This trip is nearing it's end, and I realized I stopped updating the blog after Katie got to town. Unfortunately it's going to be hard to remember all the details all at once like this, so I'll just give you the broadstrokes.
Poker: -$2,000, almost entirely at 15-30 but a few tourneys. I bubbled every tourney I played, and every time had the best hand going in. I think I'm playing much better no limit these days, and clearly playing very poor limit.
Horses: -$200, not bad considering I lost $200 in the first day of playing horses. But again I'm perplexed by my results and need to do some thinking before derby week to see how to fix what I'm doing. As is want to be the case, I picked a lot of good high-priced winners but never seemed to bet them the right way. Most upsetting, my 30-1 derby future horse Flying First Class ran a pretty poor race.
Katie got to town and we moved over to Bellagio, which was a smart move. I don't know why I expected her to suffer that squalor over at the Sahara. Here, even though you are losing money, you can spoil yourself and feel like a winner. We had dinner Saturday at Shintaro, which was disappointing, and saw O, which was probably the highlight of my whole week. I'm still thinking about it. It was one of the coolest things I think I've ever seen. Don't get me wrong, I'd have rather seen the fight Saturday night instead, but only because O plays twice a day every day. O was far and away worth every penny and something I'll more than likely go see again. If you get a chance to see it, do so.
There are probably other good anectdotes to tell, but I forget them. Perhaps they will come up in causual conversation at some point down the line.
I now focus my attention 100% on horses in preparation for the Arkansas Derby. I'll post more then.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Can Do, Can Do
This morning as I strolled in to the Bellagio sportsbook, I was floored by the crowd. It was elbow to asshole in that place, thick with backwards baseball caps and polos with the collars turned up. It was like spring break or something in there. March Madness cretins, hooting and hollering and taking up all the fucking chairs.
I first thought about leaving to go watch the races somewhere else, but I quickly realized it was going to be this way no matter where I went, so I decided the best place to find a seat was the poker room, and I put myself on the 15-30 list.
I got a seat pretty quick, since it was still before noon, and played extremely tight while I read the form at the table. I played all of 4 hands and lost $500 on some extremely awful river cards. Kicking myself for my mistake, I got up and went back to the sportsboook and found a spot to stand against the wall to read my form.
After a couple of races, this old man sitting in the back row of carrolls called me over and asked "are you playing horses?" "Yes, actually." "Here, sit with us." He had a whole row reserved and took pity on me realizing I wasn't there to holler at the top of my lungs over my $10 basketball money line bet.
His name was John, and he was a former jockey agent from Los Angeles, now a professional handicapper living in Vegas. His friend's name was Mario, just another local racebook fixture who he had befriended. They were playing Santa Anita, and I was playing Oaklawn. They were playing all pick 3s and pick 4s, and I was playing trifectas. I managed to hit a couple of $100 trifectas and was feeling better about my luck.
Eventually, Oaklawn ended and so I started playing Santa Anita with them. By the 8th race they were alive on a pick 3, a pick 4, and 5 of 6 in the pick 6. If the 6 horse, Can Do Can Do, wins the 8th race, they would cash for about $10,000. John tells me the 6 is a mortal lock and I look at the toteboard and its 8-1. I bet a trifecta with two other horses, and figure if it hits it will pay me close to $1,000. Now we are all sweating the same horse, and that's the way I like it.
The race starts with 13 horses, and the 6 breaks to the front of the pack for the 6 furlong sprint. By the time they hit the stretch, the 6 is 3 lenghths in front with no sign of stopping. We all throw our hands in the air in jubilation. It is a cinch! We are all going to cash! My horses are in position for 2nd and 3rd, the 6 is on the lead, we are all rich! In the last furlong, nobody can catch the 6, it is all over, even John, ever dignified and calm, is standing with his arms in the air.
Then the unthinkable happens. You knew that was coming, right? The 10 horse, in second and behind by a few lengths, shoots like a dart over the last furlong and catches the 6 by a nose. Boom. In less than 3 seconds we are all losers. It felt like the wind was sucked right out of the room. Everyone mutters some curse words, then silence. I don't know what to say. John gathers his things and walks away. It felt like someone died.
As I leave the sportsbook, the cretins are howling just like they do after every fucking basket. I am disgusted by them all, talking on their cellphones in the sportsbook and betting $10 5 game parlays. What a bunch of lowlifes. They couldn't carry John's raceform for him. They don't even deserve to stand in this room, let alone reserve seats.
I make my way back to the Sahara to play some 2-4 and enter the tournament. I do well in the tourney, making it to the final 2 tables. They pay 10, but I go out 13th with 1010 against A5 when an Ace hits the flop. Another bubble. More wind sucked out of me. I walked back to my room feeling knotted up from the tension and disappointment. I immediately called Katie to talk about it, and she was gracious as ever. I really felt motivated to win by knowing that she was getting here tomorrow. I really wanted to impress her with some good news, and it really helped me fend off my usual self destructive behavior and stay focused on winning. Hopefully it will help me tomorrow, when I brave the throngs of flipflopped frat boys and try to get to the window early enough to make some horse bets.
Basketball is a good game, but this is the sport of kings, boys. And we do our share of hollering, but when we holler, it actually effects the outcome of the race, unlike your pointless obnoxious wooing after every pointless free throw.
We are hollering our horses home, and maybe if you fuckers weren't here today screaming, that 6 horse could have heard us better.
Cretins.
I first thought about leaving to go watch the races somewhere else, but I quickly realized it was going to be this way no matter where I went, so I decided the best place to find a seat was the poker room, and I put myself on the 15-30 list.
I got a seat pretty quick, since it was still before noon, and played extremely tight while I read the form at the table. I played all of 4 hands and lost $500 on some extremely awful river cards. Kicking myself for my mistake, I got up and went back to the sportsboook and found a spot to stand against the wall to read my form.
After a couple of races, this old man sitting in the back row of carrolls called me over and asked "are you playing horses?" "Yes, actually." "Here, sit with us." He had a whole row reserved and took pity on me realizing I wasn't there to holler at the top of my lungs over my $10 basketball money line bet.
His name was John, and he was a former jockey agent from Los Angeles, now a professional handicapper living in Vegas. His friend's name was Mario, just another local racebook fixture who he had befriended. They were playing Santa Anita, and I was playing Oaklawn. They were playing all pick 3s and pick 4s, and I was playing trifectas. I managed to hit a couple of $100 trifectas and was feeling better about my luck.
Eventually, Oaklawn ended and so I started playing Santa Anita with them. By the 8th race they were alive on a pick 3, a pick 4, and 5 of 6 in the pick 6. If the 6 horse, Can Do Can Do, wins the 8th race, they would cash for about $10,000. John tells me the 6 is a mortal lock and I look at the toteboard and its 8-1. I bet a trifecta with two other horses, and figure if it hits it will pay me close to $1,000. Now we are all sweating the same horse, and that's the way I like it.
The race starts with 13 horses, and the 6 breaks to the front of the pack for the 6 furlong sprint. By the time they hit the stretch, the 6 is 3 lenghths in front with no sign of stopping. We all throw our hands in the air in jubilation. It is a cinch! We are all going to cash! My horses are in position for 2nd and 3rd, the 6 is on the lead, we are all rich! In the last furlong, nobody can catch the 6, it is all over, even John, ever dignified and calm, is standing with his arms in the air.
Then the unthinkable happens. You knew that was coming, right? The 10 horse, in second and behind by a few lengths, shoots like a dart over the last furlong and catches the 6 by a nose. Boom. In less than 3 seconds we are all losers. It felt like the wind was sucked right out of the room. Everyone mutters some curse words, then silence. I don't know what to say. John gathers his things and walks away. It felt like someone died.
As I leave the sportsbook, the cretins are howling just like they do after every fucking basket. I am disgusted by them all, talking on their cellphones in the sportsbook and betting $10 5 game parlays. What a bunch of lowlifes. They couldn't carry John's raceform for him. They don't even deserve to stand in this room, let alone reserve seats.
I make my way back to the Sahara to play some 2-4 and enter the tournament. I do well in the tourney, making it to the final 2 tables. They pay 10, but I go out 13th with 1010 against A5 when an Ace hits the flop. Another bubble. More wind sucked out of me. I walked back to my room feeling knotted up from the tension and disappointment. I immediately called Katie to talk about it, and she was gracious as ever. I really felt motivated to win by knowing that she was getting here tomorrow. I really wanted to impress her with some good news, and it really helped me fend off my usual self destructive behavior and stay focused on winning. Hopefully it will help me tomorrow, when I brave the throngs of flipflopped frat boys and try to get to the window early enough to make some horse bets.
Basketball is a good game, but this is the sport of kings, boys. And we do our share of hollering, but when we holler, it actually effects the outcome of the race, unlike your pointless obnoxious wooing after every pointless free throw.
We are hollering our horses home, and maybe if you fuckers weren't here today screaming, that 6 horse could have heard us better.
Cretins.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Time Warp
In order to get my $34 a night room rate, I have to play at least 3 hours of poker a day in the Sahara Poker Room. At first I thought that might be totally easy. Three hours? No problem. There's a problem though. In the Sahara Poker Room, time moves slower than anywhere else on earth. It's a lot like that island in Lost. It's like being caught in a time warp or something where you know that outside the rest of the world is moving by at regular speed but you are trapped in the Sahara Poker Room moving in slow motion. I read this morning in the New York Times that since they blew up the Stardust, the oldest structure left on the Vegas Strip is the coffee shop in the Sahara. Not the Sahara itself, or any one entire building in the Sahara, but the little coffee shop near the check-in desk. How that works? I have no idea. Shit like that is only possible in a time warp mind-fuck like the Sahara.
I started today off waking up bright and early, too early in fact. I made it to the Bellagio sportsbook two hours ahead of post time. Somehow I fucked up the time again and ended up killing two hours reading in the sportsbook. If I knew how early it was I would have gone to breakfast or at least for some coffee.
I planned to spend the day betting Oaklawn. I watched all the replays from yesterday's races and read over the form the night before. I had picked most of the races based on what I figured was a strong bias towards frontrunners the day before. My instinct was correct. Early speed pacesetting horses won every race yesterday but the two turn races. Nobody closed in the stretch all day. And the first few races of the day today shaped up the same way. I just missed some big trifectas and had cashed a $100 exacta (if it went the other way it would have been over $300). And of course, dumb fuck that I am, I start betting much bigger since I was winning.
Then I miss an obvious huge exacta in the 6th race that put me on horse-tilt. Two horses both over 5-1 come in 1-2, and both were the only two true frontrunners in the race. In fact, up to this point it was clear to me that if someone just picked the two biggest frontrunners in the field without paying attention to any other factors, they would have cashed exactas in the majority of the races thus far. I missed it that race and was pissed at myself. I vowed to weigh the bias much heavier in my future bets. Then the closers started winning, and before I knew it, the day was over and I was stuck $200. What a shitty day.
I decided to shrug it off, go log some hours for my room, and maybe catch the 7pm Sahara tourney. I show up in the Sahara Poker Room exactly 3 hours before the tourney to make sure I don't play a minute more than 3 hours.
There are two kinds of poker offered in the Sahara Poker Room, 2-4 limit and 1-2 no limit. I opted for 2-4 limit. It was amazing how easy it was. Every single time I saw a flop, whether I raised or not preflop, I bet the flop no matter if I hit it or not. And the majority of the time, I took it down, even with 4 or 5 people in the pot. Whenever someone called me, I just shut down if I missed or bet again if I had any piece of it. Nobody ever raised me. Nobody ever raised. Still, I only won $10 in three hours amazingly. And let me tell you, those 3 hours seemed like an eternity.
The room is old, musty, the chairs wobble and squeak, and the players in the room seem like they came right out of central casting. None of the oakley sunglasses ipod douchebags from the bellagio here, no sir. This is night-shift vegas all the way. Friendly people who won't raise out of fear they will make you mad. People who ask EVERYBODY who sits down where they are from and what they do for a living. People who have no business playing cards for money if for no other reason than most of them can't seem to add or even figure out which hand won when the cards are turned over. All of this just makes the 3 hours go by that much slower.
I played the 7pm tourney, and it was ok. $40 for 3k in chips and one $20 rebuy anytime for 2k more. I was the only person at the table who automatically took the rebuy. In about the third level I put a horrendous beat on a kid when his flopped straight lost to my top pair when I went runner runner full house on him. Everyone acted like I had committed some kind of high treason but a funny thing happened... From that moment on every single time someone was all in preflop, the worst hand won, usually with some kind of dramatic turn and river. It had us all freaking out, like my suckout put some kind of poker bad beat hex on the table. Then this new guy is moved to our table and we no sooner tell him about the hex than the Mavericks, playing on the tv above us, in a game he had been sweating all night, one where he had the Suns on the money line, hit a last second three pointer in OT to tie the game. His face turns white. We all look at each other in amazement. "The curse is real!" We put a bad beat on this man's basketball bet.
Of course the Suns come on strong to win in 2OT with another last second shot, and the bad beats at our table eventually subside, but not before the whole room has craned their necks to see what all the fuss at table 8 is about.
I make it to the final 4 tables out of 12, but bust out with AK against 33 to a guy who looked exactly like Jared from the Subway commercials. I was dying to make a crack at him all night, but never did. That's the kind of thing I would do if my friends were here, but without anyone around to tell the story to later, things that seem hilarious hardly seem worth doing.
It isn't the same being out here alone, without any of my friends. But if nothing else, this trip is teaching me to appreciate our yearly trek even more. There is a painting in my room over the bed, and today I figured out what it is... its the kabba stone in Mecca. Kinda weird, a painting of the Kabba in my hotel room in Vegas, but still strangely appropriate.
Josh emailed me some notes from Handicapping 101. Hopefully they will help. Tomorrow I spend some time playing real poker at the Bellagio. I plan on being up five hundy by midnight. Wish me luck.
I started today off waking up bright and early, too early in fact. I made it to the Bellagio sportsbook two hours ahead of post time. Somehow I fucked up the time again and ended up killing two hours reading in the sportsbook. If I knew how early it was I would have gone to breakfast or at least for some coffee.
I planned to spend the day betting Oaklawn. I watched all the replays from yesterday's races and read over the form the night before. I had picked most of the races based on what I figured was a strong bias towards frontrunners the day before. My instinct was correct. Early speed pacesetting horses won every race yesterday but the two turn races. Nobody closed in the stretch all day. And the first few races of the day today shaped up the same way. I just missed some big trifectas and had cashed a $100 exacta (if it went the other way it would have been over $300). And of course, dumb fuck that I am, I start betting much bigger since I was winning.
Then I miss an obvious huge exacta in the 6th race that put me on horse-tilt. Two horses both over 5-1 come in 1-2, and both were the only two true frontrunners in the race. In fact, up to this point it was clear to me that if someone just picked the two biggest frontrunners in the field without paying attention to any other factors, they would have cashed exactas in the majority of the races thus far. I missed it that race and was pissed at myself. I vowed to weigh the bias much heavier in my future bets. Then the closers started winning, and before I knew it, the day was over and I was stuck $200. What a shitty day.
I decided to shrug it off, go log some hours for my room, and maybe catch the 7pm Sahara tourney. I show up in the Sahara Poker Room exactly 3 hours before the tourney to make sure I don't play a minute more than 3 hours.
There are two kinds of poker offered in the Sahara Poker Room, 2-4 limit and 1-2 no limit. I opted for 2-4 limit. It was amazing how easy it was. Every single time I saw a flop, whether I raised or not preflop, I bet the flop no matter if I hit it or not. And the majority of the time, I took it down, even with 4 or 5 people in the pot. Whenever someone called me, I just shut down if I missed or bet again if I had any piece of it. Nobody ever raised me. Nobody ever raised. Still, I only won $10 in three hours amazingly. And let me tell you, those 3 hours seemed like an eternity.
The room is old, musty, the chairs wobble and squeak, and the players in the room seem like they came right out of central casting. None of the oakley sunglasses ipod douchebags from the bellagio here, no sir. This is night-shift vegas all the way. Friendly people who won't raise out of fear they will make you mad. People who ask EVERYBODY who sits down where they are from and what they do for a living. People who have no business playing cards for money if for no other reason than most of them can't seem to add or even figure out which hand won when the cards are turned over. All of this just makes the 3 hours go by that much slower.
I played the 7pm tourney, and it was ok. $40 for 3k in chips and one $20 rebuy anytime for 2k more. I was the only person at the table who automatically took the rebuy. In about the third level I put a horrendous beat on a kid when his flopped straight lost to my top pair when I went runner runner full house on him. Everyone acted like I had committed some kind of high treason but a funny thing happened... From that moment on every single time someone was all in preflop, the worst hand won, usually with some kind of dramatic turn and river. It had us all freaking out, like my suckout put some kind of poker bad beat hex on the table. Then this new guy is moved to our table and we no sooner tell him about the hex than the Mavericks, playing on the tv above us, in a game he had been sweating all night, one where he had the Suns on the money line, hit a last second three pointer in OT to tie the game. His face turns white. We all look at each other in amazement. "The curse is real!" We put a bad beat on this man's basketball bet.
Of course the Suns come on strong to win in 2OT with another last second shot, and the bad beats at our table eventually subside, but not before the whole room has craned their necks to see what all the fuss at table 8 is about.
I make it to the final 4 tables out of 12, but bust out with AK against 33 to a guy who looked exactly like Jared from the Subway commercials. I was dying to make a crack at him all night, but never did. That's the kind of thing I would do if my friends were here, but without anyone around to tell the story to later, things that seem hilarious hardly seem worth doing.
It isn't the same being out here alone, without any of my friends. But if nothing else, this trip is teaching me to appreciate our yearly trek even more. There is a painting in my room over the bed, and today I figured out what it is... its the kabba stone in Mecca. Kinda weird, a painting of the Kabba in my hotel room in Vegas, but still strangely appropriate.
Josh emailed me some notes from Handicapping 101. Hopefully they will help. Tomorrow I spend some time playing real poker at the Bellagio. I plan on being up five hundy by midnight. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
A Week in the Sahara
I'm back in Vegas, this time for a whole week. Spur of the moment, really. I was taking some time off before I start my new job and just hanging around the house when I realized that I could be spending this free time gambling!
My plan is to spend a week here in Vegas, then a week in Denver, then a week in Austin visiting some friends (but probably doing some gambling there, too) then a couple of weeks in Arkansas hanging out at the track and the whole thing culminating on Derby Day at Oaklawn, my family's yearly tradition, where Katie is flying down to join us for the first time, ever.
The whole adventure starts here, in Vegas, at the Sahara. I chose this dump because they offered a poker room rate of $34 and you only need 4 hours a day to qualify. I should be able to do a whole weeks worth in one session. And even though this place is a dump, its fine by me. I have a great view from atop the 14th floor, which is really the 13th floor but they skip that one of course. The room is very very large, even if it is a little bit musty. But I don't care about any of that. I'm all alone in Vegas and I came to veg out in the racebook betting on horses and to stay up all night in the bellagio poker room playing 15-30. I didn't come to pamper myself with big fluffy pillows and tvs in the bathroom.
However, it's only my first night and already the sound of the poker room PA system, which broadcasts outside for some strange reason, is getting on my nerves.
I plan on blogging as much as I can. Hopefully I can get up some of my race picks before the day's card so people can sweat me. And I'll take some photos with my cameraphone if there is anything good.
They imploded the Stardust last night. If only I knew sooner I'd have planned on being here in time for it. The Stardust was the first pokerroom I ever played in in Vegas. That was a wild trip, indeed. I drove here with some friends from Texas for a wedding. We stayed four to a room, two guys and two girls, at the Budget Suites behind the Stardust. I played some craps and lots of 3-6 holdem with old guys trying to hit the jackpot. I remember losing the last of my $300, all the money I had in the world at the time, at the Circus Circus on the last night we were in town. One guy at the table wasn't even wearing a shirt.
The way home, I had no money for gas so we drove to LA where my cousin gave me a hundred bucks for a check that promptly bounced like a basketball. I used the $100 to get back to Texas and the same day I got back I drove away from Texas forever, never to return.
Ah, Vegas, my old friend. The more you change, the more you stay the same.
My plan is to spend a week here in Vegas, then a week in Denver, then a week in Austin visiting some friends (but probably doing some gambling there, too) then a couple of weeks in Arkansas hanging out at the track and the whole thing culminating on Derby Day at Oaklawn, my family's yearly tradition, where Katie is flying down to join us for the first time, ever.
The whole adventure starts here, in Vegas, at the Sahara. I chose this dump because they offered a poker room rate of $34 and you only need 4 hours a day to qualify. I should be able to do a whole weeks worth in one session. And even though this place is a dump, its fine by me. I have a great view from atop the 14th floor, which is really the 13th floor but they skip that one of course. The room is very very large, even if it is a little bit musty. But I don't care about any of that. I'm all alone in Vegas and I came to veg out in the racebook betting on horses and to stay up all night in the bellagio poker room playing 15-30. I didn't come to pamper myself with big fluffy pillows and tvs in the bathroom.
However, it's only my first night and already the sound of the poker room PA system, which broadcasts outside for some strange reason, is getting on my nerves.
I plan on blogging as much as I can. Hopefully I can get up some of my race picks before the day's card so people can sweat me. And I'll take some photos with my cameraphone if there is anything good.
They imploded the Stardust last night. If only I knew sooner I'd have planned on being here in time for it. The Stardust was the first pokerroom I ever played in in Vegas. That was a wild trip, indeed. I drove here with some friends from Texas for a wedding. We stayed four to a room, two guys and two girls, at the Budget Suites behind the Stardust. I played some craps and lots of 3-6 holdem with old guys trying to hit the jackpot. I remember losing the last of my $300, all the money I had in the world at the time, at the Circus Circus on the last night we were in town. One guy at the table wasn't even wearing a shirt.
The way home, I had no money for gas so we drove to LA where my cousin gave me a hundred bucks for a check that promptly bounced like a basketball. I used the $100 to get back to Texas and the same day I got back I drove away from Texas forever, never to return.
Ah, Vegas, my old friend. The more you change, the more you stay the same.
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