WPBT Trip Report, Surviving Day 1

First session up: the flight out.

Worked a half day from home on Thursday before heading to Newark for my 4:20 flight. Hit an unexpectedly good flop when checking into the electronic kiosk I was offered a seat on the 3:20—30 minutes to get through security and I was off early. Managed to double up when the window seat next to my middle seat remained empty after the cabin door shut. One Ambien and five hours of soon to be ridiculously scarce sleep later, we touched down in Vegas.

Second session stuck: the taxi ride.

Making it down the terminal in no time flat, I emerged to find the cab stand line all five (seven?), super-long rows full—ugh, AKQ flop holding 99. Thirty minutes later, I got pointed to my waiting minivan cab. Raring to get along to the IP (yes, it is a strange thing to rare to do), I step on the door jam with my back and jump in, nearly cracking my egg shaped had as it slammed into the top of the door. It. Really. Fucking. Hurt. Blood involved. Cut still healing. One-outer for sure.

Third session…bah, I can’t hold this up for the whole trip report.

So I got to the IP and checked into my luxurious palace of a room. Well not so much. But it was clean. I’ll say that much.

Down to the poker room I went, with plans to meet Weak and Miami Don. As I walked past the smaller but definitely better new IP poker room, Falstaff hailed me with one of his customary insults. I kind of lost track of which one it was that time as he seems ready with an endless supply but I am sure it typically well thought out and apropos of yours truly.

Falstaff was playing 1-2 and I joined him, soon to be followed by Don and Weak. It was good to meet Don again, this time for longer than the 30 seconds I had at the last event, then enjoying my own version of Vegas dysentery.

When time came for Pauly’s opening event, we flipped over to the Geisha bar and met oodles of bloggers, including of the new people most notably, for me at least, Mr. Low Limit Grinder himself. He looked about what I expected, though I must admit the tail through me for a loop—reminded me of high school too. We had agreed to share a room together for Friday and Saturday to save a few extra bucks and it turned out to be a pretty good deal for me as I think he spent all of 45 minutes sleeping for the rest of the weekend. I hope he is alive to read this.

The bar teemed with bloggers as midnight arrived. We began drinking in earnest. All the usual suspects. Two prominent candidates for the drunken Lewey did pull away from the pack, the stories for which I will leave for others to tell. I will only say that I was glad to find out the mystery of why FTrain and I were redirected away from the casino level men’s room.

I think I did managed after some interlude to find my way back into the poker room, at which I somehow found myself seated at my only 2-5 game the whole weekend (I had planned not to play much “serious” poker over this trip). Fortunately, the IP 2-5 is a retarded 300 max (especially retarded given that the 1-2 is 200), so there was only so much damage I could do to myself. Penner was three off to my left and I avoided giving him too many chips. I did manage a three overcards to my hand raise, reraise all-in push bluff that worked against some annoying guy two to my left (annoying generally defined in this context as someone who always raises me). He got up soon thereafter and, after looking down and seeing that I was somehow up 100, looking around and determining in my then current state I just might be the mark remaining, decided to join Penner in 2-4 limit, a game only bearable when lit like a roman candle.

He was on my right and dutifully chased every draw, most memorably cracking my top pair with a rivered fill of his 73o. So, I lost 80 at 2-4 table in less than hour, a hard feat indeed, but it was all good.

Back to the bar and around 7, deep in the corned of the brain, I remember having told myself that night 1 in Vegas need to end before sunlight became involved. Last summer, soon after this state on the analogous date, Garth and I got the brilliant idea to play the Binion’s 10:00 AM tourney. Notwithstanding the sleep I got there at the final table , getting to bed at 3:30 that afternoon had cost me Friday night mixed games and had lead to the previously described gastronomic conditions on Saturday. It even lead to me ordering Earl Grey Tea will spectating FTrain’s championship run, resulting in Joe Speaker’s everlasting disdain.

So I crashed...