and got cleaned up, then madly scrubbed at the oil slick on the bed with a
towel, toilet paper, and water. Still, a tell-tale stain remained. Time to
rationalize furiously for the sake of maintaining some shred of self-esteem.
Maybe it won't be noticible when the covering sheet dries. Argh! Maybe it
will though. Maybe they'll make a notation in my file! That would be just
great. In the year 2000, it'll still be 'Errr...sorry Sir, we're totally
filled up for that weekend. Try Vegas World, down the street.' Broken and
tired, I threw the towel in -- into the bathtub, to be precise, to soak in
soapy water. Then I shut off the television and went sleep in the wet spot.

Friday, August 5th.
---------------------

On friday I decided to swear off drinking Rumple Mintz for a while.

Woke up at 1:40pm and contemplated a mad dash for the Desert Inn,
to play in their no-limit tournament, but just wasn't feeling up to it.
Went back to sleep until the maids came pounding on the door. Uh, thanks
Carmen, no service today. Nope. Gotta keep those maids out until I can
make good my escape.

At 3:40 I was showered, shaved, and looking presentable. But I
needed some food and was feeling a bit -- do you like irony, boys and girls?
-- constipated. Left the do-not-disturb (or was it privacy-please) sign on
the hotel room door to keep those pesky maids out. To deal with the
constipation problem, I had breakfast at Oriental Express -- really bad
Chinese food served in the O'Sheas food court -- where I ordered everything
extra spicy on the menu. By five I was fit as a fiddle again and had made
it down to the Sands. Bill wasn't working. I ordered a beer and a
Goldschlager. Three times. Then, with a good baseline down, I made the
rounds again. Still no 10-20 game at Treasure Island. Too bad, it was
eminently beatable. But probably just as well since beating the Mirage
20-40, at this juncture, had become a moral imperative. After doing a lap
around the Battle Bar checking for hot babes -- none unaccompanied -- I
trammed it over to the Mirage again. Just missed the tram by seconds and
hate to wait for it to return. The tram attendant was talking to a couple
about Cirque du Soleil. They ate in the employee cafeteria every day, said
the tram attendant, and apparently subsisted on nothing but salad and raw
vegetables. I nodded sagely, put my sunglasses on, and tried to peek down
the woman's cleavage without being noticed.

Another lap around the Mirage Baccarat Bar turned up a hot babe
and $3.75 in quarters. What a haul! Was this a sign that things were
starting to turn my way? I settled in, bought another goldschlager with a
water back, and stared at her shamelessly under the pretense of watching her
play video poker. Then her boyfriend showed up. Rats. I was so distraught
I pumped my $3.75 into a slot machine, actually running it up to $10.00
before losing it all. Time for another goldschlager, and a quick trip to the
good old Mirage Poker Room lavoratory.

I got a 20-40 seat immediately, and found myself in a game with a
bunch of guys who were 50-100 players. These were dangerous players, quite
capable of giving you a lot of action when you really didn't want it. One
in particular was extremely loud and was constantly yelling at players and
floormen about getting the 50-100 going. My cards were so-so and I gave all
of them a wide berth. Finally they started a 50-100 which went immediately
from six to seven handed, and filled shortly thereafter. It was on the table
behind mine. All night, I had to listen to megaphone mouth, who wasn't
shouting, but nonetheless could easily be heard from the next table.

The plan was, if I could get even by 8pm, fine. If I won $500 bucks
by then, I'd scram and head down to the floating crap game at Binion's, or
catch the tail end of the Calcutta, maybe even. Two good pots ought to do
it. If not, then not. Priority one was going to be winning my losses of the
previous day back. Deena, a senior boardperson, who happens to be drop-dead
gorgeous, was working and wearing a short shirt.

But I didn't make it downtown. The friday night game was tougher
than the thursday night game, even after we shipped out the 50-100 crowd.
I don't want to say that it was infested with locals and there were no fish,
but there was actually a big argument among a bunch of guys about the
relative merits of Mountain Valley vs. Polish springs (aside from the obvious:
one is carbonated, one is not.) Clearly I was the only out of towner, and
you could tell this was the traditional night upon which the best of the
locals showed up to pick apart the tourists. Play was aggressive. If you
didn't hit the flop, or have a big overpair, you had to give it up right
there. Draws were made to pay. Raising trying to get a free card would only
get you reraised, and if you made it four, they'd make it five. Knowing less
about the other players than anyone else in the game, I could only play very
conservatively and study them. It was eleven before I won the pot that put
me over $500 and cashed out $520 for a two day total win of $35. As I started
racking my chips, one of the locals said to me, 'What, hit and run, eh?'
Piss me off, why don't you, you just can't stand seeing anyone you don't know
walk off with any of your money. I'd been playing four hours, mostly big
pocket pairs and AK, with the occasional AQ, and cheap one-bet call on the
button.

At Treasure Island, they recognized me. No 10-20, they said, when I
walked up to the podium. Didn't have to say a word. I had a beer at the Gold
Bar, then hiked back to the Mirage. There were now eight or nine people ahead
of me on the 20-40 list. I wasn't feeling up to 50-100.

But hey: I'm ahead for the weekend. Not counting expenses. Why
not see the town?

At the Sands, I played craps for five minutes, quitting on the
first seven-out ahead $45. I used part of the $45 for cab fare down to the
Luxor, where I grabbed a beer and said hello to Lee and Roy, who were cashing
out and clocking their hours at the board. Both looked tired. There was only
a 3-6 and a bunch of puny stud games at Luxor, so I didn't sit down.

Instead, I caught a cab over to the MGM. All they had was a 1-4-4-8
game. I was annoyed -- I thought you guys were going to be running a _real_
poker room here? -- but sat down and played two rounds anyway. I didn't feel
I'd been getting enough free drinks -- I buy more alcohol in Vegas than anyone
I know, rather than taking the free stuff that's all over the place. Don't
even bother to buy video poker money at the bar and get comped the drink, then
cash the silver in without playing it -- oldest trick in the book. At MGM,
the players were incompetent and winners held with all kinds of crap. It was,
after all, only a dollar pre-flop. One bozo was talking about what a great
bluffer he was, like you could bluff in this game, unless you bet $8 on the
river and caught everyone on a draw. The cocktail waitress informed me that
they wouldn't serve beer in bottles in the poker room, only in cups. Cheap.
Then she told another player they couldn't buy cigarettes for players -- you
had to go get them yourself, from the machine, or the gift shop. Hey, who's
the customer here guys? This is a high-end operation? Even Circus-Circus
gives you bottled beer and runs cigarettes for you, fer Chrissake. No class.
I ordered a vodka collins and raised pre-flop to $5 with AA. Flopped a set,
bet, check-raise the turn, bet the river; winner. Take that you low limit
slime. My vodka collins came with the cherry on the bottom, under all the
ice. I tried to fish it out by spearing it with the straw, but succeeded
only in rupturing and mangling it. I was very put off. I left when I
finished my drink. Lost a few small bets with suited connectors and a pot
with AK (beat by Ax that turned two pair.) I left $20 ahead. I tipped the
cocktail waitress $5 after ranting and raving about what a ****hole I was
in to ensure that she wouldn't take it personally.

Back to the Flamingo. The Flamingo is dealing only 1-4-4-8. I was
frustrated and complained to the boardman, 'How the hell am I supposed to
protect my hand in a game like that?' He said something obnoxious, and an
offshift dealer suggested that I try the Mirage. His tone suggested that he
thought he was sending me to my doom, and was happy to. Jesus. You know --
and I would consider writing this up for Card Player if I thought for a moment
that they'd publish something this negative, but they won't, so why bother --
there are no good middle limit games in Vegas any more. The town caters now
to middle rollers -- people that'll come in, play the weekend, and drop five
or seven hundred bucks. That's the bread and butter of the casino right
there. But the poker rooms are different. They make all their money off the
rake, and to make as much money as possible, they want to keep all that money
in circulation. That means that they want to offer games that the unskilled
player can do well in, defining 'well' as 'breaking even', to keep the sharks
from slaughtering their potential customers before the house has time to grind
them to death. The 1-4-4-8 structure does just this by virtue of being a high
variance game, much more so than regular hold'em. The small bet on the turn
protects people who make rotten flush and straight draws, and the big bet on
the end pays them off for getting there or allows them to escape when they
miss relatively cheaply. The dollar to see the flop protects players who
routinely see the flop with garbage. And this is the kind of game you find
everywhere: the Flamingo, Excalibur, Luxor, Treasure Island, MGM, Rio,
Harrah's, the IP -- why don't you just take me outside and shoot me? Because
there are so few middle limit games -- the Mirage and the Horseshoe are the
only two places I know of that offer them, now that TI's 10-20 seems to have
bitten the dust, when you do find a middle limit game, you know it's going to
be a bitch to beat, because those are the very games that the pros live in.
You're better off in California, which for me, is staying home. I love Vegas,
but it's not the place I want to play cards. It's saving grace -- and
fortunately, a lot of clubs have realized this as well -- is cheap tournaments.
Although some more medium tournaments -- $50 to $100 buy-ins -- would be nice
too.

I went to bed at 2am, figuring on being bright and spiffy for the
BARGE no-limit event at the Luxor at 9am. It didn't work. I couldn't fall
asleep. I couldn't sleep at all, all night. When my wake-up call came at
7:30am, I still felt reasonably awake, but knew I'd be paying for it before
too long.

Saturday, August 6th.
---------------------

Showered, packed up, checked out using the TV remote and made it to
the Luxor poker room by 8:30 with my backpack in tow. When the cabbie asked
me what was going on at the Luxor, I said I was on my way over to an
invitational no-limit poker tournament. This shut the cabbie up mighty fast,
although that wasn't my intent.

The poker room was already packed when I got there. Guess I was
running late. Said hi to Frank and Lee and drew seat E9 for the tourney.
Wandered down to the bar and ordered a Miller Lite and a shot of cheap
whiskey which I carried back to the poker room. Breakfast of champions.
The whiskey was indeed cheap as could be judged by its sweetness. Gack!
Tossed my backpack down at E9 and considered putting on a nametag, but it
didn't look like I'd be able to get to the table the nametags and pens
were at easily. Decided to be a railbird for a while and hang around behind
the rail.

A trio of people said hello to me, but the whiskey was kicking in
so I don't remember who they were now. One was Conrad. Said hello to Martin
Veneroso. Got another beer from the bar. Kim, the cocktail waitress, was
standing behind the rail with her tray in hand obviously pondering the
dynamics of attempting to serve anyone in the packed poker room. I suggested
that it would be okay if she waited for the tournament to start in a few
minutes while standing behind her looking over her shoulder and down her
dress. She wandered off. Right about the time I was thinking seriously about
taking a leak Lee decided to start the tournament.

Seated at table E initially were a bunch of people, including Lee,
Martin, Mary Gilliand, and Spiney. Got a few laughs out of Mary immediately
going on the offensive and betting into everyone, especially people who'd
sponsored her entry into the tourney. Watched Marin busted out holding AA
and didn't see how he could have avoided it, short of going all-in before the
flop.

Two hands stick in my mind from the BARGE tourney before the break.
In one, I had AQ, flopped a pair of aces, and raised to get heads up with
Mary, who I thought had an A with an inferior kicker. But because there were
a bunch of middle cards on the board, and because I felt Mary would play Ax
when she shouldn't, I was irrationally afraid of two pair and failed to bet
the turn and the river as I should have. Played like a big sissy, basically.
Mary turned out to have A2, I think, and I won the hand, but I should have won
more money or forced her out on the turn.

The other hand I had 66 on the button and put a small raise in with
the intention of stealing on the flop, which came Q 9 x. Bet a strange
amount (like $85 or $90) on the flop to force the dealer to make change, if
someone called, to give me some time to judge their reaction. Got called
by someone who I felt it was clear had flopped a pair. Based on his position,
I'd thought he had a Q or JT, but judging from his reaction when I bet it was
the Q. I didn't feel I could get him to fold if I went all-in. We checked it
down while I prayed for a 6, which didn't come, and his A9 beat me. Ooops.
Might have lost him on the turn if I'd bet again after all. Another hand
misplayed. But with so few pre-flop callers, I'd been out of line with the
66 in the first place. Bad play, bad play. I decided to screw way down.
At the break, I had $250 left and knew I was in big trouble.

Survived long enough on table E to get moved to table D, to a seat
between JR and Chuck Weinstock. The three of us were all doomed. JR got
busted out very shortly after I sat down, leaving the seat on my immediate
right empty. Then I got dealt AK and went all in with it, getting one caller,
who was also all in. The flop came with two clubs, and two more fell on the
turn and river. I was shown AcJc and mucked my hand. At this point I
probably looked pretty disgusted. Fortunately the other all-in man had less
chips than I did, initially, so I got a rebate and wasn't eliminated. But I
had less than $100 left.

Then the blinds came. My big blind was junk and had to be folded.
In the small blind, I got K9. Everyone folded around to the button, who
raised. He had a big stack, and Chuck and I (the blinds) both had small
stacks. I thought he might well be raising with garbage, trying to steal
our blinds or get lucky and eliminate one or both of us, so I called all-in.
Chuck dumped and thanked me for making his decision easy for him, leading me
to believe that he also suspected the button to be on a steal. Then the
flop came with a K. So far so good. But no. First of all, the button man
actually was making a legitimate raise with KsQs, and I was dead meat all
along. Second, to add insult to injury, he runner-runnered a flush. I was
eliminated in 40th or 45th place -- I never did see the actual order of
elimination posted, although Frank was tracking it carefully.

I had played rather badly and was unpleased with my unspectacular
performance. Plus I was started to get tired. I went over to the bar and
ordered three consecutive Grand Marniers and three and Coffees. Talked to
the bartender about what it's like working for Circus Circus Enterprises.
Apparently they are nice to their employees, which I'd guess they have to be
since they cater to low limit players and cheapskates, and throw them
birthday parties with free beer and wine and food and stuff like that.
Shift change was being completed and many new cocktail waitresses were coming
in. One of them asked, 'God, what are all those nerds doing in the poker
room.' Does Luxor make their blond cocktail waitresses wear wigs, dye their
hair, or do they just not hire blonds? I've never seen so many Cleopatras
in one place.

Clapping and hooting of increased volume eventually lured me back
to the poker room where I found that things had collapsed down to a single
table. But it was impossible to get near the action, with so many people
standing around. The poker room staff was running around frantically trying
to prevent people from standing on chairs to see the action. I decided to
just ignore what was going on and hung around talking to Matt Koltnow and
Andy Latto, both pretty cool guys. Met Michael Hall for the first time; he
apparently completely lost interest in me when I said I wasn't interested in
the BJ tournament because it conflicted with the Desert Inn tourney. Sorry
Michael. Also I had some half-hearted attempts to hustle up some side action
after the Luxor tourney. Hey guys, I'm sure the staff here will spread a
10-20 for us if we can get seven players. But no one was interested. Ah
well.

Took a break to use the restroom -- coffee does that to 'ya, and I'd
been holding it for a while. Discovered that the Luxor's automatic flush
toilet wasn't flushing. Great. Guess I'll make my escape quickly. Of course
the second I was out of the stall someone else walked into it. Hope that
wasn't a BARGE person who'll recognize me. Yikes. I got lost in the crowd
again.

Eventually it became clear that things were pretty much falling apart
after the BARGE tournament wrapped up so I took a cab over to the Desert Inn,
where I was the first person to sign up for the no-limit event at 2pm. Had
lunch in the coffee shop there -- asked for a seat by the window, so I could
check out the hot babes sunning themselves by the pool -- then settled in and
drank more coffee. The DI burger was unspectacular but good, and I forgot to
order it with cheese. After lunch, I hung out at the DI bar scarfing Miller
Lites and eyeing innocent women hoping they were really not-so-innocent and
were attracted to fat, sweaty drunks who demonstrated their superior
intelligence by wearing a black sportjacket and slacks all over Vegas when
it's 108 degrees outside. No such luck.

Finally, the DI tournament started. With all the BARGERs that showed
up, there were four tables, instead of the typical two. This is the same
tournament you've read about ten different accounts of. At my table were
Lee, Roy, Spiney, Jeff Sue (I think), and on my immediate left, a local guy
whose sole purpose in the tourney appeared to be making my life miserable
as possible.

I got off to a good start early, with KK on the button. There was
a lot of action in front of me and I made it $75 straight, getting a bunch
of callers. The flop came Q x x and by the time the action had reached me
there were two guys all-in in front of me. Yikes. Could they have QQ?
Should I fold? What's going on here. This is much more action than I ever
saw in the BARGE tournament. Well, they're probably bozos. I call all-in
and it turns out that both have AQ. I triple-through and become the chip
leader.

Now it's time to play monstrously tight. The local on my left is
constantly stealing my blinds with large bets when he has (I'm certain,
because of the frequency with which he was doing it) garbage. Just before
the break, I am dealt KK again in middle position and Spiney raises it to
$200. The guy on my right calls. I call. I'm praying for no ace on the
flop. But the flop comes A 9 ? and Spiney puts a big bet out there, maybe
even going all-in. I'm forced to dump my Kings, which I flash as I fold.
Turns out Spiney has pocket nines and the A saved me. He had a big stack and
going all-in against him would have cost me a lot of chips. At the break,
Lee comments on how I narrowly avoided disaster. I have another Miller Lite.

At the break, no-one has been eliminated yet. Everyone has been
rebuying and rebuying, and going all-in with weak hands planning on rebuying
if they lose. There are a lot of chips out, and I'm not longer chip leader.
Though my stack is respectable, it's far from huge. I take a $1000 add on for
$12, as does virtually everyone else.

When play resumes, the local on my left continues stealing me blind
but there's very little I can do about it with the cards I'm getting. I'm
in survival mode all the way. Then I catch a flop of K J T holding AQ.
Beautiful flop for a no-limit game, but two of the cards on the board are
spades. I check it to my nemesis, who bets $600 ($100 and $200 blinds, his
big, my small.) Everyone folds to me. What should I do? Does he have
spades? I am also at risk of being counterfeited for a split. I decide to
go all-in, probably a mistake. He folds, commenting that he doesn't know
how I play, and I rake in too small a pot. Rats. A chance to eliminate him
down the drain.

He continues to put lots of pressure on me, and I decide that I've
got to eliminate him, or he'll bleed me to death. Or rather, I'm already
bleeding to death, but he's squeezing the wound. I'm dealt AQ and wait for
him to raise; when he does, I jam him all in. One of us is going bust. The
final board has two pair on it, and he escapes with AJ when we split the pot.

Later, I'm dealt AJ, and it's him and me in the pot again. The flop
comes three rags and he makes a sizable bet. I raise him all with total
garbage, expecting to take the pot right there. He thinks a minute, then
calls. No help comes on the turn or the river. I'm dead. "No pair," I
announce. "Ace", he says. Jesus, I'm still dead. Slowly I turn over my
ace, then my Jack. He's got to have me outkicked or he couldn't possibly
have called the flop. But he also turns over AJ. Great galloping garbanzo
beans, who is this guy? Lee comments that I seem to be going a bit berserk
and I throw him a dirty look. Roy flops a straight, checks it twice, and
gets a call from me on the river, but it's not too expensive.

400-800. Standard procedure now is someone raising to 1600 and taking
the blinds; occasionally the big blind opts to defend, but more often than
not, not. It goes like this all around the table. Both my blinds are trash
and I dump them. On the button, I'm dealt AhTh. My turn to take the blinds.
Everyone folds to me. Carefully -- and much too slowly -- I count out $1600
in chips and push it into the pot. The small blind (somehow a player has
wound up seated between me and my arch nemesis) dumps. And this guy whose
been giving me so much trouble stares at me. Finally he calls. "I might
just hit my hand," he says. Great, super bully is playing mind games with
me. The flop comes J 8 x. He goes all in in front of me, claiming "I hit
my hand." Great. What do I do now. He could he on a steal. He's been
stealing me blind all along. On the other hand, he knows I know he's been
stealing me blind all along, and that I'm just now starting to stand up to
him. He could really have something. Did he call me with any two cards
with the intent of going all in if he flopped any pair, and hit one of his
cards? Or does he believe I don't have the backbone to steal myself and is
just going to resteal from me. God, this no-limit stuff is intense. I'm
sweating, probably visibly. Dead silence at the table. He knows I've check-
raised him all in with nothing but overcards before. He's got to know I'm
capable of anything, just as he's capable of anything -- I just don't roll
out the more aggressive moves as often as he does. Then it hits me. Son of
a bitch has a big pocket pair and was playing slow before the flop by not
going all in then, hoping that I'd catch a card if I was stealing, and call
him down. If I'm not stealing, he still thinks he has me beat. He's been
setting me up, this is the trap being sprung on me right here. He's got a
pair of kings, maybe a pair of queens -- aces are possible, but less likely,
since I have one. If he has jacks -- if he's not kidding about having hit
his hand, I'm drawing dead, otherwise I've got three outs. No way I can
call. I let the AT go and the dealer pushes him the pot. Now I'm not dead,
but I'm crippled. And he's got too many chips now; I can't bust him, even
if I go all in on him. Going to have to let somebody else take care of him.

The other table breaks and the other players are seated at my table.
Eleven handed. I've made it to the final table, but I don't have much of a
chance. The floorman instructs the dealer to deal one more round of 400-800
before we go to 800-1600. I'm not getting any cards. The blinds cost me
$1200. I've got $2900 left. My big blind is going to be right where the
blinds go up again. I've got to make a move. Another player busts out. Ten
of us left now, including Lee, Roy, Spiney, Jeff Sue, and this local whose
driving me nuts.

Gotta do something soon. I fold a bunch of hands. Then I get KdJd
and know that this is it. I've got four hands left until the blinds come,
I've got to double up now if I'm going to have any kind of chance. Only
four places paying. Someone with big stack -- another local, playing solid
all the time -- goes all in in front of me. Could be the obligatory blind
steal attempt, but one of the blinds has a big stack. Not a good sign, the
better probably has a real hand. Should I fold? Maybe, but I'm not going
to; I'll go out with a bang instead of a whimper, even though I'm pretty
sure I'm a dog at this point. I call all-in with no hesitation. The blinds
bail out like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The flop comes Q J x. Got a
pair, might be enough. No diamonds though, which are what I really wanted to
see. Give me a king, give me a king. I don't get one, nor another jack. By
the river there's a possible straight and a possible flush out there, all
kinds of **** that beats me. I don't much like it and say so. My opponent
says he doesn't much like it either, giving me a little hope. We turn our
hands over. He's got AJ. I was not only a dog all along, I was dominated.
"Good hand," I say, the poker player's equivalent of ritual begging for mercy
after losing a swordfight. I retire to the bar and order another beer, and
a shot of Grand Marnier, and a coffee.

The game breaks earlier than I expected -- it was split six ways, as
you know, with the guy I tried unsuccessfully to bust out getting a piece of
it, as well as just about everyone else. Ten trip reports at least I've read
about this tournament, all mentioning how many BARGErs played, and how many
made the final table. None of them mentioned me. What gives, you guys? I
was there too, eliminated tenth. First time I'd made the final table in a
tournament at the time; of course, I'd only played about six tournaments.
I go chasing out after the BARGE contingent to see what they're up to.

They're headed over to an unspecified Vegas Hotel suite to railbird
the BJ tournament. I decide to tag along, dying in the heat. The suite is
packed, with people all over the place. Nice view of the mountains. The air
in Vegas is much cleaner than I'm used to, and you can see a long way. I
railbird a bit, trying not to look too uncomfortable wearing my backpack
indoors, because I don't see a good place to stick it. Several people offer
me drinks, which I decline since I didn't contribute any funds to the BJ
tourney. Things look like they're progressing pretty smoothly. After 45
minutes of standing around in the very crowded suite, trying to remember
people's names, breathing bad air, I decide to head on out. It's coming up
on five o'clock. Prime poker time at the Mirage, and I still haven't got
my expenses covered.

For no really good reason, I stop at Treasure Island. Still no 10-20.
I knew there wouldn't be. I have another beer at the Gold Bar, and a glass
of water, and god damn if there isn't another buck in change in the coin
return on the video poker machine in front of me. I love this town.

Over to the Mirage for a -- I broke down -- shot of Rumple Mintz,
after a lap of the bar turns up no hot babes to sit next to -- otherwise,
I'd have ordered something that takes longer to drink. In the poker room,
Boba is there and has a 10-20 seat, so I sit down. Deena is working and is
still a major distraction, in spite of the fact that her clothing is less
revealing than yesterday. I identify a bearded rec.gambler in the number
one seat, though I can't think of his name. Once the nametags came off I was
entirely lost. I put a beat on him by playing 33 in second position (the guy
under the gun called but did not raise) and flopping a set. Sorry about that,
pal, I was probably out of line before the flop. After a short wait I'm
moved to a 20-40 game. I notice a seven handed 300-600 game on a nearby
table, and figure at that level, I ought to be able to recognize some of the
players, but I can't place any of them.

The 20-40 turns out to be a bitch of a game. Monster mind games and
intimidation going on -- I thought the locals were going after the tourists on
Friday night, but this is ridiculous. Tough tough game -- one semi-wild
player who can't lay down a good hand on the flop, even if it's beat, but
that's about the only weakness. I tend to give the impression of being
easily run-over, and these guys pick that up mighty fast. People flopping
a king with KT are making it two bets in front of me to get me to fold KJ,
if I have it. I play super tight, but eventually when I'm sure that everyone
is certain I won't bet the river without the nuts, I start stealing a few.
It's rough going. Finally around 10pm, I am dealt AA in the big blind. My
position is lousy and I'm afraid I'm not going to get action. Wild man
raises. Everyone folds to the button, who calls. I re-raise. Wild man
makes it four. Button calls, looking disgusted. I cap it. Call. Call.
Three hundred in the pot. Flop brings an ace and a flush draw. Great. I
come out shooting. Wild man calls. Button folds, angry. Quite possibly
KK or QQ being folded there, though I'd have expected to have seen him putting
in number three pre-flop with either of those hands. I pump it to three and
get a call. Turn is a blank. I bet, and get called. River is another blank.
I bet again. No way he's going to call this one. He does call. Free money!
I take the pot.

Now I'm nearly ahead $500, so I decide to call it a day when my
blind comes. But just before it does, I pick up KhQh. I raise and get two
callers. Rags flop all the way and I keep betting and betting. On the
end it's me and another guy who I know is a pot thief; he's one of the guys
that likes to call me preflop with inferior hands so he can put pressure on
me and steal when I miss. I bet into him, knowing he doesn't think I'm
capable of it. The board reads 10 9 x x x and I wouldn't be surprised at
all if he was a T. If not, I'm certainly beat. But he's so sure he's got
a solid read on me, he's got to put me on an overpair when I bet the river.
The only question is, is he capable of folding? He is, and does. I start
stacking the chips and declare myself out of the game. Looks like I just
got up over $500.

On the way out, I stop by Frank Irwin and Chris Ellec, and some other
guy whose name I don't think I ever caught. Frank asks me how I'm did and I
hold up my rack of chips muttering something about covering expenses, and it
being a hell of a game. Probably sounded completely incoherent. Oh well.
I wander off in a daze.

Cruise on over to the Sands, where Mary Gilliand is hunched over a
video poker machine, staring intently at the screen. I was going to stop to
say hello, but I have to use the toilet in a big way, so I walk right by her
at top speed. When I return, she's gone. I have a few drinks at the bar at
the Sands, contemplating heading on down to the Luxor and checking in on the
pot-limit game, but I'm not feeling up to it. Eventually I catch a cab to
the airport, where I dine on fine mexican cuisine, courtesy of Taco Bell.

Sitting in the lounge at the airport, waiting for the plane to show
up, is rather boring. A woman with two small children changes their diapers
on the row of seats in front of me. She has to bend over a lot. I sneak
several looks down her blouse.

That's all folks. See you next year.

Great TR and good writer!

too long didn't read

awsome! GL!

Thanks for posting this, Lee. I really used to enjoy Sgt. Rock's trip reports on RGP.

what year was this?

"Take that you low limit slime."

I'm going to being thinking this the next time I win a pot.

The last Thursday Aug 4 was 2005, before that it was pre-millenia

[x] Detective Skills

Ok, so what year? 98?
Where is Mark Stantz now?

You obviously are not thinking sufficiently "old sk00l", grasshopper. Consider the following comment that Stantz relays from the cabbie, upon his arrival:

"Now I'm arriving in Vegas again, but this cabbie doesn't seem very talkative -- he mentions that the LV Hilton sign got toasted in the thunderstorm last week..."

A quick check on Wikipedia indicates that that sign came down in July of 1994. This is consistent with my recollection of BARGE at the Luxor, which happened only once - 1994.

We're talking a 17-year-old trip report.

Regards, Lee

P.S. I don't know where Mark Stantz is these days, but I sure hope he's writing about something.

let me brew some coffee then get reading this

I distinctly remember buying the Tanya Harding Hustler. There was a cute chick in line behind me and the fat lady clerk started laughing at me

havent read all, but ready to thank you for posting this Mr. Jones

Can someone point me in the direction of discussion about "Sgt. Rock"? If this is the same "Sarge" from this blog, I recently ran across that blog the other day and wound up meeting his wife and will be meeting Sarge soon. He wasn't around that day.

I'm sure I've played poker with him for years, I just don't know him by his name, but surely will know him by face (I knew his wife/had played with her before learning who she wasas far as in connection to the blog/Sarge, and she's a hell of a FLHE player).

Happy to pass any message along, Lee. I read probably half his blog (which doesn't look like it's been updated much in the past few years) and enjoyed it a lot. So much so, when I found out he's a local reg, I've made an extra effort to meet him and say what's up.

I dont think its the same guy. Your guy is Seattle. The Mark Stantz guy is Oakland. Your guy is pretty dry. The Mark Stantz guy has a lot of personality and writes really well, and is a bit of a likeable dirtbag, who focuses on bowel movements, drinking, and ogling cleavage.

in B4 internet

I wasn't talking about who you thought I was talking about. If you read my post again, and possibly the first part of the OP, you'll see that.

Don't blame you for being butt hurt though, expecting to read an entertaining blog and spending your time looking and not getting that in return.

I would pay to see Stantz V. Jimmybitch heads up at Terribles casino

honestly...not really that great of a trip report.....writing was meh...felt no connection to the guy other than thinking what a douchebag....really a porno on the plane? total dbag creepy weirdo move... i don't care how badly you want to sit alone.

Epic. I enjoyed the hell out of that. Thanks for sharing OP. And I love the part at the beginning where he rushes through airport security. Remember when you could do that?

Interesting read. Poker stone age ! I knew nothing about the game when I visited Vegas in 1998.

Alluhu Akbar, Kim the Hat Girl has found the Stantz report from the Mirage bar. It is, imo, better than the first one I posted here.

Regards, Lee

=========================

Trip Report, Las Vegas, 9-16 thru 9-19, part 3 of 4
---------------------------------------------------

At 4:30am on Monday, after my flight out of McCarran had long since
departed, I was reclining at the back of the Baccarat Bar at the Mirage, with
a prostitute sitting beside me. I was drinking beer and Rumple Mintz. My
wallet was so overstuffed with hundred dollar bills that it opened auto-
matically upon being squeezed out of my pants pocket. Though capable of
carrying on a halfway decent conversation, I was blasted drunk, and had been
for ten hours. The Rumple was going right on down like water -- never a good
sign. My friend, the prostitute, spun her chair around and attempted to stare
sweetly into my eyes. She was keeping her voice low so the bartenders
wouldn't overhear her. "Why don't we go get a room somewhere?" she asked.
And I asked myself, after telling her that I'd think about it, 'How do I get
into these situations?'

The Sunday morning no-limit poker tournament was uneventful. After
a couple of glasses of water at the DI bar (because it's important to stay
well hydrated out in the middle of the desert) and a couple of Miller Lites
(because it's important to maintain an even buzz in Vegas), I got no cards,
folded a lot, and was in lousy chip position at the break. A number of
people at my table had come from Sailor Robert's Memorial ceremony, and this
led me to be somewhat distressed by the overall quality of the competition.
Sunday tourneys are freeze-outs at the DI, so there was opportunity to improve
my chip position at the break by making a rebuy or taking an add-on. I died
quietly in the 40-80 round, and I don't even remember any of the hands that
I played. There weren't many of them.

So far a slow, but mellow day. At the pool outside the DI, I called
my attorney in DC again, at work, because he'd asked me to check in with him
the day before. Nothing like having your buddy in Vegas who's on vacation
and having a fine time ring you up and let you know how much fun he's having
while you're in the office reading droll legalese on behalf of clients all
weekend. But he wasn't at his desk, so I left a message at his house.

My backpack was in tow. I'd checked out of my room at the DI before
departing for the morning tourney. I'd passed on yet another complimentary
continental breakfast. My flight out of Vegas was leaving at 1:43am and since
I knew I'd be awake then, no point in spending the extra money on a room I
wouldn't be in. In my backpack was a copy of Card Player, with an
advertisement for the satellites that were being held for the Gold Coast
Master's tournament in it. Nothing in the advertisement indicated where
these satellites were to be played.

One would presume this would happen at the Gold Coast, naturally.
But I seemed to recall hearing during a game -- some time, some where --
that the Gold Coast was having them in a banquet room at the LV Hilton,
for some reason. On the surface, this sounds unlikely, but with cab fare at
stake, and time to kill, one might as well check. I called the number listed
on the Card Player ad.

This, apparently, got me the front desk or somesuch. The person
I spoke to had no idea what I was talking about -- at first, she thought I
was asking about a tennis tournament. Finally she connected me to the
poker room, despite her claim that she wasn't supposed to transfer customers
there or even call them herself. The staff person on call at the Gold Coast
poker room reported that satellites were being held in the Grand Ballroom
at the GC and that sign-ups would get underway at 6pm that evening.

Having nothing better to do, I cashed in the spare DI chips I had
in my pocket from the previous night's craps session and headed over to the
Gold Coast. I had been to the GC once before, on an early trip to LV when
I was a BJ player, and was checking out the various casinos. It hadn't
particularly impressed me then, and I'd never returned until now. Walking
in, I was still less than awestruck; the GC is rather dingy, by Mirage/TI/
Rio/Flamingo/DI standards, and the clientele is rather -- well -- old. Even
at the DI, which caters to the older crowd, you can could on some sweet young
thing in a slinky black cocktail dress wandering through every now and then on
a Friday or Saturday night. The GC was just wrinkle city, smoky, with drab
colors and boring uniforms.

I lapped the main floor and located the poker room, which was packed.
I didn't go in. Instead, I wandered off to the back, and found two large
double doors labeled 'Dance Hall'. Certainly they had to be serving drinks
in here, and I was hungry and thirsty, so I wandered in.

On stage, some guy was singing 'Sweet Home Chicago'. He was
reasonably good -- spectacular by karaoke night standards. Two bars fanned
out along the wall on either side of the doorway, and tables were located
past the bars as far back as the stage, where the elevated floor ballooned
into terraces full of square tables. Another lowered terrace of tables was
centered in the front of the hall, near the double doors I'd just entered
through. In the middle of the room, with a rail around it, was a large dance
floor.

I moved along each of the bars, looking for a place to sit. All
of the stools were empty, but the places were taken. Drinks were sitting
at every spot, or a book, or a pack of cigarettes, or a coats and hat. Half
of the tables, and all of the tables in the frontmost ground-level terrace,
were taken, but empty too. Everyone was on the dance floor, spinning in
ballroom dance and swing style, in tune with 'Sweet Home Chicago.'

I found a single unoccupied seat near the door at the back of the
leftmost bar, waved a $20 bill at the bartender, and ordered a Miller Lite
no glass and a Grand Marnier in a rocks glass, no ice. He brought me a bottle
and a hefty sized shot. My change was $17.50. Eh? I eyeballed the bill.
Beers were going for a buck and shots of GM were $1.50. At the Desert Inn, a
beer and a granny will set you back about $7.50. Hey! These locals joints
aren't half-bad.

I finished the GM and the bartender asked me if I'd like another, and
how about a double? Is this a rhetorical question? He brought me a glass
full of Grand Marnier, which cost a mere $3. I was slurping away at this and
ignoring my beer as 'Sweet Home Chicago' wound down. The dance hall was full,
holding maybe 250 people. I was the youngest person in the joint, maybe by
a factor of two. These folks people were old. And they were in full-on party
mode. I had a great time watching them, it was like living through a scene
from 'Cocoon'. Keep the Grand Marnier coming and shortly I'll likely start
seeing flying lights and E.T.'s too.

After 'Sweet Home Chicago' ended, the singer on stage became the
emcee as everyone files back to their tables. There were three drawings
for free dinners at the GC which various folks won and hobbled out onstage
to collect. I started working on my beer and ordered another double GM.
After the free meals had been raffled off -- and this was done with great
drama, as number by number was slowly added to the winning string of digits,
and each winner was queried about how long he'd been coming in -- some of
these people had been hanging around the Gold Coast Dance Hall for years.
Then the music started up again. They played 'Witchcraft', 'New York, New
York', 'My way', and various other big band hits. There was much fussing and
gossip amongst the old people about who was going to get to dance with who,
and who had been dancing with who. Some of these elderly women are terrible
flirts. One white-haired woman was indignant that some young tart of fifty
had kissed her husband on the cheek after a dance. The gentleman in question
was duly bashed about this, and turned slightly red, but defended himself
vehemently. When the dance floor filled up, people started dancing between
the tables, and next to the bar.

To me, all of this was just cuter than wet kittens on a sunny spring
morning, especially with a good Grand Marnier buzz kicking in. I contemplated
retiring there. I contemplated flying my parents out. I ordered another
beer (enough thinking, time for some action.) Finally after two encores and
an endless procession of people out the doorway, they closed the dance hall
down to set up for a Country Western show that would be playing in the evening.
The bartender, who I'd engaged in conversation about various trivia, and whom
I'd tipped rather heavily, at least 80%, implored me to come back for this.
"It's a great show," he said.

Just after 6pm now, and time to sign up for the satellite. I asked a
security guard for directions to the bathroom, and he said that I was at
about intermediate distance between two of them. He looked somewhat
disapproving of me, and I suspected that I appeared a touch pickled. Then I
asked him where the Grand Ballroom was. He perked up right away. "Right up
that escalator there, Sir, and to your left. Good luck, Sir." "Thanks," I
said. When the security goes from giving you a stern look to kissing up to
you, you have to wonder what you're getting yourself into. I hosed down the
porcelain in the men's room, then rode the escalator up and walked into a
completely empty room, save a bunch of poker tables, and a lone guy, sitting
at one, spading decks. I told him I was there to sign up for the satellite
tournament.

He took my $25, left it lying there on the table in front of him,
then said that things wouldn't be starting for an hour and that I might as
well take off for a while. I asked about getting a receipt. He said not
to worry about it, that he'd recognize me. I said 'Uh, okay' and wandered off
downstairs, where I went to another bar where everyone was watching football,
and ordered a Green Hornet and a little white guy. This horribly confused
the bartender who spoke little english and apparently this was his first
day on the job besides. A senior bartender that was training him brought me
a Heinekin and shot of Rumple. Drinking that Rumple again, a risky business,
possibilities opening up for weird, wild and wooly times ahead.

Got to talking about football with the guy sitting next to me. I
don't know much about football, I have trouble following it without commentary
to guide me, but spend enough time in bars and you'll know a few names to drop
whenever team X is mentioned, and if the guy who wants to have a conversation
with you is drunk enough, you can just steer him right along in the direction
he wants to go in in making his spiel, and he'll think you're Roxy Roxbourogh
if you throw in a halfway intelligent question or analogy to something you do
know something about now and again. After twenty minutes we'd reached an
agreement about holes in the 49er defensive line, or something like that. I
have no idea, I was just in Eliza mode. Before the satellite started I had
the good sense to slam down a couple bottles of spring water, but not before
ordering another round of Heine and Rumple Mintz and a Bud for my new buddy,
'ol what's-his-name, the football wiz.

There were actually about ten or twenty people in the room when I
went back up to the Grand Ballroom. At this point I was working hard on
looking sober. Contrary to your expectations, I _can_ play when I'm drunk,
but it's best when my blood alcohol has stabilized or is slowly going up
or down, not when it's being yanked through the roof in the charactaristic
mad polka of a step function induced by Rumple shots. I ordered a Mountain
Valley from the waitress who was making her first pass around the room and
wondered if we were going to be getting enough players to have a full table.
Lots of seats, too few people. Finally things miraculously filled up, and
when I looked around the room, I discovered that a couple of previously empty
tables were now full too. All of this in five minutes, while I was sucking on
Mountain Valley and listening in on people excitedly discussing the new Maxim
poker room. Apparently the guy who's going to be running it, Don Williams, is
a big shot in Vegas. Also, they're going to be spreading a small no-limit
game there, with something like a $50 buy in. I'd read this in Card Player
and had remembered it and been interested, but when I checked with one of my
cabbies, he'd said that it wouldn't be up and running for another week. Too
bad; from having played no-limit in DI tourneys, my feeling is that you'd have
to be absolutely insane to try it with any significant amount of money on the
table. But a small buy-in no-limit game would be fun to experiment with,
although I'd almost certainly get cleaned out, since I can't play no-limit
worth beans.

Cards being dealt now and the blinds are 5 and 5. Thirty minute
rounds. I fold a lot, seeing the flop once for a raise with AQ and dumping
it after the flop comes K J 9 and someone raises me. I might not have
even bothered to bet at that flop, come to think of it. Eventually the
blinds go to 5-10. Another thirty minutes go by without my playing any
hands. Meanwhile, a couple of people are building up significantly large
stacks and a couple $20 rebuys have been made.

10-15 blinds. This tournament sure is slow. I'm slugging down many
Mountain Valleys now. I see a couple of flops cheap with blinds and call with
a couple of hands like 88 and 99, hoping to flop a set, but I'm not getting
anything, and arguably shouldn't have played the hands in the position I did.
I win one small pot with KK when I raise and everyone folds to me. Still, my
stack is pitiful. I raise preflop with KQ, and bet the J87 flop all the way
hoping for an overcard, but none fall. The woman on my left has 98 and calls
all the way. With very few chips left, I rebuy for $20. Still, no cards
come.

After the 15-30 blinds round, rebuys are going to be closed off.
I fold a lot, watching my stack dwindle. I get down to about $215 with
five minutes left before 30-60, and am determined to win a pot or get under
$200 again before the rebuys end so I'll have some kind of a stack. My cards
have been terrible, and I've been getting blinded away a lot. When I see a
flop, I immediately have to fold. The only time I've seen a turn card in
nearly two hours was when I was bluffing with the KQ. Finally I call out of
position with 33 to get under $200 with a few minutes left. I fold when
there's no 3 on the flop. In desperation, I give up on the Mountain Valley
and order another beer. My equivalent of a scooby snack.

I take the final rebuy, and the add-on. Now I have just under $600
in chips, the most I've had in the entire tourney, but I've had to purchase
all of them, and I'm still one of the smaller stacks. Plus, I'm into this
dumb satellite for $85 and a full buy in to the main tourney is only $500.
After a very short break, I call with some more pocket pairs, but the sets
are just not flopping. KJ isn't hitting either. I'm not getting much of
anything better. At 60-120 I'm doomed and eliminated in short order holding
ace-no-kicker suited and praying for a good flop which fails to materialize.

Back down at the football bar, I have another Heine. Two rebuys and
an add-on and I can't accomplish anything. What a disaster. But the cards
must, by now, be 'due' to come. Right. Gambler's fallacy. Maybe I should
play some BJ, though. The satellite was a crushing defeat after a big start
for the weekend, after my coming in in the money in my first two tournaments.
If only I hadn't wound up biting it big time in the rest of them.

There's clearly only one thing to do: head on over to the Mirage,
and play some really high limit poker. It's 9:45, and my flight is leaving
at 1:45am. That gives me about three hours in which to either win or lose
some real money this trip, and an hour to get to the airport and on the
plane. Outside, at the Gold Coast cab stand, there are no taxis waiting, and
none of the uniformed little twits standing around with their thumbs up their
asses seem interested in getting me one. Tough breaks come when you're in a
hurry. Well, forget these morons. I hike over to the Rio, enter through the
side doors by the poker room, and scan the rear bar for hot babes. A hot
babe might slow me down, make me stop and have a drink, relax, maybe think
better of plunking down into the Mirage shark tank to play the biggest game
of my life while still flying high. But there are no hot babes to be found
out of uniform. Sunday night's a bit slow. I charge through the Rio and
out front, where I immediately catch a cab over to the Mirage, backpack in
tow. Quick ride. In through the front doors, through the oversized
terrarium -- goddamn, don't you think there's a chamelion the size of a
monitor lizard hiding somewhere in here? I charge around one of the big pits
and into the restroom next to the poker room. Take a quick leak and splash
water on my face. Easy now. Nervous? Nope, too drunk to be nervous. Good
sign. Into the poker room via the side entrance by the high limit games.
You guys have a fifty and one seat open? Sure, right here sir. Thanks,
here's a thousand. Sit down, stuff the backpack under the table, there's
lots of room. Wait for the dealer to finish the hand. Pretty goddamn big
pile of quarters out there getting pushed to the guy on my left.

Okay, look at the dealer, need to vocalize a little bit now. 'I
gotta' grand playing, waitin' for the blind,' I say. Howdy, Snake. Ah'm
just a good ol' country boy. My chips show up, two little stacks which I
carefully line up in front of me. Everybody else has a lot more chips than
me, but that's not surprising since I'm buying kinda short. No problem
there, I want to feel short stacked, so I won't get too far out of line.
Peripheral vision is shot to hell, I must really be cruising. Relax. Take
a look around, hope to hell you haven't sat down right next to Brunson or
something. Nope, don't recognize anybody. That's good. Mostly a youngish
crown, thirties, forties. The woman in the eight seat is an incredible
specimen of blondus hotbabius, absolutely drop dead gorgeous, with a flannel
shirt on that just screams out 'Come cuddle with me in front of a fireplace.'
Looks like she's about twenty-eight years old. Check the hands. Okay, her
hands are a little wrinkled at the knuckles, maybe she's more like 40, but
wow! No wedding ring. I've been playing in all the wrong games, man.

JJ in the big blind. Time to start playing. There's a raise to me,
everyone drops, I flat call. Flop comes J23. Pretty darn good flop. I
check raise and get reraised, so I make it four. Other guy calls, then folds
when a small card hits on the river and I come out firing. So far, so good.
Won the first hand. Wish he'd raised the turn, but I'll take any pot.

To make a long story short, I go on a hellacious rush. Everything
is working for me, and when it's not working, I'm bluffing and getting away
with it. People are letting me in cheap in late position, I'm calling with
T9s, and the flop comes three of my suit. Check, bet, raise, I re-raise,
suddenly everyone is gone. I am dealt AA, KK, and QQ several times within an
hour, usually against one or two opponents, and they're always good. AKs is
good. I'm dealt AdJd and the flop is Qd 8d 4h. Call two bets. Turn card's
a blank. Three handed, I call a bet. River card's a jack. Check, check to
me. I turn over my hand...'Jack?' The other two guys muck, disgusted. I
flop a set of eights with AK8 on the board; the other two guys in the hand
both have AK. I get a monster re-raise in on the turn when one of them jams
and the other overcalls. I mean, I am making some money in this game. I
mark myself as a tourist my tipping the dealer two bucks a hand instead of a
dollar.

Eventually, I relax. When I sat down, I was absolutely quiet, but
work my way into the banter of the game as I find a playing rhythm. When I
beat the attractive blond out of a pot, the guy on my left says to me
quietly, 'Do you know who she is?' 'No.' 'Just one of the best hold'em
players in Vegas,' he says. I'm willing to believe this since you just don't
see that many women that attractive playing high-limit hold'em unless they
really know what they're doing. Her name is Jennifer, Jennifer Caprini, or
Capriotti, or something like that -- I thought I'd caught her last name when
she was paged, but have since forgotten it. Jennifer something, anyway. She
pulls a big stack of hundred dollar bills out of her purse and puts them on
the table after losing a few hands.

[LeeJ note: this is, in fact, Jennifer Harman.]

Another woman, from New York, with long legs and a short skirt, is
hanging around the table. I don't remember her name either. She's making
conversation with the various players and sweating us all. Some guy tries
to bluff me out with overcards, but I can tell he's bluffing and hang with
him all the way to the end, catching an T on the turn or river for top
pair. Another guy asks me, 'How'd you know that was going to be good?'
I explain the big dick theory of poker, which, briefly stated, is that the
guy with the biggest dick wins. James T. Kirk, for example -- constantly
in peril, constantly facing death -- how does he triumph every episode, and
why is he so confident when things look so overwhelmingly against him? It's
not because he's clever, it's not the starfleet training, it's not physical
condition. It's because his dick is huge, unimaginably huge. This is
the metaphorical dick we're talking about here, not the physical dick, you
understand. Abraham Lincoln, Alexander the Great, John Glenn -- monstrous
dicks, every one. Richard Nixon's dick was the size of the Hindenburg,
and recall that he financed his first campaign with his poker winnings.
Unfortunately, Dick's dick and the Hindenburg suffered a similar fate. I
reassure Jennifer that woman can have big dicks too, at least, in the sense
that matters. The big dick theory of poker says, raise a lot, you'll get
there, and they probably don't have anything anyway. Anyway, the other guy
promises to make a note of the big dick theory, and I expect to start getting
called a lot more. That's all right, it was inevitable anyway. I order a
Jack Daniels with whipped cream on top from the cocktail waitress who's been
bringing me Mountain Valley's all night. She doesn't even blink; the players
look somewhat nonplussed. The sugar in the whipped cream kills some of the
bite, I explain. Really, it does. One big gulp of Jack Daniels and I flop
two pair. Raise, raise raise. Major dick inflation going on here.

Then I lose a hand; I have 98 and foolishly call a raise in the
small blind and wind up heads up with some random guy. The flop comes in
JT6, giving me the double gut shot. I hang in there for the turn, which
pairs the 6, then when the river card is an A, the guy checks to me.
Because I am 'using the force', I automatically and immediately pick up a
black chip and pitch it out on the felt, intermediate between me and him.
Then I stare into the pot, and I've got the best poker face of my life,
certainly something to do with all the alcohol having had some kind of
super-novacaine effect on my face. If I were to slap myself in the head,
I probably wouldn't feel a thing, so it's real easy to let all the muscles
go dead. Mental control is easy too. I'm totally calm, not even thinking
about the fact that if this guy calls me, which is likely since he checked
the river -- check is pretty strong, with that pair on the board, a lot of
big hands would check and call -- if they guy calls me, I'm going to be
playing the board. Ho hum. But the guy is having an audible crisis; he's
cursing the board and the dealer and showing his cards to other people, and
I can tell he's inches away from pitching them, not that I'm looking, not
like any of this is really registering. Finally the guy calls me, so I
flip over my 9-8, supremely confident. There's still a chance he'll throw
his hand away; clearly he's suspecting the worst, and it just might
materialize for him like some Shakespearean ghost. But no; 'What's he got?'
he asks, and someone replies, 'He's got nothing.' Relief floods into his
face. He turns over a pair of kings. For two minutes he's talking about how
he almost threw the kings away. He says that there's at least a 30% chance
that he would have folded. "That's why I bet,' I reply, smiling. Everything
is working for me so well, I'm starting to think I can intimidate these guys.
Probably a mistake. They can play. I'm just running hot.

After a little better than two hours, around 12:15am, I cash out
for $4900. Time for a celebratory Rumple, at the Sports Book bar, before
heading back to the airport to fly home.

12:30am. I can't walk so good. Maybe I can't drive so good. Boy
am I in a great mood though. Maybe I'll call mom. 'Hey mom, how are you
doing? I'm in Vegas. I just won a ton of money, and I was thinking about
staying here an extra day, and I'm really drunk, in case you can't tell.'
I like to get really plastered out of state at least once a year, ring mom
up and tell her I'm blundering around bombed out of my mind at least five
hundred miles where she thinks I am with huge amounts of cash on my person.
Have to keep her on her toes. Anyway, mom encourages me to take the money
and get fly home immediately, and no, she isn't particularly interested in
big band music at the Gold Coast, because she and father never did anything
like dancing together, they just had sex once to produce me. Well, that's
not exactly what she said, but that's the gist of it.

12:45am. I walk, or waddle, more likely, outside at the Mirage and
find a positively huge taxi line, maybe forty people standing there, at
quarter to one in the morning. Well, there's no way I'm going to get a cab
before 1:15am, which means I could quite possibly miss my flight. Plus, I'll
probably be too drunk to drive at 3am when I get back. Oh hell, I'm calling
America West. Can I push my flight back 24 hours? What's the additional
charge? Turns out I have an unrestricted fare. Okay, push that baby back,
I'll stay in Vegas another 24-hours and play in a couple more tournaments.
Plus, I can get in some more juicy ring action. A quick stop at the men's
room to expell the spent Mountain Valleys (the JD and Rumple goes directly
into the blood stream) and I'm back at the bar making small talk with an
attractive Mexican Indian woman who's mighty cute, except for that stainless
steel barbell she's driven completely through her tongue. Still, it does
pique one's curiosity about certain things. Alas, some of her friends arrive
and drag her off in the general direction of a bank of slots and I head back
to the poker room.

Now usually, stories that take off in a direction like this do not
end well. Our hero gets lucky in the biggest game of his life, his ego
swells up, he ignores advice to get out while he's ahead, parties it up even
more, then goes back for a second helping, and this time lady luck doesn't
smile quite so sweetly and the local sharks chew him to pieces. The moral
of the story is that hubris does not pay. You've been over this plotline
before, I'm sure. Well, I may be drunk, but I'm not completely out of it,
and I'm not about to make that classic blunder. Tight! Tight is now my
middle name.

The crowd at the fifty and one table tries hard to supress their
joy that I've returned. They're mighty nice to me. I make some noise about
having dealt with my obligations and settle in again with another $1K buy.
I'm tight, and playing less hands, but the cards are not as kind. I take
a couple beats when someone makes a gutshot straight draw on me on the river,
and when someone else either makes or successfully bluffs a flush when a
suited card falls on the river and it comes around to me as two bets. Several
of my blinds are complete junk and I pitch them. Soon I'm down to $200 and
buy another thousand in quarters from a guy across the table.

Now the long, battle to get even begins. It takes a while, nearly
two hours, but I manage it. As 4am approaches, we drop down to five handed,
then four handed. I start to play faster and wind up quitting another $500
ahead, deciding that the variance four handed is too high to justify pressing
on. As I'm standing up, one of the remaining players asks the others if
they're interested in raising the stakes. 'Hey, are you guys gonna' play
one-two?' I ask, feigning a sudden re-interest. "Uh, 75-150," is the
somewhat bemused reply. 'Uh, well, I gotta go.' I cash out. Gonna need a
bigger wallet.

I head over to the Baccarat Bar for a celebratory Rumple and a beer.
At the end of the bar, there's a woman, late thirties, maybe early forties,
a tad prematurely grey, sitting alone. She smiles at me as I walk up, so I
say hello and wind up moving over to sit next to her. In the course of
making small talk, I ask her where she's from. She says that she's from
Vegas.

Traveler's Tip: if you meet a woman sitting by herself at a bar in
a casino that caters to tourists at four o'clock in the morning, and she
says she's from Vegas, not out of town, she is probably a hooker.

"From Vegas, huh? Funny place to hang out, the Mirage, I thought
most of the locals hung around Palace Station, or the Gold Coast, or some
place like that. The Mirage, Caesars, this is tourist country, isn't it?"
She says she's planning on meeting someone. I ask her what she does for a
living. "Guess," she says. "You're a spy," I venture. I'm gulping down
my Rumple Mintz. She says she's not a spy. 'Guess again,' she says.

Traveler's Tip: if you ask a woman sitting along in a bar what she
does for a living, and she says 'Guess,' she is probably a hooker.

We make small talk for a while. Eventually she excuses herself to
go to the bathroom, and asks me to look for a 'nerdy looking guy with a
white shirt and black pants' for her. He's her date, that she's waiting for.
'A money date,' she says.

Another Traveler's Tip: when a woman says she's waiting for a 'Money
Date', she is definitely a hooker.

I'm sucking down my second beer by the time she gets back from the
ladies room. No nerdy guys have shown up; it's pretty quiet in the Mirage on
Sundays, this early in the morning. We continue to chit-chat and I mention
that I've just won a bunch of money in a poker game and have decided to
spend an extra day, have blown off my flight home, etcetera, etcetera. After
a fashion my new friend, the prostitute, spins her chair around and stares
sweetly into my eyes. "Why don't we go get a room somewhere?" she asks.
Her voice was low, presumably to prevent any of the bartenders from
overhearing. 'I'll think about it," I replied, wondering, 'God, how do I get
into these situations.' And, 'Why don't these hookers in real life look more
like the sex goddesses that are pictured in all those brochures they're
handing out on the strip, instead of my Aunt Ethel?'

Another shot of Rumple usually helps facilitate these tough decisions,
so I ordered one. It wasn't much help, and I'm not typically indecisive. I
must say I didn't mind being let off the hook when a nerdy looking guy with
a white shirt and black slacks showed up, took her by the arm, and suddenly
she didn't seem to know me any more, except for a quick smile and good-bye.
Saved by the bell. Or -- perhaps it didn't happen that way at all, but there
are some things a guy's got to be cagey about. You didn't honestly think I
was going to say one way or another, did you? Besides, this is rec.gambling,
not alt.sex.services.

At the place where I wound up renting a room for the night, they
didn't have anything left except for fold-out bed units. A maid was making
mine up by the time I'd gotten there from the front desk. I was pretty tired
at this point, and it had dawned on me that I hadn't eaten anything all day.
Ooops. No wonder all those Grand Marnier's at the Gold Coast Dance Hall hit
so hard. The bed wasn't particularly comfortable, but it wasn't long after I
lay down that everything faded mercifully to black.

Classic. I love it. I so wish I could go back in time and sit in this 25/50 LHE game at the Mirage...

Trip Report, Las Vegas, 9-16 thru 9-19, part 1 of 4
---------------------------------------------------

Grand Airlines flies out of Oakland gate twelve and arrives at
McCarran gate nine.

The best thing about gate nine at McCarran is that, five seconds
after you get off the plane, you're inside Taco Bell. Taco Bell is great.
Where else can you get stuffed for under $5? Of course I had to try the
new Chicken Burrito Grande, which is overpriced. It isn't bad, but they
really overstuff it, so be careful, because it tends to fall apart during
consumption.

Grand Airlines, which is headquartered in L.V., recently started
flying out of Oakland, and their prices are dirt cheap -- better than
Southwest's. Try 'em out if you're from the East Bay -- they have no
assigned seating, but their planes aren't packed to the gills like most
Southwest flights are, so you can get a row to yourself and spread out.
Even if you're closer to SFO, it might be worth it to you to fly out of
Oakland since you can save quite a bit in parking charges, since Oakland's
economy lot is a 5-minute walk from terminal A, and they charge only $6/day.

Travel down the spoke connecting the wheel of terminal A to the
main arc of McCarran was slower than necessary, owing to the fantastic
number of idiots incapable of following directions and standing to the
right to allow people on the left to walk past. Eventually I gave up on
it and stood to the right myself. I was in no hurry. I remember, years ago,
rushing off my plane, charging through the airport, checking in and out of my
hotel room in a flash and charging for the casinos, determined to get to the
tables as fast as possible, to log as many hours of BJ play as possible. Now
I'm stopping for dinner first, and standing patiently behind some moron,
instead of yelling out 'Passing on your left sir, stand to the right
please,' and charging through. Vegas is more like a long-time girlfriend now
than a brand new one: you know she's there for you, and you're glad to be
home, but you don't come charging through the door to grab her as if every
second mattered anymore, like you first did; it's all right if the last
light before you turn onto her street turns red to catch you, and a smile
and a quick hello are sufficient, at least until you've got your tie and
shoes off, and even then a quick kiss will suffice.

My taxi driver tells me I'd better speak Spanish if I'm in town
this weekend. Apparrently it's the anniversarry of Mexican Independence
Day, and an estimated 136,000 Mexicans and Mexican Americans are in LV to
celebrate the event. Come to think of it, I did hear a fair amount of
Spanish being spoken at the airport, not that that's unusual, this close
to California. But probably that traffic load, and the Chavez fight at
the MGM, accounted for the $180+ rates that I was quoted, and rejected,
at Treasure Island, the Flamingo, and the Rio. The Desert Inn, because I
contacted them through American Express' Platinum Card Travel Service, quoted
me a $90 rate, since they're owned by Sheraton, who participates in Amex's
Fine Hotels and Resorts program. Since I was planning on playing a lot of
cheap poker tournaments at the DI, and since the price was right, this was a
convenient coincidence. When I checked in at 5pm, they automatically upgraded
me to a mini-suite. Thanks guys!

The suite was nice, probably a little bigger than my house and a
lot cleaner. There was a nice view of the golf course (closed until mid-
November) and the backside of east center-strip properties like the IP and
Harrahs. I unpacked, and had a glass of water (unfortunately, the wet bar
was not stocked), then used the toilet, which prompty backed up. At what
I thought was later than the last possible moment, it corrected itself and
drained, saving me the trouble of calling housekeeping.

At 6pm I was in the Desert Inn bar, drinking Miller Lite and Grand
Marnier, and checking out the latest Card Player, the one with Bay 101 on
the cover. The 7:30pm tournament at DI is limit Omaha High, a game which I'm
not familiar with. I've played about eight hands of Omaha in my life, all
high low split with a qualifier, all pot limit, all in Lee's home game. So
I figured my chances at the DI tournament would be about zero and elected
instead to head down to the San Remo to play their 7pm limit hold'em
tournament, which is advertised in Card Player's 'Tournament Trail' section.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to me to call ahead.

At 6:40 I had taken a cab down to the San Remo where I inquired
about the tournament at the poker desk. The floorman invite me to sign
up, which I did, and noted with dismay that I was only the second person
on the sign-up list. Then we had a nice talk. He said he couldn't be
sure whether or not the tournament would happen, they'd been having trouble
getting it together recently, etcetera etcetera. The poker room at SR
had a couple of tables going but I didn't get the impression that any of
them were tournament players. After talking to the floorman a bit about
the various games around town (I went off on my tirade about despising
1-4-4-8 again) I declined the sandwitch he offered (very nice of him) and
hit the bar for a beer and a Grand Marnier.

At 7pm a new floorman had come on shift who was much more brusque
and less friendly. He said the chances of the tourney getting down at
this point was '99.44% against'. So I grabbed a taxi back to the DI
intending to play in the Omaha High tournament after all, just for laughs,
fully expecting to get blown out immediately.

The Omaha tournament started on time at 7pm with five full tables.
I had no idea there were so many people in Vegas who like to play Omaha.
God knows why! This game warps your mind. I folded a lot of hands initially,
waiting to see what other people played. Eventually I was dealt AdAs (peek
at hand...hey! pocket aces...here come my other two cards...) Js3d (hey!
I'm double suited.) Three people plus the blinds call in front of me. Seems
like _everyone_ calls in Omaha, I was the only one folding the vast majority
of hands, and raises are very rare. Well, I've got pocket aces double suited,
I'm raising. Fold, fold, fold behind me, but everyone already in the pot
calls. The flop comes A 4 4 and some guy comes out gunning into me. I'm
thinking, 'You've got to be freaking kidding me?' Someone calls, I call.
Turn card's a blank but two hearts on the board now. Dumb dumb up front
bets again. Call. I raise figuring if he's got pocket fours, he's gonna
win himself a hell of a pot, but I figure the fours are split between these
two guys in front of me and if I'm really lucky, the case ace's in one of
their hands and I want to start the raising war now. But they both flat
call me. What can they have? The river is a third heart which is about as
good a card as you can hope for. The other two guys both check to me and I
bet. Call. Call. Winner. The guy next to me and some guy across the table
start talking about the hand while I'm stacking the chips. One next to me
says I played if perfectly and pats me on the shoulder. Great. I have no
idea what I'm doing.

KsQsJs3d ten minutes later. Could work well if big cards or spades
come, although my flush potential is limited a bit by having that extra
space in my hand. How much does that hurt me? I'm not sure. Two spades
flop, queen on the turn, third spade on the river. I bet. I've got the
nuts unless the Asxs is out there, which is entirely possible given that
there's been a lot of people trailing along for one bet on the flop and
turn. But no-one raises so I know I've got the best when I turn it over.

Blinds go up, and I get AA7x, single suited. I raise again and
get a bunch of callers. Flop is 7-small-small and I bet at it, and get
a couple of callers. Turn card's an A. Bets, fold, call. Blank on the
river, I get paid off again. I'm starting to like this game. Waitress!
Beer please.

QQJx. Flop comes KKK. There's only three of us in it, first guy
checks, I check, button bets. I think he's bluffing at it hoping an ace will
fall. First guy folds. I call, thinking my QQ is probably good. River's
a blank. I check, he bets again and I call. River card's another blank.
I check again and he bets again. I call. "Aces?" I ask, figuring that's
what it'll take to beat me. He turns over AAxx. Oops, he had two aces, not
one. I nod and prepare to muck, but pick my cards up to make sure I haven't
missed anything, since I don't know how to play Omaha really, I'm just faking
it. Holy Christ! I've got QQKx, not QQJx. "Good thing I have this damn
King," I say, spreading my hand out. The AAxx looks disgusted. I've
accidentally slow-rolled him and missed a bet by flat-calling with the nuts.

At the break, I notice that I have the biggest stack at my table
and decide to celebrate by having another Grand Marnier and another beer.
Hmmm. I suppose being the tall stack I should start pressuring the other
smaller stacks. I know how to do that in Hold'em, but not in Omaha, not
when the usual pot is six or seven handed. I resolve to always raise when
I play further hands. But no hands come when we resume after the break.
I fold constantly, seeing the flop only with my blinds, for twenty minutes.
Then the blinds double and the game goes to no-limit. I figure, in no-limit,
these players should blast each other into oblivion without my help in a
matter of seconds. They play way too many hands. Sure enough, they do, and
I coast into the final table.

No hands develop. I blow off a few chips playing A99x double suited
but nothing develops. Nonetheless, these goons with short stacks continue
to oblige me by blasting each other out of contention. Finally someone goes
all-in under the gun on my left for some piddly amount and I put myself into
the money by defending my big blind, getting lucky, and flopping trip tens.

Five left now. Three players with medium stacks, me with a little
better than a medium stack, and Gunner, an older guy with white, slicked-
back hair, who carries a pink foam pad around with him to sit on. He plays
both tournaments every day at the DI, and he's got a big stack, although it's
broken up into a whole bunch of little thousand dollar stacks that he has
lined up in rows in front of him against the padded rim of the table. I
drew his seat when I sat down at the table, and as he moved, he said that it
was a lucky seat, that he'd had a hell of a rush. This seems to have
continuned to some extent since he was responsible for busting a couple
people off the final table.

My $400 blind, Gunner's $800. No-limit Omaha High, short handed, a
game I have no idea how to play, but the Grand Marnier is working and I'm
wingin' it so far. I haven't had to re-buy, so I'm in for $24 ($12 buy in
plus a $12 thousand dollar add-on which everyone automatically takes.) Can't
loose. Fold, fold, fold to me -- finally, they're tightening up -- and I
call $400 with QQ56. Flop comes 4h 7h 8s. Hello! Gunner bets $800 into
me and I smooth call him. Dangerous, if another heart comes, but I don't
think it's going to. I'm going to take a big bite out of the chip leader,
seize a huge lead, and mop up the little stacks after this hand. Turn card
is the Ts. Harmless enough looking but now there are two flush draws out
there and I'm not in as strong a spot as I was before. It's unlikely that
he's got both hearts and spades, but it's time to make my move. There's a
lot of ways that he could beat me, but he can't have all of them. Gunner
bets $2000. I go all-in, for about $11,000. He calls.

Dealer burns and as the river card is coming off the top of the
deck, Gunner says, "I've got a straight," and I'm thinking "Huh?" We've
both got 34? Rats. But no. He's got 9J for the jack-high straight, a
possibility I hadn't even considered (though I don't think I would have
played any differently if I had considered it.) I think I've got the nuts
on the turn and I'm actually drawing dead. Argh. My brain has been warped
by this insane game. I collect $145 for fifth place and wander back over
to the bar so stunned I forget to kick a $5 tip into the kitty for the
dealers. Needless to say, Gunner goes on to mop up.

After another beer I elected to grab a taxi and check out the poker
action at the Horseshoe. The games at the Mirage on Friday and Saturdays
have not impressed me. Or rather, they have impressed me, and that's not a
good thing. The locals are quite strong and there are just too many of them.
They're looking to fry fish, but there aren't enough fish. Every time I play
there turns into a battle to get even, for the day or for the day before,
while a lot of mind games are played out. There's just too much raising to
find out where you're at or to force people out of the pot. I've beaten it
before, and I imagine I could beat it again, but not for a lot. I'd rather
check out the action downtown.

At Binions, I find the podium with the high limit lists and Zoe the
board lady informs me that I'll be first up for 20-40. Okay. I can see that
there's a 20-40 seat open already but stand around a bit looking around the
place until she notices it. After a bit of seat changing I wind up in the
two seat. A chip runner brings me a rack and I tip her a dollar. I play
slow for a while sizing up the table. Basically, there doesn't seem to be
any one here to worry about, except for one guy down at the end of the table.
He's very quiet, and doesn't have a lot of chips, but he has a presence about
him that lets you know that he knows what he's doing. And I recognize the
face, but I don't know the name that goes with it. An older guy, a bit
grizzled, but he looks kind of like a bulldog, army seargent material. He
looks a touch like Bulldog Sykes, but it's not Sykes. A touch like Puggy
Pearson, but it's not Pearson, no where near his size. I've seen this guy
before, probably when I was hanging around railbirding the WSOP. I've seen
his picture too, but I can't figure out who it is, or I couldn't at the time.
Paul Pudaite and I have since chatted about it. I'm thinking now it was
Bonnetti. That would make the most sense, poetically speaking. Here I am
in Vegas, to practice tournament play at the DI and take a shot at a cheap
satellite for the Gold Coast Masters, and I wind up playing with John ****ing
Bonnetti and I'm so dopey I can't even figure out who the heck he is. That
would be about right. Also, Paul can put Bonnetti in the Horseshoe that
weekend playing 20-40 in the late PM early AM.

Anyway, not knowing who he was, I still had enough since to mostly
avoid JFB, if that's truly who he was, except for one hand where he kicked my
butt. I raised second to act with AdAh and got two callers, Bonnetti in the
eight seat, and the button. Flop comes Kd 9d small. I bet, Bonnetti calls, I
forget what the button did. Turn card's another diamond. I bet, Bonnetti
raises, and the button is definately gone at this point. I call. River's a
blank. I check and he bets. I pay off. "Good hand." Guy doesn't even
grunt back at me, and he looks like a grunter.

My other problem at the Horseshoe was that I kept betting my pocket
pairs into straights. With KK or AA, I'd run into a board like Q 9 5 6 7
and figure, naw, he hasn't got an eight. He's a lone opponent, he's got AQ
or KQ or something like that. I'll bet right into him. What, he raised me
back? Okay, maybe he's got an eight, but maybe he's figuring I just bet
because I only have AK and have been jamming it all along, and he's bluff
raising me representing an eight, so I'll call. Ooops. T8 offsuit. How
could he call with that. Okay. You win. Something along these lines
happened to me about five times, so I'm sure I wasted a bunch of bets there,
probably around $100. I would have been more cautious in CA.

Overall, in spite of taking a $330 loss Friday night / Saturday AM,
I thought the games at the horseshoe were pretty good. There was one guy
who was always trying to steal from me. In spite of the fact that I almost
only raise in early position with group one hands, he'd call two bets cold
whenever I did it. I guess he either likes to take on monster hands with
junk (is an idiot) or wants to try to steal from me by representing a strong
hand, hoping I'll miss (a lot of people try to put this play on me -- I'm
not sure why, guess my image is that I'm a little too weak-tight.) I need
to think of a good descriptive word for these guys. Anyway, the guy in
question was Mexican, so I had him fingered as a tourist, in town for the
Mexican independence weekend. He certainly played like a tourist. Nonetheless
he kept getting there on me, and it was with much disgust that I watched him
stacking up pots I'd been fighting for time and time again when he clearly
had no business in there with me in the first place. That's how it goes
some times; I just wish he was in my regular game, where I could get another
crack at him.

Something else I observed at the Horseshoe: if you close your eyes
and use your imagination, drinking Mountain Valley is a lot like drinking a
Mickey's Big Mouth.

Anyway, a great game at the Horseshoe: in spite of the fact that I
lost, I'd much rather play there than the Mirage. The room isn't as nice,
and the high-limit games are on the rail by the Crap Tables and *!&$*! slot
machines, so it's noisy as a cat in a car wash, but there are people there
giving action and enough pros to keep the games stable. This will be my
clear choice of a place to play the next time I'm in LV. My concern, though,
is that a lot of strong players who normally play at Binion's were over in
the side action after the Four Queens tournament, and next trip the 20-40
will be a lot tougher. We'll have to see.

After a #3 Hoagie and delicious bowl of Clam Chowder at the Horseshoe
snack bar, I grabbed a cab back to the DI and crashed for the night.

Coming in part II: Mark's adventures in Binion-sitting, part II
Coming in part III: Mark gets really drunk listening to big band
music, then runs over a short 50-100 game.
Coming in part IV: Mark is stuck in Vegas with a double plus bad
hangover.

Trip Report, Las Vegas, 9-16 thru 9-19, part 2 of 4
---------------------------------------------------

Waking up in Vegas is unlike waking up most other places, in that, I
actually want to get up and do something, rather than rolling over and going
back to sleep, which is typical. My alarm clock had been playing some local
easy listening station at medium volume for 15 minutes. Yikes. I'm going
to be late for the 2pm tournament.

Found time to shave. There was a seat sticking out of the wall in
my shower, which I availed myself of, but it wasn't really the luxury I
expected it to be. Water pressure was excellent. At 1:40 I headed
downstairs, walked around the swimming pool and into the casino, and got
my name on the list for the Saturday No-Limit Tourney. Then I had a couple
of glasses of water and a Miller Lite. There were three tables for the
tournament, down two from the Omaha tournament the night before.

I don't remember a lot of details from this tournament. At the break
I'd had to rebuy for $6, but then had managed to triple my initial stack and
celebrated by having a couple more beers and a Grand Marnier at the bar.
Warning: shots of Granny can hit you pretty hard when your stomach is empty.
After the break, I was moved to another table where I folded a lot, but did
manage to get a little action with a JJ that flopped a set. Eventually
things collapsed down to the final table, where things started to go wrong.
People kept taking big chunks out of me. At one point I was all-in and lost
holding AQs vs. AK. This was against Gunner, the guy who'd busted me out of
the Omaha tournament the night before. I stood up to leave but was stopped
by the dealer, who pointed out that Gunner's stack was slightly smaller than
mine, so I had a rebate coming. He handed me back about $300. I told Gunner
that I'd thought be was going to bust me out two days in a row, and he
remembered me from the night before. By making a couple of rapid all-in
moves, I ran my stack up to $1400 or so. Then the blinds went up again in
front of me, to $200-$400. I started stealing blinds. When I'd got my stack
up to around $2200, somebody took another big bite out of me with something I
don't remember, but it probably wasn't pretty, and knocked me back down to
$600 again. I immediately went all in and doubled up before the blinds hit
me. $1200 wasn't enough to last long, but while I'd been fighting the various
battles above, other players had been getting busted out, and were down to
four handed. By folding my blinds and dropping down to $600 again, I forced
the other short stack all-in with junk and slipped into the money when he was
eliminated. Then I was dealt KJ in the big blind and went all-in with it,
but got knocked out by some guy named Junior who called me with A-something.
The flop was AJx.

The tournament paid three places; third was $70. I had a $31
investment ($12 buy-in + $1 extra $100 chip + 1 $6 rebuy + $12 add-on) so
I wound up ahead $39, $5 of which I tipped into the dealer kitty. It was
about 4:45pm and I'd put in a lot of work for a lousy $33. Another beer and
GM was definately called for. So far I'd come in in the money in two out
of two tournaments, but a small loss in a ring game downtown had me at
-$170 for the weekend. Still, I was feeling pretty good. Some guy is
walking around the bar trying to scalp tickets to the Chavez fight at the
MGM. One customer seems slightly interested. They strike up a conversation.

The Desert Inn coffee shop supposedly was going to treat me to a
complimentary Continental Breakfast, but I've never been entirely clear on
what constitutes a Continental Breakfast. I think it's something entirely
unsubstantial like a danish, a glass of orange juice, and a piece of toast.
So I decided to blow that off, especially given how they might not be serving
it any longer at nearly 5pm. I bought a cigar from the gift shop and smoked
it out by the pool, while on the phone with a friend on the East Coast who's
an attorney. The weather outside was great, about 75 degrees, with a
breeze and scattered clouds.

Walking back into the Desert Inn I passed a Crap Table which looked
inviting. In the last year I've become generally averse to the idea of
risking any fraction of my precious poker bankroll on games of <gasp> chance,
but occasionally I'll make an exception, especially when I have a big cigar
in my mouth. I bought in for $200, and the dealer passed me a very short
stack of green chips. Whoops! This is a $25.00 minimum table. Didn't even
think to check that. Oh well, we're coming out. I bend over to put a chip
on the Pass Line and a big 'ol hunk of drool comes sliding down the cigar,
out of my mouth, and into my chip rack. Okay, play it cool, nobody noticed
that. Craps! Ace-deuce. Another quarter down on the line. Point's ten.
I take full odds and make a come bet, then order a beer from the cocktail
waitress. Another $50 goes out as odds on an eight. Five. Six. Seven.
Bah. Now I'm down to one chip, and my cigar has gone out. I better rebuy
for another $200. Another quarter on the line. Another $150 on the table,
line bet plus a come bet. Seven out again. Well, I can make another line
bet with full odds. Oops, ace-deuce again. Another quarter on the line.
Point of eight. I don't have enough for full odds any more. I buy another
$200 in quarters. Okay, better be careful now, before I start Kwasting out
of control. The eight makes it and I finally get paid off. Plus the
waitress shows up with my beer. Okay, we'll try this again.

I win and lose a couple more hands, then get around to counting my
chips and notice that I have $550. That's an acceptable amount of damage,
plus I have two bets out there with full odds on each. If either hits, I'll
wind up ahead. But the shooter sevens out again. Okay, this is not the
incredible hot table that's going to make me an easy thousand. I color up
and head over to the cage. Should I count gambling losses against my poker
bankroll? I don't count airfare or hotel expenses against it. Oh well.
We'll call it -$220.

It's now about 5:45pm. I stop to pee in the mens room behind the
poker room, and flush my dead cigar, then note that the $1 blind 1-4 spread
limit hold'em game is short handed. I can probably run over these guys. I
sit down, get dealt A-5, and make it $5 to go. An ace flops and I'm betting
$4, the max, all the way. One guy calls me down with 8-8, third pair.

At 6pm, the guy from the bar who was considering buying a ticket to
the boxing match sits down at the poker table and buys in for a rack. He
has no idea what he's doing, just wants to kill some time waiting for the
outcome of a sporting event. He has a parlay ticket that he's got one game
to go on, and if Wisconsin beats Colorado, he's going to win $4K. His
presence attracts a couple other people to the hold'em game and I have to
slow down a lot now that we're no longer short-handed. Tim, from Chicago,
the sports bettor, blows his rack and wanders off.

At 7:30pm, the second DI daily tourney starts. I can accomplish
nothing before the break, doing little but folding. As the break starts,
I have $115, and they race off the nickel chips. I catch the As, and there
are $100 worth of nickels being raced off. This brings my total to $200, and
one has to be below $200 to take the final rebuy before the add-on.
Consequently, winning the race costs me $100 in tournament money, though it
saves me $6 in real money. I take the $1K add on for another $12.

After the break, my chips continue to dribble away. For this, I
waited around the DI for three hours? While I'm watching my chips shrink,
Colorado is kicking Wisconsin's butt on the projection TV in the poker room
near the Keno booth. After the blinds increase, I die with a whimper going
all-in with a small pocket pair in the blind and missing. Presto.

Time to catch a cab downtown to the Horseshoe and play some more
$20-$40. I check the gift shop upstairs to see if the '94 WSOP video is
for sale yet (unlikely, since I haven't seen it advertised in card player.)
The gift shop is closed, so I check the downstairs one. The video isn't
there, which is too bad -- I want one, I think I'm in it. Supposedly
Binion's is also selling purple $500 '94 WSOP tournament chips for $7.50.
I'd consider buying one of those, if they were snazzy enough, to use as a
marker or for a gift. Didn't see any of those either.

Over to the snack bar for another bowl of soup, and a #2 Hoagie
instead of last night's #3. I soak it in Texas Champagne. Not bad, but
the #3 is better. Now I'm starting to feel sleepy, so I hit the bar for a
beer to perk me up. Some woman tells me a story about an accident in the
ladies room. A maintenance person was closing off a stall using some sort
of spring-loaded device. A patron comes in, desperate to use the toilet.
A minor struggle ensues, as the maintenance person is attempting to use the
spring loaded device to close off the last available toilet. Just then,
a third woman exits an occupied stall. The spring loaded device suddenly
goes off, explodes in her face, and knocks her unconscious on the floor.
The patron in dire straits, bladderwise, steps over her body, locks the
door of the stall behind her, and proceeds to evacuate. Then, while the
maintenance girl is looking for a manager to call an ambulance, she
makes good her escape. The woman at the bar is supposedly a witness to
all of this.

Someone walks by at the far end of the bar and buys everyone there
a drink. The bartenders walk down automatically giving everyone another of
whatever they're having. They can't point out who to thank. Some manager,
most likely. Thanks Jack. I strike up a conversation with yet another
woman who sits next to me at the bar. She is from Anaheim, and in town with
her sister because her father died recently, and her mother has been awfully
depressed over it. So they brought her to Las Vegas, and now she's playing
Bingo 14 hours a day and is happy as a lark. Gotta love this town.

I hike over to the poker area and immediately get a seat. It's a
good game again. A woman I played with at Treasure Island once, who I
recognize, and who recognizes me, is in the game. Her name is Sue Ellen
and she's from Reno; she is showing around a Queen's Poker Classic list
showing that she came in 5th in one of their events. This was a $330 buy-
in event, and 5th paid $420, so she is a touch bitter about it. There are
a couple bozos in the game, and one of them, again, is calling me with
anything when I put in early position raises. I have group 1 hands whenever
I do this, but it seems to faze him not at all.

Then a couple of people bluff me out of a pot with raises they
don't really seem to have any business making, and I decide I'm playing
too few hands, and a little too weak-tight. I'm slightly ahead and decide
to loosen up and get a little more aggressive. Shortly thereafter someone
raises in early position when I have QhJh. I flat call. A bunch of people
fold, and the button reraises. This comes back to me as four bets. I call.
Button caps it. I hang in there with what's clearly an inferior hand.

Flop comes Th 8c 5s. Gut shot. It's bet to me, and I raise auto-
matically, because there's a little voice in my head telling me 'maybe you
can steal this pot.' Right. Five bets pre-flop and I'm going to try to
steal it. Sure. And then I become conscious of the fact that my right hand
is shaking uncontrollably. This has certainly been noticed by others, with
all the chip fumbling I did putting the raise together. What's going on
here? I'm _not_ nervous. I play regularly in bigger games than this, and
I've run more insane bluffs before, plus, my raise is semi-legitimate,
although it does constitute making a play. Button calls two cold. Bettor
calls. Maybe it's the room. Maybe it's because I'm not used to playing
here that's making me uncomfortable subconsciously. Maybe it's because I'm
too sober; I haven't been drinking all that much.

Whatever it is, my hand is still shaking and I can't get it to stop,
plus, all my neck muscles have clenched up. What's going on here? Turn
card is the Ah. Probably the most high-stress possible card for me. I've
got a double gut shot now with the nut heart draw. Checked to me, I come
out betting, shaking like a leaf. Anyone who's read Caro's Book of Tells
should at this point put me on AA or TT. But they both call. Well, at
least no-one raised. That rules out pocket aces. The river card is a
complete blank. Both check to me. I push out another bet, still shaking
like a leaf. God, this is really aggravating, but it might actually be
_helping_ me. The button folds. The guy in front of me thinks for a long
time, then calls. "I missed", I report, turning over the QJ. The other
guy has AK. "Oh my God," he screams, turning it over. "Baby baby baby."
So I manage to scare the hell out of him, in spite of myself. I sink back
into my seat and try to appear inconspicuous. Now they think they have a
tell on me, that I shake uncontrollably when I bluff. A couple drinks to
settle myself down, and I might be able to take advantage of this. On the
other hand, I really was pushing it there with the QJ.

I build my stack back up again with a couple small pots and steals.
Then I catch KK in early position. I open raise, and a player who seems to
be calling whenever I open with a raise calls, as does the button. Blinds
bail out. Flop comes T9x. I bet and the calling station raises. Button
bails out. I re-raise. Call. Turn card's a Q. I check, expecting the
button to bet anything in this situation, especially a Jack. He does and
I raise. He calls again. What could he have? The river card's a 5. I
check and the button bets again. I call. He has two pair, T5. Once again,
I have far the best of it all the way and wind up getting rivered by some
schmuck. What are these guys thinking? Seems like half the games I play in,
and every one at Binion's, there's some idiot who'll call with a hand he'd
otherwise have folded when I make it two bets in early position, and I'm
not running any bluffs from under the gun. So what are they trying to
accomplish -- they've got to know what they're doing, because they're not
playing _every_ or even two thirds of the hands. Are they trying to
put me on tilt? Pretty tough feat, that, and it hardly seems worth the
chips. Do they just think I'm unlucky? There's not a lot of hands I
come in raising with in early position, and T5 is not something you'd want
to call any of 'em with if you have half a brain. Maybe they're thinking
I'm so easily bluffed, it doesn't matter what they play, if I don't hit the
board. Maybe it was his road hand, but it seems like he was giving me way
too much action on other occasions when I came in with an early raise.

I work on building my stack up again as players begin to get up and
go home to sleep. Some guy who looks like Keanu Reeves is hanging around
the cardroom -- who is this guy, he's a professional player. Ted Forrest,
possibly. He's in the other 20-40 game on the table next to mine, which
is full. As players leave my game, I'm obliged to play faster and catch some
good flops with hands like QT and K9s. Eventually I've worked my way up about
$500, and we're four-handed, so I decide to call it a night. I rack my chips
and head on over to the cage, thinking about complaining to the management
about putting the high limit tables right by the slots and craps tables,
which are extremely noisy and consequently irritating, rather than over in
the corner where it's marginally quieter. But I wind up not saying anything;
surely they must have heard that complaint before. Behind me, my game is
breaking up. Paul Pudaite arrives at this point, and has himself put on the
list for the other 20-40 that the other players are getting on as well, but
I don't know this at the time. We've never met, we just happened to work
this out later on. Paul heads for the Horseshoe snack bar and I hike across
the street to the Golden Nugget and park myself next to the nearest hot babe
whose purse is sitting on the bar beside her.

I order a Rumple Mintz. The bartender gives me a schpiel about how
some bean counter (his words) has decided that they won't be carrying that
any more, because it doesn't represent the kind of crowd they appeal to.
How's that again? Yuppie types with money, you don't want them in the joint?
They aren't carrying Goldschlager or Jaegermeister either (not that I would
drink Jaeger, but I had to ask.) I settle for a Grand Marnier. Hot babe
is playing video poker beside me, my opening line is, 'You know, if you put
your purse there, I won't be able to see your cards.' We strike up a
conversation. Turns out she's getting married at the Nugget tomorrow and
is playing VP to 'relax.' Okay, so much for that idea. I hit the Four
Queens and waste $11 playing a Texas Hold'em Video Poker machine. These
could be pretty addictive; my $11 doesn't last long. It's amazing how many
of my stupid 3J and 28 type hands wind up getting there after I fold them.
A hyper-friendly gift shop attendant directs me to the banquet room, where
the side action for the Four Queens Tournament is in progress. This is a
huge room, with people sitting at the front desk near the entrance, and
players standing all around a couple tables at the very far end of the
room. It would be impossible to slip in unannounced and check out the
action without drawing a lot of attention and possibly being challenged by
the front desk people, so I wander off without railbirding and gawking at
the big boys. Later someone mentioned in a game I was in that their smallest
game was 50-100.

Hiked down to the UP, considering playing some low-limit Omaha, but
all the tables were full, so I left. Walked a block off Fremont street,
which is closed now, for renovation -- the 'Fremont Street Experience', and
overhead canopy and gosh knows what else, is just beginning construction,
slated for completion in about a year -- and caught a cab back to the DI.
My driver was an idiot. First he tries to sell me a souvineir menu for
the Chicken Ranch, then he takes I-15 instead of LVB, which would be faster
at this hour, 4:30am. Gets us stuck behind a freight train that's passing
through town. Then he turns the radio on, loud, with two speakers right
behind my head. All the way I'm telling myself, I'm not tipping this guy,
there's just no way I'm tipping this guy. When we arrive back at the DI,
the fare is $12.90. I have no ones. I give him $15, three fives, and
take off, figuring $2.10 is worth not having to have the argument.

Grab a beer at the DI bar, and head back to my room, but, uuhhh,
one of those stupid crap tables is calling to me again. Not now; I just
left the Horseshoe, where I could have gotten 5x odds on $2 bets. Oh
well, at least it's a $5 minimum table this time. I buy in for a $100 and
play 20 minutes. Some guy with a handful of black is buying numbers all
over the place, and putting up a come bet every roll. The numbers are
hitting, he's going down with odds, he's getting rich. I'm making a few
points too. They're paying this guy off with $500 chips now. Nice to
be on a good roll, but he's got easily $3K on the table and he'll never
get it all off. Eventually the hot shooter sevens out and black action
buys back a marker and takes off with some big bucks. I hang around and
blow a few bucks back before I finish my beer and head upstairs with a
fresh one and a $40 profit.