Life as a Las Vegas Poker Dealer

Looking back

2012-01-21T09:30:00.000-08:00

I glanced at my watch to note the date I needed to jot down on all the paperwork for the night. The date, January 17, jumped out at me. I tried but failed, that night, to figure out why that date seemed to hold a place of importance somewhere deep in my subconscious. I chalked it up to some weird occurrence in my past and let it go.

A few nights later, again after a glance at my watch for the same reason as a few nights before, realization dawned as to why the date seemed to represent something of significance. This time, the numbers on the face of the watch read January 20.

I remembered...

Seven years ago, on January 17, we left behind everything we knew and headed out into an unknown future. Just as the sun rose over the frost-covered golf course behind our house, we loaded three dogs and a few paltry belongings into two cars.

I remember waves of feeling that washed over me as I pulled away from the house without so much as a glance in the rearview mirror. Days earlier, I accepted the fact that an era of my life was coming to an end; I felt no need to dwell in the past as I tried to focus on what our future might be. After all, at that point I only knew that, whatever our future, it lied somewhere else.

On January 20, just before 10pm, we crested the hill near Apex and were treated to a view of the Vegas valley. Today, it still ranks as my favorite view of the valley at night. Near midnight, we rolled to a stop in front of the wife's grandmother's home in North Las Vegas. As I stepped from the Jeep, my first thought was that I was overdressed - a winter parka, wool hat, scarf, and skiing gloves might be appropriate when driving through cold Colorado winters in a Jeep with no heat, but in the 50+ degree night of the Vegas valley that day, it proved too much.

My second thought, as I glanced at the Jeep and the wife's Mustang, was siple. We made it. We actually survived, and a tale of survival it is - I might even share it one day. The journey made the destination that much sweeter.

As the dogs cavorted around off leash in the back yard, I sat on the patio sipping a well-deserved adult beverage. The wife, the three dogs, and I crashed soon thereafter in the 100 square foot room that would be my home - or prison cell as I would eventually come to think of it - for the foreseeable future.

Our conquering of Vegas would have to wait for another day.

Other than a self-imposed (OK, wife-imposed) year-long exile from the valley, the past seven years have been pretty sweet. Seven years ago, I was the biggest asshole I knew. I hated all of humanity for no real reason. Had you told me than that I would eventually end up working in the service industry, and liking it, I would likely have forcefully tried to shove your head up your ass. I'm far less violent these days ;)

I'll save more parts of the story for other days I feel like sharing. The culmination of my metamorphosis arrives this August. If all goes well, I will have moved completely past my Mr. Khaki past (ask the wife if you want more details on that moniker). August should be interesting, but details of that will have to wait a few more days...

Time for me to raise a tasty adult beverage to the last seven years...

Random things

2011-12-18T10:33:00.000-08:00

I already related the most exciting thing to happen this month, the sudden loss of the Jeep. Thankfully, that problem no longer exists. One of my customers stopped by the house and helped me get it running again. Took all of ten minutes after he arrived.

Being December, I suppose I'm not surprised that nothing else has happened lately...

Whereas March and, to a lesser degree, Super Bowl weekend, are the best times to be in Vegas, I think November and December might rank as the worst. Rodeo aside, seemingly nothing happens in Vegas from the time the weather starts turning colder until New Year's Eve Amateur Night.

I pop Niacin like candy in an effort to stave off the SAD. The Niacin helps. The wife always knows when I forget to take it.

Winter sucks.

I believe it might be time for me to do something drastic, time to seek out the rush of adrenaline that comes from extending myself past my comfort zone. I know just the hike that would do it, if only I could motivate myself to leave the house.

***

He approaches the podium and asks what games I'm spreading. I run through the same litany I give over and over each night, "I have 2-4 limit Hold'em, 4-8 limit Hold'em, 4-8 limit Omaha, and 1-2 No-limit Hold'em." I watch as his eyes glaze over midway through my spiel.

"How much is the 1 & 2 game," he asks, to which I give the normal response. "That game requires a minimum $100 buy-in with a maximum $300 buy-in." I receive a blank stare.

"How much is that other game, the four-dollar game?"

"That game is a minimum $40 buy-in."

"Why does the bigger game have a smaller buy-in?"

"The 4-8 game is a limit game, sir. The betting is structured. You can only bet r raise a maximum of eight dollars in that game. The 1-2 game is a no-limit game. You may bet your entire stack if you so desire."

"That sounds good. I'll take the 1-2 game for $100," he says as he slides me a crisp $100 bill. I hand him a stack of red chips. He spends a few seconds looking back and forth between the chips and me. "These say $5. I want the one and two-dollar game."

"It's a red-chip game, sir. The dealer will make change as you play."

Reluctantly, he takes the chips and walks to the table. I watch him leave the room less than twenty minutes later.

***

The same guy returns the next night. As I hand him the stack of red chips, he asks "So you guys give out red chips for this game now? When did that change?"

I shrug. "It's always been a red-chip game, sir."

"No. The last time I played here, they gave me white chips for this game."

"Are you sure you weren't playing 4-8, sir? The limit game?"

"No, I can't afford 4-8. I can only afford 1-2."

He left me at a loss for words. I simply returned to the paperwork I was working on.

Again, I watched him leave the room less than twenty minutes later.

***

I stood at the podium trying to decide what to do with the dealer lineup seeing as how it was time to send somebody home for the night. My thoughts were interrupted by a call from the table nearest the podium. "Floor!" I looked up. "Three-bet on table 12! We have a legitimate three-bet! What should I do?"

I could only smile as I surveyed the players at the table, a $2/4 limit game, and counted 6 of the tightest rocks we see in our room...and it was only an 8-handed game.

"I'll call ESPN," I yelled back. "Hold the action til the cameras get here!"

We got laughter from the surrounding tables, laughter from the dealer in the box, laughter from a couple railbirds, and nothing but complete silence and a couple scowls from the players in the game.

***

If you deal poker or are interested in those that do deal poker, and you aren't following @MeanPokerDealer on Twitter, you really should be. S/he is pretty amusing, to say the least.

***

I actually completed another chapter in my book the other day. That likely means nothing to any of you, but I find it amazing. I suppose this is the perfect time to admit my book will never be published. I hear you asking yourselves why that might be. There are a few reasons, actually :)

First, and foremost, I am not a closer. I finish nothing. True, I somehow managed to finish a project where I posted a photo every single day for a year, but I chalk that up as an anomaly. My attention span simply isn't fit for getting any lengthy project done.

Second, I only think about writing when it gets cold, when the SAD kicks in, when I start listening to melancholy and depressing music, when the days are too short for me to get any appreciable sunlight. In short, I write for about three months of the year - December through February.

The literary agent who originally suggested I write a book long ago gave up on me actually doing so. Truth be told, I gave up months before he did. While I languished in self-imposed Vegas exile, stuck in the hell that was New Mexico and the purgatory that was Colorado, I wrote year round. Writing kept me sane, provided me something to focus on other than drinking myself into oblivion (which I tried to do anyway).

Being back in Vegas, I again enjoy my life, and I find I'm not so driven to turn to writing as an escape. After all, there are hundreds of peaks for me to climb within an hour of the house, nearly a dozen national parks within a 5-hour drive. I prefer actually being outside to sitting in front of a computer and trying to pound out chapters of a book.

It is winter, though, so I might get another couple chapters done before March rolls around to restore my mental well-being.

***

A friend of mine who lives in some part of Texas I likely couldn't find on a map, a former dealer here in Vegas, recently started a blog. If, like me, you have more free time than you know what to do with or simply want something else to read, pay it a visit. Try to ignore the fact that he's a Steelers fan.

Partly just to tweak him (and Eeyore, the other Steelers fan I put up with), and partly because I think it might just happen, I bring to you your AFC Championship Game:

Denver Broncos vs Houston Texans

Seriously. Somebody, somewhere, is looking out for both of those teams.

***

Foods I tried for the first time in my life (at least that I can remember) in the past week:
Brussel Sprouts
Kale
Parsnips
Turnip Greens
Coconut Milk

I actually enjoyed all of them.

Something very weird has happened as I've reached the point where, according to that little whipper-snapper Monkey Boy, I'm a lot closer to 50 than I am 30. Nothing drove home this change more than a recent visit to a buffet.

After my first pass around the buffet, I reached the table and surveyed my plate: asparagus, broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, tomatoes, and a very small piece of chicken. WTF, over? Where was the mac & cheese? Where was the meat? Did I really eschew the bacon-wrapped pork for a bunch of veggies?

This infiltration of veggies into my diet extends into my cooking now, too. At least 80% of the grocery shopping is spent in the produce section. Any given dish I come up with is likely 70-80% veggies with meat thrown in almost as a side dish.

Sure, I've lost 60+ pounds since moving back to Vegas. Sure, I look and feel healthier. Still, it just seems so....wrong...to be eating more greenery than meat!

***

Note to poker room floor staff: the vast majority of you are doing it wrong. Instead of focusing on trying to run the room (which doesn't need your help, by the way - it'll pretty much run itself), try focusing on the important aspects of your job. Focus on what you can do to help your dealers make more money. Make it your number one priority in your job. Put the dealer first.

***

I'm thinking of attempting a different photographic project each month next year. I have yet to commit to this kind of insanity, but I haven't yet ruled it out either. I'm thinking maybe a month of self portraits, a month of sunrises, a month of some specific type of architecture, etc. Chances are good I give up on this idea before I get started. It's just the way I am :)

***

Enough of this nonsense. This late in the day, the Niacin wears thin and needs a boost. I have Newcastle Winter IPA and Blue Moon Winter Abbey Ale to help ;)

Is there a doctor in the house?

2011-12-03T12:40:00.001-08:00

Walked out to go to work the other night, turned the key in the Jeep, nothing happened. The lights came on, radio came on, everything seemed in order except for the fact that it didn't even try to turn over. I got lucky in the fact that the wife had the night off. I resignedly walked in the house, tossed my keys across the table, grabbed hers, and drove the Toaster to work.

I'd wait until after work to deal with the issue...

Upon getting home, I grabbed my keys and headed to the garage. I hopped in the Jeep, turned the key, checked that no idiot lights came on, and tried to start it once again. Once again, nothing happened. In frustration, I cranked the key back and forth seemingly dozens of times. One of those times, it tried to turn over.

I paused before tentatively turning the key all the way forward. To my surprise, it fired right up. I let it run a few minutes and then shut it off. I waited a couple minutes and tried again. It fired right up. Over the course of an hour, I started it up four times. Each time, it started without hesitation. I decided the non-start must have been a fluke and headed to bed, confident it would start up the next night.

The wife left for work. I woke an hour later. All dressed up and somewhere to be, I hopped in the Jeep and turned the key. Of course, nothing happened. I sat and silently cursed the Jeep. I tried again with the same result. I got out of the Jeep and stood staring dumbly at it as if I could will it to start. For good measure, I kicked a tire.

I hopped in and tried again. Still nothing. I called the office and informed them I would not be babysitting this night as I had no way to make it to work. I went in and changed clothes. I called Eeyore and begged him to drive me to an Autozone open twenty-four hours.

While I waited for him to arrive, I removed the starter. The battery, being less than a year old, could not be the issue I reasoned to myself. Once Eeyore showed up, we made the long (from my house, anyway) drive to the west side. I waited in line. Upon reaching the counter, the guy shrugged and made apologies. His testing equipment was busted. His only saving grace was that he told us of a second Autozone open twenty-four hours.

We drove all the way to the northeast side. We walked in, smiled seeing no line, and confidently strode to the counter. Before I even laid the starter down, the guy told me his testing equipment was busted. I refrained from killing him. Deciding to just buy a new starter - after all, I had replaced a starter on MN Bob's truck a few years back and his starter was less than $60 - I asked if they had any in stock. "Special order," he replied after tap dancing his fingers across the keyboard.

I steamed all the way back to the house.

Finally, the wife came home. We hit up Babystacks (nee Babycakes) for some Red Velvet Pancakes (heavenly) before dealing with the Jeep Heep.

We stopped at an Autozone. I held little hope their equipment might be in working order, but I ended up successfully getting the starter tested. Nothing wrong with it. I sulked all the way back to the house.

I hit up an Autozone closer to the house for an ignition switch. What else could it be? After replacing the ignition switch, I came to the obvious conclusion that it had to be something else. I drove back to the Autozone and grabbed a starter relay. Surely, this would be the last trip...

Replacing the starter relay solved nothing.

So...recap...

Battery: good
Starter and solenoid: good
Ignition switch: replaced
Starter relay: replaced
Turn key: doesn't even try to turn over

I'm stumped. Is there a doctor in the house?

Name Dropping

2011-11-30T01:58:00.001-08:00

Both friends and family members of the Esfandiari clan play in our room with some regularity. Today's story comes directly from one of them. I would have loved to been at the table to witness this in person, but it still amused me without seeing the person in question's reaction firsthand.

Recently, Antonio's younger brother sat down at a table in a popular poker room...

Before long, he started hearing snippets of conversation from an adjoining table. Seems a gentleman at that table was talking about Antonio. He claimed to be Antonio's brother. Antonio's brother kept silent. The player at the next table claimed Antonio was in Europe. Antonio was actually at the Rio doing commentary for the November Nine final table. Antonio's brother kept silent.

The guy at the next table ran on and on, regaling his table-mates with stories about Antonio. All the while, Antonio's brother kept silent. After an hour or so, someone entered the poker room and spotted Antonio's brother. He approached, said hello, and asked how Antonio was doing.

The guy at the next table turned, inquiring "Oh, you know Antonio, too?"

The gentleman who had approached Antonio's brother looked at the player on the adjacent table. "Of course he knows Antonio," he chimed in. "He's Antonio's brother," he added.

I'm told the guy at the next table was racked up and gone by the next hand. I guess having his bluff exposed meant it was time to move on ;)

Before & after, part duex

2011-11-28T04:41:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I hit the publish button too early we left off with finishing up the guest bedrooms. The house was coming along but I still did my best to avoid the kitchen.

With that in mind, it was time to focus on the office...

First thing on my mind was to get rid of the ugly purple shelves. Not only were they an ugly purple but the latex paint was peeling off in more than a few places. Being as I would be the one to spend the majority of the time in the office, it was left to me to decide on the colors. I stared at a few color swatches at Home Depot before deciding on colors we already had - the copper from the bedroom coupled with the slate grey from the guest bedroom.

With the colors chosen, the project requiring the most physical labor loomed next - the doorway. The room that is to be the wife's studio lie on the other side of the wall from the office. The only access to the studio, when we moved in, was to go outside the house onto the back patio and enter through a doorway from there. Inconvenient, at best.

I started tearing off drywall. I hemmed and hawed over the stud that stood between me and the studio after all the drywall was removed. I asked a dozen people about removing it. Finally, one of my regulars who happened to be a carpenter, told me I would do no damage removing a single stud even if the wall happened to be load bearing. I grabbed the power tools ;)

With the stud removed and a new doorway framed in and stuccoed over, it was time to paint. I like the way the copper and grey turned out together.

Finally, it was time to address the kitchen. The first thing to do was for me to deal with the cabinet doors. All along we planned on something other than plain wooden cabinet doors. In the end, I cut the panels out of all of them. Cabinets above the counter-top got chicken wire and cabinets below the counter-top got a frosted glass look. That was the easy part.

The hard part, the part that ended up requiring no less than five trips to Home Depot, was in the selection of colors. We finally decided we wanted something bright and warm. We ended up with sunburst yellow cabinets, terra-cotta walls, and deep red (same red as in the hallway) trim. Before we started painting, the colors selected scared me. After painting the cabinets, I fretted the terra cotta and red against that bright yellow would leave me avoiding the kitchen as much as possible. After getting it all put together, it's now my favorite room in the house.

The final touch to the kitchen, the wife's idea, was a chalkboard. Not needing something overly large, we decided the cabinet above the pantry would be the best location for the chalkboard , not to mention the most logical place so as to write crap down when it needs replenished. I was skeptical of the chalkboard spray paint, but it works as advertised. Two coats over a sheet of plywood makes a working chalkboard. Wonders never cease.

In the shot to the left, you can see the kitchen and the front entryway with its chocolate-milk like stone brown color. In person, the red looks stunning against the brown, especially in the case of the shutters. The entryway, the living room, and the dining room all received the stone brown color with the red trim. The wife wanted to make sure the main hallway tied into the rest of the house. She did a phenomenal job with the color selection in that regard.

The 70s-era light fixtures needed to go. They were replaced with something a little more contemporary. I replaced every outlet and switch in the house, ridding us of the beige trimmings and replacing everything with black outlets and switches (except for the sunroom, which is coming up next).

With the main area of the house complete, we only needed to paint two more rooms: the sunroom and the wife's studio. I intended to let the wife deal with the studio on her own, though I reserved veto authority lest she get carried away with some color I might not be able to live with.

That left the sunroom. As we stood in the entry to the sunroom one morning, she commented that she liked the reflection of the sun off the pool through the windows. She wanted something to enhance that a bit. Blue, then. After a mere two trips to Home Depot for color samples, we had what we wanted and got to work. For the sunroom, we decided the black outlets, etc. would be too dark. We opted for stark white trimmings, which still look far better than the "classic" beige found in nearly every house in the country.

I ended up very satisfied with all of the work the wife put into choosing the colors. The house ends up feeling distinctively southwestern, perfect for the desert that she & I grow more fond of the longer we live here.

I smile when guests come over. To a tee, every visitor has commented that when hearing of the various colors in the house, their first thought was "too busy" or "too many colors" or "that sounds hideous." The only comments we get after they walk through the house are "wow" or "gorgeous" or "I never would have thought to use so many colors like this. It's stunning."

The wife's studio ended up with lilac and plum colored walls, stark white trimmings. Since I have yet to start work on the built-ins she wants for the room, I'm holding off on photos from there yet.

I believe, before we get to that in earnest, the focus will be decorating. I printed a few photos at 16x20 and have a few others that will get slightly smaller treatments. We have canvas paintings, mostly desert scenes, that the wife's grandmother did years ago. Finally, of course, there is furniture. Wanting the house to be done in a mission-era style, I get the joys of being busy in the garage building furniture. I'm looking forward to it ;)

For now, though, a fridge full of adult beverages awaits. One must have priorities, after all!

Before and after

2011-11-27T12:04:00.001-08:00

Since absolutely nothing is happening in my poker world, and because more than a few have emailed or approached to see what we've been doing with the house, I finally grabbed the camera and took a few shots.

Enjoy...

First, a question. Do you have any idea how many little sample jars of paint it takes to find the right color combinations for a 2k sq ft house? I'll give you an idea. Just look to the right...

We won't even discuss how many trips to Home Depot all those little jars represent. I think I spent more in gas to & from Home Depot than I did to & from work...and Home Depot is five miles closer to the house! Every color we ended up choosing was inspired by the desert in which we live. We wanted southwestern color. The wife used some of my photos for her inspiration in picking the colors we used.

Anyway, the first room we did was the master bedroom. We started painting prior to even being approved for the mortgage. Call it confidence. Call it foolishness. Whatever. I knew we'd be cutting it short between the time of closing on the new house and the date our lease at the old place expired. As it happened, we ended up with a two week window in which to get crap done and moved.

I opted to paint the master bedroom and one of the spare bedrooms (which would serve as the gym) first. That way, my theory went, we could move in and not have to worry about moving heavy crap to get the painting done. With those two rooms done, the bed and the 500-lb treadmill could be put in place in newly painted rooms, and we could be done with them. Our other furniture was light enough to move around as needed.

We got those two rooms AND the bathrooms done prior to the move. No photos of the bathrooms, mostly because I forgot ;)

After the move, I started on the hallway. The heavy crap was in place and I had no need to worry about scratching up the paint during the move. The wife became obsessed with the color red. Being as my only reason for existence is to make her happy, I doused the hallway in a deep red color. The red against the light brown trim turned out nicer than I expected. I even grew to really like the red once it was on the wall.

All the while, I kept staring at the kitchen. I knew the kitchen would be the biggest, most difficult project we faced. I decided to pretend like it didn't exist. I chose to paint the other spare bedroom next.

The wife ended up settling on a silver/grey combination. At the time we painted them, they were my favorite rooms in the house. We had already finished up the first guest bedroom and filled it with exercise equipment during the move. Now we finished the second guest bedroom in same fashion...and filled it with boxes. It became the staging location for any box that I couldn't find a home for. While painting it, I asked if the wife if she wanted the triangle section all one color or if she wanted part of it to match one wall and part the other. I suggested the color pattern in the photo. She immediately chose to start calling the room the Q-bert room.

Annnnnd...I hit publish long before I meant to. Ooops!

Time for bed. I'll finish up with the other half of the house tomorrow I guess ;)

Jackpot!

2011-11-14T09:47:00.001-08:00

I pushed through the door that led to the casino floor. The noise level seemed louder this night, the crowd a bit larger than a normal Friday night. It was, after all, the "luckiest day of the year." Apparently everyone intended to make the most of it. I glanced at my watch. The gamblers had a little over ninety minutes before the clock rolled to the next day. "Hit that max bet button a little faster, guys," I thought to myself as I weaved my way to the poker room.

The poker room proved to be brimming with activity as well...

Dealers dashed to and from the podium, ferrying chips to guests seated at the tables. The hostess moved quickly around the podium, greeting guests, adding names to the waiting list, exchanging cash for chips and vice versa. Another quick glance at my watch told me were about to give away $100 to some player in whatever lucky seat the random seat generator picked.

Curious if we had paid the big jackpot of the day, the $11,111 to the table when a player flopped quad Aces, I grabbed the clipboard holding the payout sheet. Amazingly, not only had nobody flopped quad Aces all day, nobody had even had quad Aces on the turn or river (which would have paid the comparitatively meager $1,111 to the table). With less than seventy-five minutes remaining before the end of the promotion, it looked like we might avoid the big payout.

The hostess waved the poker room manager and me over. "Is there any special forms for this promotion if it hits?" After a bit of nervous laughter, she was assured that she needed no paperwork above and beyond the normal payout procedures. "Don't jinx us," I laughed. "We have less than an hour to go."

I finished up all my shift-opening paperwork and prepared to head out to press some flesh, say a few hellos, do the easy part of the job. As I rounded the corner, the gentleman in seat 1 on one of the no-limit games rose from his seat. The gentlemen in seats 7 and 9 followed suit. A big pot brewed, with seat 1 having moved all-in and gotten called in two spots. Seat 1 smiled as he rolled over...pocket Aces.

A cacophony started, nearly drowning out the other ten games in the room. "Do it!" "One time!" "C'mon, dealer!" You could almost feel it coming.

The dealer put on an appropriate performance. He burned the first card from the deck under the pile of chips. He then methodically peeled off the three cards that would comprise the flop. With a smile, he rolled them over and put them in place so that only the door card was visible. The door card, of course, was an Ace. The cacophony grew.

The dealer pulled the door card to the right, revealing the card beneath it. Nobody involved remembers that card, only that it wasn't an Ace. Even with the momentary disappointment, the decibel level remained the same. When the dealer pulled the second card to the right to reveal the case Ace beneath it, giving the 1-seat quad Aces on the flop, the party started in earnest. High-fives flew. Smiles beamed from faces, save from the man who had been granted his table chance request at the end of the previous hand.

Instead of walking the room and making my hellos, I wheeled about 180 degrees and headed back to the podium. We filled out paperwork for what seemed an eternity and then sent the money over to the table, $8,888 to be split amongst eight players - one had just sat and had yet to play a hand at that table, one poor soul had a missed blind button in front of him and was thus ineligible.

Once we finished the payout, I drew my watch up to check the time. 11:33 - still nearly half an hour until the promotion ended, a full twenty-seven minutes to sweat a potential second payout. It might as well have been a year.

It only hit once, in fairly dramatic fashion, but it still failed to top the previous year's 10/10/10 payout. That payout occurred at 11:57pm, a mere three minutes prior to the end of the promotion ;)

***

The holiday season arrives. Tis the crappiest time of the year to work in Vegas. You do get to witness amusing sights such as the slot player, but it's the slowest time of the year in the casino save for the brief uptick when the cowboys come to town. November and December are, generally, boring.

Then, of course, comes amateur night New Year's Eve. I find once again that I will be working. It's the one time of year I sorely miss my first job in Vegas when I had a boss who let me not work that dreaded holiday even though the company had a policy against allowing employees to request that night off. At least I work far, far away from the Strip.

Off to drink a tasty adult beverage and contemplate taking photos of the work we've accomplished on the house....

68 Dollar Chicken

2011-11-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

The waiter pushed the cart along the hallway, looking for a specific room. Reaching it, he knocked on the door and announced, "Room Service." The door opened, truly revealing the occupant of the room.

The man wore only a t-shirt...

The waiter shrugged and pushed the cart into the room. Just as he entered the room, he phone rang. The guest looked quizzically at the waiter before asking, "Aren't you going to answer that?"

Now it was the waiter's turn for a quizzical look. The waiter took a pause before informing the guest that normally waiters do not answer the guest phones, that they are typically not supposed to touch anything in the guest rooms. The man, however, insisted. "Just answer it, please."

The waiter smiled, answered the phone, and then turned to pass the receiver to the guest. "It's for you," he said with a smile. The waiter then went about preparing the meal for presentation on the table near the window. He couldn't help but hear the voice at the other end of line as it blared forth from the receiver.

"Where's my fucking money? I want my fucking money and I want it now. I tell you what, you little weasel, I'm coming down there right fucking now and you WILL give me my money." The diatribe was followed by the sound of the phone at the other end slamming down. The guest stared at the receiver in his hand, listening to the dead air, before somewhat shakily asking the waiter, "Can you, ummm, maybe call security or something? I think I need someone to come up here."

The waiter dialed security and requested an officer be sent up to the room. Having already finished preparing the guest's meal, he turned to leave. The guest reached out to stop him. "Where are you going? You have to stay until they get here." He glanced around the room before looking back at the waiter. "You want a shrimp cocktail? Cause, you know, you're gonna be here a while." The man then sat down and nonchalantly started to eat.

The waiter felt at a loss. He had scheduled meal deliveries he needed to tend to but he also didn't want to leave the guest alone. As he waited for security, he pondered what use he would be should some thugs come looking for their money. Further, he wondered, what would the guest, still wearing only a t-shirt, do if confronted. The waiter stared out the window, anywhere but towards the pantsless guest, as he waited.

Finally, security arrived. "Can I go now," the waiter inquired. "Sure," the security office said, "I will take care of everything."

The waiter left. The security guard turned his attention to the guest. "Sir, what can I do for you today," he asked.

"Have you tried this chicken," the guest responded. "This is pretty good chicken. It's $68 chicken but it's pretty good."

No matter how the officer tried to steer the conversation back to the purpose of his presence in the room, the guest would only talk about how good the $68 chicken was.

"Sir, I need you to fill out a statement," the officer finally said.

"No. No way. Besides, I have to finish off this $68 chicken. It's pretty good."

The officer, at am impasse, informed the guest, "Sir, I will be leaving now. If you refuse to fill out a statement or tell me what service you need of me, I need to return to my duties."

The guest shrugged. "Sure. OK. But you're really missing out on this $68 chicken."

***

As Lewis Black would say, "You can't make this shit up!"

I love this town ;)

Doings

2011-10-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

I heard a rumor there was a H.O.R.S.E. tournament at my place of employment last night. I suppose it was successful. I received no "OMG, you won't believe this crap!" type of messages. I hope they had fun. I sincerely would like to thank everyone responsible for holding it on my night off. Being the lazy sod that I am, I can honestly say I'm happy to have avoided what I'm sure was a lot of work ;)

Beyond the craziness of last night, there's other schtuff going on as well...

The Omaha game continues to gain in popularity. We have at least one table with a list every night. Most nights I work, we have two tables with the occasional third. It's amusing to watch someone who has never played Omaha jump in the game, run like a god, cash out 3-4 times their buyin, and become instantly hooked. Apparently, it's more addictive than heroin. Who knew?

There's a freeroll thingy going through early January. One only needs 40 hours play to qualify. There are perks for more hours, of course. I like the structure and the way everything is set up. Hitting 120 hours gets one qualified for three different tournaments, each with a bigger prize pool than the previous. Having only been tracking hours since October 1, I find it amazing that quite a few players (all of them Omaha players, too, I believe) have already blown past 120 hours. I think I see some of them more in a week than I see my wife!

***

In 4 weeks, we've painted over 2,150 sq ft of walls and cabinets. The latest project, painting the shutters in the living room, proved the most annoying. We still have 3 more rooms to go. I'm burning the paint brushes when we're finished ;)

Conversations

2011-10-10T04:47:00.000-07:00

This week continues to play out in the strangest fashion. Everyone seems cranky. More so the last two weeks than the previous two years, I find myself needing to raise my voice in order to be heard over players being childish and arguing. The source of any particular problem proves, increasingly, to be casino staff.

At least there have been a few comical conversations to break up the days...

Guest approaches the podium, glances into the room where we have a single table running. "Any open seats," he inquires?

"You'd be first on the list, sir. That game is $4/8 Omaha. Should I sign you up?"

"Omaha? I don't know how to play Omaha." After a lengthy pause, he continues, "I thought this was the poker room. You don't have any poker games running? Only Omaha?"

***

"Do you have any $1-2 tables," the gentleman asks as he nears the podium.

"No, sir, tonight I only have the $4/8 limit Hold'em and $4/8 limit Omaha games."

"I want to play no-limit, though."

"I apologize, sir. Unfortunately, I only have limit games tonight."

"Can I get a seat in a no-limit game, though?"

We reach the point in the conversation where I really want to be a smart-ass but the saner part of my brain kicks in and takes control. Instead of saying, "Sure, but you'll have to go to another casino to find that seat," I simply smile and say "Tonight, I only have limit games. We should have a no-limit game running in the morning some time around the 10:00am tournament."

He glances around the room, looks me directly in the eye, and asks, "So, I can't play no-limit at either of those tables that are running?"

I hope the scream I heard was inside my head.

***

Inebriated guy in the $1-2 game talks non-stop after his fifth whisky. He talks so much, I find I can only be near that table for short doses before my ears feel like they're going to bleed.

During one of my visits, said gentleman expounds on why, exactly, he is still playing poker at 5:00 in the morning. "I had to wait until my wife went to bed. No way was I going to bed first." *pause* "I made sure I finished after she did."

From the other side of the table, I hear, "That's the only time that'll ever happen." He & I both start laughing, even more so when we realize nobody else at the table got the joke.

The dealer, one whom seldom laughs while dealing, mutters with the faintest of smiles, "I go it. I'm running a professional game here, damnit. I'm not going to just start laughing at every joke."

***

Same game, same inebriated individual sitting behind a stack of chips at least three times that of the other two still in the game, checks down a hand after flopping the nuts and then explains "I didn't want to bet. I want everyone to get back to even. I'm not rying to win any more money."

The next hand, the 10-seat check-raises the big stack and scoops in a pile of chips after the big stack folds. He glances up with a smile, "I like your idea. I really want to help you get back to even."

Again, only he and I caught the reference.

***

That's enough for the day. Time to get back to working on the kitchen project...

Sporadicness

2011-09-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

Things around here might seem a bit sporadic in the coming months. New house, new job responsibilities, new...schtuff, all of which leaves little time for writing. Still, I try. To keep you entertained until the next time I manage to dash off my next post, my age-addled brain remembered enough facts to share a few poker-related stories.

Hopefully, they fit the bill...

I only have a few random short bits to share. I suppose calling them stories isn't exactly fair.

***

First came the extremely inebriated player at the $4/8 table. Working the floor, I kept watch over that game - partly out of concern related to the drunk guy, partly because it was the only game in the room and I needed something to focus on to keep me awake.

I returned to the podium after my umpteenth time walking the room looking for trash to pick up or chairs to straighten out, neither of which existed due to my previous walks through the room. I no more than picked up a pen when I heard the dealer call out "Floor!"

I walked over to the table, sure the issue I had been summoned for had something to do with our intoxicated guest. I reached the table and, before the dealer could speak, the drunk guy spouted off. "He can't raise! He doesn't even know how much I'm going to bet. This is ridiculous! He can't raise!"

A quick glance around the table told me all I needed to know but I asked the dealer what the issue was, just in case. Sure enough, the issue was that our inebriated friend wanted to bet and his opponent had beat him into the pot with his raise.

"Sir," I said, "the gentleman is entitled to raise. The raise stands."
"But," he exclaimed, "how can he raise if he doesn't know how much I'm going to bet? This is bullshit!"
"Sir, it's a limit game. There is a specific structure to the betting. As you are only allowed to bet $8 in this instance, should your opponent want to raise, he can only bet $16. He knows exactly what you are going to bet because you are only allowed to bet one specific amount."
"You're taking his side. This would never happen in a room on the Strip."

I opted to not continue the conversation and walked away after a final, "The raise stands. You can call the additional $8, you may raise $8 to a total of $24, or you can fold."

When I later found out that our genius friend worked in a poker room not far from ours, I could only roll my eyes....and once again wish that it were permissible for the staff to match the guests drink for drink ;)

***

I settled into the dealer chair and happily noticed that a group of Dutch players whom I hadn't seen in a while occupied one end of the table. I suspected the next thirty minutes would be enjoyable and I wasn't disappointed when the first conversation I heard left me - and most of the table - laughing.

Seat 8: What do you want to eat tomorrow?
Seat 10: Let's go to a soup kitchen.
Seat 8: What the hell? Why do you want to go to a soup kitchen?
Seat 10: I want soup. Maybe there will be a funny guy to serve us soup at the soup kitchen.
Seat 7: I'm not poor enough to get fed at a soup kitchen.
Seat 10: What do you mean?
Seat 8: A soup kitchen is for people in poverty. They can get free food there. Communities feed the needy at soup kitchens.
Seat 10: I thought a soup kitchen was like the place in Seinfeld. I want to go some place like that!

***

Just behind seat 4 on one particular table stands a pillar supporting the roof. This leaves a narrow passage between seats 3, 4, and said pillar, a rather skinny spot to traverse.

As I started to pitch the cards on that particular table, I noticed...and then heard...someone squeeze behind seat 4 in his path from the restroom to the bar. Seat 3's head snapped up and he shouted out "Really, dude?"

I started laughing. Seat 4 looked at me, inquiring "Did you hear that? Did I heard that? That didn't really just happen did it?"

Seat 3 shook his head and said in disbelief, "I hope that doesn't stink! I can't believe we just got crop dusted!"

***

On one of my last nights as a dealer, I dealt what might have been the single most boring heads-up no-limit game ever to exist.

The gentleman in seat 5 folded seven or nine hands in a row. Seat 3 never bothered to look at his cards. Seat 5 never once raised. For two hours, my personal hell went something like this:

Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 calls! Dealer gets excited with anticipation! Seat 3 raises. Seat 5 folds.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 calls! Seat 3 checks! Dealer nearly passes out from exertion because he has to put a flop out! Seat 3 bets. Seat 5 folds.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Deal two cards to seats 3 and 5. Seat 5 folds. Set up seat 3's blinds for him.
Eh...you get the picture ;)

***

I really need to retire to bed now. Tonight starts a minimum 12-night run of work with no nights off, potentially growing into a 19-night run. Needless to say, they have yet to find a replacement for my coworker whose last night was last night - I hope she does well at Delaware Park!

Somewhere amongst all those hours working, I still have half a house to prep and paint, cabinets to be stripped of paint and stained, numerous other projects...

Ah, the joys of home ownership. At least I only have to do this isht once!

Exhausted

2011-09-22T03:57:00.000-07:00

Haven't had much time to write lately. Finally closed on the house. Been repairing drywall, painting, moving, etc. Running on about 2 hours sleep per day for the last week. It's all over but the furniture now. Furniture gets moved tomorrow.

Thursday night is my last night pitching cards & pushing pots. Thereafter, I'll be babysitting five nights a week instead. Amazingly, to me anyway, I find that I'm looking forward to not dealing any longer. Since I've only been dealing one day a week for the last ten weeks anyway, it won't be much of a change.

That's it. Back to moving boxes, etc. Nothing else to see here. Move along :)

More cards

2011-09-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

I started the night in a $4/8 limit Hold'em game, nothing unusual. I followed that up with a pair of $1-2 NL games. Again, nothing unusual. I next slid into the chair at a $4/8 Omaha game. I immediately pitched two cards to every player and called for action. "More cards, dealer," came the response. I, of course, only stared at the player who uttered such nonsense like he had two heads. "We need more cards, son," he continued, "if we're going to keep playing Omaha."

Realization finally dawned and I pitched a couple extra cards to everyone. The game proceeded without issue after that. Of course, the next table I found myself at was a $2/4 limit Hold'em game. I sat down and promptly pitched four cards to every player. Only after the fourth card landed and I had called for action did the button look at me and ask, "Exactly how many cards are you planning on giving us?"

This night was starting off well...

***

Recently, the room decided to start pushing Omaha. I see good and bad things resulting from this, but those opinions I choose to keep to myself. I actually go out of my way to not rock the boat these days ;)

At any rate, the Omaha game seems to be fairly popular. It runs every night, or at least it has for the last week. We spread $4/8 Omaha High. A Bad Beat Jackpot, paid when you lose with quad Jacks or better, starts at $10k. To add incentive, there is a payout for the players who log the most hours in the Omaha game each week. A minimum of twenty hours played is required to qualify, but from Friday 6p - Friday 6p, the ten players with the most hours logged in the game get paid. The player with the most hours earns $700. Second nets $500 and third scores $300. The other seven players rounding out the top ten each receive $100.

I'd play in that game on a regular basis if I didn't work there. The competition is such that it would bring me out of retirement and have me playing seven days a week ;)

***

Business continues to be good, or at least better than it used to be. Starting this weekend, I'll have $10 5-team NFL parlays to give out. I need to come up with some specific rules on how the tickets will be earned. Apparently, "randomly splash the pot with a parlay ticket" fails to provide enough information for management types. At this point, I'm leaning towards lose with a set or better and get a ticket. I need to put more thought into it. As always, I'm open to suggestions...

***

The house we meant to be moving into this week slipped from our grasp yet again. With the original closing date of Aug 18, a revised closing date of Sept 1, and a re-revised date of Sept 8, one might think the third time was a charm. One would be wrong.

The newest date we've heard is Sept 15...or maybe the 16th. We signed an extension to the offer agreement that stated closing would occur no later than Sept 15. A half hour later, the mortgage idiot guy left a message saying he was waiting on an addendum stating we were good through Sept 16.

Nobody involved in this deal has a clue in hell what is going on. Should you happen to read about some crazed lunatic stabbing realtors and mortgage employees in the eye with an unsharpened pencil, you now know why.

***

In keeping with the feeling stabby theme, I turn your attention to my wayward attorney. I wrote before about getting a ticket for driving on expired plates. I contacted an attorney I had used before and asked if he could help me out. He assured me he could have the fee drastically reduced and the ticket turned into a parking ticket. Seeing as how the court date was scheduled on a day in which I would be at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I paid the fee and left for vacation thinking all was well.

I returned from vacation to find a letter in the mail saying a bench warrant had been issued for my arrest due to my non-appearance in court. After ranting and throwing things for a few minutes, I proceeded to try and track down my wayward attorney. It took five days before I was successful. He acknowledged his mistake and again assured me he would take care of everything.

A few days later, he called and asked me to approve a deal with the court. The fee sounded reasonable and I told him so.

That was over two months ago. Since then, I have left nine messages with his assistant. My wife actually hit the lottery, or so we thought, and caught him on the phone once. Of course, he stated he needed to pull the file and would call her back. I'm sure you are not surprised to learn that didn't happen. I have since left messages informing him I will be filing an ethics complaint with the bar and potentially filing a small courts claim to get my fee back if I haven't heard from him by Friday.

I may hunt him down and stab him in the eye with unsharpened pencil right after I finish up with the realtors and mortgage peeps.

So...there may or may not be a valid bench warrant out for my arrest. I have no clue what amount I might owe at this point. I hesitate to visit the court, find out they still expect the original $500 extortion fee, and be arrested for not paying it.

Asshole attorneys...

***

Unrelated...

Recently, a couple friends from back east visited for a day before attending a tech conference they were in town for. One of them asked for a photo shoot opportunity and I tried to oblige. We drove out to Lake Mead and hiked around White Owl Canyon for most of a day. I managed to get some decent shots off, some of which I shared over the past couple days on my photography blog. Feel free to check them out if you are interested.

Close Quarters
Picnic View
Dark Passage
Lava Butte
Narrowing Walls
Oasis
Red Rock Walls
White Owl Canyon

My current favorites from that group are Red Rock Walls, Dark Passage, and Close Quarters, though I obviously liked the rest enough to share.

***

I visited some friends recently at the Tropicana poker room as they played a tournament in celebration of a birthday. One of them suggested I needed to post more photos. I finally edited the shots from the Hike from Hell. I have a dozen or so to share over the next few days. They'll get posted on my photography blog as well.

***

That's it! Time for me to enjoy a beer or four, maybe slide into the hot tub and pretend like everything is right in the world.

Why play?

2011-08-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

What is that makes those who know the least about poker more inclined to share their "knowledge" with everyone else at the table? I witnessed an individual attempt to debate poker theory with players who have literally won millions playing poker. I then watched as the same individual, on a different night, made some of the worst plays I believe I've ever seen.

Yet he constantly strives to convince everyone he's a good player...

The poker theory argument pertained to how best to adjust your play when the game becomes short-handed. His theory: when the game is short-handed, you must play less hands than at a full ring game. Even I cast a sideways glance when he stated his approach. Watching the reaction of the pros to his announcement provided a good thirty minutes of amusement. When asked why he thought he needed to play less hands, he enthusiastically stated, "You have to play less hands so that you pay less rake!"

A few nights later, the same individual finds himself in middle position. The first player to act raises to $9. There are three callers before it gets to our hero. He peeks at his cards, holds them up for the dealer to see - pocket 7s - and...wait for it...mucks! The flop, of course, brought a 7. After the hand, our hero told anyone who would listen what he had folded and why it was a good play.

Most recently, he found himself holding A-J in the big blind and chose to check when nobody raised. With a Jack on the flop he bet about half the pot. Holding top pair, top kicker, he folded when faced with a raise and a re-raise (both min-raises). As always, he slowed the game to a crawl as he made a point of showing his neighbor his cards and waiting for some type of signal that he was doing the right thing when he mucked his hand. The two players left in the hand checked the turn and river as they both missed their draws. Ace high took down the pot. Our hero, of course, continued to maintain that he had made the right play.

A player at the table asked why he even bothered to play the game. I didn't bother to wait around for him to answer. I already knew his answer without hearing it. He just wanted hours for the freeroll.

I think I'd understand better if said player were advancing in years - maybe - but he's not even thirty. I can't imagine...

Lake Mead Photos

2011-08-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

Someone who seemed to forget I occasionally post photos on my other blog asked me if I had taken any interesting shots lately ;)

I figured I'd share a few shots from our recent cruise with Lake Mead Cruises in case anyone else missed them.

I actually looked at some Zion shots yesterday, might even start editing a few in the near future.

Blue Waters
Winch
Day on the Lake
Desert Palette

Off to the airport to pick up more tourists who will keep me up past my bedtime. At least they keep me well stocked in beer while they're here :)

Zion Narrows, harder than it should be

2011-08-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

One year ago, my mother joined the wife and I for a short trek up the Virgin River into the fabled Zion Narrows. The wife, I believe, enjoyed herself more than anyone else in the group. She waded into all of the deeper pools intentionally, she splashed about, laughing the entire day. By the time we finished the hike that day, she admitted she might want to hike the entire fourteen miles of river through the Narrows.

While hiking across the Grand Canyon earlier this summer, Monkey Boy told us he had landed permits for 6 to hike the narrows. The wife never hesitated...

Two weeks prior to the dates we intended to hike through the canyon, the wife and I managed to entice Eeyore out of his den and we headed up to Zion. We hiked a mile or so up the canyon and back down. The wife, again, thoroughly enjoyed herself. We found the river changed, the floods over the winter deepening some areas, moving rocks to others and making them more shallow. The wife laughed hysterically as she gave up trying to wade across the deepest pool, instead swimming and floating with the current. Anticipation grew for the big hike we had planned.

***

After a hectic day trying to reach the backcountry office at Zion before they closed, a day that included returning home for forgotten items (thankfully before leaving the North Las Vegas city limits) and unexpectedly buying four new tires for the Jeep, the wife and I set up camp and headed into town for pizza and beer.

Getting the permits the night before our hike was essential to preventing a day of misery. Our shuttle to trailhead left the Zion visitor center at 6:30am. Missing that shuttle meant standing around until 11:00am and not reaching the trailhead until at least noon. Given that, based on our experience hiking through the Grand Canyon, I expected us to put one mile behind us (at most) every hour, missing the first shuttle would leave us trying to navigate slippery rocks in the dark.

The backcountry office opened at 7:00am, a full half hour after we intended to be on that shuttle. The office closed at 7:30pm. We walked in to retrieve our permits at 7:20pm. We made it. Barely.

Unfortunately, Monkey Boy failed to provide me with what I needed to pick up the permits. In desperation, wanting desperately to make sure the wife wasn't forced to hike at night, I told the ranger we would be on the 6:00am shuttle and in the river before she arrived to work the next day. I explained why. She relented after I recited Monkey Boy's phone number as proof I knew him, and she wrote new permits in my name.

The pizza and beer at Zion Pizza & Noodle Co. somehow tasted even better than we remembered it from a year prior.

***

The excitement felt at embarking on our trek down the river seemed somehow heightened by the extremely cold temperatures we found at the trailhead. A group of hikers from nearby Hurricane expressed joy at the "perfect" temperatures. Everyone from Vegas stood shivering and dancing about in an effort to stay warm. "Perfect, my ass," I remember thinking. The 40-degree morning on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in June felt warmer than standing in that meadow waiting to gear up and head out.

The cows serenaded us as we made our way down the path. One apparently found the wife somewhat attractive and chased her down the trail a bit. Almost immediately, we came to our first river crossing. We harbored no doubts that the water at the trailhead was far colder than the water at the bottom of the canyon. We walked along, listening to the cows call out each time a new set of hikers passed until they eventually faded away behind us. The other hikers moved swiftly past us, leaving the six of us to enjoy the trail in peace.

We paused in front of Bulloch's cabin as I slipped a toe condom (greatest product ever invented) on over my now bleeding toe. The leather of my hiking sandals buckled inward, creating a spot that rubbed the top of the toe in a bad way.

By the time we dropped into the river for what would be the remainder of the hike, the wife and I found ourselves alone just as we had in the Grand Canyon. We splashed along, stopping for snacks, lunch, making our way over, under, and around the various obstacles we encountered. We enjoyed the surrounding landscape, but mostly just enjoyed being with each other as we tackled our latest adventure.

***

Somewhere above North Creek Falls, the wife slid off a submerged rock and twisted her ankle. We faced another nine or ten miles of slogging through the river before we finished. I knew her ankle would slow us down, but I had yet to discover exactly how much. To that point, we maintained our mile per hour pace and I expected us to reach camp around 5:00 that evening. I never expected we might be in as much trouble as we were. We pushed on.

We rested at North Creek Falls. As the wife stared over the edge, I calculated our progress. Only then did I begin to get a sense of how much trouble we were in. On one hand, I tried to focus on ensuring that the wife had a good time despite her injury. On the other hand, my brain screamed at me to push her to move faster. I now expected to reach camp around 7:00pm.

By the time we reached the confluence of Deep Creek, I began to feel fear creeping into my consciousness. The wife rested, foot wrapped and elevated, while I refilled our water bladders. At first, I hesitated to even stop but instinct told me we would need the water. As I refilled, I again performed the calculations to judge our progress. I realized where the fear came from. I knew that if we intended to make our designated camp site, we would be hiking the river in the dark.

My only concern at that point focused on keeping the wife as safe as possible. Given that she already sported a tweaked ankle, I dreaded having her try to navigate the slipperiness of the river rocks with only a headlamp.

I reloaded our packs and we pushed on.

***

I felt my heart sink when I realized she was crying. Sure, we both wore headlamps but they provided little help in seeing the boulders beneath the river's surface. I found myself frequently having the wife stay put while I attempted to scout ahead and find the safest path through the water. That fear that tried to creep into my head earlier now possesed me entirely. I knew, given the need, I would make camp. I also realized, as we reached the confluence of Kolob Creek, that it would be well after midnight by the time we reached camp if I pushed on.

I pushed my fears down and reassured the wife everything would be OK. I found a dry spot big enough for the tent and we made camp. In the darkness, she had fallen twice more and found her knee hurting now as much as her ankle. We skipped dinner, sank into our sleeping bags, and drifted off to sleep. At least, the wife fell quickly asleep. I stared through the screened top of the tent, counting stars - I count things, everything, especially when stressed - as I wondered if I could safely see my wife through to the end of the hike.

With the wife asleep, my fears were free to run rampant through my head.

***

We reached our designated camp around 7:30 the next morning, our four hiking companions watching as we made our slow, methodical progress down river.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Monkey Boy confessed. I explained the wife's injuries and after a few minutes of catching up, the wife and I pushed on. I knew we dared not stop for any length of time. With every step, our rate of progress slowed as the wife's pain increased. I focused on keeping us moving. The other four passed us an hour later, asking us to text when we made it out of the canyon. I kept the doubts I held about our ability to make it out that night to myself and nodded my agreement.

The wife and I stopped for lunch at camp site number eleven. As we ate, I realized that what should have been a thirty-five minute walk from our encounter with our hiking companions had taken us almost two hours. I knew then that we would not make it out of the canyon that night. I idly wondered if the rangers would see our Jeep and make inquiries. My thoughts started to wander - what would Big Springs look like at this time of year, how far had our hiking companions made it by now, with all of the people who had passed us that morning was there anyone left behind us, what would we eat tomorrow...

What would we eat tomorrow? Our only hot meal we packed, we ate for breakfast that morning. I pulled the food bag out of the wife's pack, only confirming what I already knew - we didn't have any food for the next day. I silently rolled up the bag and took the water bags down to the river to refill. I maintained silence regarding our food situation, only offering encouragement and praise for the wife as we started out down a trail that would keep us dry for a while.

***

I reached the steep slickrock ramp first, both excited and dismayed to see the rope a previous hiker left to assist in downclimbing the ramp. I paused and considered my options - I could force the wife to retrace her steps back to camp site eleven and we could slog through the river back to the point only twenty feet below where we stood, or I could somehow help her summon the courage to tackle the downclimb and push on. Honestly, neither option held much appeal.

I grabbed the rope and tested its hold. I dropped my pack and ventured out onto the ramp to see how steep it really was - everything looks steeper from the top than from below. I judged it safe enough for her to make it down. I never ask her to do anything I know she's uncapable of. Sometimes, I need to convince her she can do it but I make it a point to never put her into a position where she is in danger.

I tied my pack to the rope and lowered it down the ramp. I used the weight of the pack to help belay the rope as I descended. After untying my pack, I climbed back up and repeated the process with her pack. Before I even had her pack untied, down she came, sliding down the ramp as if on a slide in a neighborhood park, using the rope for balance as she made her way down. I only hoped she had as much fun as it looked, despite her pain.

We geared up and continued our way down river.

***

We approached Big Springs. I managed to put our issues aside long enough to pull the camera out and take some shots. I still haven't looked at any of the shots I took. I know the shots were rushed. I know I should have used a tripod, the light being fairly crappy. Given the circumstances, whenever I do look at them, I hope to get one good shot I can share.

Big Springs, honestly, proved to be the highlight of the trip. I personally think the scenery of the upper canyon is better than what most people think of when they talk of the Narrows. Less dramatic, perhaps, and definitely more subtle, the scenery alternates between forested areas and short sections of towering cliffs. The water flows calmer, the river much smaller than in the bottom of the canyon. Overall the upper canyon seems more peaceful, more my style.

Big Springs, though, is amazing. Water rushes out the side of the canyon from multiple spots. Waterfalls cascade down through beautiful greens and reds into awesome emerald pools. Getting to spend an hour or so at Big Springs with the camera and tripod might lead to some amazing shots, admittedly shots done by so many before me, but still...

***

Somewhere below Big Springs, I opted to take a bypass trail over a hill as opposed to traversing another area of rapids. What seemed like a good idea at the time likely scarred both the wife and I for a long time coming.

I reached the peak of the hill and surveyed the route. I liked the route. I looked back to see the wife working her way up and over a series of tree roots and boulders. I watched, seemingly in slow motion, as she lost her balance and started to fall backwards. She spun on her way down, landing on her side, her face mere centimeters from a thirty-foot drop to the river bed below. I still don't know if the voice I heard crying out was hers or mine.

I shed my pack as I raced towards where she had fallen. It took everything I had to get her, now terrified of moving on the narrow trail, to even sit up. After getting her upright, I scouted a way down the hill and led her down to the river. My heart raced. I doubt I have ever felt so badly for another human being in my entire life. She says her life flashed before her. I know she was scared. I honestly don't know if she was as scared as I was at that exact moment.

She now added hip and shoulder pain to the ankle and knee pain she already felt. I added more fear and doubt to my subconcious. The doctor, months ago, prescribed me anti-depressants as sleep aids. I began to think I might need them for more than sleeping as I helped the wife get moving again.

***

I only wanted to reach the Orderville Canyon junction the second night. Reaching Orderville Canyon held great amounts of symbolism in my head. To me, Orderville Canyon meant, first and foremost, an end to the lengthy section of narrows below Big Springs. From Big Springs to Orderville Canyon, hikers find themselves in the river continuosly.

Between Big Springs and Orderville Canyon, there is no way out other than to push on - no high ground on which one might set up camp in an emergency, no side canyon through which one might seek refuge if needed, no sand bars on which one might take a break from walking in the water. The canyon, narrow and dark, sees little sunlight even with the sun directly above at midday

I felt a lingering sadness as I slogged through that dark section of river. Whether because I knew I was largely unable to ease the wife's pain, or perhaps simply due to the lack of sun and the never-ending search for a foothold among the greasy rocks, I fought off a depression that threatened to take hold. I tried to stay positive, to smile whenever I looked back at the wife as I waited for her to catch up to me.

I wanted nothing more to be sitting at Oscar's, inhaling a Murder Burger. I focused on that as we made our way down river. I brought to mind the image of the last Murder Burger I ate, two weeks prior. I imagined the smells and the tastes, how well it paired with the Pale Ale I ordered with it. I kept thinking of the Murder Burger instead of the tight confines of the canyon I no longer wanted any part of.

***

Just past Orderville Canyon, we found an alcove that seemed safe enough to camp in. I threw the tent together as the wife pulled out the last of the Clif bars we had. We ate in silence. "At least", I told myself, "we wouldn't be trying to walk through the river in the dark tonight."

I judged us closed enought to the end that we might see day-hikers the next morning before we got moving. I put the rain fly on the tent for a little privacy. Besides, it also blocked views of the canyon and this felt somehow reassuring. After years of dreaming of this hike, I realized I doubted I would ever do it again. The highlight of the hike, Big Springs, proves reachable by hiking up from the bottom and back down the same day. As I drifted off to sleep, I struggled to find a reason to hike the Narrows top down again.

***

The wife waited by the restrooms at the visitor center while I trudged our packs out the Jeep. As I exchanced the packs for the duffel with clean clothes, I spotted the yellow sticker on the steering wheel. The rangers wanted to speak with me.

I dropped the duffel off so the wife could clean up and change clothes. I walked to the backcountry office to take care of the yellow sticker. The rangers, indeed, noticed the fact that we were a day late. They called Eeyore, questioning him as to my hiking abilities and other things. I assured them all was well, that the wife suffered injury and we made very slow time. They suggested I call Eeyore as they might have caused him some concern.

***

The Murder Burger, shortly after getting cleaned up and into fresh clothes, tasted phenomenal as usual. The service, doled out by Grant (best server in Springdale, hands down), proved excellent as well.

***

I may have said this before, probably upon moving back to Vegas from Colorado, but the sight of the Las Vegas valley from atop Apex, definitely ranks as one of my top five favorite sights in Vegas. After this hike, the view holds even more meaning for me.

***

The wife still suffers, two weeks later. I still feel badly. Hiking the Grand Canyon, in my opinion, was far easier. The Grand Canyon is about endurance and mentally pushing on when you don't want to. The Narrows is about physical ability, strenuous exertion, and stamina. Had I known the Narrows might be so difficult for the wife, I never would have allowed her to make the trip. I continue to blame myself for letting her get hurt.

At least she didn't swear off hiking - OK, actually she did...about a dozen times on day three in the Narrows. She finally admitted she would do another Grand Canyon hike, or similar. I doubt we go traipsing through a river any time soon though.

***

I promise to start working on those photos soon...

Catching up

2011-08-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

Still alive. Just finished up an eight day stretch of babysitting the poker room. Tonight, I actually get to pitch cards and push pots! Business continues to get better. I've even started to enjoy wearing the tie. I lasted two years from the date I said I'd never be talked into wearing the tie again - never say never - and, at first, I wasn't thrilled about it but it's actually not that bad.

Still haven't closed on the house. First mortgage company we worked with - maybe it was the originator and not the company, but who knows - over promised and under delivered. We finally opted out and started over with someone local. Three days later, we had things back on track. Then came time for the appraisal. Being a short sale, the previous owners are not participating whatsoever. We ended up with a 24-hour window in which we needed to get all of the utilities turned on, a working stove installed, and face plates put over all of the outlets, switches, etc.

So, that's how I spent my two days recovering after working eight days straight. Now, it's back to the grind. One of these days, I'll actually get free time to write something...

Until then, move along. Nothing more to see here ;)

Weekend of hell

2011-08-12T12:25:00.000-07:00

Doors off, top off, cruising down the interstate, all seemed well. About a mile south of Mesquite, I heard a distinct, easily identifiable, flapping sound, a sound that sank my spirits since I already knew the spare tire on the back gate had a gash in it rendering it useless. A ride in an NHP cruiser, my checking account wounded by an amount seemingly equal to that of some small third world countries, and five hours of wasted time later, we continued north.

I should have taken that as a sign and simply returned home, but I'm too stubborn for that...

Cliff notes: Wife fell and twisted ankle. We failed to make it to our designated campsite the first night. Caught up with the rest of our group the next morning. They pushed on. Wife took a worse fall, likely due to the bum ankle, and damaged knee, hip, finger, and wrist, not to mention large knot on her forehead. We failed to make it out of the canyon the second night. Park rangers noticed our lateness and phoned our emergency contact, causing him great distress. We made the car at noon the third day. What was intended to be two days, 8 hours each, hiking, ended up being three days and a total of 34 hours hiking. Brutal.

Hopefully I get around to a proper post soon, but seeing as I work the next eight days straight...

Tales from the felt

2011-08-04T12:28:00.000-07:00

Since things around here seem somewhat slow of late, and because some people have intimated that I'm allowing cobwebs to gather around here, I thought I'd share some stories ;)

Some of these are first-hand accounts, things I've seen. Some, I'm just relaying, stories told to me by others.

Enjoy...

The hero sat in a $1-2 NL game. The antagonist, a younger gentleman who fit the stereotypical poker punk persona circa 2007, and he found themselves playing numerous pots against each other. These battles in this war of cards resulted in chips from the antagonist slowly making their way into the pile of chips in front of the hero.

In the final hand of their battle, the antagonist peeks at his hole cards after the dealer spreads the flop. Having flopped a full house, the nuts at the time, he opted to try and trap the hero in an effort to regain his lost chips. Both checked the flop.

The turn card gives our hero, who found himself with trips on the flop, four of a kind. Choosing not to slow play, he moves all in after the antagonist checks. The antagonist, of course, nearly beats him into the pot with his chips. He leaps from his seat, shouting "I got you this time," and slams his cards onto the table. "Full house, buddy," he nearly screams.

The hero shrugs and nonchalantly tables his hand. After the river card, the dealer starts to push the pot to the hero.

"Wait! Stop! What the hell are you doing?!?" The antagonist is clearly agitated. "What are you doing with my pot? I had a full house!"

The dealer continues pushing the pot to the hero as she looks up at the antagonist. "I understand that, sir, but this gentleman has four of a kind and four of a kind is a better hand than a full house. He wins the pot, sir."

The antagonist stammers. He paces. He glares. Finally, he points at the dealer and then at the hero while announcing, "I'm getting security. Don't leave." He storms out of the room before anyone can question why is he involving security in this matter.

Play continues with all eyes glancing periodically toward the entrance to the room. Shortly, the antagonist returns, security guard in tow. After approaching the table, the antagonist points at the hero and stammers, "That's him. He's the one. I want my money returned and I want him removed from the casino!"

The hero and the dealer exchange glances and shrugs. The floor supervisor approaches the table to see what the commotion is about. "What's going on," he asks, "and is there some way I can help?"

The antagonist points to the hero. "I'm having him thrown out of the casino for playing where he works. I know dealers aren't allowed to play where they work and I heard him say he is a dealer." He crossed his arms and glared, sure that he was correct.

The security guard asked of the hero, "Do you work here, sir?"

"No, sir, I don't. I work across town."

The floor supervisor intervened, addressing the security guard. "It's OK. He doesn't work here, and it wouldn't matter if he did. We allow our poker dealers to play in the room when they are off the clock. Poker works differently that the pit games."

The supervisor, apparently satisfied that nothing had happened which required his attention, walked away. The antagonist, now standing with mouth agape as if he had just been informed that, indeed, the world really is flat, seemed at a lost for words. He glanced around, hovering for what seemed an eternity, acting as if he was unsure of his next move. Finally, head lowered and shoulders slumped, he creeped away.

**********

The antagonist, an aggressive gentleman who had managed to irritate everyone at the table, quickly bet before the dealer had completely spread the flop. The hero, seated at the other end of the table, smiled and announced, "I call." Everyone else folded.

The turn paired the board. The antagonist again quickly put out a bet. The hero raised and, of course, the antagonist re-raised. The hero called.

The antagonist fired off a bet and the hero raised as the dealer burned the next card. The antagonist raised without looking at the river card the dealer turned up. The hero re-raised.

"Re-raise!"
"Re-raise!"
"Re-raise!"
"I guess I'm all in!"

At this point, no chips had yet been pushed across the line. The antagonist now paused. "Wait," he said, "wait. Can he go all in?" The dealer glanced up at the floor supervisor who had been watching the action.

"Sir, you are committed to at least $32 based on the number of times you announced that you wanted to re-raise. I counted four bets. Your opponent has only $39, so he has raised you an additional $7. You must put $32 into play. After that, you have two options. You can call the additional $7, or you can fold."

The antagonist went into the tank. He talked to himself, repeatedly questioning aloud how he could possibly lose the hand. After a full minute and a half, the hero finally looked at the floor and said, "Clock."

The game was $4/8 limit. In the middle of the table sat more than $100. The antagonist was faced with the decision to call one more $7 bet or fold. The floor informed him he had sixty seconds in which to act on his hand, after which his hand would be considered dead. The floor announced the countdown at fifteen-second intervals.

When the floor announced, "Fifteen seconds remaining," the antagonist finally tossed his cards angrily into the muck. "There's no way you were ahead on the flop," he muttered.

The hero tabled his hand, the turn having given him quads for a high-hand jackpot. The antagonist still refused to acknowledge he was ever behind.

The antagonist left without chips shortly thereafter. Unable to commit $7 into a $100+ pot when he seemed to honestly think he was ahead, he had no problem calling four bets cold with unsuited non-connectors. At least he could truthfully say nobody could put him on a hand.

**********

Hiking the Zion Narrows top-down on Sunday. Fourteen miles of wandering along a river should be quite relaxing. Monkey Boy and his far-more-attractive half, the wife, and a coworker are joining me for a casual two-day stroll down the Virgin River.

There will, of course, be photos :)

More importantly, there will be consumption of another Murder Burger at Oscar's after we emerge from the canyon. I quote, "The burger to die for :: huge Beef garlic burger with chopped Bacon, onions, Pepper Jack and Cheddar cheeses, lettuce, tomato, dill pickle and topped with our tasty chipotle aioli." How can you go wrong with something like that?? I loves me some Murder Burger!!

Giving away the house

2011-07-31T10:30:00.000-07:00

Every dealer knows at least one player whom they hope loses whenever they sit at the table. One person whom pushes their buttons or causes problems or simply presents a hassle to deal with, seemingly intentionally, at every opportunity. I find I grow more tolerant of people the older I get. Very little bothers me when I'm working. Most players in our room that our dealers don't like, I get along with fairly well whether I'm pitching cards or just babysitting the room.

Some times, though, somebody will manage to get under my skin...

This night, it would be the 1-seat. At first, I thought he might just be inebriated. Later, I decided he just wasn't that bright. Finally, I concluded that it didn't matter. I simply disliked him.

Playing $4/8, he played nearly every hand. He started out hot, amassing a pile of chips fairly quickly. With every pot he played, however, he felt compelled to make a comment. He especially liked to comment about how he knew he was ahead at some point during the hand. To hear him tell a story, one might conclude that he connected with every single flop the dealer put out.

I sat to his left, only so that I could still see the podium and be able to interact with any guests that might walk into the room. I lasted barely one orbit before I found myself wishing I could move to the other end of the table...or at least don a pair of headphones. By the end of the second orbit, I only wanted him to go broke. I rationalized it would be the only way to maintain my sanity.

It took quite a while for my wish to come true. He obliged, however, by continuing to play almost every hand, obviously still riding the high that came from his initial wins when he first sat down. As the tide turned - and it always does - he started to lose. With each loss, he grew quieter and folded a few more hands.

His timing grew worse. He bet into someone who flopped a straight. He tried to represent hands he didn't hold and could only utter inane nonsense like "Really? I was ahead on the flop" when an opponent would table a better hand. Of course, he never showed to prove his claims. That didn't stop him from making them, though.

He got his last chips into the pot way behind. I flopped a set. He led the betting. I turned a boat. He never showed. It was the only hand after which he refrained from making a comment, walking out of the room shaking his head from side to side in silence.

Shortly thereafter, the game dwindled to only four of us. One of the local pros walked in. Not looking to play, only waiting for the dealer to get off work to join him in some other endeavor, he sat and watched for a bit. Finally, we found ourselves three-handed. It was time to go.

The 8-seat offered to run a hand for $10. I agreed. The 9-seat and 10-seat, both of whom had busted a few hands prior, grabbed $10 from his stack and declared themselves in. I shrugged and slid $10 across the line. The lone tourist at the table, somewhat confused but game nonetheless, also slid $10 across the line. The local pro wanted to gamble, of course. I slid him $10 from my stack.

The dealer pulled the $60 into the middle of the table. He turned the flop up but only such that the door card was visible. One by one, we rolled a single card. The 8-seat looked good with an Ace. I stood in good position with a Queen. The dealer put up the turn and the river cards. Again, one by one, we rolled our final hole cards.

The 8-seat saw no help for his Ace. The 10-seat and the 1-seat looked good, having paired the 4 on the turn. The 1-seat was ahead with his King kicker. I rolled over...another Queen! Way ahead, I started visualizing scooping a pile of big money. We waited to see what the two cards from the flop were that had yet to be exposed.

The first helped nobody. The second paired the local pro's King, his two-pair besting my pair of Queens. After that, we broke up and headed home.

I stopped counting the deli comps I gave out when I wrote the tenth one. I still find it amazing that most people are shocked when I hand them a comp. I nearly always have the same conversation:

"What's this?"
"It's a free sandwich. Or salad. Or slice of pizza. Or whatever."
"Why?"
"Just a token of appreciation for you playing in our room."
"What's it for?"
"A free entree at the Vig deli. It's good for one of anything on their menu."
"Wow. Nobody has ever given me one of these before."
"Well, I honestly appreciate you choosing our room to play in. Buying you a sandwich is just a way to express our gratitude for the time you spend playing in our room."
"That's really cool. Nobody's ever done that for me here before."
"There's a new world order around here. Expect more surprises after we figure out what they're going to be."

Numbers are up since our management change. Things look good. I need to come up with something to change things up, though, before people start to expect a free sandwich all the time ;)

Good deeds punished

2011-07-23T21:51:00.000-07:00

I glanced at the flop and saw two hearts. I looked again and realized they were the 8 and 7 of hearts. I felt a sinking feeling. I knew what was coming, somehow just knew. First to act, I slid my $4 bet across the line with an admonishment to the dealer. "Do not," I said, "under any circumstances, put the 6 of hearts on that board." Regulars in the room laughed. "I'm serious," I told him, "don't do it. You put that 6 of hearts out there and I might have to punch you in the forehead or something." A floorperson from another room in town, sitting in the 10-seat smiled. She slid a big stack of chips forward, "I'd pay to see that! Put the 6 of hearts out there!"

A couple players called my bet and we waited while the dealer made a big show of peeking at the turn card before rolling it over...

After the turn card took its place next to the flop, I stared dumbfounded at the 6 of hearts. I peeked again at the 4 and 5 of hearts I held as my hole cards. So pretty. So wasted. "You bastard," I laughed. Everyone made the obvious fold to my $8 bet. Being as I was working the floor, I had a dealer pay me my high hand jackpot only so I could tip the dealer. I faced two choices, keep the jackpot money on the table in play or drop the entire amount down the hole for the jackpot drop so that it would be added back into the pool. The money wasn't mine to keep.

I refrained from punching the dealer even when he leaned forward my direction to present his forehead for his punishment ;)

This shilling games thing kind of sucks, but it is keeping our games going longer each day. The straight flush was the second unfortunate event of my night. The first occurred when I did something I thought was the right thing, and relearned the lesson that no good deed goes unpunished.

The NL game became short-handed so I grabbed a couple stacks of chips and took a seat. Cries of "Free money!" went up from the characters around the table. I smiled and confirmed that I didn't know how to play this game, asked where the up cards were, how many times we got to draw to a new hand, complained about the game being too confusing and suggested we play Go Fish instead. A few hands in, I called a $10 bet with A5 offsuit after 2 others did as well.

The gentleman to my left decided to come along as well. The dealer spread a flop of AAQ. I was out of position. Of the players that called, I doubted any had an Ace. The game was playing very loose and ranges were considerably lower than most nights. I slid my two stacks of chips across the line. I wanted to end the hand right then. My goal isn't to win money so I figured to take the pot down without extracting additional chips from the other players.

The dealer announced me as all-in. The 2-seat jumped like he had been hit by lightning. "What are you doing," he exclaimed? The 3-seat, a dealer from another room, laughed. "He's trying to be nice," he said, which was the correct read. I knew I was in trouble when the 2-seat slid all of his chips across the line to call my bet. Everyone got a big laugh when he rolled over his AJ. A 6 spiked on the river - so close. Down to only $48, I tripled up a few hands later when my KK held against JJ and TT even after someone folded AK.

Shortly thereafter, with the NL game almost back to capacity, I relocated to the $4/8 game where I would suffer through hitting a straight flush. I slid into my seat just in time to see the 10-seat take a peek at what would have been the river card had the hand played out. "Oooooh," she said, "I just touched the dealer's stub!" It was the first time I'd ever seen this particular dealer blush. "When's the push," he called across the room to the other dealer, "we need a dealer change!"

A while later, the 10-seat peeks at her hole cards and tells the dealer, "I'm thinking of a specific night we shared." He laughed and asked sarcastically, "Which one? There's been so many!" Opening night, two years ago, he dealt her quad 9s. She was hoping for a repeat. He obliged with a 9 on the flop. Her $12 bet caused me to fold. Being the last hand of the night - the game was breaking - we rolled over what would have been the river card. It was a 9. She playfully punched the dealer in the shoulder.

**********

Still working on ideas to rebuild the late-night business. Things are already improving with only the little things we've done. We're working on some bigger things but until we do, in working with the tools we have right now, we're thinking of a progressive food comp for graveyard. Something along the lines of 3 hours play for a pastry from Babycakes, 5 hours play for a sandwich from the Vig Deli, and 7 hours play for a buffet. We've set nothing in stone yet, but I'm thinking I might do something along those lines Sunday and Monday nights to see how people react.

Not sure what I'll do tonight. Maybe just throw some comps in a few random pots as a splash-pot. The times I've done that have generated hilarious action, especially in the NL games.

Time to go babysit...

The urge to play

2011-07-17T22:12:00.000-07:00

Last night, once again, someone asked me why I no longer play poker. I rattled off the same excuse I've been using for three years or so, that I just find the game boring. The same person, someone I hadn't seen in nearly three years, asked if I still bet sports games as fanatically as I did back then. When I admitted that I didn't, he asked about that as well. I failed to come up with an answer as to why.

I think I found the answer...

Three years ago, I still smoked. Having tried to quit three or four times, I felt like the options for quitting were minimal and that I might not ever be able to quit. Then, the pharmaceutical companies unleashed Chantix on the world. The health plan I had at the time supplied me with a prescription free of charge. I paid exactly zero...and it worked.

The thing with that drug is that you keep smoking while you take it. You keep doing everything you normally do while taking it. Eventually, the theory goes, you will stop wanting the cigarettes as the drug rearranges something in your brain that registers the smokes as pleasurable. For me, that happened a mere two weeks after starting the drug regimen.

I went to work one night, found I would start my evening on a break, and headed off for a smoke. I took one drag, nearly puked, and have never had a cigarette since. Further, I've had zero cravings for a cigarette since that night. Just the smell makes me ill (downside to working in a casino).

I recently was talking with a dealer at the Palms about Chantix. He mentioned that a coworker of his took it and not only did he lose the urge to smoke, he also no longer felt the need to play the video poker machines. We theorized that the drug must do something to the addiction center of the brain.

As I floated about the pool yesterday, I realized I quit playing poker about the same time I quit smoking. I simply lost the desire to play. When I did play, I found myself bored to tears, so bored that I did something I decided was the last straw and led me to stop playing.

I stared up at the TV screen, watching the football game. I heard the dealer call my name and tell me action was on me. I never even turned my head from the game, simply flipping my cards forward with my fingers. When I did, I apparently applied too much force. The cards flipped over and my hand was exposed for all to see. The gentleman next to me gasped, turned to me and nearly shouted, "What did you do that for?"

Now I was interested. I switched my focus from football to poker. My hole cards had been a pair of fours. On the flop, the dealer had put out 4-Q-4. A player acting before me, who it turned out held pocket Queens, had bet. I mucked without realizing I flopped quads and could have stacked him.

I shrugged and went back to watching the football game. Once the game finished, I racked up and left the poker room. Since then, I've tried a couple times to force myself to renew my interest in the game. I feel a bit of a rush the first time I sit down at the table, but it fades quickly. I find I'm bored inside of thirty minutes.

So, I don't play poker. Instead of telling people I quit because I find it boring, I believe I will start telling people I quit because I did drugs ;)

Rollercoaster

2011-07-12T17:24:00.000-07:00

I just cracked beer number 2. I guess I should clarify - this is "post meeting" beer number 2. There were also beers 1, 2, and three (maybe only 2 - I'm not good at counting these things) "pre-meeting-nap" this morning. I hope to be sleeping soon after beer number 2, though I'm sure I shall struggle with that goal as I do nearly every night. I know the location of some magic pills that would put me out for 8 hours, but that wouldn't do tonight.

No, I now need to be in the poker room six hours from now...on what is normally my Saturday...

I woke yesterday, and went about my normal routine in getting ready to go babysit the poker room. In doing so, after a shower and scraping the stubble from my face, I checked my text messages while making my way to the kitchen. I do the same thing every day.

This day, however, I nearly dropped the phone. There was a vague text from my boss to meet him in his boss' office the next day at 3:00pm. That's it. No topic to be discussed, no indication of good meeting vs bad meeting, no "don't worry, it's only a meeting" type of thing to go along with the instructions to be in the director of gaming's office the next day.

Needless to say, I felt queasy.

The rollercoaster started Saturday when we had to let go of a family member. Things picked up when we learned we'd be getting the house we wanted. Now, apparently, I was rocketing down a steep drop in a runaway train.

Seriously, how could there be anything good come from this meeting? In my previous life, one only got called into the boss' office on Friday if they wouldn't be coming back on Monday. I wracked my brain for what I might have screwed up. I lost the last game at 2:0am, so I had six hours to sit in solitude and dream up worst-case scenarios, each of which seemed worse than the previous but all of which ended the same - me looking for a job.

The rollercoaster bottomed out and started a slow climb to the top of the next hill this afternoon. At the meeting, there were some personnel changes. In accordance with those changes, I'll be working more floor shifts apparently. Myself and one other person have been tasked with rebuilding a graveyard shift that previously was the best job in the city - seriously, if people knew how good I had it even a year ago, they'd be ill :)

So, I still have a job. So, I got that goin' for me, which is nice...

It's been a very hectic couple of days. Beer number two seems to be empty at this point, and I do believe the adrenaline rush from sweating the meeting is finally subsiding. Going to test my newly granted powers tonight. Going to give away tons of comps if people come play. On such short notice, I don't think it will do much, but we shall see.

In the meantime, I need a nap!

A long night

2011-07-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

Walking along the rail, I glance around the poker room. Nothing odd, really, except for the crowd behind the 3-seat at one particular table. "Must be a no-limit game," I think, "with some decent action." I swing the corner and glance up at the waiting list screen. The game in question turns out to be a $2/4 limit game. A quick count tells me the 3-seat has five sweaters behind him. The dealer looks exasperated. Perhaps it's due to him being in the final hours of his shift, but I doubt it.

I grab the clipboard to see who the next dealer going home will be...

After another survey of the room to locate the next dealer out, I realize I will be pushing the top of a 4-table string. The last table is the $2/4 game, giving me at least ninety minutes before I have to deal with whatever is going on over there. Maybe whomever is mucking up the game over there will be gone by the time I get there. Some nights, I simply lack the patience to deal with irritants I normally brush off. Everyone has bad days.

I push into the $1-2 game. I tend to try and focus in on the conversations going around the table when I first sit down. I get a decent feeling for how the game is going and how I should handle the table. An overly quiet table with a way-too-serious-for-a-game vibe gets no words from me save four - Check, Bet, Raise, or Fold. It's generally not even worth a hello as normally nobody responds anyway. A table where people are cracking jokes, talking sports, etc., gets a lighter touch.

This particular game, the only conversation comes from the two guys in the seven & eight seat. At least they were talking when the previous dealer informed me I'd do well so long as I avoided the seven & eight seats. Some dealers take this tipping thing way too seriously. I always feel embarrased when a dealer I'm tapping out feels the need to point out the non-tippers at the table. I always feel like telling the other dealer to just dummy up & deal.

At any rate, the conversation between the two runs on non-stop. Topic of conversation? Marital problems that occur, particularly in the bedroom, after the birth of a child. Before I've pitched the first card, I know way too much about the personal lives of these two. I pray someone starts talking about something, anything, else. My wish goes unfulfilled. I normally harbor no hope that any player busts out of a game. Sure, occasionally, the drunken idiot that slows down the game and makes my life hell gets a silent wish that he lose every pot he's involved in so as to see him leave the room a little quicker, but those are few and far between where I work. This night, however, I am wishing the seven & eight seats to bust within five minutes of my sitting at the table.

The two men in question pay little attention to the game. It seems as if the game is simply a convenient place for them to sit and share their marital bedroom issues with eight other people. They couldn't find a quiet table in a bar somewhere for this?

I apparently missed a karma tax payment along the way.

I nearly start dancing when my thirty minutes at that table are up. The $4/8 game provides much better entertainment for yours truly with the bonus that there is no talk on subjects I should not know about.

After the $4/8 game comes another $1-2 game. By now, both NL games are short. After a few hands of little to no action, one player asks if they can combine games. I verify there are enough seats and call for empty racks. I throw out the offhand comment that whomever chooses the six and the nine seats should head to the gift shop and invest in ear plugs. I wish them luck.

Finally, I reach the $2/4 game. The 3-seat and his entourage are gone. This bodes well, I think. The first hand tells me otherwise. The lady in the 3-seat has obviously never played before. Her husband, in the 2-seat, wants to teach her how to play. She, of course, cannot understand why I keep telling her that she is not allowed to show him the cards I deal to her. After realizing that I will continue to put a stop to her asking him what she should do, she changes tactics. When action reaches her, she just shrugs and says she doesn't know what she is doing. She stares at the felt.

The regulars start to get antsy. I, not one to do anything slowly, start twitching. Finally, I get the floor's attention and wave him over. I suggest he have a conversation with them about the rules and why she can't do certain things, etc. This results in her not playing any longer. The 5-seat, a regular I like a lot, laughs and says, "You should have been here an hour ago. The guy in that seat had four generations of his family behind him. They played every hand by committee!" I cringe.

The very next hand, the lady's husband spikes a straight flush. As payment for not allowing him to teach his wife how to play in a live game, I receive the toke I expect.

Anyone know where I can remit that karma tax payment?

At least the two guys with bedroom problems were gone by the time I got back to the NL game ;)

Getting Old

2011-07-10T06:20:00.000-07:00

Her back arched in grotesque fashion. I barely notice, instead only recognizing the intense pain in those beautiful brown eyes. She tried to lay down. She tried standing up. Her rear legs shook like leaves even when not supporting weight. Old age reared its ugly head in brutal fashion as she finally conceded defeat and plopped down into a sitting position. I hurt just looking at her. I stopped pretending I knew how bad she felt. A voice inside my head, one I generally try to ignore, kept screaming at me that the time had come.

I tried to keep my voice from cracking as I suggested the wife call the vet...

I lay next to Kara, remembering the first time I saw her. The wife, then the fiance, made the drive from Cincinnati to Indy. Having made the decision to move in with me, I expected a car load of boxes and maybe a couple pieces of furniture. I walk out into the parking lot of the apartment complex I called home to find the fiance trying to reach something under the passenger seat of her car.

"What'd you drop," I innocently inquired. "Nothing," she said with a smile. Finally, she turned around with the look of a proud parent, beaming from ear to ear as she snuggled the tiniest ball of brown and black fur. "I brought a puppy with me," she said. "Her name is Kara," she added as she pushed the ball of fur towards me. "As soon as I put her in the car, she wriggled under the passenger seat and stayed there the entire trip," she explained.

Being a sucker for attractive women and cute bundles of fur, I melted. I already had one small dog, didn't really need or want another, but I wasn't likely to turn one away either.

Over the years, Kara became my dog. One of my favorite photos is of Kara on my lap, her and I sitting forehead to forehead, simply enjoying one another's company. Looking back, I laugh that she was still with us all these years. She nearly wasn't. The dog I had when we moved in together, Mac, and Kara got along swimmingly for the first few years of Kara's life. One day, the two became so aggressive towards one another that they needed to be muzzled when in the same room. One of them needed to go.

Thinking Kara the instigator, likely due to me stereotyping her Chow and Pit Bull heritage, we opted to find a new home for Mac. Amazingly, once Mac was gone, we found Kara to be the sweetest angel. Well behaved, tolerant of other animals (though not people), she instantly transformed into the perfect pet. Even when the wife decided she needed a playmate, a choice I thought unwise, Kara and her new family member bonded faily well.

We lucked out in choosing to keep Kara, even if we thought we were only keeping her to save a future family from an aggressive dog.

Two years and thirteen days ago, we lost our youngest. The loss came suddenly, with no warning, and caused grief like I hadn't felt since I lost my father years before. Kara, aging before our eyes, always seemed like she'd be the next to go. Every year, the wife and I consoled each other, saying it would be Kara's last Christmas or her last birthday. Every year, Kara made liars of us and left us amazed at her ability to overcome the pain I felt sure she must be experiencing in her old age. Even recently, she frolicked like a young puppy after going for a swim. She still chased the occasional toy were it her desire to do so. She even opted to exert her rank and push around the younger two from time to time, if only to prove she still could. Mostly, though, she slept. When not sleeping, she prowled the house, walking a preset pattern from room to room as if she might cease to exist should she stop walking. She took advantage of every opportunity she could get that would find her in my lap, fewer these days as she could no longer jump onto the couch or the bed.

The roomies joked that her constant prowling is the only thing that kept her alive, that if she stopped walking, she'd stop living. I think they may have been onto something. Yesterday, the walking became too much of a burden.

Sixteen years is simply too long to ask a dog to put up with anything. The younger they are, or the more sudden the loss, the more acute the pain might feel. Still, even though you might watch a family member age and know that their time is near, it still hurts when you have to let them go - not as much maybe, but not enough to be ignore either. I think I might have not been nearly as upset were it not for the obvious pain the wife felt.

Seeing her suffer so much and not being able to do anything to console her caused me significantly more grief than anything else. Knowing that she has two beautiful dogs to help her get through her mourning, I know all will turn out well.

We fled the room when it came time for Stanley to go. The suddenness of his demise left me wanting to remember him as the snow-crazed maniac he had been prior to the cancer. This time, though, we stayed with Kara until the end. I think it helped the wife to stick around. The wife whispered "Good night," and we headed home.

I believe I'm glad we'll be moving soon. It seems appropriate, somehow...

Business as usual

2011-07-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

Business at the office picked up a bit recently. Sure, it's nothing like it was back the good ol' days of 2009 or early 2010, but things seem better than they were a couple months back. While I swore I'd never don a tie again after leaving Colorado, I recently agreed to throw on the suit at least twice a week. I find I actually don't mind wearing the suit when it's less than half my work week. I suppose some day I shall be forced, physically (because I'm falling apart as I get older), to wear the neck choker on a permanent basis. Hopefully that day won't be any time soon.

I still enjoy dealing...

A few people asked me if I could identify the reason for the uptick in business, no matter how small it may be. I failed. The regulars I dealt to for the first eighteen months after my return to Vegas continue to maintain their absence from the room. Each week, I see a new batch of faces. I suppose the new owners have something to do with it. Rumors swirl of the new owners sending out mass mailings to their existing river-boat customer base, enticing them with their newly acquired four-star resort in Las Vegas. I'm sure that helps.

Regardless of the cause, my average dealing hours trend upwards. I deal, on average at least, nearly 80% more hours than I was a couple months back. 80% sounds like such a huge number. It's not as big as one might think. Still, more hours is more hours.

I felt like laughing one recent Saturday night. The clock struck 4am and three tables still held games. A local I'd never met sat in the game I was dealing at that particular moment. The stereotypical local nit, he complained about many things, rarely put money into the pot, and frequently repeated the line "I don't know why I even bother to play this stupid game." At this moment, however, he opted to focus on a topic other than why nobody every called his oversized bets. "This place is in bad shape," he informed the gentleman to his left. "It's Saturday night and nobody's here. Pretty pathetic, if you ask me."

I started to join the conversation before my better judgement kicked in. I felt like saying, "You should have seen it a couple months ago. We'd have no game at this hour of the day. Now we have three." Instead I bit my tongue and kept dealing. The gentleman to his left suggested that he liked the room, thought the dealers were great, and said he was having a great time playing at the M during his vacation. Of course, his comments only served to agitate the local. "I'm telling you," he said with a sigh, "this place sucks. [Big Casino] is so much better."

I'd be willing to bet had he been sitting at [Big Casino] he would have been extolling the virtues of pretty much any casino other than the one he was at ;)

***

At least things seem to be picking up somewhat. Even if it pans out that the uptick is temporary due to the freeroll tournaments (30 hours in July gets you into a $33k tournament, 30 hours in August nets you the same, and the 50 highest qualifiers from the 2 months will find themselves in an additional $15k tournament) we're currently running, I don't mind. I still work part-time. I still make enough money to feed myself. I still find myself amused that I make more working part-time than I did working full-time at the last large corporation (a mortgage company, even) I worked for.

Now if only I could get a few of our new customers to do something amusing so I'd have something to write about...

Every Wednesday

2011-07-01T09:41:00.000-07:00

Mr. Sunglasses, as I've taken to calling him, plays sporadically in the room. Once upon a time, he played nightly. Maybe he still does. Maybe he leaves earlier these days, at least earlier than my arrival in the room. Regardless, I see him occasionally.

He played the other night, in fact...

I noticed him in the 3-seat when I tapped into the game. As always, his sunglasses sat perched on his nose, shoved up close against his face. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him without those sunglasses on. Nope, I thought, I don't believe I have. I took another glance as I grabbed the cards to begin dealing, striving to picture his face without the glasses. I gave up.

The game rolled on for a while. The gentleman in the 8-seat put chips into the pot as if he were allergic to money. Every single hand, he raised. If someone re-raised, he three bet. He bet or raised every single street. He proudly tabled his hand on the river, regardless of the cards in the middle of the table. When he held the losing hand, as he almost always did, he displayed a look of shock. "Good job," he muttered as he looked down to see how many chips he had remaining, "congratulations."

After the 8-seat inevitably lost his final chip, Mr. Sunglasses remarked frequently about his play. Not one to tap the glass, he waited until the 8-seat left the room. "I don't know how people play like that," he commented. I felt like pointing out that, as one of the tightest players I'd had the privilege to deal to, I had no doubt the play of the 8-seat left him feeling that way.

The 8-seat drifted from thought, forgotten as quickly as he had lost his stack of chips. During the next lull in the conversation, Mr. Sunglasses fired off a question to the 4-seat. "Are they still doing that Wednesday drawring?" Yes, he added the extra 'r' when he said it. The 4-seat knew not of the drawing he spoke of so he explained, "Every Wednesday. There's a drawring for the poker players. Just for the Seniors, though. The old guys who play during the day told me about it. Are they still doing it?"

The 4-seat shrugged. I chimed in that the poker room held no special drawings for seniors, or anyone else for that matter, on Wednesdays. "Sure," he said, "it's been going on for at least two months. A drawring. Every Wednesday. For the seniors." He mucked his hand for what had to be the hundredth time that night, pushed away from the table, and fired off a few questions to the shift manager. The shift manager, of course, echoed my answers, only increasing Mr. Sunglasses' frustration.

"Every Wednesday," he sighed in exasperation as he slid back into his seat. "Every Wednesday there's a drawring. You swipe your card in the kiosk and you get like three entries for every hour you play. Every Wednesday." I assured him that I would find the answer before I left for the day. "I can't believe nobody around here knows about the drawring," he said. "It's on Wednesdays."

I explained that it was likely a casino promotion, not a poker room promotion, and I needed only to make a phone call to get him some more details. "It's been going on for at least two months," he said, "two months." I smiled and beat him to the punch, adding "Every Wednesday, so I hear." A couple people laughed. He didn't.

Finally, the shift manager came to the rescue. "They're still holding the drawings," he informed us as he hung up the phone.

"That's good," Mr. Sunglasses smiled, "that's good." He paused before adding, "You know, you can win like $250 in those drawrings."

I glanced over. "Every Wednesday," I said, "every Wednesday."

The Slot Player

2011-06-27T05:30:00.000-07:00

Wearing a festive sweater, all reds, greens, and whites to celebrate the Christmas holiday, she pushes her walker through the casino. With each row of slot machines encountered, she pauses and glances down the aisle. Not finding the machine she is interested in, she returns her focus to the walker and pushes forward to the next row.

Finally, spying what must be her lucky machine, she maneuvers her rolling support down the chosen aisle...

She spends a few moments putting the walker into the perfect position to the left of the classic three-reel slot machine she intends to play. She tugs the chair in front of the slot machine where she likes it, sits to test it for fit, and then tugs it slightly more towards the machine. Satisfied with the position of the chair and the walker, she sits, exhaling with the effort put forth in arranging the heavy furniture.

She gingerly lifts each leg onto the sitting platform attached to her walker, turning it into the perfect footstool. She reaches down to her tote bag hanging in its customary spot on the side of the walker and pulls it up to her lap. After fishing around for a minute or so, she produces a couple bottles of water. These she places in the tray at the bottom of the machine that once received the coins of a winning payout but that are now largely useless in this day of ticket-in, ticket-out machines.

Reaching between the machines, she finds an ashtray and balances it precariously between the betting buttons that control the game. She adjusts the pouch hanging around her neck that contains the cigarettes and lighter for which she needs the ashtray. She digs deeper into the tote and pulls out a bottle of aspirin that she places close as hand between the machines.

Running her hand down a lanyard hooked to her waist, she sorts through the many players club cards she has until, finding the one for the casino she is in, she slides it into the appropriate slot. She counts out three $100 bills from a wallet before returning the wallet to the tote. She rubs each bill across a sharp corner on the machine, a last effort to make them straight and hopefully not be rejected by the bill reader, and then feeds them one by one into the machine. She takes a quick glance at the credit count, double-checking to make sure the machine correctly identified her bills and granted her the appropriate credits.

Finally, she fetches a well worn, dog-eared paperback from the tote before rehanging it on the side of her walker. After one more quick check of the number of credits on the machine, she fires up the first of many cigarettes she will smoke during this session. She opens the book to the last dog-eared page and, holding it in her left hand, starts reading. With her right hand, she methodically taps the Max Bet button.

The chiming of the machine when a winning combination appears on the reels seems to not even register with her as she stays engrossed in her book, absentmindedly humming along with the Christmas carols playing on the speakers overhead. She deftly changes pages in the book with one hand, keeping the other hand on the Max Bet button.

She is still tapping the Max Bet button when I pass on my way out of the casino after lunch.

Grand Canyon, Rim to Rim, part 3 of 3

2011-06-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

"It's not the most dangerous thing I've ever done," Monkey Boy opined, "but it wasn't too bright, either." I nodded knowlingly. He and I tend to take risks while we are hiking. More than once, I've been in a situation where I thought I might need a rescue by the time I was done.

Monkey Boy was referring to his climb up to Upper Ribbon Falls. Senior and I visited the lower falls while Monkey Boy clambored up a steep, narrow, very loose slope. Only after reaching the top did he spy the obviously worn trail that would have made his climb much easier. Meeting us at the bottom lest we try and follow his ascent up the slick rock, he pointed out the trail and suggested we follow it instead should we decide to visit the upper falls.

We passed, especially after hearing the falls weren't that impressive. I had wanted to explore further back into the canyon in search of cliff dwellings I'd heard told existed but seeing The Wife safely down the trail seemed more important. I knew I would be back below the rim for further explorations in the future. I feel drawn to the canyon like a moth to a flame. If only it were less than a five-hour drive from Vegas...

***

Sunset at Plateau Point, a highlight I wanted to see, would have to wait for another trip. Worried that The Wife, with swollen knees and black and purple toes, might take ten hours or more to make the final day's climb, I wanted to start as early as possible. We slept the evening away and managed to hit the trail at 2:45.

Monkey Boy and Senior, as they had every day thus far, began their sprint up the hill. We later learned that Monkey Boy made it out in about four hours - little whippersnapper. Oh, to be young again.

An hour into the hike, The Wife requested a break. We stopped for a rest and WKW continued on in a quest to reach the rim before 10:00am. He almost made it, too, dropping his pack around 10:30, besting The Wife and I by about ten minutes.

Having missed the sunset I had hoped to see the night before, I thrilled at watching the sunrise as we climbed ever upward. The scenery on Day Two, the canyon between Cottonwood and the Colorado River, easily scored as the most beautiful of our trip, but watching the sunrise while walking along with The Wife provided the perfect closure to an eventful four days. We marvelled at the changing colors of the landscape as the sun rose higher and higher - muted greys changing to coral-like pinks and greens and eventually to vibrant reds.

We met a man...or three or four...headed down into the canyon as we were headed up. We heard him...or them...before we crossed paths. A statement followed by a nearly maniacal laugh, repeat ad nauseum. When he came into view, a lone man, I asked the wife what she thought he was laughing at or who he might be talking to. When he drew close enough, I did as I had grown accustomed to doing when passing someone. I looked up and asked, "Morning. How're you doing?"

"I had one of those before cell phones were even invented!" I stole a glance at The Wife whose eyes told me she didn't understand either. "I even had an email address," he nearly screamed before giving forth another maniacal laugh. Minutes up the trail we could still faintly hear his non-stop outbursts punctuated by that laugh.

I looked at the wife. "I want to go hiking with that guy," I smiled. "Why," she asked, "because you have so much in common with him?"

"What are you talking about?"
"You talk to voices, too, you know."
"I do not."

She glared long enough that I finally added, "At least not out loud."

WKW met our schizophrenic friend as well. At the Mile and A Half resthouse, WKW approached the watering station. The man inside asked a question that seemed pertinent to WKW, who politely answered. A conversation ensued, sometimes confusing but WKW set aside those confusions as the byproduct of being old, hard of hearing, and completely exhausted after the day's climb. Eventually, however, WKW withdrew fromthe conversation. Only then did he realize that he never really was part of the conversation in the first place.

He retreated to a vantage point above the resthouse where he found shade. He watched as a father and son made their way into the watering station only to immediately retreat to the same vantage point as WKW. "We're going to let him get a little ways down the trail before we follow," the father told his son. "Him," the boy asked, "don't you mean them?"

***

The encouragement from those headed down the trail as we made our final climb never ceased. "You guys are doing great," came the exaltations. Everyone wanted to know if we were hiking up from the bottom. Upon hearing that we had started at the North Rim, some twenty-plus trail miles behind us, three nights ago, many fell speechless. "The North Rim," asked one girl whose jaw dropped. "That makes you guys automatically awesome," she said in hushed tones before pressing on down the trail. I honestly didn't expect the cameraderie we found but I think it helped The Wife as she set the pace for our climb out.

A trip I expected to take at least ten hours, took only eight. I glanced at my watch in amazement when the Kolb Studio, and the end of our journey, first came into sight. Discounting the rest stops we took, The Wife guided us out of the canyon in under seven hours - bum knees and all!

The beer at the bottom of the canyon had been tasty but the beer at the top after completion of our hike seemed somehow to rank as the best beer ever consumed.

***

We neared Indian Garden Campground, the site of our final night's sleep below the rim. The sun beamed down but it somehow seemed cooler along this part of the trail than it had while climbing the Devil's Corkscrew. Shade became more plentiful, and while the creek proved not quite accessible from the trail, it nevertheless fostered growth of trees and other plants. Perhaps it leant itself to the occasional breeze we felt as well.

A hiker headed down the trail informed us we had but a half mile left to Indian Gardens. Sensing out water levels might be lower than I would like them to be, I grabbed The Wife's water bottle and left her to make her way up the trail at her leisurely pace. I strode purposefully toward camp in hopes of topping them off and returning to help her with the last bit of trail before reaching camp. I knew WKW had likely hunkered down in the shady alcove we passed about a half mile back so I hoped to send Monkey Boy his way with water as well.

The gentleman informing us of the half mile remaining to IGC proved a bad judge of distance. After a quarter mile, I reached a sign saying three-tenths of a mile lay between me and my goal. Even further disappointment awaited up the trail.

I reached the sign welcoming me to Indian Gardens. A few dozen yards beyond that sign I found benches and shelter areas among the trees where hikers might sit and rest away from the sun. A thermometer attached to a map of the area pronounced "This is your brain on sun" and showed a blistering 114 degrees. Excited to finally make camp, my face fell somewhat as I located a sign pointing me down a shady trail towards the campground.

Making my way along the trail, I approached a set of buildings. "This time for sure, Rocky," I remember thinking as I neared what was surely the camping area. Instead, I found a day use area, restrooms, and day-hikers lounging on benches waiting for cooler temperatures before beginning their return trip to the canyon rim. I felt like screaming.

I wound my way along a narrow path, tall grasses leaning in to invade the space and make it feel even tighter than it was. I began to doubt the existence of the campground as I trooped along, having not passed a soul while making my way along the labyrinthian route. Finally, I spied more shelters rising up beyond the grasses. I crossed a small creek, momentarily considering a dip of the hat but I pushed on, too eager to drop my pack.

Thankfully, Monkey Boy selected a site close to the edge of the campground. Were I to find the campground and be forced to wind through dozens of sites, ending up in the far reaches of the grounds, he might not be with us today. Believing I had reached the campground upon seeing the first sign welcoming me to IGC, and then finding it to be another quarter-mile or so through the grasses until I could actually drop my pack left me feeling more exhausted than I might actually have been.

With Monkey Boy dispatched to deliver water to WKW and Senior left to nap on the picnic table, I retraced my steps to bring The Wife cold water from the tap just outside our campsite. I met her just before the initial sign welcoming hikers to camp. When we reached the sign and she expressed her initial excitement at being done for the day, I provided the bad news that the camp wasn't so close as the sign led her to believe.

Everyone napped well, taking advantage of the early afternoon shade. When night fell and temperatures dropped into the sixties, the extra effort expended that day soon became forgotten. More sleep promptly followed dinner as we intended to wake earlier than we had on previous nights. Even I felt some trepidation at the thought of the next day's climb.

***

I needed a shower. Nothing pointed out this fact better than the people we passed the last mile or so on our climb out of the canyon. So perfumy, so clean-smelling. The perfuminess of the soaps they had used that morning assaulted my senses. Never before had I found clean people so...stinky. I knew I must reek, that my scent bothered those people as much as their clean smell bothered me. Unfortunately, we waited an hour before being able to step into the shower as the facilities are closed for cleaning from 11:00 until noon.

"I think you were right, Pierce," Monkey Boy said when I exited the shower. "I don't think there's enough water in this park to get this grime off. Even after the shower, I still don't feel clean." I understood perfectly. The $2.00, 8-minute shower helped but was far from able to make any of us feel clean.

At least nobody smelled bad any longer and we would all manage the five-hour trip back to Vegas without needing to stick our heads out the windows of the car.

***

Somewhere in the middle of the last day, my mind flashed across the image of a cheeseburger. I obsessed about the cheeseburger for the rest of the day. I included The Wife in my obsessing so as not to feel alone in my neuroses. She, too, decided that a cheeseburger seemed apt for our first meal after our hike.

Similar to the beer earlier in the day, Wendy's never tasted so good.

***

We capped off vacation with a celebratory dinner at Lucille's. I introduced our midwestern guests to the wonder that is the BBQ Patio at Ellis Island the night before we left Vegas. The ribs left an impression and they wanted to return after our trip before they left town. Being a Friday night, nobody relished the idea of waiting the hour or more it would take to get a seat at Ellis Island so we selected Lucille's as an appropriate substitute.

Twenty-five miles by foot through the Grand Canyon, bookmarked by BBQ dinners. That was a good vacation.

***

A sign in the BackCountry Office at the Grand Canyon informs visitors that hiking below the rim leads to one of two outcomes. One either hangs up their boots and never hikes again, or one becomes entranced by the canyon and strives endlessly to find ways to heed the call to return.

I think every one of our group will be back.

Grand Canyon, Rim to Rim, part 2 of 3

2011-06-23T09:02:00.000-07:00

I woke early our second day below the rim, 3:00 am. The only thought racing through my mind was to get out ahead of the heat, to hopefully get The Wife through "The Box" before the heat became completely unbearable. The Box, a notoriously hot section of the North Kaibab trail, loomed towards the end of the day's hike. The canyon walls narrow, towering overhead on both sides, the darker rock of the Vishnu Schist reflecting the suns rays and the narrowness all but preventing any breeze from flowing during the hottest parts of the day. All our research indicated we needed to be through The Box prior to noon.

I knew The Wife's knees hurt. My eye nearly popped out of my head when I first saw for myself how swollen they were after the punishing downhill slopes of our first day's hike. No knee should be that big around, I remember thinking. Couple the knee pain with a couple purplish, obviously severely bruised, toes and I could only imagine what type of discomfort she might be in. I intuitively knew we might not move as quickly as we had the day before, and we hadn't really moved all that quickly then.

I pushed and we hit the trail around 4:45. It wasn't the 4:00 start I hoped for, but I hoped it was early enough to avoid us being miserable in the lower section of the trail. At 8:00, the first opportunity for me to use my new water filter pump presented itself as we took a rest alongside the banks of the Bright Angel Creek. I scrambled down to the water's edge, WKW in tow, and promptly went about setting up the filter. WKW held the water bottle I intended to fill as I stuck the output line into the bottle and submerged the input line into the creek. I started working the pump action, wondering how long it would take to fill the bottle.

No sooner had the pump primed itself, the first stream of water shot from the output hose into the bottle. Both WKW and I severely underestimated the force with which the water would shoot from the end of the hose. Instead of simply filling the bottle, the force of the water shot the hose from the bottle where it flailed through the air before slapping me across the face. At least the unexpected spray of water provided a nice cooling sensation...and sent both of us into a fit of laughter that would have left passers-by wondering if we might have lost our minds. Perhaps the sun was affecting our brains a bit by then.

***

We sat on the bench outside the Canteen at Phantom Ranch simultaneously enjoying the downtime and eagerly awaiting our only "home-cooked" meal of the trip. WKW, The Wife, and I walked into our camp site just before 1:00pm. Ironically, none of the three of us ever realized we were in The Box as we descended the last portion of the North Kaibab trail. I remembered from my study of the map that the confluence of Phantom Creek and Bright Angel Creek occurred prior to us reaching The Box. Somehow, I missed Phantom Creek Canyon and therefore missed our entrance into the notorious section of trail.

Near 11:00, we stopped at the south end of a footbridge that provided access across Bright Angel Creek. The thermostat, having surpassed the triple digit mark at least an hour back, informed us that it was nearly ten degrees cooler in the shade. We hadn't seen shade for what seemed at least an hour, so the small piece of shade we stumbled into for our rest was greatly appreciated. I first collected shirts and hats before descending a tricky rock outcropping that led to the bank of the creek. After soaking the clothing in the icy waters, I climbed back up and swapped them for water bladders, water bottles, and the water filter pump.

To my initial dismay, the pump failed to work on my first descent. I climbed back up. While WKW worked to free an obstruction in the check valve, I talked with a gentleman on his way up the trail, moving in the oppositte direction of travel as we were. He told us we were almost done for the day, only a mile or so up the trail from our next camping site. I waited until he was out of earshot before glancing at WKW and stating "He says it's a mile. It's a mile through The Box. Since we're not in The Box until we pass Phantom Creek Canyon, and since we haven't passed Phantom Creek Canyon yet, I'd say we have at least a mile and a half, if not two miles, to go. One of us is insane, either him or me." I glanced up at the blazing sun. "Of course, at this point, I refuse to say with conviction that it's him..." I trailed off.

After WKW freed the obstruction in the water filter pump, I climbed back down to the creek. Just as I got everything set to start refilling water supplies, I heard a sharp whistle. Monkey Boy and Senior stood on the footbridge above me, motioning me to rejoin the group. Upon regaining the trail, they told us we were only a mile out from camp. Guess I qualified as the insane one for the day...

As he had done the previous morning when he came back up the trail to meet us a mile above camp, Monkey Boy grabbed The Wife's pack and headed for camp along with Senior. The rest of us made our way down the trail, The Wife grateful to be free of the extra weight of her pack, and we made camp. Again, first order of business was a dousing of the feet in the cold waters of the creek. The Wife soaked her knees in the icy waters in hopes that the coldness might help stave off the swelling occurring in her joints. After that, we all napped until time for dinner.

***

Monkey Boy and I, sated from our meal of beef stew and what might have been the best-tasting Tecate I have ever consumed, headed out for a quick jaunt across the Colorado River. The rest of the party rested, WKW waiting at the Canteen to purchase and mail post cards so that they would be postmarked from the bottom of the canyon, Senior and The Wife at the camp drifting off to sleep.

Two bridges cross the Colorado near Bright Angel Campground - the Silver Bridge and the Black Bridge. If one is so inclined, one may hike a short loop of a mile and a quarter or so that crosses both bridges and provides great views of the river. Obviously feeling the fifteen miles we had covered the previous two days had not yet provided enough walking opportunity, Monkey Boy and I opted to hike the loop.

I grabbed my camera, replacing the battery that had died while we were in The Box that morning before heading out, and we followed the path through the campground. We passed a group of young mule deer munching on the mesquite trees. They dined while keeping a wary eye trained on our passing but they never bolted. I idly wondered if they were the same group we had seen while waiting outside the Canteen, the group that gave all the guests at Phantom Ranch a show when they waltzed through the cabins as if they owned the place. Cameras fired as the group steadily made its way through the ranch, coming within feet of a small boy staring in wide-eyed wonder. Surely it was the same group - a young buck with antlers barely six inches long and three does.

Shortly after passing the deer, the Silver Bridge loomed into view. The first thought that coursed through my brain was that the river was a lot wider than I expected. More accustomed to the narrowness of the river near the Hoover Dam, I guess I assumed the river never widened much. The next thought that occurred to me was that the river was swift. Eddys formed along the banks, looking ominous, even dangerous. Water raced along the river's course, creating small white caps here and there where the tumultuous water encountered a submerged rock or other obstacle.

The shutter on my camera clicked repeatedly as I snapped photo after photo. Surprised that the bridge wasn't solid, I found myself staring down through the grate as we crossed to the far side of the river. A sign reminded hikers that mules used this bridge as well and that the mule trains held the right of way. We encountered no mules this late in the evening. Instead, only the sun setting beyond the cliffs down river accompanied us as we followed the trail that started climbing immediately upon crossing the river.

We neared the Black Bridge and yet we still climbed. Both Monkey Boy and I braced ourselves for what would surely be a very steep descent. Being so near the bridge and still climbing obviously meant switchbacks soon. Sure enough, around the next corner, the River Trail joined the South Kaibab Trail. We followed the South Kaibab Trail down the side of the mountain to the riverside. A tunnel sat between us and the Black Bridge, a tunnel that surprised us with its darkness - nay, complete and utter blackness - within mere feet of entering.

A short jaunt back up the river after crossing the bridge found us crashing in our tents, desperate for sleep.

***

Thoughts of a cold lemonade, or perhaps a cold beer, drove me from my sleep. Not that the sleep was restful anyway with the 115 degree temperatures and the gale-force winds blowing through the campground - in many ways, the bottom of the canyon felt exactly like being in Vegas: hot and windy. No, with sleep eluding me I felt the best course of action was to cool off.

The Wife and I slowly made our way towards the Canteen. Disappointment poured over me when I read the sign announcing that the Canteen was closed while they prepared and served the hot meals of the evening. The rest of the party expressed equal disappointment at being unable to quaff an icy cold lemonade while waiting on our dinner seating.

We spent most of the hour before dinner talking with a gentleman whose wife had managed to snag him last minute arrangements for a cabin and meal at Phantom Ranch that night. Having hiked down from the North Rim the previous night, he intended to hike back out the same way the next morning. He qualified for inclusion in the group we labeled "People We Don't Understand."

We planned our trip so as to provide as much time below the rim as possible. Even so, we all felt we were missing things as we walked by side canyons begging to be explored and signs for trails leading off to other parts of the canyon invisible to us from where we stood. We came across people hiking down one day and out the next. We came across people hiking from one side to the other in a single day. On the fourth day, we even met a girl who had hiked from South Rim to North Rim to South Rim without stopping - she, apparently delirious from the effort, claimed to have fallen asleep multiple times while hiking and to have been stalked by a mountain lion somewhere near Cottonwood Campground in the wee hours of the morning. All of these people we lumped into the same group.

With so much to offer, we failed to understand why anyone would want to rush through the canyon. How could one enjoy the experience the canyon provided if one simply walked as quickly as possible along the trails, never stopping to look around, seemingly unaware of the desolate beauty surrounding them?

***

With temperatures reaching triple digits the day before, I knew we would be hot on Day Three. Day Two found us walking through The Box during the heat of the day. WKW halted my advance long enough to steal a glance at the thermometer hanging off my pack. "Wow," he said, "it's already triple digits. Somehow it doesn't feel that hot. I would have guessed ninety, maybe ninety-five at best." Two days of hiking and he's acclimated to the desert apparently! I, too, barely noticed the heat but I frequently hit the trails around Vegas - Red Rock, Lake Mead, Lake Mojave - in the triple-digit heat of Vegas summers so I should be accustomed to the sweltering by this point.

Regardless, everyone expressed a desire to get an earlier start. Knowing we would be climbing the Devil's Corkscrew gave me momentary pause when I considered The Wife's knees and toes. She joked about taking a mule out but, in the end, she hoisted her pack - a pack made lighter by me offloading nearly everything I could stuff into my pack - and started down the trail with the rest of us.

The Wife can be a serious trooper when she wants to be.

We crossed the Silver Bridge via light from the headlamps wrapped around everyone's head. To a man - and woman - everyone complained about the straps and the excessive sweating they caused. Why couldn't they make the straps from a wicking fabric or something, we cried?

True to form, Monkey Boy and Senior began their sprint up the hill no sooner had we cleared the Silver Bridge. WKW, The Wife, and I walked along the River Trail towards Pipe Dream Creek. A man from Columbus, IN passed us, stopping to provide advice on the condition of The Wife's feet. He started to walk away, getting twenty yards down the trail before returning to provide us with toe cushions. He again walked away, this time getting a bit further before returning to offer medical tape and other supplies. Such is the way below the rim. Everyone hiking the trails becomes part of one giant family. Everyone is struggling against the same obstacles. Everyone forms a bond with the hikers they meet, offering congratulations on making it through a tough part of the trail, encouragement to keep going when your body screams to stop, assistance, or merely someone to talk to on the lonelier parts of the trail.

I expressed my admiration of The Wife's ability to keep moving in light of her discomfort. "The will to live," she muttered, "The will to live." Somehow, it seemed the funniest thing said all week and we all got a good laugh from it.

Halfway up the Devil's Corkscrew, we found much needed shade. As we sat and noshed on trail mix, a trio of squirrels boulder-hopped their way down the side of the mountain. Unfazed by our raised voices, our admonitions to "Get the hell out of here," they seemed to act as a well-honed squad of soldiers. One or two provided distration while the other stealthily circled around to the rear flank and attempted to access our packs. No amount of rock tossing or waving of trekking poles in their direction deterred them for long.

We laughed as a mother attempted to position her son for a photo. "Stand over here," she implored. "No, not like that. Sideways. No, turn around. No, stand sideways so I can get your profile with the mountains. No, sideways. Please!" Moms. They can be like that. We left them with a warning about the squadron of squirrels and continued our climb up the switchbacks.

Grand Canyon, Rim to Rim, part 1 of 3

2011-06-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

The bartender pushed my beer towards me with a knowing look. "I did the same hike you just did in 1973," he said, adding, "I never left. I found this job and stayed. I've done over 300 hikes below the rim." I sipped my beer and reflected that, were it not for the cold winters and the snow, I might consider the same course of action.

***

The highlight of the week occured Friday, on the climb out. The Wife and I walked alone. The sun, risen to a point where it illuminated perhaps a quarter of the canyon's north face, provided the first heat of the day. We reached a point where the trail switched back on itself and found a convenient boulder on which we could sit. We rested while watching the sun climb over the eastern part of the canyon, its light inching its way down the far side of the canyon some twelve or so miles away. The quiet, broken only by the incessant ticking of the watch on my arm, surrounded us. Side by side, just as we had been for the last three days and twenty-three miles, we sat and enjoyed the scene around us.

Unfortunately, we knew we couldn't sit there forever.

***

Our first stop of the trip came in Boulder City where we grabbed a quick breakfast at McDonald's. In Seligman, Monkey Boy purchased lottery tickets. I informed him I was entitled to 20% simply for hanging out with him. By the time we reached Williams and turned north for the last hour of our drive to the Grand Canyon, I had renegotiated to a mere $200k, all I need really. About halfway up the road to the canyon, I pointed out two Lambourghinis sitting at a stop sign on our right. We watched, somewhat enviously, as they slalomed in and out of traffic, weaving their way to the front of the parade of cars headed towards the park. The sound those engines made as they roared past us...

We reached the gate at the south entrance to Grand Canyon National Park around 9:45. While waiting our turn to enter, I hopped out and walked back to the second car in our party for a quick chat. Mostly, I wanted to inform them that since Senior was, indeed, a senior, he should opt for the lifelong pass at $10. He smiled as he showed me his pass he already owned. I climbed back into the truck with Monkey Boy but it wasn't long before WKW was at my window for another conversation. It took a bit of convincing, once we reached the window, to allay the ranger's fears that the car behind us had tapped our bumper or some such and we were having an argument. We finally assured him there had been no accident, and that if there had been, we would have the next four days to deal with the rapscallions behind us in our own way.

***

After setting up camp on the North Rim, we walked over to the Lodge in search of a meal. We grabbed seats on the deck outside. With the sun finally below the horizon, the lights of the South Rim shone clearly against the night sky. I pointed out the various landmarks - Bright Angel Lodge and the Grand Canyon Village, Hermit's Rest. At the mention of Hermit's Rest, The Wife chimed in "It was just about this time of day last year that we were running for our lives over there, too." She exaggerates, of course, but I try to reassure her just the same.

"You know I'd never take you on a hike if I wasn't positive you could make it through."
"Whatever."
"Seriously, you know I don't expect you to do the stuff we normally do."
"Yet, here I am."
"No, I mean the crazy stuff."
"Yet, here I am."
"This is just a hike through a canyon. This isn't crazy."
"You're right. It's flippin' insane!"

***

After killing an hour or so by grabbing a beer and a slice of pizza preceeded only by a visit to the Backcountry Office, we arrived at the designated check-in spot for our shuttle ride around to the other side of the canyon. A man with a snow-white beard reminiscent of a Santa-like character asked for the name under which we had placed our reservations. "Pierce," I replied. WKW, meanwhile, counted out the appropriate amount of cash to pay the remaining portion of our shuttle fees. "Pierce...Pierce," Santa said, seemingly to himself, as he scanned his reservation list. "Yes, Pierce...that will be $200," he added as he looked up, catching me counting the money WKW had passed my way.

"It's all there," WKW chided, "and you know he's going to count it anyway so why are you counting it?" I kept quiet. He knew I counted it only to ensure that the bills were properly faced and organized, a task I perform whenever a cash transaction is conducted in my presence - a habit I can't break. I passed the money to Santa without so much as a glance toward WKW. Santa counted, of course, verbally confirming the entire amount was there. "I can't believe it all made it through your hands to him," WKW laughed. Without skipping a beat, and with barely a glance in WKW's direction, Santa dead-panned the obvious, "You should put more work into selecting your travelling partners, it sounds like." Everyone laughed. "You'll be in Steve's van," Santa added as he dismissed us and moved on to his next shuttle reservation.

***

We woke at 4:30 to a crisp temperature of 45 degrees. We quickly broke camp. Though we left nearly an hour later than we intended, all were in good spirits as we made our way from the campground to the North Kaibab trailhead. Amazingly, the temperature at the trailhead felt colder than what we had experienced in the campground. A quick glance at the thermometer hanging from my pack confirmed that it was 5 degrees cooler in the shade. I felt better when I realized I wasn't the only person shivering. Somehow, I managed to grab a group photo even though the feeling had left my hands on the walk to the trailhead.

Hiking down the trail, we lost elevation at an astonishing clip. We expected the trail to be steep - we'd done our research, after all - but it still seemed as if we covered more vertical distance than horizontal distance. Fourth-five minutes after departing the trailhead, and some thousand feet or so below the rim, the temperature already reached 65 degrees. The initial views of our path from the vantage of Coconino Overlook left some of us in awe and others of us questioning our sanity. A mere ninety minutes after leaving the fourty degree temps at the trailhead, we all found ourselves sweating in the eighty degree heat of the inner canyon.

Our first indications of the sun's effect on the brain came shortly thereafter. Speaking of the cult-like mentality that permeates the REI organization and the fact that ever employee seemingly "drinks the Koolaid" and buys into the customer service culture the company tries to foster, The Wife opines that there must have been some serious "Koolaid radiation" given off by the video she watched with me that finally persuaded her to join us on our trip. WKW, not for the first time, again expressed amazement that the video he watched that made him doubt his ability to complete the journey was the same video that so inspired my wife to believe she could achieve the very goal he questioned.

By midmorning, only four hours since leaving the trailhead, the temperature passed the 90 degree point and the shade we previously enjoyed along the trail was long gone.

***

We approached the van that would shuttle us from the South Rim to the North Rim. A skinny, well-tanned, older gentleman stood atop the van, white-haired ponytail sticking out from under the blue baseball cap that matched his blue shirt. Looking down, he asked Monkey Boy when he approached, "Steve?"

Monkey Boy responded, "No, Pierce."

"We don't have a Pierce."
"We are Pierce."
"Whose van are you supposed to be in?"
"Steve's."
"Very good. Me Steve. You Pierce. Glad we got that cleared up."

Steve proved a great source of information on the ride around the canyon. He validated the hours of research Monkey Boy and I put into finding day hikes we might do from each of our nightly camps. It turned out we had selected the best of all the options. Steve also provided amusement along the way.

WKW drifted off to sleep and shortly thereafter began to snore. With each rasping intake of breath, Steve deftly maneuvered the van over the raised reflectors on the road that we refer to as "drunk bumps," thereby jostling WKW back into wakefulness. WKW would drift off once again, the snoring would start, and Steve would put an end to the noise with a quick trip across the drunk bumps, much to the amusement of the rest of our group.

We declined Steve's offer to ferry our group from the campground to the trailhead the next morning, a decision that proved appropriate considering our hour-late start that would likely have irritated our ferry driver.

***

We reached Cottonwood Campground, our destination for our first night below the rim, ten hours after leaving the rim. At least, The Wife and I reached the campground in ten hours. WKW, having depleted his water supply too early in the day after not having refilled at the Supai tunnel, opted to stay at Roaring Springs and consume vast quantities of water until he felt hydrated enough to continue - he made camp an hour after us. Monkey Boy and Senior, the youngest and eldest of our group, arrived in camp far before the rest of us. Leaving me to walk with The Wife, they chose to push on at a fairly rapid pace. Thus began a trend that would play out each day, Monkey Boy and Senior racing ahead and reaching camp hours before the rest of us while I stayed back and enjoyed my leisurely walk with The Wife.

Upon reaching Cottonwood, the first order of business was to do something about our aching feet. We hobbled down to Bright Angel Creek where we eagerly ditched our socks and boots before plunging our feet into the icy waters. A mere ten minutes in the water left my feet the bright red color normally associated with being submerged in an ice bath for too long. It felt refreshing enough to alleviate any thoughts of discomfort in my feet but painful enough that only a short soak was all I could handle. Monkey Boy, on the other hand, swam in the creek as if it were seventy degree water in my swimming pool - freak.

In a quest for shade, we opted to hang out in the group camping site, a site normally reserved for groups of seven or more members. no ther available site offered the shade we desperately craved. Finally deciding, just as the sun was setting, that no nobody had reserved the group site and we would be OK using it, we started to drift off to sleep. Only minutes later a voice would ask "Do you have the group site reserved? Just asking because we thought we had reserved it." A group of eight arrived to lay claim to the site.

Monkey Boy and I lifted our tents without breaking them down and carried them down the trail to a different camp site. After moving everything else, everyone crashed and slept the sleep of the dead, the sleep of a group who had descended 4500 feet of elevation in only seven miles whilst carrying fifty or so pounds on their backs. We slept well.

***

After dinner on the North Rim, the night before our descent, The Wife found herself not wanting to walk the 1.2 miles back to our camp site. "At least it isn't twelve miles," I pointed out. Having left my eyeglasses behind for the duration of the trip - why carry them when I would be wearing sunglasses during the day and sleeping when the sun was down? I only need them for reading - I misread the mileage sign and nearly skipped dinner due to my thinking the lodge lie twelve miles from our camp site.

Undeterred, The Wife approached the clerk behind the check-in counter and asked if there might be a shuttle or some other transportation available that would alleviate the return hike. After a brief to-and-fro between the clerk and his boss, he informed The Wife that she could hop a ride aboard the employee shuttle that ran every fifteen minutes between the lodge and the campground. We shared a chocolate chip cookie as we passed the time during our short wait for the shuttle, a wait short enough that we didn't have enough time to inform the others in our group of our transportation discovery. While we rode back in the comfort of the van, the others in the group hiked back in the dark believing that The Wife and I had left before them due to her slower hiking speed - true, but they likely expected to catch up to us at some point on the trail. Instead, they found us asleep by the time they returned to camp.

The Wife can be very resourceful when she wants to be.

The Sports Bettor

2011-06-21T04:40:00.000-07:00

The clock reads 6:00am. I know this for a fact without even glancing at my watch. The Sports Bettor strides through the door every morning at precisely 6:00am, a ritual that never changes. He opens the double glass doors by pushing the button intended to make it easier for handicapped guests to open the doors. I suppose it makes it easier for him to haul his bag o' stuff in with him.

His ritual doesn't stop with his arrival time...

Black messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he passes by my spot at the front of the poker room every day without so much as a nod. He makes his way across the sports book to the aisle in between the two sections of cubicle-style setups in the book. Turning left down the aisle, he then veers to the right and places his bag down behind the third cubicle in the second row from the back.

He pulls the chair out from beneath the desk and takes a seat. Reaching for his bag, he pulls a laptop computer from inside and places it on the workstation surface. He arranges betting sheets showing the odds for various games on the left side of the desk, two pencils and two pens neatly arrayed above the papers. Laptop situated to the right of the workspace, he opens its lid and powers it up. While the computer performs its boot-up sequence, he fishes the power cord from his messenger bag and supplies power to the laptop.

Glancing everything over, and apparently satisfied that things are arranged appropriately, he next grabs his MP3 player and headphones from his bag. Headphones ensconced firmly over his ears, the song of his choice selected and playing, he lays the MP3 player atop his betting information sheets and fetches the daily newspaper from the bag. He leans back in his chair, head almost imperceptibly nodding to his musical selection of the morning, and begins to read the paper. He methodically places each section of the paper onto the laptop keyboard as he finishes it until finished with the paper.

Once finished, he arranges the sections of the newspaper back into their proper order and returns the paper to his messenger bag. He nows turns his attention to the giant TV screens on the walls around the sports book. Selecting one to focus on, he again leans back in his chair and watches the show in progress.

The sports book opens in 1½ hours. He waits.

Back in Vegas

2011-06-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

Spent four days trekking twenty-five miles across a big hole in the ground. Strike one off the bucket list - amazing trip. Now, I have ten hours to recover before I start pitching cards and pushing pots again tonight. I imagine it will take me a few days to collect my thoughts into something coherent worth sharing. For now, I sleep.

Unrealized potential

2011-06-11T02:58:00.000-07:00

I just hit send on an email I found fairly hard to type. As of tomorrow, I no longer work at the Tropicana. I still feel that room has a ton of potential but I lack the confidence in the powers that be to see the project through and help the room live up to expectations. Don't get me wrong - I believe the poker room has a great manager, great staff, and the necessary pieces to making it work. I simply doubt the casino's commitment to the room.

Besides, I'm old...

My sleep pattern lacks consistency. To be honest, my sleep pattern sucks ass these days. My diet? Even worse. In the two months I've worked two jobs, I've lost ten pounds and then regained at least half of that as I've resorted to horrible fast food options I never would consider were I not rushed to eat between jobs. Working two jobs simply isn't healthy, at least not for me. So, today I tendered my resignation at the Tropicana.

I honestly hope that room makes it. I still believe in its potential. I just don't have the energy to stay on for two, three, four months, or whatever it takes for that potential to be realized. I'm not that hungry anymore. Were this 2005 and I still trying to find my way in the poker world, the story might end differently.

So....good luck, Tropicana.

Finally making the decision feels like the weight of the world has lifted from my shoulders. I waffled for many days, not wanting to quit simply because I felt like I was leaving some good people in the lurch. I finally reminded myself that they're good people, they'll do find without me around. I honestly don't bring that much to the table that I need to worry about the impact of my leaving.

Saturday, June 11, shall be my last day working there. Feel free to come by and entertain me if you're free ;)

I find it appropriate that after my shift at the Trop, I deal at the M, and then I am on vacation. I will not touch a playing card again until midnight Monday, June 20. I fail to remember a vacation I have looked forward to as much as this one. Hiking through the Grand Canyon is one thing. Getting joined by the wife and friends on a trip of this magnitude will be the icing on the cake.

This is it - last post until at least June 20. No Twitter. No phone. No contact with the world outside the canyon. I hope you all have a good week! I know I will.

Return to normal

2011-06-07T03:40:00.000-07:00

Normal, for me anyway, is working through the wee hours of the morning, spending my day poolside with a tasty adult beverage - or two or three - unless I feel ambitious enough to go climb a big hill, and then sleeping the evening away while everyone else watches some inane show on television.

Recently, however, my life falls well short of my definition of normal...

May 7. I last posted anything on May 7. This may be the longest I've gone without posting anything in the last five years. My apologies to those few who still read my ramblings. I believe things will be changing for the better here very shortly.

As most of you know, I added a job at the Tropicana about a month ago. Working two jobs sucks. The fact that business is slow makes it worse. My sleeping pattern is shot, my diet even more so. I take drugs to sleep. I take drugs to stay awake. It's well past time for me to get back to normal.

Within the next couple weeks, I'll be back down to a single job. Before I reach that point, though, I get a week off both jobs. At the time I write this, I have 121 hours and 56 minutes before we pull onto the interstate headed for Arizona. 24 hours after that and I will be starting down the North Kaibab trail into the depths of the Grand Canyon for a 4-day stroll through some of the most gorgeous scenery in the world. Getting to spend time with the wife, friends from back east, and Monkey Boy is like icing on the cake.

I'm sure I will have plenty to write about after that trip, and getting back down to a single job with what constitutes a normal life for me will likely give me more time to write afterward as well.

Stay tuned...

******************************

Got the Heep back. It runs so much better now than it did before it crapped out on me that I find myself convinced something was amiss prior to it's death. Previously, it stuttered at low RPMs. Taking off from a stop light required either a deft touch at feathering the clutch such that it wouldn't stall or simply shoving the accelerator through the floor so that it would actually move when you released the clutch. Now, no more stutter.

I found it amusing that the mechanic opted to leave all of the old parts in the lockbox where I found them after wondering what the hell was rattling around in the back. I have yet to figure out what he thought I might want to do with a failed water pump, a shredded belt, and an oily head gasket.

******************************

Picked up a Clear 4G modem thingy for the laptop. We already had Clear service in the house so I just added on the mobile part. Nice. I'm writing this while babysitting an empty poker room at 3am.

Speaking of house, we made an offer on a house recently. Funny (sort of) story...

I sit in the studio, both french doors open so as to enjoy the breeze through the courtyard. The phone rings. I ignore it as I nearly always will, detesting the act of talking on the phone as I do. I listen to the voicemail after refreshing my tasty adult beverage and hear the voice of a real estate agent calling to say the owners of the home we are renting want to sell. I sigh.

There exist very few things that annoy me more than moving. Besides, we like the house we rent. I replay the voicemail for the wife when she gets home so that she can call this realtor lady. The realtor informs us the owners want to sell, they want to offer us the first option on the house, and they have a starting price in mind.

I almost spit my adult beverage across the room when the wife tells me the price they are going to list the house at. I spend a few hours on Zillow and a couple other sites, confirming to myself that they are a minimum of $10k above the market value. Add in the many, many projects needed to bring the house up to standard, the tons of TLC that needs to be applied, and I doubt they will even get market value.

I call my realtor and have him make an offer $10k below their asking price, my estimate of market value disregarding the repairs needed. Their realtor responds by saying they will not even be considering our offer. No counter-offer is forthcoming.

I shrug it off. I tell my realtor I need a place and I need it by the end of September. I start searching for homes on Realtor.com and checking out the MLS entries passed along by our realtor. We map out neighborhoods and spend a couple days driving through, checking out exteriors, checking out the areas. We schedule a couple walkthroughs.

Not surprisingly, the homes we like the most sell before we ever get to see them. This is the nature of trying to buy a home in a city where 60+ percent of sales are short sales. A home we fell in love with near Rancho & Oakey listed for $130k. Looking at the photos, I guarantee I couldn't even afford the furniture that filled one room of that house. Our realtor informed us there was an offer the very day after it listed.

Our second choice also already had a contingent offer on it. Our third choice sold the morning we were to see it - so close. We walked through a couple homes - bedrooms too small, too much work needed, squatters looting the home of remaining appliances (literally walking out with the dryer as we walked in to view the home - we found the removed window where they had gotten in as we toured the house).

Meanwhile, in their effort to "improve curb appeal," the owners of the home we rent destroyed a large part of what we liked about the house. Tall shrubs separated the courtyard from the road. Low-hanging tree branches provided an additional separation. The courtyard provided a sanctuary-type feeling. After their efforts, the shrubs are gone and the tree trimmed so aggressively that there is now virtually no shade in the front yard.

Sure, I might be allergic as hell to those evil trees but I still enjoyed the benefits they provided.

The house now stands naked, bared to all who drive by. The tree did need trimming but not as aggressively as they went at it. The shrubs we kept trimmed but now they are shorn down to the point where they look like dead sticks rising from the ground in front of a brick wall - very unattractive.

The day after they destroyed the landscaping, we received a call from our realtor. The owners seemingly realized they might have priced themselves out of selling the home and wanted to reopen negotiations with us. First, after looking at other homes, we now know we can find a home in better repair for less money. Second, they want to reopen negotiations but only if we want to start talking at a price somewhere around $7k above market value. Third, we don't think we want to wait for the landscaping to grow back. No deal.

The next morning, we take a look at a home more central to our two jobs - closer to my job in the far south of the valley and yet the same distance to her job on the Strip. I found the house on Realtor.com, listed a mere three days ago - we might get lucky, I remember thinking - and already reduced in price by about $10k. We drive the neighborhood. We like it. We walk through the house and it is immediately obvious the wife has already made her choice. Each room we walk through adds to the appeal.

We make an offer. We wait. They counter - a good sign, in my book - and the counter is trivial. We asked for a few inspections, etc., and they said no. They accepted our offer price, though. Nice. Now we wait again. The offer rests with the bank, awaiting approval of some bean counter who gets to decide whether the number is high enough to be acceptable given the bath I'm sure they are taking with regards to the current mortgage.

I remain hesitantly hopeful that all will work out. The wife, however, has lost her mind - wish lists at RC Willey, discussion of color schemes, potential furniture, etc. If all goes well, the bank won't disappoint her.

We wait...

Mondays Suck

2011-05-07T11:10:00.000-07:00

Mondays get a bad rap. Nobody likes Mondays. In Vegas, Mondays aren't necessarily Mondays. In general, my Monday occurs on Thursday. Until this week, I held no particular negative feelings towards the day on the calendar called Monday by the majority of the world.

After this week, however, I concede the point. Mondays suck.

Sunday night, I made my way to the Strip. A slow night in the poker room left me feeling uninspired. I volunteered to go home early, knowing I should get in a couple hours at my other job just a few hours later.

I napped. Just after midnight, Monday morning, I piloted the Jeep across St Rose Pkwy on my way to that big casino out near...nothing. As I neared Eastern, blue and red lights started flashing directly behind me. I knew I hadn't been speeding so I failed to come up with an idea as to why I might be about to enjoy a visit with Henderson's finest.

The traffic light shined red. A voice boomed through the night air, "After the light turns green, drive through the intersection and then pull over." My time spent waiting for the light to turn green while trying to shield my eyes from the glare of the spotlight seemed an eternity. Having very light blue eyes, I frequently experience bouts of photophobia, especially at night. I wanted to smash the spotlight with the jack handle lying just out of reach behind my seat, but I managed to not follow through on that thought.

After pulling over, the officer approached the car and asked if I knew why I was being pulled over. I amazed myself by not saying something snarky, and further amazed myself by not screaming "What the fuck" when he informed me he had stopped me because my plates were expired. I pulled my registration out of the glove compartment and felt the office could have been a little less smug when he shined the light on it and said, "See, right there in the top right corner. Expired in March. You should have done something about that."

Before I could reply, the officer returned to his car with my credentials and I found myself sitting in the glare of that interminable spot light while I waited. To his credit, it took little time before he was back at the door to the Jeep. "Please sign here," he said, adding "Signing doesn't mean you are admitting guilt, only that you are acknowledging the receipt of the citation." I bit my tongue, signed the ticket, and started putting things away.

I asked the officer, "Doesn't the DMV send out renewal notices any more?"

"Of course they do. They're not letters any more, though. These days they send out a postcard sized notice."
"I never received a renewal notice. What am I supposed to do, walk out every day and make it a point to look at my license plates to make sure they're still valid? Who the hell do you know that does that?"
"I can't answer that, sir. The issue is that you are driving on expired plates. Register the vehicle and, if you are lucky, the judge might reduce the fine."

I bit my tongue and drove on to work. Of course, the poker room at that casino was dead also so I headed back home. I stewed all the way. I knew I wouldn't be paying the nearly $500 fee on the citation but having to pay an attorney $75 to deal with it pissed me off. The attorney proved a necessity because on the date they wanted me in court, I will be deep in a giant hole in the ground five hours east of Vegas.

I turned east to head home. I shifted into second gear. The check engine light came on, flashed once, and the car immediately died. I sat a mere 1¾ miles from the house. The Jeep failed to start on multiple retries. I hoped it was only the Cam Position Sensor that stopped me from getting home on wheels but it would have to wait until the sun came up to find out.

Long story short, after replacing the battery (it desperately needed it) and the cam sensor, the Jeep still failed to start. MN Bob helped me tow the Jeep to a mechanic. Turns out a very important belt broke, a belt vital to many parts of the engine. Short story even shorter, the Jeep needs a new belt, a new water pump, and a new head gasket...at a minimum.

Shortly after hearing that news, the phone rang. My third job needed me to do a few things to complete the hiring process. Disappointed, I informed them there was no way I could take the job because I no longer had reliable transportation. I simply hoped I could juggle cars between the roomies enough to make it to the two jobs I already had.

I get the Jeep back in about three weeks. Hooray, me. Meanwhile, I think I'll go sit poolside and pretend it really is just another day in paradise ;)

Double Up

2011-04-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

Now that the WPT APL wrapped up and the players returned from whence they came, the room needs to decide what to do with the daily tournament situation. Obviously, we plan to offer daily tournaments but we have an idea that sounds like it might be a fun change of pace as well.

We hope to offer double-up sit-n-gos starting within the next week...

The basic premise is that any even number of players may opt to start a SNG. You only need outlast half the field to double your buy-in. Any level of buy-in will be allowed with the addition of 5% for the house and $5.00 for the dealer.

For example:
$100+5+5
$200+10+5
$300+15+5
etc.

10 players play down to 5
8 players play down to 4
6 players play down to 3
etc.

Obviously, if everyone involved opted to play down to a different number of players, there would be no problem with that either. 10 players could opt to play down to 2. A winner-take-all type of tournament wouldn't be out of the question either.

We hope to start offering these within the week. I think it sounds like something fun, something different enough to be interesting. Hopefully, more than a few players visiting the room agree.

Short stories

2011-04-25T13:11:00.000-07:00

The WPT APL Championship wrapped up Saturday. Sunday felt like a hangover in the poker room as all the tournament players shipped out for home. The tournament went well, cash games stayed full, we only had to ask one player to leave the room - a very good four day run for room. I find that I became very accustomed to not working more than four hours in a single day. I hope reacquainting myself with longer work days doesn't take too long.

We even had a few amusing moments over the weekend...

I lost count of the number of slow rolls I witnessed over the past few days. More amazing than the slow rolls themselves was the fact that very few people seemed upset by them. One gentleman left the room flabbergasted, however.

The Texan shoved all his chips across the line with confidence when the river paired the board. The Canadian called him after staring at the board for nearly a minute. The stare down commenced, neither player wanting to turn over their cards. I looked at the Texan. "Sir, he called you. It's your obligation to open your hand first." He shrugged and rolled over his cards. The paired board gave him two pair. The Canadian rolled over his top card. I knew what was coming and inwardly groaned. The Texan smiled. "I have that beat," he said. The Canadian then rolled over the bottom card to reveal his three of a kind.

"You slow-rolled me, you little shit," the Texan complained, to which the Canadian replied "No I didn't. I led the betting all the way." The Texan stared for a couple seconds before asking, "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"You still slow-rolled me."
"I never slow roll. People suck out on me when I slow roll. I bet my hand the whole way and you thought you got lucky on the river."
"Do you even know what a slow roll is, kid?"

Maybe, in the Canadian's normal poker game, slow-rolling is the same as slow-playing?

******************************

I sat in the 8-seat so as to help get the game going and let the other dealers make some money. The game soon filled. Everyone laughed, joked, and seemed to be having a great time. A couple players, obviously more accustomed to playing no-limit stakes, struggled to win a pot as they discovered the uselessness of trying to move someone off bottom pair in a game where the bet is only $2 or $4 to see the next card. Even though they weren't winning, they still laughed and cracked jokes.

Eventually I found myself in a hand with three other players. The 7-seat and the 9-seat were related - uncle and nephew - and both cracked wise about trying to bust me after learning I was a poker dealer. My attempts to explain that poker dealers generally make the worst players fell on deaf ears. In previous hands, I had called down with a naked flush draw and gotten there to nearly felt the uncle, and I had caught a well-disguised straight that happened to be bigger than the nephew's equally well-disguised straight to nearly felt him as well. All in fun, I became their target.

This particular hand, I flopped a decent flush and led the betting the entire way. The uncle check-raised me on the flop and I simply called. When I three-bet him on the turn, he folded. The nephew, however, laughing called. "I'm calling because I'm going to hit the nine of diamonds on the river." The dealer obligingly put the nine of diamonds on the river. The nephew's $4 bet hit the felt before the dealer had released the cards.

I couldn't fold my hand fast enough.

******************************

The dealer spread the flop, showing J-7-7. Seat 4 moved all his chips across the line. Seat 6 immediately called. The turn and river were both blanks. Seat 4 rolled his hand, showing trip 7s. Seat 6 rolled his hand to show a full house, Js over 7s. Seat 4 immediately started ranting about getting sucked out on. He seemed disinclined to listen to anyone's explanation that he had never been ahead in the hand and therefore could not have been sucked out on. When the 3-seat chimed in with "I folded a Jack, too," the 4-seat nearly turned purple.

"You hit a 1-outer on me! That's ridiculous. The only other Jack in the deck. You hit a 1-outer on me!"

I wasn't surprised to later learn that the same gentleman left the room stuck nearly $1500 in our $1-3 game.

******************************

I turned up the river card, giving the 8-seat a full house. The 4-seat, having flopped a straight, laughed and said, "Nice cooler, dealer." I nodded. "I'll practice harder, sir."

The very next hand, the 4-seat flops a full house. The 8-seat hits a bigger full house on the turn. The 4-seat shakes his head. As I push the pot towards the 8-seat, the 4-seat calls out "Floor!" I hope he's only buying more chips and not going to complain about something.

The floor arrives. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?"

"If you had told me you hired your dealers off Full Tilt when they shut down, I wouldn't have sat in this damned game." Everybody laughed.

"Oh yeah, I need another $500, too."

******************************

Now I need to go work on reorganizing my daily schedule. This working two jobs schtuff is seriously cutting into my daily beer regimen. Something needs to be done!

Potential

2011-04-23T14:13:00.000-07:00

The new room stayed packed all week. With today being the last day of the WTP APL Championship tournament (which has been a great success from what I've heard), I expect a full crowd the remainder of the weekend as well. Friday night, midnight, with six tables running full bore, I glanced up at the list and realized that we could have started an additional two games had we two more tables in the room. Problems like that are good to have.

The room definitely possesses potential...

Like any new endeavor, there exists opportunity for improvement. I take notes and pass them along, letting the powers that be know about anything that is causing problems or will likely cause problems down the road. So far, I find myself very impressed with upper management. They seem willing to give the poker room the support and resources needed for it to be successful. The customer service attitude is refreshing, lacking the sort of "fake it til you make it" feeling I get at a lot of other joints on the Strip.

I hope things continue to improve. I truly hope we keep at least half the business we've had the past few days. I believe we will end up being able to hold two or three games on weeknights, Tuesday being the anomaly with the $2-5-10 game that brings in a couple dozen players. On Tuesdays, we should always have at least four games through the evening. I expect four or five games to be the standard on weekends. The ideal situation, of course, is to discover my expectations to be low and find myself walking into four or five games every night.

Potential...

In semi-related news, I continue to see a lot of online grinders in the casinos around town. The roomie tells me the tournaments in his room have seen a significant uptick since last Friday. Staff from other rooms up and down the Strip tell me they are getting a couple more games each night and bigger tournament draws as well. I say one week is too small a sample to say whether or not the online players will start to boost the bottom lines of the Vegas casinos, but early indications say that might be the case.

At a time when I expected perhaps a contraction in the number of poker tables available around the city, it looks instead like there will be an expansion. Sure, the Sahara recently shut down, but the Trop opened. I know plans are afoot to add fourteen additional tables to one particular room that is seeing tremendous business currently. I see a lot of job ads for poker dealers running. Most, if not all, of those will be temporary jobs to backfill in rooms that allow dealers to work the WSOP. Still, many of those temporary jobs become permanent after the series is over, even if only part-time positions. I think all of that bodes well for poker in Vegas.

Now if only somebody could fix the economy and we could get back to the way things were, say, five years ago...

Fallout

2011-04-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

At the job I've held for the past couple years, I dealt to quite a few people who made their living through the poker industry. Some of them came in as often as every week, some only when they wanted to splash chips around with friends while drinking tasty adult beverages. Whatever the case, I always enjoyed when they were in the room. Their presence pretty much demanded that there be action in the games in which they sat.

I noticed something new this weekend...

Players I had not seen in recent weeks were present both Friday and Saturday. They, along with a few other semi-regulars, spent their time lamenting the loss of their "jobs" now that they couldn't play poker online any more. Some complained. One lady showed up in our game simply because she now hated to be at home because she had nothing to do since she couldn't play poker - she complained a lot. Some seemed more accepting of their fate, more lamenting the fact that they now had to leave the house to make money - my favorite quote of the night was "I can't believe I have to put on pants to make a living now. I hate wearing pants!"

Still others who played in our room fairly regularly seem to have disappeared. Related to regular customers, I've heard numbers anywhere from a couple hundred to six-figure sums that these people no longer have access to. I imagine, like anything else, some is exaggeration but most is rooted somewhere in fact. I know what it's like to be flat broke, to have less than $500 to one's name, but I have no idea what it would be like to be fairly well-to-do when I went to bed and then to wake up unable to access my money, to be - in essence - broke overnight.

Whether or not the long-term effect is more players in live games, I decline to even hazard a guess. I can't even say if that would be a good thing. One of our semi-regulars left the game last night because the table consisted of 2 nits, 4 pros, and himself. He commented that there was no way to make any money in that game so he was headed off to find greener pastures, as in a much softer game.

The game broke shortly thereafter so I never witnessed the play at that table. Usually, the online pro crowd plays in our games to blow off steam, not necessarily to try and win. I imagine the texture of the game changes quite a bit if they are suddenly trying to make rent instead of simply having fun.

I wonder how it will all turn out in the end...

******************************

In the new job, we will be hosting the WPT Amateur League Championship next weekend (Wed - Sat). With 1600+ on the invite list, and with some of them perhaps traveling with family and/or friends, I hope the event translates to significant action in our new room as well.

Seeing a boost such as the Riv sees (or at least used to) when the pool players come to town would be nice. Should be an interesting weekend, regardless.

Opening night

2011-04-16T15:53:00.000-07:00

I walked in to our new poker room to find three games running, one with a list. To say I was thrilled might be understating things a bit. The finished room turned out more impressive that I expected. I still feel a bit unsure about those gleaming white rails on the table. I hope they manage to keep them clean. The property manages to somehow keep the white rails sparkling out in the pit, so perhaps they have a secret to cleaning things I don't possess.

Things slowed down a bit shortly into my first shift...

The raucous $3/6 game broke. Dealing to loud, drunk tourists who are simply out having a good time was more enjoyable than I remembered it to be. My memory might be clouded, I could have become a bit jaded before leaving the Strip before, but whatever the case, the primary group at the table - a party in town from Minnesota celebrating an anniversary - kept the table jumping for the first hour I was there.

Shortly after losing that game, I stood at the front counter helping the cashier count some cash. Looking down, I failed to see someone approach from my left until they "accidentally" bumped into me. I got everyone's favorite grumpy dealer (oops) poker player into a game - you can read his account of the evening here...and spot a photo of a dealer whom looks vaguely familiar, like I've seen him somewhere before, at the end of his post ;)

Sensing the last game in the room seemed destined to break, I volunteered to clock out and play in the game in hopes of keeping it going long enough to attract additional players. We played 4-handed for a bit and eventually built the game back up to a nice 8-handed game, enough players that I could leave the game and call it a night.

This room seems to bristle with potential. I thought we did fairly well opening day with three games considering no publicity push and no real promotional activity associated with opening the room ever occurred. Once we get the word out that we're open for business, I think things will pick up. Given that tonight is Saturday, our first weekend, I only hope for an additional one or two games more than we had yesterday.

This working double shifts thing, though, will definitely take a few days to get used to. I'm off to do it again...on a whole four hours worth of sleep. Wish me luck!

Back to the beginning...almost

2011-04-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow shapes up to be an interesting day. At 9:00am, the new poker room at the Tropicana opens for business. I spent the majority of this past week making my way through the typical new hire process at the Trop. I found it to be not nearly as painful as most places I've worked. Even when I applied for the job, I felt somewhat hesitant to be applying at that particular property. Today, I find I'm actually somewhat excited to be working there.

This definitely isn't your father's Tropicana...

The new owners are sinking tons of money into the property. The interior is gorgeous, the reds and whites immediately invoking a feel of South Beach. The gaming floor is bright and airy, especially as compared to most of the properties in Vegas. The exterior still looks old, though that is only a temporary thing, but the interior looks nothing like what it did a couple years ago. To be able to pull off a renovation such as they have without closing operations is pretty impressive.

The Nikki Beach club opens at the end of May. The exterior of the property facing Tropicana Avenue gets a new porte cochere as well as a roadhouse-style bar/restaurant, all to be open before the end of summer. The new poker room looks nice. I wonder about the effort that will be needed to keep the white table rails clean, but given what I've seen so far, I doubt anyone will slack off and let them get too dirty.

I've never worked in a poker room on the first day of operation. I expect many quirks, many small issues that will likely annoy some and amuse others, many things that we will have to iron out over the next couple weeks. Still, starting in the poker room from day one scratches the occasional entrepreneurial itch I try so hard to ignore. I hope it will be as fun as I think it will be.

Whatever the case, I've found my way back to the Strip. I think this is a good thing. I know some of you will be happier - tourists generally provide more amusing content for me to write about than do the locals.

I will still be dealing to the locals, too, though. After every shift at the Trop, I shall make the drive down the I-15 to finish my night off at the M. It should be interesting. I tried to avoid working two jobs as I didn't like it all that much the last time I did it. We do what we have to do, though.

I won't go into the third job I have lined up, only to say it is also in a poker room on the Strip. I'll address that when the time comes. For now, I wait on the poker room manager to navigate through their HR department to bring me on board. After that, I have yet to figure out what I will do with three jobs...

She doesn't get out much

2011-04-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

Another typical Sunday night found me dealing a $4/8 limit game into the wee hours of Sunday morning. Players slowly lost all their chips. The game dwindled from being 10-handed to 7-handed to 4-handed. A pair of Australians made a late arrival, boosted the number, and proceeded to drive me insane for a while. In the end, I admit they were amusing. I let them get away with some shenanigans as it seemed to be keeping the other players at the table. The Aussies seemed intent on donating all their money to the table as quickly as possible.

Eventually, talk turned to origin...

The regular in seat 8 casually asked the lady in seat 5 where she was from. "Ohio," she replied, "Cincinnati, Ohio." Keeping the conversation going, seat 8 adds, "Ohio is the answer to a Final Jeopardy question. Do you know what it is?" Nobody at the table took the bait. The Aussie in seat 3, a man who had anointed himself the class clown of the table, chimed in with, "Jeopardy is rigged. A computer can win at Jeopardy." He seemed genuinely disappointed when nobody laughed.

Seat 8 steered the conversation back to Ohio. "Seriously, it was a Final Jeopardy question that only one of the contestants got right. Name the two states that have only a single consonant in their names." I smiled and added, "Please remember to phrase your answer in the form of a question." They laughed at that, much to the chagrin of the comedian in seat 3. Bewildered, he glanced around the table and asked, "I'm giving you guys my best materials and nobody's laughing. What the hell is wrong with you people?"

Amazingly, the first to answer the Jeopardy puzzle - and he did so almost immediately - was the Aussie in seat 6. "Wait," he said and before anyone could utter a word, he added, "Iowa!" He gave a very satisfying grin. "You're apparently smarter than your friend's computer," I told him. "Ah, he's an asshole, anyway," he laughed. "We think he lies about being Australian in the first place, fuckin' New Zealander, him." Nice.

Seat 5, the lady from Ohio, then proceeded to say, "I don't think the question is correct. There are more than two states with only one consonant in their names." We all glanced her direction. "For example," she explained, "there's Utah." Nobody seemed to want to correct her so I stepped up to the challenge. "Er," I hesitated, "Utah has two consonants, Miss. The t and the h." I assumed that put the subject to bed. I discovered I was wrong. "H isn't a consonant, is it?" "Excuse me," I asked, believing I must have misheard the question. "H isn't a consonant. I'm sure of it." I glanced at the regular in seat 8. His expression told me he was as disbelieving as I was. "Um, no, H is a consonant," I said. When she asked if I was sure, the 8 seat added, "Well, it's not a vowel. If it's not a vowel, it has to be a consonant. Only two options, right?"

Thankfully, the conversation turned to other topics shortly thereafter. Well-mannered, well-dressed, and well-spoken, seat 5 gave the appearance of a successful and well-educated person. Normally, I might blame alcohol in a situation such as this but she didn't drink. I now decided the conversation we had when she first entered the room might not have been an anomaly.

Her: What games do you have tonight?
Me: We currently have two games running. I have a $2/4 limit game and I have a $4/8 limit game. Would you like to play?
Her: Do you have a no-limit game running?

I suppressed the first thought that entered my mind, which was "Why, yes, of course we do. I just didn't want to tell you about that one so I left it out."

Me: No, sorry. I only have the two limit games currently. Can I get you into one of those?
Her: I prefer no limit. Where is your no limit game?

As she glanced around the room hoping to spot the illusive no-limit game, I opted for silence.

Her: How about limit? I will play limit if you have a limit game.
Me: I have two. Would you prefer $4/8 or $2/4?
Her: Do you have $1-2?
Me: No, sorry. Our $1-2 blind game is a no-limit game. We only have the two limit games.
Her: Oh, but I can't play no-limit?

After another pause, she finally opted to play $4/8. This caused another chance for me to be bewildered. When the Aussies joined the game, seat 3 immediately asked where he could get a Monte Cristo. I started to name a couple places I thought were his best options. He wanted his sandwich from a restaurant in our casino. I told him I doubted he was getting one on our property.

He and I bantered back and forth for a while about the Monte Cristo. The lady in seat 5 listened for a while before asking, "What is a Monte Cristo?" I explained the construction of the sandwich. "I've never heard of such a thing. It must not be very common." More than one person, myself included, opined that it was a fairly common sandwich. "Oh, it must be regional then." I named two restaurants in her home town in which I had previously enjoyed a Monte Cristo sandwich. "You must be wrong. I've never heard of a sandwich like that and I've lived in this country my entire life!"

I shot a sideways glance towards the 3-seat, rightly guessing that he wouldn't be able to not add a comment. With a straight face and a deadpan voice, he asked her, "You don't really get out much, do you, miss?"

That time, he got the laughs he searched for all night. Even seat 5 laughed, though it was a nervous laugh that told everyone she didn't understand what she was laughing at. I decided to add to her confusion. "Really," I said, "a Monte Cristo is a lot like a Croques Monsieur. They're both very good." She stared at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Seat 3 laughed hysterically. "You're not very nice," he gasped in between chuckles. I smiled and said nothing.

When the game broke a couple hours later, he once again steered the conversation back to the location of a Monte Cristo, assuring everyone that his mates in Australia had informed him that the thing to do in the wee hours of the morning was to grab a Monte Cristo. They had told him his trip would not be complete without and that he could get one just about anywhere. I smiled and said, "I don't know. I do know where you can get a really awesome Croques Monsieur though."

He looked up from the task of racking his chips and smiled. "Fuck you." Everybody laughed except the 5 seat. "Seriously," he added, "if I can't get a Monte Cristo where can I get a Chicken Fried Steak?" I finally suggested he go to the Peppermill. "I don't think they have either thing you're looking for, but I guarantee you'll find something on that menu you'll like."

He walked off mumbling something about spending $40 on a cab ride to find a $7 sandwich.

Again? Really?

2011-03-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

I wake for the umpteenth time in the night, my right arm tingling. I momentarily forget why it's tingling and I move my head. As the lightning bolt of pain shoots down my arm, I immediately regret my momentary lapse of memory. I vow not to make that mistake again. I sit up and shake my arm...as if that will automagically make the pain and the tinglies go away. Each day, the pain worsens. Each day, I imagine the lightning bolts of pain will explode out the tip of my thumb and I will be left starting at a gaping, smoking hole as if my thumb is the barrel of some weird type of gun. I roll over and struggle to find a position in which I can be comfortable. I ignored the early signs, even though I instictively knew what they meant. I find it harder as each day passes to ignore what my body is trying to tell me.

On the plus side, I've been through this before...

Five years ago this month, I opted for a visit to our family practicioner. Disliking doctors as I do, I admit it was a big step for me. I explained that the left side of my body had been been tingling for a while. She nodded and asked if there was pain associated with the tingling. I replied that there was, that occasionally, and with growing frequency, a bolt of pain would shoot down my left arm and make me cringe. She nodded again and sent me across the hall for x-rays with instructions to make sure I brought the x-rays back to her as soon as they were done.

The fact that I had never had a doctor request to see x-rays immediately left me stunned. Most doctors, I reflected as I walked across that hallway, seemed willing to wait whateveer turnaround period there was before seeing the x-rays and then scheduled a followup visit to discuss what may or may not have been caught on the film. This time, however, she deemed my problem serious enough that she needed to see the x-rays as soon as she could. I stood in front of the x-ray machine and, finally, the fear started to seep into my consciousness. It was a feeling I could have done without, a feeling I definitely wasn't used to.

I carried the x-rays back across the hall. The doctor, not having a lightboard, held them up to the window so that the incoming sun might illuminate whatever story the film had to tell. After looking at them less than twenty seconds, she wrote out a referral to see a specialist, an orthopedic doctor who specialized in spinal surgeries. I maintained my normal demeanor all the way home. I felt nervous only after researching the diagnosis she had provided - spinal stenosis and herniated disc.

After seeing the specialist, I started prepping for being out of work for six weeks. My best option, it seemed, proved to be surgery - ACDF. After requesting a former colleague research the surgeon, I honestly felt perfectly at ease about the path I was about to embark on. My former colleague, a friend who not only suffered from severe spinal issues himself but also had a brother who sold disc replacement parts to spinal surgeons around the country, did the leg work and let me know I was in good hands. "If this guy says you need surgery," he told me, "you definitely need surgery. You have one of the top five spinal specialists in the state working on you, well respected not only in Nevada but across the country as well. You can feel safe with him handling your procedure."

I allowed the surgery. The surgeon fused vertebrae C4 and C5 together. I have a nifty x-ray showing the metal plate and screws that are permanently lodged in my neck. I think the x-ray is cool, personally, though I'm not sure the wife agrees (note: the x-ray to the right is not mine. I cannot find the CD on which mine live and I prefer to let the wife sleep as opposed to waking her only to tell me where that CD might be. The one to the right is very similar, though, so I used it. I found it on radiopaedia.org).

I felt sorry for the wife as she suffered through my six weeks of recovery. The problem wasn't that I felt pain, but more so that I felt twitchy. Forced to wear a cervical collar, which thereby forced me to sit in an easy chair for every waking moment due to the fact I couldn't lay down, I nearly lost my mind. I felt like a prisoner of war. I wanted to scratch a notch in the wall for every day I wore that damned collar.

In the end, I caused the wife great stress by returning to work before I received a work release from the doctor. I further worried her by not wearing the collar either even though I had yet to receive clearance from the doctor to not wear it. I always claimed to be the worst patient a doctor could ask for.

You might be asking yourself at this point why I bring this up. Funny you should ask...

Everything I experienced with my left arm, I now experience with my right arm. I never make it through an entire eight hours sleep because I wake every two or three hours with lightning bolts of pain threatening to explode out the thumb on my right hand. As nifty a superhero power that would be - I could zap every nit at the poker table whenever they asked for a setup - I find the pain nearly unbearable. I remember researching the spinal issues I had five years ago. I distinctly remember reading that most people who had a cervical fusion ended up having a fusion on adjoining vertebrae within four to five years. I conveniently pushed that deep into the recesses of my mind until recently.

Wishful thinking let me belive I would not qualify as "most people." Wishful thinking allowed me to put aside any thoughts of additional surgeries...or wearing that &*$#^@*&$*&#$ cervical collar again for six weeks. I do feel sorry for my wife. I believe this time around, things will be worse. I doubt I make it four weeks in the collar this time before I try to return to work. I might go so far as to call on my exceptional skills at forgery I learned in high school that allowed me to sell hall passes for $5 each - yes, I honestly believe I might forge a return-to-work note of some sorts long before being given the clearance to actually do so. The thought of sitting in an easy chair for six weeks leaves me feeling queasy.

Of course, all of that is contingent on me getting the surgery. At this point, I doubt that happens. I work part-time, few enough hours that I also collect unemployment each week. The wife works part-time. I have yet to call our insurance company but the worthless health insurance we have likely doesn't cover something as serious as this. Even if it does, I doubt I can afford the cost of whatever it doesn't cover, so...

All of that is to say, if you happen to be sitting at a poker table in the near future where you find me dealing, please don't be offended if I happen to snap at you for seemingly no reason. It might only be the pain that causes me to display a form of bad attitude you normally wouldn't see from me. I guarantee it's nothing personal. I suppose this is a form of a pre-apology.

Of course, if you deserve my wrath - and some players do - please feel free to disregard this message ;)

Now I'm off for one last adult beverage of the evening. With 80-degree temps in the forecast this week, you shall likely find me sitting in the spa in the back yard. Surely I can find some modicum of relief with bubbly watter and sudsy beverages, yes?

At the table

2011-03-17T06:16:00.000-07:00

I hoped to be working on the book this morning but my printer is a piece of crap. I made an effort to print out the marked up copy of the book I received back from the editor but it ended up being wasted effort. No matter how many times I configured things so that the inserted notes would print on the relevant pages, I ended up with none of the notes being printed. I wanted to print things double-sided so as not to needlessly kill a couple hundred trees but when I requested only the odd pages print, it printed every other odd page instead (i.e. 1, 5, 9 instead of 1, 3, 5, etc.). Finally, the black ink cartridge apparently decided to call it quits and started printing everything in a pale gray that proved unreadable. I conceded defeat. I uploaded the manuscript to Kinko's and now have to wait until at least 9:00am before I can pick it up.

That leaves me with a bit of free time I can use to relay a couple recent events from the poker table...

I recently wrote about a gentleman who wanted to flaunt his wealth and tried to challenge a local online pro to a game before finally reneging. Later that same night, one of the local online pros who had opted to stick around and play in the $1/2 game instead of becoming involved with the other shenanigans that were afoot, ended up playing through the night.

At one point, the game became 4-handed - a dealer from a different casino, two online pros who live near the casino, and a friend of one of the pros who was visiting from out of town. The pros sat in seats 3 and 6, while the tourist occupied the 4-seat. The dealer watched everything from the 9-seat.

I pitched the cards and started the action. Seat-6 sat behind the button and, after seats 9 and 3 posted their blinds and seat-4 straddled the pot, seat-6 tossed out a blind raise to $8. Seat-9 folded. Seat-3 asked if the $8 bet had been made in the blind and then laughingly tossed out a raise to $26 (side note: why do all interwebz players insist on making bets with ridiculous amounts, such as $26 instead of $25?). The 4-seat nearly beat him to the pot with a reraise to $50. Seat-6 folded and seat-3 called.

After the two see the rainbow flop of K-T-9, seat-4 checks out of turn. Seat-3 pushes all his chips across the betting line. While doing so, he accidentally flips one of his hole cards face up, the deuce of clubs. Seat-4, staring intently at the flop I had put out, completely misses the exposed card. Seat-6 and I both see it and look at each other with wide eyes as seat-3 hurriedly flips the card face down once again. Seat-4 shrugs, announces that he has two unders, and mucks.

Seat-6 and I start laughing hysterically while seat-3 repeatedly says, "Shhh! Nobody saw that!"

A few hands later, seat-4 finally realizes we were laughing at something related to his fold in that particular hand. Seat-3 lets him off the hook and explains that he had exposed a deuce, that he actually held deuce-four and couldn't beat anything, and that seat-4 must have folded the winner. It takes a while for all of that to sink in to seat-4's brain, but a few hands later it must have because he looked at seat-3 and resignedly uttered, "Nice bet, asshole."

That set everyone off on a laughing streak again and the game slowed to a crawl for a bit. Similar antics took place through the night as the game played on until my shift was over. I find it best when I have people to entertain me while I'm dealing. It makes the hours go a bit quicker.

Always pay attention to your opponents, people. They'll frequently manage to tell you exactly what they hold, some of them more blatantly than others ;)

******************************

I even managed to play a few hands recently. I felt the itch to play, which doesn't happen often, and I headed off to the IP in hopes of making a decent score. I like the majority of the dealers there and the tourists who chose to play there are frequently less-skilled at poker than some other spots in town. I eke out a win at the IP more often than any other room I play in.

My first hand upon taking my seat, I peek at my hole cards and find AcQs. The overly efficient dealer - one I taught to deal - not only dealt me in prior to me taking off my jacket and sitting down, but he also dealt me a decent hand. I call the $2 blind as I'm unracking my chips. I normally raise in that spot but I have yet to even glance around the table to see who's playing, how many chips they have, etc. I just want to get things moving as I try to get situated.

The 8-seat raises to $12 and gets three callers, including me. The dealer puts out a very uncoordinated flop of A-8-2. I toss $20 into play and everyone folds except for the 8-seat. The dealer brings a 5 for the turn card. I bet $50 and find myself facing a decision when the 8-seat instantly shoves all-in. I start talking to myself. I hate to go broke my first hand, though it happens occasionally. I know nothing about this guy except his girlfriend sits behind him and he keeps glancing at the bar like he'd rather be smoking a cigarette than in this hand.

I cycle through everything he could be holding - two pair, a set, even a straight though I doubt he has 3-4 in his hand. I talk myself into him having a weak Ace. I hope he hasn't hit his second pair yet. I finally decide to take the line most tourists take. I smile, announce that I didn't come all the way down here to fold, and then shove my chips over the line.

The dealer turns up a J on the river instead of the Q I prayed for. I shrug, say "I missed," and turn up my AQ. The 8-seat turns over...8-7? The rest of the table laughs and applauds my call. Still in shock that I've won the hand, I toss the dealer his toke and admonish him, "Don't do that on my first hand at the table. I'm old. I could have had a heart attack, you know."

A mere dozen hands later, I glance down to find 3s6s. I decide to at least see a flop in hopes of hitting a jackpot. Besides, if I manage to win with this hand, I know I'll get paid off because, as a certain lawyer from Iowa says, "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" (Spanish Inquisition is his name for 3-6, for those unaware)

The dealer spreads the flop and I see a 3 as the door card. There are no spades and the other two cards are painted. I have the lowest pair, no kicker, and no draw, yet I easily call the $15 bet made by the 8-seat. If the bet comes from anywhere else at the table, I likely fold instantly, but I opt to call for two reasons - I can get lucky and catch a miracle card or I can give him some of his money back that I took earlier, knowing that giving action gets action.

As it turns out, I get lucky. The dealer pulls up a second 3 for the turn card. First to act, I simply check and wait for him to bet. He obliges, moving $50 across the betting line. I take a second look at my hold cards and then push my entire stack across the line. He beats me into the pot with his call, glares at me and inquires, "Do you have the three?"

I nod and watch the dealer put a 6 on the river, giving me a full house. He asks again, "Do you have the three?" I look down the table and say, "Yep. Full-house." He jumps up, looks at me and says, "Fucker!" and wanders off, all before I can even turn my cards face up. I hoped he would come back but that wouldn't be the case. The rest of the table commented how happy they were to finally have someone in the game who had that guy's number. With him gone, however, action dried up quickly and the game broke only 24 minutes after I sat down.

I managed to get my poker fix for the month and more than double my buyin at the same time. I left happy, of course, and wandered the strip visiting with dealers I knew here and there. It was a good night.

******************************

Just about a year ago, I wrote about the tree that wants me dead. Last week, I finally decided that the leaves from fall needed to be tended to. I grabbed the leaf blower. Seventeen 40-gallon bags - and six hours spread over two days - later, the lawn looked great. I felt like I might not survive the night.

As I placed the last of the bags at the curb, I happened to glance at the trees adorning the front lawn. Seemingly millions of little green catkins hung from it's branches. They taunted me. I knew they would start falling soon. I ran inside to see exactly when I started suffering last year. I groaned when I realized the catkins would be falling any day. I nearly cried when I heard the wind pick up in the valley yesterday.

Within minutes of the wind starting to blow, our courtyard started to be covered with the little evil tree spawn. The wife and I headed out to run errands only to find the cars already covered with the telltale light yellow dust that screams "Allergy Alert!" My eyes nearly swelled shut by the time we reached the bank.

I get no relief until June. After the mulberry tree, the olive tree spawns and creates additional misery for allergy sufferers around the valley. Eeyore, I believe, literally hasn't stopped sneezing for two days. I find myself taking the 24-hour Zyrtec a minimum of twice a day. I pop Advil Cold & Sinus like it's candy as that seems to be the only drug on the market that allows me to breathe. At the rate I will go through the Advil, I expect to be targeted as a meth producer any day now thanks to the fact that I have to show my ID to the pharmacist in order to procure a box.

I'd say that I would prefer to never leave the house when things are like this but inside the house is just as bad. The dogs track the pollen in on their feet. It finds its way into every room on the soles of our shoes. Whenever a door is opened, Mother Nature sees fit to stir up a small gale-force wind in order to push more of it deeper into the house. The master bath, with the doggie door to the back yard, has that same telltale light yellow dust covering the floor.

Only 88 days until the Grand Canyon trip....if I survive that long :-/

Inane Rule Interpretation

2011-03-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

I thought it to be an isolated event, a misinterpretation of the rules by an inexperienced dealer. In the end, my assumptions proved false. I first heard of this interpretation of the rules through Twitter. @apolloavp posted a ruling made by a dealer. @PokerGrump responded with a comment I felt to be quite appropriate. I immediately forgot about the incident until I found myself playing $1/2 NL at the IP recently and witnessed the same rule interpretation for myself.

I left the room thinking it must be a Harrah's thing. Imagine that...

As you read (if you clicked on the link to @apolloavp's tweet), he sat in a NL game recently where a player had posted his blind using a single $5 chip. Posting a blind with an oversized chip is common enough, happening frequently when a player finds himself short of smaller denomination chips. In the particular game that @apolloavp played in, the player who had posted his blind using an oversized chip tossed in two additional red chips for a raise when action reached him. Again, this is a very standard play. As a dealer, I would simply announce "Raise" since I long ago became conditioned to not announce the amount of any raise unless a player asked for a specific amount. Had a player asked, however, I would have informed him that the bet stood at $15 - the first red ($5) chip plus the two additional red chips.

In the case of the game where @apolloavp witnessed the rule interpretation, the dealer however limited the raise to only $12. The reasoning behind doing so, apparently, stemmed from the fact that the initial $5 chip represented only $2 and that two additional $5 chips therefore added up to $12. When I first read the initial tweet, like I said before, I assumed that the dealer in that game was inexperienced or that the room where @apolloavp played had instituted some goofy house rule.

@PokerGrump responded with his tweet, essentially pointing out the flaw in that logic. If one follows the reasoning behind limiting the raise to $12, then if a player posts the blind using an oversized chip and then opts to raise when action reaches him, weird things might happen. For example, if the player then tosses two white chips out instead of two additional red chips, instead of raising the pot to $7 as s/he intended s/he has only raised the pot to $4 - the initial red chip represented only the $2 blind and adding two white ($1) chips to the bet therefore adds up to $4 by the flawed logic.

In every room I have ever played in, if a player has posted the blind with an oversized chip and then opts to raise, one of two things happens: s/he thrown out two additional red chips and, knowing that s/he wants to make only a $10 raise, will verbally announce "Make it twelve" or something similar to let the dealer know that s/he does not intend to raise to $15. No verbal announcement, on the other hand, implies that the raise is to $15, the full amount of the three red chips that the player has put into play.

As I mentioned, I experienced a momentary lapse of sanity and played at the IP recently. A similar situation occured where a player posted the blind with a single red chip, tossed in an additional red chip when given the option to raise, and the dealer held the raise to $7 using the same flawed logic. I kept quiet though internally I wanted to scream. If this is truly a Harrah's rule, I find it to be completely asinine. I desperately hope it doesn't catch on and start spreading to other casinos.

More than one person pointed out to me that if the dealer only had made change for the oversized chip, the problem would have been avoided. While technically true, I find that opinion to be equally inane. Making change takes time. Sure, it may not seem like more than a second or two, but through the course of the night, those one or two second intervals can add up. The best option for a dealer is to get the action moving as quickly as possible. I make change when I absolutely need to, which is rarely before a hand is dealt or before action reaches the blind. There are exceptions but I find the game moves smoothest when I only make change after bringing in the bets. I occasionally don't make change until I've put out the flop and started action for the next round of betting. The first priority, for me at least, is always to keep the game moving. If forced to make change prior to pitching cards for the hand, or attempting to make change prior to action reaching the blind - sometimes impossible when short-handed unless I make change before pitching cards - I only slow down the game. Who does that benefit?

Granted, I only have five or so years of dealing experience but I have yet to see this interpretation of the oversized chip being used to post a blind anywhere other than a Harrah's property. I struggle to find any reason to change the interpretation from what has obviously been normally accepted in the poker community for years. Why introduce another point of potential confusion for players, new players especially?

Like I said, I really hope this ridiculousness doesn't spread beyond the rooms where it is currently in use.

Blowing Off Steam

2011-03-08T10:41:00.000-08:00

Any given Monday night, a group of us heads out to partake in some goofy activity - bowling, bingo, bar hopping. OK, the bar hopping part fails to qualify a a goofy activity being the respectable endeavor that it is ;)

Last night we opted for bingo. Before we could play bingo though, there would be poker...

Business continued to be slow so I didn't need to make the drive halfway to California - no work. Instead, Eeyore and I headed out to find a game on the east side of town. The plan relayed to me was to play poker until the 3am bingo session at Arizona Charlies. We convened at Cannery East where we found a $2/4 limit game in progress. Eeyore and I joined the game as we waited for the rest of the group to arrive. I watched the other players hoping to gauge what their reaction would be when a bunch of poker dealers joined their quiet game and started blowing off steam.

I won a pot, lost a pot, and basically hovered around even for a while. Eeyore raised pre-flop one hand and I opted to call with my Q3o simply because I thought it would be fun to someone win against whatever better hand he held. The flop came 8-9-x and I called Eeyore's continuation bet after announcing "I have to call because I have runner-runner possibilities and some book I read somewhere said you should probably not fold a hand that could somehow win the pot." I smiled inwardly at the weird looks from the natives.

The turn brought a Jack. Eeyore checked. I laughingly said "I think that might be one of my runner-runner cards . I had better bet." I tossed in the $4 bet. Eeyore raised me and I called telling him, "I will get there. This dealer likes me. I can tell."

The river was a beautiful ten giving me a Queen-high straight. Eeyore led out and I beat him into the pot with my raise. He hung his head. I laughed. The two "natives" who had come along for the ride both grudgingly folded and Eeyore looked up before saying, "You are the luckiest bastard in the world. I call."

He turned up QT to show he had hit the Queen-high straight on the turn. I somehow rivered the chop. I laughed as the dealer stacked the chips. The first native looked at the second and muttered, "That's ridiculous but what are you gonna do?" The second native glared, saying "I'd like to punch him in the face." I felt my only option was to laugh. I said, "That's not very nice, is it? Don't worry, I'm giving it all back before I leave. We're just killing time and having fun."

One of my coworkers showed and took the seat to my immediate left just in time to straddle my big blind. I gave him a dirty look and said, "If you're going to play that way, I refuse to look at my cards." I raised after five people called the straddle. One asked me, "Did you really not look at your cards?" "No, I didn't," I replied, "but I will when I see what the river is." He simply shook his head. He whispered to the guy on his left, "They must be used to playing on the Strip. Nobody plays like this off the strip." As I called another bet, I asked him where the strip was and if the strip had the same games.

The guy on my right kept staring at me. He finally inquired, "Aren't you a poker dealer?" I nodded as I called the turn bet. He continued, "Why do you keep saying things like you don't know where the strip is and you don't know how to play. You said some book told you to play crappy cards. I don't understand."

The river put four to a flush on the board and the betting was capped before it reached me. One of the natives looked at me and asked if I was going to look at my cards. I shrugged and said I'd look at one but he had to pick which one I looked at. He pointed. I peeked. I looked at the board and then peeked again. I announced, "Wrong color!" and I mucked. My coworker ended up losing, getting felted that hand. He rebought. One of the natives also went broke that hand which allowed another coworker into the game. She, of course, immediately straddled the big blind ;)

Finally, time came to leave the game and go play bingo. I announced it was my last hand and that I intended to go broke. I told the kid in the 5-seat that he could decide whether or not I looked. He smartly said "No look" so I didn't. I ended the hand with $8 which I immediately gave to the dealer. The guy to my right who didn't understand why I kept saying I didn't know how to play won the final pot. One of the other natives chimed in, "Good. It's good to see a regular win a big pot."

I left wondering why you would want to run off a group of people hell-bent on giving away as much money as possible in the shortest time possible. Between the four of us that got into the game, we donated over $400 to the natives and had a blast doing it. Someone should tell the natives they shouldn't tap the glass!

Bingo came next. Being fueled with adult beverages by that point, our group proved to be a little louder than most bingo players. One lady even came over to inform us that being loud was inconsiderate to the other players. We quieted down somewhat but we found ourselves unable to reach the library-like hush that everyone else in the room seemed to prefer. The loudest in our group, the catalyst for us being shooshed by the regulars, somehow won a $250 card. Everyone laughed when she tipped the payout clerk 10% and then tipped 10% to the lady who shooshed us after apologizing for our loudness.

I, of course, failed to win a single bingo card. Somebody said the "C" word and we reconvened at the Craps table. Dismayed to find it closed, we asked them to open it for us. The floor checked his roster and apologized for not being able to due to only having a single dealer on the clock who knew the game. Seeing us about to leave, one of the dealers in the pit told us to wait and took off running. He returned with another dealer in tow, a dealer who had been just about to clock out for the end of his shift but gladly stayed to work overtime after hearing that a bunch of dealer wanted to shoot dice.

After an hour of Craps, the dealers had made a substantial sum and all of us were flat broke. We finally called it a night. I suggested a mixed game next week - Stud, Razz, and Stud High-Low (no goofy eights or better, no qualifier). I doubt we manage to get that going but I can hope...

The Game That Wasn't

2011-03-07T07:59:00.000-08:00

The Antagonist walked up to the poker table and tossed two $5k chips on the felt and asked, "Who wants to flip for a thousand?" An online pro who lives in Vegas and happened to be playing in the game never hesitated before announcing, "I will." Having seen shows similar to this before, I knew the pro meant what he said. I vaguely recognized the antagonist, likely from dealing to him somewhere in town before, but he came across as only wanting to brag that he had $10k on him. He seemed to me like the sort of person who was all show.

I waited to see how this episode of the show would play out...

The Antagonist started with "Let's do it, then" and the pro shrugged before replying, "Hold on a few. I have to cash out so we can do it. I can't take chips off the table."

"What, you don't have it? You don't even have a grand in your pocket?"
"Not tonight, I'm just out screwing around with some friends. I have $1500 in the game. I'll cash out before my blind and we can flip for it all if you want."
"I can't believe you want to pose like you can afford to flip for a grand and you don't even have any money."

The Antagonist then started addressing the table, basically insinuating the pro was broke, couldn't afford to play the games that the Antagonist could play, etc. I felt like things were about to get out of hand. I glanced at the floor to see how this might be handled.

Did I mention that I had yet to even clock in? I like a little excitement at the beginning of a shift! ;)

The conversation deteriorated with every exchange. The Antagonist continued to insult the pro. The pro became increasingly agitated. I know the pro well enough to know that in his circle he is fairly high up the pecking order. He enjoys his status among his friends. He likes being recognized for his accomplishments. Most of all, he bristles when his credibility is questioned. Having someone suggest he can't afford to gamble for a measly (to him) sum such as $1k fit that bill perfectly.

As the conversation went south, the pair approached the podium. They requested a private table. They negotiated stakes before settling on buying in for $10k each and playing NL Hold'em with $5-10 blinds. The pro, not having the funds on him, asked for some time to round the up. His friends all agreed to lend him whatever amounts they had, confident in his abilities to win the proposed match. It proved not enough for the Antagonist. He continued to accuse the pro of "jerking his chain." He tossed a brick of $100 bills on the counter beside the $5k chips he brandished earlier and, ignoring the pro, told the floor to hold onto the money and open a game whenever a serious opponent happened to show up.

Eventually, a bigger challenge issued, the pro drove home and returned with $20k. By then, we found ourselves unable to spread the game due to lack of a dealer, but the banter continued. People dialed phones and talked to other poker rooms, searching for a place to host the $20k Freeze-out with $10-20 blinds. They finally found a room on the Strip where they could play. It seemed like the match might be possible. Having been watching the body language of the antagonist, I harbored doubts. He looked to me like a man who had just had someone call his bluff.

After much posturing and chest-thumping, security escorted the Antagonist upstairs to his room and shuttled the pro and his group out to a taxi. They shouted back and forth as they were led through the casino, the pro offering to play at any stakes any time, and the antagonist suggesting he would meet the pro on the Strip in half an hour. The pro and his group played a couple hours on the Strip in the room where the antagonist agreed to meet them but, of course, the antagonist never showed up.

The rest of my night proved far less eventful ;)

Cash Games

2011-03-02T06:43:00.001-08:00

He walked up to the podium and glanced around with the telltale look that screamed "I've never been in a casino before." He skirted the podium and stood staring at the poker tables. Eventually, he walked back up to join the line of people at the podium adding their names to the waiting lists. He stared at the list board while he waited, lips moving so slightly as he apparently tried to explain to himself what was going on.

Finally, he reached the podium...

I glanced up and asked if I could be of assistance.

"How do I sign up for poker?"
"What game would you like to play?"
"Hold'em. Texas Hold'em."

I quickly realized that this was likely his first experience in a real poker room. I attempted to outline the options available to him. "We have $2/4 limit, $4/8 limit, and we have $1/2 No-Limit. The $2/4 game is the lowest level game we offer while the $1/2 game is currently the biggest game being spread. The $2/4 and $4/8 games are limit games, by which I mean they have structured limits to the betting such that you can only bet certain amounts at certain times whereas the $1/2 game is $1 and $2 blinds after which you can bet any amount you would like up to the size of your stack. Which level would you like to play?"

His only reaction was a deer in the headlights stare. I expanded, "The limit games, the $2/4 and $4/8, are smaller games. The $1/2 game is the closest thing you will find to what you have likely seen on TV or played in home games. There is no limit to the betting in the $1/2 game whereas the limit games place a cap on each round of betting."

"I want the $1/2 game," he replied. I nodded and explained that he could buy in for any amount from $100 up to $300. At this point, he fished into his pocket and pulled out a ball of cash. By ball, I mean to say that all of his money was crumbled up into an unwieldy mess loosely shaped like a ball that he proceeded to splay across the counter in an effort to ascertain how much money he actually had.

"What do most people buy in for," he asked as he sifted through his pile of mostly $1 bills. "$200 is the average," I replied. He stopped sifting, stared for a few moments at the counter, glanced up at me with a wide-eyed look and asked incredulously, "Dollars?!?"

After I further explained the buyin structures for the games, he exasperatedly asked me, "Don't you have any cash games?"

I admit to not being sure how to respond. I paused. I finally simply stated the fact, "These are all cash games, sir. We have no tournaments tonight."

"You guys sure do things differently than where I play," he mumbled. I momentarily thought of asking where he played but then remembered that I usually don't want to know the answer and kept quiet. After counting up his money, he finally opted to try the $2/4 game. By the time I reached that table in my dealing rotation, he had been doing shots for a few hours and was smashed. He repeatedly thanked me for letting him play "$2/4, the greatest Texas Hold'em game ever."

No problem, sir.

==============================

The foot is slowly healing. I walk without a cane now, even managing to do an hour on the treadmill yesterday. It still hurts but not as bad. I ordered new hiking boots as I recently learned that my feet problems are all due to the fact that my feet are as wide as they are long. OK, that might be a slight exaggeration but when the podiatrist chimes in with "you have some really wide feet" you know you might need better shoes.

Apparently buying shoes marked as "wide" simply isn't enough. After going and getting measured at a reputable place, I ended up with shoes in a 6E width. Fun.

Side note: First tried The Walking Company at the District in Henderson. The lady working immediately said she didn't want to waste my time, that she had some wide widths but nothing she thought I would be happy with and she didn't want me to try on shoes for no reason. She suggested a place she knew well that catered to people with wide feet. Best customer service I've had for a while.

Along the same lines, I ordered a new set of hiking boots. Hopefully they arrive just about the same time my foot is healed enough I can start hiking again.

==============================

Hiking. As mentioned previously (and undoubtedly numerous times over the next three months), we hike rim-to-rim through the Grand Canyon this summer. We scored six permits and set about finding people to join us. Monkey Boy got one of the day-shift dealers from work to join us. I tapped my former business partner from back east and his father. Our group reached five and I honestly thought it would stay at five.

I ordered a video about backpacking through the Grand Canyon. I found nothing ground-breaking in the video but it did have some good tips I'll be making use of. I watched the video a second time, this time joined by the wife. The scenery in the video is breathtaking, and the cast of people the film-maker used for the hike were older. About a third of the way through the video, the wife glances over at me and asks, "You have one more open spot for this trip, right?"

I kept typing on the laptop, noting on my equipment list a couple things to buy that were mentioned in the video, and muttered a quick "Yep" without even looking up. She fell quiet for a few minutes before continuing, "It's kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing, right?"

Now I looked up, sensing that earth-shattering news might be forthcoming. "I think so," I answered and waited for her response.

"I think I'd have to be crazy to go," she said, "but I also think I'd have to be even crazier to pass it up."

I said nothing and waited to see if there was more. "I mean, it's the Grand Canyon, right?"

"I want to go with you. Is that OK?"

Honestly the last words I expected to hear. She meant it, though. She requested the time off work. She informed her trainer, who promised to have her ready by then (I think she's physically ready now). She went to REI and we geared her up.

Our party is complete. Six of us descend into the canyon in 104 days.

==============================

Now if I can just get my foot healed in time to start climbing a few big hills I'll be much happier.

Noodles

2011-02-23T06:37:00.000-08:00

I realized it has been a very long while since I posted a restaurant review. Back when I was fat and happy - these days, I find myself more happy and less fat - the wife and I attempted to find a new restaurant every week. Of course, that proved fairly easy when we were new to the valley but we've been here seemingly forever now. We eat healthier, trying to avoid as much processed food as possible, so we eat out far less than we once did. Still, occasionally we happen across a restaurant we have never been to before.

Yesterday provided one such occasion, a restaurant worth talking about...

I craved noodles. Living in Las Vegas, I knew I should have little trouble finding an authentic noodle shop. After all, the valley boasts a large population descended from those on the pacific rim. I started looking asking around for recommendations on the best noodle shop in town. After many suggestions, I opted to check out a small noodle joint called Monta Noodle House on the edge of Chinatown.

We arrived shortly before noon, which turned out to be ideal. Entering the glass door, the employees called out a greeting in Japanese as we looked around. We found ourselves in a smallish room with five four-top tables and a counter wrapping around the kitchen area. The required sign on the door listed the maximum capacity for the room at 28. Before even sitting, I felt confident I had found my noodle shop. I love small, hole-in-the-wall, Mom & Pop food joints and this seemed to fit that description right away.

We snagged the only available table and were quickly approached by our smiling waitress. She delivered menus and asked if we'd like a tea or something else to drink. The wife asked for Oolong Tea and I opted for the Asahi offered on tap. I was impressed that Monta offered Calpis (on the menu, it is listed as the Americanized word Calpico), a drink I have only ever found in truly Japanese restaurants. As I glanced around the restaurant, I liked that I saw a predominantly Asian clientele. It reminded me of a story. A customer of mine, of Chinese descent, owns a Chinese restaurant on the west side of town. Another customer of mine, also Chinese, asked about her restaurant. She politely told him that he likely wouldn't enjoy it, that Chinese patrons rarely visit her restaurant, that even though she offers very good food that the Chinese consider it too Americanized and choose to eat at other restaurants. The fact that Monta's patrons, other than the wife and myself, all appeared Asian led me to believe I might be about to enjoy some authentic Ramen.

The drinks arrived, the wife's Oolong Tea in a 12-oz can accompanied with a glass of ice and my beer well-poured in an 8-oz pilsner glass. The menu takes little time to peruse. It consists of only three main dishes, all types of Ramen - Tonkotsu, Shoyu, and Miso. Tempted by the Tonkotsu, which I remembered fondly from my time in Hawaii, I instead ordered the lighter Shoyu Ramen, Kaedama (extra noodles), and Gyoza for us to share. The wife ordered the same Ramen dish. As we waited for our food, we watched first the counter around the kitchen fill and then a small crowd start to gather on the sidewalk outside, more signs that Monta might be worth the effort.

The food arrived quickly, the soup presented in customary 9-1/2 inch bowls with traditional toppings of menma (marinated bamboo shoots), green onions, Chasu (slices of roasted pork), and bean sprouts. The Kaedama arrived in separate bowls. The Gyoza - think of it as Japanese pot-stickers - adorned a small rectangle plate placed between us. Stuffed with pork and light veggies, the wrapper sported the telltale marks from their time spent on the grill. The taste matched the appearance - wonderful. Very light, wrappers slightly chewy but crisp at the same time, filling perfectly seasoned, the Gyoza proved well worth the $5.45 price.

Our first taste of the Ramen delighted as well. At $6.25 for a bowl, it might seem pricey but the flavors are wonderful. The extra noodles we ended up putting into to-go containers as we found there to be plenty of noodles in the base dish. Toppings are ala carte, most costing $1.25 or so. All in all, we found it to be a good value - with tip, we spent less than $35 and that included a beer. We could have saved $5 by forgoing the Kaedama, and the Gyoza isn't necessary for a diner to feel full, so we could have saved even more. The great service and wonderful food made for a good experience and we will definitely be going back. Next on the list to try is the Tonkotsu Ramen with Nitamago (hard boiled egg) on top!

Holiday

2011-02-22T04:32:00.000-08:00

If only every weekend were a three-day holiday weekend. Of course, if every weekend covered three days, the novelty ceases to exist and Vegas sees normal business levels. I suppose I should simply be thankful that the occasional three-day weekend exists. This particular three-day weekend proved busy for the valley, as it always seems to do. I surmise this to be the case because it is the first three-day weekend of the year each year where the weather stands a good chance to be decent in Vegas. Good weather in Vegas coupled with a three-day weekend draws a crowd. (For the record, the first three-day weekend each year is MLK day, but being in January it normally feels a bit cold here in the valley).

Even a certain casino halfway to California fared well this weekend...

I nearly felt like it was this time last year. Two days running, I worked a full eight hours. I found myself completely exhausted working eight hour shifts after normally averaging two or three hours. I chalk that up to more proof of my advancing age.

The games we held through the night resembled the games we used to have when the action players such as the Restaurateur, the Architect, and the Russian used to regularly play in our room. I still talk to the Restaurateur often. I see him at the Blackjack tables frequently. Where once he used poker to blow off steam after his restaurant closed for the night, he now plays against the house instead. He stops by to say hi occasionally but he no longer tries his hand at the poker table - a loss for everyone involved, in my opinion.

The Architect also rarely plays any more. I hear stories of him playing around town - he apparently likes to play at the Palms quite a bit - and he joins our game occasionally but he never goes deep like he once did. Known to buy in numerous times, to be stuck large four-digit amounts often, these days he might rebuy once. Even that event seems rare. Not nearly as brash as he once came across, his comments that once were snarky now come across with far less bite.

The Russian still plays but only in spurts. When in the game, the game can be juicy. He still plays a very unpredictable game, still loves to toss chips into the pot, still gives action for the sake of giving action, and I enjoy dealing to him. The same cannot be said of my coworkers as it seems I may be the only person in the room who gets along with him, but I find him to be an interesting person. Unfortunately, these days he might play for three or four days straight and then not play for three or four weeks. He also more frequently sits at the $4/8 game these days as opposed to the NL game, a loss to the NL game to be sure.

As I mentioned, though, this weekend almost felt as if the action players had returned. Three nights in a row, I found myself dealing to fairly deep $1-2 games, the deep stacks a result of one or two individuals being stuck in the high four-digit range. A couple of our regular action players - The Waiter, I remember, and The Queen's Man, The Deadhead - played all weekend. I see new faces in our games as well, every day it seems, as a result of our new owner driving business from their riverboats to our hotel. The games jumped all weekend.

Friday night, table 6, one of those new faces amassed a stack near the $2k range in short order. He loved sliding random-sized piles of chips across the line with a smile. If he played a hand, he raised. 63 offsuit merited the same treatment as pocket Queens. He put more than a few of the rocks on tilt but he drew interest from the other games. Even a couple limit players opted to move over for a chance at getting in on the action...and hopefully putting a dent in his stack. The game imploded in short order, however, when the $2k stack went from $2k to $0 in a matter of thirty minutes.

The next night, that new face failed to appear but I found The Waiter, The Deadhead, The Queen's Man, and a different new face - also an action player - seated at the same game. I only dealt that game one time, unfortunately, but in that thirty minutes I never pushed a pot less than $300. I fail to remember a time since July where I have dealt a game that juicy. Prior to July, those games were common - I may even have come to take them for granted. These days they are fewer and farther between so I enjoy getting to deal them. Being the action junkie I am, I like dealing the games where the chips are moving around the table. I get my action fix vicariously. At the very least, I avoid being bored.

Now, however, the weekend ends. I look forward to March, anticipating good things, but after that I must wait until the end of May for the next three-day weekend. By then, I imagine I will be so intoxicated by the fact that I will be hiking the Grand Canyon just a few short days later that I might fail to notice that particular holiday.

Speaking of the Grand Canyon, one last note. My training sessions screeched to a halt this week thanks to a growth of something on my foot. A visit to the podiatrist hopefully cured that but I feel the cure may be worse than the disease. I felt nothing as he did whatever he did - I didn't watch, more content to play with my phone than pay attention to his doctoring. I felt nothing as I left the office and joined the wife for some Ramen at a noodle house someone mentioned on Twitter when I posted a request for noodle house referrals. I still felt nothing as we left the restaurant and drove home.

For the record, I highly recommend the Monta Noodle House, as do many people on Yelp. If you go, get there early. We arrived just before noon and got the last of the five tables in the restaurant. At 12:30, when we left, there stood no less than twenty people on the sidewalk waiting to get in! In all honesty, I also would stand on the sidewalk and wait to get it. It was that good.

Once home, though, I stepped out of the car and thought I might go straight to my knees. Any pressure on that foot caused amazing pain. It worsened overnight, hence me not working this morning as I now barely make it from the bed to the sink to refill my water bottle. The doctor needn't have warned me not to go hiking for a couple days - I can't even walk! Once again, I suck down Lortab like it's candy and pray for the pain to disappear. Hydrocodone + me = misery.

Thus, it appears there will be no hiking this week, along with no running, no circuit training, no calisthenics....no anything that I normally do. I wager I will be a very cranky person by the time my weekend is over. At least I luckily set this appointment at the end of my workweek and provided myself a couple days to recover. In the meantime, I leave you with this:

You might remember I entered a contest to hopefully land a writing gig for Backpacker magazine. The editor announced the winner a few days back. Needless to say, it wasn't me as there was no rejoicing on these pages. After seeing the winning entry, I understand why I wasn't chosen. I failed to fully comprehend the instructions for entering. I believed an essay was the entry being asked for when, in actuality, the instructions asked for an essay or a web site or a multimedia presentation - meh. I guess my reading comprehension skills lapsed for a while.

At any rate, for those interested, here is the winning entry. I hope she enjoys her hike. It sounds like a hike I would enjoy. In fact, I added it to my list of must-do hikes.

That's it, folks. I sense the edges of my consciousness slipping away thanks to the horribleness of the Lortab so I shall fluff my pillow and fall back asleep. G'nite!

Papa's got a brand new bag

2011-02-17T22:22:00.001-08:00

Last year, I worked Valentine's Day. Nothing interesting happened but I did get to hear a few stories of holiday ridiculousness. This year, I intended to work but apparently nobody wanted to play. The room being slow, I stayed home. I suppose even 4-digit payouts for straight flushes or better in hearts is not enough to overcome the fact that this year's Hallmark Holiday landed on a weekday, likely keeping many people at home or providing only enough time to take the significant other to eat.

The week improved significantly on Tuesday...

Monday, I headed out with Monkey Boy to climb Turtlehead Peak. Someone told us that it was a good starting point for training to get out of the Grand Canyon, that the climb out would feel about the same as Turtlehead but four times longer. I threw the dumbbells into the pack and we climbed.

The new backpack arrived. Wednesday, I broke down and made the trip to REI. Stocked with enough gear for a 4-day trip across the desert, I started fitting things into the pack. I need to work some more on exactly how best to pack all this stuff, but with 40-lb of gear crammed into and strapped onto the new pack, I decided it needed an initial test run. Having already climbed something steep this week, I thought I'd go for distance this time. Since each day of our hike will be seven miles or so, I opted for the nearly seven mile loop around White Rock Hill.

The backpack held up well, proved more comfortable than my old pack, and made getting to things I needed fairly easy. First impressions are good. The guys at F-stop Gear make a nice product.

The roomies have decided that both the wife and I have lost our minds. I think she might be crazier than me, though ;)

==============================

Time to run. Work calls. Maybe something interesting will happen and I'll have a poker story by the end of my week. Maybe I'll work more than ten hours - that would be an interesting change.

Hello, Spring

2011-02-12T15:13:00.001-08:00

This year shapes up to be fairly busy. It looks like I will get to go on at least two multi-day backpacking trips this year, three if I manage to be chosen for the Backpacker magazine gig - they say they will announce the winner on Feb 15 so at least I will be able to stop wondering about it after then.

I received the news of the first hike during the Super Bowl, which we watched at a different venue for the first time since moving to Vegas...

Before this year, we watched every Super Bowl at a small neighborhood bar not far from UNLV. That bar, coincidentally, is a Green Bay Packers bar. That fact caused issues this year, issues that became apparent before we even pulled into the parking lot. A large RV sat parked in front of the entrance to the bar, every parking space near the bar - and then some - occupied, green and yellow banners and flags flying above the RV and bar, people milling about wearing green and yellow. The bar's proprietors went all out this year, starting with a tailgate party before the game. We obviously weren't getting in that bar this year.

We finally ended up at Hooter's in Sunset Station which proved far less crowded. I made my share of dumb prop bets once again because that's what I do for the Super Bowl. After paying for food and drinks and cashing my winning tickets, though, I ended the day losing a measly $3 - great year!

Some time near the start of the second quarter, Monkey Boy texted me. He sent me a text because he decided not to join us for this year's game even though he had previously committed - not holding a grudge or anything ;)

At any rate, the text was simple: "We got the permits"

I nearly jumped out of my seat. After three years of faxing a permit request every month of the hiking season, this year I enlisted Monkey Boy to also fax a request so as to double our chances of winning the permit lottery. Our ploy worked and we now hold six permits to hike the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim this June. There have been very few events I have ever been this excited about, though to hear the wife tell it nobody would be able to tell I was excited with my Vulcan-like lack of emotional display. Whatever - I'm hiking the Grand Canyon this year :)

To that end, I knew I needed to start getting in shape. I hiked twice this past week - Redstone Peaks at Lake Mead and La Madre Springs at Red Rock. I hope to hike at least twice a week between now and June, if not more often. I started loading up the pack with more weight to get accustomed to what I will likely be carrying for that trip. I started planning, making shopping lists, to-do lists, etc. June is both too far away and too close.

I ordered a new backpack. I waffled between the Contrejour 40 from Clik Elite and the Tilopa BC from F-stop Gear before finally deciding on the Tilopa BC. The biggest asset the Contrejour line possesses is the ability to get at the camera from the side of the pack which I can see coming in handy on many of the day hikes I take but this pack is intended for my longer trips. I liked the versatility of the Tilopa pack, the slightly larger capacity, the color (as if that's really important), and the helpful interaction I experienced with the F-stop crew over Twitter. I think I made a good choice and I feel good about my ability to send the pack back if it shows up and it's not quite what I expected, though I doubt that will be a problem.

On the job front, things still move at a glacial pace. I currently have six outstanding job applications including two at retail outlets - if you can call REI a retail outlet. After promising movement from one company that found me with a face-to-face interview followed by a phone interview with a C-level executive, nothing else happened. During both interviews, I learned they had not yet staffed even the management positions for one of their locations so perhaps I will still yet get a call from them when that location moves further along. I stopped holding out hope, though.

Of course, that means no poker stories for me to relate. When I work only a dozen hours a week, little happens that is worth writing about. Since I abhor sitting at a poker table to play the game, that also precludes any poker-y type stuff from happening for me to relate. I did apply at a new poker room that may or may not be opening next month but so did about thirty people I know so I hold little hope of any movement there either. We'll see.

Tonight, though, is basketball. Headed to the UNLV game here in about fifteen minutes so it's time to shove off. Go Rebels!

Slowing down

2011-01-28T09:58:00.000-08:00

Once the official announcement came that the recession was over, the powers that be consulted the analysts and everybody rejoiced when they estimated the Vegas locals market would rebound in 18-24 months. I doubted.

Fast forward to the staff meeting the other day and we learn that the powers that be have again consulted with the analysts. This time around, rejoicing seems unwise as they have recalculated and now estimate that the Vegas locals market should rebound...in about 48-60 months.

Do they have any idea how old I will be in 60 months???

Business slowed to a trickle starting around last July. Speculation ran rampant that all of our regulars had moved on to other properties. Those rumors seem unfounded. Our regulars simply don't play any more. On any given night I leave work early and become curious, I drive around and check out the competition. They do no better than we do. The business goes wherever the best promotion - in the customers' eyes - is at that moment, and when there are no strong promotions, they disperse fairly evenly across the properties.

I shall have starved if I wait five flippin' years for the market to come back. Still, I do believe I work at the casino with the most upside potential so I hesitate to leave. Our new owners, flush with cash, paid for the debt they bought without taking on any debt. Our casino is one of few, if not the only, to truly be debt free. The parent company, still flush with cash, plans on building a second tower, an entertainment center, etc. Basically, they plan to finish the resort as the original owners intended. Feasibility studies are afoot. Plans are being made. We are the only resort in town, so I've been told, actually expanding in this crappy market.

All that sounds great but hundreds more slot players doesn't necessarily equate to more poker players or more time I spend in the box. I started looking for something else, particularly something in the Race & Sports side of the business. Very good reasons exist for me to do so, reasons I don't feel like bothering to talk about, but I believe expanding into the book industry to be the next logical step. It's all about contingencies.

I tired of being told I was over qualified to be a ticket writer so I opted for a different approach when I applied for my most recent ticket writer position. Instead of simply completing the application and enduring the tedious hiring process casinos insist on using, I penned a few (OK, twelve, to be precise) paragraphs detailing my past experiences in other industries and how I believe a sports book might abuse use those experiences to help grow their business. I fired off an email to the HR department with the cover letter and a resume.

Unlike previous attempts at landing a ticket writing gig, I received a response within hours. I interviewed the next day I had free. I now wait for the COO of the company to call me for my second interview as the HR person deemed me a good fit for some type of position within their company. We shall see what happens, but I feel fairly good about the way things are going so far.

For now, I keep driving my thirty-plus minute commute to work two or three hours before driving back home. Averaging ten hours a week means I have plenty of free time but the season sucks for hiking. Thirty-degree weather and pitch black night isn't all that inviting. Still, the weather is starting to break and I've started planning a rim-to-rim hike for the Grand Canyon on the off chance I actually win the permit lottery one of these days. Been trying every month for nearly two years. Surely, odds say I have to be awarded permits sooner or later, right?

Four days of haze

2011-01-20T07:07:00.000-08:00

A couple years ago, one of my rear molars fractured. There being no pain, I opted to do the same thing I believe the majority of people would do. I ignored it. A while later, another chunk of enamel loosened itself from the tooth. Eating peanut M&Ms at the time, I remember thinking, "Hey, that's too crunchy to be a peanut!"

By this point, poking my tongue into the cave that had formed in the tooth, my brain told me I had to be missing at least half the tooth. My brain apparently forms bad opinions as the dentist who I finally went to see told me I was only missing perhaps an eighth (I swear it took me seven times to spell that word. Old age is fun. End of digression) of the tooth. He also informed me that said tooth was the least of my worries as there were other teeth in more dire need of attention.

In the end, of course, I did nothing. The other teeth he pointed out gave me no trouble, no pain, and I had a professional's opinion that the fractured tooth wasn't as bad as I thought it was.

Everything went swimmingly until the day we opted to introduce our roomie to the jerky store downtown...

Eeyore obsesses over jerky. Taking him to the jerky store is akin to taking your four year old to Toys R Us and telling them money is no object. We returned home with at least a half dozen bags of jerky.

I decided to try a piece of jerky from a bag the wife had purchased. Tasty! As I was gnawing my way through the toughened meat, a piece wedged itself into the cave of that tooth I had done nothing with for the previous six years. I nearly dropped to the floor in agony. After prying the errant piece of jerky from between the tooth and gums, I sat and waited for the waves of pain to subside.

Eventually, I realized that I might have done a bit of damage to the tooth and I should see a dentist. Unfortunately, that realization failed to hit me until on a Saturday. My refusal to pay the highway robbery rates that dentists in this valley charge led me to accepting I would have to wait until Monday before seeking relief. I dumped the bottle of Lortab onto the counter and started counting to make sure I might have enough to survive until Monday.

What started as a dull annoying ache grew ever so quickly into a throbbing, nauseating pain. On Friday, I took a Lortab every 8 hours just like the prescription said. Of course, that prescription had nothing to do with dental pain, but I heeded its advice anyway. By the wee hours of Sunday morning, I was taking a Lortab every 3-4 hours and doing absolutely nothing.

Unable to go to work, I thought I might do some work on my book. Unable to find the focus necessary to get words from brain to paper, I fired up the tools necessary to edit a few photographs I wanted to make something of. Again I found that a brain addled with hydrocodone is insufficiently clear to do anything useful. I allowed myself to be taken advantage of, and I played games on the Wii with the wife - she won.

By Monday morning, I began to worry about my liver. Acetaminophen does vile things to a person's liver and at 500mg a pill, I calculated I had consumed far too much of that drug for a normal person. Being the only option for me to get the opiate pain reliever that was also in those pills, I felt I had no choice. The pain really was unbearable.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the dental college on Monday morning, my phone rang. I answered it only to have my roomie inform me that Monday was a holiday. A quick glance at the empty parking lot confirmed his suspicion that I might be unable to see a dentist that day. I rode home calculating the number of Lortabs I might have to take to survive another 24 hours.

Tuesday, I finally sat in the dentist's chair. After some x-rays and a cursory glance inside my mouth, he asked me if I wanted him to pull the tooth. Confirming it was my only option, I nearly begged for him to get started. The tooth, however, seemed unwilling to cooperate. I suppose if I had been rooted somewhere for forty years, I might be less than willing to give up my spot as well.

The dental student pulled and tugged. Whenever I winced, he provided another shot of Novacaine. By the time that tooth came out, I believe I had enough anesthesia coursing through my mouth to bring down a horse. Even after all that anesthesia, I still felt stabs of something that wasn't quite pain but wasn't really comfortable either. The dental student called for the doctor.

The doctor, experienced as he was, chose to ignore my winces of pain and proceeded to twist and apply such pressure to the tooth that I became convinced my jaw would be permanently located. At one point, both my feet were on the chair and my back arched in some type of evil calisthenics. The dental student did his best to stabilize my jaw while repeatedly lying to me telling me the tooth was almost out.

Finally, I heard an ear-shattering crack and the doctor held up a pair of evil looking forceps that were grasping...half a tooth! I shuddered. He simply shrugged and grabbed a saw. He explained that they were cutting the rest of the tooth into four parts so that it would be easier to remove. I stopped listening and braced myself for the return of the twisting and jaw-dislocating exercises sure to come.

Thankfully, the rest of the tooth came out with minimal effort after being sawed into four pieces. Sure, there was poking, prodding, and twisting but nothing like that initial salvo I had survived.

As the doctor walked off, the student looked down and smiled. "I'm glad I went to get the doctor so he could be the bad guy on that one." I might have smiled had my jaw not been wedged open by some torture device designed to make sure I couldn't bite anyone's fingers off. Honestly, I no longer cared how it came out. It was out. I felt no more pain. Best of all, there would be no more Lortab.

I can only hope that next time I have dental issues, they happen on a Monday and I can get to the dentist in a more timely manner. I suppose the $60 I paid to have the tooth removed somewhat makes up for the four days of haziness I endured waiting for the school to be open. It far beats the hundreds I would have paid at one of the dentist's here in the valley.

Time to get back to working on the book. I have an editor who will be taking a look at it mid-February. I need to get it wrapped up. I still have a couple chapters to finish rewriting before I'm ready to pass it along.

******************************

Completely unrelated: anyone hear anything about the Trop and it's poker room that is supposedly opening soon?

Two weeks in

2011-01-13T06:12:00.000-08:00

The first two weeks of the new year are in the bag. I'd have to classify them as less than stellar, just like nearly every week since last July. I find it very difficult to come up with things to write about when I only work 10-15 hours a week. Forcing myself to go play seems to be an exercise in futility as well. I end up playing for a couple weeks before realizing, once again, how much I hate playing.

Winning doesn't even help change that...

Since I decided I would start to play for a living again, over two months ago, I've played a total of 36 hours. Over the course of that 36 hours, my average rate was $67 an hour. A decent living but not at the expense of my sanity. I need something else.

I tried, and continue to try, to land a job as a writer at a sports book. I've had two face-to-face interviews and one phone interview. Every one ended the same, with the interviewer saying, "You're overqualified for this job."

If you want to be technical about it, I'm overqualified to deal poker as well. In Vegas, that line doesn't mean that I have too many skills to be hired. That line more likely means that they are looking for someone with a little less experience, someone who they can mold into whatever type of employee they need.

A ton of ideas for writing bounce around my head and I occasionally do some research into how I might make some money writing for someone. I went so far as to sign up with an agency that provides leads for freelance writers. I even applied for a couple online writing positions, one of which lead to an interview. I should put more effort into looking but, like everything else, I lose interest too quickly to gain any traction. There's always another shiny ball to distract me ;)

I did get to deal an enjoyable game the other morning during my single hour of work for the day. I walked into the room and glanced about in an effort to quantify the potential for the evening, something I do every night. As I scanned the table nearest the podium, I counted five or six poker pros and a couple lively locals arranged around the table. The level of excitement from that table told me I would have a great time if that game lasted long enough for me to deal it.

Not surprising, really, as I always have a great time when that group comes in to blow off steam. Six or seven months ago, I opened a game for this group and their dates when they showed up wanting to play. Before I had the lid on the table unlocked, one person announced he was all in and two others called. The first pot on that table proved to be a $1300+ pot. A few hands in, seat 8 inquires of seat 4, "How deep are you wanting to go tonight?" Seat 4, gave the sincere reply, "I've got about $12k I'm willing to play in this game."

The same thing happens all the time. Even if only one or two of them show, they stir up the action in whatever game they sit in. The most recent game, the one I walked into the other morning, proved no different. My first hand at that table was a $700 pot, played completely in the blind by one of the pros. The next hand, the 1-seat and the 7-seat compare stacks as I shuffled and found they both sat behind nearly $2k. The 1-seat inquired of the 7-seat, "Do you want to flip for half? Run it out and see what happens?" Of course, the 7-seat immediately agrees.

The rest of the table sat out as I dealt only those two in. I ran out the board and sat back to enjoy the show. The 7-seat rolls over a 4. The 1-seat peeks at his hole cards, shakes his head, and starts laughing. "You're good," he says and waits for the 7-seat to roll over his second card. The 7-seat laughs, peeks at his second card, and says, "I doubt it."

The 1-seat peeks again and restates, "Seriously, you're good." He pauses, looks at the board, and then adds, "Unless you have four-deuce or something like that." The 7-seat tosses his unrevealed card to the 1-seat and starts counting out ten stacks of red chips. Everyone starts laughing. After I push the $1k from the 7-seat to the 1-seat, the 1-seat rolls over the deuce that had been the 7-seat's other card. The winning hand? Eight-Four, the eight played. As someone from Iowa likes to say, "Hilarity ensued."

I made more money dealing that thirty minutes than I had made in the three previous nights combined. More importantly, I had more fun in that thirty minutes than I had had in a few months. Other dealers complain that these guys don't tip. I know why that is, and I could - maybe should - write something up about it. It all boils down to letting the players have a good time without letting things get too out of hand.

At any rate, I suppose it's time for me to start looking at the casino employment sites once again...at least until something comes along to pique my interest and cause a diversion ;)

The Year In Pictures

2010-12-31T07:00:00.000-08:00

My first attempt at posting one photo every day for a year lasted seventy-seven days before I failed. For my second attempt, however, I made it much farther. I actually completed a project! For most of you, this is likely no big thing. For me, to actually finish something...let's just say it very well might be a first for me.

I finished the project this morning. The 365^th photo posted at 4:55 this morning. I find I have mixed feelings over that - a desire to keep posting one a day conflicts with a desire to simply post a batch whenever I happen to take/edit them. I honestly don't know which way I will go.

While I think about it, however, here are links to a few of my favorites from the past year:

Death Valley:

Badwater Reflection

Sunbaked

The rest of the Death Valley photos

Desert National Wildlife Refuge

Snowy Glade

Rainy Desert

The rest of the DNWR photos

Fall in Vegas:

Patio In Fall

Inside the Courtyard Gate

Friends:

Conversation in the Sun

Conversation in the Desert

Picking Winners

Ghost Towns:

Peaks and Valleys

Main Street

The rest of the Ghost Town photos

Grand Canyon:

Kolb Studio View

The rest of the Grand Canyon photos

Lake Mead:

Lake Mead Pier

Boulder Beach at Dawn

Spotlight

The rest of the Lake Mead photos

Mt. Charleston:

Fall Mountain Morning

Golden Sun

The rest of the Mt Charleston photos

Rainbow Canyon:

Train and Trestle

Wild Grape Hillside

The rest of the Rainbow Canyon photos

Red Rock:

Winter on Rainbow Mountain

Lone Tree

Double Splash

Tree and Moon at Midday

The rest of the Red Rock photos

San Diego

Cold Walk

Through The Turn

The rest of the San Diego photos

Spring Mountain Ranch State Park

Yellow Tree

Golden Pond

The rest of the Spring Mountain Ranch State Park photos

Slot Canyons

Close Quarters

Antelope Canyon Light Beams

Arizona Slot Canyon

The rest of the Slot Canyon photos

Sunlight

Sunrise Over Lake Mead Narrows

Burning Sky

Pacific Sun

The rest of the Sunlight photos

Utah

Navajo Lake

The rest of the Utah photos

Vegas

Calm Before the Storm

Venetian Reflections

Red Light District

Wetlands Park

Wetlands Park Trail

Las Vegas Wash

Wetlands Pond

Through the Mesquite

The rest of the Wetlands Park photos

Zion Canyon

Early Shadows

Narrows

Virgin River

Suspended Rock

Kolob Sunset Panorama

The rest of the Zion Canyon photos

Update: fixed the links that were missing...

Taking Advantage

2010-12-30T10:01:00.000-08:00

Down to one game, I agree to deal out the night so the other dealer can go home. The last game is a 7-handed $1-2 game so I figure I should be at least mildly entertained enough to stay interested. I only recognize a single face, a rock who runs occasional bluffs but seemingly always at the wrong times. Everyone else is unfamiliar, most likely due to the holidays.

Within my first orbit, I pick out a few habits the players have on display...

The gentleman in the 10-seat seems like it might be his first trip to Vegas. It takes little time before I'm wishing he was sitting on the other side of the table. This man has no internal monologue, muttering every thought to himself loud enough that the 8 & 9 seats - as well as me - can hear him quite clearly. He counts his chips after every hand and tells himself whether or not he is ahead.

A couple times, after a player at the other end of the table would check, I would hear him - and so would the 8-seat - tell himself how happy he was that the guy checked because if the guy had bet he would have to fold. More than once, the 8-seat was still in the hand. While giving away information and potentially giving the 8 and 9 seats something to take advantage of, he had a far more obvious way of giving away information.

Whenever he chose to raise pre-flop, he would automatically put out a continuation bet on the flop. If anyone called his c-bet, he would check the turn...and fold to any bet...Every. Single. Time. While amazing in and of itself, the shocking part was that nobody at the table seemed to pick up on the trend. Not once did I see any player at the table take advantage of the situation and simply toss a handful of chips out on the turn to induce the fold. More often than not, they would check behind unless they actually had a good holding.

At the other end of the table sat a gentleman who was clearly inebriated, enough so that he had "gone cross-eyed" as the wife likes to say. His three favorite words seemed to be "I'm from Kansas." He said them frequently, especially whenever anyone questioned one of his bets or raises, often saying them accompanied with an exaggerated shrug...as if his being from Kansas explained everything. Mr. Kansas liked to gamble, the bluff being his favorite move.

Any time a hand was checked around to him, he made a bet at least equal to the size of the pot but more often two-to-three times the size of the pot. He never counted his chips, preferring to simply grab a handful and plunk them into the betting area. He managed, at least, to keep his chips in stacks but no stack was the same size and he often found himself restacking after inadvertently knocking some over. Whenever he made a mostrous bet, $125 into a $15 pot for example, everyone folded and he laughed off the "Why so much" questions with his standard shrug and "I'm from Kansas" response.

The one or two times he was called, he lost. He never once had a hand when he made those bets. The only times he held anything better than a bluff were the times he neatly placed 4 red chips in play with a smile and the announcement that he would "take it easy on his friends."

Just like the gentleman in the 10-seat, however, nobody else at the table seemed to catch on to the 3-seat's antics. Every big bet went uncalled, nearly every time with an opponent showing something like top pair top kicker before mucking. Once again, I never witnessed any other player take advantage of the situation.

So it went the entire night, every player at the table telegraphing in obvious fashion some aspect of their game and nobody else taking advantage of it. It was maddening to watch. Whenever someone folded TPTK to the 3-seat's monster bets, I wanted to scream at them "Call! You have the best hand, damnit!" Whenever anyone checked behind the 10-seat on the turn, I felt compelled to shout "What the hell are you waiting for? He'll fold to any bet you make!"

Instead, I watched and made internal wagers with myself as to what actions various players would take in certain situations.

Eventually, the game wound down to the point where it was heads up - the local rock sitting opposite Mr. Kansas. Mr. Kansas, wanting to gamble, would frequently bet $70ish to open, causing the local rock to fold in disgust. Mr. Kansas would chide the rock for not wanting to play poker. The rock would repeatedly inform Mr. Kansas that betting $50 pre-flop wasn't poker. I would chew on my tongue and watch the SportsCenter reruns as I pushed $2 pot after $2 pot.

Finally, they tired of one another. The rock racked up and left, unwilling to gamble with Mr. Kansas. Mr. Kansas racked up and went to play Baccarat in hopes of finding something more entertaining than the "boring twit who won't play poker with me." I called it a night and headed home. I felt more like going to play but doubted I would be lucky enough to find a game as easy as this one had looked and I opted for going home instead of being disappointed.

This week, I get to start my week with New Year's Eve. I despise New Year's Eve. At least it's at the beginning of the week, so it can only get better as it goes ;)

Playing in the Rain

2010-12-23T07:19:00.000-08:00

The skies opened and the deluge began. The Vegas valley is ill prepared to handle as much water as fell recently but I've seen worse. On what seemed like day thirty of our forty days and forty nights of rainfall, I fired up my browser to check out a few local weather reports.

I needed only seven more photos to complete my Photo A Day project and the storm would seem to provide a great opportunity for me to finish that off...

I watched a video of a house near Mesquite as it floated away down a swollen river. I read reports of multiple groups hikers being rescued at Red Rock when they found themselves unable to cross the raging torrents of water rushing down the wash. I scoured reports from other local hikers that talked of before-unseen amounts of water in some of the canyons near Red Rock. I discovered that roads were being closed due to high water and, in some cases, rock slides. Rock slides - there's something that doesn't happen in the flat areas of the Midwest where I grew up!

I clicked on a link from the police road closure report to find myself reading the article that really piqued my interest for the day. Mt. Charleston was inaccessible. At first, this find brought only disappointment. Having talked with the wife the night before about potentially driving up the mountain to get some photos of snowfall, discovering that I wouldn't be allowed up the road was a bummer. Still, the article painted a beautifully grim picture. Over six feet of snow, mountain setting, pine trees, fields of snow not yet trod upon by human feet - beautiful. 70-ft pine trees snapping like twigs, branches falling on homes, avalanche warnings, evacuations - grim for the people living on the mountain.

As I sat reading about the snow, I remembered a drive I had taken a few years back through the Desert National Wildlife Range. On that drive, as I drove up through the 6000' range, I found something I hadn't expected at the time - snow, and lots of it. I glanced out the doors at the rain coming down in the courtyard - nearly an inch an hour at that point, according to the National Weather Service. I immediately grabbed the camera, checked the battery level, and started packing.

I threw on layers of clothes. I grabbed the GPS, the camera, the tripod, some food, filled four 32-oz bottles with water and tossed everything in the Jeep. I dashed back in for my bomber jacket and a sweatshirt. I paused to consider candles but realized I had no clue where the wife might keep them. I backed out of the driveway and headed north, content that if I were to get stuck 100 miles from civilization that I could ride it out for a few days.

I almost returned home when less than a mile from the house. Traveling a modest 50mph down the interstate, the back end of the Jeep suddenly shot 45 degrees to the right when I, and all the cars around me, hit a 8-inch deep puddle of water nobody could see in the inky predawn blackness. Amazingly, we all made it through. I took that as a sign and pressed on. 55 miles north of Vegas, I turned off the blacktop into the desert.

I sat for a moment, Jeep idling in the night, no other human near me for miles, wondering what I was getting myself into. Just as I was leaving radio range, I heard the telltale alert sounds from a National Weather Service announcement. I heard the words Clark County and flash flood. I shrugged - anyone who has lived in Vegas for more than a few months has heard that alert a couple times a year. Now, however, staring ahead at the black nothingness, I considered conceding defeat to Mother Nature once again. I'd hate to lose the Jeep in a flash flood in the middle of nowhere...but I needed seven more photos to complete my Photo A Day project.

I cranked the wipers up on high, turned up the high beams, threw the Jeep in gear, and started driving up a two-track that looked more like two small streams than any type of road. As water splashed up onto the Jeep, and sometimes over the top of the Jeep when I dropped into a particularly deep puddle here and there, I relaxed and started having fun. This is why I own a Jeep!

About an hour after the sun was supposed to rise, I could finally see enough to turn the lights off. I rounded a corner and slid to a halt. The road traveled a cliff with a rock wall to my leff and a 100-ft drop to my right. In front of the passenger-side sat a rock too large to drive over and with little room to maneuver around. I hopped out of the Jeep and stood enjoying the rain for a few moments before deciding to see if I could move the rock. Using the bar from my Hi-Lift jack, I managed to roll the rock over the edge into the wash below. I stayed long enough to take a few photos of the way ahead and then pushed on, keeping a wary eye up the hill to my left on the lookout for any signs of falling rocks.

A couple hundred yards further, the road descended into the wash. I paused, looking uphill, thinking this the ideal spot for one of those wonderful flash floods like the one that wiped out the Calville Bay Marina a few months back. Only a trickle of water flowed through the wash, less than I had been driving through on the "road" earlier, though I knew that meant nothing when it came to flash floods. I looked across the wash to see that the road started a decent climb up the hill at that point and decided that the worst outcome would be me sitting on the wrong side of a flood waiting for it to recede...or driving 60 miles cross-country to the other side of the DNWR - acceptable risk.

I pushed across the wash, navigated a narrow section where the road passed through a slot canyon that gave me pause with the four inches of water coursing through, and finally started a climb towards Mormon Pass where I felt there stood a good chance of me getting to photograph some snow. The higher I climbed, however, the more disappointed I became. I wanted snow and only found more rain. Finally, around 6200 feet, I realized the raindrops were no longer simply rolling down the windshield when they hit. "Self," I said, "that looks more like snow."

Only beginning, the snow increased in intensity the higher I climbed. By the time I reached Mormon Pass, Mother Nature provided the perfect weather for the photos I wanted to take. Wet, heavy snow already blanketed the pine trees when I pulled over at the picnic area to take a few shots. I walked around, enjoying myself as I snapped a hundred shots or so before realizing my fingers were almost numb because I hadn't put my gloves on yet.

Hopping back in the Jeep, I decided to press on to Peek-A-Boo Canyon and see what the snow might look like over there. A few hundred feet in elevation below the pass, I quickly realized there would be no snow that low. As I descended from the pass, I soon dropped below the snow line and found myself pushing the Jeep through six inches of water running down the road. I decided to call it a day - I had my photos, after all - and turned the Jeep back up the hill.

The rain eased considerably as I descended the mountain. I stopped a few times to grab some shots of mountains, clouds, rainwater runoff, etc., and finally made it back to the house after being out in the elements for four hours. I felt soaked, chilled to the bone, and happy I opted for a day playing in the rain.

Now, can we please stop with the water already? I'm ready to dry out!

Cross-posted to my hiking blog...

That other poker game...

2010-12-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

Recently, a close friend of mine went through a bit of a tough stretch. One night, she chose to head out for a long poker session in an attempt to break out of her funk. She ended up playing at Boulder Station, a casino extremely close to my house, so I headed over to make sure she wasn't in a self-destructive spiral of some sort.

I arrived to find her sitting in a $4/8 limit Omaha game...

I convinced the cocktail waitress to bring me a beer even though I didn't intend to play. I watched as my friend missed draw after draw after redraw to lose pot after pot. It wasn't for playing bad, but she was running really bad. I almost felt like I should leave so as not to be a witness to the massacre but I stuck around for moral support.

I toyed with the idea of playing in the $1-2 game on the other side of the room but multiple people at the Omaha table led me to believe it was the tightest, nittiest game in all of Vegas. I walked over and watched a couple hands before giving up hope and returning to sweat my friend in the Omaha game.

Eventually, after the waitress started to question whether or not I was waiting to play, I asked the floor to add me to the list. I only wanted another beverage but a seat soon opened up and I faced a decision. I surprised myself when I snagged a rack of blue off the gentleman vacating his seat in the game...and then I waited what seemed an eternity as the fifteen seat-change button holders negotiated their moves around the table in a choreography that made musical chairs look amateurish at best.

I slid into the 4-seat and looked down to find 89TJ rainbow. I folded despite the fact that I was up against what might be some of the loosest Omaha players in the world. By the time the dealer rolled the river card out, I had flopped the nut straight and it had held. Too bad I had folded pre-flop. No matter, it was early.

Very next hand, I look down to find QQTK double suited. I three-bet to a chorus of complaints about being the new guy and being too aggressive, etc. I laugh. I three-bet again, and call the cap, when the flop comes QT2. My age-addled brain fails to remember the turn card other than the fact that it presented a possible flush. I called the re-raise and waited for the river. Silently praying for the board to pair, the dealer rewarded me with the case Queen. Quads, beotches! This game is easy ;)

I ended up playing only an hour. I doubled up, easily, which isn't hard when nearly every pot is at least a rack ($100). I witnessed one player call caped bets on every street with A247 and then explain to the table that he only played because the Ace and seven were suited. Did I mention this game is played high only?

I watched as one player overplayed every hand that held a pair, showing down every one of them and complaining that he never won when he had a pair. Apparently, somebody forget to inform him that he was playing Omaha. I honestly cannot remember the last time I saw just a pair drag a Omaha pot, especially in a limit game as loose as this one where four or five people are going to be chasing draws regardless of the price.

I never claim to be an Omaha player. In fact, I suck at the game. I found a game, however, where the other players suck more than I do. Despite the horrible conditions - they allow smoking at the table, which sucks - I expect I will find myself returning to this game on a fairly regular basis.

Poker gods, be kind ;)

I leapt

2010-12-16T15:35:00.001-08:00

Today, I made the leap. I finished up the hiking blog I've been working on for nearly a year (if interested, you can find it at trail2trail.blogspot.com) and I submitted my entry for the Backpacker magazine contest.

Thank you to everyone who pushed me in what I know to be the right direction, a direction I doubt I would have taken if not for a little help from my friends and readers. Thanks, again.

Nothing else to read here...go back to your regularly scheduled activities. I, for one, am off to find a nice cold adult beverage to soothe my nerves ;)

Fun at Harrah's

2010-12-13T13:01:00.001-08:00

I drove half the distance (slight exaggeration) to the California border to pitch cards just as I normally do five nights a week - OK, it used to be five nights a week but is only averaging three nights a week these days. After making said drive, I ended up dealing for a mere two hours before I was cut for the night.

Having consumed sixteen ounces of energy drink just two hours later, I knew it was far too early to return home...

Returning home would surely find me feeling antsy looking for something to do. I didn't truly feel like playing poker but I doubted I would find anything else to do at 2:00am on a Monday morning. I turned the Jeep towards the Strip.

I initially thought of heading to the IP as I tend to do fairly well there but changed my mind and pulled into the Harrahs parking garage. After going through the ridiculous routine of having the security guard record my license plate for some asinine reason, I parked and walked down to the poker room. I breezed in and glanced around as I headed for the desk - five players left in the tournament and a full $1-2 game.

After considering whether or not I felt like walking down the Strip, I threw my name on the list and prepared to wait. The wait proved short and I slid into the 2-seat after only five minutes or so. I glanced around the table to take in the potential competition. The 8-seat sat behind a stack hovering near $1k. The two gentlemen to my left, the 3 and 4 seats, both had around $400 or so.

Before I could take in the rest of the table, the 8-seat tossed $17 into play. The 9-seat, a gentleman I've dealt to previously and know to be an occasional pain-in-the-ass immediately calls. By the time action is complete, seven players are seeing the flop for $17. All I can think at that point is, "Buckle up! This could be fun!"

I tap out a message for Twitter and, while shaking my phone in a futile attempt to boost the signal, I get a message from a fellow local poker player who happens to be sitting in the same game. I'm meeting new people all over the place this week!

It soon becomes evident that there are nine players at this table all chasing the tenth, a man who apparently has had quite a few adult beverages and has a seemingly endless supply of $100 bills in his pocket. When he is away from the table, action crawls to a halt. While there, though, every pot is raised and he contends for every pot.

As is typical for my luck, I fail to catch any cards when I find myself in a pot against the drunk guy. He leaves shortly after my arrival, his seemingly endless supply of $100 bills apparently exhausted. No sooner is he out the door than three people grab racks. Five minutes later, the game breaks and I'm left to search for somewhere else to play.

I meander down to the IP. I last one orbit before I have to leave because the dealer put me on complete tilt. Constantly talking about how little money they made working at Bill's the night before, missing action, dealing people out while paying too much attention to personal conversations they are having with players obviously known to them. I finally left when, on two consecutive hands, the dealer paired the board and, before pushing the pot, asked repeatedly if the player had quads. Seriously, if they have quads, they're going to show. They're proud of those cards. Shut the hell up and deal. Doing otherwise makes you look like you're an unprofessional hack who is begging for tips. Just push the pot and move on, please.

Sorry for the digression and the rant. I'll move on ;)

I move a bit further down the Strip to the Pink Chicken. I hop in a game where my favorite "Low Card Dealer" proceeds to give me nothing but high cards and dwindles my stack down to half its size in a mere thirty minutes. (Side note: Enjoy your vacation, brother!) The game breaks and we combine with the other game in the room.

Early on, I double up and get back in the black when I foolishly limp with Ad4d and then call a $20 raise to find myself heads up with the 9-seat. The flop comes A-x-4. I honestly don't remember what the rest of the board was but he made a pot-sized bet on the flop and I shoved. He kept asking me questions and I answered every one truthfully, doing everything except rolling my hand over for him to see it. He correctly reached the conclusion that I must have called with a low suited Ace. Even though his read was correct, he made the call and then spent ten minutes trying to tell himself to trust the reads he made, especially when they were so obvious.

I gave all those chips away the next hand when the 1-seat raise to $15 and I re-raised to $45 before the flop with QQ. The flop came K33 and he checked. I bet $45 again and he shoved. I mucked.

I left with a profit, though, when a crazy British guy who had a penchant for raising every single hand raised yet one more time. I called his $12 raise after four other people did as well. I held Jd8d and loved the flop when it came A-3-5, all diamonds. I wanted to jump and scream "Bingo" but somehow managed to check when the action reached me.

Checked around, the turn brought a non-diamond 6. The 6-seat, first to act, cut out $30 in chips. I managed to not drool as I flat called as did the 5-seat. The dealer rolled out a blank on the river and the 6-seat bet $35. I slid my stack across the line and announced, "$87 more, sir." He looked like he wanted to puke.

Just like the 9-seat before him, he hemmed and hawed, correctly guessed that I had a flush, and failed to talk himself out of making the call. I had him covered and he disgustingly slammed his cards into the middle of the table as he muttered something about having a "goddamned straight" while he walked out of the room.

Ahead nearly a full buyin for the night, I soon called it a day and headed home. I researched my NCAA basketball potential, found a game I like, and made a wager that I hope extends my streak to 11-0 for the week with regard to NCAA basketball bets. I may swear off football bets altogether if this hits ;)

Long weekend

2010-12-13T10:30:00.000-08:00

The weekend actually started, for me, last Wednesday. MN Bob, Eeyore, The Wife, a dealer friend of ours, and I made the drive out into the middle of the desert near Jean to shoot stuff. MN Bob and I, the day before, attached a clay pigeon launcher to a table, and it was time to test it out. We loaded up the shotguns, the table and launcher, and a bunch of ammo, and headed out.

I hit the first target, MN Bob hit the most targets, and everybody hit at least one target I believe - except Eeyore who wasn't able to fire the larger shotguns due to being left-handed. Regardless, everyone had a great time.

Then there was poker...

Before poker, The Wife and I spent an afternoon dealing with crap in the court systems. Consuming a large chunk of time I normally would spend sleeping led to me calling off work Friday morning. After waking in the middle of the night, I checked some email, edited some writing pieces, and glanced back towards the bedroom when I started to tire.

Just as I contemplated heading back to bed, my phone chimes with a text message from an east coast poker player in town for a tournament. With an offer of beer and poker on the table, I decided to forgo extra sleep and headed down to the Strip. I sat in a $1/2 game at the IP and watched my chips dwindle as we waited for his phone to charge. Thankfully, I hit my OGH (One Good Hand) for the day and left well ahead when we headed to Ellis Island for some cheap eats before calling it a day.

Saturday morning found me ready to go to work but the room died off rather quickly and I woke to a phone call telling me I needn't come in that morning. That left me free to head off to play a little more poker. I somehow let myself be talked into participating in an annual tournament held this time of year in Vegas so I only played a couple hours before heading home to nap before the tournament.

I should note, somewhere, that I am not a tournament player. I formerly only played in a monthly freeroll tournament held at the Hilton and then only because it was free after I had spent forty hours each month playing in cash games in the Hilton's now defunct poker room. I only performed well in those tournaments because the competition consisted primarily of $3/6 LHE players and it proved fairly easy to coast into the money in those events.

I lack the patience required for tournament play. I lack the ability to sit and play for more than two or three hours at a time. I lose focus quickly and start to get rather twitchy after just a couple hours in the same chair. Still, being as there was a team element to this event, I hoped to fare well enough to give my team a chance. I failed.

I hovered around the average chip stack for much of three hours. I successfully stole a few pots and felt like I was treading water...but not much else. I watched as people like CK and Drizz grew their stacks at my table. Eventually, I decided I was shoving the next decent hand I looked at. By decent, I mean any one-gapper or better, regardless of rank.

It seemed only minutes before I looked down to find a six and a four, both spades. I raised. I called a re-raise that I decided was two big cards looking to isolate. I shoved the flop without looking, but being as my shove represented only maybe a tenth of my opponent's stack, I was called. The miracle card to complete my gutshot draw never materialized and I found I was out of the tournament, losing to AQ.

I honestly felt as if I had been granted my freedom. I lasted three hours, and in those three hours, I rediscovered the reason I chose to not play tournaments. I enjoyed my short time, especially watching other players who are far more skilled than I at tournament play, but I doubt I do it again...unless I fall on my head in the next year and forget why I don't like tournaments.

Busting out of the tournament proved fortuitous as I ended up actually working Sunday morning, so my quick nap after the tournament ended up being the best idea I'd had in days. After a few hours of pitching cards, I drove home and fell into a deep sleep. I needed a bit of time to recover from the previous four days of seemingly non-stop activity.

I spent most of Sunday watching football and contemplating the fact that I am running extremely well betting NCAA basketball games and running equally bad betting any type of football games. I suppose I should be thankful I'm not losing at both ;)

One Good Hand

2010-12-10T13:09:00.001-08:00

If you play a game such as $1/2 NL for a living, it arguably takes only a single good hand to have you raking in your desired income for the night. Sure, the expected take from a night's worth of poker playing varies depending upon whom you talk to. In my situation, though, I shoot for a simple double-up. Making $200-300 a night proves all I really need...actually, more than I really need but I shoot for the double-up anyway.

Once in a while, that one good hand results from a phenomenally well-played hand. Occasionally, however, that one good hand results for making a horrible call. For me, the horrible calls probably outweigh the well-played hands but I have no concrete proof of that.

I do know that a horrible call led to my one good hand this morning...

I woke at 1:00am but felt more inclined to lie in bed all day than actually do anything productive. Come 4:30, however, the wife needed to start getting ready for her first day of Vegas bootcamp. This meant I, too, needed to get out of bed. As she went about getting ready for her morning of physical exertion, I made plans to camp out in front of my computer and work on a website idea I have.

Cue the phone beeping. I grab the phone and notice I have a text from someone in town for a big poker blog writer gathering over the weekend. He enticed me with beer and poker, so I found little reason not to throw on some shoes and head down to the IP.

I hopped in the $1-2 game and tread water for a couple hours. MN Bob eventually walked down from Harrah's after I suggested breakfast at Ellis Island. He hopped into the $2/4 game while we waited for a phone to charge. While waiting for the phone to charge so we could head to breakfast, I managed to blow off $70 or so. I lamented the fact that I was burning through chips but I didn't really mind, having left the house intent on providing a buy-in to the table in return for a bit of morning entertainment.

Just before we headed out for breakfast, however, I experienced my One Good Hand for the morning. In the small blind, I watch as most of the table fold to a $12 raise by the 7-seat. The 1-seat calls, as do myself and the 4-seat. The dealer puts out a flop of 6-T-3, given me a gut-shot with my meager 7-8 offsuit holdings.

I check. The 3-seat checks. The 7-seat slides two red chips past the betting line and is instantly called by the 10-seat (note: instantly called by the 1-seat means 5 minutes later since the 10-seat is three sheets to the wind and can barely comprehend the activities at the table). I shrug and toss in $10 only to see the 4-seat raise to $50.

The 7-seat folds to the check-raise, but it matters little since I had completely ignored the fact that the 7-seat was ever in the hand to begin with. The 1-seat called the raise and I found myself pondering a $40 call to put myself up against the two drunkest players at the table, neither of whom I suspected of having anything better than a weak pair. I floated the flop, intending to make a significant bet on the turn regardless of the card put out by the dealer.

The dealer, however, helped my cause tremendously by sliding a 9 into position on the turn, giving me a straight. I shrugged and nonchalantly slid the rest of my stack into play. The 3-seat never hesitated in announcing that he had to call. I now put him on a decent hand - two pair, maybe, or a set - and started calculating how many outs I needed to dodge. In the midst of my calculations, the 1-seat called as well.

I watched the dealer pull the chips into the middle of the table. I begged the dealer to avoid pairing the board. I realized there were two diamonds on the board and furthered my begging, requesting no pairs, no diamonds, no Jack...

The dealer slid the Jack up into position as the river card. My heart sank as I tried to decide whether or not I would rebuy before heading to breakfast. Instead, my straight held. The 3-seat flopped a set with his pocket threes and didn't improve. The 1-seat claimed to have turned an open-ended straight and also didn't improve. I scooped a huge pot after making a call on the flop I never should have made.

The 7-seat, the guy who folded to the shove on the turn? He folded pocket Queens. At the point he called, he had committed more than ¾ of his stack to the pot and faced calling an additional $40 or so in order to win nearly $400. He folded. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank him for doing so and enabling me to have a good night.

It worked out well since I had called off work the previous night ;)

In somewhat related news, I may be playing in a certain blogger-oriented tournament this weekend if the star align. We'll see how that goes...

Money Laundering

2010-12-07T14:16:00.000-08:00

Working in Vegas, I meet some of the strangest people. Usually, the really strange ones are that way due to recreational drug use. Tweakers, especially, seem to love hanging out in casinos. Sometimes, however, I run across someone who is simply...strange.

Occasionally, someone really strange passes through and I end up standing around trying to figure out if there's a full moon or something...

Three of us stood at the podium in front of the poker room. I worked floor that night so I did what every good floor person does...nothing. I leaned against the marble counter and watched as my cashier counted down her drawer. One of my dealers lingered on the other side of the counter cracking jokes and throwing out random number sequences in hopes of flustering the cashier. Being a good sport, she laughed when she had to recount a stack of $20 bills, even though she really wanted to be done and on her way home since her awesome supervisor intended to let her leave early that night.

About halfway through the counting of her drawer, a gentleman approaches the counter. Actually, he entered the foyer area in front of the counter and stood glancing around. I guessed he was simply taking in the details, enjoying the casino, perhaps trying to figure out what portion of the casino he next wanted to donate money to. My guess proved wrong as he finally wandered over to the counter where he meticulously laid down the items he was carrying. He proceeded to arrange a book, a plastic shopping bag looking as if it contained only a couple pieces of paper, a small wooden box, and a pencil into some semblance of order. He then rearranged them into a different order before finally looking up to ask the cashier a question.

Guy: How do I find the players club desk?
Cashier: They are located just across the casino on the other side of the slots. They're closed right now but if you need a player's card, I will be happy to make you one. I only need to see your ID to do so.
Guy, opening the cover of his book and holding up an information packet from a casino on the other side of town: I checked in at the Red Rock.
* crickets chirping *
Cashier: That's a nice casino. Did you want me to make you a player's card sir?
Guy, after rooting through the pages of his book and finally producing a fairly crumpled $1 bill: Can I have four quarters please?
Cashier: I apologize for the inconvenience, but we do not have any change in this bank.
Guy: If you have Mexican quarters, I would prefer those?
Cashier: Do you need pesos, sir?
Guy: Yes, pesos. Can I have four Mexican peso quarters, please?
Cashier: I'm sorry, sir, but I don't have any change. The main cashier cage might be able to help you.
* crickets chirping *

The guy finally quits staring at the dollar bill, attempts to smooth it out a bit and then sticks it back between the pages of his book. As if remembering that he is in the middle of a conversation, he looks up again.

Guy: Where is the checkin counter?
Cashier: If you follow this wall to our left straight around the slot machines, you will reach the front desk.
Guy, after looking at the sports book desk which, unfortunately, is also in that same direction: They look closed.
Cashier: No, sir. The front desk is open. That desk right there is the sports book. The front desk is further down the wall.
Guy, staring at the sports book: I think they're closed.
*crickets chirping *
Guy: Do you have any Coors Original?
Cashier: I believe you can get a Coors Original at the bar directly behind you, sir.

The guy looks behind him, seems to consider his options, turns back to pick up his belongings, and makes his way out into the casino in the opposite direction from the bar.

My dealer, my cashier, and I simultaneously ask, "Is there a full moon tonight?"

If only the story stopped there. About thirty minutes later, the cashier having gone home, I stand behind the counter cashing out the last of our players as the only game in the room had just ended. As I'm counting out the cash, the guest from above walks up and slides four quarters onto the counter, announcing "I need a dollar, please."

After I finish my transaction he tried to interrupt, I turn to him and ask him if he needs to convert his four quarters into a dollar bill. He indicates that to be the case and seems nonplussed when I explain to him that we do not have any change in the bank I use and that we are not allowed to accept change at this particular desk. When he makes no move to either leave or to offer up any conversation from his side, I further explain that the main cashier cage may be able to help him. I feel a case of deja vu as this conversation plays out.

He finally sweeps his quarters up off the counter with a grand flourish and turns to the customer I had just cashed out, a man whom I'm sure is about to regret his decision to take some time and organize the money in his wallet before walking off. Thrusting the quarters toward the man organizing his wallet, the man with the quarters asks, "Do you have a dollar?" His hand hovers just above the other man's wallet...and never moves. Even when the other man tries to make it obvious that he was in the middle of counting some money, this guy just leaves his hand - and his four quarters - extended into the air above the wallet.

Finally, an exchange is made, a crisp $1 bill for four quarters...which are immediately tossed into my tip jar. His wallet nicely organized, he and I exchange a knowing glance before he wanders off. Wishing I could wander off, I instead am left to stand behind the counter and ponder the events that have just occurred. I have seven more hours to decipher what just happened.

I finally come to the conclusion that the strange conversationalist is laundering money...$1 at a time :)

Upping the Ante...and a request for help

2010-12-03T13:01:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I posted about a contest of sorts being run by Backpacker magazine (check it out here if you need to catch up). While intrigued, I honestly doubt I intended to submit an entry. As the wife tells me every time I talk about my photography, my writing, or anything else really, I am my own worst critic. I find myself to be a hack at best. Hence, my doubts when thinking about the contest.

Leave it to MN Bob to up the ante, though...

There exist three things I can never get enough of - beer, action, and adrenaline. MN Bob popped into the studio a while ago with an offer I wanted to refuse...but couldn't. In an effort to goad me into submitting an entry for the Backpacker contest, he offered two of the things I enjoy most - beer and action.

In short, he suggested a wager. He decided he was willing to bet I would not get the job. Knowing I would never be able to simply not enter the contest and concede the wager, he essentially forced my hand. Now there exists no reason for me to not enter the contest (not that there was before other than my own self-doubt, but that's beside the point). He laid out fantastic odds as well: if he wins, I owe him only a small bottle of Grey Goose vodka, but if he loses, he owes me 100 bottles of beer.

Seriously - action AND beer? It bothers me that some people know the best ways to get me to do things I don't intend to do...

All of the above gets me to my request for help. The entry for the contest is to be in the form of an essay, 300 words maximum. I do self-deprecation far better than I do self-promotion. To that end, I've written 300 words I hope to submit as my contest entry. Before I do so, and I have a month to rethink and rewrite this a million times before I go insane, I'd like some opinions from people with no skin in the game. Help, please ;)

Everything between the lines is 300 words exactly. What do you think?

===================================================

300 words on why I should win a job as a Backpacker Field Scout: I hike, pushing the limits of my abilities whenever possible. I take photographs that others tell me are lovely or breathtaking. I try to write with a narrative voice conveying enough detail for someone to feel as if they are walking alongside me but leaving enough out so that they become part of the story by using their imagination to fill in the gaps. I love the desert and the American southwest but I reach obsession level when the topic turns to slot canyons.

Whether navigating the boulder-chocked narrows found in the washes around Lake Mead or slogging through the Virgin River on the classic Zion Narrows hike, I find the towering cliffs fascinating. Describing the sheer rock walls climbing hundreds, sometimes thousands, of feet toward a sun that struggles to reach the canyon floor never gets tiring. Capturing the light as it bounces from wall to wall has given me some of the most stunning photographs I've yet to take.

Being able to hike one of the quintessential slot canyons of the southwest, write about it, and then share the story and the photos nears the top of my bucket list. Over the course of five days, chronicling the 48-mile descent from the Wire Pass trailhead through Buckskin Gulch and along the Paria River as it makes its way through Paria Canyon to Lees Ferry, I hope to bring to life the beauty of one of the best slot canyon trips in the country.

Armed with my Garmin GPS, my backpack, my Nikon D40 and my partner's Nikon D90 with a myriad of lenses, my Flip video recorder, and our sense of adventure, I believe I can deliver an article worthy of my favorite magazine.

===================================================

I thought I might submit the essay along with a couple links. Perhaps a couple of these:

Seasonal Waterfalls
Through a Very Wet Canyon
Climbing White Rock Hill
Bowl of Fire and My Inner Voice

For reference, here are the contest instructions:

Tell us where you want to go and why you're the best hiker for the job. Email an essay (300 words maximum) or a link to a personalized video (5 minutes maximum) or web page, and be sure to include details about your proposed houney and your ability to bring the adventure to life for BACKPACKER readers. Be creative!

Dream Job

2010-12-02T12:37:00.000-08:00

I found it ironic that when I flipped opened the latest issue of Backpacker magazine that the first page I turned to happened to be page 16. Leaping out at me from page 16, the headline nearly screamed "Win Your Dream Job!" Dream Job, indeed. I doubted I even needed to read the article to know that their definition of a dream job matched mine perfectly. A million thoughts raced through my mind before I even read the article.

After the first paragraph, I knew I could do what the magazine was looking for but I seriously doubted my ability to actually land the job...

The first paragraph read:

"Who hasn't imagined turning a passion into a career? And when it comes to hiking for a living, we certainly understand the appeal. Now you can get your dream hike paid for - and published (quitting your day job not required). Just convince us that your planned adventure is best, and that you have the trip-recording skills (GPS, photo, video) to share it with readers. The winner lands an assignment as a BACKPACKER field scout and we'll send him or her - and a partner - on a trek in the Lower 48."^*

My problem stems from a lack of self-confidence, which will likely seem odd to those who truly know me. I never shy from a challenge and have yet to find any situation that truly intimidates me other than public speaking, the mere thought of which causes me to retch. My father once told me, "Part of your problem is you aren't intimidated by anything."

This, however, while not exactly intimidating leaves me very doubtful as to my chances of success. To land the job, I only need to submit an essay (300-word maximum) explaining why I am the best hiker for the job. Other things are required, such as details about the proposed journey and my ability to to bring the adventure to life, but those are easy. That essay, on the other hand, shall prove to be extremely difficult. In fact, I doubt my ability to even complete the essay, such a daunting task it currently seems.

I fail to even grasp a starting point for the essay. Why do I think I'm the best hiker for the job? No clue. I only know I want the job, could do the job, and think I would churn out a very successful article detailing a hike through some territory I have yet to pick out. Therein lies the second problem I face - where would I choose to go? I can easily name a few hundred locations I want to hike and narrowing it down to a single choice that doesn't seem overdone (Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim, for example) seems impossible.

Luckily, or maybe not so much, I have until January 15 to submit an entry should I eventually choose to do so. I remain undecided at this point as to whether or not I will, especially given my doubts as to my ability to complete the essay. I do much better poking fun at myself than promoting myself. Fear of failure, as well, may keep me on the bench for this game.

I think I shall grab an adult beverage and contemplate whether or not I believe I can make this happen. I'll let you know how it turns out...

^*"Win your Dream Job!" Backpacker January 2011.

Freelance Gigs

2010-12-01T07:31:00.000-08:00

I sat typing merrily away the other night, working to reach my goal of finishing the revisions to book no later than the end of the year. It occurred to me that I could alleviate much of the doldrums I feel during the winter if I could simply find something to hold my interest, to keep me busy, to keep me from sitting around and thinking about how cold it is!

The thought of finding something to do corresponded nicely with my search for a second job. I realized I just needed to expand my horizons, to look beyond the casino industry...

I still wish to find a job in a sports book. Having not given up on that pursuit, I completed another couple applications for sports writer jobs recently. Yet, without the stated requisite 6 months experience, I hold little hope in landing one of those jobs. The best lead I had seems to have disappeared, the position apparently filled by someone other than me. Yet another book responded saying they felt I lacked the qualifications to take race & sports bets. So, I keep looking.

While looking, I became distracted by a link on a job search site. That led to a few hours of reading about self-publishing, which led to sites listing freelance writing jobs. I perused a few blogs from freelance writers detailing their trials and tribulations of searching for and successfully landing assignments. Seemingly hours later, I decided it was an avenue I wanted to pursue.

I changed my approach and started actively searching for freelance writing gigs. Having applied for a couple that sounded interesting, I plan to next move on to searching for freelance photography gigs. The worst that can come of this is someone says no, which only means I don't fit the mold they are looking for. The best that can come of this is it provides more structure and discipline to my writing and I learn how to be a successful writer. At the very least, it should be an interesting experiment.

Hopefully, the search will be brief and I will land some type of gig in short order. Until I do, however, wish me luck. I sense I might need a lot of it.

Shoot me

2010-11-29T08:34:00.000-08:00

I need a cattle prod. More to the point, I need someone else with a cattle prod, someone who will jam it into my backside on a regular basis. I hate this time of year. The thought that it gets no better between now and March doesn't help. It feels worse this year, for some reason, bad enough I'd consider pills if they didn't cost so much.

Winter sucks...

Woke up last night to find a text message letting me know I needn't bother driving to work - not enough business to make it worth the drive. I'm thankful I have a supervisor thoughtful enough to let me know I don't have to come in. The other supervisor on that shift never calls and I end up driving in on nights I'm not needed...but I digress.

In light of not dealing, I knew I should throw on some clothes and head to the Strip. Poker games were underway and there was money to be made. One glance at the leaves swirling around our courtyard and any thought of leaving the house flew right out the window with those crazy winds.

I completed a couple of online crossword puzzles, dawdled over a few webcomics I read, perused the news, and tried to motivate myself to do...something.

I opened the files necessary for working on my book. I reread the last few paragraphs I had written before closing down the software.

I fiddled with the settings on the camera, contemplating shooting something. Cold weather kept me inside and a lack of imagination kept me from shooting anything in the house. I shoved the camera back into the bag.

Three hours after waking, I conceded defeat and returned to bed. I slept until the wife climbed into bed after her shift at work. I forced myself out of bed so she could sleep peacefully and I did...nothing.

I finally forced myself to work on the book. I typed maybe four or five pages before giving up. I refused to reread what I had typed, sure it would be pure crap given the amount of effort I had put into it.

I fed the dogs.

Now I sit, thinking it would be nice to go hike, go shoot some photos, go do anything, but I just sit instead.

What I should really do is start building that coil gun I want to build so I can photograph bullets whizzing through fruit or anything else I find that looks like a good target :-]

Whining

2010-11-18T11:47:00.000-08:00

I believe the whining has gotten worse since I've been away from the table. From the working side of the table, that being the side of the table that provides things like health insurance and so forth, I simply ignore the whining. Over the years, I've gotten pretty good at it. My recent return to the other side of the table has made me realize that the whining that occurs at the poker table is ridiculously bad.

Sure, not everybody whines, but those that do...

I take seat one in a game at the IP. An older gentleman sits in seat ten. I immediately recognize his type when, as I'm taking my seat, his cards fly past the dealer and land almost under the rail in front of seat two. I calmly remove them and hand them to the dealer with a knowing look. Mr. Grumpy never apologizes, instead muttering something about the fact that he is tired of losing.

I whisper a question to the dealer who confirms that, yes, the gentleman in seat ten is a regular and that he acts like a child every time he's in the room. I smile. I suffer through enjoy dealing to a couple people who act just like this guy. I empathize with the dealer.

A few hands later, I look down and find QJ suited when the gentleman is in the big blind. Being first to act, I raise - time to narrow the field a bit. Two players, one being the curmudgeon in seat ten, call my raise. When the dealer spread out a 9-high rainbow flop and Mr. Grumpy checks, I immediately toss out three red chips. The player between me and seat ten mucks. I wait, and given the amount of time he is taking to act, clench for the check-raise I think might be coming.

Instead, he wings his cards completely off the table between the four and five seats, barely missing providing the four seat with a paper cut ;)

He starts ranting, "I'm not going to fuckin' chase. Stupid kids. The only reason you play this game is to bluff. You wouldn't bluff in Stud. I'm not fuckin' chasin' and givin' you my goddamned money. Hold'em is all about bluffing and that's all you kids fuckin' do."

I laugh and toss my cards face up into the middle of the table. I lean forward, look to my right and politely ask, "Is it a bluff if I have the best hand? You weren't even close or you would have called, yes?"

"I never said you didn't have the best hand. You were still bluffing, though. You didn't have shit."

"Except for the best hand, sir, the winning hand. How about you try and take it easy on the dealers? It isn't their fault you are losing."

"What the hell do you know?"

I decide to sit back and enjoy the ride. A few hands later, the dealer calls for the blinds. My curmudgeonly friend will be responsible for posting the big blind, or at least he would be if he'd quit complaining long enough to listen to the dealer. When the dealer pitches the first cards to the nine and ten seats, he again requests the blinds to be posted. When he pitches the second cards to both seats, he asks for blinds a third time. As action reaches the nine seat, he again tells those two players that they are the blinds and the action is to them.

The nine seat tosses out a $1 chip and mucks at the same time. The ten seat then hurls his cards into the center of the table where the dealer does the proper thing and sweeps them into the muck. He then, for the fifth time, tells the asshole in the ten seat that he is the big blind.

When Mr. Grumpy finally figures out he has to put in $2 but doesn't get to play the hand, he flips.

"Why the hell would I fold if I was in for $2 and nobody raised?"

"Sir, I asked you five times to post your blinds and you mucked. I can only assume you have bad cards and do not want to play the hand, but you still have to post the $2."

"I would never fold if there was no raise. Give me my cards back."

"Sir, your cards are in the muck and they are irretrievable. Please post your blind so we can move the game along."

"I'm telling you I didn't fold. I would never fold if nobody raised and I was in the blind."

"Sir, I can call the floor over if you would like. Would you like me to call the floor?"

"Fuck it. Here's my $2. I don't need the floor. He's an idiot anyway. I'm already going to be talking to management this morning. I haven't won a single hand in nine hours. This is ridiculous."

I tipped the dealer a few bucks simply for having to put up with the guy and I left. With the number of poker rooms in the valley, I decided I could find a game with less whining fairly easily. I called the Mirage, confirmed they still had a no-limit game running, and made my way in that direction.

I doubt I will ever understand why some people are so miserable with life in general that they can't even have a good time playing a game. I still think we have the best house rules in town, if only because of the last rule on the posted list. I can't remember the exact wording (I'm old, you know) but the gist is simple:

Have fun! It's a game. You're only playing poker.

Semantics

2010-11-09T07:42:00.000-08:00

I started out at the Pink Chicken last night, if only because I wanted to stop by and say hi to the wife before heading out for the night. I played about an hour, never catching anything and growing increasingly bored. Players trickled out of the game until we were six-handed and there was only one stack on the table through which I could potentially double up...and he was playing well.

I racked up and headed off to find easier pickings...

After walking over to TI and seeing a game that didn't look any juicier than the one I had left, I made my way to the IP. I hopped in a game UTG but decided to play nitty and sat out until the button passed.

For the first hour, I purposely played a few marginal hands. I raised every one of them. I folded about half to a pre-flop re-raise, showing each time. I played the others to showdown, winning a couple but knowing I was beat in a couple spots as well. I smiled back when my opponents would give me that look like they thought I had no clue how to play. An hour in, I was stuck a mere $40 but the players who were paying attention seemingly bought into the idea I didn't know how to play.

A run of five hands sealed my night. The first, I get pocket fours in the cutoff when the button straddles. I simply call. The flop is 8K3. I bet $6 to see where he's at. He calls so I'm confident I'm beat. Turn and river go check-check and I resignedly announce, "Just a pair of fours" as I table my hand. He smiles, says "I have eights," and turns over A9. Oops. Erase one of those pips and I lose ;)

Next hand, I find KQo and scoop a small pot when I pair the King on the turn. The following hand I look down to see two beautiful black Aces. I raise and get three callers. The flop is paint-heavy, KQ3. I toss the chips in my hand out, announcing "Whatever that is," and the guy two to my right calls the $35. The turn is a red Ace. I don't really like that card, especially after he snap-calls my $60 bet. Based on how he has played in my short time at the table, he seems to know what he's doing and could easily have the straight. We check-check the river and I table my set. He looks very disgusted as he mucks.

During the next hand, a hand where I win with pocket nines, a conversation ensues between the guy I just won against with the Aces, the lady to my right, and me:

Lady: What is the name of the Carolina NHL team?
Me: I don't know. Is that where the Thrashers play?
Guy: No. It's not the Thrashers.
Lady: We need a Canadian. They'd know.
Guy: You're Canadian.
Lady: I hate sports.
Me: Carolina Hurricanes.
Guy: Yes! That's it.

We talk hockey a bit and somehow get onto the subject of The Great One, leading to this:

Lady: He played for Edmonton.
Me: He did. He played his first pro game for the Indianapolis Racers, though, in 78.
Lady: No, he didn't. His first pro game was for Edmonton.
Me: Nope. He started his professional career in the WHA and skated for Indy before being sold or traded or whatever to the Oilers.
Guy: That's like a minor league. That's not pro.
Lady: Yeah, his first pro game was for Edmonton.
Me: Look, he signed a multi-million dollar contract to play for Indy. He suited and skated for Indy, earning money. If you get paid to play, you are by definition, a pro.
Guy: That's like saying Ken Griffey played his first pro game for Bellingham.
Me: And you would be correct in saying that.
Guy: You don't know what you're talking about. That's not pro ball...or pro hockey.

I quit talking, deciding not to argue semantics with someone who had already made up their mind that I was wrong. I think he might have been steaming from the combination of me winning his money with my pocket Aces and the conversation when the next two hand get dealt.

First to act, I find pocket tens when I peek. I to $10 and get three callers. I bet $30 on a flop of J2J and scoop the pot. The very next hand, in the big blind, I look down to find pocket Jacks. I make it $12 when it gets around to me and get four callers. I look right at the dealer and say, "Exact same flop, please" with extreme emphasis on the please.

The lady to my right quickly glances at me when the door card is a Jack. Neither of the other cards brings the fourth Jack but I feel safe on the JT4 flop...though there is two to a flush out there. I mutter, "Close enough" and toss out $30. Two players fold but I get raised to $60 by the button - you know, the guy who thinks I don't know anything about poker and is mad that I won with my Aces. The lady to my right seems incredulous, but I suspect she's the only one who heard me ask for the same flop. I shove and am instantly called.

When he triumphantly turns over the pocket Aces he slow-played, I beg the dealer for no Ace on the next two cards. He obliges and I am well ahead for the night. Unfortunately for my opponent, it was well before the time that the Aces Cracked promotion started. I fail to understand why he slow-played in that spot. If I'm sitting there, on the button with pocket Aces, and there is already $36 in the middle by the time it gets to me but there is more than one other person in the pot, I'm narrowing the field...significantly.

Sure, in the long run, he still loses. If he shoves all-in, though, I might have given him credit for the hand he had and let him take down the $36. I generally don't like to race for $300+ with just pocket Jacks. I'm patient enough to wait for a better spot. In the end, I guess I'm glad he thought it a good time to trap me. I out-flopped him and I won. Lucky me ;)

Three days of playing, back in the black after the re-learning curve of the first two days. Still a long way to go before I regain the confidence I used to have in my play. I still made too many mistakes - could have felted a guy at the Pink Chicken when I went runner-runner flush but it was my first hand and I had no clue what his range could be (I was afraid of the potential boat on the turn - J9 would have been good).

I'll keep working on it. I'm starting to enjoy playing a bit at least. It's nice to know so many dealers around town. At least I have someone to talk screw with talk to while I'm playing ;)

Pokerz can be fun, I guess

2010-11-08T12:06:00.000-08:00

I drive to work, walking into the poker room to find very light action. I deal less than thirty minutes before I'm headed back home. My choices seem limited:

write - the book is progressing but needs work still

sleep - always a good option but I've just woken up and already sucked down an energy drink

photograph - really good option but it doesn't increase my bank account...and it's flippin' cold outside

play poker

I suppose it's fairly obvious where this is headed...

I throw on some clothes such that I don't resemble the UPS man (it's the image I get from the chocolate-brown slacks and t-shirt I wear to work every night) and head for the Strip. With no particular destination in mind, and pondering emails from everyone's favorite grumpy poker player, I decide to give Harrah's another shot.

In the past, I've not really been a fan of the room at Harrah's - too flippin' quiet, almost tomb-like...and boring action. Having been over two years since playing in that room, I decide to see if it's any different these days.

I walk the room and look over the games. The game I want is full. I flip-flop for ten minutes or so before finally taking a seat in the front corner of the room. I tap out a message on twitter informing nobody (my personal estimate at the number of people who actually read the tweets) that I'm playing at Harrah's.

Before long, I get a message from some crazy Iowan that he is at Harrah's and I should stop by and say hi. He's at the other end of the table from me. Before long, some AVP degenerates join our table and what was a nice quiet table becomes a straddle-fest ;)

To be fair, the crazy Iowan was button straddling prior to their arrival

Shortly thereafter, I find myself heads up against Grange. I hold 6h4h. I don't remember the flop, other than I failed to connect, and I found I couldn't call his pot-sized bet. After I folded, he turned over the best hand in poker - 2c4c (I hate crubs, btw). Hilarity ensued.

Not even three hands later, after talking about how to properly play 24, he felted the kid in the 1-seat with that very hand when he made two pair on the river. There was much laughter around the table, followed by Grange requesting that nobody tell the grumpy poker player about that hand...oops, my fault ;)

For my part, I managed to properly fold pocket sevens when I opened the raising by making it - what else - $7, only to have Grange make it $37, Grange calling, and then have the hijack shove all-in. After my fold, the button shoves over the top, and is called Grange.

Button has AA, Grange has KK, hijack had 22. No seven ever hit the board. Grange grabbed the side pot and the button basically tripled up. I patted myself on the back for remembering how to fold.

A couple hands later, a similar situation played out where I had pocket nines and opened the raising by making it $12. The aforementioned 1-seat made is $32, which I would have called had the 5-seat not made it $72 immediately after. Thinking I was against AA and KK again, or at least one of those, I opted to not throw away another $60. I folded. The door card was a nine. I'm a nit ;)

The most expensive hand for me by far, and the hand that reminded me I might not have totally remembered that whole fold concept, occurred when I flopped a flush that included an open-ended flush draw. I made a pot-sized bet on the flop and was called. I made an overbet on the turn, and was called. The river paired the board and, with zero hesitation, chips flew from my opponent's hand. I resignedly muttered a "Nice boat, dude" as I made the crying call and watched my chips make their way into my opponent's stack.

His hand was QJ, which is only relevant because the very next hand Grange raises and c-bets the flop, taking down the pot. He tabled QJ face up, saying he was on a full house draw - funniest line of the night.

Numerous jokes were made regarding dealers who also supervise not really knowing what they're doing, and certain dealers from certain casinos on the south side of Vegas playing like crap. I honestly couldn't figure out who he was talking about ;)

After Harrah's, I played at the Pink Chicken for a while. Had my Aces cracked by K4o when he turned trips. Based on the way he played it, I put him on QQ, or pretty much any hand not having a King. If he bets aggressively, he gets all my chips. As it was, I put $49 in the pot and I got $100 for losing with the Aces...for a $51 profit, which was $2 more than what my opponent made for beating me. Stoooopid jackpots.

Speaking of jackpots, I think I offended one young lady who suggested I misplayed my Aces at Harrah's by betting them to win the pot. Saying something along the lines of, "You know they have Aces cracked, right?" I could only respond "I don't play for jackpots...ever." She gave me a look that suggested I was a few bottles short of a 6-pack, quit talking, and left shortly thereafter. Sorry.

Lessons from last night: tightening up over my play the night before was good. Somehow losing the aggressiveness I had the night before was bad. Need to find a middle ground in there somewhere. Ended up basically even for the night, which was an improvement over the night before. Maybe tonight I'll actually profit and keep the upward trend going. We'll see...

Oh, I almost forgot. I actually had fun playing at Harrah's. If I can have that much fun every night, I won't mind playing the pokerz for a living again.

Trying again

2010-11-07T07:55:00.000-08:00

Once, I made half my living sitting on the other side of the poker table. I played three or four days a week. I supplemented my dealing income nicely. I even enjoyed playing. Over time, I tired of playing. It became too much like a job. I still enjoyed talking to a few of the other players but, for the most part, I stopped caring whether or not I played another hand of poker.

Eventually, I simply stopped playing...

Last night, another unbelievably slow night at work, I ended up not pitching a single card. On the way home, I decided it might be time to seriously consider another line of work.

No, I doubt I stop dealing. I still enjoy that enough that I intend to keep doing it so long as I have a place to work. I only need to find a supplemental income for a bit.

I suffered through an interview in a sports book recently. The interviewer asked me no less than a dozen times whether or not I'd be able to work two jobs. He phrased it differently, reworded the question here and there, and kept asking. He seemed incredulous that I might even consider working two jobs, something very common these days - nearly a third of the poker dealers I know work two jobs at least part of the time. Apparently, this idea is fairly uncommon in the sports book world, or so I would believe based on this guy's reaction.

All that aside, I still need a supplemental income. As I pulled into the driveway, I decided I was really left with no choice. I needed to start playing poker again.

I changed clothes, pointed the Jeep toward the Strip, and headed out in search of a game. I felt nothing - no excitement, no trepidation, no nothing. It was simply something that had to happen and I was going with the flow.

I ended up at Mandalay Bay, unable to bring myself to sit in the ridiculously noisy rooms I found elsewhere. I prefer some background noise - I hate the tomb-like quietness of the Harrah's room, for example - but the levels of noise I found in almost every room as I walked the east side of the Strip was annoying. I kept moving.

I likely would have stayed at Monte Carlo had there been a better game selection but I ended up at Mandalay Bay, having walked the entire way from the Kiddie Pool (the tram from Excalibur to MB was shut down). For my efforts, I paid $50.

Yep, my first night back "on the job" cost me $50. My game is rusty. My timing was off. My chip stack rose and fell like a buoy on rough seas. Twice I looked down to see over ¾ of my stack missing. Three times I glanced down to see that it was nearly double in size to what I had started with.

That means that three times I broke what used to be my cardinal rule - play 3 hours or until you double up, no matter what. I know the limitations of my attention span, and 3 hours is it. I should have taken my payday when I had doubled. Next time ;)

Mostly, last night was a stab at seeing if I still knew what I was doing. My game is far looser and more aggressive than it used to be. I have yet to form an opinion on whether or not that is a good thing. I'm sure it will tighten up some as I start playing again.

Unfortunately, last night wasn't fun. I can only hope to find some enjoyment in the game once I start playing again. At any rate, it's official. I have rejoined the ranks of those trying to squeeze a little profit out of the poker tables in Vegas. At the very least, I might have a few more stories to write about now ;)