The Calm Before the Storm

Arrived last night in Vegas. I don't want to bog this site down in minutae, but I just ordered coffee, espresso, granola/yogurt/berries, and a Chinese escort. Room Service replied, "I'm sorry, sir, we're out of berries." Recap to-date follows:

• Waited at DFW for a few hours for my delayed flight to finally take off. Realized half the Mavs' summer league roster and a few coaches, including Ro Blackman, were on the flight with me. While waiting in line, tried to quietly post up Pavel Podkolzin (who was not sporting his gangsta look, unfortunately). Others on the flight included the pasty greatness of UT's Brad Buckman, Josh Powell, and Rawle Marshall. Sitting near them in first class -- that's how I roll -- I wondered as I watched Marshall jam out to his personal music player if he, too, was listening to the soundtrack from "Moulin Rouge," as I was. Come what may, bitches.
  
• Upon arrival, Tiny B texted me that the Mavs had traded Marquis Daniels for Austin Croshere, who apparently has no nose. I immediately tattle to the players. They are, eh, "confused" is the right word. "Hope he likes playing behind Mr. 44 Minutes A Night" says one. I giggle. I think we bonded. I think about holding out my hand for some dap, but think better of it.
• On the way to Caesars, a ridiculously literate and insightful French cabbie asks me questions about poker. "Eh, vut is the seengle most eemportant condition, or should I say, characteristic, of a good poker player?" Uh, balls?
• Room = sweet. See Tiny B's pic below.
• Even though I've been up since 5 a.m. CST, I decide to meet Dantana at the Rio and play one satellite. The line for a cab is long, so I glance down the road toward the Rio and say, screw it, I'll walk.
• This just in: Walking a mile in a suit at midnight in Vegas across urine-soaked sidewalks, away from the bustle of downtown, toward railroad tracks and highway overpasses, with about $950 in your pants, is not the decision an intelligent human being makes. Where's the Frog when I need him?
• I walk into the cardroom and immediately am seated at a $175 satellite. To my right is a grizzled pro who reminds me of Pauley Walnuts without the charm but with all the cigarette odor. To my left is a quiet, sunglassed guy who gives off a slightly douchy air. The rest of the table is affable and not as hot as me. Literally. Still sweating.
• Table is pretty soft ... limp, limp, limp, raise, everyone folds. In the cutoff I get A-Q hearts, I raise to $200 with four limpers (25-25 to start, you get $1K in chips). I get one reluctant call from the SB, then back around to Walnuts, who calls. Flop comes K-5-6 rainbow, one heart. Walnuts goes all in. I tank a bit. I'm pretty sure I have Walnuts beat -- he'd already bullied the table a bit -- but the SB is really fiddling with his chips. I fold, SB calls, turns over A-K. Walnuts turns over 9-7 hearts and yells "I thought I hadda king!" River come an 8, of course.
  
• Goes around until I'm in the SB. Two players are gone. UTG raises to $100, and three people call. With great odds, I look down and see J-Ts. I call. BB does, too. Flop comes J-T-8 with 2 spades. At this table, no need to slow play. I bet $300, about half the pot. ALL IN! CALL! CALL! Well. That's not so awesome. Claearly needing help but getting 4.5-1 on my call (they all had me covered), I turn over J-10, as does UTG. Behind him turns over Q-J. BB turns over 9-7. No flush draws. Turn comes 7, river comes 9, Q-high straight takes it, much bitching ensues. The other three of us chop $125. I actually double that, get down to five people, but need to make a move and do so with 6s, called by slow-playing Kings.
  
• I get back to the room and asleep by 2:30 a.m. local. Thinking about playing the Wynn $330 NL today at noon. Tally for the evening: -$186.99 ($175 satellite, $11.99 charge for Jenna Depraved ... who, btw, has a potty mouth).
• Just got texts. Guns, Any Ace Adam, and TBR are on terra firma. Giddyup.