The Last November Nine?

I was perusing my own archives yesterday, ostensibly to select some of my better pieces as writing samples for prospective employers. Not that there are any of those knocking my door down these days, but better to be prepared, right? In between my realization that I had not composed a traditional resume in over 12 years and the desire to bathe my scratchy throat with a glass of ice-cold chocolate milk, I came upon a list of op-ed ideas I'd scribbled down on October 4, 2010. One of them jumped out at me.

"Has the November Nine run its course?"

I didn't end up penning that one. I probably could or would have written the opposite side of that argument in 2008 or 2009. Back then, it was an innovative idea that had the potential to generate a lot of revenue for Harrah's and the "Niners" alike. And for a while, it did.

Later that day, I read this PokerListings piece, in which writer Arthur Crowson questions WSOP communications honcho Seth Palansky about the future of the November Nine.

“We’re committed to it but I think what we learned over the summer with the live and taped programming is that we’re going to have to revisit the concept after this November,” clarified Palansky.

My, how one year changes everything.

More than six months post-Black Friday, we've seen the poker television landscape decimated. Poker After Dark? No mas. NBC Heads-Up? No mas. My favorite new poker show The Big Game? No mas. And ratings for everything else, including the slickly packaged Mori Eskandani-produced WSOP broadcasts? In. The. Shitter. I'll go out on a limb and say that even if the events of Black Friday hadn't occurred, the drastic culling of poker TV hours was still an inevitability-- it just would have taken more time.

Bottom line? People just don't seem to want to watch it anymore, no matter how many bells and whistles are tacked on. Heck, even I don't watch it anymore and I'm supposed to be one of those "hard-core fans" producers and advertisers and network execs count on. These days, if I'm going to dedicate hours to watching poker, it's in the form of a strategy video or a final table replay-- something that can (and has) enabled me to make more money in live games. Because I'm sure not making it in the media anymore. And living in San Francisco sure is expensive.

This year's November Nine will more likely than not be the last one we see. One of the primary reasons for creating the four-month delay was to give the Niners the opportunity to pick up sponsorships, do a shitload of publicity, and "build anticipation" for the final table. Now, with poker's principal advertisers and sponsors (online poker sites) sidelined in the United States, what sort of deals are these guys going to get, if any? Mainstream corporate sponsorship has been the holy grail the Harrah's brass has sought for the WSOP since the boom, but their quest has largely come up empty in terms of the November Nine (and not for lack of trying. Really really trying). Rather than wearing patches touting Nike, Red Bull, or Mercedes-Benz, the Niners have largely shilled PokerStars, Full Tilt, and various online training sites. Oh, and that patio furniture company that threw a few bucks at The Grinder last year.

Not only has poker's sponsorship model drastically changed/disappeared, the game's delivery system has evolved. Rather than sticking with a produced, tightly packaged episodic format aired months after an event's completion, more and more of them are being live streamed online. Broadcasts like Live at the Bike and EPT Live pioneered this concept as far back as 2005, and it's now being widely used on the WPT, the WSOP-Circuit, and the WSOP itself. It provides instant gratification for the viewer, and technological advances have made it much cheaper and easier to implement. What sort of hard-core fan will still sort through hundreds of hands on a live blog trying to extrapolate the action when he or she can simply watch it all unfold on a 15-minute delay?

Put it this way. I watched the live stream constantly while the WSOP Main Event was playing down to a final table this July. But I haven't watched a single packaged WSOP episode on ESPN this year. And I'll probably watch the live stream again next weekend when the cards go in the air inside the Penn & Teller theatre.

Fans haven't changed, but their appetite for certain delivery systems has. I don't watch movies in 2011 the same way I watched them in 1999 and I don't follow poker the same way I did in 2007. Only three years ago, I made the bulk of my income live-blogging tournaments and now it's a method that is nearly obsolete. The optimist in me thought the death of tournament reporting and the rise of the live stream might give way to a rebirth of longer-form poker writing, but Black Friday put a stop to that when the taps of the two online behemoths pumping cash into the industry were abruptly turned off.

Magazines and online sites I once wrote for have precious few advertising dollars rolling in. Some have folded altogether. Others will no doubt follow in the coming dark years of the game, before the U.S. Government gets their shit together and finally legalizes online poker. But I have no more faith in those charlatans and snake-oil salesmen than I do in Full Tilt Poker, who still owes me $1,945 of my own money.

I believe there's a larger reason why folks have stopped watching televised poker. It's not only that the casual fans stopped tuning in as the boom drew its last breaths. It's not only that Black Friday effectively stopped the influx of new American players to the game. It's not only that televised final tables were increasingly made up of people folks had never heard of rather than familiar old-school pros. It's all of those things, but it's bigger than that.

People aren't just broke, they're broken. They are so fucking broken they're actually starting to turn off the Real Housewives and rise up out of their self-induced collective coma against the institutions rigging the game in this country. Russ Hamilton's crimes are downright quaint when held up against the shit Goldman Sachs gets away with every single day. With economic depression, high unemployment, falling wages and a bleak future facing the citizens of our hopelessly sold-out country, who the hell wants to watch a bunch of 23 year-olds in hoodies play cards for millions of dollars? Why give a rat's ass about the newest poker-minted millionaire when you can't even play a $10 sit-n-go in your own home anymore thanks to our government?

Think about why people got hooked on televised poker in the first place. Not just because they found it exciting and suspenseful, but because they knew anyone could win. Anyone could ship a satellite package online and parlay that into tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars in a live event. Anyone could end up under those lights, popping champagne with Mike Sexton. Lots of "anyones" did, and millions were inspired to play. Without that carrot, it's well, just an empty stick. Live streaming will sate the diehards and perhaps the Main Event will always live on in some form of edited package, but I expect even more programming to die out unless online poker makes a quick, legal comeback.

On April 15, thousands of people who once had a way of supporting themselves outside the system had their way of life taken away with one stroke of Preet Bharaha's pen. When it comes to the fall of online poker in the U.S., the powers that be weren't getting their "fair share" of that juicy green pie. So they leveled the industry altogether in order to eventually weasel their way in. It won't happen in the short-term, but it will happen eventually. There may be time pressure for those clinging to the last vestiges of the industry, but there's no time pressure for them. Our money will always be there, ready for the taking the minute that tap is turned back on. Perhaps when the big banks finally start collecting all those precious transaction fees from online poker players we'll see someone in a JP Morgan Chase patch at the final table. Remember, guys. You're only allowed three. B of A gets three too, and so does Citibank.

I didn't apply for a press credential to last year's November Nine. I drove out there, saw some friends, dropped off Pauly and was back on I-15 south before cards went in the air. I didn't apply for them this year either, even though I will be in Las Vegas when someone finally holds that bracelet aloft. You're more likely instead to find me somewhere off the Strip, in a cash game or a nightly tournament, iPod in my ears and 16 oz. of steaming coffee in my cup holder, trying to grind out the rent money. After all, I do have another skill set that has thus far helped me avoid complete financial ruin. I might as well use it.

For what it was, though, the November Nine certainly had its moments. And most of them revolved around the friends, family, and fans of the players who came out to support them, often in matching specialized shirts (seriously, who doesn't love a group costume?). I'll miss their infectious energy and I'll miss the spectacle, but they'll no doubt be channelled into whatever new delivery system the Harrah's brass conjure up. A 48-hour delay? A week? Maybe I'll be around to cover it live, maybe I won't.

But I'll surely be watching the stream.

2011 November Nine photo by Jay "WhoJedi" Newnum

WSOP Flashback: Leaving Los Angeles, 2008

I was told on more than one occasion that the "jail sentence" metaphor I conjured up in this post led to my eventual sacking from a certain media outlet more than two years later (can you concieve of a more bullshit excuse?). Nevertheless, I believe it speaks honestly to what we all feel around this time each year as we prepare to bunker down for seven weeks in Las Vegas.

Desert Calling
originally posted 5/26/2008

In many ways, it's like preparing for a jail sentence. You get your affairs in order, leave sets of instructions, close up the house, give the keys to its caretaker. You say goodbye to your loved ones and warn them that you may not call a lot because the hours are messed up and one day tends to bleed into another as the sun rises and falls, rises and falls over the parched Nevada desert. You know that in a week's time words like Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday will cease to matter; only Day 1, Day 2, Day 3. You know that 2 a.m. will, at some point start to feel like 2 p.m., that meals will happen whenever there is time, and that little time at all will be spent in the scorching outdoors.

Your new home is a room the size of an airplane hangar cooled to the temperature of a refrigerator and you'll spend over 500 hours serving time in there over the next seven weeks. You've committed no crime, but you're a repeat offender. You know the consequences, you understand how punishing the grind will be. But you're still drawn there. Drawn to the lights in the desert. Drawn to the clatter of chips and the promise of fortune and the patches of darkness that lurk around every corner of the city. Year after year. Summer after summer. Three of them now.

The sun, unforgiving. The heat, persistent. Oppressive. Unfathomably dry. The valley, overflowing with identical tract houses in various states of construction or foreclosure. The roads, newer and wider the further you drive away from the highway. Mile upon mile of chain restaurants, discount superstores, anonymous office parks, and subdivision after subdivision after subdivision. The Strip, it's grimy sidewalks sizzling, overflowing with tourists from California, from St. Louis, from North Carolina, from Utah, from London from Stockholm from Melbourne. They come to escape. To gamble. To get married. To find Elvis. They come to see America. They come seeking a dream. They come seeking a quick fix. They leave and come back, leave and come back. But always come back. They always come back. I always come back.

We wonder how we got here, how any of us got here, and why, after all we know, we continue to return. On every drive through the desert I wonderwhat were those slings and arrows of fate that turned me off Wilshire Boulevard and onto this two-lane highway?

24 hours. To pack, to prepare. To plot. To brace. To sleep. To inhale those final lungfulls of ocean air and enjoy the comfort of a cool breeze.

The lights in the desert are calling. I have to answer.

Media Banned from Playing WSOP Bracelet Events

Via a tweet from Lee "@Chingster23" Davy it leaked out this morning that an "unwritten" WSOP rule forbids credentialed members of the media from playing WSOP bracelet events.

"Just been informed by WSOP that I cannot play in a WSOP event if I am also going to carry out Media work. Just saved myself a lot of money," he wrote.

I guess the year of the poker media is over, at least when it comes to World Series events.

I've spent the last five summers doing nothing but promote the WSOP. I've spent every June evening since 2006 grinding out live updates, and now the powers that be are telling me and everyone else who has worked their ass off on media row that their money is no longer welcome in the Amazon Room. And in such a circuitous way. When, exactly were we going to find out about this "unwritten rule" had Chingster23 not brought it to everyone's attention? Before or after we picked up our credentials three weeks from now?

Playing in a WSOP event is the highlight of the summer for many members of the poker media. It's a needed reprieve from the grind of reporting and a rare opportunity to live in the world we spend our days writing about from the sidelines. Sure, Harrah's will gladly take the media's money when they charge us $8 for a stale pizza at 1 AM, but should they want to plunk down a grand to take a shot at the dream they are really selling-- a bracelet-- that money is no longer welcome. Or, as Pauly said to me a few minutes ago, "Poker is a game of skill. They don't want you to play that. But they have no problem with you donking off your paycheck at craps or pai gow. Or in my case, they'll gladly take your sports bets."

A lot of us in the media rely on poker to supplement our income. We make barely enough to get by as it is. Even those lucky to have jobs or a few paying freelance clients have seen our paychecks shrink up significantly over the last year. Now, with online poker no longer an option for those of us living in the U.S. (as well as the foreign media working at the WSOP-- they can't play from Vegas either) we're left to make that money up in live games. I know I was planning on grinding a lot more this summer to cover my expenses. Now I'll just have to take my business across the street to the Venetian.

Oh, wait! But satellites and cash games are OK! Hold on... I can play a satellite for a WSOP event, but I can't play the event itself? What the fuck am I supposed to do with my lammers then, since selling them is technically illegal? There's another "unwritten rule" for you, or at least that's what I was told both times I was busted by security last year for doing just that-- a practice as old as WSOP satellites themselves. Why, then would I choose to give Harrah's my rake in the cash games when there are plenty of other options?

The WSOP knocked over a hornet's nest with this one. They broke the cardinal rule- don't upset people with pens or a platform. Just as I was getting excited about my annual sojurn to Vegas, that "pilgrimage" Ty Stewart so elegantly described on this morning's media conference call, I'm finding nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.

**Update**

2:42pm: Well that took only ninety minutes. See what happens when the poker media actually works together? I got a voicemail from WSOP pooh-bah Seth Palansky just a bit ago reassuring me that I'd be able to play bracelet events this summer. He followed it up with this two-part tweet from the @wsop account:

"Is it too late to say April Fools Poker Media? (j/k) I screwed up. I hear you. We'll come up with an alternative that lets u do both. Give me a day to vet, but I think there's a way to do this that is more fair. Will provide details as soon as we can, but please rest easy."

Thank you, WSOP for listening. And thank you, poker media for a quick, decisive response.

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems: The Tiffany Michelle Story

Tiffany Michelle, playing on Day 7 of the 2008 WSOP Main Event

What was supposed to be the best day of Tiffany Michelle's life turned out to be one of the worst.

Returning to the Rio for Day 7 of the WSOP Main Event, all eyes were on Tiffany-- not just because she had gone to bed the night before third in chips in poker's premiere event, not because she was the only woman (and a young, attractive, and articulate one at that) remaining among the final 27 players, and not because she was poised to break a slew of records that day for women in poker.

No, everyone in the media was lurking around her table at the start of play on Day 7, myself included, to see what logo or logos she'd be wearing. As everyone's favorite internet doctor wrote the night before on the Tao of Poker while I slept off that day's 14-hour shift at the Rio, "Tiffany Michelle's breasts had become a battleground."

Would it be UB or Stars? Stars or UB? Who would cough up the most dough? Who would promise her the world in terms of sponsorship, tournament buy-ins, publicity, and free international travel? Or would Full Tilt or Bodog come up the middle with a last-minute offer that just blew everyone else's out of the water?

As we all know by now, Tiffany took her seat only minutes before the start of play wearing one Ultimate Bet logo on her right shoulder, another on the front of her hat, and a PokerNews patch on her left shoulder. And on any other day over the course of the last five years, this probably wouldn't have mattered at all.

The night before, as I sat freezing underneath an air conditioning vent in the Amazon Room, my hoodie zipped up to my neck and my teeth chattering, I read Nat Arem's explosive post, revealing that one of Ultimate Bet's confirmed superuser accounts was registered to a Las Vegas address belonging to Russ Hamilton-- the 1994 WSOP Main Event champion and a principal at UB. I had just heard Annie Duke's interview on Poker Road Radio the day before, where she basically ran over everyone's questions and played the apologist for UB... albeit in a very convincing manner. Annie is an intelligent woman and has a serious investment to protect in terms of the UB brand, along with her own reputation within the industry.

At this point, Tiffany had been wearing a UB logo for about two days along with the PokerNews logo she had worn since Day 1, which she was contracted to wear per her backing agreement.

Jeffrey Lisandro, one of Tiffany's backers, had been hovering around the Amazon Room all day on Day 6. The other, PokerNews owner Tony G., had already left Las Vegas several days prior. The UB scandal was blowing up, and so was Tiffany's chip count. Personally, I was concentrated on the task at hand-- reporting the tournament-- but couldn't help but notice all the little side conversations that were taking place in the empty back quadrant of the room, which, until only 48 hours prior, had been a sea of poker tables. PokerNews people and Tiffany's agent, Katie Lindsay. PokerNews people and other agents. And Lisandro himself, putting his arm around Lindsay and walking off with her to have a private discussion. The war over Tiffany Michelle was in full swing as she sat 100 yards away, propped up on her knees, playing in the biggest game of her life.

I spent 8 years in the Hollywood machine and dealt with a lot of agents in my time. They are some of the most ruthless, yet sickeningly hardworking people you will ever meet. The client's interest is your interest, and it is the only interest. Everyone else can go fuck themselves. Agents can piss people off and get away with it because they hold the keys to the castle by controlling the talent. Talent is the only real currency in Hollywood. Producers, financiers, studio executives, marketing divisions, publicists? Without the talent what do they have?

The genesis of Tiffany Michelle's poor handling of her sponsorship deals came with her choice of agent. Tiffany's agent is a young woman named Katie Lindsay, who recently set up a shop called Suited Connections. She is the "President and Director of Player Relations" as well as the agency's solo practitioner. According to the website, her clients include Bryan Devonshire, Alec "traheho" Torelli, Peter "number1pen" Neff and Adam "Roothlus" Levy. Katie has been around the poker world for a few years, primarily writing quote-laden player interviews for magazines like Poker Pro and websites like (the Tony G-owned) PokerWorks. Like Tiffany, she lives in Los Angeles and the two run in the same circle of friends. I do not know Katie personally, nor do I know exactly when exactly she began representing Tiffany.

The deeper Tiffany Michelle got in the Main Event, the more Katie Lindsay got in over her head. The more Katie Lindsay got in over her head, the more people tried to encroach on that agent-client relationship. To put it in Hollywood terms, let's say Tiff had just booked a series regular role on an NBC sitcom but was still represented by a one-man firm in the Valley. The minute that news gets out, bigger and better agents are going to target her. And then her decision becomes-- do I be loyal and stay with my friends/the people that supported me since day one? Or do I ditch them in favor of someone who really knows how to advance my career?

This was Tiffany Michelle's one shot. But it was also Katie Lindsay's shot. And a shot for "Hollywood" Dave Stann, her boyfriend of several years, who represents the UB brand on its "Ultimate Blackjack Tour"(founded and run by Russ Hamilton) Stann also recently appeared on the Fox Sports Net program "The Best Damn Poker Show" starring UB spokespeople Phil Hellmuth and Annie Duke.

It's no secret that Stann is close friends with Duke. Duke herself has written on her personal blog numerous times about socializing working out with, and doing master cleanses with Stann in Los Angeles.

Ultimate Bet. Annie Duke. Dave Stann. For the two of them, there is a brand, personal reputations, and untold sums of money to protect here. Tiffany Michelle allowed herself and her impending public visibility to be used by two people close to her to protect their business interests.

Which leads me to ask this question-- how major of a role did Annie Duke play in this whole saga? She was in communication with representatives from PokerNews according to The G himself on his personal blog (bold emphasis mine):

"I keep wondering how Katie, Tiff’s agent, would even consider doing this deal with Tiff and how Tiff would not think that her first responsibility for advice and planning should come from PokerNews. I had been working on putting a deal together for Tiff with PokerStars and they had just emailed me. I knew Tiff could become a huge star and I was going to allow her to do a deal that would protect PokerNews also for the main event. We had it all set with PokerStars and she was going to get millions out of it with at least $1M in buy-ins no matter where she finished in the main event. I know that with UB she did not even get a signed contract and I believe Tiff’s agent does not have any direct contacts with big sites and UB was her agent’s only choice. We asked Annie Duke to get Tiff to pull the gear and Annie agreed. And then Tiff came out with the UB logos all over her for the final devastating day of her main event. UB said that Tiff chose to wear it."

What on God's green Earth makes anyone turn down that kind of deal with PokerStars, a site that boasts a spotless reputation, in favor with any deal with Ultimate Bet on the very day one of its officers has been implicated in the largest cheating scandal ever to hit online poker AND after one of the primary parties facilitating that deal gives her permission to walk away from it? It absolutely boggles my mind.

But when friends, and even lovers are involved, this suddenly starts sounding like the plot of a bad chick lit. Should I be loyal to my friends (even if they're on a sinking ship)? Or sell out to the highest bidder?

No one has, or ever will get rich from poker tournament reporting. Tiffany Michelle and I could both tell you that. And if you're from somewhere like Los Angeles, where the cost of living is through the roof, at times it's barely enough to get by. Us media types work gig-to-gig and with all the exclusive media contract shenanigans that have happened over the last year, we've all lost work. I'm really lucky to be one of the few U.S.-based reporters out there that has been able to keep getting steady work, not to mention amazing travel opportunities. But we're all far from wealthy.

I've been mentally putting myself in Tiffany's shoes for the last 48 hours. I've tried to imagine it. Getting backed into the Main Event by my employer. Surprising everyone by making it to Day 2. And Day 3. And making the money. And amassing a huge stack on Days 4 and 5. People in the media hypothesizing about how making the final table would not only be great for women, but for the poker world as a whole. Reading about all of this, or if not reading it, being told. Hearing whispers. It was impossible not to sense it if you were in the Amazon Room that day.

And then, getting money thrown at you. The kind of money you've really never seen before.

I heard figures starting at anywhere from $10,000-$15,000 for Tiffany to wear the UB logos on Day 5. That's in line with a typical sponsorship deal with an online poker site. These deals also include escalating bonuses if one makes the ESPN featured table, the final table, or if they win. Bonuses for winning are $1 million or more. When you're in the money for about $50,000 or so, but are only getting a third of it due to your backing arrangement, there's not a ton left over. So the hat and shirt money really does matter. At that stage, it's going to double or even triple your take after taxes.

But, as fate would have it, the biggest bombshells about the Ultimate Bet cheating scandal dropped right as Tiffany Michelle was being miked up for the cameras on the featured table on Day 6 of the WSOP Main Event...all while wearing two Ultimate Bet logos. For anyone else, it might not have been as big of a deal. If an unknown player with her stack size wanted to dump UB and slap on Stars, it could be as simple as giving UB back their money and getting a new check from their new sponsor. But Tiffany was not an unknown player. After Mike Matusow busted in 30th place, Tiffany was arguably the player of most interest remaining in the field. She was a young, attractive, articulate, and camera-savvy woman among a field of relatively anonymous, 20 and 30-something men. Everyone was watching her now. The pressure was on.

Tiffany chose to stick with her friends. And by friends, I mean "Hollywood" Dave Stann, Katie Lindsay, and Annie Duke. This decision could literally cost her millions.

Only hours after she busted out in 17th place, PokerNews issued an official statement regarding Tiffany's appearance at the Main Event. I was at the ESPN Featured Table, covering the final 10 players when the statement hit the front page of PokerNews. It rattled me, but I had to forget about it and push through to finish the task at hand. Getting to the final table. The "November Nine" or whatever the hell you want to call it. I felt like the strong wording was a bit of a knee-jerk reaction on the part of the author or authors, and I couldn't believe it came out then, during the bell lap of the WSOP.

Tiffany went on PokerRoad Radio on July 15 to explain why she elected to stay with UB.

"Early on as I kind of started doing well, they were the first and only site that was interested in throwing something on me and I think a lot of people don't know the inner workings, all of the things that went on. It's easy to have sites jump out of the woodwork when cash symbols start popping up above my head, when I start making it deep... and I just have to say early on, way before patches were even issued they said 'You know what, yeah, we want to throw a patch on you and we want to start talking.' So I had to respect and honor that out of everybody else, they were the first ones that were there and they were so supportive all along. As you guys know, when things started getting deep... the business, weird pressure, just everything started coming out of the woodwork, they personally stepped up and were so behind me and handled so much drama for me and they were, I felt, like the only ones saying 'You know what, guys? Tiffany is in the middle of the World Series of Poker Main Event-- back off! She has really important stuff to do.' When all these other people are trying to get in for their own personal gain, they were ones that just said 'We'll take care of everything, play your game and do well, this is awesome for you and enjoy it.' And that meant the world to me. I know so much stuff has gone down. Let the past be the past. I understand people are going to be upset about stuff but on a personal level, I was humbled and could not believe what respect they showed me as a person and as a player to just say "We want to handle everything else for you so you personally can do your best in this event and that was huge for me."

When asked by Court Harrington if the current UB scandals influenced her decision to remain with the brand, Tiffany replied:

"Ultimately, what's happened has happened. The people that I have dealt with and how they have dealt with me-- I have so much respect. It's hard, because obviously everyone hears in the media what's going on, but you don't hear some of the shady stuff that goes on with the other poker sites. When players start doing well, and the bidding wars and how people treat you-- that's not in the media. I got to see that on a first-hand experience what went down behind the scenes and I had respect for how they treated me, so I can only go with my convictions with early on what happened. It would have been easy to jump ship, it would have been easy to get outbid, and go with a higher dollar figure, it would have been so easy. I honored my commitments and I felt like you know, regardless of what anyone else says, stuff happens, that's really in the past and I can only go for how I was treated and it meant the world to me."

Tiffany Michelle had the heartbreaking misfortune of getting- and taking- bad advice from people she cared about personally while she was playing on the biggest stage in poker. I say heartbreaking because I know Tiffany. She's a sweet girl, a really lovely person who has always been a bright spot in the poker media and I'd have loved to see nothing more than her becoming a huge star from this. However, the best path to her doing that would be to have dumped Katie Lindsay, called up Tony G, and taken that PokerStars deal. She could be playing the circuit for the next few months, seeing Europe for free via the EPT, and increasing her visibility right before the Main Event airs on ESPN.

Instead, who knows what will happen with regard to Ultimate Bet in the interim. And there she'll be, wearing their logo just as the cheating scandal hits 60 Minutes.

Disclaimer/Stipulation: I am not an officer of PokerNews.com, but have worked for them as a freelance writer and tournament reporter for nearly two years. These opinions are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of PokerNews.com.

Tiffany Michelle Going Deep in the WSOP Main Event

Tiffany Michelle and her 3.3 million in chips

My PokerNews colleague, the positively fabulous Tiffany Michelle is currently third in chips with 93 players remaining in the WSOP Main Event. Hailing from Los Angeles, CA just like your humble hostess, Tiff has spent the day under the lights at the Bluff Feature Table, just outside the ESPN main stage. With over 3.3 million in chips as we return from the Day 5 dinner break, she's one of only two women remaining in the tournament. Closely sweating Tiffany is the 2007 Main Event's longest-lasting woman, her good friend Maria Ho.

A little-known fact about Tiffany-- she's a certified massage therapist. Many times this summer, she's found me hunched over my laptop and stopped to work the knots out of my shoulders. When Pauly pulled a muscle in his arm, rendering it essentially useless while in the middle of reporting the EPT Grand Final in Monte Carlo, Tiff worked on it tirelessly, enabling him to at least function.

Here's wishing Tiffany continued good luck, and for updates on her progress, head over to PokerNews.

(Photo courtesy of PokerNews)

The Barometer

It's the first night in weeks when it's felt nice to sit outside. The outdoors has been an inferno only tolerated in minutes-long doses and the walk across the virtual skillet that the Rio parking lot becomes in the daylight hours has been, again, the worst part of each one of the string of identical days I've lived since last posting on this space.

Get up. Throw self in shower. Get dressed. Eat pancakes. Drive to the Rio. Work. Eat Dinner. Work. Drive home. Rip bong hits. Sleep. Repeat.

When I open the door to my car, the heat slaps me in the face like opening an oven door. It's too hot to get in immediately. When I touch the seatbelt to fasten it, my fingers sting against the scorching metal. The A/C must cool the wheel before I attempt to grip it. And in the five minutes it takes the car to cool down to a manageable level of air temperature, the shower I just took is rendered moot.

So sitting out here tonight, next to the pool with my bong and my laptop and the wind in my hair is nice. My time at Scheckytown has really made me miss living in a house after spending the last 13 years or so moving from shitty apartment to shitty apartment.

But God almighty, do I miss my shitty apartment.

I started to want to go home about three days ago. It was the fourth Day 1 of the Main Event. That's well over 48 hours spent in the Amazon Room in four days witnessing the same poker cliches over and over again. Bad plays. Huge crowds. Idiots celebrating their suckouts. All those thousand-yard stares on the faces of the early bustouts. How could I blow ten grand so quickly, and how am I going to tell people about it? Those same guys, five minutes later on their cell phones, trying to explain to the person on the other end how they got it in with the best of it and still lost. No new house. No early retirement. No quick fix. I'm sorry, honey.

A few nights ago, I was having a drink with Pauly and Iggy, who had just made Day 2 of the Main Event. Before arriving in Vegas, Iggy had written about all the drama he went through getting his buy-in wired to the Rio. Bottom line was, he wasn't going to get the cash off Poker Stars quickly enough, so he had to front the money himself. Iggy had the means to do that, so after mucking through the red tape, he was able to take care of it.

"That should be the barometer" I mused aloud. "If you are financially comfortable enough to be able to take out ten grand out of the bank and front it for the Main Event, even if you won your seat, you should be here. Everyone else should have kept the money."

That's what I think about when I hear these guys on cell phones in the hallway, as they get their wives and girlfriends on the phone and lead off with something like "Well, I had pocket aces..." They should have kept the money. I think about those women on the other end of the phone and imagine what is going through her mind.

"That $10,000 could have paid off our Visa bill. That $10,000 is five mortgage payments. That $10,000 could pay our kid's tuition."

Most of these guys shouldn't be here. But they are, and that's what makes the modern-day Main Event so damned lucrative. One shot, one roll, one double-down. One turn of a card. Everyone can dream. Until those chips are shipped across the table, and they're forced to emerge from the fog of the tournament and the haze that hangs over the Las Vegas Valley and wake up to their real lives. Oh my God. It's over. I'm no different. I'm no richer. There's a dent in my pocket and a hole in my soul. I feel like shit. What the fuck do I tell my wife? And where's the nearest bar?

Seven days of play have been completed in the Main Event, and yet we're only closing out Day 3. I also had no idea what day of the week it was until I just looked at the calendar on my laptop. And only hours ago, Iggy cashed in the Main Event, earning himself at least a $21,000 return on his $350 satellite investment. My heart bursts with pride at his achievement. Congratulations, my friend. Tight, solid, calculated, patient poker pays off.

Four more days. But at least everyone who sits back down tomorrow is guaranteed to walk out with some cash. And the race to the next bubble begins... the final table bubble. Easily the largest monetary bubble in poker history when it comes to fame and endorsements. The tenth-place guy isn't getting signed as a Full Tilt Pro. The tenth-place guy isn't going to be on David Letterman. The tenth-place guy isn't going to get a warm and fuzzy bio segment on ESPN. The tenth place guy is getting over $591,000 and an ache in his stomach that may never go away.

Thank you, readers for visiting Pot Committed. We're three years old this week and still smokin'.

Collision and Citation

I was lying across my bed writing my Bluff column and playing Omaha hi-lo on Full Tilt when my phone rang and the four words you never want to hear from someone you love escaped Pauly's lips.

"I'm in an accident."

Thank God or whatever power may be up there that the next three were "But I'm O.K."

Seriously, I don't know what I'd do. I can't even go there right now.

Pauly was driving from Scheckytown back to the Rio along Desert Inn Road. He'd left his power cord at home when he'd left to go in to work and needed to retrieve it, thus the mid-afternoon return trip to Summerlin. At the intersection of D.I. and Ranibow, a fire truck with its sirens on ran a red light. One car stopped short. A second car stopped short behind it, and Pauly slammed into the back of that car going what sounds to me like about 25 MPH. The airbag in his shitty rental car did not deploy.

He had to deal with the police and didn't want me to come to the scene right away. I spent the next 30 minutes biting my nails and pacing around the house just hoping to Christ he was truly all right and not just being Mr. Tough Guy. I dangled my feet in the pool as the 110 degree sun baked my skin and my heart pounded in my chest with worry. He finally called back and told me where to pick him up.

About half a block away from the intersection I noticed that his car was still in the left turn lane, flanked by two police motorcycles. And then I saw the front of it, crushed like a soda can, bits of plastic littering the road, wires hanging from the space that used to house a headlight. If the car didn't end up being totaled, it was damn close.

I pulled into the parking lot of an residential building on the southwest corner of the intersection. A girl with bleached-blonde hair wearing a hoodie with rainbow stripes on it pointed me in to a parking space. With her was a guy in his early twenties wearing a black T-shirt with red writing that said "I've been a bad boy, send me to your room." The third member of their party was a dude in baggy denim shorts with a goatee and facial piercings. It was as if the green room of the Jerry Springer Show had been relocated to the parking lot of this anonymous desert condo development. Rainbow Brite totally looked like a tweaker.

Surrounded by these three, Pauly looked quite the upstanding young man. He was very professional with the cops and the tweaker kids didn't seem upset with him at all, even as I learned that a girl who was a passenger in their car had gone to the hospital for minor injuries. One turned out to be a Widespread Panic fan and they commiserated over not being able to attend Bonnaroo this weeked. Pauly had to work. Baggy shorts guy was in the middle of a "custody battle thing."

The rental car was towed away. I took Pauly back to Scheckytown where he started dealing with all the red tape that comes with an accident. After giving his statement to the insurance company and learning that pretty much everything is covered by our policy, I drove him to the Rio so he could get back to work.

I know, right? Less than four hours after totaling his car, Pauly was back in media row, feeding the hungry Tao fans WSOP updates. If that isn't a work ethic, I don't know what is. Though I warned him to call me immediately if he started feeling any pain-- the tough guy thing wasn't gonna fly and we were covered for a hospital trip if need be.

I took Desert Inn back to Scheckytown after dropping him off. While stopped at an intersection, I noticed that the police car situated directly to my left had its flashing lights on. No siren, but the lights were blazing. Had they just forgotten to turn them off or something?

The light turned green. We both went through the intersection and a few blocks later, I noticed the squad car was now behind me. The lights were still flashing. I wasn't speeding. I had zero items in the car that would get me arrested. I was sober as a nun in church. And then I remembered.

The fucking tags.

While hopping between Australia, Europe and Los Angeles this year, I hadn't noticed that my car registration had expired. One usually is reminded of such things when, I don't know, the California DMV sends you a renewal notice? That never happened. I noticed this shortly before we left for the WSOP and called them up, informing them that they (a) hadn't sent me a notice, (b) my tags were now expired and (c) was leaving the state on a long-term assignment. The minimum wage, English-as-a-second-language monkey on the phone told me essentially that it was impossible for an actual human being to send me one because it's all done by computer. Her idea of a solution was to send a check in with a copy of my old registration and somehow, magically, tags would arrive at my doorstep. I wasn't convinced.

"Oh, and by the way all your late fees have jacked up your registration renewal costs to $488.00. Thank you for calling the DMV, have a good day."

Now I was pulled over on the side of Desert Inn Road, not two blocks from where Pauly had been in his accident handing over my license, registration, and proof of insurance to some bald redneck-looking middle-aged cop. I sat there for almost half an hour while he ran everything, made a few phone calls, had three separate conversations with three separate squad cars that stopped by to say hi, oh yeah and wrote me my ticket that came with a September 19th Las Vegas court date, which just so happens to be Day 1 of the WSOP-Europe. I Googled "How much does expired tags citation ticket cost in Nevada" and the consensus seems to be around $400. Which now puts the amount of money the DMV's incompetence has fucked me up the ass for at approximately the $800 mark.

So now we both have court dates and both have a whole lot of bureaucratic red tape to untangle. I'm out a lot of money and he's out of a rental car and his good driver discount on our auto insurance policy.

But still, it's by far the luckiest day I've ever spent in Las Vegas.

One of Those Days

The minute I got to the Rio this morning, I knew it was going to be one of those days when I found that the crew from 60 Minutes had decided to use my (official reserved) spot in media row as storage for all their equipment. Yes, 60 Minutes is at the WSOP today, shooting footage for a story on all the online poker cheating scandals. Pauly even got up early to go down to the Rio to watch them interview guys like Greg Raymer and Phil Hellmuth. Only thing was, when he got there at the time he was told they were going to start, they were already wrapping up. Methinks CBS and TPTB decided to hoodwink the poker media.

Speaking of the poker media-- if you're fired from a major publication for the worst sin a writer can ever commit (and that's plagiarism in case you're wondering)-- I believe you should have your media badge permanently revoked. Yeah, I'm speaking of someone specific. Let the rampant speculation begin.

Let's talk about good writers for a second. Like my beloved. I was so happy he decided to write for himself and the Tao this year instead of being an official blogging monkey for Poker News like myself-- not only because he's in a FAR better mood/head space than he was during the last two WSOPs, but also as a longtime Tao of Poker fan. Long before I met Pauly, let alone started dating him, I was one of those people firing up the Tao every morning when I got to the office while the WSOP was running just to see who he had pissed next to or what sort of shenanigans were going down at the Hooker Bar. Pauly's writing temporarily lifted the fog of a Monday morning and made me forget just how much I hated my job and everyone I worked with, even for just a few moments a day.

Anyway, of course I'm totally biased, but I think he knocked it out of the park with this one. Check out WSOP Day 18: Never Trust a Junkie. My favorite line? "PLO destroys lives."

I'm covering the $1,500 donkament-of-the-week today. I haven't done one of these yet this year, having drawn assignments on some of the higher buy-in events like last night's $5,000 PLO with Rebuys finale that was won by Phil "OMGClayAiken" Galfond after a 3 1/2 hour heads-up match with Adam "the_houdini" Hourani. I so don't miss covering these tourist-fests that come with crowded hallways, endless lines, and idiot railbirds who come up to me and ask why their brother-in-law/sister/cousin/college roommate isn't in the chip count. I've been going with "Oh, I'm covering another event" or "No speaka thee English" in response.

I'll end this post with an open plea to Phil Hellmuth. Your shtick isn't funny anymore. You're no longer the best hold'em player in the world, I don't care how many fuckin' bracelets you've won. It's getting kind of sad, dude. I used to think there was a nice guy underneath all that hot air, but now it's impossible to separate the "personality" from the man. And all those quotes you try to directly feed to the media? We're just not that interested anymore.

Now if someone had the balls to heckle him at the tables for endorsing UltimateCheat Ultimate Bet, I'd transcribe that shit word for word.

Crankypants Change signing off...

The Ladies' Event

"So, why aren't you playing the Ladies Event?" about a dozen different people asked me as I wandered the field with my notepad in hand and my media badge around my neck.

Well, there are many reasons, my friends. One being that after my last 12 months in poker, spending $1,000 on a single tournament would be an extremely bad decision in terms of bankroll management. As in, if I bought in, I wouldn't have much of a bankroll left.

The other is that even if I did have that kind of money to throw around on a WSOP event, I certainly wouldn't buy into the Ladies Event after my experience in it last year. Poor structure, not enough starting chips, bad payout schedule and you'd better hit a hand in the first hour or else you aren't hitting anything else except the rail. If I had $1K to spend on tournaments, I'd play three Venetian or Caesar's deep stack events instead. Those actually carry some bang for your buck.

1,190 players entered this year's Ladies Event, a slight decline from the 1,236 that played last year. It reflects a theme that has played out in all of the events thus far-- flat registrations. Rather than blame it on the decline of poker, I think the current economic state has more to do with it than anything. When gas is $4.40 a gallon (at least that's what I paid yesterday) and peoples' mortgages are suddenly doubling, there's not a lot of room for the average American woman to just decide to head out to Vegas and blow four figures on a poker tournament. And that's exactly who this tournament attracts-- regular gals. And a few token celebrities like Mimi Rogers and Kathy Najimy. Oh yeah, and tons of porn stars who are bought in by the various websites they represent. One of my field reporters told me there were TWIN porn stars playing and I had to check it out myself to confirm. But there they were... twin porn stars, each wearing a PerfectTen.com hat.

Most of the top female pros decided to avoid this minefield. Annie Duke, Cyndy Violette and Jen Harman had stacks in Day 2 of the $10K stud. Kristy Gazes decided to play the 5 p.m. Omaha-8 event instead and ended up cashing in 28th place. Vanessa Selbst was one of the chip leaders in the $2,500 NLHE but decided to two-table it more for fun than anything, moving all in on almost every hand. Vanessa Rousso, Erica Schoenberg and J.J. Liu all played but didn't make it past the first break.

"Any dudes playing in the dyke festival?" texted Pauly as I blogged the first level.

Rumors had been swirling around that Phil Ivey was going to try to play, given the sheer amount of money he has riding on prop bets that he'll win a bracelet this year. The rumored figure is around $2 million. A player by the name Allan Jaffray (not Allyn Jaffrey Shulman, but close) arrived dressed in drag and attempted to register, but was ultimately turned away. Apparently he'd been egged on to do it by B.A.R.G.E. regulars Sabyl Cohen-Landrum (yep, she just got married) and Patti Beadles. Fortunately, WSOP Commissioner Jeffrey Pollack decided to preserve the small shred of integrity this event retains and forbade men from buying in.

One transsexual did make it in, though (and made the money). Not sure if she was pre or post op, but there was some beard stubble going on, not to mention an Adam's apple the size of a golf ball bobbing around on her neck.

Two media pals of mine made the money-- Poker News and Poker Road's Amanda Leatherman who finished 45th and Poker Stars' Brazilian blogger Maria "Maridu" Maynrick who made her second cash of the series, finishing in 35th place. Nice work, chicas!

To illustrate just how fast this structure was, over 80% of the field was out before the Day 1 dinner break. We were down to 62 players by the end of the night and enjoyed a short Day 2 with the final table of nine set before midnight. Tao of Poker favorite "Sweet" Svetlana Gromenkova was the runaway chip leader going into the final table and was by far the most experienced and aggressive player left. Anh Le, who had finished runner-up to Jennifer Tilly in '05 also made the final table. I've played with her on several occasions at Commerce and the Bike and she's a very good player.

We got the main stage to blog the final table, as it was being broadcast live on ESPN 360. Having covered over 100 tournaments now, doing hand-for-hand coverage is pretty rote for me at this point but I was actually excited to do it for the ladies' event, just to see how different the play would be from the open events I usually cover. If you're interested in checking it out, the Poker News live blog from this event can be found here.

The major difference? A lotta limping. One woman failed to ever open for a raise at the FT, preferring to limp-call her opponents' raises. My eyes rolled back in my head when I saw her do this for 1/3 of her stack then proceed to check-fold to a small continuation bet. Not a shocker that she went out first, despite coming into the final table as an average stack. Once we were down to five, everyone tightened up so much that we didn't see a flop for 21 straight hands at one point.

Eventual winner Svetlana Gromenkova played a very similar final table strategy to the one I saw Annette "Annette_15" Obrestad employ at the WSOP-Europe main event. She even cut a similar figure to Obrestad-- petite, stone-faced, and eyes hidden behind massive sunglasses. Gromenkova sat back for much of the early going, playing tight and letting the short stacks duke it out. Once we were down to four, she turned up the aggression and started playing back at her opponents. Unafraid to put in a re-raise or three-bet all in Gromenkova made quick work or shorthanded play and got heads-up with Anh Le at a 2-1 chip advantage.

It looked like Le might finally have her day in the sun when she hit a five on the flop, holding A-5 to Gromenkova's A-K in a pre-flop all in confrontation, reversing the stacks and putting Le in the lead with 1.4 million to Gromenkova's 800,000. Unfortunately for the 30-year old Californian, she'd be a bridesmaid again, finishing second in this event for the second time in her brief career. Sweet Svetlana took down the bracelet, buoyed by a cheering section that included several Atlantic City players as well as newly minted $10K Mixed Event champion Anthony Rivera, who, according to Amy Calistri, loaned Svetlana the Prada sunglasses he had worn when he won that event last week.

No regrets for me for not playing in this, or any other WSOP event. My time will come eventually. For now, it's time to enjoy my fourth day off this summer (already 1.5 more than I had all of the '07 WSOP) and play some cash games.

Or perhaps try my hand at another one of those satellites...

The Satellite

After two days off that were spent entirely outside the Rio, I finally had the itch to play. A week in Vegas already and I had yet to play a hand of live poker. In the interest of reversing my body clock from normal to nocturnal in preparation for covering tomorrow's $10,000 Mixed Game Extravaganza (2-7 triple draw, the five limit H.O.R.S.E. games, NLHE, and PLO) which sports a 5 p.m. start and likely a 3-3:30 a.m. ending, I decided to leave my media badge at home and play for a few hours. From every report I'd heard the satellites were as lively and soft as ever, and though it's not exactly great bankroll management for me to play that high, I've read a lot of SNG strategy and played a helluva lot of single-tables this year and probably have a decent edge over the average satellite joe.

I stood in line in front of three forty-something guys who, from the sounds of their conversation, were (a) friends (b) in town for some sort of gathering and (c) were recreational players. One wore a poker-themed T-shirt and the other two were straight off the sale rack from Tommy Bahama. They were already giving off tells in line. After only ten minutes of waiting, one was bitching about how long it was taking, another was threatening to leave and the third one was berating the floor supervisor for not starting the satellites fast enough.

"There's nine empty tables in there with dealers at them! Nine!"

"They just want to seat the $1,000 players. That's all they want. That guy has only called for $1,000 players. Every time. And all of us want $125 or $175."

"Yeah in like seventy-five or eighty seconds I'm outta here."

"Hey is that Mike Matusow? He looks like he lost 100 pounds."

"I bet it was coke."

"Or gastric bypass."

I could have told them that the "empty" tables with dealers at them were spillover tables from the $1,500 Omaha 8 tournament or that Matusow had dropped 50 pounds to win the $100,000 weight bet he made with Ted Forrest one year ago today. But why give away what you don't have to.

The guy immediately behind me in line started trying to chat me up. I told him I was a Hollywood screenwriter and had just written Warner Bros.' next Katherine Heigl/Seann William Scott vehicle. He asked me what I did during the strike and I told him that I got bored with picketing so I went to New Zealand with my boyfriend to wait it out.

Finally, a floor guy called for players for a $225 satellite. It was a little higher than I would have preferred, but he cautioned that the $125 and $175 ones would probably not go off in the next few hours since everyone was trying to get into tomorrow's $2,000 NLHE event. I grit my teeth and pulled a seat card from his outstretched hand.

I drew the three seat and Chatty McChatster drew the nine. I had a red-faced, rotund gentleman in golf clothing on my right. He swilled Miller Lite the entire time. On my left was a recently retired gentleman with white hair peeking out of the bottom of his black Stetson. He had a jeweled ceramic frog as a card capper and proudly told me that he'd cashed in yesterday's $1,500 donkament-- his first live tournament ever.

1000 chips, blinds started at 25-25 and went up every fifteen minutes. I developed exactly the image I wanted. Tight and aggressive. Don't fuck with me, pick on that other guy down there, OK? I didn't play many hands but on the ones I did my raises and c-bets got respect. We were down from ten to eight by the end of the second level.

Early in the 50-100 level, Chatty shoved all in for 600 and I found 7-7 on the button. I re-shoved to isolate, the blinds folded and I was delighted to see his pocket threes. My hand held up and I was up to a little over 2,000 in chips. I won a small pot with K-K when the flop came down jack high and another small one where I had As-Ts in the small blind and raised, the BB looked me up and the flop came down A-A-Q. My flop bet got no action, but my stack had inched up to 2,500.

The shorties started falling one by one until we were down to four. With the blinds at 150-300, the short stack started talking about chopping it up four ways even though he only had about 1,500 left. The chip leader-- a thin, bespectacled European guy in the one seat declined.

"I won't chop with you. Or her. I'm going to bust you both and then chop with him" he said icily as he pointed toward the total tool in the 6 seat with the shit-eating grin, who had the distinction of checking the second-nut flush behind on the river in a previous hand, not realizing he had made it.

"Well, you can try" I said.

"Yeah, buddy she's probably the best one left. Don't get ahead of yourself there" replied the short stack.

Icy Euro had been tight in the early going much as I had, and had been slowly opening up his game. He had a slight chip lead over the Tool and I, who were similarly stacked. I'd only played one hand with him so far-- a big blind special for me when I flopped middle pair holding the 6h-8h and check-raised him on fourth street when I turned trip eights. With the blinds at 150-300, he made it 700 from the button and I looked down at two red sixes in the small blind.

"All in."

He mucked his cards disgustedly and with that, I took the chip lead.

On the very next deal it was folded to him in the small blind. He raised to 1,100 which looked to be almost half his stack. I peeked at my cards.

Ks-Qs.

I figured I was well ahead of his range and even though I had the largest stack at the table, it was still less than 10BB.

"All in."

"Fuck!" he said, dropping his head into his hands. "I guess I have to call" he said after about a ten-second pause and turned over 5d-8h.

I'm a 2-1 favorite there and I pat myself on the back for getting aggressive and picking him off. Until the flop comes down 5-8-9 and a 5 turns and I'm left with 500 chips and 150 of them are in the small blind on the next hand.

Just kill me now.

The next hand I get 2-4 in the small blind and fold behind the shortie's all in. On the one after that Icy Euro folds UTG and I find Ad-9h on the button. The last 350 goes in the middle. The shortie in the BB calls 50 more and turns over Ks-9c. I'm a 3-1 favorite there, but this time I simply feel doomed and the king in the door confirms that.

Before I can even pick up my purse and water bottle, they're negotiating a chop and I walk out to my car feeling like I've been shot. That's the first stage of tilt. Disbelief.

By the time I made it to the parking lot anger took over. That's the second stage.

"Can I ever win any fucking money?" I seethed to no one in particular as I plodded toward my car.

Then sadness. Poor fucking me. Woe is me. I never win anything. Waaa waaa waaah.

By the time I was turning into our subdivision, the cloud had lifted. I played fucking great tonight. There wasn't one decision I made in that game that I was unhappy with. I got my money in good twice. There's really nothing more I could have done. Yeah I'm still a broke-ass fool with poor money management but had I won that hand, I would have been coming home with at least a thousand dollars in my pocket and I'd be looking at this whole night as a worthy gamble that actually (one time!) paid off.

Instead, I don't feel much of anything.

I guess that's better than kicking holes in walls.

Optimistic

Flies are buzzing around my head
Vultures circling the dead
Picking up every last crumb
The big fish eat the little ones
The big fish eat the little ones
Not my problem give me some

-- Optimistic, by Radiohead

Every year thus far in the post-boom era of the World Series of Poker, the media vultures have circled around the Amazon Room on Day 1, just waiting to see what goes wrong. Pavlov and his dogs might tell them to expect the worst, given the total chaos and ineptitude shown on the first day of the series in 2005, 2006, and 2007. Endless lines. Gridlocked hallways. Those fucked-up Poker Peek cards. Shitty food. Not enough bathrooms. The Poker Tent. Those with a more optimistic constitution might be confident in Harrah's Caesar's when it comes to correcting those problems. But in terms of optimism, there really isn't a lot of that by nature when it comes to the poker circuit.

It's Day 4. The WSOP has run one small, elite $10K event, one record-breaking donkament, and handed out the first bracelet of the year to a talented young Canadian pro. And there's really nothing to complain about.

The registration lines have vanished. The food is better. No poker is being played in tents. There is actually room to move between tables. There are no freaky decks of cards. There's even a coffee and donut cart in the hallway. And an all-you-can-eat sushi joint. Seriously.

I even have the day off today. That's already 40% of the total days off I had all of last summer. Color me surprised.

My first assignment of the series was covering Event #1, the $10,000 pot-limit hold'em World Championship for Poker News. The final table was the deadliest lineup I've ever seen at a WSOP event outside the $50K H.O.R.S.E.-- well-known pros Andy Bloch, Nenad Medic, Mike Sexton, Kathy Liebert, Patrik Antonius, and Phil Laak were there along with internet superstars Amit Makhija and Mike Sowers. As Mike Sexton pointed out to those of us in media row before play started, five of the final table players had all won over $1 million in a single tournament (Bloch- 2006 50K H.O.R.S.E, Medic- 2006 WPT Foxwoods, Liebert- Party Poker Million, Sexton-- 2006 WSOP TOC, and Antonius- 2005 Bellagio Five-Diamond). That's absolutely astounding.

Though I'm an impartial journalist on the floor, I was quietly rooting for Andy Bloch at the final table. He's one of the nicest guys in poker and as Pauly often says, is the best player in the game who hasn't yet won a bracelet. I tend to agree with that statement because Andy is one of those players that excels at all the games. Hold'em, Omaha, stud, limit, no-limit, heads-up, shorthanded... he plays them all. And, it was his 39th birthday yesterday. How sweet would that be to win a bracelet on your birthday?

Alas it wasn't the day Bloch would finally shake that monkey off his back. Nor would it be the day another woman won an open event, or the day Mike Sexton won his first bracelet in 19 years, or the day another 21-year old internet pro claimed victory in a live setting. It was Nenad Medic's night, and the soft-spoken 6'5 former basketball player from Niagara Falls added his first WSOP bracelet to the WPT title he already holds. Bloch finished second after going into the final table as the chip leader. He had an opponent down to three outs on two separate occasions, but in both those instances, the dominated hands sucked out. Bloch was at a 5-2 chip disadvantage when they reached heads-up play and it took less than an hour for Medic to whittle him down.

Despite the positive changes that have been made at the WSOP this year, most of the song remains the same. Broke players still roam the hallways looking for stakes. Collectors seek out perennial debtors. Those IOUs are much harder to dodge when nearly everyone who plays this game for a living can now be found in one room. Young female players with nice bodies and marginal poker skills cozy up to older pros knowing that a few batted eyelashes over the dinner table and maybe a rub and tug could get them a few lessons and a buyin to that $1,500 donkament next weekend. Guys with jobs and wives and mortgages and kids fly out to Vegas to take their one chance at a bracelet and four hours later most of them are sitting at the bar, pouring even more of their hard-earned dollars into the Harrah's till, either in the bottom of a rocks glass or on the screen of a video poker machine, their buyin sucked back into the poker economy. That money will likely end up in the pocket of some obnoxious 22-year old internet kid who makes the final table. Or in the seven-figure bankroll of a superstar player. Or right back in the cash games courtesy of a total action junkie.

Everyone is looking for their piece. The pros, the joes, the online sites, the media. The dealers. Agents. Publicists. Drink companies. Strip clubs. Masseuses. Wives. Girlfriends. Husbands. Boyfriends. Distant cousins. Hangers-on. Taxi drivers. Cocktail waitresses.

Maybe this is the swan song of the poker boom. Maybe there are still a couple of years left in this thing. Maybe a Democratic win in November will lead to the UIGEA being overturned and the floodgates will re-open. Maybe the WPT will get another television contract after all.

I'd like to remain optimistic. The next seven weeks should decide if I will.

It Begins

The empty Amazon Room awaits the donkeys**

I'm presently tucked away in the far corner of the nearly-empty Amazon Room at the Rio, where in forty minutes time, Event #1 of the 2008 World Series of Poker will begin. I'm on blogging duties for Poker News today, sharing the captain's chair with Mean Gene for the $10,000 World Championship pot-limit hold'em. A small, elite field should ease us into the grind today, with about 250-300 runners expected. That's nothing like last year when the first event was a $1,500 NLHE donkament with a 3,000-strong field, endless registration lines, and a crowd so thick I could barely make it through the hallways.

There's a number of changes in the Amazon Room setup this year. Each "quadrant" is color-coordinated for one. There's a blue section, a red section, a green one and an orange one. With up to 6 tournaments running per day, it will be far easier to divide up the room. The cage has been completely moved out of the Amazon Room, as has the satellite area, which is now relocated to the room where the Poker Kitchen was situated last year. For the media, though, the biggest change is the presence of the "media sky box" which has 46 on-floor seats for reporters from all outlets.

Even only minutes away from the start, I'm still in an odd state of denial about the WSOP. Sitting here right now, I can hardly feel the year that has passed since I last sat in this spot.

Tune in to Poker News for live coverage of today's event. And for all the WSOP behind-the-scenes juice that you've grown to love over the last three years, pay my beloved a visit over at the Tao of Poker.

**= awesome photo by flipchip/lasvegasvegas.com

Welcome to Scheckytown

About 150 miles southwest of Las Vegas, along the northbound side of Interstate 15, ten simple black and while signs, each bearing one of the Ten Commandments, are nailed into the ground. I don't know who put them there, but I've whipped past them at 85 MPH more times that I can count. Every time I do, I wonder how many of those Commandments I'll break on this trip.

After an uneventful four-hour haul across the desert, we pulled up to our temporary new home-- a two-story vaguely Spanish-style tract house in Summerlin, where poker power couple John "Schecky" Caldwell and Jen Leo currently reside . For our purposes this summer, we're calling the digs "Scheckytown." Right now it looks like it will be the two of them, the two of us, and one of Full Tilt Poker's red pros living under its roof.

"God, it looks like Agrestic" Pauly said, humming the theme song from Weeds as we drove past all the identical houses.

Once we hauled all our stuff upstairs, we tried out the pool, which was a tad cool for a dip. That didn't stop Pauly from jumping in almost immediately, even though the temperature outside barely cracked 85 yesterday. Our digs here are by far the nicest we've had for a WSOP stay. The pool even has a fountain and is flanked by little sculptures of frogs that spit water back into the pool.

We had dinner at Nora's Wine Bar and Osteria, which was only a few blocks away. Before digging into three kinds of pasta, we had sweet & sour Sicilian meatballs and fried risotto balls to whet our appetite. Sublime. Sure beats those Asian chicken wraps at the Rio I know will practically become a food group for me over the next seven weeks.

After dinner, it was back to Scheckytown, where John set up Guitar Hero III and we all took turns. It was only my second time trying the game and I'm totally hooked. John was by far the best at it, usually scoring somewhere in the 90-95th percentile, while Jen and I managed to hit the high seventies-low eighties in terms of accuracy. Pauly had never played before and got booed off the stage on his first try.

I crashed early, after nodding off during an episode of World's Deadliest Catch. Pauly was ridden with insomnia and decided to go tilt the locals at a $1-2 NL game at Red Rock while I slept. Today is full of shopping and errands, before we're sucked into a string of pre-WSOP meetings on Thursday. Hopefully I'll get a few hands of poker in before I disappear into the void of the Rio.

2008 WSOP Main Event Final Table Delay Confirmed

Rumors have been circulating around the poker world for months now that Harrah's Caesar's Entertainment was working with ESPN on a plan to suspend play in the 2008 World Series of Poker Main Event once the final nine players were reached and take a months-long break before a new world champion was crowned, allowing for a "near-live" broadcast of the final table. After plenty of whispers, speculation, exclamations of "holy shit, they can't do THAT" and this elegant pro-delay editorial from B.J. Nemeth, news leaked tonight that Yes, Virginia-- the final table of this year's Main Event will play out for the cameras 117 days after the last card is dealt at the Rio.

117 days. That's November 9th. The final table will hit the airwaves less than 48 hours later, on November 11th.

Tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. PDT there's a media conference call scheduled with Harrah's Caesar's executives including WSOP commissioner Jeffrey Pollack, where they'll provide more details and hopefully answer some questions. I'll be there.

Here's the USA Today piece that leaked out tonight, confirming the deal.