Las Vegas Poker

By Pauly
Hollyweird, CA

I actually played poker before I fled Las Vegas for the silicon-lush hills of Hollyweird. During the seven weeks of the WSOP, I did not play one hand of live poker. Zip. I limited myself to a couple of sessions of online poker and that was mostly Saturdays with Dr. Pauly appearances on PokerStars.

The only gambling fix over the previous two months included outrageous prop bets like lime tossing with Otis or sports bets on the NBA finals and the European soccer championships. Both ventures proved profitable. I avoided the pits. No Pai Gow. Zero craps. Blackjack? I have not played in years. Maybe that's why I left Las Vegas a winner?

* * * * *
Red Rock.

The day after the WSOP ended, Change100 and I were on an odd sleeping schedule. It was 8pm and she was sleeping. I was wide awake and headed to Red Rock to watch the baseball all star game. There was a wait for any NL games so I sat down at a 4/8 with a half kill limit table and kept an eye on the game as it went into extra innings. A couple of old timers at my table had bet on the all star game. Who bets on baseball all star games? Degenerates and action junkies. If I knew you could bet on it, I would have. Oversight on my part.

The game was exciting and it captured my attention as I folded and folded. There's a bad beat jackpot at all Stations Casinos sprinkled throughout Las Vegas. When I lived in Henderson (before Red Rock ever existed and before Green Valley Ranch added their poker room) with Grubby, we used to play at Sunset Station in their peculiar 3-6-9 limit game. Sunset was a part of the Station Casino junta which meant that all of the poker rooms in those casinos were linked up in a collective bad beat jackpot. Not only does the table win a massive share... if you are playing in any Station Casino when the jackpot hits, then you also get a piece of the pie.

Every day that the jackpot is not won, the qualifying hand drops which means that the poker rooms get jam packed as the jackpots soar. It was hard to get a seat on those days and guys nearly pissed themselves because they didn't want to miss out just in case the hand hit when they were taking a leak.

It took me a while to adjust playing in the bad bead jackpot games at the Station Casinos. I opened up my hand selection and played any pair and any suited connectors. Never know when you'll get lucky and have quads versus a straight flush situation.

On that night, with the all star game on in the background, I did my best to tilt the locals. I got one guy all hot under the collar when I played 5h-3h on the button to a raise and re-raise in front of me. In all fairness, I capped it. I flopped a flush draw and gutshot. I made a straight on the turn. There was an Ace on the board as well and I won the pot. My opponent mucked and he muttered something about getting his Jacks cracked by ace-rag. That's when I tabled my 5h-3h.

"You called two raises with that?" he said with a quiver in his voice and launched into a rant about how awful of a player I was.

Usually I just shrug my shoulders or give them the stink eye. Since I had been chatty with my end of the table and talking a bit, I was in a chipper mood.

"I don't care what kind of cards you play or don't play," I said. "I'm here to win myself and our table that juicy bad beat jackpot."

That's when a few locals stood up for me.

"Don't knock the kid for trying to make us some money," one guy barked in my defense.

Later that night, I actually made a straight flush, but with 9c-6s. I flopped the OESFD and got there on the turn.

* * * * *
Venetian.

I like being the unknown guy at the table. On the Strip, I dress like a tourist. I drink beer instead of water. I never do chip tricks. I act like a mark.

I like to watch. I observe. That's what I do as a writer. I watch people. After seeing the world's best poker players compete for seven straight weeks, all of that soaks up into my brain while I'm on the job as a tournament reporter. All of that information comes to fruition when I'm at the poker tables.

I can't explain it, but my Spidey senses are at full peak in the weeks after the WSOP. In the previous three summers, I cleaned up at the tables. I always extended my time in Vegas to take advantage of my heightened senses.

It's almost impossible to study Allen Cunningham or that random Scandi with the perfectly messy hair and trying to figure out what they're holding as a monster pot develops in front of you. I always try to guess what they have. I'm right a small percentage of the time. It's not an easy task. After all, those are world class pros.

But when you sit down at a 1/2 NL table at the Venetian, reads and tells are oozing out of people's eyes, ears, mouth, and noses. You know when people hit hands. You can sniff out their weak bluffs and pick off continuation bets.

I was a little rusty and had not played live poker since the WSOP began. But my instincts were hyper-sensitive. I made a couple of Kenny Tran-esque calls including one with bottom pair because I knew the guy missed a flush draw.

I also picked the right folks to bully around. After only one orbit I had a general sense of how each player played and more importantly... the differences in how they perceived themselves, how they projected themselves at the table, and the reality of who they actually were.

Seat 1 was a dealer. He was from out of town and just finished dealing at the Venetian deep stacks events. Most dealers are skilled players but they are action junkies which is their downfall. They play too many pots and make too many bad calls. Seat 1 was a calling station and not going to get pushed off a pot.

Seat 2 was a greasy local in a sweat suit. He looked like he should be sitting in the cheap seats at Aqueduct race track clutching a fistful of losing tickets and chomping down a stale cigar awaiting for the fourth race to go off. He was weak-tight. But cagey too. He limped with big hands like pocket Queens and Big Slick. If you pushed him around, he would only fight back if he had something. I stole a couple of pots from him and got the hell out of the way when he came over the top.

Seat 3 was the foreign guy. Uzbekistan. Kyrgyzstan. Lickatwatistan. He would play a hand and get up and wander around the room leering at the hot massage girls. I did not blame him. They were sultry and sexy and I wanted a lap dance. I wanted a sensual below the belt rub and not just a neck rub. I actually got jealous when a guy at an adjacent table hired one of the girls for a twenty minute massage. I almost went on Otis tilt and spewed all of my chips.

Seat 4 was a local with a golf tan. Also weak-tight and he did not say on word to me the entire time I sat there. He also didn't chop. A local who didn't chop? I got pissed and raised him when he limped for $1 in the small blind. He could have saved $1.

Seat 5 was your hero. I was killing time before I met some friends for dinner at David Burke.

Seat 6 was a tourist with a short stack and a knack for drinking Coronas very fast.

Seat 7 was the birthday boy. The well groomed kid turned 21 and had a thick Southern accent. North Georgia? G-Vegas? He decimated jack and cokes like John Daly on the back nine at Winged Foot. And he talked loudly even though he thought he was whispering. A guy who can't see straight can be an extremely profitable opponent he can be a boil on your ass.

Seat 8 was the table captain. Twenty-something girl who had recently moved to Las Vegas from her Pacific Northwest enclave. She wore oversized sunglasses more suited for a Hollywood starlet and must have said she played poker for a living a dozen times in the first ten minutes that I sat down. She thought she was hot shit and I drowned out her running commentary of the game since her overconfidence was an obvious beard for her lack of self-esteem. She did plenty of chip tricks and tried to run over the table with raises and snide remarks. Bullies don't like to be bullied. I three-bet her a couple of times and she quickly retreated, but not without a verbal barb. She always had to get the last word in. Don't ya hate that? I had a great comeback that I didn't want to say. It would have been too cruel. "You're a 'pro' today, but within a month you'll be broke and dealing $20 tourneys at Circus Circus."

Seat 9 was the retired Vietnam vet who was in town with his wife and kids. He knew how to play but he lacked casino poker experience. He constantly string bet. He was the perfect guy to overbet on the river because he'd call... "just to keep you honest." Thanks for donating.

Benjo played at a 1/2 NL table nearby. We were both waiting to meet up with our friends for dinner. I looked up and Paul "X-22" Maigrel walked past my table and sat down at Benjo's table. About twenty minutes later, I had cashed out of my game and went over to drag Benjo out of his game.

As I walked up to the table, Benjo and X-22 were involved in a pot. Benjo check-raised him on a King flop with two clubs. X-22 muttered something and folded Jacks. Benjo showed him the semi-bluff with Qc-9c. X-22 was not happy. Benjo racked up his chips and that pissed him off even more.

"Where you going with my money?" said X-22.

"I'm going to dinner," said Benjo.

"I'll remember you!" shouted X-22.

I can't confirm this because my French is awful, but I swore I heard Benjo call X-22 a monkeyface cumstain.

* * * * *
Treasure Island.

We were shitfaced drunk and arrived at 10:30 for their 10pm tournament. It was full but we were alternates including two chicks with fake boobs. Michalski was the first one seated. He busted out before any of us could sit down. I built up a stack early before both Benjo and Change100 were out. I was eliminated shortly after the first break. I made a move with Jd-10d and lost to 9-rag. MeanGene went deep but was the bubble boy.

After the tournament I headed to the Pai Gow tables with Change100. I went on a heater and won during my only Pai Gow session all summer. I wanted to play three hands at once but they wouldn't let me. I originally played my hands plus the dragon every time. I got permission to play the empty seat next to mine. However, I wanted the option to play the dragon. Three hands. Triple the Pai Gow action. The floor would not approve of my request. Alas, I had to only play two.

* * * * * *
Mandalay Bay.

I went to Burger Bar inside Mandalay Bay to meet Flipchip and Poker Prof for dinner. I also hung out with Schaubs who was in town for a wedding.

I killed some time playing 1-2 NL in a game that was a mixture of locals and tourists. I built up a stack early but almost got felted when my Aces lost to Kings. As soon as the dealer spiked the King of spades on the river, my opponent's eyes nearly out of his head. Talk about the biggest tell of the summer. I knew he made his set. He had been check-calling me on every street. He tried to check-raise me on the river. I didn't fall for that trap and checked behind. That saved me the rest of my stack.

* * * * *
Scheckytown.

And then there's the scorpion. Schecky killed a tiny scorpion when I was in Colorado. The scorpion gained entry from the sliding glass door that separated the backyard and pool area from the house. But Schecky got him before he could go deep in the house.

Schecky displayed the conquered carcass underneath a glass in the kitchen. The dead scorpion body looked shriveled up with the menacing stinger still in tact. That might have been the biggest break we caught at Scheckytown.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

The Road of Excess Leads to the Palace of Wisdom

By Pauly
Hollyweird, CA

The attractive lights flickered as you sped down the mountain and raced at 92mph towards the brute void. Perhaps, you glimpsed out the window of your plane with the intensity of a leering sexual deviant. The Luxor light captured your attention. The poignant beacon of promise was where the unreliable patron saints of gambling gathered. St. Coulda. St. Would. St. Shoulda. They all jeered at your unanswered prayers, yet you continued to worship them like a lazy sod.

Blurry images of the Strip reminded you of psychedelic versions of Crayola crayons. The incandescent lights are ominous, and some where under the muted glow, your fate silently awaits your arrival.

The reason that you go to Vegas instead of seeing the largest ball of twine is because Vegas offers up something no other place on the planet can deliver. You never know when it just might be your turn to get lucky and that's why you go for a longshot at living out your wildest dreams including the rush of a lifetime after you cashed out racks and racks of chips and required a thick-necked security guard to escort you from the cage because you feared that the local speed freaks will jump out from a row of Wheel of Fortune slots and jack your shit.

You don't go to Las Vegas to make love. You're there to fuck or get fucked. And if you spend too much time in the pits you get the gnarly rodgering of your life, except they're not gentle and never use KY.

What's your ultimate goal? To have an orgasm so intense that it woke up everyone on your floor. Even if you have to cheat a little bit or you prefer unorthodox avenues of sexual fulfillment such as hardcore bondage or role playing, you have to seek out those individuals in marginal forms of employment who cater to such unique palates. That's how you end up with the Thai sex slave from the massage parlor on Valley View, or the cheese-addicted street walker on Trop, or the frigid call girl that you called from the number on the card that the 5 foot tall illegal immigrant porn slappers shoved in your pocket when you walked past Casino Royale. Don't forget about the hardest working minxes in Las Vegas with sore crotches that flock to the various hooker bars.

My scatterbrained MTV generation happily digested nauseated jumpcuts of the glitzy and hipster side of Vegas. Hollywood brainwashed us. The myths of Sin City were hidden deep inside behind miles and miles of our shit-clogged intestines. The tantalizing lure of decadence quickly attacked our humility like a sleeper cell fulfilling a fatwah. It's a matter of time before your morals decay.

Rush in and rush out. Hit and run. Vegas quickies are recommended. Anything sustained will cause permanent brain damage as a decade of Las Vegas time turns East Coast intellectuals into bluthering space monkeys.

Implosions and expansions rule in the city while abandoned houses in foreclosure swept through the burbs like a case of the clap in a Budapest whorehouse. New strip malls hawking needless shit were sculpted out of stones extracted from mountains older than the souls of a million reincarnated generations. Yet they are mostly empty.

Miniature ghost towns as shallow symbols of commerce infest the landscape. While the skies above are invaded by shiny high rises that no one can afford to buy because everyone is broke in Las Vegas yet they continue to build because the available ones are gobbled up by Middle Eastern fat cats who sleep on piles and piles of cash due to our morbid addiction to oil and opulence.

That embarrassing reality is a tragic reminder that we failed to evolve. I wonder what could have been in our glorious nation? Yet all of that momentum was pissed away on gaudy SUVs and watermelon tits and my pampered generation of party crashers are nothing more than a morass of used car salesmen and fame whores trying to get one last high before the soiree is over.

Last call. Better make mine a triple. Shit, just give me the whole bottle.

I can't stop thinking about Ayn Rand's crumbling society in Atlas Shrugged. System overload. Every few weeks another construction worker dies on the clock and another ghost roams the Strip ready to haunt the next wave of looters and moochers.

Those voices in your head? They're not subliminal messages pumped out through the casinos. No, they are real voices from the beyond. The Las Vegas valley is ripe with tortured ghosts. The taunt you and tease you. I run into the gambling demons in the worst places like the precise moment that I want to leave my Pai Gow table, yet my good senses suffer a massive seizure and I'm paralyzed by the gobs of greed that violently pump through my bloodstream as the sensible part of me curls up into a ball.

I won't ask you to step inside because I have sold everything that's worth seeing. After a while, all those hostile thoughts that spilled out of my head left a hole that can't be plugged. Although I wanted it bad, you wanted more.

Even when I suggested that you leave, the warning was ignored and you stuck around to see what became of us. Me and the lights. I frolicked. I conquered. I stumbled. I crashed hard. As much as the missteps ripped you apart like shrapnel, the worthless swill also soothed you like a lick of ice cream on a boiling summer day that melted the roof of your mouth.

I already sent a message out to the spirits. Prepare for my arrival.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

Las Vegas Hookers

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

"Nothing shakes off a bad beat better than hate fucking a hooker," an elderly local once told me at the poker table.

We were sitting in a 4-8 limit game at Green Valley Ranch. I couldn't tell if the geezer was serious or just joking. But it made sense. There's a running joke in poker that when someone tells you a bad beat story, they have to pay you $1 for wasting their time. I always imagined that being a hooker would be one of the worst jobs on the planet. But I'm almost brought to tears at the thought that somewhere in Las Vegas, right now, there's sloppy, smelly, sweaty fat poker player telling a bad beat story to a hooker while he's humping her doggie-style in his hotel room.

I have always felt that prostitution should be legalized. That's what is great about America. We're made up of fifty states and if one state wants to allow hookers and another wants to decriminalize pot and another wants to host a slew of Mormons, then so be it. Some states say poker is legal. Others don't. While most of the union is against prostitution, Nevada has a different stance. It's the only state in America that allows it. However, the legal brothels are nowhere near Las Vegas. And that means that the local hookers (aside from those girls who work in massage parlors) have to seek out the customers. That process involved hitting up the different hooker bars.

For the most part, the girls that worked the hooker bars in the casinos were above average looking girls in Las Vegas. You occasionally saw the high end girls, usually draped on the arm of an elderly gentlemen as they strolled through the casino, but you rarely saw the hottest hookers in Las Vegas because they were too busy chugging cock or biting pillow.

The girls who walked Tropicana in front of the Redneck Riviera were the bottom of the barrel hookers. They were strung out, overweight, and outright nasty. But they managed to pick up clients, who would swoop them up and drive away. Those girls often disappeared and were strangled by psychotic serial killers, if they didn't end up overdosing on the car ride out of town.

There are two types of people in Las Vegas... the hustlers and those getting hustled. Which one are you? Mostly everyone I know is the worst kind. Because they're someone who thinks they are a hustler, when in fact, they're the ones getting hustled and never saw it coming.

Everyone in town is running a con or a scam or always looking to shoot an angle. Even the Jesus freaks and Mormon missionaries are scooping lost souls by the baker's dozen. Missionaries never go into rich neighborhoods to recruit members, only Scientologists do that. God is most often sought in places of despair like poor communities and ghettos. Hospitals. And very frequently, God's good will is sought at the craps tables in Caesar's Palace.

Someone tried to hustle me the other night. I looked like a tourist. I looked like fresh meat. I lived on and off in Las Vegas for three years. I know a hustle when I see one.

I have faith in the majority of cab drivers. But there's always a couple bad seeds in any group. I've been around taxis for most of my waking life. One of my earliest memories was puking in the back of a taxi headed to the doctor's office in upper Manhattan. Living in New York City, you get used to all kinds of different types of drivers. Taking a lot of cabs in Vegas also offers some insight in the differences between a good driver and a bad driver.

The good driver was the guy who picked me up at the airport. My taxi was captain by an elderly chatty fellow. He said that I was his first fare of the day. We spoke about the weather and where I flew in from. He said that he used to live in L.A., right around the corner from where Change100's parents live now. The ride was quick and the fare was $11. I only had a $20 or $100 bill. I asked him if he could break the $20.

"No problem," he said.

I gave him a $3 tip.

A couple of hours later, I picked up another taxi. The guy was very quiet. The fare was $9.10. All I had was a $20. I told him to give me $9 back and keep $1.90 as a tip. He tried to pull the old "I don't have any change" trick. He said that I was his first fare of the day. All he had was $3. He showed it too me. Essentially he was trying to get an extra $6 when I tipped him almost $2.

"Don't bullshit me," I said. "I don't believe you. Show me your wallet! Show me your till!"

I took the $20 back from the driver. He protested my requests and had a thick accent. I couldn't tell where he was from. He muttered some other bullshit. I told him to go get change. He wouldn't get out of the cab and do that. I looked through my pocket. I had exactly $9.60... the fare plus a fifty cent tip.

"If you're lying to me, well fuck you man," I said. "And if I'm wrong and you are telling the truth, then tough shit. It's your own fault that you showed up to work unprepared and only $3 in change."

I never liked stiffing cabbies or waitress, but sometimes you have to make a stand. I overtip so much that I feel as though my tipping karma can take a small hit from those instances.

My gut told me he was lying. When I saw the look in his eye when we exchanged the money, I knew I was right.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

Act III: After Midnight

By Pauly
Las Vegas

When the dark side of Las Vegas takes over, it's one helluva ride. If you survive the depths of despair without losing too much of your mind, dignity, and soul, you'll have plenty of war stories to tell your drinking buddies at the end of a bar or entertain your work friends while huddled around the water cooler. Some day, when you are on your deathbed with tubes of all sorts coming out of your body, you might reveal your inner wild child to your grandchildren, who sit in bewilderment about some of your most outlandish stories.

The running theme among the other trip reports seem to all center around the same thing. Mostly everyone who attended had two separate lives. The first one is the one that you live most of the time, which is not as glamorous while you're cleaning juice stains off the carpet, or shuffling off to work to fill out TPS reports, or getting chewed out by your spouse. Normal life can be a fuckin' bitch sometimes, and that's the one you secretly wish to escape as you leap into your other life. The gateway to your other personality is the intertubes where you slide into your online persona and let loose into the virtual world. But twice a year, both worlds collide at a real life gathering of imaginary internet friends, which plays out on the sordid streets of Las Vegas.

And under the bright neon lights things get a little out of hand. As they should. Most of you bust your ass all year and are entitled for a long, wild, and crazy weekend of ludicrousness, where you blow off steam, shed the protective layers of everyday life and immerse yourself into the rock star lifestyle. It's a whirlwind adventure, sort of like running with the bulls in Pamplona, except there are no bulls and lots more hookers. You willingly engage in degenerate gambling in -EV games, consume more liquor inside a 72 hour period than you did the previous six months, and commingle with unsavory characters with criminal records that you wouldn't let your children near for six seconds.

But that's the beauty of Las Vegas. Sure it's a physical place, but it's also a mythical location where anything goes. That's why you have to surrender to the flow the minute you drive into the city limits or the moment you exit your plane at McCarran airport. And sometimes, you get your ass kicked around. Sin City is brutal, relentless, and does not discriminate. And maybe, just maybe, you can tame the iniquitous gambling demons and ride the wave of good fortune as a choir of angels sing your good praises. It doesn't happen too often, but that's why you go to Las Vegas, for a walk on the wild side. Otherwise, you would have flown to Hawaii for a relaxing vacation instead.

Saturday night in Las Vegas. There's nothing quite like it on Earth. I've been to some raging parties all over the globe, but nothing compares to the level of debauchery that you will find on any given Saturday in Las Vegas. And of course, we happened to gather on one of the busiest weekends in Las Vegas with an UFC fight, a major boxing match (which drew in about one fifth of the entire British Empire roving the streets of Las Vegas like drunken hooligans), the rodeo finals, and of course, the winter gathering of mischievous online poker players. The only thing that would have made the weekend crazier would have been a couple of sheets of acid.

It was after midnight, when I stumbled into the IP with The Rooster fresh off his victory in the blogger tournament. The first place we headed was the Geisha Bar, which aptly transforms into the hooker bar once the sun goes down. The ladies of the night were out in force, circling the crowd for fresh meat. One of them flirted with the Rooster and wondered why he carried around the trophy. When they found out that he had won a lot of cash, they perked up. But brother, the Rooster ain't no john. The Rooster is a pimp and I wouldn't have been surprised if he had both girls hustling for him by the end of the night. Fear the Rooster when he crows after midnight.

The ladies of the night flirted with almost everyone that I knew at the Geisha Bar. We were on their turf now. They had to make their nut. Let's say they need to make $3K per night. Well, then can fuck 10 guys at $300 a pop or fuck three at $1K. Hookers always had a sliding scale, but they had to meet a quota for their pimp or earn enough money to pay their drug debts or needed to get enough to pay bills or to feed their morbid addictions. Whatever the reasons, the hookers trolled the Geisha Bar for potential customers. They knew our gang liked to chat them up, but were dead ends. They only other choices were rowdy Brits or cheap cowboys. One of them whirled over to several boxing hooligans and disappeared into their circle.

Derek and GMoney were playing their game, "Working or Not?" Some of them were less subtle about their approaches and would straight up proposition you. The others were a little more coy although they weren't fooling us, but maybe an innocent Brit or an unsuspecting cowboy might have fallen for their lines. I'm happy than no one in our group got rolled by a hooker this year. And yes, no one died, and no one had to be rushed to the ER. It seemed this batch could hold their liquor, although I had one moment where I crossed that demarcation line where I almost got into trouble.

VinNay brought over a shot in a boot. That was the beginning of the end. That was the flashpoint. Every Las Vegas bender has one, were the entire direction abruptly changes course and you slip down the deviant path to destruction. For me, it was the shot of Crown Royal. The Geisha Bar had some sort of special with Crown Royal for the Rodeo. I guess they were trying to get cowboys to drink it in bulk. They had discounted shots that came in a souvenir boot. VinNay walked over with a couple of shots. AlCantHang respectfully protested. He knows better and opted out with SoCo instead. Me? I'm psychotic and did not want to disrespect someone who was gracious enough to buy me a drink.

"Bottoms up," I screamed as VinNay and I downed the shot.

Whiskey makes my eyes look mean. Whiskey sends a burning sensation throughout my entire body. And whiskey makes me slur my speech and do stupid things like want to pick fights with cowboys twice my size and talk smack to Pai Gow dealers and taunt the hookers.

After talking to VinNay about fantasy sports (and he mentioned that the Jaguars would be a lock so I scribbled down his pick in my notebook), I stumbled into the poker room. There was an open seat at a 1/2 NL table with TripJax, Jordan, Fuel55, and Schaubs. I bought in for $100 and within an orbit I lost my stack to TripJax when he rivered me. I could barely see straight, but that didn't matter. Rebuy! Three hands later, I doubled up against Jordan with K-K to get even.

Enter the Rooster, three sheets to the wind.

Like a pinball, the Rooster bounced his way into the poker room and rolled over to our table. He slammed his hammer trophy down on the felt. He unfurled his gansta roll and peeled off three $20 bills. He bought in for $60 and I lost it and almost fell off my chair. Cagey mofo. He had a few grand on him and went for a short buy.

On the first and only hand the Rooster played, I felted him. I raised in MP and the Rooster re-raised to $30. I called with J-10 because I figured it was good. The flop was A-K-10. I checked my gutshot with bottom pair. The Rooster moved all in for his last $30. I thought for a second and headed into the tank. The Rooster tabled his hand because he thought that I called. He showed 9-8. I peeked at my cards and showed Fuel55. I had bottom pair and was ahead. It was an obvious call. My hand held up and the Rooster got felted. He didn't rebuy. He stood up, grabbed his trophy, and walked away. He saddled up to the first female he spotted and chatted her up. Always be closing.

That's when things got really blurry. I cashed out of the game and then...

...I don't recall too much until I burst into my room and pissed off the balcony as Change100 watched in bewilderment. It takes a lot to shock someone who worked for a decade in Hollyweird. But I managed to do so. The culprit was the whiskey. Oh and everything else that I drank or smoked.

After being up for two straight days, I passed out shortly before sunrise. My cell rang at 9:01am. It was Derek waking me up for the football games. I shook off the hangover and headed straight for the sportsbook.

Over the last year, my sports betting had spun out of control. I started the beginning of the NFL season in London and had easy access to multiple betting parlors. There was one next to my hotel. There was one around the corner from the casino and one across Leicester Square. I kept pressing the action when I headed down under to Australia and bet on local hoops action. I also was in the middle of my winning streak in the Swedish hockey league. At that point, I was jonesin' for anything. I got lucky and stopped before it got ugly. I took action and quit while I still had a positive bankroll. I cashed out my entire sports betting bankroll and decided to put it to good use for a trip to New Zealand at the end of January and to pay for a trip to Florida for a music festival in March.

Yes, I quit online sports betting... cold turkey, too. No mas Betsson. No mas Bodog.

I also capped my betting limits on any given sports bet in a live casino. At one point earlier in the year, I was betting up to $2K a game during March Madness and the NBA playoffs. It was getting out of hand... but I averted disaster and pretty much broke even for both. I ended up winning more than I lost, but the juice on the losses almost friggin' killed me.

I was excited to bet on the NFL games. That was the main reason I was in town. And since I had cut back substantially, any action was welcomed. $200 or $300 per game was enough to get a taste. Nothing is better than sweating a win, especially an exciting one with plenty of ups and downs and twists and turns. The 4th quarter of the Jets game was a wild one... and lucky for me, I bet against my Jets and took Cleveland.

Miami Don eloquently described the moment in his epic post called Slump Buster. Here's what he wrote...

"After some deep discussion about the game with Dr Pauly we did what any good gambler does; we asked a real live cooler who they like. Well that cooler was none other than Waffles, the most unlucky person perhaps on the planet. "Waffles lets see your tickets" we asked. All but one had the Jets so Pauly and I immediately went to the window and layed a big bet on the Browns -3..."

It's true. We like to fade picks from mushes and coolers. When Waffles showed me his tickets, I winked at MiamiDon and we literally ran to the window. I know I had my self-imposed betting restrictions, but I discovered a loop hole and decided to bet $200 on Cleveland... three times. I'm a dire hard Jets fan, and they suck something fierce. If it weren't for the Dolphins atrocious year, they'd have two less wins.

So we bet Cleveland heavily and the game took an ugly turn in the 4th quarter until we got lucky. As Miami Don explained...

"I can't believe my eyes. Here comes the fucking FG unit onto the field? There is stunned silence in the Sports Book. Mangenius is kicking a FG on 1st and 10 from the 18 down by 9? Holy fuck. In all my life of watching and betting on football I don't remember anybody kicking a FG in this situation so basically he let us of the hook..."

God bless Mangini.

I lost two small bets. Fuckin' Philly couldn't cover against the Giants and I missed Pitt with the money line against the Pats. I knew that was a long shot but the price was too good to pass up. All of my big bets hit... Jaguars, Green Bay, and Cleveland. God, did I love that Cleveland bet. I left the sportsbook up over $1K. I was happy but bitter at the same time. My betting limit restrictions killed what could have been a magnificent day of betting the favorites. Alas, if I had been betting a dime or two a game, I would have probably gotten stuck and the Jets would have fucked up the spread. Regardless... I'll take the win. The sportsbook windfall paid for my entire trip.

Last weekend was one of those times during the season where every single favorite wins and the sportsbooks lose money that week. They always make it back, but for that week, even the biggest losers make money. There are very few feelings that are better than the ones you get when you wait in line to cash a big sports bet ticket. There's always that anticipation as the computer confirms your bet and the number flashes up on the register. The teller always tries to get you to bet your winnings and place new bets. Sometimes, I let it ride, but other times I just want the cash in hand first before I go back a few minutes later to make a bet. I want that thrill of holding my winnings after sweating a three plus hour football game. That sustained high is nothing compared to the elation that sizzles through your body the second you cash a winning ticket and you snatch the cash off the counter.

* * * * *
A few days after I checked out of the IP, I got stuck with a Keith Moon Tax from the front desk. (If you have no idea who Keith Moon is... well, he was the drummer from The Who. Moon became notorious for trashing his hotel rooms while on the road. This is the same guy who once took 14 horse tranquilizers before a concert and passed out during Won't Get Fooled Again. And he was also rumored to have driven a car into a a hotel swimming pool). Apparently, I was fined for "room damages" to my suite. It's sad getting nailed by the cheesy IP of all place, the most ghetto hotel and casino in the center strip which I had referred to as the Imperial Palace of Inbred Peasants. It's not the damn Bellagio for fucks sake, so I dunno how on Earth I got fined by them for trashing my suite. I mean, it wasn't that bad. Sure we had a few people up to party but nothing big.

As Johnny Hughes wrote me, "A room was trashed at the Imperial Palace? How could they tell? A room was trashed at the Imperial Palace. That's an oxymoron. A room was trashed at the Imperial Palace? You are carrying your rock star illusion way too far."

I've trashed nicer hotels all over the world (I'm still amazed they let Senor and myself leave Iceland after what we did to our room at the Hotel Borg in Reykjavik in 2001) and I managed to walk away without a peep. That's why I was both amused and irritated that the suits at the IP blew the whistle on me.

I just pissed off the balcony, it's not like I lit the couch on fire and tossed it off the 11th floor. No big deal. Public urination happens all the time. In Las Vegas, there's four hundred people pissing in public at any given time. No less than a dozen senior citizens are soiling themselves right now at various penny slot machines all over Las Vegas.

Alas, I got nailed with a fine. They had no idea about the balcony incident, but we left the suite in decent condition. I practically live in hotels, and I know whether or not I left it in good or bad shape. Had I known I was going to get fined, I would have thrown a bigger party in my suite and did some proper damage.

On Monday evening as I drove out of Las Vegas, a feeling of satisfaction washed over me. I escaped Sin City as winner and the only substantial loss was my voice. I could barely speak the last day in Las Vegas. That always happens when I'm engaged in conversation for five straight days and have to shout over the annoying slot machine noises or scream over the dealertainers.

I won a little money, partied my ass off, and survived. I left Vegas with a couple of funny pictures (check out my Las Vegas Flickr gallery), several stories, and a plethora of memories that will keep me warm on chilly nights. I don't take those precious moments for granted and do my best to enjoy every milisecond.

I left Las Vegas with a tinge of regret. I didn't get to hang out with everybody and I wanted to stay a couple of more days. I still had the taste in my veins. Las Vegas is one of the most powerful drugs in the world. It sweeps away dreamers on a magic carpet ride. It turns normal people into absurd monsters. It transforms fiscally responsible people into blackholes of wealth. The Las Vegas valley is an asylum for all fallen angels and wayward souls adrift in the world.

I always prefer to leave Las Vegas in a good mood and positive spirit. It really sets the tone for my next adventure. Sometimes I crawl out of Las Vegas mentally battered and morally destroyed, and unable to speak in complete sentences. Other times I leave riding an emotional high of the greatest gift of all... and that's to be alive and in the moment.

My love/hate relationship with Las Vegas continues. I usually get shanked by the gambling demons and left to die in a slippery pool of my own blood, but last weekend, I frolicked in the darkest corners of Las Vegas and emerged unscathed, aside from the Keith Moon Tax. But then again, I can just write that off. It's the price for doing business in Las Vegas.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

Act II: The Procedure and the Final Table Bubble

By Pauly
Las Vegas

"There are very few people who can handle The Procedure," warned Bad Blood as he spoke very calmly. "You are one of them."

After our fantastic meal at Nob Hill, Bad Blood pulled me aside and invited me to a strip club before the Venetian Tournament. Back home in G-Vegas, Bad Blood had a routine called The Procedure where he got loaded and hit up a strip club before he played poker. He wanted to do the same thing in Las Vegas.

Bad Blood is one of my oldest friends in the blogging community. We had been online pals since the halcyon days at Party Poker in 2003-04 when we played $5 MTTs on Saturday mornings and slummed around the $25 buy-in NL tables. We finally met for the first time at the blogger gathering three years ago. During a late night meal at the Excalibur, I discovered some personal things about Blood that he never revealed in his blog. I guess those were things I never bothered to ask. During the early days of poker blogging, the content was almost all 100% poker and those blogging rarely revealed anything about their personal lives. That philosophy has shifted over the last few years.

Anyway... Blood has been a good friend for the last few years, but one of the hardest part about these gatherings was that you sometimes don't get enough time to chill out with your friends. It always seemed that Bad Blood and I always had the same regret about these functions... that we wanted to spend more time together. And when he asked me to join him in The Procedure, I quickly said yes. Sure I'm a sucker for strip clubs, but the opportunity to spend quality time with an old friend was certainly more enticing.

After a long day of partying on Friday, I honestly tried to go to sleep. It just didn't happen. Around sunrise, I eventually got out of bed and wrote for an hour or so. At 7am, I left the room and went for a walk outside. Then I wandered back into the IP looking for random bloggers. That's what was great about these gatherings... there's always someone up to hang out with... at any hour. The early shift on Saturday were folks who ran out of gas early or were too tired after a long travel day. They crashed early on Friday night and woke up early, ready to gamble and party.

Around 9:12am, I spotted GCox, Mrs. Cox, and Falstaff in the poker room. I grabbed Subway in O'Shea's which happened to be open at that odd hour. That ended up being the "clutch food call" of the weekend since it would be the only food products that I'd put in my body inside a 26 hour period. Of course if I knew that, I would have gotten the foot long inside of the six inch. I returned to the poker room at the IP for some NL with Falstaff and cowboys. We played short-handed for a bit when a fresh StB arrived. We had played together the day before at the same table, when he was engrossed in a serious debate about unions with a local sitting in seat 10.

The Procedure Step 1: Drinking

At 11:07am, I got a text message from Bad Blood, who was awake and drinking at the Sherwood Forest Bar. I quickly cashed out of my 1/2 NL table and bolted out of the poker room. I ran into a menagerie of cowboys on my way to the taxi stand. A light rain sprinkled outside as the cab roared down the Strip. My cabbie must have been the horniest guy in Las Vegas.

"The rain brings out the nipples. I love wet t-shirts on tourists," he said as he pointed to a group of girls walking Las Vegas Blvd. without an umbrella.

"Speaking of nipples," I interjected. "If a guy like me wanted to head to a strip club and check out the noon shift, which one would you recommend?"

"The Rhino," quickly said the cabbie. "At this hour, that's where you'll find the better girls."

"Or the strung out ones," I mentioned.

I gifted my horny cabbie a fat tip and suggested that he get some relaxation therapy when his shift ended. After all, cabbies knew all the best rub and tug places in the Las Vegas valley. He wished me the best of luck. I burst into the Excalibur and passed the longest taxi line I had ever seen. Hundreds of rodeo fans were waiting for a cab to take them to the Thomas & Mack Center.

I found Bad Blood deep into his third dirty Martini. We sat and caught up on life. I really missed the guy and that's the hardest sacrifice that I had to make the last couple of years... to spend less quality time with friends. Grubby was running late, so we waited and waited for him to finish off his craps tournament at Bally's. That is such a Grubby thing. I always found myself waiting for Grubby to finish up some sort of freeroll tournament, or picking up a free gift, or finishing up a quick meal at the Diamond Club lounge.

The Procedure Step 2: Strip Club

"Let's try Seamless," said Grubby.

Grubby was an explorer in a past life. I'm almost 100% positive. He always likes to try new things hoping to find a gem hidden among the rough. Seamless was located just a couple of blocks away from the apartment that I had rented during the 2007 WSOP. In fact, on the way over there, we passed the Redneck Riviera where I lived during the 2005 WSOP.

"Did you hear about that big drug bust?" said Grubby as he pointed to my old housing complex. "Thirty people were arrested."

We arrived at Seamless and wandered inside. It was a lame scene so we quickly left. That's when I suggested The Rhino.

The Rhino is the Bellagio of strip clubs. It's always crowded on the weekends, but shortly before 1pm on a Saturday, it was empty. As soon was we sat down, three strippers from the afternoon shift appeared from the shadows. Two of them jumped up onto the laps of Grubby and Bad Blood as a waitress took our drink order. Redbull and vodka. Breakfast of champions.

A tall blonde stripper sat down next to me.

"I'm Joey," she said.

"That's funny, because my name is Pacey," blurted out Bad Blood.

Blood knew about my morbid addiction with Dawson's Creek. I spent too many hours ripping bonghits and watching reruns of the Creek on TBS. I had an odd fascination with Katie Holmes (before she got brainwashed by Scientology).

"What do you do Pacey?" the stripper asked.

"I'm a hot air balloon pilot," quickly responded Bad Blood.

"Wow! That's so cool," she cooed. "And what do you do, Pauly?"

"I'm a striking Hollywood writer," I said.

"Wow! That's so cool. What have you written?"

"Daddy Daycare 2," I said with a straight face as the waitress handed me a drink.

"Daddy Daycare 2? That's my kid's favorite movie. Wow! That's so cool!"

Grubby quickly left with his girl to get a couple of lap dances and soon after Bad Blood disappeared. Grubby left his car keys and his drink. My stripper, Joey, was an admitted alcoholic and asked me if she could have a sip of Grubby's drink. I said yes, then worried that she might be giving him hepatitis B.

Joey was the cream of the crop circa 1992. But now, her looks started to fade and she's slumming in the afternoon shift. The booze perked her up a bit and she told me the horror stories about the last few days. Cowboys didn't tip and took up all the seats. They liked to look but not pay. The Brits in town were a rowdy bunch.

"I can't tell you how many of them tried to stick their fingers up my cooch and in my ass," she said as Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones blasted on the sound system. "British people are supposed to be polite, but they were animals."

During my lap dance, we chatted about a few things like the most recent famous person who she danced for.

"Do you know basketball?" she asked. "Wally Szczerbiak was here. He was such a nice guy. Very shy. He's so tall too. I asked him if he wanted a dance and he said yes. That's when I felt his dick. Ohmygod! He had the biggest dick I had felt in years. I kept calling my girlfriends over and screaming, 'Ohmygod! You gotta feel Wally's dick!' He was such a nice guy with such a big dick."

That's when someone walked into the VIP lounge and said, "Heya Pauly!"

The last time I was at the Rhino in Melbourne, Australia, I was recognized by a fan. Ah, but that time it was just The Mark, another member of the G-Vegas crew who arrived a little late.

I got my five songs for the price of three since I negotiated a better deal. It was the afternoon shift, and you can barter with the girls especially when it was empty.

Grubby finally appeared out of the shadows with his stripper. I gave him the car keys and pointed to Joey who had stolen his drink. He didn't mind. His stripper excused herself. That's when Grubby pulled me aside.

"She squirted all over my chest," he explained.

"What?"

"She was grinding me in her favorite position," said Grubby. "I heard her moaning really loud. Then she quickly shifted. She apologized and explained that she and her sister were the only squirters that she knew of. She wet herself. Then she pulled up my shirt and sat on my chest. It was all warm and wet. She squirted on me."

Wally Szczerbiak might have a big dick, but Grubby brought a Las Vegas stripper to a climax during a lap dance. That's talent. I was more than impressed. I was in awe.

As we left the Rhino, a faint trail of cheap stripper perfume followed behind as the harsh sunlight burned our sensitive eyes.

The Procedure Step 3: Poker

We stumbled into the poker room at the Venetian for the Holiday Classic tournament. We had about forty-five minutes to kill before the tournament started and I was a tornado twisting back and forth between the bar and the sign in desk. Sean introduced me to Dr. Chako's wife and they showed me the American flag that Dr. Chako sent from Iraq which would be awarded to the winner of the tournament.

The first three hours of the tournament were a blur for me because I was drunk, exhausted, and bombarded with quick conversations from almost a hundred people. A steady flow of people wandered up to my table to chat. Some of them were bloggers I had not seen yet, a few were newer bloggers, and a couple of guys played in Mookie's homegame in Texas wanted to say hello. Ah, and Cactus Jack found me as well too and I met the elusive Kid Dynamite for the first time.

I had a good table with a bad seat. I hate seat 1 but my table was in the corner which was good. I would only get moved once and that's when we redrew for the last two tables.

My Table:
Seat 1: Pauly
Seat 2: RecessRampage (then Johnny Hughes)
Seat 3: Sean
Seat 4: Sweet Sweet Pablo
Seat 5: Dealer Tim (then Julian)
Seat 6: Bam Bam (then Grubette)
Seat 7: Maudie
Seat 8: Pokerpeaker
Seat 9: Tramua
Seat 10: CC

On the first hand, I found 10-10. I turned a set against CC and bet heavily. He folded and I showed my hand. The next hand, I got two black aces. I raised and got no action. I tabled the Aces. The third hand, I was dealt Q-Q. I won a pot against Tramua. I picked up the first three pots with pocket pairs and jumped out to an early chiplead with 8,700. I got Q-Js on the next hand and missed the flop. The deck was hitting me in the face early. With a decent stack, I got up and floated around the room. I checked up on Derek and Change100 and wandered around a bit chatting it up.

I guess you can say that I started out the tournament in a not-so-serious fashion. I hadn't slept at all and opted for a strip club and drinks instead of resting up. I honestly didn't think I'd go far, but I wanted to last to the first break or so. If I busted out then it didn't matter since I'd sit at the bar and chill out with people as they busted out.


The Mark wins Gigli
Then I heard someone shouting my name. The Mark had just been busted. I rushed over and handed him his prize. My buddy Friedman was crippled by Linda on the hand before and he was almost Gigli, but The Mark went out before him.

Since I was in Seat 1, all of my conversation was with RecessRampage, who was a good guy and fun to talk to. We got involved in one hand where I made a move on him. A few minutes earlier, I had made a speech saying that I can't really bluff too much in blogger events because everyone wants to bust me, so they call me down with junk. I was forced to alter my game in blogger events and player tighter. Sometimes, it's simply not fun when you have a target on your back. But that's the way it is and I had to adjust. I gave my speech and everyone felt sympathetic. That's when I made a move on RecessRampage.

Six of us limped into a pot. I held Ad-8d. The flop was 6x-5x-4d. I bet out and ReccessRampage called. The turn was the 9d. I bet about 2/3 the pot and he raised leaving just 2,300 behind. I tanked and thought about my options. I knew that he was ahead, but by how much? I held a gutshot, a nut flush draw, and one overcard. Maybe he hit the flop and picked up a flush draw too? I had so many chips that I just called. The river was a blank. I missed all of my draws and just held Ace high. The only move I had was to bet 2,300 and put RecessRampage to a decision for all of his chips. If I checked, he would have moved all in for sure. The only way I was going to win the pot was to get him to fold, so I bet. RecessRampage tanked for several minutes. If he had anything big, he would have insta-called, instead he deliberated. When he finally folded his hand, he flashed a 6. I won the pot and did not show my hand. I mentioned to him four of five possibilities, but teased him that he'd have to wait for me to blog it. When the tournament ended, I revealed that I had Ad-8d. He said that was one of the more fun hands that he played during the tournament.

On the next hand, I sniffed out a hammer bluff from Sweet Sweet Pablo and increased my stack to over 16K.

By the end of the second break, there were six tables left and all 11 NYC bloggers were still in. Everyone talked smack that G-Vegas had some of the better players, but I knew the NYC crew could hold their own. When action got down to four tables, all 11 were still alive.

My stack was around 25K, but I felt like shit. I had been drinking since the tournament started. With about four tables to go, a hangover hit me. I hate when that happens, when you are in the middle of a bender and the booze finally catches up to you and you get a hangover... while still drinking. I needed food. I needed sleep. I needed to be anywhere except a poker table. By then, all of the joking and clowning around had subsided. With four tables to go, the mood got more serious. With $3K on the line for first place, there was no more time for bullshit.

Had I known I was going to go deep, I would have ate food and consumed less booze. Alas, that was my major obstacle to overcome during the last couple of hours. Johnny Hughes and Karol were moved to my table. Johnny Hughes sat next to me and we got to shoot the shit for another hour or so.

I busted Pablo. He moved all in with a short stack. CC and I called and checked it down to the river. I flopped an ace with A-3 and cracked Pablo's Kings. He gave me a calendar for a bust out prize.

I busted CC a couple of hands after that. He open-shoved with 7-7 and I woke up to Aces. I called and it held up. My stack jumped past the 50K mark.

GMoney (Iggy's buddy) had busted out and wandered over to my table. He recanted the hilarious story about how he picked up a girl from the night before at the Geisha Bar. She was not a pro, just a drunken cowgirl from Montana in town for the rodeo. GMoney got the girl up to his room and they started hooking up. He had gotten her shirt off when Iggy walked into the room by accident. Talk about a bad beat!

Anyway, GMoney wore a Grateful Dead steal your face t-shirt. My dealer saw it and said she dug it. Turned out that she was also a Deadhead.

"My first show was in San Francisco in 1974," she said as a huge smile lit up her face. "Of course, I don't remember much back then."

I lost a big pot against Sean. It was the only hand I misplayed up until that point. I went card dead and decided it was time for a steal. I found 9s-6s and raised from MP. Sean called from the button. The flop was 8-7-2. I bet about 20K and he moved all in for another 5K more. I called with my OESD. He tabled Kings. I missed and he doubled up. The one time I make a move, I run into Kings. Oh well.

I was crippled to about 4K when I doubled up. Then I doubled up again against Karol. My A-6 held up against her A-3. I stole a lot of blinds and got back to about 24K by the break.

Derek, KJ, Miami Don, and JoeSpeaker were moved to my table with 30 players remaining. Derek was short and moved all in against Speaker. Derek lost a race with A-K against Speaker's pair. I gave Speaker tons of shit because of his scarf.

"Does that scarf come with a small gay Italian boy attached to it?" I joked.

MiamiDon was super frustrated since he was short and Johnny Hughes and myself kept jamming pots before the action got to him. He stole enough to stay alive, but could not add to his stack. I busted KJ when my J-J held up against his K-3. I increased my stack to 48,000 when the TD asked us if we wanted to pay out the top 20 instead of the top 10. Places 11-20 would essentially get their money back. We agreed.

With 20 players left, I had about 48K. I was the chipleader at my table by a slim margin. I dunno if anyone had more than 50K on the other table.


My table with 20 to go...
Here's the final 20...

My Table:
Seat 1: The Rooster
Seat 2: Johnny Hughes
Seat 3: Pauly
Seat 4: Drizz
Seat 5: Miami Don
Seat 6: Schecky
Seat 7: CK
Seat 8: Mary
Seat 9: Speaker
Seat 10: Brian

Other Table:
Seat 1: Biggestron
Seat 2: Kuro Kitty
Seat 3: Columbo
Seat 4: Blinders
Seat 5: Falstaff
Seat 6: Otis
Seat 7: Change100
Seat 8: Sean
Seat 9: Grubby
Seat 10: Julian

Poor Columbo had a flight to catch and had to get a later flight since he went deep. With the final two tables left, we all made the prize money. Several NYC bloggers were still left in the mix. On_thg was on the rail sweating the pool that he was running. I found out that only three four people picked me. Thanks to Bam Bam, AlCantHang, Penner, and California April's dad!

CK moved all in with a short stack from EP. I found A-5. I figured that I had the best hand and called. She tabled K-7. I knew what was coming. I've been playing poker long enough and have been covering tournament poker long enough to trust that feeling you get in your stomach. Like on the final hand when Jerry Yang beat Tuan Lam heads up. I knew he'd get there on the river. It's a weird sixth sense that comes and goes. That moment I had that sick feeling in my stomach where I knew I was going to get beat. I stood up and walked away from the table. I didn't want to see it when it happened. I walked to the middle of the poker room and listened for the outcome. CK was the loudest person in the room for the entire tournament and as soon as the King fell, she went nuts. I knew that I had lost the hand and slowly walked back to the table.

I can take a bad beat. But it's not easy acting cool and calm when someone is still in full blown celebration mode gloating about their double up. I counted out my remaining chips, folded the next hand, and walked away from the table completely unimpressed. Otis and Change100 saw from the look on my face that I was not happy about the level of unprofessionalism.

I took a short walk to cool down and the TD showed me the payout list. When I saw $3K for first place, I quickly got my shit together. I went back to the table completely focused. I stole the next three pots to get my stack back up. A few more players busted and I could smell the final table.

With 11 players left, we were short-handed and down to five players at my table. It was the final table bubble and the ideal time to steal some pots since everyone wanted to make the final table. Grubby raised from the button. I put him on a steal. I had 10d-9d in the big blind and shoved. He said he thought about folding, but he made the call with K-Q since he didn't have too much behind. He flopped a King and I was done. I bubbled off the final table in 11th place. I won my money back, but must have dropped $50 or so in tips to waitresses and buying beers at the bar on breaks. Just seven hours earlier, a striper squirt all over Grubby's chest, and now he advanced to the final table.

Here's the final table:

Seat 1: Kuro Kitty
Seat 2: Otis
Seat 3: Schecky
Seat 4: Drizz
Seat 5: Sean
Seat 6: Columbo
Seat 7: The Rooster
Seat 8: MiamiDon
Seat 9: Change100
Seat 10: Grubby

When Change100 busted out in 9th place, we ran to the food court in search of any sort of food stuffs. I returned and the final table was still going on.


Three of the Final Four: Kuro, Otis, & Schecky
Once it got down to four three, Schecky, Otis, Rooster, and Kuro Kitty decided on a four three way chop with 600 or so going to first place. The Rooster was the chipleader at the time, but with the blinds going up so fast, it was still wide open. Schecky was probably the most experienced player at the table and was fresh off his victory in a Poker News Cup event in Australia. But Schecky went card dead and finished in 4th place. KuroKitty seemed the most relaxed at the final table. It didn't matter if he was shortstacked or had chips, his expression never changed. He seemed to be the least irritated and busted out in 3rd place.


Serious Otis


Cagey Rooster
Otis and the Rooster looked super tired and hungry and hung over. I felt their pain, but they all continued to slug it out. It would be a battle for the ages. The Rooster vs. Otis. NYC vs. G-Vegas. Mexican vs. Whitey.

I gave the Rooster a few words of advice. Nothing about strategy. Just simple stuff like telling him to stay focused and that he had lots of heart and that's what was going to help him win. The Rooster used to be a boxer, so it felt like I was his corner man and after he'd get roughed up in a pot, I'd whisper stuff into his ear to keep his head in the game. He continued to play hard, but even he admitted that he needed that extra edge, especially against Otis who is a super tough NL player.

The poker gods must have been smiling upon The Rooster because he came from behind to beat Otis on the last hand. It was an amazing tournament and the Venetian treated us very well. The asswizards at the Orleans treated us like vermin in June, so I made sure I thanked as many of the staff at the Venetian for helping us out. And of course, don't forget to thank Falstaff for arranging the event. Aside from the first event at Sam's Town and the 2005 event at the IP, the Venetian event was one of my favorites.


The Winner's Photo with Mrs. Chako
The Rooster was touched when Mrs. Chako handed him the American flag courtesy of Dr. Chako. The Rooster also got Iggy's trophy (an upside down hammer). As he walked down the Strip back to the IP, I had not seen the Rooster that happy in a very long time.

It was way past Midnight on Saturday in Las Vegas, and we had been playing in the tournament for almost nine hours. Amidst a sea of cowboys and drunken Brits mourning the Ricky Hatton knock out, it was time to celebrate the Rooster's victory at the Geisha Bar. Hijinks ensued...


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

Bloggers Invading Las Vegas Tips 5.0

By Pauly
New York City

Falstaff and some other bloggers asked me to re-post Bloggers Invading Las Vegas Tips. The next gathering of the bloggers is 17 or so days away and I realized that the timing is now.

It's hard to believe that this is the 5th version of this post and it's still harder to believe that the Prof and I set up the very first one on December of 2004. Anyway, I will cut and paste excerpts from four previous posts and rewrite a few parts on surviving Las Vegas, meeting bloggers for the first time, and advice for Vegas newbies.

Feel free to print this up and hand out copies to your entourage, attorney, and/or parole officer.

Disclaimer: I do not want to disappoint anyone who is meeting me for the first time, but I want to warn you that I am not as wild and crazy as every thinks I am. Expect me to be aloof and heavily inebriated. I will not be showing up in Vegas with two nymphomaniac teenage gymnasts from a Eastern European county that no longer exists, along with an eight-ball of Colombian Snow Flake and a brick of Moroccan hash the size of Herve Villechaize. Believe me, if I had access to those kind of drugs and were able to woo nimble nymphets like that, the last thing I'd be doing would be hanging out in Vegas with you sordid bunch. I'm only showing up for the free booze, a chance to be showered in glowing praise from your random compliments about my writing, and a rare opportunity to see Otis fall down.

So here we go... my Top 20 23 Tips on Surviving Las Vegas:

1. Cut back on sleep immediately.

As of right now, cut back on your sleep by 45 minutes every night and get down to about 3.5 hours of sleep per night. The average Las Vegas visitor gets around 3 hours of sleep and the average poker blogger gets substantially a lot less. Cutting back on sleep right away is an easy way to get adjusted to sleep deprivation by following my simple routine. Seriously, if you are used to getting 8 or more hours per night, you're in trouble.

2. Sip, don't chug.

Pace yourself with your alcohol consumption. Al Cant Hang is a machine. His blood type is 180 Proof because Al is really an alien. He's not of this world. Don't succumb to the frisson of being in a casino bar with all your favorite bloggers and foolishly attempt to keep up. If you do, you'll end up clutching the porcelain God at 4am wondering why the hell that cab driver punched you out after you yakked up your dinner and a half a bottle of Southern Comfort in his back seat. Surviving the Sherwood Forest bar at 9am on the morning of the blogger tournament was a moment I'll never forget. It's a badge of courage like a soldier who managed to get through D-Day without a scratch. I'm glad that we made it through an entire weekend of partying in Vegas the last three Decembers and benders in the last three summers without anyone getting their stomachs pumped at the hospital or landing themselves in the drunk tank at the Clark County jail. Let's keep it that way. Don't get wheeled out of the IP in a wheelchair like Drizz. Moderation is the key to happiness.

3. Water and Motrin are your best friend.

Las Vegas is in the middle of the fuckin' desert. Drink water. Lots of it. I used to try to drink one glass of water per alcoholic beverage consumed. In Vegas I do my best to double that amount. Sure, I'm pissing every eight minutes, but you're head will thank you the next day when you're experiencing a hangover-free morning. One of my biggest expenses in Vegas is my water tab, well that and trips to strip clubs with Grubby.

Motrin is essential for combating hangovers. During college, one of my friends' girlfriend gave me several Motrin after I complained about my bum knee. She took Motrin for cramps and it's a reliable pain killer. If you expect to going running with the bulls and attempt to go shot for shot with AlCantHang, you will most likely die of SoCo poisoning. If you do survive, you will have the worst headache on the planet and wish you were dead. Dr. Pauly suggests taking four Motrin every three hours after a night of heavy drinking.

Also, I credit Kat for turning me onto Perrier last December. It's great to drink first thing in the morning. Or if you're stomach is churning after too much booze, drink some ginger ale.

4. Bring a cell phone charger.

Don't forget one. Since you will be staying up from anywhere from 20-36 hours straight, you might want to make sure your cell is charged before you begin your gambling session. With bloggers in town, having a phone will be necessary to arrange meetings or if you need someone to post bail money. Besides, you should throw your loved ones at home a bone every 12 hours and send them a drunken text message or get someone on the horn for a Dial-a-Shot. When you are sleeping, charge up your phone during the few hours that you're crashed out.

5. Take pictures.

Come on, I know you geeky bloggers can't wait to spice up your Vegas trip reports with pictures. I encourage it, especially if you have never been to Vegas before. Don't be afraid to go camera happy and take more pictures than a menagerie of Osaka businessmen. Bring a camera, even if it's one of those disposable ones for $7. You have to leave Vegas with at least one good story and at least one good picture.

6. Ask before you post pictures on the internet.

If you are a person who thinks they look awful in photos or is just camera shy or they want to keep their identity a secret, then by all means please tell everyone now. Conversely, if you are going to post pictures of bloggers, please respect people's privacy or their wishes of anonymity, make sure you get their consent with the exception of anyone who passes out in my room like the Poker Geek (pictured above) or Bill Rini. My ugly mug is all over the internet, so snap away. There's a reason there are no pictures of Iggy on the internet. Let's help keep it that way.

7. Speak your mind and stay in the moment.

One of my regrets of these trips is not making enough time for everyone. I simply assumed that I'll have time later in the trip to shoot the shit and play cards with everyone, but that never happens. Don't make that crucial mistake. If you have the chance to talk to someone, take advantage of that opportunity. If you see Miami Don at the pisser, seize the moment to talk shop with him. You never know what might happen during your time in Vegas. With such a big group, you won't have time for "quality one-on-one time" so whenever you cross paths with a fellow blogger, whether it's Otis sitting by himself at the Pai Gow table at 4am or running into Bad Blood at the Bellagio at 2am or shooting craps with Obie at the Plaza... stop by and shoot the shit. You won't regret it.

And don't feel shy or intimidated about saying what you want to me or anybody else. Our time is limited, so speak up! If you want to ask me questions, feel free. If you want blogging advice, just ask. If you want to buy me a drink, let's do it. If you want to go to strip clubs, then let's find AlCantHang.

8. Understand that it will be impossible to spend quality time with everyone.

I have already accepted the fact that I will not be able to hang out with everyone, even my friends and my brother Derek. With the huge number of people involved with this event, it will be impossible to find blocks of unfettered time to spend with everyone. Expect splintered conversations that last about five minutes or ten minutes if you are lucky. Use meals and time at the poker tables as an opportunity to get to know your fellow bloggers.

So please understand ahead of time that I'm gonna feel horrible that we didn't get to spend quality time together. However, whatever time we do spend, it's going to be special and meaningful for me... so let's just have fun and live in the moment. I'm sure we'll all get together in a smaller setting at sometime in the future.

9. Don't be Gigli.

Former winners of the Gigli Award include:

Dec. 2004: Bill Rini
Jun. 2005: Poker Nerd
Dec. 2005: Tanya
Jul. 2006: Spaceman
Dec. 2006: Easy Cure
Jun. 2007: Kram420
Dec. 2007: ????

If you bust out first in the blogger tournament, then you will awarded the infamous Gigli DVD for coming in last place. I bought a new copy of Gigli (how sad is it when the postage costs more than the actual DVD?) which I will be giving to the first blogger out of the Holiday Classic tournament. Will it be you? And rest assured I will torment you for the rest of the year with chants of "Gigli! Gigli!" in your chatbox every time you play on PokerStars.

10. Never underestimate the importance of a $20 tip.

Do you wanna get shit done in Vegas? Tip the hell out of every person you see. I'm from New York City and we tip everyone. In a town like Vegas, most of the people working in the service industry are not paid extravagantly. They rely on tips to supplement their wages. You would be surprised how much attention you can get with a simple $20 tip. Heck that's like one big bet for some of you.

Example #1: I call this move The Grubbette. When you check into a hotel and they ask for your credit card, carefully place a folded up $20 bill underneath your card. As the front desk person is picking up the cash and card, quickly ask them if they can bump you up to a better room. It never fails. But then again, Grubbette is a lot cuter than me!

Example #2: I called around to find a reservation for dinner on Easter Sunday, I found out that every place was booked. Grubby, Senor and I made plans to meet Flip Chip and Poker Prof at Ceaser's Palace. I decided to pop into The Palm to see if they had any open tables. The hostess checked her reservations book and said she didn't have any open spots for us. When I spotted two open tables, I slipped her $20 and said "Did anyone every tell ya that you have beautiful eyes? By the way, can you check again? That's Dr. Pauly, for a party of five." We were seated within five minutes.

There is only one instance where I will tell you to save your tips... and that's in a strip club. Never, under any circumstances give a stripper a tip. If I find out you did, I will smack you personally.

Now if you think $20 gets you a long way... try tipping $40 or $100.

11. Food is fuel.

If you have the opportunity to eat, do it because you never know when you might never have another chance to get some grub. At the first ever gathering of the tribes, I never saw Iggy eat one bite during our last trip. He was on the ciggies and Guinness gambler's diet. And never drink on an empty stomach.

12. Wear comfortable shoes.

As a native New Yorker, I walk everywhere and I'm used to trudging along for five or six miles in a day. If you are a lazy fuck who's a slave to their vehicle, then start walking a mile or two everyday to get your legs in shape. Plus if you want to walk the Strip, everything appears much closer in the desert. Otis can tell you how wonderful Ecco shoes are. I have a pair and wear them all the time.

13. Bring a watch.

There are exactly six clocks in the entire city of Las Vegas and you won't see any of them in an actual casino.

14. Keep your gambling bankroll separate from your other cash.

I think this one is self-explanatory. Don't bring more cash to Vegas than you are willing to lose. Always keep your bankroll separate from your strip club money. You'll thank me later.

15. $50 bills are bad luck.

Don't feel weird about asking to change in your $50 bills. That is one superstition I've been following every since Grubby clued me in.

16. Avoid the slots.

Grubby will try to turn you over to the dark side of gambling and get you to hit the Mr. Cashman slots with him at 3am. Resist the temptation!

17. Don't tell people at your poker table that you have a poker blog.

Please for the love of God, do not tell anyone you're in town for a poker bloggers convention. Why don't we just slap the loser mark right on our foreheads? The only thing worse would be to mention we're at a MySpace pedophile convention. I never tell "civilians" that I'm a blogger. If they recognize me, then that's fine. But never reveal who you are. Because if you do, then you can't talk about them or make fun of them in our blog!! And please don't out me at the tables to civilians. If anyone says, "Do you know who that is?" and points to me will get to experience the wrath of The Rooster.

You're in Vegas. It's a surreal place. Make shit up. Pretend you're a fish. I lie to dealers, strippers, cab drivers, and my tablemates all the time when I'm in Vegas. During previous trips, I've told random strangers that I was a marine biologist, an aquarium salesman, a trumpet player in a Latin jazz band, a radiologist, and my favorite... that I've just got out of prison. The ladies seem to like that one. Bottom line is this: if you can't successfully lie to the people at your table and if you are unable to convince them that you are in fact an astronaut, then you shouldn't be playing poker in Las Vegas. Go home and fire up Poker Stars instead.

During this trip I intend on telling folks that I'm former priest who left the church to pursue a career in professional sports betting where I get my picks from conversations with St. Peter. Or I'm thinking about being the malcontent heir to the "Spork" fortune. A spork is not a fork, but not quite a spoon. One of my fraternity brothers in college used that line to try to pick up girls in bars. He even convinced a few that he had a spork shaped swimming pool. And if I happen to stumble into a strip bar, my cover story will be that I'm the tour manager for a metal band called The Al Cant Hang Experience.

18. Bring a jacket and sunglasses.

Sloshr suggested that I tell everyone to bring a jacket or sweater. It gets cold in Las Vegas in December so pack something warm. It's cold in parking decks and most card rooms have high powered A/C.

19. Never burn the locals.

Hunter S. Thompson mentioned that in Fear in Loathing in Las Vegas and it's the travelers mantra. Never, ever piss off the locals. That includes hotel and casino staff. They live in Vegas and don't need your drunk ass berating them.

20. Don't get rolled by a hooker.

This is self-explanatory. But if you have the desire to hire a working girl at the nearest Hooker Bar, then make sure you're not too drunk and never flash around your bankroll because you will get robbed. A 2005 WSOP bracelet winner picked up two hookers to celebrate his win and not only did he get rolled, they also stole his bracelet.

Also, be very careful of frisky girls in bars. You might think your mojo is in high gear or that all the women you meet in Vegas are super friendly, but they are usually not. They might be on the job, or they might just be a pickpocket. They usually target extremely drunk guys, so try not to get so shitfaced that you become a target to be rolled.

21. Avoid hangovers. Stay drunk.

If you need to puke, stick your finger down your throat and pull the trigger. You'll feel a lot better afterwards. Warm ginger ale is your friend, or any kind of warm soda like 7-up or Sprite. Perrier and Motrin always do the trick for me. And you can always start drinking as soon as you wake up to avoid a hangover.

22. Get off the Strip.

Take a side trip away from the Strip. Head to a locals casino like Red Rock or Green Valley Ranch. Take a drive through Red Rock Canyon national park. Head downtown and check out the Gambler's Book Store. Leaving the Strip is a great thing to do if you happen to go broke. It happens so if you do, you can always check out a post I wrote for Las Vegas Vegas called Things to Do in Las Vegas if You're Broke...

23. Don't die.

"I'm surprised no one has died on these trips," mentioned Iggy to me during one of the last get togethers. We both laughed but I could tell there was a tinge of seriousness to his comment.

Don't do something stupid and die from being an idiot. Not only will you be dead, but that would put an end to these gatherings and ruin the fun for a lot of people who desperately need a week in Vegas to escape from their hectic lives. Believe me, you don't want to be known for the rest of eternity as that dude (or that chick) who puked on their own vomit and died after passing out on the Monorail. Have fun, but just don't get yourself killed.

On that note, over the last couple of years, Las Vegas has been riddled with random incidents of crime that are trickling down to the Strip. Yes, there have been some shootings and drunks do drive up onto the street from time to time, so always be careful no matter where you go. There is a lot of gang activity in Vegas, but that usually goes down in North Las Vegas. The gangs avoid the Strip and the three or so shootings this year have been random and isolated incidents from lone gunmen.

Last year one blogger was robbed at gunpoint. If you are in parking garages make sure you are not being followed. If your hotel does not check keys to get access to the elevators, make sure no one suspicious is following you to your floor. It's not rude to chose not to get in an elevator with someone or several people you don't know. Sure it's a tad paranoid, but safety is always the key especially if you are holding large sums of money.

Be careful with what you leave around in your hotel room. If your room has a safe, use it. Although not all maids have sticky fingers, no need to tempt them by leaving out an iPod or anything of value.

And if you are robbed by an assailant with a weapon, don't be a hero. Just delay the situation long enough to get a good description of the person, then take your money out of your pursue/pocket and throw it one way while you immediately run the other. The tweaker or thug just wants your money, so toss it and haul ass.

* * * * *
OK that's it for now. Those were my half-baked ideas on how to survive Las Vegas. If you can remember half of these, then you should make it home in one piece. The event is what you make out of it. So come with an open mind, relax, and have fun at the 4th Annual Holiday Classic.

And if you are looking for any poker tournaments to play in while you are in town, check out Poker Prof's Las Vegas poker tournament directory. Or if you are looking for a room to play in, check out his Las Vegas poker room directory.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

2007 WSOP Epilogue: A Leap of Faith

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV


Courtesy of Flipchip
When I visited Australia earlier in the year, for the first time since the UIGEA rippled through the American poker scene, I saw a glimmer of hope for the future of poker. The entire poker room (aptly called the Las Vegas Room) at the Crown Casino in Melbourne was packed with players. They were not just Australians and Kiwis but plenty of players from surrounding Asian-Pacific countries. That's when I knew that poker took a big hit in America, but overseas they were on a cusp of a poker gold rush.

When I flew out to Monte Carlo to cover the European Poker Tour Grand Finale I was more than impressed with the set up. Their media room was five times the size of the one at the Rio for less media reps. The participation numbers had been way up across the board during the third season of the EPT. And even when France cock-blocked one of their events, two other countries stepped up and wanted to add stops on the EPT.

Poker had also been popular in the UK, Ireland, and France for a few decades and over the last few years it has been rapidly sweeping through parts of Europe such as Germany, Italy, Russia, and the various Scandinavian countries like a viral phenomena. Depending on who you talk to, the Swedes will boast that per capita, they are the best poker players in the world. The Fins, Danes, and Norwegians will tell you otherwise. Right now in Norway, there are 16-year olds with bankrolls approaching seven figures. Not only are they're routinely crushing the competition, but after they felt you a couple of times in ring games, they cash out. They're not hitting and running or ratholing your money. They simply have to go to sleep and wake up to go to school the next day. What happens when they turn 21 and come to Las Vegas for the first time?

When it came to betting on main event players, I leaned towards the Scandis. Over the last few years, a Swedish player went deep at the WSOP. I expected unknown Scandi wearing capri pants and $600 designer sunglasses would amass a monster stack late in the tournament. That ended up being Philip Hilm from Denmark. I wasn't the only one thought Hilm had a great shot at winning the WSOP main event. Oddsmakers had him the favorite on their board. He had all the chips at the time and his playing style was difficult to adjust to. The reputations that Scandis have are that they are wild, erratic, constantly switching gears, and unable to read. They love playing big pots and will shove all in on any street and at any moment. However, what makes Hilm such a tough competitor also ended up being his down fall. He's the type of player would would see a flop with 8d-5d out of position after a player raised in front of him. And he's also the type of player who would try to semi-bluff his opponent off a pot with bottom pair and a weak flush draw.

Hilm did just that on the 15th hand of the final table. Instead of persuading Jerry Yang to lay down TPTK with A-K, Yang called. And just like that, the young gun from Denmark was standing off to the side and conducting an interview with ESPN, while Yang slowly stacked up all of his chips. The Hilm elimination would end up being an indication of things to come. Hilm would be one of seven players that Yang would knock out on his way towards the 2007 WSOP championship.

The first 60 hands went by faster than anyone imagined. A wave of giddiness swept everyone in media row. They wanted to go home. Badly. The space in front of the media room became a refuge for luggage. The European press was set to catch cabs to the airport and fly home as soon as the last hand was dealt. Plenty of other friends were dying to escape the Rio after seven weeks of insanity. Otis had that look in his eye that he was wrought with anguish. His hearts and mind was with his family back in G-Vegas, but his physical being was shuffling around the Rio, like a dead man walking back and forth from the ESPN stage back to the media room.

Everyone secretly wished for a fast final table. I also do in whatever event that I cover. I accept the fact that it will go late and often will take the over when anyone sets a line on ending time. It's win-win for me. If the table ends early, I win and get to go home. If the event runs late, at least I get monetary compensation for my troubles. Unlike a football game or timed sporting event, poker can be over super quick or become a marathon session like Chip Reese and Andy Bloch's heads up battle at the $50K HORSE event in 2006.

However, I knew history was a good indicator that I should not get my hopes up too high. The last two main events last anywhere from 13 to 14 hours. When BJ set the line at 3am, I quickly took the over. I figured it would go to about 3 or 4am. Phil Gordon had set the line at 5:32am (or something like that). Nolan Dalla wanted action. I heard that the amount of the wager was anywhere from $500 to $5,000. Gordon knew the event would go late, but he set his line a couple of hours too long. The final hand was actually completed around 3:46am.

With just four players remaining it appeared that everyone might get done by Midnight. My veteran experiences knew better. It's not the how fast the first five go... it's how fast that the last five go which matters.

Yang busted the most well-known pro at the table in Lee Watkinson on Hand #21. Yang was ahead on that hand and his better Ace held up. On Hand #28, Yang sent Lee Childs to the rail. Yang was trailing on that hand, but got caught up in the battle of the blinds with Childs. Alas, Childs was ahead until the turn when Yang spiked an 8. Childs could not improve and he was the third player to be busted by Yang.

Rain Khan was very quiet at the final table. I'll have to check the broadcast to see if he was playing passive or just card dead. He made a move with A-Q and unfortunately Yang woke up to pocket Jacks. Khan went out in 6th place and aside from Hilm, he was my pick to take it down.

On Hand #60, South Africa's Raymond Rahme picked up Jacks and won a race against England's Jon Kalmar's Big Slick. At that point, four players remained. Alex Kravchenko was shortstacked for the last three days and he managed to squeeze into the final four players. He survived all of his all in attempts and doubled up during the right spots. Players with much bigger stacks busted out before him. When it got down to 11 players, everyone expected Alex KGB to bust out next.

Unfortunate for Scotty Nguyen, he imploded and bluffed off his chips when he should have probably left the table and hung out in the hallway posing for autographs, smoking ciggies, and downing Coronas. But Nguyen made a few moves which cost him his third final table at the 2007 WSOP and a shot at $8.25 million while finally trying to quell his inner demons surrounding his previous world championship and the death of his brother.

When four-handed play began on Hand #61, Jerry Yang had over 70M and over 55% of the total chips in play. Alex Kravchenko was the super short stack with around 8M. But the Russian showed everyone why he's one of the toughest and baddest motherfuckers on the block. Once it got five-handed, Kravchenko was guaranteed to become #1 on the All Time Russian Money List surpassing Kirill Gerasimov. He had won a bracelet earlier in the WSOP and had stuck around to play a slew of events. You couldn't miss him wandering around the Amazon Ballroom during preliminary events. He carried a cold and blank expression on his face and glanced at you with the eyes of a sniper. Usually clad in an Adidas jumpsuit, I expected to see the old Soviet regimes' CCCP stamped on the back.

We started developing wild theories that Kravchenko was a hitman for the Russian mafia and came out to Las Vegas to whack Vinnie Vinh or collect a monster debt from Eskimo Clark, but he liked playing poker much more than extinguishing deadbeats, so he gave up his day job and settled on poker instead.

Joking aside, Kravchenko played the best poker at the final table when compared to the other eight players. How he survived with a short-stack is beyond me, but he managed to help slow down the action. It would take 107 hands before he would bust out. It another classic race, Yang ended up winning a coinflip. Kravchenko raised with Big Slick. Yang shoved with 8-8 and Kravchenko quickly called. Yang flopped a set and Kravchenko could not improve.

Two hands later, Raymond Rahme busted out on Hand #169 courtesy of Yang who outflopped his pocket Kings. The heads up match between Tuan Lam and Yang lasted 36 hands. That was much longer than Greg Raymer-David Williams; Joe Hachem-Steve Dannenmann; and Jamie Gold-Paul Wasicka's battles.

Lam played extremely passive at the final table. He gave Yang a walk at least four times (I'm too lazy to read my notes to confirm) in the big blind. Lam only won 12 out of 36 hands they played and aside from one double up, they were small pots. Yang won the one hand that counted the most. On Hand #205, Jerry Yang took out Lam. Yang would end up winning 91 out of 205 dealt hands at the final table. I wondered how many hands he was actually involved in? Again, I'm too lazy to check, but I'm guessing he was involved in more than 50% of the total hands at the final table. Talk about forcing the action.

The final table definitely had an international flavor to it as an Asian-born player eventually won this year's WSOP. The railbirds for the other final table players where showing their nationalistic pride. You could see flags from Canada, Russia, and South Africa proudly displayed. Lee Watksinon's fiancee busted out an American flag but she had it upside down, which is a symbol of distress. Perhaps she was foreshadowing Watkinson's early exit?

The final table was boring at times and filled with excitment during the other moments. When the audience was awake usually during big hands, the scene resembled a soccer match. There was plenty of singing, chanting, and rowdy railbirding going on in the crowd. The South African contingency was the most visible wearing green shirts that read "Everybody Loves Raymond" in support of their local hero Raymond Rahme. Several of the guys in the crowd had South African capes drapped over their shoulders. They had a cool chant which they would sing after Rahme won a hand. They also would scream, "Ship it to Africa!" as the dealer pushed him pots.

Tuan Lam's friends and family had miniature Canadian flags and one big one. They constantly waved those during the few hands he was in. At one point, Lam was draped in the Canadian flag after he doubled up against Yang during heads up play. He had some of the loudest railbirds and would break into a chorus of "O, Canada" whenever he won a pot.

Alex Kravchenko had a substantially smaller cheering section, but they brought along the Russian flag. They too would chant something. My Russian is bad and I couldn't make out what they were saying.

As I described, the stands surrounding the final table was devoted railbirds of the final table players. Jon Kalmar had to give his drinking buddies a talking to before the final table started. They showed up in a much behaved manner than on Day 6 when one of his mates was yanked out of the No Limit lounge for too much consumption of shitty beer which made him act belligerent.

Jerry Yang had his family and friend sweating him as well. Jen Creason pointed out one of his crew who sat on the floor and constantly prayed. Yang is a very religious person and he could also be spotted praying during big hands.

During his post-victory interview with ESPN, Yang constantly spoke about how he could not have achieved what he did without the help of God.

"I had a feeling inside," said Yang as he fought back tears. "I kept praying. If God could help me, I knew I could win. I had a funny feeling inside that I could do it. I thank the Lord. The glory goes to him. Thanks to the heavenly Father, I am here today and victorious. With this money, I can do a lot of good for people out there who need the help."

When Norman Chad asked him if he was having the best day of his life, Yang mentioned that when he came to America for the first time, "It was the first day I found freedom. My family tried to escape Laos and we failed. They (communist regime) hunted us down. Then we escaped to Thailand. When I found out that we were going to America was the happiest day of my life."

"Do you think this is the most poker that the Lord has ever watched over?" joked Chad.

"The Lord was watching over me," replied Yang. "When I had 4-4 and I was all in I prayed, 'Lord, give me a set.' Then the flop had a 4 and I survived that hand. I have seen the miracles of God at the World Series of Poker."

Yang also mentioned about his strategy. He knew that the only way he could win was to play aggressive.

"I did a lot of bluffing, trust me," he joked. "I played a lot of bad hands. 7-2o even."

You gotta love Yang for dropping the Hammer. He never showed it, but I hope the ESPN hole cams caught at least one of those hands.

When he was asked about his future, Yang joked, "When I made the final table, I called my boss and told him I needed a few extra days off. I plan to go back to work... to give my two weeks notice."

I think Yang was also holed up at the Redneck Riviera for a while because he said that he did not move to the Rio until he made the final table.

"I was staying at a local motel. I won't say its name. It's bad. Trust me. You don't want to go there."

Then he got serious when he said, "My wife works the night shift. I told her that she doesn't have to work anymore. We have six small children and we want to make sure they get the best life and education."

Yang will be donating 10% of his winnings to various charity including the Make a Wish Foundation, Ronald McDonald House, and Feed the Children. I suspect that he's going to use some more of that to help other people in his community. I'm glad that Yang won on that account. Instead of donking it off at the tables and pissing it away on high stakes games, he's going to use it to help ease the burden in people's lives that need it the most. Before the final table started, I wrote that Yang has all the karma points on his side because of his social consciousness. Maybe the poker gods were paying attention after all.

Yang's victory is good for poker because he will be an amazing goodwill ambassador. Check out the interview that Jerry Yang did with Tiffany Michelle. He's an honorable, articulate, and humble man. I really hope he does some good over the next year, not just for poker but for the people in his life.

Poker is dominated by the dark side of humanity. It doesn't help when the WSOP is held in the middle of flashiest blackest hole in the universe... Las Vegas. But sometimes, there are rays of hope. Guys like Barry Greenstein (Children Inc.) and Phil Gordon (Bad Beat on Cancer) are working hard to help charitable causes. Plenty of Asian players like Kenny Tran, Scotty Nguyen, and Liz Lieu donate their winnings to help their family and communities back home in Vietnam. The guys over at PokerStars teamed up with the cast from Ocean's Thirteen and helped raise money and awareness for the humanitarian crisis in Darfur.

We live in a time in America when the religious right has infiltrated our government and backed certain politicians who stiff-armed online poker. A devout Christian and religious man like Jerry Yang can help draw positive attention to the poker community. Poker can be a conduit for goodwill. Sure it's a form of gambling, but so is beating the stock market. Heck, praying for an imaginary being (aka God) is the ultimate gamble. What's the difference between shoving all in with a Big Slick vs. a middle pair and believing in God? There is none. Both are coinflip situations. God either exists or doesn't. That's a race situation that church goers gamble with every single Sunday.

I've long given up the quest to determine if our original creator is Allah, Buddha, Jesus' dad, or some alien scientists cross breeding themselves with apes. There is a more powerful force out there. Or maybe there isn't. The existentialist in me believes that this is a darkened, random, and godless universe. Spending too much time in Las Vegas makes you abandon hope and the entire notion of God.

The most important conversation I had the entire summer was with a French journalist named Benjo. And we talked about lobsters. He got me off of work and life tilt. Here's what I wrote at the end of June:

During one of the breaks of the HORSE event, I went outside for a few minutes for a smoke break. It was around 3am and Benjo told me a weird story regarding John-Paul Sartre. I actually started the conversation by asking him something about Sartre. I think it was about him banging Simone de Beauvoir. Anyway, Benjo told me how Simone de Beauvoir made him take a holiday in Southern France because he was too burnt out after experiencing hallucinations, specifically one about a lobster following him around. He had been doing too much mescaline and was feeling the residual effects of that drug. For years the lobster would follow him around and he made the decision that he was not going to see the lobster any more... and the lobster vanished and ceased to exist.

I had a moment of clarity and finally figured it out. Everything. Especially what Sartre was trying to teach us... that we have to make a choice in life. And not just about what we do, but what we believe, and the values we hold. Those choices are not going to be made for us or nor should they be dictated by those around us. He decided to stop seeing the lobsters and they were gone.

If Jerry Yang thinks that he won the WSOP because of God's help, then so be it. Was it God or luck that brought him the 6 on the river to beat Tuan Lam? I'm not going to debate him on that fact. After all, it's great publicity and PR work for all of poker. You see, according to the new WSOP champion, the Lord loves poker. God is helping the good guys take away money from the bad guys to be distributed among the poor and needy. Maybe the Jesus freaks out there will see that there is some good to be made with poker and they will ease up on pressuring the government to keep online poker on the sidelines.

Just when I was ready to give up on humanity, I got a lesson in faith... in the middle of a casino in Las Vegas of all places.

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