“Are you a card player?”
The cabbie had just picked me up at the Mirage. The sun was up, the card room was still full, and two drunk girls were slipping into the sunlight like a gator into the Everglades.
Am I a card player? I thought.
It was an obvious question. From the Wynn to sbo Mandalay Bay, the only thing going on besides the National Hall of Fame Dance Competition was the World Series of Poker. At least 10,000 of the people in town were either card players or relatives of one. Since I was going to the Rio, I had to either be a card player or the prodigal father of some Jon Benet Ramsey-esque tart in tight shorts and sequins. Just the other day I was walking behind a swinging, barely-covered ass with the words “Get Some” written across the cheeks. It was only after …