I am completely overwhelmed by how totally crappy I feel. Although I’m improved over the last few days, I now have the terminal shedding of fluids – coughing, sneezing, nose blowing – arghhhhh!

A few questions come to mind. How much water can I drink in a day without drowning?

The next time I cough, will my lungs explode through my mouth?

The next time I blow my nose, will my head collapse?

I have a lot of other trivial questions on a daily basis but these are related to what’s going on with me right now; it’s a way to entertain myself while I keep telling me I’m getting weller.

I think half the dealing staff might be out now – from the grim voice greeting me on the other end of the phone when I report to Kamell for the night that I’m still sick and won’t be there. Sure – we have to call in earlier in the day too but reporting to our supervisor on shift is another part of ‘the sick call’. I’m a little sick of being sick.

So…while I’m on the subject of S-I-C-K…those of you with a weak stomach may not want to read this but it’s a few things in my poker career that tweak me out.

I really have a thing about hair and food…especially hair IN my food. But even watching it in someone else’s food gives me a stomach blurb. I worked at The Palace Card Room in MT years ago. Restaurants closed down but we were open 24 hours and we provided sandwhiches for our late night players. The norm was we dealt for three to four hours and when the owner/manager of the room (that was always playing in the game and stuck) elected to give us a 20 minute break, we made sandwhiches for the players. It really wasn’t a break, just a chance to stretch, hit the toileten, and return to dealing.

I jumped back into the Box and the player in the 10s had a ham and cheese sandwhich up to his face. He also had a bushy mustache and had just taken a big bite out of the sandwhich. As I came around with the deal, I could see a big mustache hair laying on top of the mayo. I meant to tell him when I came to him on the second down card but…he had another big mouthful of sandwhich and the hair was gone. Y-U-C-C-K! I had to swallow a few times and think ‘deep breath’ to get over that one.

Another time at the Oxford (right across the street from The Palace), I was dealing the stand-up table out front and the player in the 4s had a huge, brushy, gold mustache. He had just received a glass of tomatoe juice and stuck his face in it for a big swig. He came up for air and the tomato juice was embedded in the brush and looked like he was bleeding from the mouth.

I almost threw up! Whew! More deep breaths.

One of the grossest of gross involved Art W., a grand old man that I loved with all my heart, in his 70’s when I first met him at the tables of the Ox in 1980. Art had an empty eye socket (some guys tried to rob him one night when he was in his 60’s – they had a knife and took out his eye – word had it that they were college kids. Art was a stocky, blocky German. His forearm was as big as my thigh. He always carried a walking stick and even though he lost his eye, he beat the living shit out of those boys – bet he broke them of the habit of trying to rob an old man too) and wore coke bottle thick lenses in his glasses.

I won’t get into all the Art stories here because it’s another time and place thing.

He would sit at the table for two to three days sometimes before going home. (He told me he never slept – not since he was in his 60’s – he just catnapped). When I came in to work I would always get him a hot, wet towel, and he would take off his glasses and wipe out his eyes.

One time he had a horrible cold and kept the giant hankie in the pockie for blowing the nose. I was walking past the table and he’d just blown his nose, worst of it was most of it went into his hand instead of his hankie and he didn’t know it. The action was to him and he picked up his cards and threw them in to the dealer. A huge, thick trail of snot about a foot a half long did a ‘z’ curve from where Art’s fingers were on the table to the cards.

I thought the dealer was going to puke. He started gagging. I grabbed a towel and threw it over everything, including the cards and picked it all up. We changed the deck and the game went on. Art didn’t even know it had happened. I’m glad…no need to embarrass him. Guess raising kids has helped me close my thoughts to some of that stuff.

Another MT player that I had words with more than once, Frank, sold and tuned pianos, competitive nationally in the ballroom dance category, a big boned, rough hands, hard working guy, had the habits of a pig when he played poker. He told me once that I could have been one of his wives. I retored, “No I couldn’t! I’d kill myself first!”

He’d get pig drunk and before the glass got to his lips, he was tipping it. His chip racks filled up with booze, along with the front of his shirt more than once.

Sometimes the players would order pizza and everyone shared the cost…kind of. A scream of “Pizza Pot!” would go up. Everyone that was in said so immediately – if the pot had more than $X in it, whoever won the pot had to buy the pizza.

Frank would be so busy being a pig that when he got his slabs of pizza, he just laid them out on his racks of chips, no paper towels, just dripping, greaz-z-z-z-zy pepperoni and cheese oil running in rivers off the pizza into the chips and the racks and all over his fingers. Lick this – ughhh!

I heard about Oklahoma Ricky – sitting in the 1s – telling Jeff he didn’t like him and then throwing up all over the side of Jeff’s face and hair…thankfully I wasn’t there to witness that one. Another MT tale.

On a daily basis in poker, there are always the scab pickers, the nose pickers, the people that consume themselves by ripping shards of skin from their fingers and nails, and other disgusting little things that shouldn’t be done in public.

I’d better get off of this little batch of mayhem and drink more water…help…help…I’m drowning!