I’ve packed up and have headed back to my home – Poker Perspectives – and after a brief respite, I’ll be cranking away again over there. I’ll leave you with just a bit more of Atlantic City (you only thought that tale was done, hah!).

The next day after the Borgata session, I dipped my toes briefly into the Atlantic, strolled down a portion of the boardwalk and ogled the thousands of people at the shore for a beautiful Labor Day weekend on the beach. Did I join them? Nope. The rest of the day found me firmly planted in the four-seat of a 1.2 no-limit table at Caesar’s.

It was a far more subdued table than the night before, however they did have one thing in common – a chip architect. He sat in the nine-seat and looked like he’d been there for a few days. Another twelve hours later, he was still there and I only saw him leave the table once. Stoic, and tight is all I can say about him.

Not so a gent who landed in the seat to my right at some point in the evening. He wasn’t a particularly good player – always short stacked and in a lot of hands. He had an accent I couldn’t quite place until we found ourselves in conversation with each other.

He was from Dublin, Ireland and had been in the states – New York City, to be specific – for only a month. He was an electrician.

“You make good money as an electrician in New York?” I queried.

“Hell, ya could be sweepin’ the floor and be makin’ good money in New York,” he replied. His lilt was refreshing, his attitude, well, forgive me, leprechaun-ish. A delight.

I was struggling this session – swimming up-stream against a school of bad beats and bad card playing (on my part), constantly worried about my diminishing stack. My Irish friend, however, was doing even worse, but it never soured his attitude. When the flop appeared, he had an endearing habit of saying “Oh, I hit that. But, a wee bit.”

One particular hand I will forever remember. Not for the cards that were played, but for how Dublin finessed it. He was down to less than fifty dollars in  his stack. He was heads up with the chip architect who was sitting on about eleven to twelve-hundred. Chip architect had just put in a big bet, Dublin paused for a long while, fiddled with his chips, and then with impeccable timing said:

“How much ya’ got?”

For nano-second both the dealer and the chip architect made the motion to count before the rest of us cracked up. Dublin threw in his few chips. I honestly don’t remember if he won the pot, but let’s just say he did. After that, I loosened up and quit worrying so much about my stack size. I downed a couple of screw-drivers and enjoyed the rest of the session.

I ended up winning that night – both in money and in experience. Experience from the whole weekend, too. Another leg in this journey I’ve been on since 2003. I’ve met so many different people from so many different walks of life. It’s been nothing less then wonderful. You tell me, how often does a person get to experience that?

I’m one of the lucky ones. If only a wee bit.

You either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Maniacs. At no time is it ever boring playing when one is at your table. Our poker playing Russian was determined, it seemed, to make Rasputin proud.

Cold-calling, min-raises and reasonable bets were not in her poker lexicon. When she entered a pot – which was often – it was in a big way. If the pot was raised, she’d triple, quadruple, quintuple with a re-raise. Her strategy worked. No-one wanted to gamble with her.

We couldn’t figure out for sure if she was over-alcoholed or flying on some other sort of brain-altered carpet ride. She never ordered a drink so the general consensus was the latter.

I’ve played with numerous inebriates (who weren’t fellow poker bloggers… *coff*) and I have to say, I’m not fond of doing so. You might as well be telling the clueless souls to look the other way while you slip their chips into your pocket. Taking their money usually leaves me feeling a tad skanky. But, only a wee tad. Poker is an adult game. If you choose to jump on whatever chemical joy ride that suits your fancy you are welcome at my table for I will do everything in my poker power to relieve you of the monetary burden which is stacked in front of you.

There were at least three of us who were salivating for a chance to trap her. Our lesbian friend in the eight seat, the chip architect in the three-seat and myself. We knew she was bullying with nothing and we were struggling to gain a foothold in order to stand up to her. Finally, Ms. Eight-seat stepped forward.

хулиган хозяйки in the four-seat pushed all-in on an innocuous flop. My fellow sharktress in the eight-seat got antsy. It was plain she was going through the mental gymnastics of deciding whether or not to pick up the gauntlet and challenge the Russian. Finally, she said “call.” Their hole cards were flipped over – the Russian had zip, far behind the pocket pair of Ms. Eight-seat.

“I knew it!! I knew she had nothing!” Eight-seat high-fived her buddies who had gathered to watch the action at our entertaining table. She immediately apologized to the Russian, admitting that her celebration was rude. The Russian wobbled a bit to the left and just shrugged as she re-bought.

But, by taking the first bite, the eight-seat had shown us that the bully could be beaten. She’d drawn first blood and the rest of us swarmed in for the kill. The chip-architect was the next to stack Svetlana. I was the third (although her stack was a small one by that time, doggone-it). Each time she re-bought, oblivious to the hemorrhage.

Now, when the Russian joined our table, I was already famished and in need of sustenance. I stayed as long as I could, but after stacking her, I decided to take a break to get some food. F-Train had drifted by and told me where I could find quick food. I sat back down to play up to my blind. “Was that your son?” queried Ms. Eight-seat.

I suppose it was inevitable. As much as I try to ignore the age difference between myself and most of my poker-blogging internet pals, it’s a fact that I am, indeed, old enough to be a thirty-something’s mother. I looked at her and said “Oh, no, he’s a pal.” She looked at me with almost a wink. I responded with “But, if he was, I’d be proud to have him as son.” Which is true, but I kicked myself for missing another chance to claim a youn-gun’ as my boy-toy….

I enjoyed a hefty burger, burning hot fries with a side of conversation with F-Train. He was awaiting the arrival of friends Dawn and company, who’d texted him “one of us has had 12 jamesons and wants to vomit, but ross and I are coming to the borgata.” Indeed.

Fed and watered, I went back up to re-join the game. Madame Ruskie was still there, and I was informed I’d missed a big show. By this time, she’d squandered over a thousand bucks and showed no evidence of slowing down. Her boyfriend was circling the table, but didn’t seemed at all concerned. We played on and she continued to be felted.

Eventually, she gave up. The party was over and she departed. Mr. Chip Architect commented that he’d played with her before and that, normally, she was a very good player. He was bemused but none-the-less sorry as his chip structure had gained a few more stories by the Russian’s lapse.

My stack was looking fairly healthy – double it’s original size. Not as big as I’d wish for the time put in, though. When I finally called it quits, I’d been at it for twelve hours. My longest live session to date. I still have a leakage problem I’m unable to staunch, it seems.

I bid farewell to F-Train and friends who were headed back to New York. Heather and I headed for the Ramada and I wasted no time slipping into snooze-ville, exhausted. Poker is, indeed, a sedentary game, but the mental effort can wipe you out. In fact, did you know playing cards can burn more calories that vigorous sex? The internet doesn’t lie.

Believe it or not, there’s one more short chapter to this tale. Hope you’ll stay tuned….

I went to visit a college roommate and some others from my college days. If I may be so bold as to drop names, Annie Potts was one of the people I intended to see, but I missed her. Saw her apartment, which was off Sunset Blvd., but didn’t see her. I did, however, see my college roommate and stayed overnight with her and her boyfriend of the time.

The second day of my visit, she took me to a place that, once inside, transported me far away from the LA smog and the hustle of the city. She took me to the happiest place on earth. I recall the anticipation as we neared, driving into the lot and then seeing the entrance to the Magic Kingdom.

I flashed on that memory as I drove into Atlantic City.

The drive is a short hour from Philadelphia – well short if you take I-476 around instead of I-76 through Philly. Heather lead the way, but I managed to lose her when I pulled up behind what I thought was her car only to realize my error when my speedometer read under the speed limit. A speed demon like myself, no way was that car Heather’s.

By this time I was going through Philly proper on I-76 at a snail’s pace. It reminded me of being in game day traffic here at home. However this slow-up just seemed to be due to poor highway engineering and the remnants of a wreck at the tail end of it. Once free of the traffic, I was on the Atlantic City Expressway – a rather lovely and bill-board free drive to “the shore,” if I might say.

The toll road factor is rather odd. Partial tolls are exacted for bits of the road. The strangest being just out of AC – fifty cents. The price of admission to the adult amusement park that is Atlantic City, New Jersey. I nearly went through the toll twice when I looped around and found myself headed out of town. I was able to turn around, though, at the Visitors Center and tried again to make my way to the Borgata.

That’s where I was to meet up with F-Train and Heather. I could see it in front of me, but there was no straight shot on a road to get there. By trial and error I made it at last and pulled into a lot, going on blind faith that it was the one F-Train said was right by the poker room. But I wasn’t ready to go in yet. Gracie had called while I was on the trail and, rather than risk landing in a ditch while talking to her and trying to find my way while driving, I’d opted to call her back when I got parked.

After a thorough girl-chat and much relief that Gracie would live ,I joined F-Train and Heather inside. F-Train was a bit glassy-eyed having been at the tables for the previous twenty hours or so. Yegods… Howsoever – I was given a tour of a bit of the Borgata as we headed for a bite to eat.

Once fed and watered, we trekked back to the poker room. The Borgata is quite lovely and tasteful for a casino. Marble floors, beautiful Chihuly glass works and soft lighting go a long way towards buffeting the cacophony of noise from the slots and games. Which, by the way, is something that is becoming increasingly more difficult for me to endure. I regretted I’d left my iPhone ear-buds in the car.

The poker room is immense – over ninety tables – and was packed. I opted for a lowly 1/2 no-limit game, while my companions dared the 10/20 limit tables. I might’ve joined them had I the bankroll to withstand the ride, but, alas, the roll was a wee one.

After a short wait, I was called to a table around the corner and at the back of the room. I sat down at the five-seat and was immediately impressed with the seating – a comfortable, high backed chair on rollers. I briefly glanced around the table at my fellow players and dug in for a session of LDP. The max buy-in was $300 and there were some stacks already double to triple that size on the table.

The conversation was centered on the hand that had apparently busted the seat holder prior to my rear end touching down. The woman in the eight seat was the benefactor, it seemed. She proved to be a solid player but, happily, liked to tell us or show us her hands and to analyze along the way. She gave me some valuable information. I knew that if she played back at me in a hand, she darn well had me beat. But I also knew I could move her easily off a draw by throwing in a bit of my own aggression from time to time – whether I had a hand or not.

The same was true for the fellow who was on my left for a while. I pushed him off two pair, which he showed me as he folded – KT. I gave him a sympathetic smile when he said, “I can’t beat your set.” My hand? KT. It’s a nice change to play with “thinking” players, especially those who think too much.

The table morphed with players coming in and out – busting out, that is. I saw some of the worst play I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing in a long time. The kind of play that has you scratching your head wondering if the player was on some sort of high-card draw, or what??? There were three to four of us that endured – me, of course, the woman in the eight-seat, and a chip architect in the three seat.

From time to time I’d scan the room. On one of these occasions, I spied a woman standing over at another table who was swaying slightly in that way a person with an extensively altered constitution sways. I also unwittingly noticed that one side of her thong was thoroughly exposed above the waist of her denim. She was negotiating some cash from a fellow at the table which I soon discovered was for a buy-in so she could play.

I discovered this after returning from a visit to the restroom to see her sitting a seat to my right at our table. And that’s when it got interesting….

Well, there’s an online poker news site now where you can play the exact hand held by a player at another table with players holding the exact hand as the other players at your table. It’s called Duplicate Poker. It’s not really new – I recall a free site in the wee hours of the poker boom dawn about three years ago. I remember the concept intrigued me, but it never caught on.

There’s no problem depositing via credit-card. It’s deemed a skill game, therefore no restrictions on deposits. Right now there’s a Pokerworks special 100% deposit bonus up to $100. Give it a shot – sign up via Pokerworks and I’ll do a happy dance!!

When I landed in Philadelphia, I took my time getting off the plane. I patiently waited for my bag to be unloaded to the gangway and I strolled out of the terminal to where I was to wait for the shuttle to take me to Hertz.

Comfortably seated on a bench, I once again took stock of my injuries. My elbows were stinging a bit now. I had range of motion in my thumb, but it was still a bit swollen and a lovely shade of purple. I was sure it wasn’t broken and was relieved I wouldn’t have to be searching for a doctor and x-rays on Labor Day weekend.

After getting my rental car, I phoned BG to get directions to his abode. I plugged his address into Google Maps on my iPhone (and, yes, I damn well better get my $100 back – it should be $200!!) and set on my way. It was to be about a forty-five minute drive to Allentown.

Speaking of Allens… it was unfortunate that I wasn’t able to hook up with my favorite neo-hippy SoCo slugging reprobate over the weekend. There had been talk of meeting at the Boat or in AC but plans just didn’t gel. Next time, pal, next time!

By the time I set out for BG’s, I’d been awake for nearly thirty hours. It was only until the last few miles of the drive that I began to feel it. I managed to miss a turnoff, but after a brief pause in the parking lot of (ironically) a racetrack to consult Google, I got back on track and was at BG’s in about ten minutes.

I pulled into the parking lot of what once was, of all things, a silk mill. It had been converted to a complex of loft apartments as one of the first efforts to bring a revitalization to a depressed area of the town. BG escorted me up a wide set of wooden stairs and down what looked like an endless hallway to his digs. Upon entering, I was greeted by he of the softest furry ears, Mr. Frye.

BG is a gracious host. He wasted no time in putting together a tasty array of hors-d’oeuvres – roasted red peppers on bruschettas, cheese, ham, salami, water crackers and other goodies. I sat at his stainless steel table cum island cum utility shelf and munched away, blithely tossing aside my summer diet. This stuff was good.

Miss Heather, who lives in the area, phoned and was on her way. BG went to work at what many have witnessed via his kitchen videos. I felt privileged that I was going to be able to savor one of his braised concoctions.

I have to say, the man is an efficient whiz in the kitchen. In no time he was milling tomatoes, braising chicken, cooking pasta with fresh ingredients. The kitchen was rife with the aroma of fresh basil, garlic and other seasonings. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. He made it look easy.

Heather arrived and it wasn’t too long before we were sitting down to one of the finest home cooked meals I’ve had the pleasure to consume. There is absolutely no restaurant in the world that can beat the atmosphere and comfort of sharing a home-cooked meal with friends or family. BG had whipped up a feast of Chicken Parmesan with pasta and steamed broccoli seasoned with fresh garlic. I tried to take a picture of the “platings” but my camera wasn’t set right and I was too hungry to take the time to fix it. The best I could do was the shot of the remnants above.

With dinner done, we settled down for some tennis on the tube – the US Open was in full swing (no pun intended). One might wonder, with all of Philadelphia just out the door, why the heck we weren’t out there painting the town. I don’t know about my companions, but I was in my comfort zone. It was a great close to a rough day. I was feeling good and slipping off to snooze-ville.

After some wine for the kids and a shot of smoooooth whiskey for the ol’ lady when Iggy called for a dial-a-shot, it wasn’t long before we all put ‘er to bed. BG allowed me the comfort of his bed (and comfy it is – he has a down-filled mattress pad), Heather took the futon and BG curled up on the couch downstairs. I was out like a light in no time and got nearly ten hours of sleep – just what I needed for the trek and adventure to Atlantic City the next day.

Many, many thanks to BG for the wonderful hospitality!!

However, for the Philly/AC trip, my parking karma at my airport was in fine form. I landed a spot on first level, first row, with a short walk to the terminal, up the escalator and showing my boarding pass and ID in less than five minutes.

My airport karma, on the other hand, sucks.

As the airplane sat idling on the tarmac in OKC I glanced at my itinerary to confirm my connection time in Detroit. I had a 9:35 arrival time with a 10:15 departure time. Forty minutes. Well, thirty to thirty five in actuality. That was now being cut even shorter as we waited for the almighty computers to tell the pilot he could get that bird in the air. Twenty minutes is the standard “you’ll be fine” connection time.

When our plane finally taxied to the runway, my hope was that we’d be making up some time. My anxiety kicked up a notch, though, and wasn’t eased by the fact my seat was at the back of the bus.

I pulled out the Northwest magazine to get a view of the Detroit airport layout. My boarding pass listed the arrival gate and the departure gate. From what I could tell, and what came as absolutely no surprise, we would be landing at one terminal and my departure was at another. A tunnel, approximately thirty miles to the end of the world terminal and less than optimum time to get there.

I stuffed the magazine back into it’s pouch and did the only thing I could do at that point. I pulled out my iPhone and watched a movie. Lovely little gadget that iPhone…

As we descended into Detroit, I steeled myself for the sprint. The airport map offered little information regarding trams. They were there, but there was no guidance as how to access them. Once at our arrival gate, of course it took forever for the deplaning to begin. When I hit the gangway, I launched into my stride – pausing briefly to confirm gate numbers at the monitors.

I breezed to the left and then to the right, down an escalator into a blue tunnel. The people transport tread mill thing sped me up as I headed toward the end of the tunnel and up another escalator. I came out at Gate 38. My destination was Gate 76. Thirty-eight gates to traverse.

I spied a directory for the tram, but there was no immediate cognitive connection as to how to get to it. I didn’t have time to figure it out. I had minutes to get to the end of the terminal.

I like to travel in comfort. I am careful to select clothing and shoes that will not bunch, ride, scratch or irritate, or cause blisters. Hence I was wearing the lovely shoes at the right (no doubt that gasp you heard was a certain California chic who eschews all things Croc related….). The shoes are, indeed, very comfortable, but I was soon to learn they are not built for speed.

My bag trailed loudly behind me – really loudly behind me – announcing my presence to any and all in front of me on the people movers. It echoed my irritation with each scrape across the corrugated metal at the beginning and end of each stretch of moving tread.

I stumbled slightly once, twice – marched on at the quickest pace my way too out of shape body would allow. Then between gates sixty-three and sixty-four, I stumbled again, again, and…

I know it sounds cliched, but a look back at the moment, it’s surrealistically in slow motion. There was a precise moment when I knew I would not be able to regain my footing and prepared my body for a hard landing. I let go of my bag, hands went forward, elbows crashed into marble, or concrete or whatever… my face met the floor and I felt my tooth bang hard. I immediately thought I’d broken it. Strangely, it was intact. Even more strangely, my head did not hurt.

Four or five people came to my aid. I know I was in a bit of shock, but I immediately picked myself up, did a quick inventory – I knew that any injuries would not be immediately known. Not until the adrelinine subsided would the real pain begin. I thanked the folks, mumbled something about being in a rush and went on my way, leaving behind a few layers of my DNA on the Detroit airport terminal floor.

I reached the gate, empty of passengers with two flight attendants behind the counter. The door was still open so I knew I’d be okay. I presented my passport and boarded. And, yeah, my seat was at the back of the bus once again.

It was when I stowed my bag that I saw my thumb was bleeding, badly bruised and swelling. I made my way to the front and asked for some ice. I was afraid it was broken. The only clue I had that it wasn’t broken was the fact I wasn’t queasy or near to passing out.

I had enough time to send a text to BG. “Is there a bone Dr. in Philly?” Of course, that sent him into a panic and he immediately called me. You see, he thought I meant a cancer bone doctor and the Gracie had been diagnosed with cancer and… well, there’s no logic to panic. I apologized profusely and explained.

So there I was, nursing my swelling and bleeding thumb, my elbows and knees informing me of their injuries on a plane finally to Philly wondering again if this was another omen… For a graphical idea of the sprint, click the image below.

But, I digress. Within twenty minutes while on the chatty-box with friend Gracie, we’d booked a Labor Day weekend trek to Philadelphia and Atlantic City. I marked it on my calendar and then let it slip quietly to the back of my mind.

In the meantime, Okie-Vegas and another planned trip edged the Labor Day trip further and further to the rear. It became something like that surprise at the back of the pantry – that last piece of Halloween candy you stumble upon while looking for the can of green-beans. “I forgot I had that. Cool beans.” er.. “Chocolate.”

As the trip drew near, I began to savor the anticipation. Work troubles had taken their toll which transformed this trip into a longed for oasis in the midst of a miserable desert of tension, disappointment and petty bureaucracy.

I was worried, though. Which isn’t abnormal. I always have pre-trip worries – my usual round of paranoia of things going wrong. This time, however, my paranoia wasn’t just that.

The evening before departure, Gracie was to drive in to the airport and stay at a hotel near there for an early flight out Friday morning. I was expecting a call Thursday evening to confirm the meet-up the next day and to, well, girlie-chat, fer sure.

I got the call as expected, but it’s purpose was not. “I don’t think I can get on the plane tomorrow,” was what I heard. “I’m having trouble breathing…”

She stated she was turning around and driving straight to the hospital. I told her to take care of herself – that was of utmost importance – and to not be concerned about missing the trip. Get to the hospital.

We hung up and I entered full worry mode. I didn’t sleep a wink before it was time for me to head to the airport. I considered canceling – it wasn’t going to be the same without my pal – but, then again, there were Philly friends we were to meet up with and I was looking forward to that, too.

Throughout the night I received a few updates via text from Gracie. While it was a still a mystery as to the trouble, she reported it wasn’t life threatening but that she was remaining in the hospital for observation and further tests.

I left the house at the crack of dark and headed to the airport. My excitement for the trip had waned a bit – I was already missing my friend. I felt bad for her, too, because I knew how much she had looked forward to the trip as well – but, I remained optimistic. We’d be able to take another run at it at some future date, I was sure. However, at the airport as my bag click-clacked across the floor behind me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was doing the right thing.

I’m not a big believer in omens, but I naturally thought of those stories of folks who “just had a feeling” and escaped a fiery crash because they didn’t get on the plane. So, I wondered – was Gracie’s problem an omen? Was she sensing something? Was the plane was going to crash? Was Philadelphia going to have a disaster? Was Atlantic City going to slip into the Atlantic?

My concern wasn’t helped when, after pushing back from the gate, the pilot announced a slight delay due to a weight distribution problem. “It’s a computer thing – just waiting for confirmation…” That delay turned the page to the next chapter in the saga. The butterfly flapped it’s wings and set in motion a series of mishaps that ultimately had me in agony and BG in a brief panic

You will have to be patient, though. I bring this to you from the International Airport of Philadelphia, PA. via my iPhone. I’ve spent an interesting Labor Day weekend here and in Atlantic City. After I arrive home and have a chance to catch up on some sleep, I’ll share all with you. For now, a little amuse bouche to entice the appetite:

Where’s Gracie?
The Detroit gate sprint
It wasn’t broken
The lesbians, the Russian, and the Tonys times two

Until then, I hope your Labor Day Weekend was a good one!

Your Dad. Your Grandmum. Fifth grade teacher. Audie Murphy. Muhammad Ali.

What transforms a person into a hero can range from a single defining moment at the three point line on a basketball court to a life time of example in a classroom. From self sacrifice on the battlefield to a helping hand after a skinned knee.

I’ve been mulling this over the last couple of days after watching an installment of High Stakes Poker. This program pits members of the poker “elite” against each other in a cash game of no-limit holdem where hundreds of thousands of dollars are risked on a flip of a card.

I enjoy this show because, from time to time, I feel I can actually learn a thing or two about the game. Plus it’s entertaining when the mix of players spawns a healthy level of banter and ego skewering.

So, where is she going with this hero notion? Heroes and poker?

Well, sorta. The season four opener of HSP had Phil Hellmuth at the table. I’ve run hot and cold in my opinion of Phil. No doubt about it, he’s a master at tournament poker. I certainly wouldn’t want to have him staring at me across the felt. But, he’s also a severely insecure child who uses an entire erector set of bravado to support his over-inflated ego.

Phil disappoints me and there was no greater example of why than during HSP this week. The group had agreed to play seven-deuce (have they not heard – it’s the hammer?). In this version, if a player takes down a pot with the hammer the other players pay him $500.

The second hand in, Phil is dealt the hammer. Phil committed to it and played it against Mike Matusow who was holding pocket kings. Phil controlled the hand all the way – playing it as though he had the nuts. Finally on the river, he fired his last bullet and sent Matusow into a mental frenzy.

Phil knew that Mike knew that he wouldn’t be betting the river without the nuts. Mike didn’t make the step up to the next level of deduction and ended up folding his kings. Phil showed his seven-deuce and was paid $500 each from the players along with huge pot.

It was a great hand. For about fifteen seconds, I was in awe of Phil – and so was most of the table on the screen. That is until he opened his mouth and began spewing his “I’m the greatest player in the world” garbage. The moment of respect and awe I felt dissipated faster than a drop of rain on a hot August sidewalk.

Hence my disappointment. I want a player as adept and talented as Phil Hellmuth to be a hero. I want to look up to him, be inspired by him. I want to respect him as a representative of the game I love so much.

But I can’t. I find that each time he opens his mouth, I’m more and more frustrated. Sadly, though, he’s not alone. He’s just one of several of the poker “elite” who, like him, use their flash and dash to mask a blemished visage of insecurity and all I want to say is “grow up, woudja’?”

But then, I suppose High Stakes Poker wouldn’t be as entertaining as it is if they did, huh…