Marshall Tucker, Pooped Shrimp, and a Lot of Fine Wine.

I recently attended our local food festival. There is no doubt this town loves to eat, we have very high obesity rates here. People try to blame it on the winter weather but I know that’s just a load of crap. Come on people, just say no to eating like hogs and leave the weather out of it. These festivals are springing up all over the country, apparently we are not really obese enough as a nation, we have to add some more food. The object of the festival is to stand out in the sun, drink beer and wine, rub elbows with lots of strangers and eat, eat, eat.

I’ve been to such events in the past, and I hadn’t planned on attending this year, until I saw the entertainment line up- 37 vineyards represented in the wine tent and The Marshall Tucker Band headlining the stage events.

I called a friend and suggested we slide on down to catch Marshall Tucker, and try our luck at finding a local wine we had not already discovered. She agreed that after thirty years it might be interesting to see what Marshall Tucker was up to these days, and she enthusiastically agreed that the local vineyards could benefit from our expert opinions on their products.

We got there, found parking (Thank You God!) and found the event three times larger than it had been the last year. Besides twice as many food booths, a whole new section had been added. Vendors. Tents of hats and clothes and sunglasses and jewelry. Apparently when you are over eating and guzzling beer in the hot sun, you want to look good. It was a food festival for heaven’s sake, do we always have to be multi tasking? Do we have to shop too? Can’t we just eat?

We made our way to the wine tent and dug in because of course, we have our priorities straight. The lines were long, but a little polite elbowing and pushing and we managed to circle a few times drinking 237 thimble size samples of wine. We were soon one sheet short of three sheets to the wind. We tried white wines and red wines, sweet wines and dry wines, and even wines made of strange things like honey and raspberries. We finally made a landing at one winery that had some really fine semi-sweet whites and a few sweet grapy reds. We shelled out the big bucks for a couple of glasses of our favorites and wandered over to the food alley.

The food alley was packed. I mean sardine like packed. I was shocked, it was already after eight and nobody in this town eats after six, so I figured we were a shoe in for a short wait in any line we liked. But no-the whole town was on a carbohydrate bender. I searched high and low for any food that I could get in the next five minutes, (the wine made me hungry!) and finally settled on Polish food, which I guess, has a terrible reputation, because there was no line! It suited me just fine, I love good kraut and they had some tasty potato and egg pierogies that were not only vegetarian, but one of the few foods in sight that was not deep fried or barbecued black.

Meanwhile my friend, determined to get something called popped shrimp, (or was it pooped shrimp?) was being crushed in the swell of humanity floundering around in front of the shrimp booth. Apparently those shrimp are a popular item because there was a near riot when one of the booth’s employees hung a sign saying “sorry, no more popped (or was it pooped?) shrimp”. The Outrage! My poor friend and her 534 good friends in line had to settle for something a little more tame, just plain shrimp.

While my friend was still in line, still waiting for a few crumbs of what ever they had left, I began to take a closer survey of our surroundings. The wine tent stood where it had for the last few years, the food alley looked the same, only longer. I realized the main stage was not in sight. What the heck! Then I noticed the normal every- year-in- the- same- place line of porta potties was missing as well. Something was just not right here. This called for some investigation. I looked at the guy standing to my right in the crowd, shrimp in one hand, beer in the other, quickly alternating left, right, left, right, left right to his mouth. Sauce dribbled down his chin. I asked what the hell they did with the stage. He nodded up the street and continued his wolfing and guzzling.

My friend finally made her way back through the crowd. She looked like she had been front and center stage at a Van Halen concert. Believe me, I know, I’ve been there. Her hair was a mess, her clothing rumpled, her sunglasses crooked, her face flushed from the lack of oxygen. She was hunched over her little boat of shrimp, just trying to get someplace with enough elbow room to get shrimp from boat to mouth. Luckily she had left her wine glass with me when she entered the fray, I stood on the sidelines and managed not to spill a drop in spite of the pushing and shoving going on around me.

While she consumed her catch, I watched the crowd. I immediately noticed the lack of lipstick. At first I thought it was a fluke, maybe everyone had eaten so much their lips were faded. Then I looked closer, no, no that wasn’t it. Some of these ladies had no lipstick on, but many of them had lipstick the color of their lips. I was standing there wondering if I stood out like a lighthouse on a foggy coast, me with my bright red lipstick. Even the hookers were not wearing colorful lipstick. They were, however, wearing some really bright shoes, short skirts and miniaturized shirts. I came to the conclusion that this lack of lip color must be some odd cultural phenomena that I was uniquely unaware of.

Fed and watered, my friend informed me it was time to take our rightful place at the stage so we wandered through the crowd in the general direction of the afore nodded to new stage location. I informed my friend that the porta potties were missing. This brought an unexpected yelp of dismay and a string of cussing. Apparently she was in need. We agreed they had to be there somewhere, and began to diligently search in every nook and cranny of the crowded street. We tried the side streets, we tried behind the trucks, we tried behind the stage- oh! We found the stage! We wandered to and fro in vain and finally agreed, the porta potties were missing. Now normally, this would not have been a dire emergency, however, after consuming about a gallon of wine each, nature was calling.

We figured an emergency like this required expert help so we finally found a group of police officers standing around, hand on belts, scanning the crowd looking for purse snatchers, staggering drunks and all sorts of seedy characters. I approached and got their attention by yelling “I need help” in a high, off key, whiny, legs crossed voice. They snapped to attention, hands grabbing nightsticks and guns and handcuffs. “The porta potties, I yelled, someone has stolen the porta potties!”

Honestly, I was relieved by their bewildered looks. I knew if there had been a porta potty heist, they would have been informed already. They looked at each other, bewilderment turning to grins. I was visibly shaken and they seemed to find that funny, as they all, in perfect synchronization, pointed down the one street, off to the side, we had not checked. Right there, not a block where we all stood, was a row of porta potties so long it seemed to disappear into the night.

For the first time that evening, lady luck was with us. There were no lines. We finished our business and headed back to the stage area, threading ourselves through the crowd as far as we could go. It appeared that the food booths must have closed because every one of the estimated thirty thousand in the crowd was now right in front of the stage. Mt friend, who is on the short side, had a brilliant idea and suggested we go stand behind the lighting platform. There was a wide swath of open pavement there because the platform stood at about the height of the normal adult human.

Which I am. Which she is not. She was just the right height to stand tall and look under the platform which gave her a full, un-obscured view of the stage. About that time the band came on and I thought, what the heck, if I remember correctly, I’m gonna be dancing anyway. And dance I did. Those Marshall Tucker boys, even at their advanced ages, still had what it takes to get the crowd moving. They played a few old favorites, then they got down to some really fine jammin’.

They were tight, tuned and on the spot fantastic. If you get a chance to go see them this summer, go.

If you are old enough to remember when they were famous you will remember the pied piper flute playing that winds its way through many of their tunes and has the ability to take your mind away. My friend and I both fondly remembered times long ago, LP’s spinning, kicking back, sparking the LC, ( as I’m told is the current vernacular) and wasting away the afternoon listening to those Gainesville guys.

At one point I noticed a woman dancing in the crowd, tie died T-shirt, gray hair, granny glasses and Birkenstocks. She had to be 70. She had that far away look in her eyes of someone who never quit sparking the LC. She probably listened to them before they were famous. I watched a small group of hip-hopping gang bangers come up behind her and start dancing around, making fun of her. But ya know, it wasn’t long before they were caught up by the pied piper and in stead of making fun, they were just dancing away down the same path as that old woman.

The pied piper isn’t picky though; anyone with an open ear can hear the path and follow it off. The kids had to be all of 15 to 17 years old, and I bet they had never even heard of The Marshall Tucker Band before. I bet they didn’t know the band was named after a high school gym teacher the band members all disliked, although they might have appreciated that. I’m pretty sure they would have appreciated all the sparkin’ the LC that has occurred everywhere the pied piper has played.

That was my favorite scene from the whole day. I stood and watched as really good music made a bridge between two worlds.

The band quit way too early, on account of the town having a curfew for loud music. I was appalled that the curfew would apply to an event like this. Apparently it’s OK to be a glutton, drink in the streets, and shop ‘till you drop, but none of this dancing and listening to a loud band past 10 pm. We headed off to find our obscure parking spot as the crowd headed back to the food booths for one last piece of this or serving of that. The ice cream, donut, cupcake and pie booths were swamped. No wonder we have such high rates of obesity.

My Meandering Tale of My Love Affair With Pool

I remember the first time I became aware of the sport of billiards. I was captivated from the start. I was only a child, in grade school. Our math teacher entertained us with a movie about geometry. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck played pool on a big green table. The commentator explained angles and fractions and all kinds of mathematical relationships illustrated by the loveable cartoon character’s billiard shots. There was something special about the way those beautiful colored balls could be sent spinning around from one rail to another and actually land where they were supposed to. It seemed like magic! I never forgot it.

My Love affair with billiards sprouted when I was a teenager. My best friend’s dad had an eight foot table in the play room. He and his sons would piddle around with the game. I suppose it was a male bonding thing. Meanwhile my friend, the only daughter, was excluded because they said, “pool is for men”. Of course this attitude just made us more curious about the game and we took any opportunity to mess around with the “men’s game” when no one was looking. We carefully replaced the sticks, chalk, and balls when we were done so her dad didn’t think we had become too masculine for his tastes.

When I went off to college, half way across the country, my friend went with me, just so she could escape from home. We got an apartment just blocks from the college and I spent all my time there, rather than in the dorm. Being recently freed from the yoke of parental supervision, we did what any other almost legal young’ins would do, and took to hanging out at the local honky-tonk. It was cool, dark, had cold beer, and a few pool tables.

It was there we met a bunch of brothers, recently released from the army and pretty darn good at the game of pool. I learned that the army will teach you how to play pool, because every rec center has tables. I quickly caught on to the basics- how to hold the stick and make a few balls. The bar, and then with the brothers tutorage, the pool halls became my home away from home. They were a haven from the heat of the southwest back when air conditioning was a luxury that none of us could afford.

Over the years we all drifted our separate ways, but my way always seemed to be in the direction of another pool table. When I moved another half way across the country to go to another college, I found pool had become something I could always count on. It filled the space between classes and gave me an opportunity to focus on something besides books. I also found practicing the sport to be relaxing, so it gave me a break from the stress of graduate school. There was a pool hall just moments from campus where I led an alternative life away from my classmates. None of them played and that really didn’t matter, pool, after all, is the perfect solitary sport. Even when you are playing against others, you are really playing yourself. The competition is between your last best game, and your current game.

I graduated and moved again and for a time, gave up playing. Most pool players will tell you there have been spaces in their lives when they didn’t play. Sometimes spaces of years. Life happens, and jobs, kids, family stuff can tend to cut into your time for sports. Some players just get fed up with it and have to take time off. I’ve never met anyone who said they never went back to it. I found myself living in an area where there were no pool halls, and the bars were just crowded, dark and unfriendly. I took a few years off.

My next move, as luck would have it, took me straight into the arms of the most pool friendly community I had ever known. I could not have imagined it when I moved again half way across the country. I found myself a nice little apartment just a block from a library (I always look at proximity to libraries when I rent), and it turned out, just a mile from a pool hall. I got busy building my new life and found again, that pool was my close companion. I had moved to a town where I did not know a soul, I started filling my lonely time with racks of balls. I had a new home away from home, and an old love to focus on in that stressful time of starting my business.

Around that time I met two people who would change my view of pool forever. The first was a handsome pool player with a very serious game. I started hanging out watching my sweetie play and I was amazed at the depth of his game. I hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of playing pool. I spent hours watching “money games’, and afterwards would ask “How did you do this shot?” or “Why did you make this shot?” or “Why didn’t you make this shot?”- a really important question in the real game of pool.

I also met a woman who was to become a good friend, a professional player and director of one of the leagues in town. It turned out the town was a breeding ground for female professionals and had leagues playing almost every night of the week. She encouraged me to sign up to play in a league and even hooked me up with a team willing to take on a beginner. I’m forever grateful for her kindness, and the kindness of my first team mates who encouraged me and taught me and put up with me when it was apparent I was way “out of my league’.

My first season was a complete disaster. First I showed up for league only to find it was a 9-ball league! I had never played 9-ball, didn’t even know the rules, and was certain that it took a lot more skill than 8-ball. I was so nervous I couldn’t hit a ball, and when I did hit a ball, they never went where I intended. I took a severe beating every time I played and pretty soon I was sure I couldn’t play. I was ecstatic when the season was over because although I was a terrible shot, I definitely am not a quitter and I hung in there for the entire embarrassing 16 weeks. I went home, hid my cue in the back of the closet and vowed not to show my face in a pool hall for at least a few months.

My vow didn’t stick and I was soon up early every morning to take advantage of the opening silence of the average pool hall. By then, another venue had opened just blocks from my apartment and I went every morning to practice. I was soon joined by a group of retired gentlemen who met there for coffee each morning and then wiled away their hours betting small change on a variety of pool games I had never heard of. Again, the kindness of the pool community drew me back in as the “old Guys” gave me tips on my stance, stroke and aiming techniques.

The more I learned, the more I realized I didn’t know anything and that I needed the help of a professional. I decided to get serious and made the call. The call to the guy who was teaching the female professionals in town. I set up a time to go hit some balls with him and talk about what I didn’t know. I think his first reaction to my demonstration of my abilities was “Holy Mother of God, what am I going to do with this one’, only I’m not sure because he was muttering in Spanish which, at the time, was still a foreign language to me.

After thoroughly assessing my lack of ability, he agreed to take me on as a student- with four conditions. I had to pay for a month up front, two lessons a week. I had to show up for the lessons, no misses. I had to be willing to let go of everything I thought I knew about pool, ( hey, I read Carlos Castanda, I was sure I had hit pool consciousness pay dirt here), and last but not least, I had to practice. He assured me he would know if I had not, and I knew he was telling the truth.

Agreements made, he gave me my first practice drill. Hit the ball down the rail, on each side of the table, as many times as it took to make the pocket 100 times. Sounds simple, is incredibly hard for a beginner, and makes a good bar bet, ( “bet ya can’t make this shot 3 times in a row”) because you just can’t do it if you don’t stroke straight. After a few gazillion rail shots, I was feeling like the little kid in that Karate Kid movie. When would I ever see how this seemingly mindless task was going to make me a player?

Again, I had met someone who changed my view of pool forever. I remained steadfast in my practice, up to 30 hours a week at one point, and I fell even more in love with the game. My teacher became my friend, and we remain close to this day. He challenged me to be the very best that I could be. Over the course of six years, he patiently set up thousands of shots for me, and coached me in all things pool, and a few things about life in general as well. He never wavered in his faith that I could be a great player, and his faith helped me achieve more than I thought I could.

My teacher had advised me not to play, just practice for a year. This I did, and at the end of the year one of my coffee club friends set me up with an all female 8-ball bar league team that was looking for another player. I figured I was ready to get back in the game. The team took me in like a long lost sister. I started loosing my competition jitters and started making a lot of friends. I was winning enough to make me feel like I belonged on a league and having a great time to boot.

Over the next few years our team roster changed a bit and we worked our way up the roster to become one of the top teams on the league. Meanwhile our venues seemed to be working their way down the list from friendly bar to hole in the wall in dangerous neighborhood. My last season on the league we played a team housed in a notorious biker bar, and although the team was nice enough, the guys riding bikes through the bar and the questionable activities in the restrooms became too distracting and I bailed out.

By that time, I was already playing on several “big table” leagues as well, in the much safer pool halls.

Now you might find this confusing, since pool halls tend to have a bad connotation, but honestly, in my opinion, most of the trouble in pool halls comes from people who don’t really play pool. The guys out on a Friday to hit a few balls and get stinking drunk are a problem, and they aren’t players. I’ve heard rumors as well, about late night big money games becoming something like an incident from a crime novel but I’ve never seen it myself. Overall, pool halls are safe family fun, and on league night, usually no problem. OK, I did see one good fight one night at league, but that’s one fight out of hundreds of nights of play, and I have to say, the guy deserved it!

At that point I was playing on two all female teams (including the infamous “Ball Busters”) and subbing on another, I was deeply entrenched in the pool hall scene. It was time to start playing tournaments. I started playing mixed tournaments and always ended up going home early. I was learning my game though, how to “not react” to a bad shot, how to remain calm when I was down a few games, how to remain focused between sets, how to be a kind winner and a gracious loser.

I was also making new friends, as some of the tournament players were not on leagues. I met one of my closest friends at a tournament. I showed up early to practice, I’m a slow starter, I need to warm up for a while before I play. In walks a woman I had never seen before, I was the only other woman in the hall so she sauntered over and asked if she could hit a few balls with me. I was impressed with her skills and we had a lot in common, both from the northeast originally, both with fancy degrees, and both with a Wiley dry sense of humor. By the end of the day I had asked her to join one of the all girl teams I was on. We’ve been close ever since.

The first woman’s tournament I played, I actually won. After a grueling 10 hours in the losers’ bracket of a ladies B-player 9-ball tournament, I double dipped the defending champion and walked away with the cash. Well, actually, I didn’t walk away with the cash, I donated it back to the pool organization that sponsored the tournament. I did however walk away with the official bracket sheet with my name in the top dog spot. It was worth every minute of that long day.

I was getting comfortable with competing (vs. playing) pool, and somebody noticed. I got a call from the top ladies team in town, would I like to audition for a spot. Now, usually a team forms based on friendship as much as skill. This team, however, was bound for glory and they knew it. They had a history of graduating professional players. They were looking for skill first, steady nerves second, and hopefully, friendship would follow. I got the spot, and friendship did follow. These ladies were not only some of the best players in town, but some of the nicest as well.

I was in over my head again, and I knew it. Apparently they didn’t though, and I started practicing with one of those girls (who took me under her wing- thank you!), and my game took off again. I was the weakest player on the team, but their strength pulled me forward. They advised but never criticized, they laughed at my mistakes but never unkindly. They, like my teacher, challenged me to be better than I was. Playing with these ladies really helped me to develop the confidence to start playing in the Hunter’s tournaments, part of the pro-qualifying circuit, which they all played, and where I would meet my team mates as competitors over and over.

At the end of that season, I went to Las Vegas for the first time to play in the Billiards Congress of America National 8-ball Championship. I went with one of only five ladies teams in the country powerful enough to be ranked masters. Now, I have to tell you I was still the weakest link, and because the competition was so close, I never did play in that tournament. My team played beautifully, only losing one match, and I was proud to be there with them. I went back the next year, as a sub for another team and I played every match. Both times, I was happy to be there. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be a serious player and be in the middle of a huge tournament like that. It’s heaven.

That season was the end of a long run for the ladies team, they decided (maybe?) to quit while they were ahead and we scattered to other teams. I think that may have been the first year I put together my own team.

Some teams are formed just for power, team captains invite only the strongest players. I wanted a team that was strong, but fun as well. I knew a lot of players by that time, and being pretty easy to talk to, I had a good idea of who was happy with their current team and who might be interested in switching to a new ream for the next season. I started looking for great players who were fun to be around and had winning attitudes. Of course I went to players from past teams first, and hooked up with a few great players who would remain with the team through all its incarnations.

Over the years I made a few mistakes, but when I did I made sure to change the roster before the next season. I actively recruited players during the summer break. Twice I got to the start of the season with out enough players and ended up inviting a player I hardly knew to join us, that was always risky, sometimes it worked great and that guy became one of our best and most reliable players. Sometimes it didn’t work and the person dropped out or was not asked to play again.

Occasionally I tried to steal players from other teams. I’m so darn cute and persuasive, it usually worked. I got some of our best players that way, including one really fine player who put up with me begging him every time I saw him for several months before he finally agreed to play with us. He got to the point were every time I walked up to him he rolled his eyes and tried to walk away, but I persisted and finally found a few things we had in common to build a friendship on- science, music, humor-and eventually won him over.

I think I spent five years as team captain. As a team we grew into a winning one, taking first place in our league the last two years we played together. As friends, we grew as well and I came to love everyone on that team. As team mates you support, encourage and depend on each other. We shared our lives tales, our happiness and our woes at least once a week for years. I rarely saw my teammates out side of the pool hall, none of them had ever been to my home, but I could not have been closer to them. They were my family and I think most people who play on leagues would say the same thing, their team is like family.

I’m coming to the end of this great meandering tale now, I made another cross country move and for the second time I ended up in a place with just a few pool halls, none of them friendly to ladies. I’ve decided to take a little time off, learn to write, paint a few landscapes, stuff like that. My pool cue case sits in the corner in the living room, I see it every day. I know playing pool is like riding a bike, once you know how, you never forget. I know my love affair with pool is not over, I’m just on hiatus. Some things in your life are sure. The sun is going to rise, taxes will be due, death is going to knock at your door, and for me, pool is always going to be there, to keep me company, to amuse me, to challenge me, and to lead me to great friends.

My Best Guess as to the Essence of Pool

Adoring public waits patiently- that should be the headline for this post. I know you have waited almost a week to see the details of my sordid life among the hustlers and sharks of the pool hall world. I’m going to make this a two part post, the first part about the essence of the game, is here. The second part, a closer look at my personal journey with the game will post in the near future.

I’m sure you have anticipated a story full of the slow drift of smoke from a cigarette laid on the edge of a pool table, the sound of a rack of pool balls breaking, crisply snapped, the slow nodding of players down the hall who also heard the snap of the rack breaking, even though they were not listening. They couldn’t help it, it’s instinctual at this point, they hear it and nod because they know it was a good break just from the sound.

You are expecting the background hum of some old juke box that plays incessantly even though no one is really listening, the smell of fried food and beer and cigars. The distant crackle of conversation and the sound of cars racing or commentary on sports from the big TV’s above the bar, an occasional burst of laughter at some joke shared by the old timers and career drinkers gathered there.

You are probably anticipating the story of games gone bad, of fights, gambling and guns. You may wonder what the heck this lady was doing, drifting through days with out the sun, nights with out moon, the glare of fluorescents above the pool tables lighting her way.

I must have walked through those doors hundreds of thousands of times. Doesn’t matter which hall, the doors are all the same, a small tunnel taking you from sunlight to darkness, keeping the cool in and the hot out, closing off the world. I guess I always entered head bowed, because I remember the carpets, the tile, the floor, the look and smell of the entry way of the halls. Leaving the outside world behind, zeroing in on the objective for the day, be it practice, play, or competition. Maybe it’s just a game, but I don’t know too many people that play it just for fun.

That may be one of the things you are not anticipating, the many distinctions in pool. You may be picturing Paul Newman as the young hustler, Jackie Gleason the seasoned player, head on like rams locked in battle. Possibly you have been in a pool hall, maybe a Saturday night when the crowd is there, full of young guys playing hustler and young girls watching from high stool perches, their long legs and high heels holding on for dear life.

There is a good possibility you have never seen anyone practice, never seen a real match played. As usual, life is not like the movies.

I did see a match one time that reminded me of the movies, a seasoned older player and a young cocky player locked in some kind of combatant dance. I didn’t think it was just about pool. The young man was losing, but not by much so he kept betting, waiting for his comeback that never came. He bet away his rent, his food, his gas, he had nothing but anger and resentment by the time his opponent figured he had done enough damage and called it quits. Both of them were the kind of players you think my stories will be full of, one who loves to see others squirm, the other one, can’t help it, self esteem so bad they want to squirm.

You also may expect the hapless character, running into bad luck, like the guy I know who won big at a match in Vegas and was greeted in the parking lot when he left by a man with a gun, expecting the winnings to be returned.

You might expect stories of bad guys and I could give you that too, only the worst guys I met were not in the pool halls, but in the bars I played in while I was on the bar table leagues. Not the players mind you, the guys in the bar. Like the notorious biker gang members who decided to have a big meeting in their hang out which was one bar in our league.

It happened to be the night we played. We were an all girl team. The set up wasn’t nice.
The pack of big guys in matching leather vests obviously worked up about something. The constant stream of skinny, hollowed eyed girls back and forth to the rest room to “powder” their noses. These were distracting, but not as much as the interruption that came when one of the bad guys, I’m guessing pretty liquored up, drove his bike through the bar and a small skirmish erupted. The headline in the paper the next day- Early Morning Raid-Gang Members Arrested After Body Found Behind Bar.

Maybe you think that is too dark, to unsettling and would rather hear about the colorful cast of characters that inhabit any pool hall.

The hustlers groping for a money game, the disabled guys who can’t work because of their backs, who by some miracle, can lean over a pool table all day, The groups of retired guys visiting, joking and shedding the day by playing a game of golf on the pool table. The road players, stumbling in and innocently missing balls as they watch the play around them, and the young guys with cheap cues playing alone, vows to be a player whispered, grips to tight, and strokes that wobble.

You might even hear of the lone female player, off in a corner paying no attention to all of these characters, just setting up shots and hitting them over and over and over. You might hear of the old timers telling tales of past conquests, like my dear friend Louie who, years ago, beat Minnesota Fats so bad he felt obligated to send him back to his hotel in a limo. Apparently Minnesota Fats was the gentleman he was rumored to be, posing graciously with my friend after the match so a photo could be taken of Louie and the great man he beat.

Maybe you have watched pool on TV and expect stories of incredible shots and winning games. I have those too, like the time my friend and I were annoyed by some drunks playing at the table next to us. My friend chose a moment when they were gathered around their pitcher of beer and expertly launched a “bad” shot across the table which resulted in the cue ball flying off the table right into the pitcher of beer, soaking all the drunks. My friends shot was so “bad”, even the drunks could not imagine he had done it intentionally.

Or the last time I practiced 9-ball and ran a rack without really knowing it, honestly, I was in the zone just focused on each shot, not thinking about the rest of the game. Several bystanders came up to comment on my perfect game, and I’m sure they were confused when I said “I ran the table? That is great, really, I wasn’t paying attention”.

I’m sure you will like this tale, the one about the macho guy on the opposing team making snide remarks about having to play a “bunch of girls”, his nasty attitude directed at his first opponent. He complained about the non-regulation house cue ball making it clear that if he lost, it was because of that cue ball. The little blond lady, his opponent, smiling sweetly as she pulled a regulation cue ball out of her case. ( his fist missed clue) Smiling sweetly as she put her custom cue sticks together. ( his second missed clue) Smiling sweetly and assuring him that what ever made him happy and allowed him to play his best was OK with her.

The rest of us “bunch of girls” gathered together snickering, (his third missed clue) as he got ready to break the rack and play one of the states top female players, who, apparently he did not recognize. He broke, made one ball and missed. She ran the table to win, he sat watching with mouth hanging open. I think she may have made some comment to him about him being right, “that cue ball sure did work good”. He drank and drank through the match as he was beat five times by five girls. No doubt he used his drinking as an excuse for losing when the topic came up in the future. That ladies team played national competition at the masters level at the end of that season.

Maybe you would like the story of the 9-ball player who, after two quick lessons in straight pool strategy and breaking, played a total of 20 straight pool games in her life, sixteen of them to take second place in a straight pool league that had never before had a female player, and probably never will again.

Yes, it’s true there are lots of wild stories to be had, lots of stereotypes to find comfort in. I think those movie images of the pool hall have forgotten to convey a bigger story of pool. Maybe those Hollywood types don’t know the story of the similarities with life that the game of pool brings to mind.

In pool, having a vision of where you are going is everything. You map the game out from the beginning, and have a plan B and maybe even a plan C in case of unexpected challenges. Players are constantly competing, not just with their opponent, but with them selves. They develop the mind set that makes them strive to be better everyday, every time they play.

No body likes to be a loser, but in pool, you learn to take the loss and find something in it that you can use to be better next time. You learn to win and to lose gracefully. Sometimes, you play safe, a strategy that allows your opponent to make the next move, while you wait for a better opportunity. How many times in life have you wished you had done nothing just then? Pool teaches you patience, perseverance, and dedication, because you really can’t be very good at it without those attributes.

Pool can be seen as a microcosm, imitating life. You have your good and bad days, you meet people you love and others you could do without, you have distractions and disasters along side smooth waters and great joy. You are constantly learning, going from infancy to maturity in the game. You are constantly confronted with opportunities to find out who you really are, and to demonstrate who you really are.

That may not be the stuff great movies are made of, but it is the stuff great lives are made of. Some of the nicest, most successful people I’ve ever met, I met there, in the pool halls, among the hustlers, sharks, and characters; among the trick shots, great runs, and legendary games; among the losers and winners of the great game of pool.

Epic Journey Saga Takes Years To Write.

Another week goes by and I find myself again all wrapped up in what I thought would be a simple post. I was inspired this week by a flitter of e-mails back and forth between myself and one of my dear friends. My friend became my friend while we were playing pool in leagues. Some of my very best friends are people I met in the pool halls where I spent a good deal of a certain ten years of my life.

My friend and I were communicating back and forth about the challenges of family, and the balance necessary for a life well lived. My friend had some really wise words for me and it got me thinking about the relationships I built across many a nine foot table. I decided it was time to tell the story of my adventures in 9-ball and pool halls, and the story of these people I hold so close to my heart.

I began writing and found myself re-living a long journey. A journey that is so much a part of who I am, that it has to be told as a long story of meandering through lessons that apply not only to pool, but to life. Ive been working on it for hours now, and I can see it's going to take a while longer. Meanwhile, I'm getting bloggers butt and typers elbow, so I don't think I will finish today.

I hope your week gets off to a great start, and if you check back later in the week I think you will find an epic journey story that is worth the time it takes to read.

Thanks for reading and hey, enjoy today!

My Own Good Advice For Writers Part 5

My last post has now been edited, and corrections made. The aftermath of the big yard sale was a whirl wind of catching up on my usual weekend chores, getting ready for the week ahead, and trying to find just a smidgen of down time in which to lie on the couch like a beached whale and maybe read a book or watch a good movie. Sunday went by so fast I hardly knew it had arrived.

Through out that whole day I percolated on my after-the-yard-sale article. I danced to and fro with it, waltzing with words, kicking up my heels with concepts and generally flouncing around with various funny thoughts about the whole affair.

I just couldn’t seem to nail it down, and I really didn’t feel like writing it just yet. Now, I’ve been one of those artistically inclined individuals my whole life, and as a teenager I tested the waters of “artistic temper -mentality” – there were times I just was not in the mood to get the creative juices to gush. It gave me an aura of artistic regality, but it just didn’t lend its self to being a really great artist. There were too many reasons to say I’m not in the mood. I finally gave it up, and for years now I’ve been a “just do it” kinda gal.

If it’s on the schedule, I finish the project. So by Monday I was gnawing at the bit to get my percolating into a post and publish it for my loyal readers. I’m really working on my ability to write on demand and produce enough really good articles to fill a spot in a weekly publication, you know, so when the New York Times comes a calling I can say yes to a hefty contract for a weekly column. Then I can take my lap top, fly to Tahiti and work.

Any Hoo- I glued my butt to the chair Monday morning with a time frame of about a hour. My day job was waiting and I just knew if I didn’t get that post posted, I would be thinking about it the whole afternoon. I “Just did it”, and finished up 15 minutes before I was due at my day job. I really didn’t have much time to do any editing. I did run the spell check. Feeling like a pro- I sauntered off to work, knowing my mind was free from worry. I made my self imposed deadline; I was on my way to being a productive member of the authors’ society.

Not long after, the article and its contents started scratching at my mind. OH! I realized I had forgotten to say something important. Then my mind started scratching faster, like a dog with fleas. Should have added this to that paragraph? Did I intersperse past tense with present tense? (a common mistake for me) Did I tell the entire tale in first person or did my voice waver from paragraph to paragraph, first person to observer? Did I miss a comma? Did the spell check say yes to putt when I meant put? Did I mistakenly conjugate my adjectives?

Pretty soon my mind had scratched itself into a frenzy and I was dancing around with my article while I was trying to do my day job. This is very distracting. I kept praying to the Patron Saint of Writers that no one from The New Yorker was checking out my sub-par post. I was wishing my regular readers would be so busy at work they did not even three minutes of their boss’s time to check out my latest post. I couldn’t wait to get back to the computer and fix my common mistakes, left hanging for the entire world to see because I wanted to fulfill my obligation as a serious series writer and post on a regular basis!

So my own good advice for writers is this- Always polish before you publish. Otherwise you might end up like yours truly, with a mind scratching and dancing and percolating all over the place, while your half baked post is fluttering in the breeze for all to see like a pair of underwear on a clothes line.

My Big Fat Yard Sale

Well it was a fine weekend for my largest in the universe yard sale. I’m really trying to simplify my life, and that was the first step. See my post dated Friday May 2nd 2008 for details on how I decided what to part with.

Now some people think a yard sale is a way to make easy money, but I have to say it was a lot of work.

First I had the weeks of looking at every one of the 18,000 items that I own, and trying to decipher what was what, where it came from and pondering what the heck I was doing with it. Honestly, I think some alien force was making items manifest out of dust bunnies and planting them in my home.

Then there were the days of categorizing items and placing them in boxes- the vintage clothes I no longer wear box, the long ignored Christmas decorations box, the odd remnants of some long forgotten lifestyle box, the overdue to be retired books box, the interesting but never used kitchen gadget box, the forgotten media box, and on and on.

Then I went through the whole -how do you price these things?- dilemma, with great advice from my sister, whose mother-in-law is a yard sale professional – mark everything with a price that is more than you want- then make a deal with shoppers. If you have something you want a good price for, mark the tag with the name Betty, and when people ask to pay less for the item, just tell them “ Oh, I can’t change the price, that belongs to Betty, she’s not here right now”.

The night before the big event, signs were made complete with big smiley faces and slogans such as- “find what you want! Right here, right now!” And “No Junk! Just great Stuff!” And “Slow down you maniac! The speed limit is 35mph and you are about to whiz past the world’s greatest yard sale with out taking the time to rubber neck!”

The most agonizing work was preformed the morning of the event- that would be the work it takes to get butt out of bed at the crack of dawn. Yes, there is no such thing as sleeping in when you are having a yard sale. Urban myths have long flourished which lead people to believe the early bird gets the worm. Early bird yard sale shoppers are legendary in themselves. Who among us has not heard the story about early bird shoppers showing up at 5 am and expecting to look through your yard sale items while they are still sitting in your living room?

I set the alarm for 6 am, and was enveloped in setting up shelves and carrying things out by 6:30. By the way, the shelves and tables needed for a large yard sale are a bit of work in themselves. If I had enough shelf space to put everything in its place, I might not be having a yard sale to begin with! I had to improvise with milk crates and lumber and what not.

Now I was getting down with the really heavy work, lugging boxes from the attic upstairs, to the yard down stairs. I had packed light, but honestly, how light can a 36 volume set of books be? How light can a box of LP’s be? (If you don’t know what I’m referring to, better find out, my inside sources tell me they are on the way back in. Imagine a hard, thin, black, burnt pancake emitting squealing sounds as it goes round and round on a carousel). How light can a built-to-last dresser be? And hey, even if the boxes are light, 3476 trips up and down the stairs is a lot of work!

I was exhausted before the sale even began!

By 7:30 the signs were up, the yard was full of artfully displayed intriguing items, I had a cup of coffee in my hand and was sitting in a lawn chair just waiting for the action to begin. Now, I have to tell you, I live on a very busy street. Night, day, summer, winter, mid-week, weekend, doesn’t matter, it’s almost always busy. It had been busy since 6 AM, and I was pleasantly surprised that no early birds had stopped and tried to run off with the proverbial worm before I was set up. Now I was willing the masses to come.

It didn’t take long for the crowds to arrive. I think some of them, being polite and not wanting to disturb, had parked up the street and been watching with binoculars. As soon as they saw my ass hit the chair, they descended like a cloud of locusts. There was pushing and shoving and elbows flying. Offers were shouted and the bargaining began.

Customer-“What will you take for this pristine art deco wine cooler?”
Me-“Does it have a tag on it?”
Customer-“Yes”
Me smirking -“ I will take thirty dollars over the marked price.”
Confused customer- “What? I will pay the marked price, not a penny more!”
Me smirking more- “All righty then.”

Customer- “Nice purse.”
Me- “Thank you, it’s a 1940’s wool covered box purse with lapis inlay on the clasp.”
Customer- “and this one?”
Me- “ Mid 1950’s alligator skin Kelly purse made in Florida and complete with complementary rain bonnet in original gift packaging.”
Customer- “ I will give you a dollar for both of them”.
Me grabbing said purses from said customers hands- “ Honey, the dollar store is across town. Just take a left out of my driveway and cross the bridge, you can’t miss it.”

Now don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a yard sale elitist. There were shelves full of 50 cent items. I had a slew of 1 dollar items. I had hundreds of items in the 3 to 5 dollar range. I know people stop at yard sales to find a deal, and by golly, I want them to find a deal and go home happy! I did have a few choice vintage items nestled among the junk-em, I mean- less costly items, and I was not going to take a dollar for two vintage purses! Folks, offer me a dollar for a 3 dollar item, I might say yes. Offer me a dollar for two 20 dollar items and I'm definitely saying no.

That’s pretty much how it went for the first 4 hours. About the time I needed a potty break so bad I was contemplating the lilac bushes along the side of the house, where I figured I could pee and watch the hordes at the same time, a friend of mine showed up and offered to set her butt in a lawn chair and give me a break.

Thank Heavens! I’m telling you folks, this yard sale stuff is serious business. You can not just up and walk away from your goods, any more than a major player in the arms race can walk away from a United Nations Inquiry. There is no time for breaks. You have to be on your game the whole time or some nice little granny is libel to take off with your antique candle sticks and leave a one dollar bill in their place.

Now I have to tell you the other urban legend about yard sales. “All the good stuff is gone early”. Hogwash! Misinformation if I ever heard it! It’s just not so! I had so much stuff out in my yard that if a constant procession of lose-fisted obsessive shoppers came by for three days in a row, I would still have plenty of good stuff for them to choose from!

Alas, as we all know, urban legends are bigger than life, and harder to kill than a cockroach. Just ask anyone in New York City about "the alligator in the sewer that comes up through your toilet and drags you into the plumbing" story, they will swear it is so, they know someone, who knows someone , who knew someone, who is now missing.

By one o'clock in the afternoon the flood had dried up and the yard sale became a dry cracked lake bed. I sat for another hour, reading a book and watching the traffic go by. I tried re-arranging items to make the display look bigger. I tried moving choice items closer to the road. I tried projecting an urgent need to stop into the minds of each driver coming along. I tried disguising my self as a yard sale shopper and pantomimed my joy at an amazing find, thinking this might overcome the urban myth.

But alas, it was not to be. They yard sale had come to a screeching halt. It was time for the next phase of real work to begin- the pack up. I had already scripted my early withdrawal contingency plan. If I had anything left over that was not vintage, it was going into the trunk of the car and straight to the local thrift store. I stuck to my plan like a duck on a June bug. I didn’t even look as I boxed everything up and set it in the car. By this time it was about 110 out and I was sweating a river. I decided it was a good thing the sale had ended, I was beat.

Like I said, this easy money is a lot of work, and I was not the only one working that day. I pulled up to the thrift store drop off door and there was a line of post-lawn-sale people de-cluttering their lives. The chatter among them was something about how many people stopped, what part of town the sale was in, and the odd balls who were looking for specific items like an easy bake oven light bulb, size 23 purple crushed velvet dress pants, a turquoise toaster oven and old fishing hooks.

While I waited in line I managed to sell a few items to people who, unlike myself, were not able to un-clutter with out instantly cluttering right back up. I then dumped the goods and made my way home. I counted the money, smiled and thought of all the open space in my house. I swear, it felt expansive and I felt lighter. I was on my way to a clutter free life.

PS Today I found this interesting related article in Time magazine. Some guy named Dave is challenging people to de-clutter until they have just 100 personal items. Seems this movement is catching on, I’m not the only one looking to simplify my life and become a more conscious consumer. You can check out his website at www.guynameddave.com

Sudden Spike in Popularity Mystifies Writer

Thank You all you new fans who stopped by to read my post and check out my profile in the last week.

It is so much fun to check the counter and see that it's really starting to count! It's exciting to know that my writing is attracting people. Maybe when I grow up I really will be a writer. Yeah, yeah, I'm a writer now, but I mean one who makes I living writing, or at least a secondary, "multiple streams of income" kinda income from writing.

I mean, here it is 5 months after my first post, and in the last week I've had more new readers than in the previous 4 months and 29 days. I've been averaging 20 new readers a month, I've had five times that in the last week!

For those of you who have not blogged- when you read my posts you don't register on the counter, because you are assumed to be a previous reader. When you read my profile you are counted, assuming you are a new reader, smitten with my writing and checking out this fabulous author's profile.

All I can figure is it has to do with the last post and SATC fever. I wrote something that someone enjoyed reading and wanted to share with friends. They may have clicked on the little envelope and sent it to all their SATC fan friends. They must have been so charmed that they had to look and see who wrote this witty and articulate accounting of the SATC movie. They viewed my profile.

So, Thank You.

I'm working on the next post, I have a few ideas swirling around up in the ol' noggin', I hope by the end of today they will solidify into something worth posting for my growing and greatly appreciated audience!

I admit it- I got Carried away over the weekend.

Yes, I made my small contribution to the 55.6 million opening weekend of Sex And The City. Sorry Indy, but you had a good week or two as top dog, now move it on over for the girls in Jimmy Choos.

Honestly, I couldn’t help myself any more than the salmons of Capistrano can help flocking together and heading south. (While we are talking movies, tell me which one I just referenced and I will put your name up in lights!) Now maybe I should explain, because if you happen to be a regular reader, by now you know that I don’t watch TV. Movies, yes. TV, no. Except when someone recommends a good series and I can find it on DVD’s. Which is exactly how I got the SATC fever.

A trusted friend told me I would find it funny, so I sought it out at the library. I didn’t start with season one, I couldn’t find it. I started, I think with season two. It was colorful, somewhat entertaining, and then I saw the scene where Miranda takes a seat at a bar next to a nice looking guy and they strike up a conversation. They have mutual interests, he has manners, he is single, they have a few laughs.

Miranda is just thinking that this guy is pretty nice and maybe there is a chance they could get to know each other better, maybe all the good guys are not gay or married, and he excuses himself to go to the loo. He stands up and he is the height of the bar stool. No I kid you not, the guy was about 4 foot 6. I laughed so hard I thought my brains were going to fall out. I was hooked. Obviously this was a show that any girl could relate to, and have a good time doing it. I watched every episode of every season.

Now, if you have plans to go see this little gem, and I hope you do, don’t read any farther! I’m not kidding. Just stop right now and get your butt back to work. Don’t continue! I’m about to spill the beans about Big, the girls, the guys, the shoes, the purses and the whole rest of this fashion laced fairy tale.

I don’t go to the movies much, so maybe my impression of it is a little askew, but I don’t remember the last time the theatre was so full. Just about every seat was taken. That makes the movie more fun in my opinion. With a full theatre you can feel the movie in magnified terms.

For example, when Steve admitted his infidelity to Miranda, there was a collective gasp the size of a mushroom cloud. You could feel it! I didn’t have to see everyone else to know that their mouths were hanging open too. This, to me, was the biggest shocker of the movie. I mean, my God, everybody likes Steve, we all trusted him, he had wormed his way into our hearts with his patience, understanding and stupid jokes. He was the least likely to break his vows! How could he!

I was not at all surprised when Big left Carrie standing at the alter with just her bridesmaids and designer gown, It did not surprise me to learn Charlotte was “preggies” even though we all knew a long time ago she couldn’t conceive and she and that cue ball headed Jewish hot house she’s married to already had adopted. I was not surprised when Sam called it quits with her arm candy- although I was a bit shocked that she would end up a dog owner. But my God, Steve’s confession came out of left field and the whole audience was shocked.

(by the way, what is with these tiny dogs? Is everyone in NYC enthralled with dogs the size of armadillos? Couldn’t Charlotte trade those three tiny fur balls in for one long legged champion and have a better daily run and less combing to boot? I mean, now that they have two kids, won’t she be to busy to groom three dust mops?)

Carries little Eiffel tower purse was the best supporting fashion and probably should have been the star. The wedding gown was given the spotlight but I really was not that impressed with it. Sam’s “going to Mexico with the girls” outfit was more noteworthy. As for the purse Carrie gave her assistant? I loved it. I usually prefer more geometric and simplistic purse designs, but hey, it was beautiful, wasn’t it?

And the blue shoes, who were cast as Cinderella’s slippers? Yes, I loved them, just my color, however I don’t think I would ever cram my big feet into something like that. Did you see the heals on those babies? Yikes!

Speaking of Cinderella, yes, we all know Sex and The City is a fairy tale, with a little day time soap thrown in. The glamour, the guys, the money, the fashion, the happy endings. Fairy tales are supposed to help us figure ourselves out. They teach us something about our psyche. They bring the big issues into focus.

Yes, we know it’s a fairy tale, a wonderful one. And, just like a fairy tale should, watching the movie caused a big truth lurking under my unconscious mind to surface. Something I would not have accessed with out help from this fairly tale movie. I finally realized the truth. Sometimes it’s hard to face the truth, and even harder to admit it to someone else. Right now I’m going to reveal the truth to you, and in doing so, I hope to unleash the healing.

The truth is: I don’t care what they say about Carrie’s fashion sense, to me, it’s immature. Yes, I said it. Carrie’s outfits are not good fashion, they are an attempt to look fashionable and they fall short. The one with the real fashion sense is Miranda.

OK, it’s out in the open now. I feel better. Now, maybe you could use a dose of unconscious stirring and revealing yourself, if so, hop on down to the matinee and see the movie. Even if you were not a regular fan, you are going to enjoy the images. I guarantee you will see something revealing.

Tickle Tickle

I lay my head back against the lava rock and stared up at the sky. The humidity in the air dulled the blue a bit, but it still was the color you would expect from a tropical sky, blue enough to swim in. A few small clouds floated by and I followed their movement as they brushed up against the tops of rugged mountains flanked by a heavy cloak of their own clouds, much denser and almost a silver gray. The Mountains bore the dense tropical foliage you would expect in a remote corner of paradise.

Between myself and the mountains lay acres of uninhabited rough land covered with lava slides. One would think nothing grew on this lunar inspired landscape, but upon closer examination it is revealed that something is growing. Apparently the lava is fertile soil for a plant with roots like talons that can dig into the hard lava ground and become footing for a single stalk which proudly carries one perfect orchid bloom. The entire landscape is dotted with these tough little orchids, like a bag of cotton balls spilled out over a black counter top.

Closer to my resting place, palm trees grew in profusion. The soil here was not the solid lava rock, but, because the location was just a coconuts throw from the magnificently powerful waves of hundreds of miles of open ocean, the ground was covered with a fine black sand, pulverized lava rock, which apparently is the perfect growing medium for coconut palms. The trees were grouped along the coast in twos and threes, like sentries on watch for invaders off the water. As I lay there I tried to imagine how long it took for the waves to turn orchard supporting lava rocks into palm growing sand.

As I contemplated the immeasurable time it would take to turn rocks to sand I became aware of a tickle at my toes. It came and went like the rhythm of the waves I could hear behind me, crashing against the shelf of lava between my resting spot and the ocean. It was a small tickle, first around big toe, then at my ankle. Like a tiny feather brushing by me on the wind.

I lifted my hand from the cool water of my resting place and wiped the sweat from my face. I was up to my neck in a tidal pool, full of the ocean left by the last high tide. My spot was the size of a large claw footed bathtub and sand lined the bottom to create a comfortable cushion between my behind and the lava rocks. The water was warmer than that which pounded against the rock ledge, warmed by the morning sun to the temperature of the air around me. Warm as it was, it still cooled me, washing away the sweat from my hike to the remote beach.

The tickle came again, around my small toe now and along the outer edge of my foot. I opened one eye and cast about in the water, wondering where the feather had come from. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of movement. Darting around my foot, a little yellow streak in the shadows. A wiggle of my toes and the yellow streak darted back and forth. Toes still, like a lily pad on a pond brought the yellow streak back to my foot, tickle tickle.

I looked closer, this time both eyes searching and I found the yellow streak surrounded by black, a tiny arrow streaking around in my tropical tub. I was not the only traveler seeking respite from the high sun in the cool of this tidal pool. A tiny fish, no more than two inches long shared my bath. My movement had brought the tiny fish to a standstill, fins in slow rippling motion, holding my little companion in the shadow of a tiny overhang on the edge of our lava rock tub.

I said a little prayer for the tiny fish, that it be lifted from this tide pool with the first high tide of the night. That it sail on the waves back to the ocean, into the cool deep of its home. I lay my head back on the lava rock and closed my eyes relaxing back into the waves, the salt water, the humid air, the lava. I could hear the palm fronds in the breeze. Stillness came. Tickle tickle.