Big Denny was in his usual foul mood. "Hey, Maxey," he griped, "ya ever see how many of dose poker camps dey got goin' now?"
"Sure," I said. "There's the World Poker Tour Boot Camp, Howard Lederer's Fantasy Camp, Camp Hellmuth, and maybe some others. What about it?"
"What about it?" he roared. "Don'tcha remember? I was da first ta have a poker boot camp, maybe 10 years ago."
"Oh, sure, I wrote a column about it, though nobody believed it. It was held on some swampland in Louisiana. Mike Caro was reciting a mantra about being surrounded by a 'powerful force' when he was surrounded by a powerful force of hornets and had to run off the stage. Eskimo Clark talked about money management. He had won a huge tournament two days before and now was trying to be staked. Frank Henderson's topic was protecting yourself from con artists, and he demonstrated by conning some gullible kid in the audience out of $100. Then, Grumpy Joe got eaten by an alligator. He went for a dip in the water because you had chopped up all the warning signs and used them for firewood. It was a real successful weekend all around."
"So maybe dere was a couple of little screw-ups, so what? I was still da first. Dese other guys stole da idea from me, an' maybe I kin sue dem."
"I don't think you have a patent on poker camps, Denny. Why don't you just do another one?"
"As a matter a fact, Maxey, dat's just what I was plannin' ta do. I'll show dose bums, an' ya kin help me write da promotions."
I went along with the gag. This time, Denny decided to avoid swamps and stage the event at his casino. The package touted two days of seminars and lectures featuring the world's top poker experts, two nights' lodging at the luxurious Barstow Card Casino Hotel, and fine dining at the casino's renowned Four-Star buffet, all for a modest fee of $500. Despite the "bargain" price, attendance was a bit less than expected, mainly because Card Player declined to run the ad for a couple of petty reasons: Denny still hadn't paid for his last three insertions, and the magazine was afraid of being sued in case anyone else got killed during the proceedings.
Big Denny's Poker Camp II would turn out to be as disastrous as Camp I. While there were no alligators this time around, the cramped and dingy hotel rooms did offer a full complement of bed bugs, ants, cockroaches, mice, and an occasional scorpion wandering in from the surrounding desert to check things out. That, combined with scratchy sheets, lumpy beds, and paper-thin walls, assured participants of little if any sleep. Adding to the problem was an epidemic of stomach cramps brought on by the buffet's featured selection, filet of horse meat.
The next morning, Denny greeted his groggy guests from the stage of the hotel's meeting room. "Welcome ta Big Denny's Poker Camp," he bellowed. "In case ya has any complaints, be sure ta tell me about dem. An' nobody else," he added menacingly.
"Now let me intraduce da first speaker, Dr. Wolfgang Krock, who's gonna tell ya how ta keep yer calm at da poker table when t'ings ain't goin' yer way."
"Goot morning," the eminent poker psychologist greeted his audience. "Ya, poker can be der big pain in der hindquarters. Like ven you get der bad beats from dumkoffs who shouldn't even be allowed to play der game. Chust der other day I vas in a tournament, only six tables from der money, ven I flopped der nuts flush, only to see some putz make der runny-runny bigger flush."
As the audience blinked in confusion, he plowed ahead. "But do I get mad? No, I chust say, 'Nice hand, you shmuck,' even though he cost me all der money I needed so bad." Krock began sobbing and flailing his arms. "I got no luck," he wailed. I hate dis shtupid game."
"There, there," Big Denny said soothingly as he shoved Krock offstage. "OK," he announced, "now dat ya knows how ta keep from goin' on tilt, we're gonna hear from someone who's da world's leadin' expert on puttin' yer opponents on tilt."
The famously antagonistic Ham Gristle walked up, frowning and muttering obscenities under his breath. He cut right to the chase. "Insult everyone every chance ya'all get," he drawled. "Call them monkeys an' donkeys. Tell them they couldn't play dead in a graveyard." He stared at his audience, who sat transfixed, mouths agape. "Come ta think of it, none of ya'all don't look too bright, neither. Cain't imagine why ah'm wastin' mah time here," he sneered, spitting at the front row and walking offstage.
Even Big Denny was embarrassed. He hastened to bring on the next speaker, John Bonetti, whose topic was "Making Friends with the Dealer." Halfway through his introduction, though, he was interrupted by a phone call.
"Dennis," a voice screeched, "how dare you fail to invite me to be a speaker?"
Big Denny froze. It was Windy Waggy, the pushy lady who had once encamped at his casino for weeks, ordering him around and inundating him with directives on how to "improve" his operation. He had finally tried to get rid of her by proposing marriage, then suffered a heart attack when she accepted.
"I shall arrive and be your speaker for tomorrow, Dennis, and will expect my standard fee of $5,000 plus expenses."
"But Windy," Big Denny sputtered, "we got our biggest names lined up fer tomorrow. There's T.J., an' Daniel, an'..."
"Dismiss those nobodies!" she snapped. "I shall be all you require. Or would you prefer I stay at your establishment for the next four months?"
Denny had no choice but to alter his guest-speaker lineup. The next day, Windy arrived, flounced up on stage, smiled at the disappointed guests, and began an interminable presentation that consisted mainly of endless name-dropping. She boasted of knowing and advising every luminary in the gaming world, from Donald Trump ("
The Apprentice was my idea, you know") to Steve Lipscomb ("I gave the dear boy the idea for lipstick cameras"). In between her self-promotion, she occasionally dropped in an elementary poker rule that everyone was already familiar with, such as not drawing to a flush when the board was paired. When she finally finished, nobody applauded, for the simple reason that everybody was asleep.
And so, to paraphrase T.S. Eliot's famous line, this is how the camp ends, not with a bang but a whimper. Denny had already skipped town rather than have to listen to Windy's ideas for how to run his casino, and to avoid being besieged by money-back demands from the camp's attendees.
Therefore, don't look for Big Denny's Poker Camp III anytime soon.
