How you might win at Texas hold'em

I've been playing a lot of online poker the last few years. I've yet to play for money, though. The idea of actually risking anything beyond the penny ante simply doesn't appeal to me. Still, I like the game enough to play even for pretend stakes. And even then, I think it should be played seriously. Why? Because one day you might want to try playing with real cash, and if you play poorly in practice, you'll play poorly for real. Yes, that's a dad saying. But like most of what our dads have said, there's a lot of truth to it. They do get smarter as we get older.

So here's a few tips which I find useful when playing. They're from an amateur, me, and I'm sure many of the pros would not endorse them. But I feel I've done well playing Texas Hold 'em the Marty way.

It's almost always bad to go all in on the first two cards. You should only do it with a pair of Aces, or with Jacks or better when you hold the fewest chips at the table. The game changes too much over five shared cards, and you lose often even starting with that pair of Aces. Generally speaking, don't go all in on two.

You will lose more hands than you win. That's the nature of the game. So while it's okay to be aggressive, and you do have to be a bit of a bully to play well, the cards will be against you more often than for you. Be selective with your aggressive play, and remember there's a fine line between aggressive and foolish.

If after the turn you need two cards to earn a decent hand, play conservative and be ready to fold quickly. The numbers are against you; you aren't likely to get both cards.

Bet from strength. If you have a hand which, in studying the cards, less than 4 can beat you, be aggressive.

I do not like the bluff. It's too dangerous. Still, you should make small bets or make small calls often enough even with lesser hands to keep your opponents unsure of your tactics. Part of the game is creating uncertainty about your motives when at the table.

Beware the wild bettor. He's either very aggressive or very stupid. Don't get into raise wars with them. They're depending on luck and, I mention again, the cards are generally against you. Let the others at the table deal with those players. They'll usually burn themselves out within a few hands.

Don't call a high raise unless you know you've got the cards to beat it. I know, you can never really 'know'. But a clear headed study of your hole cards against the common ones will usually give you all the information you need.

I think that's all for now, although I believe I'll share more tips later. But I can't give away too much, of course. I may play you one day.

What ought to offend us?

The grim reality of the 2010s versus the goofball racism of the 1960s. I wonder which is worse?

I'm watching the old TV show F Troop the other day and imagining how terribly offensive it must be considered today in some quarters. With its jokes based, in this case, on Red Indians and Japanese culture I'm surprised it's on free TV let alone cable. From Karate with Love is this particular episode, if you care to look it up. F Troop has also parodied Germans, French Canadians, Mexicans, Russians and, shockingly, the US Army. Horrors.

Now let's compare this to the currently popular Game of Thrones, a gore fest in the name of realism, where also an actress has publicly complained that the amount of male nudity must equal the amount of female nudity. There is a double standard here which much be addressed, we are told. And we are not expected to be upset or concerned with such flippant attitudes about propriety anyway.

I don't know about you, but I think screwball comedy mocking almost everybody and anybody without regard to feelings superior to presumed high art made for prurient interests. Give me honest lampooning over gritty reality any day. Quite frankly, it's more honest with itself.

Sports and fighting

My beloved Detroit Tigers were involved in a brawl. Three separate melees in fact, all during the course of yesterday's game against the New York Yankees. One was a genuine fight. That is sad. Fighting has no place in anything which pretends to true sportsmanship.

So yes, you can gather from that that any and all sports which involve trying to inflict serious physical harm upon others are, I will vehemently argue, immoral. UFC and MMA come immediately to mind. So does prizefighting, boxing primarily among those. Intentionally trying to physically hurt another human being into submission is immoral. Period. Even when all involved agree. Perhaps especially so.

So it is too when it occurs within more legitimate sports and games. Most sports and games recognize this and mete punishment accordingly. This is good.

Some however do not. I've mentioned a few, yet there are more, this despite what they think.

Hockey comes immediately to mind. A five minute major for fighting amounts to telling a recalcitrant child, "Go over there and think about what you did". Because that's all it means. Take a player out of a game, hurt someone, sit a minute, and all is right. There is nothing more shallow and transparent in 'discipline' than this.

And it is so very transparent.

Fighting must be banned from sports. All sports. Period.

Let it go

"Don't have a catastastroke." I think it was one of Grandpa Joe's favorite phrases. Yet I'm sure your interest is in the term 'catastastroke' It's so unique that I'm not sure how to spell the word. But Joe used it a lot.

That's kinda ironic really. Those who still remember him no matter how fondly also remember how he could stir up a honest's nest on a dime. He got mad quickly, and often, it seemed, without significant provocation. But when the time was right, he was the first to caution against that catastastroke.

I think I get what he meant. Maybe he didn't live his own words as well as he could have but that can't make his point wrong. We're all hypocrites to one degree or another yet that doesn't condemn the good we do or the best things we say. I think what Grandpa meant was actually fairly simple. Don't make things more than they are, and when things get tough, just relax and deal with it.

So go out there today and deal with your work or your chores or what have you. And if things go poorly, well, deal with it. Don't have a catastastroke.

Mother and the solar eclipse

All right, I'll be one of those who say that yesterday's solar eclipse, though exciting and unique, was not as awesome as I had hoped. I thought that 79% coverage would leave Detroit more in twilight than sunlight as if through a filter. Still, I had fun. But more so because of other reasons.

My brother and I were working yesterday and taking turns studying the developing eclipse through an old welding helmet of our Grandpa Joe's. Around two, almost a half hour before the event reached it local apex, Phil said that he thought our mother was interested in seeing what it looked like. Well, as we are self employed, and as you do things for Momma, we had an obvious inspiration. We locked up the Shop for about 45 minutes and went to see Mom, who only lived a couple blocks away.

I'm glad we did. She seemed happy and excited to be able to actually look at it safely. She commented giddily on how different the neighborhood looked in pale sunlight. And I got a good picture of her wearing Joe's old welding helmet, a picture a Facebook friend rightly remarked would always be a treasure. I think it meant more to me that she was getting such a kick out of it than what I did.

Hey Joe, did ya see Eller with yer old helmet on?

Living the dream, if just for a moment

There's this picture I know which will mean nothing to many folks. Most pictures don't I'd imagine. They're someone else doing something else, and that's that. Most pictures are innocuous that way I suppose.

Some are captures of moments which mean little but for the excitement of that moment for those involved. Some are public and capture the peculiar importance of what it is the photographer was shooting. The VJ Day sailor and nurse, his great embrace and her great acceptance, reflect that sentiment. A birthday party or wedding are more the embalmed history of those being partied to or being married show that as well. They are important to all involved or at least, to those photographed.

And then some pictures tell a story which we would all embrace should the tale behind the picture be known by all. I know one of those.

My father loved country music, especially the twangy bluegrass genre which found its way into northern cities such as Detroit as the great northern flight fed them during the hungry days of industry after the Second World War. He met his wife that way, as he had become friends with her brother, my uncle, who himself had fled an impoverished North Carolina in the days after the war seeking a better life for his family. His extended family had, being among them my mother, came north as well. So my parents met. So is my personal history at its' start written.

Years pass, and time yields towards itself. Dad never lost his love of country music, and never lost his love of its history both personal and in its music. He became a salesman for a company, a national company of which he was merely its local rep. And that took him beyond his proscribed territory. It took him to cities which were beforehand out of his range.

He once found himself in Nashville, Tennessee, for a trade show, where he had a few moments to himself. So he took some of those moments and he went to downtown Nashville, to see the Ryman Auditorium where many of his country music heroes had performed. He took a tour and stumbled into an opportunity to envisage himself among country music's elite. He could have his own picture made at center stage as though he were performing among the country music elite.

They gave him a cowboy hat and a guitar. They told him to take a certain spot on the stage, strum the guitar, look one way, and smile, and they would take a picture. He did it all. And he came out looking, as if in an analogy he had used often himself about others, as a kid in a candy store. He looked like a country music singer in his own right.

He was smiling as though it was meant for him to be there. As though he should be there. And as though he was comfortable, right where he should be.

He was a kid smiling like a kid living his wildest dreams. No doubt he was. I see it in that picture I know.

Sunday stream of potato chip consciousness

I like rippled potato chips better than regular. They're heartier; they don't leave chip dust in the bottom of the bag or bowl and I don't believe they leave so much grease on your hands. Yep. I like rippled chips.

On Thursday I bought a bag of Italian sausage flavored chips. They're okay, but I never thought of there being a difference between spicy Italian and sweet Italian. These were spicy. And it's odd to taste a flavor where you don't feel that flavor should be. Italian sausage flavor should be in Italian sausages, not chips. But it was the only bag left and it was on sale. I had to buy it.

Of course, being the last bag left at a sale price could mean one of two things. Either they are really popular or they are really not so popular. Ah, ya pays ya money, ya takes ya chances.

The Canadians were way ahead of the curve on potato chips. Years before we had them in the States they had dill pickle, ketchup, and most wonderfully of all, salt and vinegar chips. Now I see here in Michigan chips flavored 'all dressed' and purported to be the most popular flavor in Canada even though I've never seen them in Canada nor do many (if any) of my Canadian friends claim to know anything about them. Then again, I'm not exactly known for hanging out in Canadian party stores examining their potato chip emporiums.

I like rippled potato chips.

Oops, I've come full circle. Time to stop.

The big race between Pop and Tall Glass

Pop Turner lived near the Shop with his brother in law, who we called Tall Glass. Pop's real name was Frank; I don't recall what Tall Glass was actually named. Okay, some people called him Goldie because his last name was Goldsmith. We called him Tall Glass because me Grandpa Joe stuck that monitor on him. He drank from a long, tall glass, Joe always said with a smile.
Pop and Tall Glass got along well, but as with many families sometimes a little animosity would break out. Usually this was just a shouting match, and usually when they'd both been drinking. Yet it was rarely more than that.
One such rare day occurred while me Pops (not to be confused here with Pop Turner of course) and I were the only two in the Shop and were having a coffee. As it was a warm summer day we had the big truck doors open, sitting by them to catch a breeze. After a minute or two we heard the ruckus. Pop and Tall Glass were at it; the gist was that Pop wanted chicken but he wanted his brother in law to go get it. Tall Glass resolutely would not.
Soon Tall Glass appeared, staggering down the alley in drunk fashion. He was yelling, "Come on man, no. Stop it," as he stumbled along in slow motion. Next Pop appeared, likewise speed and balance challenged. He was yelling at Tall Glass to go to the store for him, and was in slo-mo function as well. Only Pop was brandishing a shovel, holding it uncertainly above his head like a bat, ready to beat Tall Glass into doing his will.
If he caught him. The guys made their way down the alley, probably the slowest, most serpentine chase scene on record anywhere. Dad and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. Eventually Tall Glass fell, allowing Pop to get with maybe 15 feet of him. He begged his brother in law for mercy.
Dad sighed, "I better go do something before one of them gets hurt." He went out and gently took the shovel from Pop, explained firmly that wanting chicken wasn't reason enough to bust a family member's head open, helped Tall Glass off the cement, and escorted the two to their respective homes, making them promise to behave.
Ah, memories.

It's time for Rifftrax

Tonight is Rifftrax live night. If you're not familiar with Rifftrax, it's a comedy thing where three guys mock old and new, good and bad movies. On nights like tonight they broadcast live to theaters throughout the country, originating in Nashville, Tennessee. Tonight's film is a mocking of The Five Doctors movie from the Doctor Who franchise. It should be good.

Granted, their kind of humor isn't for everyone. But like a lot of good comedy many of their riffs (jokes) actually make a kind of sense. When they question sparkly vampires, as they did when lambasting the Twilight films, it actually makes sense. Why would vampires sparkle? Why, also, would werewolves eat muffins for breakfast, as they do in the Stephanie Meyer, uh, classics?

I'm just skimming the top here. Rifftrax finds and mocks all those old school short films which we were subjected to years ago. It mocks them well; if you know who Mr. B Natural is, you are on my page. Check out their website. There's something for everyone.

All right, enough of this. I'm beginning to sound like a commercial, and I'm not. I simply love Rifftrax. And you should too.

This has been from a non-compensated spokesperson I assure you.

Eating from the can

"I don't wash dishes. I wash dish," me Uncle John used to say. You see, he had a habit of eating his food right out of the can. It saved time and effort. And let's face it, an awful lot of our food can be eaten that way.
Tuna, Vienna sausages, mechanically separated chicken, most vegetables; even things such as Spam can be eaten raw (or at least unheated). But Uncle did crease the envelope a bit. He would eat soup from the can for example. I was never sure enough about that to try it. One of the more unusual things he did sell me on though was corned beef hash. I tried it myself that way, straight from the can, and it was really okay. Roast beef hash not so much, but still good.
We hit a point where we would debate what else might be good enough thus consumed. Most things are just fine eaten out of the can it turns out. About the only thing we each agreed upon heartily was beef stew. Beef stew had to be heated. It was simply too chunky and the gravy too much in globules to be enjoyed on the cheap.
So, use less water and soap my friends. Eat from the can!

The Feast of the Assumption

Today in the Catholic Church is the feast of the Assumption of Mary. As the doctrine goes, The Mother of Christ was taken straight into Heaven.

Conservatives, and perhaps especially conservative Christians, are too often said to denigrate women. Yet here is an example of a woman being exalted above every man who ever was save Christ Himself. Mary is the greatest creation there is, has, and ever will be. And she is venerated above any man.

If there's a greater respect for women, I simply cannot imagine what it might be.

The neighborhood miscreant and the tar roof

The old barn, the shop I now have, was once me Grandpa Joe's. Like so many commercial buildings, it has a flat roof.

Years ago this young boy, I believe he was 8 or 9, decided that that roof was the ideal playground. He was climbing up onto it constantly, and no matter what Joe did the kid would always find his way back up there. He finally resorted to something he did not like to do, as for all his faults he hated ratting anyone out, even a brat. He went to speak the kid's folks.

"He's going to get hurt running around on my roof," Joe explained. But the dad blew him off. "Boys will be boys," was all he said. Mom said, "I can't watch him all the time." Grandpa left them, unsure what to do.

Well, as the old barn had sprung a few leaks, him and me Pops went up one morning before work and spread a layer of thin tar across the roof. Then they opened.

It wasn't long until Joe could hear the boy playing on the roof again. But this time he just went about his business.

A couple of hours later the boy's mother came around with a complaint. She was dragging along her kid, who covered head to toe in roofing tar. It was on his clothes, his skin; it was even in his hair. "And he's gotten tar all over the house. It's going to take forever to clean everything up," she emphatically explained.

"Sorry, lady, I can't watch him all the time," was all Joe said. Then he went back to work.

The boy however never climbed back on the roof.

Three days

What's the old joke? That the difference between a good haircut and a bad one is three days? Well, I'm on day one.
I got a haircut yesterday. There were six chairs in this place and it was packed. Then one chair came open, manned by an elderly gentleman whom I'd say was in his eighties. As it wasn't anywhere near my turn I found myself looking up and down the row of waiting customers. But no one would go to him. Eventually I stood up, and tentatively went and sat in his chair. I asked for a regular haircut.
Now, it wasn't the best haircut. Neither was it terrible. Once I was back home I did spend a few minutes cutting off straggling hairs as I looked in my bathroom mirror. Still, it looked all right. And I find myself a bit upset with the men who would not let the old fella cut their hair.
The old gent was only trying to make a few bucks. Why were you leaving him hanging? And it's just your hair, guys. It'll be okay after three days.

Grandpaw and any given bee

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was the most mild mannered, easiest going man I have known. Nothing seemed to bother or rankle him. He just moseyed on with his life.

Of course, using the word nothing is rarely accurate. There's always something, the famous 'they' say. And there was something with Grandpaw. If he got strung by a bee, that bee had too die. It. Had. To. Die.

Before even tending his wound, Grandpaw would grab the fly swatter hanging by his back door and he would stalk the culprit. With a stealth generally found only in the most experienced ninjas, he would make his way through his house, keeping a steady eye on the miscreant, waiting for the right opportunity. 

Eventually the insect would settle somewhere, to be stunned in that instant before death by the hard, fast, and true slam of Grandpaw Hutchin's swatter. Justice had been served, North Carolina style.
Then he would become again mild mannered Grandpaw Hutchins. I loved that man.

Songs stuck in your head

This is probably in at least semi-poor taste, but I'm going to write it anyway. I mean well, honest. At least, I don't really mean ill.

As I'm sure most of you know, country singer Glen Campbell passed away this week. That's sad news of course. I liked the man and I liked his music. He had charisma, and he had several easily singable tunes in his repertoire. Wichita Lineman, Summer Nights, and, of course, Rhinestone Cowboy, arguably his signature tune.

And that's the rub. I can't get Rhinestone Cowboy out of my head. I hear it constantly these last couple of days. But any song which you can't get out of your head simply becomes annoying after a while.

Believe me, I've tried to shake it. I keep trying to play some of his own other titles in my head and they just won't stick. I try to hum Summer Nights and it flips right back into Rhinestone. I try things far removed from his songs and they fold right back to Rhinestone. Paul McCartney's great ballad Yesterday even bailed on me. In my head I began it, to no use. It went something like, Yesterday...all my troubles seemed like a Rhinestone Cowboy, dat-dah, riding off on a horse...

Godspeed Mr. Campbell. I'll miss you and your music. And I mean no insult this morning good sir.

The toe tee

Some things, you just don't know how they happen.
I rose this morning to take my morning constitutional. I got dressed, got my keys, wallet and cell phone (all the standard items a guy needs these days) and was out the door. Then I thought I felt something in my shoe when I went down the front porch steps. But as soon as I was on the sidewalk everything felt fine. So I kept walking.
Nothing more happened at first. But once I was about four blocks away I definitely felt something. Leaning against a tree, I took off my shoe and, holding it upside down, shook it. Nothing.
Huh? So I felt under my foot to discover something under my toes. Taking off my sock and reaching inside I found - I am not making this up - a blue broken golf tee.
How in the world did such a thing get inside my sock? It was a fresh pair which I had rolled together after taking them out of the wash and putting them in my sock drawer a few days ago.
I got nuthin'.

I hate these lines

There are phrases which I hate, everyday phrases which we use all the time. Well, if you catch me using one, swat me across the side of the head with a halibut. Please.
I don't want to make you feel bad, but...
I already feel bad, with that lead in. So I think you did indeed want me to feel bad.
I don't wish to intrude...
Well, you just did. So I believe that you did mean to intrude.
I don't want to tell you what to do...
Haven't you already begun to do that?
Are you doing anything?
Well, yes. As I'm always doing something, then obviously I'm doing something just now aren't I?
I don't mean to interrupt...
Yes you do. Because you just did.
There's more to come. Just give me a minute.
And that's also is a phrase I hate, because they usually need more than a minute.

The Donald

I do not know what to think of him. The Donald, that is. I simply do not.

I like him as much as I liked Dutch. I loved, I love, Ronald Reagan. He was the only President I ever fervently voted for. Dutch, that is. I voted for the Donald because I didn't feel I had much other choice.

But I do not know what to think about Donald. I admire his forthriteness. He is very forward. We all know that. This is a good quality. It really is.

I do not know what to think.

Reality and TV

The grim reality of the 2010s versus the goofball racism of the 1960s. I wonder which is worse?

I'm watching the old TV show F Troop this morning and imagining how terribly offensive it must be considered today in some quarters. With its jokes based, in this case, on Red Indians and Japanese culture I'm surprised it's on free TV let alone cable. From Karate with Love is this particular episode, if you care to look it up. F Troop has also parodied Germans, French Canadians, Mexicans, Russians and, shockingly, the US Army. Horrors.

Now let's compare this to the currently popular Game of Thrones, a gore fest in the name of realism, where also an actress has publicly complained that the amount of male nudity must equal the amount of female nudity. There is a double standard here which much be addressed, we are told. And we are not expected to be upset or concerned with such flippant attitudes about propriety anyway.

I don't know about you, but I think screwball comedy mocking almost everybody and anybody without regard to feelings superior to presumed high art made for prurient interests. Give me honest lampooning over gritty reality any day. Quite frankly, it's more honest with itself.

Same difference

Chesterton believed that the farmer in India had a lot in common with the farmer in England. They each wanted rain. Can that be said of the English and Indian utopian?
I am not impressed with calls for individualism. Being an individual requires little; just don't be like Jones. That is within the power of everyone.
But being like everyone else, ah, there's the challenge. Getting up in the morning, doing your job, being nice to people; there's the challenge. Being considerate of that old hag down the street, there's a challenge. Being agreeable with the one preaching his worldview, there's a challenge. Liking the fellow who doesn't like you; there's a challenge.
Sameness is a challenge. Difference requires mere obstinacy. We are all capable of that.

Ode to pistachios

Ah, pistachios, pistachios, how do I love thee?
Seriously, how do I love thee?
I had never eaten pistachios before recently. I never had an interest in trying them. But I've tried them and I like them. Why?
Is it only because they are tasty, because they are. Very tasty. Or does psychology play a part?
One of my current favorite TV shows, I am not making this up, involves pistachios in a subplot as a running gag. And where did I try first try pistachios? When visiting my son and his fiancee in Brooklyn a few weeks ago. I can't get enough of them now. Pistachios that is. No offense to the Brooklynites.
Or is it simply that they're new to me and I'm just gorging myself? The trend may soon run itself out.
Let's hope not. Ah, pistachios.