I was happy to hear that Debo won, yes, but it was bittersweet. Because I should’ve been in Reno shooting pics of his victory and documenting his triumph for posterity. UB became a sponsor for the Heartland Poker Tour (which this event was part of) and the plan was for me to cover a few of these events, starting with Reno. I already knew Al would be out there and it turns out KevMath was there as well along with Lisa Wheeler and other assorted poker types and it would’ve been a blast. Throw in Debo taking down the title and it would’ve been a fantastic trip.

Of course that wasn’t meant to be. On April 15th I was in an oddly productive mood, I worked in the morning, ran some errands, and hit the gym to sweat a bit before I went to Game 2 of the Pens-Lightning series. As I headed home after 45 minutes on the elliptical I saw that my mom had called. Her message said that she’d seen something on the news about three online poker sites. No biggie, I thought, probably some puff piece about pending legislation. But when I talked to Mom and she used words like “indictment” and rattled off the names of the big three online sites I raced upstairs and clicked the link to the blog I’ve written for the past five years. And was greeted with the logos of the FBI and Department of Justice kindly informing me that the domain had been seized, pursuant to blah blah blah.

I’ve read hundreds of posts and articles about the indictments, enough to learn who actually knows what the hell they’re talking about. I have nothing especially insightful to add to that discussion, except to say that Aristotle once said “Law is order, and good law is good order”. I don’t believe that the online poker crackdown amounts to good order. Gambling is celebrated everywhere in the United States. We have an entire city devoted to it. Casinos are sprouting up all over the country. You can buy lottery tickets just about everywhere. The only sport more popular than fantasy football is the NFL itself. Wall Street certainly resembles a casino, especially as it’s the house that always wins (or at least never loses). To say that gambling is fine here, here, here, here, and here…but not HERE, not online, is rank hypocrisy.

But there is the law to consider. Rules were made to be broken, but not laws. What we’ve seen the last five years with online poker is a multi-billion dollar industry that should’ve evaporated after the UIGEA was passed in 2006, but didn’t. It actually got bigger, even after Party Poker withdrew. It doesn’t appear that the Feds used the UIGEA to kill online poker, rather the sites allegedly violated other laws while side-stepping the one targeted at them. Bad law, bad order.  Money was still flowing back and forth between U.S. players and offshore poker sites and the UIGEA was supposed to dam that up. It didn’t, not even close, and I’m sure it peeved a few law-enforcement officials and anti-gaming members of Congress to see patched-up players battling on ESPN for millions of dollars. Year after year after year.

That all ended April 15th (though perhaps it truly ended for good on what’s being called Black Monday). I went downtown to meet up with friends before the Penguin game and tried to get over the shock. And it was shock, even though I’d been waiting for this moment for 5 years. The UIGEA was passed during my first trip to Aruba–it was actually the night of the farewell party, and I asked quite a few people what they thought about it. No one had any clue that it was coming. No one knew what it meant. I tend to assume the worst about such things and I figured this new law meant the end of online poker. When I left Aruba I thought I’d never be back, and that I’d never have a gig covering poker again. It was a nice trip, a nice ride, but it was over.

I was off by five years. That dark Friday night I watched the Pens get killed by Tampa, and as I drove home in a daze I knew I needed a drink. I stopped at one joint, it was packed. Stopped at our neighborhood dive, standing room only. God help me, I went to the Applebees on McKnight Road and found an empty seat at the bar. I needed solitude and  Yuengling to sort things out in my head. I sipped my beer and a chubby woman wearing clothes that would be snug on Kate Moss walked from the bar to the elevated dining area and grabbed a microphone. I stared at her, confused and then horrified, as music started playing and she started belting out a high-pitched yet still atonal rendition of Katy Perry’s “Firework”. Of course on this night, THIS NIGHT, I would stumble into karaoke. “This is the low point,” I told myself. “This is the trough of the wave.” I sipped beer until I couldn’t bear the bad noise and fled.

I thought that maybe I’d hang on a few months before the inevitable end. But I knew I was kidding myself and when the end came it wasn’t a surprise. Still a shock, but not a surprise, if that makes sense. It  feels weird to not to be covering the poker world anymore, but I still haven’t completely disconnected myself. I’m definitely following any and all news about player payouts, that’s what I really care about at this point. I want to see our players get their money, as quickly as possible.

So now I’m looking for the next big thing, ready to move on from five years in poker. I wish the ride had lasted just a little bit longer, just long enough for me to shoot a few pics of Debo winning the tournament and write up a few final posts. But I did take time to play a few final hands of online poker before UB finally blocked American players, I wanted see the cards flutter across the screen one last time. I’m confident that online poker will be legalized someday, though not for a couple of years (after the 2012 election, maybe), but who knows what I’ll be doing then, or whether I’ll still have any interest in poker anymore. I barely played the last few years, and if this is the last hand of online poker I play for a long time, or ever, at least there was poetic justice at the end.

I appreciated that bit of quiet after what’s been a typically weird week at the World Series of Poker. Of course one of the things I’ve always enjoyed about the WSOP is the weirdness, which is usually both copious and profound. An example–the other day I walked out of the room and there was a woman sitting on a bench breastfeeding. I don’t mean she had a blanket draped over her chest while her babe demurely suckled–no no, she had the boob flopped out and the kid was going to town. OK. Sure.

That was a bit weird. What was weirder was when I came back the woman had her infant lying on the bench, covered in a blanket, and the baby contentedly napping. A few hours later the woman was showing her cooing infant off to a bunch of people I took to be relations. And then, again hours later, the babe was napping again on the bench, despite the fact that the tournament was on break and thousands of noisy poker players were storming past.

I wanted to offer the woman my room key and said, “Please, madame, take the baby up there and relax. There’s a couch, you can watch TV, the baby can sleep on the bed until your husband/boyfriend/whatever gets knocked out of the goddam tournament.” She sat there with her baby for, how long? Six hours? More?

This is my fourth go-round at the WSOP and I was a bit shocked at how quickly that I’ve-been-here-forever feeling kicked it. I think it took, oh, fifteen minutes. The clatter of the chips, the crazy pattern on the carpets, that long, long walk down to the tournament rooms. I’ve had dreams that I’m in the Amazon Room and they’re pretty doggone similar to what I’m looking at right now. The fact that I’m a touch sleep-deprived and usually a couple of beers deep after dinner and reality does have a certain dreamlike quality. Everything I’m seeing I’ve seen before, and yet its all new, happening in the here and now.

Gonna try to write more here the next couple of days, gotta gotta gotta starting posting here again. Odd that when I’m in Vegas, my desire to write more on my own blog goes up exponentially. Or, maybe that isn’t odd at all.

On a much, much, MUCH lesser scale, I feel a bit like David Webster right now. The last few days all I keep reading are posts and tweets from my friends who are picking up stakes and heading to Vegas for the World Series of Poker. And this is the first time in three years that I won’t be joining them.

Oh, I’ll be there for the Main Event, and 17 days in Vegas is nothing to sneeze at. But those of us who do a full tour of duty on Media Row tend to look down our noses at those who drop in for just the Main Event, and this year I’ll be the one staring at flared nostrils. That is a totally disgusting analogy. Jesus.

It’s not like I’m refusing a direct order to present myself at the Amazon Room, and I’m gonna be plenty busy with other work in the weeks leading up to the Main Event. Plus I’ve gotta get myself situated in the house and teach my new wife how to do things the Right Way. I’m actually looking forward to spending much of the summer in Pittsburgh, grilling on the deck, playing a little beach volleyball, enjoying temperatures below triple-digits.

But I feel guilty. Indeed I do. I’ll be following along with the action and reading posts and tweets and looking at pics and feeling like I should BE there. And that’ll especially be the case when I read about meetups at the Hooker Bar and wee-hour Pai Gow. I’m not sure how long this guilty conscience will plague me, or how many minutes in the Rio it’d take before I thought, “Y’know what, sitting on the deck would be mighty nice right about now”. The grass, always greener.

So godspeed, all you insane poker bloggers strapping yourself in for seven weeks on the roller coaster. Reinforcements arrive on July 3rd.

I actually have something to write about today–for the first time in 15 years I was on the team that won a league. This gives you an idea of how much I suck and, granted, our Monday league isn’t the deepest or most competitive in town but, still! I get a goddam T-shirt, people!! I have something to wear to my wedding!

We won, thanks in part to our opponent having to play a match to actually make the finals and then probably running out of gas after they beat us in the first match. We won the winner’s bracket so they had to defeat us twice to win the title and we righted the ship after that first loss. I haven’t played well lately but last night was the best I’ve played in years, though I did manage to roll my ankle late in the final game, something I’d never, ever done before. All the years I’ve played volleyball I don’t remember suffering an injury like that, I’ve never landed on anyone after a block or dislocated a finger, nothing. Had some shoulder issues years ago and, my God, do my hips hurt after a match, but somehow I’ve avoided volleyball’s usual occupational injuries. And even last night I was able to keep playing and it’s only a minor irritation today

Another minor irritation is reading all the posts and tweets of folks gearing up for another epic WPBT bender in Vegas. After long deliberation I decided not to go–I’m trying to save my shekels and the girlfriend keeps my calendar full. I really, really, really would like to see everyone, but oddly enough the idea of spending a long weekend in Vegas gives me pause. I dunno, I don’t think I’m still burned out from the WSOP, but maybe I am, just a little. I wasn’t assigned to cover the November Nine but I decided to go anyway, and actually had my flight all scheduled on Travelocity. But when it came time to hit the CONFIRM button I couldn’t do it. Didn’t wanna do it. Couldn’t justify it. “I’ll skip this and go in December,” I told myself. But when it came time to book this trip I again came up with reasons that were distressingly rational. “You’re thinking about buying a house, jackass,” the mean little voice in my head sneered. “Do I need to do the math to show you that extravagant expenses are NOT an option??”

So, crap. No Vegas, not now. But that’s OK, come Monday my pain-free head and liver will be my just reward. Unless my girlfriend’s work Christmas party goes off the rails on Saturday, and when she’s around very little ever stays ON the rails. So you kids have fun, don’t torment those cowboys too much, and say hello to Freddie Mercury for me.

• I never, ever complain about covering a Hold-Em-only event, not after my nightmarish time working the $50K H.O.R.S.E event in 2008.
• I never, ever complain about covering a tournament where English is spoken at the table, not after I couldn’t understand a goddam word during the LAPT event I did in Argentina.

If the format is simple and I can understand what the hell is going on, I’m not going to complain. Final table lasts 28 hours? I’ll sleep when I’m dead. The food is leftovers from an Alabama chain-gang? I need to lose weight anyway. It’s colder than a meat locker in the tournament room? Perfect time to beg for swag. I keep a sunny attitude and go about my business.

So when I tell you that there were times this past week in Aruba when I was thinking Very Bad Things you may wonder what made me crazy. Aruba is, after all, rather a nice place, what with the sun and sand and the Caribbean and all. The tournament itself is a breeze compared to the World Series, with the whole field in one room and play wrapping up by 8:30pm for the first four days. And this year I brought my girlfriend along with me (yes, I have a girlfriend, don’t look so surprised) and most nights we went out for dinner and drinks after I finished work. There’s was plenty of time for fun and I think if you asked most folks who went down there they’d say they had a great time.

There were, however, complications along the way that put me on super-hyper-mega-lifetilt. Let’s take them in turn:

We woke before the dawn and headed for the airport with plenty of time to spare. Until there was a huge pileup on the Parkway West just past Robinson. Which we got stuck in for, oh, 90 minutes. We got to IKEA before traffic came to a standstill and there we sat for nearly an hour. Didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Nowhere to go. And as the clock tick-tick-ticked along we went from having plenty of time to cutting it close to we’re-missing-our-flight. When you’re calling the airline from the car trying to rebook your flight you know you’re screwed. We finally cleared the crash site and, ignoring the ambulances and police cars lining the road, I drove like 90 miles an hour to the airport. The only way we were gonna get there in time was to park in the short-term lot (hope I can get reimbursed for that) and literally sprint for the US Airways counter. And with my camera gear on my back and laptop slung over my shoulder and a packed suitcase tottering behind sprinting wasn’t easy.

We got to booking with 30 minutes to spare. And there we were told…we couldn’t check our bags or get our boarding passes. The system wouldn’t let us check in because it was too late…even though the goddam plane would be sitting there for another goddam half-hour. The folks at the counter told us to go to another line to see about rebooking…and there we were told they couldn’t help us. With steam almost literally whistling out my ears I started to get a bit vocal about my displeasure and we were guided to another counter to see about rebooking. Lots of folks who’d been held up by the accident showed up red-faced and puffing but for them I felt nothing. I just wanted to find a way to get us to Aruba that day. And, miracle of miracles, Terri at US Airways pulled strings and twisted arms and found a way for us to hopscotch our way down the coast and finally hitch a ride to Aruba.

So we fly to Charlotte, thence to Miami. Ever been to Miami airport? It was designed by the Marquis de Sade, at least that’s the only explanation I could come up with. The structure defies logic. There are no signs telling you how to get from one terminal to another. None. To get to our next flight we had to walk past the security checkpoint and go around it and then through a…door. No signs. Nothing to indicate that this door led to another 50 gates and not an employee lounge. I texted my brother to see if he’d ever been there before and he said, “Why do you think immigrants take rafts to Miami instead of flying?

So we get to Aruba, get to the hotel, check in and hit the bar for a Balashi. And everything’s fine. The next day I wake up and head down to the tournament room to see what’s up, say hello to folks I know, take some pics. I head back to the room and try to upload the photos and my computer won’t recognize the SD card. This has never happened before and it’s happening NOW?? “Come on!!,” I begged, sifting through the Windows Vista control panel and being told my card reader was disabled for some reason. “But I didn’t DO ANYTHING,” I whined and turned to the Google for  an answer. But I had trouble connecting (a portent of things to come) and after scowling at my screen for an hour I had to plug my laptop in so it wouldn’t die. I put the card back in…and it worked. No clue why it wouldn’t work on battery power but everything was copacetic plugged in, but that’s what happened. I looked at myself in the mirror and my hair was 30% grayer. Time for more Balashi.

The tournament started Monday and we had trouble connecting to the internet. Now, this has happened in the past in Aruba, you have this island paradise and all of a sudden 500 online poker players invade and clog the pipes with sit-n-goes and tournaments and porn surfing and YouTube. But it’s always usually gets better after a day or so. We spent a pretty penny upgrading the Radisson’s capabilities, but either the tubes just got overwhelmed or something else was afoot. Because we could not connect to the ‘Net. And this problem lasted, well, the entire tournament. There were literally hours at a time where I couldn’t post anything. Couldn’t upload photos. Couldn’t do squat. Instead I kept hitting the Refresh button, in the vain hope that THIS TIME the wires would connect and my bits and bytes would broadcast to the world. At times I couldn’t tell if what I’d written had posted because WordPress puked and I couldn’t get the blog to load. So there I am like a goddam idiot trying to refresh TWO pages to see if my goddam post posted.

Making things worse is that bland, passive “Problem loading page” screen that comes up when shit don’t work. I think what REALLY got me pissed was how that phrase wasn’t capitalized or in boldface or there wasn’t a half-dozen exclamation points after it. It didn’t say PROBLEM LOADING PAGE!!!!!!!! It said “Problem loading page”. As if this wasn’t something to get worked up about. It happens all the time. In fact all day and all night you’re gonna have a Problem Loading Page. Deal with it, jackass.

And so instead of taking pictures or writing as many posts as I wanted I had to sit there and try to stuff what I’d already written through the tubes. Our staff knew there was a problem (everyone was talking about it) but the IT folks down there couldn’t fix it, Aruba not being as tech-savvy as Silicon Valley. I could believe that people were jamming the network because even though Aruba is a tropical paradise a lot of these poker zombies were no doubt holed up in their rooms twenty-tabling and downloading vast quantities of porn and streaming movies. But we were still having trouble connecting on Friday night, when even the most degenerate Scandi clickfiends were doubtless out looking for a pint or chicks. And so I sat there with tears in my eyes thinking “Oh please, oh baby JESUS, please let my Hellmuth chip-update post so I can write something else, oh mother of GOD!!”

So, there were frustrations. I knew covering the final table would be a challenge because we’ve never gotten WiFi out by the pool and that means running in and out of the hotel to post updates. The PokerNews crew of Garry, Eric and Don were there so I didn’t have to worry about missing some crucial hand while I was furiously writing up some other crucial hand. It rained again this year so the final table was held in the bar/restaurant next to the pool, which was fine. Play ran into the going-away party Sunday night (in part because the final four players discussed a chop for over an HOUR before deciding to just play it out) and so I ran back and forth between poker and party snapping pics. Which brings me to another technological fail:

So the tournament is over and I’ve been outside in 90-degree and 90% humidity conditions for eight hours. I’m soaked with sweat. I’m a bit stressed. I had to run back to the room to give Lindsay a wristband so she could get into the party and then run back, contributing to my sweaty/stressed state. I write up my post and decide to head back to the room, have a quick wash, and change clothes. It’s not a long walk to our building but when you’re carrying 25 pounds of gear and you’re tired and thirsty it’s long enough. I walk up to the room, insert the key…nothing. I insert the key…nothing. I INSERT THE KEY…NOTHING!!! This was the second time during the week that the goddam key didn’t work. And I was PISSED. I had to haul my ass and my gear all the way back to the front desk, getting madder and madder with every step, to have them recode the key.

Now, I had the magnetic-stripe key in a separate part of my wallet, it wasn’t rubbing against any credit cards or anything. I explained the situation to the desk clerk and, summoning vast quantities of self control, toldl her that this is the 2nd time this has happened. I should say that the Radisson staff has always been extremely friendly and helpful, they’re great. But the clerk says, “Well, it can become demagnetized if it’s around electronics…” and here she looked at the camera dangling from my neck, “like a camera”. I nearly lost it there. I didn’t have the goddam key inside my GODDAM CAMERA. At times like these it’s best to count to ten before saying anything and I think I counted to 67 before I even risked exhaling.

So that was the frustrating bits of the trip. I should say that there were some good parts as well. Watching Liv Boeree and Lacey Jones wearing dresses and chicken-fighting in the pool, that was a good part:

Had a couple of very good meals with Lindsay, which was twice as nice because usually when I’m down there I’m just grabbing something from room service. Nice to actually wander off the Radisson grounds and enjoy ourselves. Got up early a couple of times and went swimming, Lindsay went scuba diving three times. I felt guilty about getting tilty when I’m working in Aruba, but work-tilt is work-tilt.

I posted a bunch of pics to my Flickr page and I still have to go through a bunch more this week. Maybe I’ll post more this week…there’s the one of me and Liv in the pool, but that’s on Lindsay’s camera…

“Man, this is pretty (deleted) weird”.

Because the Rivers Casino is a…casino. Looks like a casino, sounds like a casino. Got the flashing lights and the slot machine toodle-oodling and the Munchian carpeting.  And it’s in Pittsburgh, about a quarter-mile down the river from where I used to work. As I said the other day the opening of the casino snuck up on me, though I followed it’s progress in the news I’d never actually seen the structure until just a week or so ago. And after the grand opening Sunday (when I was away) I decided to head down Monday afternoon to check it out. And it was really, really weird. Because to me it feels like it sprung up overnight, as if the aliens slung it under one of their saucers and dropped it on the North Shore. And then opened the doors the following day.

Here’s my brief review–it’s pretty nice. The decor is cool and sleek and modern. I read that all the slots in the casino are of the latest design and they look it. I didn’t get many good shots of the floor (think I had the camera on the wrong setting) but this should give you an idea:

There are some Bellagioesque touches when you walk in from valet parking, they have these streaming-water pillars and lots of Chihuly glass. What with the natural light that pours in throughout the casino it’s quite nice:

Facing the river is the Drum Bar, which has a long circular bar with many flatscreens and little tables and couches where you can sit. No video poker machines, alas, but a nice bar. And there’s glass and an open ceiling and this…I guess you’d call it a chandelier rising 40 feet into the air:

All this sightseeing made me thirsty, so I grabbed a stool at the Spiral Bar and, yes, played some video poker! I inserted my Rivers Club card (after waiting in a line that was 75 deep on a Monday afternoon) and asked for a Yuengling. It quickly appeared, along with a request for five dollars. And here we run into a serious problem–comping drinks is not permitted. I’m not sure what sort of bonuses you get as a card-carrying patron (can’t find any info online) but without free drinks I find it much more difficult to justify indulging my video poker addiction. I should say that the machines were brand-new, glossy, and even a bit coy–I was dealt three to a diamond royal flush and caught the ten of diamonds…and the King of hearts (the red paint card made my heart go ka-THUMP). My first hand I was dealt three sixes but couldn’t quad up. But I made two full houses and when I cashed out I was up ten bucks.

Which I took upstairs, to the Grand View Buffet. I was hungry and figured I’d try out the casino’s mass cuisine. And it was pretty good, better to my mind that the MGM Grand’s buffet. You do get a grand view from the dining room…well, it’s pretty good. I got a view of a coal barge and the tail end of Mt. Washington, though if I’d turned around this is what I would’ve seen:

Most of the food was good–I especially liked the carving station ham, which was fantastic. I didn’t try the Mongolion station, where you pick your meat and veggies and the chef does his Mongolian thing to it, but I did get request a bowl of pho from the Asian station. At first it looked just like the setup they had in our hotel in Saigon, two big pots of broth and a variety of protein and vegetation to add to the mix. Alas, appearances were a bit deceiving. In Vietnam they put the noodles and meat in first then filled the bowl with scalding-hot broth, which cooked the meat and noodles by the time you finally dug in. Here the noodles were already limp and the broth was lukewarm at best. It tasted OK, in fact that first cilantro-laden spoonful transported me back to Saigon’s Majestic Hotel, where I also ate pho outdoors on an extremely humid day. But the rest didn’t even rise to OK, and I actually abandoned it halfway through, something I thought I would never, ever do with pho. Tho it looked pretty:

I wandered around a bit after my meal then headed for home. Didn’t feel like playing more video poker, I’m not much of a slots guy, and they don’t have table games in Pennsylvania. Yet. There will be, someday, it’s inevitable. I read that there’s 30,000 square feet of space set aside at the Rivers for the day when table games are legalized, and that’s a lot of bare carpet for a casino where much of the money goes to the state. I also read today about a trial where a guy is accused of running an illegal gambling enterprise, namely a poker game. The defense is relying on the ‘ol “poker is a game of skill, not chance” chestnut, an argument that, while valid, hasn’t exactly wowed the courts over the years.

One odd bit in the piece is I think deserving of attention:

Pennsylvania State Trooper Rebecca R. Fabich, who was involved in the investigation, testified she had participated in Mr. Burns’ tournaments four times. She said her grandfather and uncle taught her to play poker when she was 10 and she’s been playing for the past 25 years, including 12 to 15 times a year at casinos.

“I know how to fold ‘em,” she said.

Trooper Fabich said that Texas holdem is a game of chance.

“I believe the outcome of the game is determined by your cards,” she testified.

Over the course of the four times she played at Mr. Burns’ location, she estimated she lost $300 to $400.

So you have an undercover cop infiltrating a poker game…it’s not exactly Donnie Brasco but stay with me. She says that she learned how to play poker from her grandfather and uncle. In her own words she says, “I know how to fold ‘em”. Doesn’t this imply that poker is a skill, that can be learned? Folding is one of the ways skillful poker players display their ability, by playing tight and throwing away good hands when they’re beaten by better hands. If I was the defense attorney and a witness for the prosecution made a slip like that I’d pull out a fork and knife and tie a napkin around my neck before I began my cross-examination.

Trooper Fabich provided another avenue for the defense to explore when she said that she believed that the outcome is determined by the cards…and that she lost between three- and four-hundred bucks. I’d turn to the jury with a triumphant “A-ha!”  Could it be that the trooper is a bit biased, perhaps? That her ego won’t let her even CONSIDER that poker is a game of skill because she LOST!!! I’d shake my head at her and say that her grandfather and uncle, who taught her the game, must be shaking their heads in dismay right now. God it’d be great to be a defense attorney, to be a total prick as part of your job description.

The skill vs. chance debate is, of course, largely pointless. If you’re arguing with someone who truly believes poker is purely a game of chance then you’re screwed from the get-go. Seriously, how are we to explain poker players who have great success over a long period of time–either they have more talent and ability than most, or they’re just luckier. What do you find more reassuring, that the guy winning the money year after year is good at the game, or that God or the cosmos or whatever has decided that this player is anointed while the rest of you are damned?

Then again, denying that chance has a role in poker is also pointless. Of course there’s luck. Of course there’s skill. That’s what makes the game fun, that’s what draws players from around the world to the Rio in July to play the Main Event. The real question is whether responsible adults should be able to play the game when they want, where they want, without worrying about the law stepping on their throat. I walked around the Rivers Casino yesterday and watched hundreds of responsible (well, maybe some are) people happily playing games of pure chance–slot machines–with nary a district attorney in sight. Of course the state gets a whopping big percentage of the take at the new casino, and to paraphrase that great philosopher Homer Simpson, “Thou shalt not horn in on thy government’s racket”. I think before too long you’ll be able to play poker (and blackjack, craps, roulette) at the Rivers with no worries. Whether you’ll be legally allowed to play poker outside it’s state-licensed walls is another story.

The trip home was uneventful, though I think I might’ve still been drunk when I woke up to pack. The final table wrapped at 11PM, not the 7AM we all feared, and of course the media rushed en masse to the Hooker Bar for cocktails. I took one last swing at video poker, encouraged by BadBlood, and this time I came through in the clutch:

You can’t read the payout slip but it was good for $435, as I hit quad deuces on a dollar machine. A $400 profit instead of a $100 loss, which wiped away most of my gambling losses for the trip and put me in a very good and very drinky mood the rest of the night. But all too soon night turned to day, and I set a 5AM hard-cap on myself to bail. I’d asked that my flight be pushed back a day so I wouldn’t have to rush around on the last day and could maybe actually enjoy myself a bit before heading home, but it wasn’t switched and so I had to say some quick goodbyes to the people I’d spent seven weeks with. If I didn’t goodbye before the evening ended, apologies, and anyway you were probably sick of me anyway.

When I caught the cab at Gold Coast for the ride to MGM I felt like I’d already disconnected from the WSOP and that life. I wasn’t working anymore; I was a tourist. Not even a tourist, I was an expatriot finally on his way home. I grabbed a few hours sleep, threw my clothes and gear in bags, and after one last overpriced meal I decided the hell with it and went to the airport early. Tired of all the people, tired of the nonstop flashing lights and electronic music of the slots. As I walked out of MGM for the first time I noticed my face hurt, especially around my jawline. I was actually confused for a sec when I realized that I’d been smiling all day. Smiling hard.

My flight was unremarkable, I got home around 1AM to find a note on my mailbox that said THIS ADDRESS IS CURRENTLY VACANT DO NOT PLACE MAIL IN THIS BOX. I removed it and opened my front door to find that I hadn’t been accidentally evicted. My couch was there, my desk, my kitchen. I cooked a little something for a snack (I cooked!) and got my laptop hooked up to my big monitor. I was home, and I was happy.

I got up around one in the afternoon (my bed does not compare to MGM’s, which must be addressed) and went to my desk. And here, a moment of melancholy–there wasn’t a chocolate-chip muffin waiting for me. Most days at the WSOP Al would bring me a muffin from the Gold Coast and that’s how I would start my day. Now, no more muffins. Sigh.

But I’m home. And it’s raining. My windows are open and a cool, sweet breeze is washing over me. Birds are singing. I’m home.

And sometimes those conversations happen…in strip clubs. That’s where I found myself last Thursday, as Bluff magazine had their yearly WSOP party at the Sapphire gentleman’s club. There was a shuttle from the Rio to the club and I went with Al and Drizz on one of the early runs. We got in, grabbed a table, and within five minutes I had a beer in my hand.

Also within five minutes I’d had two comely young ladies ask if I wanted a lap dance. I’m not a prude nor am I impolite, but I smiled up at them and said no, thank you, not at this time. I was waiting for everyone else to show up and I didn’t want my attention distracted by someone gyrating on my lap.

Al didn’t have those same concerns–I looked over and his attention was definitely focused elsewhere. The guy sitting to my left had come in with us and sat down at our table, he seemed a nice enough chap but coming to a party in a strip club and apparently not knowing a soul struck me as a bit odd. Then again, from the look in his eye as his girl performed rhythmic gymnastics in his lap he didn’t much care.

I looked toward the door to see if Pauly or Otis or anyone else was inbound…and hands gripped my shoulders and a slender brunette sat down upon me. “Oh, hi,” I said, suave as always, and she leaned forward and said, “Hwaht iz yhour name?” It must suck to live in Eastern Europe, as it seems like most of the pretty girls have left the Motherland and moved to Vegas. I said my name and she said her name was Elena. My brows rose. When I went to the Bluff party last year I got a lap dance from a dark-haired girl named…Elena. Who had used the exact same plan of attack (blindside, sidesaddle). I remembered that the girl last year was from Belarus (don’t ask why certain things stick in my memory) and I asked this girl where she was from. “Budapest,” she purred, and I said aha, it’s not such a small world after all. I was about to say that some friends of mine had visited there not too long ago when she asked me in graphic terms if I liked a certain part of her anatomy.

So we weren’t going to have a light, breezy conversation. She did her thing and she did it quite well, and while I won’t say it’s unpleasant to have a pretty girl use you as a scratching post I always feel a bit silly sitting in a public space while a half-naked woman does light calisthenics in my lap. She asked if I wanted to go again, I refrained from saying that I really hadn’t wanted to go before, and paid her for her time.

She rose to move onto pastures new…and the Asian woman who’d kept Drizz company for a few minutes pivoted and sat down on my still warm lap. She wasn’t so much interested in giving me a lap dance as sitting down for a few minutes to chat. She seemed bored, talked some trash about how lazy some of the other girls there are, and then started talking about Michael Jackson. I nodded and shook my head a lot because it was frickin’ loud in there and I couldn’t understand a goddam word she was saying. It’s odd having a conversation with someone who you can’t understand, especially when she’s half-naked, sitting in your lap, and not showing any inclination to move along. Eventually she decided to transfer herself to the guy who’d ridden the shuttle with us and I got to my feet. If I remained in my chair I would be a veritable sitting duck–standing I had a far better chance of fending off any unwanted lapdancers and hopefully not spend $500 at a party with an open bar.

It was about then that Jen arrived with some of her L.A. friends who’d arrived in town to celebrate her birthday. And  When I say “some”, I mean like, ten. And as Jen went to say hello to Al I found myself talking to ten attractive women about strip club etiquette and dynamics and having a good time. Heck, I had a GREAT time–at one point I thought, “I’m in a strip club and I’m holding court with ten girls who aren’t strippers. This may be the high point of my entire life.” Hyperbole to be sure, but it was a a blast, especially once Pauly and Change and Otis arrived.

I mentioned that it was an open bar–that was true, up to a point. 11pm, but be exact. Around 11:15 I asked Pauly if he wanted something from the bar and he said sure, a Stella. I went over to get two Stellas (and a water for Change) and had a fiver out to act as a tip. The gothy bartendress brought the drinks, looked at my fin, and said, “The cash bar is over”. Oh, OK, how much for my two beers and bottle of Aquafina? “Thirty-five bucks”. I struggled back to my feet and handed over the bills required for the transaction. The water cost $9.50. “This had better cure (deleted) cancer” Change said as I told the tale. That’ll teach me not to double-fist during an open bar.

There was a silver lining to that dark cloud–I didn’t get plastered, only drinking enough to ensure I was at my wittiest and most charming. We left around 2AM, I don’t recall if we did anything after (Pai Gow? Maybe we played some Pai Gow) and I got a good night’s sleep.

But not a long night’s sleep, because I’d done something stupid that afternoon. My hair was getting out of control and I needed a trim. At the sports book bar a few days earlier Otis said I should get my hair cut short–as short as his. Which is quite short. I wasn’t sure, as my hair can really get funky when it’s unskillfully shorn. “Look,” Otis said, “if you get it cut this short I’ll pay for it”. I went so far as to take a picture of his hair to show whoever took shears to mine.

So I was at the Hooker Bar with Al having a taste when I decided that I HAD to get a haircut. It says a lot about the problems I’ve had with my hair that I gotta have two beers in me before I can make an appointment. I went down to the Rio salon and learned that they were booked for the day, but I could come back tomorrow at 9:30AM. Like a drunken idiot I said fine. So after going to a strip club/work function till 2AM I had to get up by 8:30AM to get to the Rio. Brilliant. I got to the salon just in time and took a seat on a leather sofa to wait my turn. I sank into the buttery softness and realized I hadn’t sat on a couch since I left home. It felt nice, and made me homesick.

Then it was time to get chopped. I think my stylist’s name was Celeste, she didn’t think it un-hetero for me to have a picture of a friend on my phone and say, “Make it so”. She got out the shears and went to work on my mop. About halfway through I looked at it and said, “Holy shit”. It was short. Very short. Shorter than my hair had ever, ever been. I wasn’t sure if I liked it, or didn’t like it, but it WAS different. And short. Very short.

I walked back to the Amazon Room and at one point passed a mirror hanging in the hall. I saw my reflection…and didn’t recognize myself. As my friends filed in and saw me the reaction was violent. “Where’s your HAIR?” was the general reaction. A few people said they liked it. More asked if I’d lost a bet. Otis duly paid up, but not before looking me over and saying. “…yeah, that’s quite a bit shorter than my hair”. Not a criticism, exactly, just a statement of fact. I dunno, I think I like it, though I might not get it cut quite this short next time. I know talk like this is worthless without pics so, here I am, cropped close:

And now…now I’m three days and two parties behind schedule and this post is long enough for one sitting. Gotta catch up on what’s happened in Vegas before I leave Vegas. And that day is coming up fast.

Last night people started speculating that Day 1D might sell out. That’s never happened before at the Main Event, no player in good standing who had $10K and a desire to play has even been turned away. But last night Harrah’s issued a press release saying that Day 1D may sell out and people started emailing and tweeting that anyone who wanted to play Monday had better get to the Rio pronto.

I got to work around 11:15 and after I set up heard that there was a ruckus out in the halls. Apparently Day 1D did indeed sell out, and there were a lot of players outside who were a bit unhappy about it. By “a lot” I mean a couple hundred. And apparently at one point there were around 500 players trying to register for the Main Event, only to be told that there wasn’t room. And then I heard from two sources that over a thousand players had been turned away. I think that last number might be an exaggeration but still, it was a catastrophe for Harrah’s and the shut-out players, many of whom came from the four corners of the Earth to play in the biggest poker tournament in the world.

Rumors abounded, that Harrah’s would introduce the shut-out players as alternates, that there would be a “Day 1E” that would start at 5PM and then be folded into the smaller Day 2A starting tomorrow, and a few other possibilities. We heard that WSOP Commissioner Jeffrey Pollack was going to address a big group of the disgruntled players at 2:30PM, so me and my fellow scribes marched over to the huge room where the Poker Palooza gaming expo had been held the previous four days (a bit of a waste, and certainly not deserving of “Palooza” status). The meeting was held in a partitioned-off section of a room the size of the Astrodome, and there Pollack told the disgruntled players that no additional players would be added–they lacked the operational capacity to add more players to the field. The players didn’t like that, shouting questions at Pollack and many storming out before the end of the meeting. Rather than recount the whole meeting I’m just gonna cut-and-paste the last part of what I wrote today on the UB blog (if you’re interested check out the whole article):

It was an unhappy outcome for all concerned. This is one of those situations where everyone had good intentions and everyone got screwed. It’s one thing to say that the players should’ve registered early, that they should’ve played on one of the earlier days…but the fields were smaller than last  year (when no players were turned away) and there was no notification on Harrah’s part (until last night) that Day 1D might sell out. And if you’re flying from New York, or Oslo, or Buenos Aires on Sunday to play Monday it’s impossible to change your plans at the last second. For many of the players in the room this was their first time to the World Series and they might not have had an idea of the sheer size and scope of the event. They thought (quite reasonably) that they could show up at noon, plunk down $10,000, and take a seat. Because that’s they way it’s always been.

But today, the World Series of Poker was a victim of it’s own success. There were 150 people in that room desperate to  give Harrah’s $10,000…and Harrah’s had to say, “I’m sorry, we can’t take it”. The WSOP is so popular that today the players strained it beyond it’s ability to cope. There are only so many tables, so many dealers, so many floorpersons available to work the tournament. If another 500 players sat down at 5pm to play in a makeshift Day 1E it might’ve caused gridlock as the Main Event tried to get through the Day 2s and Day 3 and into the money.

After the meeting was over a number of disgruntled players crowded around Tom Franklin, who acted as a spokesperson for the players. He told them to calm down, that the decision was made and it was final. One player said he couldn’t believe he was going to miss the Main Event and Franklin said, “I’ve played 30 in a row and I can’t believe I’m going to miss this one.”

About an hour after the meeting Jeffrey Pollack came up to Media Row to say that he’d be willing to discuss what happened today further during the press conference that’s scheduled for Thursday. And while he was here he said, again, “We’re going to fix this, THAT I know”. It’s unfortunate that no one, not the players nor Harrah’s, saw soon enough that something was going to break today.

Today 2,809 players took their seats in the Main Event. Which makes for a grand total of 6,494 players, creating a prize pool of $61,043,600. First prize this year? $8,548,435. Guessing how much bigger those numbers might’ve been had everyone who wanted to play been able to play is, at this point, idle speculation. It’s too late. The funny thing is that chances are 90% of the people demanding a spot in the Main Event would’ve missed the money. 90% of them will be $10,000 richer at the end of the week. That’s funny…and beside the point.

So how to explain that I’ve spent three of the last five nights in clubs? The answer is actually quite simple–it was for work. Some nights I gotta watch poker until the dawn; some nights I gotta go out and watch scantily-clad women gyrate for my amusement. And I’m the sort who believes in fulfilling all my professional obligations.

So first I went to the party UB threw at the MGM’s Studio 54. I went there to see my various bosses and co-workers and, heh heh, hope that they remember who the hell I am. I was told that there would be no need for me to “cover” the party as I do in Aruba, as they’d hired a professional photographer to shoot the fun and I could have a day off. Nice to enjoy the party without carrying my gear but after taking so many pictures during the Series I’d was hoping they’d WANT me to bring my camera. Instead me and Al and Jen and a rotating cast of characters hit the open bar and watched the various acrobatic performers spinning and twirling above the dance floor. But I brought my point-and-shoot along and took some pics. Most of these outfits were painted on. Most:

It being dark in the club and the flash on most point-and-shoots pretty wimpy I had to do some fiddling to make something of a few pics:

I talked to some people I hadn’t seen since Aruba, chatted up a few of our players, and by 2AM I ducked out the door and headed back to the room. Knew I couldn’t drink too much because I had to cover a boxing match between UltimateBet’s Liv Boeree and PokerNews’ Melissa Castello. You’ve probably noticed that those are female names and, yes, this would be a bout between two women. Liv is like the coolest chick you’ve ever met (I haven’t taken a bad picture of her all Series) and I’ve worked with Melissa both in Vegas and Argentina and she’s not somebody I’d want to randomly piss off. I wasn’t looking forward to watching them throw haymakers at each other but the fight was actually entertaining. They both got a bit of professional training, they wore regulations gloves and headgear, there were three professional judges to determine the winner…it was quite serious.

Liv won in a unanimous decision, and it was a pretty competitive and compelling event. I’ve never wanted to get hit in the face less in my life.

But I think I get ahead of myself. The fight was two days after the UB party–the night before I was at the Hooker Bar with Al and Otis sipping a Heineken and discussing the Meaning of Life when we got texts from F-Train that Drizz and Carol had made the final table at the Omaha/8 event down at Binions. And those two troublemakers wanted to zip down there and sweat them. Now, this seemed like a really bad idea. It was 2AM, and I was weary. Plus there was the chance that they’d both be out before we got there or, worse, we’d cooler them and be the reason they lost. But strange as it may sound I’ve never been to Binion’s in all my time in Vegas and a pilgrimage to poker’s Holy Land is something I had on my agenda this year. “Ah, shit,” I said as I hoisted my bag and followed them to the cab stand.

We got there just as Carol got knocked out and we watched Drizz battle for the win. Actually, we were more watching (and listening) to the apeshit guy at their table and his totally batshit wife on the rail. When we got there the guy was serving a four-round penalty (a killer in a shorthanded game with huge blinds) because he refused to shut up. Drizz said the guy had been going on like that for four hours, non-stop barking and crying and complaining and angle-shooting. And his wife was worse. She wore this bright blue floral-print dress and had all these papers stuffed in a FedEx envelope that she clutched to her chest. She walked by us on the rail one time and she slammed into me and stuck her elbow in my ribs. At one point her husband was screaming for the floor (who was sitting right there) to penalize a guy who said he’d “check a hand down”, and when the floor guy said he hadn’t heard that the wife screamed “Security! The floor has lost control of the table, security!!” It was maybe the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in poker. Worse than Hellmuth and Matusow.

The crazy guy wouldn’t make a deal even though the stacks were so short that it was a total crapshoot. And then he lost a pot which left him in dire straits and in the big blind, so he relented and they discussed a chop. Drizz got a pretty good deal and a nice chunk of change, along with a bottle of Captain Morgan that Otis picked up at shop up Fremont Street:

That begat more drinking, and then a trip to the Gold Coast, where we played Pai Gow until brunch. Things went poorly for me–very poorly. In fact it might’ve been The Great Pai Gow Massacre II, but Otis and Drizz both made straight flushes and Al made quads and as I was playing the fortune bonus I got a little cash for their good luck. And then I won the last hand I played and that made my losses far more manageable. I haven’t lost as much gambling this year as I did last year, but it’s been a struggle. It’s been a struggle.

OK, maybe a pause here and write about the rest of my exhausting week tomorrow. Just remembering all these late nights drags me down. Play ends for the night in a half-hour, I think this might be one night where I turn in early. Or maybe have one beer. One. Maybe two.