Lotta hype over tomorrow's upcoming TCU vs. Oregon State matchup. You'd never guess that the Horned Frogs are a 13 point favorite. OSU is supposed to be their big hurdle this year? How cupcake is the rest of their schedule?

I still haven't pulled the trigger on the over for the Chargers' win total, but checking it today, the action on the under has dropped the O/U to 10.5. I'm taking it. San Diego OVER 10.5 wins for 2010-11.

The Bunny Slope League, founded by yours truly, held it's inaugural fantasy draft two days ago. I was considering doing a write-up of the entire thing, like ESPN's fantasy experts do, but figured that could be a bit of a snoozefest. I will give my initial impressions of each team, however.

The Tennessee Jaguars, managed by Mike B's dad, started things off by taking Peyton Manning with the first pick. I don't agree with his strategy here, but must admit that the Rezig spokesman won't be available at pick 24, so it was now or never for daddy B. He seems to have emerged from the draft with a decent team, including Shonn Greene, Joseph Addai, Roddy White, and Jermichael Finley. I'm not crazy about Jeremy Maclin as his WR2, though I've had him as mine in several mock drafts. Right now he has Shonn Greene on his bench in favor of Caddilac Williams and Matt Forte, I suppose out of respect for Baltimore's defense. Hopefully he will find ways to overthink things and mismanage his team all year.

The Fighting Irish Notre Dame, owned by Pugilant Mick, picked second, and took Adrian Peterson. I have no problem with this pick, though I probably would have jizzed in my pants either right before or right after I took Chris Johnson. F.I.N.D. Followed up with Calvin Johnson in the second, arguably a Lions fan homer pick, but a good value at 23rd. After this he seemed to lose his way, taking Tony Gonzalez 26th (way to soon for a TE), Eli Manning in the 4th (too soon for Eli, though the good ones were off the board once Romo went 6 picks before), and Michael Crabtree in the 5th. I like Crabtree in the 5th, but at the moment Puglilant Mick has him and Eli on his bench, while he starts Carson Palmer, TO, and Golden Tate. Interesting.

The Cove Romosexuals picked Chris Johnson third, either right before or right after he jizzed in his pants. At Buffalo Wild Wings. He followed up with Rashard Mendenhall and Miles Austin, and rounded out a solid lineup with Ronnie Brown, Mike Sims-Walker, and Brent Celek. If Joe Flacco lives up to expectations this could be a pretty nasty team. The Romosexual bench is filled with players that appear to have blown their load, but could still be productive, like Derrick Mason, LaDanian Tomlinson, and Bernard Berrian. Hopefully Flacco will have a bad opening game against the Jets, since the Romosexuals start their campaign against my own roQQboTTom fEEders.

The ever-so-creatively named Anaheim Shamieh played it safe with their first pick, taking Maurice Jones-Drew. Safe as long as his rumored knee problems don't turn out to be serious, that is. Owned by one of two women in the league, Anaheim set the feminist movement back 30 years or so by drafting alleged bathroom stall roofie toting finger-banging quarterback Ben Roethlisberger. On the other hand, she did wait until the 9th round to draft him, reasonably disciplined for an unabashed Steeler homer who also nabbed Hines Ward (5th round), Mike Wallace (6th round), former Steeler Santonio Holmes (8th round), Heath Miller (10th round), James Harrison (13th round), Jonathon Dwyer (14th round), LaMarr Woodley (16th round), and Byron Leftwich (17th round). Given that Big Ben's handcuff just got himself injured, it will be interesting to see if she picks up another QB off waivers before she plays me in week 2. Week five should be especially interesting, when half of her team has a bye. I'm not sure if it will even be possible for her to keep her Steelers unless she doesn't field a complete roster. Strangely enough, by taking the top player available whenever there weren't any Steelers at the top of the board, Anaheim looks surprisingly solid, especially in the second half of the season.

Unlike Anaheim Shamieh, who waited to nab a big name QB with...issues, Argentina Buenos Aires, owned by Mike B's little brother, took drama queen Brett Favre with the 5th pick. This easily drew the most mockery of the night, as the 5th round would probably be a bit early for America's favorite grizzled vet. Along with a strong receiving corps and a mediocre fleet of running backs, he drafted two more QBs, Jay Cutler & Kevin Kolb. Apparently he realizes his RBs are suspect, since he has already offered Cutler to his dad for Steve Slaton. That should help.

Team Cheesehead led off with another huge homer pick, Aaron Rodgers. Cheesehead isn't just a Packer fan, he lives in Green Bay. Of course Rodgers is expected to end up first or second in fantasy scoring (again), so this is the most defensible QB pick so far. After DeAngelo Williams (a steal at 19th) he took Dez Bryant in the 3rd round. The fact that Dez didn't play Thursday against the Dolphins only serves to underline the fact that Bryant turned into our league's Darius Heyward-Bey with this pick. Round 4 was too soon for Jason Witten, and I'm not a fan of Brandon Jacobs in the 5th, or Reggie Bush in the 6th, though taking a kicker in the 7th trumps those moves. Which kicker? Who cares?

Last year his team crushed me in the league we were in when Frank Gore had his best performance of the year...if not ever. I'm not going to complete this thought and jinx my team, but I think you can guess my opinion of this team. Best of luck, Cheesehead. If you consider these fighting words, so be it.

I'll cover the other six teams--soon.

It's said (in some places at least) that there are two kinds of people--Texans, and those who haven't made it there yet. While that may not be true (then again it may--I've been living here for two years next month), a similar rule could be made for running backs.

There are two kinds of running backs...the injury prone, and those who haven't made it there yet.

At the moment, Michael Turner, Frank Gore, and Stephen Jackson are on the injury prone list, while Ray Rice and Maurice Jones-Drew haven't made it there yet.

While Adrian Peterson and Chris Johnson have been injured recently enough for me to remember, they have both recovered convincingly enough that they have crossed over to the other list...or perhaps another list labled "durable."

If I draft Andre Johnson with the 5th or 6th pick in one of my upcoming fantasy drafts, it will likely be because I don't consider Turner, Gore, or Jackson to be good injury risks. If I take wide receivers in the first and second rounds, it will probably be because WRs are better injury risks than RBs. On the other hand, Jahvid Best has an injury rap sheet that could easily make you wish you'd spend an earlier pick on an RB.

Meanwhile, the odds on San Diego winning over 11 games have held steady at (+105), along with the same (-135) odds for UNDER 11. On the other hand, Brett Favre has caused the Viking odds to be taken off the board, as well as drop Sidney Rice and Percy Harvin about 20 spots each on ESPN's draft board. It looks like I may end up running two Fantasy Leagues, and I'm tempted to hold one draft before Brett makes up his mind, just t0 see if it makes anyone make mistakes. Not that we know when that will be or anything.

Tarantino Apocrypha

I've never been what you would call a gracious host. Sure, I threw a couple parties here and there back in high school when my parents were out of town. Those were opportunities not to be wasted...not when 100 or so close friends could come by and get wasted instead. We had a rotation going. That was what we did.

It didn't take me long to figure out that stale booze and fresh vomit were better mopped up off someone else's floor. Ditto for visits from the cops, brought on by noise violations, drunken brawls, or reports of participation by the less than twenty-one. All these were better endured on the road.

Throw in an anti-social wife, and my chances of hosting a party plummet to about nil--right where I want them.

Ironically, I never would have hosted that game if not for my wife. Not that that would carry any weight in the eyes of the law. No excuses.

Not that she encouraged my gambling, or that it needed encouragement for that matter. But she determined that my second job required more privacy than a locked door and earbuds could provide. Once I'd moved a TV, VCR, DVD player, etc, etc into a downtown walk-up, it was only a matter of time before Frank leaned on me to get into the weekly rotation.

When successful, a poker player is a lot like a leach, while a game is like a host, slowly getting the blood drained out of it.  If the host is healthy, nobody really notices the leach, and he eventually falls off, bloated and happy.  If the host is sickly, it dies.

You can probably tell by my choice of simile just how reluctant I am to host anything.  Poker is a predatory game, and I do whatever it takes to stay on the predator side of the ledger.  Hosts are prey.

I'd been on the predator side of the ledger to an unusual degree for a couple of months.  I'd been catching cards and wringing maximum value from my made hands with an almost brutal effectiveness.  The unfortunate side effect of my winning streak was that it made it easier for Frank to guilt me into hosting the game.

There was no way in hell either I or my wife was going to let a bunch of degenerate gamblers with nasty habits come over (I didn't even like some of them knowing where I lived), but with my little fuck-flick viewing pad vacant, as far as Frank was concerned, that apartment was on stand-by for poker.

In the end, the arm-twisting from Frank was minimal, as the siren-song of easy money lured me onward in a way that Frank never could.

The property owner in me hoped that the evening's guests would be upstanding citizens, relatively speaking, while the predatory edge-seeker in me was rooting for wayward degenerate freaks, eager to spew money they really couldn't afford to lose. As a misanthropic social hermit, I left the recruiting of players to my network-rich associates. The game's proverbial fate was in their proverbial hands.

We got started once we had six people.  I didn't know any of them besides Frank, but I recognized them all, either from other home games or nearby casinos. These were the sort of players that you could expect to grind out a small profit from, as long as you didn't get too out of line.  Which is to say, considerably less degeneracy than I would prefer.  On the other hand, I felt like my odds of getting through the night without any arrests or property damage were solid, so there you go.

Next to arrive was Bumfights Bill, along with a guy Bill apparently knew from AA meetings...or NA meetings. I wondered if the guy had found his way 'round to GA meetings yet. Some people are addicted to addiction.

Addict or not, the new guy turned out not to be the sort of whiny bitch who objected to others drinking in his presence, so the rest of us determined to put a dent in a bottle of Booker's. If nothing else, we'd get to see if a few socially lubricated but otherwise responsible adults could outlast a sober but recovering addict, who itchily eyed the bourbon,

Or we'd get to see how long it took him to fall off the wagon.*

We didn't.  AA 1, Darwin 0. Or if you prefer, Buzzed but competent players 1, Short Stacked Recovering Addict 0.  His resolve to stay sober outlasted his capacity for losing money, and he was out the door after about an hour, sober as a jaybird.

Bumfights Bill managed to build his stack a bit, but the other players remained composed and patient. Bill played well for stretches, but could be counted on to eventually spew his chips in a fit of spastic weirdness. I wasn't sure who all had played with him before, Bill is such an oddball, I felt like you would intuit that about him from his appearance.

If Bill's appearance wasn't sketchy enough, the conspiracy theories would tip you off. I'd put the over/under on Bill bringing up black helicopters, aliens, tinfoil hats, etc., at 75 minutes, but I'd get too much action on the under.

That night Bill lasted nearly two hours before he started talking about the ZOG, the truth about 9/11, mind control, the CIA and LSD, freemasonry, the CIA and cocaine, the grassy knoll, the CIA and heroin...

He even managed to work in Helter-Skelter and Quentin Tarentino. It all made about as much sense as it usually did. The rest of us were asking him if Tarentino was a CIA creation when he ran out of chips.

"I'll be back--I gotta go bump off an ATM."

The door slammed behind him.

"D'ya think he's kidding?"

"He's kidding. But don't let him buy chips with any bills covered in exploding dye."

"Don't you need a black light to see that stuff?"

We decided to take a break and put a bigger dent in the bourbon. With the AA guy already out, there wasn't much easy money to be had until Bumfights got back...unless the Booker's took over. I don't know if anybody else was thinking this way, but I was. We all wanted to see Bill knit his conspiracies into a coherent whole, as unlikely as that may have been.

After about a half hour we settled down to play. Bill wasn't back, and I figured the game might wind down without some fresh blood.

Bereft of Bill, we discovered that we mostly agreed that the CIA were guilty of their misdeeds, but disagreed as to their motives. And Quentin Tarantino was a genius.

"I love Pulp Fiction. But all that crap about coke being out, and heroin in? Complete bullshit." Frank could only wait for conspiracy story time part two for so long, and was up on his soapbox. Nature abhors a vacuum.

"I'll buy that Vincent Vega got into skag in Amsterdam. Eurotrash on the dole, sitting on their ass waiting to die, heroin makes sense. This is the land of opportunity. Wall Street. Sink or swim. America runs on cocaine. Has for decades.

"You have a couple of fashion models and grunge rockers OD, suddenly Newsweek thinks there's an epidemic. Meanwhile, coke comes in by land, sea and air, gets cut with baby laxative, chopped up with American Express Platinum cards, and snorted with hundred dollar bills, so fast the cartels can't keep up. Coke is as American as mom, God, and apple pie."

"What about Bill? Pretty sure he's had junk running through his veins," interjected one of us."

Frank's eyebrows raised. "Bill?" He paused for dramatic effect. "Bill is the exception that proves the rule."

Bill was an exception, no doubt. "What about that NA cat?"

"Fuck him. He's lucky this didn't come up before he got stacked. He'd probably be on the phone to his sponsor by now...or looking to score."

It was funny. I'd never seen the guy before, and he left within the first hour, but I instinctively agreed that he was most likely a basket-case. Funny too, that while we were drinking in front of him I thought of him as the AA Guy, but now that we were debating boy vs. girl, he was the NA Guy.

Meanwhile, I realized that I wasn't worried about Bill. I thought of him as somewhere between a lost soul and a force of nature. He'd survive the apocalypse, along with the cockroaches. Bill was indestructible.

The door knocked, aggressively enough to worry me, and I jumped up to answer it, acutely aware that none of us were armed...as far as I knew.

Through the peephole I saw slicked back black hair, a tan face I didn't recognize, and a leather jacket.

I opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow, which wasn't much. "Who are you?" I asked, aggressively enough to come off like "Who the fuck are you?"

"Theo."

I half-turned. "Anybody here know a Theo?" I was met by blank stares and shrugs.

I looked back through the crack. "Nobody here knows a Theo.  Who do you know?"

I didn't ask him how he found out about "this," because that would be one step closer to admitting there was a "this." Next I'd be admitting that "this" was a poker game.

No security, no password....I felt like I was running a half-assed speakeasy. Or a john trying to determine whether a hooker was a narc...or a hooker trying to figure out if a john was undercover.

He said a name I didn't recognize.

Somebody behind me overheard. "The AA guy."

I didn't like it. I barely knew the AA guy...or was he the NA guy? Before I saw him as a guy who couldn't keep his shit together without help from his higher power, but an NA guy could have done time...or got out of it by turning snitch. The distinction was suddenly critical.

I followed my gut and let him in. He didn't have a cop vibe. But neither did Mr. Orange.













*If you think the shark in me was rooting for this guy to fall off the wagon so he could lose his money, you aren't entirely wrong, but the property owner in me didn't want to deal with a blacked-out guy who couldn't handle himself and was far more interested in getting him out the door incident free.  Most guys who put themselves in the hands of a higher power don't do so because their liver is crying for help.

I felt like Clint Eastwood at the beginning of For a Few Dollars More as I rolled into Frank's Place and up to the counter, where the tatooed girl with the nerd glasses fixed my drink. At least the piercing fairy had passed her by. I wondered what she was rebelling against as I studied the intricate design on her left arm. It wasn't tribal. If anything it reminded me of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Her scowl may have deepened at my neglect of her tip, but I wasn't sure. Stareing myself cross-eyed and bloodshot in front of a computer screen had taken its toll, and I felt out-of-synch with the world, as I hauled my disturbingly potent java concoction towards the corner by the window and Miss Ink 2006 began to mop up the rain I'd invited in.

The pink neon lights on the glass blinked Frank's, then Place, then Frank's Place. Fuck this, I muttered, and headed for the opposite side of the cafe. I'd told Frank blue would've been better, but he said it would remind him too much of a bug-zapper. I told him that effect would be lessened if the sign didn't flash on and off, but Francis Xavier Horan wouldn't hear of it. I guess he needed to keep up with the pawnshop next door and the tatoo/body-piercing emporium across the street. Progress.

Out-of-synch. I know that there is a more compact, more concise word for this feeling out there, but I also know that I lack the discipline to uncover it before it's usefullness is long past. My instinct that Heidegger had a far more awkward German compound word that expressed this idea gave me little comfort, but what the hell? Anyone looking for comfort in the words of Martin Heidegger deserves whatever they get, or worse. I stared into the murky brown of my beverage and waited for it to cool off, and considered that at this hour I ought to be sleeping off a hangover like an ordinary human-being. Did I seek stimulation? I didn't know. Is the purpose of stimulants always to stimulate? Perhaps I required some sort of ritalin overload, like an hyperactive nine-year-old. Perhaps if liquor stores were open at five in the morning I'd be carreening through the late April downpour with a fifth of Wild Turkey riding shotgun.
Perhaps--

The door to the kitchen swung open. "Hows the drink?"

It was Frank. Frank was keeping some odd hours, it seemed, but who am I to talk?

"Hot. The fuck do you care?" What are friends for if not the occasional verbal abuse, no strings attached?

"Of course I care. This joint is my only steady source of income. But watch your mouth. If I wanted verbal abuse I'd tend bar."

"You mean this would be a bar if you could get a liquor license."

Frank shrugged. "I'd at least need a frontman--"

"And in the end, you give two shits about the drink! Don't you always tell me you aren't selling coffee, you're selling atmosphere?"

"That's right." Frank looked around as fragments of the Pixies' Is She Wierd wafted down out of the ceiling fan and blended into the second hand smoke. What else was there to say?

"How's work?"

"Which?"

Frank's eyes narrowed. "The work you don't like to talk about in public."

The music had stopped. I waited a moment, until Here Comes your Man started in.

"It's been slow."

"Yeah? Then why do you look so burnt?"

"I guess you could say I've been doing some independant research since its been slow. I'm waiting for The DaVinci Code to come out, not to mention The DaVinci Load, which will be released the same day."

"There's a DaVinci Load?"

"Actually there's two of 'em. Hustler's doing one, and somebody else is doing a gay porn. The gay porn will open the same day as the DaVinci Code. It'll be the first time a porn parody of a movie opens the same day as the movie it's parodying."

"Sounds big. You gonna review the fag flick?"

"Nah, my readers won't go for that. Might start questioning their own proclivities. But I will mention it when I review the Hustler movie."

"I s'pose it's fitting. In the book they said Leonardo was queer himself. And those Opus Dei wierdos with their bondage toys? Who could resist?"

"Not me. Heck, I think I will review it. Wanna go?"

"Sure! I'll be in the parking lot with a tire iron."

"No! I need you to go in there, fend them off me."

"With a tire iron?"

"Nah. Just pretend you're my boyfriend!"

"You mean I'm not really your boyfriend?"

"Nah, I'm just using you."

"Oh, thats right--" Tatoos was mopping near us and was giving us a strange look. Strange, but not unexpected. We both laughed and she looked away.

"Hey, didn't the book also mention that albino getting raped in prison? They could mix in some good-old prison butt-sex into the plot!"

"Who could resist that?" I quipped.

"Not me. But between possibly getting molested in the theatre, and gay-bashed outside, I'm not sure how much fun we'd have."

"Don't worry about the bashing. Those guys prefer bars. Easier to isolate one or two of them at a time, hit and run."

"You saying they're cowards?"

"I was thinking strategically prudent."

"Mmmhmm. So we just need to worry about the molestation. Maybe your wife would act as better fag-repellant."

"Maybe, but I'd rather owe you." Frank might be a bit of a loan shark, but how do you charge juice on a favor? And last I checked, I reckoned he owed me. "Besides, getting her to go to something like this would be like pulling teeth, plus we'd need a sitter. And I'd still need to worry about them bi-swinger fuckers."

We both got quiet. There it was. Even worse than the straight man's fear of getting gang-raped by a pack of queers was the humilliating prospect of getting banged along side one's wife by a buncha bi-sex-u-alllllls. It was probably more likely that either Frank or I would lose our collective cool and piss a bunch of 'em off. More likely, but not as terrifying. Maybe we shouldn't drink beforehand. Or avoid the Wack-n-Pack altogether.

"So maybe I should bring a tire iron."

"Nah, you just need to learn a couple of key phrases, like 'Thith ith a private party thailor!' or
'Thorry, thithter!"

Frank cracked up at this. "Or we could just tell 'em we're straight."

"Nah. They're like dogs. They can smell weakness. It's like dumping blood in the piranha tank."

"And being straight is weakness?"

"To them it is."

"Really?"

"It indicates that you may be confused, or wavering. Like you could be turned; otherwise why are you there? And straight-hetero-virgin-male-ass is like the Holy-fucking-Grail to these cocksuckers. Fresh meat!"

I still don't know if I had gone to Frank's Place for stimulants that morning, but I was about halfway through my drink, and I was jabbering like a lunatic. I had it on good authority that gay-bashers prefer empty parking lots, but every assertion since then had been based on guesswork. I was way out of my depth, but Frank was an easier sell if he thought I knew what I was talking about, even if I was making the gay subculture sound like something out of an Anne Rice novel--
"Frank, we're outta Ameretto Torani's!"

"Hold on." Frank stood up and headed over to the bar, to handle this flavored syrup crisis. There were about two other customers in the place, which made me wonder how they had suddenly run out of anything. Frank should let her know there was no booze in that stuff, in case she was doing shooters in the back, and chasing them with whipped cream. Kids these days. I sucked down some of my quadruple-espresso thrill-ride, which had begun to cool off, and rubbed by bloodshot eyes. Here comes your Man tailed off and made way for Down to the Well.

Frank was back. "So you wiped yourself out like that trying to research the Da Vinci Loads?"

"Not exactly. While waiting for them to come out, I've been expanding my research into other areas."

"Such as?"

"Jewish porn."

"Really?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Why?"

"Jewish chicks are hot."

"They are?"

"Fuck-n-a right they are. Sarah Michelle Gellar? Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

"They're Jewish?"

"I heard Jennifer Love was--Sarah Michelle for sure."

"They are hot. But I don't see anything particularly Jewish about their hotness."

"You have a point."

"So who else? And don't say Barbara Streissand."

"Hey, if I found a Barbara Streissand sex tape you'd watch it. You know you would."

Frank shrugged. "For the novelty of it all. Who else?"

"Meadow Soprano. But she's only like a quarter or so. She's like Cuban and Lebonese or something."

"She's hot. But she will inevitably be called upon to fulfil the Mafia Princess fetish. You can't fuck with that."

"What about that Heidi Fleiss flick she did?"

"What about it?

"Fleiss? Pretty sure that's Jewish," I argued.

"Yeah? What if she was Heidi Fleischmann?"

"More sure. Isn't Fleischmann's a yeast brand?"

"You bet. I think the Jews invented yeast. And bagels. And lox."

"Maybe her real name was Heidi Fleischmann. She changed it to Fleiss because the yeast connotation would hurt business."

"Man, she invented yeast."

"She discovered it--she's the Lewis and Clark of yeast."

"Yeah. She discovered it in her Northwest Passage," Frank laughed.

"Along with 3 new species of crabs. And salmon."

"So Heidi Fleiss discovered lox. I wonder if she discovered cream cheese."

"I'd like ta help her discover it. She'd find it spread all over her bagel when I got through with her."

"Nice. Watch out for the seafood."

"Yeah. If it isn't fresh..."

"...it isn't legal." We both knew the Legal Seafood slogan. Love the chow-dah!

"So enlighten me about Jewish Porn. What have I been missing?"

"Not much, apparently. I searched for Jewish Porn, Hassidic Porn, Jewish MILFS, Kike Sluts, Jewish American Princesses..."

"And?"

"A fuckin' doughnut. Nuthin.' Unbelieveable."

"Maybe nobody else shares your fetish."

"What are you, my shrink? And who says it's a fetish?"

"If nobody else has any interest, you must be a deviant."

"Oh, there's interest. There's definitely interest."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. When I lived in New York two friends of mine were going on about fucking Jewish chicks. One of them said they always knew what they wanted."

"Which was--"

"Goyim cock!"

"Goyim?"

"Means the same thing as gentiles, only it's Yiddish, I think."

"They all want Goyim cock?"

"No. Some don't discriminate."

"They just want cock."

"It's not that they want cock, it's that they don't care if it's circumsized. You might not even know she's Jewish, because it's not a big deal to her."

"Okay..."

"Then there's the ones who are saving themselves for a nice Jewish boy."

"Off the market."

"Completely. Or, completely enough that they're not worth the effort. At best you get hitched after you're converted."

"Fuck that."

"Anyway, the sweet spot is that in between group, that wants to marry a nice Jewish boy, but isn't waiting around."

"Ahhhhhhhhh!"

"Ahhhhh indeed! If they even give you a second glance they're thinking about uncut, Goy cock."

"But I'm not uncut."

"Neither am I. They might not even think we are, but they're gonna find out and move on before their parents figure out what's going on."

"Niiiiice...."

"Yeah, and if you're not that into them, you don't even have to dump them, because they'll dump you!"

"Better and better." Frank had put alot of energy into finding creative, surgical, ninja-like ways to break up with women in the past. Except when he was married. Then he found surgical, ninja-like ways too sneak around on his wife. Speaking of surgery--

"So it's like triage."

"It's exactly like triage, except the patients select themselves."

It was good to help Frank set up the table in the back room. It didn't exactly make me feel like I belonged, not that I would even want to, but it made me feel less out of place. People could look at me and think--"Oh, that's the guy that helps Frank set up the table," instead of "the fuck is that guy doing here? He don't belong here!" Playing Backgammon had served a similar purpose while it lasted. I felt less self conscious as long as I was occupied.

Frank didn't seem the least bit self-conscious himself, in his Golf shirt, khakis, etc. He had changed out of his Grandfather's golf shoes because of the little cleats (he probably never would've started playing if his Grandfather's shoes hadn't happened to fit him), and had on a non-descript pair of black Docs. Closer scrutiny would reveal that the little crest on the shirt was not from some eastern prep school, but from an old rugby team Frank used to play for. It was as if Frank needed to leave something out of place, to give some sign that while he was among these country club fucks, he was not of them. On some level the insignia on that shirt was the equivalent of raising a Jolly Roger in their midst, this despite the fact that in the rest of the civilized world rugby is regarded as the domain of the efeete uppercrust. I knew that deep down he hated them as much as I did.

Maybe hate is a bit too strong--maybe--

But that was why I'd shown up early and played Backgammon with him. Frank was desperate for something to do between golf and poker besides mingling with Biff, and Roger, and Ted...and Tad...and Chad....Inbreeding is alive and well in the upper crust--

Something to do while he sobered up.

The game was on in the back room. Top of the 6th, Cleveland had just tied the score 2-2, and now the Tigers were batting. Frank liked having the game on, and so did I. Ordinarily Frank would be pulling for the Tigers, but today a win by the Indians could put them ahead of the Yankees for the AL Wild Card lead. Frank didn't bet on baseball games, but he had the White Sox at 9-1 to win the AL Pennant. Frank didn't want the White Sox to have to play the Yankees in the playoffs, so he had a rooting interest in the Indians, for now at least.

The poker game got under way, and I got off to a good start. I was up a sizeable chunk by the time the Indians took the lead in the 6th inning.

"Geez, if I keep winning like this I might have to start sucking up to these guys like Frank does to keep from getting banned," I thought to myself. Already I could see dirty looks cropping up. These Country Club guys were pretty friendly as long as they thought they were going to win. Once they saw that things weren't quite going their way, they started to get edgy.

Not as bad as hippies on a nitrous bender, (at least not yet), but edgy...

Frank hadn't been getting many cards, and had been folding for the most part. He made up for this by sharing his NFL lead pipe locks for Week I.

"I got Philly at Atlanta, giving 1 1/2."

"You're going against Vick?"

"I'm with Vick--against Duke that is."

"Very funny--did you see what Michael Vick did to the Rams last year?."

"Of course--I had Atlanta that game, because the Rams have no defense. In fact, their defensive co-ordinater was last seen passing out flyers in an East St. Louis project for this place called Wok and Roll."

Hmmm...Frank was stealing my material. But he had disguised it a bit, and the "Wok and Roll" line was a nice touch. He could have it. Frank was working the crowd. I think he figured that since these guys were paying him, they might as well get their money's worth. If Frank was in the proper frame of mind he could keep these guys smiling as he took their money. It was fortunate that a good caffiene rush put him there, or he mighta kept drinking, liquor being a social lubricant and what not.

If Frank was a happy drunk, he was a downright giddy overjoyed java tweaking fuck, I tell ya what.

This was more like stand up comedy than poker. Frank had a lot of energy, but then so does Juan Valdez. So does Juan's donkey. Juan's donkey has TONS of energy....In fact, the donkey probably has enough energy to keep these country club trust-fund baby fuck-o's smiling as he takes their money. But he plays poker like...well, a donkey.

Ergo, Juan Valdez's donkey cannot keep ANYBODY smiling as he takes their money. Neither can I. I'm far too lazy...

Not to mention anti-social....

Some would say misanthropic....

Why would they say that? To show off their burgeoning vocabulary, I suppose--

But enough about me--

"Get it? Wok and Roll? Get it?" Roger nudged Ted.

"I get it. But it's not funny."

Biff jumped in, "Yeah, those Chinks can't help it that they say 'wok' instead of 'rock!'"

Roger laughed, "Careful, we wouldn't want to offend anybody!"

"What, there's none of them here; they're not even allowed here."

"What, there's no rule..."

"...at least not on paper!" The laughter peaked, and it got quiet. I wondered if this was a good time to tell them my kids were slopes. I decided against it, but I was having a hard time keeping quiet.

"The flaw in the joke," I explained, "is that the Chinamen would never hire the Ram's defensive co-ordinater."

"Why not? Paperboys have more responsibility."

"Because they are all family businesses. They always hire their nieces and cousins after they smuggle them over here."

There was sort of a stunned silence. I wasn't sure if I had somehow offended these guys, or if my sense of humor was too dry. In the end the reason doesn't matter. If somebody doesn't like you, he'll figure out his reasons later. If he is part of a group that doesn't like you, the group will decide his reasons for him--no thought required.

I didn't know why Ted didn't think the joke was funny, but I was indirectly taking a jab at him by agreeing with him, but in an absurd way. Absurd because while I was convinced that my statement was 99% accurate, I knew Ted would never think of it. Wet fucking blanket, that guy.
Now these cocksuckers thought I was pulling some sort of socio-economic deconstruction of Frank's joke. (My joke goddamnit!) No, they wouldn't even know what de-construction was.
Education is such a burden. It dawned on me that my great offense was to make these guys think. I really didn't mean to do that. Next they might start playing better--

"Bullshit!" Frank broke the silence. "A place called Wok and Roll would hire him, because they're obviously a chain like Mongolian Barbecue, run by Americans."

"Why's that?" demanded Ted.

"Because those little Nips would never think of that name. Hell, most of them couldn't even pronounce it!"

My PC radar was too numb at this point to discern whether or not this was more or less offensive than the previous barbs, but the room exploded in laughter. I'm convinced that I would've been run out of town for insensitivity if I'd said the same thing. This despite my gook progeny, if not because of it. I shoulda married a jewess.

Biff saw a loophole. "Maybe a 2nd generation chink. Then he wouldn't say 'Lok and Lorr'."

"Right!" glared Frank, "Because he's an American!" This was getting surreal. I wasn't sure what Frank was getting worked up about. At that moment he reminded me of Bill the Butcher in Gangs of New York, explaining what he meant by "native," though in this case Frank seemed to be favoring the immigrants, or at least their first generation offspring--

Then I knew. America had country clubs. America might even be run by guys from country clubs. But America was not a goddamned country club! Here it comes, I thought. Frank's going to get us kicked out of here--but Frank turned away from Biff.

"I know what Ted's problem is. He's still pissed off because I said Joe Paterno is senile!" Woah--I'd been practically hearing the Battle Hymn of the Republic in the background as Frank stood up for the poor, huddled masses yearning to be free, while in the background the argument had been about a university on the geographic cusp of the Big Ten--

The room got quiet again. Here we go, out of politics, and into religion--metaphorically speaking, of course--Joe's not the Pope, he's just Italian. This had to be done. Frank was passionate about football, but he rarely got angry about it. Making other people angry though, well....

"He is senile," said Biff. Firm grasp of the obvious, that one. This started the whole table arguing. But if Joe Paterno was the Pope, Frank had some protestant allies in the room. White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, in fact.

"I'll show you senile! What's the line on the Penn State?" Ted was glowering now.

Frank consulted his little black book. "Ummmm, 18 1/2."

"Who are they playing?"

"Cincinnati, at Penn State."

"I'll bet $250 on Penn State to cover."

"Okay."

"Ummmm, make it 17 points."

"No."

"Come on."

"Fine. But its $350 to win $250."

"Make it three."

"No deal. You're already paying $275 to win $250 with the vig. I coulda went 21 and you wouldn't know, since you've got such a hard-on for Penn State, but I didn't. Now if you wanna prove that Joe's not senile, show me your cash. If you want 17, then drive down to Cincy and find it."

Ted glared at him, silently.

"If you want to back out, just do it. Don't start trying to change the bet and foul the deal."

"Maybe I'll just drive to Cincy."

"You could, but it wouldn't be the same, would it? You need to beat the bad man that was mean to good old Uncle Joe."

Ted had been called out. Now that he had gone through all these negotiations with Frank, he would really be pussing out if he didn't bet. Ted didn't want to roose face. His wallet would be hurt much less than his pride.

"I need to cash out some chips."

Roger spoke up. "Can he get it on credit? We don't want the game to dry up."

Frank looked at Roger. "You vouch for him?" Roger had alot of chips on the table. He could cover Ted. Something told me that both of them had plans for Ted's stack. In his delicate condition? I definitely did.

"Yeah, I got him."

"Lets play some cards."

The deal passed. It was quiet for a couple of hands. Then Biff spoke up.

"So who else you like?"

Frank might be out some on Cincinnati soon, but he had clearly established himself as the resident expert on football.

"Indy giving three at Baltimore."

"Does that mean you won't take action on Indy?"

"Nah. Just let me know soon so I can lay some off."

"Okay...anyone else?"

"Not really...well, just my lead pipe lock of the week!"

Everyone perked up, even Ted. Regular E.F. Hutton, this guy.

"I don't want to offend anyone!"

They were eating out of his hand; fuckin' Pied Piper with these rats. They promised not to be offended.

"Carolina at home. Give the seven."

"Who are they playing?"

Frank almost whispered, "New Orleans."

Everyone groaned.

"You're going to hell Frank."

"Panthers/Katrina by seven over the Saints! How can I refuse? What's their routine like? Do they have one? These guys are already anticipating being worn out after their home opener--in the Meadowlands. Even once they get their "home field" I'll probably consider it a neutral site for at least a week or two!"

"Maybe they'll rise above the adversity and seize the day."

"When was the last time the Saints overcame adversity? You want inspiration, take LSU. They just might deliver."

"You taking 'em?"

"Nah. But you can. Go ahead."

With that the game resumed. Apparently Ted's bet in defense of JoeyP had not satisfied him, because he proceeded to raise in situations that really did not warrant such aggression, and he proceeded to piss away his entire stack. Roger and I were both sitting to Ted's left, and much of his stack found it's way over to ours. Most of Ted's country club chums tightened up and played to exploit his mistakes as much as Frank or I did. Frank had crummy position relative to Ted, and largely stayed out of his way. Meanwhile several of the players took turns placing bets with Frank on various weekend games, mostly college, these being alums of various establishments and what not.

I suspect that Ted would've sulked his way home once his chips were gone, had not Frank's trip fours beaten Ted's kings for the remainder of his stack. This rubbed Ted's ego the wrong way, and suddenly he was getting another rack on credit.

Early September. Almost autumn. Baseball season winding down, football heating up, nice weather. Really nice weather. A good time to golf. If you were ambitious, it was a good time for eighteen holes, followed by a couple of hours of backgammon, topped off by poker into the wee hours of the morning.

Frank didn't consider himself to be terribly ambitious.

Maybe that was why he only played nine holes.

Maybe he just didn't want to get too lit.

Frank never got through nine holes without being a couple sheets to the wind. He figured if he went 18 he might not be able to walk.

The crew he golfed with always had an extra cart for beer, along with the odd pint of bourbon. Frank noticed that this bar on wheels didn't have a roll-bar. Neither did any of the other carts. Frank liked to say that when the carts got roll-bars, he'd roll through a full 18 holes.

Loosen up a little, Frank.

Truth was, Frank wasn't much of a golfer. Maybe he liked walking around (or riding) in the nice, clean, green open spaces, flanked by little groves of oak and pine. Or maybe he golfed for the conversation. Lofty minds, floating in a sea of booze, debating great causes and the days events.

"So who you got? Ohio State or Texas?"

Frank steadied himself on one of his grandfather's clubs. "I'm liking taking Texas and the point, but I think they're snakebit. Ohio State is probably overrated, but they're at home, and the 'horns are a bunch of choke artists."

"Well then--"

"I'm sitting that one out. Reminds me of Auburn-LSU last year."

"What happened again?"

"I figured LSU was co-champs, Auburn hadn't proven themselves yet, and LSU shouldn't be a dog, even if it was at Auburn."

"So--"

"I was wrong. Auburn won, 10-9."

"So you lost."

"No. I got LSU while the spread was 1 1/2. They covered."

Frank wasn't sure he was making his point. Whatever. There was no law saying you had to bet on every game.

"So who else you like?"

"Nebraska giving six at home against Wake Forest."

"Yeah?"

"Nah." Money's coming in on Wake. Word's out. Nebraska sucks. They aren't Nebraska anymore."

"Who are they?"

"I'd say they're about 30 years from becoming the next Penn State, give or take a decade."

"Huh?"

"They're already living off their past rep and suckering their followers into expecting a turnaround. Now they just have to keep the same coach long enough for him to get senile."

Frank looked up expectantly. One of these days he was going to make some crack about Joe Paterno and someone was going to take a swing at him. Ted just got quiet. Frank knew that look. Ted saw him as a boor and a ruffian. Talking about the old man was like talking religion or politics. Seriously. Frank doubted he could offend as many people making jokes about the pope. Maybe the late pope....or the Virgin Mary. Frank considered them off limits, unless they started trying to intercede in the BC-Notre Dame game. If they did they were fair game.

Frank had a feeling there wouldn't be much more conversation from Ted. Fuck it, only a couple more holes to go.


As the sun set on the country club, Frank bellied up to the bar with a Backgammon board and Jimmy. Jimmy didn't play golf. He'd just now arrived. Honestly, Frank was mildly surprised that the club let Jimmy in. Geez, if they'll let Jimmy in here maybe I should join a more exclusive club. Frank washed down the Beam & Bud aftertaste down with a gin & tonic before switching over to coffee. As the caffiene took hold, Frank became more animated. The air was filled with the sounds of rolling dice, mixed with a healthy measure of talking shit, as was their custom. Frank liked to talk shit while playing backgammon because it really didn't require much concentration on his part, at least not against the locals. Truthfully, he didn't really need to be sober to play backgammon well either. But as much shit as he talked as he got hopped up on java, mostly Frank talked football.

"I'm taking Cal, giving nine at Washngton. They got QB problems, but Washington's got PROBLEMS. Fresno State destroyed them last year. Notre Dame destroyed them."

"Now they've got Notre Dame's coach."

"Good. It'll be a very intriquing matchup--until the kickoff, when Notre Dame destroys them again."

"Great. But who cares about the west coast? USC's the only team out there that matters."

"Well, Cal almost beat 'SC last year. But fine. Here's your east coast pick: V-Tech at Duke. Give the points."

"How many points?"

"Twenty. On the road. Do it anyway. We're talking top ten team vs. (according to ESPN), bottom ten team. Marcus Vick did respectably well against what was last year's #1 defense in the nation, beating NC State last week. This week he goes hog wild."

"Stella!"

"Stella!" The local backgammonners always yell Stella when they roll double fours. Unless it is a low-key game. Then they just say Stella.

"What about Michigan-Notre Dame?"

"Mmmmm...seven point spread."

"Michigan favored?"

"Of course."

"So?"

"I want 7 1/2, but I'm taking Notre Dame anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Supposedly Michigan's offense is awesome, but look what Notre Dame did to Pitt last week. All that scoring was in the first half."

Jimmy perked up at this. "Yeah, Michigan doesn't really have a "D." Their defensive coordinator was last seen putting flyers from a Chinese restaurant under wiper blades at an Ann Arbor mall."

"I thought it was a Ypsilanti mall."

Jimmy considered. "Hmmmm...maybe a strip mall. I don't think Ypsi' has any real shopping malls."

"Good point," Frank agreed. Betting aside, he liked to get his digs in against Michigan when he got the chance. As for the digs against Ypsilanti, well, those were just inevitable.

Something occurred to Frank. "You know, if JoePa coached at EMU, people probably wouldn't mind if you talked shit about him."

"Huh?"

"Just something I've been thinking about. You know, the way people look at you like you're unclean if you suggest that Paterno ought to hang it up."

"As I recall, you've mentioned 'firing his ass' in the past."

"Yes I have."

Jimmy took a deep breath and stared at Frank, the stare of someone who was about to release a deep truth. "If Joe Paterno was at Eastern, nobody would talk about him at all. Nobody would know who he was."

Frank wasn't sure he was willing to take it that far. This was turning into a deep philosophical question. Sort of a nature vs. nurture question. After all, maybe EMU would have a couple of national championships if Joe was there. Maybe the MAC would be considered a football powerhouse conference. Maybe Penn State should've joined the MAC, conferring upon them instant legitimacy....Maybe--

Jimmy nodded towards the far side of the bar. "Looks like the poker crowd's arriving. I think we've got quorum now."

Frank followed his glance across the room. "Lets go get the table ready." Joe Paterno's virtues and vices, such as they were, would have to be put on hold. They had work to do.