You call this poker?

Recently I decided to try my “hand” at online poker. Get it? “Hand”, “Poker”? What a riot, eh? Yeah I know, keep my day job. Anyway, I decided to see what all the hubbub was about playing poker on the internet. It has evidently become quite the rage to play something called “Texas Hold’em” in cyberspace. Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m just another old fogy decrying the loss of the good old days, but online poker just plain sucks. Really. Playing online poker is only slightly less boring and annoying than watching poker on TV. The reason I say this is that all the key elements of a really good poker game are lacking in online poker. Poker is a great American institution. I’m not talking about the industrialized version of poker played in Vegas, but the game played at the kitchen table with friends and/or family. Or in the back rooms of clubs, bars, military bases or, in my case, the high school library. No lie.
The poker games I remember, were as a child watching my parents, aunts, uncles and sundry other shady characters with funny names like “Mistersippi” or “Snake” to name a couple play. My family was evidently quite liberated as they didn't care whether you were male or female, they took anyone's money. I also remember playing with friends in the basement using matchsticks or toothpicks, or if we really wanted to be adventurous, pennies. All of the social nuances of those intimate games are missing in the cold, sterile world of cyberspace. You don't even hold your cards. I can't trust a game where I can't hold my cards.
As I child, I remember getting a thrill whenever I heard that we were “having some people over” which frequently meant a game of cards sometime during the visit. Cards meant poker and I was fascinated by the game and social setting. I learned the rules and strategies of five card stud, seven card stud and draw poker in my formative years, either standing at the white, Formica kitchen table or, if I was lucky, and this would thrill me beyond belief, I was told by somebody at the game to “watch my hand” while that player went to the bathroom. This occurred quite a bit as the beverage of choice at most of these games was a concoction called “Rolling Rock” which was ostensibly beer. When I became old enough, my refined pallet required a more sophisticated brew, “Stroh’s”. Anyway, if I was lucky during these episodes I might even get to “call” someone’s bet. This was invariably followed by the player returning to his cards and exclaiming “Why the hell are you calling with this crap?” Since the bets were usually nickels and dimes, or on the rare occasions where someone had four of a kind or better, a quarter, these complaints were just good natured kidding, usually followed by the tousling of my hair. The only exception to those bet limits occured at the end of the game when there would be a few games of "buck showdown". Everyone threw in a dollar and there was no other betting, the winner determined by the best hand in five cards all turned up. Ah, the simplicity.
As my education progressed I learned the more exotic games of “Red Dog” and “Acey Duecy” a particularly insidious game in which a person’s entire stake could be wiped out on the turn of a single card. I know this from painful personal experience. I also learned the poker style of “baseball” a more complicated and intellectual game which had a day and night versions determined by whether the cards were dealt face up or down during the deal and various wild cards determined by such things as the position of the stars.
Anyway, I learned all the intricacies of the game at these sessions, but more than that I saw an interaction of my family that rarely occurred outside of these gatherings. It seemed more like the family gatherings I saw on television. During these games I was always fascinated by my “Uncle Coy” who is one of my more colorful relatives. He always called me “perfessor” because I was evidently the first child in the family to wear glasses, and he spoke the lingo that let one know that here was a real expert in the mysterious world of poker. Whenever he was dealing and playing a game where he was turning cards face up during the deal, he used words like, “cowboy”, “trey”, “bullet” and my personal favorite when somebody got a “jackson” or a “lady”. I thought I would bust a gut whenever Coy said “Ante up and you won’t have so much” to some recalcitrant relative intent on idle chitchat rather than focusing on the matter at hand.
Of course, this is missing in the internet version of poker. In the online world of poker any banter that occurs is usually something like “are there any girls here?” or “do you have any pics of yourself?” As my father used to say, “ssshhhheeeeeeiiiiiiiitttttt”.
During these games I learned more family gossip than I could ever hear anywhere else and sometimes, more than I really wanted to know. This early exposure to poker fostered my continued interest as I got older. And of course it became a very important part of my adolescence. Not as important as girls, but right up there.
My friends and I would literally play anytime and anyplace. At someone’s house when the parents were gone, or sometimes when the parents were there. Some of the more disreputable parents were more than happy to sit in and fleece us neophytes. We played in clearings behind our favorite hangout, the Willo Plaza, which, like my hairline, no longer exists.
One particularly close knit clique I was associated with even had a running game in the library of Willoughby South High School. This was a dicey proposition, as discovery of such shenanigans would almost certainly lead to a trip to Mr. Weiss’ the assistant principal’s office. By the way they had a disciplinary procedure in those days that called swats and Mr. Weiss had a paddle the size of Massachusetts. Our appeals process was limited to “Oh my God, that hurts!” It was really a better way, because it would be over quickly, and we could get on with our game.
This game drove the librarian, Mrs. Keesecker up a wall. We developed ways of secreting our games by holding poker hands inside of books while pretending to be reading and devising an intricate set of hand signals so we wouldn’t give ourselves away by orally stating our bets. She was of course, on to us from day one, but she could never catch us in the act. She even employed various assistants and moles to try and uncover our little operation, but she almost always failed. One day, despite our best efforts, Mrs. Keesecker was on to us, and captured the object of our vice our well worn deck of cards. But she was a kindly lady, behind that stern librarian exterior because she had pity on our wayward souls and didn’t send us off to Mr. Weiss’ chamber of horrors. We gave up the game at that point. We may have been stupid but we were pretty good with odds.
My advice is that if you really want to experience poker, get some friends or family together, open a few brewskis and get down to a good old fashioned social and friendly game of poker. Just keep an eye out for the cops and Mrs. Keesecker.

Love
Dad

SCUBA certification/Are we having fun yet?

I know that my faithful family and friends had absolutely no doubt that I would pass my open water dive requirement for SCUBA certification. To eliminate any suspense, I can tell you that I made it with "submerged" colors (pun intended). The dives took place at the lovely diving resort called "White Star Quarry" located in beautiful and convenient Gibsonburg, Ohio (Town Motto: Even we don't know where the hell we are!). The drive to the quarry is roughly equivalent to driving through the Bonneville Salt Flats, but with less scenery and about as many hills. To be fair, my friend Mike warned me about the intercontinental trek I was in store for, but you have to experience to believe it. I swear it is so flat that you could roll a quarter around Vermilion and it would meet up with you in Gibsonburg.
After the very long drive you arrive at the quarry ready and raring to go diving. Here is where another of Mike's warnings came into play. He told me to be prepared to wait alot for your dives. I thought he was merely exaggerating when he told me this. Turns out it was an understatement. I got up on Saturday morning "before sparrows fart" (I guess that's old English countryside for "real frickin' early", made the 6 day 13 hour drive to the quarry for a 9:30 a.m. "dive", and finally entered the water well after lunchtime. Pacific time zone.
Anyway, I put the word "dive" in quotes for the simple reason that I would have to characterize the first adventure not so much a "dive" as a "plummet". This was due to the fact that the weight belt I was given to make sure I stayed buoyant, was measured in tonnage. Needless to say it took me awhile to adjust my buoyancy. The weight belt was incredible because I swear, that after the day of diving I had "phantom" sensations on my hips for several hours after, much the same as an amputee has phantom sensation in lost limbs. I remember thinking that I had the belt on, as I was driving home!
As usual, I was struggling with my equipment from the git-go. Since I bought fins designed for tropical diving, i.e., without boots, I walked across the park to the diver's entry in the quarry, wearing a furnace called a wet suit, weight belt and a gazillion pound air tank (they were out of the regular size tank, surprise, surprise), barefoot. A northern Ohio quarry's waterfront could not exactly be described as "sand". Jagged, razor sharp, gravel is a better description. It must have been a sight to behold for the other divers watching this bowling ball with SCUBA gear making his way to the water, as what must surely have looked like a Hindu firewalker trying to walk on flaming coals while on his back he is carrying an elephant.
Anyway the first three dives were primarily gear intensive tasks like replacing the mouthpiece should it fall out, and emergency ascents should you ever run out of air underwater. You know, unimportant stuff like that. I don't want to say I had some difficulty but the instructor was yelling my name so much that by the second day's dives I would get in the water and total strangers training there would see me getting in and say "You must be Bob".
I managed to get all the required skills down, finally, and I was just beginning to wonder why I ever came up with this particular deathwish, when the instructor took us on a ten minute swim near the bottom of the quarry. I must say that with nothing more to worry about the experience was quite fascinating. I know that northern bluegill is not exactly the clownfish you see in the ocean but it was a thrill to be able to reach out and practically touch them. I guess you can touch them if you have bits of hotdog to feed them, but I didn't do that.
All things considered, you get a sense of accomplishment at being able do the skills required, and the older I get, that means more and more.
One last thing, I bought a pair of dive gloves because it was "strongly recommended" on the predive checklist, from Tom the local SCUBA pusher in Willoughby. Tom's the kind of guy who thinks an "economical" diving equipment package costs about as much as Peru's gross national product. Of course, once I got to the quarry the instructor said I didn't need them. Likewise, of course, I proceeded to get my only injury of the weekend when I cut my finger on a zebra muscle attached to the bottom of the instruction platform. It's a curious sensation to watch blood coming out of a cut underwater. It looks kind of smoky as it drifts and mixes in with the water. So kiddies, if you take up diving make sure you wear those gloves. I say this because, while bluegills food of choice may be hotdogs, they seemed to be a little more attracted to me after I cut my finger. Good thing it wasn't sharks.

Love
Dad

Day of whine and Rose's new beau

Today's post is mainly a public service announcement stressing the dangers of imbibing and the resulting tragedy of beer goggle induced lust. Yes kiddies, as we age several of my generation make the mistake of thinking they can find love at the end of a beer bottle, or in this case, what must have been many, many beer bottles. I speak of none other than our beloved Rose. She was not the one that donned the beer goggles this past weekend, but fell victim to their treacherous ability to make otherwise normal rational and ugly people think they have managed to acquire the sexual attractiveness of Tom Cruise. To be fair, Rose did kind of ask for it, in that she was wearing a slinky outfit with all the provocative allure of a burqa. That together with dancing suggestively to the strains of 70's rock and roll (performed by the latest rock and roll sensations "Past 40") shaking her girlish booty with Sandy, Cindy and numerous other babes would be enough to make any man's testosterone boil. That is if they have any testosterone.
So it was inevitable when some poor soul, waiting until Mike had departed the area, hiked up his belt, drank the last drop of his 47th Bud Light, wiped his mouth on his baby blue wife beater and swagger-staggered over to Rose to pounce. Rose of course, politely declined the man's offer to clean her underwear with his tongue, and the jilted suitor made his way back to the bar, defeated but undaunted. When last seen he was proposing a menage a trois with one of the waitresses and a sea gull. When Mike returned, he took the news of his rivals advances surprisingly well. He just shrugged and told Rose "I get half of any "fee" you get."
Another high point this past weekend when we, being gluttons for punishment, went over to Rose and Mikes to have a cookout with them and the Bernardos the following day. As usual we covered a wide range of important topics in our discussions and found solutions to all the world's problems, well at least Rose did. Anyway, my wife has a pecular little malady that I had not been aware of these past 30 odd years. For some reason she blurts the names of random condiments at inexplicable times. Its true, I think it is some form or variation of Tourettes which I think she may have acquired at her job while spending way too much time with toddlers. I still love her disconcerting as this may be.
MUSTARD!

Love
Dad