- the number of revelations I wrote down upon waking from a few hours' post-blackjack sleep Seven-thirty ante meridian is just about the worst time to stumble back to your hotel room in Vegas. I'd checked the time on my phone when I finally began the long march back to the elevators but didn't quite believe it. The hallway was as dim and dingy as ever. Only when I opened the door to my room was the horrible truth made apparent. The cold, sharp light streaming through my room's inadequate curtains was sending me a powerful message: You can sleep here, buddy, but you're not going to like it. I gave my teeth a desultory brushing and briefly considered moving the bedding into the bathroom, where at least it was dark, but rejected this plan on the grounds that it sounded like too much fucking work. So I rearranged the curtains to provide some semblance of darkness and collapsed on the bed. When I awoke I realized two things: 1. Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville is to celebrity-themed restaurants what Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was to filmic adaptations of classic horror novels. 2. There is such a thing as "inverse implied odds" in limit cash games, and it covers a set of circumstances completely apart from the usual canards about reverse implied odds.


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