Life's Little Lessons, My Son

Many, many years ago, my father gave me some worldly advice. These items follow:

• Never play cards with a man named "Doc."
• Never eat at a place called "Mom's."
• And never, but never, marry a woman who has more problems than you do.

To these invaluable tidbits of father-to-son advice, I would like to make comments on and contribute additional insights that I have acquired in my own travels.

First item... amend it to read Never play cards with a man named "Doc", nor with anybody named after a cities, counties, or states. "Amarillo" Slim can and will take your money faster than you can fart. So will the "Cincinnati Kid." And playing cards with anybody with the words "Reno" or "Vegas" or "New Jersey" or "Nevada" anywhere in their names, on their tattoos, or on their clothing is what I consider a very bad risk. You might be better off just writing them a check for the money.

Second item... amend it to read Never eat at a place called "Mom's", nor any place called "Eat", nor "Tacos Mexico." These greasy-spoons' specialties consist of flies and double-diarrhaea. You will never have been so sick in your whole life. It is a painful lesson to learn the hard way. Heed my warnings now. Enough said.

Third item... no changes. Not even one.

Add to this list one of my own. Never swing on a 3-0 pitch. This one came to me while watching a baseball game. I watched the pitcher throw three straight balls and thought to myself, "Hey batter, you don't even have to swing." If someone is that bad, all you have to do is wait. There is never a need to prove your own strength when the other person is falling.

There you have it folks. Heed these words wisely. Avoid the embarrassment and pain of having to learn things the hard way. And remember...

Don't squat with your spurs on.

Personality Templates

Alfred's comments on the previous posts have reminded me of some other stuff I learned while working in the casinos. The training involved personality types, or templates, understanding them, identifying them, and using them as predictive models to increase cohesiveness and teamwork in the work environment.

I was able to use these predictive models very successfully. The models (or templates) started with a four-way split of personality types.

• A-type personalities.


• B-type personalities.


• C-type, and


• D-type.
  

A-types are what most people call "Alphas." They comprise about 10% of the work population. They are the leaders, the can-do's, the ever-positive, ever-energetic types. They are outgoing, gregarious, and usually non-stop talkers. They believe that anything can be done, especially by themselves. Picture in your mind the greatest used-car salesman you ever saw. They are A-types. They are stimulated by positiveness and the can-do spirit. They are discouraged by nay-sayers, bummers, and people that say, "It can't be done that way."

B-types, "Walking Encyclopaedeas," as I like to call them, are the information hounds. They comprise another 10% of the population. They want to know everything that is going on. They have vast knowledge of current events, trivia, and can usually recall events that happened long after most others have forgotten. In the casino, they're the ones that can tell you the house advantages of every bet in the joint. They can tell you what your advantage is in Blackjack if your first card is an Ace. (52%) They are stimulated by knowledge and information and, most of all, the truth. They are discouraged by falsehoods, closed-door meetings (they want to know what is going on), and all other missrepresentations.

C-types, the "Security Guards", comprise a massive 70% of the population. I call them Security Guards because their main concern is security, namely their own security. They like to feel safe and unthreatened in their work environment. They like the feeling that they've done a good job because it makes them feel good about themselves and they know that they'll have a job tomorrow. They don't respond well to threats or reprimands because it makes them worry about their mortgages and car payments. 7 of every 10 people fit into this category.

D-types are the "Accountants." They are the ducks-in-a-row types. They can quote procedures as if they wrote them themselves. They know where everything belongs and are the ones to put them there. They plan their day and follow handwritten schedules. They are stimulated by orderliness, scheduling, and rank-and-file organization. They are discouraged by chaotic behavior, any lack of planning, and people who do things without thinking first.

Now we know the types, this is how to use them. Please consider the diagram at the top. The models are placed so that A is diagonally opposite from D, and B is opposite from C. These diagonals (as indicated by the arrows) indicate a high probability of naturally-occuring personality conflicts between the two personality types.

A naturally conflicts with D because the can-do people conflict with the bean-counters.

• A says, "Hey, let's give away $10,000 in a slot tournament!"
• D says, "Whoa! Do you have any idea how much money that is?"

A + D = Conflict

B-types naturally conflict with C-types. One is only interested in the truth, the other is only interested in survival.

• B says, "Hey, cool! I read that by the year 200x, all table games will be electronic."
• C says, "What's so cool about that?"

B + C = Conflict

Contrarily, lateral personality models, such as A + B, B + D, D + C, and C + A, tend to augment each other in the work environment. An example of this is when A feeds off of B's information to do the things he wants to do, and B feeds off of A's enthusiam because he feels like his knowledge is being put to good use. Other examples occur often, and I found that the actions/reactions between the A's and C's were the most interesting. I always chuckled at their game of "Follow the Leader."

Of course, these aren't hard and fast rules. Most people don't fall into just one category. In fact, most of the time, people exhibit characteristics of two or three templates. The trick is to find the one that they display most of the time, as it is usually the best bet.

And another note before I wrap this up. During our training, we were asked where we would place ourselves on the grid. Often people would place themselves into one category and were very surprised when they found out that everybody else placed them into a different one. The hard lesson there was that we rarely see ourselves as others see us.

Quote of the Day

The best index to a person's character is (a) how he treats people who can't do him any good, and (b) how he treats people who can't fight back.

Abigail Van Buren

I always used to think that the best index to a person's character was how they responded after being nudged out of their "comfort zone." I amassed lots of evidence to support my conclusions while working in the casinos. In that business, we were constantly being nudged out of our zones, either by large-money bets, obnoxious and drunken losers, or untrustworthy employees.

I learned in the very early stages of my career that the best way to handle these types of situations was to "never let them see you sweat." And that bit of advice worked wonders for me. As a dealer, it paid off hundreds of times. Dice could, and often would be flying through the air when the big money hit the layout. One cannot buckle in those situations because it could mean everybody's job. Stay calm, stay cool, stay collected.... stay employed.

Later, as a manager, customers and staff would come running to me with their umpteenth dilemma of the day, one for which they had no solution, nor clue as to what to do. Stressed, befuddled, confused, often on the verge of panic, desperate for guidance, these humans came to me for solutions. Often I would think, "Yeah, I've seen/heard this one before", and I would provide the fix they craved. And off they would go, happy as kittens with their recovered sense of security.

But sometimes, some new and oddball dilemma would arise, one with which I was not familiar, and I would find myself in new territory, and slightly out of my own comfort zone. When it did happen that way, I was often found chuckling to myself! A nervous reaction? Flippancy? Anarchy? Nah. I just had to laugh because the epinephrine and adrenaline rush. The chuckling was a healthy stress response. I would think to myself, "Nope, never seen that one before! Wait'll I tell the others! I can't wait to see their faces when I tell them." After that thought-process, I would formulate a viable solution and present it to whomever was requesting it. And off they went again, happy as kittens, with me chuckling to myself.

My solutions, often as oddball as the problems themselves, were what made me successfull in the business. I had a skill that not too many others possessed, specifically being able to be creative. I noticed that most people don't have very strong creative skills and I always thought I knew why. I thought that people weren't creative because they couldn't react very well to stress.

I have since found this to be false. People don't lack creativity because they're stressed out. People are not creative because they've never been taught to be creative. It doesn't matter as much their emotional state as does their actual ability and experience being creative.

That revelation got me thinking about my original premise; that the best index of a person's character is how well they respond to stressful situations. I figured out that I wasn't getting enough information to make a decent evaluation. So I kept looking.

After reading Ms. Van Buren's quote, a lot of it fell into place. I have seen people act perfectly calm, cool, and collected while visciously berating a waiter for an overdone steak. I have experienced Napoleanic policemen abusing their powers with tourists regarding simple parking infractions. I have seen and heard many insults slung from open car windows aimed at harmless, poor people begging for change in the street. And every time I have seen these vulgar displays of contempt, I have wondered how people could commit them so calmly.

Comfort zone has a bit to do with how to index a person's character. But not as much as how a person treats those who can't help and those who can't fight back. People that treat the helpless with contempt don't do so because they're stressed. They do so because they lack character. They are bullies and they are mean people.

That a damn good index of character.

The Not-So-Simple Matter of Magical Perception

I should say that I want to be perceived as a magician rather than being perrceived as a person merely skillful.

I don’t want audience members arriving at the conclusion that I am skillful before any part of an effect is complete. If, when I am done, their perceptions include those of great and magnificent skill, I would prefer they arrive there long after the fact.

Every person on this planet has their own way of filling in the "holes" that magic creates. I believe that how individuals fill them in depends on the accumulation of their entire life's experiences being brought into focus at the very instant the magical hole presents itself.

And this is where the rubber meets the road. Tricks done that require a great deal of skill telegraph this said requirement unless the magician puts in considerable amounts of time and effort to erase all their evidences. If there are evidences of skill, then audiences tend to fill in the holes by saying to themselves, “Oh, well, this person is very skillful” right in the middle of the performance.

This is not magic.

Please fix yourself on this... 3 or 4 years worth of practice, maybe more, to erase all evidence of skill...

And for what?

Well now, that just depends. Do magicians desire to be perceived as a people skilled in the use magic, or do they just wish to be perceived as people merely skillful?

If the audience arrives at the conclusion that I'm skillful before the effect is done, there is a good chance that there is a gap (and a big gap) between perception and intent. That means that there is a gap between presentation and effect.

Franky's Story

Uncle Frank grew up with no restraints whatsoever.

His mother felt guilty for not ever being able to let him meet his real father, so she spoiled him instead. She let him do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it. Imagine a kid growing up with no restraints. The picture that leaps to mind is one of a wild animal.

He was brash, bold, vulgar, indulgent, and violent, and quite willing to take whatever he felt should belong to him. That's how Frankie grew up. He didn’t complete his education. He was unable to hold a job for very long. He was untrustworthy, up all night with the girls and asleep all day, and completely dependent on his mother for his welfare.

My grandfather, Frankie's step-father, had no say-so whatsoever in his upbringing. Both my grandmother and Frankie would tell him, "Well, you're not his real father, anyway." Imagine how my grandfather felt. He loved his wife, but distrusted his step-son. And they left him out in the cold. He eventually crawled under a rock when he saw his wife and her son together. He never said anything to them about anything. And he never talked to me about Frankie even when I asked him. He always just shook his head "No." And always he looked away at something that was never there.

My mom hated Frankie. She fucking hated him. For blood. She still does. Ask here where she thinks he is, and she'll tell you that she really doesn't care. She'll then add that she hopes he's dead. I quit asking her about him when I realized her hatred for him that I saw in her eyes. None of my sisters or brother ask her either. It's dead.

My mother did the best she could when she raised my brother and me. She didn't want us to be like Frankie. She didn't have any trouble with my brother. He never showed as much wild, dangerous independence as me, he was quieter, more pensive and thoughtful. I, on the other hand, had a different personality. I wanted to do more. I wanted to go out more and have more freedom. I spoke louder and with more emotion. I played harder and got dirtier than the others. As it turns out, this is exactly what Frankie did. And I believe that this scared the shit out of my mother.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do with me. She raised me exactly the way she thought Frankie should have been raised. She discouraged all types of strong and physical behavior in me. No yelling. No fighting. No dirt-bike races. No dirty shoes. No rough play. No matches. She did everything she could to make sure that I didn't grow up like him. And my father let her. And I remember fighting them both damn near every inch of the way. I hated being held down. I hated not being able to go and do things. I resented not being allowed to be who I felt I really was. Many times I felt like a caged animal, like the ones you see in a zoo. I felt like they had put me in a cage.

Finally, when I was 15, I put all these real feelings inside me so as to not cause more problems in my head and went to drugs and alcohol. I didn't want to care about it any more. I was tired of the problems of not knowing who I really was. I found out that it was easier to get high than to slug it out with the cagers. I had let them cage me.

When I moved out of my parents house, (21 years old), I exploded out of their front door. I only took my clothes and my books. Even though I had a lousy job, I left them knowing that I would never return. I didn't even speak with them for the first year. When I did finally call, I just asked to borrow their vacuum cleaner.

It was at this time I sat myself down and spent the time just finding out whom I really was. All that I'd been holding inside me was finally able to come out. With no more cages holding me in, the only thing I had to worry about were the police! (To this day, I still don't like the police...)

During this time of discovery, I thought I was different than the rest of my family and parents.
I had found out that I was a hell of a lot smarter than most people. I found out that I was an intellectual that also happened to like wrestling, fighting, sports, playing in the dirt, and just about anything else physical. I found out that I am especially fond of physical contact. It makes members of my family nervous but it relaxes me. I am more active than anybody else in my family. I like adventures and am very much a risk-taker. They aren't so much.

The difference between Frankie and me is that I am fiercely independent of my parents. Frankie never was. His mother never encouraged independence in her kids. She wanted them to be dependent on her, and Frankie took the shortcut and let her have her way. My parents had to let go of me the minute I moved out of their house. There was no other way.

The most important and influential discovery I ever made in my understanding of my Uncle Frank is this. He was mentally abused by my grandmother. She never taught him how to be a man. She held on to him, she held him down, and never let go of him. While she was independent herself, she never taught it to him. She kept him like a bird in a cage, and that messed up his head. I don't think she ever did her best with him. But that's one thing I guess I'll never know the whole truth about.

The most important and influential discovery I ever made in my understanding of my parents is this. They did their absolute best they could do with me. I realized that the minute I decided to have children. My parents did their best with me, just like I am doing my best with my own. Even though our methods might be different, we are still doing our best.

And that's a HUGE discovery! I'm not really at all that different from my own parents. We're each doing our very best. And, in an odd little way, I suppose find that thought very comforting.

Locations

Lopez de Legaspi #2420

Most of them live at the low end of the scale. They live in ramshackle, leaky houses and drive smoke-belching cars if and when they have enough money to buy gasoline. Yet they will pay $200 to $500 dollars for the latest, niftiest, shiniest cellular phone that just hit the market so they can show it off to their friends.

Ninth-grade educations are all that are required by law and it would cost you a small fortune to complete the high school levels. And college? Well, for most of them, they can just forget about college unless they gotta rich, sober daddy.

Corrupt politicians and corrupt policemen grace their lives with the sickening sense of dread and have all but killed their dreams of the 21st century. They flit from prosperity to scorn to forlorn loneliness at the mention of tomorrow. Dirty politicians won’t change laws and dirtier policemen and judges won’t arrest, charge, convict, nor imprison the corrupted because it would mean imprisoning themselves.

Two social classes exist: the haves, and the have-nots. What we’ve grown accustomed to knowing of as the "middle class" does exist, but their population is so sparse and their political power so weak that they are hardly worth mentioning, except as a side note.

Panhandlers and beggars litter the streets with their never-ending coke bottles, disposable plates, and pleas for alms. Woe unto one that wearies of their tactics, for they are strong and believe that those who have worked for their money have a responsibility to support those who refuse to. Feisty and aggressive, they wait for their chance to make those who work every day feel guilty about their success, as if they somehow should deserve it too.

Any monkey can complain, as often monkies do. Fighting for blood to find solutions takes a different calibre of character. I haven’t found that calibre here. And I'm going on four years here.

Perhaps I am looking in the wrong places.

Cuba Libre

I could probably talk forever about Cuba. My wife is Cubana, and received her USA citizenship in 2000. She escaped her country with an altered Spanish passport. She landed in Panama and found her way to the USA. We still have the Spanish passport as a "souvenier."

Have any of you been to Cuba? Walk two feet out of the tourist zones and you're in abject poverty, pal. A tough, tough, tough life for the Cubans, I assure you. I was there in '97 when it was illegal for US citizens. I arranged through a Mexican travel agency to obtain my visa. The rest is history.

The people of Cuba are some of the kindest I've ever met of all the people I've met in this world. They laugh, they play, and they DANCE. They celebrate life like today is the last day. I learned a lot. The Cubans don't throw ANYTHING away. If they can use it again, they save it because they might not be able to get another. Citizens of the US don't fully understand this concept. We throw away more stuff than anyone on this earth. We know we can get another one. Try it the other way around and you'll understand the concept of conservation.

I've sheltered many Cuban refugees since I met my wife. Mostly family and friends of family. I don't mind sharing my house, my money, my food, my clothes, and my life. My only requirement has been that they answer the three questions that I have asked them all. And this is the subject I want to talk about.

The questions follow this brief introduction: "You have escaped your country because you want to be free. I encourage such courage. You know the consequences of your actions, yet you've done what you've done. Now you are here, and you have opportunity to be and to do whomever and whatever your heart desires. I ask you these questions.

Who do you want to be?
What do you want?
What are you going to do?"

And then I help them until they can achieve these goals on their own. And every one of them are now successful land and property owners, taxpayers, and soon-to-be voters. And they are free. We, as citizens of the United States, could ask ourselves these questions...often. My money says that we don't even know ourselves.

Behind the Back Rubik's Cube

A couple of years ago, I shared PM's with some great people regarding the effects created on an audience by solving the Rubik's Cube behind your back. Since then, I have had quite a few repeated experiences that I would like to share regarding this stunt. Since those PM's, I have found that these procedures are working best for me. Your milage may vary.

Regarding the first time: I don't solve it behind my back the first time. Somebody actually said that I "switched cubes", and even though this sounds pretty ridiculous, at the time, it stole my thunder, and forced me to rethink this whole stunt. Nowadays, the first time I solve the thing, I do it right in front of the spectators. I don't hide my actions at all.

I do the intital moves getting the corners in place and both outsides while humming Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band and nodding my head from side to side like Ringo Starr did when he played the drums.

Right at the very end, I SLOW DOWN, and make my moves slowly and deliberately, glancing up at the spectators, raising one eyebrow. The cube still looks terribly messed up still and it doesn't look like much has happened. And as the last movements finish, the audience sees the cube come together and they see all the colors melt right into place.

This first experience is one of meta-cognition. They know the cube is twisted… and then… it seems… yes… I mean “no!”… No Way!... and with the final realization that the cube is solved, thier minds reel as they fully digest what the heck just happened.

This ending has proven time and time again to evoke STRONG emotional responses. The audience is seduced into silence. They look around at each other and they SMILE at each other.

If I am a show-off, (which I am), and if I like to show off (which I most certainly do…), then anything I do with the cube after this is going to have to evoke a stronger response than the first solution. Anything else will perfectly define the anti-climax. And that's just not cricket.

NOW is the time to solve it behind the back. With a wink of an eye, right in the middle of the last and final phases, I slowly move the cube behind my back (without losing my place!), and the audience sees me move it behind my back. This deliberate action evokes, not the response of "No way!", but rather the one of "NFW!"

And the second solution is now WAY better than the first one. The audience is pleased, they feel rewarded for their efforts. They feel like they got their money's worth.

And I am the hero again!

And I can live with that.

At this time I won’t disclose the follow up to these two phases. But I will say that it has a bit to do with what happens when one “gets bored” with the cube.

The Black Hole

It's kinda like being drawn into a black hole.

Once I enter, all the rules of physics that are loved and cherished will no longer apply to me.

There WOULDN'T BE ANYTHING I COULDN'T DO.

It would be... god-like.

I could make squared circles and circular squares because the rules no longer apply to me.

I could make a box big enough in which to fit the universe because the rules no longer apply to me.

I could sew buttons onto ice cream because the rules no longer apply to me.

I could make gravity optional. I could make portable holes. I could light candles to create darkness.

Be damned your silly rules, foolish mortal!

As they no longer apply TO ME.

Conjurers as Scholars

Is the study and performance of magic considered a scholarly pursuit? Has the necessary foundation to make conjuring a scholarly pursuit been built? Is it being built? Or is the study of magic just a past time... floating in the air without visible means of support?

If magic is a scholarly pursuit, then how is it properly taught and tested? By lessons in sleight of hand? By laboratories in practical psychology? Through marketing and business management classes? Drama? Theater? Writing? How about the history of magic? How about history of concept development? How on earth does one learn that? Who actually knows it? Who documents it? Where is this information stored?

Magicians comprise a secret society...a community covert. And because of that, such scholarly foundation as does exist, to properly classify it as a scholarly pursuit, must also be a secret to most. Those that work every minute of every day to make conjuring a scholarly endeavor are outnumbered by those indifferent to the effort, those who don't follow the same credo, and those who remain ignorant of the effort. Alas, there are no certified universities or colleges that offer a degree in any of the facets of conjuring, and those classes taught aren't structured to satisfy the requirements of society's scholastic certification process, much less to provide nation-wide university level accreditation.

When the scholarly inventor/developer states that the actions of publishing unauthorized material were unethical because the original method had yet to be published...does he so state because of he perceives the injustice as a tort? Probably not... there isn't enough legislative protection in place in our society to protect the work and its creator, and pursuing the injustice in this manner has often proved to be an object lesson in futility. Instead, it’s possible that the injustice is one of a disservice done to the community by the screaming absence of any scholarly approach to the improper and untimely publication of IP.

Questions left unanswered:
What is the material's history? How was the material's development influenced? Where is the developmental time-line? Where are the inventor's own personal comments, experiences, and feelings that he had while inventing and developing the concept? And most importantly, what name did he choose for the material? Scholars of all fields including magic consider these to be deeply important questions and follow the precedent of making sure to answer these questions and address these issues in-depth in their own publications.

So what in the world happened? I offer this hypothesis. There are non-scholarly publishers that are not aware of, or blatantly ignore the interests of scholarship. The premature publishers "jump the gun", and forget or ignore any kind of scholarly approach to conjuring except teaching their customers a rudimentary competence in base procedure and mechanics of material. Ethics grew legs and ran right out the door, fleeing the predatory hunger of commerce. That's what happened. And no amount of back-peddling or hurrying to publish the work playing "catch-up" will undo the actions of the non-scholars. Sadly, the damage has already been done. The bell cannot be "un-rung."

As long as there are more non-scholars than scholars in this field of study, and ethics keep being placed on the back burners, and no scholarly respect is given to magic, its inventors and their inventions...as long as magicians refuse or cannot treat their occupation respectfully and professionally... as a scholarly endeavor as well as an art and entertainment form...as long as this is happening...magic will never be taken seriously by anyone other than magicians. It will be just considered a hobby, a past time...and the paradigms of today will perpetuate well into the 21st. century.

Is a serious scholarly approach to magic worth our effort? Or is it easier to say, "All that matters is what the audience thinks." Ask yourself instead, "Do we want magic to be taken seriously?"

A big thanks to Jonathan Townsend for his valuable input on this subject. Without him it would not have been possible. Thanks Jon!

Locations

3448 Andromeda, Zapopan, Jalisco

She is upset.

I'm not talking a little, shallow upset, I'm talking a big, deep upset.

She gets tense and terse when she's upset. Her words get shorter, and her voice gets lower and quieter. She gets snippier.

She's not happy. She's burried by her job, and that must be compounded by her classes. Add to that the fact she's got three children and a husband and a really big house.

She is getting frustrated. She's gotten tense. She is getting tired.

I hope she finds time to rest. I really hope that for her.

The Joke's on You, Old Sol

Old Sol poked himself into my bedroom this morning, bringing his mandate to awaken.
My one eye openly scoffed at him, closed, and promptly returned me to sleep.
I lay dreaming of the irony.

The joke's on you, old man.
It's Sunday.

A Little Life Lesson

My ex-boss was a real pain in the ass.

Whenever I had to make some important decisions, I always checked in with him, not to get his permission, but to make sure I was keeping him "in the loop" regarding my activities. I said, "Hey, we need to do such-and-such. Whaddya say?" His answer was always, "Hey, don't ask me if you can do something smart. Just do it and tell me later. That's what I am paying you to do. So go ahead, man. I have faith in you."

So I took the hint and proceeded with my plans as per his instructions. I went ahead and did what I knew I had to do without asking. And when I would do these things, his responses were always, "Hey what do you think you are doing? You need to check with me before you do anything to make sure it's alright. Got it?"

I know this little game he played. I know it well. It is a power-play. The game is designed to keep me off balance and make me second-guess myself, to make me unsure of myself, and to help me remember exactly who is in charge and exactly who has the power. His methods were childish and condescending at best. And life is too short to tolerate that much bullshit from anybody.

So I decided to play his game a little differently. After making all the necessary arrangements regarding my own personal affairs and keeping my priorities straight, I went ahead and took the matter into my own hands. I made a couple more smart decisions and, as a result, and exactly as planned, I got called onto the carpet.

After listening to him chew me out for the umpteenth time, I calmly told him when he was done chewing, "Hey Joe, I really need to hear your expertise on a really important matter. I have a real honest question for you. And I have been meaning to ask this question for a long time. I really need to know the truth."

"Go ahead and ask," he said. He had taken the bait.

I said, "My question is this. Why don't you just go and fuck yourself?"

As most of you well know, there is a huge difference between someone asking this question merely as a result of a lost temper, and someone who sincerely wants to know. The ones who sincerely want to know are usually working another job the very next day at twice the pay.

That's what I meant regarding my own personal affairs and keeping my priorities straight.

Hot Peppers

Chile Peppers

Chile peppers are the world’s only FUNNY food. No other food on this planet except the chile pepper can be described as funny. Hamburgers? Nope. Not funny. Chicken Fried Steak? Not funny, either. Vegetable soup? Yawn. Definitely not funny.

Chili peppers, on the other hand, are very funny. Have you ever watched someone eat a really hot pepper? Man, that’s funny! There are videos all over the interweb of brave, albeit misguided, macho men eating the hottest peppers they can find. And there is one thing for sure, folks, those videos are funnnnnnnyy! Images of beet-red faces, scalded tongues, and general gastric distress can turn a boring evening into a laugh fest, complete with all the har-dee-hars and ha-ha-ha’s that all decent folk crave.

Which other foods have this innate ability to evoke peals of laughter and generous guffaws?
Which other alimentations can alleviate the doldrums of every-day life?
Which other condiments can crack a smile on even the stoniest mugs in our community?
Which other foods can cause a man to do his macho act for the nurses in the local ER?

That’s right… none save the humble chile pepper. Only the chile pepper holds this high and exalted honor. Only the chile pepper can bring us together in a group giggle. Only the chile pepper can unite us as a single unit in search of water. Only the humble chile pepper can bring all mankind together in brotherly love and end the war in Iraq. Whew!

And now… for your reading pleasure… notes on some famous peppers.

The Bell Pepper.
Does it really deserve to be called a pepper? Not really. It's big, it’s green, but it isn't even hot. Yet we call it a pepper. I guess that's because don't have anything else to call it. Or maybe we just feel sorry for it. 0 (zero, zip, zilch) Scoville Heat Units.

The Jalapeño Pepper.
World famous, and not too shabby a pepper. Most people pronounce it "hell-a-PAIN-yo", which is cool if you live north of the border, but not everybody does. Kid's stuff, once you get used to them. Further south, they make a good breakfast and are often found in baby food. Slightly hotter than yer store-bought Tabasco Sauce. 2000-8000 SHUs.

The Serrano Pepper.
South of the border, amigo. Good in salsas, sauces, tacos, burritos, just name it. Hotter than the Jalapeño, pepper noobs are advised to be a little more careful with this one. 10,000-20,000 SHUs. Good stuff.

The Chiltepin Pepper.
Big things come in small packages, like dynamite and nitro-glycerin. No bigger than your pinkie fingernail, this little bugger will set a whole pot of chili on fire. Be careful with this one, bucko. It is called the "mother of all peppers", as it is believed to be the oldest species of peppers. The Bell Pepper envies this one, as does the Jalapeno and the Serrano. 50,000-100,000 SHUs.

The Habanero Pepper.
Described as "Exceptionally Hot", it more deservingly should be called "You'll Be Sorry, Jack, Hot", or "That's Gonna Hurt...Twice... Hot." It will burn your stomach like a BBQ ember. This is the one that makes all the intraweb videos so funnnnnyyy!!! South of the border, this orange H-Bomb is treated with mucho respecto. The Chiltepin respects the Habanero. So do our southern neighbors. Look up the hybrid Red Savina Habanero while you're at it. It can earn a whopping 100,000-350,000 SHUs on a cool day, in the shade, while on ice.

The Scotch Bonnet Pepper. This hot pepper is a cultivated variation of the Habanero Pepper. In laymen's terms, it is a real troublemaker. Eating them raw has been known to cause dizziness, numbness of the hands, heartburn, and diarrhea, all at the same time!! Wowee!!! Is this the line? 150,000-350,000 SHUs.

The Dorset Naga Pepper.
This little monster hails from England (England? WTF?) and is considered by many to be one of the world’s hottest. All you have to do is touch your food with it and it will burn the taste buds right off of your tongue. You need gloves just to handle the darn thing. It can be considered dangerously funny. It is a relative of the Scotch Bonnet and you have been warned. 900,000 plus SHU’s.

The Naga Jolokia Pepper.
All genuflect to the Chuck Norris of Peppers. From India, (India?... that's more like it...) this bugger will either put you in the hospital or put you in the dirt. It is poison and it is venom. Call for help. Call 911. Call the doctor. Call the priest. Call the lawyers. Call the probate officers and notify the next of kin. And, while you’re at it, call the newspapers and write an obituary. And bring your video camera. It’s definitely gonna be a "Kodak Moment". 855,000+ SHUs, slightly less than the Dorset Naga, but get this…the highest SHU ever recorded for this little SOB is 1,041,427 SHU’s. No others have ever even come close. 'Nuff said.

Have a nice day.

Locations

Calles Nuez and San Salvador

Rather Ordinary Lives

When he was young, he just wanted to live his life like an ordinary, regular man. He didn’t plan on being famous or super-rich or doing anything extraordinary or anything like that. He just wanted to go to work, raise a family, and save money for his kids’ educations and for his wife’s and his retirement. He wanted a rather ordinary life.

Then things got complicated. Once he figured out the difference between who he wanted to be and who he really was, he found himself seeking experiences that few others would. He found myself going to unusual places, and doing things rare and meeting with people exciting and often dangerous. And, all the while this extraordinary life was happening; he worked good jobs, got married, took care of his lawn, and raised four kids.

On this behavior, he has done more than just survived… he has also thrived. He has thrilled and marveled at the wonders of this world that he has seen. He has both witnessed and participated in great adventures. He has seen more of the world than most people dream of. And he will continue to do so because it enchants him still.

So what happened to his rather ordinary life? He started out wanting one thing and wound up seeking another. He wanted peace, security, and tranquility, and wound up digging in the opposite direction. He even fell in love with another woman besides his wife. His love for her was so great and so seriously that he, at great length, considered leaving his ordinary wife and ordinary children just so he could be with her.

And he asked himself, "What the hell happened to my “sure thing?” Just what the hell happened?"

Well, perhaps his perception is wrong. Perhaps he really is living a rather ordinary life. Perhaps we all are, but would prefer to think of them as something else entirely.

Perhaps this is the case.

The Life of Jorge Fuertes

Jorge always had a melancholy smile.

Whenever he smiled or even laughed, his smile always ended with a peculiar melancholy twitch in the corners of his mouth that sent the message that he was thinking that, sure, we can laugh now, if we want to, but things aren’t really that great and they’re going to get worse… Believe me, I know. His smile was not as sad as it was skeptical. Something inside of him kept him from ever really enjoying the moment ever again. Something had anchored him. It smothered his joy. And I could see all of that in his smile.

He was about 5’ 8” tall and weighed about 165 lbs.
His skin was olive and his thinning in front, brown hair had turned grey around his ears, temples, and the sides of his head. He had bags under his eyes and age spots on his hands. He also had a paunch belly. He wasn’t a handsome man by any means. His body betrayed his real age; he looked older than he really was.

I first met Jorge when he started working for us. I was a floorman and he was a blackjack dealer. His job was to deal the game and my job was to watch him. He was very pleasant and respectful in his dealings with all the customers and staff, and that made me like him right away. He made my job easier because I hardly ever had to settle any beefs on his game.

Besides his high professionalism, at that time, I was learning Spanish and was very curious about his accent because Jorge spoke with an unusual Spanish accent and his English was really good. I asked him a lot of questions about Spanish grammar and he was always kind enough to answer them. I found out from him that he was from Argentina and had lived in the USA for the last 30 odd years. He took a liking to me right away too. I guess it was because of my appreciation of his hard work and my curiosity about his language. Our friendship was forming nicely.

Jorge was a very steady and consistent dealer, even though he wasn’t very lucky. His game won a little more than it lost, so we were happy to keep him on because he was so darn good with the customers. These particular qualities happen to make for good craps dealers, too. We asked Jorge if he was interested in learning the game and he surprised us by reluctantly agreeing. We started training him on the game right away. At first, he was like a fish out of water. He had a terrible time learning the game and most of the management wondered if he really had what it took to be a craps dealer. I wasn’t involved in his actual training but I did have time to watch his training process. I figured out that he didn’t understand the where-hows and why-fors of the game. He didn’t understand exactly how the many combinations of payoffs on the game were based and that was what confused him. So on one break, while my work wasn’t so demanding, I took him aside and explained the natural probabilities of two six-sided dice to him. He understood them right away and the light bulb turned on. After the break, he walked back onto the game and found out that he actually could deal it. From then on, whenever he had complex questions about the game, he made sure to ask me if he didn’t get the answers from his trainers. Our friendship got stronger.

Jorge’s ability to deal craps never got super strong because he never developed any real speed. This wasn’t because he couldn’t figure out the math; in fact, he always was able to accurately mentally calculate the correct payoffs. It was more because of his age. He was simply too old and his body too broken to be humping over a craps table at great speed for any length of time. He would often walk away sweating to go on his twenty minute break after an hour’s work. I felt sorry for the guy a lot of times and never pressured him to go as fast as the younger dealers were going. He was good enough for the customers and that was darn sure good enough for me.

After about a year and a half, I had earned my promotion to shift manager and we were looking for someone to replace me. We asked Jorge if he wanted a floorman’s job. He was again reluctant. We told him that we knew that he could do the job and had a lot of faith in him, but he was still hesitant. He finally told me that he didn’t want to have to work for three or four hours at a time without any breaks. He wanted his breaks and his easy job because he could go smoke his cigarettes and relax. He just wasn’t interested in excelling. He wanted things to go easy. When he finally accepted the job, and our scheduling woes vanished, he took a late swing shift and accepted all the odd hours because business wasn’t as strong during those hours and he could get more breaks. He worked with me a lot and I let him have his smoke breaks whenever he asked. I didn’t mind at all, because we worked out a deal between us that went like whenever the other guy wanted a break, he got it as long as the work got done first. Jorge and I worked together well and our friendship grew stronger.

One day, during a lull in play, I was watching my games and Jorge was watching his. He called me over to his side of the pit because he wanted to tell me something. Jorge told me something about his family. It was the first time in four or five years working together that he told me anything about his personal life and his family. We had been winning all night and we were in very good moods. We were laughing and scratching. He told me why he liked me so much.

He said, “Patrick, do you know why I like you so much? Do you know why we are such good friends?”

I smilingly said, “No, Jorge. Why?” I was thinking that he would say because I was such a cool boss or something conceited like that.

He said, “I like you because of your name.”

I said nothing.

He said, “Your name is my favorite name of them all. I like the name so much I named my daughter ‘Patricia.’ She lives here in the USA.”

I replied in my usual, “Well, I know for a fact that my name is the best of them all. And Patricia is just as good as Patrick. You did well in naming her so.”

He laughed and said, “You’re right. It is.”

I laughed too and didn’t give our conversation another thought until two years later.

Over those next two odd years, Jorge’s health got worse. His patience got shorter and so did his breathing. He was also having personal trouble with his girlfriend who was about fifteen years younger than him. They had been going out together for about three years and things weren’t working out. I often saw him looking off into space when he should have been watching the blackjack games. This concerned me because I’ve learned a few things and one of the things I’ve learned is exactly what people are thinking when they just look off into space. It means that they want to be somewhere else. They want to be anywhere but where they are. It is like when someone is sitting down and wiggling and jiggling their foot. It’s because they have grown impatient and they are planning and plotting new courses. I could see that in Jorge’s eyes and I knew that our time together was growing short. By that time, Jorge and I had worked together about six years and I just thought that he was ready to move on to a different job. I had no idea.

It was the Christmas of 2000 that Jorge took his three week vacation. We let him have it because he had planned it a full year prior. He was planning to visit his family in Argentina and wanted all the extra time to travel around his country and relax. He got more and more anxious right before his vacation. He didn’t laugh or smile. He just did his job in a quick manner and left immediately after work. I thought he was busy planning and making preparations for his big journey so I didn’t pay too much attention to his behavior.

He gave me a Christmas present that year. It was the last thing he did before got off work to start his vacation. It was his last action before leaving us to go to Argentina. His present to me was a money clip. He told me that he really wanted me to have it because he knew that I would need it and be able to use it. I smiled and thanked him and told him to have a great holiday with his family. He said nothing. He just turned on his heel and walked out the doors. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Three weeks later, we were expecting Jorge to return to work. He never arrived. We didn’t have any idea what had happened to him. We asked around if anybody had seen or heard from him, or if he had actually found another better job, but nobody had any idea where he had gone. It bothered us for a little while that he had left us without telling us where he was going, but that kind of behavior is normal in the casino industry. In fact, it is expected and tolerated because that’s just the nature of the business. Most people move from one casino to another without prior notice because of money issues. We all know that and we make do with what we have.

We didn’t hear anything about what happened to Jorge until the police arrived in the second week of February. It seemed that they were just as concerned about him as we were but for a lot of very different reasons. The police told us that Jorge’s landlord had gone into his apartment because his rent hadn’t been paid. The landlord found Jorge’s body on the floor of his living room and had immediately called the police.

The police did their investigation and immediately came to us. The police told us that Jorge had committed suicide by placing a .22 pistol to his right temple and pulling the trigger. When they had found his body, there was no blood. His body was in an only partially decomposed state and had been laying there in his living room without any heat for about four weeks. It had been pretty well preserved. We also learned from the police that Jorge had just broken up with his girlfriend and had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was going to die anyway.

But that’s not the reason that the police came to us. The reason was that they had a lot of questions because they couldn’t figure out who his next of kin was. They didn’t know if he had any family or not. They asked us if we knew, and the funny thing was, none of us knew if he had any family. They wanted to know whom they could place a call. They had to call someone to inform them and get them to collect all of his personal belongings and close the case. And they had no idea who to call.

And after six or seven years working with us, we didn’t know either!

They tried his estranged girlfriend, but, as it turns out, Jorge never told her anything about his family, the same as he never told anything to us. He was very secretive about his family with everyone. The only thing his girlfriend said when she heard that he was dead was, “Did he leave me any money?”

And that’s why I write Jorge’s story. Patricia lived on the East Coast and flew to Vegas to finish the paperwork. I never met her. Case closed.

As we later speculated, we figured that Jorge had been badly burned by his life’s experiences with his family and friends and, although he may not have known it, he was somehow letting his smile show that he knew of and had experienced enough of life’s unfairness and brutality to warrant never really enjoying the moment ever again. I didn’t understand that until many years later. He was alone and had no family and we never knew that. He chose his path of solitude and put up a brilliant façade that fooled most of everybody. We didn’t know about his pain and he never told us. He didn't want us to know. The only thing that betrayed him was his smile.

I still remember Jorge as a friend and a good man. His suicide does not bother me as much as the other suicides I’ve seen. I still am sad when I think of it, but instead of having the feelings of frustration I have with the others, with his, I also have a sense of relief.

Locations

Locations

San Juan de Dios Burgos and Calle Egipto

We went to a wake last night at Benja’s mother’s house because his father died Thursday at the tender age of 57. It seems that he had been fighting diabetes tooth and nail for quite a few years and finally, after being blinded and disfigured by it, diabetes checked him out and he finished his time here.
I arrived with my wife, her father, her father’s girlfriend and one of the other guys we work with. Benjamin, we call him “Benja”, and his brother Beto greeted us at his mother’s house at 10:00 p.m. His other brothers and sisters were running around talking to all the guests that were also there. The adults were sitting around outside the house and the kids were playing in the street. There were probably 35 people there when we arrived.
I asked Benja if I could visit the casket. It was in his mother’s living room surrounded by old people and hundreds of flowers. He led me into the room and stayed with me as I paid my respects to a man whom I never knew. I touched the casket and thought to myself, “Don’t worry man. Your kids are going to be ok.” Then we left the room, walked back out into the street and sat with the other adults.
My wife’s father talked to Benja for a long time. Evidently, they’re real close. Benja, now 33 years old, has been working for him since he was 18 years old. There is a real bond between them. And on that cold night with the adults outside huddling under blanket and the kids playing and yelling in the street, I was glad to see that connection, because when we got there, Benja had a look in his eyes that reminded me of the apprehensive, almost panicky look a man gets when he is really, REALLY lost and there isn’t anybody around for him to ask directions or to tell him which way to go.
Benja did not have that same look in his eyes when we left. I checked.

Manifesto

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
- "Hamlet", Act I, scene 5; William Shakespeare

I was walking right down the middle of the street. There were cars, but I didn't see them. I was watching the clouds in the sky. The wind was blowing at my back and the clouds moved at the same speed and in the same direction as I was walking. From this sight, I sensed the world moving beneath my feet. And on that forgotten day when it dawned on me that I really had absolutely nothing at all in this world to do except walk down the middle of a street... and I was feeling like just flying away to anywhere but right there..., it really, really hit me.

It didn’t hit me from behind; it hit me from the front. Perhaps, by moving the Earth with my feet, I had accidentally walked into it. I remember how that felt, even today. It was a punch in the stomach and a breath of fresh air all at the same time. Its flavor was sweet and acrid. It had taste and it had smell and it had texture. I sensed that I was alive.

I was alive and I intended to stay that way. I knew that there were more things in heaven and earth than what I had dreamt of, and I wanted to know what more there was. My view on life was no longer muddled or murky, or like walking down the middle of a street, without direction. It was now about finding out what more there was, what more that I wasn’t seeing or feeling or knowing. So I got up on the sidewalk and began my work of living. I decided that I must use the sidewalk and discover and develop the core elements that would define me, my character, and my sense of self. Eventually, I figured out that I would mostly consist of three states of being that must all balance.

My three core elemental states would consist of my mental, physical, spiritual states. I realized that all three states existed in me, but were sorely out of balance with each other. My mental state was stronger than my physical, and my spiritual was wandering right down the middle of the road, looking for a place to go. And since then, this is what I have decided.

I will be Strong enough to live a comfortable life without having to ask for help. I have a long way to go yet and there is still much to be done.
I will be Wise enough to know what I don’t know, and smart enough to be able to find out what I want. Every day has become a chance to figure out what isn’t already known.
Hope and Love are always good things, and that they can never be bad things. I will Hope for and Love everyone that I meet. And I will keep my cards above the table for them.
I will Remember that self-imposed limits are set by fools. There’s no sense in being another. The choices we make under duress and with beings smaller and weaker define us as who we are. We are only truly alive when we are not comfortable or safe.

Even these days, I sometimes find myself walking down the middle of the street. But now I know why I do it. It is just what I do.

Locations

Locations

Avenida Arboledas and Calle Nuez
Adventure

My son and I live for adventures. Sometimes he’ll be playing a video game in his underwear and I’ll tell him, “Let’s go.” He asks where we are going and I tell him that I don’t really know. Out of the chair he bounds and is dressed in 5 minutes. (This surprises me because it usually takes him 20 minutes to get dressed to go to school.) And out the door we go.

Yesterday, he and I bounded out the door when Crystal sent us on a do-or-die mission to find cupcake papers. As it goes, it’s pretty hard to find those little cupcake paper holders down here. They are the little paper cups that cupcakes come in that you peel off before you eat the cupcake. In the US, they’re a “piece of cake” to find and buy, but here in Guadalajara, where to find those little guys is a bit of a puzzle. So out the door we go. We’re on a mission.

We have already been to the supermarkets where one would think to go first, but, like I said, it just ain't that easy. The major market chains don’t carry them. That’s why it had become a bit of a puzzle for us. We already exhausted most of the stores we knew of, and were continuingly being thwarted everywhere else we went. We wound up having to go to the wholesale market area. It’s called the Mercado de Abastos. It is where Mom and I went when she was looking for the saffron. It is a huge, open-market area in the middle of Guadalajara and covers about 4 or 5 square miles. (Mom loved it there. It reminded her of a beehive.) Everything sold down there is wholesale, in bulk, and you haul it away. Fruits, vegetables, candy, grains, beans, pet food, cleaning solutions, paper and plastic disposables, tires, you name it… it is sold in this area. Surely there must be little paper cupcake holders...

Traffic in the Mercado de Abastos is a remarkable experience, and also it is a remarkable pain in the butt. It reminded Mom of a beehive, remember? Semi trucks and VW bugs all alike all vie for the same street. Bicycles, pedestrians, and working men pushing hand-trucks over-laden with products criss-cross and jaywalk everywhere! Street lights and stop signs are really more suggestions than regulations unless the traffic cops are patrolling the area. But the traffic cops don’t help much. In my experience, all the traffic cops have ever done is snarl up traffic even more with their constant whining and complaining and demanding that everybody follow the “rules.” They slow things down and make people wait. Traffic backs up and intersections get gridlocked. And yesterday, the cops were all over the place. And it was a Saturday. And on Saturday at noon, it’s craziness in the Mercado de Abastos. It’s absolute madness. It is chaos.

And Patrick and I are off together on another adventure. We had a great time. We came home victorious with the little red paper cupcake holders and Crystal was very pleased with our efforts.

Initial Post

How cool is this?