Category: Uncategorized

A bunch of random thoughts that I need to get out of my head so I can write some other stuff that’s in my head:
Item the first:
WWdN reader Gia sez:

“. . . my sister and I are running a marathon in just over 3 weeks. My sister is running for Team in Training, just as you and Anne did. My sister still has just over $1000 to raise by Oct. 10th.
This is a message from my sister:
I am running in honor of my boss, Lynn. She was diagnosed with lymphoma 4 years ago (when she was 34). Her daughter was only 5 years old at the time. I just can’t imagine how difficult that was to face death with such a young child.
My minimum fundraising goal ($4700) covers ONE night’s hospital stay and care for a newly diagnosed blood cancer patient. Considering that treatment can last months to years, and there are over 500,000 Americans living with blood cancers, there is a HUGE need for donations. Thanks to BushCo, 40% of Americans do not have health insurance. My boyfriend, daughter and I are part of that unfortunate group. Hopefully, my fundraising efforts can help someone fight the cancer and survive to see their child grow up.

Here is her sister Sari’s Team In Training Homepage. She needs about a thousand bucks. Are there one hundred WWdN readers who can part with ten bucks each? I think it would be awesome times a billion if we could send the power of WWdN her way.
Item the second:
What’s your favorite RSS reader? I’m looking to try some different ones out. Bonus points if it runs on Linux.
Item the third:
Opie and Anthony got the royal fucking shaft job by Viacom, and they just came back on the air this morning, on XM 202. It’s $1.99 a month for the show, and it’s totally worth it. O&A fucking rule, and they are way ahead of the curve by making this move to satellite radio.
Item the fourth:
After reading Viva Las Vegas, a lot of people have asked me to tell them my favorite poker books. I talked about them in my Poker Lizard interview, (which now has a second part that’s all about Hollywood, I’ve just discovered) but here are my top three “how to be a better player” books, ranked according to how much profit they’ve resulted in for my game:

1. Winning Low-Limit Hold’Em by Lee Jones
2. Hold’Em Excellence: From Beginner to Winner by Lou Krieger
3. The Theory Of Poker by David Sklansky

I have left off the great no-limit books, like Super / System or Cloutier’s books, because I don’t play no-limit very often. In order to be a winning no-limit player, anyway, you have to be a great limit player, and I’m still developing my skills as a limit player. When I can consistently win at limit and move up, I’ll figure out a list of no limit books.
Item the fifth:
The Mount St. Helens Volcano Cam is producing some amazing images right now. Go look.
Item the sixth:
There is no item the sixth but you all knew that already, didn’t you?

Item the seventh:
I have no idea what HYPNOTIZE is, but it comes to us from The Absolute Kimiaki Yaegashi, where quality and performance have no substitute, apparently. It’s weird and wonderful, and not for everyone.
Item the eighth:
WWdN reader Graham sez:

I was on a rare trip to London (London, England, as you colonials call it), waiting outside the club where I was later to enjoy 2 pints of Guiness and a superb gig by the astonishing Carlos Guitarlos (How cool is he? He has Marcy Levy in his band, that’s how cool he is) when I sensed a presence….
Turning round, I saw your face glowering at me from the windows of Foyle’s bookshop, via several copies of Just A Geek.
Now, 98 year old Foyles is infamous in London as although it is probably the biggest bookstore in the capital, you can *never* find anything in it, as they mostly order the books by publisher.
So, since your book is published by O’Reilly & Associates, JAG is not in the StarTrek section, nor in the biography section. It is in the geek section. In the window it was between “how to configure OSX” and “WiFi hacking tricks”.
Not bad, eh?

Not bad at all, Graham. Not bad at all! Thanks for sending this awesome news!
Item the ninth:
It turns out that Entertainment Weekly listened to the tons of WWdN readers who wrote letters and e-mails to them about their “Whiner of the Week” thing, and they printed the following:

Triumph of the Wil
I’m very disappointed in the misrepresentation of Wil Wheaton as “Whiner of the Week” (Books.) Wil has matured into an exceptional writer and comedian, and his weblog speaks brilliantly for Gen-Xers. The use of his acting experiences to jump-start a few personal stories falls far short of whining and doesn’t represent the tome of a well-written and entertaining book.
Ellen Rhatigan
Staten Island, N.Y.

I’m stunned that EW would print anything in my defense, and I’m even more stunned that they didn’t take another shot at me. I know for a fact that this wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t gotten a TON of letters from people, and I have to thank everyone who spoke up on my behalf. As I said before, I was upset because I was misrepresented, and the fact that they ran that letter is a victory for The Truth. Ellen, and everyone else who wrote letters: you ROCK! \m/
Item the tenth:
I absolutely can’t believe that my Dodgers not only made the playoffs, but also made them by coming from 3-0 in the bottom of the 9th to beat the hated Giants! It happened while I was at Gnomedex, and I didn’t get to see it on TV . . . but I think that Finley’s grand slam is going to take its place next to Gibson’s 1988 homer in the halls of Dodger lore. Awesome.

Okay, now that all these items are out of my brain, they’ve cleared the way for my gnomedex report, which should follow shortly.
Or maybe tomorrow . . . it’s really nice outside.

Oh man, I am wiped out.
It took me almost 8.5 hours to drive home from gnomedex, and I’m going to go fall down for a little while.
Tomorrow, I’ll have a full report, which will include some poker, a lot of geeking, some really cool stuff that I think WWdN readers will like, and some thoughts on the future of this website.

Part Four is here.

Over the next several hands, the table tightens up significantly. I thought I was a tight player, but just about any bet gets the table to fold . . . and it’s Kotter who is doing the betting. He slowly builds his stack back up, eighteen and twenty-one dollars at a time, and I’d love to get into a pot with him, but my cards are consistently garbage: nothing but single-ply, rest area toilet paper.
At one point, Golf Shirt raises him, and they go heads up. I forget the exact board, but there is a Queen, at when Golf Shirt turns up Q-3 at the showdown, Kotter slowly nods his head, like, “I knew I was beat all along,” before showing K-5.
“You don’t have to show if you know you’re beat,” Pungent says. “You can just fold it.”
Kotter looks down at his chips, nods his head, and in that moment he becomes the single most tragic figure I’ve ever seen in a casino — hell, maybe anywhere — in my life.
Right around the deadly 2.5 hour mark (the time, I’ve determined, when my game completely falls apart, unless I’m on the greatest rush in history) I find A-9 of clubs, one seat ahead of the button. It’s called all the way around, and I decide to raise it. My reasoning goes something like this: “I haven’t been in any hands in a long time. Maybe I can just buy this now, and walk out of here a winner!”
It’s folded all the way around to Siegfried, who calls. Dianne calls, and Rob deals out the flop: Ad-5d-7c. Siegfried checks, Dianne checks, and I bet. They both call.
Golf Shirt’s wife walks up, holding a bucket filled with quarters. It looks like it must weigh fifty pounds.
“Gary! Gary! I won! I won!”
We all stop and look up at her.
“How much?” He says.
“I don’t know! This much!” She shakes the bucket, and some quarters slip off the top and roll under our chairs. Her excitement infects her husband, and trickles out onto the table a little bit.
“There’s nothing quite like winning in Vegas, is there?” I say to her.
She smiles and nods. “How’re you doing?” She asks Golf Shirt.
“Down a little,” he says. He’s actually played pretty well, by my estimation. He’s just not catching that many cards.
“Well, we’re up now!” She says, as more quarters spill onto the floor.
“Congratulations,” Dealer Rob says with a genuine smile, “Here comes the turn.”
It’s the 10 of clubs. “Oh! Top pair, overcard kicker, and a flush draw . . . excellent.”
Siegfried bets, so I figure he’s paired a ten, unless he’s playing 9-8, which I suppose is possible . . . but I’m still leading. Dianne calls, but she’s been in it until the River with just about anything, so I call.
Mrs. Golf Shirt kisses her husband on the cheek, and tells him she’ll be back after she cashes out her quarters. They’re a happy couple, and I smile as I watch them.
“Three players,” says Dealer Rob. He knocks the table — the first time I’ve seen this move since I sat down — and deals The River: the ten of spades.
I look out at the board: Ad-5d-7c-10c-10s.
Siegfried bets, and this time it’s back to foppishly. I wonder if that’s some sort of tell? Dianne calls, and I call.
“Showdown,” Dealer Rob says to Siegfried. I hear an explosion of cheering from a craps table. It’s the first sound from the rest of the casino that I’ve heard since I sat down.
Siegfried turns up the Ace of spades and the nine of diamonds. I laugh, and get ready to split the pot . . . until Dianne turns over the 4 of diamonds . . . and the ten of diamonds.
It’s my turn to look like Kotter. “Aw, fuck me.”
Siegfried purses his lips, and blows out a perturbed sigh. Dealer Rob pushes the pot toward her, and I say “Nice hand, Dia— uh, Ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she says with an embarrassed smile.
“Well, time to cut out of here while I’m still a hundred bucks ahead,” I tell myself, but my legs refuse to get up. A new inner voice, which sounds remarkably like Mr.T, says, “You gonna let her take your money? You better get it back, fool! Damn crazy lady playing Highway Patrol catches two runners to beat you . . . I pity the fool who leaves the table after that beat!”
It’s a pretty big “warning flag,” when I’ve got imaginary voices calling me out, (especially when I haven’t been drinking Guinness), but when Mr. T. speaks, I listen. Against my better judgement, I play “just one more hand” for another twenty minutes, but I never open until I find AK in the Big Blind.
It’s called all the way around, and when Dealer Rob gives me the option, I say, “Raise.”
But he’s starting to deal the flop before I put my chips out. He stops short, and says, “Three more to play.”
“What?” Trucker Hat says.
“He said raise,” Dealer Rob says. “It was my mistake.”
Trucker Hat sighs and squints at me.
Golf Shirt quickly calls. His leg is as still as a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall, so I’m happy to get the extra checks. Pungent looks at his cards, then to me, then to his cards again before he splashes three chips out. Kotter stares at me and does the slam: “I call him.” Trucker Hat growls at me as he calls, and Siegfried raises!
I put him on a steal, and I’m happy to get the action, but the rest of the table is clearly unhappy with this move.
I’d have to lean around Dealer Rob to see Dianne, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand put out a call.
I look down at my stack, which I’ve arranged into a pyramid: three stacks of 20 chips lean up against the padding, then two, and finally one stack of reds out front. There are another ten or so reds that I’ve been shuffling to the side, so I’m still up just over 100 bucks.
I snap three chips off one of the back stacks, and drop them in front of me. “Call.”
Golf Shirt folds, Pungent sighs heavily and flicks his cards away with one finger. Kotter stares into infinity, slowly nods his head, draws his lips tightly together, and casually tosses his cards toward Dealer Rob.
Trucker Hat avoids eye contact with me as he calls, and I’m positive that he’s just pissed at me for what he thinks was a shifty play. “You just stay nice and pissed at me, mister man,” I think, with just a touch of contempt.
Dealer Rob dumps the rake and deals out the flop: it’s a rainbow, 8-4-2.
Dianne checks, and I think back to everything I’ve read about playing A-K, which I think of as a very powerful drawing hand, but pretty damn far from a made hand, especially in a game like this, where someone is just as likely to be playing 5-7 off-suit as they are to be playing a big pocket pair. Sklansky says that it can start out as a strong hand, but if the flop totally misses you, it can become the dreaded “dominated hand” . . . or it can be two really big overcards that make for a nice semi-bluff, especially if you’ve raised it before the flop. My gut tells me that check means she was hoping to make a hand on the flop, and it missed her. I’m under the gun now, so I decide to show some strength, and see if I can buy this pot right now. If Siegfried raises, though, I have to figure I’m beat.
“Check or bet, sir,” Dealer Rob says.
“Bet.” I say.
It’s called all the way around, and I pause briefly to wonder if someone has paired that eight, but when the turn is an Ace, my wonders cease.
Dianne checks it again, and I bet it. Trucker Hat folds, Siegfried folds, and I’m getting ready to scoop up the pot and call it a day when Dianne raises me, which sets her all-in.
“All-in,” Dealer Rob announces.
My inner Admiral Akbar screams, “IT’S A TRAP!!” But my inner Lando Calrissian says, “Here goes nothing,” as I say, “Hey, you want to play them up?” and call.
Before she can say anything, the river comes out: it’s a blank, but we all know I’m beat by now anyway, right?
I turn over my Big Slick, and Dealer Rob says, “Pair of Aces.” It seems like fifteen years before he turns his head away from me, and looks back at the board. “Two Pair: Eights and Fours,” he says, as he shoves the pot to Dianne.
Golf Shirt says, “Holy shit, man.” Trucker Hat laughs out loud, and I wonder why this guy has decided to make me not just his opponent, but his enemy. It’s not like we ended up in any confrontations . . . but I guess it’s the difference between me and a serious gambler. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to cross that Rubicon?
“Oh man . . .” I say. “Nice hand, ma’am. Seriously, nice hand.”
It turns out that it really was my “one last hand,” and I rack my chips.
“That’s all for me,” I say, to nobody in particular.
“Have a good night,” Golf Shirt says.
“Tell you wife to buy you something nice with her slot wins,” I say.
“If she hasn’t given it all back!” He says with a chuckle. I don’t know how I could ever have a killer instinct against this guy, and I realize that I’m relieved we didn’t end up in any confrontations.
Just before I stand up, Dianne walks out behind me, my chips cradled in both her hands.
We arrive at the cashier together.

“Can I ask you two questions?”
She looks at me, warily. “Okay . . .”
“What’s your name?”
“Jennifer,” she says, a little puzzled.
“Of course it is, just like Jennifer Harman.”
“Hi, Jennifer. I’m Wil.” I extend my hand. As we shake I say, “How could you cold-call with just 8-4 unsuited?”
She flushes a deep crimson and says, “Oh that . . . well, I was down to nothing, anyway, and I just thought I’d play one last hand to see if I could get some of it back before I met my husband for dinner.”
Touche, Poker Gods. Tou-fucking-che.
The cashier counts my chips, and gives me two hundred and twenty-seven dollars.
“Well, you trapped me like a pro,” I say. “It was a hell of a hand.”
I pause, and I have to say it again. “A hell of a hand.”
“Thank you,” she says, “but I’m not really much of a poker player.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say. “Have a nice night.”
“You too.”
I tip the cashier, and walk out of the room. As I pass my former table, I see that Trucker Hat is heads up with Golf Shirt, who is bouncing his leg. I smile to myself and send him some mental mojo that he most certainly does not need.

Part three of our turgid tale is here.

For the next hour, I only open two hands: once with Ajax, which I win when my bet on the turn gets no callers, and again with pocket fives, which I fold when the A-8-x flop is bet and raised ahead of me. I’m thrilled to be out of that hand when it goes into a heads-up-raising-fest-from-hell between Drunk Guy’s Dead Man’s hand, and Chicago, who holds a set of eights.
Chicago racks his chips, and can’t leave fast enough. He’s about halfway to the cashier before he comes back and flips a red chip to the dealer. A couple of hands later (8-3d: fold, A-4o: fold) he is replaced by a woman in her 40s. Short, short hair, no jewelry, light makeup, wears a black vest over a white blouse.
During the shuffle, I imagine her story:
Her name is . . . Rebecca. No, it’s Dianne. Yeah, Dianne. She moved to Vegas four years ago because she’s running away from something. Nothing criminal . . . probably a broken heart.
Las Vegas was the perfect destination: it’s running away from things, even if only for a weekend, and she knew she’d be blend in among the transient population of tourists and fortune-seekers.
“I’m moving to Las Vegas,” she told her sister one morning, while her niece played in a shaft of sunlight on the living room floor.
“Why?”
“I need a change.”
“But why Vegas?”
“I don’t know. It just feels right.”
She packed her apartment into a few boxes, and drove across Interstate 10, with Wayne Dyer and Neil Diamond for company.
She has an apartment in Henderson, and a job at Lindy’s in the Flamingo. The shifts are lousy, and so are the tips, but she’s in a dealer’s school right now, and has high hopes for the future. She has started over, and she is happy, if a little lonely.
About three weeks ago, she caught the eye of a poker dealer named Andy. Hold’Em has played an important part in their courtship, so here she is . . .
Or maybe she’s just another tourist . . . but making up people’s stories is fun for me, so that’s what I do.
She gives five twenty dollar bills to a chip runner.
“One hundred behind,” he says.
Dianne tells the dealer that she’d like to play this hand, and the cards are in the air.
I fold again, and get up to pee. When I come back, Moneymaker and Drunk Guy are standing up. They’ve probably dropped two hundred bucks between the two of them, but they don’t seem to mind at all.
“Dude, let’s go to Olympic Gardens,” Drunk Guy says.
“We were just there last night,” Moneymaker says.
“I know, dude!” Drunk Guy laughs, and they do that hitting-each-other’s-fist thing that seems to have replaced the high-five.
As they walk away, I catch Pungent’s eye. “I’m going to miss them,” he says with a glance at his chips. The dealer laughs, then the whole table laughs.
“Two seats open!” The Dealer says, and we get two new players:
Seat Two: Late 40s, golf shirt, baseball cap perched above a high forehead. His wife kisses him when he sits down, and walks off with a stack of bills. I immediately like this guy.
Seat Four: If Gabe Kaplan had massive male-pattern baldness, and sweat like Roger Ebert, he’d be sitting across from me right now. This guy looks so terrified when he hands two fifties to the chip runner, I’m convinced it’s an act . . . but why waste the effort at a 3-6 table? You know what I have to call him . . .
Kotter has a weird, nervous energy that would probably get him pulled out of line at the airport, and I notice that the players next to him slowly but deliberately move away from him. This shifts the whole table around, and I end up so close to the dealer, his left hand hits my elbow on the next few deals. I try to give him some room, but Golf Shirt is so close to me our knees bump together . . . which reveals a big, fat, juicy tell: when he likes his cards, he bounces his leg. This saves me a few “borderline” calls, which is pretty cool.
For another few orbits (that’s what I call it when the button goes around the table) I don’t see much of anything, but I don’t mind, because I’ve got Catherine Wheel and then The Cure on my iPod, and well over 100 bucks in profit stacked up in front of me. It’s also interesting to watch Kotter slowly bleed his stack away, one crying call at a time. When he finally does make a hand, it’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever seen.
He’s in middle position, and Hipster has the button, and they go heads up on a flop of 6d-9s-8s. Kotter bets it out, just like he has every hand, so I put him on random cards, but probably an Ace, maybe A9, but I’ve gotten a pretty good read on Hipster, and I think he’s made a set. They fire bets at each other until it’s capped, and I pull one of my headphones out, so I can hear them talk.
The turn is the six of clubs. Kotter looks at the dealer and says, “What’s the most I can bet?”
“Six dollars, sir.”
Kotter picks up three chips in each hand, and deliberately slams each stack down in front of him. His eyes dart around the table; I avoid them.
Hipster frowns and says, “I raise.”
“Six again, sir,” the dealer says to Kotter.
“What?”
“It’s a six dollar raise, sir.”
“Oh. Okay. I want to raise him back.” The way he says it, it’s like he’s looking for permission. Weird.
“That’s six more to you,” the dealer says to Hipster.
“I call it.”
The dealer rakes some chips off the pot, and drops them into a little box that’s near his right hand. He burns the top card, and deals out the Ace of diamonds.
Golf Shirt mutters, “Someone’s got quads,” and we all look at Kotter. The sweat beads up so much on the top of his head, he looks like an ad for Turtle Wax.
“I bet six again,” he says, nodding his head excitedly, and slams his chips out in the same motion as before. I can hear Phil Gordon in my head: “That’s intended to make your opponent think you’ve got a strong hand when you’re weak. That’s usually a tell.” Dave Foley makes a joke that falls somewhere into that gap between really clever and really awful.
“Raise him!” Says Hipster.
Kotter seems insulted, and says to the dealer, “Tell him I want to re-raise.”
The dealer is so close to me, I pick up the tiniest hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “Okay, that’s another six dollars, sir.”
Slam! Slam!
Hipster laughs this time. “Re-raise him!”
“Betting is capped,” the dealer says. “Six dollars to call.”
“I call him!” Kotter says. This time he slams down a $5 chip and a $1 chip, and flips over the 8 and 6 of hearts. “FULL HOUSE!”
Hipster flips up his cards, and I hear Dianne gasp before I can see them: two nines.
The Dealer calmly says, “Nines full of sixes,” and pushes a mountain of chips to Hipster.
In slow motion, I turn my head back toward Kotter. I half expect to see him putting a gun into his mouth, but he just looks shocked.
The color has drained out of his face, and sweat drips off his nose as he says, “I . . . I had a full house . . . ”
“Jesus,” Golf Shirt says.
I feel genuinely sorry for the guy, but my survival instinct encourages me to keep my mouth shut.
Hipster tokes a dollar to the dealer, and just about the entire table chides him into giving more.
“Hey, that’s worth at least two dollars,” Pungent Nose says.
“Yeah, come on, man,” adds Trucker Hat. I notice that Trucker Hat exudes Cloutier-like intimidation.
Hipster gives in, and tokes another two bucks to the dealer as he racks his chips and walks away.
Our dealer is tapped on the shoulder for a shift-change. “Okay, good luck, everyone,” he says as he leaves. I wonder how many hands a day he sees like the one that just played out. I think about how I can’t wait to write this up when I get home, and I wonder if any of this sticks in his mind the way I’m sticking it in mine.
Our new dealer is quite friendly. He’s Rob, from North Dakota, but he went to college in New Orleans, and he’s really worried about Ivan.
As soon as he sits down, he says, “Did you all hear about Ivan? It’s going to make landfall right over New Orleans.” He shakes his head, “Man, that city is already twenty-two feet below sea level, and the storm surge will be over forty feet.” He looks around the table. “Everything that’s not brick or stone in that city could be gone in the morning.”
“I thought Ivan was bearing down on Florida,” I say.
“Nope, it turned again. New Orleans at four a.m.”
“Jesus.” Again I mark how lucky I am to be here and not there.
Rob shuffles, riffles, shuffles, shuffles, riffles and shuffles.
“Blinds, please,” he says, reaching across me to tap he felt in front of Golf Shirt, and pointing at Pungent Nose.
“Forty feet, man,” he says quietly to himself, and the cards fly.
Pungent calls. Kotter looks numbly at his cards, and folds. Trucker Hat folds, grabs a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket, and walks away. Siegfried calls, Dianne calls, and it’s to me. I look down at 87o. It’s not a hand I like to play, but I’m starting to get a little antsy, and I am in late position . . . so I call. Golf Shirt checks.
“Five players,” Rob says.
The flop completely misses me. Pungent checks, Siegfried checks.
“Maybe it missed us all?”
Dianne bets.
“Maybe not.” I fold.
Golf Shirt calls, Pungent folds, Siegfried calls. The three of them go down to the River, and Golf Shirt picks up the pot with a split pair of Cowboys when his 9 outkicks Dianne’s 5.
This is the beginning of a rather frustrating run. For the next two or three orbits, whenever I get a marginal calling hand, I make the wrong choice. I get K-5 off-suit in early position, and when I fold it, the flop comes A-5-5. I get A-4 of clubs in late position, and when I call it, the flop is all spades. The most memorable hand is J-7 of hearts in early position. While I thought of calling, Golf Shirts started bouncing the hell out of his knee, so I folded . . . only to watch the Ace, King, and Five of hearts hit the flop. It ends up being a monster pot between Golf Shirt, who held Big Slick, and Siegfried, who made trips on the turn.
I know that I’m playing things “by the book,” so I’m not too upset — especially when I count my chips and realize that I’m still ahead well over one hundred bucks after just about two hours. I recall some Lou Krieger advice: “If you play it wrong on just one hand, you can completely wipe out everything you’ve earned in your session, so play ‘by the book,’ and stick to it!” I’m pretty sure that my rush has come and gone, and I should get up and leave, but a seductive voice in my head says: “Let’s just take down one more pot from these tourists, and then we’ll go.”

Ah, sweet hubris, how I love to hate thee.
Tomorrow: Part Five

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