TMI, Part 2

I will admit to recognizing that yesterday's little post about poker was uninspired. It is, perhaps, the natural result of my feelings toward the game these days.

Long time readers will know that there was a time when I wrote more about poker than anything else; and eventually, rarely. My love of the game has followed suit but at a much more slower rate. Until a few months ago I still felt a need to get in 100 hands a day, even if it meant putting up with the nutso, regressive play that passes for a game on free sites. These same readers will also recall that my initial issue with Thumper came after a bad beat during a PLO game. And still I played on through the years. I just upped my meds until surgery finally got that health problem under better control.

But physical well being was short-lived. A mere month later my gut started acting up. More years went by and still I played, even though no sooner had I played a few hands, I would have to sit out a round to visit the loo. I figured it was the "fight or flight" response and things would settle down after I adjusted to the table and settled my nerves.

Still, in the back of my mind persisted a thought: poker is making me sick. I take the game very seriously, perhaps too seriously, and the adrenaline/cortisol cocktail my body is making when I play is slowly eating away at my constitution. And still, I played on... until about three months ago. I wanted to test my hypothesis.

Online play has all but ceased for me, and besides the monthly home game I allow myself, Foxwoods has been it for all of this time. And you know what? My gut is improving.

So yeah, nerves have a lot to do with my gut. And this fact was brought home again after my friend James picked me up from Foxwoods.

I've known James for thirty years. Twenty years ago he asked me to be his best man. So, when he told me that he and his wife split up, I knew I should be there for both of them.

James and his wife have two children. As one might imagine, the break up of the marriage has been tough on the kids as well. And, parents being the loving saps they can be, find themselves doing things for the kids that they would not otherwise do as a parent. Like encouraging one's 16 year old daughter when she decides she wants to take up graffiti.

James calls it "going on an adventure." Others might call it an indulgence. I call it a bit unnerving.

I went on a couple of these adventures. Once was to an train underpass. There was already so many coats of paint on the walls that I saw no harm and actually stood as lookout as James accompanied his daughter into the litter-strewn chasm. I took pictures while keeping an eye peeled for cops. The smell of the enamel paint wafted out as I planted flags. If a cop did show up, we were all toast, but none did and off we went.

The second time out found us at an abandoned farm. But not a remote abandoned farm. There was a long drive up to the place but housing developments had been built up on the surrounding acreage. We stood out like the vandals we were and I didn't want to be there. Yet, as a good guest, I went along and once again did my duty as eyes and ears, even though I grew increasingly nervous.

Gurgle.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Rumble.

It came on sudden. I knew I would have to act fast and informed James of my plight. He had a few tissues in the car but not enough to take care of my needs. Yet, while I had been watching out for the fuzz, James had also been rummaging around in the buildings and had found a pile of Robert D. Parker novels in the attic of one.

"Here, I've read this one."