Compared to others’ endeavors, my poker chip issue over this past weekend is so insignificant. In my crazy world, however, I’m quite irritated. So much so, it warrants space on my blog today. Granted, had any of my friends been available today, you wouldn’t be reading these words. I’d be buying them lunch instead – while describing the injustice visited upon me yesterday eve. As is stands, you, the reader, are it. Congrats!

Strewn about in the picture are “big boy” chips. The (ahem) friendly game we play progresses to the point where these are the only ones in play. One must be 1.) diligent and somewhat skillful to be at the table this late in the game, and 2.) have a decent number of chips to remain competitive. I don’t always qualify on both counts … that is, even if I make it that far. I really do play to have fun. Really.

I do have one teeny-tiny “thing”. A hang-up. An obsession. A quirk. A “something” I NEVER should have told my friends – one in particular. EVER. A mistake years ago that I so regret to this day. A friend who would NOT be gracing my lunch table at this moment unless an apology would be forthcoming … for knocking over my exquisitely organized stacks of chips.

DON’T EVER KNOCK OVER MY CHIP STACKS.

In case that wasn’t clear, I don’t want my chip stacks touched. Ever. Most don’t mind the occasional bump or nudge. I do. The stacks must have the same number of chips and cannot be friendly with other colors when available. There are few exceptions to this rule. Overall, however, don’t touch my chips and I’ll be pleasant. Accidents happen … cool. Do it intentionally, and we got friendly problems, my friends.

Nothing to start a congressional inquiry over, but we’ll have a discussion. Enter last night.

I had more chips than most. Forty-three to be exact. Ten stacks of four and one stack of three on top. Actually, all ten stacks of four arranged as such: four across the bottom touching side by side, then three on top of them, then two, then one, forming a perfect triangle …. with the remaining three perfectly placed on top of said triangle. Since the required number of chips to play a hand was a multiple of four, my plan was in place.

Into the kitchen for a snack.

Exiting the kitchen, I spied what appeared to be the scattered remains of my masterpiece … amid the quiet murmurs of satisfied tomfoolery. Backs to my sight, I knew shenanigans were afoot … and, as well, the instigator. My friend, John.

It was ok. John is a great friend. Most of the chips were his, anyway. I won them earlier. It was masterful, so I understood the temptation to upend my stack. He needed to touch some chips. I had some. He had none.🤣. I re-stacked the chaos, refocused, and with unbridled determination, plowed forward.

We play two shifts. That was shift #1. I won. Shift #2 didn’t work out so well. John may have won.

I exited before knowing who did…but not without guarding my stacks like the precious little piles of organized UNTOUCHABLE chips they were.

I feel better. This has been a good hour for me. My emotional chips are all lined up and in good order now. I’m glad to have shared this table with you. It’s never a gamble showing you my hand because you’ll never tip over my stack. Even if you do, accidentally, it’s no big deal. We’ll shuffle up and deal again.

Here’s hoping your day is all Aces. Stack up love where you can.

Pumpkin honey.  These two words always go together – kinda like “hootenanny” (although I believe that is one word).  A quick google search finds the following: Pumpkin honey is one of the rarest of honeys, so it is a special treat when available. It is an excellent honey for cooking, baking, canning, and wonderful for marinades, sauces, and dressings.

So, there you have it.  I, honestly, did not know it existed before starting my blog for today.  As I sat staring at an October 31st blank screen, my mind wandered into a Halloween theme (pumpkin), and the next word into my mind was “honey” (?), so …. “pumpkin honey” purged forth from my nimble, yet pokey, fingers.  Kinda disappointed it wasn’t an original phrase. Some sweet chef-ette decided to make a strange marinade, thus, stealing my literary spotlight for the day. Oh, well. “Whip it into a tasty honey-butter. You won’t be disappointed”, states the website … Yeah, ok, honey!! (Sarcasm intended…)…actually sounds good, btw.

“Pumpkin honey” blatantly stolen from me.  Well, not really. I can run with it in a different direction, I guess.

The pumpkin is a large melon.  Arguably, the pride of all melons – unless you consider Carnegie Mellon (which doesn’t really count because of the extra “L”).  I can squash the squashes … too small… and cast out the casabas. I won’t do the honeydews and can’t do the cantaloupes. I spite the sprite melon and will not share my charentais.  

The world record weight for a pumpkin is a whopping 2,624 pounds!!  Tha-s-a-lot-a-large, my friends!! Can you say, “pie for 10,000, Alex?”.  Now, I would figure time and motivation prevent me from aspiring to be the owner of large pumpkins, right?  I’d rather bedazzle a mule (please don’t ask) than grow a humongous gourd. Besides, dad called me a melon-head once.  ‘Nuff said.  

Why the pumpkin and Halloween?  I guess the Celts dug out the insides and carved faces into the outsides.  After doing so, they placed a lit candle inside hoping the illumination would drive out evil spirits.  Ok. Sounds fun. I typed “Celtic Wars” into Google to see how effective THAT was:

390 BC, Battle of the Allia, 

284 BC, Battle of Arretium,

283 BC, Battle of Lake Vadimo,

225 BC, Battle of Telamon,

225 BC, Battle of Faesulae,

222 BC, Battle of Clastidium,

200 BC, Battle of Cremona,

Yeah…Looks like the whole “pumpkin” thing worked out real well for them. 

That is the brief history of the pumpkin as I, the musician/hotdawg salesman know it to be. One other note – there are pumpkin chunkin’ contests held around the country. Nothing screams, “pumpkin humiliation” more to me than catapulting an innocent cucurbit (look it up) hundreds of yards to certain death by decimation. Unless, of course, one might carve stupid faces into same and….maybe….gut out the in….sid..es….never mind.

Nature hasn’t provided the perfect pumpkin.  Man has sliced and diced, carved and peeled, cut and pasted his way into folklore looking for magic.     

Perfect pumpkins aren’t out there – unless at Wal*Mart, aisle 4 – plastic ones with a hole in the top and a little black strap attached to each side.  These aren’t perfect because they are plastic and mass-produced. Rather, perfection comes from what they give and receive. They find their way into the mittens of October children across the decorated lawns of orange-red-and-brown leafy neighborhoods.  Kiddos gleefully sloshing them around, overflowing, on crisp Trick-or-Treat nights – banging these little orange vessels on their legs a hundred times over. Ghosts, witches, superheroes, nurses, robots, martians …. hoping for a treat to fill the expectations in their hearts. These little orange buckets receiving treats … and giving joy. 

As adults, we can have perfect pumpkins, too.  Maybe that’s the reason for this blog today? It isn’t the big ol’ natural, award winning, attention-grabbing pumpkins we see, perhaps, at the fairs, in the news, or on the internet. It may simply be the ones “out there” of different shapes and sizes we see everywhere on porches, in stores, at the town center or mall disguised as people.  These pumpkins in our lives, as well, aren’t perfect because of who they are,… perfection comes from what they give and receive.  

At the end of your Trick-or-Treat evening – whenever that may be – rest with family and friends for a few minutes.  Appreciate all the pumpkins in your lives. 
Sit back, relax.  As you notice the smiling faces, the candy spilled on the floor from the plastic pumpkins, and the light frost starting to form on the outside of the glass, whisper to a loved one, “Well, it must be the pumpkins, honey.”

• 

With apologies to all the meow lovers reading this, I don’t really like cats or kittens. It’s not an allergy issue. I didn’t have an early traumatic event with Morris or Garfield in my youth. Larger breeds such as tigers and lions at the zoo I find quite majestic … but that’s about it. No drastic hatred – just a malaise. The little fur balls test the limits of human-pet interaction like none other … in my most humble – but accurate – opinion. “LOL”. Shall I say, for the record, I’m an all-in “dog guy” just to clear things up. Or, was that apparent?

I remember we had a cat in my early years. Wasn’t my choice. Then again, nothing before age eighteen ever is. Had to be before I was twelve and still in elementary school due to the house we lived in and the car we had at the time. Huge, late 1970’s Ford cloth top roof (you’ll need to pardon my lack of details on the car), gas burning automobile. “Silky” managed to ride the cloth top from our house to a stop light three miles away without our knowledge of such. Must have been quite a ride for her. Watching her jump off the roof, scamper away across the sidewalk, through the neighboring yard, then disappear into nowhere was traumatic for others in my family … probably not for me. I can’t remember much other than those few details. There you have it. My childhood cat story. No tears. Meh.

I would not hurt a cat. I would provide a shelter or food for a cat (temporarily) if necessary. I love people who love cats. I respects friends who respect cats. Cat Stevens sings “Morning Has Broken” better than anyone else on the planet. “The Cat in the Hat” is a freaking awesome book. The quote, “what greater gift than the love of a cat?” by Charles Dickens remains my least favorite of all time, and Eartha Kitt was, well…the hottest Catwoman evaah!! ..which gets us quickly down the road to leather cat o’nine tails … whiiiiiich… oh, well…never mind.

I’m back. Short, but necessary, pause to eat lunch. Delicious mushroom-swiss burger, btw.

Cats, kittens, felines, tabbys (tabbies, tabby’s), Toms, Tomcats, Persians, Shorthairs, Sphynxans, Siamesians, Himalayans, Heralayan, Theyalayans, Themalayans, … or any other breedians….not my thingian. Established.

Enter exhibit “A” as seen above. Can I freely admit I took the picture for a few reasons? Giza-ish in stature for one. Perfectly positioned as if to guard the great tomb of the Pharaoh Khafra; Although, to compare myself to a great Pharaoh would be a slight stretch (he wouldn’t have had access to a cell phone in order to take that picture … that’s the only difference).

Second, the stare. Typical cat. Eeer, kitten. Here I am. Enjoying an afternoon off at a local hangout, minding my manners, playing a …. game … relaxing .. by myself .. trying my best to make a financial contribution to our local economy. I look up. “It” looked down. We had a moment initially. Mine might have been gas from the breakfast I had only a few hours prior, though. Now, I said, “it” – not to be disrespectful to the newspaper-colored quadra-legged creature. Just don’t know the sex and didn’t care to find out. Or ask. Yeah, ask the cat. Like THAT would have helped.

Anyway, every few seconds I looked up, the damn CorK (my new nickname since I do not know the proper term. Cat + or + Kitten = CorK) continued the stare like I was doing something unsavory. Look, what was sweet and innocent at first was getting annoying. Every. Few. Seconds. CorK did not move – just a stare. Noise from the machine? Nope. Me saying, “What, am I bothering YOU?”. Nope. As silent and still as the Sphinx, this CorK had me in the barren desert of no response. EXCEPT I had one move left…literally!!

Sudden, small jerky body movements must be the answer. Nothing to startle any humans nearby (fortunately none where I was. Actually, nobody around – don’t ask) I started with my eyes. Now this takes a bit of skill because I was still trying to “play” my game at the same time. What makes all of this more remarkable in hindsight is the fact that the CorK probably didn’t two sh**s about any of this. I started with a sudden left-to-right shifting of my eyes. No response. Then eyes and head. Nope. Eyes/Head/Shoulders. Nope. Eyes/Head/Shoulders/Upper Body. Nope. Surely an all-in body tremor WITH a chair tilt and tremor? Nope. Ok. Then. CorK fifty-thousand points, Doug Zero and a sore neck.

So I had to take a picture. And, you guessed it, the CorK didn’t move UNTIL a milli-second AFTER the picture was taken!!!. I kid you not. I swear the damn CorK came over, sat on MY machine JUST TO HAVE THE PICTURE TAKEN!!…

Well, just to prove how mature I am, I’m NOT giving “it” the satisfaction of printing a copy. I’ll just spend my whole afternoon typing away while this CorK goes about tormenting other unsuspecting victims. I hope they don’t have a cell phone because this CorK is very smart and cunning ….

…. and pretty damn cute. Which was the point of this blog in the first place. Still not a cat fan. And, my back hurts. Cats are dumb.

Stick a CorK in the “whine” bottle of my blogging life today. I’m out.

See what I mean? I get the Drake problem. I really do. But, I can’t figure out why, on average, “9:11” shows up in front of my beamers 60% of the time during the week. No other time of the day does. Not 6:46, 7:34, 8:30, … 10:00, blah blah blah… One-thousand, four-hundred thirty-nine other options from which to choose (actually, only half because they duplicate) … and the numerical universe picks NINE-ELEVEN… frickin’ 9-!-!….SMH.

On the up-side, though, if it was pre-determined to torment me with another, I’d have nothing to blog about on this fine Tuesday. Unless, of course, it was from my juvenile upside-down, hand-held pocket calculator days. Then there’d be “77:34” to pay.

OUT.

I need something to write about. So, how about this: I was disciplined. Kinda like in school – in front of fourty people – while they all looked at me. I was bad.
In poker, there are rules. Rules needing special attention especially when playing in a professional game, out of town, with strangers, within a national tour format, and a professional dealer.
I broke a rule and was disciplined. I will keep writing that sentence because I was bad. Line over line on the chalkboard until I learn my lesson. The tournament director pulled me aside and gave me a fifteen minute timeout.
Want to know the particulars, don’t you?
Let’s eliminate the obvious “non-reasons”:
1. I didn’t kiss the dealer
2. I didn’t swear, nor was I drunk
3. I didn’t take all my clothes off
4. I didn’t hug any other player
5. I did tell one bad joke
6. No inappropriate hand gestures
So, as you can see… everything was, well, kinda ok … until this … one … little .. thing.
Texas hold-em isn’t too complicated. You get two cards dealt to you, then, through a series of this-that-and-the-other-thing you end up with those two cards (no one else sees) and five face up cards in the middle everyone else in the hand gets to use.
Until the hand is over – actually, until it’s required of you to do so – the two cards are shown. In the event no other player is remaining but you, the cards can remain unseen. Got it. Good.
Easy rules. Unless you’re me and don’t pay attention to who is left in the hand. I’ll make this as easy as possible: I turned over my two cards too soon. Period. Bad, bad man I was. I broke a rule and was disciplined.
Now, this doesn’t seem like it was an big deal, right? Oh, contrair, my dear reader.
You think a star sucked into a black hole is a big deal? You think the beginning of bio-genesis, or, nuclear energy changed the world? Einstein? Trump? Kennedy?….well, let me tell YOU!!
The pre-exposure of a King and Jack of diamonds IS a big deal requiring the extrication of a bad man from the premises by two squeaky little (very nice) men with official badges at the end of kinda cute little lanyards.
I was escorted to the hallway for a ten minute time-out which is (btw) a standard penalty for such an infraction. I broke a rule and was disciplined.
Now, even though I did such a thing, I was still eligible to win the chips. My King and Jack were still in the hand, but eventually lost. The penalty applied only to me – not my chips. Somehow THEY got a pass. Not fair. Not fair at all!!🤷🏻‍♂️
I spent the time in the hallway contemplating my error (not), asking the universe for atonement (not), pleading to the director for forgiveness (not), and sipping a soda texting a good friend (am) until my graceful entrance back into the poker parlor was welcomed.
Which it was.
Which I exited ten minutes later after getting a bad hand dealt – played well – but bad cards vs great cards. Good news, though … the hand I lost wasn’t pre-exposed. I was a good boy. Shoulda kissed the dealer. At least that would have been a better reason to be kicked out. THAT would have been a better rule to break, huh?

• 

• 

We have goats in my hometown. Never knew they were here until a good friend called the other day. He and I were “talking business” then he said, “Hey, did you know there are goats in the borough?”…

I did not. Now, I do. Thanks, John.

The next question for me is, “What do I do with this information?” …. Goats don’t bother me.

Actually, I think they’re kinda dumb.

I don’t live close enough to care about their ugliness. Practically speaking, I don’t have a kid in the fight; Nor do I live in the borough, so going to council with any complaint of a violation is useless. Besides, the attitudes on the faces of these said goats … well … scare me.

There seems to be a black one, white one, and mixed race variety. Window-sill dude oversees operations, apparently (although that would seem to be a pane). The white goat is the more photogenic of the three while twisty-three is a bit confused as to the happenings around.

Lawn care maintenance is the least of their concern as is apparently the case. There’s a trash can and an electrical box … maybe they can find their way into those for some good ‘ole fun – like – goat “light up night”, or, “Hefty bag toss with goats”… who knows?

It is interesting to see these goats around – especially at a home in the historic district – at a registered bed and breakfast. I am not a whistleblower (like I need to bring up THAT term this week 🤦🏻‍♂️)…We have beautiful homes in the area. Homes that are well maintained, lawns manicured, and folks who genuinely tend to their properties. Do goats need permits? I don’t know. Does their odor permeate the neighborhood? I don’t know.

Subject for others to consider. For me, I can only write. Goats can’t. Which is why I fear no literary retribution from these three amigos. Actually, they can’t read either. I just realized that as well.

Waaaaaait a minute…. they’re happily doing their “goatish” things and I’m up at 4:30 a.m. writing on my blog about them🤔…..

I thought I was the smarter of the four. Maybe not.

Damn goats.

• 

Glabella: the space between two human eyebrows. The picture is mine. Cool, huh? I learned what it is called by reading Reader’s Digest today – the June, 2019, edition. When I was younger, this space was occupied and I had to maintain it (’nuff said) … age has taken care of that problem for me lately.

You have a glabella, I assume; otherwise, you’d have no nose and your eyes would be … well … cycloptic. I’m not anatomist, or a facial features fanatic, so I can’t “really” say 100% for sure you “should” have a glabella, but odds are …. you do. If I ever do meet a glabella-less human, I will update this post and then call Ripley. Until then … off to the point:

My grandfather collected Reader’s Digests. When he passed in early 2010, I had the pleasure of gathering up all of them for the sole purpose of saving the LAUGHTER is the best MEDICINE, HUMOR in UNIFORM, and miscellaneous other quips and quirky other stuff. Still have them saved in a folder.

I did this for two reasons. First, I like humor. Even the old jokes from the 70’s are good. Now, granted, gas-shortage and Nixon humor doesn’t resonate like it did back then. “Why did Henry Kissinger cross the road?” … “He was ‘Begin’ for a ride” .. for example, isn’t top 40 material. It kinda hits file thirteen with a soft thud now days. Kissinger who, right? The puns and word play, however, I store away in my head-file and use as necessary.

Second, and more importantly, these are memories. Memories of my grandfather who – for all intents and purposes – lived to be one-hundred years old. He lived a long life. Outliving his wife and all of his friends, he went to Silver Sneakers at the gym (probably because the guy to gal ratio was 1:25). He was a pretty simple guy.

Strange that I am now the age he was the year I was born. Oh, man, that’s such a goofy thought. Weird even to type. Almost as strange as typing the word, “glabella”.

Memories of my grandfather boil down to one thing: humor. That’s why I carefully cut out all the stuff I did. He was fun. His humor took the form of stories … I often think of him telling me about the Russians (so unfortunate that I can’t re-tell the story for you … day and age issues … insert sad face emoji here) It was so funny, original, and didn’t take offensive stabs at anyone “of the time”..

So, with an unwrinkled glabella, I close. This guy, now of a grandfather’s age, remembers a wonderful grandfather gone, now, nine years … but still alive in some silly pages clipped from Reader’s Digests.

Glabella greatness in eternity, PapPap.

• 

Perhaps I bought a local paper because I like working the crossword puzzle for a few minutes, or, was so bored for fifteen minutes and had nothing better to do over a ham sandwich…and wanted to read the obits. Regardless, my eyes roamed over to the horoscope page …. and there it was. Sagittarius. My hopes, dreams, and future all nicely wrapped up in around thirty-five words.

How cool.

Someone somewhere, somehow, knew my destiny. I’ll bet they even foresaw light mayo on my ham sandwich as well. How fortuitously fortunate for me, right?

So. That’s that. Settling up with my waitress and horoscope read, I headed out across town to test the theory. Looking for cats, waves, and talking flowers… I guess. Onward I went to translate sensations.

My first encounter was a man on a bench. Let’s just say that didn’t go well. He didn’t want his sensations translated.

Next vision? A half-used cigarette crunched against the curb. Flicked, apparently, in haste as it seemed an unfinished, unsatisfactory drag by the user. Again, didn’t seem like my “fate” for the day…

A few paces ahead … a beat up Ford parked the wrong way facing south in a space beside a north bound lane. Wow! That’s exciting!!

Once more – my fate dashed aside in the trash bin of hopelessness – mulch strewn, out of place across the sidewalk. Ugh. Despair .. and then I saw it. I mean “I SAW IT”!!!

• 

“Santa” baby! My miracle. In chalk (or some permanent inkish-whitish scrawly stuff) ..etched on the pavement; Presumably from nine months prior to the day tomorrow? Who the hell knows?

Don’t care. It’s SANTA BABY. My fate. My cat. My wave. My parlance of posies. Well, for today anyway. Tomorrow it’ll be trolls, oranges, or female robots. But, I digress.

Now, to interpret as my horoscope demands I do.🤔

Santa gives gifts. Love that!

Santa wears red and is jolly. Love that!

Santa has lots and lots of toys. Love that!

Santa works only one day a year. Love, love, LOVE that!!

Santa uses no CO2 emissions to pollute the air, but his reindeer fart. Kinda on the fence about this one…

Santa loves children of all ages, races, nationalities, disabilities, etc… Love that!

Santa lets us use our imaginations. Love that!

And…

Santa lasted over two-hundred days on the pavement so a Sagittarian could write a blog about how wonderful reading a horoscope could be. Even a random newspaper purchase – while eating a ham sandwich – could turn into something to love.

Thanks, Santa. I’ll set out some cookies (or maybe a ham sandwich with mayo for you) because I think you wrote the horoscope after all.

…so goes the game show in my head:

-You never said that to me.
-I didn’t think I had to.
-Yes, you should have….
-I didn’t think it was important enough
-It was to me
-But, I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.
-Why would I?
-Because then I would’ve known.
-Known what?
-Exactly!

• 

• 

Let’s get the math out of the way. The difference between “probability” and “odds”, according to google, is:

PROBABILITY- “The probability that an event will occur is the fraction of times you expect to see that event in many trials”

ODDS- “The probability that the event will occur divided by the probability that the event will NOT occur.”

Adding a third: “chance”.

CHANCE- “The hope that someone reads this blog (🙄🤣😉)”

Anyway, I love math. Always have. Quadratic equations fascinate me as much today as they did in school. I loved math tests. Hated history. Disliked English. Loved music. Woodshop? Don’t EVEN go there! …. ah, yes. School. No real girlfriends except,….maybe…

So, anyway…back to odds and probabilities. I didn’t crunch the numbers concerning this “happening” today that unfolded in my small universe of a life. No time. I did, however, enjoy a few moments outside the post office today.

What are the “chances”? (playing it safe here)… Maybe at some future time, I will put pen and paper to use, call my old math skills into service, and begin to postulate, propogate, and propose a probability. Until then…

….At 10 am, I found myself with a fine older fellow outside the local post office. He was leaning up against a silver Honda, smiling his way through the moment. Catching my eye, he said, “Is that your Honda parked behind this one?”….and then the fun began.

Not realizing I, too, have a very similar silver Honda, he continued, “I’ve been waiting here to meet the owner of that Honda. You see the silver Honda parked behind this one?…I mistakenly got in that one thinking it was mine. The door was unlocked, I sat down, saw it was dirty and couldn’t figure out how my car got so dirty all of a sudden…and then said to myself, ‘oh crap I’m in the wrong car’ … so I wanted to meet the owner”.

I’m not sure why(?) he wanted to meet the owner. If it was to mention the soiled nature of said automobile, THAT wasn’t going to go well. However, considering the common sense nature of this man, I think he just wanted to say “hi” …

…and feel the joy from the story he eventually told me.

I couldn’t believe the odds, probability, or chances. I had to tell him that MY similar Honda was parked across the street in the lot. He was talking to a guy with a third silver Honda – same body style, probably same year.

As well, the 2nd owner….of the 2nd Honda..in the 2nd space so close by….STILL was nowhere to be found. (Actually, “probably” watching the whole episode from behind the bushes and was too embarrassed to show…).

So, two guys having a good laugh. I eventually left because the president called to get some advice on the tensions in the middle east…and I had to take the call. Ever since Batman retired, that is.

The nice fellow stayed. Waiting. Waiting to share his nice story with Honda owner #2. As I drove by a few minutes later, he was still there. I pulled over to ask if I could take a picture. He graciously agreed. As I drove away, in my rear view I saw him gently get in his car, resigned to having never met Honda owner #2. He was happy. I was happy. Owner #2…who knows??

What are the chances? Three very similar Hondas in the same place at the same time? Odd, isn’t it? Probably! I don’t know, really.

Doesn’t matter much…the math, I mean. As much as I love math, when the universe drops these little moments into my lap, it all adds up.

..