Flamingo!

This is the follow up (and conclusion) to my last post (see here). We pick up where we left on the first night of my trip, the first night of March Madness, and the only night (for 2016) of St. Patrick’s Day.  The guy who had gone on the heater took off with a tidy profit. He was replaced by a German tourist, maybe late-20’s, early 30’s.  And this guy was one of the most entertaining, fun players I’ve ever encountered at a poker table. A really nice guy.

When he came to the table, the folks had started lining up for the club, and the girls were starting to pass by our table.  I never caught the German fellow’s name so let’s call him Dirk (as in German basketball great Dirk Nowitzki, since there was basketball on screens all around us). 

Dirk came to the table talking about wanting to get into the club. Two things were stopping him, however.  One, his buddy was not wearing acceptable shoes for the club.  And two, he was balking at the $75 admission charge.  I pointed out to him that girls generally got in free.  “That’s not fair,” he protested.  Indeed, it is not.  But I understand those tiny dresses that consist of very little fabric are fairly expensive. Plus they have to spend money on hair and make-up and shoes and under-garments.  Though I think a lot of them may save money on under-garments. Anyway, I guess they pay for admittance in a different way.  So he joked about hoping to win enough money to cover the cost of getting into the club. 

His aforementioned buddy eventually joined him at the table, but unlike Dirk, he was very quiet.  Barely said a word.  I suppose there might have been a language issue, but I doubt it.  Most Germans I’ve encountered in Vegas speak English very well, as did Dirk.  

Most of the other players at the table (except for yours truly, of course) were of a similar age to Dirk and his pal.  They were suggesting to him that he just wait a few hours and then hang out at the club’s exits to try to pick up the girls as they left the club in their inebriated state.  He said, “You mean like at 2AM?”  No, he was told, more like 4AM, the girls leaving then would be drunker—and easier to pick up then. As in, “off the floor.”

Dirk liked to talk about his homeland, and told us all sorts of fascinating things about Germany.  He said that live poker there was difficult; there was a huge tax on it.  It was much better for him to drive to Austria to play.

He complained about Germany’s drug laws.  Apparently not only is marijuana illegal, but the penalty for possession is quite severe.  He claimed that someone he knew was sentenced to 15 years for possession of a small amount.  He compared that to another person he knew of who was sentenced to 2-1/2 years for rape. 

One thing that we found interesting was that prostitution is completely legal in Germany.  It’s a legitimate profession and the girls pay taxes just like any other profession.  Apparently most of the prostitutes come from Romania.  It seems the going rate is $30.  He said, “For a $100 you can have a great time with a hot Romanian girl.”  I assume the $70 extra includes drinks and dinner?

So I said, “So you can have sex with a prostitute in Germany—you just can’t smoke a joint with her.”  That got a good laugh.

Dirk talked about a lot of topics and couldn’t help commenting on the current American political scene.  I was a little nervous about where that might be headed—you know how I feel about discussing politics at the poker table (see here).  But he kept it light and it was kind of interesting to hear an outsider’s perspective.  He expressed bewilderment with Donald Trump and I mentioned that the German Chancellor (Angela Merkel) had voiced some criticisms of Trump.  He acknowledged that and went in a brief riff on German politics.  Then he said, “And Hillary…well, the only thing we really know about her is what her husband did in the White House with cigars.”  He realized he was treading on thin ice though and changed the subject.

Now, Dirk was extremely talkative and usually guys who can’t shut up wear on me and tend to be boring. But not Dirk. I swear he didn’t say one thing that I didn’t find interesting.  I have to admit, I loved the guy.  Just an interesting, quality person, a pleasure to play poker with.

As I mentioned, the club attendees had started arriving and were walking right by our table to and from the club.  And as I said, this was an especially good night to enjoy the scenery the young girls going to the club were providing.  It was a very busy night, and a very high percentage of the ladies were hot, or very hot, or smoking hot.  You know that the girls are mostly wearing outfits that are barely legal in Las Vegas, and would probably get them arrested in, say, Butte, Montana.  Sadly, you can’t really appreciate the enjoyment the ladies were providing us with a written description, so you’ll just have to use your imagination—even though the outfits they were wearing left little to the imagination.

By this time, there were only guys at the table.  And the folks who were in the bad viewing seats were starting to complain about missing out on the “show” and being stuck in bad seats to view the ladies. Recall that I had long since procured the best seat in the house to enjoy the parade.  So, the lads worked out a plan.  The guys facing one way would alert the guys facing the wrong way to turn around whenever a hot girl (or, more likely, a group of hot girls) passed by.  And if the girls were walking the other way, the guys on the other side of the table would do the same.

And one of the guys suggested that they use a code word to get everyone’s attention.  Something innocuous, something inoffensive. Because it would just be rude to yell out, “Holy shit, look at those tits!” or, “Jesus, check out that ass!”  So someone suggested that as soon as anyone saw anyone noteworthy, he yell out, “Flamingo!”  I have no idea where he got that idea, but it actually worked pretty well.  It might have been weird, however, if we were in the Flamingo poker room instead of the MGM.

At this point, the evening almost could not have been more fun for me.  Great conversation, great scenery, someone yelling “Flamingo” every few minutes, it was a total blast.

Well, there was just one thing that could have made it more fun, I guess.  It sure would have been nice to have won a few pots.  Actually, it just would have been nice to get a few hands to play.  But I continued to be card dead.  Without any major disaster hands (because to have had one would have implied that I actually was given a hand to play), I had managed to lose an indecent amount of money.  When I got down to about $70 or so, I added $100, but I kept dripping down over the course of the 4-1/2 session.  As I got back down to $70 or so, I made a decision.  I was not going to add any more chips.  I figured a $300 loss for my first session of the trip would be enough.  It was getting late, and I could really enjoy viewing the ladies from other places in the casino aside from the poker room.  So I was sorely tempted to just pick up the remaining chips I had, cash them in, and just people-watch for the rest of the night.

But….but….the truth was, the table was too much fun.  I was just having too good a time at the game (just not from poker).  And seriously, I was sitting in one of the best viewing places in the entire casino.  And I wasn’t really distracted from the view by the poker—after all, it took just a second or two to check my hand and throw away that 10-3 or 9-2.  And if I did miss something, my new found friends were there with a “Flamingo!” to get me to look up.

There was one other reason that I was less eager to leave the poker than I might otherwise have been.  I was pretty sure that this session would be my only one at MGM for this trip, and I wanted to see as many of my dealer pals as possible. 

So I decided to milk the rest of my chips for all they were worth.  If I got a hand to push with, fine, I’d be ready to get it all in.  But, as I said, I was unwilling to add to my stack so I was going to short-stack it til the end.  It wasn’t really a poker decision, it was an “I’m having too much fun” decision.

So my stack continued to dwindle.  Since I was card dead, I was just blinded down.  Oh, I may have had a low pocket pair or two that bled some chips, but I never really got a hand worth pushing with, not really even close.  Well, eventually I must have.  I didn’t write it down, but I think I found a hand to shove with, and was called by a shorter stack—who won the pot.  That left me with exactly $19.  And I was still committed to not pulling another dollar out of my wallet.

So yeah, there I was sitting behind $19.  At that point, your shoving range is pretty wide.  And fortunately, before another hand or two, I found my hand. Under-the-gun, I looked down at Ace-Queen offsuit.  I shoved.  Dirk’s pal called, as did one other player.  And then Dirk announced all in.  He had $400 and was clearly trying to get the two other guys—including his pal—out of the pot.  Dirk’s buddy folded, but the other player called. He had about $150 I think.

The flop was worthless, but there was an Ace on the turn, and a blank on the river.  Dirk had pocket Kings to beat the other guy’s pocket Jacks and grab a nice side pot.  Dirk’s pal said he folded pocket Queens.  Pretty interesting hand.  Kings, Queens and Jacks all out there. But my lousy Ace-Queen was good enough to claim the main pot.  That gave me a nice quadruple up, and I was back in business, almost a real stack to play with. I had $68.

And that lasted just a few more hands, until Brillo Head took me down (see here).   And now you know why I was so upset at Brillo Head’s lame call that busted from the game.  It wasn’t because of the money I lost.  He got me out of one of the most fun tables I’d been at in quite some time. 

All I could do the rest of the night was enjoy the view provided by the young ladies going to the nightclub on St. Patrick’s Day.  And I guess that wasn’t so bad.

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"Would Your Girflriend Mind If I Sat on Your Lap?"

Well, I’m back in L.A., after cutting my Christmas Vegas a bit short.  My original plan was to come home on Tuesday, but left Monday instead.  I was trying to beat the weather.  A total of four storms were predicted to hit the West Coast this week.  Monday was supposed to be a weak one, but the one for Tuesday was predicted to be quite strong.  Just as a general rule, I’d prefer not to make the 4-1/2 drive home in the pouring rain, of course.  But there are actually a couple of mountain passes between here and Vegas where it often snows during the winter storms.  And I’ve even seen snow in places where it “never snows” in the past, like Victorville and Barstow.  And when it does snow, if it’s more than just a dusting, they don’t waste any time closing the freeway.  None of this chains or snow tires stuff—they just close down the I-15.

With all the trips I’ve made to Vegas over the years, many in the winter, I’ve lucked out and never been prevented from getting through.  If I recall correctly, the second or third time I went up for Christmas with my pal Norm, a storm closed the I-15 for three days and it just opened the morning we were scheduled to go there.  Another time Norm and I went up there in April—it was actually on Easter Sunday, which was very late that year—and a freak arctic storm hit that morning.  We actually drove through snow flurries but made it through ok.  Later that day, in Vegas, we heard they closed the I-15 at Mountain Pass (about an hour south of Vegas) just a few hours after we drove through it.   

Then there was the time that it snowed in Vegas for several days before I headed up.  That wasn’t that long ago, actually.  The weather had cleared but there was still plenty of snow on the ground—and on the roofs of houses—when I got to Vegas.  And snow all along the side of I-15 as I drove up.  I stopped in a place called Hesperia (just south of Victorville) to make a rest stop, and the parking lot of the Jack-in-the-Box were I stopped had snow all around.  I had to make a snowball just for the hell of it.  I threw it—at no one in particular. It was the first time I’d touched snow since I was just a kid.

We were always concerned about this so Norm and I researched it and figured out a way to get to Vegas (or home from Vegas) without using the I-15 (or any non-Interstate route that paralleled the I-15, since the problem would be the same).  This was before Google or the internet existed so we had to use a Road Atlas—anyone remember them?—to figure it out.  We came up with a way that would take us through Blythe, CA on the border with Arizona—a long way from Vegas.  It probably would have been a 9 or so hour trip as I recall.  Luckily we never had to try it.

So to make sure I didn’t get stuck in Mountain Pass or the Cajon Pass much farther south, I came home a day early.  It had rained in Vegas overnight Sunday, but I only had to deal with an occasional drizzle driving back, and traffic was good despite two major incidents.  Just as I was approaching Baker, I could see that traffic coming the other way was at a complete standstill, and as I got closer, I could see why.  There was a helicopter that had landed in the middle of the freeway, in the northbound lanes.  Didn’t see any evidence of an accident but apparently someone had to be taken to a hospital post haste.  For a few miles, the northbound freeway I was passing was just a parking lot, people were out of their cars walking around, chatting with their neighbors.  Ugh.

Then, as I was heading into the aforementioned Cajon Pass, I didn’t quite see the accident, but I saw some of the result—a huge pile of smoke, dirt and dust in the air as traffic slowed to a crawl.  As I eeked by, I saw a car facing the wrong way in the left most lane that was barely more than scrap metal.  I later heard on the radio that it was a multi-car crash where one vehicle had overturned several times.  Amazingly, it didn’t seem like anyone was hurt too badly and it only delayed me a couple of minutes.

And for good measure, after I arrived home, I heard about one of the major freeways in my neighborhood closed for hours due to the police chasing—and catching—a wrong way driver who was wanted for murder.  It wasn’t very far from where I live, but fortunately for me it wasn’t a freeway I use to get back from Vegas.

But I digress.  This trip was a very good one, so much better than my Halloween trip.  It was not without its frustrations, of course, but the poker went quite well overall and I have many successful (and fun) sessions to report on. Most of those frustrations were non-poker related, things like the weather, my chronic backache bothering me more than usual, bad cocktail service and the like.  And by weather, I don’t really mean the weather outside (despite the fact that it was unusually cold in Vegas most of the time I was there—but definitely not unseasonably cold),  I mean the weather inside numerous casinos and poker rooms, which were actually colder (or seemed colder) that the frigid temperatures outside.

If seems I’m stalling, I am.  Between total exhaustion from this trip, and the fact that I have an Ante Up column due Friday, there isn’t time for me to start relaying all the juicy details from this trip in the proper Robvegaspoker-style that you demand. So I only have time to do a short post to keep you satisfied until I get you the long, detailed posts I know you hunger for.

So just a quick hooker story to keep you entertained for the moment. I didn’t really expect to score another hooker story this trip, after the last one which I reported on so recently (see here). But this happened Sunday night, just after my last poker session of the trip.  It was a decent session, I came out ahead, and I’ll eventually write about it one of these days.  I was heading back to the MGM garage.  I took a seat in front of a slot machine in the area I call “Hooker Central”—which is also a decent place to catch some of the club goers as they march to and from the club. Unlike the previous two nights, it was a slow night for the club.

I was happy about the session, happy about the overall trip, but a bit frustrated that I had to end the trip prematurely, and that I had to end the session earlier than I might have since I had to get up early the next day for the long drive home. So I really didn’t even think that the two black ladies I’d seen earlier where working girls—my spidey sense wasn’t going off.  Actually, the one girl who really got my attention was wearing a really tight, short dress more like a club girl would wear than a hooker would. I also noticed she was rather amply endowed in the chestal region.

They were in front of me when I sat down but before I knew it, they had turned around and came over to me.  Damn, I was totally unprepared, and frankly, not really in a mood to deal with them.  Besides, I’d already gotten my obligatory hooker story for this trip.

But there they were, right in front of me.  The one who was more modestly dressed spoke.  “Hi!”  I was a captive audience.  I said hi back. “Whacha doing there, looking so sad?”  Guess the disappointment for having to leave Vegas early showed on my face.  I said, “Nothing.”  I know, incredibly clever, huh?

She repeated her question. “Whacha doing?”  Now as I mentioned, I wasn’t really in the mood to deal with her. My mind jumped to something that I thought for sure would make them lose interest.  “I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”

She immediately came back with, “You’re waiting for your girlfriend? I don’t believe that.” Hmm….kind of insulting, isn’t it?  I mean, do I look so pathetic that the thought of me having a girlfriend is out of the question?  You know, next time, I’ll try, “I’m waiting for my boyfriend” and see if that works better.

I just laughed and shrugged.

So she said, “Would your girlfriend mind if I sat on your lap?”

I’m pretty sure my imaginary girlfriend would mind that very much.  Certainly a real girlfriend would object.

I said, “Yeah. I think she would.”

She thought for a second and then asked, “Well, can I sit on your lap?”     

I said “No.”  I think I stretched out the word “no” so it was like, “noooooooo.”

Anyway, she got the message, said, “Okay,” and then the two of them walked away.

And that is how my Vegas trip came to an end. I’ll tell you the rest over the coming weeks.

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Even The Hookers Are in Reruns This Time of Year

So this is my mid-Vegas Christmas season update.

Things didn't start too well. I have a bad, long tournament experience to report—it literally stunk.  Already told you about the bad suckout I had last week (see here).  A couple of nights later I had a real good nite—so good that I posted a pic of my stack under the title "chip porn" on Twitter.  That was basically the result of two big hands that I probably played badly.  I owe you guys that report too.

Yesterday I had a better—but still frustrating—tournament to write up for you.  Yes, I cashed, and no, it wasn't the dreaded min-cash.  But still, it will give me a chance to once again vent about how much I hate current tournament payout structures.  Honestly, they suck.  I think I may have to use my vast influence in the poker world to lobby tournament directors to make their payouts more fish friendly.  But that's a rant for another time.

But I need to be brief for this post.  Shouldn't be a problem for me, right?  So I'll just tell you about my brief hooker encounter from last nite.  Because everyone loves a hooker story, right?

It was approaching midnite and I was just wandering around a certain Big Strip Casino, enjoying the atmosphere (yeah, that's a good word for it) when, walking towards the lobby I noticed an attractive black woman just sitting in front of a slot machine, looking at the passersby.  Before I even got near her my spidey-sense alerted me to her probable occupation.  This was confirmed when I heard her say, "Hey baby, whatcha doing?" to me as I passed by her.  I didn't turn towards her at all, just kept walking.  I wasn't really in the mood to chat with a working girl.

But then, about 20 minutes later, I was walking up in the opposite direction.  I was actually walking away from the area where ladies-of-the-evening are known (by me, at least) to congregate.  Earlier, I had seen a woman who I recognized as a professional.  I turned away to avoid her. I recalled that I had already talked to this woman on a previous Vegas visit.  It was many months ago, possibly even a few years ago.  But I was sure she had tried to solicit me some time ago, even if the details were fuzzy.  In fact, I recalled seeing her either earlier this trip or on a previous recent trip (like maybe the Halloween trip). I was actually sure I had seen her multiple times since the time we chatted.

She kinds of stands out, that's why I recall her.  She has light red hair, and is a tad older than most of the girls who you see working this casino.  She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and high heels (kind of a weird combination).  She was not exceptional flashy looking, that's for sure.  Top was rather plain, showing just a little bit of cleavage.

Anyway, as I was making my way away from the lobby, we passed each other and I purposely looked away.  I actually think we had passed earlier and she didn't say anything, and I wondered if she remembered me and knew I was a waste of her time.

But this time, a few seconds after we had passed each other, I felt a pat on my back and turned around; it was her.  "Hi, where are going?"  I kind of shrugged and she said, "We've talked before, haven't we?  I remember you."

Well that was true, but of course, that line could be said to anyone just as way of starting a conversation.  But since I was sure we had talked, I believe she did indeed recognize me.

I confirmed that I remembered her as well.  So she said, "Why don't we have a drink together?"

I said no, I wasn't interested.

"Oh come on.  It's really cold outside, isn't it?"  That was certainly true  I said no.  "Actually, I have no money.  I lost tonight."  That was a lie, I'm happy to report.

"Oh, stop lying."  How did she know?

She asked where I was from.  I dunno why I told her the truth, but I did.  "L.A."

"Oh yes, I should have remembered that."  Now, I couldn't recall all the details of our previous conversation, but after talking to her I was sure that she was one of the ladies I'd had more than a two-word conversation with and I probably did tell her that I was from L.A.  Seems rather harmless info to reveal.  In fact, talking to her last nite, I was sure that we had a very similar conversation the last time and I was trying to remember if I ever blogged about our encounter.

In the meantime, I noticed the bit of cleavage she was showing and came to a snap decision that it was very possible she still had her original factory installed equipment, which would be rather unusual for her profession.

She reiterated her suggestion that we have a drink. I said, "No, sorry, I really just want to get to bed."  Then, realizing what I had said, I added, "Alone."

She wasn't giving up, and asked if I came to L.A. alone or with friends.  I kind of fumbled around with my response. "Alone….but I come to see friends.  I have friends here…….I actually have a girlfriend here." OK, that was a fib.

She said, "Oh that's nice.  So tonight you could have two girlfriends."

Hmm…..wasn't sure if she meant a three-way or that she would just be filling in for the night.  I suppose it might depend on how big my sockroll was.

I said no thanks.  I told her I had to get going and she said ok, and patted me on the chest.  She actually patted me on the chest or shoulder a few times during the conversation.  Hmm…I supposed I could have returned the favor and patted her on the chest too—for a price.

I took off and so did she.  This encounter left me scratching my head to recall if I had actually written here about our previous encounter.  I knew we had had an extended conversation, like the one we'd just had, so I would have bet it was blog worthy material.  I couldn't recall writing about it though.

So today I tried to scan through all my hooker posts to find it.  Initially, I remembered a post I entitled "A Very Personable Hooker", and figured that had to be it.  She was very personable.  But I reread that post and the lady in question was blonde.  I give fake names to people, but not fake hair color.  I suppose the gal last night may have dyed her hair since, but I have to say, it was very natural looking.  I suppose I might have found out if it was indeed her natural color had I accepted her proposal.  But let's face it, these days, it's unlikely the evidence would be there. And besides, one of the reasons that I remembered this lady was because of her red hair, I recognized the red hair.

After a quick review of all my hooker posts, I was unable to locate a report on our previous encounter.  Damn, it would have been so much better if I could link back to it.  So you'll just have to trust me on this:  Last night's hooker was a Christmas season rerun.

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One Promo, Two Hookers, No Johns

This is the one night in Vegas last month where the promo paid off for me (guess I should have given you a spoiler alert, huh?), but I basically have a crazy reg and the upstanding young ladies that make up The Slut Parade to thank for it.  Oh, and there are even hookers to talk about.

Now I did a big post about promos here, but the promo I was mainly chasing this night was the NFL promo.  It was a Sunday night, so they were giving away cash each time a team scored.  I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be playing after the football game was over.  I was in the midst of that much-discussed bad run I was having.  Plus I intended to get up early the next morning to play at one of the Venetian Deepstack events.  I dunno if that tournament will ever make it into a blog post or not, but the fact that I haven’t mentioned it here before should give you a pretty good idea of how I did. 

Not only was I planning on making it an early night, but I got a late start too. I missed the beginning of the game because I was in my room slaving away, trying to get a blog post written and posted.  The sacrifices I make for you guys.

By the time I got in a game, I’d already missed the first score of the NFL game.  Also, my pal Don, most recently mentioned here, I believe, was already there.  I ended up at a different table. I asked for a table change but it the football game was nearly over by the time I was able to move over.

Before that, at the first table I was sent to, I got stuck sitting next to Norman Chad.  No, it wasn’t really him.  I just called him that because as I got there, he was busy analyzing a hand that had recently happened with the reg on his right.  And boy was he analyzing.  And analyzing it.  He could not shut up about all the things that were going through his mind through every street, what he had, what he assumed the reg had. Boy was it annoying.  This hand occurred before I got to the table, and it didn’t sound like it was that big a pot, but man was this guy obsessing over it.  And by the way, the reg was not even responding at all, preferring not to give away any information.

It was distracting.  He kept talking about the board cards from that hand, and I kept thinking he was inappropriately talking about the hand we were playing.  I sure didn’t want this guy in my ear all night if he was going to spend 20 minutes talking about every hand he was in like that.  Plus, he was coughing pretty regularly.  I took the first opportunity to change seats and get as far away from him as possible as soon as I could.

I left that seat even after I actually one a pot with the dreaded hand.  It was the third hand I was dealt, and Norman was still talking my ear off (he wasn’t actually talking to me, but he might as well have been).  I raised to $8 with the two cowboys and had three callers.  The flop was an innocuous 8-8-6 and no one called my $25 c-bet.  Hey, for me, with Kings, that was an epic result.

I texted Don that I was considering staying at that table for awhile because it must be a good one for me if I won with Kings.

Our table was frequently short-handed by a person or two, making it impossible for me to move.  I think it was late in the 4^thquarter when I finally heard my name called for the table change.  By this time, my $200 starting stack was down to $186.

When I got to Don’s table, I saw that my buddy Mike was dealing. Of course, I felt obligated to insult him, because that’s what friends are for.  As I went to take my seat, I said, “Damn, they didn’t tell me this dealer would be here.  Maybe I should go back?”  Then Don said, “Well, he’s already won with Kings tonight, so it’s your turn to crack ‘em.”  Mike, of course, is the dealer who has been known, in the past, to deal me Kings an inordinate amount of the time.  I had no idea if Don knew that Mike was the dealer famous for cracking my Kings, or if this was just an incredibly fortunate coincidence.  And you know what? I forgot to ask him later.

I was still unracking my chips when Mike dealt my first hand at this new table.  It wasn’t Kings.  It was, in fact, the only hand better.  Welcome to the table, Rob, here are your pocket Aces.  Before it got to me, someone had made it $12 and another guy had called.  I made it $50 and the original raiser called, the other guy folded.  The guy who folded had a bigger stack than mine, but the guy who raised and then called only had about $30 or so more behind. It didn’t really make sense for him to just call, he should have put all his chips in.  But that didn’t have any bearing on the hand.

The flop was Queen-Queen-Jack, not exactly a great flop for me.  But there weren’t enough chips behind to worry about.  When he checked, I bet enough to get him all in, and he called.  The board bricked out and he had King-10 offsuit.   Interesting that he called my three-bet.  He’d never seen me before, but do I look like the kind of guy who would three-bet with a hand that didn’t crush King-10?  Well, maybe Gabe Kaplan would.  Or Costanza.

I had taken seat 9 (the games are 9-handed) and suddenly the guy in seat 1 started pissing and moaning.  He wasn’t in the hand but it turned out that he had been in seat 9 all evening and had moved over to seat 1 right as I was taking seat 9.  This was the first hand he’d been dealt at his new seat.  If he had not changed seats, those Aces would have been his.  Timing is everything, right?  Frankly, since seats 1 and 9 are on either side of the dealer, I don’t get why you would change from one seat to the other, but his odd decision worked out very nicely for me. 

Now is a good time to talk about the other promo, the cash-drawing.  When I got to the room (about two hours before the 8PM drawing) I learned that there was still one $1K envelope left—it was the one that had 5 $200 winners.  I was hoping that it would be drawn for the 8PM drawing so that I would not be so tempted to hang around until midnite trying to cash in.  With only two $100 prizes at stake, I could convince myself it wasn’t worth hanging around just for the drawing.  But no, at 8PM they only gave away $200 total and I wasn’t one of the winners, mainly because I didn’t have a ticket in the drum. The $1K was still in play.  My inclination was not to hang around for it though, because I wanted to make it an early night. 

My immediate plan, after the 8PM drawing, was to wait for the end of the football game and then grab some dinner, which I desperately needed. 

In the meantime, while the game went on, my buddy Jack came to deal.  It was about 8:15—a long way from the next drawing—when he dealt me Ace-6 of clubs in the big blind.  Four of us saw a flop.  It had two clubs and two 7’s on it.  No one bet it.  The turn was a blank and no one bet it.  The river was a club.  The pot was only $8, which meant if no one called whatever bet I made, I wouldn’t get a drawing ticket (has to be $10 in the pot).  In that situation, what you’re “supposed:” to do is bet $2, because almost for sure someone will call a $2 bet.  But since I wasn’t really playing for the ticket (or at least I thought I wasn’t), I bet $5. It folded to a rather quirky reg, the last person with a chance to call.  He did so.  So I showed my hand and since the pot was now $18, I not only won it but Jack gave me a drawing ticket.  The reg didn’t show his hand, but it turned out to be a great call for me.

I joked to Jack about keeping me there until midnite, but man, I really, really didn’t want to be there that late.  I almost gave him back the ticket without filling it out.  I really almost did that.  But then, before I could do that, I suddenly found myself on auto-pilot, filling the damn thing out.  In my mind though, I was thinking….the odds of my getting picked are really, really small anyway, the most that ticket could be worth was $200….so I certainly will not go out of my way to stay long enough to be around for the drawing.  I really felt at the moment that there was almost no chance I’d be playing at midnite to have a chance at winning the drawing.

The game ended, I told Don I was running off to a late dinner.  He had eaten before the game.  I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do after dinner.  I cashed out of the game thinking I wouldn’t be back, but if I was, it wasn’t really busy enough for me to worry about getting a seat again, and this table wasn’t great anyway.

A few minutes after getting my comp and then getting a sandwich at the deli, I heard from Don.  It seems the table had actually broken, and he saw too many regs at the table they were sending him to, so he cashed out as well.  He asked if I would like some company while I finished eating.  Next you know, it was a couple of hours later, the two of us sat there at the deli discussing poker and life for all that time.  It was around 11PM and it was at the point where I was either calling it a night or I wasn’t really calling it an early evening.  So I headed to the parking structure and Don headed out as well, also deciding he was done playing poker for the evening.

On my way to the parking garage, I couldn’t help being reminded that it was a Sunday night and the club was open.  Yes, there were plenty of elegant ladies in somewhat proactive dress to remind me. Because I had completely forgotten that fact.  Yes, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. So I was walking rather slowly to better enjoy the view.

Near the exit, I stopped to see a few large crowds of young girls eager to hear the exciting sounds of the nightclub.  Or something.  Then, another woman, who didn’t have music on her mind, got my attention. She was a rather tall black woman who was just standing there, trying to get the attention of any male passersby.  I believe the term for this type of woman is “hooker.”  She had on a tan dress that was neither short nor low cut.  But it was super, super tight, which revealed the most noticeable feature of her figure.  She had enormous tits.  Pretty sure even a leg man, or an ass man, or a foot fetishist would have noticed that.

I really didn’t want to get hassled by her, so I avoided her and I’m pretty sure she never saw me.  I did notice that she had a very small purse, however. 

By coincidence, the next day I heard from Don, and around the same time I noticed this young lady, he too encountered a working girl.  He had gone over to the Bellagio to check out the conservatory.  And there, he told me, “As I was walking away from near one of the tables, I was approached by a working girl, who told me ‘don't run away baby’ as I was walking in a different direction. That's as much of her spiel as I heard, saying ‘no thanks.’”

This was odd for him. He said, “Even though I live in Las Vegas, I almost never get propositioned by "working girls." I guess I look like too much of a bum to afford their services.”

I told him I’m sure it’s more that he looks like too much of a stud to ever have to pay for it.

I asked for a better description of the young lady he encountered, specifically in regards to the size of her….purse.  Because that’s a debate I’ve had (mostly with myself) here on the blog.  Do hookers prefer really small purses or really large ones (average size purses seem to be the rarest).  He didn’t notice the purse, but gave this description:   “All I noticed was that she was to be polite ‘heavy-set’ and was wearing stupidly high heels. She was wearing a rather low cut purple dress -- so low, I actually thought she was a club goer until the approach.”

By the way, Don credited this unusual—for him—encounter with a hooker for changing his own luck with promos.  The next night he played again at MGM, had a ticket for the midnight drawing, and was the first name called, awarding him, in that case, $400.  It was his first time ever hitting one of the MGM promos. It was also the only ticket that he had in the drum. And he wondered if somehow, the unusual-for-him approach by the hooker had somehow changed his luck with promos.  Because, well, we were promo whoring, right?  So if you promo whoring and you run into an actual whore, maybe that helps with the promo, right?

Since I’m talking about the world’s oldest profession, I might as well include here the one “conversation” I had with hooker.  This happened a few nights later. As I was about to get n the escalator at NYNY to get to the garage there, a woman said to me, “Hi.” Pause.  “What’s up?” Pause.  “Come here.” She was sitting at a slot and I didn’t get a good look her at all, I was deep in thought about another lousy poker session. I totally ignored her.

Anyway, I was about to head to my car when I suddenly remembered I had not parked in the MGM parking garage, I had actually parked across the street at NYNY.  So I turned around and headed back to the other end of the casino, which took me right past the poker room.  Since the walk was again slowed down by these wonderful “distractions,” it took me awhile to get there and by the time I was near the poker room, it was now 11:35PM or so and thus it was definitely not going to be an early night. 

But the poker room was really quiet.  I could see that there weren’t a lot of games going and that there were seats open.  Damn.  I did have the one ticket.  If I got into a game and was thus eligible for the drawing, I might very well have a much better chance than normal of hitting it, as I could imagine there were not only fewer tickets than normal but it was also likely that a lot of the tickets in there would belong to people who had left and they’d have to keep picket tickets until they found people still there.

What the hell, twenty-minutes wasn’t going to kill me. I had actually booked my first win of the trip when I cashed out earlier to get dinner…..a bit less than $100.  But since it had been nearly three hours since I cashed out, I didn’t have to buy in for what I cashed out with (see here).  In fact, I decided to just buy in for the $100 minimum instead of my normal $200.  I figured I wasn’t really going to play poker.  I was filling a seat to be eligible for the promo.  It wasn’t that I was that concerned with keeping my meager profits from the “real” session, it was more that, well, it usually takes me at least an orbit or two for me to learn the players and the table before I play my normal game anyway, and so I’m usually even five times the nit I am normally for that period.  I figured I’d likely be keeping that pattern, so unless I saw a golden opportunity, I’d just be a folding machine.

In fact, I kind of laughed to myself, as I took a seat at a table where I recognized nobody, that I’d only play Aces, Kings or Ace-King suited (and even that last hand was iffy).  So of course, after folding my first hands of total garbage, the third hand I got was pocket Queens.

Oh well, I managed to ignore my pledge to fold anything less than Kings.  And no, I didn’t just limp.  I raised to $8, had two callers.  The flop was 8-8-7.  I bet $20 and took it down.

I managed to lose that small profit over the next 15 minutes, calling a few raises with low pocket pairs or suited connecters.  Nothing else interesting came my way.  I was back to about $100 when they announced they were indeed giving away $1K, five $200 winners.

They started the drawing, and after three names were drawn (one of which was for someone not present), I heard my name.  Sweet. I don’t know what was better—the $200 I had just won, or the fact that everyone would have rubbed it in my face the next night if I hadn’t been there to claim the prize.  As soon as they brought me my money, I left, my poker for this twenty-minute session was exactly dead even, with a nice $200 bonus.

So when I cashed out, my buddy Stan was there to convert my chips to currency.  I told him that I had come thisclose to missing the drawing. And I added, “And you would have given me such shit the next day if I hadn’t come back.”  He agreed that’s exactly what he and all my buddies would have done.

And you know, this incident, including the comment there, might have contributed to my stupid play regarding the promos the rest of the trip.  So maybe like often happens in poker, I learned the wrong lesson.

But at the time, that $200 sure felt good in my wallet

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"Those Things", The Tournament Tipper & Cheated Hookers

This post consists of some amusing things I overheard recently, one of which is totally unconnected to the other two.  Since none of the stories themselves is enough for an entire post, I thought I’d put them together.

I think I have to be careful telling this first story because I have a bit of a high profile in the poker world.  In this case, I don’t have any inside information, the background is pretty common knowledge.  Just the same, I’d rather not name the poker room involved.

So let’s just say this took place in a poker room somewhere in the United States.  It could be Vegas, it could be L.A., it could even be Atlantic City.  But since I’ve never been to Atlantic City, probably not.

Anyway, we’ll call this mystery poker room “Generic Poker Room.”  Catchy name, right?  It seems that at Generic Poker Room, they recently had a few employees who left under less than ideal circumstances.  A couple of the higher ranking tournament managers were apparently keeping some of the tip money for themselves instead of passing it on the dealers. One can imagine that this may have left a few of the regular dealers disgruntled, shall we say.

So I was playing in a tournament there and the guy next to me seemed to be playing live poker in an actual poker room for the very first time.  His play was ok, he knew poker.  But some of the rules and procedures for playing live seemed unfamiliar to him.  For example, he never, ever figured out that his bet was supposed to cross the “betting line.”  He was sitting close to the dealer so they would frequently just push it forward for him.

After a few hours, he busted out.  When he stood up, I was surprised that he reached into his pants for his wallet.  My first thought was, does he think he needs to give the dealer his player’s card to check out of the tournament?  But no, he didn’t grab his player’s card.  He took out a $10 bill from his wallet, and slapped it down right in front of the dealer.  “That’s for you,” he said, as he left.

Well that was a new one on me.  I’ve played in a lot of tournaments and that was the first time I’d ever seen a guy who busted before cashing—long before cashing—leave a tip.

But the dealer didn’t react like it was the first time he’d seen it, not at all.  He thanked the guy and picked up the bill.  As it happened, one of the guys running the tournament happened to walk by, and the dealer called him over, and gave him the bill. “That’s for us.”

The floorman/tournament director didn’t seem surprised either.  He took the money and kept walking.

At which point, the dealer said, “I just hope that actually gets to us.” About half the table laughed, the other half didn’t. Of course, I knew exactly what that was a reference to so I was totally amused.  The dealer then turned to us and said, “I’m just kidding, he’s a good guy, no worries.”  Then, after a few seconds, he added, “What, you haven’t heard?”  And then he wisely dropped the subject.

Anyway, I’m curious—have any of you seen something like that?  A tip given by a losing player early in the tournament? Really a surprise to me.  The only thing close to that I’ve seen is a time or two when a dealer was off duty and playing in a tournament in a room they work.  This dealer had a stack of $20 real chips (not tournament chips) and would tip the dealer a buck every time they won a pot.  But that was tipping fellow employees, so it was a bit different.

Now speaking of tournament chips….well much later in the tournament a very jovial, extremely chatty fellow was moved to the seat to my right.  He was clearly playing to have a good time, not to win the tournament.  He even mentioned that he thought if he could several hours out of the tournament, the free beer he’d get out of it would be more than enough to compensate for the tournament. 

He also wanted a massage, and made a joke about paying for the massage with tournament chips.  This prompted the dealer—a different one—to ask, “Do you know why it says “no cash value” on all tournament chips?”

A few people started to give their theories but the dealer gave his explanation.  “Because guys would pay hookers in tournament chips, and then they’d try to cash them in and they couldn’t.  And so of course they were quite upset about that.”  Someone at the table made the lame joke about the hookers getting “screwed” after getting screwed.  It’s entirely possible that someone was your humble scribe.

So according to this dealer, it was the hookers getting paid in worthless chips that forced the casinos to stamp “no cash value” on the poker tournament chips.

Truth is, I had heard that story before.  I’m not sure I believe it, but I definitely have heard it.

Totally unrelated to poker, we have a story that occurred on one of the nights when the Slut Parade was taking place.  I was just walking around the casino, minding my own business, not even noticing the many young ladies in their skimpy outfits (you buy that, right?) when I heard a “whoop,” or some similar exclamation.  It was obvious a female voice.  It’s not usual for the young (or drunk) folks to whoop it up like this when they are in Vegas.  They are happy to be in Vegas.  They are happy they are going to the club (or wherever). 

Anyway, the “whoop” sound got my attention and I turned to see where it was coming from.  I say a young woman walking the opposite direction (towards the club) and as part of her “whoop” she had raised her right arm and was waving it for emphasis.  This was a serious whoop.  Since I was to the right of her, I couldn’t help notice that the side of her dress was…well, actually, there was no side of her dress.  There was just a lot of skin.  And she was revealing….let me see, I believe there is a technical term for it.  Ah yes, I believe it is called “side-boob.”  There was actually a lot of side and a lot of boob revealed.

She was with a guy and another girl and my eyes followed her as she walked away.  It turns out she wasn’t wearing a dress at all.  There was a revealing top, which was totally backless.  And there was a skirt.  Actually, it was probably closer to a belt than a skirt.  It was incredibly short.  And it was incredibly tight.  I tried to figure out if it was tighter than it was short or shorter than it was tight and honestly, it was too close to call.

This outfit was thus a “triple threat,” something that is not actually that common among club attendees.  As I explained in my original slut parade post, the standard “uniform” of the female club goers is a) very tight; and/or b) very short; and/or c) low-cut with generous cleavage revealed.  But it isn’t that often any one girl is wearing an outfit that has all three of these features.  Usually it’s just two of the three.  Sometimes it’s one of the three, but unless that one is extreme, the girl is practically overdressed.  It’s just very challenging for a woman to pull off a triple threat dress (no, not that way) because in order to really look good in one, the woman would have to have a near perfect body.  Of course, many girls who do try to wear such a dress don’t have the bodies for it (again, few women do), but that’s another story.

This girl appeared to have the kind of body that filled out all the requirements such an outfit demanded. 

I kept walking but somehow, very mysteriously, really, I found myself wandering about the area where the club goers were milling around.  And by pure coincidence I assure you, I once again encountered this triple-threat girl.  This time I saw her while she was facing me.  And it turns out that her outfit was revealing more than just side-boob.  It was pretty much wide open in front too, almost down to her navel.  Basically, it was just two straps coming down from her neck covering her nipples and not much else. Since she was showing both “normal” cleavage and side-boob, plus the short and tight skirt, I wondered if she deserved a new category, which would be “the quadruple threat.”

Anyway, by this time her party had expanded by one, and there were two guys and two girls.  Based on the interaction, I would guess that this new guy was the boyfriend of this striking girl.  They were face-to-face, talking, and at one point, I saw him put his finger up to the girl. He was actually pointing. He may or may not have actually touched her chest, but I could hear him plainly say, “Could you put those things away, please?”  The girl laughed, and then leaned in to give the guy a big hug.  Hmm…I wonder if she would have hugged me if I had made the same request.  Probably not.

Anyway, for those of you interested in such things, I would say there is a at least a 99.9999% chance that the “things” her boyfriend wanted her to put away were purchased from a plastic surgeon.  Since she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra, with the size of those things, if they were god-given, they would have been down to knees.

I know whenever I tell a story like that, people will write to me and demand that I start taking pics and/or video of the Slut Parade.  I can’t see myself doing that—way too dangerous.  Now, if I had one of those “wearable” cameras, or some such, so I could take the video without anyone realizing I was doing it, maybe I could do it.  Hmm….perhaps I should open a “Go-Fund-Me” account to start collecting donations for it?

Now the pic below, of Reese Witherspoon, is the closest I could find to approximate the outfit she was wearing, and it really doesn’t come very close.  For one thing, Ms. Witherspoon’s natural assets are a lot more normal sized than this gal’s unnatural assets were.  Also, the quadruple-threat girl was showing a whole lot more skin.

And I doubt that Ms. Witherspoon would yell “Whoop!” if she was about to attend a night club in Vegas.  But I could be wrong about that.

Still here?  Well, the pic above was supposed to be the end of this post.  But between the time I wrote this and the time I was able to post it, I found  this intriguing picture below, which perhaps is a little more representative of the dress I was describing--or at least the top I was describing.  This is actually a swimsuit, so it's not exactly what the gal was wearing.  But the top of this swimsuit is pretty close to what the girl was wearing...perhaps the dress I was describe was slightly wider, but not much.

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