Post by moose on May 18, 2009 23:49:50 GMT -5
I was in Las Vegas. I love it there. Weird, but true. I'm not sure why but I always have. It has a romance to it that is not as blaise as Paris or as graphic as Naples. It's romantic 'cause you have to peel back layers of white untanned legs and leisure suits and fat people and bad hats to get to it. Like a secret club, every night, in the busiest city in America. Somewhere down underneath the patina of shmutz at the Bellagio, The lights of eiffel tower, the flaccid empire state building is Dean Martin playing cards at Bally's. And that's where I go. It has the best history of any strip casino and was the sight of the worst fire in hotel history. Weird, but true.
I was doing research for a story a guy was doing on Las Vegas and the American dream on the 30th anniversary of Fear and Loathing. Dr. Thompson was in my opinion the last great American writer. And it was one of my favorite jobs ever, although i did fuck all.
Perhaps that was the point. That's for smarter people than I to figure out.
I was playing cards in the Blue room at Bally's The Blue room is not the high roller room. It has daily tournaments and the buy in is higher than casual tournaments in the casino. There are no suckers and no big fish. It's just a good card room. For 500 bucks you can play from 7 in the morning till 7 in the morning with some solid players maybe a few pros and drink for free. Most of them don't drink...I do.
And in honor of the occasion i stewed a pot of tea. It was not Earl Grey. And I had a Thermos.
I am a mediocre card player. Against a table of once-a-monthers I'll clean up but against regular hard counters I'll finish middle of the pack. And that's half sober. And not tripped on a weird and friendly fungus.
But this is the thing I learned about math. You hate it and it hates you back. Love it. Hear it. and it loves you back. I don't advocate poker on mushrooms. I'm just this guy, you know? Don't go by me.
It was somewhere in the night; time becomes a little illusionary; and I was down well behind the halfway in the pack. And the math started to sing to me. And people started to have really big faces. Really big. It seemed I saw right through them...and they could see right through me. I played honestly and didn't buy anything, I played against the cards and really huge faces. Giant. Fucking weird big lizard head freaks actually. But it seemed to be working.
I moved up and by breakfast I was at the final table with a group that consisted of a rich wop whose name i don't remember, a geek whose name i don't remember, and a 4 guys I'm pretty sure were local grinders. I had stopped drinking hours ago but something was sending it's filaments into my brain and I was fresh and alive and felt clean and new. Those guys stank. Rank. You don't get that on TV poker. Those tables are Epic Stank.
I didn't eat. Food seemed a little sinister and foreign somehow and I thought I might puke. Every one went for buffet breakfast while I drank half an orange juice and sat at the table with the geek( I don't think they eat at all) trying to make conversation that wouldn't give away the fact that I thought he was a nerdy lizard and that I was completely crashed. He asked me what I did and I told him I was the orthopedic surgeon for the New England Patriots. Although I probably looked 25 this kid looked 15 and I think he bought it. I kept sipping from the Thermos.
He was first out on the final table. Next was one of the grinders I figured had a good shot. He had handsome chips and was very smooth. He bet all in against the wop, missed his cards and choked to death on his own bullshit. I was lying low and getting eating away slowly but scored a good pot that put me about 3 on the table and knew i could coast a little.
Two more of the grinders bought it on river cards against the wop who was by now way out in front. That left the wop, a grinder and the zoomer. The wop was getting excited. I had learned over the night that he was the owner of a car dealership in San Bernadino. Later I learned he came there every week in his Lamborghini. And though he probably could have afforded the VIP room he always played the Blue room and had never got to the final table.
I hadn't either. But I didn't own a fancy Italian sports car and he wasn't tripping on mushrooms. I bet his date was hotter tho'.
He was a heavy guy and was sweating hard. It might have been him; the stank. I looked great. The last grinder looked bored. A bored giant headed lizard.
The grinder turned a corner then, like a switch. Maybe we were just fish. I don't know and he ain't telling. He started eating the wop. I knew the blinds were eating me but I was grooving on watching the game happen and doing my math and waiting.
I pulled a big hand and the wop bailed. The giant lizard grinder bet soft. He hadn't seen much of me and my play into him slowed him down. He looked at me for a long time and then laughed. He nodded his head and moved on my bet. He was calling a bluff that i wasn't making. I had him. I moved all in. It wouldn't have taken him out; I was number 3 at the table, but it would have crippled him. Without hesitation he called. I knew I would win. When we turned our cards he looked gobsmacked. I had the nuts at 90/10 and I could tell he didn't know it. It was the first time he showed emotion all night.
The fucker beat me on the river.
A one in ten.
He ended up draining the wop who probably consoled himself with a bottle of Dom a fistfull of Viagra and 3000 dollar hooker. Compensation all around.
The grinder and I met up in the bar. We had told me he was sure I was on a bullshit hand when he looked into my eyes hard at that last hand for the first time that night.
"Your pupils were HUGE! You looked like a dog on death row. I was sure you were bluffing. I've never been that wrong before. That was some shit bad beat man". We had a couple drinks and then I slept for 2 days. My payoff from the game was about 5 times what I made for the job. But then again I worked about 23 hours more playing poker than working. Good to be a bastard.
I wouldn't know ask Mordi.
selah,
g.
I was doing research for a story a guy was doing on Las Vegas and the American dream on the 30th anniversary of Fear and Loathing. Dr. Thompson was in my opinion the last great American writer. And it was one of my favorite jobs ever, although i did fuck all.
Perhaps that was the point. That's for smarter people than I to figure out.
I was playing cards in the Blue room at Bally's The Blue room is not the high roller room. It has daily tournaments and the buy in is higher than casual tournaments in the casino. There are no suckers and no big fish. It's just a good card room. For 500 bucks you can play from 7 in the morning till 7 in the morning with some solid players maybe a few pros and drink for free. Most of them don't drink...I do.
And in honor of the occasion i stewed a pot of tea. It was not Earl Grey. And I had a Thermos.
I am a mediocre card player. Against a table of once-a-monthers I'll clean up but against regular hard counters I'll finish middle of the pack. And that's half sober. And not tripped on a weird and friendly fungus.
But this is the thing I learned about math. You hate it and it hates you back. Love it. Hear it. and it loves you back. I don't advocate poker on mushrooms. I'm just this guy, you know? Don't go by me.
It was somewhere in the night; time becomes a little illusionary; and I was down well behind the halfway in the pack. And the math started to sing to me. And people started to have really big faces. Really big. It seemed I saw right through them...and they could see right through me. I played honestly and didn't buy anything, I played against the cards and really huge faces. Giant. Fucking weird big lizard head freaks actually. But it seemed to be working.
I moved up and by breakfast I was at the final table with a group that consisted of a rich wop whose name i don't remember, a geek whose name i don't remember, and a 4 guys I'm pretty sure were local grinders. I had stopped drinking hours ago but something was sending it's filaments into my brain and I was fresh and alive and felt clean and new. Those guys stank. Rank. You don't get that on TV poker. Those tables are Epic Stank.
I didn't eat. Food seemed a little sinister and foreign somehow and I thought I might puke. Every one went for buffet breakfast while I drank half an orange juice and sat at the table with the geek( I don't think they eat at all) trying to make conversation that wouldn't give away the fact that I thought he was a nerdy lizard and that I was completely crashed. He asked me what I did and I told him I was the orthopedic surgeon for the New England Patriots. Although I probably looked 25 this kid looked 15 and I think he bought it. I kept sipping from the Thermos.
He was first out on the final table. Next was one of the grinders I figured had a good shot. He had handsome chips and was very smooth. He bet all in against the wop, missed his cards and choked to death on his own bullshit. I was lying low and getting eating away slowly but scored a good pot that put me about 3 on the table and knew i could coast a little.
Two more of the grinders bought it on river cards against the wop who was by now way out in front. That left the wop, a grinder and the zoomer. The wop was getting excited. I had learned over the night that he was the owner of a car dealership in San Bernadino. Later I learned he came there every week in his Lamborghini. And though he probably could have afforded the VIP room he always played the Blue room and had never got to the final table.
I hadn't either. But I didn't own a fancy Italian sports car and he wasn't tripping on mushrooms. I bet his date was hotter tho'.
He was a heavy guy and was sweating hard. It might have been him; the stank. I looked great. The last grinder looked bored. A bored giant headed lizard.
The grinder turned a corner then, like a switch. Maybe we were just fish. I don't know and he ain't telling. He started eating the wop. I knew the blinds were eating me but I was grooving on watching the game happen and doing my math and waiting.
I pulled a big hand and the wop bailed. The giant lizard grinder bet soft. He hadn't seen much of me and my play into him slowed him down. He looked at me for a long time and then laughed. He nodded his head and moved on my bet. He was calling a bluff that i wasn't making. I had him. I moved all in. It wouldn't have taken him out; I was number 3 at the table, but it would have crippled him. Without hesitation he called. I knew I would win. When we turned our cards he looked gobsmacked. I had the nuts at 90/10 and I could tell he didn't know it. It was the first time he showed emotion all night.
The fucker beat me on the river.
A one in ten.
He ended up draining the wop who probably consoled himself with a bottle of Dom a fistfull of Viagra and 3000 dollar hooker. Compensation all around.
The grinder and I met up in the bar. We had told me he was sure I was on a bullshit hand when he looked into my eyes hard at that last hand for the first time that night.
"Your pupils were HUGE! You looked like a dog on death row. I was sure you were bluffing. I've never been that wrong before. That was some shit bad beat man". We had a couple drinks and then I slept for 2 days. My payoff from the game was about 5 times what I made for the job. But then again I worked about 23 hours more playing poker than working. Good to be a bastard.
I wouldn't know ask Mordi.
selah,
g.
