Well, it’s that time of year again. I was walking in the Santa Anita Mall the other day and I smiled my holiday smile of charming cheer and goodwill and said to someone I thought was a nice lady, “Merry Christmas.” She did not answer me. What she did was cover her kid’s ears.
So I said, “Uh, Happy Holidays?” Nothing. So I said, “Sure hope you have some traditional tidings. I hear those are pretty nice.” Still nothing. So I pulled the kid’s hands off his ears and I said, “Your mommy is really your daddy.”
No, none of that actually happened. It was all in my psychotic paranoid fantasy world.
What really happened is some guy said, “Hi, how you doing?” and I said, “So’s your old man, buddy!”
After that friendly exchange, I walked over to the store that I associate with Christmas: Sharper Image. Every December I say to myself, “Jim, you wish-monger, where do you think you can find really incredibly cheap crap that has no recognizable use and is way, way overpriced?” and then I go to Sharper Image.
And sometimes when I go to Sharper Image and can’t find anything really laughably dumb and expensive, I amble up the way to Brookstone. I’ve never been disappointed there. Like, this year, some lucky person on my Christmas list will be receiving his own personal “Remote Control Barbecue Grill Temperature Gauge.” You probably think I’m making this up as an attempt at humor. Well, if you read my column regularly, (Then congratulations, you’re the one!) you know I don’t believe in humor.
I swear on a stack of Christmas coupons that this is a real item. It is dumb. It is useless. It is overpriced. It is real, dammit. I guess there is a real need for this item. How many times have you been barbecuing and you go into the house and sit down to watch a football game and say, “Man, I sure wish I had a remote control temperature gauge so I wouldn’t have to stand up and go all the way back out to the patio which is 18 feet away to check on how hot my meat is.”
But, before I buy it, I decide to go back to Sharper Image and do some comparison-shopping. I say to the Sharper Image clerk, “You got anything more stupid than this here remote control bullshit?”
He looks at me, pauses, rubs his chin, and says, “We sure do. Come over here. We just got these in. Don’t forget your wallet, sir.” And he shows me this “Projection Video iPod Attachment Console Double Amp Speaker Alarm Clock.” He tells me it will project the time on the ceiling in two-foot high letters. I am not overwhelmed. I am just whelmed. So, he adds, “It lets you hook up your iPod directly to the console base, and then you can wake up to Mötley Crüe yelling in the morning and see giant letters on your ceiling spelling out 6:30.” And he said, “It’s only $125.” I said, “I already did that back in the ‘60s for free, without a clock, and my giant letters had hair on them and were on fire.”
Well, before the guy could show me the “Elvis Gorilla Robotic Keyboard” for only $299, I thought I should eat lunch. So I go over to one of my favorite places, Johnny Rockets. I love the simplicity of that place: just a short menu, great hamburgers, good prices, the checkerboard floors and tables and shorts. And onion rings you can squeeze the oil out of and use for your car. I love that place.
So I order my Original Hamburger with everything on it and some fries and my Diet Coke (I don’t know who that Diet Coke fools anymore). And I’m feeling kind of Christmassed out. I’m just sitting there waiting for both my food and for the other shopping foot to drop, and this young guy brings me my burger and then he puts down the fries and bless his big ol’ pea-picking heart, he takes a paper plate and he takes a squeeze-bottle of ketchup and he squeeze-draws a little happy-face Santa with the ketchup on my plate. It was very moving. Really. I actually waited until I had eaten more than half of my hamburger before I destroyed his artwork with my first French fry.
Well, since I was feeling so good — yes, maybe even jolly — with my new happy face mood, I decided I would not spoil it by doing any more shopping. So I went out into the parking lot to cuss out some fellow sorry excuses-for-parkers. By the way, to keep in the holiday spirit, I did cuss them out to the tune of “Jingle Bells.”
Then I went home. And I told Marge about my happy face Santa ketchup moment, and she lovingly said, “Hmm? I didn’t think you were gay.” And then I told her about the Brookstone and Sharper Image episodes, and I couldn’t believe what she said next. My sometimes-loving wife was about to Charlie Brown my Christmas butt.
She said, “I hope you didn’t buy that Remote Control Thermometer thing.”
I said, “Yes, I bought it. I humiliated myself. I have it. Right here!”
And she said, “Well, Honey Pumpkin Poo Poo, I didn’t think you would really get it, so I bought one, too.”
I could not believe it. She had pulled a Lucy on me. Just when I was kicking that barbecued football remote, she pulled it back. She told me to go buy it. I bought it. Then she buys it herself. And I’m left holding the thermometer. Charlie and I are going to go get loaded.
Well, Merry Christmas everybody! I would just like to leave you with my new favorite Christmas hymn. I can hear it now. The soft female chorus voices. The haunting organ music in the background. “Give a, give a, give a, give a, give a Garmin. Garmin dot com. Garmin dot com.”
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
A Room With a Different View (Cigar Smoke 12-13-07)
As you probably would guess by my being just to the right of Newt Gingrich politically, I am generally opposed to socialized medicine in the United States. Basically, that’s because I am opposed to socialism period. It’s been proven to fail everywhere it’s been tried, and I just don’t like the idea of people who don’t work getting the benefits of people who do.
But this isn’t a column on socialism, per se. This is a column about one semi-creaky old turkey’s actual real-life experience with socialized medicine. And you might just be surprised at my conclusions.
In a recent column I told you about my being taken off a cruise ship in New Zealand with some heart problems. (I had the heart problems. New Zealand’s heart is fine.) And, although I know you want to hear even more about my medical condition, I am not going to go there. Children may be reading this column.
What I am going to tell you about is my treatment in a hospital in Christchurch, New Zealand. And obviously, New Zealand is a socialized medicine country. Nobody pays for medical care over there. It is free to everyone. You just go in, get your appendix snipped out, and you leave. No invoice. No itemization. No wallet-whining. No nothing.
So I get hauled into the hospital and they drop me off at the emergency place. The care was great. A doctor and nurses were right there. They were terrific. Very attentive and friendly and fast, and more importantly, seemed to be very competent and professional. And there was no paperwork for insurance or any of that. Couldn’t have been better.
Then, because I had been on the cruise ship, they took me to their anti-contagion unit. I am not kidding. If you come from a foreign country, they stick you here first. Not that it was a bad place. Au contraire (that’s French for something commie), it was a great room. And it was a private room. No other socialist sucking people to bother me. Even had a nice view. I had no complaints. I wanted to complain. I enjoy complaining. But I couldn’t. So I didn’t.
I stayed in this private room for five days. I guess I had a particularly scary brand of cooties. I didn’t feel contagious. I don’t think I looked contagious. And, as far as I know, they never specifically looked for evidence of my contagion. But it did take them five days to not find anything. But hey, I had a private room, so me and my heart weren’t in any hurry to move.
And because I am a journalist, I want to report to you that the rooms in this socialistic country were pretty good. They weren’t all high-teched out with modern equipment, and there were no TVs. But they were very homey. Homey is the right word, I think. I thought I was back in the 1950s. The room just had a nice warm feeling about it. Very comfortable, country pictures on the walls, other pictures drawn with crayons by kids. They had none of that overly clean and antiseptic look that we have over here.
And the nurses were just fabulous. They were friendly and they joked with me about my hairy chest (oh, the fun we had). They thought I was trying to smuggle in chimpanzees under the covers. They were kidders (the nurses, not the damn chimps). And one of the nurses helped me get extra food to maintain my lanky body requirements. OK, it was just some kind of pissy yogurt or a box of corn flakes, but I appreciated the collusion. One time I got two desserts and tried to jump out of bed to hug my nurse and I pulled all my heart wires out. She said, “Oh, just lie down. I’ll put the wires back in the chimpanzee.” And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.
And while I was there for the five days I got all the modern tests — I had an MRI and EKGs and this procedure where they put this mini camera up a vein in your thigh and it takes little photos of your heart and puts them on You Tube or something, and all the other tests that heart guys get. The doctor came by twice a day. I thought I had great care. What can I say? I wanted to not like the socialistic system of medical care, but I liked it. I’m not saying I’m voting for Hillary, but the system worked pretty well, I have to admit.
Then after five days, they determined I was contagion-free, so they shipped me off to the riff raff room. I was now in the kind of room that the regular Kiwi people had. It was an OK room, but it had eight guys in there. All heart patients. And I asked them all how they liked their medical system, and they basically said it was pretty good. Except that they had to wait for long periods of time to have operations. Months. And then they would have to come into the hospital early and stay, maybe three weeks, before the actual operation. If they left, they would lose their place. That didn’t sound good to this old non-commie cowboy.
And, of course, New Zealand only has four million people. That’s like the population of the city of Los Angeles. What’s our population now in the US? More than 300 million? So, maybe their system is a little more workable, eh? (I thought I’d add a little Canadian socialized medical commentary.)
And finally, although the care was great for me, it was not free for me. Because I was a foreigner, and not a Kiwi, I had to pay the full, excuse the expression, boat. Yes, they would not pay for any alien medical care — legal or illegal.
My conclusion: I’m just grateful they didn’t find any cooties. I hear the wait for cooties removal is three months.
But this isn’t a column on socialism, per se. This is a column about one semi-creaky old turkey’s actual real-life experience with socialized medicine. And you might just be surprised at my conclusions.
In a recent column I told you about my being taken off a cruise ship in New Zealand with some heart problems. (I had the heart problems. New Zealand’s heart is fine.) And, although I know you want to hear even more about my medical condition, I am not going to go there. Children may be reading this column.
What I am going to tell you about is my treatment in a hospital in Christchurch, New Zealand. And obviously, New Zealand is a socialized medicine country. Nobody pays for medical care over there. It is free to everyone. You just go in, get your appendix snipped out, and you leave. No invoice. No itemization. No wallet-whining. No nothing.
So I get hauled into the hospital and they drop me off at the emergency place. The care was great. A doctor and nurses were right there. They were terrific. Very attentive and friendly and fast, and more importantly, seemed to be very competent and professional. And there was no paperwork for insurance or any of that. Couldn’t have been better.
Then, because I had been on the cruise ship, they took me to their anti-contagion unit. I am not kidding. If you come from a foreign country, they stick you here first. Not that it was a bad place. Au contraire (that’s French for something commie), it was a great room. And it was a private room. No other socialist sucking people to bother me. Even had a nice view. I had no complaints. I wanted to complain. I enjoy complaining. But I couldn’t. So I didn’t.
I stayed in this private room for five days. I guess I had a particularly scary brand of cooties. I didn’t feel contagious. I don’t think I looked contagious. And, as far as I know, they never specifically looked for evidence of my contagion. But it did take them five days to not find anything. But hey, I had a private room, so me and my heart weren’t in any hurry to move.
And because I am a journalist, I want to report to you that the rooms in this socialistic country were pretty good. They weren’t all high-teched out with modern equipment, and there were no TVs. But they were very homey. Homey is the right word, I think. I thought I was back in the 1950s. The room just had a nice warm feeling about it. Very comfortable, country pictures on the walls, other pictures drawn with crayons by kids. They had none of that overly clean and antiseptic look that we have over here.
And the nurses were just fabulous. They were friendly and they joked with me about my hairy chest (oh, the fun we had). They thought I was trying to smuggle in chimpanzees under the covers. They were kidders (the nurses, not the damn chimps). And one of the nurses helped me get extra food to maintain my lanky body requirements. OK, it was just some kind of pissy yogurt or a box of corn flakes, but I appreciated the collusion. One time I got two desserts and tried to jump out of bed to hug my nurse and I pulled all my heart wires out. She said, “Oh, just lie down. I’ll put the wires back in the chimpanzee.” And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.
And while I was there for the five days I got all the modern tests — I had an MRI and EKGs and this procedure where they put this mini camera up a vein in your thigh and it takes little photos of your heart and puts them on You Tube or something, and all the other tests that heart guys get. The doctor came by twice a day. I thought I had great care. What can I say? I wanted to not like the socialistic system of medical care, but I liked it. I’m not saying I’m voting for Hillary, but the system worked pretty well, I have to admit.
Then after five days, they determined I was contagion-free, so they shipped me off to the riff raff room. I was now in the kind of room that the regular Kiwi people had. It was an OK room, but it had eight guys in there. All heart patients. And I asked them all how they liked their medical system, and they basically said it was pretty good. Except that they had to wait for long periods of time to have operations. Months. And then they would have to come into the hospital early and stay, maybe three weeks, before the actual operation. If they left, they would lose their place. That didn’t sound good to this old non-commie cowboy.
And, of course, New Zealand only has four million people. That’s like the population of the city of Los Angeles. What’s our population now in the US? More than 300 million? So, maybe their system is a little more workable, eh? (I thought I’d add a little Canadian socialized medical commentary.)
And finally, although the care was great for me, it was not free for me. Because I was a foreigner, and not a Kiwi, I had to pay the full, excuse the expression, boat. Yes, they would not pay for any alien medical care — legal or illegal.
My conclusion: I’m just grateful they didn’t find any cooties. I hear the wait for cooties removal is three months.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
On the Horns of a Double-Fandango Dilemma (Cigar Smoke 12-6-07)
I was in my doctor’s office the other day reading the April 1972 issue of Popular Mechanics in which they predicted we would all be flying around in our own little personal flying machines by the year 2000. Very interesting article. The same issue had the global-cooling prediction story. Those guys were dead on, huh?
Anyway, I finished that magazine and noticed a current copy of Newsweek in the magazine rack. I don’t know how a 2007 magazine got into a doctor’s office. I think a senile patient brought it in and forgot it. (Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being senile. I’m senile. All my friends are senile. We like being senile. At least, we think we like being senile. We forgot what it means.)
This is where my double-fandango dilemma started. The first horn of my dilemma was that I had canceled my subscription to Newsweek when it published that phony, hyped-up story about our Guantanamo guys peeing on the Koran. (By the way, my cancelation rocked Newsweek’s financial world.) If a person cancels a subscription to a magazine, should that person read that magazine in a doctor’s waiting room? It is a dilemma.
Somehow, it just seems wrong to me to read a free article that you used to pay for. If you have lost respect for a publication and have stopped buying that magazine, why should you read one of its articles just because you have the opportunity to do it and it won’t cost you anything? What are you going to say to yourself? “Self, that sure was a thoughtful, well-written story from a publication I have lost respect for. I got a lot out of it only because I didn’t have to pay for it. Ha, ha. I showed them.” Is that what you say to yourself? I don’t know. I think my self just might pee on me for that.
So what did I do? I read the article. Not because it was free, but because it was something I was interested in. And I have no standards or moral consistency and I’m weak. I think my fly’s open too.
The story was about Amazon’s new digital reading wonder-gadget called the Kindle. I happen to be interested in buying a Kindle. It’s the first wireless book-reading gizmo that allows you to instantly download books for $9.99, and Amazon has supposedly perfected the screen so it mimics an actual page of type in a book. They say you can read it at the beach with no glare. That’s pretty impressive. If those bullies would only stop kicking sand in my face, it would be perfect.
So I read half the article and found out some semi-cool stuff that the Kindle can do. It has a built-in dictionary and you can subscribe to magazines online and it doesn’t need to be synched to a computer, and it has little bitty legs and can walk to the store and pick up some Bud Light. It’s pretty neat.
But just at that exact halfway article-reading point, my doctor called me in. It was a checkup. He wanted to check to see if my wallet was still in good condition. So, in a split damn second, I jumped onto the other horn of my dilemma. (It hurt. I still have dilemma horn scars.) What should I do with the magazine? Should I just leave it and forget the rest of the Kindle article, or take it home?
My mind was racing. (My body turned that over to my mind years ago.) Would “taking home” the magazine mean I was stealing the magazine? Should I ask the receptionist if I could take it home? Should I rip out only the pages I need? Should I go poo-poo in my pants from indecision?
I cleverly avoided my final decision by placing (hiding) the Newsweek in question between two health magazines that probably will never be read. In fact, people hope those magazines will be stolen. They hire people to steal them. It was the perfect place to just keep it hidden for half an hour until my appointment was over, and then I could make a reasoned and considered decision as to whether I would steal it.
I went in for my examination. My wallet was in top shape, so the doctor let me out. Told me to keep it full of hundreds and to see him as often as possible. “Thanks, doc. You ever fix dilemma scars?”
So I went back to the waiting room, and I looked both ways — I’m not sure why, maybe there were IRS agents or FBI guys — and I went over to the magazine rack and sneakily sorted through the pile and found my hidden copy of Newsweek still there. I had it in my hand; I had to make my final decision. Was I going to steal this magazine from the doctor’s office? Was I going to steal a magazine I had stopped subscribing to? What kind of person am I?
So I made my decision. Holding the magazine in my hand, as I got to the door I said to another guy sitting in the waiting room, “It’s my magazine. I brought it with me.” I couldn’t believe I said it, but I did. And I said it loud enough that everyone in the waiting room could hear me. The guy by the door didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything. Nobody even nodded or smiled weakly. Nothing.
So, my sometime loyal readers and readerettes, what have we learned from this pissy little parable? We have learned that when you are on the horns of a double-fandango dilemma about stealing something, it is clearly best if you lie as well.
Anyway, I finished that magazine and noticed a current copy of Newsweek in the magazine rack. I don’t know how a 2007 magazine got into a doctor’s office. I think a senile patient brought it in and forgot it. (Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being senile. I’m senile. All my friends are senile. We like being senile. At least, we think we like being senile. We forgot what it means.)
This is where my double-fandango dilemma started. The first horn of my dilemma was that I had canceled my subscription to Newsweek when it published that phony, hyped-up story about our Guantanamo guys peeing on the Koran. (By the way, my cancelation rocked Newsweek’s financial world.) If a person cancels a subscription to a magazine, should that person read that magazine in a doctor’s waiting room? It is a dilemma.
Somehow, it just seems wrong to me to read a free article that you used to pay for. If you have lost respect for a publication and have stopped buying that magazine, why should you read one of its articles just because you have the opportunity to do it and it won’t cost you anything? What are you going to say to yourself? “Self, that sure was a thoughtful, well-written story from a publication I have lost respect for. I got a lot out of it only because I didn’t have to pay for it. Ha, ha. I showed them.” Is that what you say to yourself? I don’t know. I think my self just might pee on me for that.
So what did I do? I read the article. Not because it was free, but because it was something I was interested in. And I have no standards or moral consistency and I’m weak. I think my fly’s open too.
The story was about Amazon’s new digital reading wonder-gadget called the Kindle. I happen to be interested in buying a Kindle. It’s the first wireless book-reading gizmo that allows you to instantly download books for $9.99, and Amazon has supposedly perfected the screen so it mimics an actual page of type in a book. They say you can read it at the beach with no glare. That’s pretty impressive. If those bullies would only stop kicking sand in my face, it would be perfect.
So I read half the article and found out some semi-cool stuff that the Kindle can do. It has a built-in dictionary and you can subscribe to magazines online and it doesn’t need to be synched to a computer, and it has little bitty legs and can walk to the store and pick up some Bud Light. It’s pretty neat.
But just at that exact halfway article-reading point, my doctor called me in. It was a checkup. He wanted to check to see if my wallet was still in good condition. So, in a split damn second, I jumped onto the other horn of my dilemma. (It hurt. I still have dilemma horn scars.) What should I do with the magazine? Should I just leave it and forget the rest of the Kindle article, or take it home?
My mind was racing. (My body turned that over to my mind years ago.) Would “taking home” the magazine mean I was stealing the magazine? Should I ask the receptionist if I could take it home? Should I rip out only the pages I need? Should I go poo-poo in my pants from indecision?
I cleverly avoided my final decision by placing (hiding) the Newsweek in question between two health magazines that probably will never be read. In fact, people hope those magazines will be stolen. They hire people to steal them. It was the perfect place to just keep it hidden for half an hour until my appointment was over, and then I could make a reasoned and considered decision as to whether I would steal it.
I went in for my examination. My wallet was in top shape, so the doctor let me out. Told me to keep it full of hundreds and to see him as often as possible. “Thanks, doc. You ever fix dilemma scars?”
So I went back to the waiting room, and I looked both ways — I’m not sure why, maybe there were IRS agents or FBI guys — and I went over to the magazine rack and sneakily sorted through the pile and found my hidden copy of Newsweek still there. I had it in my hand; I had to make my final decision. Was I going to steal this magazine from the doctor’s office? Was I going to steal a magazine I had stopped subscribing to? What kind of person am I?
So I made my decision. Holding the magazine in my hand, as I got to the door I said to another guy sitting in the waiting room, “It’s my magazine. I brought it with me.” I couldn’t believe I said it, but I did. And I said it loud enough that everyone in the waiting room could hear me. The guy by the door didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything. Nobody even nodded or smiled weakly. Nothing.
So, my sometime loyal readers and readerettes, what have we learned from this pissy little parable? We have learned that when you are on the horns of a double-fandango dilemma about stealing something, it is clearly best if you lie as well.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Five-Card Stud (Cigar Smoke 11-29-07)
A few months ago, after watching poker on TV and seeing these turkeys win hundreds of thousands of dollars, even millions, with the turn of a card, I decided I would become a poker player. How hard could it be? Just a bunch of guys sitting around a table trying to outsmart each other and waste time, and maybe have a few beverages while you’re doing that heavy outsmarting work. I thought I could do that.
So I set out to become a poker phenom. I think you can still be a phenom if you’re old enough to be the grandfather of the current crop of phenoms. And it’s not illegal or immoral or fattening. Yes, I would become a phenom. I thought: “All I need is an edge.” Once I had that edge I would become wealthy, cool and, excuse the expression, a poker five-card stud.
I already had the wasting time part down and the drinking beverages part down pretty good, so to get that edge I decided to read everything I could on poker. And I did. I read eight books, starting out with “Texas Hold’em for Dummies,” which was an obvious choice. Then when I became less dumb, I read “Hold’em Wisdom for All Players” by my favorite TV poker player, Daniel Negreanu. Then it was “Million Dollar Hold’em Limit Cash Games,” followed by “52 Great Poker Tips” (it turns out I needed the 53rd tip, but who knew at the time).
Then I got even more serious and hit the heavier stuff. No, not the beverages, the books. I read the “Book of Bluffs” and “Hunting Fish” and “The Virgin Guide to Poker” and finally “The Tao of Poker.”
Now armed with the conflicting clutter of expert instant info, I started out on my road to becoming a poker phenom. And not just any phenom. I would become a rich, wise, bluffing, fishy, taoistically non-dummy phenom. Who, by the way, was a virgin. (For all you young kids out there reading this, I don’t think the virgin part was necessary.)
Before I used this new sure-fire poker knowledge at a real poker table with real poker players playing for real money, I decided to go online to get a little experience under my Mr. Big and Tall belt. So I checked out Full-Tilt Poker online. That seemed to be where the action was. They said you had to have only two qualities to join. I said, “Uh, which two?” They said you 1) have to be delusional, and 2) have a lot of money. I said, “Deal me in.”
I started out at the dollar table and did pretty well. I was actually up 300 bucks. Well on my way to being a poker phenom. Then things kind of evened out. I spent maybe three nights a week hiding in my home office after Marge went to bed, firing up the computer and hitting the online felt. Mostly I enjoyed it. I loved how the cards looked on the fake tables, and all the players used Avatars to represent themselves, and I was addicted to the little clicking sounds to get cards and make bets, and the sucking-in-the-money-sound when you won. (Every once in a while Marge would hear me yelling “Yes!” and open the door and say, “Are you having orgasms without me?” No, she didn’t say that, she said, “What are you doing?” and after I hit the boss button I would tell her I was researching our retirement program so we would have enough money to give to MoveOn.org.)
Well, as you have probably guessed, the poker tides eventually turned and I was caught up The River without a puddle. Yes, I started to lose. I gave back the $300 I had won, and then lost another $300. So then I had to deposit more money into my Full-Tilt account and I put in $500 more. And, after a month of online poker pissing matches, flame-throwing chat-line exchanges, incredible bad beats and David Letterman luck that I wouldn’t give to a monkey on a rock, I dropped that $500, too. So I was down a total of $1,100.
Now, $1,100 isn’t all that much money. I mean, yes, it’s money, but I could rationalize it away. It was a hobby. I wasn’t golfing anymore. I was paying the rent and baby was getting fed. I wasn’t a gambler. I was a poker phenom, dammit. I didn’t spend money on expensive hookers or that kind of thing.
So, I said to myself, I’m going to make one last run. I put another $600 into the pot. The little computer message said, “Are you sure, dumbass?” I said I was sure and something about kicking someone else’s dumbass. The computer said, “Who are you calling a dumbass? “ I said, “I’m calling you a dumbass, you dumbass!” The computer said, “Your $600 has been accepted. Good luck, dumbass.”
So, going against all my poker book advice, I started to chase my money. That means you make larger bets to get back the money you lost earlier. I went to the $2 tables. And I did pretty well. For more than 10 minutes. Damn good. Then I lost. Then I won. Then I lost. Then I lost and I didn’t win. Then I kept losing. Then I killed myself. Then I came back to life. Then I bet again. And I lost.
Finally, to make a long story obvious, I literally and figuratively and virtually and virginally had my entire 600 bucks riding on one hand. I could not lose. I had a straight flush. The 2-3-4-5-6 of hearts. The 2 and 3 in my hand, the 4-5-6 in community cards. The only hand that could beat it was a Royal Flush. Which was impossible to have!
Your poker phenom was wrong. There was another hand that could dampen my hopes, my dreams, and my shorts. Some non-dumbass guy had another straight flush, a higher straight flush. He had 4-5-6-7-8 of hearts. He was holding the 7 and 8 of hearts!
Hey, I learned my lesson. I got a new book — “The Tao of Stud Virginity for Suck Ugly Beyond Belief Stupid Money-Wasting Glory-Chasing Wannabe Phenoms.”
I’m halfway through it now. I’ll be back.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
So I set out to become a poker phenom. I think you can still be a phenom if you’re old enough to be the grandfather of the current crop of phenoms. And it’s not illegal or immoral or fattening. Yes, I would become a phenom. I thought: “All I need is an edge.” Once I had that edge I would become wealthy, cool and, excuse the expression, a poker five-card stud.
I already had the wasting time part down and the drinking beverages part down pretty good, so to get that edge I decided to read everything I could on poker. And I did. I read eight books, starting out with “Texas Hold’em for Dummies,” which was an obvious choice. Then when I became less dumb, I read “Hold’em Wisdom for All Players” by my favorite TV poker player, Daniel Negreanu. Then it was “Million Dollar Hold’em Limit Cash Games,” followed by “52 Great Poker Tips” (it turns out I needed the 53rd tip, but who knew at the time).
Then I got even more serious and hit the heavier stuff. No, not the beverages, the books. I read the “Book of Bluffs” and “Hunting Fish” and “The Virgin Guide to Poker” and finally “The Tao of Poker.”
Now armed with the conflicting clutter of expert instant info, I started out on my road to becoming a poker phenom. And not just any phenom. I would become a rich, wise, bluffing, fishy, taoistically non-dummy phenom. Who, by the way, was a virgin. (For all you young kids out there reading this, I don’t think the virgin part was necessary.)
Before I used this new sure-fire poker knowledge at a real poker table with real poker players playing for real money, I decided to go online to get a little experience under my Mr. Big and Tall belt. So I checked out Full-Tilt Poker online. That seemed to be where the action was. They said you had to have only two qualities to join. I said, “Uh, which two?” They said you 1) have to be delusional, and 2) have a lot of money. I said, “Deal me in.”
I started out at the dollar table and did pretty well. I was actually up 300 bucks. Well on my way to being a poker phenom. Then things kind of evened out. I spent maybe three nights a week hiding in my home office after Marge went to bed, firing up the computer and hitting the online felt. Mostly I enjoyed it. I loved how the cards looked on the fake tables, and all the players used Avatars to represent themselves, and I was addicted to the little clicking sounds to get cards and make bets, and the sucking-in-the-money-sound when you won. (Every once in a while Marge would hear me yelling “Yes!” and open the door and say, “Are you having orgasms without me?” No, she didn’t say that, she said, “What are you doing?” and after I hit the boss button I would tell her I was researching our retirement program so we would have enough money to give to MoveOn.org.)
Well, as you have probably guessed, the poker tides eventually turned and I was caught up The River without a puddle. Yes, I started to lose. I gave back the $300 I had won, and then lost another $300. So then I had to deposit more money into my Full-Tilt account and I put in $500 more. And, after a month of online poker pissing matches, flame-throwing chat-line exchanges, incredible bad beats and David Letterman luck that I wouldn’t give to a monkey on a rock, I dropped that $500, too. So I was down a total of $1,100.
Now, $1,100 isn’t all that much money. I mean, yes, it’s money, but I could rationalize it away. It was a hobby. I wasn’t golfing anymore. I was paying the rent and baby was getting fed. I wasn’t a gambler. I was a poker phenom, dammit. I didn’t spend money on expensive hookers or that kind of thing.
So, I said to myself, I’m going to make one last run. I put another $600 into the pot. The little computer message said, “Are you sure, dumbass?” I said I was sure and something about kicking someone else’s dumbass. The computer said, “Who are you calling a dumbass? “ I said, “I’m calling you a dumbass, you dumbass!” The computer said, “Your $600 has been accepted. Good luck, dumbass.”
So, going against all my poker book advice, I started to chase my money. That means you make larger bets to get back the money you lost earlier. I went to the $2 tables. And I did pretty well. For more than 10 minutes. Damn good. Then I lost. Then I won. Then I lost. Then I lost and I didn’t win. Then I kept losing. Then I killed myself. Then I came back to life. Then I bet again. And I lost.
Finally, to make a long story obvious, I literally and figuratively and virtually and virginally had my entire 600 bucks riding on one hand. I could not lose. I had a straight flush. The 2-3-4-5-6 of hearts. The 2 and 3 in my hand, the 4-5-6 in community cards. The only hand that could beat it was a Royal Flush. Which was impossible to have!
Your poker phenom was wrong. There was another hand that could dampen my hopes, my dreams, and my shorts. Some non-dumbass guy had another straight flush, a higher straight flush. He had 4-5-6-7-8 of hearts. He was holding the 7 and 8 of hearts!
Hey, I learned my lesson. I got a new book — “The Tao of Stud Virginity for Suck Ugly Beyond Belief Stupid Money-Wasting Glory-Chasing Wannabe Phenoms.”
I’m halfway through it now. I’ll be back.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, November 23, 2007
A Walk in the Park (Cigar Smoke 11/22/07)
As a service to all you readers out there, I’m going to tell you about places to walk your dog, a different place for every day of the week. And there will be no charge. So, you’re reading the Pasadena Weekly, a free paper, and you’re getting priceless dog park info for free. Let’s face it: at best you’re cheapskates; at worst, you’re commies.
I’ve been taking Hadley, my Airedale, for a walk every day for over nine years. We basically go to these seven places: Brookside Park, Santa Anita Park, the Fly-Casting Pond, Victory Park, Farnsworth Park, Hahamonga Cayabonga Gungadin Fake Reservoir Wild-Ass Overgrown Pseudo Wetlands Equine Park and the Santa Fe Dam.
Usually, we get in the car, and I say, “Hadley, you weasel, where do you want to go today?” And Hadley says, “One of the seven damn places we always go.” So, when he’s like that, I take him to Brookside Park, by the Rose Bowl. Probably the best all around dog-walking spot. Hadley loves to stop and sniff. He doesn’t like to actually walk. He would rather stop and sniff anything all day than walk 50 straight-ass yards with his nice owner.
What you might see at Brookside is the Crazed Mothers Run-Pushing Their Babies in Strollers Club of Pasadena; old people (my age people) in the pool wearing bathing suits popular in 1945 doing water exercises in sync with a boom box version of Deep in the Heart of Texas; a hairy shirtless guy emerging from beneath a picnic table requesting a donation to his wine fund; or maybe three busloads of little darlings attacking the Children’s Museum. Hey, it’s better than a UCLA game.
Sometimes we go to Santa Anita Park over in Arcadia. Just take the 210 east to Santa Anita and hang a right. Go a few blocks. It’s just kitty-corner from the only Denny’s in the world that has a 1400-foot windmill on top of it. I think it fell from Denmark. The best part is that it’s right next to a golf course and you can brush up on new obscene phrases for a slice or a yank hook. If golf doesn’t float your putter (is that dirty?) then you can watch bad tennis players, or lawn bowlers. Or if you don’t like sports at all, you can watch the Chinese Red-and-White-Clad Chanters and Reachers to the Sky. Try not to go on a Saturday. They usually have some big dog show. Don’t tell Hadley.
Another really cool place is the Fly-Casting Pond on the Arroyo. It’s kind of hard to find, if you’re not, like me, a born finder. Just take the eastern side of the Arroyo under Suicide Bridge, swerve by the bodies, and it’s about a mile down the road. It’s combined with a pretty neat archery layout, too.
Great place to walk your dog. Yes, it’s right next to the flood control channel, but it also has a neat little stream and a wilderness-like area that makes you feel, maybe two percent of the way that guy in “Into the Wild” felt. Your dog will love it there. My dog doesn’t give a shit. Just kidding. He likes it there, too. Especially the actual fly-casting pond.
You’re not supposed to let your dogs off leash, but if conditions are right, I do it — I’m a rebel. If there are no fisherman trainees out there casting hooks into each other’s ears, I let Hadley off leash and he just goes into the pond. It’s about dog-chest deep, full of pollywog remains and mossy slime and other crud. But it’s fun. Hadley likes it, too.
If I need to pretend I’m a good master but all I want to do is get the chore of walking a four-legged Airedalian Weasel out of the way, I go to either Victory Park next to Pasadena High School or Farnsworth Park up on Lake in Altadena. I’ve picked these two parks because, well, they’re close to where I live. If you don’t live where I live, and let’s keep it that way, then forget I mentioned them.
Hahamongna Watershed Park, over in La Cañada Flintridge, right by JPL, is kind of another world. Really. This is a semi-spooky place, baby. I usually park on the top level and then walk Hadley down the dirt path of death to a dark and damp destination. In about 10 minutes you are in some pretty ugly country. Hadley and I go way back into the gnarly overgrown brush and rocky areas. There are bones out there and coyotes and snakes and raccoon guts and non-classifiable crap. I’m sure Jimmy Hoffa’s out there somewhere. And you can hear this little undercurrent of almost human humming when the rapists are arguing with the child molesters as to where to attack the homeless guys. And then some young thing will come riding along on a horse. Yes, an equestrian will emerge! I am not kidding. You want to make a movie of all this. But you don’t have the time, the funding, or the talent to do it. And your dog is peeing on your foot.
Finally, there’s Santa Fe Dam. A little jewel of unexpected urban paradise. Beautiful lake, terrific view of the mountains, swans and ducks swimming and waddling, and the place is empty most of the year. I’d tell you more, but I have run out of space. Due to poor planning. And wordiness earlier. It’s not really all that close to Pasadena anyway. It’s in Irwindale. Hell with it.
Oops, gotta go. I left Hadley back in Hahamonga-cowabunga. He told me he could find Hoffa. He better.
I’ve been taking Hadley, my Airedale, for a walk every day for over nine years. We basically go to these seven places: Brookside Park, Santa Anita Park, the Fly-Casting Pond, Victory Park, Farnsworth Park, Hahamonga Cayabonga Gungadin Fake Reservoir Wild-Ass Overgrown Pseudo Wetlands Equine Park and the Santa Fe Dam.
Usually, we get in the car, and I say, “Hadley, you weasel, where do you want to go today?” And Hadley says, “One of the seven damn places we always go.” So, when he’s like that, I take him to Brookside Park, by the Rose Bowl. Probably the best all around dog-walking spot. Hadley loves to stop and sniff. He doesn’t like to actually walk. He would rather stop and sniff anything all day than walk 50 straight-ass yards with his nice owner.
What you might see at Brookside is the Crazed Mothers Run-Pushing Their Babies in Strollers Club of Pasadena; old people (my age people) in the pool wearing bathing suits popular in 1945 doing water exercises in sync with a boom box version of Deep in the Heart of Texas; a hairy shirtless guy emerging from beneath a picnic table requesting a donation to his wine fund; or maybe three busloads of little darlings attacking the Children’s Museum. Hey, it’s better than a UCLA game.
Sometimes we go to Santa Anita Park over in Arcadia. Just take the 210 east to Santa Anita and hang a right. Go a few blocks. It’s just kitty-corner from the only Denny’s in the world that has a 1400-foot windmill on top of it. I think it fell from Denmark. The best part is that it’s right next to a golf course and you can brush up on new obscene phrases for a slice or a yank hook. If golf doesn’t float your putter (is that dirty?) then you can watch bad tennis players, or lawn bowlers. Or if you don’t like sports at all, you can watch the Chinese Red-and-White-Clad Chanters and Reachers to the Sky. Try not to go on a Saturday. They usually have some big dog show. Don’t tell Hadley.
Another really cool place is the Fly-Casting Pond on the Arroyo. It’s kind of hard to find, if you’re not, like me, a born finder. Just take the eastern side of the Arroyo under Suicide Bridge, swerve by the bodies, and it’s about a mile down the road. It’s combined with a pretty neat archery layout, too.
Great place to walk your dog. Yes, it’s right next to the flood control channel, but it also has a neat little stream and a wilderness-like area that makes you feel, maybe two percent of the way that guy in “Into the Wild” felt. Your dog will love it there. My dog doesn’t give a shit. Just kidding. He likes it there, too. Especially the actual fly-casting pond.
You’re not supposed to let your dogs off leash, but if conditions are right, I do it — I’m a rebel. If there are no fisherman trainees out there casting hooks into each other’s ears, I let Hadley off leash and he just goes into the pond. It’s about dog-chest deep, full of pollywog remains and mossy slime and other crud. But it’s fun. Hadley likes it, too.
If I need to pretend I’m a good master but all I want to do is get the chore of walking a four-legged Airedalian Weasel out of the way, I go to either Victory Park next to Pasadena High School or Farnsworth Park up on Lake in Altadena. I’ve picked these two parks because, well, they’re close to where I live. If you don’t live where I live, and let’s keep it that way, then forget I mentioned them.
Hahamongna Watershed Park, over in La Cañada Flintridge, right by JPL, is kind of another world. Really. This is a semi-spooky place, baby. I usually park on the top level and then walk Hadley down the dirt path of death to a dark and damp destination. In about 10 minutes you are in some pretty ugly country. Hadley and I go way back into the gnarly overgrown brush and rocky areas. There are bones out there and coyotes and snakes and raccoon guts and non-classifiable crap. I’m sure Jimmy Hoffa’s out there somewhere. And you can hear this little undercurrent of almost human humming when the rapists are arguing with the child molesters as to where to attack the homeless guys. And then some young thing will come riding along on a horse. Yes, an equestrian will emerge! I am not kidding. You want to make a movie of all this. But you don’t have the time, the funding, or the talent to do it. And your dog is peeing on your foot.
Finally, there’s Santa Fe Dam. A little jewel of unexpected urban paradise. Beautiful lake, terrific view of the mountains, swans and ducks swimming and waddling, and the place is empty most of the year. I’d tell you more, but I have run out of space. Due to poor planning. And wordiness earlier. It’s not really all that close to Pasadena anyway. It’s in Irwindale. Hell with it.
Oops, gotta go. I left Hadley back in Hahamonga-cowabunga. He told me he could find Hoffa. He better.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Uh, The World is Not on Fire (Cigar Smoke 11/15/07)
The Pasadena Weekly published a front-page story in the Nov. 1 issue headlined “World on Fire.” Well, I hate to tell Amy Goodman, her expert, Tim Flannery, and whoever wrote that headline, but the world does not seem to be on fire to me.
Here’s how I figure it: Oceans compose about 75 percent of Earth’s surface, so we can safely say that the oceans are not on fire. Then there are all the lakes and rivers and streams, etc., which probably aren’t on fire either. Let’s say the lakes and rivers conservatively cover five percent of Earth’s surface, so that makes at least 80 percent of the world that is not on fire.
The 20 percent of the remaining surface is made up of land. Out of that 20 percent, there were no significant fires in the Arctic, the Antarctic, Russia, China, India, Australia, Africa, Greenland, Iceland or Canada or anywhere else on the planet. That is not hyperbole. That is how it was.
As far as I know the only major fires were in Southern California, and only in San Diego, San Bernardino, Orange, Ventura and Los Angeles counties. And the fires did not come close to burning those entire counties. They probably burned, at most, one percent of all five counties.
So now you have one percent of five counties in one state in the United States. The other 49 states do not have any alarming fires going on at this time. So, at most, and even this is quite a stretch, the percentage of the Earth’s surface which was on fire was about one one-thousandth of a percent. Not one percent; one-thousandth of one percent.
If you don’t agree with this, please tell me where my stats are wrong. I’m sincere. I haven’t thrown any anti-liberal bombs in this column. I haven’t used any swear words. I haven’t taken any cheap shots. I just want to have a discussion. So discuss. Sure, I’ve generalized about the percentage, but I think what I’ve said is basically correct. So tell me: Where am I wrong? Tell me what percentage of the world was on fire.
When the Weekly comes out and says on its front page, “World on Fire,” I have to speak up. And that nice little Earth illustration, tinged in red with the subtle red-type headline? Well, while those fires were going on, I was driving from California to Tucson and I did not see ONE fire in either state, not counting the broiler in Denny’s. And when I got back, alas, even Pasadena wasn’t on fire. The only thing that was on fire, it seems to me, was Amy Goodman’s incendiary prose. I guess the headline “One one-thousandth of one percent of the world on fire” just wasn’t quite punchy enough.
OK, now you’re going to say that what Amy really meant was kind of a metaphor. And you’re thinking I’m just a right-wing dummy who didn’t get her nuanced point. She really didn’t think that the entire world was on fire; she just wanted to point out how bad things were going in general and that global warming was probably a major determining factor in that badness, and a little exaggeration for a good cause is fine. Something like that, huh?
One of the things that Amy conveniently forgets to report is that at least four of the fires were caused by arson! Wow! That global warming even turns people into arsonists. That’s powerful stuff.
Oh, I almost forgot: Her expert, Tim Flannery, thinks global warming has caused all the fires AND the hurricanes and floods in New Orleans a couple of years ago AND the worldwide droughts. Now, that’s a pretty good trick. If the Earth’s atmosphere is too warm, it not only makes things warmer, it makes them wetter. And drier. Probably makes things lukewarm and chilly too.
You know, I’m a pretty old codger and I can remember when the hysteria about climate change was a deep concern that the planet was getting too cold! Back in the 1970s, Time or Newsweek ran a front-page story saying we were going to experience a new Ice Age, with a big picture of Earth frozen in ice. That was only 30 years ago. Now the world is on fire?
Let’s just assume that the water level in New York will rise in 100 years. Don’t you think by then we’ll have figured a way around it? Heck, Holland has already had that exact problem and has built an incredible system of dykes, canals and power plants. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. So hate me, hate the Discovery Channel.
And regarding the potential water shortage: Come on, now. If there ever was a life-or-death need for water, don’t you think we would figure out the desalinization process? We can take the salt out of water right now. It’s just generally too costly. If we had to do it for our survival, we could do it in a breeze — warm or cold.
I just wish all the global-warming people would take it down a notch or two. I tried to lower my volume. I didn’t throw any, excuse the expression, firebombs of bombassity. Let’s talk about it. Send me an email.
And remember, there are two “s”es in A-S-S-H-O-L-E.
Here’s how I figure it: Oceans compose about 75 percent of Earth’s surface, so we can safely say that the oceans are not on fire. Then there are all the lakes and rivers and streams, etc., which probably aren’t on fire either. Let’s say the lakes and rivers conservatively cover five percent of Earth’s surface, so that makes at least 80 percent of the world that is not on fire.
The 20 percent of the remaining surface is made up of land. Out of that 20 percent, there were no significant fires in the Arctic, the Antarctic, Russia, China, India, Australia, Africa, Greenland, Iceland or Canada or anywhere else on the planet. That is not hyperbole. That is how it was.
As far as I know the only major fires were in Southern California, and only in San Diego, San Bernardino, Orange, Ventura and Los Angeles counties. And the fires did not come close to burning those entire counties. They probably burned, at most, one percent of all five counties.
So now you have one percent of five counties in one state in the United States. The other 49 states do not have any alarming fires going on at this time. So, at most, and even this is quite a stretch, the percentage of the Earth’s surface which was on fire was about one one-thousandth of a percent. Not one percent; one-thousandth of one percent.
If you don’t agree with this, please tell me where my stats are wrong. I’m sincere. I haven’t thrown any anti-liberal bombs in this column. I haven’t used any swear words. I haven’t taken any cheap shots. I just want to have a discussion. So discuss. Sure, I’ve generalized about the percentage, but I think what I’ve said is basically correct. So tell me: Where am I wrong? Tell me what percentage of the world was on fire.
When the Weekly comes out and says on its front page, “World on Fire,” I have to speak up. And that nice little Earth illustration, tinged in red with the subtle red-type headline? Well, while those fires were going on, I was driving from California to Tucson and I did not see ONE fire in either state, not counting the broiler in Denny’s. And when I got back, alas, even Pasadena wasn’t on fire. The only thing that was on fire, it seems to me, was Amy Goodman’s incendiary prose. I guess the headline “One one-thousandth of one percent of the world on fire” just wasn’t quite punchy enough.
OK, now you’re going to say that what Amy really meant was kind of a metaphor. And you’re thinking I’m just a right-wing dummy who didn’t get her nuanced point. She really didn’t think that the entire world was on fire; she just wanted to point out how bad things were going in general and that global warming was probably a major determining factor in that badness, and a little exaggeration for a good cause is fine. Something like that, huh?
One of the things that Amy conveniently forgets to report is that at least four of the fires were caused by arson! Wow! That global warming even turns people into arsonists. That’s powerful stuff.
Oh, I almost forgot: Her expert, Tim Flannery, thinks global warming has caused all the fires AND the hurricanes and floods in New Orleans a couple of years ago AND the worldwide droughts. Now, that’s a pretty good trick. If the Earth’s atmosphere is too warm, it not only makes things warmer, it makes them wetter. And drier. Probably makes things lukewarm and chilly too.
You know, I’m a pretty old codger and I can remember when the hysteria about climate change was a deep concern that the planet was getting too cold! Back in the 1970s, Time or Newsweek ran a front-page story saying we were going to experience a new Ice Age, with a big picture of Earth frozen in ice. That was only 30 years ago. Now the world is on fire?
Let’s just assume that the water level in New York will rise in 100 years. Don’t you think by then we’ll have figured a way around it? Heck, Holland has already had that exact problem and has built an incredible system of dykes, canals and power plants. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. So hate me, hate the Discovery Channel.
And regarding the potential water shortage: Come on, now. If there ever was a life-or-death need for water, don’t you think we would figure out the desalinization process? We can take the salt out of water right now. It’s just generally too costly. If we had to do it for our survival, we could do it in a breeze — warm or cold.
I just wish all the global-warming people would take it down a notch or two. I tried to lower my volume. I didn’t throw any, excuse the expression, firebombs of bombassity. Let’s talk about it. Send me an email.
And remember, there are two “s”es in A-S-S-H-O-L-E.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Something's on Fire! (Cigar Smoke 11-8-07)
I was in Dino Computer the other day and I’m standing there waiting for my Mac to be fixed and the tech guy behind the counter sniffs a couple of times and says to his cohort, “I think something is on fire.”
They both look around for awhile and then they start inching towards me and they get right next to me and one of the guys says to me, “It’s you.” I ask, “I’m on fire?” The guy nods. I say, “I know I’m hot, but probably not that hot.”
Yeah, you guessed it. They were smelling my smoky self. I don’t smoke that much, but when I do it’s often in my Durango. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I have indulged in cigar smoking since I was about 15. More on that later. Now, I only smoke in my car or in my yard or in deserted weird places where nobody else goes.
To be fair, I know I smell like smoke a lot of the time, mostly when I’m awake. And my car smells pretty bad. Even I have to say that it can be a little unpleasant, say on a 97-degree day, and there are two years of smoke build-up embedded in the seat covers and cigar butts in the ashtray and little wet specks of spit-out tobacco stuck on the dash, and yuck, even I’m getting sick.
Sometimes my dog, Hadley, coughs when we get in the car to go for his morning walk. And then I light up a new cigar and he shies away from me. And I say, “Wanna go to the pound? I’m sure you’ll find a nice home.” Then he gets it together and sticks his head out the window looking for some pissy squirrel he can bark at.
Yes, society has conspired against me and they think I’m pretty mentally challenged to still smoke, but I tell them I’m like Bill Clinton — I don’t inhale. That’s right, I don’t inhale. Really. I just puff. I’m a puffer. Not a dragger. And society, of course, being considerate, tells me to puff on this. And preferably far away from them. I have no problem with that. I never did like to smoke around sissies anyway.
As I alluded to earlier, I started smoking cigars at the unripe old age of 15. I was in the Boy Scouts. Troop 588. Westchester. 1956. Yes, it’s been 50 years since I started smoking stogies. Half a century and I’m still here. Confounding cancer specialists. Irritating non-smokers and Airedales. It’s a rush.
My memory is a little hazy, kind of like my car interior, but I think the first time I had a RoiTan was on a camp-out up at Saugus. I was with my good ole buddy, Jim Ludwig, a Connie-driving fool, and patrol leader Don Yungkans, who decked Bob Williams one day when Bob got out of line. Literally out of line. Bob was supposed to be in a line. He wasn’t. One punch. Don nailed that sucker. I can still see it.
But most of all I remember my scout leader, John Rose. I think he was smoking his cheapie RoiTan and I asked him for one, and damned if he didn’t give it to me. That’s why we all loved that guy. He might have thought I was going to choke on it and cough and spit and sputter, but he was wrong. I liked it. Right from the first puff. And right then and there, 50 years ago, I made the decision not to inhale. I’m not sure why I did. I know it wasn’t because I was overly bright. I just said that’s the way it would be, and it has been. By the way, when I had my first cup of coffee, I decided to always have it black because I didn’t want to have to worry about finding cream and sugar. Still have it black. And the first time I had sex, I decided to some day have it with another person.
For some reason, I have always loved the smell of smoke. I remember when I was 20 and I was going off to Humboldt State College in Northern California. I drove my old Chevy coupe with the chrome gearshift knob up Highway 101 and when I got to some high place overlooking the Humboldt Valley I was just awestruck. Back in those days, there were no restrictions on lumber mills and the whole valley was filled with giant teepee-like structures and the smoke was coming out of all of them and the smell of smoke was just so perfect. God, did that smell good. It almost makes me cry. Ah, if I only had emotions.
I was going to tell you about smoking and my kids. But I’m not going to. Some commie-politician would figure out a way to throw me in the slammer. Even now. I will tell you this. Both of my kids, Mike and Casey, do not smoke. They’re both healthier and smarter than I am. And yes, I offered them a few cigars over the years but they’ve never taken me up on it. Hey, I still love ’em. Nobody’s perfect.
A couple of weekends ago I drove to Tucson for a Scrabble tournament. I could have flown but I love getting on the road and listening to some high-level country music (“Remember, the men buy the drinks, but the girls call the shots.” Yeehah.) I love that shit. But more than that, I just love to drive and chain smoke stogies. Just driving for hours and puffing and singing and opening that driver’s side window just an inch or so, and having the smoke shoot-ass out the window. Just sucks it out. Never open two windows at once. You lose all the sucking action. The smoke will have an identity crisis. It won’t know where to go. One window. One inch. Maximum suck.
I stopped at a Denny’s in Guacamole Springs or someplace, and I sat down at the counter and a waitress named Lori came over. Lori with an i. She said, “Hi, darlin.” I said, “My name is Jimi, with an i, and ‘Hi darlin’ back at you.” And then she said, “Boy, you sure smell good.”
You talk about being on fire.
They both look around for awhile and then they start inching towards me and they get right next to me and one of the guys says to me, “It’s you.” I ask, “I’m on fire?” The guy nods. I say, “I know I’m hot, but probably not that hot.”
Yeah, you guessed it. They were smelling my smoky self. I don’t smoke that much, but when I do it’s often in my Durango. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I have indulged in cigar smoking since I was about 15. More on that later. Now, I only smoke in my car or in my yard or in deserted weird places where nobody else goes.
To be fair, I know I smell like smoke a lot of the time, mostly when I’m awake. And my car smells pretty bad. Even I have to say that it can be a little unpleasant, say on a 97-degree day, and there are two years of smoke build-up embedded in the seat covers and cigar butts in the ashtray and little wet specks of spit-out tobacco stuck on the dash, and yuck, even I’m getting sick.
Sometimes my dog, Hadley, coughs when we get in the car to go for his morning walk. And then I light up a new cigar and he shies away from me. And I say, “Wanna go to the pound? I’m sure you’ll find a nice home.” Then he gets it together and sticks his head out the window looking for some pissy squirrel he can bark at.
Yes, society has conspired against me and they think I’m pretty mentally challenged to still smoke, but I tell them I’m like Bill Clinton — I don’t inhale. That’s right, I don’t inhale. Really. I just puff. I’m a puffer. Not a dragger. And society, of course, being considerate, tells me to puff on this. And preferably far away from them. I have no problem with that. I never did like to smoke around sissies anyway.
As I alluded to earlier, I started smoking cigars at the unripe old age of 15. I was in the Boy Scouts. Troop 588. Westchester. 1956. Yes, it’s been 50 years since I started smoking stogies. Half a century and I’m still here. Confounding cancer specialists. Irritating non-smokers and Airedales. It’s a rush.
My memory is a little hazy, kind of like my car interior, but I think the first time I had a RoiTan was on a camp-out up at Saugus. I was with my good ole buddy, Jim Ludwig, a Connie-driving fool, and patrol leader Don Yungkans, who decked Bob Williams one day when Bob got out of line. Literally out of line. Bob was supposed to be in a line. He wasn’t. One punch. Don nailed that sucker. I can still see it.
But most of all I remember my scout leader, John Rose. I think he was smoking his cheapie RoiTan and I asked him for one, and damned if he didn’t give it to me. That’s why we all loved that guy. He might have thought I was going to choke on it and cough and spit and sputter, but he was wrong. I liked it. Right from the first puff. And right then and there, 50 years ago, I made the decision not to inhale. I’m not sure why I did. I know it wasn’t because I was overly bright. I just said that’s the way it would be, and it has been. By the way, when I had my first cup of coffee, I decided to always have it black because I didn’t want to have to worry about finding cream and sugar. Still have it black. And the first time I had sex, I decided to some day have it with another person.
For some reason, I have always loved the smell of smoke. I remember when I was 20 and I was going off to Humboldt State College in Northern California. I drove my old Chevy coupe with the chrome gearshift knob up Highway 101 and when I got to some high place overlooking the Humboldt Valley I was just awestruck. Back in those days, there were no restrictions on lumber mills and the whole valley was filled with giant teepee-like structures and the smoke was coming out of all of them and the smell of smoke was just so perfect. God, did that smell good. It almost makes me cry. Ah, if I only had emotions.
I was going to tell you about smoking and my kids. But I’m not going to. Some commie-politician would figure out a way to throw me in the slammer. Even now. I will tell you this. Both of my kids, Mike and Casey, do not smoke. They’re both healthier and smarter than I am. And yes, I offered them a few cigars over the years but they’ve never taken me up on it. Hey, I still love ’em. Nobody’s perfect.
A couple of weekends ago I drove to Tucson for a Scrabble tournament. I could have flown but I love getting on the road and listening to some high-level country music (“Remember, the men buy the drinks, but the girls call the shots.” Yeehah.) I love that shit. But more than that, I just love to drive and chain smoke stogies. Just driving for hours and puffing and singing and opening that driver’s side window just an inch or so, and having the smoke shoot-ass out the window. Just sucks it out. Never open two windows at once. You lose all the sucking action. The smoke will have an identity crisis. It won’t know where to go. One window. One inch. Maximum suck.
I stopped at a Denny’s in Guacamole Springs or someplace, and I sat down at the counter and a waitress named Lori came over. Lori with an i. She said, “Hi, darlin.” I said, “My name is Jimi, with an i, and ‘Hi darlin’ back at you.” And then she said, “Boy, you sure smell good.”
You talk about being on fire.
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