Don’t I know you?

Vegas is littered with degenerate dealers that go up big, quit their jobs and live large, slowly give it all back and return to dealing. They enter Vegas as bright-eyed dreamers, and thirty years later, they are still plying that disappointing dream behind a table. For any dealer, pit boss or cocktail waitress who might have been in Vegas thirty years ago, our act was a re-run—a broke, infrequent contributor to Rolling Stone and an overweight, drug addled attorney with no regard for societal norms in town to report on some odd competition.

Indeed, we bore other similarities to Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo. We had rooms that were comped, money was never an issue and sleep was out of the question. But did we have a purpose out in the desert? Was there some reason for this lost weekend?


Yes, we’re here on assignment…

Our cover for everyone in Los Angeles was the 40th Anniversary party for Rolling Stone magazine at the Hard Rock Casino. We were going to whoop it up with the very folks who first published the strange tales of Mr. Duke and Dr. Gonzo. Our itinerary was slightly different—private concerts, VIP parties, Rehab at the pool and of course, the Rolling Stone celebrity poker tournament—but I think the general vibe was on par.

The weekend started off on a high note with Snoop Dogg giving a concert poolside Friday night. My associate, who for professional reasons we will call Mr. Pink, could not be pulled away from the craps tables long enough to enjoy the hour plus show. In retrospect, it would have been better if he had taken a little break from the constant stream of Patron shots with giant Red Bull/Vodka chasers. That volatile combination should have been an immediate harbinger, but with Mr. Pink rationality is always scarce. And as I rolled back into the Hard Rock from Mr. Dogg’s concert, I found Mr. Pink in a massive altercation with the Floor Supervisor.


Winner, eight!

This looked like serious trouble; Mr. Pink was quickly overheating. He was recounting how much he had personally tipped a specific craps dealer in the last five years and peppering the pit boss, (who was on the phone) with idle and welcomed threats about never coming back. Never subtle, his presentation reminded me of Bill Cowher giving feedback to a middle linebacker after a key missed tackle—fixed jaw, wild eyes, an unending spray of saliva.

I approached him with care, but he heaved a flurry of insults, threats and other gibberish at me. “We are going to pull and tear out of this place!” he shrieked while making a tearing motion with his hands. I quickly pieced the story together. Apparently, he had a $5,000 wager on the “don’t pass” line when a patron rolled a 5 on one die and the second got caught on the wall. From Mr. Pink’s point of view the second die read 2 giving him a seven and a winner, but a dealer bumped the table and the die rolled to a three making 8, the established point. Cue the human explosion.

The Floor Supervisor was checking with the eye in the sky and consulting the head of gaming, as two pit managers and a host tried to sooth Mr. Pink. “Pack your shit, we are out of here!” he hollered at me. “I don’t know where you are going to stay tonight and I don’t care!” “Ok,” I thought, “this savage really needs to cool down.”, but I feigned like I understood and meekly headed to my room. Shit, if he is this mad now, I certainly don’t want to be around when they tell him there is nothing they can do.


Nice comeback, sir!

I returned to the floor 45 minutes later and all seemed normal, but Mr. Pink was nowhere to be found. I played a little craps and decided to get some rest before the poker tournament the next day. As I headed for my room, I thought about Pink’s whereabouts. The only way that situation ended peacefully was if the Hard Rock reimbursed him for the lost bet, a very, very unlikely scenario. Where was Mr. Pink now at 1:45 AM? Would he show for the tournament?

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! I rolled over and heard a familiar voice shouting my name from the hall. It was 8:30 AM, and Mr. Pink was pounding on my door. His bloodshot eyes told me he had not slept. Thrown out of the Hard Rock, he cruised over to Treasure Island, won 40K and hooked up a 19-year-old female student from a local community college, who was apparently minoring in personal entrepreneurship. All was good again.

We shared breakfast and talked strategies for the poker tournament. Not surprisingly, Mr. Pink was going play aggressively. “I’m gonna push these donuts around,” he assured me. I warned that it might be smart to play conservative in the first hour, but I could tell he was not listening.


The tournament

Around12:30, after securing our tickets, I pulled Mr. Pink away from an ugly bout at roulette, and we walked the red carpet into the Joint at the Hard Rock. It was packed with C-list celebrities, goofy hangers on, assorted poker dorks and three television crews who were soliciting interviews from Nelly and Queens of the Stone Age leader Josh Homme.











It took over an hour to register and seat the field of 160. My table included Brody Jenner of the MTV hit “The Hills.” I wouldn’t have known this joker from a room full of weasels, but a girl who claimed to be a professional poker player was seated next to me, and she just about pulled it out and blew him at the table. “I LOVE your show,” she gushed. “What is going to happen with you and Lauren?” I wanted to tell this sycophantic little toad to shut the hell up, but instead I put on my reissue electric blue Oakley Frogskins and settled in.





Position meant nothing to these faux-celebrities, and Q7 off was a powerful hand in their minds. Many of these same folks also had a tough time grasping the betting sequence and blinds increments, which made the play frustrating and slow. I didn’t play a hand for the first hour and was dumbfounded by the hands some of these donkeys played. It was the equivalent of a Hit-n-giggle scramble at the local public golf course. Re-buys were offered for the first hour and it was shocking to see how many people actually re-bought.


Pink? Oh, he’s been out for an hour…

At the break, many more clamored to re-buy and increase their stacks. Although I was down from the original buy in, I didn’t re-buy and instead sought out Mr. Pink. A mutual friend informed me that Mr. Pink had been the first player eliminated from the tournament and could probably be found at the craps tables. It was chilly in the Joint, so I hurried up to my suite to retrieve a coat and returned just in time for the first hand after the break.

The people who actually knew what they were doing, picked up that I was playing tight, so when I got two queens early in the second hour and bet heavily, most players folded. This nuance was apparently lost on pop singer Ryan Cabrera who didn’t think “I haven’t seen this guy play a hand yet…maybe he has something good?” He equaled my 2,000 bet.

The flop came 65Q. He checked to me and thinking I could induce a call with an over-bet, I shoved. After a long moment of deep contemplation, he folded. It felt good to finally mix it up, and I recouped some of the blinds I had been donating.





Surviving the chaos

The blind structure was so aggressive that short stacks were forced to make moves soon into the second hour. I switched into a more aggressive mode and mixed it up with the nice female “professional” player seated next to me.

I was in first position with pocket Jacks and limped, hoping some shorty behind me would move in with crap. Two more people called behind me and our girl limped in on the big blind. Oops.

The flop came 345 and my nemesis moved all in. If she had anything strong she would have moved that short stack in pre-flop, right? Why mess around and give someone the chance to catch something? I moved all-in and the other two gents quickly folded. Sure enough she turned over K5. The turn and river were of no help to her and I stacked her chips.

By the way, I defy you to read cards and bet sizes with this tilt-inducing, chip/felt combo.





Picking spots where there were none

For the rest of the hour, I picked my spots and stole a few blinds when I sensed weakness or was up against a foolish celebrity. To my amazement, Brody Jenner kept winning, almost in spite of himself. It was scary, but I just hunkered down. They were only paying the top ten places so I knew I needed to say aggressive and focused.

As we entered the third hour, sixteen tables had been chiseled to three as the aggressive blind structure worked as designed. I had 60,000 chips from a buy in of 5,000 but the blinds spiked to 8,000 – 16,000. I knew I had to make moves but I had horrible cards to play and ALWAYS action in front. The big stacks at the table were calling guys like me out with just about anything. It presented a great chance to double up, but every hand dealt to me was very close to 83 off suit, making it difficult to think about calling someone else’s move.

The ante was 3,000 at this point, debilitating to my stack. Finally I got Q7 and decided to move all in, that is until three big stacks moved all in ahead of me. Gross, this was the best hand I had seen in a while, but at least two of these guys must have me crushed. I folded.

Flop comes out 477. These guys had me beat alright. The first caller had a pair of kings and just about lost his mind when his counterpart turned over bullets. The other Donkey was shamed with his AT. Clearly my instincts were right, but as it turned out that would be the best hand I would see.


I have 9 high

Four hands later I was forced to go all in with 92 and didn’t even sniff a chance at catching a card. A genial gentleman, who looked out of place among the obnoxious celebrity crowd, extended his hand to me and incorporated my meager stack into his massive holdings.

As it was, I exited in 22nd place. Not a bad showing, but the tournament was designed to be over in four hours, and sure enough, it was. Most of the celebrities got weeded out early, but Nelly and Brody Jenner were still alive when I was booted. Flat out insulting.




Reunited with Mr. Pink

Anyway, I slinked out of the Joint and found a dejected Mr. Pink at the craps table. He had lost most of his 40K haul from the previous night, but was in no mood to throw in the towel. I checked back at the Joint every 15 minutes until the tourney was over. Neither Nelly nor Brody got in the money, which was a minor consolation to me.


The winner. Sort of.

In the end, a man who had eaten his way to a doomed life in a motorized wheelchair won the event. I was told he was a club promoter from New York City who now split his time equally between the famous buffets of Vegas and the poker tables. His greatest advantage might have been that he had to sit sideways at the table and in doing so crowded the rest of the table. He also emitted a foul order that would have made me capitulate earlier had I been unfortunate enough to be seated at his table. How in the world did they let this brute in?




Finding solace in alcohol

No matter, the tournament was a distant memory by the time we got to the grand opening of LAX, the new night club at Luxor. They paid Christina Aguilera a stupid amount of money to show up, and therefore, every working girl, tourist, and wannabe hipster in Vegas wanted past the ropes. One of Mr. Pink’s buddies provided the financing for the club so we strolled right past the rabble to a prime VIP table. We were severely drunk by 2:00AM and returned to the Hard Rock to find Kayne West just taking the stage for a private concert in honor of Rolling Stone. The show was great, but Mr. Pink ducked out early to join one of his lady friends, and I crashed hard before Kanye concluded.


Note to self: Skip the tournament

My final assessment: the tournament was fun but not worth the $550 buy in, if you’re serious about poker. True, there was a lot of dead money, but the blind structure coupled with players who really had no idea how to play tilted the outcome toward blind luck more than anything. The concerts, parties and chance to witness world-class degeneracy by Mr. Pink, however, made up for my disappointment regarding the tournament.

So our trip, like that of our predecessors Raul Duke and Dr. Gonzo was less about the reported event than the depravity that surrounded it . Thirty years ago, Duke and Gonzo took turns as the catalyst, but on this trip, I pretty much served as a glorified gofer for the egregious Mr. Pink. Perhaps next time I will turn the volume up a little louder and see if we really can rekindle some memories from that summer of ‘71.

RDJr