Voy Por Ustedes

Maintaining ones perspective in a place like Vegas is a difficult proposition and I am feeling gun shy. Driving through downtown Vegas past block after block of small houses with bars on the windows, bookended on each corner by small bars with no windows was a stark reminder that beneath the glossy veneer of Vegas life a far darker reality exists.

These streets seem as unforgiving as the betting streets in the poker games I have played in so far. There seems to be have been a disproportionate number of incredibly brutal bad-beats and some really shitty behaviour and it's the latter that has me sat in the Gold Coast sports book with my Asus instead of sat at a poker table somewhere.

Fortunately only one of these bad beats happened to me when I bet into two guys after seeing a flop of 2-5-4 rainbow and holding pocket 5's only to find my Teutonic nemesis in the 6 seat and a Canadian holding Ace-3 and 6-3 respectively...the board did not pair.

Slow-rolling is the thing that has dampened my enthusiasm for playing today though. It appears to be in-vogue here and I hate it. I must confess though that when a slow roll goes wrong it is very amusing. On one such occasion with pocket kings I saw a flop of K-5-4 with a man I nicknamed low-rolling slow-rolling Joe.

Checked to me and I bet, Joe calls. A turn card of 4s filled me up and checked to me again, I bet again, Joe called again. The river was a ten, it was checked a third time and I moved in for my remaining stack. Low-rolling slow-rolling Joe ummmed and aaaah and eventually called.

-“Full-house,” says I. “kings full.”
-“Goddamit, 10's full,” says Joe. “I thought I was trapping you man.”
-“You thought you had the best hand?” says I.
-“I had a boat, damn straight I thought I was winning.”
-“So you were slow-rolling me then”
-“It wasn't a slow roll”
-“You either weren't sure you were winning in which case you shouldn't have blasphemed in shock, or you thought you were winning and were slow rolling. If you're gonna do that, have the nuts mate.”
-“I'm done Carlos,” says Joe to the dealer. His remaining fifty dollars or so in chips were then scooped up quickly and off he went, disappearing into the casino like a disappearing slow-rolling cunt in a casino.
-“What an asshole.” Offered up the Morgan Freeman lookalike in the seat to my right.

On my way to the elevators from my room I past a couple of southerners. A fat man and a fat woman. I can only assume from their appearance and accents that they were Republicans. That awful breed of Americans who don't even know what Europe is let alone where it is.

“I gotta take a nap, I need a break” says Billy-Bob. “Yeah,” agreed Mary-Lou, “we gotta get reviberated.” Back in the darkest far reaching parts of this woman's brain, where she keeps her general knowledge and vocabulary, her subconscious had probably selected two words to articulate her intentions. Rejuvenated and vibrant I think. But both words probably arrived in the fore-front of her mind at the same time and morphed into a single word; reviberated.

So wrong, but it works. Once my hang-over has subsided and I no longer have to back swallow my vomit from listening to inarticulate yanks and poorly behaved poker players I will ante up and the games can begin again. For the moment though some reviberation.