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#152 – WSOP #2 – They’re Back, Part B
Last night at 10 PM, I got to my hotel, the place I call the Smoke & Disinfectant Inn (”SDI,” or “SAD” as my daughter Ellie suggested). It was quite the tableau. Thinking about the money and equipment I was leaving in my car during registration, I was initially relieved to see the looming presence of a security guard inside the registration office.
On closer inspection, the guard weighed at least 400 pounds. He was plopped down in a chair and when he got up to fish his cell phone out of his pocket when it rang, he was severely winded duirng the ensuing call.
The guy checking in before me seemed sleazy even by poker standards. He was from a region of the world where taking a bath is apparently considered unlucky and dousing yourself in cologne is an acceptable substitute. He wouldn’t provide the desk clerk with a phone number, despite taking several calls on his cell phone during the registration process. I correctly anticipated that he would have no credit card to leave on deposit, and he haggled over the cash he was required to post for the room. He also, for some reason, thought he should be able to get the room immediately but not “check in” until tomorrow.
My room, despite the promise of renovations, looks exactly the same as last year. They actually did renovate the room, but with identical paint, carpeting, and furnishings as last year’s room. In fact, I wouldn’t put these guys above just rotating all this stuff from room to room, or even leaving everything as it is and just CHANGING THE ROOM NUMBERS.
Miserably tired, I nevertheless met up with Richard Brodie at midnight at the Golden Nugget for a cigar. The swimming pool area, expensively renovated, is hopping. We sit near the bar, and I give Richard the benefit of seating to check out the hot women approaching the bar, though the cost is that he has to maneuver his eyes around the guy on the bar stool whose butt crack is terrifyingly visible.
I think Richard knows that I slept only 2 hours in the last day (sorry, but that will be a separate entry, which I dearly hope I get to write soon). I haven’t mentioned it, but he’s messing with me. For example, out of nowhere, he says, “I think Dewey is staying here.”
“Dewey Tomko?” I ask.
“How many Deweys do you know? No, not Dewey Tomko. Dewey, the guy Truman defeated for President in 1948. Steve Wynn’s dad comped him and he’s never left.”
