Brag or Beat: I saw the duke at the coin show today!
05-25-2008
, 02:07 PM
05-25-2008
, 02:14 PM
05-25-2008
, 02:34 PM
05-25-2008
, 06:58 PM
05-26-2008
, 02:35 AM
I think he means this duke.
05-26-2008
, 07:06 AM
arch duke ferdinand of austria-hungry?
05-26-2008
, 09:10 AM
this duke 
article from bluff magazine
Freemont Street
By: Jennifer Tilly
We are at the Gamblers General Store. As I wander the aisles looking for new poker books, I hear Phil calling me excitedly. He has discovered something amazin
“Look Jennifer!” he says. “Only one hundred and twenty-five dollars for a piece of history.’ I follow the direction of his finger. Some enterprising capitalist has sawed off all the old parking meters from Old Fremont Street and mounted them for sale. “It’s from when Fremont Street used to allow cars,” he says reverentially.
“How many are left?” he asks anxiously. The salesperson disappears in the back to count, then returns to tell Phil there are actually plenty of them left.
“Maybe we should wait” I say, “That’s a pretty heavy item to take on the plane. If you still want it when we get home they can ship it to you.”
Phil cannot wait. He doesn’t want to run the risk that they will be all sold out. In fact, he cannot believe that some millionaire has not come in and bought up all of them already. “Only a hundred and twenty five dollars!” he marvels.
He buys the parking meter. When we get it home he can’t wait to try it out. He puts a nickel in, which buys us 15 minutes. Then he carefully opens the bottom with the key. Sure enough, the nickel is there! “Can you believe this?” he exults. “I’ve always wanted one of these!”
The next day we find ourselves at the Golden Nugget Casino. Half a year ago, I won ten thousand dollars for placing first at my table on Poker Superstars. We finally got around to picking it up. Larry the Lock is going to meet us there. He has something to show us.
We play $1-$2 No Limit while we wait, with two students from England, an angry lesbian, and a skinny guy in a rattlesnake hat named Duke. Duke is playing in a game that is too small for him and he lets us know this by dumping his entire bankroll on the table, making ridiculous oversize bets and loudly belittling the play of the English kids. The game is boring, and somewhat unpleasant.
We are relieved when Larry finally appears. He is carrying a small brown envelope which he unwraps reverentially under the table. Inside is a gold bracelet that used to belong to a poker great. Larry picked it up for a song twenty years ago, and now he wants to sell it.
I hold it in my hand. It is heavier than mine. Instead of “World Series of Poker” garishly emblazoned on the front, it is simple and burnished with a tiny horseshoe stamped in the corner. On the underside it states the event the bracelet was won in. I am overcome with longing. “How much?” I say.
We leave the casino by a side door. Larry wants to show us the pawn shop where he bought the bracelet. No longer in business, it is a dusty abandoned storefront. Nevertheless, we stand in front of the dirty window, imagining it sparkling with all kinds of things that the owners would never return for.
“Look,” says Larry pointing over at the Horseshoe. “He left by that door, came across the street, pawned the bracelet, then went right back in and continued playing craps.” Larry knows Old Vegas like the back of his hand. He used to run numbers for the high rollers in the eighties. Back then it was more dangerous to be a gambler. The casinos didn’t coddle you. You had to carry a gun to protect yourself.
Now Fremont Street is bizarrely trapped under a giant white plastic dome. “The merchants in the area thought this would make it more of a tourist attraction,” explains Larry making a face. A sparse crowd is milling around a stage where a parody of a heavy metal band has just started to play. They are very loud. Larry scurries past the stage, wincing as a garish lightshow flashes across the ceiling. “This is horrible, horrible!” he mutters.
Larry wants to show us the secret passage at Binion’s Horseshoe. As we walk he tells us a story of how he met a nice girl at a club. He didn’t have sex with her because he respected her too much. They just cuddled and then he took a sleeping pill and went to bed. When he woke up, all his furniture was gone.
Binion’s is rundown and smells of ancient alcohol. A poster on the wall shows a hip young guy and a sexy girl laughing giddily over poker, but most of the crusty old denizens gathered around the tables here look like they haven’t seen daylight for forty years.
We peruse the Wall of Fame, marveling at how young Phil Hellmuth Jr. and Johnny Chan used to be, then Larry shows me the famous secret passage which is basically a door that spills you out onto the street. We double back around and end up on the second floor. “This is where Benny Binion’s mom and dad lived,” says Larry. “I’d see them hanging around all the time in their slippers. They were always nice. Benny was a real family man.”
It seems to me they are still hanging around. The air is heavy with the past. I suggest to Larry I take a photo of him in the hallway, and he is happy to oblige. When I scan the photo I’m positive I am going to see ghosts floating like cobwebs in the corners. But there are no ghosts, only Larry, small and determined in the foreground.
Next we visit The Golden Gate, the oldest hotel in the city. It has a sort of faded Victorian charm. Lots of wood paneling and velvet upholstery. It is peppered with relics from the past. Old slot machines and antique telephones. Larry tells us it is famous for one dollar shrimp cocktails and French dips, so we have one of each, and they are pretty good.
Our last stop on the tour, The El Cortez, is a bit off the main drag. Phil, who is possibly even lazier than me, wants to take a cab, but Larry won’t hear of it. “You’ll miss all the ambience on the way!” he protests. The ambience, as it turns out, includes Krispy Kreme, where hot donuts are being served. Phil is not into donuts, but he is really happy they are giving away free paper hats. Larry and Phil put them on and we continue down the street.
We pass The Mint, where down on their luck gamblers would go to make a final bad decision. There were so many jumpers, they eventually had to put a rail around the rooftop, but it wasn’t really a deterrent. People would just climb right over the railing.
“It’s pretty easy to commit suicide in Las Vegas if you want to do it,” says Larry philosophically.
The giant ping pong ball that is Fremont Street is receding now. We are on the quieter end of town. There is hardly any neon, and it’s kind of dark. Shambling figures can be seen hovering around the corners of buildings. “Junkies,” says Larry helpfully. He regales us with stories of people who were mugged in this area. I discreetly turn my ring around so the diamond faces my palm.
At the El Cortez there is not much to see. A far cry from the glitz and glamour of the Bellagio, it resembles a bus station. There are rows of penny slot machines, and a shoe shine chair. The poker room smells of disinfectant, and has a distinct Wild West feel. It seems like the kind of place where you could get hit by a beer bottle if you’re caught bluffing.
In the lobby there is an old school Chinese restaurant. Larry pokes his head inside, and gestures us over enthusiastically. “This is where the crack junkies come to eat Chinese food after a three day bender in the parking lot. They come off the crack and they’re hungry so then they come in the back door and order chow mein.”
We look around the nondescript dining room. It is sparsely decorated in a 50’s style. A couple of people are eating. I wonder if they are junkies. There is a pause. “Do you want to try the Chinese food?” suggests Larry hopefully.
“No,” says Phil. He is done with the tour. His feet hurt. He is tired of one dollar shrimp cocktails and stories about dead people. It is almost 11:00. His game is starting at the Bellagio. He wants to be at table 5 with a big stack in front of him and a strawberry Julius in his hand, trading flop bets with his cronies.
Before we go, Larry insists on buying us a present. It is a little globe with the Las Vegas Strip improbably imprisoned in a snowstorm. As I shake it up, and watch the casinos get buried in snow, I think how cool it must have been in the olden days, when the gamblers wore cowboy hats and packed guns, when the pawn shops were awash with gold bracelets, and you could step outside on Fremont Street and look at the stars
article from bluff magazine
Freemont Street
By: Jennifer Tilly
We are at the Gamblers General Store. As I wander the aisles looking for new poker books, I hear Phil calling me excitedly. He has discovered something amazin
“Look Jennifer!” he says. “Only one hundred and twenty-five dollars for a piece of history.’ I follow the direction of his finger. Some enterprising capitalist has sawed off all the old parking meters from Old Fremont Street and mounted them for sale. “It’s from when Fremont Street used to allow cars,” he says reverentially.
“How many are left?” he asks anxiously. The salesperson disappears in the back to count, then returns to tell Phil there are actually plenty of them left.
“Maybe we should wait” I say, “That’s a pretty heavy item to take on the plane. If you still want it when we get home they can ship it to you.”
Phil cannot wait. He doesn’t want to run the risk that they will be all sold out. In fact, he cannot believe that some millionaire has not come in and bought up all of them already. “Only a hundred and twenty five dollars!” he marvels.
He buys the parking meter. When we get it home he can’t wait to try it out. He puts a nickel in, which buys us 15 minutes. Then he carefully opens the bottom with the key. Sure enough, the nickel is there! “Can you believe this?” he exults. “I’ve always wanted one of these!”
The next day we find ourselves at the Golden Nugget Casino. Half a year ago, I won ten thousand dollars for placing first at my table on Poker Superstars. We finally got around to picking it up. Larry the Lock is going to meet us there. He has something to show us.
We play $1-$2 No Limit while we wait, with two students from England, an angry lesbian, and a skinny guy in a rattlesnake hat named Duke. Duke is playing in a game that is too small for him and he lets us know this by dumping his entire bankroll on the table, making ridiculous oversize bets and loudly belittling the play of the English kids. The game is boring, and somewhat unpleasant.
We are relieved when Larry finally appears. He is carrying a small brown envelope which he unwraps reverentially under the table. Inside is a gold bracelet that used to belong to a poker great. Larry picked it up for a song twenty years ago, and now he wants to sell it.
I hold it in my hand. It is heavier than mine. Instead of “World Series of Poker” garishly emblazoned on the front, it is simple and burnished with a tiny horseshoe stamped in the corner. On the underside it states the event the bracelet was won in. I am overcome with longing. “How much?” I say.
We leave the casino by a side door. Larry wants to show us the pawn shop where he bought the bracelet. No longer in business, it is a dusty abandoned storefront. Nevertheless, we stand in front of the dirty window, imagining it sparkling with all kinds of things that the owners would never return for.
“Look,” says Larry pointing over at the Horseshoe. “He left by that door, came across the street, pawned the bracelet, then went right back in and continued playing craps.” Larry knows Old Vegas like the back of his hand. He used to run numbers for the high rollers in the eighties. Back then it was more dangerous to be a gambler. The casinos didn’t coddle you. You had to carry a gun to protect yourself.
Now Fremont Street is bizarrely trapped under a giant white plastic dome. “The merchants in the area thought this would make it more of a tourist attraction,” explains Larry making a face. A sparse crowd is milling around a stage where a parody of a heavy metal band has just started to play. They are very loud. Larry scurries past the stage, wincing as a garish lightshow flashes across the ceiling. “This is horrible, horrible!” he mutters.
Larry wants to show us the secret passage at Binion’s Horseshoe. As we walk he tells us a story of how he met a nice girl at a club. He didn’t have sex with her because he respected her too much. They just cuddled and then he took a sleeping pill and went to bed. When he woke up, all his furniture was gone.
Binion’s is rundown and smells of ancient alcohol. A poster on the wall shows a hip young guy and a sexy girl laughing giddily over poker, but most of the crusty old denizens gathered around the tables here look like they haven’t seen daylight for forty years.
We peruse the Wall of Fame, marveling at how young Phil Hellmuth Jr. and Johnny Chan used to be, then Larry shows me the famous secret passage which is basically a door that spills you out onto the street. We double back around and end up on the second floor. “This is where Benny Binion’s mom and dad lived,” says Larry. “I’d see them hanging around all the time in their slippers. They were always nice. Benny was a real family man.”
It seems to me they are still hanging around. The air is heavy with the past. I suggest to Larry I take a photo of him in the hallway, and he is happy to oblige. When I scan the photo I’m positive I am going to see ghosts floating like cobwebs in the corners. But there are no ghosts, only Larry, small and determined in the foreground.
Next we visit The Golden Gate, the oldest hotel in the city. It has a sort of faded Victorian charm. Lots of wood paneling and velvet upholstery. It is peppered with relics from the past. Old slot machines and antique telephones. Larry tells us it is famous for one dollar shrimp cocktails and French dips, so we have one of each, and they are pretty good.
Our last stop on the tour, The El Cortez, is a bit off the main drag. Phil, who is possibly even lazier than me, wants to take a cab, but Larry won’t hear of it. “You’ll miss all the ambience on the way!” he protests. The ambience, as it turns out, includes Krispy Kreme, where hot donuts are being served. Phil is not into donuts, but he is really happy they are giving away free paper hats. Larry and Phil put them on and we continue down the street.
We pass The Mint, where down on their luck gamblers would go to make a final bad decision. There were so many jumpers, they eventually had to put a rail around the rooftop, but it wasn’t really a deterrent. People would just climb right over the railing.
“It’s pretty easy to commit suicide in Las Vegas if you want to do it,” says Larry philosophically.
The giant ping pong ball that is Fremont Street is receding now. We are on the quieter end of town. There is hardly any neon, and it’s kind of dark. Shambling figures can be seen hovering around the corners of buildings. “Junkies,” says Larry helpfully. He regales us with stories of people who were mugged in this area. I discreetly turn my ring around so the diamond faces my palm.
At the El Cortez there is not much to see. A far cry from the glitz and glamour of the Bellagio, it resembles a bus station. There are rows of penny slot machines, and a shoe shine chair. The poker room smells of disinfectant, and has a distinct Wild West feel. It seems like the kind of place where you could get hit by a beer bottle if you’re caught bluffing.
In the lobby there is an old school Chinese restaurant. Larry pokes his head inside, and gestures us over enthusiastically. “This is where the crack junkies come to eat Chinese food after a three day bender in the parking lot. They come off the crack and they’re hungry so then they come in the back door and order chow mein.”
We look around the nondescript dining room. It is sparsely decorated in a 50’s style. A couple of people are eating. I wonder if they are junkies. There is a pause. “Do you want to try the Chinese food?” suggests Larry hopefully.
“No,” says Phil. He is done with the tour. His feet hurt. He is tired of one dollar shrimp cocktails and stories about dead people. It is almost 11:00. His game is starting at the Bellagio. He wants to be at table 5 with a big stack in front of him and a strawberry Julius in his hand, trading flop bets with his cronies.
Before we go, Larry insists on buying us a present. It is a little globe with the Las Vegas Strip improbably imprisoned in a snowstorm. As I shake it up, and watch the casinos get buried in snow, I think how cool it must have been in the olden days, when the gamblers wore cowboy hats and packed guns, when the pawn shops were awash with gold bracelets, and you could step outside on Fremont Street and look at the stars