And Boom Goes the Dynamite!

Thursday (cont.)

As previously mentioned, I was crushing the 4/8 game at MGM. I only got sucked out once. But I wasn't feelin' it any longer. Because, little by little, bloggers were trickling into the room. And I was now the lone blogger at my table. I had hands to shake and shots to buy. Little did I know this would be my final winning poker session.

Playing poker with bloggers is -EV. Drinking with bloggers is considerably more expensive.

I cashed out my racks and headed to the rail for a smoke. I ran smack dab into BG. Bobby Bracelet was nearby and I got my first taste of the whirlwind that is Bob, who, if you didn't know, played in the World Series of Poker. I meet my longest and most loyal reader/blogger April.

Okay, back up. Earlier that afternoon at the Excalibur, I ran into my hero and writing patron, Dr. Pauly, as well as Derek. A serious thrill for me. And Pauly was gracious enough to introduce me to others at the MGM. Now, I'm no shrinking violet. And it's safe to say that by this hour I was totally plowed. Still, if I'd had the good sense (yeah, fat chance) to step back, the whole scene would have been overwhelming. Instead, I thrust myself headlong into the breach.

Minnesota was in the house: Professional Poker Player Chris Halverson, drizz who huddled behind his trademark excessive buy-in for the 2/4 mixed game and Chad, whom I'd been very anxious to meet, primarily due to his kick-ass sense of humor. Maudie and The Fat Guy, whom I'd briefly met on Fremont Street earlier were there. Al had commenced holding court...and drinking...and roping me into drinking. Twist my rubber arm. An urban legend was already making the rounds that CJ had taken $1200 out of a 4/8 game in an hour. The Man himself revised the total down to $350, a still impressive number. G-Rob seemed kinda sober. I would remember later that that was the last time G-Rob seemed kinda sober. I finally wormed my way into a handshake and conversation with the guy everyone was crowded around, fella by the name of Iggy.. Like Marcia Brady and Davy Jones, I'll never wash that hand again.

It was sensory overload. I had SoCo. I bought Bob some crazy fuckin' drink with hazelnuts or somesuch in it. I talked tunes with Helixx. I fawned over BG. I wrote in my notebook: "I am officially fuzzy."

For me, this was a surreal experience. Blogging can be a solitary pursuit. It certainly began that way for me. In the absence of such an outlet, I needed somewhere to put my poker thoughts. And I learned/laughed so much from the rest. As I told several people, it was entirely their faults that I was standing there amongst them. At the beginning, never did it cross my mind that I'd be accepted as one of them, or that some would consider my blog worthy of attention. To say I was flattered by some of the kind words would be an understatement. Floored, is probably better. Thank you all so much.

Time whizzed. Not that I had any concept of it. Everywhere I turned, there was a conversation to hold, a new face to place with the words. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I knew I needed to get to bed. There was this little poker tournament I was supposed to play. But I couldn't tear myself away.

Ultimately, the lure of the dice led a bunch of us back downtown to The Plaza. Bob, BG and I headed straight for the craps table and...uh...proceeded to drop $100 in five minutes. Between the three of us, we rolled a single number and no points. Clearly the Craps Gods had not been alerted to our arrival, to our rarified place in the gambling universe. To the fact that I, and, if you haven't heard, Bobby Bracelet, would soon be World Series of Poker participants and therefore worthy of better treatment.

What? Oh yeah, the World Series of Poker. Cards in the air in 7 hours. Alarm in 4. Should probably get some sleep. Oh well, I think I'll sit with the rest of these degenerates at 2/4 for a while.

A while comprised less than a single orbit. I started to weave in my seat. I lost focus, like someone rubbed Vaseline on my eyes. I honestly didn't remember if I'd even signalled my departure (though others assured me I did at least grunt a "Good night"). I only recall that I hurriedly racked up and dashed upstairs, where I may or may not have "racked up" a little Teriyaki Salmon on The Plaza's pristine carpeting.

Apparently, the party continued.

Next Up: The World Series of Poker and why I hate the fucking Hilton Sisters.