Having been given a few negative reviews regarding the page upon page of poker-related material I’ve covered recently, I’ve decided to take a few steps to make this site and its sister site (Brinton’s Poker Notes) a little more enjoyable for everyone. First, let me say that poker literature can be taken in several different contexts. Already, for instance, I wanted to include records about wins and losses strictly in my Poker Notes page, so that I can make sure that I am really as good at the game as I think I am. Poker is a vice for some, and I don’t want to accidentally be in that group. In another context, poker is high drama for me. It’s like a series of mini-mysteries, each with its own twists and turns, and each resolved within mere moments, or even seconds. I know that other people do feel the same way, or else not every channel on DirecTV right up to the Cartoon Network would be carrying poker tournaments. I’ve decided, though, to go ahead and move these dramatic turns of events to the Poker Notes. I know that means that maybe less people will read them, which is disappointing, but I will be sure to make a note here about any update that occurs there. [If anyone is in a possession of a script that will take care of that little chore, please give it to me.] The third reason I write about poker, however, is that many lessons learned (or not learned) in poker apply directly to life at large. When something particularly relevant occurs at the poker table, I will be obligated to record it and comment on it in this forum, and hopefully my dear readers will follow me along.

After a dozen years since our last conversation, I struck up a friendship with an old classmate. I do not mean to say that we re-ignited our friendship, but that instead, I actually found myself becoming friends with someone I had not seen in so very long, and who was never much more than an acquaintance when we did know each other. [In fact I took great pleasure for some very mean reasons for having triumphed over this person, and for that she has my sincerest apologies, and my inadequate excuse that I thought she was someone she was not.] I’m filled with joy at the prospect of a new and dear friend, and at the same time feel regret that I never knew this person for who she really was until now. I know from experience that all it takes is one epiphany like that to form bonds that last and last. Looking back, August is the time for new friendships. The day after tomorrow marks exactly four years of friendship with Cory. The past four years have been a rocky friendship, as both of us have gone through major changes in our lives. At times, we’ve not been accessible enough, open-minded enough, or, let’s face it, sober enough to remain constant friends, but after four years I can say that it seems like we’ve been friends forever, and the relationship as a whole has enriched me. With the experience of that friendship in mind, I am excited about a new one.

On Friday morning I got the opportunity to lie down on the tarmac at Bluegrass Field, next to various pieces of a mangled Leer Jet, and pretend to be a victim of a terrible plane crash. It was terrible, indeed, as the little ten-seater was apparently capable of spitting fifty or sixty of us victims from its belly. Having gone out-of-state the night before, I didn’t have the opportunity to wear my swimming trunks to the exercise, and thus I wanted to avoid being decontaminated (by fire hose). I raised my hand to play the part of DRT, which a surprising number of people don’t know means “Dead Right There.” DRT’s may be the worst victims to clean up from a crash, but they’re certainly easiest for the responders to take care of. Somehow or other, my particular role was DRT with no visible injuries, which means the shock of it all must have supposedly given me a massive coronary, which is probably a fairly accurate description of what would happen were I to be involved in a real plane crash. As I was lying there in the sun, and the day was getting hotter and hotter, the Red Cross sent someone around with sunscreen, especially for us fatalities, as no one was in a hurry to get us off the runway. I opened my eyes and took the tube from her, but I was staring directly into the sun. I squeezed the tube, and a small trickle of SPF found its way into my palm. I spread this over one arm and my face. I started to squeeze out another trickle for my other arm when the Red Cross lady proclaimed to me in a tone and dialect usually reserved for a small ghetto child, “Honey, you gettin’ that all OVER yo-self,” and then, “Oh, my goodness, it’s a-comin’ out the bottom o’ the tube,” all this from an elderly white woman. I looked, and there was a huge gap in the bottom of the tube. I put my hand on my belly and felt the mass of white sun block that had accumulated there, on the part of my shirt that hung down over my pants. I want to point out that I have a history of getting crap on my shirt, mostly from letting whatever is on my fork or spoon drip off en route to my mouth. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten so fastidious about it, I don’t even like to eat in the car at all anymore, and sometimes I order things based solely on how messy they are, or whether I have room to back away from the table and then lean far over my plate. Imagine my sense of injustice then, when through no fault of my own, and thanks largely to the freakin’ Red Cross, I looked just like I had spent the morning milking bulls.

My daughter’s birthday was Friday evening. She had a very large time, thanks to all the children who showed up to help her celebrate, and also thanks to the fact that so many people seem bent on spoiling her rotten. She told me with some concern yesterday morning, however, that she still feels the same as she did when she was four. I told her maybe six would feel different, and she only has 364 days to go.