Ruth said it just didn’t seem the same flying into Vegas in daylight. She missed the shot of adrenaline you feel when you first spot those dazzling lights emerge from beyond the scope of the plane’s wing. Personally, I could give a shit. Vegas is Vegas. And besides, in retrospect I guess I was already feeling a bit ‘punk’.

Here’s the plan. If our plane gets in on time and everything else falls beautifully into place, I’ll play in the $1500 buy-in at The Wynn which starts at noon on Saturday March 7. We’re there to celebrate my birthday. Big birthday. So I have the carte-blanche to play in as many poker tournaments as my conscience allows. After all every moment I’m in a poker tournament is a moment away from my beautiful wife, cruelly abandoning her to 3-card poker which she’s drawn to like a fly to a Mounted Police Parade.

Our US AIR flight gets in right on time at 10:30 AM, out of the plane, bags retrieved pronto – first class has priority you know. Cabs are ready and available because nobody’s going to Vegas anymore because Obama said they’re not allowed to, and we’re at The Bellagio in less time than it takes for a snowball to melt in a chicken’s ass. We’re in our room with the view we don’t like by 11:30, and we’re in our room with the view we do like by 11:45. Everything comes quicker in Vegas these days (hey, wait a second, you know what I mean by that!).

Ruth has a pre-arranged appointment to color her hair at 2:00. Oops, did I just ‘out’ her?

While we’re on the subject, can I just digress for a moment (and become incredibly sexist)? Really, it’ll just take a moment. Why did it take me nearly 30 years of adulthood to realize that every woman dyes their hair. And yet you mention this phenomenon to a woman and invariably she’ll deny it. Politely, you point out that despite her protestations, her hair actually does keep changing colors. “Oh, I highlight it” she says. “Oh, I streak it” she says. “Oh, I put a henna in it” she says. “But I don’t dye it” she says. Right. I see. But what’s the fucking difference!? My 93 year old mother (Christ, there I go ‘outing’ a loved one again) frosts her now-gray hair. Talk about closing the barn door after the cows have already left. Imagine, you spend so much time and money and effort your whole life keeping your hair from turning a certain color and when you finally, finally resign yourself to letting nature take its rightful course, you now have to pay somebody to make it the right shade of the wrong color. Silver streaks in grey hair. That’s like straightening out the ticket the cop just left on your windshield.

Geez, I did digress, didn’t I?

Anyway, we’re rushing through the Bellagio lobby to grab a cab to the Wynn where they are still taking late registration until 1:00PM. And I stop. “Let’s not go to The Wynn” I say to Ruth. Because she loves me unconditionally, Ruth accepts this unquestioningly. OK she does have a question or two.

“Why, ya dunce? Isn’t that the tournament you came here to play?” She says lovingly.

“Yeah, but look at us” I say “We’re on vacation, ostensibly to relax, and we’re not here two minutes and I’ve got us running around like my Aunt Goldie checking out the free samples at Costco. It just seems like… bad Karma. There’s a $1000 daily buy-in starting at 2:00 right here at the Bellagio.”

“Whatever you want, baby” she says that because she loves me, and then adds “Just know I’m not going to wear this one after the fact” she says that last part because sometimes, after the fact, I make her wear it.

So we stay, we go for a leisurely walk in the Nevada sunshine and at approximately 1:45 we separate, she to her hair appointment and me to register for the $1000 daily.

I expect there’s going to be 50-80 participants but I quickly realize that the current economic recession extends to the poker world as well. We start with barely a minion, ten good men and two sturdy women. By the time late registration is finally over at 4:00, there’s a total of 23 entries.

By 4:30 though, it barely matters to me, dead last and short-stacked. Welcome to my world. I’m cursing myself for having forgone the glitzier tournament at The Wynn with its 177 entrants and its quarter million dollar prize pool. Not only that I’m starting to feel like crap. I ask my waitress for hot water with lemon and “keep ‘em comin’” and the Irishman beside me, who’s on his 6th beer (go figure!) looks at me like antennae might sprout from my nipples any second.

Despite my current low standing, I’m looking around the table and I see some very bad poker being played. Not “bad” in the late 70’s Ohio Players vernacular as in “Hey, that’s a bad ‘fro, brother”. I mean “bad” as in bad. So the plan is not to get desperate or stupid, but to just try and hang in and collect some of this “dead money”. Also my plan is to not die, I mean literally not figuratively. Four hours in we’re down to 13 and I’m really starting to feel like shit now.

Flash forward to the next break and we’re down to one table, ten players. I’m tenth. No big turning points, no big hands, but the blinds are climbing now, and soon I’ll go into stealing mode which is one of the few things I do well. Also there’s a lot of kibitzing now that we’ve been together for the better part of a day, but while I’m never rude, I don’t kibitz. I just steal a pot here and there and smile a lot which is pissing everybody off, which is the other thing I do well.

It’s after 8:00 PM and by now Ruth is in the casino, which generally speaking is a financially advantageous situation for the casino. In fact Ruth often plays 3 card poker in the wing that was named in her honor. It’s a dubious honor, but an honor nonetheless. She texts me to tell me that she has settled in to a great table with some really fun (read : drunk) people. I text her back “ Are you winning?” And she texts me back a way too cheerful “No!” so I figure she’s a little tipsy herself by now. Terrific, I’m going down here like Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg and I’ve got General Custer watching my back.

Meanwhile we’re down to seven. This guy from California has been chip leader since I can remember. He’s terrible. Everyone at the table – including him I suspect – is painfully aware of it. There’s two New Yorkers, buddies who came down together sitting side-by-side to my left. One’s worse than the other and they are both hemorrhaging chips, mostly to California Man who’s sitting to their left. Ironically the New Yorkers (#1 and #2) keep going up against each other while claiming to anyone who’ll listen how they’ve known each other all their lives. If I was in this deep with one of my poker buddies like Randy or Lee or Domenic we’d be signaling each other like U-boats. Nah, I’m kidding about that, but at least we wouldn’t be constantly trying to bust each other out! I guess it doesn’t matter though as it is only a matter of time for the both of them.

Ireland is still there to my right. I’ve lost track of where he is on the beer train, but he’s been “chaining” since the start 7 hours ago, so you do the math. He’s getting meaner too, like he’s living out some nightmarish politically incorrect fantasy. Not a bad player though, really, but not someone I need to worry about. To his left is The Fargo North Dakotan, sort of a bikery version of Santa Claus. Nice, albeit scary old geezer who clearly knows what he is doing but still, he is not to be feared. The only one I fear in fact is “Miami”, a clean-cut bespectacled young man sitting straight across from me. He has a big stack and he has “game” as my friend Domenic likes to say.

I look up and I see Ruth. She looks like a model. She’s been watching me with this proud smile on her face for I-don’t know-how-long. At least I think its pride, but it could be the liquor. Doesn’t matter, either way she’s just so Goddamn beautiful. She comes over and gives me a kiss for luck, and I take note to comment on how nice her hair looks. You got to notice. In the immortal words of Tony Montana “Girl like that”. I think every single one of these guys is completely envious of me right now, even if I am in last place. ‘Course, I know none of them would trade their chip stack for mine right now, even if I threw in the wife. That’s what’s so great about the great game of poker. I ask Ruth if she needs any money, and she says no like she means yes, and I peel off five hundred dollar bills for her like I’m Bugsy Malone, and I watch her walk away like she’s my own Virginia Hill.

Back to the game. New Yorker #1 is the first to go. A few hands before his ultimate demise “Miami” mercilessly teases him with a peek at a completely useless card after blowing him off a winning hand. He takes offense and almost goes across the table after his tormentor. Miami, who is about the size of the New Yorkers left thigh, mocks him fearlessly. “What? Are you gonna beat me up?” Seeing that he has not struck fear in Miami’s heart, New Yorker #1 merely mutters sheepishly “I don’t beat up faggots.” Nice, friendly game. Three hands later New Yorker #1 self-destructs.

I’m in full steal mode now and starting to pick up steam.

Next to go down is Santa Claus. Jolly biker that he is, he goes around the table shaking all our hands, even my diseased ones. Now we are five.

At this point New Yorker #2 is so overmatched that the only dignified thing for him to do at this juncture would be to surrender his chips and thank us for letting him play with us for awhile. Sadly he chooses the slightly less dignified and considerably more painful route of practically allowing himself to be blinded out. The hatchet falls when his all-in J9 fails to overcome AJ and a pair of tens, and he loudly bemoans his inability to “catch any fawckin’ cawds”. Oh well, now there are four.

I come over the top on one of Ireland’s next raises and I am actually surprised when he stands up and dramatically declares “THAT’S IT! YOU’VE BEEN DOING THIS TO ME FOR AN HOUR NOW, I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS! I’M ALL-IN!” I have been doing that for an hour, I just thought he was too drunk to notice. Well, as the truck said to the squashed cat “Bad timing, O’Leary”. His AT is helpless against my AK and now there are three.

And we’re in the money.

Now the only questions to be answered are am I going to finish first, second, or third and am I going to make it out alive. My throat feels like its been worked over by Jason’s chainsaw. My head is pounding like I was just forced to watch a debate between Rush Limbaugh and Charles Barkley. Even so, when “Miami” suggests a “chop”, I hesitate.

I almost never chop. It’s not because I’m ruthless and cold-hearted. And its certainly not because I have an inflated sense of confidence in my abilities. Its simply because I love to gamble. So I’ve never understood why near the end of a tournament, when the gambling is just about to get very good, somebody invariably proposes that we voluntarily stop gambling, and chop up the pot. It normally just doesn’t make any sense to me. But having this anvil resting on my head is tainting my decision.

First is worth $11,000, second $6600 and third $4400. Technically I’ve vaulted into second place by virtue of my show down with Ireland. I’m so tired. But the guy in first place is practically an idiot. Not like a “savant” idiot, but like an “idiot” idiot. Truth be told, the fair way to chop this would be to give him third +10% and have Miami and I play for the win, but that’s not going to happen. In a moment of weakness I agree to a regulation Casino chop based on current chip counts. My second place share comes to $7200. I immediately regret my decision despite the pounding in my head.

I really regret my decision when we meet in “the back room” to collect our winnings and they present the “winner” with his trophy. Trophy?! W-W-WHAT TROPHY?! Wait a second, nobody said anything about a TROPHY?! I wouldn’ta chopped if I knew anything about A FUCKING TROPHY! And what a beauty this trophy is, all glass, like a fucking Golden Globe, this trophy is. And now this California douchebag owns one, which tarnishes it for all those who’ve won them in the past, and all future winners. Ah well screw it, I’m going to bed.

I find my wife in the casino having a ball with her new friends, who seem very cool. I try to make nice, but I think I might pass out, which would be OK if I didn’t have so much fucking money on me. Ruth is hungry and drunk and laughing and losing and gorgeous. It’s midnight and I think she’d love to stay out but she can see I’m not destined for it. We go to the snack bar where she orders a Cuban sandwich “because it’s the only thing on the menu where the words aren’t moving around so much” and we take it to the room where she eats about half a sandwich of something we suspect might be “pulled pork” although we’re not sure what that is. Ruth speculates that it might be the meat from an uncooperative pig. I eat a sleeping pill, and it totally hits the spot.

The rest of the weekend is a blur of sleep, saunas, sunshine, and lots of laughs. I never do get the energy to sit down at a poker table again. We fly out of Vegas in the daylight. I don’t miss the lights. I mean it’s not like I’m not going to see them again, right?