The sanghoki Otis F.A.R.C.E
For the past two years, I have said aloud–although, to myself, while alone in a room, usually after a couple of drinks, and under the influence of 18 varieties of self loathing–that I was not going to go to Las Vegas in December. At the time, it seemed such a reasonable and responsible declaration. I’ve been traveling a lot this year and the end of 2007 is not any exception. I miss my family and they claim–especially when tempted with ice cream–they miss me as well.
Really, it’s a whole list of things that are keeping me away from my West Coast home, beginning with my intention to be a better husband and father and ending with my belief that my future in poker is pretty much now in line with my future in porn.
No, I told myself, I was not going to Las Vegas for the ninth week this year.
And really, why would I? It’s not like I’ve been away long enough to miss the lights, the food, and the action. I can still smell the Double Down on my clothes and still have visions of seeing Mr. T dance to an oompah band. Oh, and I guess I never told those stories. That is to say, I’m not even caught up from my trip in August. I couldn’t conceivably consider going back and getting more backlogged.
And really, it’s not been my finest sanghoki year. It’s been one of those Cha-Cha years. Step forward, step back. Caesars’ tournaments treated me pretty well. MGM was kind in the cash games. I had a mediocre Series. Online went South in March. In short…blah.
So, why would I want to go out to Las Vegas again?
Well, a couple of things happened. The first was what inspired the title of this post. For now, that’s going to remain a secret–not because it’s cool, but because it’s embarassing on a couple levels. Only two other people know what this title means and they are actively participating in the F.A.R.C.E.
But, really, something else happened. I saw the list of attendees, started waxing nostalgic about Whiplash the dog, Mr. Otis the horse, and Mr. Al, the king of the Mandalay Bay sports book. I thought about turning the Excalibur poker room upside down and bringing G-Rob to his knees with wheel spin prop bets.
Oh, and I might have thought for a second about Pai Gow.
Two days ago, I sent Falstaff an e-mail reading, “Um…looks like I’m in.” I have spent the last two days firing e-mails to people who had not yet pulled the trigger. So far, the recruiting effort has gone well.
And, so I am in. Unlike last year, this is not a last-minute decision. Unlike last year, I’m not going to catch the flu. Unlike last year, I’m not going to give all my WBPT tournament chips to an Irish guy.
So, for what it’s worth, I’m bringing my b-game, my roll, and a good attitude to Vegas for what will surely be farce one way or another.