A week of effed-up comments database BS. My main,er, only feedback mechanism is hosed. So, see yall somewhere.

After packing up the dumb booth, walking back to the Flamingo from the convention center, changing out of the monkey suit, and decompressing with some video poker (-$100) at the bar, and some really heinous blackjack (-$175), I finally got a seat at a $1/$2 NLHE table for some serious long-term pokering. It was your standard-issue Las Vegas Friday night crowd — one or two local rocks, three or four touristy calling stations, and an ever-changing cast of standard-issue 25-35yo d-bags with the shaved heads and French-cuff shirts, trying out the latest moves they’d seen on a poker show last week. In other words, a classic table for some medium-variance, tight-aggressive, low-limit play. With a free night ahead of me, I hunkered down, drank a lot of Michelob Ultra (so much that I kept knocking my chair over when I stood up to go wee-wee), rammed-and-jammed the right hands, and not only made up the losses from the stupid games I idiotically played (bj, videopoker) but came out a couple of Benjamins ahead. I even had the distinct, emotionally-immature pleasure of felting one particularly stupid 30-something not once, but twice. Thus leading to his ejection from the room for calling me every name in the book, loudly & profanely, as I smiled and stacked his chips for the second time. He particularly didn’t like my shirt, which was of the Hawaiian variety. All I want to know is, Who doesn’t like Hawaiian shirts? His gambling buddy did apologize for him, though, so that was nice.

The hard part was doing the one-eyed stagger to the room after about 400 Michelob Ultras — I don’t do that much any more in Vegas, as I am ancienter than dirt, but [rationalize] I was doing some serious de-stressing after the show [/rationalize]. I took two stabs at the elevator buttons to get the right floor. Harder yet was waking up to an alarm four hours later so I could check out and go to the airport. I’m only now feeling human again, 24+ hours later, after rehydrating with a couple of gallons of brewed iced tea and a Tex-Mex #1 plate drenched in green sauce.

Oh, yeah — I also finally got a player’s card. I don’t understand how those things work, really, but I hear you can get some good room deals just from agreeing to throw away all their junk mail. I don’t know if the Flamingo or any other Harrah’s property is all that wondrous, but hey! A cheap room is a cheap room is a cheap room, if it’s in the right location. Right?