Read MoreThe onslaught of a collective “bad beat” in sports betting has a unique sound and feel all its own.
Think of an approaching freight train. Recall the suspense of a slasher movie. Imagine the instant before an explosion.
I’ve heard this sound of terror many times.
Yesterday, I almost had my balls chewed off by a pit bull named “Chief.”
It’s true.
I was attacked by three pit bulls this past weekend. Here’s the story of how a leisurely run through the mountains of northern San Diego County turned into a brief moment of terror.
………………
Ever had one of those “HOLY SHIT! WHAT DO I DO NOW?” moments?
I just had one.
Make that three. As in three pit bulls.
It all happened Saturday morning. A casual three-mile run concluded with an unexpected “bonus sprint” towards the end, when I was confronted by three gnarling, foaming-at-the-mouth, canine beasts.
First, the back story. I’m currently staying at the Harrah’s Rincon Resort and Casino, which is located in the mountains just north of San Diego. This is Indian land situated about halfway between Temecula and Escondido. Unless you drive 20 miles due east off the I-15, you’d never know there’s this vast barren area with almost no modern development, except for a few casinos and local Indians who all seem to drive $60,000 cars and live in shacks.
The roads here pretty much consist of single-lane stretches of pavement winding through mountains along blind curves with no guard rails. Everyone seems to drive 80 miles an hour along these roads. I guess there’s no state highway patrol here given this is a “sovereign nation,” so it’s almost like vehicular anarchy.
Having run along these roads a few times as part of my daily workout, I’ve nearly been hit by traffic, oblivious to the fat white guy wallowing along the yellow stripe who’s stupid enough to jog a route where no path exists. If running in Las Vegas is dangerous at times, and it certainly can be, then doing the same thing here on an Indian reservation is inviting a death wish.
So, on Saturday morning I went out in search of a detour. A new path where I could run over the next week which was challenging, but safe. I thought I’d found it, at least until the final stage of my run, which is where the story picks up.
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I received an e-mail from a loyal reader recently which contained some good advice. He made two suggestions for my blog.
First, he wanted to hear more poker and gambling stories. That’s a reasonable request. So, look for more stories in the near future.
Second, he suggested making my blog more personal by sharing things I do on a day-to-day basis.
I must admit the thought to reducing this site to some kind of sick twitter update — such as informing the world of what I ordered for lunch strikes me as ridiculously narcissistic and utterly immaterial. That said, I very much believe “who we are” is defined by “what we do.” So, I will acquiesce to this occasionally and bore the world with the trivialities of my personal life.
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Writer’s Note: Tonight I had the great fortune of enjoying yet another extraordinary dinner and deep discussion with friends and colleagues.
Steve Schorr, Race and Sportsbook Manager at Harveys Lake Tahoe (pictured standing at center in photo) made the mistake of including me in his good graces, an invite that’s always sure to result in an assault on the liquor cabinet, several off-color comments, and a sink full of dirty dishes.
Gracie, his longtime companion and our host extraordinaire for the evening (standing with Steve in the photo) served a dinner that would have made Henry VIII bust his pants. The only thing more pleasing than the fresh salmon and glazed lamb chops was the company.
On second thought, while the company was indeed wonderful, those smoked lamb chops served with a reduction sauce were pretty damned good. Sorry Steve, you’ve been upstaged by a slaughtered lamb.
Naturally, with good friends and wine comes interesting conversation. The following essay was prompted by our discussion.
Another dinner.
Another epiphany.
If we have a sixth sense beyond the known five, it’s probably instinct.
Think about that for a moment.
Instinct.
An inner voice.
A feeling.
Were I to define instinct, it would be perception which cannot be measured nor transposed. But it’s real. Just as touch is a tangible sensation — a neurophysiological process of transmission from body to brain — it’s not necessarily defined in the abstract. After all, we see objects, we hear sounds, we taste flavors, we smell odors. But touch isn’t quite the same. Accordingly, isn’t it quite possible – even probable — that all the evolutionary tools we’ve come to master over hundreds of thousands of years are now manifested in a greater awareness of our surroundings and a dominion as to how to optimally react to stimuli?
Alas, this is what I call instinct.
It’s taken me most of my life to erase what amounts to fifty years of ignorance or indifference to instinct. I’m hardly alone. We’re all inundated with second-guessing and self-doubt. Killers of human instinct. Assassins of truth. Which gradually leads to loss of confidence — and ultimately to sadness and depression.
Why is this so?
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Photo Caption: Dinner tonight at “19,” which is high atop the Harveys Resort and Casino at beautiful Lake Tahoe. I wolfed down a 20-ounce coffee-rubbed rib-eye, with garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus, a house salad, a full bottle of Pellegrino, two double expressos, and two bottles of Caymus (shared, of course). Epic dinners like these always bring about great conversation, especially when you are with great company like Steve Schorr (Race and Sportsbook Manager) and Glen Cademartori (Caesars Entertainment Marketing Director for Northern Nevada). Dinners like this are what living life is all about. Tonight’s dinner prompted the following thoughts and column:
I wish there were 36 hours in the day, instead of 24.
I wish there were eight days in the week, instead of seven.
I wish I had more time.
There’s not enough time to read all the books I want to read. There’s not enough time to listen to all the music I want to hear. There’s not enough time to travel to all the places I want to go. There’s not enough time to make all the friends I’d like to meet. There’s not enough time to covet those family relationships and friendships that I’m already blessed to have. There’s not enough time fulfill a vast cauldron of desires.
Indeed, each of us lives inside an hourglass. The sand beneath our feet is always shifting and slowly disappears, one grain at a time, one ticking second at a time. At some point — no one knows exactly when — the sand runs out. Our hourglass becomes empty. And then, we will be gone.
When you think about it, other than our good health, time is our most precious resource.
Why then do we waste so much of it?
Tonight at dinner, the conversation turned to living a good life.
A random question came up that made me to pause and think. And quite frankly, I got stumped. I usually have quick answers for just about everything. That’s what comes with being opinionated. But a question was asked that I still have trouble answering. Perhaps you’d like to pretend you’re dining with us over a few bottles of wine and you suddenly get asked the following:
If you could pick one person in the world to have a long one-on-one dinner conversation with, who would it be?
Let’s embellish this just a bit. You must make two choices. The first choice must be someone living. The second choice must be someone deceased.
I find this a very difficult question to answer.
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