Red Rock has this deal going where if you play a certain numbers of hours of cash, you get free entry into a great tournament. And the tournament is only for cash players. I think. Anyway, El Hefe wants BFF to be all over this, so last night BFF put in his first hours.

I've seen a lot of poker rooms around here. The most glorious is the Wynn. The most ornate is the Venetian. The most intimidating is the Aria (to me, at least; it's where all the pros go). The Flamingo is still in the 1970s, full of players who have been there since Bugsy. And Binions---Binions needs to be burned to the ground. What a foul casino, smelling of shame and desperation. The carpets look like they'd rip up if vacuumed. The poker room is more like a nook, or a walk-in closet. From what my BFF tells me, the people running the poker room have no idea what they're doing. He once played a tournament there over two days, sixteen hours each day. But he walked away with over $15,000.

I'm off subject. The Red Rock is very clean, though there were more cigar smokers than I usually encounter at a casino. There were two at the entrance to the poker room: two barrel bellied fifty-somethings, laughing and pleased with themselves, blocking the entrance because, obviously, they owned the place. There were a number of this type around Red Rock. In fact, most of the people in Red Rock were older, and, from what I could see, locals.

How do I know they were locals? They didn't have that sparkily Vegas excitement in their eyes, or look completely lost. I didn't bump into anyone because everyone knew where they were going. They weren't wearing t-shirts and pulling along a dozen kids. (One day, I'll write about Circus Circus and how it is a marvelous sociological manifestation of Las Vegas culture.)

The poker room was also locals. A few pros, many older men, a sparkling of women. It was completely packed. All appearing to be locals.

Here's the good part about playing poker at Red Rock, according to BFF---very few pros, if any at all. The worst he encountered were a couple of players who seemed to know what they were doing. The rest were fish in a barrel.

My BFF told me a stereotype that is more accurate than not: any poker players over the age of fifty do not have a chance against younger pros who study poker today. Over fifties work with an old poker philosophy that cannot stand up to the mathematical witchcraft BFF and his posse teach and use. Variance and/or luck can make these players believe they're good---especially if they're playing against worst players. But it's only a mirage. In the space of a few hours, players like that can find themselves standing in an empty desert, broke and pissed off.

One very older man at BFF's table was playing very tight (or conservative) for a long time, and then suddenly got very aggressive (raising every bet). He was on tilt---or experiencing frustration that was fucking with his judgement. BFF busted him with a pair of tens, he having a pair of fives. The pot was over $1600.

After 5 hours, BFF walked away with almost $700 profit.

In the last episode I saw, Jack, Sawyer, and Kate are being kept hostage by The Others.  Sayid begins a rescue attempt which results in the loss of the boat.  

My husband has given me many spoilers about the show---the time travel, the different eras the show suddenly goes into, possible interpretations of the ending.  At the end of season two, I gave him my interpretation of the show and he was shocked.  He said I was spot on

The tournament was being broadcast on Youtube, and my best friend and his friends watched El Hefe play.  The three were chatting in a group text, and occasionally they chatted with El Hefe.  (Texting between hands is not only common, some casinos install outlets in their poker tables so players can charge.)  The field of players dwindled.  Many solid professionals busted, and with each bust, the better it was for El Hefe: the field became less difficult.  El Hefe remained with a strong stack. 

​Then there were less than twenty players, and everything changed.

My mother was a blackjack player. When I was ten, she seemed to me to be a great blackjack player. She told me as much. I remember her returning to our Circus Circus hotel room at three in the morning, a vodka gimlet in one hand, and emptied her purse on my bed. I'd suddenly find myself in a generous puddle of casino chips. I'd marvel at the $50 and the rare $100 chips.

I told my best friend about this. He laughed and explained that blackjack has the best of the worst odds in a casino. Variance was too high and it wasn't a skill based game like poker.

I explained that my mother had skill---she could remember what cards were in the deck (this was the era of single deck $2 blackjack, but even with a shoe she could still remember quite a lot).

That's card counting, he said.

That would explained why a pit boss at the Tropicana banned her, I said. My mother said it was because she was winning too much.

Aside from my mother's apparent cheating, what she did has a salient point: she was finding ways of working around variance.

My best friend does this in poker (but without cheating). He doesn't try to destroy variance; it's not something that can be eliminated. Rather, he (and thousands of other players) have devised what I call Poker Math. Using enormous programs and making various cryptic charts and graphs, they have developed a way of calculating the odds of the cards. They can figure out the odds for what other players are holding, what cards will come up for them, whether or not there is value enough in their hand to see a raise or call. All of this is a way to work with variance.

What is variance?

My best friend is a professional poker player.  I will only refer to him as my best friend in order to protect his privacy.  Any other names I use will also be pseudonyms, in order to protect the strategies, companies, and public images of the people involved.

This is the only way my best friend would allow to be a source for writing about professional poker.  There's much secrecy in the world, more than I would expect.  But there's also good reason for it.  I hear rumors about what one would expect to hear---mob ties, cheating scandals, theft of backing funds---things no one would want to come out.

I'll begin with my best friend.  He's a professional poker player in Las Vegas, living within easy walking distance of the Strip.  He plays in live tournaments, especially the World Series of Poker every summer.  Now that online poker is available in Nevada, he plays online tournaments when he has time on the weekends.  He has private poker students he coaches; he's coached people in the Netherlands, England, France, Greece, Turkey, Sweden, and Norway.  And he also works for two private poker training companies; for them, he creates curriculum for students and teaches seminars.  These seminars last three or four days and cost upward of $5000.  They always fill up fast.

I think that's the most shocking thing about professional poker---the money.  It's everywhere.

My husband and I recently finished watching New Japan's Wrestle Kingdom (Japanese wrestling's version of the World Series).   Of course, it was incredible with fantastic matches, and far superior than any US promotion.

I also went nuts over the entrances.  

The entrances are my favorite parts.  Impressive wrestling aside, the entrances, costumes, and music touch my theater side.  I've worked as a theater producer, dramaturg, director, playwright, costume designer, and probably many other things I don't remember.  I adore the pageantry, the flaunting magnanimity, and the genius certain wrestlers have with their look and characters.  Some know how to communicate their characters using only their body.  Others have some of the most ornate costumes I've ever seen, some worthy of the Met Gala red carpet.  

My husband suggested I throw a letter in a bottle into the internet offering my services to be a Wrestling Artistic Consultant.  Of course, why pick me to help, other than I'm free (for the moment)?

I know what I'm talking about.

​So let's talk about who I like, why I like them, and what flaws I feel they have:

I'm not going to defend Kevin Spacey. 

Does he belong in jail?  Most likely, yes.  Though I doubt that jail would do anything to rehabilitate him.  A mental hospital, yes.  

Does he need gobs of psychotherapy, probably around the clock?  This video obviously says so.  I think this video could also be seen as a cry for help.  He's reaching out.  He's desperate for attention.  His greatest pain seems to have lost House of Cards, of which he was star and executive producer.  It must have been a passion project for him.  The video is called, after all, "Let Me Be Frank".  He's pleading with us.

​Having filmed and written this video himself, it's obvious he's spent a lot of time on it, on staging it and picking out the specific Santa apron he wears.  Most awful is the chopping, the preparing of unseen food, the common work of preparing a holiday dinner.  It is casual and it is threatening.  He's doing things to the food just below the camera line,---which, incidentally, is what he was doing to us, allegedly, with all of the men he's accused of assaulting.  He's not allowing us to see what he's working on.  He only allows us to see him drinking from a mug.  Like the monologue, he is opening up and hiding all at once.

Is Kevin Spacey beyond help?  Possibly.  In this video, he takes on the persona of Frank Underwood and argues, both subtly and loudly, that we have enjoyed his performances so much that we must demand him to return---no matter what he's done.  I fear that he is falling deeper into himself, unable to admit that what he has done is wrong.  What he's done is illegal, but what does it matter since he has been so charming, so entertaining?  

A long time ago, I took a ethics and morality test to measure my values.  One of the questions always stuck with me:  Lord Byron had a child with his half sister and was abusive toward everyone in his life, yet he wrote some of the best poetry of his times.  Does it matter that he was an asshole because of his cultural contribution?  I don't remember how I answered the question.  But I've discovered something recently about myself that answers the question indirectly.

With Kevin Spacey, Woody Allen, and others who have been accused and arrested for various sexual assault charges, I find I have no desire to watch their movies anymore.  I grew up watching Woody Allen.  His movies profoundly shaped me creatively.  I've always loved watching Kevin Spacey; in House of Cards, he's stunning.  His performance is textbook.  He has complete control over his body in gestures, the way he walks, the way he talks.  His characterization is so powerful, no other actor could take on his role.  Spacey and Underwood have fused together.  But watching him is no longer culturally nourishing.  It's like taking milk out of the fridge and discovering it's spoiled.  I once had egg salad from a deli that gave me food poisoning.  It ruined egg salad for me forever.

Should Kevin Spacey be given a chance to make a come back?  After seeing this video, I doubt he would even know how to do so.  I think this video has also destroyed any chance of untarnishing his image.  He comes off as an arrogant, self-aggrandizing, corrupt, narcissistic manipulator.  He believes this is what we want and adore about him.  Is it possible for someone in that position to understand how to make amends?  How to make efforts to pay for what he's done?  It would require complete rewiring of his thinking.

So what now?  What do we do about Kevin Spacey?  Mourn him and move on.

ONE

I was standing in the middle of a highway next to a dead body in the rain.  I was pretty sure it was my car that killed it. Killed him. I think. The head was a mess, but the body wore men’s trousers, button up shirt and tie, and a black, long overcoat.  But enough about the corpse. It’s not about the corpse.

It’s about her.  Cause this is the story of how I met her, and how she saved my life, and made it a lot more fun over a short period of time.

You know what I’m talking about.

A car was coming fast towards us.  I had stopped in the middle of the road when I felt that sickening bump, and the awful thump the body made as my tires gave it the once over.

The headlights blinded me, and I instinctively put my hand up in front of my face even though it did fuck all to help.  The rain made everything worse. I could see the car stopped. I heard a car door slam.

And then there she was.  Just her outline as she stood in front of her headlights.  I couldn’t see any detail, but the detail I saw was enough to make me forget the rain, the blinding light, and the corpse bleeding all over my shoes.

Then, just to make it all the more interesting and improbable, there was a flash of lightning and thunder.  I saw a flicker of a face, but it’s the full lips I noticed.

“What happened?!”  She had to shout it over the rain.

“I think I killed him!”

She only nodded.  “You want a lift to a phone to call the police?”

It took me a minute to swallow that she didn’t seem concerned at all that a man got crushed to death.

In her car, which was a sweet little roadster, I asked her name.  She said, “Rosemary” with an emphasis on the R, and weighting the S into a Z, which made my palms sweat.  

I forgot my name.

I figured out later why she wasn’t so concerned about it.  After all, the dead man wasn’t going to get any worse. She drove me to her house to use the phone.

The one in her bedroom.
​