Author: Wil

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.

I’ve never been the captain of anything in my life, so this is pretty cool:

The Memory Walk, 2004 Team, “Stars Trekking For Jimmy Doohan,” was inspired by the heart-felt and powerful messages made by Star Trek actors during the Farewell Dinner and celebration for James “Scotty” Doohan, on August 28th of this year.
To show our support for our beloved Jimmy Doohan a small group of fans teamed-up with the Alzheimer’s Association of Southern California to participate in the Walk on October 2nd and raise money to fight this debilitating disease.
Naturally, we simply had to recruit one of the more impressive speakers from the Tribute Dinner to be our Honorary Captain – Wil Wheaton.
(Is nobody going to say it? — ‘Captain Wesley Crusher, reporting for
duty!’)

I am going to be a Gnomedex on the 2nd, so I can’t actually head down there and do my best R. Lee Ermey impression, but I’m honored just the same. Will any SoCal area WWdN readers step up, and represent? It would be SO COOL if we could get a posse out there to support this team. You can find out more about the team at our official homepage: Stars Trekking for Jimmy Doohan.

Anne walked into my office, and proudly pointed to the T-shirt she was wearing. It said “I [heart] my geek.”
“Is that true?” I said, “Do you really love your geek?”
“I do when he gets off the computer so we can go take care of our errands.” She said.
I stood up, and kissed her nose. “Okay,” I said, “I just have to change my shirt and we can go.”

“What’s wrong with the shirt you have on right now?” She said.
“Look at it,” I said.
“There are only ten types of people in the world: those who understand binary, and those who don’t.”
“Right.” I said, “I need to change this.”
“Why?” She said.
“Because it’s like you’re wearing a shirt that says ‘I’m with stupid,’ and if I wear this shirt . . .”
“Oh. You’re him.” she said.
I laughed, and walked into our bedroom. I returned wearing my Vandals T-shirt.
“Now everyone will wonder who your geek is!” I said.
She looked at me for a moment and replied, “Uhm. Probably not. But I still love you.”
I held her hand the entire time we were out.
After we got home, I went for a run through my neighborhood. The sun was beginning to set, and a light breeze shook a few leaves from the trees over my head.
“Mother Nature thinks it’s October,” I thought, “I like that.”
I reached the corner, and turned down a new street. A car pulled up next to me and honked.
“Well, hello there, Mister Wheaton,” said the driver, one of my very friendly neighbors, “How are you?”
“I’m well,” I said.
“And how is your beautiful wife?”
I smiled and said, “She’s beautiful!”
Because she is.
When I got home, I walked into the dining room. Anne sat at the table, and giggled as she read The Onion.
“Do you know how much I love you?” I said.
She looked up at me, smiled, and held up two fingers.
I shook my head.
She held up four fingers.
I shook my head.
She held up ten fingers.
I shook my head, and held my arms out at my sides, palms open. “This much,” I said.
“That’s an awful lot,” she said.
“Yeah, it sure is.”