Cujo – hidden inside the psyche of Scout – has struck again. I am distressed! I can’t help but feel it is my fault and I’ve been hashing and rehashing my part in it. This is
Cujo Scout with Breck, my youngest grandson. Continue reading
I’m going to experiment with a new approach to blogging. Getting out a bottle of wine, toasting off a coupla glasses, and then stumbling to the computer and blindly searching out this page to start scribbling again – on a weekly basis. Like…maybe 2-3 times a week. Keep in mind that my best blogging (IMHO) is done when I’m pissed or have a point to make. Since I no longer deal to the butt-tards of high limit (thank you GOD!), the posts may be a confused jumble of WTF! But…I need to start somewhere and stay with it. If I don’t, I may as well seal the door on Table Tango. I opt to keep the door open for now. Continue reading
Happy, happy everyone! Take the stress out of your life and eat a chocolate bunny today. Yeah…chocolate cures the ills of the world. I wish I had some right now. Instead I’m coming off one of the worst sessions of feel-bad that I can ever remember having.
That’s the title to a movie that’s running around in my head. Can you imagine signing up for ‘Loan me your life’ and escaping whatever it is that’s bugging/boring/depressing you – even if you borrow the life for a 24-hour stint?
Don’t breathe…make sure you don’t exhale unless you slowly let the air escape across wet lips. OMG! And whatever you do, don’t inhale sharply! Really, the dust is so thick in here that any air movement will have us all choking to death.
Right? Right! I just can’t seem to make it most days lately. And to top it off, I have no desire to pen right now. Desire is the biggest part of this for me, and it ain’t happening. Continue reading
So far in my recollections of the last Grand Prix tournament held at the Golden Nugget, it’s one long, dark tunnel that appears to end somewhere, but where? It was the beginning of two years of intermittent tournament dealing.
I still can’t think of one time during the last Grand Prix at the Golden Nugget in 1987 that felt good, upbeat, happy, warm, or comfortable in the three weeks I dealt through it. I know a big part of the problem was me. If I had been comfortable dealing those games it would have been much easier, as it was, I hacked myself to pieces in rewind every chance I got because I felt horribly inadequate for the job. Continue reading
the time pot. Dealers changed every 20 minutes at the Grand Prix at the Golden Nugget. Every time we slid into a new table full of
bright, smiling ‘I’m gonna die if I don’t win the next hand’ faces, we collected time. Continue reading
Of course the majority of the three weeks of the Grand Prix Tournament blended into one
shift nightmare after another – probably best described as one long, square needle to the frontal lobe. We had a short meet before each shift to get our line-up set and if anything new was in the works we were informed about it then. I don’t remember crap about anything new coming up. Some dealers quit, new ones came in, and on it went.