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I’m not a huge fan of country music, but I absolutely adore Johnny Cash.
Wait. “Adore” is a little wussy when talking about the Man in Black. Maybe I should go with “love”?
No.
How about I just reword the whole thing: For the most part, I think country music is teh sucks, but Johnny Cash fucking rocks.
Yeah, that’s a little bit tougher. My mom’s not going to be happy about the language, though. Sorry, mom.
So I’m listening to Live at Folsom Prison right now, and when he sings

When I was just a baby, my mama told me, “Son,
Always be a good boy; don’t ever play with guns.”
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

There’s this huge cheer that goes up from the crowd, just like you’d expect in a prison. Whenever I hear it, I imagine inmate A39879 turning to inmate 88419 and saying, “Hey! I did that too! He’s singing about me! Wooo!”

In a field of 6,000 entrants, the best player in the world might generously be a 1,000-1 dog to win. After 40 years against those odds, that player would have a mere 4 percent chance of having won the tournament once, and it would take 700 years before the best player would have a 50 percent chance to have won.
— Paul Phillips, in Slate.

I just got busted from the 1500 NLHE event at the WSOP today. I know that we want guys to play K-4o when we’ve got pocket jacks, especially when the flop misses him and gives us a straight draw . . . but we really don’t want him to river a king to suck out on us, and leave us so short-stacked that we push on the button with AQ and get called by AK in the Big Blind. (As a side note, I can’t fucking believe that I’ve lost to K-4o twice in two tournaments, when I got my money in when I was ahead.)
So I’m back at my hotel, looking down onto the pool area where I’ve spent so much of the last few days. Even from the 24th floor, I can see the be-thonged beauties floating in the pool, inches away from children splashing in waterfalls. Cocktail waitresses walk around, doing a job that is probably much harder and less fun than their customers think. The longer I look down there, the more I’m tempted to put on a Think Geek T-shirt and head down for a beer . . . but simply tilting my head up a few degrees puts the Rio squarely in my field of vision, and I can’t help but feel like a complete loser.
I’m ready to go home.
seventy-two hours earlier
Pauly and I found Otis and told him the bad news.
“Did you play smart?” Otis said.
“I think so,” I said. The numbness of busting out began to wear off, and I started to feel sick to my stomach.
“That’s all you can do, man,” he said.
“I know.”
“But knowing that doesn’t make it feel any better, right?” Pauly said.
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t want to be a baby — I did my best, and I wasn’t going to cry about it. But, I felt sick to my stomach because I felt like I let PokerStars down. They put me into the tournament, and I couldn’t even make it past the third level.
The three of us talked for a minute, until my cell phone rang. I saw Anne on the caller ID.
“That’s my wife, you guys. I’m going to talk to her and get out of here.”
“Okay, are you going to stick around?” Pauly said.
I picked up my phone. “Hold on,” I said, and turned back to Pauly and Otis. “I don’t think so. If I stay, I’ll call you guys and maybe we can have a beer . . . or you can have a beer and I’ll have a hundred.”
I shook their hands, and made my way through the tables.
“Hi,” I said.
“So what happened?” She said.
I told her. We didn’t talk about it, but just making it past the bubble would have been a big deal for us. Money is still very short in our life right now, and I’m thinking about giving up poker for a while until I can figure out if I truly am getting unlucky, or if I’m just a mediocre player who catches enough good cards to overestimate his abilities . . . in other words: A Fish.
” . . . and I’m coming home tonight,” I said. I’d made it out of the tournament area, and walked back into an alcove where other busted players talked on their phones. One guy looked like he was choking back tears. Maybe that guy was me.
Anne sounded surprised. “Why? Don’t you want to stay and watch? You’ve talked about this for months.”
“No,” I said. “I feel like such a total fucking loser, I just want to get home.”
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want to do.”
My cellphone beeped. It was Dan Goldman from PokerStars.
“Honey, I have to go, it’s Dan on the other line.”
“Okay, puss,” she said. “I love you huge.”
She really does, and she knows that for the next several days — possibly weeks — she’s going to have to deal with me replaying every hand, every round of betting, every decision I made during the tournament. I wasn’t a serious poker player when we got married, so she didn’t sign up for this . . . but she endures it very well. Come to think of it, she endures a whole lot of things to be married to me.
“Okay. I love you too. I’ll do my best to not talk endlessly about this for the next month.” We both know that my best effort in this endeavor will yield success approximately equal to my success in surviving past Level Three.
The phone beeped again. I clicked over, before it could go to voice mail.
“Hi Dan,” I said.
“Brad [that’s Otis’ real name] told me what happened,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
I told him.
“That’s understandable,” he said, “but don’t sweat it so much. There will be lots of other tournaments.”
I know that this is true, but I can’t find a way to let the comfort which should lie in this fact penetrate the thick blanket of gloom I’ve wrapped around myself.
“In fact,” Dan continued, “If you’d like, we’ll buy you into the 7pm tournament at The Palms tonight, and we’ll put you into the 1500 No Limit event on Monday back at the World Series.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get you right back on the horse.”
I looked at my watch: It was just about 5:30pm. The blanket fell from my shoulders.
“Okay,” I said. “I would love to do that. Let me just call my wife and tell her that I’m staying.”
“Great.” He said. “We’ll see you over there in about an hour.”
I hung up and called Anne. “You’ll have a great time,” she said, “and I just know that you’ll be able to redeem yourself.”
“I’ll call you later and let you know how I’m doing,” I said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Shut up.” She said. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Watch for cars . . .”
” . . . and don’t get into any fights,” she said.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up my phone, and left the alcove. As I walked away, I man in a Bluff Magazine T-shirt passed me. His hands trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He picked up my blanket, wrapped it tightly around himself, and dialed.
to be continued . . .

“Please could you stay awhile to share my grief,
For it’s such a lovely day.”
— Portishead

The sun just began its slow drop beneath the mountains to the West. It’s hot on my shoulder and bits of light skip off my watch and dance on the walls. My window is open, and a scirocco-like wind occasionally billows against the sheer curtains. Sade is singing “By Your Side,” and I really miss my wife right now.
The Sun and I are currenty secret friends, because I’ve seen both ends of his journey today — I played 3-6 with Paul Phillips and Lee Jones from 10 last night until 6:30 this morning. I had a few cinematic moments during the session . . . but I have to leave them for another time.
I went to the Wynn for brunch this afternoon. It’s a beautiful hotel, and I was surprised at how small the poker room is. Unless there’s a large area I missed, it’s not much bigger than the room at the Mirage. I had a great people watching moment when a woman who was old enough to be my mother stumbled into me, sunglasses askew, clutching a twenty-four inch plastic tumbler of some libation or other. She wore a dirty t-shirt that said “Kaptain Kegger” on the front, and sported a lovely butch haircut. I’ve noticed that drunk adults tend to use the same stomping motion favored by infants who are just learning to walk, and it’s equal parts pathetic and hilarious to watch.
After brunch (which was outstanding, but inexplicably did not come with the expected slice of cantaloupe at the end) I came back to my home base, and spent a few hours down by the pool. (The Writer woke up a couple of days ago, and I’ve been doing everything I can to stay out of His way. I find that sitting down by the pool with a couple of beers, some iced teas, and a notebook keeps Him very happy.)
On my way to find a lounge, I stopped by my regular bar to get an Anchor Steam. (In Vegas, hitting the same bar three days in a row officially qualifies you as a regular.) The bartender was someone I hadn’t seen before today: an absolutely beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail, gold eyes and olive skin. Freckles dusted across her shoulders matched the ones across her nose.
I approached, and saw her reading my “Shrödinger’s Cat Is Dead” shirt.
“What does that mean?” She said.
“It’s a very nerdy physics joke,” I said.
“So it’s not being cruel to animals?” She said.
“Well, there’s a lot of Uncertainty about that,” I said.
She frowned. “What?”
“That was also a very nerdy physics joke,” I said, and explained Shrödinger’s Cat to her.
” . . . so until you observe the results, the cat is both dead and alive,” I said. “Which, I’m sure, is just thrilling to you.”
She reached into the cooler and pulled a beer out of the bottom. Chunks of ice clung to the sides, and she wiped them off. As she opened it, she said, “Actually, I was listening to you because I think nerds are incredibly sexy.” She bit down on her lower lip.
Gulp.
I’m sure I blushed, and said, “Well, on behalf of nerds everywhere, I’d like to thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, as she set my bottle on the bar. I paid her and got the hell out of there before my wit and charm started writing checks my body couldn’t cash.
Moving on . . .
fifty-one hours earlier
I hung up the phone and made my way to the bathroom. For the first time since I got there, I didn’t feel the need to shove my way past the throngs of tourists meandering through the too-narrow walkways.
After a quick piss, I called Doctor Pauly, and told him the news.
“Oh man, I’m sorry.” He said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Where are you?”
“I’m paying too much for a chicken sandwich,” he said.
I laughed, because I knew that meant he could only be in one place.
“I’ll be right there,” I said. Ninety seconds later, I was.
I hardly know Pauly at all, but I like him. We have poker, writing, blogging and getting busted out early in common, so he was the best friend I had in the room. It closed a circle to see him after I busted, because he was the last person to wish me well before the tournament began.
I stood behind my seat, and set my shit down. Darwin took his seat on the rail, my notebook and card protectors sat on the felt next to him. The dealer looked at my player’s card and gave me my starting stack. Before I could count it, I saw Pauly walking up the aisle.
“Hey Doc,” I said.
“How are you feeling?” He said.
“You know, I was really nervous, but as soon as I got here,” I tapped the table, “it was like my feet locked into the ground, and I feel . . . solid, if that makes sense.” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, it does. You’re going to be fine.”
A few other players arrived at the table and took their seats. Pauly leaned close to me and lowered his voice.
“I don’t mean to get you down, but did you hear about London?” He said.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s fucking terrible, man.”
“It sort of puts this whole thing into perspective, doesn’t it?”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, it sure does.”
“I mean, this is cool and all, but it’s really just poker, you know?” He said.
He stepped back, and spoke loud enough for the rest of the table to hear him. “Now don’t play like a pussy.”
The table laughed, and I smiled. He shook my hand, clapped me on the back, and vanished into the sea of spectators.
I sat down, and counted out my checks.
We turned toward the tournament area, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk back in. I already felt like a loser, and walking right back in there would only magnify that feeling.
Pauly must have picked up on my hesitance, because he hung back with me.
“So . . . how’d you go out?” He said.
I looked through the doors and into the tournament area. I took a breath, told him about the crippling hand against Darden, and the disaster on table 148.
” . . . Ace-Jack of Spades versus pocket sevens, and he flopped a set.” I said.
“Did you play smart?” He said.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. But I’m going to do a whole lot of second guessing for the next few days.”
“Did you play like a pussy?”
We both know that these are two different things.
“I think I may have when I played the tens against Darden,” I said. “But that’s why I’m not a pro, you know?”
“Do you want to do an exit interview?” He said.
“Sure.”
We talked for a few more minutes. When we were done, we walked across the tournament area to see Otis. On the way, we passed Chris “Jesus” Ferguson, who was talking with a couple of fans. I waved as we passed.
“Hey, Wil!” He said, “How many chips do you have?”
“Zero,” I said.
“Oh, sorry man.”
“Thanks.” I pointed to his huge stack. “You’re doing well, I presume?”
“So far,” he said, “I got very lucky with aces, when I rivered a higher two-pair to double up.”
“Goddam, man,” I said, “If you need the river to help aces . . .”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“Have you met Pauly?”
“I don’t think so, ” he said, so I introduced them. The three of us talked for a second, and I realized something: here I was, on the field of play, talking with a world champion, just like I was talking to a guy in a bar. Is there any other sport in the world where I could do this? How likely is it that I could walk right onto the infield at Yankee Stadium, and talk with Derek Jeter? Not fucking likely at all. And that’s one of the things that I love about poker at this level: sure, there are players who are epic dickheads, but most of them are kind, gracious, and generous with their time . . . unless you’re in a hand with them. If that’s the case, you’re just another target.
After a minute or two, Pauly said, “Well, we’ll let you enjoy what’s left of your break.”
“Oh, yeah,” I thought, “He’s still playing in this thing, and he just spent half of his break bullshitting with a couple of knuckleheads.”
“Good luck,” I said.
He shook my hand. “Thanks, man. Good to meet you, Pauly.”
“You too,” Pauly said, “good luck.” He turned to me, “You want to find Otis?”
“Yeah,” I said.
We headed back toward media row, right past table 148. I stared at the empty 8 seat as we passed.
to be continued . . .

“Q: I understand Wil Wheaton is going to play the main event at the World Series this year. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
A: (Laughs) I hope he’s at my table.”
— Thomas “Thunder” Keller, to the Arizona Republic

Translation: “That Hollywood Donkey is dead money, and I want to take it all from him.” Contrary to what you may think, this is exactly what I want people to think about me. I want them to underestimate me, because it usually allows me to get an extra bet or two out of them before they realize that I actually know what I’m doing, and they pick on some other Donkey. But it’s also why I wanted to play well in the World Series. I want to kill Prove To Everyone That I Deserve To Be On Team PokerStars before he gets a chance to hatch. And believe me, that egg is in the nest.
I don’t know why, but whenever I come to Las Vegas, I can’t get to sleep before 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. Even when I get back to my room before midnight, I somehow end up watching TV, or reading TotalFark, or standing at the window taking time-lapse photos of the cars streaming across Flamingo and Interstate 15. As a result, I end up on “Vegas Time,” and it’s rare for me to get out of bed before 10, which is much later than my usual 7.
I made myself get up at 10:45 today, so I could work on Games of Our Lives before I start playing again tomorrow. I called room service, found out it was between 90 minutes and two hours, and decided to head down to the cafe instead. It was a good call: I ended up eating about 30 minutes later.
Again, I spent much of the day around the pool. I thought about taking a book with me, but I needed to spend some time doing something a bit more passive than reading, so I just took my iPod, grabbed a beer and a bottle of water, tuned into Red Bar Radio, and did what the damn kids today call “kicking it.”
The pool area was as crowded as you’d expect it to be on a Saturday in July when it’s 650 degrees outside, so I grabbed the first lounge I found, which was on on the edge of a long row, next to a heavily-trafficked walkway. I laid out my towel, kicked off my flip flops, exposed my body-by-guinness, tuned-in and tuned-out. I guess I was there for about forty minutes or so when I noticed that just about every guy who walked up the walkway was seriously checking me out. I mean, totally staring right at me. It was awfully weird, and I wondered if I had something on my face, so I sat up and turned around to wipe my face off with my towel . . . and saw that the guys weren’t looking at me, they were looking at the be-thonged Keyra-esque ass on the lounge behind me. Nice.
Anyway, as Pauly says, “Moving on . . . ”
twenty-seven hours earlier
I picked up my checks, notebook, and monkey. I shook hands with the remaining players at my table, wished Avy luck, and headed out toward table 148. I pushed my way through a throng of railbirds who were watching Chris Ferguson (who had just doubled up with Aces against K-4. Must be nice.)
I found my table, set my chips on the felt in front of me, and sat into the Big Blind. Awesome.
While the cards came out, I looked around the table: no recognizable pros. That’s good. Every single stack is well over 10,000. That’s bad. Everyone at the table just painted a huge target on me. That’s really bad.
The first hand was raised in early position, and was folded to the cutoff who re-raised. Throwing away my Q-3o was a no-brainer.
I got rags for several orbits, but had to laugh when I put out my last chip — a lavender 5000 — for my ante when the Big Blind came around again. Everyone at the table could see blood in the water, and it was mine.
Finally, down to about 3200, I found a hand just before the blinds went up, and antes were added. I was on the button, in an unopened pot. I cupped my hands over my cards, and lifted up the corners. The first card was the Ace of Spades. “That’s a good start.” I slid my thumb up, and let it fall to the felt. It revealed the Jack of Spades. Not the best hand in the world, but certainly worth a raise in this situation. “Thank you, Poker gods!”
“I raise,” I said, expecting to win it right there, but prepared to come over the top if the Big Blind played back at me. I put out 600, leaving myself with 2600. Looking back on it now, I think I was prepared to go all the way with this hand, even if I wasn’t entirely aware of it at the time.
The Small Blind folded. The Big Blind said, “I put you all-in.” The clock chimed. This would be the last hand of the level.
So it was decision time again. “Do I want to put my tournament at stake with what is a coinflip at best? If I fold, will I be able to do anything with 2600 against stacks that are three and four times mine? If I fold, I will only have enough for two orbits before my only play is all-in, anyway. Oh, and the BB could be on a bluff, and this could double me up if I win. I really need to double up now, and this may be the best hand I get. I wonder if Paul Darden is ever going to call me?”
“I call,” I said, and turned up my cards. The Big Blind turned over two red sevens.
“Hi, Poker gods? It’s me, Wil. Listen, my ass is still kind of sore from table 93, so I’d like to ask you to please not give me any more miracles today, okay? Maybe I could just catch something on the flop? Thanks.”
The dealer pulled my checks into the pot, lifted a card off the top of the deck, and slid it under them. He pulled three cards into his right hand, and flipped them over: the nine of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of clubs.
“Fuck.” I said, certain that a ten minute penalty was the least of my concerns.
The turn was a red queen, and I didn’t even look at the river.
I know that I shook the Big Blind’s hand, but I can’t remember a single thing about him. I think he had a mustache. Oh, and all my remaining chips.
The next thing I remember, I was leaving a message on Anne’s Cell phone: “Hey, it’s me. I’m out. I’m coming home. Call me when you get this. I love you.”
to be continued . . .

I’m still in Vegas, probably until Tuesday or Wednesday. Even though I’m out of the Main Event, I’m playing in a different tournament on Sunday, and at least one more WSOP event on Monday. I went downtown tonight for a late dinner at Four Queens with several of my friends from PokerStars (I’m without wife and kids in Vegas, if I didn’t make that clear before).
As I often do, I told my cabbie that if he got me there quickly, I’d make it worth his while . . . and seven terrifying minutes later, he dropped me off at Freemont Street. I had about 15 minutes before we were set to meet, so I went into Binion’s to walk through the poker room, and maybe soak up some history. I paused at the wall of champions, and kept my mouth shut when two frat guys came up behind me, and one declared that he could “beat the shit out of” every player on that wall, because he was so good online. “Yeah, you do that,” I thought. I wondered if I’ll see them at the pool tomorrow.
I walked around the satellite area, toyed with the idea of signing up for the 2am tournament, came to my senses, and turned around to go to dinner. On my way out of the casino, I saw a man and a woman in a lounge. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the table between them. A common scene in any hotel, except . . . he was an Elvis impersonator, dressed in the jumpsuit. She was a bleached-blonde in a spaghetti string top that was having a hard time containing her rather large breasts. Her hair was teased up almost a full twelve inches above her head. They smoked cigarettes while they drank their wine. They were both in their late fifties, and she was in a motorized wheelchair. I am not making this up.
I made a pistol with the thumb and forefinger on my right hand, and shot them a wink as I passed. They smiled and raised their glasses.
It could have been my imagination, but I’m pretty sure I heard the man say, “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch” as I walked out of the casino, and into the sweltering July night.
Only in Vegas, baby. Only in Vegas.