Welcome to Pokerweblogs . This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!

So!  The question is:  Why were they looking in the first place?

Oral sex gene helps male fish fake it

A gene that fools female cichlid fish into sucking up male sperm has been found by researchers

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

(f)And I received a phone call via land line from FOE.

It appears he had read the installment issue of his tale. It is amazing how defensive one can become in a small space of time about their writing. He dismissed protestations of mine out of hand, saying that the only complaint he had was the “backassward” manner in which he had to read it. Which surprised me. I was not aware he had the addy of the blog. One wonders what he put in my coffee.

Explaining seemed next to impossible, and I rashly said that next time I would publish the entire story all at once. He snorted and complained I was a damn fool. He, for one, would not read it in a single sitting, and didn’t expect anyone else to subject themselves either. What he wanted, he said, was something from me, personally. He knows I’ve been in that area and wanted a taste of me in the flavor mix.(ef)

Well, and truly fine. A quick Travelocity of a snippet then.

Stuttgart.

A city in southwestern Germany that some or many have heard about. They do a lot of things in that city. They have a lot of things in the city. They have some fine, fine restaurants, wide streets and narrow. Its a pretty clean place. They have their equivalent of Wally World, exclusive shops, mediocre shops, new buildings, old buildings, and tourist traps. Artsy places, museums (very fine museums) and old palaces.

And somewhere in that city, faded from memory as to precise place, lies, in natural rhythm and harmony, a gently curving and fairly narrow strasse; Old towering buildings of three, four and some times five floors, filled with Mom and Pop Shops at street level of just about anything a body can imagine. And the truncated, most wonderful, street leaves the buildings behind after a couple of blocks, stretching itself a hundred yards or so across the flood plain and flood ditch over the old and small and narrow and beautiful stone work bridge, to dead end at the far side crossing road.

I went there. Many times. I walked the street looking. I walked the street listening. I walked the street just to be on the street. And ate my bratwurst and rolls with a mustard I can still taste, but not describe, purchased from the sidewalk vendor or the alley entrepreneur; and I fingered the goods in the sidewalk bins, smiling at the staff and dipping my head. Filled with the comfort of the sunshine or pretending the comfort while ignoring the rain and drizzle, simply being. On that street.

Oh, I shopped the shops there. I bought a few things there – that’s how I paid for the street and my time there.

And one day I took five friends there, and learned they also had been there, before. And they taught me to see my street in a new way. They taught me to see it was a tourist trap, crowded. With unwashed windows and, maybe, just maybe a smidgeon of dirt here and there.

They never knew what they taught me. I never told. They didn’t see. And if they did see, they never said. They didn’t look at the street my way, they saw the street only as a foreign thing to their way, not themselves foreign to its way. And therefore a building was a building and strolling people to be hurried around and browsing people to be eased aside for purchases were to be made and move on. Places to go.  

They taught me by taking me beyond the buildings, out across the flood plain, and on across the bridge. I had never done that. I had always remained in front of the last building and gazed out along the road toward the bridge, visualizing in my minds eye the road stretching to the farms and woods matching the age of the buildings behind me by blanking the sight of the modern additions across the way. I had never been out there; out there to look back at the bare stone of the first of the buildings. The black brick and unfinished stones and unpainted window stiles, and tar paper roofs curling over the edges.

Or the chips and gouges in the looming edifice. That seemed so sad, sunshine not with standing on that Fall day.

When we reached the far side of that wonderful bridge, the bridge itself became no more than a bridge, of stone, and old. But nothing wonderful. Just narrow, leading where? To a dead end. I drifted down hill a few yards, looking out across the flood ditch, back up towards my street, my friends, chattering Jay Birds grouped behind me near by the bridge, sliding slowly as a group toward me, bringing their noise.

Primarily, my attention was focused on the raw stone of the last building of my street. On those chips and gouges. I’d seen effects like those, and as recognition came, my friends, the Jay Birds, in their bright ski jackets, dipped and wheeled and tipped over the edge of the bank. Down to the flood ditch, across the erosion with its trickle of water, streaming back towards the street. They stretched to a line astern and as they did so, I realized that the chips and gouges were bullet strikes from a time and place from long ago; and the marks were of various caliber slugs, some very large, some smaller.

From the marks I surmised the firing came from behind me, down the hill further, and from about the position of my friends now running toward the street. And I saw that the marks circled a single window, which screamed “sniper” at me. The Jay Birds twisted and motioned as they ran, screaming for me to join them.

Then a strange thing happened: Their clothes morphed into dull brown wool calf length overcoats,  and I wondered to myself which would die from shots from the window up there. It came to me as I watched that the third in line would; yes, him. And the sixth. Which would be me if I joined that rush across the ditch. I started toward them and hesitated, I knew. I didn’t go.

I walked back up the hill to the bridge and crossed as my friends clambered up the slope and I caught them by trotting at the entrance to my street, all the while listening to them chastise me for being a laggard.

I could only look at them and compliment them on their brightly colored clothes and smiling faces. We hurried up the street; ignoring the people, the bright umbrellas and watchful faces of the shop keepers. I was last, and took care not to press the pace and arrived last at the parking at the head of the street.

And I turned at the car to observe the street, and thought to myself: that is a foreign thing to my way, and I never returned.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

My ‘Skins use to manage a loss beginning directly after the half time break.  They are improving. It now takes place directly after the third quarter. Lets see, it took ten years to reach the fourth quarter. So, 2017 should see them play a complete game at a goodly level of attention.

My hope is not to sleep through the break out game. I’d hate to wake and find they have reverted to being a first quarter team and suffer the pangs for another thirty years.

***

I have a problem with poker. Indeed. I was playing at the dark site this morning and folded a hand I would have won. Then another. And yet another. They were back to back to back. I rebelled and played the next four in spite. I won them: Straight flush, Ace to five, high/low; Aces full of twos, no low; and then an Ace Low, two pair high. I skipped the next hand I would have won; won the next, won the next and skipped the next I would have lost and won the next two.

I left.

I’m now afraid to return.

I went to the cartoon site and tripled my buy-in in six hands.

I went to Poker Stars and won.

I also won twenty-seven dollars in Tulsa. Which doesn’t appear adequate for a five hour drive. Until you figure out that was after ALL expenses including tips, tokes, food, gas, and a new cap with fancy embroidered Logo. And I used valet parking. The joint was a mess of people.

I figure I have two choices now. Shot myself or stop playing poker.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

http://www.washingtonbureau.typepad.com/iraq/

I returned early and ran across this blog. Read with suspended imagination.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

No post today. I’m working on a small story. I’m also thinking about live poker in Tulsa this weekend. Maybe no post Sunday, I’m thinking about live poker in Tulsa. I’m thinking . .

Well, there is grocery shopping, I’m out of dog food. Mmm, I’m not, the dog is. And laundry, and yard work.

But, live poker in Tulsa. And I wonder what a round of golf costs down there.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

From the Book Slut Blog came this link:

http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2007/11/comics_hitler.html

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

(I wrote the following yesterday, Nov 07, while Housekeeper was here. Today I feel it is a rather cheap piece of trash. However, fair being fair, today I have decided to publish it in spite. Maybe my mood has changed and maybe not.)

***

Today (Wednesday) I feel rotten. Lousy, even. Physically I’m fine for all of rolling out of bed at 3 AM. But I am in a pissy mood. Really. Not the specific “at you” type of thing; No. Just a general “you look silly as hell in that hair-do (which now a days is pretty generic)” thinking type of pissiness.

So I went shopping through a multitude of general type of blogs purporting to be theme type blogs. Unfortunately, they were. Both purporting and themes. No fun there.

I turned my attention to the dictionary. That was much better. I found a means of scratching the itch of my hatefulness. I did. I also read some few entries in my own blog. Always a mistake. The pissiness flared up again and I felt compelled to write, for tomorrow – today. Which is another “always a mistake.” Especially when reading judgmental pieces you, yourself, have written about you, yourself.

I found I had labeled myself a recluse with little defined sense of humor, strange even. Given human response then, I found myself judging myself as my peer might judge me. So it was I ended in the “H” section of the dictionary. “H” for Hermit. You will notice that I prefer Recluse (which someday, in a like wise pissy mood, I will look up in the dictionary to enhance my . . Umm, what ever.) I had to plow through several “H” type words.

One of those was Hermaphroditus. The definition of which only enhanced my mood. Pissiness detests indecision, and they were definitely of two minds, among other things. But I found Hermit.

I did.

After I had though, I had my time with hermitage and Hermitage. How ever, demanded my mood, can one be a place and the other a wine, except through the excuse of language. Which was what I was examining. Placed herewithin then, is part of the definition of hermit (which you will notice has no Capital, which heightened my mood of general irritation).

hermit (hur’mit) n. 1. a person who lives alone in a lonely and secluded spot, often from religious motives; recluse.

Which spiked my blood pressure because I know I’m not overly religious, however much I might believe. And there’s that word again; recluse! I refuse. That’s it. Flat refuse to look up that word. I don’t want to know. I’m in a mood and facts won’t help.

So I stared at the word hur’mit for a bit and saw the solution. Yep. Right there in foreward of me.

hermit (hur’mit) n. [. .] 2. a spiced cookie made with nuts and raisins.

I’m justified.

So, bite me.

EDIT:

I forgot to include in this entry, a stray fact gained yesterday in browsing. I found that 2007-10-24 marked the fifth (5th) year of my on-line writing. I had forgotten to be concerned with such things.

I’ve posted one thousand, three hundred sixty-eight posts.

Congratulations, me.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

This guy did a dasturdly deed (spelling correct) and did the unforgivable.

A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog…
B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself…
C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs…
D). Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog…

***

Well, hell.

Lets see. Start by disclaiming any responsibility. A) Can’t do that, because it is already done. B) Which is not a large problem, because it is a small life. C) Now that leaves lots of wiggle room – although Alexander The Great, any of the Romanov’s and several of the Royalty of Europe do not maintain blogs. Hence, no links. I think I will pass on that one. D) See C).

1. I’m not very funny. Except to myself. Most people find it strange for someone to laugh at train wrecks. An example: One was the picture flashed at me by a detractor; I started laughing. I had to explain to him that I found an arranged train wreck that drew a very large crowd, which when it was performed, killed over one hundred people, was funny because paying premium prices for front row seats to see two highly pressurized boilers rammed together at great force and rupture, was hilarious. 

2. I have survived three airborne aircraft emergencies involving ground contact at speed.

3. As a kid I was given the choice of violin or clarinet. I chose clarinet and became very good at it. Then I heard a violin soloist. I gave up music altogether.

4. I play poker for fun and entertainment. See #2,#3 and #7.

5. I stated to my brother, and four other friends (two of whom were Marrilyn Rassmasson and Sonja Taylor) at age six, my three goals in life. I achieved them all. In reverse order, to be sure. Which was a bad thing as I then had no goals, and I’m still alive; both of which I laugh about – See #1.

6. I’m an underachiever. Not because I cannot achieve, but because I can. Therefore, my challenge’s have been wrongly selected. See #3.

7. I may have had a supernatural experience at age twenty-three. A friend asked, in the course of a discussion of finances, what my goals were: I replied that I wanted my then current before taxes per month income, monthly for the rest of my life, including after retirement. On the statement my world reverberated to a single large, loud gong, which I knew was acceptance of the deal. It was unsettling as we were on the ramp of a very large airport at the time. Just after midnight. Oddly enough, my income has never been less since then.

At one point, years later, I took my benefactor to task and modified my goal to include inflation. It took two months and circumstantial adjustments were made and since I have always retained and exceeded the goal. I had to ask twice, pled twice and demand once, before it occurred. I think what finally did it, is that I  explained what inflation does to money. Maybe who ever was listening just wanted to see if I was paying attention.

I leave it to the reader to state whether there is a God, or my unknown Uncle is interested in my continued well being.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

We called him Believe Me, among other things, because he was always saying “Believe Me.”  Every other sentence, it was “Believe Me.”  Of course, we never did. Although, to be strictly honest, sometimes what he said made some sense – about as much as some of his schemes for making money, anyhow.

Believe Me was a local guy, not a transplant. His Dad was unknown; both in quality and quantity (like, no one had ever knowingly admitted seeing the man and BM didn’t know, of course. Some doubt his Mom did.), and BM’s Mom had him christened M. Finn (we called Believe Me, BM, for short, and the unfortunate moniker pretty well summed up the situation. BM was voted “Least Likely” in the year book. “Least Likely” included such considerations as living to age twenty; getting laid; making a living at anything; and, if I remember correctly, eating a meal without choking or taking a bath once a week). But I was talking about his Mom.

His Mom was a faded flower from the streets. No one seems to know, or care, where she came from. Or even why she got here from there. She had a crib round behind the grocery store, such as the grocery store was; and didn’t have a lot of expense, so when she showed up PG and had BM not a lot of eyebrows left their accustomed lowered positions; still that made him a local boy and entitled to what the locals considered right. BM pretty well grew up in the gutter, what with him being out there in all kinds of weather when Mom was still working steady and the customers not wanting a kid passing judgment on the equipment, like, you know.

In some respects, his Mom was like mine. Oh, not that way. No. They wanted their boys in school, and healthy – both of them were on about “Stay out of the rain” or “What’re you doing playing with “Them.”" Still, BM’s Mom did the best she could by him and, eventually, he did graduate from school. Which seemed the epitome of her life, because a couple of months after that happened, she died and was buried in the charity plot across town. BM wasn’t making any money, so there wasn’t a head stone, either.

We didn’t live in one of those big towns. Just a medium sized place, but we did have a couple of things those big towns have; like people organized for the easy way of life and a semi-pro baseball team.

What with BM’s life, it is understandable he drifted toward that easy way of it and them. They were the one’s with the money after all, and drift he did despite us trying to warn him away from it. Him being able to read and write and figure seemed to help him in that line, as much as one might think it was a waste. At least he could read the bets and all, and count the take.

The ball team situation was one of those things. I mean, none of us had much, but we had a ball team. When we were younger, we’d sneak into the park and watch the games, and all that stuff. It was pretty bad at times, what with you swearing by ”your” team and the fellow in the next block swearing by his. About the only way to settle all that, short of off-ing the slob in a drive by, was betting on the games. There was a lot of that going on and BM made the grade with the boys that kept the book and started collecting the bets and stuff. He was good enough doing that they kept him doing it for years. And so it was, that one very warm fall day, the bunch of us were hanging around the back, talking about not much, when a good looking car came up and out climbed BM.  

BM sits himself beside me and accepted the beer I offered and tips the bottle to the crowd before sipping some. Then he ups and says; “I need to talk to you.” to me. Well, there was general flurry of tipped bottles and hasty departures and we were soon alone on the stoop.

“You know the ball team is playing for the Championship?’

“Sure do. I’ve got me some money on that – -”

And BM cut me off, which wasn’t like him much at all.

He says; “I know.”

Which I’m sure he did know as he it was that took the bets.

“What do you know about the betting;” he asked.

“What’s to know?” I’m asking.

“Well,” he says; “the folks I work for want a certain result, and they want me to get it for them.”

“Oooff, that’s a tough one, BM.”

“Yeah! I’ve got a plan though,” looking determined, “that’ll do the job. Believe me.”

Okay, I’m thinking, but asked: “Can you tell me which team they’re backing?”

So he tells me, and I’m good with my bets. In fact, I’m thinking where to get some more money to lay down when he tells me:

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“No.”

” ‘Kay.”

And we drift off into the old days of how we sneaked into the ball park, the dugouts and the locker rooms and such like. About then he finishes his beer and drives away.

—-

The week before that Championship Ball Game saw such hipe and hoopla as had ever been done in that town. I mean every talk show for thousands of miles around was talking about it. Interviews of coaches, players, mayors, council members (even the female ones) and the umpires. Hell, they even had interviews with the organized boys (though I did notice they were careful not to mention which team they favored).

That business with the umpires was a new wrinkle for certain. One of those  ump’s explained how they were planning to do it up “Big League” style, what with as many ump’s as positions to be played. They didn’t want mistakes they said. They were bringing them in from all over the conference, locals need not apply.

The whole town chose a side. And still the press and advertisements built up. Quite a show. They were even going to have a marching band from a local school and other teasers pre-game.

And the day came. I was there, and had me some choice seats right behind first base. Love that spot. Up high enough I could see everything, far enough back to miss getting hit with rocket fouls and close enough to the concourse runway to get beer when needed. I loved that spot.

I got to see the batting practice, and a few “Stars” out profiling and posturing for the crowd and the commissioner politic – ing the dug-outs during it all. There was a lull and then the game put itself together and started.

It started fast. A pitchers dual. It seemed that no one got more than three pitches. In you came, out you went. Those teams didn’t hesitate changing field. Boom. It was done. Focused. It went to the third inning.

And the right field Umpire starts to stagger around and then falls down. All the emergency people converge on him.  About that time the third base Umpire turns in a circle and he falls over. And the emergency people split up and run toward him and all the players and the crowd are quiet.

Then the left field Umpire and the first base Umpire fall down. That’s when the crowd starts to get really noisy and the Coaches are pulling their players because no body had a clue. Finally the home plate Ump thumps across home plate, limp as a rag and the noise increases. And all the officials on the field are down. Nobody put a hand on them. The emergency crews and the cops were jabbering on their radios and finally the PA spouts off.

Its the Commissioner. He’s canceling the game. “Until,” as he puts it, “they could get to the bottom of this.”

Well, there’s not much use boring you with me sitting there nursing that large lager and watching them cart those guys away on stretchers like so much stuff from the zoo the city spreads on tree roots. I heard tell some of the officials in the booths were affected too. When the wind started blowing hot dog wrappers and napkins around an empty field, I went looking for BM. I wanted my money back.

And BM wasn’t available. No where.

The organized boy’s came around asking if I’d seen him. Seems the money had never gotten to the room.

The conference finally played that game at another city, outside the league, with officials from another league also. And our team lost. Of course, I didn’t have any money on it. Didn’t have it because the organization wasn’t paying back those bets it had collected. And wasn’t honoring them either. They didn’t really know who had laid them.

I was sitting around the pad one evening about two days or so ago. I was thinking about that game and a couple of the officials that fell over that talked to the press. They were saying that they had no idea what caused the faint. And they said that they were fine. No ill effects. No, they just woke up the next day and both of them said they’d never felt so rested in their lives. Strange. But it sure felt good they said.

Somehow, when the phone rang, I wasn’t surprised to hear BM’s voice.

He wanted me to listen to him. He wanted me to come find him so he could have a friend around.

Me? I wanted to know what the hell happened at that game.

And he told me.

He told me he’d hired some kids to sneak into the locker room of the team, the way we used to as kids. He wanted them to put some powder in the Gator Aid Bottles the team would use. He had given them lots of the white stuff and sent them in. He found out later that they’d gotten lost, not wanting to get caught, they had spread the stuff all over the donuts and stuff the officials eat. And scooted out of there.

“BM,” I asked, “what was that stuff you gave those kids.”

“You know, the white stuff. Chloral Hydrate! That would really have fixed that team up. Believe Me.”

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile