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“Nicky Hilton and Kevin Connolly invite you to a New Year’s
Eve Tournament at Ceasars Palace.” What better way to usher
in the New Year than by playing poker? I was going to visit my
mom, but I quickly squeeze that visit in before Christmas,
leaving me free to ring in the New Year in the City of Sin.
Our comped room is the size of a football field. I literally get
lost looking for the bedroom. It has a kitchen and three
bathrooms. “Wouldn’t it be great,” says Phil stretching
out, “if we could have this room for the World Series of
Poker?” We imagine ourselves scattering our clothes far
and wide, and trotting into the kitchen at night to
microwave leftovers.
The tournament is being thrown by the nightclub
PURE to celebrate the opening of the new poker room at Caesars. The
participants are a mixture of the usual celebrity poker enthusiasts…
Shannon Elizabeth, Lance Bass… as well as a number of top pros, like
Scott Fischman, David Williams, and Mike Matusow.
The mood is lighthearted. The nature of the tournament has everybody
in a celebratory frame of mind. Because they are trying to come
up with a winner before eight, the blinds go up rapidly.
I soon find myself shortstacked. One away from the button, I push all
in with 5. 8.. The button, a friendly civilian, hems and haws and
finally folds. “I enjoy your company too much,” he says gallantly.
Unfortunately, the misplaced chivalry does not extend to the big blind.
He calls and rolls… pocket kings.
“It’s looking good for the 5-8!” I joke feebly. My joke, however, turns
out to be prophetic. The flop comes four to a flush, four to a straight. I
turn a flush. My opponent grimly counts out thirteen thousand dollars,
while Phil dashes off to figure out what the odds are of that happening.
Karma, however, can be a bitch. Two hands later, under the gun, I’m
the one with pocket kings. Cleverly, I just call. Limps all around, until
it comes to the same guy I tangled with earlier. He reraises, at which
point I happily go all in. He rolls… pocket queens!
A roar goes up. We draw a small crowd. “Baby, you’re going to double
up again!” exclaims Phil. But I have a bad feeling. I can smell that
third queen. I know it’s coming…and sure enough, it does…on the river.
“Sorry,” says my opponent, not sorry at all. Phil goes out shortly
after, and we retreat to our massive room for a nap.
For the last month, Antonio has been planning a New Year’s Eve
extravaganza at Tao. He calls Phil constantly to make sure he’s going.
Phil is noncommittal. “We don’t know
what we’re going to do,” he says. But he is
just torturing Antonio. Of course we are going.
Mike Matusow has got a table at PURE. “Make
sure you stop by,” he pleads. We like Mike, and because our
whole trip has been sponsored by PURE, we feel a certain obligation
to at least make an appearance. We decide we will swing by for
an hour or so, and then head on over to Tao.
But PURE turns out to be the best party ever. It is on the roof,
the breezes are balmy, and we can see all of Las Vegas below. The
club is all white, the waitresses are hot, and Mike has ordered bottles
of the finest champagne and vodka. Everyone is there, Chris
Ferguson, Gus Hansen… but it is not too crowded. Our section is
roped off so there is plenty of room to mingle and dance.
At midnight there are going to be fireworks. We revise our
plan. We will stay until the fireworks, and then head over to Tao.
But around 11:15, we start to get antsy. We did promise Antonio
we wouldn’t flake on him, and all Phil’s friends are waiting for
us. We feel a social obligation to head across town
“You’re crazy!” exclaims Mike. “At least stay for the fireworks!”
But we have made up our minds. We leave the club
and plunge into the seething mass of humanity below.
The streets are a cross between Spring Break and Day of
the Locust. The main drag is closed to traffic and filled with
drunken people going nowhere. Phil expertly eels his way
through the mob, pulling me along in my four and a half
inch Jimmy Choos. The Venetian, which seemed so close
when we left the hotel, is actually very far away.
A policeman gallops into the crowd to make an arrest,
and as he turns to go, holding the unruly recalcitrant by the
scruff of his neck, the hindquarters of the horse knocks me
to the ground. I am not too happy.
At
Tao there is a huge line, but someone recognizes me
and we get pulled into the gaping maw of the club. I have a
dim impression of red lights, candles, gyrating bodies, and hundreds of
horrid little marching Buddhas. It is a nightmare. Wall to
wall people. Everybody dancing, everybody drunk.
Phil naively believes he can just “find” Antonio. He doesn’t realize
how cavernous the space is. We wander along forever, circling the
room, peering into alcoves. My shoes are killing me. I’m dying to sit
down. New Year’s Eve comes and goes while we are standing by the
restroom, being jostled and pushed.
We finally find Antonio. He is in the middle of the action (of course)
and dancing on a table. There is nowhere to sit. His section is filled to
capacity with rowdy guys and party girls. “Dr. Laak!” he yells, waving
a drink.
We don’t stay for very long. On the trip across town we have somehow
lost our party mojo. People are spilling drinks on my shoes, and
burning my dress with cigarettes. It is too loud to talk, and we are not
drunk enough to dance. “Let’s get out of here,” I say.
The next morning we wake up with psychic hangovers. “We should
have stayed at the PURE party,” we mourn. “It was so nice… we could
have seen the fireworks.”
We are somewhat comforted when a gargantuan gift basket arrives.
It is full of perfume, chocolates, clothing (eensey spangly things in
size zero), and the requisite coupons for botox, laser eye treatments,
and gym memberships.
By nightfall we are fully recovered, and head over to the Bellagio to
play in some cash games. We sit down in Bobby’s Room, a glass
enclosed space reserved for high rollers. At the other table, Doyle
Brunson, Gus Hansen, Barry Greenstein, and Johnny Chan are playing
The Big Game…$4000/$8000 blinds.
“Phil,” I whisper, “Why don’t you sit over there…?”
“Why?” says Phil disinterested.
Well…because it’s the best poker players, and you’re one of the
best.”
“Jennifer,” explains Phil patiently, “where am I going to pick up the
most money? …At a table full of wizards, or a table of some wizards
and some fish?”
I realize Phil and I are different. He’s not in the business to match
wits with the best. He plays poker to take money out of the game. I
remember once he came back from a tournament where he placed
fifth, and was dismissive about the results. “Three days of work,” he
said contemptuously, “and I only made 16K.”
I stare wistfully at The Big Game. I imagine myself plunking down
at seat five with a big tray of pink chips. Since it’s my fantasy, I even
add Doyle Brunson making a groan of dismay, like “Oh no, Tilly’s
here…we might as well pack it up and go home…”
My happy reverie is interrupted by Larry-the-Lock. He scampers
over very excited, and whispers something in
Phil’s ear. Phil looks mildly interested. “No kidding?”
he says.
It appears Paris Hilton has crashed Larry’s game.
Because it was a rotation game, it was the only table
with empty seats; so the Brush decided to place her
there. When Paris complained that she only wanted to
play Texas Hold’em, the table quickly took a vote and
decided to switch over to accommodate her.
There is a brief flurry of excitement when it appears
Paris may move over to our table. David Williams
comes over and throws down three chips to save the
last three places. “She wants to play a bigger game,” he
explains, “and our table won’t agree to raising the
stakes.” One guy switches seats so he can sit next to her
when she arrives.
But half an hour goes by and Paris doesn’t materialize.
Larry-the-Lock comes over with an update. Paris is sucking
out big time. She is flopping incredible hands, flushes…
straights… and taking everybody’s chips. She has
changed her mind. Happy now, she will stay where she is.
I decide to go over and investigate. It isn’t difficult to pick Paris out
of the crowd. She is wearing a scrap of lavender chiffon and spindly
high heels held onto her ankles with a bit of ribbon. Her eyes droop
under the weight of heavy fringed lashes. Among the heavyset poker
players with their dingy stretched out T-shirts, she stands out like an
exotic bird trooping with pigeons.
I stare at her, fascinated. What must it be like to be Paris Hilton?
Everybody else is trying not to stare. She catches my gaze and gives
me a vague half smile. I go back to Phil’s table. “She’s wearing purple,”
I report.
I sit behind Phil and watch him wheedle, cajole, and entertain people
out of their money. Watching him in action, I understand why he
is so much better at live games than online.
He lets me sweat his hand, which makes me nervous. I would never
let someone look at my hole cards during a money game.
If I were at a table where that was happening, I would, for sure, look
at the girlfriend for tells. Once Phil was playing a young guy in a high
stakes game. His girlfriend wandered back and, as they so often are,
was bored and tired and wanted to go home. There was a huge amount
of money in the pot, and her boyfriend had just made an enormous
river bet.
“I think you have me beat,” said Phil. “You have a flush, don’t you?”
“He doesn’t have anything!” interrupted his girlfriend petulantly.
“He always bluffs!”
So of course Phil called, and she was right… he was bluffing. So the
moral of this story is: maybe it’s not such a good idea to let your girlfriend
watch you play cards.
I think I’m a little more poker savvy than the average girlfriend, but
still…I’ve figured out my tell. If Phil has a good hand, I look elaborately
disinterested, like I’m bored and I want to go home. Sometimes,
being the bad actor that I am, I even yawn.
By the time we walk back to Caesars, we are pretty happy. Phil has
upticked his net worth by not playing with wizards, and I got to see
Paris Hilton. All in all, an auspicious start to the New Year.
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