I was Twittering while watching last night’s episode of Mad Men and asked a question that was misinterpreted by a few. Understandable as media criticism is difficult at 140 characters a pop, but what I was wondering about was this–how did Dick Whitman become Don Draper? Not, as a few people quite reasonably thought, how did Dick take on Don Draper’s identity. That I know, I’ve seen the first two seasons, saw the flashbacks in Korea and his meetings with the real Mrs. Draper.

No, the question I have is how did Dick Whitman, who in every flashback was an unsure, frightened, passive man, turn into Don Draper, Master of the Universe? Taking a man’s name is one thing, but it’s much harder to playact another whole personality. And even harder to fake extraordinary talent. That’s what I was thinking about last night–Dick Whitman took on Don Draper’s identity, but the creative talent, the salesmanship, the will…that springs from somewhere. How did the soldier who pissed his pants in Korea morph into the creative director at Sterling Cooper?

We know a little bit about Don Draper’s resume–he sold used cars (and was apparently successful) and wrote copy for a fur company (he talked about that before he made that extraordinary Kodak Carousel presentation). But there’s still some pretty big gaps in his history, and perhaps that will be explored in future episodes. While I was musing on this extremely important question I engaged the Google and came across Alan Sepinwall’s interview with Jon Hamm. If you haven’t read Sepinwall’s episode recaps of The Wire or The Sopranos block out eight hours or so and dig in. Fantastic stuff. Anyway, he asked about the Whitman/Draper character and Hamm said, “When Don’s in trouble, Dick runs”.

And that’s true, especially when it comes to having his identity revealed. When he’s escorting “Dick Whitman’s” body back from Korea he hides on the train, which is understandable because then his family would see that, like, he’s still alive. But his brother Adam sees him and never stops believing his brother is alive…right up to the point where they meet again in New York. And Don responds to this happy reunion by trying to shoo Adam off with hush money. Adam commits suicide, so no need for Don to worry about exposure from him, but Adam mails a package that’s intercepted by Pete Campbell. And after Pete tries to blackmail Don he rushes to Rachel Menken asking her to run away with him. Who wants nothing to do with it and tells Don that he’s a coward. Which he is.

That of course led to the famous showdown with Pete in Bert Cooper’s office, where Cooper, after hearing Pete’s story, utters the immortal line, “Mr. Campbell…who cares?” Which leads to another thought–who really would care if Don Draper’s past was revealed? Maybe it would damage him professionally, but talent tends to win out against petty considerations like pathological lying. Maybe it would end his marriage, but that nearly happened in Season 2 anyway and doesn’t it seem probable that Betty would forgive hiding Dick Whitman from her over excusing Don’s serial infidelities?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, hence I watch the show. I’m also now going to sit down and read through Sepinwall’s episode recounts of Mad Men, which I think will be just a bit more interesting, insightful, and nuanced than this.

As I stepped off the elevator and onto the floor of Pittsburgh’s new Rivers Casino, this is the first thought that went through my head:

“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.

I have an active imagination. Not an over-active imagination, mind you. People who describe themselves as having overactive imaginations tend to be either weird (and not often in a fascinating-weird kinda way, more a queasy-weird way) or really, really scary. Or they’re these pretentious “I’m so interesting, let’s sit down for an hour and talk about my twisted mind!” jackasses. My imagination keeps me entertained and occupied during the day, so we get along fine.

There are times, though, when that part of my brain presses down on the gas pedal a bit too hard. That usually happens at night, when I’m alone. And especially when I’m alone and about to go to sleep in a strange place. My brother is on vacation this week and I’ve been staying at his house so as to keep an eye on their dog. Sunny is a golden retriever but she’s approximately the size of an adult brown bear. My brother’s house has exposed hardwood floors, and when Sunny barks the reverbs are enough to make your lungs bleed. But she’s been a good dog, she’s been no problem, the week has moved along without incident.

Except two nights ago. My brother’s house groans and creaks like any other, except that I’m not used to this particular symphony. The stairs are especially vocal, and moreso when some fatass, (me, for example) walks on them. So I’m dozing off and from the bed I’m looking through the door to the top of the staircase. I left the light on above the steps in case I needed to go down to look in on Sunny and so, heh heh, I didn’t take a wrong turn in the dark and go a-plunging.

I’m lying in bed, looking at the stairs. The bannister. And in my mind I visualize someone walking to the top of the staircase. He’s dressed in black, he’s walking slowly. And he’s coming for me. The figure in black doesn’t look especially menacing, he isn’t carrying a scythe or some other weapon, he isn’t foaming at the mouth or weeping blood. Just a figure in black, walking up the stairs. Coming for me.

Mind you, I’m wide awake as I think this. I wasn’t dreaming. My brain decided that the best way to ease into Dreamland was to give me this potential nightmare to chew on. I’ve had nightmares like this before–dread figure dressed in black coming for me, I can’t move, hilarity ensues. Chances are we all have, it’s a pretty common theme. But, come on, let me go to sleep first! Making me think about this crap when I’m just settling in isn’t fair.

Eventually I fell asleep. And my dream was actually pretty awesome (it involved race cars). But I was torn from that dream at 4:30AM by a loud CRACK that came from downstairs. I looked through the doorway and heard the stairs creaking, groaning, straining to support the tremendous weight trundling up them. Creaking and groaning and this other sound, this HUUFFF, HUUFFF, HUFFFFFF. Heavy, labored breathing. Panting, even.

Being super-geniuses you’ve already figured out that it was Sunny the Dog walking up the stairs. And I figured it out almost instantly too. I mean, who do I know that pants like that? Sunny. Who’s in the house with me? Sunny. Who would start with the batshit barking if an intruder (even the Grim Reaper) got within five feet of the front door? Sunny. So, logically, this was Sunny coming up the stairs.

But for about a second, a whole second, the logical part of my brain was still powering up. And I was scared shitless. Didn’t quite know where I was, what was going on, if the Monster was coming to get me. The second quickly passed and that’s when Sunny’s head poked around the corner and she waddled into the room, tail a-wag. I swallowed my heart and reached over to pat her head. “You bad dog,” I cooed, “you dirty, vicious, bastard of a dog. ” She licked her chops and tilted her head so I could scratch her neck.

I let her out to do her business. The kitchen has a door at one end leading to the back yard and another door at the other end leading down to the basement. That door is hard to close, like I said it’s an older house and as the years pass the pieces don’t always fit together properly. I let Sunny outside and closed the door; when I did that, the door to the basement popped open. As if someone in the basement twisted the knob and gave a gentle push…

There’s no way to get into the basement, except through that door. Which ruled out an intruder…unless it was a Monster, in which case all bets are off. It was another of those squirmy little moments but I got a grip, no malevolent force made flesh and coming to eat my soul emerged. I shut the door, leaned my shoulder against it till I heard the click, and let Sunny back in.

Around noon I headed back to my flat, to take care of Ernie the Cat. Hard to believe that I’ve been living there for three years now, still feels like I just moved in. It felt like home from the get-go, I’ve never had an uneasy night sleeping there, never felt spooked even once. I’m surrounded by law-abiding neighbors, it’s a quiet area, no worries. I fed Ernie and decided to take a much-needed shower. I was scraping off the grime when I heard a loud THUD from the other side of the wall. Followed by the sound of little cat feet running down the hallway. “Uh, WTF was that?” I wondered, as there’s nothing in my bedroom that would make a THUD sound. A CRASH, yes. A FLUMP, sure. But a THUD? That would send Ernie scampering?

I stuck my head out the door…nothing. No marauding intruder, no corpse on the floor. I looked around the room to see what might’ve caused the noise…and saw my small yet heavy fan lying on the floor. OK, Ernie knocked it over, but how? It was atop my dresser, which was stacked with laundry. Ernie couldn’t get up there, unless…

He came bounding into the room, chasing something. Something fluttering through the air. A moth. A moth got into my apartment and his hunter’s instincts took over. He must’ve jumped up on my dresser, bumped the fan before he also fell off, then chased the moth down the hall.

So, to sum up, in about an eight-hour period I was spooked by:

• A golden retriever who had to pee
• A sticky door
• A moth

Not my proudest moments. But it’s not like I spent the rest of the day cowering under the bed or feverishly fanning myself while sipping laudanum. Hey, it’s been kinda quiet in the three (three? already?) weeks since I got back from the endless stiumlation of Las Vegas. An unexpected jigger of adrenaline was a welcome change of pace. I did sleep with the hall light on last night. I check the basement door every time I walk past it. Bought a fly-swatter, too. A guy can only take so much excitement.

Look, I have nothing against kids. Really. I don’t even mind when they act like…kids. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls, to bastardize the Kinks. That said, yesterday I went to an afternoon ballgame and spent nearly the entire time hunched in my seat with a sour look on my face. All summer in Vegas I was looking forward to the day when I could mosey dahntahn and take in a Pirate game. Bring the camera along, have a few beers, eat a Primantis sammich, soak up some non-blistering rays. And since yesterday was the only weekday matinee the Bucs have until September I headed down to the North Shore looking forward to a relaxing summer afternoon.

It was nothing of the sort. First of all, the roads around PNC Park were jammed. With people going to the game. “WTF?” I said as I inched my silver steed toward the parking garage, which was the only place I felt confident of getting a space. I was following some (deleted) with Ohio plates who kept choosing the wrong lane and then cutting me off to get back in the proper line. “You scurvy BASTARD!” I shouted as he nosed in front of me at the garage entrance. “Death to you and all your kind!!” I usually don’t get road rage but for some reason my temper was already frayed. The jackass pulled in, I let a car coming from the opposite lane take his turn and pull in…and then two dippy women in an SUV cut me off and pulled in too. There are three things to mention about what happened next:

• I let loose with a towering stream of profanity that would’ve made Artie Lange stand and applaud
• I did so with my driver and passenger windows wide open (sunroof too)
• I did so with a City of Pittsburgh police officer standing on the sidewalk five feet away.

Oh, and did I mention that those sidewalks were crowded, mostly with children? I guess mores have changed because the cop didn’t ticket me for creating a public disturbance. Instead he he frowned and shook his head at me. As if to say, “That was uncalled for. Really.”

My trial wasn’t over once I paid the exhorbitent fee and actually got in the garage–I had to follow those two…women…to the top of the garage because it was nearly filled up. Ten stories and they drove about 3MPH, looking for that great spot that didn’t exist. They make you turn around these cones to create two wide lanes in the garage and the driver had a heck of time steering her tank around them. “DON’T BUY THE GODDAM TRUCK IF YOU CAN’T DRIVE THE GODDAM TRUCK!!” I screamed, pleased that my rage had fallen to a more acceptible temperature. We finally reached the roof, I parked, and ran down ten concrete flights to the street.

Which was swarming with kids. Groups of kids. Groups of kids in brightly-colored T-shirts. OK, school’s out, it figured there would be more children around than a game in September. Still, this seemed…organized. And it was really crowded. I went up to my usual ticket window and the line was 100-deep. I ended up walking all the way around the the left-field entrance and picking up my general-admission ticket there, after a teeth-grinding ten-minute wait.

Once inside the park I wandered back around to the right-field upper deck, a good spot to get some shots of the city. But the day was overcast and gloomy, not great for picture-taking. No matter–I’d drink and eat until my mood (and hopefully the sky) improved! I got a Primanti’s cheesesteak and a Bud and found an unpopulated section to enjoy my lunch. But this was not to be. First of all, my beer had a decidedly cardboardy aftertaste, as if it’d been stored in a paper milk carton instead of a keg. Second, my Primanti’s was the worst I’d ever had. They put the slaw on the bottom, then the fries and meat on top. So the bottom slice of bread was a soggy, gooey mess within seconds. And the tomato they used (which I’d forgotten to tell them to exclude) was a red, runny mess…it looked like bloody snot. It WASN’T, I hasten to add, but when you’re about to eat lunch that isn’t the most appetizing thought to have running through your mind.

I sat in my seat, frowning, sweating (it was humid), and watching Ryan Braun smack a Paul Maholm pitch over the left field wall. I took some meh pictures and decided that I’d try to find a different vantage point behind home plate. Usually when I go to afternoon games I wander around, from the upper deck to the pricier seats below. The park is usually 2/3 empty, and after the 4th inning or so the ushers could care less if you sit down front. They’re happy to have some company, I think.

But that wasn’t the case yesterday. It wasn’t a sellout, far from it, but the good seats were taken. I wandered around the concourse and heard a huge roar and the bang of fireworks. Andrew McCutchen had just hit a home run and I missed it. “Crap!” I said as I watched the replay on the scoreboard, and then I resumed my search for a perch.

About a minute later there was another roar and more fireworks. I raced over and saw Garrett Jones jogging back to the dugout after hitting a home run of his own. “Excrement!” I snarled. The most excitement the Bucs have had in 5 years or so, I’m in the park, and I miss it. I turned on my heel and continued on my way.

Cheers. Fireworks. “Bull-SHIT!!” I screamed and ran to the rail. Ryan Doumit had just hit ANOTHER home run. Three homers in four batters. I shook my fist at the heavens and said, “Are you SHITTING ME??” Doumit actually didn’t cross home plate right away, as the umps ruled that the ball hadn’t cleared the Clemente Wall. Turns out it had, the Bucs challenged and instant replay confirmed, and Doumit finished rounding the bases as I settled into my new seat along the third base line. My mood was darker than the Pirates playoff hopes. It was the third inning, the Bucs were leading 5-2, and I was thinking about leaving. Take me out to the ballgame?

I took a deep breath, a couple of pictures…and then I decided to change seats again. I did this because I was bracketed by about 500 extremely annoying kids. Now, I’m not talking about kids enjoying a day at the ballyard, with cotton candy and Cracker Jacks. I’m talking about kids who were climbing over the empty rows of seats to see who could reach the top of the stadium first. Who were endlessly backtalking the “adults” who were “supervising” them. It was that constant background noise that had me heading to the concession stand for another beer (a Yuengling this time, which also tasted cardboardy) and back to my original seat.

It was about this time that I heard over the PA that this was “Day Campers Day” at PNC Park. Ah, so that explained all the kids wearing matching T-shirts. Today was an outing for all those kids whose parents shunt them off to the backwoods to give their sanity a chance to recover. Let me say this about that–if you send your kids to camp, and you think that your child, with 30 others, is being “chaperoned” by two teenagers who spend most of their time flirting with each other, good luck to you. I saw one coven of hyperactive children who I wouldn’t tackle without the aid of the 82nd Airborne–their shephards were an octogenarian and a girl who looked 14. I crossed myself and fairly jogged back to my original, isolated seat.

The score was 5-2 and Maholm gave up a one-out single. “Let’s see how he blows this lead,” I texted my brother. Maholm duly walked the next two batters and gave up a bases-clearing double to Braun. In fact, here’s a pic of Maholm serving that up:

You’d think this sort of meltdown might get the attention of the manager, but no. With the fans booing (God knows I was) Maholm gave up a two-run dinger that put Milwaukee back in the lead. Pirate manager John Russell finally woke up or put down his knitting or whatever the hell he does during the games and took Maholm out. There was more booing, louder, but no one threw debris on the field or anything that was called for like that.

Someone named “Joel Hanrahan” came in and got the last two outs of the inning. I eased back in my chair and watched the most exciting part of any Bucco game–the pirogi race! Halapeno Hanna (sp, I know) beat out Saurkraut Saul at the end. Wonder how much money changes hands during the pirogi race. Fans gotta have some prop bets to hold their interest.

But then something weird happened–the Pirates rallied to tie the score. And something beyond weird happened–Andy LaRoche had a clutch two-out hit to score a run, and later scored they tying run himself. Perhaps you have to be a Pirate fan to understand, but “Andy LaRoche had a clutch hit” is a sentence almost as strange as “Sasquatch rode a unicorn to Atlantis”. I know, pics or it didn’t happen, so here is a shot of LaRoche (his brother Adam was traded yesterday so there’s no need to use the first name) getting a clean hit:

But after Ramon Vasquez doubled LaRoche in, Russell inexplicably let Hanrahan hit with two outs. Two outs, a man on second, and you let a newly-acquired relief pitcher with an ERA above 7.00 hit for himself. “WTF!!” I screamed. “W.T.F.!! The guy bats twice a year! You have a runner in scoring position!! Pinch-hit, you colossal asshole!!!!” But the Pirate manager, perhaps having a lie-down after the exertion of yanking Maholm three hitters too late, let Hanrahan bat (he did get good wood on the ball, lining out to right). I rubbed my temples for a few seconds and saw that my beer was empty.

And that did it for me. Well, that and the huge group of 8-year-olds sitting one section over who were shrieking, and I do mean shrieking, almost constantly. There was one girl among them, I have to tip my hat, she had a scream that was something out of a nightmare. High-pitched, high-decible, and she could sustain. She would scream and everyone would look at her and laugh, because it was hard to believe such a tiny girl could produce a noise louder and more piercing than an F-18 launching from an aircraft carrier.

Not that I heard her for long. Because I bailed. A 7-7  tie in the eighth inning and I left. I didn’t care who won–I wanted to get out of there. The kids, the heat, the lousy beer. John Russell. I didn’t want to get caught in the post-game traffic and there was one more thing I wanted to see before I headed home.

I used to work on the North Shore and I walked past my old building and felt that familiar nostalgic twang. Hard to believe that I left the company more than three years ago (be fair, the company left me). But I pressed on, past Heinz Field, past the Science Center. I wanted to see the almost-ready Rivers Casino, due to open on August 9th. You might think it odd, considering that I spend about two months out of the year in Las Vegas, that I’d never once seen the casino as it was going up. I literally had no idea what it looked like, how big it is, heck, even it’s precise location. I’ve read about it in the paper, of course, and I started to get a picture of it in my head. When it was first proposed I thought that it would be this little joint, like maybe the size of a Cheesecake Factory or something. Nope. I read about how many slot machines the place would hold and all the restaurants and bars and whatnot and, hey, it’s gonna be a fairly substantial place. This is as close as I could get to it:

A bit narrow but it should give you some idea of the size of the place. It is extremely weird to think that there’s going to be a casino in Pittsburgh. That I can, if I want, drive 20 minutes and be playing video poker in a casino. Very strange. And this is just the start, of course–there’s already been talk of introducing table games here (inevitable) and allowing video poker machines in bars (uhh, that could be bad for me). I think people should be allowed to spend their money as they see fit, but after spending two months in casinos I must confess to feeling a bit uneasy about having one here at home. Maybe that’ll change when I visit on August 9th (I’ll be there as soon as it opens, for professional reasons, of course) but it does seem a bit surreal to see a casino plopped down there.

After satisfying my curiousity I turned on my heel and headed for my car. And off in the distance I heard…fireworks. Lots of fireworks. Turns out that Brandon Moss hit a game-winning walk-off home run in the ninth. The Bucs hit five home runs and I didn’t see four of them. I’m not sure what this says about the Pirates or about me. I’m as insane a sports fan as you’ll find–ask Al and Jen about watching Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals with me. I’m a mean, vicious, uncharitable, gloating bastard, and I’m proud of that. But with the Pirates…ehh. They play 162 games a year, can’t get too excited about any particular one. And the Pirates haven’t played a truly meaningful game since Barry Bonds failed to throw out Sid Bream at home back in 1992. I probably can’t name 20 players on the major-league roster (harder than it sounds with all the trades of late). But I still go to three or four games a year. The team stinks, has stunk for nearly two decades, but people keep coming to the games ’cause the park is gorgeous and it’s nice way to spend a summer day. Next time I gotta pick a game without the campers.

This is the second time I’ve come home from seven weeks in the desert to sweet, summer rain:

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.

When last we left our hero (that’s me) I was bitching about having to stay out till the wee hours partying in Vegas. Woe is me! But though it’s fun to run amok, after 12 hours in the Rio sometimes all you want is a cold beer and some relaxed conversation. That’s the always the best part of my time here at the World Series, hanging out with my friends and talking about anything and nothing.

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.

Crazy day at the World Series of Poker, one of the craziest any of us have ever seen. Today was the last day to play in the Main Event–they divide the opening into four starting days, you could’ve played on Friday, Saturday, Sunday or today. Friday and Saturday turnout was light, “only” 1,989 players in total turned out for those two days. Yesterday 1,696 players invaded the Rio, really the first day that there was enough noise and chaos and lunacy for it to feel like that Main Event.

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.

I’m not a club guy. It’s not my scene. Some people come to Vegas and spend the entire time waiting in line outside the trendiest hotspots on the Strip so they can dance the night away. Not my thing. First of all, I dance like Frankenstein after a double hip replacement. For me to get down/get funky I gotta be totally wasted. Totally. And while that’s fun and all, it also means that I’ll be blowing chunks all the next day. Not good when I know I gotta get to the Rio by 11AM to lock up my seat and get to work.

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.

I’d like to think that SOMEDAY soon I’ll be able to write a post where my ill health isn’t the lead subject, but that day hasn’t yet arrived. After beating down my bronchitis a week ago it came back with a vengeance on Thursday. That’s the day I decided to take as my first day off, and instead of playing poker or swanning about Bellagio or whatever I spent 90% of it in my room feeling awful. I went to work yesterday and could not stop coughing. The general consensus on media row was, “Gene, go see a doctor”. And for once I decided to take good advice when it was offered and went to a clinic just down the street from MGM. Was in and out within an hour, with a beefed-up prescription and apparently lungs free of serious congestion. Feel better today, though I still have the occasional coughing jag.

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.

OK, I didn’t get to touch the Stanley Cup, or get my picture taken with it, or drink a Sam Adams out of it. But I got some pics and I wrote up a post at the UB blog that I’m gonna repost here, because I really don’t feel like writing another post about last night.

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.