The first thing that always strikes you upon entering the El Cortez is that none of the employees seems to want to be there.

The dealers at every game, young and/or newbies all, are wishing they were at Bellagio or Mandalay Bay despite their incompetence (which is prolific). The floor bosses are wondering what kind of sin they committed in a previous life to be in this untrained purgatory. And, the aging cocktail waitresses are wishing they were anywhere but on their aching feet serving you.

The second thing is the realization that nothing in the structure is up to modern building code. Make sure to note the location of the nearest exit if you visit the place, because in the dictionary under the entry "fire trap" is a picture of the El Cortez.

Third are the people. They are attracted by the dim lights, cheap drinks (a shot with a beer back is $2.25), centralized but somewhat out of the way location (away from touristy crowds but near the police station), and easy access for drunken drivers and low lifes from the freeway and nearby high-crime neighborhoods. I guess everybody needs a home.

Two immediate observations upon entering -- I was the only person over six feet/200 lb, man or woman, without a tattoo (I'm 6'5"/300); and, the weekend had brought in a larger, better class of crowd (which is inevtiable given the regular population).

Two of the three tables were in action, a huge night at the El Cortez...must be the overflow from the WSOP. However, the prime table, in the rear nook, where almost every player gets to have their back to a wall (generally a good idea at this joint), was silent.

The action was heated. But not like last time (MLK weekend) when an ice-crazed biker took one of the many open seats at the single working table and, when he couldn't find a waitress to clean up the near empty Coronas littering his spot, abruptly hurled the bottles under the table, took his seat and calmly asked for chips.

This time the trash flying across the table was of the talk variety and was generally good-natured, if sometimes cryptic..."$%@# that four don't be right for you, but it &*$#@ brings home my cricket." Say what?

After my third beer (its amamzing how a couple buck tip keeps em coming, and you forget once and its no more), the blinding light struck.

Sure, the ambience was less than cousin Ernie's dank basement, the dealer's worse than your four year-old niece playing War, and the chips are so old you can't stack them more than about 16 high, but this game was more about a bunch of guys having fun playing poker than any I've seen in the neo-palaces anywhere else this weekend.

No one was trying to be a strutting TV superstar (20% of the crowd at the MGM), or a wannabe pro trying to crack the game (although the cabbie playing really needed the money I think), or some internet savvy, book reading whiz. I don't think anyone at the table probably owned a computer or had ever read a book of any type.

Just cracks, laughs, whoops and moans by regular Joes PLAYING A GAME, not working their "craft" on their way to dreamed of Poker Pro riches.

It is good to know such places remain in Vegas, cuz afterall its all about the fun. In this case cheap and well-oiled.

Plus, it doesn't hurt that I made my "cricket" and walked out $120 winners.