My dedication to the game comes from a curious mix of shortcomings and talents. Poker is mathematically complex; I’m no Rainman but the calculational precociousness that got me mugged for my pocket change on the playground so many times is finally paying off. Poker is unexciting - or, at any rate, played best in an unexcited state - and I have a fascination for the intricacies of the game that keeps me engaged during those long stretches when the casual observer would conclude that nothing special is happening. And finally, poker is a solitary pursuit, and I’m temperamentally unsuited to working full-time for anyone but myself. This has somehow left me in the position of, having decided that I do not wish to suffer fools, instead being forced to rely upon them.

I play pretty well, well enough that my rent is paid mostly by people who don’t play so well; the rest is covered by those who might be better than me but just got unlucky. (Yes, poker is a game of both luck and skill; I’m always trying to minimize the impact of fortune on my fortunes, because doing the opposite is the way otherwise talented players get stone cold broke.)

My wife and our friends have long accepted that any impromptu game of Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit or what have you is going to be a very serious affair; if I’m going to play a game, any game, I’m going to play to win. This doesn’t mean a grim-faced confrontation over the proper spelling of KWYJIBO or gnashing of teeth over the outcome of an unlucky roll; if you can’t absorb your setbacks with good humor you have no business making a career out of an often capricious game. It does mean that if I lose to you, and shake your hand after and say “good game,” I damn well mean it, because  you can rest assured I did not intend to lose.

This is going to become a problem at some point in the near future. Currently the source of the problem weighs 24 pounds.

I have a son now; he is fourteen months old, as of this writing, and I live to see his unabashedly gleeful smiles. They are unrestrained and beautiful; they are joy. His grandmother tells me I was the same way, that - at this early date - like father like son.

My untraditional work schedule (”when I feel like it”) means that I am primarily responsible for the boy’s care during office hours, since my wife’s job comes with a different set of requirements (”or I’ll get fired”). This is simple now; he’s easily entertained and just beginning to master climbing stairs, meaning that while you’ve got to keep a hand at his back at all times, he doesn’t move real fast. But he has already come so far and before long there will be more words, more toys, and - the rub - games.

Sooner or later it’s going to come to Candyland.

Candyland is entirely a game of chance. Players draw from a deck of cards in turn and move their piece to the indicated spot on the board; lather, rinse, repeat, until someone reaches the end. There is no skill involved apart from recognizing the appropriate color, and - here’s a hint - it’s the same one on the card you’re holding in your hand. It’s all luck. There is no way to guarantee an outcome for any particular player without cheating.

I know what you’re thinking. But no, I’m not afraid of losing a game to my son. One of the benefits of losing significant sums of money, repeatedly and often, to some of the most repellent examples of humanity - just for the opportunity to win it back and more, later on - is that you become inured to individual losses and the vagaries of chance. If the deck tells you to go back to Gumdrop Mountain that’s what you do; when you play Candyland you are in the hands of the deck.

I’m not afraid of losing a game of Candyland. I’m afraid of winning it.

If I win the game, my son loses. The game is to get to the end first; if I do, he doesn’t. Once he understands the rules of the game, he is going to want to win it. This I know. I do not know if he will be a doctor or lawyer or clown or, heaven forfend, a gambler, but I know he is going to want to win. And sometimes he won’t.

It doesn’t even help me to know that Candyland, game of chance though it is, is rigged. Honestly, it is; the rules state that the youngest player goes first, and the player who goes first has a mathematical advantage, forever being one draw ahead of the others. Being one card ahead means that, on average, you will get to the end first more often. But the edge is miniscule, about three percent. Granted, I have grudgingly wagered thousands of dollars with just such an edge - eventually, you come out ahead - but I am unsure as to whether I can wager my son’s happiness on it.

The problem is that the alternative is to cheat. Stacking the deck, surreptitiously sliding my piece back a few spots, allowing my son to disobey the whims of the deck. But I don’t think I can do any of those. Arranging the outcome beforehand will give him a false impression of his own good fortune and someone else will crush him for it; move my piece wrongly and he’ll eventually catch me, and think it’s an acceptable way to play; let him break the rules and he may come to believe that fairness is a dismissible concern.

So what to do? I think, ultimately, I will have to teach my son something no one ever taught me: to take joy in any outcome. Come the end of every game I will laugh loudly and hug him fiercely, win or lose; I will praise him for sportsmanship, for thinking about the rules and playing fair, for realizing that the end of the game is not its only purpose.

Eventually he will grow a little more and I will be able to teach him to play chess. Probably he will quickly grow more adept than I; it is my hope, at any rate, because like most parents I want him to be better than I am. And, secretly, because a loss at his hands will please me more than a victory over anyone else; against him, out of all people on this planet, whether it be by chance or design, I shall be happy to lose.

Suppose that you are attempting to travel from Dallas to Seattle by aeroplane. You will be visiting for six days and would rather pack a few extra things, but the airline has instituted a $25 charge for a single checked bag. However, you have long, lustrous hair and would prefer to use your own shampoo on the trip rather than whatever crap the hotel supplies. You estimate that you use 1 ounce of shampoo per day, and the brand you prefer is available in two sizes: a 10 oz. bottle for $26, and a 60 oz. bottle for $85. Ideally you would simply bring a bottle from home, but it will cost you $25 to check a bag, and you can only bring 3 oz. of shampoo in your carry-on luggage thanks to TSA restrictions.

Perform the following calculations:

1. Identify break-even points for length of stay when checking a bag and when not checking a bag for in-the-field purchase of 10 oz. and 60 oz. bottles, respectively. Show your work.

2. Perform a cost-benefit analysis considering the savings you’d realize versus the likelihood that you will be caught if you attempt to smuggle shampoo onto the plane with you, factoring in potential legal fees and loss of wages if you are subsequently sent to Guantanamo Bay. Actually if that’s the case you can probably forget about the legal fees.

3. For a sample size that permits results within one standard deviation, identify the mean number of times you will bother to endure this process before telling everyone at the airport to shove it up their ass and driving to Seattle your damn self, even with gas at five fucking dollars a goddamn gallon.

She: We’re going in the sand.

He: Sure? It looks hot.

She: It’s fine.

He: Considering the implications of a public sandbox in a town with a huge homeless population, don’t you think …

She: We pay a hundred bucks a month for classes to enrich his life. If we can put him in the sand for free we’re doing it.

He: (to empty air) … can’t argue with that.

I know that it’s your job to offer me press notes at screenings. Please understand that when I recoil in horror from the sheaf of xeroxes in your outstretched hand, it’s nothing personal. Sure, it may seem like I’m giving you the kind of treatment most people usually reserve for the homeless, lepers or Scientologists. Not true! Or at least not accurate. In this case it’s not your tanned, manicured appendages that offend, but what’s in them.

For the uninitiated, “press notes” are - well, they’re a handout, is what they are, supplemental information about the film in question. Usually there’s a brief, not-too-spoilerish synopsis, cast and crew bios, a few quotes from said cast and crew, and some exuberant ministories about whatever might be deemed exciting about the project (the setting, the production design, the consultants brought in to keep the project “authentic”, the fact that the water a star jumped into was very cold).

All of which, from my perspective, is a complete and total waste of time and effort and paper, since I’m not in the business of reviewing press materials. The only reason I ever look at them is to see if they make any mention of the running time so I can figure out what takeout places will still be open on the way home.

The way I figure it, there’s already a document in existence that should convince me of the artistic necessity of the director’s vision, the passion the lead performers have for the project, and the reasons the DP shouldn’t be busted back to shooting 90210 episodes. This document takes somewhere in the neighborhood of 90 minutes to two hours to review, contains at least a hundred and twenty thousand discrete images synchronized with sound, is the result of months if not years of full-time work by hundreds if not thousands of people, and in some cases cost as much as the GDP of a small country to produce. It is called the movie, and it’s what I came to see. And if you think that the difference between me liking it or hating it is going to be found on a few slices of what was previously doing an okay job of being part of a tree, you are off. the. chain.

PS: Popcorn? Probably as cheap as paper and much more effective.

Congrats to F-Train for cashing in the $1500 Razz WSOP; congrats to Iggy for sliding into a WSOP ME seat. I’d be jealous, but I managed to finagle a piece of F-Train’s action, and while watching chip counts can spark a few pangs for the felt, I have the comfort of knowing that I’ll be playing more than a dozen events at Legends. Patience is my game and I can wait until then.

Blueberries are gone. Time to put down a few Cheerios to buy me a wrapup.

…

… got nothin’. More soon.

This was option B:

I’m thinking I made a good call.

Dodgers got absolutely pasted, by the way.