Poker Industry

PCA 2012: Getting the picture

“My God!” someone exclaims. “I’ve never seen anyone’s fingers work so fast.”

Neil Stoddart and his assistant Kim Curtin have taken over the stage of the 2012 PCA main event. Every few seconds, a strobe flashes while Stoddart and Curtin measure the lights. This final table will not start until they have the shot. They have to work fast.

“I think we can build around Faraz,” Stoddart muses as chip leader Faraz Jaka allows himself to be pulled to the front of the table.

From there, Stoddart composes the shot like Jackson Pollack. The people are his paint, and he tosses them together in a way that looks random but comes out looking like art.

“Excellent from the back row,” Stoddart says to the players. “Mediocre on the front row.”

This is not meant as a rejoinder. It’s a joke meant to get the front row more in the mood. This is a shot that will live on in poker history. It has to be right.

Neil Stoddart working on the EPT in a rare moment of horsing around (note the light meters in his hand with the trophy)

Meanwhile, Joe Giron is darting between tables, crouching on the rail, and at times literally running across the room. Giron makes up the other half of the PokerStars Blog photography staff and today is on duty for the High Roller and World Cup of Poker. After a career in photojournalism with some of America’s biggest newspapers, Giron shifted to shooting just about every rock band and musician you’ve ever heard of. The bulk of his work came as the traveling photographer for metal great Pantera. Since 2005, Giron has worked in the poker industry and traveled all over the world capturing some of the most iconic moments of the game. Where many people who call themselves photographers shoot 40 snaps in a row in hopes of nailing one that looks right, Giron is a sniper from the days when digital images weren’t free and film was expensive. He can get the shot with a single tap of his finger.

Giron (front) with Kim Curtin and the writers from Team PokerStars Blog as we help Stoddart test his lights for a portrait shoot (we’re sober, by the way)

Together Giron and Stoddart work to make sure every important moment of the PokerStars Caribbean Adventure is recorded for history. They are the undisputed kings of poker photography. Their work is in demand anywhere poker tournaments happen. For the past several years, both men have been the chief photographers for the PokerStars Caribbean Adventure. If you saw a good photo from the PCA over the last few years, it almost certainly has Giron and Stoddart’s fingers on it.

Back at the main event stage today, everyone is ready to get on with the business of making money.

“Last two,” Stoddart calls. “Make your mother proud.”

There’s a double click, a double strobe, and then there’s the shot of the final table. Satisfied, Stoddart lets the players go on about seeing who will win the $2 million today.

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The Puppeteers of America

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

One of my favorite political writers is Matt Taibbi, columnist at Rolling Stone magazine, who also penned a few books such as The Great Derangement, which included an astute observation about politics and Big Business…

“You don’t elect politicians to commit crimes; you elect politicians to make your crimes legal.” – Matt Taibbi

Black Friday more than put a wrinkle into the lives of American poker players, it decimated the entire online poker landscape. On April 15th, we all discovered that we could no longer play on our favorite online poker sites. Just the day before on April 14th, Americans went about their lives with the ease and comfort knowing their bankrolls were safe in a virtual bank somewhere overseas. We were under the impression that we could exercise our right to gamble… or choose not to gamble… because after all, we’re adults protected under the Constitution of the United States. We have the unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Online poker could be one of those, or it could be all three. I know I spent too many hours logged onto a different online poker site bogged down in the pursuit of happiness, only to get sucked out by a one-outer, which sent me on mega-LAGtard-Scandi-tilt.

Online poker was a short-term escape from the harsh reality that we live in corporatocracy. Our nefarious politicians are pwned by oligarchs and plutocrats, all of whom don’t give a rat’s ass about your personal liberty to engage in any sort of activity (gambling or otherwise) on the internet. If you haven’t been paying attention to SOPA or the NDAA, then you should get off your ass and do some research. Uncle Sam and Big Brother are now one in the same while a shadowy cabal of international banksters are pulling the strings.

Remember that scene from The Godfather, after the ailing Don handed over the reigns of the Family to his son, Michael Corleone?

“You are like me,” mumbled Don Corleone. “We refuse to be fools, to be puppets dancing on a string pulled by other men.”

I’m still trying to figure out why some activities in America are considered a crime and why other things are permitted, but then again most laws these days defy all logic. We’re living in a rigged political system that is rotten to the core. Corruption is the grease that keeps the wheels of Big Business churning. Corruption is what re-balances the manipulated scales of justice.

Who were the real culprits behind online poker prohibition in America? After doing some research and “following the money” trail, I pointed fingers in a post titled Black Friday, Vampire Squids, and 1,000 Masturbating Monkeys. Almost eight months later, I continue to search for more concise answers. Sure, we have the names of the unscrupulous politicians leading the witch hunt, but like Don Corleone explained, someone else is tugging at those puppet strings.

Who are the puppeteers?

Why did they cock block us?

What is so terrifying about online poker?

What kind of crimes against humanity did we commit by sitting around in our underwear and playing cards?

How did the simple act of playing online poker become threatening to the Establishment?

I guess the answer to my last question is this: poker players are rebellious in nature and free thinkers. Many of us would not have taken the courageous leap into the virtual waters at online poker sites unless we were strong-willed, determined, and seeking an alternative way to live our lives. Online poker provided income, happiness, purpose and validation instead of following the herd and the Master Plan (college > job > marriage > mortgage > kids > college fund > retirement) that had been beaten into our heads since birth. We were conditioned to conform from the moment we popped out of our mother’s womb. We’ve been corralled into institutions like cattle, stripped of any semblance of individuality, brainwashed into living a life that we think is what we’re supposed to do — obey, consume, reproduce — all of this without questioning authority and expressing an independent thought. The moment any of us stray from the path, we’re ostracized and marginalized, and if that doesn’t deter us, then agents of the state (paid by our tax dollars) will beat the shit out of us until we get back in line. And those whom stay on the path and do not upset the herd are thrust into a fabricated world in which the entire point of existence is to…

1. Become obedient cubicle slaves exploited by corporate overlords.

2. Generate tax income for the bloated state.

3. Create profits for the banking cartel in form of debt creation — credit cards, car loans, school loans, small business loans, mortgages and second mortgages.

4. Buy cheap stuff (Made in China) that we don’t need, which proliferates ginormous profits for Big Business.

5. Breed children so a new generation of consumers and debt slaves will continue this maddening cycle.

I was drawn to poker because of its anarchist nature, but since then it’s been bastardized both economically and politically. Do you want me to scare the shit out of you? Many pundits vehemently against online poker are convinced online poker sites (and other online gambling sites) launder money for terrorist networks. The National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) was passed the other day, which gives the military the green light to scoop up American citizens and detain us indefinitely as an enemy of the state if we’re suspected of having ties to al-Qaeda or any other terrorist groups and anti-American organizations. Say goodbye to “innocent until proven guilty.”

“Theory of Poker” translated into Farsi
Under the NDAA, our totalitarian government can demonize anyone, including online poker players, by simply labeling them enemy combatants. Many of you thought not being able to play in the Sunday Million sucked, just wait until the military shows up at your front door, bags a black hood over your head, then whisks you away to Gitmo or some other secret prison, where you’re forced to do the naked pyramid with other freshly-detained Jihadists.

What the hell has this country come to? It’s poker, for fuck’s sake! It’s just a card game. A game. An all-American game. Texas Hold’em. The Cadillac of Poker. “It takes seconds to learn and a lifetime to master,” according to Mike Sexton, the ubiquitous ambassador to poker, whose name will now pop up on the FBI’s Watch List in between Ramadan Abdullah Mohammad Shallah and Husayn Muhammad al-Umari.

Any way you look at it, unsuspecting Americans were squeezed by the government and we all got caught up in this shakedown when the UIGEA passed in 2006. Our last hope is to sway politicians to alter the laws, just like Matt Taibbi said in his famous quote… “You don’t elect politicians to commit crimes; you elect politicians to make your crimes legal.”

The sobering reality is that all the letters and emails in the world won’t change the mind of our licentious elected officials. The poker industry dusted off hundreds of millions in a concentrated effort to lobby Congress, yet those we trusted to get the job done dropped the ball time and time again. We must think outside the box to solve the problem, and resort to drastic measures in order to re-install the freedom to fire up online poker sites once again. It will take a shitload of cash and gold to persuade the immoral muppets in DC to end online poker prohibition. If bribes don’t work, then we’ll have to call in a favor with the wiseguys. Because all it takes is just one severed, bloody horse’s head in the right politician’s bed to shape policy in our favor. Then, and only then, will we be able to play online poker again.

While we wait for the proverbial horse’s head, the time has come to say farewell to a couple of dear friends. RIP online poker. RIP America.

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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Ocho – WPBT, Part 3

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Several hours after the marathon, I found myself in a late-night jam session at the Monte Carlo poker room. The session musicians included Dr. Chako, Iggy, G-Rob, Otis, Marty, Poker Peaker, Bad Blood, and Drizz.

Here’s the setlist…

12/4/11 – Monte Carlo Poker Room, Las Vegas, NV

Set 1: Possum, Nougat Farm > Extra Large Aspirin > Pillow Talk, Danny England Ain’t from England, Madras > Marty Ain’t Russian > Madras “It’s a drink, it’s a rug, it’s a shirt” Jam > Marty Borrows*, Ziggy Stardust > Iggy’s Toothache > Pusherman, Otis Tries to Stand Up^ > Otis Sticks to Beer**, Aces High, Antelope

Encore: Suzy Greenberg > Madras Reprise

* Last time played 12/5/2008
^ Otis solo acoustic
** First time played

I dropped two buy-ins… one each to Otis and G-Rob. Fucking G-Rob would open by sliding a stack of redbirds over the betting line. $100 bet in a 1/3 game? Yep. It was one of those nights when the dealers loved us or hated us. Whenever a new dealer sat down in the box, everyone pre-toked the dealer at least $1, sometimes more. Whenever Otis dragged a pot, he showered the dealer with every white $1 in his newly acquired stack — which usually amounted to a tip anywhere from $8 to $10. G-Rob convinced another dealer that he not only owned a nougat farm, but that Iggy was actually former NHL stars Zigmund Palffy. To which I said, “Ziggy? He’s no Guy LaFleur.”

Oh, and we played some poker too. Biggest pot of the night? Three-way all-in on the flop. Set over set against a flush draw. Iggy’s set of Aces held up. Drizz doubled him up and Bad Blood was felted. Drizz said that if he had won that monsterpotten, then he would have had enough money for his own private lap dance for a month. I was confused on the math, then again, strippers in Minnesota must be dirt cheap. As my brother aptly said, “Strippers without teeth cost a lot less.”

* * *
Las Vegas is a city built on cliches. The biggest cliche of the weekend? Four New Yorkers eating faux-NYC-style pizza in the bowels of City Center.

I knew it was too good to be true, but a leggy model was fixated on me as she walked through Cosmo. As a rule of thumb, any woman that makes eye contact with me after Midnight in Vegas is almost always a working girl or a Mossad agent. She kept starring at me in an extremely uncomfortable manner as she got closer and closer. She passed us, stopped on a dime, and whirled around.

“Where did you get the pizza?” she asked.

My brother pointed at the unidentified hallway across from the pool table. She mumbled “thanks” and sprinted (in high heels) to the secret pizza joint that sold over-priced slices, yet was the closest attempt at NY-style pizza that I devoured in all of Las Vegas. I had heard about the secret pizza place for a few months, but had never visited it mainly because I usually do everything possible to avoid the Strip. April and Mo discovered it earlier in the trip and gave us perfect directions on how to find it. The pizza place with no name. Open til 5am. What more could you ask for?

My brother noted that four New Yorkers were chowing down on slices — the both of us, FTrain and Timtern. We had become a cliche of cliches. The pizza wasn’t even that good, but I was schwilly after a long day and night of gambling and consumption that I was thrilled to find any sort of food substance at City Center that cost under $10.

The worst part of the secret pizza excursion was the art vending machine debacle. I heard about the different vending machines in Cosmo that offered up pieces of artwork for as little as $5. I was a little schwasted when I saw F Train walk up to an old-school cigarette machine that had been refurbished to house the special art. I thought the machine was selling decks of cards with different themes. I saw “abstract oil painting” and thought a fancy deck of cards would make a nice stocking stuffer for the holidays. I pulled a $5 bill out of my pocket and jammed it into the slot. I tugged on the handle, but to my dismay, that style was sold out. I grabbed an adjacent handle — also of the “abstract” genre — and I heard a large thud. I reached into the bowels of the machine and pulled out a block of painted wood.

“What the fuck? I just got hustled by a fucking vending machine.”

The group did nothing to hide their laughter. I was the consummate Vegas veteran yet I got my ass handed to me. The machines won. Vegas won. Me? I was humiliated beyond belief. I survived seven WSOPs which amounted to seven summers of sheer torture. I wrote a book about the surviving the murky world of the poker industry, yet I could not evade the classic “Las Vegas hustle.” So, I stood in the Cosmo with a painted piece of wood as I could hear the entire choir of angels in heaven jeering me. The gambling gods have a unique sense of humor, so much so, that I owe someone a swift kick in the junk.

Hustled again by Vegas. When will I ever learn? Next year, we should move the WPBT to Reno. At least that way if I get hustled again, I could just jump in Lake Tahoe and drown myself.

* * *
Iggy told me about the drunk in the Mickey Mouse costume panhandling on the Strip while drinking liquor from a bottle. The only street people I came across was a busker on the pedestrian bridge connecting Crystals to the Cosmo. I heard a raspy, young female voice singing along to an acoustic guitar. She looked more like a neo-punk rocker than a earthy-crunchy hippie chick, and she wasn’t what you’d call… good. But, she sang out of tune and played anyway. After I ate pizza and got hustled by the old “piece-of-painted-wood-in-a-vending-machine” trick, I wanted to return to Aria and drown my sorrows at the sports book bar. I still had a few drink tickets left over. On our way back to the Aria, the same punk girl was sitting on the bridge and butchering a Tom Waits song.

“You should tip her a nug,” whispered my girlfriend.

I had some Lemon Kush in my pocket and decided to do the right thing. Pay it forward. I slowly walked in front of her. She had her eyes closed but opened them as soon as she smelled the Lemon Kush.

“Here,” I said.

She stopped playing. “Really?”

I nodded, handed her the nug, and continued along my way.

“Ohhhh. Myyyy. Gawd! So fucking awesome! Awesome!”

I heard her saw “awesome” at least four more times as we walked away. She was so stunned by the heady tip that she stopped playing, and thereby, stopped butchering the horrendous cover. Tom Waits would be proud.

* * *
Not everything in life can be summed up in a nifty narrative or setlist. So many inside jokes happened during my time in Vegas that I could write 15,000 words and yet, the situation would be funny for only a few of you. Sometimes some things are just left unsaid. We came. We saw. We conquered. But most of those things aren’t fodder for social media and arcane trip reports. My friends would lose their spouses, their houses, their jobs. Dignity? We all checked that at the door as soon as we arrived in Sin City.

With that said, here’s a random list of orphaned lines/sentences that missed the cut from the other parts of Ocho – WPBT….

- I spent a good hour talking about refs fixing basketball games with Pokah Dave and Grange95. Grange used to ref high school hoops and shared some perspective on the mentality of the game from the zebra’s eyes. It also made me sick to my stomach to think about how many more NBA games were “manipulated” over the years. If you believe that crooked ref Tim Donaghy was an “isolated incident” then there’s a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you. Oh, and Dick Bavetta? I’m looking at you pal!

- So if Texas April now lives in California, and California April now lives in Maine, then who lives in Texas?

- Derek hustled G-Rob, Change100, and I at a video version of Greyhound racing. The Monte Carlo had a silly video game in which you could place bets on different virtual dogs. We realized that you didn’t have to play the game for a race to go off — so we decided to bet on each individual race that was comprised of six different dogs. You basically picked a number and shouted it for about thirty seconds before a winning greyhound was determined. That kept us entertained for about thirty minutes before we realized that Derek was winning all of our money. That inspired one of my favorite quotes from the entire weekend: “It’s hard to handicap fake dogs.”

- My second favorite quote? I don’t know who said originally said it (so please let me know, so I can give you proper attribution), but FTrain referenced the gem one late night: “If it’s after Midnight in Vegas and you’re smoking a cigarette while carrying a baby… then you’re definitely white trash.”

- This is not a WPBT note, rather a general Vegas observation, but I fucking hate it when I’m trying to grab a cab in front of a casino and a doorman asks me where I’m going. I know he’s doing it to trying to hustle a few bucks just in case I’m going to a strip club, but to hell with their intrusive antics. I once pissed off a doorman at the Rio over the summer when he asked me where I was headed. “I’m going to a new club,” I said. “It’s called None of Your Fucking Business.” In the last year or so, I have been lying to the doormen, then correcting the destination to the driver as soon as the door closes. Most Vegas cabbies actually like me more when I tell them what I did. Mr. Funk (@LVCabbieChronicles) would be pleased at how I’ve been treating nosey doormen. Hey, my destination is an intimate exchange between me and my cabbie. Everyone else can bugger off. And if growing up in NYC taught me anything, you NEVER give the driver your exact destination especially when it’s going to a residence. It’s always wise to ask to get dropped off a block away or give them an address somewhere nearby. Vegas is so large that it’s hard to get them to drop you off a block from a casino or the airport. But even then, I try to give a fake airline. “I’m flying on Blue Star airline. It’s near the JetBlue counter.”

* * *
My brother published his quarterly post, which happens to be a recap of his WPBT adventures. Derek rarely writes, but his trip report are among my favorites to read. Check out… Holiday Classic Recap: Words With Friends.

And you can also read Part 1 and Part 2 of my series titled Ocho – WPBT. Until next year, I bid you farewell…

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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Ocho – WPBT, Part 1

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Eight?

It’s hard to believe we’ve been emissaries for eight years. The WPBT’s annual Winter Gathering thrives even in the wake of online poker prohibition. Black Friday did not deter an eclectic group of a hundred or so people from descending upon Las Vegas for a weekend of lurid debauchery.

The WPBT began as a bad inside joke like a half-baked Saturday Night Live sketch that morphed into a global phenomena and yearly pilgrimage. In his next book, Malcolm Gladwell should write about the compelling story of how an innocuous weekend in Las Vegas became a sanctuary for an unusual group of people, which originated from a couple of potheads from the Bronx and two cynical brothers from Michigan. For as long as I can remember, I flew from NYC to Las Vegas twice a year with my brother to occupy the sportsbook for a couple of days (March Madness in the Spring and another sojourn at the end of the year to bet on football). Our trip in 2004 was enticing to our friends, BG and Bobby Bracelet (back before he was even given the “Bracelet” moniker by my brother), and they instantly joined in the fun. Once the peanut gallery found out, the trip ballooned to over 30 poker enthusiasts.

When I (loosely) organized the first Winter Classic with the Poker Prof, we thought it was going to be just a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet virtual friends, many of whom we had never met before. The first trip was a whim for many of the participants involved, yet the first gathering spawned a yearly pilgrimage. The group grew. Fast. Infectious. Huge. Then things got out of control as it became a flash mob of several hundred, inebriated degenerates clashing with cowboys on the Strip.

Eight years later, the weekend still exists which is a testament to the people involved. The original weekend in 2004 was never about online poker, gambling or a pissing match — rather it was a whimsical leap of faith in an attempt to nurture a sincere, yet genuine connection that we all made through the virtual world with online poker as our portal. Many of us originally booked their flights because we were seeking out a shared visceral experience in Sin City. The rest is history.

The inaugural WPBT gathering occurred right smack in the middle of the glorious poker boom during the halcyon days of “blogs” before Facebook and Twitter hijacked the social media cloud. From the outset, we were a rag-tag bunch of geeky writers and online poker addicts, which is why the Big Business vultures were circling around our gatherings. They dispatched savvy marketing agents and seized the weekend as an opportunity to bribe the poker blogging community. Any publicity is publicity. Simply put, the slithery tentacles of the poker industry octopus would hand out free shit with hopes that we’d write about it (and link it up) on our blogs. Fair enough.

Everyone loves two things: kittens and free shit. Alas, handing out furry adorable felines inside a poker room seems a little weird, even by Vegas standards, but the rest of the free stuff was welcomed. Over the last eight years, major online poker rooms competed with each other to get the attention of the WPBT. Some marketing ploys succeeded. Some definitely missed. Some of the online rooms outright exploited us. Maybe it wasn’t a fair deal for everyone involved, but in the end we all had a good time and acquired some free shit. Let’s not forget the last-longer pots were sweetened and the liquored flowed, while the industry unloaded tons of free trinkets (made in China, of course) like decks of playing cards, card cappers, t-shirts, and hats.

The annual weekend had become an orgy of consumption, yet this year took a slightly healthier bent when a small group of friends decided they wanted to run the Las Vegas half-marathon. If you haven’t heard, the race was plagued with logistical issues and it’s remarkable that everyone finished despite the clusterfuck. Regardless, the race was the perfect example of the quirkiness of our group — from the runners in the half-marathon to the bunch of us screaming like banshees near the finish line.

Ocho.

We’ve done this eight times. Nothing can top the first one, but the eighth one will always stand out.

* * *
I arrived Friday and was already stuck. I asked StB to put a bet down on a college basketball game on Thursday. It lost. Even though the game was not on TV (nor could I find it online), I was sweating the score via my CrackBerry while seeing the film J. Edgar with Change100 at a theatre around the corner from our apartment in San Francisco. The movie was so boring that I refreshed the score every few minutes. I didn’t even get to the airport and I was already down. That was an ominous sign that the gambling gods were going to fuck with me all weekend.

I departed San Francisco on Friday morning and ran into Katitude at the airport, which was odd because she’s Canadian and supposed to be flying from Toronto to Vegas, yet she had a random layover in SFO. Even more weird? She was on my same flight. SFO > LAS.

I checked into Aria and had a Jerry Seinfeld moment at the front desk because of the reservation snafu. I found paid StB slamming Widmer at the bar in front of the sportsbook and I paid my debt. We went inside and studied the lines for upcoming games. I scanned the different screens back and forth when my brother piped up, “What the fuck is Lingerie Football?”

StB checked his iPhone and discovered the Lingerie League was a legit league with 12 teams of women playing football in pads and… lingerie. It’s the kind of sports entertainment that strikes an angry nerve with feminists and even makes sport purists squirm. Even with a competitive angle, Lingerie Football is classic Americana Whiskey Tango Entertainment. Heck, it’s nearly soft core porn which is why it only appeared on PPV. Even if we bet on the game, we couldn’t watch it. What’s the point to betting on something you can’t watch? You have no sweat equity.

Fantasy versus the Crush. The Fantasy were the favorite and laying 8.5 points. I had no clue if that was good, or not. I couldn’t even tell you the cities the teams were from. In case you were wondering — Cleveland and Orlando. But which one was the Fantasy?

We bet on it anyway. Our first impulsive degen moment of the weekend. Five minutes before kickoff, we stood in front of the sportsbook and pooled our money — Derek, Chilly, Iggy, StB, Maudie and myself. StB walked up to the window. My only regret was that we didn’t bet more.

StB sprinted to the window and tried to joke around with a humorless woman in a Jim Kelly Buffalo Bill’s jersey. She took our bet on the Limgerie Football game, but didn’t care for our shtick. Too bad she wasn’t working when we cashed our winning ticket, because StB would’ve rubbed it in. Bad.

Our career as a Lingerie Football betting syndicate was short-lived. No other games were scheduled while we were in town, so we’d have to disband the group indefinitely. At least we turned a profit. In fact, Lingerie Football was the only bet I’d win on Thursday or Friday. I was mired in a slump after whiffing on a college hoops game (I tried to fade the Ivy League and took Loyola Marymount -9 against Columbia) and a college football game. In a Six Degrees of Separation moment, Chilly randomly mentioned that he knew the head coach of the team I had bet on.

“What the fuck, Chilly? Why didn’t you tell me? Send him a text and tell him he better score lots of points.”

Around Midnight, Chilly hustled me in a prop bet — how many of his toes were painted with nail polish? He gave me 7-1 odds and I instantly bombarded him with questions. After I extracted some answers, I barked out: three. I was wrong as he took off his shoes and socks to settle the bet, much to the delight of the eye in the sky. Chilly revealed his toes, which normally would horrify most sane people, yet the Friday night crowd was distracted with the edifice of Elvis — a bust near the entrance to Viva Elvis, his new Cirque du Soleil show. A steady flow of tourists stopped in front of the bust all night and snapped photos with the bronzed statue of Elvis’ head. A pack of soused cougars took turns molesting and making out with the head, but that all that sexual frisson overshadowed a semi-circle of shit-faced degens standing around Chilly as he wiggled his toes.

Whenever someone new showed up at the bar, Chilly attempted to run the same hustle. We didn’t get busted so I suspect whoever was watching the eye in the sky was a foot fetishist and/or had a thing for portly bald guys.

To be continued…

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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2011 WSOP November Nine – Sunday Live Blog

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

Photo courtesy of Flipchip
For a seventh year in a row, I’m covering the final table of the World Series of Poker Main Event Championship. I’m fortunate to have witnessed the last final table inside Benny’s Bullpen inside historic Binion’s in 2005 when Joe Hachem got the sugar passed his way amidst an omnipresent chant of “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!” Since then, I caught final tables played out inside the Amazon Ballroom and had ringside seats during the apex of the poker boom when Jamie Gold and Jerry Yang respectively won their championships. I have also been in the orchestra pit for each incarnation of the November Nine — Peter Eastgate, Joe Cada, and Jon Duhamel.

Now you can add this year’s November Nine to my resume. Technology is improving, demand is vacillating, and the world’s financial system is in ruins. Who knows if the November Nine will continue to exist (check out Change100′s stellar article on that very subject), or if the WSOP Main Event reverts back to how it used to be played out — from start to finish — without any layoffs. Call me a purist, but that’s how the Main Event should be played out. I never liked the concept of the November Nine because it weakened the integrity of the Main Event. Big Business entities determined that the most prestigious poker tournament of the year should be a made-for-TV event like the Oscars or Presidential elections. But as far as fabricated events go — the November Nine is still one of the best spectacles you’ll ever see.

The lines between sports and entertainment have always been blurred since the inception of televised poker. But something happened this summer during the Main Event that revolutionized poker coverage — the live feed. It became insanely popular so the same concept has been added to the November Nine (with only a 15-minute delay and ALL hole cards instead of a 30-minute delay and hole cards past the flop). For the first time, the WSOP Main Event felt like a real sport because it was being covered like one on ESPN and ESPN2.

Generally speaking, Americans want their entertainment and art spoon fed to them. Best example is the popularity of the juvenile Jersey Shore, or why Michael Bay makes gajillion-dollar mind-numbing blockbusters (I admit, I like seeing shit get blown up) and Woody Allen has been banished to Europe to do his artsy-fartsy existential films.

TV programs are only in existence to sell shit. Just look back to the first “soap operas” that dominated the airwaves after the introduction to the TV. Dramatic stories with tepid acting were only created to sell… soap. Fifty years later, the same concept applied to the poker industry. Televised poker was created to sell online poker, masked as the grandiose American Dream. Alas, Black Friday squashed the lucrative televised poker market. Without PokerStars and Full Tilt Poker fighting for the hearts and minds of online poker junkies, a vacuum was created. Even though Ty Stewart is a masterful salesmen, he’s really been the only one to persuade non-gambling companies to join the WSOP as a major advertising partner. The bottom line is that most Fortune 500 companies don’t care about poker, otherwise all of the November Niners would look like NASCAR drivers with ads peppering their entire accouterments.

Without the proverbial carrot stick in front of the donkey cart, it’s been hard to sell “packaged” poker programs to the masses. But, rabid poker fans love everything that has to do with poker. They’ll flock anywhere to get their poker fix. The ratings during the live stream of the Main Event proved that watching poker “now” (even though it’s on a delayed feed to protect the integrity of the game) is a profitable product. Let’s put it this way, if it wasn’t, there’s no way ESPN would dedicate an entire Sunday during football season to a poker tournament. Yet, that’s what happened. If the live feed continues to be a smashing and profitable success, the November Nine’s future is in jeopardy. Alas, the future of the November Nine will come down to the fate of so many projects in Hollywood — ratings.

You can watch the final table on ESPN2 this afternoon on a 15-minute delay. You can stream it online on ESPN3 and if you live outside America, you’ll find options at WSOP.com.

I will be tweeting from inside the Penn and Teller Theatre. I will be also be providing some updates here on Tao of Poker. I gotta be honest — the November Nine scheduled on a Sunday is utter torture for a sportsbettor and NFL fan like myself. It will be hard to focus on the final table while NFL games are in action. I can’t promise I’ll stay inside the Penn and Teller Theatre. It won’t be surprising if you find me walking back and forth between the press box and the sports book. Besides, between Twitter and ESPN2, there’s really no reason for me to add to the static and regurgitate information you already know about. But on a good note, that will allow me to float around and dig up the juicy dirt behind the scenes, in the hallways, and in the farthest corners of the Penn and Teller Theatre.

But the November Nine is always a wild ride so stay tuned. We’re playing from 9 players to 3 tonight. Get ready…

* * *
I have to run to the sportsbook and check on some lines. Stay tuned…

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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Betting Guide to the 2011 November Nine

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

In case you were wondering, and I know many of you degenerates are always looking for excuses to gamble, here’s the latest odds for the 2011 WSOP Main Event final table, otherwise known as the November Nine…

2011 November Nine Odds
Martin Staszko 4/1
Eoghan Odea 9/2
Ben Lamb 5/1
Phil Collins 5/1
Matt Giannetti 13/2
Pius Heinz 10/1
Badih Bounahra 12/1
Anton Makievskyi 12/1
Samuel Holden 15/1

** Odds courtesy of The Camel and Oddschecker.com

2011 November Nine Seating Assignments:
Seat 1: Matt Giannetti
Seat 2: Badih Bounahra
Seat 3: Eoghan O’Dea
Seat 4: Phil Collins
Seat 5: Anton Makievskyi
Seat 6: Samuel Holden
Seat 7: Pius Heinz
Seat 8: Ben Lamb
Seat 9: Martin Staszko

November Nine Chip Counts:
1. Martin Staszko – 40,175,000
2. Eoghan O’Dea – 33,925,000
3. Matt Giannetti – 24,750,000
4. Phil Collins – 23,875,000
5. Ben Lamb – 20,875,000
6. Badih Bounahra – 19,700,000
7. Pius Heinz – 16,425,000
8. Anton Makievskyi – 13,825,000
9. Sam Holden – 12,375,000

November Nine – Final Table Payouts
1st – $8,711,956
2nd – $5,430,928
3rd – $4,019,635
4th – $3,011,661
5th – $2,268,909
6th – $1,720,396
7th – $1,313,851
8th – $1,009,910
9th – $782,115

This is the first year that Las Vegas casinos allow proposition wagering on the World Series of Poker. Sports betting on poker is not a precise science yet because oddmakers and gamblers have a very small set of numbers to worth with. This is not like professional football in which oddmakers have models and algorithms to consult in addition to the old fashioned “eye test” to see if a team can legitimately cover a point spread on both paper and in real life. Poker is not like MMA or boxing, and you can’t just look at Puis Heinz and say he won’t be able to handle Anton Makievskyi.

So what do you look for? Stack sizes? Betting the chip leader isn’t always the best strategy. It’s only panned out once in the last three final tables.

The luck factor adds difficulty into making a sound decision. You’re essentially betting on the guy who puts himself in the best situation to get lucky — and often times luck is not coming from behind to win a hand or hitting all your draws, but rather, avoiding misfortune by winning all of your coinflips and evading suckouts at advantageous moments.

You’re also looking for value and a player who will pay off something close to what he’s really worth if goes deep and wins it all.

Will the major betting syndicates get in on this racket? I doubt they’ll make a major play because of the uncontrollable variables which makes it tough to minimize their risk. Rather, the majority of action will be wagered by hardcore poker fans and the curious tourist that happens to be in Vegas this weekend. He/she probably watched a few episodes of the WSOP on ESPN and decided to drop $25 on a player.

The WSOP Main Event is not like the Superbowl when amateur bettors flock to the windows to place bets on random things like the coinflip or the length of the national anthem. If the November Nine odds lures in a few drunks on The Strip, they’d probably place bets on a whim will go with familiar names like Phil Collins or Ben Lamb. It’s a pick driven by psychology. The European names are just too weird for anyone to pronounce, especially with a few Irish car bombs pumping through their system. Based on that assumption (drunks don’t like complicated names), if anyone wants to bet a longshot, it’ll be Sam Holden due to the simplicity of his name.

Ben Lamb is overvalued because everyone and his mother who is easily swayed by “awards” will take into account his most-recent Player of the Year victory. Lamb and Phil Hellmuth were neck-and-neck going into the WSOP-Europe, but Lamb finally locked up the title with a strong performance in Cannes. Numbers/awards aside, Lamb certainly played well enough across the entire summer to deserve the POY honor, but he could have won a Nobel Prize and the Westminster Dog Show and it still wouldn’t alter the randomness of the hands he’ll see at the final table and how he’ll choose to play them.

The chip leader and most popular guy have been historically overvalued. But, the long shots should be much higher in excess of +1500 and closer to +2000. That’s why you have to analyze the guys in the middle. They have the potential for most value if they win the Main Event. With that said, I like Matt Giannetti at +575 and love him of the line moves northward of 600.

* * *

2010 November Nine Odds:
Jonathan Duhamel +180
Michael “The Grinder” Mizrachi +250
John Dolan +250
Joseph “subiime” Cheong +350
Matthew Jarvis +700
John Racener +700
Soi Nguyen +1200
Filippo Candio +1200
Jason Senti +2000

In 2010, the overall favorite and chip leader Jonathan Duhamel won the Main Event — the only favorite to ever do so. His odds were listed at +180 and he beat John Racener (+700) heads-up. The bookies gave the popular “Grinder” the second favorite at +250.

The Grinder embarked on a remarkable run at the 2010 WSOP and edged out Frank Kasella as Player of the Year, which was anchored by his victory in the 50K Players’ Championship. The Grinder eventually finished the Main Event in 5th place. His real odds were much higher, but don’t forget the bookies adjust lines to accommodate their positions after the original lines are released. The +250 they set for the Grinder didn’t equate to what place they thought he’d finish. The +250 line was in place protect themselves just in case the most popular guy won and they’d be on the hook for almost twice as much cash. Similar thing happened with Phil Ivey in 2009.

Last year, I bet on Joe “subiime” Cheong at +350. I felt that he offered the best value for his price. Cheong finished in a disappointing third place. If he didn’t imploded on the infamous hand that sunk his Main Event dreams, who knows what could have happened.

John Racener at +700 ended up being a sound wager because the bubblegum chewing Racener lost to Duhamel heads-up. He was listed as the 6th favorite (or 4th longshot if you want to look at it in those terms). The year before, Joe Cada was in a similar spot and took down the Main Event.

* * *

2009 November Nine Odds:
Darvin Moon +225
Eric Buchman +350
Phil Ivey +350
Happy Shulman +500
Steven Begleiter +500
Joe Cada +1000
Kevin Schaffel +1200
James Akenhead +1200
Antoine Saout +1500

Phil Ivey’s numbers were tweaked because he’s Phil Fucking Ivey and everyone with a pulse put down a bet on him. I bet on him at crappy odds because he’s Phil Fucking Ivey. He should have been listed much higher, but so much money was put down on Ivey that the bookies wanted to minimize their losses just in case he pulled off a victory. Alas, the living legend never got any momentum going and despite the pro-Ivey crowd, he busted in 5th place. Seconds after his elimination, the majority of the Penn and Teller Theatre emptied and energy level fizzled out to a faint whimper.

The Luddite logger Darvin Moon was listed as 2/1 because he held an overwhelming chip lead and the poker gods seemed to have blessed him during his journey to the final table. Moon found himself pitted heads-up against the baby-faced kid from Michigan Joe Cada. Cada getting 10/1 odds would’ve paid off handsomely if you had the balls to pull the trigger on the unknown player. Alas, it wasn’t one of the chip leaders like Moon or Buchman who prevailed. Nor was it the consummate professional in Phil Ivey. Nope, it was one of the random guys at the back of the pack.

* * *

2008 November Nine Odds:
Dennis Phillips +425
Ivan Demidov +425
Scott Montgomery +475
Peter Eastgate +525
Ylon Schwartz +800
David Rheem +850
Darus Suharto +900
Craig Marquis +950
Kelly Kim +2500

In the inaugural November Nine the books erred on the side of caution because the November Nine has never happened before, so no one knew what to expect. The big question marks surrounded the layoff — would it benefit some players more so than others? And more importantly, how would that affect the betting odds?

Dennis Phillips was the people’s choice. He had the “aww shucks” attitude from the moment the spotlight got turned onto him, which is a rare form of charm mostly found in prairie statement politicians and door-to-door insurance salesmen. The fact that he was also the chip leader tweaked his numbers. Don’t forget when someone who is not a savvy bettor wants action, they usually go with what is familiar to them. Hence, why the public loved betting on Phillips.

Chino Rheem was the “pro’s favorite” that year and most of the people associated with the poker industry put their money on Chino because based on time logged at the live tables, he had the best chance to win. Besides, he also owed the most money to everyone else in poker, which is why everyone was rooting for him. The higher he finished, the better the chances all of his debt collectors would get paid.

The 4th highest favorite, Peter Eastgate, won the championship and became the youngest player to do so in the process — smashing Phil Hellmuth’s record. It’s fitting that five years after the Moneymaker Effect, a Scandi who barely shaves, took down the WSOP Main Event.

* * *
So what does all of this mean? Absolutely nothing.

But if you like small sample sizes…. since the inception of the November Nine, only one favorite (Jonathan Duhamel) won the Main Event. Your best bet is someone in the middle of the pack like Joe Cada (2009) or Peter Eastgate (2008). That’s why I like Matt Gianetti at +575 or 13/2 at online sportsbooks according to The Camel. Besides, Giannetti won a WPT event on my birthday, so I take that as a positive sign.

I’ve already placed wagers on O’Dea (safe bet) and Gianetti (value play).

I know I haven’t specifically spoken about Eoghan O’Dea, but I like the Irishman’s style of play and more importantly, he’s a second generation gambler. Poker is in his blood. His father is one of the godfathers of Irish poker Don O’Dea. It’s hard to bet against royalty and someone who’s been breathing poker since he popped out of his momma’s womb.

That’s it for now. Consult your local bookie, online sportsbook, or check the betting windows in Vegas for the latest odds. Get your bets in before Sunday! Good luck.

The November Nine kicks off semi-live with hole cards on ESPN2 at 3:30pm ET. You can also view it online at ESPN3.

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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Rocketman and Welcome to the Ice Palace

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

“What the hell was that lunar stuff?”

“Huh?” I muttered waving a soupy cloud of smoke away from my face.

“You know,” Big Dog gestured, “That strain the astronauts grew up on the space station?”

“Oh, the Lunar Kush. If you got stuck up in the international space station for months on end without anything to do, you bet your ass I’d grow my own weed. You couldn’t smoke it because a lit match would blow the entire fucking station to smithereens, but I betcha they made a lot of ganja desserts. Where did you think the term — space cake — originated? The Lunar Kush.”

“Ah… Lunar. Kush. Cosmic. Woof.”

“Rocketman. You know that Elton John song? That’s all about growing weed in space.”

A long pause was broken by stoner-like laughter.

“I’m gonna be high as a kite by then…” I belted out in my best Elton John falsetto.

“Lunar Kush?”

“Yeah, you get the gist,” I said as I shuffled the cards. “It’s muthafucking cold in space. You gotta eat space cakes to keep you warm until you finally get to return to Earth.”

* * * *

I’ve heard some of the most peculiar and fascinating conversations at a poker table. At the Imperial Palace in Vegas, I almost saw two guys come to blows over an innocuous chat about labor unions. At the Taj in Atlantic City, I got bogged down in a discussion on where exactly Roman centurions hammered nails into Christ’s hands during the Crucifixion. One guy said all the iconography and crosses in Church were inaccurate — because you couldn’t hang a person with a nail through each hand because the weight of the body would rip the flesh off the nails. He insisted they nailed Christ through a spot in between a couple of major bones below the wrists. That conversation lasted a hour. The Jesuits at my high school would’ve been pleased that I held my own during a post-modern symposium debunking of crucifixions.

The conversations in my new home game are a hodge podge mainly because of the eclectic nature of the players. A city like San Francisco is filled with unique people from all over the spectrum and Halli’s home game is representative of the diverse nature of my new city. Her game has been running on and off for over seven years — just around the time Chris Moneymaker became poker’s messiah — and on Monday nights you could always count on a game being played in the back of the Ice Palace hosted by Halli and her brother, Skye.

Why the Ice Palace?

Because it’s fucking cold, cold, cold. It’s like stepping into a freezer. The back of Halli’s ridiculously spacious apartment could be used to store a month’s worth of steaks for Peter Luger’s. She lives on the entire floor one of those picturesque Victorians that are synonymous with San Francisco. Change100 and I were thisclose to moving to Colorado this autumn when Halli offered us a sweet deal to share her apartment in the Slums of Pacific Heights. My girlfriend fell in love with the place and any thing was better than living in Vegas or hellacious Los Angeles, so we jumped at the chance to stay with Halli for a couple of months. In addition to a kick ass apartment, we also inherited a weekly home game. Hence, the Ice Palace.

Sure, I have an itch for online poker, but online poker is antisocial in nature and often feels more like playing a video game. I stopped playing video games (er, Tiger Woods golf and chess) in favor of online poker because I felt if I was going to waste my time zoning out at a computer screen, then I might as well make some money at it. I was never good enough at chess to hustle for dime bags in Washington Square Park, and in real life I’ve only broken 100 once on a golf course. Once I realized I lacked the necessary passion, skills and discipline to become a true professional poker player, I found a regular day job whoring myself out to various tentacles of the murky online poker industry (disguised as “media outlets”) to pay my bills and support my art, and looked at online poker as a profitable hobby to help pay for my insatiable desire to travel and do cool things with friends. But ever since the inception of the UIGEA and the subsequent “pulling of the plug” on Black Friday, the broke-dick used car salesmen in DC insist that online poker is the root of all evil, just like running with scissors or wearing white pants after Labor Day. Without online poker, I’m bummed out that I have to turn to live sports betting (don’t even think about online sports books, because the DOJ is in the corner gunning for you!) and make trips to Vegas sports books to help fund my addiction to traveling and music, but part of me doesn’t actually miss the vacant feeling of sitting alone in the dark, worshipping the muted glow of multiple LHE tables, which induced frothing Pavlovian responses to the slightest alert sounds.

I’m still enraged with the cowardly political decisions that prevent me from exercising my right to liberty and pursuit of happiness by playing online poker, however, I don’t actually miss the physical act of playing online poker. I was never that obsessed with online poker that I’d relocate to Canadia to play. But if I was a sensational MTT player like Shaniac or Matt Stout, you bet your ass I would’ve set up shop overseas within 90 days of the introduction of the UIGEA. There’s a part of me that wants to be able to place sports bets on Pinnacle or The Greek, so I entertained the thought of re-locating to Vancouver (they have great nugs there and too many civilians are dying in Mexico because of the atrocities of the losing War on Drugs, but that’s a whole other series of posts that would be better suited for an in-depth report on Tao of Fear). But at this point, I’d rather rent a lake house on Tahoe and make a short trip to Reno or Stateline to bet on football and hoops.

I don’t have an itch for online poker, but I deeply missed playing social poker on a weekly basis. It’s funny in a sad way (like when a alcoholic clown dies of liver cancer), that the original attraction to poker for me was the social element and interaction with opponents in an egalitarian way, but one of my favorite past times got ruined because my work/play worlds collided and all of a sudden the lines were blurred between two opposing aspects of my life that I should have walled off from each other. I was foolish and thought I could mix the two, but as a result, the toxic concoction nearly killed me in more ways than one.

I lived the cliche — one day after a couple of years on the circuit, I woke up and realized poker wasn’t fun anymore. What used to be fun had become a job, and by all definitions jobs suck. It happens to all of us at some point — whether you’re teachers or chefs — you have a passion for something like teaching or cooking, but all of a sudden society thrusts labels on you as the responsibilities grow exponentially and instead of an educator or a cook, you’re now a Sixth Grade Science Teacher or Executive Sous Chef. You quickly forget about the passion that used to flicker inside you like a raging volcano, and you’ve become like every other working class stiff who loathes their job and constantly watches the clock tick down to the precise moment they can act like Fred Fucking Flintstone and run down the tail of a brontosaurus to get the fuck out of the gravel pits and race to the closest bar where you celebrate happy hour by soaking your brain in cheap booze while you grovel with other malcontents about how much everything sucks.

When I lived in Los Angeles, I hated going out to bars infested with douchebags and Snookis. Change100 and I always wanted to host a home game, but everyone who played wouldn’t be able to get ripped to the tits because they’d have to drive home, and if you live in LA, then you know that “parking” is a fucking deal breaker, especially in our neighborhood of the Slums of Beverly Hills, which had no available parking so we were shit out of luck with a home game. That’s part of the reason why I enjoyed hosting Saturdays with Dr. Pauly on PokerStars to have some semblance of a weekly gathering with friends to hang out, bullshit, and have a blast without worrying about carrying around the weight of the world’s problems.

I entered the traveling circus as a member of the poker media, which meant that I leapt out of the “normal linear life” that many of you lead, and accepted a life of constant movement and uncertainty. Once I left NYC in the Spring of 2005 to move to Las Vegas to cover my first WSOP with Flipchip, I essentially kissed a regular home game goodbye. In the last six years or so whenever I heard the intro to Monday Night Football, I always had flashbacks to the Blue Parrot, the Midtown location of the weekly Monday game. Our host Ferrari always made sure the football game was always on in the background. I met a couple of amazing people at Ferrari’s weekly home game like F Train, Ugarte, Coach, Swish… just to name a few. It’s also where I met the infamous Dawn Summers — and I almost spit out my entire Red Stripe on the table when she frowned upon playing Stud and begged to play “that game with the floppy thing in the middle.”

That was then. The Ice Palace is now. I’ve played a few times and on one evening we had two tables of players with a waiting list. I expect to write more about our weekly hijinks in the upcoming months. I sincerely missed playing in a regular home game and I even missed writing about the highlights the next morning. When I first started playing at Ferrari’s in 2004, I recapped the games on Tao of Poker, mostly for the regulars in the game to share a few laughs and talk smack. For the dozen or so readers I had at the time, I gave them a glimpse into my Monday night madness. I’m hoping I can kick it old school and return to where it all began.

Life flew by in the last seven years and I encountered so many rapid changes both personally and professionally that I really lost touch with the original poker fire inside of me. I’m hoping that some time in San Francisco can help me get reacquainted with one of my former passions. And if it doesn’t, then so be it. I can’t resist change, I can only adjust to the changing conditions. The Taoists and Zen Buddhists have a saying… Life is like water — it can flow, or it can crash. Surrender to the flow.

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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2011 WSOP Main Event – Prelude to the Killing Fields

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

The calm before the storm.

That’s the best way to describe the peaceful, tranquil, and serene Amazon Ballroom an hour before the doors open and Main Event players trickle into the tournament. Las Vegas Blvd. was constructed on unattainable hopes and aspirations, so much show it should be called the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. But even though everyone who flies or drives into Las Vegas knows the house almost always wins, there’s a glimmer of hope as bright as the flickering lights of the Strip that perhaps this day will be the day when all of the gambling gods pull your number out of the ginormous bin of white ping-pong balls. While thousands of seasoned pros, jaded vets, donks, emus, ocelots, and tourists are led to their slaughter, nine people (percentages and history says it’ll be nine dudes unless a woman kicks ass and makes history) will emerge as the next biggest swinging dicks in poker. The goal is to become one of the last nine standing otherwise known as The November Nine.

Only a couple of thousand or so gamblers, dreamers, and degens have the cash and testicular fortitude (or ~~clitoral~~ ovarian fortitude — not to alienate my female readers) to take a shot at the big time. After all, you can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket.

In today’s instance, the lottery ticket is a receipt for the 2011 WSOP Main Event Championship. Last summer’s numbers were the second highest on record, but a little wrinkle called Black Friday nearly killed the lofty expectations of this year’s Main Event as the entire online poker landscape was decimated in one single indictment by the DOJ. But once the 2011 WSOP began, the number of participants in cash games and preliminaries were up from last year. Some of that surplus is directly associated with the lack of opportunity to play online poker — those damn junkies needed somewhere to get their fix! But would those surging numbers continue through to the Main Event? How would Black Friday affect the number of Main Event entrants that would have been fed through online satellites? I guess that’s why you’re here to tune in and find out.

Today marks the seventh year in a row I’m covering the WSOP Main Event. I wish it could be like the halcyon year of 2005, in the age before bogus “exclusive media” rules, where I could post whatever I want and whenever I want on my blog. Alas in 2011, I’m still restricted to the “one update an hour” due to Draconian and utterly retarded media rules. Even if I flirt with the elasticity of the rules and post every 59 minutes, I’ll get flagged (like I did the last two years by those fucking Nazis at PokerNews who hired rats specifically to monitor who broke the one hour rule). I know, I know… it’s bullshit in Tao of Poker’s case because when was the last time I actually covered the actual poker tournament?

Anyway, I promised the suits at Harrah’s (er, Caesar’s) that I’d behave this year, so you’re going to have to follow me on Twitter (@taopauly) for random updates throughout the day. I will do my best not to clog up your timeline with mundane and useless fodder, but if something odd, crazy, or just plain weird happens, I’ll let you know. So follow @taopauly on Twitter for Main Event updates throughout the day.

Will I be doing a semi-live blog throughout the day? That’s a great question. I wish I had the answer. I guess you’ll have to tune in to find out. But rest assured, you’ll get a proper end of day recap where I highlight all of the best of the best stories from throughout the day.

I’m gonna thank you in advance for religiously following along Tao of Poker this year and in previous years. The diehard fans are the ones whom I’m dedicating this year’s coverage to. Due to recent events in the online poker industry and the ever-evolving, brooding artist within me seeking out new projects to work on, I honestly think this will be my last complete WSOP. I say that every year out of frustration, but this year is different. So many things happened that I didn’t write about or may never write about, but a lot of heavy shit went down behind the scenes that altered how I perceive the WSOP and my role within it. Of course, if someone offers me a suitcase full of cash, I will write about anything — even savants, douchebags, brokedicks, and inbred twats setting their money on fire. Besides, I’d rather just come out for the 2012 Main Event because can’t imagine spending seven weeks in the trenches next summer. To quote Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon:”I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Alas, enjoy the musings on Tao of Poker while it lasts. It’s been a fun, bizarre, and wild ride and I wouldn’t have traded it for any other experience. With that said, I need to step away from the press box, blow some lines of Adderall in the bathroom, and hope that I don’t walk around the Pavilion or Amazon Ballroom with orange boogers hanging from my nose.

The 2011 WSOP Main Event is upon us. Are you fucking ready to get this show on the road?

Stay tuned for who the hell knows what!

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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2011 WSOP Day 7: The British Invasion, Vampire Squids, and the Devil

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

Photo by Wolynski
In creation stories, God waved his finger at the void and declared, “Ala peanut butter sandwiches.” And viola! The world was created. It wasn’t an easy task and took the Big Cheese six days before He decided his work was done on Earth. If you know your scripture, you know that on the seventh day, God rested.

I have no proof if the story checks out, but everyone religious person I know takes off at least one day a week to worship their Creator. Too bad poker players at the WSOP don’t take off every seven days to worship Benny Binion by wearing a cowboy hat and heading to downtown Las Vegas to pay homage to the man who created what is known as the postmodern poker industry.

Nope, the WSOP is a 24-hour operation for seven straight weeks. In the age of the internet providing lightning quick information and the skewed entitlement of the international public which desires a 24/7 bombardment of a news cycle, it’s impossible to tell dig up complete stories and instead, tiny nuggets of info are released. This is not an issue indigenous to poker, if anything it’s more rampant in mainstream media as well. Hence, the insatiable demand of the public forces news organizations to focus on edible bits of information as the lines between jouranlism and entertainment are blurred.

Luckily, I don’t have too many problems with that arduous task. You good folks tune in here to get my take on the daily happenings. The Tao is the filter to which you’d like to see the world — whether it’s an intense bright white lifting the darkness, or a blurry psychotropic surreal journey of spending almost every waking second inside a casino for seven weeks straight.

I did that once, staying inside a casino for several weeks straight, and I’ll never do it again because it nearly killed me and seriously damaged my brain. I know some pros who will say the same thing. It’s not about being “jaded”, rather the main goal is to stay sane in a city of compromising vales. If you spend too much time inside a casino, you will either… 1) lose all your money, or 2) go you become a lunatic, frothing at the mouth, otherwise known as a zombie.

Welcome to the zombie apocalypse. You’re only hope is to go batshit crazy before your bankroll runs out. Otherwise, you’re completely fucked after the “vampire squids” suck every single cent of cash out of your pocket. Thanks to Matt Taibbi for the term “vampire squids” to describe Goldman Sachs, which I’m going to borrow for this piece and use to describe the casino fat cats.

If the vampires don’t get you, the vultures will.

When you arrived on flight #2103 from Chicago’s O’Hare airport, you don’t see the vultures circling above. It’s not that they are visible, it’s just you’re usually in a frame of mind which prevents you from seeing anything tragically wrong in Sin City. After all, this is America’s playground, right? A safe haven to frolic and re-live old glory days with a small percentage that you’ll go home a winner.

But if you had kids and knew a local playground was crawling with pedophiles, kidnappers, Scientologists, and other shady characters of ill repute, there’s no way you’d every let your loved ones step foot onto that playground. That’s absurd, right? Yet I see some of the most intelligent men and women in the world disembark at the airport and step right into a black hole where vampire squids and vultures are waiting to steal all your money and rip apart meaty chunks of your soul.

The honeymoon is over. Week 7 of the 2011 WSOP has come and gone. I got two days of rest. I’m the lucky one, while others continued to slug it out day for a week straight. I hope those brave souls last another week before Lost Vegas swallows them up.

I took the weekend off and had pre-written something in my head on my flight back to Vegas, however, the moment I stepped back into the Amazon Ballroom, I deleted my pre-draft. Why? The Devil.

I heard the Devil was lurking around the Rio last week and despite a few confirmed sightings from my friends, I didn’t see him. It’s not that I didn’t believe them — I couldn’t see him for whatever reasons. The Devil chose not to present himself. He has the powers of invisibility and can make the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up. But something happened to me over the weekend that slightly altered my chemical makeup with a few traces still left in my system. As a result, whenever I step back into Las Vegas, it’s like walking around in the darkness with night-vision goggles because you see shit you never would have seen otherwise.

The Devil.

He stood in the middle of the Amazon Ballroom and took a few steps toward my direction. The moment he saw me, he whirled around. He knew what was up — that a few sips of special tea rejuvenated my powers to peek into the souls of all beings — human and otherworldly. Instead of a confrontation, the Devil disappeared into the crowd, but not before I gave KevMath a panicked look in my eyes and pointed in his direction.

“It’s the Devil, Kevin,” I whispered. “Stay the fuck out of his way.”

The Devil is a project manager. He has his own army of agents which were dispersed way before Las Vegas even became the Las Vegas we know about. The Devil pops in and out checking up on the progress of his attempt to turn good people to the dark side. Much like a vampire needs blood to survive, the Devil and his agents need fresh, new souls to maintain their nourishment. If they don’t eat with regularity, they will eventually die.

The only way to win this battle between light and dark is to not fall prey to all of the temptations Las Vegas offers around every corner. The lure you with curiosity, greed, and depravity. Sometimes, something as simple as a day off could do wonders to strengthen your soul and you will have enough energy to rebuke the tantalizing advances of the Devil’s agents. The vampires and vultures prey on the weak and feeble, and after a week straight at the WSOP, the Amazon Ballroom becomes a fertile feeding ground.

* * * *
Last summer, the Brits got off to a raging start and the WSOP had a taste of the British Invasion led by a group of young, brash twenty-somethings, many of whom had received their poker education via the virtual world. The young Brits brimming with confidence and their pockets bulging over with Pound notes with the Queen’s royal image stamped on the front, flew out to Las Vegas for the first time. Go west, young Brits and conquer foreign lands in the name of the Queen. Or something like that.

With fewer and fewer Europeans and Scandis willing to risk massive tax obligations on their WSOP winnings, the Brits didn’t have to slash and burn their way through Scandi-heavy fields like they do on some EPT stops. Simply put, the Brits arrived last year and kicked some ass. They have the medals, aka the bracelets, to prove their valiant bravery on the battlefield.

And many of them are back and brought some new friends along for the ride. Since last Friday, a pair of twenty-somthing Brits won bracelets. On Friday, Jake Cody took down a bracelet the largest ever prize pool for a Heads-Up tournament. On Monday night, his childhood friend Matt Perrins equaled his feat. Perrins shipped Event #9, $1,500 NL 2-7 Single Draw bested a field of 275 players to win a game he claimed to have never played before. He pulled a Johnny Bax. Back in 2005, Cliff “JohnnyBax” Josephy had never played Seven-card Stud before he bought into the tournament — and he promptly won it — after a quick tutorial before game time. A similar story happened to Jen Harman many moons ago when she received a quick tutorial outside the old poker room at Binion’s Horseshoe.

When I hear stories about people playing a game for the first time — and winning a bracelet — it almost sounds too good to be true and something the press would make up to induce more donks into pissing away their money in games they’ve never played before. But it’s unfair to the players involved. Sure, they might not know how the intricacies of the game — but they are skilled card players (notice the emphasis on card) and they have an amazing knack for learning quickly on the fly. Alas, not too many players can learn something fast and become an expert. That puts them in the same category of geniuses, savants, and aliens.

Maybe we should do a alien DNA test on Matt Perrins to make sure he’s terrestrial. I’d hate to think most of the WSOP bracelet winners are non-human, but if you spent any time inside the Rio or Pavilion, you almost wonder if half the people in the room are really from this world?

Between alien hybrids running rampant inside the Rio and the Devil agents trying to lure weak souls into the back of their unmarked vans, you probably should get some rest. One week of the WSOP is complete and with six more to go, you’re going to have to use every ounce of energy to ward off the British invasion, alien hybrids, vampire squids, and the Devil.

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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Need a Poker Fix? Introducing Rise Poker

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

I’m going to be working on a new project this summer — Rise Poker.

I’m sure you’ve heard whispers about Rise Poker, or maybe even you read the press release, but if you don’t know, Rise Poker is a free poker site (totally legal and legit in the Nanny States of America) and it will launch on May 31st.

Rise Poker is a collaborative effort between a couple of heavy hitters in the poker industry. Zen Gaming will be providing the platform, so now you finally have a bit of methadone to get you through the horrendous shakes and cold/hot sweats after suffering from online poker withdrawal.

But be warned… I’m not gonna bullshit you… if you’ve an online grinder with a penchant for multi-tabling a dozen or more SNGs at once, or if you used to make six figures a year as an “online pro”, then Rise Poker might not be your cup of tea.

However, if you’re a casual (yet semi-serious) player who wants to play online poker with friends every once in a while, or if you’re just an online poker junkie and you’re jonesin’ hard to see some sort of virtual flop, then check out Rise Poker.

Rise Poker is also giving away a WSOP Main Event seat, so if you’re looking for a cheap option to get your golden ticket to the Main Event, then Rise Poker might be exactly what the doctor ordered.

Here’s the tagline on the Rise Poker website:

Legally play online poker in the United States.
Compete for up to $100,000 in monthly cash prizes and choose from hundreds of daily Texas Hold’em tournaments.
Compete for entries into premium events like the $10,000 Main Event championship.
Instantly connect with fellow poker players at your tables, in our forums, and on our blog.
Rapidly improve your game with poker strategy and tips from our team of poker pros.
Earn membership benefits and rewards.
Interact with our RISE Poker Team Pros and compete against them daily in our pro bounty tournaments.

By the way, Rise Poker is full engaged in the social media world. Check out Rise Poker’s Facebook page and follow @Rise_Poker on Twitter.

Don’t forget that May 31st is the launch. Oh, and stay tuned for an announcement on the Rise Poker-centric project I’ll be working on during the 2011 WSOP.

Support indie writers by buying Pauly’s book Lost Vegas.

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