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� replacement (poker depravity) �


1:12 a.m., 2004-11-16

nothing is more weird and depraved than a overfilled poker room, mid-tournament.

what you do is put in initials for a waiting list with no promise of your turn coming during the entire day. to say that getting a seat at a table is a crapshoot is a misstatement, but somehow fits solely based on terminological irony. people enter in with menacing initials or mundane initials, and you can always tell who is who. the people staring at the giant board of names like an arrival board at an airline terminal glance at one another, sizing up the enemy, unsure of whether they will have to face 'jkc1' or 'xxxr' or 'jonn', but it matters little really.
people get their mail here.
in the poker room.
seriously.
i saw doyle brunson, famed for winning a tournament holding a pocket 10 - 3 off suit, rolling through the crowd in his wheelchair-- some sort of poker version of hawking or something. "hit it hard," i said as he rolled past. he pumped his grizzled fist in the air in defiance to the odds.
the man is revered here as chris carter might be at an x-files convention. untouchable.
in the sketchy and uncomfortable world of professional poker, respect comes from excessively dumb luck mixed with the faint ability to keep a straight face.
there are men and women in this room who can smell your heart beating. the faster it reaches their nostrils, the more fear or excitement they smell.
when your name hits that board, you might as well just give your money to whomever you want to win. it's a lot like casting your vote, except it will actually help someone win something. and godspeed if you buy in with the minimum $40.
needless to say, i went to the casino purely out of morbid curiosity and a powerful lust for a cheap buffet. i value my duckets more than a few rounds with a poker legend.
the first call came in as i was finishing up eating my first plate of sustenance procured at one of the largest buffets i have ever seen. it was big jeff, out of money after a half an hour and on the way to his car in the garage. pissed off. on his way home. second call was a few minutes later, asking if i had money to lend for more poker. i did, but i said it was not going towards any sick poker nut on a losing streak. i ate several plates of food and two bowls of ice cream before the last of my poker fiend friends were done losing their collective shirts.
all i ended up spending was $7 for the buffet and a $10 tip to the old lady keeping my glass of mountain dew full.
and i got a fist pump out of doyle brunson.


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