Your Pool Bag of Tricks: #1

Here’s a handy item you might want to add to your cue case – a can of lighter fluid. Have you ever found yourself in a match with someone who was way too deliberate, way too slow? You know, a guy who stands over a shot for an eternity before he finally pulls the trigger. Well, here’s a remedy I’ve discovered. Squirt some lighter fluid on his socks, hit them with a lit match, then stand back. That sucker will not only pick up speed but he’ll start moving in ways you never imagined.

At War With The Sopranokovs

It’s like this:

I woke up Saturday to find all 150 of my web pages were suspended – and offline.

There were a couple emails in my inbox from my web host, ruskiehost.com, warning me of complaints made by the Data Center concerning phishing content on a couple of my pages. Supposedly, these pages were designed to gather personal information from clients of Wells Fargo and Bank America. I had been given one hour to delete said material from my account or face the consequences. Since the email came in during the wee hours, I had no chance to respond and, like I said, when I woke up it was already a done deal – my account was suspended and I had no access to the files.

For someone in the internet business, even in a small way like me, to be down for an extended period of time can be devastating. Not only do you lose business, but you’re search engine rankings may suffer and there’s the risk of being dropped from other types of listings. In other words, all the work you’ve done to promote your website can go down the toilet quicker than white powder when the cops hit the door.

Since I never actually saw the web pages in question, I have to assume they were of the type that are tied to those phishing emails the old geezers are always falling for. You know, “Your Wells Fargo Info Needs To Be Updated.”

I quickly emailed ruskiehost.com telling them that I had no knowledge of the files in question – that I hadn’t created them and certainly hadn’t uploaded them to the server. Of course, they already knew that. Not only did their logs reflect the intrusion of someone hacking into my account, they also had a hand in it.

Allow me to digress. Over the last few months, I had grown increasingly dissatisfied with ruskiehost.com's service. Most recently, it had annoyed me that my stats were not being updated every 24 hours as was promised. It had become necessary for me to email tech support and request a stats update every time I wanted one. It is not a coincidence that just two days before the planting of the files and my subsequent suspension, I had sent another such email adding the comment that “this is getting old.”

In due time, Boris – my contacts have names like Vlada, Natasya, and Boris leading me to believe ruskiehost.com is a front for the Russian Mafia and their illegal online activities – replied that he had updated my stats; but, he apparently didn’t leave it at that. There’s an old Russian proverb: If they complain about the service, kill them. Boris was trying to kill me.

For good reason, ruskiehost.com made no effort to help me straighten up the mess. Finally, after a few hours of frustrating intercourse, I decided to change web hosts and to transfer my domain registration. Eager to sign me on as a client, the firms I contacted were extremely helpful and by Monday my site was up and working again.

My passwords are changed and I’m completely separated from ruskiehost.com, now, but I feel far from safe. It seems inevitable that I’m going to get hit again; and I’m not sure I have the energy to deal with it. Guess if I want to make a few extra bucks, I better sharpen up my pool game.


_________

S, HBD, LD

$20 Pool Rap

Once again, a work of art based on my real life poolroom experiences.

Picture me onstage, my pants on the verge of falling down, one hand on the mike, the other on my crotch.

$20 Pool Rap

Pardon me for stinkin'.
Wha'zactly wuz u thinkin'?
Axin' me to play,
When I sez to u no way
'Less u givin' me duh 8.
I'm talkin' to u straight.
Butchu jus’ wanna jump me,
Cut me up n thump me,
Not givin’ up a spot,
Jus’ stealin’ whad I got.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Nickel sets r ‘bout ur speed,
Five bucks, sucker – chickenfeed.
I bump duh bet up to ten,
N ask u for the 8 again.
Butchu ass jus’ walk away,
Sayn u n me cannot play,
Meanin’ not-a-thing to me -
I’m duh prey, the pursuee.
I resink into my groove.
While u plan to make a move.

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.

Twenny down, u start to cry.
As chumps do, u wonder why.
Must be that I’m a thief –
A cunning weasel brought you grief.
U’ll get even if I play u checkers.
Get straight, sucker, bite my pecker.
More heart than me? That’s pretty funny.
The way you whine over a little money.
I’m jus’ a guy who likes a game.
Ur a loser! Now, who’s to blame?

Cry. Cry. Whine. Whine.
I got duh heart.
I got duh dime.
U got no heart.
U got no balls.
Ur super-chump,
‘S how it falls.


© Ace Toscano 2007

Remembering One Vet

He lived in a township 20 miles southwest of Dover, NJ, the town I grew up in, and for the longest time I knew him only by name – Mickey DeMatteo. A weight lifter, wrestler, and high school football player, he was widely known as a tough guy. Though I can’t recall his face, exactly (it’s been more than 40 years), I do remember the first time I met him. I was standing outside Teasdale’s poolroom when he approached.
“Hey, you’re Ace, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Thought so. I saw you play once. You’re good.” Then he added, “I’m Mickey DeMatteo.”
“Lookin’ for someone to play?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he answered. “You’re way too good for me.”
He was a solid dude, but not as fierce looking as I had imagined. We stood there together for several minutes, watching traffic and spitting on the sidewalk, before he spoke again.
“Ever try to spit like this?” he asked. I watched as he opened his mouth, curled back his tongue, and flexed his chin. Out, from under his tongue, squirted two little streams of water. “See that?”
“Yeah.”
“Come closer,” he beckoned. He wanted me to look into his mouth.
“No way!” I said. I wasn’t an idiot.
“I won’t gob on you,” he said. “Swear to God.”
So I moved closer. He wanted me to see these two little holes that were in the watery area under his tongue. I did.
“That’s where it comes out. Watch.” Squirt, squirt. “See? Neat, eh?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I was somewhat awestruck, not because he was shooting saliva out of those two little holes, but, rather, because here he was in the flesh, Mickey DeMatteo, mythical tough guy, talking to me as if we’d been best friends forever.
I never saw or spoke to Mickey again after that day, but I never forgot the lesson he taught me about the unreliability of preconceptions. I was saddened when a few years later I learned of his death. He’s remembered on The Wall by his proper name – Mario Frank DeMatteo. Look up his name for me next time you visit DC.

Bisecting Boxes: A Different Way to Sight In Object Balls

Having trouble zeroing in on the object ball? Can't see the contact point that, once struck, will send the object ball along the desired trajectory? Maybe the principle of Bisecting Boxes will help bring things into focus for you.

Imagine lines drawn at 90 degree angles from the long and short rails to the edge of the object ball. (See illustration) Close the box by drawing lines from the adjacent points on the rail to the point of intersection at the targeted pocket. The desired path of the object ball coincides with a diagonal line that bisects the box. The line also cuts through the object ball clearly indicating the desired contact point.

This principle applies to all shots. If you have been having trouble sighting object balls, the next time you're practicing try visualizing the box and the bisecting diagonal line to the target. With practice, it will become second nature. Your shot-making will improve exponentially.

© 2007 Ace Toscano

Still Tinkering: The Ungolf Grip

Sometimes the smallest revision can have a huge effect. Like when Shakespeare revised the soliloquy from “To exist or not to exist…” or when Springsteen dropped “Born in New Jersey” in favor of “Born in the USA.” The same principle applies to pool. Since I’m far from happy with my game, I’m always tinkering with the various elements of it. Recently, I stumbled onto a little something that has had a significant positive effect. It involves the grip.

I know, most of the books are in agreement that the cue should be held with the first three fingers. Nonetheless, for some reason, I always felt uncomfortable about giving my index finger a dominant role. In fact, at times, I even went so far as to eliminate it completely. Why? Well, during the many years when I wasn’t playing pool, I was playing golf. One of my favorite golf books, Six Days To Better Golf, made a big point about the harm the index finger could do to your golf swing. And the advice proved to be sound. Unconsciously, I had been applying the same principle to gripping the cue.

I was rereading Ray Martin’s 99 Critical Shots the other day, when his instructions for gripping the cue made me pause. I immediately picked up my practice cue, carried it to the kitchen table where I practice my stroke, and began stroking with a grip that, rather than deemphasize the index finger, was dominated by it. It felt right. Later, when I hit the table for my practice session, I was pleased to learn that this new grip produced a much crisper stroke and more solid hits. Please note, it’s not a death grip, just a grip that’s dominated by the index finger.

Unlike some revelations that fail to stand up to the test of time, the benefits of my new grip have proved to be no fluke. And all aspects of my game – shot-making, position, speed of stroke – reflect the improvement. Just goes to show, sometimes the smallest change can produce monumental effects.

CSI: Poolroom

Jimmy De Jesus and Rowdy Bryant were still playing nine-ball on table one as Tizzie worked his way around the poolroom covering up tables, collecting house cues and stooping down here and there to pick up fallen pieces of chalk.
“Make that the last set, guys,” he said as he set the last cover down on the counter beside the two combatants and carried the box back to the storeroom.
“Jeez, Tiz,” complained Rowdy, “I’m in the middle of a come back.”
“We can see the end tomorrow. It’ll be like a cliffhanger.”
“C’mon,” pleaded Rowdy, “Just one more set.”
“No. I gotta get out of here.”
Tizzie didn’t mention that he hadn’t seen Bob Casey and Mary in four days. It wasn’t like the old couple to stay away like this. And tonight they hadn’t been there to watch the 9-ball tournament. He couldn’t remember the last time they had missed a Thursday night. As soon as he locked the doors, he was going to head over to their trailer to see what was up.
Jimmy D cut the eight into the side sending the cue ball four rails around table for a straight-in shot on the nine.
“Lucky bastard,” growled Rowdy as he swept the nine down table with the side of his stick. “Next time, I want the eight, you hustlin’ piece of shit.”
“You must be kiddin’,” laughed Jimmy D. “I’m not givin’ you eight o’ anythin’.”
“Ask Teasdale! He’ll tell ya – you’re sposed to give me the eight. Right, Tiz?”
“You’re supposed to play better,” answered Tizzie as he collected the balls and placed them in their tray.
“See,” said Jimmy D. “I tol’ you – no eight!”
Tizzie rolled out the cloth. “Don’t let the door hit yous in the ass.”

* * * * *

The light was on in the trailer and he could hear the TV, but no one was answering his knock. Again, Tizzie pounded the door with his fist. “Bob. Mary. It’s me, Tizzie. Everything okay in there?”
As he pounded, he noticed that the door almost caved in from the force. Without hesitating, he drove his shoulder thru the door. He was engulfed immediately by the putrid smell of death. “Oh, my freakin’ God.”
Covering his nose with a handkerchief, he entered the living room. Bob sat alone on the sofa. Before him on the coffee table were two empty bottles of vodka and one half full.
“Guess you’re off the wagon, eh, Bob?”
Bob turned his head slowly, squinting as though through a fogged up windshield.
“What’s going on, Bob? Where’s Mary?”
“Oh, Mary,” sobbed Bob. “My beautiful Mary.”
Tizzie made his way through the kitchen and down to the bedroom. He didn’t want to look, but he had to. There on the bed lay Mary. Maggots were swarming on her face. As he turned away, repulsed, his eyes stopped on a photograph that sat atop the dresser. It pictured a young couple laughing, their arms lovingly wrapped around each other as they huddled beneath a beach umbrella. A signature moment, he thought as he made his way back to the living room.
“My beautiful beautiful Mary,” repeated Bob. “How is she?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” said Tizzie as he picked up the phone, “but she’s starting to lose her looks.”

Hammer Heads: An Eye for the Ladies

One good thing about being old is that, even if you're not mechanically inclined, you've had so many cars with so many problems that you develop a kind of sixth sense about car trouble. Otherwise, I might never had made it down to the Ladies Spirit Tour 2007 season opener at Hammer Heads Billiard Lounge in Holiday, FL today (Sunday, Feb. 18th)

After readying myself, a time consuming chore in and of itself, I kissed Uppy (the former Sarah Uppington-Smythe of the New England Uppington Smythes) and ventured out to the carport and our not yet one-year-owned previously used Toyota Rav4. It's been a good car for us, not even a hiccup since the day we brought it home. But, today, it was unresponsive to the twist of the key. Old hand that I am, I didn't panic - I reached for the hood release, gave it a yank, climbed out of my formerly reliable steed and raised the hood. I glanced at the battery and there it was - corrosion... on the ground side. I fetched a pair of pliers from the shed along with an assortment of files and returned but found the nuts on the terminal clamp stubborn and uncooperative. Undaunted, I started hammering on the clamp with the pliers, producing a chalky greenish white drizzle. Returning to the driver's seat, I again turned the key and was blessed with the sweet sound of engine music. I really am a genius, I said to myself. It took a mere ten minutes for me to disconnect the clamp, clean it and the terminal with my assorted files, and reconnect them. At last, I was ready to start out.

I arrived at Hammer Heads in plenty of time. I immediately caught up on Saturday's action. I learned that scintillating Az personality Pool Hall Maven, a/k/a "Amazin' Trace" and her traveling partner Shanna "The Red Tide" Lewis had suffered two losses on the opening day and were out of the tournament. Cheer up, fans, because as I was leaving late Sunday afternoon both were tearing up the opposition in the 2nd Chance tournament. Since they had both decided to stay around to support their fellow players, I figured the least I could do was stick around, too. So, I did.

I saw Rachael Abbink eliminate last year's Spirit Tour Player of the Year Debbie "High Altitude" Schjodt. Schjodt had previously been knocked over to the loser's side by the always tough Jeannie Seaver. Seaver went on to defeat Miynki Sakai to advance to the hot seat match where she would meet Bonnie Coats who won a nail biter against local favorite and tour standout Tracie Hines. Sakai was later dealt her second loss by Tamara Rademaker.

With her back up against it, Tracie Hines next faced Abbink, the potentially dangerous player who had eliminated Schjodt. Though Hines went on to win the match 7-1 it was not without it's drama. Up 3-0, she was racking the balls for the fourth game when she caught her nail on something and started shaking it like it was on fire. I caught up with her after the match, congratulated her on her victory, and asked about the nail. "It really hurt," she admitted. "Did it affect the outcome of the match?" I asked. "No," she replied. "I don't think so."

About then, I had to leave as I knew Uppy would be serving up Ravioli Lasagna at 4 PM sharp. It's an interesting recipe she got from Real Simple. You spread some sauce on the bottom of a lasagna pan, then lay down a layer of large frozen Ravioli. (We bought a 3 lb. bag of Celentano Cheese Ravioli for that purpose.) On top of that you spread a package of frozen spinach, then another layer of ravioli. You top that with the remaining sauce and mozzarella, cover with foil and bake at 350 for a half hour, then uncovered for another 10-15 minutes. It was great and as I was downing it and watching the Daytona 500 on the tube, I thought to myself, "It's been a very good day."

When I find out the final results of the tournament, I'll post them. Meanwhile, I'm looking forward to catching the girls at Hammer Heads again on April 28-29, and at Capone's in Spring Hill on September 8-9 and November 3-4. Check out their site at www.ladiespiritour.com.

Immortality Awaits You

Being a writer of sorts, I never know where my next inspiration will spring from. The inspiration for this verse sprung from a recent experience in the poolroom.

A Nit With No Name
by Ace Toscano

Bounce your cue against the floor.
It only makes me bear down more.
Laugh out loud, sneeze, snort and snore -
Let loose your entire repertoire.
You can sigh and moan and curse your luck.
My pov? You dogged the duck.
And when you see I'm on the hill,
Recommence your sharking drill.
Too bad, these moves won't help you none.
It's clear by now the battle's won.
No doubt, you nit - you're done, done, done.

© Ace Toscano 2007

More Pool Poems

Florida: Mecca For Pool A$$holes

Never have I seen so many guys who profess to know all there is about pool but who actually know nothing. Here’s a warning: I expose jerks.

I recently had an encounter with an annoying chump who claims to be from Boston. You can bet he never spent much time in poolrooms up there, because, if he had, he certainly would’ve been kicked out of them.

I refer to him as an annoying chump because, first off, he’s a chump - everybody beats him. He’s annoying because of the tiresome litany of excuses he offers up explaining his pool play. It’s the tables, the cloth, the pockets, the cushions, the balls, the atmosphere, and the alignment of the planets that make him lose.

Then there is his repertoire of adolescent shark moves. He walks around the table while you’re shooting and manages to slide into your line of sight when you’re ready to shoot. He goes to an adjacent table between turns and bangs the balls around. He yaks constantly airing his list of complaints to anyone willing to listen. He never sits still; he never shuts up.

A new pool room just opened up down the road. Fittingly, it’s called Hammer Heads. Where else would the king of grammar school shark moves hang out? I went there to play in what was billed as a tournament for non-A players. What it actually was was a tournament for C players and A’s masquerading as B’s.

So, I win a few matches and lose one and come up against Boston Sharkie on the one-loss side. Now, if you don’t already know it, the cardinal rule when you’re playing against a chump who can’t possibly beat you is not to give him anything. This means don’t leave him any easy combos or caroms and don’t leave the nine hangin’ in the jaws because even a choke artist like Sharkey might manage to score in those situations.

Well, ignoring my own rules, I left Sharkie an unmissible carom. Then he managed to shit the nine in on the break. I’m behind but I come back and pocket a table length straight shot on the nine and follow with a run out from the two ball. Senor Chokee is starting to sweat. I know he’s done. He knows he’s done.

I guess there’s nothing so scary for someone who is sick of losing as the prospect of another public humiliation. So, to put it off, he started bugging me about the rack. He complained that I was not placing the one ball on the center of the spot. It was on the spot, just not dead center. Now, everyone I have talked to since then, witnesses and those who just heard about the incident, are in agreement that Sharkie is an asshole. Still, I tried to placate him. Unfortunately, when I placed the one dead center, upon lifting the rack the one would roll forward and the only way I could keep the rack tight was by nudging it forward a fraction. Time and again, he complained. I called for the tournament director to come over and straighten the chump out but he had stepped out of the building. Finally, I just scattered the balls and quit. Not admirable, but going farther in the tournament wasn’t worth having to deal with the shit head.

Hammerheads has an open 9-ball tournament on Tuesday nights. I'd play in that with its better class of opponents except for the fact that it doesn't end until 2 A.M. Too late for me. Sharkie most likely will pass that one up, too – he won’t want to expose himself to more public humiliation.

Touchy Feely

Ever since I took the game back up again four or five years ago I’ve been more or less obsessed with loss of my shot making ability and my practice sessions have been geared to improving my play in that area. Recently, however, after losing yet another match because of my inability to control whitey, failing to execute easy position on the nine and instead leaving myself with a difficult shot, I decided to start working on improving my touch.

My buddy Al informed me that touch is very much like shot making – once you lose it, he said, you never get it back. But I’m a hard one to discourage. Besides, my shot making has improved a lot since I started my comeback. Of course, there’s still a lot of room for improvement, but I’m not missing as many “easy” shots as I used to. I take heart in the fact that even though I’m nearing my 60th birthday, I am still getting better.

So, a major focus of my recent practice sessions has been position play and cue ball control. I start just by hitting the cue ball, trying to make it travel two diamonds farther every shot until it’s made three trips lengthwise across the table. Then I work on stop shots and follow, trying to follow shots of different lengths one diamond, two diamonds, and farther. It seems to be working. I’ve been winning more games and matches.

I recently started playing in a local 8-ball bar league. Bar pool, as you probably know, is significantly different from pool room pool. The rules down here are berserk: no safes allowed; ball in hand behind the head string after a scratch; and players, regardless of the situation, are bound to make an “honest effort” at making a ball. You can imagine the fudging that goes on in this area. My play has been inconsistent. I was 12-0 after the first 3 weeks, but am about .500 since then. Not that I’ve been playing badly, though I did make a couple bad choices. It just seems that I haven’t been getting my share of the breaks. You know, an opponent misses and accidentally safes you up, and other things like that.

Anyway, we’re cruising along in first place because even while I’ve been floundering my teammates have been wreaking havoc upon opposing forces. Here’s a picture of The 8-Ball Posse:

Left to Right: Jeff, Billy, Ace, Boogie

The Way I See It

There are a few things going on in my pool world. First, as I approach my 60th birthday, I can happily claim that I am still getting better. For some reason, of late, my shot making has improved significantly. Not that I’m making a lot of outrageous shots, I’m just making a lot more shots that I should make. I don’t know if it’s a natural progression or if I’m doing something different that has led to the improvement. I have made changes to the way I visualize my shots – focusing on the path or channel the object ball will follow on its way to the target, finding the point on the backside of the object ball what would place the cue ball in that channel, then delivering the cue ball to that point. In the method I was using before, I seemed to spend more time staring at the object ball hoping the contact point would magically appear.

I’ve also shortened my stroke by gripping the cue about 6 inches to 8 inches behind the balance point. Speaking of the grip, I’ve been consciously trying to restrict my index finger’s involvement. It seems too much index finger throws my stroke off line. I guess my other keys regarding the grip are “light but firm.”

In other news, I’m playing in a pool league. Friends at the local beer hall asked me to sub the first week of the season, then, when they discovered one of their members had gone missing, invited me to join the team. After 3 weeks, I’m still undefeated and we're in first place. That could change seeing as so much luck is involved in bar style 8-ball and we haven’t played the best teams yet. Still, I’m having fun and have discovered that second-hand smoke isn’t as thick on week days as it is on tournament nights.

And, I've cashed in the last two 9-ball tourneys I've entered, the Wednesday Night handicap tourney at Capone's and the Thursday night open at DJ's, finishing third in each. Old codgers of the world unite!

Another Day, Another Doll

I played in the handicap tourney up at Capone's last Wednesday. I won a few matches then lost to a couple young phenoms. Anyway, as I was leaving, Rocky mentioned that he was hosting the Women's Florida State 9-Ball Championship this past weekend. So, on Sunday afternoon I tore myself away from the miserable Bucs game and took a ride up to Spring Hill to see some of the action. By the time I got there, the field had been reduced to eight and within a few minutes it was down to six. When I left Maria Catalano, a sharp shooting Brit, was locking horns with Debbie Schjodt, a veteran of the Spirit Tour who has been sizzling of late, in the driver's seat match. The way it looked, the loser was going to have their hands full playing Jeannie Seaver who was racing through the losers bracket. And the final match promised to be a real battle. But, like I said, I had to leave (my sugar was getting low) and I don't know who eventually won. In addition to the prize money and the glory the winner was to earn a spot in the U.S. Open. Anyway, the three girls I mentioned - Catalano, Schjodt, and Seaver - put on a much better show than those pitiful Buccaneers.

I've been playing pretty well lately and, except for the fact that I've made too many careless mistakes, I'm pretty happy with the way my game is coming along. At least it's still coming. Last Thursday, I managed to miss a nine-ball that was laying in the jaws of the pocket otherwise I would've beaten Fast Eddie, one of the better players around here. That would've been a first. The cueball was up table and frozen to the rail, but I still should've made it. Damn!

Ravens, Scum Sucking Dogs and other Varmints

Hey, what’s right is right. Know what I mean? Now, I hate to blow my own horn but I was the first to create web pages dedicated to billiards literature, billiards art and photos of celebrities shooting pool. I began accumulating these various collections back when my web world consisted of the free pages that came with my earthlink account. When earthlink informed me that my pool pages were attracting too much traffic, I set up my own domain and signed on with a webhost. All my pool pages can be accessed via my pool home page: Ace's Web World - Pool and Billiards.

Well, I was surfing around the other day and came across someone else’s page that was being promoted as the home of photos of celebrities playing pool. Wanting to see how this page stacked up against mine, I soon discovered that instead of providing a unique collection of photos the owner of that page had simply copied every photo on my site and was presenting the collection as his own. There’s a word for this – STEALING. Certainly, I do not own rights to these photos – I didn’t take any of them myself – but, in addition to coming up with the idea of presenting pictures of celebrities shooting pool, I did accumulate, crop and edit the collection. It is mine. If the varmints at Ravencues.com wanted to share these pictures with visitors to their site, all they had to do with provide a link to mine. Please, don’t bother going to their site – I’d hate to reward them with even the slightest increase in traffic.

I guess from now on I’ll have to be more vigilant.

Stop Ramblin', Stop Gamblin'

Well, I was discussing the recently reported upheaval at the IPT qualifier up at Capone’s with someone who had a better view and he confirmed that the squabble started over an obvious bad hit. I reiterated my opinion about those who don’t fess up to bad hits and he added that that’s one of the reasons he refuses to gamble. The other reason, he said, that he does not gamble is that he doesn’t need the money. Here we go again.

I don’t gamble because I need the money, I gamble because to me playing pool and not gambling is a lot like jumping in bed with a beautiful naked woman and not having sex.

But, there is an overabundance of people down here in Florida who are afraid of losing a few bucks. Maybe their fixed incomes need fixing. Or, maybe their old ladies are holding the purse strings. Either way, you can imagine the sinking feeling I get in my gut every time I enter the pool room on a Saturday afternoon and find no one to play but the funsy brigade.

Of course, for me, the major thing about betting a few bucks is that it forces me to apply myself. Otherwise, I just bang the balls around as though it doesn’t matter because, actually, it doesn’t. But, everybody isn’t like me. Some guys do not need money for motivation. The sheer joy of beating somebody is motivation enough. For that reason, these guys like to lock horns with players they know they can pound – the lousier their opponent, the more they like it. Wee, what fun! Me, I’d rather lose twenty bucks than waste my time playing someone who can’t hit a rail. Must be my Jersey background.

Anyway, at DJ’s Thursday night 9-ball tournament, I won my first two matches, beating a couple guys I have no business beating, and wound up playing one of the local stars for the driver’s seat. I lost, then lost the match for second place 4-3, but wound up finishing third, the first time I ever finished in the money there. No big payday, but it was a symbolic milestone. Maybe, I am getting better.

In case you’re interested, I added 8 paintings to my Pool in Fine Art collection. Check it out if you get the chance.

Going Going Gone

Still too many distractions keeping me from playing and it’s obvious to those who see me play. I was up on Williams 3-0 in a race to 4 in last Thursday night’s 9-ball tournament and managed to lose. That’s the second time that happened to me in a month. Hopefully, after I sell my mother’s townhouse (if anybody out there is interested in living in Hackettstown, NJ, I just lowered the asking price to $319M. Six months ago they were selling for $350M.), I’ll be able to settle the estate and get back to what’s important.

For those of you who visit my pool pages , I’ve recently added eBay links to most of the pages including the cue pages. Go, for example, to the Schon cue page, then scroll down to the eBay display and you’ll see all the Schon cues currently at auction. Not a big money-maker for me, but a convenience for my visitors.

I’ll let you know if the pool fairy grants me any wishes.

Can’t Win For Losing

Someone said “Lawyer” and the pool hall conversation immediately drifted off course. After a few general derogatory comments were made, I saw an opening and decided to thrill the boys with my personal tale of woe. I told them about this sleaze bag New Jersey attorney I had gotten myself involved with while trying to settle my mother’s estate. I explained how, after I had concluded that rather than helping me get things done he was standing in the way, I fired his candy ass and asked him to return what I had coming of my $1500 retainer. I didn’t hear from him for two months, so I sent him another letter asking him to return what I had coming. He responds to this by sending a trumped up bill to my new lawyer in which he claims that I have not only used up my $1500 retainer but that I owe him another $1500 on top of that. Boston Bobby started shaking his head. “You never get that back – the retainer. They figure some way to get it.” Then he relates a story of how he had been arrested once on an aggravated assault charge only to have the charges dropped later when the star witness finally admitted she had misidentified him. Even though he had been a thousand miles away at the time of the alleged assault and the case had never gone to court and the charges were eventually dropped, he wound up paying $25,000 in legal fees. That, obviously, was a much better sleaze-bag-lawyer story than mine.

Time to Quit – Watching the Second Hand

My wife was watching public television the other day… it’s not something I encourage, but I have to live with the fact that our tastes in TV occasionally diverge. If I get up from the sofa to take a leak, you can bet that by the time I get back she will have grabbed the clicker and not only will she have switched to something to her liking but she will have become so engrossed in it that it will break my heart to make her switch back to what we were watching before my bladder call. Anyway, she was watching public TV and she heard someone say that four hours of second hand smoke is equivalent to smoking 17 cigarettes. Right away, this gets me to thinking about bar tournaments.

I haven’t been playing in as many as I used to. In fact, lately, I’ve only been playing in one, the Friday get-together at the Hay Loft. A few Fridays back a rumor was circulating that the owner was going to invest in smoke eaters. This was very good news for me who quit smoking back in 1990 so that I wouldn’t have to spend my last moments choking on phlegm. True to their word, the management did purchase four or five contraptions that run like your average ceiling fan and look like spinning black donuts. Unfortunately, they have no effect whatsoever on smoke. I still have a hard time believing that anyone with half a brain would waste their money on such crap. But, alas, somebody did. And that was it for me – I made up my mind not to go back.

So, without bar tourneys, I’m going to be limited to playing pool where it was meant to be played, in pool rooms. The main consequence of this is that I now have to resign myself to not winning, not coming in the money, and to not having a chance. Such is life.

Of course, this can be expensive. With this in mind, I’ve been working on my websites with renewed vigor, hoping to increase revenues enough to compensate for my losing ways. In my latest undertaking, I believe it took me two or three days to complete, I gathered together all the bios I have written – music bios, sports bios, literary bios, art bios – and christened the little corner of the internet they occupy Ace’s Bio-Farm. Will it have an effect on overall visits to my site? Who the hell knows?

As far as my game goes, considering I haven’t been playing as much as I should, I’m not playing too bad. I’ve been doing eye exercises using two ping pong balls on a string while I’m watching TV and I actually think I’m seeing the balls a lot better. I doubt that I’ll ever be able to see them like I could when I was a kid, but I am seeing a lot of shots that I wasn’t seeing before. My stroke – now, that’s another problem.

Another Milestone

No, I didn’t run 100 balls. Friday, June 23rd was my 59th birthday. I celebrated by going out to breakfast with my wife and by zipping over to the Hay Loft after supper for the regular Friday night 8-ball tourney. Luck was on my side most of the night and I managed to come in second. The prize was $45. Not bad considering there were only 15 entrants and the entry fee is $5.

But let’s get back to the big FIVE NINE. Next comes the big SIX OH. Do I feel any different? No. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m basically the same guy I was 10, 20, 30 and 40 years ago. Have I reassessed my life? No, again. Enjoying the good life, messing with my web pages and playing pool are still my primary pursuits. As far as shooting pool goes, though I haven’t been playing much lately – settling my mother’s estate has taken a lot more time and energy than I had expected – I’m still convinced not only that I’m getting better, but that one day I may once again be classified as “damn good.”

As far as playing goes, I’ve pretty much limited myself to Friday nights at the Loft and Thursday nights at DJ’s in NPR. The former, I win occasionally, the latter, never. Last week, Earl Strickland showed up. Had I won a match, I might have got to play Earl but as usual I went two and out. Playing Earl isn’t as bad as you might think. He does a lot of conceding. He conceded one game after missing the three ball. I guess he thought he was playing Johnny Archer or something. Anyway, Earl or no Earl, I have a better chance of getting hit by lightning twice than I do of winning at DJ’s. But the guys down there are almost bearable, so I go.

Speaking of Johnny Archer, I caught him and Corey Deuel in a match up a Capone’s a few weeks back. Archer was on the hill but lost focus and let Deuel come back from 4 games down. I was surprised by how much missing they both did. It seems the pros have as much trouble on the Diamond tables as we amateurs. The pockets don’t suck the balls in like they do on the Brunswicks; no margin for error.

Anyway, once my mother’s place gets sold most of my work will have been done. Hopefully, then I’ll be able to rededicate myself to what matters – playing pool.

Life Goes On

I’ve been away for a few weeks. Had to fly north. My mother passed away on March 11, 2006 due to complications following what was supposed to be a routine heart valve replacement and a single bypass. If the surgeons are to be believed, their part went well. It therefore appears that she fell victim to poor aftercare. Two outfits I would like to warn you about in this regard are Kessler’s and Merry Heart. I wouldn’t let these people watch my dog… if I had a dog. They definitely aren’t getting anywhere near my cat. But mom’s gone and speculating on how things might have turned out if she had received the same kind of care Bill Clinton or David Letterman received after their heart surgeries will not bring her back.

Anyway, her passing not only left me in a state of mystification, but also brought me a bushel of responsibilities. Attending to those is what kept me up north. When things reached the point where I thought my presence was no longer required, I came back home.

Obviously, I had no time for pool but I did run into a couple of my boyhood pool shooting buddies. One still plays, the other traded in his cue for a guitar. Hope he doesn’t miscue.

I flew home on the 6th of April and next day, Friday, looking for something different to do, I went to one of my favorite bar tournaments. Miraculously, I finished second, just a shot away from splitting the pot. As it was, 2nd paid 50 bucks.

Also, as a reward for breaking my ass those five weeks, I decided to treat myself to a new cue. Nothing fancy, just a Falcon Sneaky-Pete I found on my website. No wrap, just wood to hold onto. I’ve played with it a couple times since UPS dropped it off - it hits pretty good. Of course, I won’t be taking it to the bars – I’ll save it for the pool room.

Five weeks is too long to go without shooting. Not only is my stroke all screwed up but I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to be keying on. Lost without a compass. I’m hoping it will come back to me.

To all my pool shooting friends, thanks for your kind thoughts and prayers.