“Do worms feel pain?”
A friend of mine asked that question last week when I took him fishing for his first time. I was showing him how to bait the hook.
“Don’t start!” I admonished.
Of course they feel pain. That’s what makes putting one on a hook a challenge. And the fish feels pain, which makes them fight to get off of a hook jabbed through their jaw. I know it feels pain, and that is why, if I am going to keep a fish to eat, I knock it on the head with my fish club before I bleed it out. I am as merciful as I can be while still fulfilling my goal.
Of course, my friend wanted nothing to do with fishing. He was, however, content to sit with me at the water’s edge, talk and relax. He understood those merits of the activity.
“You sure you don’t want to give fishing a try?”
“No, that’s okay. A little too much blood and guts, thank you. I will concede, however, that I know when I buy meat at the store, I am conveniently side-stepping part of the process.”
We didn’t catch anything to brag about that day; yet, we had a good time gazing out over the water and talking with a few of the locals. That excursion became about something else than fishing, or rather, it was more about my favorite part of fishing: going with a friend.
Yesterday I went fishing again. This time it was with my regular fishing buddy, and we headed up to our favorite river in search of steelhead trout. It was a rainy, cool day. We figured the fish would be biting, hungry after the imposed lethargy of a very hot week and ready to take advantage of food washing into the river. The little cutthroat trout mauled our bait, yet the big fish seemed to have other ideas. We were there for eight hours, working our favorite stretch of the water without a single bite. Then wham! Steve hooked one.
It was a good fight,. The fish made several good runs up and down the river, took to the air a couple times, and finally gave it up after two attempts to get it in the net. Steve said, “It’s a big male.” It weighed about ten pounds, a good, average size for a hatchery-raised Steelie, and it had swallowed the hook. “This one is yours. Take it home and put it on the grill.”
“Nah, Steve, you caught it; you keep it.” My regular readers may remember that Steve is pretty much a catch-and-release fisherman.
“Dude (fellow Lebowskian), last time we came up, I caught two and put them back. You lost yours and wanted one for the grill. We’re having Ahi for dinner tonight, so here you go.”
“Well, thanks buddy. My dear wife will be mighty pleased.”
Ah, my dear wife. Before I left to go, she asked me how long we’d be fishing. Our veterinarian friend was possibly stopping by in the evening to have a look at the injured duck. I said we figured a half-day because we were leaving early and the bite would probably taper off in the afternoon. We had miscalculated on both accounts. By the time we were in an area with a cell phone signal, it was 4:30 and I called home.
My dear wife was indeed delighted that I was bringing a fish home. The vet was coming by after work and would be there before I arrived.
The two women were sitting in the dining room. “Sorry I’m so late.” I walked into the room to see a couple vials and a handful of small syringes and needles on the table. “What have we here?”
“Ketamine.” Good ol’ Special K. The Breakfast of Downer Freak Crackers. She was going to relax the duck to see if we could put the leg back into the socket.
“I don’t think there is a socket to put the leg in. I’ve tried.”
“But you have only tried with the duck awake. This should help.”
So, out to the coop with drugs in hand. I caught the duck, we covered her eyes to calm her down and gave her the shot in the muscle of her good leg. It wasn’t long before she was limp in my arms and the Good Doctor went to work.
“I think she blew out her knee. Wait, I think her knee and hip are gone.” I knew what was coming next. My dear wife was talking about something else as the examination concluded, so she missed “It would be best just to let her go.” I had our vet repeat it. Quiet.
“I’ll take care of it.” I said.
My dear wife asked, “Are you sure? Do you want me to help? “
“No. “
“Where are you going to put her?”
“In the compost.” All dead animals go to the compost.
Our vet had to leave, so the women went back up to the house. I took the semi-comatose bird behind an outbuilding to render the cervical dislocation. Our vet had reassured my dear wife: “With the Ketamine, she won’t feel a thing.” Maybe not, yet the display of nerves firing in chaos was not for the faint-hearted. Somehow, her head turned as if to look at me. I apologized aloud as I made doubly sure the deed had been done.
I suppose I could continue writing and pontificate as I have in the past about life and death on the farm. I could also try to justify killing a fish for food, or a cow for shoes, or the ants we smash as we walk through the grass. I could, but I’m not inclined to do so, just as I declined to talk afterwards about putting the duck down when my dear wife asked if I was okay. Mind you, I had given this bird physical therapy for weeks, I had prayed over it, talked to it, calmed it, and petted the very neck that I would have to break. Knowing that the latter was a distinct possibility, I reserved just enough emotional distance in order to do so.
It’s not that I don’t feel anything.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Mark Making
Home game night. It’s a full moon, I’m wearing my Dead Guy hat and I’ve brought a 24-ounce bottle of the ale with the same name.
As I don’t particularly care to play in the tourney, I came late, just for the cash game. Right away I could tell something was amiss. R, the guy who holds the game, has a new girlfriend. He’s been dating a couple different women. This one was in the bedroom watching TV. I think folks thought their game might be in jeopardy as there was some rumbling about her moving in already. R was smiling the smile of a man getting steady trim, so who am I to judge? If the gig works out and we have to move the game out to the workshop, so be it. Nothing a propane heater can’t take care of when the weather turns. If it doesn’t work out, maybe R will be dead money for a couple weeks. It could happen.
Enough people had busted out of the tourney so we started a 5-handed game in fairly short order. The edge remained. Even M, the jokester was in a mood, and taking it out on T.
We usually play .50/1.00. T insisted that we play .25/.50, Ok, we’ll play .25/.50. T is one of those people you want in a game. He always thinks he has the best hand when nothing could be further from the truth. Top pair or 2 pair (not 2 cards in his hand pairing on the board, but a pocket pair and the board pairs) and he thinks he’s got it tied up. He lost his buy-in in short order. The problem is that when he loses, he gets agitated; and I guess because he’s a big guy, he thinks that if he threatens bodily harm, people will back off of hands. After M takes down a pot with trips against T’s monster bottom 2 pair, the sparring ensues.
“Do that again and I’m gonna come over there and knock the shit outa you.” Yes, the audacity of having a better hand.
M is no small guy, yet he’s considerably older. He says, “I don’t have to go 2 hours with you. It won’t take long at all.”
T retorts, “Are you still talking?”
M fires back, “Why don’t you go piss on some tires, something you’re good at.”
I’m dying as I try to hold back my laughter. Such an oaf.
T wasn’t the only person at the table who was getting under M’s skin. W was there. W is a youngish Asian guy who talks a lot of poker smack. I know W from the casino. He’s a rather affable guy, if a bit superficial. Make that gregarious, and he likes being the center of attention. He never shuts up. He was sitting to my right, which is a good thing as far as the cards go, which I’ll explain in a bit, but it is also a bad thing because he had my ear. My good ear. I’m trying to concentrate on the game and he’s talking to me at a volume just loud enough to for me to barely hear. I’m his confidant?
“Last hand I had flat tire. I woulda won”
I have no clue what he is talking about. “A what?”
“A flat tire.” He asks with some incredulity, “You never hear of flat tire?”
“No.”
“Jack-four. If you get a flat tire, what is jack for?”
“Ah. Unfortunately I am not caught up on all of the poker jargon. I tend to disregard such as ephemeral, opting to concentrate on what is going on in each hand.” Really, I phrased it pretty much like that.
Pause.
“Do you know what “ephemeral” means?”
“No.”
“It means transitory or lacking endurance or longevity. This too shall pass. Maybe I should have said superfluous.”
After that, he toned the chit-chat down a bit. Yet, the table was still a captive audience, or so he thought. W is pure LAG and everyone knows this. J2 is his favorite hand. “Jack-deuce, never lose.” Say that at the casino and everyone says, “You know W, eh.” W leads out with $6 after a couple limps, everyone folds ad he shows a pair of sixes. “Six dollar for pair of sixes, right? I have best hand.” Wrong table, W. These guys don’t always back down, and they will pack like wolves. How much did W lose? $100 or so. Tons for a ,25/.50 game. After he left, R says, “And you guys were bitching and moaning when I told you W would be here.” He does liven up a game.
But with W out of the picture, I shall continue to paint the portrait of T. He’s tatted up pretty good with a nice Ace of Spades on his tricep, Harley verbiage with “fidelity” and other such bullshit, on one shoulder (he’s wearing a wife-beater) and on the other some busy red and blue images I didn’t bother examining too closely. It may have had an eagle in it. Of course. R, Sirius was programmed to a 80s station and T insisted he change it to a classic rock station, which according to T is something along the lines of Def Leppard. (I had to google to make sure I had the correct spelling.) R caught a jazz station while searching and I suggested he hang with that for a while. It was some 50s Miles. A great groove with some amazing minimal harmonies. You never saw a bunch of guys squirm so much. The shit was kickin’ but these shit-kickers weren’t catching it. I came right out with it: “You’re just a bunch of fuckin’ heathens! That’s what it is.”
T starts screaming, “I’m gonna kill myself if we have to listen to this crap.” P chimes in, “I’m gonna kill you (T) if I have to listen to this.” R finds the Motley channel and T calms down. “Hey, I recognize this song.” I repeat: “Fuckin’ heathen. So narrowly defined, confined to your little square box.” I was pushing it and wasn’t so sure that anyone would have my back, or that I could get my knife out of my pocket in a timely manner, so I toned it down after that and went back to waiting for my turn at T’s reload.
I wish I could say it came. I turned a straight on the button and minimized my risk with 4 people still in the pot. T caught a river flush and made it abundantly clear he had done so. Good job, nice hand.
It was getting late and I had told my dear wife that I would pull the plug at 2 AM. A few hands later I caught a set of sixes after calling a 3-bet that turned into a family pot. I bet the pot and called it a night, up $15 from my initial $60. Nothing stellar, but hell, I got a blog entry out of it.
As I don’t particularly care to play in the tourney, I came late, just for the cash game. Right away I could tell something was amiss. R, the guy who holds the game, has a new girlfriend. He’s been dating a couple different women. This one was in the bedroom watching TV. I think folks thought their game might be in jeopardy as there was some rumbling about her moving in already. R was smiling the smile of a man getting steady trim, so who am I to judge? If the gig works out and we have to move the game out to the workshop, so be it. Nothing a propane heater can’t take care of when the weather turns. If it doesn’t work out, maybe R will be dead money for a couple weeks. It could happen.
Enough people had busted out of the tourney so we started a 5-handed game in fairly short order. The edge remained. Even M, the jokester was in a mood, and taking it out on T.
We usually play .50/1.00. T insisted that we play .25/.50, Ok, we’ll play .25/.50. T is one of those people you want in a game. He always thinks he has the best hand when nothing could be further from the truth. Top pair or 2 pair (not 2 cards in his hand pairing on the board, but a pocket pair and the board pairs) and he thinks he’s got it tied up. He lost his buy-in in short order. The problem is that when he loses, he gets agitated; and I guess because he’s a big guy, he thinks that if he threatens bodily harm, people will back off of hands. After M takes down a pot with trips against T’s monster bottom 2 pair, the sparring ensues.
“Do that again and I’m gonna come over there and knock the shit outa you.” Yes, the audacity of having a better hand.
M is no small guy, yet he’s considerably older. He says, “I don’t have to go 2 hours with you. It won’t take long at all.”
T retorts, “Are you still talking?”
M fires back, “Why don’t you go piss on some tires, something you’re good at.”
I’m dying as I try to hold back my laughter. Such an oaf.
T wasn’t the only person at the table who was getting under M’s skin. W was there. W is a youngish Asian guy who talks a lot of poker smack. I know W from the casino. He’s a rather affable guy, if a bit superficial. Make that gregarious, and he likes being the center of attention. He never shuts up. He was sitting to my right, which is a good thing as far as the cards go, which I’ll explain in a bit, but it is also a bad thing because he had my ear. My good ear. I’m trying to concentrate on the game and he’s talking to me at a volume just loud enough to for me to barely hear. I’m his confidant?
“Last hand I had flat tire. I woulda won”
I have no clue what he is talking about. “A what?”
“A flat tire.” He asks with some incredulity, “You never hear of flat tire?”
“No.”
“Jack-four. If you get a flat tire, what is jack for?”
“Ah. Unfortunately I am not caught up on all of the poker jargon. I tend to disregard such as ephemeral, opting to concentrate on what is going on in each hand.” Really, I phrased it pretty much like that.
Pause.
“Do you know what “ephemeral” means?”
“No.”
“It means transitory or lacking endurance or longevity. This too shall pass. Maybe I should have said superfluous.”
After that, he toned the chit-chat down a bit. Yet, the table was still a captive audience, or so he thought. W is pure LAG and everyone knows this. J2 is his favorite hand. “Jack-deuce, never lose.” Say that at the casino and everyone says, “You know W, eh.” W leads out with $6 after a couple limps, everyone folds ad he shows a pair of sixes. “Six dollar for pair of sixes, right? I have best hand.” Wrong table, W. These guys don’t always back down, and they will pack like wolves. How much did W lose? $100 or so. Tons for a ,25/.50 game. After he left, R says, “And you guys were bitching and moaning when I told you W would be here.” He does liven up a game.
But with W out of the picture, I shall continue to paint the portrait of T. He’s tatted up pretty good with a nice Ace of Spades on his tricep, Harley verbiage with “fidelity” and other such bullshit, on one shoulder (he’s wearing a wife-beater) and on the other some busy red and blue images I didn’t bother examining too closely. It may have had an eagle in it. Of course. R, Sirius was programmed to a 80s station and T insisted he change it to a classic rock station, which according to T is something along the lines of Def Leppard. (I had to google to make sure I had the correct spelling.) R caught a jazz station while searching and I suggested he hang with that for a while. It was some 50s Miles. A great groove with some amazing minimal harmonies. You never saw a bunch of guys squirm so much. The shit was kickin’ but these shit-kickers weren’t catching it. I came right out with it: “You’re just a bunch of fuckin’ heathens! That’s what it is.”
T starts screaming, “I’m gonna kill myself if we have to listen to this crap.” P chimes in, “I’m gonna kill you (T) if I have to listen to this.” R finds the Motley channel and T calms down. “Hey, I recognize this song.” I repeat: “Fuckin’ heathen. So narrowly defined, confined to your little square box.” I was pushing it and wasn’t so sure that anyone would have my back, or that I could get my knife out of my pocket in a timely manner, so I toned it down after that and went back to waiting for my turn at T’s reload.
I wish I could say it came. I turned a straight on the button and minimized my risk with 4 people still in the pot. T caught a river flush and made it abundantly clear he had done so. Good job, nice hand.
It was getting late and I had told my dear wife that I would pull the plug at 2 AM. A few hands later I caught a set of sixes after calling a 3-bet that turned into a family pot. I bet the pot and called it a night, up $15 from my initial $60. Nothing stellar, but hell, I got a blog entry out of it.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Weeds
I thought I had pretty much taken care of them. Not all of them, by any stretch of the imagination. Just the worst ones: the thistles, tansy and scotch broom, the three noxious weeks that can render a field useless in just a few seasons. Yet, as I water the ducks in the morning, I can look out over the back seven acres and see at least two tansy plants, one scotch broom, and one gnarly, bonzaied thistle not more than 10 feet from me. Oops, there’s another tansy too. Sunday the temperature is supposed to be a bit cooler, so I’ll get out there and take care of them then.
I try to be diligent. The first year we were here, I pulled up hundreds of scotch broom plants before we made hay. I didn’t see any tansy. Animals waste a lot of hay if it has either plant in it, pushing the bad stuff aside with a good portion of the good stuff as well. I am still killing hundreds of scotch broom each year in the same field. The seeds last forever, and when a gopher plows up a mound, seeds get sown. (This winter I will do a gopher hunt.) The tansy is on the rise as well. We had hundreds of these plants this year, whereas last year we may have had 25. I thought I had gotten them all, but it doesn’t help that a tweaker neighbor of ours doesn’t maintain his own fields. We get a lot of wind-blown collateral damage.
Bull Thistle
As one might expect, I would love to force a parallel to poker. I say “force” only because I cannot come up with a suitable transition from the preceding paragraph.
Somehow my dear wife and I got into a discussion about the WSOP Main Event this morning. The crux of it was my outlining the Tiffany Michelle/Ultimate Bet brouhaha, and the ramifications on poker’s popularity. I explained that when TM went deep, a lot of blog discussion centered around how a woman making the final table, or even winning, would have a new Moneymaker effect on the game, hopefully bringing new players to the tables. I went on to give some of the details of the controversy that came up when she accepted the Ultimate Bet sponsorship for air time on ESPN, how Tony G. had staked her as an employee of Poker News, and the superuser cheating that had occurred at both UB and Absolute Poker. I opined that it now, if there is to be a bit of a poker bump, it will depend on how ESPN decides to produce the last two tables of the ME. If TM gets a lot of air time, there may be a slight surge. And who knows, maybe UB will start getting some new players.
Not surprisingly, my dear wife was intrigued, not by a woman going deep, but by the machinations, the gossip and, as the conversation moved on, by my description of last year’s final table culminating with the new champion, Jerry Yang. She was in stitches. As a person with filmic mind, she started riffing a script for a poker movie along the lines of “The Grand.”
Sorry, but poker movies are dead money.
Still, she was wanted to know more. I told her that neither Yang, nor Jamie Gold had any significant sponsorship after their wins. Nor did Robert Varkonyi. Why is that? And why is Moneymaker credited with the poker boom? There is no straight line to an answer, yet I may make a couple observations that may or may not be random and rambling.
Yang and Gold made for amusing TV, Varkonyi may be too geeky-looking (sorry) for TV, and none of them have garnered respect as poker players. I’m not so sure Moneymaker is thought of as a great player either; yet, he comes across as quiet and considered, a prototypical poker player. As such, he fits into the mythos. The others, each for different reasons, are part of the spectacle that poker has become since becoming televised. Poker players understand this. Spectators might as well be watching reality TV, and the fantasy may no longer be enough to create more dead money. The poker industry outside of the television companies that produce poker shows, depends on television to grow. The rest of the industry seems to still expect a caliber of play/demeanor before it can get behind certain players who would represent them. There is a subtle conflict of interests that may be difficult to resolve, and may be sending the wrong signal to prospective players, that there is a cliquish hierarchy in poker.
The blossom on the tulip may indeed be wilted, or worse yet, a squirrel has dug up the bulb and eaten it, and we won’t find this out until the next growing season. The sexy babe adverts in poker magazines don’t appear enough of a draw to build a poker market. Will the poker industry have to resort to marketing more akin to the sensationalism of pro wrestling or non-industry sponsors as in NASCAR? As the industry struggles to attract new players, and create a new cycle of dead money for the dedicated players it depends on for its integrity, it suffers from the circus it creates in the process of promoting itself. However, there is hope. I’ll call it the “Jerry Lewis” factor and leave it at that.
What exactly does this rambling have to do with weeds? If weeds go to seed, you’ve got trouble. I would put to you that the poker industry as it stands is a field with a lot of potential for growth; how it is managed will determine its productivity and sustainability.
I try to be diligent. The first year we were here, I pulled up hundreds of scotch broom plants before we made hay. I didn’t see any tansy. Animals waste a lot of hay if it has either plant in it, pushing the bad stuff aside with a good portion of the good stuff as well. I am still killing hundreds of scotch broom each year in the same field. The seeds last forever, and when a gopher plows up a mound, seeds get sown. (This winter I will do a gopher hunt.) The tansy is on the rise as well. We had hundreds of these plants this year, whereas last year we may have had 25. I thought I had gotten them all, but it doesn’t help that a tweaker neighbor of ours doesn’t maintain his own fields. We get a lot of wind-blown collateral damage.
Bull Thistle
As one might expect, I would love to force a parallel to poker. I say “force” only because I cannot come up with a suitable transition from the preceding paragraph.
Somehow my dear wife and I got into a discussion about the WSOP Main Event this morning. The crux of it was my outlining the Tiffany Michelle/Ultimate Bet brouhaha, and the ramifications on poker’s popularity. I explained that when TM went deep, a lot of blog discussion centered around how a woman making the final table, or even winning, would have a new Moneymaker effect on the game, hopefully bringing new players to the tables. I went on to give some of the details of the controversy that came up when she accepted the Ultimate Bet sponsorship for air time on ESPN, how Tony G. had staked her as an employee of Poker News, and the superuser cheating that had occurred at both UB and Absolute Poker. I opined that it now, if there is to be a bit of a poker bump, it will depend on how ESPN decides to produce the last two tables of the ME. If TM gets a lot of air time, there may be a slight surge. And who knows, maybe UB will start getting some new players.
Not surprisingly, my dear wife was intrigued, not by a woman going deep, but by the machinations, the gossip and, as the conversation moved on, by my description of last year’s final table culminating with the new champion, Jerry Yang. She was in stitches. As a person with filmic mind, she started riffing a script for a poker movie along the lines of “The Grand.”
Sorry, but poker movies are dead money.
Still, she was wanted to know more. I told her that neither Yang, nor Jamie Gold had any significant sponsorship after their wins. Nor did Robert Varkonyi. Why is that? And why is Moneymaker credited with the poker boom? There is no straight line to an answer, yet I may make a couple observations that may or may not be random and rambling.
Yang and Gold made for amusing TV, Varkonyi may be too geeky-looking (sorry) for TV, and none of them have garnered respect as poker players. I’m not so sure Moneymaker is thought of as a great player either; yet, he comes across as quiet and considered, a prototypical poker player. As such, he fits into the mythos. The others, each for different reasons, are part of the spectacle that poker has become since becoming televised. Poker players understand this. Spectators might as well be watching reality TV, and the fantasy may no longer be enough to create more dead money. The poker industry outside of the television companies that produce poker shows, depends on television to grow. The rest of the industry seems to still expect a caliber of play/demeanor before it can get behind certain players who would represent them. There is a subtle conflict of interests that may be difficult to resolve, and may be sending the wrong signal to prospective players, that there is a cliquish hierarchy in poker.
The blossom on the tulip may indeed be wilted, or worse yet, a squirrel has dug up the bulb and eaten it, and we won’t find this out until the next growing season. The sexy babe adverts in poker magazines don’t appear enough of a draw to build a poker market. Will the poker industry have to resort to marketing more akin to the sensationalism of pro wrestling or non-industry sponsors as in NASCAR? As the industry struggles to attract new players, and create a new cycle of dead money for the dedicated players it depends on for its integrity, it suffers from the circus it creates in the process of promoting itself. However, there is hope. I’ll call it the “Jerry Lewis” factor and leave it at that.
What exactly does this rambling have to do with weeds? If weeds go to seed, you’ve got trouble. I would put to you that the poker industry as it stands is a field with a lot of potential for growth; how it is managed will determine its productivity and sustainability.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Not So Comfit
It’s a hot one today. The blackberries are ripening and melting at the same time. The lettuce is saying “better go to seed!” and we have the house shut up to keep in what little cool air accumulated over night. I have put a fan in the coop for the injured duck. Her sisters, out in the field for the day, have a sprinkler that they can sit under, which they will.
I have determined that the duck has a dislocated hip. The joint pops and crackles when I manipulate the leg. I have been trying to hold the joint steady, applying pressure as I extend and contract the leg, gentling urging it to realign. She seems to tolerate “swimming” in the bucket of water, and has taken to dunking her head of her own accord, something that is necessary for ducks in order to keep their eyes clear. When I put her back in the coop, she tries to stand, but only for a second or two before collapsing with that left leg askew. She is, however, still grooving on the night crawlers twice a day, and this morning she actually worked her way over to the without any prompting.
Every morning and evening after I complete this regimen, my dear wife inquires after the duck. I wish I could give her good news. We are hoping against hope at this point, and I have asked that maybe we cease having long discussions about the prognosis. I will give it a couple more weeks.
If another farmer were to read this, one with livestock, he or she might think we are foolish to prolong this. Well, we’re not farming any more, so I guess we’re no longer farmers, and therefore have returned to our greenhorn status, wasting time that we wouldn’t have had a year ago. Indeed, a year ago the bird pretty much would have been left to recover on its own or be put down by now. These next few days of 100 degree temps might hasten the decision for the coop can get mighty hot.
On a more positive note, we received a call from a neighbor that there was a picture of my photo “Red Cab Pink Van” in the newspaper today. All of the winners from the Mayor’s show were shown. Hopefully, this bump for the exhibit will garner some sales. The photo is available as multiples.
In the article I was referred to as a photographer. I was a bit bothered when I read that. I’d like to think of myself as an artist who sometimes uses photography as his medium. Maybe it’s a non-issue, for would I take umbrage if someone said I was a blogger? Probably not; yet, in the back of my mind, I would prefer to take some license and call myself a writer. Maybe prima donna, eh?
To be honest, which, in my case, can mean exhibiting an inappropriately high level of self-disclosure, I am hoping that this blog will not only get me back to writing on a regular basis, but also get me some exposure and a few writing gigs. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, for it occurs to me that posting the blog is really no different than having my art website. Man cannot live on duck eggs alone. Fried in butter, over hard. Sizzle some bacon and home fries.
Speaking of fried, our DSL is on the fritz. Our phone line is snap, crackling and crisp. I am jonesing for a connection. We thought we had the problem solved yesterday, and it did work for a while, long enough to play some poker at Stars and Poker Academy.
I have been following Gumpo’s strategy of uber tight and aggressive, set mining and the like at very loose tables, to very mixed results. At 25NL I had a flopped set of seven cracked by a flopped straight after a guy min-raised from middle position with 89 off. I was felted. Shortly after arriving at another table, a player from middle position raised 3 X BB and immediately had two callers. I was next to act with AA and cut to the quick with $15. Everyone folded. Maybe I over-played it, yet watching the action at the table after that, I’m not so certain. A lot of weeroll action. Both tables were juicy but I’m still having a difficult time catching playable hands.
PA was even worse. Set over set and the river felted me twice. Even though a straight flush didn’t get paid, I fought my way back up to down just one buy-in before it was time to watch “Squidbillies” on Adult Swim. Bolstered by a good laugh and a couple shots of whiskey, I thought about playing some more poker. However, better judgment prevailed, and after the Olympic coverage on NBC went to infomercial, I hit the hay.
Back to top.
I have determined that the duck has a dislocated hip. The joint pops and crackles when I manipulate the leg. I have been trying to hold the joint steady, applying pressure as I extend and contract the leg, gentling urging it to realign. She seems to tolerate “swimming” in the bucket of water, and has taken to dunking her head of her own accord, something that is necessary for ducks in order to keep their eyes clear. When I put her back in the coop, she tries to stand, but only for a second or two before collapsing with that left leg askew. She is, however, still grooving on the night crawlers twice a day, and this morning she actually worked her way over to the without any prompting.
Every morning and evening after I complete this regimen, my dear wife inquires after the duck. I wish I could give her good news. We are hoping against hope at this point, and I have asked that maybe we cease having long discussions about the prognosis. I will give it a couple more weeks.
If another farmer were to read this, one with livestock, he or she might think we are foolish to prolong this. Well, we’re not farming any more, so I guess we’re no longer farmers, and therefore have returned to our greenhorn status, wasting time that we wouldn’t have had a year ago. Indeed, a year ago the bird pretty much would have been left to recover on its own or be put down by now. These next few days of 100 degree temps might hasten the decision for the coop can get mighty hot.
On a more positive note, we received a call from a neighbor that there was a picture of my photo “Red Cab Pink Van” in the newspaper today. All of the winners from the Mayor’s show were shown. Hopefully, this bump for the exhibit will garner some sales. The photo is available as multiples.
In the article I was referred to as a photographer. I was a bit bothered when I read that. I’d like to think of myself as an artist who sometimes uses photography as his medium. Maybe it’s a non-issue, for would I take umbrage if someone said I was a blogger? Probably not; yet, in the back of my mind, I would prefer to take some license and call myself a writer. Maybe prima donna, eh?
To be honest, which, in my case, can mean exhibiting an inappropriately high level of self-disclosure, I am hoping that this blog will not only get me back to writing on a regular basis, but also get me some exposure and a few writing gigs. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, for it occurs to me that posting the blog is really no different than having my art website. Man cannot live on duck eggs alone. Fried in butter, over hard. Sizzle some bacon and home fries.
Speaking of fried, our DSL is on the fritz. Our phone line is snap, crackling and crisp. I am jonesing for a connection. We thought we had the problem solved yesterday, and it did work for a while, long enough to play some poker at Stars and Poker Academy.
I have been following Gumpo’s strategy of uber tight and aggressive, set mining and the like at very loose tables, to very mixed results. At 25NL I had a flopped set of seven cracked by a flopped straight after a guy min-raised from middle position with 89 off. I was felted. Shortly after arriving at another table, a player from middle position raised 3 X BB and immediately had two callers. I was next to act with AA and cut to the quick with $15. Everyone folded. Maybe I over-played it, yet watching the action at the table after that, I’m not so certain. A lot of weeroll action. Both tables were juicy but I’m still having a difficult time catching playable hands.
PA was even worse. Set over set and the river felted me twice. Even though a straight flush didn’t get paid, I fought my way back up to down just one buy-in before it was time to watch “Squidbillies” on Adult Swim. Bolstered by a good laugh and a couple shots of whiskey, I thought about playing some more poker. However, better judgment prevailed, and after the Olympic coverage on NBC went to infomercial, I hit the hay.
Back to top.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Lord
“Is this Amityville?’ My dear wife is swatting flies in the dining room. I’m killing a half dozen in the studio.
Poker Academy Online #39,302,028
No Limit Texas Holdem ($1/$2 NL)
Table Feldspar
August 12, 2008 - 23:36:29 (PDT)
1} bastin $479.00 3h 3d
3) sbstar $233.25 ?? ??
4) RiverKillsMe $274.35 ?? ??
6) Le Poissard $145.30 ?? ??
7) Pingshalott $90.00 5c As
9) Aufbruch * $500.35 ?? ??
bastin posts small blind $1
sbstar posts big blind $2
Pingshalott posts blind $2
RiverKillsMe calls $2
Le Poissard calls $2
Pingshalott checks
Aufbruch calls $2
bastin calls $1
sbstar checks
FLOP: Ah 2h 3s
bastin checks
sbstar checks
RiverKillsMe checks
Le Poissard checks
Pingshalott bets $12
Aufbruch folds
bastin raises $36
sbstar folds
RiverKillsMe folds
Le Poissard folds
Pingshalott calls $36
TURN: Ah 2h 3s Kd
bastin bets $54
Pingshalott calls $40 (all-in)
bastin shows 3h 3d
Pingshalott shows 5c As
RIVER: Ah 2h 3s Kd 4d
Pingshalott wins $185 with a Five High Straight
$3 raked.
Poker Academy Online #39,302,028
No Limit Texas Holdem ($1/$2 NL)
Table Feldspar
August 12, 2008 - 23:36:29 (PDT)
1} bastin $479.00 3h 3d
3) sbstar $233.25 ?? ??
4) RiverKillsMe $274.35 ?? ??
6) Le Poissard $145.30 ?? ??
7) Pingshalott $90.00 5c As
9) Aufbruch * $500.35 ?? ??
bastin posts small blind $1
sbstar posts big blind $2
Pingshalott posts blind $2
RiverKillsMe calls $2
Le Poissard calls $2
Pingshalott checks
Aufbruch calls $2
bastin calls $1
sbstar checks
FLOP: Ah 2h 3s
bastin checks
sbstar checks
RiverKillsMe checks
Le Poissard checks
Pingshalott bets $12
Aufbruch folds
bastin raises $36
sbstar folds
RiverKillsMe folds
Le Poissard folds
Pingshalott calls $36
TURN: Ah 2h 3s Kd
bastin bets $54
Pingshalott calls $40 (all-in)
bastin shows 3h 3d
Pingshalott shows 5c As
RIVER: Ah 2h 3s Kd 4d
Pingshalott wins $185 with a Five High Straight
$3 raked.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Just a little reminder
According to several blogs that I read, there is a wave of game downswings. Some are ascribing it to luck, or the lack thereof, to a slipping power of positive thinking, and, of course, the A-rag calling stations. I, too, am in a bit of a slump. I could argue, in fact, that I have been in a slump/holding pattern for two years. It gets a little frustrating to be card dead for hours, days and months at a time. It just doesn’t seem natural. Big pocket pairs get crushed, sneaky little draws from the SB don’t get paid and sleep gets disturbed.
Oh, I win. Sometimes there are moments of sheer magic and demonstrations of skill. When I ask myself why I even bother with this game, it may very well be that somewhere under all of the negative thoughts lurks an infrequent memory of such hands, and I am driven to return to the tables yet another day. A good run must create some very strong and enduring synapses.
Yet, to lose for an extended period takes one’s head into some very dark, cob webby corners. I would maintain that these are the moments that, as a test of meddle and faith, sharpen our discipline and improve our games.
There has been a fly in my studio for the last couple days, flying around my head, landing on my monitor and being a general nuisance. I have tried to catch it several times, missing until just this moment.
Make that two flies.
I will be patient.
Oh, I win. Sometimes there are moments of sheer magic and demonstrations of skill. When I ask myself why I even bother with this game, it may very well be that somewhere under all of the negative thoughts lurks an infrequent memory of such hands, and I am driven to return to the tables yet another day. A good run must create some very strong and enduring synapses.
Yet, to lose for an extended period takes one’s head into some very dark, cob webby corners. I would maintain that these are the moments that, as a test of meddle and faith, sharpen our discipline and improve our games.
There has been a fly in my studio for the last couple days, flying around my head, landing on my monitor and being a general nuisance. I have tried to catch it several times, missing until just this moment.
Make that two flies.
I will be patient.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Everything that you think is you.
This simple statement can be found in Dan Attoe’s “Accretion Drawing XVIII,” which is in the exhibit of his work as part of the Contemporary Northwest Art Awards show at the Portland Art Museum.
I drove up to Portland today to see the CNAA exhibit and to check out a few galleries I’ll confess right up front that I wasn’t expecting much from this show, or from the galleries. I figured I’d be seeing landscape paintings, or paintings of buildings, or something equally uninteresting. Yes, I know, uninteresting to me, and not all Portland artists do landscapes.
Hell, I do landscapes, of sorts. In a way, it is almost impossible not to be inspired by Nature up here in the Northwest. The vistas are stunning, the sunsets delightful, and even the cloud formations beckon. The challenge, it seems to me, is to bring a different perspective, to find metaphors or create narratives in that arena. To my way of thinking, it is not enough to photograph or paint a scene in nature, for your shot or rendering will fall short of capturing the pre-existing beauty of what you are replicating. I feel the same way about people who do photographic studies of architectural elements: the building’s designer and builders did it first. At best, one is paying homage.
Five artists made the final cut for this exhibit: Dan Attoe, Cat Clifford, Jeffry Mitchell, Whiting Tennis and Marie Watt. The stated purpose of this show is to showcase emerging talent that has yet to garner a wider audience outside of the Northwest. The one determined to be the best in show receives a hefty stipend. The only one whose work I had seen before was Mitchell. He shows locally. Of the group, Attoe and Clifford engaged me the most, and one might say that they are both artists whom create their work via a relationship with Nature.
"Me, You and the big old stupid world" Dan Attoe
"Accretion Drawing XVIII" Dan Attoe
Dan Attoe grew up in Washington State. His father was a Forest Ranger and his life as a child living in the woods is a subject matter for his small paintings and drawings. Yet so are bars and strip clubs, for they are just as much part of the fabric of his inspirations.
"Rock Springs, Dance" Cat Clifford
"Two Chairs" Cat Clifford
While Attoes work is peopled with character studies, Cat Clifford is a solitary artist, alone in the snow, running with the tumbleweeds or exploring abandoned ranch houses. Attoe’s work is text-heavy; Clifford, while using some text, is listening to the sound of her footsteps on an old wooden porch or the winter wind through bare branches.
What makes their art speak to me is that both Attoe and Clifford are discovering something about themselves as they develop a sense of place in relation to the worlds they frequent, and they make it easy for someone else to come along. I would encourage my readers to google these two artists for a look at their work and to read other writers who can do them much more justice than I.
And go here http://web.pam.org/asp/special_exhibitions/object_listing.asp?exhibitionID=92 for images from the other artists as well.
This simple statement can be found in Dan Attoe’s “Accretion Drawing XVIII,” which is in the exhibit of his work as part of the Contemporary Northwest Art Awards show at the Portland Art Museum.
I drove up to Portland today to see the CNAA exhibit and to check out a few galleries I’ll confess right up front that I wasn’t expecting much from this show, or from the galleries. I figured I’d be seeing landscape paintings, or paintings of buildings, or something equally uninteresting. Yes, I know, uninteresting to me, and not all Portland artists do landscapes.
Hell, I do landscapes, of sorts. In a way, it is almost impossible not to be inspired by Nature up here in the Northwest. The vistas are stunning, the sunsets delightful, and even the cloud formations beckon. The challenge, it seems to me, is to bring a different perspective, to find metaphors or create narratives in that arena. To my way of thinking, it is not enough to photograph or paint a scene in nature, for your shot or rendering will fall short of capturing the pre-existing beauty of what you are replicating. I feel the same way about people who do photographic studies of architectural elements: the building’s designer and builders did it first. At best, one is paying homage.
Five artists made the final cut for this exhibit: Dan Attoe, Cat Clifford, Jeffry Mitchell, Whiting Tennis and Marie Watt. The stated purpose of this show is to showcase emerging talent that has yet to garner a wider audience outside of the Northwest. The one determined to be the best in show receives a hefty stipend. The only one whose work I had seen before was Mitchell. He shows locally. Of the group, Attoe and Clifford engaged me the most, and one might say that they are both artists whom create their work via a relationship with Nature.
"Me, You and the big old stupid world" Dan Attoe
"Accretion Drawing XVIII" Dan Attoe
Dan Attoe grew up in Washington State. His father was a Forest Ranger and his life as a child living in the woods is a subject matter for his small paintings and drawings. Yet so are bars and strip clubs, for they are just as much part of the fabric of his inspirations.
"Rock Springs, Dance" Cat Clifford
"Two Chairs" Cat Clifford
While Attoes work is peopled with character studies, Cat Clifford is a solitary artist, alone in the snow, running with the tumbleweeds or exploring abandoned ranch houses. Attoe’s work is text-heavy; Clifford, while using some text, is listening to the sound of her footsteps on an old wooden porch or the winter wind through bare branches.
What makes their art speak to me is that both Attoe and Clifford are discovering something about themselves as they develop a sense of place in relation to the worlds they frequent, and they make it easy for someone else to come along. I would encourage my readers to google these two artists for a look at their work and to read other writers who can do them much more justice than I.
And go here http://web.pam.org/asp/special_exhibitions/object_listing.asp?exhibitionID=92 for images from the other artists as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
