Wisdom

There’s a meme about the wisdom of the elderly. The wise old man or woman character is so wide-spread that it’s become a cliché. How often do you hear someone called a wise young man or woman? Practically never and when you do it usually means that he/she is pedantic and a bloody bore. Did any cartoonist ever put a wise young man on a mountaintop? Has there ever been a depiction of a shaman just dripping wisdom from his mid-twenties frame? Were the leaders of a tribe or sect ever called “the youngers?” You get the point.

Well, as I age, I can tell you it’s all true. I keep getting wiser and smarter and understand the vagaries of life so much better than I did before. At least I’ve convinced myself that I do – which is pretty much the same thing because a lot of this wisdom thing is persuading others that you’re wise. When they buy it and treat you that way, you are.

But deeper analysis is called for here, as a truly wise one would say…. So I’ve been giving this idea a bit of a toss around in my head and I’ve come up with something that I haven’t seen before.

We get wiser when we get older because a lot of other stuff that used to get in the way of wisdom goes away.

Sex drive drops. In fact, sex becomes something amusing, to be viewed from afar, a game that others play, that we guys used to play and used to play with such abandon that we used to, to use another cliché, think with our dicks. Oh, it’s not that us geezers don’t enjoy a roll in the hay from time to time, it’s just that it becomes something to be enjoyed when you happen upon it, kind of like a surprise when a crab cake actually tastes like crab. The point is that so much of how we wise old dudes interact with people, particularly those of the gender we find attractive, takes on a more reasonable air. I still look down a plunging neckline but I’m enjoying it more like a Rodin statue and less like a handful of clay to be molded. With these interfering factors pushed off the stage by diving testosterone levels and drooping penises we suddenly discover that we are a lot smarter socially and interpersonally than we used to be. We may be, we may not be, but it’s pretty clear that we’ve gotten rid of the noise that used to blanket reason.[1]

Competition is less important. The drive to win every confrontation goes the way of the stiff dick. It doesn’t matter that much anymore. But it’s like sex. It isn’t that we don’t like a good tiff from time to time and, for those of us who play poker, we’re still aggressive and tough old bastards at the tables, it’s just that winning and losing aren’t as important as they used to be. And, voila, the door to acceptance opens. We see ‘the other’ not as a thing to be conquered but as another critter struggling with life and circumstance like we are. We lose our fighting edge but we gain in empathy, in understanding, in acceptance. We become much wiser.

And so it goes…. We’re less angry and see the virtues of other’s ideas. We’re a little slower on the uptake so we have more time to sense the richness of another perspective. We’re less prone to jump to conclusions, so we don’t. We don’t move as fast so we have more time to see and appreciate what’s going on around us.

I am enjoying getting old so much it both frightens and fascinates. I am swimming in wisdom – I kinda wish all those young folks would just slow down and take notice.

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[1] I’m writing this from a heterosexual, male perspective, obviously. I have no doubt that others of other orientations have their own versions of how they age. Feel free to substitute any other organs or objects of interest.

Cruz to Renounce his Canadian Citizenship

Some things in politics are so over the top that it almost isn’t fair to poke fun. This one is the latest, and over-the-top it is — but I can’t resist.

The right wingers in the GOP, the Tea Party crowd, the Birthers, the rabid anti-Muslim folks and, of course, the closeted racists who have been frothing at the mouth for five years now over Barack Hussein Obama’s legitimacy are in a tizzy – a Ted Cruz-induced one. It’s amusing watching the antics of the truly wacky like Orly Taitz, Queen of the Birthers and serial filer of law suits[1] or the dissembling of bad hair-day narcissists like Donald Trump or even those self-serving politicians who used Obama’s “alien qualities” to get a little face-time on TV. My favorite here was Richard Shelby of Alabama who, when asked about Obama’s eligibility to be president said, “Well, you have to be born in America, don’t you?” (His staff quickly walked that one back but his words still hang in the air.)

All are now engaged in an ungraceful dance, ducking and weaving over Ted Cruz’s foreign roots for it has been revealed that he was not born in America but in Canada (in Calgary, Alberta) and his father was not an American by birth but a Cuban who fought (gasp! wheeze!) alongside Castro – before he had a change of heart and left. And these little historical facts are driving them bat-shit crazy.

Cruz is trying to head off concerns about his eligibility to be president but the deep question is and will continue to be: If he’s eligible as a “natural born” citizen (by virtue of his mother’s US citizenship), then isn’t Obama? Cruz holds (for another eight months or so) Canadian citizenship (conferred by his birth there) and he has an unacknowledged but potentially valid Cuban citizenship (through his father). Obama actually has a leg up on Cruz since he was born in the US, in Hawaii – yeah, he really was, really. But even the craziest Teabaggers, the ones who refuse to believe that Obama was born in Hawaii, have a problem. If the Canadian-born Cruz is “okay” because his mother was an American then Obama would have to be similarly legit even if he were actually born in Kenya.

Cruz is the (current) darling of the folks who think Obama is a Kenyan-born Muslim, a Marxist who is on a mission to undermine the US and deliver the country to the socialist-communist New World Order that operates out of the United Nations (on our soil, fer chrissake). What are they to do about this obviously alien interloper who, is (was?) their favorite son?

Let the squirming commence!

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[1] If you don’t know who she is, click on her name for her Wiki entry – well, pour a double scotch first, you’re gonna need it.

My First “Sitting O” at the Poker Table

Okay, back to poker. Recently I got my first public applause (a “sitting O”) for the way I played the hand described below – and, frankly, I think I deserved it. You may not. That’s okay. If you’re a poker player, feel free to jump in and offer assenting or dissenting views. I chose the line I did for reasons I’ll spell out but I’m not wedded to this way of playing the hand. There is, as many have noted, no best way to play poker.

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The game is No-limit Hold ‘em with blinds of $1-$3 (and a $300 max buy-in). I am in the small blind (SB) with about $350 in front of me. My opponent is on my immediate right and has me covered (with about $500). He’s a bit flakey and a talker. I’ve been spending the last hour or so trying to figure out how much of his chatter is bullshit and how much is an effort to confuse others (or put them on tilt) – but mainly seeing if I can use what he says. He is also an aggressive player and up a couple of hundred.

He starts by putting up a “Mississippi straddle” – meaning that he has made a blind bet of $6 on the button. When there is a Mississippi straddle the SB (me) must act first and calling costs an additional $5 rather than just $2. I look down at 4,4 and call.

There is one other caller, a reasonable fellow four seats to my left. When it gets back to the button, the “villain” (standard poker slang for your opponent in a hand – the narrator often refers to himself as “hero”) raises to $22. Some players like to post a Mississippi straddle because you get to go last before and after the flop and, as the villain did here, exercise the option to raise. The downside, of course, is that you’ve committed extra money to the pot before even seeing your cards. I call the raise. The other player folds. The pot now has $50 in it.

The flop is a raggedy 9♣, 3♣, 5♥.

I check. Villain bets $40. I think for a bit and call. For those of you who aren’t experienced poker players, one thing you try to do is to put your opponent on a range of hands. Under the circumstances, villain’s range is pretty wide – he could have a decent hand or his pre-flop raise could have been simply an attempt to steal the $14 in the pot. But two things are in my mind. First, he’s far more likely to have two overcards to my 4s than a bigger pair. Second, he is unlikely to have hit that flop and I suspect I may have the best hand. The pot now has $130 in it.

The turn is T♠. I (consciously) hesitate and then check. The hesitation is designed to make him I think may have something, in particular two clubs. A fairly standard trick is to play a flush draw strongly on the turn. You have two ways to win when you do. The obvious one is you hit your flush on the river. The less obvious but important one is that you can get your opponent to think you already have a strong hand and fold – this is called “fold equity.” If he notices the hesitation (often one’s little tricks are useless because “they” aren’t paying attention) he is likely to think I’m on a small flush draw.

Villain, who has been talking and muttering all evening and throughout this hand (of course) mumbles something about clubs and bets $90. I flat (poker slang for “just flat-call” rather than raise). Pot = $320.

The river is the 3♥. Without a moment’s thought I go all in. At this point I am willing to bet the life of my first-born son on my original read: villain has two big cards, like A,Q, A,J or K,Q. But notice the situation he’s in. Villain seems to have convinced himself that I was on a flush draw and missed and, hence, that his hand may be best. Because I have been check-calling, this image is reinforced. So he goes into the tank, thinks for a good two, three minutes – muttering all the while about “could you make a move like that with a busted flush?” and staring at me. BTW, I did what I often do in these situations. I took off my glasses so I couldn’t see a bloody thing and sat passively. You’re not going to get a reaction from me when you’re just a noisy blur.

Someone finally calls time on him. Before the floor can come over he says, “Fuck it, you’re trying steal my pot” and calls. I show my 4s. He makes a face and mucks his cards. I hear two “wows” and a brief burst of applause from the guy who dumped his hand pre-flop. I bow my head gently in his direction.

I talked about this hand with several friends and posted it (without the explanatory details) on a poker chat room I’m part of – the “Wednesday Poker Discussion Group,” most of the members of which live in Vegas and have lunch every Wednesday to talk poker. There were some who agreed with how I played the hand. Some who thought I took an unnecessarily risky line saying I shouldn’t have called the pre-flop raise. One friend, who plays professionally, felt that since I trusted my read, I probably should have bet out or check-raised the turn to make him pay to hit the river. Others thought I had put too much faith in my read on the villain. I appreciate all these comments while recognizing that such analyses are made in retrospective calm and not in the heat of battle. But, like we all know, there is no best way to play this game and, obviously, no best way to play any particular hand.

Would I have played it this way against a different opponent? No. Would I have played it this way if the third player hadn’t folded to the pre-flop raise? No. Would I have played it this way in a different position? No.

And so it goes. FWIW, I just about broke even on the night. I do love this game.

Point Roberts: The Last Nowhere Surrounded by Somewhere

We live in Point Roberts, WA. You probably never heard of it and there’s no reason you should have. It’s an “exclave,” a locale that is physically separate from the larger geo-political entity it is part of. There are several of these in the US. The Lake of the Woods in Minnesota has the large swath of land and lake known as the Northwest Angle and the tiny Elm Point. Another is the town of Alburgh, Vermont and the other is us, Point Roberts, in the far northwest corner of Washington State.

Point Roberts stands out from the others in this odd-ball category. The Northwest Angle has a full-time population of only 119 hardy souls spread out over some 600 square miles which is mostly water. Elm Point is an uninhabited marsh and Alburgh’s claim to exclavativity is compromised by a bridge linking it by road to the US. There are a couple of other chunks of land along the border with Canada that may qualify but they are tiny and uninhabited so no one cares.

Point Roberts is here:

It’s an accident of geology and politics. When the border between the US and what was to become Canada was set at the 49^th parallel in the 1840s, the focus was on Vancouver Island (which all agreed should be part of the Commonwealth) and the islands that dot what we now call the Salish Sea. The final decision on how to distribute possession of the islands was made, interestingly, by the Kaiser who was brought in to mediate between opposing claims.

Things ended up surprisingly fair with the border jumping around so that roughly half the territory went to the Commonwealth (and ultimately Canada when she declared independence) and half to the US. But with all this attention to the islands, no one took much notice of this little peninsula, less than five square miles in area, hanging down below the 49^th. The Commonwealth offered to take it. The US said “no thank you, a deal’s a deal.” It wanted it for military reasons and for fishing. The former was never developed; the latter became, for a time, an important industry.

And so here it was and here it still is. Right now some 1,300 folks live here full-time. In the summer months the population swells to over 5,000 as visitors pour in from Canada and elsewhere. It is a very odd place, quirky with a rich, intriguing history and its modest population has (far) more than its share of eccentrics.

Canadians actually own roughly 70% of the property – most are cottages and small houses that are only used during the summer and holidays. Interestingly however, Canadians are responsible for, according to the latest estimates, nearly three-quarters of the tax revenue generated here.

Many of the Americans who have lived here all their lives are dual citizens because they were born in hospitals in Canada, mostly Vancouver General. Until some twelve years ago there were no medical services and the onset of labor was typically followed by a trip to VGH.

There are five (yes, five!) gas stations and five shipping and mailing businesses. Actually there are six, counting the US post office which has fully one thousand post boxes almost of which are rented by folks north of the border. The US Consulate in Vancouver uses us for official mailing to US destinations. The reasons? Gasoline across the border was $5.75/gal this morning; shipping a package to a US destination from Canada can run four times the cost of shipping it from The Point and a letter sent from Vancouver to a US address will set you back $1.16, not 46¢.

Our tiny border is, remarkably, the fifth busiest crossing with Canada behind only Niagara Falls, Detroit, Port Huron and Blaine, WA with some 2.5 million trips back and forth a year.

Those are the basics, dry and banal. The actual living of life here is far more interesting, far more. I’ll blog some more about this in the days to come but for fun go to Google Earth and zoom in. Come down close and look at what is just above the border, in Tsawwassen, BC. They have dense housing (and that wide open swath to the east is soon to be more of it); we have rural, low density housing and forest. They have strip malls, sidewalks and street lights and traffic, noise and crime. We have none of that. Now pull back. Vancouver is a 40 minute drive away, the airport 25 (closer than JFK is to Manhattanites or O’Hare is to Chicagoans), the ferry to Vancouver Island and the smaller Gulf Islands a mere 20. Those mountains above Vancouver have three skiing resorts – where parts of the Winter Olympics were held in ‘12.

When you gaze eastward across Boundary Bay, Mt. Baker looms over you.

From the west side you can watch the sun set.

Indeed, The Last Nowhere Surrounded by Somewhere. More later.

My solution to the clusterfuck in DC

Not too long ago I offered my fair and balanced critique of the conservative magazine, National Review. At the time I was trying to be as reasonable as I could be, looking for that will ‘o the wisp, a reasonable Republican. He/she was nowhere to be found. The main reason for my efforts was that I felt I owed a debt to my friend, my conservative friend, who gifted me the subscription. He meant it in good faith. I felt it was only fair and reasonable to read each issue in a spirit of good faith.

But in the past two weeks I have discovered a nasty side effect to this “gift.” I am flooded with right wing literature, offers to purchase books, sign up for other publications, endorse candidates for office, sign petitions to repeal Obamacare, CDs, DVDs, flyers, appeals for funds, slanders on the POTUS, assaults on Hillary and, yes, pleas for funds for the NRA and a bunch of think tanks that, in my view, do more tanking than thinking.

So, while tossing this stuff in the recycling bin, I had an idea. Every liberal, progressive soul in the land should sign on for one of those “limited subscriptions” to National Review or The Drudge Report or any of dozens of other right wing outlets. Once their name is on the roster of sympathizers every other right-wing outfit will start shipping them stuff.

Suppose it costs these folks two dollars to make and ship out each CD or DVD, something less (50¢, $1?) for a flyer or an appeal letter. If 150 million liberals (and I know you’re out there) do this the right wing will first go ape-shit crazy thinking that their message is finally getting through and, second, broke.

This is my solution to the current political clusterfuck.