Grubby at PokerWorks

“I knew you won $2 million; I didn’t know you won a bracelet.”

– Said someone while being shown the website of a famous poker player whom he befriended in the Rio Diamond Lounge today.

I can’t mention the name of the poker player because much like AA, there’s an implied anonymity to the casino losers holed away in the Diamond Lounge. 

Me, I munched on salami and pasta, fruit tarts, chocolate chip cookies, and a Red Bull.

Last night I played The Orleans weekly $60 rebuy tourney.  A record 301 players turned up because of the WSOP, and first place paid over $6000.  I was 15th on the alternate list, not sitting down until an hour into the tourney at T1250 and blinds T50/100.  In my first round I had A9 clubs in the BB and thought about pushing to get the limpers out, but I took a flop and saw two 7s and two clubs.  Hoping to represent that 7 in the blind with the draw as a backup, I check-raised all-in two people who called, but my 35 percent went nowhere with no clubs, and I returned to rock play with a rebuy of T2000.

Succeeding hands held up, including AA and a run of three pocket Jacks, one of which I mucked to a preflop all-in when I probably should’ve called.  AQs held up to no callers.

Five and a half hours later I busted at a disappointing 30th (top 25 paid — their system is only equipped to pay out the top 25 no matter how many players) but picked up two $5 bounties.

Or another way to look at it: 5 1/2 hours of no slot play.

Afterwards headed to Rio and saw Pauly busily hunched over at his laptop on media row.  Day 1a was still going strong, with some saying it would last another couple hours until 3 a.m.  Pauly was able to break away and walk for a bit, and we caught up on Vegas gossip along with Flipchip and Otis.

The night before I went to the poker party at Sapphire.  A friend put me on the guest list but I was able to walk in without them saying anything.  Especially true of Las Vegas — if you look like you belong, people assume you’re supposed to be there.

Because I still have my Nevada driver’s license, I was able to get into the club for free (you know those fake licenses you had when you were under 21?  Just in strip club savings alone, it’d be worth getting a fake Nevada license).  From there, I walked into the poker party without needing the blue bracelet.

Co-sponsored by Bluff magazine, the rumor was that there’d be some midget strippers.  Midgets aren’t a fetish of mine (unless it’s midget wrestling or midgets stuffed into a Volkswagen), but it would’ve been interesting to see some pole dancing double-teamed by midgets.

I’d arrived after midnight, and open bar had just shut off.  Met up with my friend and his new busty friend Candace, who was draped all over him.

Being around poker players when not at the table isn’t my idea of a good time, so I headed to the main area and had more than my share of dances, including my favorite Nadia, who was Russian, lived in southwest, and had a pitbull and shar-pei.

“Do people call you Naughty for short?” I asked, and she laughed despite having heard that line before I’m sure.

Unlike the other girls, Nadia didn’t seem to wear perfume, with just the slightest scent coming from her shampooed Betty Page hair.  When glancing backwards, she held a sneer and sucked her finger that drove me crazy.

My Red Bull and vodka came, which cost either $12 or $16.  I gave $20 to the cocktail waitress who counted out four bills that I thought were four ones in the dark.  I told her to keep the change, then realized one of those ones was probably a $5 but it would go toward faster service.  She never returned.

Two girls accosted me — one gorgeous Cuban (named Mimi) and one Italian whose body looked like Monica Bellucci but whose face looked like lasagna.  They unbuttoned my shirt and ran their hands around underneath.  Lasagna put my hand on her ass and I was forced to run my hand over and around it.

I asked if anyone ever said no to them, and they said yes, which seemed a little counterintuitive to me.  If you want a customer, you don’t want to leave an opening for them to say no.

I said no, but they persisted and hung around.  After being forced to squeeze a bit more of lasagna’s ass, I finally agreed, and they took me in the back reserved area and danced.

There’s really no big thrill in having two girls — most of the interaction is with themselves and maybe onlookers, and I like having all the attention, particularly if I’m paying double.  Although there was one moment when I’m looking up at the crotch of Lasagna and see Mimi standing upright on the couch so tall that I can’t see her face past her globes.

While being fondled, I had told them my name was David, which is the first name that tends to come to mind whenever in a gentlemen’s club.

During the dance, the deejay announced over the song: “grubby, come to the VIP room.  grubby, you’re wanted in the VIP room.”  Not “grubby,” but my real name.

I said to the girls that that was me.

They said, “I thought your name was David.”

Surprised that they even remembered, I said that David was my stage name.

They said I would have to be punished for lying.

I said I would take that punishment in the VIP room.

Again, my name was announced over the loudspeaker.  It was embarrassing hearing my full name bellowed, but then, I have no reputation to uphold, so it didn’t matter.

I’d lost track of my friend and ran through the possibilities of what could be waiting in VIP.  Maybe the Candace experience would be shared?  Maybe a bottle of Cristal needed finishing?  Maybe the midgets had arrived?

Holding hands with my two girls, I headed to VIP, anxious to get the real party started.

Turns out Sapphire wouldn’t run my friend’s credit card because it didn’t match the name on his driver’s license (he has a long name and the credit card truncated some of the letters).  The backroom with Candace had him owing $100, and with no cash and his ATM card being demagnetized, he was held hostage with the possibility of washing restrooms until he made back that $100.

But since when does a strip club — which tends to overcharge on everything and in the case of Crazy Horse too, thinks nothing of allegedly racketeering and allegedly beating people up to force them to pay — care about checking I.D.?

Fear of chargebacks, they said.

Fortunately, I had $100 left over, which was a small price to pay to bail out a friend from the evil clutches of the surgically enhanced.

This entry was posted on Saturday, July 7th, 2007 at 4:12 pm and is filed under Uncategorized.