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I called the airline about returning home Saturday instead of Sunday. I knew there would be some nominal penalty for altering my ticket, but on a one-way return on a trip that originally cost only $400, how much more could it be?

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I am home in Scottsdale, Arizona, after a week in Biloxi. Maybe Scottsdale is a backwater of old people, golfers, and the plastic-surgery obsessed, but at least it’s my backwater. Even though I can tell you plenty of nice things about my trip to Biloxi, I can’t shake the feeling that something sinister was going on. Much like the old Caesars Palace moving walkway, which went only one way – into the the casino – I think I was victimized by some kind of pernicious scam.

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Thursday portion -

[I wrote this on Thursday night, during a back-breakingly long Day 2 of the WPT Southern Poker Championship at the Beau Rivage. I didn't know it at the time I wrote it, but Allen Kessler lasted late into the night in the Main Event, busting just before the money. They played until 4:05 AM on Friday - over 16 hours after the noon starting time.]

Kessler ended up busting early in the HORSE in a way that would seem like torture to a lesser player. After losing several Stud hands with big pocket pairs to smaller pairs, he was particularly annoyed to lose with aces in the hole to a player with kings in the hole. Especially because another king was exposed, he was going on about “one-outer! You caught a one-outer against me! Well played, sir.”

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[This two-part entry was written at two different times. This part was written on Tuesday, as I waited to play the final table of the HORSE. The second part was written on Thursday evening, while watching the second half of Day 2 of the Main Event. The WPT's own web site referred to Day 2 as "possibly the most grueling Day 2 of any tournament in World Poker Tour history".]

Tuesday portion -

What follows should not be construed as criticism of MGM Mirage, Beau Rivage, or the Southern Poker Championship. Well, actually, it should. In my limited experience here, along with input and insight from several players, I have noticed many flaws in the operation of the tournament, some of them pretty obvious.

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Gavin Smith, nursing his ever-shorter stack all day long, finally got his chips in and got unlucky. He busts with about 90 players left on Day 2 of the WPT Southern Poker Championship. Gavin was talking with a friend a few moments later when I caught up with him, asking if he was leaving town right away or if he wanted to have dinner tonight.

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You would not believe some of the stuff that comes out of Gavin Smith’s mouth. Gavin is a wonderful guy – close with his family, generous with his friends, a defender of underdogs and people in trouble, and an intelligent and educated man.

Fuck that shit. That seems to be Gavin’s attitude toward his better impulses.

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DESTINATION LIMP CITY

The play that’s been killing me lately is the Unshakeable Limper. I always assumed that someone who limps is either slowplaying a strong hand or weak. Somehow, I seem to be running into a lot of people who are either messed up on the strength of their hand, or messed up on its weakness. I’m just not used to playing against them and haven’t made a good adjustment yet.

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A SMARTER MAN WOULD HAVE KNOWN

I was happy to continue reading about gambling history, and occasionally playing a hand of poker, while seated at Table 68, Seat 1. My laissez fair approach mirrored that of tournament management. We lost the player to my left in Seat 2 at about 12:25. Thirty minutes later, I noticed, his seat card hadn’t even been picked up. One PA announcement was “Cocktails to … everywhere. Cocktails to everywhere in the poker room.”

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GHOSTS OF MISSISSIPPI

I brought some reading materials with me to the Last-Chance Mega. I wanted to affect a patient, almost uninterested presence, both for table image and to keep myself under control in the early going. Also, I hadn’t finished reading this stuff and didn’t know when I would if not while here in Mississippi.

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THE DELTA PLAN – HOW DO YOU CHOOSE BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND ERICK LINDGREN?

While B.J. Nemeth was telling me how, as bad as Biloxi could be, it sure beat Tunica, I expressed the opposite view. Mississippi, I told him, was one of the few states I had never visited (he correctly picked the Dakotas as two of the others). In preparation, I had carefully researched my voyage, focusing on Mississippi’s claim to birthplace of the Delta Blues. The most holy of Blues shrines are in Clarksdale, from the Delta Blues Museum to the Riverside Hotel where Bessie Smith died after an auto accident (it used to be a hospital) to, most famous of all, the Crossroads.

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