Author: Wil

Note: Part two is here.

I sat down at the table which was closest to me, which was . . . well, it would be cool if it was nineteen, since I’ve been reading Song of Susannah, but I’m pretty sure it was fifteen.
“Would you like me to get you some chips?” My helpful new friend asked.
“That’d be great,” I said, and handed him some cash as I sat down in Seat One of table fifteen.
“Two hundred behind,” he said to the dealer as he walked back to the cashier.
“Would you like to play this hand?” the dealer said.
I would be in the small blind, not exactly where I’d like to start. “I’ll wait for the button.”
The dealer mixed the cards around, and I noticed that the felt was the freshest, cleanest, and nicest upon which I’ve ever played. It’s one of those details that I never would have noticed before I thought of myself as a Capital-“W” Writer, and I’m glad I noticed it.
“No matter what happens during this session, I have a cool image to record and put down. I like that.”
The dealer finished mixing the cards, shuffled them up, and dealt them out to my new enemies. Er, opponents, I mean. Yeah, opponents:
Seat Two: Smells like booze, is drinking a margarita. Can’t be older than 22, wears the Moneymaker cap and sunglasses.
Seat Three: Older man, wrinkles up his face like he’s constantly smelling something pungent. Seems to be hanging on in not-so-quiet desperation.
Seat Four: Moneymaker’s friend, who is the obligatory drunk guy. I think they’re in town for a bachelor party.
Seat Five: Mr. Not-So-Ironic-Trucker Hat. Based on the stained mustache, heavily lined face, and greyish skin, this guy will be getting up to smoke more often than I’m opening hands.
Seat Six: Late 50s, wears a collared shirt with a Ralph Marlin Cubs novelty tie, and keeps telling his foot-tapping, watch-checking wife “Just one more hand.” Wears a watch with Sammy Sosa on it. I think I’ll call him Chicago.
Seat Seven: Sir Not Sitting At This Table. A nice stack of chips, though.
Seat Eight: The Tokyo Hipster. His Rocker Mullet has “Super Gangster!” written all over it.
Tom returns with my chips. I thank him, and tip him five bucks. I don’t know if it’s too much, or not enough, but he takes it with a smile, and wishes me luck.
I look at rags for several hands, and even though I’m not involved, I watch the other players carefully. When I played on WPT’s Hollywood Home Game, I asked Daniel for some advice that would help my game, based on what he saw. He told me to watch for betting patterns, because most low-limit players don’t know enough to mix it up . . . so that’s what I do. They all pay to see the flop, but they check when a scare card falls. Each time someone bets, he’s either holding an ace, or paired his hand. The strange thing is, just about everyone is a calling station. It’s not quite the no-fold’em games I’m used to at Commerce, but just about everyone plays to fifth street without regard to pot odds.
“This is a loose-passive game, and I’m going to have to choose my starting cards carefully, and play the best tight-aggressive game I’ve ever played if I expect to leave here ahead.”
When I finally do open, I’m two seats ahead of the button. My first peek shows a nice bullet: the Ace of Hearts. My second peek shows me an positively beautiful bullet: the Ace of Clubs.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Rockets when there’s real money on the line. A rush shoots through my veins and ripples out across my skin. I can feel my scalp tighten up as goose bumps form down my arms and legs. I hope nobody notices the flush I can feel burning up my chest and face.
I hear Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice in my head, slightly louder than the Catherine Wheel song playing on my iPod: “You raise for two reasons, Luke — I mean, Wil: to get more money in the pot, and to drive out drawing hands. Don’t slowplay aces in a low-limit game.”
“Raise,” I say, stacking out chips with a hand so steady it surprises even me.
“Six to play,” the dealer says.
Moneymaker calls, Pungent Nose calls, Drunk Guy calls . . . holy shit, it’s called all the way around!
“This is either very, very good, or very, very bad. Either way, this rules!”
“Trust your feelings, Wil.” Obi-Wan says.

There’s an Ace on the flop, and I raise it again. This time the only callers are Moneymaker and Trucker Hat.
The turn is a blank, and there’s no flush or straight draw on the board. Could I have these guys drawing dead? Only one way to find out . . .

“Bet,” I say.
Moneymaker folds, and asks nobody in particular to send him a cocktail waitress. Trucker Hat calls. I put him on a big ace, or maybe a couple of cowboys. Either way, I’m still in the lead.

The river is a seven. I think for a second about check-raising, but when I scan my mental library of poker advice, I can’t find an entry that says that’s the right thing to do, so I bet it again. I can’t wait to flip up my aces, but I keep my chin planted firmly on top of my right hand while my let hand shuffles some chips. The cocktail waitress comes by, and Moneymaker orders another margarita. I look up and ask for a bottle of water, and when I look back down, the dealer is pushing the pot my way.
“What?! He went all the way to the end and didn’t call?!” I can’t believe it, but I don’t show my cards. I don’t even look up. I just stack my chips and flip two bucks to the dealer. He thanks me and shuffles the cards.
“Did you have it?” Moneymaker says.
I have waited my whole life to give my reply: “I don’t remember,” I say, with a shrug.
He laughs, and says, “Nice hand, man. Nice hand.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The cards come out, and I’m under the gun. I peek at my cards and see two red jacks.
“Two massive hands right in a row? I think The Mirage is my favorite casino on the planet!”
I try to do this thing where I frown, but I act lke I’m trying not to frown. It’s probably not worth the effort, but it’s fun, you know? I push my chips out: “Bet.”
Moneymaker can’t wait to push his checks in. Pungent calls, so does Drunk Guy. Trucker Hat sighs, frowns at me, and calls. “That’s a tell; he’s got something. Is it better than my Johnnies?”
Chicago calls, and shoots a look at his wife, who has stepped out past the rail to smoke. “Does he have a hand, or is he just sweating her? Okay, he’s more focused on her than he is on any of us. Sweet.”
Not-Sitting at this table must have come back while I was stacking the cargo American Airlines delivered, and I get a look at him while he studies his cards: Young guy with really big hair, almost Richard Marx if he was blonde. Wears a ring on his index finger that looks like a pyramid, and seems to be trying to put on an “I’m so bored” face. He foppishly calls. “Wait. Is that possible? Can anyone ‘foppishly call’ in poker?” I look up at him again. He’s pushing out his lower lip into a full-on pout. I imagine his voice sounds strikingly similar to Siegfried or Roy, and realize that he’s totally got Siegfried and Roy hair, right here in the Mirage. He calls, Hipster calls, and we’ve got eight-way action again.
The flop comes Qh-6h-9c.
Hipster checks. I bet. If someone’s got a queen and they raise me, I’m throwing this hand away.
Moneymaker calls, Pungent and Drunk Guy fold, and it comes to Trucker Hat. He glowers at me. I leave my hand on my chin, just like my hero Howard Lederer, and lose myself in “Black Metallic.” He folds. Chicago folds, Foppish folds, and Hipster calls.
“Three players,” says the dealer.
The turn is the three of diamonds. The dealer holds out his left hand like he’s going to do a karate chop, and says, “Check or bet, sir.”
“Check,” I say. As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I’m certain I’ve just made a mistake. “Okay, if I get called, I can raise, and I’ll tell myself that I intended to check-raise all along.”
Moneymaker checks. Hipster bets. “Shit.” I think about mucking it, but something tells me he doesn’t have me beat.
“Raise,” I say. Moneymaker folds before I put my chips out.
Hipster asks for time, and looks at his cards.
While he thinks, I look at the pot and try to estimate the size: eight calls on my first bet is forty-eight, plus another –”
“I call you!” He says. Trucker hat nods at him and says, “Good call.”
The river is the eight of spades. I look down at the board: Qh-6h-9c-3d-8s
Hipster checks to me again. I search my feelings for the trap, but it’s just not there. I am nervous about that queen, but I recall something I read in the back of Lou Krieger’s book: “Be selective, but be aggressive!”
“There’s no way I’m buying this pot, so if I bet, I have to hope to get called. Am I confident enough in my cards to make another bet? This could be a huge mistake . . . dammit! Why can’t I pause this game and read through my books?”
“Luke, trust me . . . “
“Bet.” I say.
This time, he speaks to the dealer. “I call him again!”
“Show ’em,” The dealer says, and I flip up my boys.
Hipster turns over the Ace of hearts and the six of clubs.
“They’re all Tourists, Wil . . . “
I look up for Tom, spot him across the room, and send him a mental fruit basket, which is not nearly as . . . fruity . . . as it sounds.
Tomorrow: Part Four

I need to interrupt our regularly scheduled poker story for a moment, because at 2:30 this afternoon, I have an actual on-camera audition, for a very popular TV show.
I’m quite excited, because the material totally doesn’t suck, I can put this character on pretty easily, and when I was pitched to the casting director, she reportedly said, “Oh wow! What a great idea! Send him in!”
So if you could spare a little bit-o-mojo around 2:30 Pacific today, I’d be most grateful.
In fact, to show my gratitude, I offer a link to the official Mount St. Helens Live Volcano Cam, which we should all be watching because there have been lots of earthquake swarms in the last 24 hours, and it looks like she’s waking up.
Updated @ 5:06PM — Just got back, and I am happy to report that I had a really good time! It was the first on-camera audition I’ve had in AGES, but all the nerves and crap that used to get in my way never materialized. I had prepared my sides well, and knew my character all the way down in my bones, so even though I had to wait for almost an hour, I passed the time happily, playing Downtown Hold’Em on my cellphone. (I made it to the fourth tournament before I went all-in with a Jack-high flush and lost to a King-high flush.)
I was very happy with my performance in both scenes . . . and I marked something interesting as I left: the character I read for was a little nervous and scattered, trying very hard not to get caught after he did a Very Bad Thing™, and I had to very carefully and consciously shift gears once the camera rolled. When I left, I thought to myself, “Aw, man, I was nervous and scattered,” until I realized that that was precisely the way I was supposed to be. So they’ll either think that I nailed this character, or they’ll think I was too scattered and nervous . . . but either way, I’m glad I went in.
Thank you so much to everyone who sent mojo and stuff. It made me smile more than once while I was there, just knowing that at least thirty people (the comment count when I left) were thinking of me.

Part One of this story is here.

“If I don’t keep walking, I’ll puss out and waste the entire afternoon drinking Guinness in some bar.” I thought.
“Hey! Don’t you EVER say drinking Guinness in some bar is a waste!”
“I am so right. Consider me properly chastened.”
While I had this conversation with myself, I continued to walk, and when I was finished, I stood at the entrance to The Mirage’s Poker Room.
“There’s no turning back now! Muwahahahahaha . . . “
I stood in front of a podium (think of a hostess-stand in a restaurant, and you’ve got it) and looked around the room: There were about thirty tables or so, but it felt neither cramped nor expansive. Even though I was just a few feet from about a million slot machines, it seemed quieter and more laid-back than the rest of the casino floor, and the air smelled . . . well, sweeter. Weird, I know, but true. It was like an Oasis in the Mirage.
There didn’t seem to be anyone who could put me on a list, or sit me at a table, so I walked around the podium to the cashier. A middle-aged Asian man with huge flakes of dandruff lining the part in his hair stood next to a woman in her 60s, who I am certain was from Texas: huge bouffant, huge make-up, and a huge cloud of perfume. They were both on the phone, so I read a little plaque titled “HOUSE RULES” while I waited for them.

1. Max rake 10%
2. Check and raise is permitted
3. Maximum 1 bet 4 raises
4. Mirage poker room does not employ shills
5. Decision of the supervisor is final

It was a cool little sign, made out of faux-wood-grained plastic with mechanically carved white letters. So much of Vegas these days is gold and brass and music and fiber optics and explosions, it was charming to see this little plastic sign, which was perfectly suited to its job.
The female cashier hung up the phone and looked at me. “Yes?”
“I’ve never played here before,” I told her as I felt my face flush. “Would you tell me what to do?”
“Sure thang, honey,” she said, in a drawl that was straight out of — no joke — Odessa, “Go up to the front and wait a bit. I’ll send Tom over.”
I thanked her and walked back the way I came. I picked up a copy of Cardplayer, but a man came over before I could open it.
“Can I help you?” He said.
“I hope so,” I said. I cleared my throat and continued, “I play in Los Angeles, but I’ve never played here before, and I feel little lost.”
He smiled and said, “Check and raise is allowed, maximum of one bet and four raises in a round, and we take the rake as you go, so you don’t have to think about it. What would you like to play?”
His silvery grey suit matched his hair, and he exuded a disarming charm and kindness, the likes of which I’ve never seen in one of the Los Angeles card clubs. I felt like this man really did want to help me, and for the first time since I hung up my cell phone across the street, I began to feel at ease.
“Uhh . . . 3-6 Hold’Em.” I said.
“Sure.” He picked up a clipboard, “Can I get a name and a last initial?”
“Wil W.”
He put down his pen and looked up. “I thought you were . . . you.” We both laughed, nervously, for different reasons. “Welcome to the Mirage, Wil.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well, it shouldn’t be too long,” he said, “Are you staying with us?”
“No, I’m in town for a meeting, and I’m staying with my hosts across the street. It’s my first time there, and holy crap, man, the rooms are huge.” I was close to rambling. Stupid adrenaline.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, as he set the clipboard down, and looked across the room, “Hm. Well, it looks like I’ve got two tables open right now.” He gestured to one table that was close to the edge of the room, and another that was more toward the center. “Where would you like to sit?”
“With the suckers. Dah-dum . . . daaaah-dum . . . dum-dum-dum-dum . . . “
“Well, I’d like to sit where everyone pays to see the flop, if you get my drift . . .”
He nodded slowly and knowingly. “Well, they’re all tourists, Wil.”
“Excellent,” I said, in my best Mr. Burns voice.
Tomorrow: Part Three

I stood in my hotel room, and looked out the window across The Strip. On the TV behind me, CNN showed Hurricane Ivan’s terrible fury, and I spent a moment sending some mojo to Florida. Twenty-six stories below me, tourists swarmed around in the late August heat, and I marked the incredible difference a few thousand miles makes.
I picked up my cellphone, and dialed. I got a machine, so I hung up.
Damn.
My phone rang before I could get it back into my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Daniel. You just called me?”
“Hey, Daniel, it’s Wil Wheaton.”
“Hey Wil! How are you?”
“I’m good, man,” I said. “I’m in town today and tomorrow. You want to grab a beer or something while I’m here?”
“I’d like to, but I’m actually getting ready to leave for Los Angeles!”
“Damn. Well, next time, then.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Where are you staying?”
“The Venetian,” I said.
“That’s a nice place.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t have a poker room,” I said.
“Just go across the street to Mirage, or down to Bellagio.”
I started to involuntarily pace around my room.
“Whenever I hear someone talk about the poker rooms in The Mirage or Bellagio,” I said, “the story usually ends with the same words that end everyone’s Tequila-in-college story: ‘With god as my witness, I’ll never do it again.'”
We laughed together.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll get killed there,” I said.
“Nah, you’re a good player,” he said. “What limit are you looking to play?”
I was a little embarrassed to say it out loud. “Well, it’s probably micro-limit to you, but . . . 3-6 or 4-8?”
“Oh yeah. You’ll do great at either place.”
I drew a steadying breath. “Okay. Thanks. Have a safe trip across the desert.”
“Thanks. If we leave late, I’ll call you and we can grab that beer.”
“That’d be great. Bye.”
“Bye.”
And so it was on the advice of Daniel Negreanu that I picked up my iPod, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed across the street to The Mirage.
In the last eighteen months or so, I’ve studied more than at any other time in my life, and my game has improved dramatically. I’m pretty confident when I sit down at at low-limit table, and my log book has been in the black for most of this year . . . but I was terrified as I walked across The Strip. Despite Daniel’s friendly encouragement, I was certain that I was going to get killed at The Mirage, until I remembered something I heard Phil Hellmuth, of all people, say: “If you think you’re going to lose, you’re going to find some way to lose, consciously or otherwise. You’ve got to go in there expecting to win.”
Good advice. I resolved to play my best: the only person who was going to beat me was me. I imagined the theme to Jaws, as I walked through a faux rainforest and into the casino. I slowed down and looked through a surprisingly smoke-free room, across an armada of slot machines and saw “POKER” hanging from the ceiling about a hundred yards in front of me. In my imagination, a needle scratched across the Jaws record. My palms got sweaty, and my legs felt heavy. I was about to lose my nerve.
Tomorrow: Part Two

I’ve got all this stuff I want to write up, but I’ve just gotten supremely busy, and I probably won’t have a chance until next week to do it.
Until then, I strongly encourage WWdN readers who have had it with pop-ups and spyware to take a look at the latest release of Firefox. I started using it a few days ago, and I like it (and its totally bitchin extensions — especially bugmenot) so much, I’m considering switching from Konqueror, and making Firefox my primary browser. That probably doesn’t mean very much to anyone, unless you know how much I like Konqueror, which is a lot.
Okay, I have to go do real work now, so have a great weekend, everybody.