It's the weekend, and there is a casino in my future, which I am looking forward to, and that has caused me to ruminate on some of my more memorable casino adventures. One of them was a number of years ago at the Blue Chip in Michigan City. It was a Saturday evening, and the place was crowded, and I couldn't find a seat at an affordable blackjack table. I walked around and around looking for a spot.
Then suddenly I saw a table where only one woman was playing. I glanced at the bet-limit sign and was astounded (but delighted!) that there was a $5 table with empty seats. Maybe they had just opened that one up, I thought. In any case, I immediately climbed up on a stool and gave the dealer $100. He gave me four green chips, worth $25 each. I said I would like some $5 chips, and he gave me a kind of odd look, then directed my attention to the sign at the end of the table that I had obviously misread. This was not a $5 table -- the minimum bet was $50.
"Cripes," said I (or words to that effect), "that's too rich for me." As I grabbed the green chips and slid off the stool, the woman gave me a look of complete disdain, revealing in one quick up-and-down survey of my person that I wasn't even worth her attention since I couldn't afford to make $50 bets.
I let her go ahead and feel superior because I knew that really high-class people play blackjack in Monte Carlo, not in Indiana.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Sushi Schmushi
My partner and I get together with a couple friends for dinner out about once a month, taking turns choosing the restaurant. Last night we dined at a Japanese hibachi and sushi place. You can bet I didn't chose it ("What? Raw fish? Are you kidding me?"). It could have been problematic for a number of reasons.
First, I have been accused all my life of being a picky eater, which I have always considered extremely unfair since I love some things that lots of other people won't eat, like liver, and lima beans, and potted meat. Second, I have never had a reputation for either flexibility or adventurousness in anything, much less foreign cuisine. And third -- well, when it was my turn to choose the restaurant last month, I picked A&W. In short, nobody who knows me would expect anything less than my being dragged into the joint kicking and screaming.
Nevertheless, I pulled up my big girl pants and promised myself I wouldn't be a party pooper. I don't suppose the two scotch-and-sodas I had at the bar while waiting for the rest of our party to arrive hurt anything either.
So here is my review: the miso soup was very good, the raspberry vinaigrette on the salad was too, the hibachi chef was very clever and funny, and the shrimp he made me were excellent. Altogether it was a very fun experience.
Oh, and as for the dreaded raw fish -- well, of course, I had some. I tried three different sushi rolls, then had seconds on my favorite one, which was crab salad, avocado, and fresh salmon with honey wasabi sauce.
Who are you callin' picky?
First, I have been accused all my life of being a picky eater, which I have always considered extremely unfair since I love some things that lots of other people won't eat, like liver, and lima beans, and potted meat. Second, I have never had a reputation for either flexibility or adventurousness in anything, much less foreign cuisine. And third -- well, when it was my turn to choose the restaurant last month, I picked A&W. In short, nobody who knows me would expect anything less than my being dragged into the joint kicking and screaming.
Nevertheless, I pulled up my big girl pants and promised myself I wouldn't be a party pooper. I don't suppose the two scotch-and-sodas I had at the bar while waiting for the rest of our party to arrive hurt anything either.
So here is my review: the miso soup was very good, the raspberry vinaigrette on the salad was too, the hibachi chef was very clever and funny, and the shrimp he made me were excellent. Altogether it was a very fun experience.
Oh, and as for the dreaded raw fish -- well, of course, I had some. I tried three different sushi rolls, then had seconds on my favorite one, which was crab salad, avocado, and fresh salmon with honey wasabi sauce.
Who are you callin' picky?
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Keep This and All Politics Out of Reach of Children
The phone rang just now, and the caller ID said it was Directory Assistance at 248-555-5555. That piqued my curiosity, so I answered it. A recording began, some guy telling me he was with the RNC. I hung up immediately.
The Republicans must be in major trouble if they have to masquerade as Directory Assistance to get people to answer their phone calls.
The Republicans must be in major trouble if they have to masquerade as Directory Assistance to get people to answer their phone calls.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Just in the nick of name
In a Wikipedia article called “Nicknames of United States Presidents,” the only thing listed for the current guy is “No Drama Obama,” which is lame, but at brainshavings.com, something titled “The Pretty Darn Exhaustive Obama Nickname List” includes 256 epithets, only a handful of which are not pejorative, and even those are probably sarcastic.
Presidential nicknames are American as apple pie. According to the Wikipedia article, the prize for the most nicknames goes to Martin Van Buren (9) while Warren G. Harding had none. Many presidential nicknames are familiar -- we all know who the Father of His Country was and which ones were called the Sage of Monticello, the Great Emancipator, and the Father of the Constitution. (Or we should, but okay -- Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Madison.)
There were old ones: Old Hickory, Old Tippecanoe, Old Kinderhook, and Old Rough and Ready (Jackson, W. H. Harrison, Van Buren, Taylor), and riffs like His Rotundity, His Fraudulency, His Obstinacy, and His Accidency (John Adams, Hayes, Cleveland, Tyler, the first veep to ascend on the death of the president). Naturally, lots were less than flattering, such as the Peanut Farmer, the Grim Presence, Big Lub, Tricky Dick, and the Gipper (Carter, A. Johnson, Taft, Nixon, Reagan, a reminder that he had been a movie actor).
Referring to the president by his initials started with Theodore Roosevelt, because he signed TR to many things, but it didn’t recur until Franklin Roosevelt. He was always eager to emulate his cousin Teddy in all things, but I suspect the use of his initials came from newspaper editors who realized that FDR took up lots less space than Roosevelt in headlines. The trend continued for HST, JKF, and LBJ (Truman, Kennedy, L. Johnson) but not for Eisenhower because they could use Ike. It died out after that, unless you want to count Dubya.
I thought about the initials thing for our current president, but I'm afraid too many people might confuse BHO with a cable network. I guess he will eventually earn a nickname. For his sake, and that of our country, I hope it's a complimentary one.
Presidential nicknames are American as apple pie. According to the Wikipedia article, the prize for the most nicknames goes to Martin Van Buren (9) while Warren G. Harding had none. Many presidential nicknames are familiar -- we all know who the Father of His Country was and which ones were called the Sage of Monticello, the Great Emancipator, and the Father of the Constitution. (Or we should, but okay -- Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Madison.)
There were old ones: Old Hickory, Old Tippecanoe, Old Kinderhook, and Old Rough and Ready (Jackson, W. H. Harrison, Van Buren, Taylor), and riffs like His Rotundity, His Fraudulency, His Obstinacy, and His Accidency (John Adams, Hayes, Cleveland, Tyler, the first veep to ascend on the death of the president). Naturally, lots were less than flattering, such as the Peanut Farmer, the Grim Presence, Big Lub, Tricky Dick, and the Gipper (Carter, A. Johnson, Taft, Nixon, Reagan, a reminder that he had been a movie actor).
Referring to the president by his initials started with Theodore Roosevelt, because he signed TR to many things, but it didn’t recur until Franklin Roosevelt. He was always eager to emulate his cousin Teddy in all things, but I suspect the use of his initials came from newspaper editors who realized that FDR took up lots less space than Roosevelt in headlines. The trend continued for HST, JKF, and LBJ (Truman, Kennedy, L. Johnson) but not for Eisenhower because they could use Ike. It died out after that, unless you want to count Dubya.
I thought about the initials thing for our current president, but I'm afraid too many people might confuse BHO with a cable network. I guess he will eventually earn a nickname. For his sake, and that of our country, I hope it's a complimentary one.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Credit Quandary
Mexican for supper last night, and it was yummy. I whipped up some guacamole and also ground beef with my very own taco seasoning. We didn't have any refried beans, but then I found a can of black beans in the cupboard and decided I ought to be able to figure out how to make my own, which I did, and it was very good.
My partner fried some tortillas so we could have crispy beef and bean tostadas with cheese and salsa and black olives, and, of course, sour cream and guac.
Having taken some to share with a coworker, my partner reports there is yet another person who thinks my guacamole is the best they've ever had. My dilemma is whether I keep my mouth shut or admit that the guac recipe came from Alton Brown on foodnetwork.com.
Regardless who gets credit, the meal was superb. Soji the Chihuahua loved it too. Yes, I know my tiny dog is supposed to be on a diet and not be given people food, but doesn't she deserve a taste of home now and then?
My partner fried some tortillas so we could have crispy beef and bean tostadas with cheese and salsa and black olives, and, of course, sour cream and guac.
Having taken some to share with a coworker, my partner reports there is yet another person who thinks my guacamole is the best they've ever had. My dilemma is whether I keep my mouth shut or admit that the guac recipe came from Alton Brown on foodnetwork.com.
Regardless who gets credit, the meal was superb. Soji the Chihuahua loved it too. Yes, I know my tiny dog is supposed to be on a diet and not be given people food, but doesn't she deserve a taste of home now and then?
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Can you trust a tombstone?
Having found Great-Grandma Knez's headstone at Bohemian National Cemetery last week, I was able to come up with her death certificate online (for free). It says her son, my grandfather, gave the personal information such as birth date, maiden name, parents' names, etc. Somebody did a lousy job one way or the other. The tombstone says she died aged 57, and the death certificate says she was 55 (born in 1857). The date of death is November 21 on the marker and November 22 on the certificate. I'm going with the certificate. The doctor should know.
I consider tombstones to be reliable primary sources, but they can have the wrong information. A great-grandfather on my mother's side, William Thomas Weatherford, had a brother named George who died at age 13. I saw George's headstone and was surprised that his birth date was the same as William's, meaning they were twins. Later I discovered George was actually a couple years older than William. Apparently the grieving parents gave the stone cutter the wrong kid's birth date.
This recent find got me all charged up genealogically, and while I was rummaging around on the Internet this morning, I found a site called FamilyLink that promised me I could search the world for information about my family. I signed up for a free three-day trial, but within an hour I called them to cancel it so it wouldn't be billed to my credit card. A woman named Crystal handled my request, confirming my identity, and providing a confirmation number. I was prepared -- in fact, anxious -- to tell her the reason I wanted to cancel the subscription was that they don't have squat, but she never asked me. I guess she already knows.
I consider tombstones to be reliable primary sources, but they can have the wrong information. A great-grandfather on my mother's side, William Thomas Weatherford, had a brother named George who died at age 13. I saw George's headstone and was surprised that his birth date was the same as William's, meaning they were twins. Later I discovered George was actually a couple years older than William. Apparently the grieving parents gave the stone cutter the wrong kid's birth date.
This recent find got me all charged up genealogically, and while I was rummaging around on the Internet this morning, I found a site called FamilyLink that promised me I could search the world for information about my family. I signed up for a free three-day trial, but within an hour I called them to cancel it so it wouldn't be billed to my credit card. A woman named Crystal handled my request, confirming my identity, and providing a confirmation number. I was prepared -- in fact, anxious -- to tell her the reason I wanted to cancel the subscription was that they don't have squat, but she never asked me. I guess she already knows.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Back Now
We've been away on a nice little trip to Chicago and points north, partly to celebrate our 26th anniversary and partly to please the genealogist in me. For years I've wanted to visit Bohemian National Cemetery to see and photograph the graves of my father's family who are buried there.
Bohemian National is a huge cemetery taking up 122-acres on Chicago's north side, founded in 1877 and still going. I knew that my grandparents are both there, as well as their twins who died in infancy, and one of my great-grandmothers. A nice woman in the cemetery office looked up where these people were, gave us maps and directions, and sent us on our way. My partner was brilliant in reckoning locations.
Grandma Knez's ashes are in the Masaryk Memorial Mausoleum, and we found and photographed the niche front that bears her name and dates. My grandfather and the babies have no headstones, but we determined where they had been buried because of the other relatives buried in the same plots who did have markers. My grandmother's mother, Ludmila Melka (1866-1919), has a headstone, which I photographed, but then I got a real bonus by finding this one:
The inscription reads:
MARIE KNĚZ
zem.21.list.1912
v stáří 57 roků
Spi sladce drahá matko
When I got home and checked dates, I was able to confirm that this was my other great-grandmother, Grandpa Knez's mother. It says she died on 21 November 1912 at age 57 years.
That sentiment at the end (Spi sladce drahá matko) appears on Ludmila Melka's stone also. I'm glad I didn't get it translated until I got home. I admit I am a big mush and that sentimental moments tend to puddle me up, and there were plenty of those that afternoon in the cemetery. If I had been told then that it means "Sleep sweetly dear mother," it would probably have set me to sobbing.
Bohemian National is a huge cemetery taking up 122-acres on Chicago's north side, founded in 1877 and still going. I knew that my grandparents are both there, as well as their twins who died in infancy, and one of my great-grandmothers. A nice woman in the cemetery office looked up where these people were, gave us maps and directions, and sent us on our way. My partner was brilliant in reckoning locations.
Grandma Knez's ashes are in the Masaryk Memorial Mausoleum, and we found and photographed the niche front that bears her name and dates. My grandfather and the babies have no headstones, but we determined where they had been buried because of the other relatives buried in the same plots who did have markers. My grandmother's mother, Ludmila Melka (1866-1919), has a headstone, which I photographed, but then I got a real bonus by finding this one:
MARIE KNĚZ
zem.21.list.1912
v stáří 57 roků
Spi sladce drahá matko
When I got home and checked dates, I was able to confirm that this was my other great-grandmother, Grandpa Knez's mother. It says she died on 21 November 1912 at age 57 years.
That sentiment at the end (Spi sladce drahá matko) appears on Ludmila Melka's stone also. I'm glad I didn't get it translated until I got home. I admit I am a big mush and that sentimental moments tend to puddle me up, and there were plenty of those that afternoon in the cemetery. If I had been told then that it means "Sleep sweetly dear mother," it would probably have set me to sobbing.
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