A Magical Night With Penn & Teller & Grump

On my recent trip to Vegas, I needed at least one evening away from the poker tables and decided to take advantage of one of the great things about Vegas—its cornucopia of great restaurants and entertaining shows. I have attended many of the Cirque du Soleil shows (some of them more than once), so I was looking for something a little different. Considering I recently read Penn Jillette's book "God, No!", and since the sig other and I follow Celebrity Apprentice on which Penn was a contestant this season, the choice was obvious. A couple of texts was all it took to strong arm Poker Grump into being my wing man for the evening (Grump is also a fan of Penn & Teller—see HERE and HERE for a couple of his posts that reference Penn & Teller shows). As a surprise bonus, Grump even treated me to a great meal at Lindo Michoacan, a "local" Mexican restaurant a mere 10 minutes or so from the Strip (I enjoyed the spicy-but-not-hot house salsa and definitely loved the slow-roasted carnitas entree).

Penn & Teller have been performing at the Rio for over a decade now, meaning their current show was running for several years before my first trip to Vegas in July 2006. I originally got hooked on Penn & Teller from their appearances on various late night TV shows during my college days in the late 1980s and early 1990s, not to mention their co-starring role in Run DMC's video for "It's Tricky" [FN1]:




I loved Penn & Teller originally because of their irreverent showmanship, often going so far as to reveal how they performed the trick, giving a wink and a nod to the audience who not only want to be fooled, but to have an idea of how they were fooled. Frankly, Penn & Teller have based their success on the genius concept of acknowledging to the audience that they are going to try to fool them, and then proceeding to do just that. They are really just the flirting teens of magicians, showing just enough flesh and leading their audiences on with promises of more revealing poses later. Two of their early tricks were memorable enough to have stuck with me nearly for nearly two decades. The first is the Rocket trick, which is still one of my favorite magic performances of all time:




The second memorable old-school trick is a variation on Cups and Balls:




Flashing forward to the recent show at the Rio, which began with a pre-show opportunity for the audience to inspect a crate and an envelope which were props in later tricks. Grump and I were impressed by the skill of the two ushers who assisted audience members going up on the stage by taking their beverages and remembering whose drink was whose when those folks left the stage.

The show itself was a phenomenally entertaining hour and a half, filled with new tricks and classic tricks from  past Penn & Teller shows. The show opened with a new Penn & Teller "meta-magic" trick, where an audience member participates in the trick and the audience is in on the trick—or so they think, until a final twist leaves a theater full of scrambled brains. They call this trick "Cell Fish" and it is a quite entertaining in-person trick (fast forward to the 4:25 mark for the trick; the video doesn't show it well, but the bucket Teller brings on stage during the trick ends up hanging above the audience participant for the duration of the trick, adding to the mystery of the final reveal):



The diabolical secret of the trick is revealed in this straight-from-the-iPhone footage. I have to admit, I fell for the Cell Fish trick hook, line, and sinker ...

Penn and Teller have a great rapport, blending Penn's fast-talking and often humorous showmanship with Teller's sly facial gestures and artistic sleight of hand. Even though they have performed many of these tricks hundreds of times, they still feel fresh. Both Penn and Teller are avowed libertarians, and they work some political statements into their tricks. For example, any magician can conjure a person from thin air. It takes Penn and Teller to conjure a scantily-clad woman holding a rocket-propelled grenade out of a TSA-certified metal detector. Penn and Teller also put their own personal twists on classic magic tricks. Plenty of magicians make people disappear; but Penn makes Teller disappear from a helium-filled garbage bag. Similarly, there are plenty of magicians who levitate a ball, but Teller adds an artistic element, creating a ball which is also a pet that learns to do tricks.

I enjoyed every bit of the performance, and every trick was well-executed and entertaining. The showstopping dénouement—the famed "double bullet catch"—was even better in person than on TV. But probably my favorite trick of the night was Teller's solo performance of the Goldfish Bowl trick:




It was a stunning illusion, even more so considering our seats were only a few rows back from the stage. During the performance, I knew Teller had to be producing coins hidden in various spots, but the execution was flawless. As for the production of the goldfish, well clearly there had to be a secret compartment, but where and how Teller triggered it sure fooled me. It was just overall a wonderful trick. Now after seeing the video several times, I have a pretty good idea as to where the coins are hidden and how the water tank operates. Watch the video again and see if you catch any clues to how the trick works; some of the trick can be figured out from the video, but you won't have one important fact which was known to me from having watched the live performance. I'll post my thoughts at the end of this post. [FN2]

Altogether Penn & Teller was a great way to spend an evening and I plan to go back for another performance, maybe this December during WPBT. In the meantime, remember that although Vegas is a great place for poker, there are plenty of other entertainment options that provide a fun change of pace to tilting d-bags with the Spanish Inquisition.

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[FN1]  Run DMC's "Run Like Hell" album was the pregame soundtrack for my senior year high school basketball team—in rural western Nebraska in late 1987. How's that for the influence of early MTV in distributing urban hip hop music to the furthest reaches of lily-white America? "It's Tricky" is a regular part of my poker music mix, along with "You Be Illin'". I can even still recite the lyrics to both songs, which demonstrates the sticking power of music from our youth, along with proving I'm clearly not maximizing my brain's potential.

[FN2]  SPOILER ALERT! I think the coins are hidden in various spots—behind the chair, in Teller's pants pockets, in the towel on the lady's lap, in the fish tank (more in a moment), and in the lady's hands (again, more in a minute). Basically, look anywhere either of Teller's hands touch an object before he produces a coin (and keep in mind he is a master of palming and concealing items). Now for the tank; notice that there is a dark semicircle in the top middle of the tank that looks to be merely a shadow from lighting. Whenever Teller uses one hand, he keeps it high in the water within that dark area. Now here's what appears to be the key—the tank has a full mirror below the dark semicircle. Whenever Teller puts both arms in the tank he plunges them in quickly and deeply. His left arm is then reflected and you think you see his right arm, which is actually behind the mirror picking up coins or releasing goldfish. But the tank design is so well-crafted, and Teller choreographs the action so well (with his quick moves and the water turbulence helping cover up the deception), we are easily sold on the illusion being real. In the video above, look at the brief closeup of the goldfish; you can see some reflections in the middle of the tank where you usually wouldn't expect them (I suspect lighting effects minimize or eliminate those kinds of reflections for the live audience). Also, the tank is on the side of the stage which keeps the audience from seeing the side of the tank, while the other side is blocked by Teller; the tank's octagonal shape probably also allows some mirroring on the sides to hide the back part of the tank. As for the lady, she appears to be a plant who is in on the trick (the same or a very similar lady assisted with the live show I attended). This explains how the coins get in her hands, and allows Teller to palm more coins to drop from her glasses, etc. This also explains how she doesn't notice the coins in the towel or the strange construction of the tank. I'm probably missing some details, but these appear to be the basics for the trick, which I still love as much as when I saw it live. Despite all the non-traditional patter and showmanship, Penn and Teller are still talented technical magicians at heart.

An Irresistible Duck Pho Meets an Immovable Inquisition

Most of my readers also follow Poker Grump, so y'all should know about the Deuce-Four, which the Grump touts as the mightiest hand in poker. [FN1]  Of course, my friend CK, a/k/a the Black Widow of Poker, contends that "crubs" (clubs) are the strongest hand, because "crubs always get there" (though there is the small matter of needing a "crubs whistle" to summon the crubs). Naturally, one has to wonder what would happen if the Duck Pho ran into Crubs. In fact, Grump has already wondered about that conflict, a potential "irresistible force meeting an immovable object" situation. Based on field research to date (see HERE, HERE, and HERE for in-depth analysis), data are inconclusive.

In any event, Crubs and the Duck Pho, powerful as those poker demi-gods are, must bow to the transcendent majesty of the Spanish Inquisition. crAAKKer reader "RedXBranch" shared the following story as a comment to one of my recent posts:

I have been dying to tell you of a big win recently at our local casino in a $1/$2 cash game. I played the "Spanish Inquisition" against a lady specifically because she had played "the Grump" 4 times. The hand went: EP raise to $7, followed by 2 callers, then the lady called also. I look down at 6-3 off, and called "for the hell of it". Flop comes out 6,9,Q w/two spades. Action goes check, check, lady bets $10, I call and one of the other guys calls. Pot is now about $60. Turn is a blank and it goes check, lady makes it $15, I call and other player folds. She tells me, "you better be careful", and we have a laugh. River is the 6 of diamonds. Yahtzee! She bets $25 and I raise her to $75. She snap calls me while saying "I told you to be careful, two pair" (Q-9). I show my trips and say "that is the Spanish Inquisition, nobody expects it." Hilarity ensues. She called me an asshole. I told her anyone that plays deuce/four as often as she does should be able to appreciate my play of the 6/3 ... hehe! She hunted my chips like she was on safari for the rest of the night.

I love this story because RedXBranch clearly has a sense of humor, "calling for the hell of it" with a monster hand like the Inquisition. Plus, the Inquisition pays off in full, not only winning the hand (*yawn*), but also providing a "Yahtzee!" moment before causing hilarity to ensue.

The evidence is overwhelming. The Spanish Inquisition is superior to the Duck Pho. But I think we all knew that already.

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[FN1]  The Deuce-Four really needs a nickname. All cool poker hands have awesome nicknames. Well, maybe not awesome, but at least a nickname. So, henceforth I will refer to the Deuce-Four as the "Duck Pho".

You Know You're Having a Bad Day in Court When ...

"When you have the law on your side, pound the law. When you have the facts on your side, pound the facts. When you have neither the law nor the facts going for you, pound the table."

~Old Legal Aphorism

Earlier this evening, Poker Grump tweeted this:

If a justice tells you, "I'm terribly confused" and "Why don't you try to come up with something else," you're having a bad court day.

Grump was referring to the U.S. Supreme Court oral argument today in the Arizona immigration law case, Arizona v. United States .  Solicitor General Donald Verrilli, Jr.—an experienced and talented appellate attorney—had as rough a day in court as can be imagined. As the preeminent SCOTUSBlog described the nadir of Verrilli's argument:

Even Justice Sotomayor advised him, bluntly, that his main argument was ”not selling very well; why don’t you try to come up with something else? … What’s left of your argument?”

As an appellate lawyer, there is really no worse feeling than when one of your strongest allies on the bench is bluntly telling you your argument sucks. In my former life in private practice, I was one of the lead motion and appellate attorneys in my firm. Honestly, there is nothing I enjoy more about my job than writing appellate briefs and arguing appeals. Many attorneys dislike or are intimidated by motion and appellate practice, but the construction and framing of legal arguments, and the freewheeling extemporaneous debate of those issues in 15-30 minutes of argument in front of a trial judge or a panel of appellate judges is right in my wheelhouse (which I'm sure will come as a major surprise to many of my readers). And just like Mr. Verrilli, I've had my share of ugly arguments, which I remember more vividly than many of my best winning arguments. Here are a couple of my personal lawyering horror stories.

* * * * *

Unlike many attorneys, I didn't specialize in any one area of litigation, preferring to be a jack of all trades, willing to dive into trial work as diverse as commercial disputes, insurance and reinsurance law, personal injury cases, and product liability claims. Basically, if you could fight about it in court, I could be your hired gun (or at least your legal sniper).

A few years back, I was one of the few attorneys in the office the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. A secretary came into my office, telling me one of my partners was very sick, and had a bench trial set to start that day in a commercial foreclosure action. I got on the phone with the judge and the bank's attorney who pulled a jerk move, resisting my request for a continuance. The judge gave me one day to prepare to take over the case. Wonderful.

The next day we spent putting on evidence for the judge. Like many commercial foreclosures, the bank was trying to prove a breach of the loan agreement, while my client was trying to prove substantial compliance; still, the law and the facts in foreclosure cases rarely favor the borrower. Late in the afternoon, the bank's attorney made an eight-part motion for an immediate order of foreclosure. If the bank won on any one of the eight points, they had the right to foreclose. After the bank's attorney concluded his argument, I began to rebut each of the bank's eight points, one by one. I had pretty good evidence, and the law was in my favor on some key issues. I was on a roll, thinking I might yet salvage what had to that point looked like rather bleak prospects for my client.

Until I got to Issue Number Six. That issue was pretty much a dead loser for my client. I spun up an argument out of a few random facts and some large leaps of inference, and quickly pivoted to the stronger ground of Issue Number Seven. That's when the judge—who is smart and well-respected—looked up from his laptop for the first time in the entire argument:

"Mr. Grange, do you have any other arguments for Issue Number Six?"

Ummm, well clearly I needed some other arguments but didn't have any on hand, so I played the classic lawyer trump card: "Your honor, that is a complex issue that I would need to address with supplemental briefing." Translation: I'm in trouble, so I need a couple of days to come up with something creative. The judge smiled at me: "Yes, I suppose that issue should be briefed. Have something to me by noon tomorrow." Needless to say, I won a complete sweep of every issue except Issue Number Six ... which meant I lost the case.

* * * * *

Two years ago, I was the appellate attorney for an interesting case arising from judicial review of an administrative proceeding. Another attorney had defended and lost the case before the agency, and asked me to handle the appeal. There were two interrelated issues—whether my clients were liable and whether they owed a penalty. If we won the liability issue, we also won the penalty issue. But the penalty issue was of primary importance to my clients, and we could win that issue even if we lost the liability issue. On appeal to the district court, we contested both issues, expecting our arguments on the liability issue not to prevail on that issue, but to provide the basis for a victory on the penalty issue. To our surprise, we won both issues. Regrettably, our opponent appealed.

The appeal was assigned to the Iowa Court of Appeals. Normally, a three judge panel would consider cases, often without oral argument. The court, however, selected our case as one of two cases to receive a special oral argument in front of a five judge panel as part of a continuing legal education conference attended by a couple hundred Iowa attorneys and judges, many of whom I know and have worked with in the past. Even more stressful for me was that two recent appointees to the bench were on the panel, one being a lawyer I clerked for in law school and the other a long-time district court judge who I had appeared before on numerous occasions. I also knew the other three judges on the panel from a variety of bar activities. Talk about some added pressure!

My 20 minutes of argument flew by, as the judges were well-prepared for the case and peppered me with a barrage of questions starting less than 20 seconds into my time. Having a "hot bench" like this is actually a good thing as it shows the court is engaged with the issues; nothing is worse than trying to fill argument time with judges who have no questions or only perfunctory questions clarifying minor evidentiary or procedural issues.

I quickly realized that the judges were skeptical of our position on the liability issue. But, the judges focused the bulk of the argument on that issue which was much more complicated, and which started to loom as the iceberg that might sink our case. So, I desperately looked for an opening to shift the debate to the far more favorable penalty issue. One of the two newest judges gave me that opening, when he was pursuing a line of analysis on the liability issue. My answer clearly did not satisfy him, and his facial expression showed he disagreed with my argument. Acting on instinct, I made a play to shift the argument to firmer ground. With a big grin I said:

"Your honor, even if you're not buying what I've been selling the past 15 minutes, there is still the penalty issue to consider, and on that issue, the law is clearly in my clients' favor."

The two newest judges nearly broke out laughing, and spent the next five minutes studiously "taking notes" to avoid making eye contact with me. Even the chief judge, a pretty no-nonsense type when on the bench, cracked a smile. A cardinal rule of appellate argument is never to use humor, but I made a spur of the moment decision that I needed to shift the debate by any means possible. Since I knew the panel, and had argued in front of them often, I felt I could pull off a self-deprecating joke that signaled to the judges that, although they were concerned about the legal implications of ruling for my clients on the liability issue, they could safely rule against my clients on that issue so long as they ruled for my clients on the penalty issue. Although my ego would have preferred a clean sweep of both issues, my clients only cared about the penalty issue, and winning that issue alone while quasi-conceding the liability issue offered the court an easy way to decide the case.

* * * * *

As a coda to my trip down war-story memory lane, I have had a few trials where witnesses said some funny stuff under oath. My favorite example was from early in my career, where a major fighting issue was where an employee got the beer that got him drunk. The employee testified that he and his supervisor would drink beer together every night after they closed the restaurant for the night. The beer, however, was brought to the restaurant by either the employee or his supervisor. When the employee's attorney tried to get his client to testify that the supervisor brought the beer that the employee drank, hilarity ensued:

Attorney:  Now the night of the accident, were you drinking the beer Mr. Smith [the supervisor] brought?
Employee:  No, I wasn't.
Attorney:  You weren't?
Employee:  No, I never drank the beer Mr. Smith brought.
Attorney:  Are you sure?
Employee:  Oh yeah. He always drank Coors Light, and I don't drink that shit. It tastes like piss.

Amazing how honest people can be while under oath!

Six Degrees of IMOP

Earlier this month, I was in Vegas for a work conference, staying and playing at the Mirage. I met a charming older Asian woman, "M.L." who is a local and a regular player in the Mirage poker room. I played in several sessions of $1/$2 and $2/$5 NLHE with M.L., and toward the end of my final session, we were seated next to each other when a younger guy sat down at the table. M.L. nudged me and said, "He played here yesterday, lost over two thousand dollars. Plays crazy."

Sure enough, the young guy ("Y.G.") sat down and began to play nearly every hand, always raising or calling a raise preflop. Y.G. hit a few ridiculous hands to annoy some of the more serious players, but he promptly gave it all back with a series of loose calls, bad bluffs, and overplaying of marginal hands. Y.G. wasn't bothered by losing, and was actually joking around in a friendly way, making the game fun and entertaining. As Y.G. told the table multiple times, "Hey, I lost $13,000 at craps tonight. This is nothing!"

Y.G. probably pumped $1,500 or so into the game before leaving to meet up with his wife for an early breakfast. I wonder how awkward their breakfast chitchat was.

As Y.G. walked away, M.L. and I shared our regrets that Y.G. left the game. After exchanging a laugh, M.L. looked at me and said:

"You think he played crazy? Last month there were some guys here from Iowa. Now they played really crazy!"

I wonder who those crazy guys might have been.

NOTE: For all the IMOP fans out there inquiring about the IMOP-VII trip report, Santa Claus is diligently working on it, though dark comedy is not his strong suit. Estimated delivery date is "sometime before Flag Day". So stay tuned, true believers!

A Rake Mirage

On my recent Vegas work junket, I played several sessions at the Mirage poker room, mostly $2/$5 NLHE in the evenings, then $1/$2 NLHE after the bigger game broke in the early morning hours. Considering Mirage was completely comping my hotel room, throwing a few dollars down the rake slot was the least I could do. Plus, the Mirage poker room is a very nice environment to play cards, a little less intense than some of the bigger rooms, with more passive, casual, entertaining, and profitable games.

One nice touch at the Mirage is the graduated rake structure for the $2/$5 game.  Instead of taking a straight 10%, Mirage drops a maximum rake of $3+$1 jackpot, with $1+$1 jackpot at $10, then $1 at $50, and $1 at $100. Even better, there is no rake at all if the game is smaller than seven-handed. The major effect of the graduated rake is to reduce the rake on those medium size pots where only two or three players see the flop, and a flop or turn bet takes down the pot. Many of the bigger rooms have similar—though not as slow—graduated rake structures, but a graduated rake is not at all standard in Vegas and is a welcome move for a room looking to spread games other than the basic $1/$2 NLHE and $2/$4 or $3/$6 LHE.

The $2/$5 NLHE game usually started early in the evening and would run well past midnight, even during weeknights. However, the game often would conclude with a couple of hours of short-handed play, with only seven or fewer players in the game. Once the player count dropped to four or five, the game would usually run for another 30 minutes or an hour before the players would break the game to head home or to seats in the running $1/$2 NLHE games. Being a hardcore degenerate, I was usually one of the last stragglers at several games each evening/morning.

Like many poker rooms in Vegas, the Mirage will take a reduced rake on short-handed games. Based on my less than scientific observations, it appeared that the rake for $1/$2 NLHE (normally $4+$1) was capped at $3+$1 for six players, $2+$1 for five players, and $1+$1 for four players. However, the rake was not reduced automatically. Instead, a player had to request that the dealer reduce the rake, the dealer would then call the floor and make the request, and the floor would grant a rake reduction. At one point around 4:00 a.m., a player at my short-handed $1/$2 NLHE table asked the dealer why the rake hadn't been reduced. The dealer replied, "I can't ask for a rake reduction. I have to wait for a player to request it. If I call for a rake reduction on my own, I would get fired."

Now let's allow for a bit of hyperbole here. I have known the Mirage poker room manager, Chris Coffin, since he was manager at TI's poker room, primarily through our postings in the All Vegas Poker forums and through my frequent play at TI and Mirage. I doubt Mr. Coffin would have a policy where dealers would be fired or even disciplined for requesting a rake reduction. However, it appears that Mirage dealers are not allowed to initiate a rake reduction request. Frankly, I don't understand this policy. The Mirage has been taking a lot of steps to transform itself into a solid mid-tier poker room, one that caters to the casual poker player while still offering a more posh experience as well as a variety of poker games not seen in the typical small Strip poker room. Why not make rake reductions automatic upon the game reaching the requisite number of players? If a floor approval is required to verify that the rake drop is correct, then allow the dealer to initiate the rake reduction request without waiting for a player request.

I enjoyed my time—and profit—playing at the Mirage poker room, and the room is certainly back in my regular Vegas rotation. The rake reduction policy is a minor issue in the grand scheme of things, but emphasizing a player friendly rake reduction policy could be a minor selling point in a city where half the poker rooms on the Strip have a $5+$1 rake. Then again, I don't get paid the big bucks to manage the poker room. Just my two cents. Or four bucks.

(Image source)