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.

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.

For me, the 2009 World Series of Poker will be forever known as the Year of Feeling Miserable. There’s always been a little something wrong with me, when there wasn’t A LOT wrong with me. Hopefully these meds will clear me up once and for all and I can actually enjoy myself a little before its time to pack up and head home. Which is close enough now that I can almost see the finish line by so far away it feels like an eternity. Which is kinda the WSOP in a nutshell.

Beyond my suffering (which probably makes for fun reading for some of you) here are a few highlights from the World Series so far:

• I had the worst Chinese food in the world for dinner last night. I got it from Studio Wok at MGM–kids, never EVER eat at Studio Wok. I was starving and needed food to take my pills with, and I threw away more than two-thirds of it. I wish I’d thrown away, oh, fifteen-sixteenths. Here on Media Row we’re often critical of the Chinese offerings in the Poker Kitchen, especially late at night. Studio Wok made the Poker Kitchen look like an episode of Iron Chef.
• As I walked down the Strip to the clinic yesterday two girls bought a couple of bottles of beer and dumped them in a glass. Then the one girl put her thumb on the bottle and shook it up and started spraying people who walked past. Folks, you come to Vegas, act like you’ve been here before. Jesus.
• As I walked back to the MGM after the doctor I saw two girls wearing black bikinis and flip-flops coming down the sidewalk from Monte Carlo. They were so drunk they kept falling down, until the one girl just plopped down on the sidewalk, giggling hysterically, while her friend tried to pull her to her feet. I was pleased that the crowd waiting to cross the street looked at them like they were frickin’ idiots. I should add that it was about 100 degrees out and that sidewalk had to be hot as hell.
• I got back to MGM to catch the shuttle back to the Rio and some folks walked by, more than a few carrying drinks. One crazed individual in his sixties walked by with a friend, no shirt, and carrying a half-full (or half-empty) bottle of Cuervo. “This is my drink,” he said to his companion as he lifted the bottle for a sip. Viva Las Vegas!
• The number of times I’ve nearly been run over by people on those motorized scooters? Three. The number of times the driver who nearly flattened me was T.J. Cloutier? One.
• I usually get back to the MGM around midnight or so, and it’s a bit depressing at times to walk through the lobby and see scores of pretty girls dressed to the nines going out to the clubs–and I’m dragging my ass back to my room to collapse. That said, my God, there are SO many bad tattoos out there. Nothing like seeing a beautiful woman in a slinky gown glide by…and then see she has a toucan the size of a serving tray tattooed on her back. Which I saw a couple of weeks ago. “A toucan?” I thought. “She’s really into Froot Loops, maybe?” Maybe. Who knows.
• Video poker has not treated me well this time around. Not well at all. Quads, just four times. That used to be a good afternoon for me. No more. No more.

So that pretty much sums up my last four weeks. And that’s so depressing I think I’m gonna have a cry. Still got a few weeks to turn everything around, maybe another blue pill will do the trick…

Oh, and yinz know you can follow my musings on Twitter, right? I post nonsensical ramblings there quite a bit during the day, they may amuse.

Oh, and last night I hit quads TWICE, booking a $70 win and erasing about 30% of my gambling losses for the trip. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually play some poker. Or, maybe not. So far I’ve worked, uh, 22 out of 22 days. Feel fine, no burnout, getting enough sleep, finally got some meds to beat back my bronchitis. Of course the idea of having an entire day off makes me want to weep with joy, but I don’t see that happening. No biggie. My shattered body and psyche will rest when I get home. Home. Home.

Anyway, about the Cup:

It’s a hockey night in Vegas. Or it WAS a hockey night in Vegas, last night in fact. The NHL Charity Shootout tournament was held yesterday and a number of current and former NHL legends were here in the Amazon Room. I took a bunch of pictures, which was difficult at times because what with the ESPN cameras orbiting the table I had to shoot through the glass that was set up around the table–you do recall me saying that they’d remodeled the Feature Table arena to give it a more appropriate feel:

They also replaced the table’s green felt with a really cool rink motif:

The tournament was conducted shootout-style, with the top 3 players at each table moving on to the final table. A few pics I managed to snag:

Current MVP (and he’ll almost certainly win the award again tonight) Alexander Ovechkin of the Washington Capitals. That white fin pointed at his head was from the lens hood of the film camera, sorry about that, couldn’t angle myself over to get a better shot. Notice please that Ovechkin is wearing an All-Star baseball cap, not a Stanley Cup Champion cap. Have I mentioned before that I’m from Pittsburgh and a borderline-insane Penguins fan?

Montreal Canadiens forward-enforcer Georges Laraque. Laraque played for the Pens the previous two seasons, where he was a huge fan-favorite (literally and figuratively). One of the most feared fighters in the NHL, Laraque isn’t one of those guys who goes out and picks fights. He lets others start the fight…and then he ends it. Oftentimes two guys will agree before a faceoff to duke it out, and after the two agree to drop the gloves Laraque often says, without sarcasm, “Good luck”. Seems like the sort of guy you’d like to have at your table. Maybe at the other end of your table.

Jeremy Roenick, currently with the San Jose Sharks after having played (and played exceedingly well) for about a half-dozen other teams during his illustrious career. He was one of the more crowd-pleasing players during the tournament, and even when he was waiting for the final table to start. We were sitting on Media Row when Roenick sat down with a stack of red and green chips and was playing some young guy heads-up. It didn’t take Roenick long to lose his stack, and then he leapt up and headed back to the stage. It was remarked during the tournament that Roenick looks more like actor James Woods than James Woods does.

NBC hockey analyst (and former Penguin player, coach and announcer) Ed Olczyk. More than any other hockey personality at the event, Olczyk LOOKED like a poker player. He also won a pot playing my favorite hand, the Hammer (otherwise known as Seven-Deuce offsuit).

As the day wore on I started to get a wee bit excited, as I knew the STANLEY CUP would be arriving around 8pm and I was gonna be there when that happened. I knew the Cup was going to be included in the daily bracelet ceremony (which was pushed back from 2pm to eight) and a bit before the appointed hour I got a spot by the stage and stared down anyone who tried to infringe on my territory. Some guy tried to engage me in idiotic conversation (about how he should’ve won two bracelets already like J.C. Tran but in 2007 his aces got blah blah blah) but I looked at him in such a way that he quickly ended the conversation and scurried away with his head still on his shoulders.

And then the side door behind the stage opened and…there was the Stanley Cup, carried in by a gentleman wearing clean white gloves and escorted by a phalanx of security, Harrah’s execs, and excited gawkers. I held my ground by the stage as people saw the Cup carried up on stage and pressed close, and I squeezed off a few shots of the Holy Grail itself:

It was smaller than I expected, more nicked-up, not as shiny, and the bowl at the top was dented in a few places. And, sigh, it was more beautiful than I dreamed. Jeffrey Pollack took the microphone and told the crowd that the NHL had come to the WSOP for the day, and that included the greatest trophy (yes, he said even greater than the WSOP bracelet) in the world, the Stanley Cup.

Pollack introduced the three bracelet winners from the day before–Leo Wolpert, James Van Alstyne, and J.C. Tran, and the crowd stood as the Star-Spangled Banner was played for the three new champions:

After that Pollack introduced Gary Bettman, the NHL Commissioner (and Pollack’s brother), who returned the throngs to action by announcing “shuffle up and deal!”. And then the two Commissioners posed for a few pics with the Cup:

It’s been something of a running joke among my friends on Media Row that I’d need to be kept on a leash when the Cup arrived. I may have made some idle comments about grabbing the Cup and making a break for the door (and probably getting Tasered within five steps). During the bracelet ceremony I was about 5 feet from the Cup–all I had to do was step forward, reach out, and touch it. That’s all I wanted to do–touch the Cup. Maybe get my picture taken with it.

As the ceremony ended a guy in a Steelers sweatshirt squeezed forward to get a better look, apologizing for his shouldering by saying, “I’m from Pittsburgh, I gotta get a closer look!”. I said I was from Pittsburgh too and we did the fist-bump to celebrate the Pens victory. As the crowd started to disperse he took that step forward, reached out, and touched the Cup, as his friends snapped pictures.

The reaction wasn’t as extreme as I feared, but there was a reaction. Security moved forward, a Harrah’s person told him to knock it off, another barked an order and the man with the gloves whisked the Cup off the stage. My fellow ‘Burgher apologized and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I HAD to touch the Cup!” That seemed to satisfy the guards, they didn’t hustle him out of the room, so maybe I could’ve gotten away with putting my fingertips on the Cup. Or, maybe I would’ve lost my media badge. It wasn’t worth the risk.

They brought the Cup onto the Final Table stage and set it on a table near where the bracelet display usually is. A few WSOP employees had their pictures taken with the Cup, but they weren’t letting just anybody (or, just anybody like me) in for a snapshot. I guess I understand–let someone like me say cheese while standing by the Cup and EVERYBODY would want to get a picture. Madness, chaos, the end of civilization would ensue.

So I just there with the other media types for a bit and just…looked at it. Funny, had the Penguins lost Game 7 the sight of the Cup would’ve made me want to barf. Instead I sighed like a lovesick teenager. I wonder if players who win WSOP bracelets feel the same way when they get their hands on it. I wonder if players who come second and don’t have a bracelet look at it and feel nauseous. And I wonder how long those feelings last. For me, I looked at the Cup from afar for about fifteen minutes, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten in about 10 hours. It was enough to see it, take pictures of it, bask in its presence. Eventually the Stanley Cup will return home to Pittsburgh, and so will I. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to that glittering silver chalice, and headed for home.

ESPN is filming the event, they have their big cameras here and they added hockey accouterments to the final table arena. To wit:

Yes, those are boards, glass, etc. The table itself is really cool, they replaced the green felt with “ice” and added the bluelines, faceoff circles, the works:

The tournament is going on right now, they’re playing three shootout tables (the top three from each starting table ends up at the final table tonight) and the guy I’m rooting for right now is Georges Laraque, the former Penguin tough guy who was such a fan favorite. I fondly remember rooting him on many a time as he made a shambles of some silly opponent’s face.

Alexander Ovechkin will be playing at some point today (I’ll stay classy and won’t run him), Roberto Luongo is there right now, Pat LaFontaine got knocked out, as did Mike Richards. I’ve been told that there will be a Penguin playing today (Max Talbot?) and maybe that’s when the Cup will arrive. That would make sense, bring it later in the day when the room is filled and there’s more energy in the place. But at some point I’ll get to see the cup. Maybe touch the Cup. Maybe add my name to Stanley Cup lore–I’ll be the insane guy in Vegas who grabbed the Cup and made a break for it and got Tasered after five steps. Aw man, that’d be AWESOME!!!

Walking down the hallway to the Amazon Room no longer feels surreal–it feels like I’m walking to work. My room at the MGM feels like home…well, it at least feels familiar. I’ve settled into a nice little routine–up at 8am, futz around for an hour or so, press off a shirt, and then get ready in time to catch the shuttle at eleven. Work until midnight or so and then catch a cab back to MGM. In between I might have dinner with friends, sneak out to see the Pens’ games, or maybe have a beer. Don’t let this photo fool you–the idea of the permanently-soused poker scribe is highly overrated.

I haven’t stayed out late (well, past 2am) since I’ve been in Vegas. I get home, I get under the covers, and I get a good night’s sleep. Yeah, I know, it’s weird.

My sloth is due in part to the fact that, yep, I’m sick again. Just a head cold this time, the “casino flu” that pretty much everyone gets at some point during the Series. Stuffed up, sore throat, coughing…awesome. I had about 24 hours where I felt good…and then it all went to hell again. DayQuil and cough drops are keeping me functional, but it wears you down, wears you down. Saturday night I got back to the MGM and stopped at the little stand by the elevators that sells magazines and candy and whatnot. I grabbed a box of cough drops and a pretty girl who wore a dress that’d been sprayed on her was looking at the same shelf. “These work,” I said, sensing we shared a common burden, and in a hoarse voice she groaned, “I feel terrible”. Sunday night I got home around the same time and bought some more DayQuil. The same girl, wearing a dress even tighter and shorter than the night before, was picking over the cold meds. I grabbed what I wanted, she saw me, and we shared a sad, familiar smile. She looked great; she looked terrible. Can’t imagine going clubbing at midnight feeling like I did.

Today I allowed myself a little time off. I got up at the same time but after I showered I went down to the casino and wandered around a bit. I decided to eat at the MGM buffet, if the line wasn’t too long, and it wasn’t so I did. It’s called the “MGM Grand Buffet”, but I didn’t find it that grand, to be honest. The food was OK, nothing spectacular. It was hard to get around, people kept moving along the stations in both directions and getting to the grub was at times frustrating. But after 20 meals from the Poker Kitchen I was glad to get something a little different. I went back to my room…and promptly took a little nap. I planned on getting to work at 2pm, when the $10K Omaha/8 event started back up, but that was postponed to 3pm…and then four. By then I figured I’d better get my backside to the Rio and I ran down and found the shuttle waiting for me, and me alone. Almost feel like a VIP.

It’s different working on my own this year as opposed to the PokerNews team. On the one hand it’s nice being able to write about what I want and spend some time on the photos I take. And if I want to step away for a bit to grab a bit to eat or linger over a drink it’s no big deal. On the other hand I have to come up with new and interesting posts every day and that isn’t always easy. Every day it’s people sitting around playing poker, and while that can be very compelling when there’s a final table and people are playing for millions of dollars, it’s less so on Day 1 of an event with 3,000 people. I’m writing the blog for UB so naturally I’m focusing on our players and trying to write things that would be of interest to people who play on the site, but I’m also trying to write posts (and publish photos) that are just plain interesting, period. I’m trying to find that niche where I’m providing the content my overlords want and that poker fans will find interesting and unique. It’s a challenge, and some of the pics I’ve taken are, I think, pretty cool (you can see them here). Just gotta keep it up, try not to repeat myself too much, and do good work.

I’ve been working about 12 hours a day and feel like I’ve been slacking. Compared to the hours I worked last year for PokerNews (and the hours they’re working so far) I feel like a slouch. On the other hand I haven’t had a day off so far and the more I think about it, I don’t see me taking one. Chances are we’re gonna have SOMEONE playing in an event every day and it’d be just my luck to avoid the Rio the day something stupdendous happens. But we’ll see.

It’s 9pm here…should I maybe eat something? That probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. The Chicken BLT wrap has been my go-to meal this year–it’s quick, easy, tasty. Had my first In&Out Burger last week–good. Real good. Had some pulled pork at the BBQ place in the Rio, very good. Had a steak one night–outstanding. That about sums up the most exciting bits of my trip so far. I’m down about $100 playing video poker during the Pens games. Haven’t played a hand of poker or Pai Gow. Work, sleep, eat. I guess I really am getting old, because that’s been a pretty good combination so far.