Archive for December, 2009
Posted by: Tommy Angelo on December 23rd, 2009
I’ve had many years when this time of year was the worst time of the year for me. Especially from 1990 to 1997. Those were the first seven years of my poker-playing career. I went broke in December every year. Around 1993, I noticed the pattern, vowing to be careful when the trees went bare. But it didn’t matter. Winter would come, and I’d run bad for a day or two, and that would make me play bad for a week or two, and ugh, I’d get despondent, desensitized, depressed. I’d keep playing, and I’d keep losing, and I’d beat myself up for playing bad, and I’d fall into a funk that made no sense and had no hope.
Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. On came the pressure. The pressure to buy presents for my family. I was supposed to be generous. And I really wanted to. But I had no money. I was supposed to have on a happy face. But I was fucking miserable. Can’t you just leave me alone? I don’t want to play that game now. Please, not now. Don’t march me through that paltry patronizing parade of pomp and presents again. And don’t even tell me I should be grateful. Not again. That was the worst of all. Listening to little speeches about how great it is just to be alive. Go fuck yourself.
Looking back at those woeful holiday seasons from a dozen years later, I think I can see what was really going on. The problem – as it so often is – was the assumptions that ruled my life, my thinking, and my actions. I assumed that Christmas pressure was real. I assumed that my obligations to shop were so important that it was right and proper that my happiness should depend on my ability and willingness to… to what… buy my dad a tie? I assumed that if I bought stuff and wrapped it up, I deserved to be happy. And if I couldn’t, or didn’t, or if I did and I didn’t feel good about it, then that meant I was a pathetic failure and I deserved to be unhappy.
I assumed that my actual worth was somehow related to my financial worth and the subsequent purchasing power it gave me.
I assumed that in order to give, I had to give a thing.
It never occurred to me to question all these bogus assumptions. That’s because I didn’t even know they were there. Do you ever stop and think, “I assume that if I stand in the rain I will get wet?” Of course not. Some assumptions are so imbedded in us that we don’t even think about them. That’s how it was with my assumptions about giving at Christmas. No awareness of them whatsoever. Total blindness. The result was that by putting so much attention on giving things, I was unable to give myself. But of course I couldn’t see that. Like I said, I was blind.
Since then, my vision has improved. The way I see it now is that the most important present I can give is my presence. Whether I’m talking on the phone with someone, or emailing, or in the same room, I just need to show up, completely – as in not be somewhere else, mentally.
This applies to the moment of physical gifting too. When my mother-in-law opens the gift I bought for her, I shouldn’t be worrying about if she’ll like it. When my brother opens the book I chose for him, I shouldn’t be wondering if he’ll read it. When my wife reads out loud the poem I wrote for her, I shouldn’t be spinning around in my head, thinking that she might think it’s stupid, thinking that she might be disappointed when she realizes I didn’t buy her anything, thinking, thinking, thinking. No. I should just relax, and hear the sound of her voice. I should just settle myself, and listen to the meaning she puts into the words. (And be ready to hand her a hanky.)
As it happens, the best gift I can give – full attention – is the least expensive of all.
Posted by: Tommy Angelo on December 14th, 2009
Last night, this little band of blowhards led a procession of 100 adults through the nighttime streets of Palo Alto on a “pub crawl.”
The pipers and people came together in this way for the 13th consecutive year to celebrate the birthday of Smokey Charles. Smokey is known about town for his wisdom and generosity.
The party started at Smokey’s house, which is where the picture was taken. It was soon dark, and the other pictures I took of the parade-in-action didn’t come out. We visited seven bars. At each bar, the band went inside, found a corner, and went at it. There were two drummers, not pictured here.
To get from bar to bar, the band led us along the sidewalks in the heart of town while playing, and the adults, pretending to be children, frolicked behind.
My favorite part was when they tuned up. The blowers would line up in front of the band leader (also not pictured here), and one at a time, they would approach him, and as they blew, he would tune their pipes by twisting them and adjusting the length. They did this several times throughout the evening. It reminded me of any tender grooming ritual that any other species might do for one another.
And then, there’s the sound. The droning, ceaseless root note upon which all is built. The high notes that are grasped at but never quite reach full throatedness. The heritage, the culture, the pride that says, “Okay, so it ain’t the prettiest sound ever made, but it’s ours. And if you don’t like it, drink more.”
It was great fun to watch the people watch the parade. There’s nothing quite like a marching column of skirted wheezebags to bring a smile to a face.
Posted by: Tommy Angelo on December 4th, 2009
Wilbur King lived in Middletown, Ohio. He raised five spectacular daughters. The fifth one, Shannon, was the first love of my life. It was 1980. We were 22. Wilbur scared the shit out of me.
Before I met him on my first trip to the King homestead, all I knew about Wilbur was that he worked in a steel mill, and that he had a bass boat on which he went bass fishing. When we met, I learned two more things. I learned that Wilbur had powerful, constrictor hands. And I learned that he scared the shit out of me. But not because he had rearranged my phalanges. It was nothing more than the way he looked at me, a steely stare. I didn’t understand it until years later, when I realized that to him I was just one more luster wanting to do a daughter.
Shannon’s mom had a really stupid idea. She said to Wilbur, “Why don’t you take Tommy out fishing with you in the morning?”
Fast forward to 6 a.m. the next day. I was awake. This was deeply wrong.
I climbed into Wilbur’s truck and off we went to the lake, just a couple of guys who would each much rather be alone right now. The first thing that happened was that I didn’t say anything, and by doing so, I had set the tone for the morning. Wilbur followed my lead. For the next two hours, he either didn’t have any urges to speak, or he resisted them all.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. When we got to the boat, some sounds did come from Wilbur’s face. “Get on the boat,” I heard him say.
I jumped into the conversation. “Okay,” I said.
Another thing he said was, “Untie that rope.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound hearty despite the trembling.
Soon we were in the quietest place I’d ever been, adrift on a sheet of liquid glass. Wilbur was fishing. I was just sitting. I’d probably been in places this quiet before. It’s just that I made too much noise to notice. Not today. I was frozen in terror by the tension of the human silence. If I had spoken then, in Wilbur’s temple, during the heart of his ceremony, I believe the sheer force of the will of Wilbur would have struck me dead.
After a while, he packed up his equipment and he steered the boat to shore. When we were up against the dock, I knew it was time to get off the boat and I did so without even having to be told.
“Here,” Wilbur said, as he tossed me a rope which I then tied to the boat-holding rope-wrap thingie.
“Got it,” I replied, with just a touch of sailor vigor.
When we were back at the house, we went in the side door, which leads you through the kitchen. Mrs. King was standing at the sink. I was right behind Wilbur, so I was able to hear it when he walked by his wife, touched her on the shoulder, leaned into her ear, and said, “I like this one.”
