WIL WHEATON dot NET: Where is my mind?

Thirty-three years ago today, Rick and Debbie Wheaton became my parents, and as long as I can remember, I've stayed up until at least midnight on July 28th, so I could watch the calendar turn, and commemorate the happy occasion by running around my lawn in my boxers, hollering out "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!"

However, now that I am the distinguished age of 33, I felt a more appropriate way to mark the passage of time would be to play a Sit-n-Go at PokerStars. I sat into a game just about 11:30, hoping that I'd still be alive at midnight, and I could celebrate with a win.

Sadly, I didn't catch too many good hands, and when I finally pushed I had QTc vs KTo . . . and I didn't improve, so I finished in third place, which is still in the money, and at least I didn't lose to K4o.

I was satisfied to cash, and happy with the way I played it, and I almost went to bed, but then I thought, "Hey! It's my birthday, goddammit! If I want to play another SNG, then that's what I'm going to do." I may have put my little fist on my hip as I said it, but I can't be sure.

I sat into another one, and . . . long story short: I played a great game, caught cards when I needed them, and after a long heads-up battle, I won!

I was so excited, I ran out the front door, and raced around my lawn in my boxers, hollering, "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! I WON AND IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! WOOO!"

Luckily for my neighbors, my birthday only comes once a year.

Posted by Wil at 01:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (240) | TrackBacks (0)

I haven't formed an opinion about Digg yet. I think it's got a ton of potential, but my jury is still out.

Anyway, this morning, I dugg a link to a short TNG blooper reel, from the first season. In this clip, several different cast members flub lines, with cusstacular results. Somehow, I'm not in this one, but I am on a later one where I cuss like a sailor for close to a minute, which I thought was hilarious, but earned me a lecture from Rick Berman about using language appropriate for my age. Thanks for getting me busted, season two editing crew.

I remember seeing this at one of our first Christmas party, and though it's funny, it's nothing compared to one from a later season that's so "blue" an edict was issued from the powers that be which effectively ended creatively edited TNG blooper reels.

Posted by Wil at 09:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

The kids wanted to watch House last night, so Anne and I (and both our dogs and our cat) retired to our bedroom, where we watched The Sopranos on DVD (we're up to the third episode of season two, so don't post any spoilers or I'll break your freakin' legs. /toughguy) Around 9:45, Nolan came into our room.

"Aren't you watching House?" I said.

"Yeah, but I'm really tired and I've got a test tomorrow," he said. "I think I'm just going to go to bed."

Nolan turns fourteen in just over two weeks, and I'm constantly impressed by the level of responsibility he shows. When I was his age, I never would have gone to bed on my own, test or not.

"That's very responsible," Anne said.

Nolan smiled, and walked around to my side of the bed. I raised my arms to hug him, but he knelt down to the floor, where Ferris was sleeping. He kissed her head. "Goodnight, Ferris' head," he said. She grunted, and happily stretched herself out across the floor.

He walked back to the foot of the bed, where he leaned down and hugged my leg.

"Goodnight, Wil's leg," he said.

I looked at my wife. She smiled back at me.

My cat was curled up in a tight little ball between our feet. Nolan stroked his ear. "Goodnight, Biko's ear," he said. He stretched out one little white paw and purred.

Nolan looked down, knelt out of my field of vision and said, "Goodnight, Riley Monster's nose." Her tail thump thump thump thumped against the bed.

He stood up and walked over to Anne. He put his arms around her, hugged her, and kissed her cheek. "Goodnight, Mom's cheek," he said.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," she said.

Nolan stood up and smiled. He as he walked down the hallway to his bedroom, he called out, "I love you guys!"

"I love you too," Anne said.

"I love you too," I said. "Goodnight, Nolan's voice,"

I heard him giggle as he closed his bedroom door.

Posted by Wil at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (76) | TrackBacks (0)

Every Sunday, 1983 World Series of Poker champion and respected author Tom McEvoy plays a heads up poker match with the weekly tournament leader at PokerStars.

From time to time, Tom isn't able to play, so someone else from Team PokerStars is called up off the bench to play, and this week, it's me!

So if you've ever wanted to "watch" me play poker, you'll have a chance Sunday the 24th at 2pm EDT. Just login to PokerStars, and search for player "Wil Wheaton" to find the table.

I'm playing against the Dutch sensation Noah Boeken, who goes by "Exclusive" on PokerStars. He's got impressive credentials, and the scouting reports all include the word notorious(!) . . . so it should be a great match (or a quick and bloody evisceration of yours truly. ;)

Update: Going into this match, all I wanted to do was play good poker, not make any huge donkey moves, represent Team PokerStars honorably, and feel proud of myself when I was done, win or lose. There were a couple of hands where I think I messed up, but luckily they didn't cost me too much, and I'm very happy with the way I played. I didn't feel like I was playing scared, I got lucky when I needed it — which was a nice change of pace.

We played for 190 hands . . . and somehow, I won the match. Holy. Shit. I was seriously on the ropes for a bit, and I managed to battle my way back against a very good, solid opponent who played a fantastic game.

Thank you to everyone who watched and cheered me on. That was really fun :)

Posted by Wil at 07:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (94) | TrackBacks (0)

Newsday:

LOS ANGELES -- James Doohan, the burly chief engineer of the Starship Enterprise in the original "Star Trek" TV series and motion pictures who responded to the command "Beam me up, Scotty," died early Wednesday. He was 85.

Doohan died at 5:30 a.m. at his Redmond, Wash., home with his wife of 28 years, Wende, at his side, Los Angeles agent and longtime friend Steve Stevens said. The cause of death was pneumonia and Alzheimer's disease, he said.

Posted by Wil at 09:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (136) | TrackBacks (12)

"I don't look at results. Poker is about decisions. And I am happy with the decisions I made this year."
— Greg Raymer, to ESPN shortly after busting out of the 2005 WSOP

On Friday, Anne and I had the following exchange:

Anne: "Nolan's friend is in the little league all-star tournament, and Nolan's going to watch him tonight."

Me: "Uh-huh."

Anne: "Depending on what happens in tonight's game, his friend's team may be playing tomorrow —"

Me: "Is it a round robin, or something?"

Anne: "It's not like a poker tournament, where you get eliminated on the first day and then you're out."

Me: *silence*

Anne: "Oh, wait. I mean, not you, like you, Wil, my husband . . ."

Me: " . . . who can't make it past the first day of a tournament . . . "

Anne: "No! That's not what I mean. I just meant that it's not single-elimination, and . . . poker . . . baseball . . . one . . . tournament . . ."

At this point I started laughing so hard I had to stop and compose myself.

Me: "I know what you mean. That was awesome."

Anne: "This is going on your blog, isn't it?"

Me: "Yes. Yes it is."

On Sunday, I finished 22nd in the charity tourney, when I made a move that unfortunately involved bluffing into the nuts. Oops. It was a lot of fun, though, and the players who signed up contributed almost $3000 in Charlie Tuttle's memory, which is what the whole thing was about, anyway. Thanks to everyone who came out and participated. I'll put together some other charity tourneys in the future.

Moving on . . .

two hundred sixty-six hours earlier

On my way out of the Rio parking lot, I called my mother to update her on my status.

Or, more accurately, I called my mommy, so she could make me feel better.

She picked up on the first ring. "Hey Willow! How's the World Series?"

"I busted, mom." I stopped to let a car with Utah plates pull in front of me. A little ceramic dog sanguinely bounced its head in the back window.

"Is that good?" She said.

I smiled to myself. "No, Mom. That's bad. I got knocked out."

"Oh no! What happened?"

My mom doesn't play or watch Texas Hold'Em, so I translated as best as I could: "I played my best, but it wasn't good enough to make it very far," I said. The car in front of me stopped short, and the little dog's head bounced like he was at a Metallica concert.

"Well, as long as you did your best," she said, "ever since you were little, we've always told you to just be the best you that you can be. So if you did your best, I'm proud of you."

"This is exactly why I called you, mom." I thought.

"Thanks, Mom." I said.

"So are you coming home, or staying there to write another book?"

"I was going to come home, but PokerStars is buying me into a tournament at the Palms that starts at 7:30, so maybe I can redeem myself there." I turned right onto Flamingo, and noted how far The Palms actually was from The Rio. I was glad I didn't try to walk it.

"Well, see?" She said, "they believe in you, so you should believe in you, too."

"You're right, Mom. I will."

"Call me if you win, okay?" She said.

"If I win, it will be the middle of the night," I said.

"Oh. Then call us tomorrow," she said.

I laughed. "Okay, I will." I turned left, and drive into the parking garage at The Palms.

"Your dad just walked in. He says he loves you." She said.

"Tell him I love him too, and I love you." I pulled into a parking spot and turned off my car. "I have to go register for the tournament."

"Good luck," she said.

"Thanks, Mom," I said. "Bye."

I pulled my keys out of the ignition, and headed into the casino.

I'd never been to the Palms before, so I didn't know what to expect. I understand that it's where all the hot young celebrites and wanna-bes hang out, but they were outnumbered 1:0 by typical Vegas tourists. I imagine that it's different on the weekends.

I walked through the casino, which reminded me of The Hard Rock, but with higher ceilings, past a huge bar, which reminded me of a lost weekend in the late 90s, but without the empty promises to whatever deity happened to be listening at the time, and made my way to the poker room. It was much smaller than I expected, with just four tables, and I wondered how they were going to fit a tournament in it. A middle-aged man stood behind a podium and looked at a list.

"Doug K, 20-40 Hold'em," he said into a microphone. "Doug K, 20-40 Hold'Em."

"Is this where I sign up for the 7pm tournament?" I said.

Without looking up, he pointed to his right. "Two rooms down. Doug K, 20-40 Hold'Em. Last call for Doug K."

"Thanks," I said, and walked out of what I realized was the high-stakes room.

"Someday," I thought to myself. "Someday . . ."

A few moments later I walked out of the cacophony of the casino and into the familiar quiet of the tournament room, which was a smaller version of the tournament area at the Rio: an impossibly high ceiling, about five or six hundred people scattered around fifty or sixty tables, the soothing click-click-click-click-click of shuffling poker chips, and a quiet reverence that just doesn't exist anywhere else in the casino.

I was early, so I looked at a bulletin board with the results from previous tournaments. The average field was just over one hundred people, and the average first place finisher was taking home between ten and twenty thousand dollars.

I'll get into the details if I ever put this into a book, but I played my guts out. This time the cards fell my way a bit more than they had at the Rio, there was no Paul Darden to trap me with a set of jacks, and just after one in the morning, I finished 22nd out of over 300 entries. I took down a huge pot with AJ, doubled up with KK vs. 99, flopped the nut flush and got action all the way from a pair of tens, and even pushed around a couple of players who I correctly pegged as tight/weak. In other words, I played the way I thought I would play at the World Series, and for the first time in my life, I actually cashed out a tournament win at a real casino cage — I took home $430 (which would have been just my buy-in and rebuy, but because I was put into the tournament by PokerStars, it was a 100% win for me. Awesome :)

When I got back to the Mirage, it was almost three in the morning, and even though my day had been an emotional and financial roller coaster, I was too wound up to sleep. I finally fell asleep shortly before dawn.

When I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon, I threw on a PokerStars cap and my bathing suit, covered myself with two pounds of SPF 9000 sunscreen, and traded the cool, smoke-filled casino air and gaming tables for hot, dry desert air and sunshine. I spent the afternoon on a lounge chair, listening to podcasts and trying to drown my World Series sorrows with Anchor Steams . . .

to be concluded . . .

Posted by Wil at 11:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (31) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night, I cranked up Fred on XM, grabbed a Stone Pale Ale, fired up my barbeque and grilled burgers for dinner.

The sun had already fallen beneath the horizon, so the sky was that wonderful watercolor blur of indigo, blue, orange and red.

I threw patties on the grill, splashed them with Worcestershire sauce, and dusted them with garlic salt, fresh ground pepper and this blend of herbs called "The 21 Seasoning Salute" that we get from Trader Joe's. Fragrant smoke left my grill, and raced up to meet the few planets and stars that had poked their heads through the fading dusk.

While I cooked, Nolan came out of the house, and talked to me about school. Ryan came out and talked to me about school, and poker, and why I should really watch The Ring with him (he's been asking me for over a year . . . I really should just do it.) Anne talked to me through the kitchen window while she made baked beans and potato salad, and through it all, Riley ran around the patio chasing her tail, a cricket, and her tail again before she finally sat at my side and looked at me hopefully while I cooked.

Down the block, I heard the voices and excited shrieks of children playing hide and seek in the balmy Summer evening, and I took a moment to appreciate how lucky I am to have moments like this in my life.

The Writer may miss the inspiration of Las Vegas, but The Husband and Father is really happy to be home.

Posted by Wil at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (46) | TrackBacks (0)

Tonight's Family Guy was the best thing to hit television since they added Plinko to The Price Is Right.
I offer the following as evidence:

• The Quagmire theme song
• "Pretend I'm one of your children, Lois!" [pause] "Not Meg! Not Meg!"
• Star Wars and The Goonies in the sewer
• Mayor Adam We
• The A-Ha video featuring Chris Griffin

Posted by Wil at 09:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (42) | TrackBacks (1)

The final table of the 2005 World Series of Poker started at 4pm yesterday afternoon, and wasn't finished until just after 7am today. I'm not sure, but I think that's a record. I'd call Pauly to be sure, but something tells me he's crashed out until at least Sunday.

Two qualifiers from PokerStars made the final table, and one guy, who qualified using free play points, made it to the final two tables, finished in 13th place, and won $400,000. Not bad for a freeroll!

Speaking of Pauly and PokerStars, we're doing a charity tournament on Sunday in memory of Pauly's friend Charlie Tuttle:

Charlie is from Clarksville, Tennessee and he's a twenty-six year old music enthusiast who loves hanging out and playing poker with his friends. Charlie was dealt a bad hand in life when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, which he has been battling this past year. A couple of weekends ago, he was hospitalized because two tumors in his chest pressed up against his lungs, causing him breathing problems. I don't have to tell you how serious his condition was.

As Pauly wrote:

Situations like this one make you reassess what's really important in life. Las Vegas is a city built on greed. Poker is a game that often attracts some of the lowest forms of life. However, in the past two weeks, there has been a small group of professional poker players who have earned my respect and admiration. Amidst all the darkness and debauchery, I have caught a few glimpses of the bright side of humanity. The hearts of some of the biggest sharks in Las Vegas are filled with compassion.

Thank you, Charlie, for inspiring us all. We'll never forget you.

Details:
SUNDAY, JULY 17th
18:00 EDT (15:00 PDT)
PokerStars
Buy-in is $20 — all of it goes to charity.
"WPBT Charlie Tournament" under Tourneys -> Private tab in the lobby

Posted by Wil at 10:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

Dear Senator Clinton:

I'm just a writer from California, and I hate to tell you how to do your job . . . but perhaps your time and energy would be better spent investigating Karl Rove, than Carl Johnson.

Your transparent pandering to the morality squad is cute and all, but let's face it: you're no Bill Frist.

Sincerely,

Wil Wheaton

Posted by Wil at 12:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (58) | TrackBacks (0)

About 18 hours before I started and 21 hours before I finished my 2005 World Series of Poker Main Event, there was a knock at my door.

"Bellman," a deep voice said.

I put down the pizza I would later regret eating, and looked through the peep hole. A bored face looked back at me in fabulous peephole-o-vision. It was, in fact, the bellman. He had a cart with him, and there were several identical large red bags on it.

I opened the door.

"Yes?"

"I have this for you, Mister Wheaton," he said. In his hand, just outside the peephole's field of view, was a large red bag he'd presumably separated from its brothers before he knocked.

"Thank you," I said, as I took it from him. I reached into my pocket and slipped the bellhop a fin, mostly so I could later write, I reached into my pocket and slipped the bellhop a fin.

I let the door close behind me, and put the large red bag on my bed. On one side it said PokerStars.com. On the other, 2005 World Series of Poker. W. WHEATON was embroidered on the back in large black letters. Even though I had been an "official" member of Team PokerStars for weeks, when I saw my name on that bag, I felt it for the first time.

I carefully unzipped it, and pulled out all sorts of cool schwag: T-shirts, Custom shirts (designed just for me because I like the long sleeves!), polo shirts, baseball caps, even a CD wallet. I stood there, my stomach already beginning to rebel against the invading pizza, and smiled. This was very, very cool.

When I got home and unpacked, Anne had to endure a familiar post-trip ritual we call The Displaying of the Schwag. I held up golf shirts in three different colors, showed off my caps, my custom long sleeves, and my ultra-tight baseball jacket. (I checked with Ryan, and "ultra-tight" is the correct term.)

"Hey," I said, "you want me to wear this like the Mister Plow jacket?"

"Uhh . . . no." She said.

I put on my best Homer-Simpson-as-Barry-White voice: "I'm Mister Plow, that's my name . . ."

She put on her best Stewie Griffin voice: "Yes, yes, Mister Plow. Everybody knows that song. You're sooo clever."

"Woah," I said. "Nice Stewie."

I casually put the jacket on a hanger, and moved it to my closet. "I'll see you again, Mr. Jacket," I hoped thought.

I continued my display, and eventually got to the CD wallet.

"Hey, that's cool," she said.

"Yeah," I said, "but I hardly ever use CDs anymore. Do you think one of the kids would like it?"

"I don't know," she said. "Ask them."

I turned to holler down the hall, and felt something heavy shift around inside.

"Hey," I said, "there's something heavy in here."

"Maybe it's a dead body," she said.

"Or a greased-up deaf guy," I said, as I unzipped it, and watched a shiny piece of silver tumble out, bounce off the corner of my bed, and land on the floor near my feet.

"What the hell —" I said, as crouched down.

It gleamed in the soft bedroom light, and I knew exactly what it was: a solid silver card protector.

"Holy shit!" I yelled. "Anne! I got a PokerStars card protector!"

I picked it up. I was very heavy for its size, and so beautifully, wonderfully, shiny. It was encased in thick plastic, and said PokerStars.com on one side. I flipped it over with my fingers, and saw that it said 2005 WSOP on the other.

"That is very cool," she said.

"I know!" I said. I felt like it was 1983, and I'd just opened a birthday gift that revealed an unexpected Optimus Prime.

"I want to go use it in a sit and go right now to celebrate!" I said.

"Wait." She said. "How, exactly, are you going to use that in online play?"

"Well . . . uh . . ." I said, "I'm gonna . . . um . . . I could . . because it's cool?"

She smiled and shook her head. "You are such a nerd."

It could mean I love you, the way she says it.

"Well," I said, "maybe I could just play tomorrow, and come to bed early instead . . . " I eyed the Mister PlowPokerStars jacket, its bright red satin clearly visible through the half-open closet door.

"I'm exhausted," she said. "Go play, and just be quiet when you get into bed." She picked up her eye mask and ear plugs — we call it her sleep cocoon — and blew me a kiss.

I pointed to the small pile of clothes on my corner of the bed. "What about all this stuff? I need to finish putting all this stuff away."

She shoved her feet underneath it, and launched it onto the floor.

"What stuff?" she said.

I laughed. "I love you."

"I love you too. I'm glad you're home."

"Me too," I said.

"Good luck."

I walked over and kissed her goodnight, shut off her light, and headed down the hallway to my office. I set my card protector on my desk, next to my mouse, and logged on.

Three minutes later, I was in a 10 +1 SNG. I drew the button, which is great, because it gives me a chance to get some information on my opponents before I have to put money into the pot.

It's also great when I get a AdTs on the first hand.

shawnster77, under the gun, opened for a raise, and made it 60 to go. nickyt folded, champ14 called, then it was folded to me. In online play, there are lots of players who will take a big risk on the first hand, and go to another game if they get busted or crippled. It seems like such a -EV move, but I see it all the time. Though I am usually a tight player (especially in SNGs, where it's easy to fold your way through half the field) I'll loosen up a bit if I see one of these moves, so when I saw that I had the ATo, I raised it to 100. LibrarianAA, in the Small Blind, called. The Big Blind folded, and everyone else called.

The flop was Tc-Th-As.

"Did I just flop the stone-cold, mortal, I-can't-lose-this-hand-nuts?" I thought. While I double-checked to be sure, the Small Blind checked, and the original raiser bet 200.

"Unless one of these guys has aces . . . yeah, I'm pretty sure I did." I considered talking to the poker gods . . . then wisely clammed up. I looked down at my cool new card protector instead.

"Because it's so cool!" I said to the empty room.

It was folded around to me, so I called. The Big Blind also called.

The turn was the 5s. Now I hoped someone had picked up a flush draw.

The Big Blind checked, and the original raiser bet 260. I called, the Big Blind called. There was now 1900 in the pot — 400 more than my starting stack, and I'd only seen five total cards

The Kh came off, so the board was [Th Tc As 5s Kh]. It was checked to me, and I was left with the poker player's dream dilemma: "How do I get the most money from these guys?" They each had just over 900 left. Could I push and get a call from one of them? Maybe . . . "but if I bet a smaller amount that gives them odds to call, maybe I can win another bet from both of them, or even induce a push from a set."

I thought for a moment, and bet 500, giving them just over 3:1. The Big Blind quickly called, and the original raiser just as quickly folded.

I showed my AT, and raked 2900, 100 short of a first-hand double up.

"Nice"

(I later found out, when reviewing the hand history, that the Big Blind was playing Ah-9d. Wow.)

My victory prompted the following exchange

shawnster77 said, "nh"
Wil Wheaton said, "ty"
drscorp said, "space nerd wil wheaton just owned you"

dweezil220 [observer] said, "anyway. how do you go from a 10K buyin WSOP to a $10 buyin SNG at pokerstars?"
dweezil220 [observer] said, "hehe"
Wil Wheaton said, "about 225 miles on the 15 south"

At one point, I got crushed down to something horrible like 220 in chips, but I eventually battled my way back, and got heads-up against nickyt. We went back and forth, but whenever one of us would take a significant chip lead, the other would suckout and get right back in it. It was sick.

After a long (by SNG standards) heads-up battle, we found ourselves just about even in chips:

Seat 1: Wil Wheaton (6072 in chips)
Seat 5: nicky t (7428 in chips)

The blinds were 300 and 600, with 50 antes. In the Big Blind, I had Ad4h, and he raised it to 2400 — I was really pushing him around, and five or six hands earlier, while having entirely too much fun, I'd stupidly shown The Hammer . . . suddenly he didn't fear my raises so much . . . so I popped him back for another 3600. He pushed, I called.

I turn up my A4o, and he shows . . . 9c-Tc. The way this tournament has gone, I know I'm dead. I typed, "Here come the clubs," as the flop came down [Jc 2h 8c].

Well, I was still ahead . . . but just barely. (in comments, tshak pointed out that I was actually a 2.5:1 dog. That is how I got to the 10 +1 from the WSOP, dweezil220 ;), When the turn was another 8, I stupidly thought I was ahead (actually a coin-flip, barely) and I wondered if he'd catch one of his six 23 (?) remaining outs (Math is hard. This is why I don't dare post at 2+2) . . . and had my answer when the Th spiked on the river, giving him two pair against my pair of eights. Serves me right for getting in there with a loose call, I guess.

MaybeIt's probably just variance, but I took second place, and won $27.00 for my efforts. More importantly, though, I had a lot of fun (the chat transcript is hilarious) and I shook off some of the doubts that had built up during the WSOP. I found that, by playing with much more (intelligent and selective) aggression, and using my chip advantage (when I had it) I was happy with all my decisions but one. Next time I see Greg Raymer, I'm going to thank him for his advice.

This entry is much longer than I intended when I started it, and I'm out of gas. My Vegas story will be continued tomorrow . . .

Posted by Wil at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (36) | TrackBacks (0)

"I don't want to fuck up the drama . . . but this story is far from over. I'm not thinking about quitting, and I'm not staring into an abyss, at all. . . just try to hold on and enjoy the ride . . . We're still in the first act."

— Wil, in comments on yesterday's post.

A long, lonely drive across the desert as afternoon slowly moved through dusk and into night gave me a lot of time to replay every hand I saw in Vegas. Where other drivers saw the giant thermometer at the Bun Boy, I saw a Jack-high flop that cost me a lot of checks. The click-thump-click-thump-click-thump of seams in the pavement blurred into the click-click click-click click-click of shuffling and stacking chips. The smiling face of an old prospector directing tourists to the Calico Ghost Town turned into the smiling face of a suckout artist directing my chips into his stack, two hands before he spewed them across the table to the one guy who I was trying to avoid playing against without the nuts.

I walked with Greg Raymer on my way into the 1500 event yesterday. Greg is a fellow member of Team PokerStars, the 2004 World Series Champion, and one of the kindest people I've ever met in my life. If ever there was a perfect ambassador for the game, it's Greg.

About every fifteen steps, someone would stop him and ask for a picture or autograph. Though he was scheduled to start in under twenty minutes, Greg obliged every single person, and I marveled at how he made each of them feel like they were the only person in the world when he talked to them.

"I bet this is what it's like for you at a Star Trek convention, huh?" He said to me as we neared the entrance to the tournament area.

"Sort of." I said. "Fifteen years ago, maybe."

We passed Gavin Smith. Greg playfully pushed him into the wall.

"I swear to fucking god, Greg, if you win again, I'm going to kick your ass!" Gavin said.

They both laughed, and Greg wished him good luck.

"Can I bother you for some advice?" I asked him. "I'm playing in the 1500 today."

"Play smart." He said.

It's good, solid advice, but wasn't exactly the deep insight I was hoping to divine from the world champion. I think my shoulders involuntarily slumped a little bit.

"Thanks," I said, and extended my hand. "You don't need it, but good luck today."

He took my hand, and pulled me close to him. "Just remember that you've got to be happy with your decisions," he said. "Even if you get unlucky, you can leave here with your head up, because you're happy with your decisions."

I felt like I was the only person in the world when he talked to me. I squeezed his hand, and thanked him. We parted company, and headed to our respective tables.

He started today as the chip leader with just over a million. Phil Ivey, who started yesterday with 89K ( Paul Phillips: "Of course. 90K is par and Ivey with par is like a normal person with the chip lead.") has 722K. Amazing.

ninety-eight hours earlier

I walked out of the alcove of despair and back into the teeming throng of spectators. I second-hand smoked two packs of unfiltered cigarettes as I made my way past them, and through the Poker Lifestyle Expo. Before I walked out into the blast furnace that is a Las Vegas parking lot in July, I stopped to call Paul Phillips. We'd been talking about getting together while I was in town, and since I'd just found myself with a few days worth of free time, I figured our odds of hanging out had increased.

He answered and said, "I hope you're calling me because you're on a break."

"Yes, I'm on a very long break," I said.

"A 363 day break?" He said.

"Yeah," I said.

"Did you go out tough, or did you go out hating yourself?"

I've learned that poker players don't tell their bad beat stories to each other (they just repeat them endlessly on their blogs), so I just said, "I lost a race with a short stack. Do you want to call off the trade?"

A couple of weeks earlier, Paul had offered to trade 1% of each other. This is common among top pros: unless they're playing at the same table, in which case the trade is called off for ethical reasons, they'll trade small percentages of their winnings, mostly for amusement — 1% of 7 million isn't going to make much of a difference in these guys' lives. When Paul offered the trade, I will admit that I felt like a superstar, but I offered 2% of myself in return: "I think you're taking the worst of it with an even trade," I said.

"Okay, so 1% it is."

A few of the bodog girls walked by. I tried my best to look at anything else, and failed.

"No, we already agreed."

"Well, then I'm going to give you 30% of my nothing, as a gesture of goodwill and tribute."

He laughed. "So what's your schedule like? Do you want to join us for dinner tonight?" He said.

"I'm going to The Palms to play in the 7pm tournament tonight, but I'm free all day tomorrow."

A few of the Absolute girls walked by. The conventional wisdom was that they'd hired strippers and porn stars. I don't know if that was true or not, but they all had the lower back tattoo, and wore high-heels, so you can draw your own conclusion.

"I'm playing tomorrow," he said. "How long are you here?"

"Until at least Monday," I said.

"Okay. We'll figure something out."

A few of the — no, wait, those are just hookers.

I wished him luck, and hung up the phone. The battery was getting hot from all the talking, so I stood there for a minute and spun it around in my hands.

A teenager in a Linkin Park cap walked up to me.

He pointed at my shirt and said, "Did you qualify on PokerStars?"

I stopped spinning the phone and said, "No, I'm actually part of Team PokerStars."

His eyes got huge. "Really?!"

If he only knew . . .

"Yeah," I said.

"Do you know Chris Moneymaker?"

I nodded my head. "A little bit. I've only talked to him a couple of times."

"Is he cool?"

"Yes. He's very cool." I said.

"Do you know Fossilman?"

"Yep."

"Is he cool?"

"Yes," I said. "He's one of the coolest people I know, actually."

"Do you think he's going to win again?"

I wanted to tell him that Greg was a lock, because I know that's what he wanted to hear, but I said, "I don't know. The field is so large, it's unlikely that we'll ever see a repeat champion, much less back-to-back . . . but if anyone can do it, it's Fossilman."

An older woman with the same eyes as the kid walked over to us. She looked at me warily.

"Lucas? We need to go." Her thick accent matched his, too. I placed them in West Texas . . . maybe Odessa.

"Okay, mom." He pointed to me. "He knows Fossilman and Moneymaker!"

She looked at me again, with the same mother wolf gaze I've seen my wife use when strangers talk to our kids.

"Are you a professional poker player, too?" She said.

"No, Ma'am," I said. "I'm just a writer who likes to play cards."

I extended my hand. "My name's Wil," I said.

She shook it politely, but the gaze did not waver. "My son worships those men," she said. "It's always World Poker Tour this and Howard something that!"

Lucas said, "It's Howard Lederer, mom. He's the professor, and his sister is Annie Duke."

I smiled.

"Annie busted me in a tournament earlier this year," I said.

"Really?!" He said. "That's so cool!" Then, "No, I mean, it's not cool, but . . . I mean . . ."

"It's okay," I said. "I know what you mean. It was cool to play with her, but not so cool to lose to her on the River."

It must have been like we were talking in code. His mother said, "He thinks he's going to be a pro some day. Do you have any advice for him?"

I looked at the kid: teenage acne ravaged his cheeks. He was tall and gangly, just like me when I was his age. He seemed to hide beneath his Linkin Park cap, the same way I hid beneath my Dodgers cap. He looked back at me, expectantly.

"How old are you?" I said.

"Sixteen."

"Okay, the most important thing you can do is . . ."

"Yeah?" He said.

"The most important thing is to work as hard as you can in school, because the choices you make now will affect your life more seriously than you think. And if you want to be a poker player, pay attention in math — especially statistics."

His shoulders slumped. I knew this isn't what he wanted to hear, so I continued, "It's also not like the games you see on TV. Until you're Gus Hansen, if you raise with King Nine off suit under the gun, you're going to go broke."

Behind him, another crowd of booth babes walked by. "Too bad your mom is right here, dude," I thought.

"Study Winning Low Limit Hold'Em, and when you're ready, read Both of Dan Harrington's books. " I said. "And even if you don't respect the player, always respect the game."

He nodded his head. "Okay."

"And when you're in the World Series, don't ever play pocket tens out of position against Paul Darden."

He cocked his head to one side. "Why?"

"Because if you're me, it'll be the beginning of the end of your Tournament." I said. "That's why you've got to stay in school, so you've got something to fall back on when the cards don't fall your way."

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," I said. I shook his hand, and pointed toward the tournament area. "I hope to see you in there some day."

His face was devoured by a huge grin. "Me too, man!"

His mother patted him on the shoulder and shooed him away. "Your daddy's in the restaurant," she said.

She looked at me while he walked up the walkway toward the cafe. "Thank you," she said. "You just made his day."

"I've got two of my own,"I said, "about his age."

She frowned. "Aren't you a little young for teenagers?"

Raise.

"Yes, I am." I looked back at her and waited.

Re-raise.

She looked at me for a long time and said, "Well, thank you for talking with my son. And thank you for telling him how important school is."

Fold.

"Well, I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true." I said. "Nice talking with you."

I walked out to my car, and drove to The Palms. I had a tournament to win.

to be continued . . .

Posted by Wil at 05:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (53) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm not a huge fan of country music, but I absolutely adore Johnny Cash.

Wait. "Adore" is a little wussy when talking about the Man in Black. Maybe I should go with "love"?

No.

How about I just reword the whole thing: For the most part, I think country music is teh sucks, but Johnny Cash fucking rocks.

Yeah, that's a little bit tougher. My mom's not going to be happy about the language, though. Sorry, mom.

So I'm listening to Live at Folsom Prison right now, and when he sings

When I was just a baby, my mama told me, "Son,
Always be a good boy; don't ever play with guns."
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

Posted by Wil at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBacks (0)

In a field of 6,000 entrants, the best player in the world might generously be a 1,000-1 dog to win. After 40 years against those odds, that player would have a mere 4 percent chance of having won the tournament once, and it would take 700 years before the best player would have a 50 percent chance to have won.
— Paul Phillips, in Slate.

So I'm back at my hotel, looking down onto the pool area where I've spent so much of the last few days. Even from the 24th floor, I can see the be-thonged beauties floating in the pool, inches away from children splashing in waterfalls. Cocktail waitresses walk around, doing a job that is probably much harder and less fun than their customers think. The longer I look down there, the more I'm tempted to put on a Think Geek T-shirt and head down for a beer . . . but simply tilting my head up a few degrees puts the Rio squarely in my field of vision, and I can't help but feel like a complete loser.

I'm ready to go home.

seventy-two hours earlier

Pauly and I found Otis and told him the bad news.

"Did you play smart?" Otis said.

"I think so," I said. The numbness of busting out began to wear off, and I started to feel sick to my stomach.

"That's all you can do, man," he said.

"I know."

"But knowing that doesn't make it feel any better, right?" Pauly said.

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to be a baby — I did my best, and I wasn't going to cry about it. But, I felt sick to my stomach because I felt like I let PokerStars down. They put me into the tournament, and I couldn't even make it past the third level.

The three of us talked for a minute, until my cell phone rang. I saw Anne on the caller ID.

"That's my wife, you guys. I'm going to talk to her and get out of here."

"Okay, are you going to stick around?" Pauly said.

I picked up my phone. "Hold on," I said, and turned back to Pauly and Otis. "I don't think so. If I stay, I'll call you guys and maybe we can have a beer . . . or you can have a beer and I'll have a hundred."

I shook their hands, and made my way through the tables.

"Hi," I said.

"So what happened?" She said.

I told her. We didn't talk about it, but just making it past the bubble would have been a big deal for us. Money is still very short in our life right now, and I'm thinking about giving up poker for a while until I can figure out if I truly am getting unlucky, or if I'm just a mediocre player who catches enough good cards to overestimate his abilities . . . in other words: A Fish.

" . . . and I'm coming home tonight," I said. I'd made it out of the tournament area, and walked back into an alcove where other busted players talked on their phones. One guy looked like he was choking back tears. Maybe that guy was me.

Anne sounded surprised. "Why? Don't you want to stay and watch? You've talked about this for months."

"No," I said. "I feel like such a total fucking loser, I just want to get home."

"Okay," she said. "If that's what you want to do."

My cellphone beeped. It was Dan Goldman from PokerStars.

"Honey, I have to go, it's Dan on the other line."

"Okay, puss," she said. "I love you huge."

She really does, and she knows that for the next several days — possibly weeks — she's going to have to deal with me replaying every hand, every round of betting, every decision I made during the tournament. I wasn't a serious poker player when we got married, so she didn't sign up for this . . . but she endures it very well. Come to think of it, she endures a whole lot of things to be married to me.

"Okay. I love you too. I'll do my best to not talk endlessly about this for the next month." We both know that my best effort in this endeavor will yield success approximately equal to my success in surviving past Level Three.

The phone beeped again. I clicked over, before it could go to voice mail.

"Hi Dan," I said.

"Brad [that's Otis' real name] told me what happened," he said. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

I told him.

"That's understandable," he said, "but don't sweat it so much. There will be lots of other tournaments."

I know that this is true, but I can't find a way to let the comfort which should lie in this fact penetrate the thick blanket of gloom I've wrapped around myself.

"In fact," Dan continued, "If you'd like, we'll buy you into the 7pm tournament at The Palms tonight, and we'll put you into the 1500 No Limit event on Monday back at the World Series."

"Seriously?" I said.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's get you right back on the horse."

I looked at my watch: It was just about 5:30pm. The blanket fell from my shoulders.

"Okay," I said. "I would love to do that. Let me just call my wife and tell her that I'm staying."

"Great." He said. "We'll see you over there in about an hour."

I hung up and called Anne. "You'll have a great time," she said, "and I just know that you'll be able to redeem yourself."

"I'll call you later and let you know how I'm doing," I said. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Shut up." She said. "I love you."

"I love you too. Watch for cars . . ."

" . . . and don't get into any fights," she said.

"Bye."

"Bye."

I hung up my phone, and left the alcove. As I walked away, I man in a Bluff Magazine T-shirt passed me. His hands trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He picked up my blanket, wrapped it tightly around himself, and dialed.

to be continued . . .

Posted by Wil at 04:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (54) | TrackBacks (0)

"Please could you stay awhile to share my grief,
For it's such a lovely day."
— Portishead

The Sun and I are currenty secret friends, because I've seen both ends of his journey today — I played 3-6 with Paul Phillips and Lee Jones from 10 last night until 6:30 this morning. I had a few cinematic moments during the session . . . but I have to leave them for another time.

I went to the Wynn for brunch this afternoon. It's a beautiful hotel, and I was surprised at how small the poker room is. Unless there's a large area I missed, it's not much bigger than the room at the Mirage. I had a great people watching moment when a woman who was old enough to be my mother stumbled into me, sunglasses askew, clutching a twenty-four inch plastic tumbler of some libation or other. She wore a dirty t-shirt that said "Kaptain Kegger" on the front, and sported a lovely butch haircut. I've noticed that drunk adults tend to use the same stomping motion favored by infants who are just learning to walk, and it's equal parts pathetic and hilarious to watch.

After brunch (which was outstanding, but inexplicably did not come with the expected slice of cantaloupe at the end) I came back to my home base, and spent a few hours down by the pool. (The Writer woke up a couple of days ago, and I've been doing everything I can to stay out of His way. I find that sitting down by the pool with a couple of beers, some iced teas, and a notebook keeps Him very happy.)

On my way to find a lounge, I stopped by my regular bar to get an Anchor Steam. (In Vegas, hitting the same bar three days in a row officially qualifies you as a regular.) The bartender was someone I hadn't seen before today: an absolutely beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail, gold eyes and olive skin. Freckles dusted across her shoulders matched the ones across her nose.

I approached, and saw her reading my "Shrödinger's Cat Is Dead" shirt.

"What does that mean?" She said.

"It's a very nerdy physics joke," I said.

"So it's not being cruel to animals?" She said.

"Well, there's a lot of Uncertainty about that," I said.

She frowned. "What?"

"That was also a very nerdy physics joke," I said, and explained Shrödinger's Cat to her.

" . . . so until you observe the results, the cat is both dead and alive," I said. "Which, I'm sure, is just thrilling to you."

She reached into the cooler and pulled a beer out of the bottom. Chunks of ice clung to the sides, and she wiped them off. As she opened it, she said, "Actually, I was listening to you because I think nerds are incredibly sexy." She bit down on her lower lip.

Gulp.

I'm sure I blushed, and said, "Well, on behalf of nerds everywhere, I'd like to thank you for that."

"You're welcome," she said, as she set my bottle on the bar. I paid her and got the hell out of there before my wit and charm started writing checks my body couldn't cash.

Moving on . . .

fifty-one hours earlier

I hung up the phone and made my way to the bathroom. For the first time since I got there, I didn't feel the need to shove my way past the throngs of tourists meandering through the too-narrow walkways.

After a quick piss, I called Doctor Pauly, and told him the news.

"Oh man, I'm sorry." He said.

"Thanks," I said. "Where are you?"

"I'm paying too much for a chicken sandwich," he said.

I laughed, because I knew that meant he could only be in one place.

"I'll be right there," I said. Ninety seconds later, I was.

I hardly know Pauly at all, but I like him. We have poker, writing, blogging and getting busted out early in common, so he was the best friend I had in the room. It closed a circle to see him after I busted, because he was the last person to wish me well before the tournament began.

I stood behind my seat, and set my shit down. Darwin took his seat on the rail, my notebook and card protectors sat on the felt next to him. The dealer looked at my player's card and gave me my starting stack. Before I could count it, I saw Pauly walking up the aisle.

I sat down, and counted out my checks.

We turned toward the tournament area, but I couldn't bring myself to walk back in. I already felt like a loser, and walking right back in there would only magnify that feeling.

Pauly must have picked up on my hesitance, because he hung back with me.

"So . . . how'd you go out?" He said.

I looked through the doors and into the tournament area. I took a breath, told him about the crippling hand against Darden, and the disaster on table 148.

" . . . Ace-Jack of Spades versus pocket sevens, and he flopped a set." I said.

"Did you play smart?" He said.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did. But I'm going to do a whole lot of second guessing for the next few days."

"Did you play like a pussy?"

We both know that these are two different things.

"I think I may have when I played the tens against Darden," I said. "But that's why I'm not a pro, you know?"

"Do you want to do an exit interview?" He said.

"Sure."

We talked for a few more minutes. When we were done, we walked across the tournament area to see Otis. On the way, we passed Chris "Jesus" Ferguson, who was talking with a couple of fans. I waved as we passed.

"Hey, Wil!" He said, "How many chips do you have?"

"Zero," I said.

"Oh, sorry man."

"Thanks." I pointed to his huge stack. "You're doing well, I presume?"

"So far," he said, "I got very lucky with aces, when I rivered a higher two-pair to double up."

"Goddam, man," I said, "If you need the river to help aces . . ."

He nodded. "Yep."

"Have you met Pauly?"

"I don't think so, " he said, so I introduced them. The three of us talked for a second, and I realized something: here I was, on the field of play, talking with a world champion, just like I was talking to a guy in a bar. Is there any other sport in the world where I could do this? How likely is it that I could walk right onto the infield at Yankee Stadium, and talk with Derek Jeter? Not fucking likely at all. And that's one of the things that I love about poker at this level: sure, there are players who are epic dickheads, but most of them are kind, gracious, and generous with their time . . . unless you're in a hand with them. If that's the case, you're just another target.

After a minute or two, Pauly said, "Well, we'll let you enjoy what's left of your break."

"Oh, yeah," I thought, "He's still playing in this thing, and he just spent half of his break bullshitting with a couple of knuckleheads."

"Good luck," I said.

He shook my hand. "Thanks, man. Good to meet you, Pauly."

"You too," Pauly said, "good luck." He turned to me, "You want to find Otis?"

"Yeah," I said.

We headed back toward media row, right past table 148. I stared at the empty 8 seat as we passed.

to be continued . . .

Posted by Wil at 06:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (28) | TrackBacks (0)

"Q: I understand Wil Wheaton is going to play the main event at the World Series this year. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

A: (Laughs) I hope he's at my table."

— Thomas "Thunder" Keller, to the Arizona Republic

Translation: "That Hollywood Donkey is dead money, and I want to take it all from him." Contrary to what you may think, this is exactly what I want people to think about me. I want them to underestimate me, because it usually allows me to get an extra bet or two out of them before they realize that I actually know what I'm doing, and they pick on some other Donkey. But it's also why I wanted to play well in the World Series. I want to kill Prove To Everyone That I Deserve To Be On Team PokerStars before he gets a chance to hatch. And believe me, that egg is in the nest.

I don't know why, but whenever I come to Las Vegas, I can't get to sleep before 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. Even when I get back to my room before midnight, I somehow end up watching TV, or reading TotalFark, or standing at the window taking time-lapse photos of the cars streaming across Flamingo and Interstate 15. As a result, I end up on "Vegas Time," and it's rare for me to get out of bed before 10, which is much later than my usual 7.

I made myself get up at 10:45 today, so I could work on Games of Our Lives before I start playing again tomorrow. I called room service, found out it was between 90 minutes and two hours, and decided to head down to the cafe instead. It was a good call: I ended up eating about 30 minutes later.

Again, I spent much of the day around the pool. I thought about taking a book with me, but I needed to spend some time doing something a bit more passive than reading, so I just took my iPod, grabbed a beer and a bottle of water, tuned into Red Bar Radio, and did what the damn kids today call "kicking it."

The pool area was as crowded as you'd expect it to be on a Saturday in July when it's 650 degrees outside, so I grabbed the first lounge I found, which was on on the edge of a long row, next to a heavily-trafficked walkway. I laid out my towel, kicked off my flip flops, exposed my body-by-guinness, tuned-in and tuned-out. I guess I was there for about forty minutes or so when I noticed that just about every guy who walked up the walkway was seriously checking me out. I mean, totally staring right at me. It was awfully weird, and I wondered if I had something on my face, so I sat up and turned around to wipe my face off with my towel . . . and saw that the guys weren't looking at me, they were looking at the be-thonged Keyra-esque ass on the lounge behind me. Nice.

Anyway, as Pauly says, "Moving on . . . "

twenty-seven hours earlier

I picked up my checks, notebook, and monkey. I shook hands with the remaining players at my table, wished Avy luck, and headed out toward table 148. I pushed my way through a throng of railbirds who were watching Chris Ferguson (who had just doubled up with Aces against K-4. Must be nice.)

I found my table, set my chips on the felt in front of me, and sat into the Big Blind. Awesome.

While the cards came out, I looked around the table: no recognizable pros. That's good. Every single stack is well over 10,000. That's bad. Everyone at the table just painted a huge target on me. That's really bad.

The first hand was raised in early position, and was folded to the cutoff who re-raised. Throwing away my Q-3o was a no-brainer.

I got rags for several orbits, but had to laugh when I put out my last chip — a lavender 5000 — for my ante when the Big Blind came around again. Everyone at the table could see blood in the water, and it was mine.

Finally, down to about 3200, I found a hand just before the blinds went up, and antes were added. I was on the button, in an unopened pot. I cupped my hands over my cards, and lifted up the corners. The first card was the Ace of Spades. "That's a good start." I slid my thumb up, and let it fall to the felt. It revealed the Jack of Spades. Not the best hand in the world, but certainly worth a raise in this situation. "Thank you, Poker gods!"

"I raise," I said, expecting to win it right there, but prepared to come over the top if the Big Blind played back at me. I put out 600, leaving myself with 2600. Looking back on it now, I think I was prepared to go all the way with this hand, even if I wasn't entirely aware of it at the time.

The Small Blind folded. The Big Blind said, "I put you all-in." The clock chimed. This would be the last hand of the level.

So it was decision time again. "Do I want to put my tournament at stake with what is a coinflip at best? If I fold, will I be able to do anything with 2600 against stacks that are three and four times mine? If I fold, I will only have enough for two orbits before my only play is all-in, anyway. Oh, and the BB could be on a bluff, and this could double me up if I win. I really need to double up now, and this may be the best hand I get. I wonder if Paul Darden is ever going to call me?"

"I call," I said, and turned up my cards. The Big Blind turned over two red sevens.

"Hi, Poker gods? It's me, Wil. Listen, my ass is still kind of sore from table 93, so I'd like to ask you to please not give me any more miracles today, okay? Maybe I could just catch something on the flop? Thanks."

The dealer pulled my checks into the pot, lifted a card off the top of the deck, and slid it under them. He pulled three cards into his right hand, and flipped them over: the nine of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of clubs.

"Fuck." I said, certain that a ten minute penalty was the least of my concerns.

The turn was a red queen, and I didn't even look at the river.

I know that I shook the Big Blind's hand, but I can't remember a single thing about him. I think he had a mustache. Oh, and all my remaining chips.

The next thing I remember, I was leaving a message on Anne's Cell phone: "Hey, it's me. I'm out. I'm coming home. Call me when you get this. I love you."

to be continued . . .

Posted by Wil at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm still in Vegas, probably until Tuesday or Wednesday. Even though I'm out of the Main Event, I'm playing in a different tournament on Sunday, and at least one more WSOP event on Monday. I went downtown tonight for a late dinner at Four Queens with several of my friends from PokerStars (I'm without wife and kids in Vegas, if I didn't make that clear before).

As I often do, I told my cabbie that if he got me there quickly, I'd make it worth his while . . . and seven terrifying minutes later, he dropped me off at Freemont Street. I had about 15 minutes before we were set to meet, so I went into Binion's to walk through the poker room, and maybe soak up some history. I paused at the wall of champions, and kept my mouth shut when two frat guys came up behind me, and one declared that he could "beat the shit out of" every player on that wall, because he was so good online. "Yeah, you do that," I thought. I wondered if I'll see them at the pool tomorrow.

I walked around the satellite area, toyed with the idea of signing up for the 2am tournament, came to my senses, and turned around to go to dinner. On my way out of the casino, I saw a man and a woman in a lounge. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the table between them. A common scene in any hotel, except . . . he was an Elvis impersonator, dressed in the jumpsuit. She was a bleached-blonde in a spaghetti string top that was having a hard time containing her rather large breasts. Her hair was teased up almost a full twelve inches above her head. They smoked cigarettes while they drank their wine. They were both in their late fifties, and she was in a motorized wheelchair. I am not making this up.

I made a pistol with the thumb and forefinger on my right hand, and shot them a wink as I passed. They smiled and raised their glasses.

It could have been my imagination, but I'm pretty sure I heard the man say, "Thank you. Thankyouverymuch" as I walked out of the casino, and into the sweltering July night.

Only in Vegas, baby. Only in Vegas.

Posted by Wil at 01:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

Sorry, kid. You're just not ready for me yet."

-The Cincinnati Kid

Half of the pool area is populated by beautiful twenty-something girls in tiny bikinis that make me wonder why they bothered to put anything on in the first place.The other half is populated with middle-aged men and their unfortunate wives who may as well be wearing housecoats. Throw in a few frat guys unsuccessfully trying to put the moves on the aforementioned beauties, and it makes for great people watching.

When I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon today, I threw on a PokerStars cap and my bathing suit, covered myself with two pounds of SPF 9000 sunscreen, and traded the cool, smoke-filled casino air and gaming tables for hot, dry desert air and sunshine. I spent the afternoon on a lounge chair, listening to podcasts and trying to drown my World Series sorrows with Anchor Steams. I had about as much success as the frat guys.

fourteen hours earlier

My cards were hot as hell in the first two levels, but they didn't help me build much of a stack. I got pocket kings twice, and they held up both times, but only won me very little pots. I peaked with 11000 near the end of level 2. I lost about 3000 of that when I made a couple of second-best hands against my new nemesis, Paul Darden, who had position on me and made me his bitch.

The hand that killed me came halfway through the third level, when I was in the Big Blind with pocket tens. One or two players limped, and Darden made it 600 to go. I think the gap concept says that I should probably fold there, but he'd been picking on my blinds since he sat down, so I defended with a re-raise of 1200. The limpers folded, and he called.

I begged the poker gods for baby cards, or a miracle flop, which was a mistake, because in pokergodspeak, "miracle" apparently means "Fuck Wil in the ass." The flop came out A-K-x.

My heart sank. "Of course. The poker gods hate me today. Pocket nines see a flop of A-K-Q, so I have to fold to any bet. AQ sees a flop of K-x-x and loses to King-fucking-four, and AJ catches a Jack on the flop and loses to a set."

I looked at the board for a minute, and thought this through. "If he called my re-raise, that flop must have hit him. Shit! Unless he's bluffing, every hand he could have called with beats me. Even if he's got Jacks, I'm dead. If he's got a Queen, a straight beats me. Unless he's on a total bluff, which can only be 20% or so, I'm probably drawing dead to two tens. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Forty-fucking-seven cards that can come off, and it's got to be overs to my pair. Goddammit!"

I had 7100 in chips, and the pot was 3500. Darden had the big stack at the table with close to 17000, so if I was right about the flop hitting him at all, it's not like I could even make him seriously think about folding with anything less than a pot-sized bet, which would commit me. I didn't think this was the best time to take a chance and push, either.

I decided that I was done with this hand. I took my shot, and I missed. It's time to minimize my losses and hope for better luck later on.

I looked at the dealer and tapped my hand on the felt. "Check," I said.

Darden unexpectedly checked behind me, so I held my breath and I prayed for a lucky ten on the turn, which didn't come.

I checked again, and Darden checked behind me a second time. For the first time in the hand, I wondered if he actually was on a bluff. He's certainly capable of doing that, and I did not have an aggressive table image, so a big trap was also unlikely. I put the chances of him bluffing at about 20%.

The river was another brick.

"If I bet at this, can I push him out? Only if I move all-in, and I don't think I can risk my tournament on this hand."

I checked it again. This time, Darden bet 1100. Now there was 4600 in the pot, so I was getting just over 4:1 if I called. "This is the moment that separates the pros from the amateurs," I thought. "Is he pulling a post-oak bluff? Do I make a great call, or a great laydown here?"

There was no way I was raising, so I needed to figure out if I could call. I did something I never do: I talked through the hand.

"This is going to be a huge laydown," I said to nobody in particular. "If I call you and lose, I'm crippled. If I call and win, I'm in great shape."

A floorman came over, and told the dealer that our table would break in ten minutes.

I drummed my fingers on the felt, and counted 1100 off my already-pathetic stack. It left me with one lavender and a few black chips. I picked up Darwin and chewed on his head. I sighed, sat back in my chair, interlocked my fingers around my neck, and looked up at the poker gods. "Why have you forsaken me!?" I thought, and smiled at the thought of those words coming out of Chris Ferguson.

I leaned around the back of Avy Freedman and said, "Did the flop help you, Paul? It would really make my decision easier if you could tell me that."

The guy behind me, who had doubled up when he moved all-in on the second hand and rivered an unprobable boat over boat laughed, and a pro who I've seen on TV countless times but don't know by name said, "You can't ask him that. If you talk about the hand, your cards could be dead."

"Dead like me?"

"Oh," I said. "I didn't know that." I turned to the dealer, who had long ago finished counting off the cards remaining in the deck, and now sat with his hands folded in front of him. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that."

"It's okay, sir." He said.

A guy in the 8 seat with about 14000 said. "Hey, are we going to get to play another hand before we break this table, or what?"

My back shot up. "Excuse me, sir," I snapped, "but this is an incredibly important decision for me, and you're not in this hand."

His eyes widened and his pupils dialated. His cheeks flushed and he opened and closed his mouth two times. I don't know why I remember those details, but I can see them as clearly as I can see two queens hit the flop at Bellagio. "Sorry," he said. "Take your time."

"Time? Oh shit. Someone's going to call the clock on me. I have to just make a decision and go with it."

I counted the pot again, to make sure I had it straight. "Okay, I'm going to hate myself either way, so I think I'll take the 4:1 odds and the chance to get some of my chips back from you."

I picked up 1100, and hoped they'd be coming back into my stack.

"I call you, Paul Darden." I said.

He flipped over a red ace and a black ten. Disgusted, I mucked my worthless tens. The dealer pushed the pot to Paul Darden, who traded me for a pack of smokes and a case of beer to Humble Pie.

"Did you have queens?" Avy asked. "I put you on queens."

I didn't answer. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut, which had been telling me I was beat from the fucking flop. Why do we work so hard to develop instincts, just to ignore them when they do their job? Instead, I asked him, "Did I at least make the right call?"

"You were getting the right odds to call," he said. The other pro at the table agreed, and Avy added that there was a very good chance Darden was bluffing me. "In fact," he said, "I was going to e-mail you later tonight that you should have called if you'd folded."

The floorman dealt out table assignments, and dropped a stack of chip racks in front of me. "I'm pretty sure I can handle my three chips on my own," I said.

"Don't put them in your pocket, sir." He said. He looked at my card and pointed across the room. "You are at table 148." I hoped against hope that I wouldn't be the short stack when I arrived.

I thanked him, and looked up to shake hands with Paul Darden, but he was on his way to his new table. He didn't even leave a rose on my pillow when he left.

to be continued . . .

Posted by Wil at 07:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

A couple of years ago, in the acknowledgements to Dancing Barefoot, I wrote

My wife, Anne, patiently supports everything I want to do, whether it's writing a book or playing in the World Series of Poker

Just kidding. Like I learned in Just A Geek, and just like Geocaching, to focus only on the goal and not enjoy the ride would be to waste The Journey. And this is going to be a hell of a ride.

I've spent the last two weeks doing everything I can to prepare for the WSOP. I've played countless tournaments online, I've highlighted, underlined, post-it-noted, read, re-read and reviewed Dan Harrington's first book (and done everything I can to cram his second book, which is about playing the Endgame, when you're down to the last couple of tables — I should be so lucky to cross that bridge when I come to it!)

I am so excited, and so nervous, I don't even know what to do with myself. I've done everything I can to prepare for this tournament, and now that it's finally here, I have to let go. Once I start playing, all I can do is get my money in when I have the best hand, hope that I make fewer (and less costly) mistakes than my opponents, and play as smart as possible.

I start at 11am on Thursday the 7th. If any WWdN readers can spare some Monkey Mojo, I've left a subspace port open, so you can just ssh ~/mojo to wil@wsop. I'll take whatever you can spare. :)

I'm taking my Powerbook with me, and I'll do my best to update my blog at least once a day. You'll probably be able to hear how I'm doing from Otis, The Poker Prof, PokerWire, or Dr. Pauly, too.

This is a dream come true for me, and I know that — like all my dreams recently, it seems — it wouldn't have happened without WWdN, and all you guys who read my stuff. Thank you all for helping to create this amazing opportunity.

Now, I have to somehow convince my brain to slow down enough to let me sleep until 6am.

Until Vegas . . .

Posted by Wil at 11:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (78) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm doing a million things today so I can leave tomorrow morning for the World Series of Poker . . . so this will have to be a very brief entry.

As promised yesterday, the pre-release of Just A Geek: Teh Audiobook is now available. This is exactly like a performance of the material, rather than a boring reading, so it includes the complete text of the book, as well as tons of the asides (audio footnotes probably sounds better, right?) that audiences hear at performances, and a bonus "making-of" CD with outtakes (how many times can I say "Fucking shitass crap! Let's pick that up." in the course of a year? The answer will shock and surprise nobody who knows me.) Until Sean Bonner and I finish the artwork, it's available at a discount, because Uncle Willie loves you.

Posted by Wil at 02:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (32) | TrackBacks (0)

Three quick bits of Just A Geek news:

• I noticed that both of my books got a little bounce on Amazon when my Slashdot interview ran last week. Thank you to everyone who picked them up. I hope they are worth your time and money. :)
• The Just A Geek charity auction that I blogged about last week is in the last mile. As I write this, the bidding is up to $202.50. That's awesome!
• I saved the biggest news for last: Just A Geek: Teh Audiobook is finished! David Lawrence and I completed a year's worth of work last week. Sean Bonner and I are working on a supermegaawesome cover design, but I'm leaving for the World Series of Poker, and Sean's leaving for the World Series of Not Being Available To Work On The Audiobook Cover, so it won't be done for another three or four weeks . . . but David and I have decided that, rather than make people who've waited a year sit around for another four weeks, we're going to offer a pre-release version of Just A Geek: Teh Audiobook starting at noon Pacific time on Tuesday, July 5th. Because this is essentially a white label release, it will be offered for a limited time, and at a discount. I'll post a link, and more details on Tuesday, when the audiobook becomes available.

Posted by Wil at 10:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

Hey, baby, it's the Fourth of July . . . and that means it's time for the annual reprint of Fireworks:

As the sun sank lower and lower, sparklers were passed out to everyone, even the younger children. I politely declined, my mind absolutely focused on the coming display. I wanted to make a big impression on the family. I was going to start out with something amazing, which would really grab their attention. I'd start with some groundflowers, then a Piccolo Pete and a sparkling cone. From then on, I'd just improvise with the older cousins, following their lead as we worked together to weave a spectacular tapestry of burning phosphor and gunpowder for five generations of family.

Dusk arrived, the family was seated, and the great display began. Some of the veteran fireworks lighters went first, setting off some cascading fountains and a pinwheel. The assembled audience cheered and gasped its collective approval, and it was my turn.

I steeled myself and walked to the center of the large patio, casually kicking aside the still-hot remains of just-fired fountains. Casually, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before.

My hands trembled slightly, as I picked up three ground flowers that I'd wound together. My thumb struck flint and released flaming butane. I lit the fuse and became a man. The sparkling fire raced toward the ignition point and rather than following the directions to “LIGHT FUSE, PUT ON GROUND AND GET AWAY,” I did something incredibly stupid: I casually tossed the now-flaming bundle of pyrotechnics on the ground. Casually, like someone who'd done this hundreds of times before.

The bundle of flowers rolled quickly across the patio, toward my captive and appreciative audience.

Whatever Fourth of July means to you, I hope you have a wonderful day.

Posted by Wil at 10:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)