I pulled out my two photo albums and leafed through them, stunned to find that I had a picture of Cap Walters, Desert Don, and a few others hiding in the pages that have been packed for such a long time.  And I mentioned in a post about Red Gilman that he always wore a stetson…I lied…I found a picture of him wearing a baseball cap.  I guess the mind is one of the first things to go, but where the hell does it go?  I remember Red in a stetson – but then I also found him in a black one.

Desert Don was a baseball cap kinda guy.  I once found him when I searched the internet some years ago, but now I can’t find J-A-C-K on him.  He died some years ago, before I left Montana, he’d had surgery (but I don’t know where/what) and died from complications later on.  Desert Don was quite the character, always drunk, always telling the world that he was the best player in the world, and obnoxious to everyone as far as I could tell.

I will start scanning in photos as I write about some of my old poker buds – although we were never buddies, we were never enemies either – Desert Don and I.

He was having a fit one night when I dealt to him because his hole cards weren’t connecting with the flop – no shit? never happened to me.  He was sitting in the 1s and kept showing me his cards.  Hand after hand he picked up cards like K-10 suited, Q-9 suited, J-10 suited, K-Q suited, over and over and over.  If I hadn’t been dealing those cards, I would’ve thought he was lying about the ‘playable hands’ he was picking up.  I never pick up cards like that…even to this day. He said his cards ran like that all the time.  Hell, no wonder he thought he was the best player in the world.

Desert Don could easily wear on anyone’s nerves when he was running hot in full blown drunk-on-your-ass-mode and the loud mouth shut off valve was broken.  I can’t figure people that can get that drunk and stay that way and still manage to walk or stay awake to be obnoxious.  Why don’t they just pass out like a good little drunk should?

One night when I was running so bad I couldn’t win a hand if I set the deck up myself, he drew a back door flush on me to bust off a set of aces and I got up and walked out of the back room where the game was held at the Oxford.  He followed me out, apologizing for drawing out on me.  He just didn’t think I had anything but I’m sure he thought Jack high was good because that’s what he was calling me with until he hit the flush.  I bluntly told him to ‘fuck off!’ and walked away.

Naw…he wasn’t going to remember it the next day anyway.

It went more like this, “Why would you follow me out of the room to apologize for beating me in a hand?”

That’s when I got his explanation.  That’s when I told him that his beating me didn’t bother me but his following me out to apologize did so ‘fuck off.’

Long before that incident, my sis (the truck driver) and I were playing in a game at the Palace and Desert Don was in it.  Almost on your knees drunk but that was sitting in a chair mouthing off drunk for Desert Don, and he was in his table captain mode, owning the table and lipping off.  I called his raise with A-J.  Since I left my super x-ray glasses at home, I didn’t know he had A-K .  I made a pair of Jacks on the river.  He took off about idiots in the game, bad players, and then he asked me how I could keep calling.  I told him it was really easy.  Whoops!

He started on both me and my sis.  “You dumb cunts don’t know how to play poker,” as he looked at her and then at me, waving a hand at both of us.  Guess we were the only cunts at the table because it looked like we were the focus of his attention.  My sis and I were both winners, I looked at her as the dealer dealt the next hand, she looked at me, I said, “Let’s quit!”

Desert Don couldn’t stop (naw…no one, absolutely no one, in those days ever said a word about verbal abuse or anything – short of punching it out or pulling a knife or something ultra scary happening at the tables, the game never even slowed down), as he said, “You dumb cunts think you know what you’re doing…”

I interrupted him rather loudly, “We may be dumb cunts but you sure as hell aren’t getting any of our chips today.”

We racked up and left the table.

See all you idiots that bad mouth the donkeys and newbs…the dumb cunts know when it’s time to leave the game sometimes and then you’re left with the Desert Dons that have no poker value.

To cut this tale short, I’m dragging but I wanted to start the Montana thread today.  G’nite.