No, that's not a cell phone in my pocket ...

... my bankroll's just happy to see you.

Today's big pre-trip errand, and kind of a scary one, was a walk to the bank to withdraw $10,000.

You can pre-register for the World Series online, ponying up the entry fee with a wire transfer, a credit card or even a promise to bring a money order. Pretty convenient. I put off doing it though, thinking I might win my seat in a local small-buy-in satellite tournament. (I didn't get close to qualifying that way, but Michelle finished in 12th place at the Muckleshoot Casino in Auburn -- 10 spots away from winning a free trip; not bad.) Anyway, by the time I got around to registering for the Main Event online it turned out I had blown the deadline, which was two weeks before the start of the tourney. After that, entrants need to sign up in person at the Rio Casino's WSOP desk where, the official website notes, only cash or chips are accepted.

The tournament starts tomorrow at noon and we won't be getting into town until after 10 tonight, so there won't be any time to mess around with Vegas banks. I'll need to leave Seattle with my 10 large ready to go, then head straight to the (24-hour, thank god) poker desk tonight and hope to avoid tomorrow morning's zoo.

This being the last minute and all, I sauntered into my neighborhood Wells Fargo this afternoon to get some cash. The look on the kid teller's face told me right away this was going to be one of those George Bailey/Mr. Drysdale moments -- no, I'm sorry, sir, I know it's your money and yes, the bank is good for it, but we don't keep that kind of cash lying around.

As my banker bud was in the vault counting out bills I heard the voice of my late father, Ed Matassa. He was from New York and thought of himself as a street-smart guy, but he always got nervous carrying money in the city. I knew if he were here he'd suggest I “break that cash up” into smaller wads split among several pockets as well as a shoe and maybe a strap-on wallet of some kind.

This advice never made much sense to me. First of all, I've never been held up, and the odds that the one time someone rolled me would be the time I had an unusual amount of cash on my person seemed remote and almost impossibly unlucky. And then, assuming I was the victim of a stick-up I couldn't imagine the robber being satisfied with my story that no, really, this money in this one pocket is all I've got. That would be one un-thorough criminal. Besides, I figure I look much more like a mark if I'm walking around with a limp, fingering my various pockets all the time. Better to be cool, carry your money in your hip wallet as usual and hope for the best.

What's more, I like my chances getting from the Rio parking garage to the tournament room. If I'm going to get fleeced it's much more likely to happen once I'm sitting down at the poker table.

All this was going through my head when the bank teller returned to say he thought he could scrape together five thousand or so and call a few other branches and have them hold some money for me there too. But I'm not driving right now and the prospect of walking or busing around town making thousand-dollar withdrawals struck me as none too appealing.

Another teller chimed in with his view that they wouldn't let me on a plane carrying that much money anyway. I can't imagine why not; if you can't smuggle cash into Las Vegas what's the point of going? I suppose there's the possibility of whapping the flight attendants with a brick of hundred-dollar bills and taking over the flight somehow, but still.

I called the Rio to see what other arrangements we could make. The nice lady on the phone said the strict “cash or chips” rule includes accepting cashier's checks. Cool.

So I'm set. Actually that is my cell phone. The check's in my shoe.