…Know When To Hold ‘Em…

On a warm summer’s evenin’ on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin’ out the window at the darkness
‘Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.

He said, “Son, I’ve made a life out of readin’ people’s faces,
And knowin’ what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
And if you don’t mind my sayin’, I can see you’re out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I’ll give you some advice.”

So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, “If you’re gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.

You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.

Ev’ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
‘Cause ev’ry hand’s a winner and ev’ry hand’s a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”

And when he’d finished speakin’, he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

Everyone knows this song, right?  One of a few songs you will never hear in a casino. You’re more likely to see a clock on the gambling floor.

This thought has been niggling at me for a while. To provide the back story of ‘why’, there was a trivia game with the answer included this song among others with “songs about cheating.” I calmly and respectfully disagreed: “Are you crazy? That song is NOT about cheating!!!!!”

And since then? it’s kinda boggled me how anyone could think the song was about that. As I surfed around the net to back up that position, I saw a lot of crap and rhapsodizing bullshit about this song. Mostly about “metaphors for life” and all that. Ok, yeah. whatever. I see it. But it’s also a song about exactly what the song says it’s about:

A younger guy and an old man are bored and idly chatting on a night-time train ride. The old man tells the younger man that he can tell he’s in a bad way and if he gives him a smoke and a drink, he’ll give him advice. The man receives his payment, advises the younger man, and then falls asleep and dies. Seems very straight forward so far, yes?

A sip of whisky and a cigarette was very small payment for the lesson that young man got that night.  And in my opinion, everyone who has aspirations of a ‘career’ at poker or even a serious hobby should play this song on a loop as they sleep. For years.  In my personal experience, I agree with every single “rule” in this song.

You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em:  the key to that sentence is “WHEN” to hold ‘em.  Every hand should not be played; in fact, most should not. If you aren’t tossing the majority of your hands, you are doing something very wrong. But you also need to know which hands to play.  I am not even going to get into that. That would be a book on poker, not an ocd little blog post.  Besides, you are the one that wants to play poker. It’s your job to figure that out. 

Know when to walk away, and know when to run: I think this is the line that actually triggered the “CHEATING” response. Knowing when to walk away is simply having the self-discipline to say “ok this is NOT working for me today.” And simply leaving the game rather than staying for the inevitable “crash and burn” , that intermediate step that bridges directly to making the walk of shame back to the cage.

“Knowing when to run” is like the other side of the coin: it’s about the awareness. A streak only lasts so long. It’s going to end. Ideally, you can feel the tide turning. THAT is where you *run.* You pack up your shit and you go have a cheeseburger.

“You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table, there’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done:  Firstly, it’s just incredibly bad etiquette to sit and ass with your chips at the table. Remember, every dollar you have above your original stake is someone else’s money.  And it’s just sort of shitty to ‘rub his nose in it.” There will be a day when it’s you looking at your money over in Joe Blow’s stack. Secondly, I would say, if you don’t know basically how much money you have, you shouldn’t even be sitting there. You need to know how to follow the pot.

So there you go;  a little poker lesson from me to you. I will give you an exception to my last rule, though. My amendment to the “Don’t Jack With Your Money” rule is the “Cute Poker Tricks” exception.  There are many of them. Walking a chip down your knuckles. Shuffling your chips. That’s my favorite. Being able to take two 4-7 chip high stacks of 2 different colors and with one fluid movement, turning it into one stack of chips alternating perfectly. Even more advanced, is the ability to reverse it so you are back to the 2 stacks again.

As a dealer, I should have never touched the pot aside from making change, taking a rake, when necessary splitting it, and most importantly: delivering it.  I can’t tell you how many hours I spent sitting there watching the game and practicing my shuffle. I wanted to be able to smoothly press the chips together and apart with one flick. I can, but I never mastered it to where it was fluid.  Clearly, I took full advantage of the “Poker Tricks” clause. 

 

I’m So Sorry…

Lessons in Apologies

Sometimes I can have a single thought and I have a post. Other times (like now) it might be something that I thought of , noted myself to “get on that soon”, and then eventually get around to doing.

This whole thing got started a few weeks ago. I was at my convenience store getting my drink on the way home. (Have you noticed the fountain drink station at QuikTrip is like an epiphany for me?) Another woman arrived at the station just before I did. A perfectly pleasant-looking woman. She got her ice, and started filling up with DietCoke.  I feel at this point, I should point out that she had done nothing that I took issue with. She used the right ice, she was filling up with the right beverage, and she had not dawdled in any fashion. Nor did she smell or look bad; there was simply nothing amiss.

I was standing back enough that there was no personal space invasion and I can state this emphatically because I actually thought of this: nothing in my body language displayed the slightest offense about anything. About 2/3 through her fill-up, she glanced behind her at me and “I’m sorry’ed” me.

I have no idea in the world why. Was she apologizing to me for keeping me waiting ? Was she apologizing for taking the choicest molecules of DietCoke? Or was it the simple fact of her existence?  I’ve thought of this momentary encounter over and over. I have even discussed it a time or two. Odd, since I normally will not share my “I want to blog thoughts” before I write them. Since that moment, I’ve paid attention to my own behaviour, and from time to time, I am also guilty of “crimeless apologies.”

I see this as more of a trait of women than men. I’m not making any generalizations about manners in men. In fact, some of the most thoughtful caring people I know are men.  I almost want to conjecture that it is, in fact, an apology for our existence when we apologize for nothing.  Perhaps men just tend to be more secure in their entitlement to take care of their business. A man just isn’t going to apologize to me for getting a DietCoke if he was clearly and fairly there first. That I have to wait is just the way it goes.

When I got home that first afternoon, I surfed around on a google search of “apology.” I found the link “How to Apologize.” Apologies for real hurts to people who matter was not  exactly where I started, but what the hell?  I am fighting very hard with myself to refrain from quoting the Chicago song. And I think with effort…I may have won.  It is hard, though. I get it, trust me.  But this page is unbelievable. I think it is meant as serious.  And it astounds me, frankly.

Eleven steps. A video. Tips on body language. Are you fucking kidding me? Every time I think of the “crazy drink lady” apologizing to me, I wonder who has actually used this page. And furthermore, it seems to me that if they *need* this page, why would they bother trying to apologize anyway?  As far as I’m concerned, it should be as easy as “I care about ____. I have/may have caused some discomfort in their world and I want to acknowledge/fix it.”

Like I said, I understand that sometimes it’s just not that easy in the *doing*. I am not even going to go into the reasons why it’s much harder. WE ALL KNOW.  But the motivation should be just that easy. If  it’s not, I’m not sure why you would bother apologizing anyway. And perhaps I should spend more time considering the reasons to apologize before I offer one for paying for my drink with 5 quarters instead of currency ?

 

 

 

 

 

Most Hardcore Performance. Ever.

Decomposing Woman Found In Bodybag

Did woman in bushland body bag commit suicide?

Perhaps I’m missing something in my analysis of this story. I’ve read several stories from several sources. and I’m so desperately confused.

So a dude out walking his dog along a wooded path that’s inaccessible by cars finds a bag containing a body. First we’re told (by him) decapitated and hands removed. Evidently he had a look inside. Then we’re told “um. no.” Leaves me believing that must have been a powerful lot of decomposition. And that is very possible, given the time frame.

Then we’re told it *might* be a suicide. Ok. Lorraine Eves was an artist. Was she a performance artist? Was this her most powerful (albeit one time only) performance?  Or was she just a generic suicide and somehow her body was ….misplaced?

Several things do not make sense here. Firstly how the body arrived where it was found. A car can’t reach it. I don’t understand the layout of the terrain so I won’t conjecture on that.

They believe it may have washed on to the fire trail in the Garigal National Park at Killarney Heights through a nearby storm water drain.

Ok. that’s great. I can accept that. But I can’t stop wondering how it got in the damn storm drain to begin with. The tone of the articles I’m seeing all seem to be calm and collected in that they know who she was. They seem convinced that it was a suicide. Did the EMT’s ….lose her? why wasn’t that a story?

Also, the woman seemed to be an officially registered “Missing Person.” To me, that means someone realized she was not around. I don’t buy the suicide thing. Unless we have 2 different things going on.  Perhaps she offed herself and then someone stole her body? It seems very clear to me that bodies should not be lying around to rot in national parks.

This was not stellar journalism.

DECOMPOSED corpse found in a body bag in a Sydney national park has been identified as missing woman Lorraine Eves, with investigators saying her death may not be suspicious.

Perhaps not,  but her post-mortem appearance on the hiking trail damn sure is!

from sick to straightjacket?

It’s almost a cliche` the way we talk about men who turn into babies when they get the slightest ailment.  I am not going to argue that point, mostly because I often find it to be true.  However, I think women ( and by ”women,” I mean “myself”) often enable the behaviour.  We coo sympathetically. We do whatever they want, etc. 

I don’t get sick like a man. I don’t turn into a baby. I simply lose all emotional control. I’ve been told that *many* times. But it’s only recentlystarting to really sink in.

I can remember picking the most inane arguments. Things, that in the cold light of day, a week later leave me scratching my head going “WHAT?????” feeling incredibly stupid.  Yes, I was very nearly in tears over the lack of zombie fashion this morning.  For a split second, I just felt so bad for them.  And for me.  I get it.  “Nutso.”

I don’t need help recognizing the crazy in that moment. Got it, thanks.  I do, however, wonder if the moment I’m going to share is MY crazy or my mother’s and I just reacted strongly to it.

Sets the scene for you:  

I left work early and get home about noon. I’m sleeping.  My mother calls me. Ok, she’s sick too this week. There’s a very good possibility I got this from her. BUT I digress..

I answer. Honestly, only because she is sick and I wondered if she needed anything. So it’s basically like  “hi. hello. what’s going on?” and then she proceeds to tell me “I can’t hear you.”  I pitch it louder. “Hello! What’s Going On?”  “I can’t hear you.”  Ok, by this point, I’m full on irritated. Cuz really? I  am not too much giving a shit at this point. We’ve established that it’s basically social.  So at this point, I’m thinking in all capital letters:  “ME BEING HEARD IS NOT CRUCIAL SINCE *YOU* CALLED ME!!!!! SO SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT!!!” Instead I just howl into the phone “WHAT DO YOU NEED? I’M SICK! I”M SLEEPING!! I WANT TO BE AGAIN!!!”

“Nothing” “Ok, bye!” *click*

So here I am pondering. Am I the Wicked Bitch of the West? Or is it just one more manifestation of “EMOTIONAL”?  I will be well soon, so bear with me. The other night when I got needy and whimpery? Now we know why!

Not So Helpful Lessons

So this latest personal anecdote comes to you by way of work and not so much in the car. Honestly, I deal with a lot more clownacy there than I ever do in my car.

This afternoon, I was at work and  in a perfectly lovely mood. I was going to lunch in a second, no one was bothering me, it’s Friday, and I was sort of coasting along at a nice clip. This old ghetto-y looking woman came into present an offer for an agent. And because of said lovely mood, she got a genuine smile and a “Hi! Can I help you?”

So as she was handing me the offer, she was like “Yes, you MAY help me….you MAY…..yes, you MAY!”

I was sitting there staring at her, my mouth literally hanging open. I got the power of speech back just as she left the office. And I swear to everything that is holy, I damn near pitched the paperwork at her retreating back.

However, blessed are those who know when not to throw things in the workplace, but as soon as the  sound proof door latched closed, I was not so blessed that I didnt shout at the door:

“I SAID EXACTLY WHAT I MEANT TO SAY!!! DON’T YOU DARE CORRECT MY GRAMMAR WHEN IT WAS PERFECTLY RIGHT”

Unfortunately, insult usually follows injury. Injury in this case was clothed in the form of my boss. Sticking his head around the corner to see what the commotion is. Me: pissed off and offended. Him: quizzically staring at me wondering if my little tirade was going to continue.

“um. Layla? Is there a problem?”

“YES! SHE CORRECTED MY GRAMMAR……” *his laughter cutting off any further explanation I might be going to deliver*

I am not, by any means, trying to say that I never make mistakes in grammar.  It might even be a bigger transgression for me, in that I almost always know what would have been the correct phrasing.  I am even guilty from time to time *of* saying “can I?” when “may I?” is the correct question.  I found myself having to sit down for a moment and think this one through to make sure I was, in fact, correct. 

I was.  I was not asking “Can I leave early?” or “can I have one of your Diet Cokes?” which of course, I am absolutely able to do both of  these things. But, I would be needing to ask permission.  Which, of course, I wasn’t asking the stupid twat for permission to help her. I was still trying to assess if I COULD, in fact, help her.

Correcting someone’s grammar often makes one look like a pretentious, rude fuck. Erroneously correcting grammar makes one look pretentious, rude, AND stupid. 

Ok. I feel a little better after this rant. We’ll just pretend that it did not take me a week to complete it. Just, old bitch, for me? pretty please with sugar on it: stop. Next time, I will throw something at you.