Up early this morning. Remaining hard to sleep normal hours, meaning that if I go to bed before one o'clock I'm up by six. If in bed by eleven, two or three. Then the naps, which may be the culprits but are nonetheless needed, unstoppable. All part of healing, I suppose.
But I didn't come here to tell you about that. No. Even though I do find the quiet time just before dawn just as nice as wee-er hours waiting to nod off.
Remember that flue fire? As the repair/sweep guy was fixing things he mentioned the exhaust fan seemed to be sticking a bit. A gentle nudge set it free. This morning, quite the racket. Another call and expense.
Fortunately, the weather is back to its temperate norm, along with the steady rain.
It was the rain that had me thinking as I walked the dog. The pond is full as is the ground. Puddles all. No seesayer, I still expect the Midwest and Prairie States to remain dry in the coming year. And while I imagine all of this water we have serves a purpose as it makes it way out to sea, were there a way, I would gladly share.
The livestock would be grateful, as would their stewards for lower grain prices.
The dog splashes through some soggy low spot and I move on to commodities and ETFs. I have my eye on a couple water portfolios.
There have been clues all along these last four years, no?
See? This is where you step in and make associations.
Intermission:
Not so much these days, which is good. Again, the fours years play into it. Little lessons such as fewer NL and PL hands where emotions run high. Both mine and those of others. A little 8-Game where I am reminded of players of all sort, some friends. A chance to stack has less and less importance.
I will tell you that when the phone rang so early last week and the message left had the adrenalin flowing, Thumper found it difficult to maintain a steady stroke. It passed fairly quickly but still it had me wondering and scheming. Hence, again, the period-like projectiles. Punta, the sounds I imagine a muffled impact might make. Over in a flash, lessening the time of stress.
One can hope.
180° Or so it would seem.
I neglected to mention — or I have forgotten I have already and am to lazy to look back to know for sure — there is another essay. This will be it for a while, or so I think, for I was reminded that such a pace, two in short order, is something I should still avoid. As I attempt to create the link I find the site very slow this morning. I'll take that as another sign to do the same.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Enough is enough
I wish I could figure out a way to upload to this blog an audio file I have. This tops anything the bad boys of the poker blogging world have thrown out there for our bemusement, pity or horror.
It's a recording of a phone message my brother-in-law left for his sister at 5:20 AM the other day. From Vegas.
He's been there over a week. He may still be there, but we're not sure. And by "we," I mean my wife, I and their younger brother. Maybe their aged parents know but they're not saying. Nor are his wife and two kids. But I kind of think everyone is out of the loop. (It's complicated and long-standing.)
Yeah, this guy has problems. A lot of them, organic and chemical. He can function when it's only the former but not so well when they're working in tandem.
And he has money. Or he did. Like I said, I'm not certain anyone knows anymore. He likes to play the big shot high-roller, get comped suites, meals, etc. You guys know the type. And you also know how that works out: the comps equal about an hour, at which time the casino breaks even.
And he likes guns. I don't think I'm out of line when I say they're a fetish of his, a stand-in for his chicken shit self.
Combine the big shot fantasy and weapons. Now add the fact that the only person who has called him on his crap is my wife. (Hence the call.) Did I mention he's a chicken shit? With money? Let George do it.
The laser sighted .38 is next to the bed and has five hollow points in it. The 20 gauge is in the basement loaded with 3" #4 shot. And the .22 long is on the main floor with a full clip of hollow points. Not yet sure what to do with the .32.
Do I think we're in danger? I doubt it but can't rule it out either, for it wouldn't be the first time he's threatened with a weapon. The wife is scared and that's all I care about at the moment.
Now, you guys also know that as an old Lefty, I'm not crazy about having all of these guns at-the-ready, but I don't really know what else to do. I've offered to go the Vegas with the youngest brother and retrieve this guy and get him in rehab. The youngest is counting on him hitting bottom and going home with his tail between his legs. Until the next time, eh?
I don't have any compassion for this guy. None. And I can also say that there's been a lot of enabling that's been done in that family, but I do have strong feelings for the elderly in-laws and pity for the guy's wife and kids. I feel like something should be done, if not for them then for no other reason than to nip anything in the bud that could head our way.
I think I know where the guy stays in Vegas. Caesars or that place attached to the V. What I don't know is all of the people some of you know who might have connections to those places. If someone can get me in touch with some muckety-mucks from either place, or have a suggestion of another avenue I can pursue to check on the status of this guy, I'd appreciate it. And most importantly, I want discretion. Maybe even stealth, although I know that may be asking too much.
Yeah, this could end badly. I'm okay with that as long as it's him and not anyone else.
Let's do this by email, OK?
UPDATE: I received word today that the scum has settled on his parents for a few days before going home. Guy should be a pulp fiction writer except the first chapter of the tale he's telling has three versions before moving to Chapter #2. Maybe he's an experimental writer. Whatever, it seems to be working as disbelief has been suspended.
The guns are staying where they are.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Whether
The cold weather is gone and today we'll hit 50°F. With rain.
"I think I prefer the cold." says the wife, yet for the first time in weeks the wood stove is keeping the living room quite comfortable, even when sitting for long periods of time in front of the TV.
Not that I engage in such a non-activity except to spend "quality time." Even then...
Snooty bastard, eh?
Well, I've been working. Another essay, with one to follow either today or tomorrow. The first a bit snarky, warmed up as I was with the review a few weeks ago of my step-cousin's novella. The one forthcoming has a confectioner's icing.
Speaking of icing:
The wife might be correct. Can't shoot in the rain.
"I think I prefer the cold." says the wife, yet for the first time in weeks the wood stove is keeping the living room quite comfortable, even when sitting for long periods of time in front of the TV.
Not that I engage in such a non-activity except to spend "quality time." Even then...
Snooty bastard, eh?
Well, I've been working. Another essay, with one to follow either today or tomorrow. The first a bit snarky, warmed up as I was with the review a few weeks ago of my step-cousin's novella. The one forthcoming has a confectioner's icing.
Speaking of icing:
I shot these earlier this week, the first one being just before the weather shifted.
And just to irk a couple of you:
Test #14
The wife might be correct. Can't shoot in the rain.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Chillin'
I've lost count of the number of days we've been fogged in. Somewhere around a week with only a moment or two of hazy sun or moon. And contrary to what one would normally expect with the lowest of clouds, the temperature hovers within five degrees and on either side of freezing.
Such weather makes it difficult to gather the motivation to leave the house, the dungeon comfortable with the pellet stove now working and the upstairs manageable with the heat from the wood stove conserved with fleece or quilts. I blast the heat in the truck when running errands. Yet my "condition" seems to store a core of ice in the bones that never quite thaws.
Telling myself to rise above the chill, reinforced by insistence from the wife, we ventured out to lunch and a tour of the young farmers we support by subscribing to their CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). We have been invited a number of times but have either cancelled or forestalled, and one can only do this a finite number of times before the offers stop or the defers offend. So, off we went with a tenth of a mile visibility.
There have been times in my life, albeit when I was much younger, that I lived a rustic life. I remember a leaky pot-belly stove in an equally drafty four-room country house. I slept with my jeans under the covers at the foot of my bed because the fire was all but gone by morning. After divorcing my first wife, I lived in an industrial loft with a kerosene heater providing a tolerable temperature when it came time to shower, for the big gas heater at the other end of the 3,000 square feet did not perform well around corners, let alone through a door. And a few years later in another, larger loft, the building's heat was cut altogether at night and on weekends. So, knowing that these young farmers lived in a barn, and knowing their source of heat was an untested wood stove we had given them, I bundled and steeled, yet resolved myself to discomfort.
Not so. The barn was more a big garage of modern construction and the stove kept the living area a good thirty degrees warmer than outside. Still, their living conditions could be described as rustic: a compost toilet, jerry-rigged plumbing, and a concrete floor. Garlic hung from the rafters; potatoes were stacked in crates; two coolers kept carrots, cabbage, brussel sprouts, turnips and rutabagas fresh; and their Farmall was parked at the far end. We offered to take off our mud boots upon entering and then saw it was unnecessary as they had theirs on as well. We did remove our coats.
Lunch was prepared on top of the wood stove and on a two-burner propane stove. Dessert was baked on a grill outside. The menu consisted of beans with ham, polenta with bacon, squash and a lemon tart. All was superbly seasoned and I had seconds of the beans and polenta.
After lunch we took a walk around their fifteen acres. They've owned it for a year but farmed it for three. All but an acre or two were under cultivation. I must say I was impressed for it is just the two of them, the woman working full time off of the farm until this last December. We spoke of the successes and failures of some crops and plans to improve fields and orchards. And all the while I thought back to our comparably humble operation, for I remembered how hard we worked with less than three acres tilled. Even in that these two were twenty years younger than us, I could not fathom how they could manage.
"You're going to need help in the near future. You keep up this pace much longer and it'll catch up with you."
They figure a couple more years.
We had coffee and talked some more. I moved closer to the stove and everyone followed, but I knew it was time to head home.
Such weather makes it difficult to gather the motivation to leave the house, the dungeon comfortable with the pellet stove now working and the upstairs manageable with the heat from the wood stove conserved with fleece or quilts. I blast the heat in the truck when running errands. Yet my "condition" seems to store a core of ice in the bones that never quite thaws.
Telling myself to rise above the chill, reinforced by insistence from the wife, we ventured out to lunch and a tour of the young farmers we support by subscribing to their CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). We have been invited a number of times but have either cancelled or forestalled, and one can only do this a finite number of times before the offers stop or the defers offend. So, off we went with a tenth of a mile visibility.
There have been times in my life, albeit when I was much younger, that I lived a rustic life. I remember a leaky pot-belly stove in an equally drafty four-room country house. I slept with my jeans under the covers at the foot of my bed because the fire was all but gone by morning. After divorcing my first wife, I lived in an industrial loft with a kerosene heater providing a tolerable temperature when it came time to shower, for the big gas heater at the other end of the 3,000 square feet did not perform well around corners, let alone through a door. And a few years later in another, larger loft, the building's heat was cut altogether at night and on weekends. So, knowing that these young farmers lived in a barn, and knowing their source of heat was an untested wood stove we had given them, I bundled and steeled, yet resolved myself to discomfort.
Not so. The barn was more a big garage of modern construction and the stove kept the living area a good thirty degrees warmer than outside. Still, their living conditions could be described as rustic: a compost toilet, jerry-rigged plumbing, and a concrete floor. Garlic hung from the rafters; potatoes were stacked in crates; two coolers kept carrots, cabbage, brussel sprouts, turnips and rutabagas fresh; and their Farmall was parked at the far end. We offered to take off our mud boots upon entering and then saw it was unnecessary as they had theirs on as well. We did remove our coats.
Lunch was prepared on top of the wood stove and on a two-burner propane stove. Dessert was baked on a grill outside. The menu consisted of beans with ham, polenta with bacon, squash and a lemon tart. All was superbly seasoned and I had seconds of the beans and polenta.
After lunch we took a walk around their fifteen acres. They've owned it for a year but farmed it for three. All but an acre or two were under cultivation. I must say I was impressed for it is just the two of them, the woman working full time off of the farm until this last December. We spoke of the successes and failures of some crops and plans to improve fields and orchards. And all the while I thought back to our comparably humble operation, for I remembered how hard we worked with less than three acres tilled. Even in that these two were twenty years younger than us, I could not fathom how they could manage.
"You're going to need help in the near future. You keep up this pace much longer and it'll catch up with you."
They figure a couple more years.
We had coffee and talked some more. I moved closer to the stove and everyone followed, but I knew it was time to head home.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
No Drama
It had been a while since I had played NLHE. Maybe a month. And it may have been longer still since I had played with this group, the PAO folks at their new online home away from home. Many of the same old regulars with whom I wiled away hours upon hours once upon a time. For the most part, these guys take their game seriously and pay for the privilege to do so with like-minded souls for a monthly fee. I'm a bit rusty.
But I also find that I don't really give a crap. Never mind that I stole three of the half dozen hands I played, because I folded twice when I knew I had the best hand, and both times to the same guy.
"B...." he types into chat. I ignore him but he asks anyway. Questions about farming. Tomatoes, grapes, whatever. His purpose is complex, an addled mixture of whatever he's drinking and a desperate need for attention. I've had this dance with this guy a hundred times. He asks so he can tell. You know the type.
"Not farming any more." He has nowhere to go with this. I hit the flop and check. He doesn't and puts out a feeler. I fold.
A few hands later: "A deer was hit by a car and laid by the road for two days. Someone finally put a blanket over it. THAT'S ART."
"I'll make a note of it." Actually, I quite liked the idea.
"Art is BS."
Pause.
"B.... How come you're not farming?"
"Too busy making art."
I fold to his bet. He's punishing me.
I go make dinner.
But I also find that I don't really give a crap. Never mind that I stole three of the half dozen hands I played, because I folded twice when I knew I had the best hand, and both times to the same guy.
"B...." he types into chat. I ignore him but he asks anyway. Questions about farming. Tomatoes, grapes, whatever. His purpose is complex, an addled mixture of whatever he's drinking and a desperate need for attention. I've had this dance with this guy a hundred times. He asks so he can tell. You know the type.
"Not farming any more." He has nowhere to go with this. I hit the flop and check. He doesn't and puts out a feeler. I fold.
A few hands later: "A deer was hit by a car and laid by the road for two days. Someone finally put a blanket over it. THAT'S ART."
"I'll make a note of it." Actually, I quite liked the idea.
"Art is BS."
Pause.
"B.... How come you're not farming?"
"Too busy making art."
I fold to his bet. He's punishing me.
I go make dinner.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Little Feats
In the middle of another cold snap. Second one this winter, which, it being winter and all would seem to make sense. Except they're early.
Cold: below freezing, as low as 20°F, which is about as cold as it gets here. Enough to burst PVC water pipes, which it did last go 'round, out in the big barn. Yep. not the first time, but I'll be damned if I'm going to dig up the line that runs over to the other barn and replace it all with something more durable. The previous owners who installed it should have. Not me. But it might have been wise to plug in the pipe warmers I'd installed. Oops. The thaw came sometime after the sun went down and I was out capping it off at midnight. That was last week, and now I guess I don't have to think about it again until spring.
Besides, other things need tending. The burn pile is huge and unruly. Any excuse to get on the tractor. Fences need repair. There's still a lot of clean-up to do in all of the outbuildings. Dismantling of old wood shelves left out in the weather. A cord and a half of wood still under a tarp outside. An old lawn tractor to haul away and servicing of the newer one. But man, it's cold outside. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the temperature is suppose to climb. Good news is no rain until next weekend.
Broke my chain yesterday and headed to the city. Writer in heat. Saw a couple exhibits, attended a lecture about one, scribbled a page of notes. Yep, going against orders and writing a couple reviews.
The hiatus may have done me some good in that I've had time to suss. On the other hand, time does not guarantee success and I may have some prelims to attend to, as in 1500 words or so to delete when I finally get to the point I wish to make. Or maybe I'll write it off and leave them in the essay as a meta-theme. Make it a challenge. Have some fun at the reader's, and perhaps my expense as well. Much like I am doing now.
Yeah, a bit rusty, or stiff. Even arthritic. And you know what the cold does to that.
But I'll let you know when they're published.
Cold: below freezing, as low as 20°F, which is about as cold as it gets here. Enough to burst PVC water pipes, which it did last go 'round, out in the big barn. Yep. not the first time, but I'll be damned if I'm going to dig up the line that runs over to the other barn and replace it all with something more durable. The previous owners who installed it should have. Not me. But it might have been wise to plug in the pipe warmers I'd installed. Oops. The thaw came sometime after the sun went down and I was out capping it off at midnight. That was last week, and now I guess I don't have to think about it again until spring.
Besides, other things need tending. The burn pile is huge and unruly. Any excuse to get on the tractor. Fences need repair. There's still a lot of clean-up to do in all of the outbuildings. Dismantling of old wood shelves left out in the weather. A cord and a half of wood still under a tarp outside. An old lawn tractor to haul away and servicing of the newer one. But man, it's cold outside. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the temperature is suppose to climb. Good news is no rain until next weekend.
Broke my chain yesterday and headed to the city. Writer in heat. Saw a couple exhibits, attended a lecture about one, scribbled a page of notes. Yep, going against orders and writing a couple reviews.
The hiatus may have done me some good in that I've had time to suss. On the other hand, time does not guarantee success and I may have some prelims to attend to, as in 1500 words or so to delete when I finally get to the point I wish to make. Or maybe I'll write it off and leave them in the essay as a meta-theme. Make it a challenge. Have some fun at the reader's, and perhaps my expense as well. Much like I am doing now.
Yeah, a bit rusty, or stiff. Even arthritic. And you know what the cold does to that.
But I'll let you know when they're published.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Sunday was a busy day, some of which spilled into Monday. I posted here (saints be praised!), painted, finished loading a thirty-yard dumpster with the evidence of a former form of industry, painted some more and began work on the final phase of work for my exhibit this coming March.
In between the last two activities I caught an odor that I did not care for: the smell of something too hot for it's or anyone's good. Although the source seemed elusive, it seemed to be strongest behind the pellet stove*, so to be on the safe side I turned it off and made a mental note to examine it further once it cooled down. Then I set to making a test recording of my singing voice.
I found the sound intriguing even though some fine tuning would be in order. This took a little while, the testing and screening, and as the tea had begun to fully cycle through my body, stood up to go pee. It was then I saw the orange flicker through the grating on the sides of the stove.
The stove is on rollers as it sits back into the cavity of an old fireplace. I pulled it out to see flames at the top of the stainless flex hose that connects to the flue. The hose itself was glowing. Yes, holy shit.
I knew there was a fire extinguisher nearby but could not remember exactly where. It was not immediately visible in the studio. In the laundry room? No. I began to run upstairs to get the one I knew was in the hallway closet, but then thought better of it. First, I would set off an early alarm in the wife, which might be counterproductive, and second, the smoke was quickly filling the room which would set off the smoke alarm connected to the alarm company. I decided to make a more targeted search for the downstairs extinguisher, and barring that get some water from the deep sink.
I found the extinguisher behind some cardboard destined for the burn pile (funny, huh?) and was able to put out the fire rather quickly, but not without several sprays of the powdery retardant. And the alarm went off anyway, but not before the fire was damped and the wife finally notified.
I wish I would have used the water. While certainly grateful that I was present when the fire caught, I am now in the process of cleaning up the extinguisher residue. It's on and in everything.
The chimney/stove guy came out yesterday to have a look. It seems the design of the connector between the pipe and flue is flawed, allowing for creosote to build up on a lip/ledge. A new connector will be fabricated. Still, I find it curious that this same fellow, and a couple others as well, has serviced this stove a half-dozen times over the years and n one saw fit to comment on the potential — now realized — danger.
I had intended to call my mother Sunday. I guess I'll do that now.
*For those of you wondering what a pellet stove is, for I was also unfamiliar with them before moving here, think wood burning stove, but instead of logs as fuel, small pellets of compress sawdust are fed from a hopper by an auger into the area where combustion takes place. A fan then pushes the heat into the room while another is supposed to channel smoke up the chimney. The latter is not strong enough to push everything upwards, so there is a "T" at the base of the pipe that one empties. Got the full picture now?
In between the last two activities I caught an odor that I did not care for: the smell of something too hot for it's or anyone's good. Although the source seemed elusive, it seemed to be strongest behind the pellet stove*, so to be on the safe side I turned it off and made a mental note to examine it further once it cooled down. Then I set to making a test recording of my singing voice.
I found the sound intriguing even though some fine tuning would be in order. This took a little while, the testing and screening, and as the tea had begun to fully cycle through my body, stood up to go pee. It was then I saw the orange flicker through the grating on the sides of the stove.
The stove is on rollers as it sits back into the cavity of an old fireplace. I pulled it out to see flames at the top of the stainless flex hose that connects to the flue. The hose itself was glowing. Yes, holy shit.
I knew there was a fire extinguisher nearby but could not remember exactly where. It was not immediately visible in the studio. In the laundry room? No. I began to run upstairs to get the one I knew was in the hallway closet, but then thought better of it. First, I would set off an early alarm in the wife, which might be counterproductive, and second, the smoke was quickly filling the room which would set off the smoke alarm connected to the alarm company. I decided to make a more targeted search for the downstairs extinguisher, and barring that get some water from the deep sink.
I found the extinguisher behind some cardboard destined for the burn pile (funny, huh?) and was able to put out the fire rather quickly, but not without several sprays of the powdery retardant. And the alarm went off anyway, but not before the fire was damped and the wife finally notified.
I wish I would have used the water. While certainly grateful that I was present when the fire caught, I am now in the process of cleaning up the extinguisher residue. It's on and in everything.
The chimney/stove guy came out yesterday to have a look. It seems the design of the connector between the pipe and flue is flawed, allowing for creosote to build up on a lip/ledge. A new connector will be fabricated. Still, I find it curious that this same fellow, and a couple others as well, has serviced this stove a half-dozen times over the years and n one saw fit to comment on the potential — now realized — danger.
I had intended to call my mother Sunday. I guess I'll do that now.
*For those of you wondering what a pellet stove is, for I was also unfamiliar with them before moving here, think wood burning stove, but instead of logs as fuel, small pellets of compress sawdust are fed from a hopper by an auger into the area where combustion takes place. A fan then pushes the heat into the room while another is supposed to channel smoke up the chimney. The latter is not strong enough to push everything upwards, so there is a "T" at the base of the pipe that one empties. Got the full picture now?
Sunday, January 6, 2013
By way of examination
A bit odd.
Yes, most, if not all readers would concur were I referring to myself, something I'm good at, I admit; and it may very well turn out that the subject matter will turn in that direction when all is said and done.
After more than a year in the dark, I have made the old blog available for perusal. A friend from very long ago contacted me a month ago, and in an attempt to provide an encyclopedic response to the age-old "What's up?"and unable to figure out how to limit access to only the inquirer, I turned on the overheads.
One might find it amusing that bastin is already getting more hits than this blog, but not all, if any, from that special reader. Yet, I'm afraid I cannot be more specific as I don't know for certain whom or from where, as my tracking software is not functioning properly and I can't be bothered with figuring out why. Still, what little information I can glean is impressive, the archive clicked throughout.
"Well," one might offer, "there is a trove in those pages, if not treasure then evidence of industry. And if memory serves, done daily." Indeed. I would also agree were one to suggest the sparsity of posts here does not encourage an active, let alone growing audience, nor is the subject as engaging as a shared interest or a life in epic proportions of success or self-destruction. "It has also been noted that you currently avoid language that allows for SEOs to do their thing." Right again. Life in the sticks in more ways than one.
Such is a conscious choice, limiting exposure to virus and carrier alike. Nor do I expect much in return, which makes any gesture by others rather special, either by way of comment or email.
That long lost friend? By email via my art website. The third or fourth such contact via that url in twelve years. Which leads me to wonder and ask a favor. If you type in my name for a search, how far down the page do you have to go to find my dot com? For me, it's the top of the page, but this is no doubt a cookie or some such thing. Not that I'll doing anything with the information you provide. I'm merely curious.
That long lost friend? Maintain your poker face. An old girlfriend from college. Which, I will be quick to point out, is not the same as an ex-spouse come a-callin'. And although my past is littered with everything from short-lived flings to live-ins gone horribly wrong, I have fond memories of this woman.
Still, the past comes roaring to the fore with the same ferocity, and with it an accounting.
Not that I'm pining (although my diction may be a bit old school). In fact, the reconnection has been instructive.* I have been preoccupied with what passes for busy doing other things (How does she put it? "Less thinking and more action."), some of which I will tell you about in upcoming posts.
And that, my friends, is one reason I have been scarce here of late and may continue to be so for a while longer. So, if you get to missing me, you might want to try bastin.
*Buried within those first two lines is a rather well-developed, if somewhat oblique pun for Mojo.
Yes, most, if not all readers would concur were I referring to myself, something I'm good at, I admit; and it may very well turn out that the subject matter will turn in that direction when all is said and done.
After more than a year in the dark, I have made the old blog available for perusal. A friend from very long ago contacted me a month ago, and in an attempt to provide an encyclopedic response to the age-old "What's up?"and unable to figure out how to limit access to only the inquirer, I turned on the overheads.
One might find it amusing that bastin is already getting more hits than this blog, but not all, if any, from that special reader. Yet, I'm afraid I cannot be more specific as I don't know for certain whom or from where, as my tracking software is not functioning properly and I can't be bothered with figuring out why. Still, what little information I can glean is impressive, the archive clicked throughout.
"Well," one might offer, "there is a trove in those pages, if not treasure then evidence of industry. And if memory serves, done daily." Indeed. I would also agree were one to suggest the sparsity of posts here does not encourage an active, let alone growing audience, nor is the subject as engaging as a shared interest or a life in epic proportions of success or self-destruction. "It has also been noted that you currently avoid language that allows for SEOs to do their thing." Right again. Life in the sticks in more ways than one.
Such is a conscious choice, limiting exposure to virus and carrier alike. Nor do I expect much in return, which makes any gesture by others rather special, either by way of comment or email.
That long lost friend? By email via my art website. The third or fourth such contact via that url in twelve years. Which leads me to wonder and ask a favor. If you type in my name for a search, how far down the page do you have to go to find my dot com? For me, it's the top of the page, but this is no doubt a cookie or some such thing. Not that I'll doing anything with the information you provide. I'm merely curious.
That long lost friend? Maintain your poker face. An old girlfriend from college. Which, I will be quick to point out, is not the same as an ex-spouse come a-callin'. And although my past is littered with everything from short-lived flings to live-ins gone horribly wrong, I have fond memories of this woman.
Still, the past comes roaring to the fore with the same ferocity, and with it an accounting.
Not that I'm pining (although my diction may be a bit old school). In fact, the reconnection has been instructive.* I have been preoccupied with what passes for busy doing other things (How does she put it? "Less thinking and more action."), some of which I will tell you about in upcoming posts.
And that, my friends, is one reason I have been scarce here of late and may continue to be so for a while longer. So, if you get to missing me, you might want to try bastin.
*Buried within those first two lines is a rather well-developed, if somewhat oblique pun for Mojo.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
New Year Loser
Kimberly and Stephen had a poker game at their house January 1st. I could have written the game off to a hangover had I one. I played poorly, which I knew at the time, so maybe it was my own way of cutting loose for the New Year.
I had clues, or rather an omen, which experienced players know that when one confuses the two, the game is already compromised.
For the life of me I cannot remember the fellow's name, even though we've played poker together a number of times, so, for the sake of this story line, let's call him Dickwad. Dickwad was dealing and flipped over a King that was supposed to have come to me face down in the first round of the deal. Instead, it became to burn card. When I looked at my hole cards, a Queen was on the bottom. You can guess the top card.
A few hands later I was dealt Kings (I'd love to say "again," but alas) and bet out 3BBs from early-ish position and had three callers. I checked the flop. You can guess why but I'll tell you anyway: An Ace. The pot-sized bet sent me packing.
Dickwad was the dealer again and I looked down at JQh. I limped, again from early position, as did several others. Dickwad raised it up a bit and had five callers, myself included. The flop came 9T4 rainbow, checked around passed me until Kimberly bet $6. Dickwad raised it to $15.
Now, perhaps a smarter person would fold at this point, but...
Two of the looser players were sitting to my left. I thought surely one, if not both, would call if I did, ever anxious to splash around in a big pot. Instead, they both folded, after which Kimberly threw in her last $17. Dickwad then went all in with his remaining $22. I had $21.50, announced I was on a draw and tossed in my chips.
The turn was a J. No help there. I needed a K or T. One time! How about a second time? Another J to give him fours full.
Why did I call the flop?
BECAUSE HE'S A DICKWAD!!!!!
I had clues, or rather an omen, which experienced players know that when one confuses the two, the game is already compromised.
For the life of me I cannot remember the fellow's name, even though we've played poker together a number of times, so, for the sake of this story line, let's call him Dickwad. Dickwad was dealing and flipped over a King that was supposed to have come to me face down in the first round of the deal. Instead, it became to burn card. When I looked at my hole cards, a Queen was on the bottom. You can guess the top card.
A few hands later I was dealt Kings (I'd love to say "again," but alas) and bet out 3BBs from early-ish position and had three callers. I checked the flop. You can guess why but I'll tell you anyway: An Ace. The pot-sized bet sent me packing.
Dickwad was the dealer again and I looked down at JQh. I limped, again from early position, as did several others. Dickwad raised it up a bit and had five callers, myself included. The flop came 9T4 rainbow, checked around passed me until Kimberly bet $6. Dickwad raised it to $15.
Now, perhaps a smarter person would fold at this point, but...
Two of the looser players were sitting to my left. I thought surely one, if not both, would call if I did, ever anxious to splash around in a big pot. Instead, they both folded, after which Kimberly threw in her last $17. Dickwad then went all in with his remaining $22. I had $21.50, announced I was on a draw and tossed in my chips.
The turn was a J. No help there. I needed a K or T. One time! How about a second time? Another J to give him fours full.
Why did I call the flop?
BECAUSE HE'S A DICKWAD!!!!!
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