I'm Finding It Hard To Be a Gentleman
While it's only six days until Vegas, I prefer to winnow the number down even more. Only two more days do I have to drag my silly ass to the train in the morning for the slog to work. Only 22 more hours of cubicle donking until I can let loose. Let the clock-watching ensue.
I am, as are all of you, now fully armed with the complete blogger dossier. Here's more personalized info.
2 pm: Arrive in Vegas.
2:05 pm: Stop at the Rio to scout the WSOP location. I'm the guy who doesn't want to be hurrying around on Friday morning, unaware of where exactly he's supposed to be. I'm the guy who gets to the airport 3 hours early. I'm the guy who needs a couple bloody marys to settle the fuck down.
3 pm: My triumphant arrival at The Plaza. I expect to be greated with streamers and perhaps an oom-pah band.
3:15 pm: Excuse me, where's the nearest bar?
Evening: Apparently there's some sort of sushi shin-dig. I'm barred from knowing the exact information. I'll be there, if I can find a stool pigeon. Me no likee the sushi. Me likee the sake, though. And maybe I'll luck out and find something on the menu THAT IS FUCKING COOKED. Allegedly, there is karaoke as well. While temperatures will hit freezing in the underworld before you find me behind a mike, I'll be happy to cheer on the rest of you.
Later evening: Excuse me, where's the nearest bar?
2 am: My hard and fast deadline for heading to bed. Negotiable.
See, there's this tournament I'm supposed to be playing in and it's really screwing up my advance planning. I could be there all day. I could be there for 15 minutes. In the event of the former, Have Fun Storming the Castle! If the latter befalls me, I'll railbird with all my might. Right after I power binge drink my sorrow/embarassment away.
10 am: WPBT Aladdin Classic. If I'm starting WSOP final table play at 2, I'll probbly have to skip this one, in the interest of getting some sleep. I'll most certainly drop by, however. If that other tourney is not a concern, I'll be there with bells (and my Liverpool jersey) on. Reasonably coherent. Promise.
5 pm: After-party. Or, as I'm calling it, Prelude to a Yakking.
11 am: Time to go. Four hours of sheer hell on tap. Unless I win the WSOP Event, in which case I give my car to a homeless person and charter a private jet to whisk me home.
Tick, tock, tick tock...