High On Poker

Ah, back to the IP, where the donks flow like the nectar of the gods at Mount Olympus. I had returned to my hotel with Poker Peaker after losing a $150 tournament at the Venetian and placing a three-game parlay bet. If you are going to go back and read my last post, whenever I said, “and someone else I can’t remember” I meant to say, “and Mary.” No offense to Mary intended (and I’m sure none taken). These things are naturally tricky, and each time I wrote that generic statement about someone I couldn’t remember, I was thinking of Mary. Unfortunately, I attirbuted that to one solid memory of joining Mary for a cab ride, followed by my unnatural affection for her. Some might even call it creepy. I’m looking at you, parole officer.

So, back to the IP, where I was sure that I could win back my $150. After all, I was up $599 at poker cash games, so what’s the worst that could happen. Right. I sat down to the right of Instant Tragedy at a newly opening table. IT is a great guy. He’s super friendly and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, from what I’ve seen. I was glad to have the time to sit and play with him, as we both tried to destroy the ridiculous cast of characters at our table. Most notably, there were two young kids on my right and IT’s left who were scared as kittens. One of them would eventually take a nice pot off of IT when the kid made a crying call. Sadly, IT had the lesser hand (I appreciated his aggression) and lost the pot. I mostly was card dead and resigned myself to fold.

All the while there was one player that really bothered me. I was in the 7s, and all the way in the 3s, a skinny Caucasian guy in his mid 20s with a full dark beard and ball cap sat down between a German chick and her man. The Germans weren’t too bad. In fact, they were pretty weak, but the Bearded Douche, as we’ll call him, was really getting under my skin. It was probably my frustration at the lack of cards, but I couldn’t help but overhear the Bearded Douche chatting up the Germans. Worse, he was kissing their asses to a point of pure absurdity. Worst of all, he was insulting America the entire time.

He insulted everything from US Currency to foreign policy to gambling to vacation days and workplace attitudes. It was clear that the Bearded Douche just wanted to desperately be liked. He was the kind of guy who strikes up a conversation only to say to you whatever he thinks you want to hear, and in this case, it was all anti-American. I kept mumbling to IT, “Just leave the country then, you fucker.” To make matters worse, he made a couple of large raises in the few pots I entered for a raise, and each time I had to fold.

I rebought for another $100, and thus was in the game for $300 when this hand happened. I had KK and raised preflop to $15 after a bunch of limpers. I got one of the Scared Kittens to call and the Bearded Douche. The flop was Q9X. I bet out $35 when it was checked to me. The Kitted called, which concerned me. The Douche thought for a moment and made the call. The turn was a Ten. It checked to me and this time, with only $150 left behind (I was down to a little over $200 before the hand started), I pushed all-in. With the Ten, I did not like all of the straight draws. Still, I was confident that no one hit the straight, since it did not make sense to be playing for that inside straight draw, solely. After all, to have the straight a donk would have to hold KJ or J8, and neither made sense for a $35 call on the flop for an inside straight draw. Yeah, right. Douche called my push and tabled KJ. He played his inside straight draw and hit. I couldn’t place him on that hand because it didn’t make any sense to me. The preflop raise and post-flop call made KJ an impossibility in my head. But ultimately I was wrong.

At least I was a man about it. I said good game and nice hand and got up to walk. I was steaming pretty bad, having lost $400 of my $599 cash game profits, now even less if you add the $150 tournament loss. I bumped into Karol from IHO, and she lent me some headache medication to help me relax from my loss. It was much needed as the loss caused me to have a pretty strong headache.

I joined Peaker for a quick burger in the Burger Palace and afterward joined Peaker, Mary and StB in caught a cab to the MGM for the Blogger Mixed Games. StB had been drinking, and the headache meds had made me loopy. Our driver was a maniac. He started off well enough until StB started to mess with the radio. When the driver settled on a hip hop station, he began to drive like he had something to prove. He was uber-aggressive, and in my loopy state, I just sat back and laughed at the absurdity of it all. After all, if we were going to crash, I couldn’t do anything about it.

The MGM is a great place. The poker room is fairly open to the rest of the casino, but also far enough away from the slots and table games to be reasonably secluded. It is also right around the corner from the sports book. Before leaving the IP, I was watching the Knicks-Pistons game from a dealerless blackjack table where a bunch of bloggers were hanging out. I knew BG had more sports betting knowledge than I did, so I asked him if my over bet looked good. I told him my over bet, and he checked the score and the clock. “It doesn’t look good.” I gulped hard, but accepted that I knew nothing of basketball. I resigned myself to a loss.

At the MGM, I checked the score of the now completed game. I had covered by a few points, AND the Knicks lost by enough to allow me to win 2 out of my 3 bets in the parlay. My last bet, the Spurs to beat the Jazz (Pick game, i.e., no spread) was still up in the air. I began watching in earnest from my seat at the Mixed Game about halfway through the game. Spurs were down by 5 or so, but I felt good about my chances. All I knew was that the Spurs were on a win streak at home thank to ESPN.

The mixed game was great. The table was a fun assortment of players including Yestbay, who I last saw at Okie Vega, Peaker, who was learning the games as they came, the Rooster, playign as sharp as ever, and host Falstaff. The games included Crazy Pineapple Hi, Crazy Pineapple Hi/Lo, Omaha Hi, Omaha 8, Stud hi, Razz, and Stud 8. We were the first table to get started, and I was having a great time making looser bets and calls at the 3/6 game. In fact, it was common to cap the betting preflop, at least in the early goings. Eventually two more blogger mixed game tables started. I stayed put, but it was nice to see the breadth of poker bloggers willing to spend some time donking around in a rare mixed casino game.

Somewhere in the first couple of hours, Falstaff introduced a then-stranger to the table. “Everyone, this guy has the best online poker name: Dr. Felter.” Someone at the table asked if he was a blogger. “No, he’s a reader. He heard we were out here and wanted to stop by.”

The reader, a tall-ish guy with dark hair and glasses, perked up at this and asked Falstaff, “Is Tripjax here? How about HighOnPoker?” I stood up, “Yeah, I’m Jordan from High on Poker.” He came over and shook my hand.

It’s great to meet readers who aren’t also bloggers. In the past, this has only happened to me online, and not more than twice. Generally, a player at the table will ask in the chat box if I have a blog and when I admit it, the conversation starts from there. But to meet someone in person is a different thing altogether. I have no illusions with what I do here at HoP. I simply write what I am thinking or feeling at the exact moment I am typing, and then hit the publish button with nary a thought to editing, either typographically or content-wise. I hope that people like what I put out there, but there are many days that I don’t even like what I put out there. I’ve said it before, but blogging is very much literary masturbation. Its value seems to be mostly for the writer, or at least that’s how it feels during stretches where comments are quiet or content feels thin. But when someone has a kind word about content and understands what I am doing, it is not only a pleasure, but a real honor.

As I said though, I have no illusions about what I do here at HoP, so when Dr. Felter wanted to take a picture with me, I was immediately flattered. Since the trip, he has sent me a trip report that I may post here. It’s actually really thorough and well-written, akin to my style of trip reports, so I would not be surprised to see Dr. Felter join our poker blogging ranks in the weeks to come.

As all this mixed game poker was going on, I kept an eye on the TV. It was a 1-point game with a few minutes left, and I walked from my seat to get a better view of the game. When it was all said and done, San Antonio came from behind to win by 5, and I was suddenly $120 (profit) richer, thanks to a sports bet requiring no actual knowledge other than the little I could cull from watching ESPN for 20 minutes.

The game started winding down late into the evening. Soon, the other two tables broke and our table was the last one standing. As we played, people were walking by all night, eying the action. I’m not sure if they were confused about what was happening (we were throwing chips around and having a good time) or if they were interested in something other than hold’em, but a few brave souls tried to join us. Mostly, there were no seats, so we sent them packing, but by late night, the table opened up, and non-bloggers began to fill the ranks. Overall, they were not up to our caliber of play, so when I found myself alone at the table with Mr. Subliminal and a slew of non-bloggers, down $120+ from the blogger rounds, I saw opportunity knocking. I just couldn’t leave the table.

My favorite player at that point had to be the Brit. While the table was full of bloggers, a broad, dark-haired British guy looked over my shoulder at the odd game of Pineapple we were playing. He began to ask questions, and I obliged his requests by teaching him how the game was played. It was about an hour later when he stumbled back, clearly a tad inebriated, with a rack of chips. He had wanted to try out our crazy games, but he had no prior knowledge of the different formats. Along the way, I taught him how to play. So, how could I not stay, considering that my opponents had learned the game about 5 minutes before playing and…I was their teacher!

The money was relatively easy at this point (never easy, though, due to the limit nature and the temptation for opponents to play lots of hands loosely in these games), and after an hour or so, I left the table down only $31. I had been playing mixed games for over 6 hours, and was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Jordan’s priorities are pretty clear.

When I did walk, it was largely due to Blinders who was about to head back to the IP in his car. I had already resigned myself to cabbing it back alone, but a free ride and an opportunity to hang out with some of the guys I had wanted to meet was too good of an offer to refuse. Blinders was surprisingly not what I expected. It wasn’t so much that I expected anything in particular, but his free-wheeling attitude was a stark contrast to his folding patience on the virtual felt. Schaubs was in the car too, and over the last year or so, Schaubs and I have grown a friendship over the net. RecessRampage was also riding along, and he’s another on the guys that I knew I would immediately like in person.

Back at the IP parking lot, Blinders was kind enough to offer me some headache medicine. Poker is bad for my brain. We headed inside, and I made my way to the PaiGow tables, where a slew of bloggers were playing, including the very happy and very drunk Garthmeister and a just as drunk Iggy, who once again amazingly climbed all the way up to the high stool. I swear that midget must’ve had a booster seat hidden somewhere.

After a while, BG and F-Train joined the fray. With that group, it was no surprise that PaiGow was merely a pretext to having a shitload of loud drunken fun. A Korean dealer named Joo sat down, and F-Train noted the irony, since he dates a Korean Jew. Much like his Korean Jew, this Korean Joo gave him a spanking and took a good amount of his money. She took some of mine too. Still, we were having fun making Jooish jokes. Every once in a while, someone would suggest or seem concerned that I was offended, but I am more offensive than most.

After some Pai Gow, I decided to turn in for the night. It was 5:30am, and I was up for 21 hours, hardly a record, but that was the second 20+ hour day in a row. I retired upstairs, where Peaker was just getting into bed. We said our goodnights and I drifted off to sleep with my headphones playing a Trance podcast.

The next day was going to be an interesting one with the blogger poker championship and the Floyd Mayweather, Jr.-Ricky Hatton fight. But that’s for another time.

Until next time, make mine poker!

I fell asleep around 4 or 4:30 the night before. Even so, the best part of waking up isn’t Folgers in your cup if you are at a casino. It’s the sweet smell of opportunity, and even though my iPod clock only showed 8:30, I was not going to fall back asleep.

Quietly, I got out of bed and found the clothing I wore the night before. I suited up in my now disheveled outfit, my High on Poker t-shirt, gray cargo pants and sneakers. I grabbed my poker accoutrements and headed downstairs.

I put on my old clothes for a reason. On many occasions, I’ve returned to a poker game after a night of sleep only to see familiar faces who were either still playing from the night before or had started a new session. It was my goal to have these people think that I didn’t sleep. By wearing my same, now-disheveled clothes and grabbing an empty glass of alcohol (melting ice included) on my way to the poker room, I hoped to play the role of a complete degenerate. I even put on a little faux stagger to play the role.

When I looked at my iPod that morning, I thought of one thing: Aces and Kings Cracked Promo. The IP has a slew of promos that I mentioned in the last post. Included in that is the 8am-11am promo, where you get $100 if your Aces are cracked or $50 if your Kings are cracked. Truthfully, this was the reason I was awake so early. I wanted to get Cracked.

Downstairs, two tables were going. One was clearly a 2/4 limit table, since each player sat behind a stack of whites. The other table was three-handed. Two of the players were old timers. The other was a young guy, probably in his late 20s, with a hooded sweatshirt with some hip hop design. He looked like a white version of Shaggy (the R&B singer). To me, a guy like that has a target on his head. Ironically, its the same target I paint on myself when I intentionally try to look disheveled at the table. This isn’t just my wear-yesterday’s-clothes routine. The very Superman shirts I wear are a calculated effort to look like a loser. Whether you are a white hip hop wannabe or a man dressed in a comic book t-shirt, the message is the same: Bust me, because I’ll be playing fast and loose.

I assumed the game was 1/2 NL, since that was the only NL game I could envision at IP’s small room. However, I was wrong. Somewhere in the evening, I guess some of the players asked to bump up the stakes. Therefore, the three players were at 2/5 NL.

I’ve only play 2/5 NL once in my life, when I was in Buffalo last April. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to play 2/4 limit sober, and the 2/5 NL table seemed soft. I was up so far for the trip, so I manned up and put $500 on the table. I intentionally sat on Shaggy’s left so that I could take advantage of my LAG read.

Within an orbit, one of the old guys left, leaving me three handed with Shaggy and the old guy with the Ponytail. I remembered Ponytail from the night before. I thought I had a good read on his play, so I was happy with my challengers. I raised preflop a handful of times right off the bat, since we were shorthanded and I was dealt Ace-high hands. This, hopefully, would set up a loose image. Eventually, the generally tight Ponytail raised preflop and Shaggy called. In the BB, I called with K9. The flop was K9X. I checked and Ponytail bet out. I min-raised and he pushed all-in with his short stack (less than $150 at the beginning of the hand). I called. The river was a 9, giving me a full house. He busted and opted to walk.

Shaggy and I considered our options and decided to keep playing. I had the better of him for the most part, especially since I was dealt great cards for HU play. I never let up the pressure because I wanted to set him up to be uber-aggressive at the wrong time. Ponytail came back and tried to buy in for $100, but the floor told him it was $200 minimum. I liked Ponytail’s money, so I told the floor to let him play. “We are heads up. We need him to keep the game going.” The floor put up a fight, but I like money, damnit, and eventually won the argument.

In the first hand dealt out, Shaggy raised to $15, Ponytail called, so I called. The flop was T7. I hit the flop and checked. Shaggy bet. Ponytail folded, I raised, Shaggy called. On the turn, I bet out big and took down the pot. I looked to my right and Ponytail was gone. GONE! He must’ve seen our action and realized that $100 wasn’t going to cut it. Still, he donated $15, so it was all worth it. Remember Ponytail, too, because I’ll be seeing him again later, and it wasn’t in a way I expected.

So, Shaggy and I are heads up, and I eventually crack his KK with T7 when he min-raised preflop and I flopped T7x. At the river, we realize that its still before 11am, so he should get the cracked Kings bonus. We called over the floor, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Sadly for Shaggy, we didn’t have the 4-players minimum to hit the bonus. Sucka!

I was up $185 or so when I saw GCox watching from the rail with one or two people. I went over and said, “Guys, I’ll cash out.” G told me not to rush for them. “Are you kidding,” I replied, “I’m using you as my excuse.” The guy and I were trading chips back and forth, and even though I felt I had an advantage, I had enough of a profit to call it a morning. I went back to the table and shrugged. “Can you believe it. They want to get breakfast. Sorry, man.” We shook hands, having a shared admiration for each other at the table. Even when he was losing, we were able to joke about it, and while he looked like a tool, he was a decent player (albeit, LAG, as expected).

I ran upstairs to shower change into clean clothes and when I came down, G was gone. I heard that he was at the Tea Room, a diner-like establishment at the IP, so I went up there to see what was happening. G was with Mrs. G, Instant Tragedy, Buddy Dank, and one or two more person whose identity now escapes me. They were all cool enough to wait for me as I ordered a simple two eggs over medium, bacon, toast and a chocolate milk. The food was fast enough and delicious. It felt good to get some real sustenance in me.

After that, Peaker and I walked over to the Venetian to see what was happening. One other person came with us, but once again I can’t remember who. This group is great, especially since people were constantly mixing and matching, coming and going. I sat at a 1/2 NL table with Peaker and the other person, until I overheard an announcement of a noon tournament. I headed over to the tournament desk and signed up for the $150 buy-in. I played 1/2 for another 20 minutes, and pretty much broke even folding away.

The tournament ended in the third level, with 30 minute levels. It was clear fairly early that I was one of the better players at the table. Unfortunately, in one hand, I flopped a straight with 25o, but the board paired on the turn and I got into a raising war with another player. He bet, I raised big, and he pushed all-in. Everything he did seemed like a fullhouse. In fact, his hand was shaking like a leaf. I even announced it, “You hand’s shaking pretty bad buddy. Looks like you got a monster.” I folded. He then told me that he had a shaking disorder. Whoops! He also claimed to have been slowplaying AA preflop. But we’ll never know.

A little while later, I flopped a Ten-high flush, only to lose to a flopped Ace-high flush. Amazingly, I didn’t get felted on that hand, mostly because the river four-flushed. A little while later with over 3k of my 6k starting stack, I re-raised the shakey guy with KK all-in preflop. Blinds were 200/400, so I consider this a standard move. He called with QQ and flopped a Queen. I walked away dejected, but accepting. I was friendly as I left and wandered around the casino to relax. I hit the sportsbook and decided to play three games on a complete whim, the Knicks/Pistons to cover the over, the Pistons to cover the spread against the shitty Knicks and the Spurs to win (Pick game) against Utah. That morning, I watched ESPN, so I basically just went with what felt right based on what I heard (and the fact that the Knicks SUCK!). In other words, I may as well be playing Keno.

After that, I wandered around until I saw Dank. He was looking for his players card, which he left in a machine. He had walked the entire casino floor without luck. I asked what the machine looked like and he pointed to the one right next to us. “Just like that one…HEY!” There was his card. What luck that we bumped into each other right there.

I decided to play a spin of roulette, mostly to play the numbers given to me by wifey Kim and the Big Boss Man. None of them chose 9, so I lost. My boss still owes me $4!

We returned to the poker room, where I watched Fuel playing 10/20 NL. I felt like a kid with his nose pressed up against the glass at Toys R Us.

Eventually, Peaker and I decided to check out a Caesars tourney, but when we got there, there were only 5 seats left and the event didn’t start for 45 minutes. Jordan doesn’t wait well, especially if he’s waiting for poker. Instead, we returned to the IP where I sat next to IT at a 1/2 NL table. But we’ll get to that later. I hope you all like schadenfreude!

The night before Vegas, I put myself to sleep by midnight. I had to be up at 5:30 so I could take a subway to a commuter train to an airport shuttle train. All in all the trip should’ve taken about an hour and thirty minutes, and I arrived promptly at the airport at 7am for my 8am flight. The greatest improvement for consumers in air transportation in the last 5 years must be the express check-in options. Nowadays, if you are willing to forego checking baggage, you can print out your boarding pass from home (or any computer with the Internet and a printer) or even just go to a kiosk computer at the airport for a quick, non-human check-in process. Even if you have bags, you can usually drop them off with someone quickly after printing out your boarding pass. But for me, this trip was all carry-on luggage, consisting of a rolling bag designed to fit into overhead compartments and my trusty ole backpack.

Why all carry-ons? Because when I arrived at Vegas, I didn’t want anything to slow down my gambling.

The flight was uneventful. As a comic book fan, I was glad to see that the Delta in-flight movie was Stardust, a fantasy movie written and directed (I think) by Neil Gaiman, the comic author who brought us Sandman, probably the best mature comic book series ever. Unfortunately, the British Gaiman is best in common form, and the movie was a complete bore. I eventually turned on my iPod, put a bandana over my eyes and tried to sleep. I drifted off for a bit, but woke up in a panic. I was in the middle of a dream and when I opened my eyes, all I could see was darkness, thanks to the bandana. All I could hear was music, thanks to the headphones. I immediately thought, “OH SHIT! I MISSED MY FLIGHT!” I whipped off the bandana and looked around panic-stricken. My seat neighbor (two seats away, thanks to the empty middle seat) looked at me with concern. I finally realized that it was only a dream, I was IN the plane, and went back to sleep.

Later, when I woke up, I remembered my second dream. I was at the L.V. airport, but I couldn’t find my bags or how to leave the building. I was walking around the building, which looked like an empty warehouse, confused as all hell. It was a nice bookend to my missed-flight dream. Fortunately, I arrived in Vegas safe and sound, and made my way to find a cab.

Come on 6:30! Come on 6:30!

When I was 15, I was heir apparent to my older brother’s butcher shop job when he went off to college. Much like royalty, when my brother was dethroned, it was just assumed that I would take over. Of course, it was all off the books, so my employers had no idea as to my real age. When I finally turned 16, they were shocked; they thought I was a good two years older.

The job was miserable. I was the clean-up boy, which took a lot of physical work. Butchers’ blocks are really just big slabs of wood on legs. To clean the dried, caked blood from the surface, you have to spray it down with a mix of bleach and water. Then you have to use a weird scraping tool. It’s basically a wooden block the size of a brick with metal bristles sticking out of one side. The bristles are thick with shard edges. You take the scraping tool and you basically sand down the wooden block until all the blood-covered wood and bleach is nothing more than blood-and-guts-scented saw dust.

Amidst my co-workers was Anthony (never Tony), a 30-something tall, athletic looking guy with jet black hair that was starting to recede. Anthony was an asshole, but he was the kind of asshole you eventually get to like. It’s sorta the ole, He’s an asshole, but he’s OUR asshole. On one occassion, he grunted about the stupid Jew broads coming here in their Mercedes paid for by their husbands. We were in an affluent Jewish (but not religious) neighborhood, so this was a common relent. But one time, he was extremely harsh when the customers left. He had no idea I was Jewish. I guess my bid head convinced him I was Irish. That’s when I learned to consider the source before getting insulted.

I hated my job at the butcher shop and almost daily begged my Mom to let me quit. She made me keep the job for over a year before I finally found my loophole, but during that time I learned a lot about human nature and work ethic. I also have certain sayings that will stay with me forever, and when I mention them, they make perfect sense to me, but leave most people thinking I’m crazy.

“Come on 5:30! Come on 5:30!” Anthony used to yell this every day around 4:50 as he stared at the clock. The store closed at 5:30 and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and do some hard drugs until the next day. But I loved his shout. He was calling for 5:30 as though it were a race horse. “Come on 5:30! Come on 5:30!” as though he could will it to come faster, much in the same way as horsebetting fans call out their horse as though their encouragement from hundreds of yards away would make any difference to the animal.

That’s what is going through my head today. “Come on 6:30! Come on 6:30!” Because tomorrow, at about 5:45 am, I have to hit the road to make my way to the airport. Next stop, Vegas, land of dreams and just as many nightmares. I can’t fucking wait.

Until next time, make mine poker!

Somewhere around Friday night, I could feel that this particular cold was going to be a strong one. I didn’t have a fever, but my body felt lethargic and my joints ached. But I had plans to join Dave Ruff in Atlantic City for a day trip (more accurately, a night trip), and I didn’t want to back out of our plans. Even as late as Saturday morning I was considering canceling the trip. My nose was raw from tissues, my throat burned. But ultimately I tried to picture myself Saturday night if I skipped AC. I would undoubtedly stay home while wifey Kim went to her jewelry party (yeah, I have no idea either), and it would be only a matter of time before I was so bored that I fired up the old comp to play online poker. I ran through the scenarios in my head. Take a 2 hr drive to AC with Ruff after a 20 minute train ride to his NJ neighborhood and then play live poker for hours before making the return trip back, or sit on my ass and play online poker. Once I worked out that in my head, the answer was obvious. I was going to AC.

The trip started off with a slip-up. I missed my stop on the train and had to double back. Our plan was to leave around 2pm, but that turned into 2:40 or so. When I entered Ruff’s car, I tried to find the silver lining, “Let’s hope I used up all of my bad luck on the trains.” In truth, I was worried that the difficulties was an omen, but omens only have power if you allow them to have power.

The ride down was uneventful. Ruff and I chatted about a variety of things, including my 10 year high school reunion. I skipped it, since I have a terrible memory and I didn’t want to deal with pretending like I remembered people. The price tag was a bit rich too, $80 per person. In and of itself, that’s not expensive, but with wifey Kim, it’s $160, and between you and me, I’d rather spend that money on a nice meal, especially if its with the people from HS that I actually remember and like. That said, during our conversation, memories of people came flooding back. Still, overall, the reunion seemed to be a ripoff, so I have no complaints.

On a side note, reunions are an antiquated concept. Nowadays, with the Internet, if you want to find someone, you can find them. You can search for phone numbers by name, or do background searches for relatively cheap. Hell, they probably even have a blog, so you don’t even get a chance to lose touch, unless you want to. I know a guy who can find anyone for $105. My point is, before all of this available information, it made sense to wonder what happened to everyone from high school. Now, its just a way for reunion companies to exploit nostalgia and rip off their clients. Not only was our reunion allegedly bootleg, but wifey Kim’s reunion didn’t even happen, after the reunion company absconded with the dough. Thankfully, she didn’t want to go to that one anyway. That’s my girl!

We arrived in AC just before 5pm. Ruff prefers the Borgata because of the hot cocktail waitresses, good drinks, and big poker room. In fact, his buddy Bridge was already there, and I’m not picky. Borgata is the closest thing to a Vegas mega-hotel in the AC area. It’s head-and-shoulders above the other AC properties in trendiness, and it’s known as the place to go if you are a scenester. Naturally, then, there are lots of hot chicks, and for every hot chick, there are 4-6 douchebag meatheads. But those douchebag meatheads like to pretend like they are big shots, which means they play poker like they are desperate to prove something. In the end, all they prove is that they are douchebag ATMs. But if you are going to be a douchebag, you may as well be a douchebag ATM.

Before we played we had a quick dinner in a diner-like (but classier!) restaurant at Borgata called Metropolitan or something similarly pretentious. Ruff highly recommended the cheesesteak, but I was still feeling ill, so I opted for chicken soup and the official gambling food of High on Poker, a grilled cheese sandwich. For some reason, grilled cheese sandwiches in AC are phenomenal, and this was no exception. Ruff handed his players’ card to the waiter to redeem what little comps he had left over. When the check came back, all but 20 cents of the $28+ check was left. Thanks to Ruff’s generosity, I was freerolling dinner.

We entered the poker room and placed our names on the 7-deep 1/2 NLHE list. We were called within 10 minutes. I was seated by the bathrooms, which proved to be convenient for a variety of reasons, which we will get to later. In the 2s, my back essentially faced the back wall, so I could see the entire poker room.

Things got off to a bang when I won an early pot with 57d, hitting my flush on the river. I didn’t keep hand histories, and I don’t remember too many specific details, but I worked my way up over the next several hours until I was up to about $380 profit at my peak. Meanwhile, Ruff was whooping ass at his table, initially lagging behind my lead before blowing up to a $500+ profit. Ruff’s rule is that the big winner pays for the $5 parking fee, so when I saw him, I constantly joked about how I was going to keep below him to save $5.

My table allowed a lot of limping. In fact, it was a pretty weak table, with lots of players coming and going, usually with stacks of $100-$120. There was one exception, though, a handsome, stylish Caucasian in the 7s with slightly graying hair. He was playing all sorts of crap cards, hitting, and getting paid off. Aside from me, he was the only big stack at the table, amassing more than $1000.

After earning my $350+ in profit, things got a tad boring. Most hands involved 5-6 limpers and were folded to on the flop after a bet of $10. When I entered a pot with a decent hand, I usually led out with a preflop raise from $10-12. Post flop, I’d bet $20 and take it down without resistance. When I did get resistance, I’d slow it down. This got to be very boring and I asked for a table change. At that point in the game, we were 7-handed, so I was told to wait for the other seats to fill up. Two young guys sat down right next to each other in the 9s and 10s. I didn’t like their style. They were obviously loud with other buddies around the room. One of them sat with a stack of blue $10 chips that I hadn’t seen before. The other one had a stack of probably 20 $100 chips, way more than was allowed at the table. He joked that they were for tips, and took them off the table. But I didn’t like the vibe. I was worried they were going to be angle shooting and signaling to each other.

Even so, I stayed put since they were loosening the table up with blind $4 raises UTG preflop. There were no straddles allowed. I had a bit of fun joking around with them while trying to relieve them of their stacks. I had some nice results too, including a hand where I bet $4 blind UTG and ended up with two-pair Aces and Tens by the river for a nice-sized pot. But eventually I screwed myself with their efforts to loosen up the table.

I raised preflop and took their blinds in a hand. The two buddies joked about how it was rude for me to steal their blinds. “Sure guys, I really wanted those lucrative $3 in blinds.” I was UTG in the next hand, so I through $5 into the pot blind and joked, “I don’t even want your chips. Here, I’m putting them in blind.” The big stack raised to $10 when it got to him. It folded to me and I looked down at Q2. It was a shitty hand, but for $5 against a loose player (I had seen him raise preflop with 23o and 79o earlier in the night) to win $18, I called. The flop was random low cards. I bet out $15 to try to take down the pot, hoping that he had high cards. He called. The turn was a Queen. Suddenly, I had a very hidden top pair against a loose player who may’ve called me with middle pair on the flop or even top pair, which I now beat. I bet out $30 and he raised to $60. I took my time and considered what to do. Ultimately, I didn’t believe that he hit the flop that hard if at all and I called. On the river, a flush card came. I checked and he bet $100.

This was a very uncharacteristic bet. Why bet so much?, I thought. Compared to the pot it wasn’t big, but it was a bit much for a value bet. I considered the possibility that he hit his flush, but he was not the type of player to play draws (ironic, I know, since he was more likely to play crap cards than drawing hands). I thought long and hard, and when I called, not believing that he had the flush, the table took notice. He showed AA. And I lost $200 of my profit.

Down to about $125-140 in profit, I decided to slow things down until I could get a hold of myself. I felt the tilt creeping in, but I tried to remind myself that I was still up more than $100. I took a walk and talked to Ruff, who was holding onto his $500+ profit. When I returned, I put on my headphones and listened to some soothing music. One of the two buddies busted and the other one eventually left. Two new players sat down. The 8s opened up, one seat to the left of the big stack and I moved my seat. He joked that I had vengeance on my mind and I did not dissuade him of that thought. The truth was, he was the most active player at the table (less so than earlier in the session) and the only threatening stack, so I merely wanted to act after him. I would not target him specifically because that’s just tilt.

From there, I played smart, screwed down poker. I made nice pots with a flopped set of 2s and a rivered set of 3s. I worked my stack back up as I made friends with the two brothers-in-laws on my left in the 9s and 10s. The 9s was an active player and the 10s eventually became self-destructive when he was at or around $100. He said he wanted to play roulette before he loosened up. It was pretty clear he wanted to double up or bust and walk. In one hand, the 10s re-raised all-in against the 6s, a newer player to the table who was actually playing fairly loose. The 6s called with some Ace-high hand, and the 10s showed K7h. He hit his King and doubled up to about $100 at the time.

A little while later, I was up $203, and we were nearing the time that Ruff and I wanted to leave. I really wanted to merely play my $2 and $1 BB and SB and fold away for an orbit with my $200 intact. UTG, I look down to AKc. I had to bet out, so I raised to $13. The pushmonkey 10s went all-in for $104. It folded to the 6s, who overpushed for $125 or so. It folded to me and as I considered what to do, the 6s flashed his cards, thinking that I was out of the hand. He immediately realized his error and covered them up. I thought I saw a face card, specifically a King. If it was just the 10s, I would’ve called. He might have a pair and is using his K7h push as a table-image setup, but I didn’t think he had a monster hand like AA or KK. I might’ve called against just the 6s, although he wasn’t pushing to the same extent as the 10s. But against them both, after catching a glimpse at the 6s’ face card (likely a premium pair, I thought), I folded. The 10s showed A5d. The 6s showed KK. The flop was Ace-high. I would’ve won the pot, but it was still the right call.

Ruff and I extended our time by 30 minutes. Every time I wanted to just fold and walk, I was dealt AQ. I mean, this happened three times easily, where I’d be up an even amount and thinking, “Okay J, just fold this orbit and hit the road” and then I’d get AQ and think, “Well, I can’t waste these opportunities.” Moreso than not, they worked for me and I eventually left the table up $285. I met up with Ruff, who was finishing his orbit, and when it was all said and done, he walked with $475 profit.

The car ride home was easy. Ruff dropped me off around 3am at the Hoboken, NJ PATH train, which is like a subway between NJ and NY. I missed the first train by seconds. I waited 20 minutes for the next one, which took me to a transfer point. There, I waited another 20-30 minutes before finally arriving home after 4am. The PATH ride was a bitch, mostly because it was late and some crazy dude was chatting me up at the transfer station. He started off asking me where my final destination was. I was very unspecific, mentioning that I was heading to meet people at the World Trade Center (the stop by my apartment). I didn’t want him to know I’d be alone, just in case. I went on the offensive and peppered him with questions until I realized that he was just some shlub who was mildly drunk, tired, and bored while waiting for the train. He was about my age, a bit younger, and well-enough dressed. But he still had that look of crazy in his eyes and I wasn’t about to buddy up with this whack job. We were discussing how expensive a cab would be to the city. He said it’d probably be $70. I said it’d be worth it at this point…if I only had $70 on me. In truth, I had near $1000, but I didn’t want him to know that. Eventually, his train came and I shooed him away. Oddly, he got on the train and then got off of it before it left the station. Maybe he was working an angle, and I was glad I was vigilant.

Before I go, a weird thing happened at the Borgata. It seems that everyone and their sister were there. When I was visiting Ruff at his table, I noticed Wendy from the Wall Street Game (and dealer at the underground Basement Game) in the 4s. We chatted and she pointed out another WSG regular, Darko, sitting at another table. I went over and said hi. I also bumped into Bradley from Ship It Fish as he was heading to the bathroom. Later, I saw another SIF homegame regular, Chuck, who was also playing at the Borgata. Finally, Joaquin ‘the Rooster’ Ochoa was in the room, and stopped by to say hello. It was weird, but also nice to know that there were friends and acquaintances around. I can only imagine what it will be like on Thursday in Vegas.

Another observation. The 1s at my table was an old guy in a red sweatshirt and Yankees cap. He was friendly enough, although he was one of those guys who can never take “Nice hand” without arguing. Dude, I said Nice Hand, now saw Thank You and let’s move on. Anyway, this guy literally only played premium hands, and every time he got paid off. Granted, he was folding 99% of the time, and when he had a premium hand, he wouldn’t raise unless it was the stone-cold nuts, but he called down many hands with his KK or QQ or, well, KK, only to take down the pot against a player overvaluing a single pair. When he left he had a huge rack. In one hand against him, I had A9 and he called a modest preflop raise. I bet the 9-high flop and he called. I checked it the rest of the way and he showed QQ. Of course I checked it the rest of the way. Once he called, I knew he had a big pocket pair. But still, most people paid him and he even got paid a bit on my hand.

This all goes to show you that playing uber tight can be profitable. That’s nothing new, but it was interesting to actually see it in action over 7 hours.

Until next time, make mine poker!