The Vicodin Diaries Vol. 3: Stray Dogs, One-Armed Bums, Paint Huffers, and Bar Fights

By Pauly
Mar del Plata, Argentina

Although the Brazilian models busted out on Day 1a, they returned on Day 1b and played in a second chance tournament. Those tables ran right in front of media row. Change100 scoffed at me as I wiped the pool of drool that collected on my clothes. Otis flatly refused to look up in order to avoid mega-braless-Brazilian model-tilt.

"Have you seen the amount of beer that those Brazilian models have been consuming?" said Otis at one point.

They chugged beer like it was apple juice. I was in awe.

The state run casino was housed in a sprawling complex of brick. You passed through heavy revolving doors and walked up a marble staircase, sort of like entering a palace. My hotel had similar doors and bellboys strategically positioned themselves in front of the doors. Their sole purpose in life? Pushing the revolving doors for patrons. Their extra shove definitely helped especially when you carried around a lot of gear.

There wasn't an infestation of feral dogs, but a handful randomly roamed around the square in front of the casino. One dog in particular, a gaunt German Shepherd, took up a position right in front of the casino. The starving canine laid down near one of the revolving doors. The security never bothered to shoo it away and the first time I saw the pooch, I honestly thought it was dead.

I'm not an overly superstitious person, but the mere act of stepping over a dead dog to enter a casino could not have been good mojo. Alas, my fears were nixed. The dog was sleeping or that was his way of trying to hustle some scraps of high quality yet overcooked Argentinian beef from sympathetic gamblers.

The casino had three separate revolving doors and a one-armed panhandler sat on a milk crate inside the doorway. The simpleton mooched cigarettes and random food stuffs. Again, I was sort of surprised that the chain-smoking heavily-armed security did not usher him away. That sort of plight would never be tolerated in Las Vegas.... today. However, if the current economic state of affairs continues to spiral downward towards complete financial collapse in the Untied states, I'm envisioning that sort of desperate scene becoming common place in Las Vegas. Bums and hungry dogs camping out in front of the valet at the Bellagio being ignored and passed over by the few wealthy elite would could afford to pay passage to and from Sin City. Next thing you know it, there will be hungry kids hustling for pennies at traffic lights on Las Vegas Blvd. and lepers taking up shop in front of McCarran airport.

Oh, and did I mention the casino security included chain-smoking cops that were armed to the hilt? In Vegas, you might see the occasional rent-a-cop security guard sporting a six shooter, a taser, or billy club. In Argentina, the security forces were not fuckin' around.

At one point on Day 2, a couple of mean-eyed law enforcement officers stood behind Mean Gene and I as we covered the tournament. They wore black military fatigues with semi-automatic pistols on their hip. I took special notice of their extra ammunition. They were prepared for a serious fire fight if by chance one broke out.

Pray for the best, but prepare for the worst.

A couple of police officers were stationed in front of our hotel (located next door to the casino). There were also two sparkling shiny new ambulances adorned in red ribbons. They contained some PokerStars branding on the side and a sign explaining that they were donated by PokerStars. A nice gift to the local officials to ensure that the tournament ran smoothly, especially after the fiasco in Mexico last December.

I heard a couple of stories about trying to score party favors from different locals. Supposedly the windshield washers at traffic lights were the primary source of yerba. At one point, I was offered to huff paint out of a paper bag. Although I considered the option for a brief moment, I respectfully declined. I have not huffed paint thinner on a street corner since the summer of 1997 (that's a very long story that I'll save for another time) and I had no intentions of going that far off the reservation... at least while the tournament was still running.

On the first night in Mar del Plata, I noticed a sign across the street that said, "Friends." I mentioned that to one of my Costa Rican colleagues and asked if it was a strip club. He said that it looked like a hair salon. Fair enough. But less than 24 hours later, I discovered that the joint was a brothel. The girls cost 80 pesos or roughly $24.

Wha?

And then there was the guy in the market place selling knives. I almost bought three. By reading enough Jose Luis Borges short stories, I learned that having a bigger knife during a potential mugging almost always thwarted the alleged assailants.

"Dude, you're gonna need this, especially walking around at night," as I stealthily handed Otis and MeanGene a seven inch blade.

I decided against it because the last thing I wanted to do was send those guys on mega-knife-fight-tilt. But just in case something happened to Otis, he asked me to deliver his watch to his first born son back in G-Vegas.

"The way your dad looked at it, this watch was your birthright. He'd be damned if anyone was gonna put their greasy hands on his boy's birthright... And now, little man, I give the watch to you."

I'm glad we didn't have the knives because someone would have gotten stabbed at the wrap party.

We went to a club. Free booze. Lots of weird late 80s music. Everyone was celebrating the end of a tough assignment. Everything was groovy until around 3:30am. I was about to leave when something happened. Apparently there was a drunk guy (not a player but the brother of a player) hanging around the tournament the last few days harassing all the models and some of the female staff. He crossed a serious line at the party and groped someone he should not have been touching... particularly a friend's wife.

When the drunken nimrod was repeatedly warned by my buddy and told to stop, the drunk responded with a sucker punch. It caught my friend off guard and the two tumbled over a couch and fell onto the dance floor right in front of me. I was caught up in the middle of it as everyone on the dance floor parted as the music continued to blast in the club and the two grappled on the ground. My buddy's wife tried to intervene and I was trying to pull her away so she didn't get hurt. Sometimes, things are best left to two guys settling a problem themselves. A near brawl ensued. I expected the security to break it up, but no one was in that part of the club. As soon as another friend pulled my buddy away, the drunken molester bolted. He tried to run into the bathroom with an angry mob of Costa Ricans and Argentinians in pursuit. Luckily the club security caught the drunken molester before the angry mob tore him to pieces. The drunken scumbag was quickly 86'd from the club. Everything happened so fast and there was a ton of confusion. I was glad that Change100 and my friend's wife were not harmed in the fracas. As soon as the fight ended, the dance floor quickly filled up with people dancing... like nothing happened.

Stray dogs. One-armed bums. Chain-smoking federales packing heat. Paint huffing windshield washers. $24 harlots. Beer guzzling Brazilian models. And a good old fashioned bar fight.

Just another Sunday night in Argentina.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

The Vicodin Diaries, Vol. 2: It's a Tough Job, But Someone's Gotta Do It

By Pauly
Mar del Plata, Argentina

Covering poker tournaments in foreign lands can be quite problematic. Take for example the early obstacles that I had to overcome in order to reach this lovely beach resort on the coast of Argentina. It took almost 24 hours to travel from the slums of Beverly Hills across the equator to Mar Del Plata on a journey that included two taxis, three different flights (each one delayed), five different airports (including two in Buenos Aires) and a shuttle branded in PokerStars just to arrive at my intended destination.

I was lucky. I didn't have to ride a bus from BA to MDP for 5.5 hours. And unlike a couple of my colleagues at Poker News, my luggage arrived safely. I'm a veteran and always carry-on my gear whenever possible. Unfortunately, the wizards at Delta Airlines lost Melissa and Randy's luggage. Melissa was the on air talent and did not have any clothes. Randy? His video equipment and cameras were also lost. They showed up at the Casio de Central in odd-colored fluorescent t-shirts purchased from a local souvenir shop. Reminded me of that scene in Pulp Fiction.

Then there was the mix up with the credentials. When I showed up at the media check in ready to pick up my press pass on Wednesday afternoon, the woman in charge said in broken English... "What is this Poker News? Is it online site?"

Are you fuckin' kidding me? How can you legitimately work in the poker industry and not know what Poker News is? They have a Spanish version of the site in addition to translations into over a dozen languages. I saved her life and withheld the information from Tony G. Otherwise, she'd be sleeping with the fishes.

I asked her to check her list again. She blew me off and went to talk to her friends instead of trying to sort out the mix. I assumed that she purposely blew me off because I'm an American. After whiffing a third time to secure a badge on Wednesday, I contacted a couple of higher ups in the organization for assistance. They were more than willing to help out.

My crew did not officially get credentials until mid-way through Level 3 on Day 1a of the PokerStars.net LAPT Mar del Plata. Better late than never, right? Oh and for the record, I never got my creds despite applying online two weeks ago and filling out paperwork four different times inside of a 18 hour period. I simply gave up and used my old credentials from the LAPT Mexico. I have so many badges from previous assignments that I don't know what to do with them. I tried not to take it as a sign of disrespect, just incompetence. There's a lot of that going around in the poker industry. Par for the course.

Adapt and overcome. That's why I get paid a paycheck to fly all over the world and tackle on difficult assignments. And sometimes there are surreal moments like Boris Becker wandering over and asking me, "Where's the toilet?"

And then things got really difficult when the models sat down at the tables. South American models playing poker? Yes. It was a horrendous task to undertake but I rolled up my sleeves and accepted the assignment even though I knew it might kill me. and by killing me, I mean the tiny daggers that shot out of my girlfriend's eyes as a stalagmite of drool encrusted off my chin.

Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices.

I noticed that South American models have a penchant for not wearing under garments. That included bras and underwear. There were a couple of Brazilian models/actresses (Vanessa Machado and Angelita Feijo) and an Argentinian model/actress who was not even the best looking model in her family. Geraldine Neumann was Jan Brady to Marcia Brady and her older sister Nicole Neumann.

A quick scan of Google images nearly gave me a heart attack and a hard on. Like this extremely NSFW image of Aneglita. I'm gonna submit that to GuessHerMuff.


Vanessa


Angelita


Geraldine
Yes, those women played in the LAPT. Why the hell are you wasting your money on the WSOP, when you can head down to South America and snort the best drugs in the world*** and play poker with women that have a shot at appearing on Wicked Chops Poker's Friday parting shot?

You can imagine the pain and misery that went through our entire bodies as we had to type up their tournament obituaries. One by one the models slowly disappeared after their eliminations. First to go was Geraldine. And a little piece of me died when the blonde vixen sauntered to the rail. Next up was Angelita. I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Just when we thought we saw the last of Angelita, she re-appeared. What do Brazilian models do after they bust out of the LAPT? They head to the bar and return with draft beers for their other model friends and sweat them. The security guards held back the surging crowd on the rail, but they allowed Angelita to stand behind Vanessa as she continued to play.

And then... Vanessa became a casualty. She busted out and MeanGene was in near tears. I had to pop a couple of Vicodin just to calm myself down from the utter misery.

Day 1A came to a close and not one single model advance to Day 2. Alas, Day 1B is on Friday and we're hoping that more leggy and top-heavy models are in the field.

*** Disclaimer: Cocaine is a dangerous narcotic and should only be taken under the supervision of a physician. Readers are advised that the Tao of Poker does not purport to tell or suggest that readers snort white powdery substances that are sold to them on street corners from guys in soccer jerseys with messenger bags. Tao of Poker will not be liable for any loss or damage caused by robberies from said cocaine merchants. Readers are solely responsible for their own incarceration, legal fees, and bribes to local officials.

Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.

The Vicodin Diaries, Vol. 1: Prayers

By Pauly
Mar del Plata, Argentina

When Change100 heard that I was going to Argentina on an assignment, she immediately started teasing... "Dr. Pauly and the Vicodin Diaries."

Of course, for you non-revolutionists out there, she alluded to Che Guevara's Motorcycle Diaries and my fascination with the revolutionary who helped thrust Castro to power in Cuba in the 1950s and was later hunted down by the CIA in Bolivia.

I was bubbling over with excitement about the assignment (as opposed to apprehension and contempt which seemed to plague most poker media these days) mainly because several of my friends were scheduled to work the event including Change100, Otis, Joe, and Alex for PokerStars and myself with MeanGene for PokerNews.

Plus, you never know what might happen in South America. Heck, the last time I covered an LAPT event in Mexico... the federales shut down the event. I hate to think that I'm a cooler. Then again, that could be a profitable business. Professional Cooler. Entities will pay me to stay away.

On Easter Sunday, I went to the pseudo in-laws house for dinner. I heard about the now infamous knife-throwing prop bet that went down the last time Change100 covered an LAPT prop bet. I did not want to show up in Argentina with a disadvantage. I'm more than confident in my deft lime tossing skills, but I haven't thrown a knife since an incident in Jamaica that occurred fifteen years ago. (You can read about that in my unpublished novel Gumbo if/when that ever gets published). Alas, Change100 found me a suitable knife and I went into her parent's backyard in Westwood and I hurled the knife at a lemon tree. On the second throw, the handle cracked. On the third? It broke apart. Karmic payback for trying to throw knives at trees on Easter Sunday?

During the Easter feast that Change100's mom whipped up, I was bombarded with text messages from G-Rob. He went to see The Dead tour opening concert in Greensboro, NC. We were also prop betting on the song openers for each set including the encores. During the Phish reunion shows in Hampton, VA in March, I was wagering significant amounts of money on what songs the band performed at different times in the show. The Joker won a huge pot on the last night and G-Rob edged me out in heads-up betting. On Easter? G-Rob and I ended up chopping.

Once I arrived in Buenos Aires, we started prop betting before we even cleared immigration. At the front of the line there was a kiosk that flashed numbers designating the next immigration booth that was available. I turned to Change100 and said, "Odds or evens? Which one will I get?"

She said odds. It turned out that only one of the open booths was odd-numbered. I was a 5 to 1 favorite to win the bet... and I did.

Change100 got some money back at the second airport in Buenos Aires. We had to drive across town and catch a flight at the domestic airport. We did not have a gate assignment, something that would not be revealed until a half-hour before the scheduled departure. She picked odds and our gate was originally 5 but they changed it at the last minute to... 11.

I'm anxiously waiting for Otis to arrive so I can take 1,000 Pesos off of him in throwing things prop bets. I actually saw a kid on the side of the road selling a sack of papayas for $4. I'm going to find him in the morning so we have plenty of ammo to gamble on. Papaya Tossing is the new Lime Tossing.

Of course, we don't know if Otis will arrive. His original flight out of G-Vegas was cancelled which meant that he missed his connecting flight to South America. Our assignment is located in a beach resort town south of Buenos Aires approximately 5.5 hours by motor vehicle or a 45 minute air flight. I had to book a separate domestic flight from Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata on Tuesday morning which flew out of a different airport in Buenos Aires (similar to arriving at JFK and then having to head to LaGuardia to finish up your journey). All of the other Buenos Aires > Mar del Plata flights were sold out on Wednesday.

Otis was supposed to arrive on Tuesday morning, but since he got screwed, he found himself in a tough situation... and the inevitable horror of having a 5.5 hour bus ride ahead of him since there were no available flights Wednesday to Mar del Plata because the LAPT kicks off on Thursday and hundreds of online qualifiers and players filled every seat.

The TDs (Greg and Mike) arrived on Easter Sunday and discovered not a single available seat on flights (because of the holiday) so he took a cab from the airport in Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata.... a good 5.5 to 6 hour drive. The taxi cost him $1,200 USD.

Alas, Otis was looking at a 5.5 hour bus ride. Originally, PokerNews arranged me to travel on a bus from Buenos Aires > Mar del Plata. I could only imagine what a bus ride in South America would be like... chickens flying around, crying babies with snot crusted on their face, holes in the floorboards with dust swirling all around... not to mention, a gaucho with a blade in the back row challenging anyone who wanted to use the toilet to a fight to the death. So instead of riding on a dilapidated bus without AC while sitting in my own warm piss, I decided to avoid a shanking in a scene reminiscent of a Jose Luis Borges short story.

I paid money out of my pocket for a flight to Mar del Plata to avoid the plight with the unwashed masses on the lengthy bus ride. The flight only cost about $130 more than the bus and I'll more than make up for that difference in prop betting with Otis. Then again, there's plenty of local soccer, er football, to wager on if I can find a legitimate local bookie.

Sadly, MeanGene is booked on one of the buses from Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata. I can only hope that he'll arrive in one piece. Please pray to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, and ask him, the Virgin Mary, and the entire choir of angels in heaven to protect MeanGene and Otis on their passage to the coastal town of Mar del Plata.

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.


Original content written and provided by Pauly from Tao of Poker at www.taopoker.com. All rights reserved. RSS feeds are for non-commercial use only.