"Jack-Ball Me!"

I wrote a post on my birthday last month (see here).  It was written after I was awakened around 5AM by a fire alarm. I mentioned in that post that the previous night I had played in a “crazy dealer’s game at BSC.  The game was actually organized by my buddy Mike to celebrate his birthday, which is the day before mine.  Mike usually does this on birthday and that was just one more reason for me to be in Vegas on that day.

This year, Mike was kind enough to actually add my name to the official Birthday event on the Facebook invitations.  Many of the people invited saw my name and had the same reaction.  “Who the hell is ‘Rob’?”  It was actually very touching.

No seriously, it was really nice of Mike to put my name on there. It makes up for all the times he’s bitched about how my blog posts are too long to read (preposterous!) or all the times he’s cracked my pocket Kings.  True, every dealer in Vegas has (or will) cracked my Kings, that’s no great accomplishment.  But Mike’s been doing it longer and more consistently than anyone else.  And honestly, he was cracking my Kings before it was even a thing.

So in an attempt to thank Mike for his courtesy, I am going to start the story of this game off with Mike’s finest moment of the affair. Sadly, I didn’t witness it; it happened after I had left.  So I have to rely on second-hand sources, and I don’t have all the details because I didn’t take notes on it (since I wasn’t there).  But I have three reliable sources for it.  Well, make that two.  Mike was quite drunk and he could easily have been hallucinating.  But both Brent and Abe insist it really happened.

It seems that after I left the game, Brent pushed into deal and pushed Mike the very first pot of his down.  And the next one.  And the next one.  And at least six or seven more.  Seriously, Brent told me the next night that Mike had won an incredible number of pots in a row, from the very first one he dealt.  Mike could do no wrong.  Sometimes he had monsters and sometimes he had weak hands but he won with them all.  Apparently he even won an Omaha hand with nothing more than a pocket pair—it seems everyone else missed their draws.  It was quite amazing.  And since this game had a ½ kill, after the second one, they were all kill pots.

Next time I saw Mike, he had been too drunk to recall if I had been there to witness this incredible hot streak of his.  I informed him that Brent had informed me but I hadn’t seen it myself.  Mike was disappointed.  He wanted his epic run to be immortalized on this very blog.  You see, Mike only reads my blog when he appears in the story.

But I said I would work it in to the post as a personal favor to him.  And so I have.

As with last year, the game was going to rotate Crazy Pineapple and Omaha High.  No stupid “Reverse Hold’em” (as covered in this post).  It was 2/4 limit with the aforementioned half-kill.

The turn-out was quite a bit down from the previous year (when we had three games going).  Not sure why but a lot of folks you’d expect to show up didn’t.  We were never able to start a second table.  One disappointing no-show was Prudence, for example.  In fact, most of the wild, crazy ladies who’ve attended previous such events were absent.  As such, this will almost be a salacious-free post, sad to report.

What salaciousness there was was supplied by Angela, one of the truly wonderful people who works at BSC.  She’s not a dealer and I’ll just leave it at that.  She’s always incredibly nice to me and I suspect she treats people who she doesn’t see as often as me just as well.  I’ve never seen her play poker, but while she was wearing her BSC uniform, she came by the table once or twice to check in on us and say hello (she was on duty).  At one point, of the players in her game ask to see her “ink.”  Until that moment, I didn’t know she had any ink.  And her response was intriguing.  “Well, I’ll have to take my shirt off.”  I don’t think anybody would have objected to that.  Well ok, perhaps her boss.

In fact, later, she did come by with her shirt off.  Her uniform shirt.  She was of course completely covered by a sleeveless t-shirt.  And the ink she was showing off was all on her arm.  At least, the ink that we could see.

And Mike again had his South Park character figurine with the huge balls that I discussed in last year’s birthday post (here).  He was again asking random women he works with if they would like to lick his balls.  Angela wasn’t interested.  Mike said, “I’ll shave them for you.”  As Angela left the table, she shouted, “You’ll have to wax them.”

One potentially wild, crazy lady who did show up, albeit briefly, was Didi (see here).  I haven’t mentioned her in awhile.  She hasn’t been in the room very often lately.  And the last few times I saw her, she was quite restrained, I witnessed none of the antics that I had described in my posts about her.  She didn’t even call me “Patch Adams” when she saw me.  But on those occasions, she was with her boyfriend (a regular player in the room as it happens) and that may have had something to do with her more ladylike behavior.

Didi had some news; she is moving away from Las Vegas. There are poker rooms in the state she is moving to; I wonder how her act will play there?  She also brought us all some cupcakes, which were much appreciated.  But again, she was quite subdued when she said hello to me—and wished me a happy birthday.  She did ask if I would miss her and I said of course I would.

Didi and her boyfriend did not stick around long enough to play, however. I dunno if they would have if there had been spots for them, or if they had to get somewhere anyway.

One person who was there was a regular I’m going to call “Kevin.”  He’s in the room playing a lot, and is pals with all the dealers.  For some reason, I haven’t actually played with him more than once or twice.  I do recall him once seeing me and saying “Hi, Rob” and wondering how he knew my name. 

He’s quite nice guy and certainly didn’t deserve what I did to him on a particular hand.

For awhile, I was just losing chips like crazy.  This despite the fact the game had started out a lot tamer (less raising, three-betting and capped betting rounds) than usual for a game of this nature.  I just couldn’t hit anything and when that happens, you’d be surprised at how fast you can bleed chips even in a 2/4 game.

The only way I could win hand, it seemed, was to get quads.  Which I was getting quite often, at least at first.  In a Omaha hand, I had a pair of Jacks, and an Ace to match the suit of one of the jacks.  Don’t remember the other card.  There was an Ace on the flop, nothing else, but I called a bet (maybe even a bet and a raise).  The turn was an Ace.  Trip Aces isn’t really a good hand in Omaha, so I just called a bet, didn’t raise.  But the river was also an Ace.  Even in friggin’ Omaha, quad Aces is a good hand. I think I bet the hand and only got one caller, but it was a decent pot.

A little later, I had pocket 8’s in Omaha and who knows what else.  I paid to see the flop, which had a couple more 8s on it.            I checked it, there was a bet and a raise which I of course called.  I checked the turn, and someone bet, and of course I called.  I believe there at least three of us left to see the river.  I checked again, assuming the aggressor would bet out and I could make my check-raise.  But this time he checked, and there was no betting action on the river.  “No one bet into my quads?” I exclaimed as I showed my hand. 

Then came the hand against Kevin.  This was Crazy Pineapple.  I had pocket 3’s and some meaningless card.  I limped in and then had to call a raise from Kevin.  The flop was Ace-3-x, two clubs.  I led out because of the flush draw.  Kevin raised, and I called.  Did he have a set of Aces?  Or merely Ace-King, Ace-Queen, that kind of hand?  I just called.  I really was thinking it was set over set, and that maybe I should just call it down.

Until I saw the turn, which was the case 3.  Now of course I checked and Kevin bet and I just called.  I can’t tell you anything about the river card except it wasn’t an Ace. I’m not sure if I led out this time and he raised, or if I checked and he bet.  But he only bet or raised one time.  When I raised, he just called (and remember this was limit, so it was increments of four bucks). Did he really put me on quads? 

Umm yes, he did.  He showed his boat, Aces full. He had flopped a set of Aces.  I showed my quad 3’s.  So I had one-outed him.  He was smart enough to lose the minimum there.  He’s such a good guy, I came as close as possible to feeling sorry for taking his money. I mean, when I apologized for the suck-out, it almost felt like I meant it.

And then I went like forever without winning a hand.  Seriously, I was soon losing money.  How the heck do you lose money in a limit game when you get quads three friggin’ times?  And in case you’re wondering, because we weren’t playing Hold’em, there was no jackpot drop and thus no high bonuses for us.

But somehow I did lose money  In fact, I was getting short stacked.  Now, back when I was a regular limit player, I would never allow myself to get short stacked, because that’s really stupid to do in a limit game.  You need to have ammo if you do get a monster and you control to a large degree how much your risk, unlike NL where your stack is in play on every hand.  I would see players buy in for $20 and think how crazy that was.  They ran out of money long before the river and thus, when they did have a winning hand, they’d win a lot less than they could have.

But by now it was getting late I kind of felt if I ran out of my buy in (I think it was $100 and then I added on $40 when I was running low), I’d just call it a night.  I thought I had enough anyway because there wasn’t as much raising and capping as in the past.  Until this hand.  I had Ace-10 of diamonds and a random card in Crazy Pineapple.  I called a raise but then it was re-raised and I think it ended up being capped before the flop.  I flopped the nut flush draw so I had to call a few bets and raises.  On the turn, I picked up a gut-shot to the wheel.  By now there was a 5,3,and 2 on the board.  So of course I called a bet and a raise.  I had $6 left!

The river was a four, but not a diamond. I really didn’t think my straight was good, fearing the other guy had at least a 6-high straight.  So when he bet (and everyone else folded), I just called and kept the two bucks.  I was gonna throw it to the dealer if I lost.  But all he had was the Ace too and we chopped it up.  There was so much money in from the other players that I actually had a pretty nice stack after that, more than enough to play and call all the raises I would have to without rebuying.

Which brings us to Michelle.  Michelle of course is the dealer who “never pushes me a pot.”  I used to keep a running tally in my head of now many pots she owed me (down from 100, because she once said she owed me 100 pots).  But that’s as a dealer. As a player, Michelle is the poster girl for the term “No fold’em, hold’em.”  In her case, it doesn’t matter whether she’s playing limit. 1/2 NL or even 2/5 NL (or so I’m told), she never met a hand she didn’t like.  At the previous Crazy Pineapple/Omaha game, Michelle’s boyfriend gave her this advice, “Try to fold at least one hand per orbit, honey.”

When Michelle first arrived, she couldn’t get into the game as we were full.  Then Mike took a break and allowed Michelle to play over him (play with his chips).  Of course, in a serious game, this would be strictly forbidden, but the rules are looser in a game such as this, which is basically a home game.

And when she was playing with Mike’s money, she was playing much tighter and saner than she does when she’s playing with her own money. She’s actually a decent player when she wants to be.  It’s just that, left to her own devices, she wants to see every flop, almost every turn, and pretty much all of the rivers too.

Mike returned, but soon a seat opened up and Michelle took it.  She was in a particularly good mood.  In fact, although she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, she was acting rather tipsy.  She played every hand of course, and wasn’t particularly shy about saying what card she needed.

Thus one time, before the flop, she shouted out, “Come on, Jack-Ball me!”  I believe she probably addressed the dealer by name, and it may very well have been Jack—but remember, Jack isn’t his real name, so it wasn’t as ironic as it sounds.  I think the first time she shouted this, Jack did indeed put a Jack on the flop.  My memory is hazy but she might have hit a set of Jacks that time.

Everyone was laughing at her “Jack-Ball me” line and it became a running gag.  For awhile, she said it before every flop, even though she surely couldn’t need a Jack every time. Sometimes there would be a Jack on the flop and she’d actually fold to a bet, and we’d remind her that she had indeed been “Jack-Balled.” But she’d fold anyway.  Other times she’d raise when there was no Jack on the flop and we’d joke about that too.  And once she got tired of saying it (after about 45 minutes or so), we’d always point out to her whenever there was a Jack on the board and remind her that she had been “Jack-Balled.”

It was inevitable that Michelle and I would eventually get into a hand.  Soon after the wheel hand I described, I had Ace-7-6, all hearts, in Crazy Pie.  An off duty dealer had raised preflop and Michelle and I and maybe some others called.  Note: I’m not giving the off duty dealer a blog name because I’m too tired to think of one.  If and when he does something else blogworthy, I’ll come up with something.  Anyway, the flop was 5-3-2, two diamonds and no hearts.  In a game like this, it’s almost always worth it to call a flop bet if you have a gut shot.  The preflop raiser bet, Michelle and I called (and maybe some others) and I threw out the Ace and went for the gut shot.

Which I hit on the turn, a lovely 4, and not a diamond.  What had happened was that the preflop raiser, (a dealer in this very room), had actually bet $4 blind blind before the turn card was exposed.  Michelle immediately raised it to $8 as soon as she saw the 4.  At which point, the dealer tried to claim that he hadn’t actually bet the $4 and tried to take it back!  WTF?  He of all people should have known his bet was binding.  But the actual dealer had to call the floor over to rule.  He tried to explain why it wasn’t a bet—I didn’t quite get what argument he was making—but of course the floor ruled that his bet stayed and Michelle was allowed to make it $8.

Which was great for me because that allowed me to make it $12.  The dealer folded and Michelle just called.  She checked the river and called my $4 bet.  She had just the 6 for the straight and she was pretty sure that I had the higher straight, as I did.  As she said, explaining why she didn’t raise me back, “You can’t raise Robert….he never plays a hand.”  Damn, I do have to loosen up my image, don’t I?

That hand put me pretty close to even and I played until we switched back to Omaha.  I thanked Mike for the party, wished him a happy birthday and said my goodbyes.

In addition to learning about Mike’s incredible run the next day, I heard that after the table thinned, they actually played a round of Razz.  This is significant because it is a game that Abe excels at.  Except that he usually gets the best Razz hands when he’s playing Hold’em.  When he told me he won some nice hands at Razz, I said I assumed he would get nothing but quads playing it.

Anyway, it was another fun birthday/poker affair.    

"Grow Some Balls, Will Ya? You're Such a Vagina!"

Somewhere in a previous post, I mentioned getting to Vegas earlier than I expected for Christmas because of a couple of events that were taking place there.  One of them was the unofficial BSC Holiday poker party.  This was just one of those crazy (mostly) dealers games that I am now routinely invited to.  The story of the very first one I attended was told here.  The most recent one (before this one) I blogged about is here.

I got back to Vegas extra early to attend this sacred event on my first night in town.  The hosts of this event were Prudence and Mike (the dealer who was cracking my Kings before I even knew that was a bit).  Unfortunately, Mike picked the games.  It wasn’t just Crazy Pineapple and Omaha Hi like it had been last time.  No, Mike insisted we include Reverse Hold’em in the mix.  Ugh.  Reverse Hold’em is like hold’em but after the first round of betting, only one card is put on the board, there’s another round of betting, then another single card is put on the board, another round of betting and then finally three cards are put down at once, then the last round of betting. For a discussion of why Reverse Hold’em is the single worst card game in the history of the universe, see here. It sucks, it really, really sucks.

The stakes were 2/4 limit, but with a half-kill.  You can’t really play a game with crazy, drunk dealers for higher stakes than that, it would be way too expensive. 

I arrived before the game got going and said hello to all my pals.  When the game finally got underway, there were enough fish players for two tables.    Fortunately for those of you don’t like long blog posts, I did not end up at the “fun table.”  Our table was rather restrained all evening.  I was sitting next to Prudence, but as she was drinking nothing but water, she was on her best behavior.  We shared some nice private conversation, but she really didn’t say anything that can make it into this post.

The other table was the crazy one.  Mike was there, as were Ginger and Nancy.  Ginger has been discussed many times here, most recently here.  Nancy was the dealer who told us about auditioning to be a porn star while at a hypnotist show (see here). Also at the table was a dealer I’m going to call Gretchen.  Although I didn’t give her a name, I did talk about Gretchen in that first post I linked to above, my first Crazy Pineapple game.  She was the lady who said, “Don’t look at my boobies.”  She was also the lady who jokingly offered a $40 lap dance.  That’s about to come into play.

Their table was right behind us and the noise was palpable.  There was so much laughing, cackling, screeching and screaming from there, you would have thought they were having an orgy.  But every time I checked, they all had their clothes on.  Despite the fact that most everyone there was a BSC employee (or if not, a BSC regular), the floor had to come over several times to remind them to try to be quiet.  I believe they were getting complaints about the noise from Harrah’s.  I mean the Harrah’s in Laughlin, not the one down the street on the Strip.

And the poker was wild too.  I heard that the betting of almost every round of every hand was capped.  And reports were that frequently, Ginger and Gretchen were raising and re-raising blind preflop.

I guess from the standpoint of poker, I’m glad I was at the more sedate table.  I probably would have busted out of that other table within an hour (unless I had gotten lucky and hit one hand, which could have made my night).  But if I had been at the noisy table, I suspect I would have had enough “woman saids” to fill three Rob-sized blog posts. 

The one thing I did hear, over and over again, was a desire, expressed in very loud tones, to go to a Strip Club.  The voices expressing this desire were all female.  Most of the comments that I could hear were coming from Gretchen and Ginger.  Gretchen was also offering to buy lap dances for any of the males that came along to the strip club.  I guess Gretchen has a thing for lap dances, since she mentioned them at the game a few years back.  And although she had warned a guy not to look at her boobies then, I guess she didn’t mind looking at other women’s boobies. 

It was hard for me to take this seriously; I thought they were all kidding, or that this was just the free-flowing alcohol talking.  When I called it a night, they were all still at the poker table.  But the next day, when I returned to BSC and went over to get my name on the list, Nancy was working the front desk.  Since we were at separate tables and had never conversed, I wasn’t even sure she would remember that I was there the night before.  But what the hell, out of the clear blue I just went ahead and asked her, “So, did you guys ever make it over to the strip club last night?” 

She stopped for a second.  Nancy is new and doesn’t know me as well as a lot of the other dealers do.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if she felt uncomfortable answering that question for me, or if she might have even wondered how the hell I knew to ask it.  But no, she said, “Yes, we did.”  She claimed not to have stayed too late but she gave me the complete list of all the folks who went there.  All the ladies I’ve mentioned of course, including Gretchen and Ginger.  And she mentioned a few of the guys.

Apparently a good time was had by all and I later heard from yet another, anonymous source, that a huge amount of money was spent by this crew at the club, one of the nicest strip clubs in Vegas.  It was a slow night, and it seems there might have been more dancers than patrons on this night, about a week before Christmas.  Apparently Gretchen had spent a fair amount of money (like over $2K) on booze and also on buying lap dances for the guys who were with them.  The guys that went with them were not, as far as I know, the husbands or boyfriends of the ladies who took them to the club.

I had to think about that for awhile.  Woman A paying Woman B to give a guy (who is just a co-worker) a lap dance? This is not the world I grew up in.  I believe the dances were given in a private room, so the purchaser of the lap dance didn’t get to see if she had gotten her money’s worth, though all things considered, that might have been for the better.

I have to admit, this is something I don’t understand.  I mean women going to a strip club.  A girls strip club that is.  We’re not talking male dancers here.  The girls were seeing naked girls, not guys.  Why would they want to do that?  I can assure you that I have no interest whatsoever in seeing guys take their clothes off.

A few days later I actually asked a woman of my acquaintance why girls would go to strip club.  She replied something to the effect, “Oh, to make fun of the strippers….you know, critique their boobs.  That’s what that’s all about.”  OK, then.

BSC management graciously provided pizza for us.  While I was up getting some, I overheard a brief snippet of conversation between Nancy and one of the male dealers who was at her table.  They appeared to be arguing and the only line of conversation I actually caught was Nancy telling the guy, “Grow some balls, will ya?  You’re such a vagina.”  Sorry, I have no context for that. The reader will have to supply his or her own context. 

So I did get a “vagina-mentioning” out of the night, even if it wasn’t from Prudence.

One of the ladies who was sometimes at our table was Michelle, the dealer I can never win a hand with.  That’s when she’s dealing.  When she’s playing, it’s a different story.  Michelle never saw a hand she didn’t like.  Her boyfriend was there and at one point, when she went to the other table, he instructed her, “Try to fold at least one hand per orbit, honey.”  When all the strip club talk started, Michelle told her guy that he was welcome to go to the strip club, and even “get a woman, as long as you don’t do anything with her.” Nice.  Michelle did not join the group that went to the cub, according to my spies.

As for the poker, it was mostly a miserable night for me.  I couldn’t catch a hand to save my life, it was about 2-2-1/2 hours before I even won a pot.  The good thing was that after one round of Reverse Hold’em, our table unilaterally decided never to play it again.  It was a rules violation but they didn’t penalize us for it.  This was actually bad news for Prudence, as she won most of the hands during this round.  She should have lobbied for us to keep it, but I think if we had, ¾’s of the table would have left.

I didn’t write down any hands.  There were so few that I won, and then too, in a game like this, those no strategy to discuss.  By the time I finally won a hand I knew I wasn’t going to be talking much poker in any blog post that came of this.  I don’t think I ever won a single hand at Crazy Pineapple which is the game I actually like.  The few hands I won were all freakin’ Omaha.

The first hand I won, I almost didn’t see that I had a straight.  I kept my hand because of the pocket Queens I had, along with a Jack and who knows what else.  There wasn’t a lot of betting on this hand, and although the Queens didn’t improve I stayed around for some reason.  Someone bet the river, and I stared at the board to see if I had anything—I didn’t think so.  Then Michelle, who was behind me, called a bet and showed her hand, which was only 2 pair.  It was at this point I was starting to think I might have a straight.  I mean, I knew I had a straight, but I didn’t know if it was an Omaha straight.  Could I use exactly two cards from my hand to make my straight?  Yes, yes I could.  So I just called—this was after Michelle’s hand was exposed. I didn’t know if her hand was better than the other hand, but it didn’t matter.  My straight was good.  This was something of a miracle because a straight is so rarely the best hand in Omaha.

I won another hand in Omaha with just trip 10’s.  Not a set, mind you, but trips.  There were 2 10’s on the board and I couldn’t believe no one had a boat.  I was so sure my trips were no good that I accidentally slow rolled Michelle, who thought her pocket Queens (along with the pair of 10’s on the board) were going to be good.  She gave me a hard time about that, and I apologized profusely.  It’s just that, who thinks trip 10’s is going to win an Omaha pot?

I’m not sure I won any other hands.  My last hand was Omaha and I had pocket 7’s and an Ace so I saw the flop.  No 7, but an Ace kept me in the hand.  I just had to call $3 (this was a kill pot).  The turn was a 7, giving me the set.  I only called $6.  An unimproved set wasn’t likely to win, especially with 2 clubs on the board.  I just wanted to get to the showdown cheap.

The river was a 9 that paired the board.  So now I had boat, but was it good enough?  In this game?  Not likely.  I lead out with $6 and Michelle raised and I think Abe, the other player in the hand, re-raised.  I probably should have folded but I called and Michelle didn’t re-reaise.  They both had Ace-9 for 9’s full of Aces.  Ugh.  Fitting ending for a bad night of poker.

Still, it was a fun night, especially if you ignore the poker.  I know the $90 I lost was nothing compared to what some of the maniacs at the other table lost.  And I always feel honored to be invited to these special gatherings. 

Was That Bruno Mars Wearing #18 for Denver?

“I have no idea who the f Bruno Mars is, but I hope he starts at QB for Denver in the second half.”  --Tweet I sent Sunday, February 2, 2014 at 4:55 PM, PST.

“Okay. If you don't like this halftime, you can unfollow right now.”  --Tweet sent by Chris Hanson, Sunday, February 2, 2014 at 5:16 PM, PST.

“Just did.”  --Tweet I sent in response the above Tweet, Sunday, February 2, 2014 at 5:19 PM, PST.

If you like this blog, you really should be following my Twitter feed.  And if you don’t like this blog, why are even reading this far?

I don’t tweet that much, because let’s face it, keeping my thoughts to 140 characters is a bit of a challenge for me.

But sometimes I do tweet.  Especially during a Super Bowl.  Especially during a really, really bad Super Bowl.   I advise you all to check my Twitter feed for last Sunday.  If you’re not on Twitter, you can see most of my tweets on my Facebook page.  But you won’t see some of the responses, and those are really good.

I’ll get back to my “debate” with Chris Hanson in a bit. 

This past Super Bowl Sunday was unique for me in a couple of ways. 

For the first time I ever, I bet on the game.  I mean a real Sports Book bet, not just some office football pool where you buy a few squares in grid.  Of course I had done the football squares thing before.  But I mean a real bet in a real sports book where you have to give up some vig for the privilege of risking your money.

And for the first time ever, I attended a really big Super Bowl party to watch the game.  In the past, I’d always watched the game alone or in a real small, private gathering of just a few people.  Last year was the first time I’d watched the game in a public place—in a Vegas poker room.  The story of last year’s events was told here. But that wasn’t a SB party—it was a poker game where a football game (and a power outage) broke out.  This year, I’m talking about a real party, where the whole purpose of the event was to watch the game.  No poker or gambling of any kind was taking place at this event.  No gambling, that is, except for all the people there who had wagered on the game.  I estimate approximately 99.99999999997% of the people at the party had bet the game.  That percentage might be a bit low.

I want to give a really big public thank you to Mark, the Poker Room Manager at The LVH.  Mark invited me to attend the VIP “Big Game” party at said LVH.  The LVH has one of the biggest and busiest Sports Books in Vegas (maybe it is the busiest?) and that’s saying something.  I think there were four different big game parties going on there.  So it was incredibly nice and generous of Mark to offer me free entry to this incredible football bash.

I had arrived in town a few days before the game, believing that Super Bowl weekend is a pretty good time to be playing poker in Vegas (again, see last year’s post).  The VIP party at The LVH was just an awesome bonus.

Once I accepted Mark’s offer, I realized I had to do something that I think is actually rather ill-advised.  I had to bet the game.  I mean, it just seemed to me that if you’re in Vegas for the Super Bowl, and you’re going to watch it from one of the biggest Super Bowl parties in town, you really have to bet the game, right?  Right?

That’s what I thought, anyway.  Now I just said I think that this is ill-advised.  I mean betting on sports in general.  I know that many of my readers and my fellow bloggers are totally into sports betting.  In fact, some of the blogs on the blog roll on the right side of this page are partially or mostly dedicated to sports betting.  Check out the fine blogs of Lucki Duck and ~Coach for example.  And if you want to find out what I think about sports handicappers who are not fine gentlemen like Lucki Duck and Coach, see the post here.

But honestly, it seems –EV to me.  A straight up bet (as opposed to a parlay) has the house edge of 4.54%.  That’s pretty high.  When I played table games instead of poker, I stuck with games where the house edge was less than 2%, like Craps, Blackjack, and Pai Gow Poker.  The house edge in sports betting is close to the over 5% edge the house has in roulette—a game I always avoided like the plague.  It’s hard enough overcoming a 2% edge.  Double that edge?  It’s like pissing in the wind.

But I hear you say that, if you’re smart, if you know the sports, you can pick the right winners and overcome that edge.  And to that I say, bullshit.  Here’s what I know about sports:  No one knows anything.   Upsets happen all the time.  You know…that’s why the play the games.

Just to take one recent example that for some reason comes to mind, for a certain recent big game, a lot more people bet on Denver than bet on Seattle.  What morons!  Most of them not only bet on Denver, but they actually gave 2 to 3 points in doing so.  They weren’t even worried that Denver would squeak out a 1 point win (even though the winning team doesn’t really care whether they win by one point or 50).

Can you imagine anyone that stupid?  Can you believe anyone could be stupid enough to have bet on Denver and given the points? 

Anyway, in all my many visits to Vegas over the years, I’ve made about 3 or 4 sports bets previously.  Just for fun, just for the heck of it, just because every now and then I actually thought my gut feeling about a game was especially accurate.  And because I thought the line was wrong.  The last time I bet on a game, it was when the Lakers—then actually a title contender (seems like eons ago)—were underdogs at home in the opening game of the strike-shortened season.  I figured I wouldn’t likely have an opportunity any time soon to bet my favorite team when they were dogs at home.  During this time, the Lakers were never dogs at home.  Never.  It was too good a bet to pass up.  In fact, they had the game won until they totally collapsed in the last minute and lost.

But they lost by only point and they covered.  I won my bet.

Fortunately, that didn’t convince me to start betting sports.  I knew it was just a fluke.

I didn’t have any special feelings about the Super Bowl, but as I said, it just seemed like betting the game was the thing to do.  I didn’t want to be the only person at the VIP party that didn’t have skin in the game.

So, who to bet on?  I couldn’t see myself betting on the over/under.  Sitting there screaming, “Score, anyone, score!” didn’t appeal to me.  I had to pick a team.

Since I was basically betting for the hell of it, and not because I am such a football expert I thought I was smarter than everyone else betting and handicapping the game, the logical way to bet was on the team I liked more.  Now I hail from Los Angeles, but my favorite team, the Lakers, weren’t playing. I’m not sure they would have fared any worse than Denver did, but that’s neither here nor there.

And there hasn’t been a pro football team in L.A. since around the time of Red Grange and the single wing.  I don’t really have a favorite football team.  I usually pick teams based on players I like.  I also pick against teams based on players I don’t like.  Or coaches.  Or for totally irrational reasons.

Take the New England Patriots, for example.  I always root against them.  Because of a certain basketball team that will remain nameless, I root against all teams from the Boston area.  Period.

Besides, their coach is a known cheat who should have been kicked out of football years ago.

And their quarterback has a bunch of Super Bowl rings and a drop-dead gorgeous wife so he doesn’t need me rooting for him.

So if the Patriots had made it to the game, I would have bet on the team playing them.

Unless they played the Seattle Seahawks.  Because, you see, I totally hate the Seahawks.

I have nothing against the city of Seattle.  Never been there.  And the fact that this city invented ridiculously overpriced coffee doesn’t affect me, since I hate coffee.

But they have a coach I do not care for.  You see, before he took the Seattle job, Pete Carroll was coach at a certain University in Southern California.

I hate that school.  I don’t have a pro football team to call my own, but I do have a college team to root for.  And that is UCLA.  I root for UCLA in all major sports.  I am a Bruin, through and through.

Pete Carroll went to that other school and turned their program around.  They were floundering and he went there and took them to a national championship and made them perennial championship contenders, and for that, I will never forgive him.

As far as I’m concerned, Seattle is USC North.  Reason enough to loathe them.

And let’s not even start on that loudmouth, boorish Richard Sherman.  I prefer athletes who win with grace and dignity. It’s a dying art.

I couldn’t think of any reason to not like Denver.  How can anyone not like Peyton Manning?  He’s talented, classy, incredibly hard-working and dedicated.  And what an amazing story, coming back the way he did from career-threatening surgery to have maybe the greatest season a QB ever had?  And I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’m old enough to remember watching his father play for the Saints.  Great QB on terrible teams.

So Denver was the pick. I’d seen their two playoff games and was impressed.  And I thought the officials helped Seattle beat the 49’ers. I thought they were a little lucky to even be in the Super Bowl (remember the roughing the punter call that wasn’t called?). 

And besides, Denver was favored anyway, so obviously Denver was the better team, right?  Now I don’t think in the few bets I’ve made previously I ever gave points before.  I hate doing that because as I said, the teams don’t care about beating the spread, they only care about winning.  But it was only 2-1/2 points and I figured a one or two point win (by either team) wasn’t very likely.

I even started listening to sports talk on the radio driving around town, and every “expert” thought Denver would win.  One guy I heard several nights in the row said Denver would win by at least two touchdowns.

What could go wrong?

I wasn’t about to go crazy with the bet.  Nothing too big.  Just a few bucks.  Having money on the game would enhance my viewing experience, right?  I wouldn’t just be cheering Denver on because I wanted them to win and Seattle to lose.  I’d be cheering because I had a financial stake in the game.  I’d be with (at least) half the crowd at the viewing party cheering them on.

My understanding was that you have bet 10% more than you want to win, the 10% being the house juice.  Ok, fair enough.  I could risk $55 to win $50.  But when I went to the book to make my bet, I was surprised to be told that the money was coming in so overwhelmingly on the Broncos that even with the points, it was -$120.  Huh?  I didn’t quite understand.  But the bottom line was that I had to bet $60 if I wanted to win $50.  Ok, ok, I thought about it for a few seconds and then went ahead and made the bet.  What’s another five bucks?  Especially since I was going to win the bet anyway.

Game day came, and I headed to LVH and saw Mark.  We had a nice chat about the Vegas poker scene and how things were going in his room (very well).  He gave me my pass and I headed for the party.

It was a nice set up.  A big convention hall (banquet-style seating) with TV’s everywhere.  Food and drink galore.  Hot dogs, chicken wings, sub sandwiches, Philly cheesesteaks, etc.  At half time they brought out some delicious brownies and chocolate chip cookies.  And all the beer, booze and soft drinks you could ask for. 

Everything was perfect.  Until the game started.  And went to shit in the first 12 seconds—before Peyton yelled out “Omaha” even one time.  You know, being with a big group of people to watch a big game is no fun when the team you’re rooting for is getting the crap beaten out of them.  Even worse is knowing that the sports book ticket in your wallet is only good for toilet paper.

Yeah, I think it’s worse being in a big crowd when things go wrong like that, putting lie to the expression, “misery loves company.”  The table I was at was all Bronco fans, so we were miserable together.  But the table next to us was all Seattle fans and they were having a grand ol’ time.  It was sickening.  I would much rather be alone and not have to hear those clowns celebrating my sixty bucks going up in smoke.  Or knowing that Pete bleeping Carroll was going to be a Super Bowl championship coach.  Or knowing that Richard Sherman was probably going to swallow Erin Andrews whole after the game.

Or realizing that, on this day, I could have done a better job quarterbacking the Broncos than Peyton Manning did.

If I had been home, I would have able to have found something to distract myself.  I probably would have worked on a blog post with the game on in the background, just in case a miracle happened.  As it was, I was kind of stuck there.

I turned to Twitter to read comments and post my mini-rants.  Which brings us to the three tweets I opened this post with.

Chris Hanson is a poker guy that I don’t think I’ve ever had any direct contact with before.  We just follow each other because we’re both into poker.  So let me set the stage.

During halftime, I did everything in my power to ignore the halftime show.  I hate Super Bowl halftime shows.  I hate them.  On general principle.  I don’t like mixing music with sports.  I just don’t.  I think a rock concert has no place at a football game.  If you like music, go to a concert.  If you like football, watch the damn football game.  There’s no natural connection between the two and they don’t mix.

If a time machine could bring us the Beatles, circa 1965, to perform today, I’d say no to having them do halftime at the game.  Let them do their own concert in a huge venue somewhere, but keep them the hell away from the damn Super Bowl.

I made a comment as such during last year’s game, and someone (I’m thinking it was JT88Keys) called me a “curmudgeon.”  To which I replied, I happily admit to it!

As far as I’m concerned, the entire downfall of our civilization can be traced back to the decision to put a freaking concert in the middle of a Super Bowl game.

If it were up to me, we’d go back to having some crappy High School band entertain the five people left in the stands who aren’t in line at the bathrooms at the game.  And for those of us watching on TV, they should have nothing but their brilliant analysts telling us what happened in the first half and what to expect in the second half.  That’s what I want at halftime.

Of course, in this game, the analysis would have taken all of five seconds (“Denver is sucking moose shit through a straw today, Howie”) but that’s a bad example.

The only halftime show that is non-football related I would find tolerable would be Kate Upton dancing naked, center stage.  But I’m afraid they would call that a “wardrobe malfunction.”

So as always, I ignored the halftime show.  I had some vague feeling that I kinda/sorta knew who Bruno Mars was, but I couldn’t imagine enjoying his performance unless he looked exactly like Kate Upton and was naked.

So I buried my face in my celphone, read my Twitter feed, and tuned out the sound coming through the speakers in the convention center.  And enjoyed reading tweets about the game and making my own.  That was a lot more entertaining than the game.

So after the halftime show, I came across the tweet from the aforementioned Mr. Hanson praising the show I had worked so hard to totally ignore.

I couldn’t resist.  I was pissed about the game, and now Mr. Hanson was throwing down the gauntlet. He had demanded that anyone who didn’t like the halftime show unfollow him. So, reflexively, I clicked “unfollow” on Chris’s twitter account.  I amused myself doing it.  Then I did something I really can’t believe I did.  I sent him back a tweet that said, “Just did.”

Heh heh.  I didn’t expect to hear back from him.  Clearly I was in a bad mood.  But a few seconds later he did indeed respond.  “What don't u like? Would u rather it be The Who? Tom Petty? Enjoy the cold.”

OK, ok, I couldn’t really critique the performance, since I had essentially missed it.  I responded that I don’t like music at halftimes on principle, and he said I was in the minority in that. I replied that I’m used to that.  Then I said I was with the majority in picking Denver and that wasn’t working out so well for me.  He agreed with me on that.

And of course, I immediately went back to Chris’s Twitter account and re-followed him.  No hard feelings, I trust, Chris?  I just hope Chris was as amused by the whole “feud” as I was!

And then the second half started and any hopes for a miracle comeback by the Broncos were dashed by a kick-off return for a touchdown by Seattle to open the half.

At which point I sent out this tweet:  “If the Denver owner doesn't fire every coach and every player on his team right this minute, he should be arrested.”

And you pretty much know the rest of the story.  I suffered through most of the second half because, if I was gonna lose my Super Bowl bet, at least I wanted to give my best possible effort to eat $60 worth of food.  Now, I hadn’t bet life-changing money on the game, but it was just galling to me to lose a bet because I am so normally against sports betting and I made a rare exception in this case and I was getting bitten in the ass by it.

I can’t really say I had a good time, but that was certainly not the fault of The LVH.  They put on a fine party, and again, many thanks to Mark for the invite.  I would definitely like to visit the alternate universe where Denver won and covered and it was an exciting game and then I would know how much I would enjoy watching a Super Bowl at a big Las Vegas viewing party.

The only consolation I can think of is that there’s no chance that Pete Carroll will be returning to coach USC anytime soon.

But I did learn a valuable lesson.  Just because you’re in Vegas for the Super Bowl, and just because you’re going to watch the game at a VIP party in Vegas, that’s still no excuse for doing anything as stupid as betting on the game.

And ever since the game, whenever I’m in a poker room and I hear someone mention an “Omaha” game, I throw up a little in my mouth.