I’m heartened to know that Nick Denton took my advice and hired Boy Genius to write for that comment-less blogroll-less Oddjack site.

Where’s my finder’s fee anyway, mother-scratchers? The very least you bastards could do is buy a freaking blog-ad.

I don’t care if you’re sick of poker talk. Mucho congratulations to Pauly for his fine work:

Yep, don’t forget that it’s a three man operation here for us… the Poker Prof from Lasvegasvegas.com is back in his bunker in an undisclosed location in the desert where he’s writing code and Flipchip is fighting through the crowd snapping photos and I’m in the trenches in media row making prop bets, uploading photos, writing freelance bits (for Fox Sports & Poker Player Newspaper), moderating my comments section and of course… live blogging. I would love to have a team of workers flodding the floor like Poker Wire, CP, Gutshot, and other organizations… but it’s just me, Flipchip, and Poker Prof. And from the feedback I’m getting, it seems like we’ve done just as well if not better than the big boys. So all the problems we’ve encountered makes it all worth while.

Amen, my brother. Pauly is the only place I’ve checked with any kind of regularity. Why bother with anything else? I’ve got chip counts, table assignments, the hooker bar, the Redneck Riviera. No question that they’ve outdone the competition. Great work, McGrupp, and same for the Joes…a superb team*, no question.

* Can they hold it together for 2006, or will egos get in the way? heh heh

From the good doctor:

1. Aaron Kanter $10.7M
2. Tex Barch $9.33M
3. Andrew Black $8.14M
4. Mike Matusow $7.41M
5. Steve Dannenmann $5.46M
6. Joseph Hachem $5.42M
7. Daniel Bergsdorf $5.27M
8. Scott Lazar $3.37M
9. Brad Kondracki $1.18M

The final table was set at 3:04am this morning. That’s pretty much twelve straight hours of intense pokering. When I sometimes daydream about being a professional poker player, all I have to do to get right back to earth is think of that kind of day. I can’t sit for twelve hours, much less think. Much less think hard and make enough good decisions to be in line for a million-dollar payday.

So, this Tex Barch dude is from McKinney, TX? I wonder if he picked up the moniker this weekend. I wonder if I ever sat next to him. I don’t get to that many live games in town, so it’s unlikely. It would be nice if native Texan poker blogger & journalist DanM would get on the job. He says he is, but, um, well, DanM has a habit of getting distracted.

Regardless, I know who I’m pulling for. Cards in the air at 4pm today at the Horsehoe…still time to get out there…wanna go bad…but I’m a responsible adult…dammitt.

The Big Randy is out of the WSOP, in 178th place.

A very extraordinary run, and I’m very happy for him. That surely doesn’t mean much, but just damn. Amazing. Clean strong congratulations to TBR from TFG.

Dr. Pauly gets front-page treatment on Fox Sports.

I can say I knew him when.

Fox Sports picks up “our own” Dr. Pauly.

Indeed, the first two weeks of the 2005 World Series of Poker have been complete insanity. Players, tourists, and media types from all over the world have converged on the Rio Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada to witness the largest and most prestigious poker tournament in the world. For six weeks the Rio is poker’s version of Mecca. There are 45 major tournaments being held with the infamous $10,000 buy-in No Limit main event scheduled to start on July 7th. The fast-paced gambling action will be non-stop at the Rio and running twenty-four hours a day with cash games featuring celebrities, Las Vegas sharks, and satellites filled with plenty of “dead money” players from all walks of life.

Congrats on the big time, McGrupp…

Ace of Spades:

Had a great run last night. I’d built $200 to $450, and then lost all of my winnings (and then some) over a period of three or four bad days.

Last night I tried something new, and went from around $160 to $701 (yeahp, seven-oh-one; I wouldn’t stop until I’d cleared the seven hundred dollar mark) in the best tear of my life.

He’s even shilling a Sklansky book. Anyone want to post on over/under on the appearance of the first bad beat hand history?

Party Poker sez, “All your base are belong to us.” BONUS CODE: IGGY!

“I sucked out on him in a big pot. I’m embarassed,” TJ said to his wife on his cell phone a minute after he won.

Yay, old dudes!

More good backstory from FlipChip, too…

Two masters, exchanging tips

Thanks to Dr. Pauly, I know that my hero and virtual mentor, TJ Cloutier, is at the final table of the $5K NL event out at the WSOP. Play resumes in an hour and a half. I hope he kicks some young punk* boo-tay, and rides that to a Main Event win. He’s due, and he deserves it.

And if any of you jacklegs want to get me an autographed (”To The Fat Guy”) copy of his book, I’ll PayPal ye.

* Us old guys mature gentlemen gotta stick together.

I almost look like a real poker player here.

…from Dr. Pauly, Maniac. Damn good stuff for poker-heads.

I love that krazee NYC dude…

That’s me, being critical of myself. If I could write gooder, it would be different. But, I can’t, so it ain’t, so here we go with a wrap-up of my little trip to Sin City:

- Saturday night, after a little nappipoo, I went over to what Felicia called the loosest games downtown, the Golden Nugget. She was right. Loose, loose, loose. I got a seat at a 4/8 table (highest limit ever for TFG) that was rocking with April and her pal John. I won about $100 on the first hand with nothing stronger than top two pair. The dude calling me had middle two pair. Looking crosswise at the board, it was possible he had a straight, but it would have taken calling raises and re-raises with utter trash, and since I was half-drunk, I wasn’t about to believe that. I stayed at that table until I’d doubled up, and making excuses about being old and decrepit, ratholed that sucker right quick. Yes, April, I lied…I just wanted to walk away a winner for once. Can’t fault me for that, can you? Played some idiotic black-jack for a while at the Plaza. Couldn’t get up any interest in playing Splinter in your Thumb or the rest of the mixed games that the bloggers were firing at with both barrels. MIght have played some more losing craps, too. I hate craps. Went to bed…smart boy.

- Sunday was the ridiculous Z-Tejas fiasco. Hooked up with Pokerati Dan for about a two-hour convo about pokery web hippy stuff, and the fantastic opportunity he has of being out here for at least the first three weeks of the WSOP. Dan’s a very smart boy, and has been more than kind to a random fat guy in helping me find Dallas poker action. I really enjoyed that Dos XX lager-fest with Dan. Odd that it takes being 800 miles away from home for it to happen, but there ya go. Dan is doing good work on reporting the next 21 days of poker lunacy, so make sure that you keep up.

- When I got back to the Plaza, I walked over and tried to play some more poker at the Golden Nugget, but my brain was futzed, and I sucked. I did get my first blogger-free table, though. Maybe that’s the problem — you people respect me too much. I swear that I didn’t get any respect from these schmoes. I could go on about the unfilled four-flushes that I rammed and jammed, but eh…what’s new?

- Back to the Plaza where I did who knows what. I was at the edge of coherence just from the sheer excess of that desert town. I’m a country boy, and all that hoopla wears on me pretty quick. I tried my hand at one of those crusty Vegas regular NL games at the Plaza and had to suffer through the inane conversations, bitching about bet sizes and hand movements, and just in general ass-whipping. I cashed in, walked over to the bar, and sat with Rini, Grubby, Iggy, and just drank and talked until I was ready to climb on the elevator and crash. The conversation with the Grub was fascinating…what a cool guy. I admire him a lot, and wish him success in chasing his dream.

So, that’s that. I’ve already blogged the trip home. Glad to have gone, but certainly glad to be back. Haven’t bet a nickel since leaving, either. I’m kind of waiting for the excess to recede, I think. Of course, life just jams you. I just honestly can’t say enough about how unreal it is to get together with 70 people and not find a single disagreeable person, too. That’s simply unheard of, especially with a thin-skinned cranky old coot like me. But that’s the way it happened. May it ever be thus.

When’s the next one???

Friday after 8:30am was naught but sweet slumber. Woke up around 2pm, did some emails, some phone calls, ate a decent greasy breakfast over at the Golden Gate cafe, then went straight back to bed for more sweet slumber. In a normal poker-blogger, this would mean that life is grand for another sunrise service at the 2/4 table. Not so me. I ambled over to the Border’s for a new book and the In-and-Out for the greatest cheeseburger in the West (I still regret not having another before I left). Then it was on to…

…The Excalibur, and the Storming thereof. I was a very poor stormer — my knighthood was revoked. I got immediately on the list for NL, which took about an hour to get a seat. I bought in for $200, then proceeded to fold away small blinds, big blinds, min raises, 3-4x raises, everything. Never saw a hand to showdown in 2 hours. I finally got disgusted with myself and my crappy play, and am-scrayed with $140 of that initial $200. Went back to the Palace, grabbed a super-jumbo iced tea from the McD in the lobby, and hermitted with my book for the rest of the day and night. And unfortunately, all of that rest was just totally wasted for the next day’s…

WPBT Event at the Aladdin. About the best thing I can say about this tournament is that I was instrumental in Bill Rini’s win. That’s right, without me, it might not have happened. I, The Fat Guy, gave Big Bill a ride from the Plaza over to the Aladdin. See, I have my uses.

The tournament part of the day was fairly sucky. I get pretty pissed at these poker rooms who are more than happy to take our buy-ins, the bonus add-ons, the “voluntary” dealer tokes, the rake from the ring games played after we bust out, yet have no compunction giving us crap-shoot blind structures. I mean this in no way to reflect on CJ, who pulled the tournament itself together. That part of it came off without a hitch, and I’m deeply appreciative for what he did. Lemme tell ya, there is no way I’d put up with 60 individuals asking me questions, ignoring instructions, and generally doing their own thing. Patience of a saint. To top it off, once I realized what the situation was, I wanted a damn drink, and it took 30 minutes for the waitress to bring it to me. I was half-steaming.

Now, at the table, of course, I have the eventual winner (Rini) to my left, Easycure to my right, blank seat, on around to The Rooster, and lord knows who else. I play a crappy game of tournament poker, with one or two blind wins, and I think I pushed someone off a pot with a big bet where I would have had a winner, since I was only playing my cards. The only interesting part of the tournament for me was when the blank seat was filled by none other than Pokerati Dan, fresh in off of a night of playing local N. LV casinos. Dan figured prominently in my one memorable hand. Flopped a boat, and couldn’t induce him to go all-in, so I probably played it wrong on all streets. Still, it was just enough to last a few more levels, and I went out on something dumb, I’m sure. I forget. Doesn’t matter.

Following the tourney, of course, were cocktails at the bar playing video poker. This was the best part of the day. I talked to The Rooster forever, it seems. He had to have been just dying for me to shut up, so he could go hang with his own age group, but it was really cool shooting the breeze with the son of a chicken farmer all grown to be an international law big wig. I also bent the ear of Joe, Sr. for a little bit about all the WSOPs that he’s seen. I encouraged him to somehow, someway get his 30 years of WSOP pictures copyrighted, copied, and online for the world to enjoy. Al, of course, was ever the sweet boy and buying me St. Pauli’s Darks, and I was smoking a good cigar, so it was grand. Just the way it should be.

So, then on Saturday comes the LaSalsa Cantina. Which featured many drunken bloggers, sober bloggers, tourists doing karaoke, and lest we all be disappointed…a freaking Elvis impersonator. So cheeseball…very, very cheeseball. But the margs were good, the company was superb, the frivolity level was high. I think that, at some point, everybody there had to have stepped back into themselves, taken a look at what was happening, and said “How?” I still don’t know, but it was just great. It was at this point that the loverly Eva wound up with my hat, and I never saw it again. That’s fine…it looks better on her than it does on me.

Next up…my brave foray into the Golden Nugget and Plaza poker rooms. But before I go, I want to reiterate how much I appreciate CJ’s work on the tournament. I couldn’t do it, and I bet you couldn’t, either.

My Thursday was a wackadoo dealio just getting to LW. Hadda fly to Houston, then get on a non-stop to Vegas, which was no prob since it was a free flight. Once I got there and got my large rental vehicle, I proceeded apace to the Plaza to get my room. Check-in was the usual ass-whip, with some nice lady typing for what seemed like hours before I got my key. I tried the Pauly-recommended $20 tip, and landed a half-decent suite with a king-size bed, a work table, and a couple of couches. However, the room had the oldest window-unit air conditioner in the desert west. Which turned out not to be so bad, since the roar from it drowned out the sounds of the freight yard 20 yards to the west and the idling Greyhound buses 10 yards to the south.

After unpacking, and checking email, I headed out to the Fremont St. dealio. Now, I’m glad that LW has gotten some action cracking downtown again, I guess. Probably good for the city and all, but my gosh, the people populating it were fairly spooky. Never have I seen so many motorized scooters with giant people on them, so many walkers with center-pull hand-brakes, so many crutches and normal wheelchairs and canes. It’s like Fremont St. is the Lourdes of Nevada. I half-expected abandoned mechanical conveyances with people dancing jigs around them, shouting about how they can walk again.

Literally two minutes after wandering into the freak show of Fremont, I ran into a group that included Maudie, Felicia, Human Head (mit frau), BIll Rini, Joe Speaker, and others. I was eager to drink beers and walk around soaking up the misery, so I snagged Fel and walked down to the Western to see the cement floors she had talked about. Which, of course, the cement floors had been covered with wood, and there was no poker room, so ultimately, it was kind of a waste of time, except I got to stretch my legs a little. Felicia was inordinately interested in pointing out the working girls for some reason. I didn’t notice that many, but I figured it was early still. NB: I never made it past the Four Queens for the rest of the weekend, thank heavens.

I took my leave to go take a little nappipoo, having been up since 4:30am LW time. I got a few logs sawed, but not enough, really. I was planning to hit the bait & choir shindig set up by Felicia, but when I got out on the street in the car, I found that I’d left the directions I’d painstakingly copied down to an easy-to-carry 3×5 index card in the room. I thought that I could find it anyway, but that was another total wash. No luck, and no printed out sheet with phone numbers to call. I was hosed, and about ready to pull into an In-And-Out Burger for a fine hamburger experience.

Fortunately, though, Grubby saved me. He called and said to meet at the Caesar’s Palace Mesa Grille for dinner with a few others. I felt sure I could find Caesar’s, and once there, the Mesa. The Mesa, of course, is a very foo-foo hip&trendy joint run by that Bobby Flay character from FoodTV. I am not a foodie, so I could care less about cranberry-infused duck cheese burritos, but I have to say, they poured a decent margarita and the steak was, well, steak-house steak. Nothing to really write home about, but certainly adequate for a state not known for their beeves. The company was great, though, with Maudie, Iggy, Grubby, Hank, and Helixx. This was probably the last dinner I had that didn’t come wrapped in wax paper or cardboard, so hey! Thanks, Grub, for thinking of me, my young playwright friend. I also can’t say enough about the joy of sitting around, drinking margaritas, and shooting the breeze with a bunch of really nice folks. That’s what it’s all about, to me. Thankfully, much more of that was to come all weekend long.

From that point forward, though, it becomes a bit of a blur. After dinner, we hopped into the LeSabre for a quick run down the strip to the MGM Grande for the big blogger private-room mix game. Which is where I met about 10MM poker blogging peeps. Too many, too fast, too loud, and too lively. I was getting seriously weighed down by the steak and the margs and the subsequent beers to be of any use at a poker table or in a conversation. I felt like I was made of lead, and surrounded by shiny blobs of mercury. The ones that truly stound out through the fog were Chris Halverson, Professional Poker Player; Dr. Pauly McGrupp and his younger brother Derek, Big Al (really me, time-warped forward from the 80s) and the loverly Eva, Austin April, some wacko named Matt who was clearly on a crystal meth IV drip, the famous Boy Genius from Gambling Blues, and…well, Christ, so damn many others that I feel like a fool for not remembering who all. Otis, CJ, hell, who else? I mainly remember slamming Anchor Steam after Anchor Steam, getting pulled into playing freaking Omaha Hi-Lo, Razz, and probably Soap in Your Eye, too. I finally just peeled off, shambled to the car, and navigated back to the Plaza.

Where I could not fall asleep. I was in that ridiculous tiredness zone where it doesn’t freaking matter. So, I sat down to play idiot blackjack. 45 minutes later, natch, here comes the entire downtown crew swaggering through the astroturfed casino of the Plaza, just looking for trouble. They found me, and they found trouble — they convinced the poker room manager to open up a 2/4 NLHE table just for us. This proved to the scene of my greatest victory of the week, where a set of 4s took down pocket fours from Heather for the biggest pot I’ve ever played. She was understandably steamed. What can I say, sugar? It were 8am, I’d been up for 28 straight hours, and I failed to catch the signifigance of your pre-flop raise. I can only say that if the table hadn’t been begging for any kind of action by playing live straddles for nine straight hands, I might have folded those things to your raise. But when you want action, and you get action, particularly from the least likely place at the table (who’s been moaning about the straddles), you might want to think twice about calling his all-in. Just saying.

This was also the table where I learned that young Ignatious could be a real prick when he wants to be. For some reason, the man went on an insult tear and ended up tilting the dealer, of all people. Suffice to say, I didn’t get it AT ALL, and it made me uncomfortable, and that’s a tough thing to do. I’m chalking it up to too much grog (either on his part, or my part for my uber-sensitivity), but I never want to sit through that kind of thing again.

Cashed out, went to the room, pulled the black-out drapes, turned on the 777 jet engine AC, and passed out for the next 5 hours. Thus ended the longest day of my life for the last five or ten years. The rest of the weekend was no match for that first day from the standpoint of foolhardiness. And I’m happy with that, considering that I am still exhausted, my young friends.

UPDATE: Read G-Rob’s account of the Friday Morning at the Plaza game. Much better than my pathetic maunderings:

“Last night we let a lot of things slide because you and your friends all had one table,” he said, “but tonight you’ll have to tone it down”

Dear Lord…warned off by the Plaza. As one of those Marx brothers (or was it Dean Martin?) said, “I’ll have you know that I’ve been thrown out of much finer places than this.”

I got bumped from my flight to Chicago. Now I get into that fine city 2½ hours later than planned.

Which means no dinner meeting.
Which means getting up early to nail down the last particulars outstanding and rehearsing the pitch.
Which means killing time here in the fabuloso Lost Wages airport.
Which means two hours here at the Gordon Biersch drinking $8 beers and eating $9 sammiches.
Which means my nice clothes are crammed into my over-stuffed suitcase for two extra hours and the creases get permanent.
Which means I get a $300 travel certificate from American that I will never use because I have 14,000,000,000 miles on American and could spend the rest of my life flying for free, but my wife hates flying.

I’ll certainly do a trip report, but for now, just know that nothing succeeds like excess. My liver hurts just from watching the young bucks and does pound the various spirits like Prohibition starts tomorrow. My bohunkus hurts just from thinking about all of the poker played by the young bucks and does, who have no apparent problem iron-assing it at the limit ring games.

But, I’ve got not a single regret about making the moves necessary to get here. Meeting the people behind the blogs and all of the attendant conversations made the weekend a roaring success…even if I am coming home the same way I left — a lifetime loser at the game of poker.