Saturday (Part I): Surprisingly Fresh
I have photos up.
Chad, Bobby and I were remarkably showered and present at Caesar's by 10:15 on tourney day, figuring our fashionably (and, in my case, extremely fashionably) late arrival would still beat half the field. Not even close. The program was underway, a good 95% of the bloggers were seated in rapt attention and we quickly made the exectutive decision to not upset the solemnity, since the group would have likely been distrated by the three of us striding confidently, if a little woozily, into the proceedings. Instead, we went in search of food, life-giving, alcohol-sopping food.
We ended up at a deli, where it took a month and a half to get our orders, the employees apparently under anesthesia, at least until Bobby tried to sit at a table to eat while the rest of us were waiting. Apparently seating is reserved for the OTHER customers, as opposed to those simply buying sandwiches in the establishment. I went with a double-decker turkey and roast beef, half of which I ate in the adjacent sportsbook, the other half which became my bounty, as I was unprepared--and lazy--in that regard.
As such, we missed the speakers and the Roshambo tourney, which I regret, but it really was for the best. Your intrepid narrator was not feeling his best and various sounds and smells were coming out two of his orafices. You're welcome.
There was really only one solution and it comes in the form of tomato juice, some spice and vodka.
My WPBT starting table was tigher than Sherry Nevala's 7th grade Dittos. The lineup:
Seat 1: Columbo, carrying the Flag for VHS users everywhere
Seat 2: Alan, my traveling companion
Seat 3: Garthmeister, with whom I would have too much fun talking proper football
Seat 4: Lori (okay, not so much ALL tight)
Seat 5: Heather, fortunately a buffer between she and I, but not for reasons you might think
Seat 6: CA April, buffer extraordinare, who check-raised me in a battle of the blinds
Seat 7: Moi
Seat 8: Sox Lover, who pronounced himself "sick" upon sitting down and immediately blew his nose with the 8 of diamonds
Seat 9: Grubby, he of the Tic Tac Toe chicken bounty, which demanded a cry of "Chicken in Every Pot!" each time he entered one
Seat 10: Empty to start. Filled eventually by Amy and her impressive cleavage.
I offered to kiss a guy after he complimented me on my blog. Actually, that happened on Friday at the Excal, but I totally forgot about it until I read it on his blog and I'm even more embarassed at my flippant remark to his sincere words and thus, must re-trace my trip report steps to offer this public apology.
I got pocket 10s three times in the tourney. The first time, at Level 1, I laid them down to Alan's re-raise. I said, "You have Aces or The Hammer." It was the latter. For such a breach of "passenger in my hawesome new luxury sedan" etiquette, I promised 3 hours of speed metal on the ride back to LA. The second time, at Level 3, I called a 4x raise on the button. Grubby came over the top--enough to put me all in--for the second time in the tourney. It was folded back around to me and I said, "I'm either way behind or slightly ahead." It was the latter. I called and won the race against his AK. This is part of my philosophy to always call Grubby or drizz if it's a race situation. The third time, I lost about 20% of my stack when I laid down my tens pre-flop to a push behind from ChicagoBryan. I said, "I'm not slightly ahead this time." I was right. He had Jacks.
A similar circumstance happened the same orbit when I laid down my raised 66 pre-flop to Columbo's push. He claimed Jacks, as well. And that, dear people, is how I went to the second break with a looming M was 2.5, quickly down from a fairly lofty above-par stack without even seeing a goddamn flop. I soon ran my naked ace into Garth's AJ and plummeted out mid-field. I bet he didn't even eat my sandwich.
I then adjorned to the bar for untold hours. It was simultaneously my favorite and worst part of the trip. And I'll leave it at that.
Stromboli + Nap + Shower and I was back at it in the Excal Poker Room, after a few drinks (which further cemented the Shampoo Theory--one extra dab equals mucho lather--as I was trashed again by my third beer). I met some other newer bloggers, Hoff, Miami Don (who conveniently made himself recognizable with the Hurricanes shirt) and Iakaris, and got myself seated at a boring 1/3 NL game before moving to a (mostly) blogger table.
Hilarity and Carnage Ensued. And it really deserves its own post but it should probably be written by someone other than I since I have the faintest recollection of most of it, the time being marked only by the regular intervals at which I re-bought. I tend to play hyper-aggressively against bloggers anyway and you add in my blood alcohol content and the hilarious time had by all, what you get is stuck $700 on the night. And it shoulda been more, but for the power of The Hammer.
Coming Soon: Nickerson adds a new wing to his house, Katkin's drawing dead by the turn, smokkee goes on SMTL Tilt, the World Cup Final and Roulette Time.