Not that Kind of Trick

R Man and I were lunching at Chow, our favorite dining establishment here in cowtown, when I noticed two guys at the table next to us playing gin. It’s that kind of place. Or rather, one guy was playing, the other, whose I hand I could see, seem to be picking up and discarding cards randomly. A deuce here, a jack there, lah la lah la lah. By the third hand, I think R Man was concerned that he was going to have to restrain me from going over and playing his damn hand for him.

I come from serious game people. My sainted mother, god rest her, belonged to two weekly bridge clubs, a really fierce player. And by that, I do not mean the drag queen “fierce” as in “wildly stylish” but rather “fierce” as in “bloodthirsty”, as in “you lose one more trick and I’m going in the kitchen, find me a knife and cut you like bologna.” That kind of fierce. The rest of the bridge club gals were just the same, I suppose the lighter weight players dropped off or were simply kicked out of the way. Metaphorically, of course. At the same time, all of them were the epitome of southern lady suburban housewifey, making small talk about jello molds, while trying to figure out where the fuck the king of clubs had gotten to. Fierce, I tell you.

So the guy at Chow? He’s lucky I didn’t brain him with my lasagna, which would have been a shame, cause I love Chow’s lasagna. Try it the next time you’re there.

I gotta go