From: "Mike McManus" To: Date: Wed, 6 Aug 2003 18:18:44 -0700 Subject: [BARGE] THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 (VERY LONG) (posted to r.g.p. and the BARGE list) THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) ö North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 (LONG ö A Serial in Three Installments) NOTE TO THE UNINFORMED: BARGE is the Big August Rec.Gambling Excursion, a thirteen year-old tradition of drunken degenerate gamb00ling and debauchery that is unparalleled in the annals of time, except for my home game. It is held annually in Las Vegas on the first weekend in August. If you havenât been, you should; just like Vegas itself, it must be experienced at least once in oneâs life. Visit www.barge.org for more information. DISCLAIMER: This trip report is based on a true story, which means, just like in Hollywood, absolutely nothing. The authorâs PDA (a spiral bound 3x5 Mead notebook with cheap pen shoved in the spiral) came home with nary a single note, so all embellishments, exaggerations, and outright fabrications are meant only to entertain and amuse; please, no wagering. I AM SIXTEEN, GOING ON SEVENTEEN Itâs been two years. Two long, painful years since losing my BARGE virginity, and, unlike most virgins, I canât wait for my next experience. My anticipation and excitement rival that I felt awaiting the final Police Academy sequel. I am sixteen again. A slow, road-rage inducing drive through late afternoon Vancouver traffic and I arrive at the door of South Shore Murray Logan, my home game nemesis, and traveling companion for this long-awaited journey. Murray will be attending his first BARGE himself this year, and I take great care to explain that itâs not all itâs cracked up to be, and to not allow himself to be too disappointed at what he experiences over the next five days. The fool believes me. After being dropped at Vancouver International by Murrayâs wife, the beautiful Princess Leah, we encounter, at the Alaska Airlines check-in desk, a line-up the length of Robert Downey Jr.âs rap sheet. I wonder aloud if theyâre giving away free beer. Eventually, we hear music to our ears: ãWould all passengers flying on flight 694 to Las Vegas please come to the front of the line?ä We bound gleefully past the other weary travelers, sticking our tongues out at those who dare to make eye contact. My twenty-dollar Wal-Mart wheeled duffle loses an axle during the sprint: bad beat number one. Security check-in is quick and painless. Well, mostly painless: my stainless steel hip flask full of Bombay Sapphire is seized, as is Murrayâs. Security officers promise to return the flasks after they have been emptied of their evil contents. Murrayâs flask is returned empty, as promised. A fine young gentleman returns my vessel to me, saying with a wink, ãI left a sip for you.ä I shake the flask; it appears half full! I kiss his spit-shined jackboots, shake his hand, and promise to send him a Christmas card. Good beat number one. Two and a half hours later, after a couple of victory toasts from the Flask of Good Beats, and a cribbage game during which Luck Bucket Logan kicked my ass to the tune of four bucks, we land in Shangri-La. A quick pickup of luggage, and we meet Tom ãAardvarkä Hummel per our pre-arranged pre-arrangement, and head to the limo stand. I warn Tom that a quick detour to a liquor store is needed, and he suspiciously says he doesnât mind. Our driver takes us to a Vonâs. Booze in grocery stores: I love America. (If any of my American readers donât understand this last comment, come to Vancouver and try to get a cold beer to go, anywhere, after 11:00 pm. And the closest thing to alcohol that grocery stores carry is salted peanuts.) We emerge from Vonâs two hours later (gotta love flat-rate limos), laden with gin, lemons, limes, cigarettes, bread, sixty-four slices of American cheese, a National Enquirer, and a paring knife. To BARGE, driver, and be quick about it! Moments later, we stumble out of the limo into the waiting arms of the Golden Nugget doormen. Tony ãKarmaä Goldstein is waiting to greet us, obviously forewarned of our arrival by Las Vegas Metro Police. We ask for a north tower room at the Nugget, as I recalled wearing out at least 2 pairs of Shoe Warehouse specials the last time I stayed in the south tower: itâs approximately seventeen miles from Fremont Street. Good beat: north tower room available. Bad beat: smoking room. Good beat: I smoke. Bad beat: Murray doesnât. We negotiate. He balks. I kick him in the shins. He acquiesces. I love passive players. But I must promise not to smoke in the room, so I give in. The fool believes me. We dump our bags in the room and are back on the elevator, bound for Binionâs poker room, before our hotel room door latches shut. THE COCK KNEED REBEL We immediately get into a rockinâ ramminâ jamminâ 4/8 Holdâem game, the inhabitants of which I cannot recall. I do recall one r00ling moment: ADB tiger transfers to the table, carrying a rather large scotch, and about 3 racks of white·..in his hat. I say, ãNice rack, sir.ä Of course, he looks down at his chest, to raucous laughter. There is also another player, apparently a local, whose accent gives him away as being a native of Londonâs east end. His name is Derek, and he says heâs known as the Cockney Rebel. I immediately begin to refer to him as The Cock Kneed Rebel, craving acceptance from my fellow BARGEâers through laughter, and they donât disappoint. This guyâs voice sounds like he just drank gasoline, with a road gravel chaser. I find him mildly entertaining for about 3 minutes, but he talks louder and longer than ADB Kevin Un, so he becomes tiresome. He claims to be a morning radio personality, failing to explain why heâs still playing cards and boozing at 1:00 am. He claims to be a 30/60 player, failing to explain why heâs playing 4/8 at Binionâs. He also fails to explain why the BARGEâers at the table wind up with most of his chips. That, I can explain: he sucked. This man was the railbirdâs railbird, who just happened to have mooched a C-note to play in a 4/8 game. Only a matter of time before he hit someone up for a loan; I was terrified that he knew my name. (Cue ominous music.) The remaining hours of the evening-slash-morning are like the Watergate Tapes: a great big gap, only itâs like 18 hours, not 18 minutes. I vaguely recall meeting many old friends, such as Scott ãScottroä Harker, Sean ãOscarä McGuiness, Michael ãMickdogä Patterson, Walter ãWalterä Hunt, and a host of others. I played through the night, cashed out at 10:30 am ahead about a rack (boy, I sure know how to maintain a solid hourly rate), realizing I must shower so I stink better for the noon BARGE limit holdâem tournament. I stumble across Fremont, successfully avoiding the Golden Nuggetâs crack security team, then shower and have breakfast with Murray in the Carson Street CafŽ. He bores me with tales of how much fun BARGE is. (Yawn.) I SUCK, THEREFORE I·WELL·I JUST SUCK Prior to the tournament, I stop at the table (wo)manned by Eileen and Erin Milligan to pick up my home set of 400 BARGE chips. This yearâs design, created by the 2002 BARGE No-Limit Holdâem Champion, Mike ãHowlerä McBride (with the always able assistance of Patrick Milligan), was so beautiful I just had to buy a whole bunch of Îem. Each chip color is adorned with a different historical work of art, all holding ãPrestoä. My favorite is the Michelangelo ãhand of godä yellow chip. Magnificent work, Howler. Barely avoiding an aneurism (man, those things are *heavy*), I lurch erratically towards my assigned tournament seat. I played wonderfully, making huge laydowns, and snapping off huge bluffs. (Pause now for riotous laughter.) Actually, I just donât recall much of anything in this tournament; I was still mildly, uh, intoxicated. Obviously, I had a good time, because I was later quietly chastised for my foul language; belated apologies to all I may have offended. After busting out fairly early, and paying Mickdog ten bucks for my only last-longer bet, I travel with my other home game buddy, Ron ãDuke Manteeä Nutt, and Seth Maixner, leader of the 2003 BARGE Virgins, to the Gamblerâs General Store. I pick up a box of playing cards for my kids, and a beautiful mahogany-lined chip case for their father, complete with a set-up of KEM cards. I must sleep. I must sleep. I must sl·.whatâs that? The PokerStars hospitality suite is open? Iâll be right there. Up to room 1819 at Binionâs where our benevolent sponsor has arranged for a suite complete with free t-shirts, hats, and booze. The suite will be open 24/7 for the duration of BARGE. Way cool, folks. They are also giving away the greatest online poker marketing schwag ever: big thick white rubber bands with the PokerStars logo emblazoned across them. In other words: bankroll bands! Ingenious. Iâm sure they cost no more than a buck a million, but everybody talked about them all week. I must sleep. No, I must eat, then sleep. So Murray, Seth and I join the Family Milligan for dinner at the Nuggetâs Carson Street CafŽ, my favorite coffee shop in Las Vegas, where I thoroughly enjoyed the best brisket sandwich west of the Gold Spike. Talk ranges from poker chips, to Patrickâs poker tournament clock software, to, um, some other stuff, I think. I am now approaching 36 hours of drunken awakedness, and once again the details go blurry. I really, really, needed to get some sleep. But, alas, one of the moâ funner BARGE events was nearing itsâ start time. YOU SEE HORSE, I SEE HORSE, WE ALL C-HORSE The team C-HORSE event is one of my favorites. As the name suggests, teams of six compete in six different games: Crazy pineapple, Holdâem, Omaha/8, Razz, Stud, and stud Eight or better. The flop games are played on one table, the board games on another; at the end of each round, each teamâs stacks are balanced, and we do it all again, until a fixed number of rounds, or fixed time limit, is reached. The team with the most money wins. Itâs a blast. Team Moosecock (our name comes from the punchline of the funniest joke ever written·just ask Murray Logan) consisted entirely of Canadians: Me (holdâem) Murray, (Stud/8), Ron ãDuke Manteeä Nutt (CP), John Harkness (Razz), Ken Kubey (O/8), and virgin Ali Mohajer (Stud). Okay, okay, Ken and Ali are not really Canadians, we drafted them via e-mail, but Ali correctly identified the Toronto hockey team as the Make Believes, and Ken can say ãehä? with the best of Îem. Well, I did *my* job, as our stack on the flop table increased every round I played but one; everybody else sort of floundered (kidding, boys). But Ali won a huge stud pot right near the buzzer to drag us, kicking and screaming, into profitability. Total team profit: twelve bucks. High fives all around, boys! However, I do lose a double-sawbuck each to Scottro and Mickdog, as their respective teams beat us in the standings, we finished sixth of nine entries. I may have played some poker after that. Or not. But, fuelled by many Michelobs, I felt rejuvenated, so I eagerly accepted a gracious invitation to the craps pit from Peter ãADB Foldemä Secor and Chris ãADB Ploinkä Straghalis. Danger awaits. COMING SOON IN PART II -I Wouldnât Join Any Club That Would Have Me As A Member -Death March 2003 (or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love Action Bob) -Goodnight, Sweet Prince ADB North Shore Mike A++ G++ PKR+ !PEG++ B++ TB ADB+ M-- ________ Thanks to PokerStars, Paradise Poker, and Quiotix Technologies for their generous sponsorship of BARGE 2003. From: "Mike McManus" To: Date: Fri, 8 Aug 2003 01:43:56 -0700 Subject: [BARGE] THE BIG SLEEP (Or Lack Thereof) - PART II - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 (VERY LONG) THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 PART II NOTE TO THE UNINFORMED: BARGE is the Big August Rec.Gambling Excursion, a thirteen year-old tradition of drunken degenerate gamb00ling and debauchery that is unparalleled in the annals of time, except for my home game. It is held annually in Las Vegas on the first weekend in August. If you haven't been, you should; just like Vegas itself, it must be experienced at least once in one's life. Visit www.barge.org for more information. DISCLAIMER: This trip report is based on a true story, which means, just like in Hollywood, absolutely nothing. The author's PDA (a spiral bound 3x5 Mead notebook with cheap pen shoved in the spiral) came home with nary a single note, so all embellishments, exaggerations, and outright fabrications are meant only to entertain and amuse; please, no wagering. (When we last left our hero, he was wisely going to shoot dice after 362 Michelobs and a tequila, in the company of two shady looking characters..) I WOULDN'T BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WOULD HAVE ME AS A MEMBER..EXCEPT THIS ONE Ploink, Foldem and I manage to find the craps pit at Binion's without going by way of the Four Queens, which, given our condition, may rank as the single most amazing feat of this or any BARGE. After Ploink rolls the dice for twenty minutes and we all take down a nice little profit, I turn to see the two of them looking at me. Grinning. Like proud parents. As if in a dream, Foldem says, in slow motion: "Welcome to the ADB's, North Shore." And extends his hand, which I take in a daze. Ploink slaps me on the back. I scream to the heavens: "YOU LIKE ME! YOU REALLY, REALLY LIKE ME!" (Actually, I yelled "Cocktails!", but I've learned to never let the truth get in the way of a good Sally Field joke.) The ADB's (alt.drunken.bastards) are a sub-group within the BARGE community with which I have always had a strange camaraderie (I can't imagine why). While some of you may find it a dubious distinction at best to be welcomed into a group of, well, fun drunk people, I find it to be a tremendous honor; I take my bad habits very seriously. Plus I now get to wear a cool hat. Woohoo! Energized yet again, I roll back to the poker room and lock horns in another rollicking 4/8 game, which contains ActionBob, PrestoET, and various other nefarious looking characters. Any game which contains these two gentlemen is a good game, and not for the reason you think: they practice excellent game selection. I was only too happy to join in, if only to make their game selection even better. We play for a few hours, and I couldn't tell you if I won or lost; I was still on my post-ADB-selection high (the cocktail count may have had something to do with it, as well.). DEATH MARCH 2003 (or HOW I QUIT WORRYING AND LEARNED TO LOVE ACTIONBOB) At 3:30 am, ActionBob reminds me we are in the same foursome teeing off in 2 hours, and wonders if I would be agreeable to a little $20 Nassau bet. I stare at him. Holy crap. I have to play golf in two hours. The Death March is one of my favorite memories from BARGE 2001, when eight of us braved 108 degree temperatures to tackle the Legacy Golf Club. Apparently, there was no March (no, not the month, you silly goose) in 2002; I guess since I was not in attendance, the game selection sucked. Then, like now, I had stayed up all night playing poker prior to hitting the links. But this time, I'd stayed up TWO nights; not even I had ever attempted this Herculean feat. I briefly contemplated a ninety minute nap, but knew in my dark, alcohol-preserved heart that I would never wake in time. So, ActionBob and I shook hands on the Nassau bet, and played on, calling for cocktails for the bazillionth time, give or take. 4:30 am, I hustle over to the Nugget for a quick, bracing icy shower and a change of clothes, careful not to wake my roommate Murray. But wait: there is an unruffled bed where Murray should be. Perhaps he's having fun after all. I am flipping the bird to the Sun God: today, I wear black (it IS the Death March, after all.). Lugging my already-too-heavy golf bag across the street, I meet the rest of the idio..er, Death Marchers in Binion's poker room at 5:00 am sharp. On hand are Nolan "ADB Darkside" Dalla, Gavin Smith, ActionBob, David Aronson, Kevan Garrett, Ken "QB" Kubey, Gerald "Gerdog" Petersen, my good buddy Scott Burrington (who really needs a nickname in the worst way), and yours truly. But wait: here's an extremely well-oiled ADB Ploink threatening to come along! For reasons I simply cannot fathom, I agree to pay his green fees if he pays for club rental. And so we are ten. Nolan graciously offers me a ride to the course, which I graciously accept. On the way to the valet parking area, I pretend not to notice the "Wet Paint" sign on the wheelchair ramp at the curb. I discreetly put my right foot on the edge of the painted area, and pretend to slip and fall right on my snowy-white Canadian ass. Boy, all of those guys were sure fooled by my fake pratfall. I was even acrobatic enough to get paint only on my right forearm and my golf bag! I briefly considered calling for a lawyer (there are about 300 of them at BARGE), but Binion's has treated us so well, I decide not to follow through on my evil scheme. Injuries sustained only by pride and dignity, and giving my best "I meant to do that" look, I crumple red-faced into the car and we head to the Badlands Golf Club (cue Jaws theme music). Upon arrival, there is mild confusion in the pro shop, as Ploink has not pre-registered. I pay his fee and spell his name to the pro shop clerk. Ploink is amazed I can spell his surname. I am amazed either of us can stand upright. I am playing with ActionBob (cart buddy), Ploink, and Scott Burrington. On the first tee, I pull-hook my drive into the desert waste area. I have not hooked a drive since 1991. I catch ActionBob, who is safely down the middle, grinning. I am in for a bumpy ride. Ploink peels a Heineken off the six-pack he managed to somehow cajole out of the clubhouse, and hands it to me; it does not taste good. The Badlands Golf Club, from what little I can remember as of this writing, is a beautiful course, lined with palatial homes of every shape, but only one size: monstrous. At one point, a conversation in our foursome went like this: North Shore Mike: Is that a hospital? Scott: Naw, I think it's a high school. ActionBob: Actually, I think it's the servants' quarters Ploink: (hic) GOODNIGHT, SWEET PRINCE (or HUSH, HUSH SWEET NORTH SHORE) We manage to make it through the front nine remarkably unscathed, with me down one hole to ActionBob in our match. No matter, I will kick his Jersey ass up and down the back nine, and win honor and glory for Canada, not to mention twenty bucks. To my huge surprise, I'm not sucking too badly, and we've only been warned by the marshall once to speed up our play. Ploink goes into the clubhouse, carrying his clubs. Huh? Maybe he's switching to left-handed ones, trying to pull some kind of Titanic Thompson-esque hustle on us. But no, he emerges clubless. Claims he's beat, and can't continue. Weenie. So, we soldier on without him, wearing black armbands for our fallen comrade. Alas, I think he planted a seed in my tiny booze-addled brain: on the 12th tee, I caught myself nodding off while sitting in the cart. Not just getting drowsy, mind you, oh no: full-on bobbing for chest hairs. I slapped myself, hard, once in each cheek. Then I hit myself in the face. It seemed to work. Until the 14th fairway, that is. I was down one on the back nine to ActionBob, so down two overall, but still had a small chance to squeak out a victory. But there I was, walking from the cart to the green, and I was falling asleep, *while I walked*. I was actually in danger of crumpling peacefully to the lush green grass like a narcoleptic Jack Nicklaus! Yes, I had hit The Wall, nearly 50 hours after the odyssey had begun. Once back in the cart, safe from being shredded by tractor mowers, I said, "ActionBob, our $20 Nassau bet just became a $60 last longer bet. And you just won." I weakly extended my hand in a congratulatory gesture, but I passed out, into a surprisingly comfortable slumber, before my opponent could grasp it. ActionBob had to elbow me each time he needed to move the cart, and I managed to hold on long enough to reach each stop, and then fall asleep again. I cannot imagine a more comical sight. I only wish someone else was at the center of it. At least I can say I came by my new-found ADB status honestly, no? Back in the clubhouse, sprawled across a leather couch, I continued a pattern of dozing and waking, while the boys had a post-round cocktail. Every time I woke, I saw another Marcher staring at me, shaking his head and going, 'tsk, tsk'. I was too tired to fight back. Nolan delivered me back to the 'Shoe, apparently, and I have absolutely no recollection of getting to my room. The Odyssey finally reached a peaceful, merciful end nearly 52 hours after it began. THIS JUST IN: HELL HAS FROZEN OVER I do recall asking for three separate wakeup calls, for 4 pm, 4:15, and 4:30, just to make sure I was on time for a 5 o'clock cocktail party at Paul Phillips' humble home, to be followed by the Paul-and-Lee-Jones-hosted baby pot limit game at the Mirage. Murray woke me up at 9:15 pm. Holy crap. I missed a cocktail party. Paul and I have maintained an extremely informal contact over the two years since I met him, and I was thrilled to be invited to his home; I was very upset with myself that my, um, lifestyle had prevented me from honoring that invitation. I hope he can forgive me. So now I've missed the baby PL game, too. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. But, my depression did not last long; Murray, who was seated in the 10/20 Hold'em game at the 'Shoe, gave me that "you gotta get in here" look as I passed the table, so I got on the list, and sat in a 4/8 game with a couple of BARGE'ers I didn't (and still don't) know, and a couple of entertaining locals. Andy, the Horseshoe dealer, was regular player all week in the 4/8, and was always a pleasure to play with, even when he was r00ling me with T6 offsuit. There was another guy in the game who always gave me a smile and a handshake whenever he saw me for the whole week, whose name was Juan. Never one to let a good nicknaming opportunity pass me by, I immediately dubbed him "Juan Motime". He was a pretty solid low-limit player, and we hit it off right away. Guys like this always make my Horsehoe poker experience that much better. COMING SOON IN PART III -Craps Crawl? Hell, I Can Do Both Those Things -The Blind Pig Finds A Truffle -The Return of the Cock Kneed Rebel -I Still Suck, Only Better And much, much more! ADB North Shore Mike A++ G++ PKR+ !PEG++ B++ TB ADB+ M-- ________ Thanks to PokerStars, Paradise Poker, and Quiotix Technologies for their generous sponsorship of BARGE 2003. From: "Mike McManus" To: Date: Tue, 12 Aug 2003 02:08:31 -0700 Subject: [BARGE] THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) - PART III - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 (VERY LONG) THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 PART III NOTE TO THE UNINFORMED: BARGE is the Big August Rec.Gambling Excursion, a thirteen year-old tradition of drunken degenerate gamb00ling and debauchery that is unparalleled in the annals of time, except for my home game. It is held annually in Las Vegas on the first weekend in August. If you haven't been, you should; just like Vegas itself, it must be experienced at least once in one's life. Visit www.barge.org for more information. DISCLAIMER: This trip report is based on a true story, which means, just like in Hollywood, absolutely nothing. The author's PDA (a spiral bound 3x5 Mead notebook with cheap pen shoved in the spiral) came home with nary a single note, so all embellishments, exaggerations, and outright fabrications are meant only to entertain and amuse; please, no wagering. (When we last left our hero, he was waiting to be seated in a rockin' 10/20 hold'em table in Binion's poker room) CRAPS CRAWL? HELL, I CAN DO BOTH THOSE THINGS After an hour or so of small losses at the 4/8, I finally get called to the 10/20, where I quickly see the reason for Murray beckoning me in to the game: it is paradise, softer than Oprah's ass. S00per l00se, s00per passive, my favorite game conditions. It is The Best Game Ever West Of The Pink Chip Game. Flop top pair, and get paid off by cheese in three-part harmony. Rinse. Repeat. Sweet. Gentleman in his early-to-mid sixties sits down with a rack, and each time it's his turn to act he has another question for the dealer. It becomes quickly apparent that he has never played poker in a casino before. Sweeter. An hour (and $150 to the good) later, Foldem comes by the table to remind us that the annual ADB Craps Crawl gets underway in the Binion's craps pit in 10 minutes. It dawns on me that I have made a profit the first time I have ever played higher than $6/12 in Las Vegas. I am invincible. BARGE is the only place/event on earth at which I would leave this game, for any reason. Ever. Except maybe a fire, and even then.. I didn't attend the Craps Crawl back in 2001, and I really can't remember why. But now, as a newly-anointed ADB'er, my attendance is, at least in my mind, mandatory. Murray and I wander through the haze of Binion's, finally coming across the Crawl's first stop in full swing. The roaring crowd, at least 3 deep around the entire circumference of the table, is 90% BARGE'ers, all suitably and expectedly well-oiled. It is, for the moment, the funnest place in Las Vegas. We wedge our way in to the rail, pissing off the only two locals at the table. I give one of them a dollar for his trouble. He looks at me like I have a houseplant growing out of my nose. He takes the dollar anyway, albeit with suspicion in his eyes. Moments later, Murray shouts like he's seen a ghost. He elbows me, and points toward the Fremont Street entrance. There's a guy playing the Bix 6 wheel. In all my years of casino gaming, I've never seen anyone put dollar one down on the Big 6 wheel (Ken QB's trip report doesn't count; I didn't witness it, so I bet he made the whole thing up). A couple of mid-long rolls later, I am ahead $80. My invincibility is now etched in stone. Next stop: The El Cortez. Foldem advises us to stay together while walking up Fremont Street, and avoid eye contact with anyone. Ah, sweet adventure. It is my first visit to the El Cortez. The place smells of misery. I plan to change that. Its' walls are lined with wood paneling reminiscent of my Uncle Elmer's rumpus room. I don't plan to change that; it's so tacky, it's almost cool. The Crawlers have swollen in number, but the El Cortez management, in a decision that must be, in Las Vegas history, unequalled in stupidity, refuses to open a second table for a bunch of drunken gamblers with bucketloads of cash. The spurned Crawlers finally convince the floor to open a 1-3 stud table. Oh, I see, that will make you *loads* more money. Sheesh. THE GAVIN Immediately to my left is Ploink, to my right are Nolan "ADB Darkside" Dalla (who is living up to his name by betting heavily against the shooters), Nick Christenson, and Gavin Smith, a fellow Canadian who I had met only briefly that morning on the Death March. He's drunk, and loud. Like me. So, of course, we became fast friends. Henceforth, he shall be named The Gavin. It will become apparent why he deserves so regal a nickname. The Crawl is now moving to Fitzgerald's. I cash out with a loss of $90. Invincibility is highly overrated. Fitzgerald's is brighter and cleaner than I remember it, and their craps dealers were the most fun and competent on the Crawl. Ploink rolls for 10 minutes, making several points and each of us a nice little profit. Foldem comes to the table, and rolls for ten minutes. I do the same. A local guy rolls for 15 minutes. I cash out with a $300 profit. Invincibility is making a comeback. Murray, Ron Nutt, Sethro, and Shelley Louie join me in a late night gut bomb at McDonald's inside the Fitz. Murray pulls the old "Hey, look at that!" grift and manages to steal half of my fries. I can't believe I fell for it. Off to the Four Queens. Many more Michelobs, and there may have been a couple of tequilas. I lose two hundred bucks. Invincibility appears to have moved, and didn't leave a forwarding address. It is now 4:00 am. To the Main Street Station. Their in-house-brewed pale ale is exquisite. The dice are not. I make a huge comeback, though, to wind up losing sixty bucks for the session. Net winner on the evening. Frank "Nut-Z" Brabec, who looks really really tired, says goodnight to his wife Shari, and leaves for bed. Moments later, Shari is rolling the dice, and Murray ambles up and asks her where Frank went. Shari, who will not remove her gaze from the table, says, "I think he went to bed, the wimp. COME ON, SIX!", and rifles the dice down the felt. Gawd, I love BARGE. R00ling moment at the table: The Gavin, who consistently gives the dealers a hard time for not paying him off on non-existent bets which he truly believes he's made, has the floor keeping a very close eye on him. I intervene in one such argument, and he seems to believe me that he isn't owed any money. The dice are now his, and after establishing a point of five, he rolls three consecutive 3-craps. The young Crips and/or Bloods at the other end of the table are giving him some good-natured ribbing. The Gavin shouts, "If I roll another craps this time, this guy," - pointing to me - "will punch me in the head, as hard as he can!" I cock my fist next to his ear, ready to carry out the sentence. He rolls the winner five. I give him a kiss on the cheek, and one of the gang-bangers runs down to our end of the table to high-five us both. I am overcome by emotion, and begin to weep uncontrollably. We stumble wearily back to the 'Shoe, spouting some crap about getting into a 4/8 game. Although I was nearly convinced to actually do it, I really wanted to give myself at least a remote chance at a better performance in that day's Tournament of Champions-style tournament. To bed, it is, as the sun begins to light the pre-dawn sky. THE BLIND PIG FINDS A TRUFFLE A Rip Van Winkle-esque 6 hour sleep later, I grab some breakfast at the Nugget, and head over for the ToC-style tourney. I am almost exclusively a hold'em player; I can sort of find my way around stud, but my Omaha/8 game..hell, I don't even have one. As a result, my expectations are lower than a snake's belly. My strategy is to lose as little as possible at Omaha, break even in stud, and make hay in the hold'em rounds. Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men..I made money every single stud round, broke essentially even on the Omaha rounds, and lost money on the hold'em rounds. Perhaps it's time to re-evaluate my areas of skill. I don't recall if I've ever played better poker in a tournament. I actually didn't suck too badly. A large factor in my success was a significant cheering section of BARGE buddies giving me constant encouragement; you know who you are, and I am eternally grateful. One even noticed that I seemed to win more pots when my chair was turned backwards; gonna have to remember that one. Down to two tables, and I am approaching short stack desperation status; the game has now switched to no limit hold'em for the duration. Sabyl arrives at our table with a very large stack. I manage to wake up with a couple of hands when she's open-raised, and take a significant number of chips from her, giving me some breathing room. One hand, I can't hold it any longer: I have to go so bad my back teeth are floating. I forego my under the gun hand and sprint to the washroom, when The Gavin gives all attendees a story for the ages, and I missed it. Here's how it went down from my perspective at the urinal: The Gavin is an excellent player, and is very, very dangerous when he has chips. He, along with Fich, is one of the two largest stacks at this point. He is also roaring drunk, and shows no signs of slowing down, in neither the poker nor boozing departments. >From the men's room, I hear the unmistakable bellow of The Gavin: "SEND IT BABY, SEND IT!",followed by loud whoops of joy, and huge laughter from the large gallery. I start to laugh out loud; I'm sure my fellow relievers at the other urinals instantly believed I was laughing at what I was holding in my hands that moment. But they were wrong. I return to my seat to hear that The Gavin, upon winning a huge pot, and screaming like a banshee, then sprinted through a victory lap around the entire perimeter of the tournament area, slapping high-fives to all he passed. Somewhere, Hale Irwin was very proud. I manage to steal a few blinds here and there, and every few minutes there's more applause as another player busts out. We are now consolidated to a single table, but there are ten left, and only nine get seats at the final final table. Fich is laying a holy beating on the table, his stack rivals the size of the debt of the state of California. One of the few times he had folded from early position, I open raise in the cut-off with a moderately strong hand I don't quite recall, even though I had only consumed one beer for the day (I can't believe I just wrote that, and that it's true). Chic Natkins, who is very short-stacked in the small blind, calls all in with QJo, and my hand holds up. (Chic had also bubbled in a Mirage tournament the day before; sorry, buddy.) I am greeted by several well-wishers with handshakes and high-fives. The most enthusiastic greetings are from Murray and Mickdog, who each own a percentage of me, by virtue of some pre-BARGE swapping. Oh, well, I know they'd probably be happy for me even if they didn't have a piece of me. Probably. Holy crap. I made the final table of a BARGE event. Get your bets down now: the Cubs just may win the Series this year. The table breaks at 5:30; the final table will commence at 8 o'clock, after the No-Limit Hold'em Calcutta.er, Symposium. I curse the extra hours in which to lose what little confidence I have mustered over the past five hours, but, at the same time, I welcome a break from the bone-crushing pressure. Man, that was hard work; any of you who have played in *ARG* events know that these tournaments must be the toughest low-limit tournament fields in the known poker universe. I was absolutely thrilled to have made it this far. Coming soon in Part IV (I know I said three parts, but I'm so goddamned long-winded): -The Black Hole of the Calcutta -The Search for Truffles: The Adventure Continues -I'm Never Inviting Murray Anywhere Again And much, much more ADB North Shore Mike A++ G++ PKR+ !PEG++ B++ TB ADB+ M-- ________ Thanks to PokerStars, Paradise Poker, and Quiotix Technologies for their generous sponsorship of BARGE 2003. From: "Mike McManus" To: Date: Tue, 26 Aug 2003 04:09:25 -0700 Subject: [BARGE] THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) - North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 - Part 4 (VERY LONG) THE BIG SLEEP (Or Complete Lack Thereof) ö North Shore Mike at BARGE 2003 PART IV NOTE TO THE UNINFORMED: BARGE is the Big August Rec.Gambling Excursion, a thirteen year-old tradition of drunken degenerate gamb00ling and debauchery that is unparalleled in the annals of time, except for my home game. It is held annually in Las Vegas on the first weekend in August. If you havenât been, you should; just like Vegas itself, it must be experienced at least once in oneâs life. Visit www.barge.org for more information. DISCLAIMER: This trip report is based on a true story, which means, just like in Hollywood, absolutely nothing. The authorâs PDA (a spiral bound 3x5 Mead notebook with cheap pen shoved in the spiral) came home with nary a single note, so all embellishments, exaggerations, and outright fabrications are meant only to entertain and amuse; please, no wagering. (When we last left our hero, he had somehow managed to suck out just enough to make it to a tournament final table·.) THE BLACK HOLE OF THE CALCUTTA Still in a daze (not unlike the previous three days) wondering how I managed to actually make a final table, I make my way upstairs to the banquet room for the Calcutta draw·er, I mean, ãsymposiumä. The Symposium has recently come under some fire from long-time BARGEâers; some say it goes on too long, some say it wastes valuable positive EV time at the tables, some bitch about the food. I, however, am one of those who actually enjoy the damned thing. Each player in the next dayâs No-Limit Holdâem event is paired with another, either randomly or with pre-arranged partner; each pairing is then auctioned off to the highest bidder. (Players who made the previous yearâs final table in this event are auctioned off individually.) Every player is auctioned. If you ãbuyä a player that makes the money in the event, you are paid the same proportion of the Symposium prize pool as the player is paid from the tournament prize pool. Simple, fun, and a cool way to stay in action even after youâre eliminated from the tournament yourself. To make it even better, each player can buy back a piece of his own action from his purchaser, so if you cash in the event, you can make an even bigger score. Note to the Nevada Gaming Commission: Of course, all purchases are made with play money. No cash actually changes hands. No, really, this is all just for fun. Seriously. Ask anyone. Cocktails and hors dâouevres for the entire event, in an unprecedented show of support for BARGE, are being generously supplied by the good folks at Binionâs Horseshoe. Since having to pay for alcohol in Las Vegas goes against everything I (and Las Vegas) stand for, this gesture is greatly appreciated. Fellow Canucks Murray, Ron and I decide to throw fifty bucks into a purchasing syndicate led by Foldem, and to possibly pick up a bargain or two on our own. I buy the pairing of Sean ãOscarä McGuiness and David ãHeldarä Heller for the Old Navy-esque price of sixty bucks. The Canadian Triumvirate picks up our C-HORSE teammate Ali Mohajer, along with somebody else whose name escapes me, for a similar price. I am purchased by Dave Croson, and buy back my action accordingly. Murray and I buy back most of The Gavinâs action from him. The action is furious, the atmosphere charged, as Foldem keeps pounding the gavel. I love this event. Murray and his pairing partner are bought by the Foldem syndicate, so we have a small piece of him, too. Foldem, always ready to make a BARGE virgin feel welcome, says to Murray: ãOh, Murray Logan is YOU?? Ferchrissakes, how about that? I was only interested in the OTHER guy!ä Nothing like building your horseâs confidence before the big event. THE SEARCH FOR TRUFFLES: THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES Throughout the Calcutta auction, I am trying to maintain something resembling focus on the final table of the TOC-style event that was due to start at 8:00 pm. I have my second and third beers of the day, trying to calm my jangling nerves; it helps, a little. After the auction ends in a BARGE-record of 90 minutes, the crowd filters out and downstairs, for ring games, dinner, or to watch the final table. The final table lineup is, as is the norm at these events, a formidable one. There is The Gavin, ADB Fich, Steve Watanabe, Beth Even, me, David ã/davidä Huberman, ãActionBobä Hwang, Gillian Groves, and Foldem. If you canât spot the fish in the first five minutes at the table·.. I notice that the table is covered with virtually brand new felt, with a World Series of Poker logo printed in the center. I ask David Huberman, who is immediately to my left, if this is ãtheä table, as in the final table at the Series. He confirms that he has been told it is. How cool is that? I turn to the sound of a London East End accent, shouting something in a voice that can only be described as a cross between Harvey Fierstein and Brenda Vaccaro. It is Derek, the Cock-Kneed Rebel, who has arrived on the scene with six Coronaâs for the table. He is babbling something which is completely incoherent; I get a good laugh from the crowd when I shout, ãEnglish only at the table, sir!ä The Gavin and Fich have monster stacks. Most of the rest of us are low, or on fumes; I have 3 times the big blind. We high card for the button, and I draw the under-the-gun spot. I am dealt ATo. Although I am nervous, I sense that so are a lot of the others; while I realize this is a total steal hand from UTG, as I canât stand a re-raise, I need chips fast. I want to win, not just creep up the pay ladder. I make it four times the big blind to go. All fold, and Iâve accomplished quite a few things here: I picked up some chips, I established (I hope) an aggressive image, and I put aside the rampaging herd of butterflies in my gut. Wanting to foster another side of my image, I ordered another Michelob. My attempt at re-establishing a drunken gamb00ler image goes largely unnoticed. The reason is two words: The Gavin. He is now ordering rum and Cokes two at a time. There is so little Coke in them that they are the color of iced tea. I bow to his prowess and skill as a boozer. And heâs a hell of a poker player, too: a dangerous combination, to be sure. I win another smallish pot a few hands later. Beth Even is first to bust when she calls all in with AKo, and doesnât improve. Foldem, who has nursed a tiny stack as far as he could take it, is next to go. ActionBob soon follows him. Fich and The Gavin are playing very fast (as they should), yet staying out of each otherâs way (as they should). While I wasnât quite desperate yet, I was the shortest stack and needed to find a way to double up soon. That hand came during the 2nd hand of the third orbit. It was folded to Fich, who was in 4th position of 7 players. He raised immediately to 4 times the big blind. Itâs folded to me in the big blind spot. I have an ace and a five, both of spades. Once The Gavin is out of a pot, Fich has been raising with pretty much any two cards, and has been quite successful. If I call, Iâm all in. I *hate* calling all in without a monster; itâs obviously much better to be raising all in than calling. But given my chip position, and given Fichâs very fast play, I called, and turned my hand over. He shows a king and a seven, offsuit. I am quite pleased. A seven hits the flop. I am quite displeased. No improvement, and I bust out in sixth place. Although I am experiencing the inevitable disappointment one feels after busting out of any tournament, I got my money in with slightly the best of it, and cashed for the first time in any *ARG* event, to the tune of $860. And theyâre US dollars, too: for a Canadian, that ainât so bad. ADB Jester, who is also a PokerStars employee, gives me a PS golf shirt for making the final table. I then fill out the requisite paperwork with the worldâs youngest looking tournament director, Jan Holubowicz, tip him a green chip, and leave the final table area, bolstered with the congratulations, backslaps, and hugs from my many well-wishers. Many, many thanks to all who cheered me on; it was a huge confidence booster for me. You know who you are. Torn between watching the rest of the event and my need for some quiet, I leave the ÎShoe, bound for the solitude of my room at the Nugget. Immediately upon leaving the ÎShoe, I am approached on Fremont Street by a beautiful young woman, who apparently has fallen on hard times. She offers me a watch, one of those vintage digital models where you have to press a button on the side of the case to light the LED time display. Succumbing to my sense of nostalgia, and a sense that I need to help her, I give her five dollars for it. She is grateful, and hugs me. I feel better immediately. After a brief respite watching a Jerry Springer episode (ãTranssexual Grandmothers Who Run Crack Houses And Have Slept With The Entire Trailer Parkä; I give it four and a half stars), I return to the Horseshoe intent on crushing the ring games. I sign up for the 10/20 Holdâem, and am seated almost immediately in the five seat. After a half hour, I have identified only one other decent player: BARGEâer John Reeves, who is very solid and occasionally tricky, in the two seat. Other than John, it is a good lineup. I get stuck early, though, as a couple of three outers on the river lay waste to my quest for poker supremacy. I scratch my way back, staying away from tilt and managing to successfully foster my boozehound image (yeah, like Iâm faking it·.). I am down about a hundred and fifty when some significant lineup changes take place; I should have quit then, but nobody ever accused me of being smart, and they wouldnât start now. ActionBob sits down in the 10 seat, in his never-ending quest for positive EV. Murray sits in the four seat, immediately to my right; while I donât fear either of these guys, I certainly respect them. At least I have position on one of them. The game is now seven handed, and getting tougher. My inner voice screams at me to leave the game and seek greener pastures. I, of course, ignore it, and order another cocktail. And then: The Gavin. Fresh off his victory in the TOC event, where he won $2880, The Gavin loudly announces his arrival at the table. He is, to be delicate, poop-faced. And having the time of his life. He blind-straddles every hand, and blind three bets when somebody else joins in on the straddle train. I raise to isolate whenever I have a half decent hand, but Murray and ActionBob are wise to this tactic, so isolation is rare. The few times my ploy is successful, The Gavin turns a straight, or rivers two pair, or makes some other miracle to crush me like a small furry animal. ActionBob immediately jockeys for the seat immediately to The Gavinâs left. No flies on Bob. The Gavin gets into a rather loud disagreement with a local. The floorman scolds the local (who is apparently a regular troublemaker), saying, ãThis man is a BARGEâer, and just won a tournament!ä, and the local is ejected from the room. After The Gavin cracks my made hand for what felt like the six hundredth time, I am stuck 2 racks, and into my third. The Gavin finally leaves for bed, as do Murray and ActionBob, and I continue to play short-handed until 9:30 am, making some headway through the quagmire, and I manage to leave the game with a loss of ãonlyä $480, which feels like a huge victory. Realizing that, if I sleep now, my chances of waking in time for the noon No Limit Holdâem event are only slightly higher than zero, I return to the Nugget for a cold shower, listening to Murray snore while I dress, and set out into the hot Las Vegas morning to seek out breakfast. The Carson Street CafŽ has a long lineup. I stroll to the Las Vegas Club, recalling someone telling me that their cafŽ is a decent value. IâM NEVER INVITING MURRAY ANYWHERE AGAIN Steak and eggs safely put away, I return to the ÎShoe to the tournament area, where throngs of eager BARGEâers are milling about. There is a table just outside of the tournament tables where a lineup has formed; I wander over to see what the commotion is about. The commotion, it appears, is warranted. Seated behind the table is Jill Ann Spaulding, the Paradise Poker spokesmodel. She is autographing photos of herself, posing for pictures and giving away Paradise promotional poker chips, worth fifty bucks in buy-in bonuses at Paradise. Jill Ann has a very large pair of·.eyes, and turns out to be a pleasant and charming young lady. Seated on Jill Annâs lap, and resting his head between her, um, attributes, is a tiny dog. The dogâs name: Holdâem. I am absolutely, positively, not making any of this up. My opening tournament table is, once again, no soft touch. Seated at my table, amongst a host of fine players, are Ming Lee and my roommate Murray ãLuckbucketä Logan, both of whom have position on me. Other players of note are Paul ãPrestoETä White, and Bill Chen, both superior players. Excellent, Smithers. The table is surprisingly passive. I manage to steal several blinds through the first 3 levels, sometimes with actual hands, sometimes without. PrestoET is also playing fairly aggressively; I resolve to stay out of his way. Murray doubles up early by cracking Billâs aces with two pair. Through three levels, I have managed to increase my T1500 starting stack to about T2200 (or so I thought·more on this in a moment). Since Murray doubled up, he has been uncharacteristically quiet, apparently content to wait for a big hand. Blinds are 50 and 100, when he open raises under the gun, making it T400 to go. Itâs folded to me on the button. I have pocket eights. I know heâd make this raise with any medium pair, and ace-king down to ace-jack. My sense is he does not have a pair. I make it T1700 to go, believing I have another T500 behind, hoping to pick up the pot right there if my read is good. Turns out that I only have T1680, completely misreading my stack size. He calls after a few seconds thought, and I know Iâm screwed. He wouldnât call a raise of that size with anything but tens or better, and I know heâd lay down AJ or AQ here, and maybe even AK. He shows me pocket tens, neither of us improve, and Iâm out, in what turns out to be the last hand before the first break. Iâve just traveled fifteen hundred miles to get knocked out of the main event by a guy from my home game. Crap. I feel like Charlie Brown in ãItâs the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!ä: ãI got a rock.ä I talked to Murray at the break about the hand, and we agreed that it was a ãyou know that I know that you know...ä kind of situation. He says that, if it was a player unknown to him, he probably would have laid it down to the re-raise; I tell him, that if the open-raiser was unknown to me, I donât make that re-raise. I donât believe my play was awful, given my knowledge of his play, but I have a nagging suspicion I still overplayed it. I wish him luck, and check on my other horses. The Gavin is out. So is David Heller. Oscar is still in, as is Ali. Still a chance to make some dough out of this, after all. I run into Foldem, and wonder aloud if I should play ring games, or take a nap. He again provides me with his unique brand of wisdom: ãHell, take a nap. You know weâre gonna be playing cards all night!ä Knowing heâs right, I head back to the Nugget for some rare downtime. THE VALUE-CHECK AS A WEAPON? COOL. Murray wakes me up, dropping the F-Bomb with vigor and regularity as he enters the room at 5:30 pm. He has just been knocked out of the tournament, on the bubble, no less. He describes his play as stellar, apparently getting knocked out by relative newbie Caryl Aronson when he had the best of it. He is pissed, while at the same time complimenting Carylâs play up to that point. I remind him how he comforted me when, at the Pot of Gold in September of 2002, our roles were reversed: I had just been knocked out on the bubble of the final event by Spencer ãZorakä Sun when his kings crushed my pocket eights (hmmm·.a pattern? Nolan Hee knocked me out of an ESCARGOT event in February when I held the exact same hand·.). I return the favor, consoling him by telling him to quit whining, just as he did for me back in September. Thatâs what friends are for. I shower, and we walk across Fremont to the ÎShoe. Upon entering the smoky haze, we run into Scott Burrington, one of my bestest BARGE buddies, and invite him to join us at the banquet. His eyes dart around the casino, desperately seeking an out, but he finally reluctantly agrees to join us. So we join hands, and skip through the casino singing ãKumbayaä together. The pre-meal cocktail party is hosted by our good friends at Paradise Poker. There is plenty of schwag being thrown about, including t-shirts and Nike golf balls. We load up on free stuff, and proceed to loading up on booze. The lovely Jill Ann Spaulding is also there, autographing more photos and glad handing with drooling BARGEâers. I resolve to bring back an incriminating signed photo, made out to Murray, and to present it to the angelic Mrs. Murray, Princess Leah, upon my return to civilian life. Thatâs what friends are for. I confess my evil plan to Jill Ann, who then confides in me with a wink that she also has an evil side. She says she knows just how to inscribe the photo. She writes: ãTo Murray and Leah: Thanks so much for the great 3-way. Love, Jill Ann.ä Not only beautiful, but funny, too. Just like me. Foldem announces an ADB group photo to be taken on the stage; thus do I attend, as a member, my first official ADB function. I only wish I knew which one of those bastards kept grabbing my ass while the photos were being snapped. We are joined at our banquet table by Ron Nutt, Ali Mohajer and his beautiful and witty significant other Jing, and The Gavin. It is a good mix of folks, and we have a blast. Chris ãJesusä Ferguson and Perry Friedman are at the next table, using spoons to try to catapult sugar packets into water glasses. It is a dignified affair. Dinner is followed by a speech by the esteemed Howard Lederer, who Foldem introduces as ãarguably the best poker player in the world todayä; Iâm not about to argue. Howard is clearly nervous as he begins, but quickly warms up and slides into an easy, conversational talk with many valid points. He talks about what he sees as the biggest mistake made by limit holdâem players: limping. He goes on to explain some important concepts, such as ãchecking for valueä, and ãthe bluff-callä. It is an informative and entertaining hour. MUST-DRINK CHORSE? IS THERE ANY OTHER KIND? A sign-up list makes itsâ way around the room, for those wishing to partake in the madness that is Saturday night at BARGE. There are lists for pot-limit, must-drink 4/8 CHORSE, and must-drink/must-straddle 4/8 Chowaha. Nothing for the faint of heart. I sign up for the CHORSE, and head downstairs to see whatâs what. I am immediately accosted by a very agitated Cock-Kneed Rebel. He has apparently just been barred from the poker room for throwing cards at a dealer in a 4/8 game, complaining that he was colluded against, there must have been a second gunman, the Illuminati control the world, and various other conspiracy theories. I tell him to simmer down, apologize to the floor, and Iâm sure theyâll let him back in. He refuses to calm down, and continues blustering. I tell him to put the tinfoil back on his head, and return to the mothership, and walk away as he carries on with his spittle-flying rage. I am quickly losing patience with this clown. The Saturday night chaos at BARGE is augmented by the Chip Castle Building Contest, where all game participants are encouraged to construct weird and wonderful sculptures made entirely of poker chips. First prize: a blue five-dollar chip. As a result, there is always a run on white one-dollar chips prior to the start of the games; this night was no different. When I go to the main cage to purchase a rack or three of white, I am told there are no more. This is not misprint: a Las Vegas casino is out of one-dollar chips. I sit down in the CHORSE game, and buy a couple of stacks of white from sympathetic comrades. Each of them have at least four racks, so itâs not like they couldnât spare them. Also in the game are Steve ãGoldiefishä Goldman, Warren Sander, ADB Ploink, ADB tiger123, Mitch ãADB BFBä Firestone, Chic ãGarnischmenschä Natkins, The Gavin, ADB Ploink, and an empty seat that purportedly belongs to Nolan ãADB Darksideä Dalla. Nolan soon appears, grinning like a schoolboy whoâs just put a frog down a girlâs dress. He tells us heâs just arranged something, and wonât give any more details. Hmmmm. The game, as you might imagine, was an ass-kickinâ affair, with many blind straddles and blind calls, and even the occasional blind three-bet. Every time the action gets to tiger123, he calmly asks the dealer, ãHow much is to me, sir? Twelve dollars?ä, then screams at the top of his lungs, ãI RAISE!ä Mitch keeps us boozing by throwing in an elliptical piece of cork with the word ãdrinkä silkscreened on it, and screaming ãDRINK POT!ä, whereupon every seated player must drink. Hence the name of the game. Itâs a ton of fun, even though I went through two hundred dollars in a half hour, playing $4/8. I relent, and give up my seat to Rick ãZbigniewä Bevan, preferring, at least for a while, the relative sanity of conversation with other non-participants. Meanwhile, the final table of the No Limit event has been going on for a couple of hours. Reports have been coming that Patti Beadles, Tom ãRebuyä Goodwin, and Johnny Davis, all fine players, are playing well and accumulating chips, but Paul Person is proving to be a thorn in their collective side. Soon we hear of the bustouts of Rebuy and Johnny D, leaving Paul and Patti in a headsup duel for the championship. There is a long pause now at the final table; spectators look around in confusion. Then, all of a sudden, poker room manager Tony Shelton appears with a cardboard box. He is accompanied by a stone-faced security guard, toting a shotgun. The prize money is being ceremonially paraded to the final table, just like the tradition at the World Series of Poker! This, apparently, is the surprise alluded to earlier by Nolan Dalla, and what a surprise it was. BARGEâers around the room are roaring with laughter, your faithful reporter being no exception. The money is dumped in a pile on the table: it is $3180 in one dollar bills. Unbelievable. Paul eventually prevails over Patti and takes home the cash and the hardware. Well done, Mr. Person, a fine champion you are. And, of course, if Mr. Person is unable to carry out his duties as BARGE No-Limit Holdâem Champion, then the crown will revert to Ms. Beadles for the duration of the term. Perhaps foolishly, I get a seat in the $1/2 blind mixed Omaha/Holdâem game, surrounded by such weak players as Len Greenberg, Barry Kornspan, ADB Jaeger, Bret ãMaverickä Roth, Andrew ãAndrewä Prock, ADB Ploink, and my arch-nemesis Murray Logan. I play for about 3 hours, managing to escape with a $20 loss, which I consider a victory. I spend most of the time trading barbs with Mr. Prock, who tries nearly every hand to peek at my hole cards. I say, ãYouâre a prick, Prock,ä about every three minutes, believing these to be the funniest words I have ever uttered. As usual, it is a fun table. Hand of note: Omaha round, Murray needs to use the menâs room, and allows a very drunk The Gavin to play his chips. After some pre-flop raising, The Gavin finds himself heads-up with Len Greenberg. Len bets out on the flop. The Gavin pushes all of Murrayâs chips forward, going all in. Len ponders for a few minutes. The Gavin says, ãIâll show you half my hand,ä and turns over a pair of deuces, which in no way coordinates with the board. After a few more seconds, Len folds. I ask The Gavin later what he had, and he says, ãA pair of deuces.ä Murray later relates that The Gavin told him he had the nuts. Itâs anybodyâs guess. I decide to try the pits one more time. I find some BARGEâers at a craps table, and I happily join the game. It is not a good run; I drop about $250 until ADB Jester rattles of a five minute roll, and I recoup about $100. While at the table, who should appear behind me, to my great annoyance, but The Cock-Kneed Rebel. His head is curiously devoid of tin foil: he has not heeded my earlier advice. He tells me that Murray has told him where to find me. Note to self: kick Murrayâs sorry ass. The Rebel is now obviously in search of a handout, which I do not provide. I tell him Iâm going to the menâs room, and to wait for me at the craps table. I leave with no intention of returning. I head to a blackjack table, and make about $180 playing two squares; there is a young couple from Los Angeles at the table, who ask my advice on several hands. The advice turns out to be profitable for them, and we are laughing often. There is a lovely young apprentice dealer named Mandi, with whom I flirt shamelessly, and, to my delight, she reciprocates. Life is good. I lose back a hundred or so at another blackjack table, and decide to call it a night. It is now approaching 6:00 am. Once again, I am drunk, happy, and exhausted. As I leave the pit area, I am once again accosted by the Cock-Kneed Rebel, who is now desperate for twenty bucks. He tells me he is making a remake of ãA Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forumä. Seriously, thatâs what he said. I tell him, in a loud voice, to at least come up with a decent story, and to leave me the hell alone. It was quite sad, actually. Then, I run into Mandi the cute dealer, and manage to get an email address from her. This later turns out to be fake. It was also quite sad, actually. Our plane leaves at 2:30 pm. I wander (stagger?) back to the poker room, saying goodbye to, and shaking hands with, anyone whoâd speak with me. Iâm sure I said goodbye to several of the janitorial staff, and the shoeshine guy, as well; there may have been a few BARGEâers I spoke with, too. I vaguely remember falling safely into bed at 6:30, and waking at 12:30 to Murray shaking me violently. We shuffle to checkout, and fall into a waiting cab. Thanks to the generosity of Chic Natkins and his fiancŽ allowing us to cut in front of them in the security check lineup, we make our plane by two minutes. We trade stories the entire flight home; Murray tells me this has been the most fun heâs ever had doing anything, anytime, anywhere. Who am I to disagree? It was terrific, the best *ARG event I have attended to date. The BARGE dynamic is difficult to describe, even though Iâve just taken a million words to try. I canât recall being part of any group, at any time in my life, that has such a sense of community, of brotherhood, and of trust. Canât wait to see you all again. Even you, Prock. Iâll be back. You can bet on it. Why donât you join us? Respectfully submitted, ADB North Shore Mike EPILOGUE: IN APPRECIATION Binionâs Horseshoe: Despite some unfortunate public-relations mishaps in the past few years, Binionâs ownership and management has shown time and time again that they not only understand the mayhem that is BARGE, they welcome and embrace it each and every year. I canât think of another property that would even come close to treating us as well as the ÎShoe. Thanks so much for your continued support of this chaotic yet uncontrollable event. Peter ãFoldemä Secor, Chuck Weinstock, and Michael ãKidZeeä Zimmers: For the tireless effort and joyous enthusiasm you bring to this event, I thank you all from the bottom of my black heart. Although KidZee was unable to join us this year, his hard work and dedication over the past decade have helped make BARGE the huge success it is today. We missed you, Mike; come back soon. PokerStars: To Dan Goldman, Sharon Goldman, Jeff Woods, and all the folks at PokerStars who couldnât join us, many thanks for your contributions to this wonderful event. You make BARGE a better place to be. Paradise Poker: Another of our benevolent sponsors, the folks at Paradise were a welcome addition to our little clambake. We hope this becomes a mutually beneficial relationship that will last many years into the future. Thanks so much for your participation and support. Quiotix Technologies: BARGEâers Brian Goetz, Michael Maurer and Jeff Siegal jumped into the fray as a sponsor on short notice, when another sponsor backed out. Thanks, boys, for helping us make BARGE 2003 an unqualified success, and I wish you the best with your poker server software. Patrick, Eileen, and Erin Milligan: Patrick, thanks for the use of your tournament clock software, and your tireless work on the BARGE chip committee. Eileen and Erin: your time and effort organizing the chip, pin, and coin sales do not go unnoticed. Thanks. Nolan Dalla: The King of The Darkside went out of his way as the only combination Binionâs employee/BARGEâer to help us in every way imaginable. Thanks, Nolan, and it was a pleasure getting to know you better this year. Murray says you have a nice cat, too. Jan Holubowicz: How can a fifteen year old be such a good tournament director? Jan, you did a fabulous job running our events, and I wish you every success in your career in the poker industry. Howard Lederer: Your speech at our banquet was as engaging as it was informative, sir. Thanks for taking some time to meet with us; it was a true pleasure. You gained a lot of fans that night. Binionâs Staff: While every Binionâs employee I had contact with treated me like visiting royalty, there are several who deserve special mention: Dealers Tommy, Mike, and Christina; cocktail waitresses Mary Ann and Lisa; floorman Mark, and poker room manager Tony Shelton: You all went out of your way to make us feel at home, and Iâm here to tell you it worked. You are all a credit to your professions, and to your employer. Thanks so much for enhancing the BARGE experience. BARGE Buddies, new and old: I love you all, and canât possibly mention everyone who contributed to making this such a fabulous event for me. While I consider you all to be my friends, there are several who stand out for me as ãbest BARGE buddiesä, in no particular order: Michael ãMickdogä Patterson, Scott Burrington, Scott ãScottroä Harker, Chris ãADB Ploinkä Straghalis, Peter ãADB Foldemä Secor, Patti Beadles, Andrew Prock, Walter Hunt, Len Greenberg, ActionBob, Randy Collack, Mike ãHowlerä McBride, Stevan Goldman, Chic Natkins, David Huberman, Ed Pizzarello, Lou Krieger, Beth Even, Gavin Smith, Kevin Un, Shelley Louie, Steve Carbonara, Marc ãThe Occupantä Gilutin, and Patrick Milligan. Finally, Iâd like to thank my good home game buddies Murray Logan and Ron Nutt, who finally made the trip with me this year to see what the hell it was Iâve been raving about since August 2001. Now you know, boys; now you know. NSM ________ Thanks to PokerStars, Paradise Poker, and Quiotix Technologies for their generous sponsorship of BARGE 2003.