[Poker] exemplifies the worst aspects of capitalism that have made our country so great. ~Walter Matthau

Bluff it Baby….

Rules were created with the single objective to level the playing field. The intention being to accurately account for athleticism, smarts and civility, but how is it that everyone is assigned a distinct, inimitable handicap, before knowing by default, we’re all playing the same game.

The Unencumbered Coup…
World Series Poker No-limit Hold’em in 1978.
It’s the championship finals and Bobby Baldwin was the 23-year-old joke of a poker player, he is rivaled against the favored Crandall Addington, real estate tycoon from Texas, and also the favored victor. Addington had $275,000 chips compared to Baldwin’s measly $145,000. With a slight hesitation following a $95,000 bet was all Baldwin needed for his zero-sum bluff, he threw in the rest of his chips in – convincing Addington that he either had a flush or a straight. After tossing his cards on the table revealing a nine and a ten of hearts made Baldwin the youngest WSP champion, and making Addington the “ASS” who got played. Now, Baldwin is the President of the Bellagio Hotel is Las Vegas, among being inducted in the Poker Hall of Fame.

Oh, the yucky and annoying paradox of choice, gimme, hold, fold ‘em, to bet all or lose nothing. To not choose equates to inaction, to remain passive can be interpreted as proactive. Yes, no or why bother having an opinion, right? Or wrong? Warren Buffet believes the first rule in finance is never to lose – and the second, forget the first. So, we’re supposed to forget to win?

Not to frame our forefathers as myopic wasps, but it is true that the makeup of our country was written hundreds of years ago by philosophical nerds. Were these “marvelously elastic,” (as Roosevelt believed) free market commandments flexible enough to actually address our migration, terrorist and poverish problems? Example: AK45s had yet to be invented when Adams and Jefferson, or hell, Jesus was around.


Anomalous Upbringing
Born in a privileged family in Johannesburg, one of eight in Corsica, a Kennedy, or an autistic, each has a bizarre and unpredictable amalgamation of luck – some obviously more debilitating than others. But with only a certain combination of cards, each chip has to be gambled with cognizance, aware not of how far there is to fall, but there is always, always an opportunity to win. If you know how to convince people there could be an opportunity.

Cards alone can’t break the bank: How many rich snots have been coddled with Ivy-League education, pristine genetics and healthy and generous portions of time with confidence-boosting parents? And failed.

That said, people yes, can win with a combo of cards and smarts - just so happens you’re Bill Gates and your parents happened to donate thousands to your private school technology department, and pretty much fate is in your favor? Sure, but aside from his prerequisites, Gates was, and is a shrewd, inventive guy – locating holes in future markets, and crafting science in industries that didn’t yet, exist.

And then there are the J.K Rowlings whose imagination and scribbles consisted of a wizard and a child sporting ugly glasses – and has sold more books than any other book in the history of the world (sans the bible). And she drafted such a jewel homeless on London sidewalks. Barack Obama’s heroic feat has been an archetype for how circumstance can be overcome– and even, quotes from Helen Keller commemorate how obstacles can eventually inspire others.

Then Win....
While you might think I’ve digressed from faking it and making it, to outperforming others while bogged down with the severities and injustices some are born into, there is a reason a winning hand in poker is pure in its reflection of success. The sharpest poker players read between the lines, under the facial expressions, behind the smirks and through the fear, while still playing by the same rules.

In poker it there is no value in how savvy you’re dressed, what town you’ve been raised and what is your native tongue… The outcome isn’t a result of how people judge what you’re capable of understanding – and calculating – and achieving, the outcome is if you alone, can play your cards better than everyone else expects.

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

Wolverine Meets Jim Carrey and Kate Winselt at a Bar...

Only if Clementine and Joel had some adamantium… amnesia would have been far less painful.

Carmelo Anthony hopefully has that sick shot he hit two seconds before the buzzer against Dallas engraved deep in his brain. Not only do Denver fans have it etched in forever, but also Mark Cuban certainly won’t dismiss that painstakingly spectacular play.

Right now the hundreds of emails, phone messages and errands demanding attention tomorrow are eating away at my snoozing hours tonight.

I fantasize one day I’ll awake with total command of my thoughts, or the digressions or derivatives, the random flurries of nonsense that fall and sneeze on each other while I’m trying to be productive at the magazine. I'll reach over to hit my alarm and, WHAM discover this pre-programmed remote control, user-friendly buttons, to easily switch channels from friends to cocktails, to sports to the golf course, a pedicure and eating something awesome. Finally with the ability to TiVo certain situations I"m not in the mood to participate, and rewind for later use.

But what if the brain were a sponge, no rather, an organized filing cabinet, the colorful steel boxes from Target, or better yet, an unbreakable hard drive. So upon approaching capacity, there was an option to filter through the moments, and delete what is no longer worth reconsidering, or replaying. So instead of letting my present get burned by my past, I could hold on to the good stuff.

But in two of my favorite films, Wolverine and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, (which could possibly be metaphorical for real-time examples), each protagonist faces a similar challenge, should some of the mind be deleted, and if so, which parts?

It appears in both films that the really good stuff is eventually what both characters erase.

And the bad stuff will be left in decent condition for reminiscing purposes... to scold and teach, and reenforce how “good” things currently are. Because if we tasted the good for how great it actually was, it would be painful to know it no longer exists.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.

And so as the sunshine peeks over the tall buildings and floods my bedroom come 6am, my blackberry, a photo shoot, the dry cleaner will drown me. Followed the chaos will be a desperate drive in attempt to make my red eye flight. And chances are I’ll forget that I wrote this entire rambling to begin with. But chances are a funny thing …

It is impressive when an individual can leave the past in a alphabetized scrapbook, and then has the self-discipline to pull out a fading moment with only the intention to shine, buff and neatly tuck away like an old photograph for safekeeping. There are the few recollections that haven't found a home. The delicate times that can't be inserted into a labeled folder, an old drawer, or shoved into a space in the back of my brain for a particular chapter.

These are the depreciating memories taking up occupancy, the ones I expect to lose value, and once that happens they'll be replaced by moments even more wonderful. But as stubborn as they were real, these silly little memories hold on through the night, stick with me through the chilly seasons, warm me when I lose hope, and keep me awake when the calendar becomes too comfortable.

The unexpected surprises, unanticipated opportunities, the successful triumps, and the unpredictable losses. There is love, and then there is strength, when injustice took a punch, and you proved to yourself you were stronger than fear, and the odds.

Those are the powerful memories, the moments so good they hurt, and they never fail to remind me where in life I’m headed, and what has already been left behind.