Chris The Dealer's blog: "MY CRAZY LIFE"

Chris:   Hey, we’re having a big problem in the Gulf of Mexico.

God:    Yeah, I’ve been watching that.

Chris:   Then that Congressional Minority Leader said that the taxpayers should bear the cost of the clean up.

God:    John Boehner?  He owns a lot of stock in BP.

Chris:   And that Senate Candidate, Sharron Angle said that all this was the result of too much government regulation.

God:    Don’t worry about her.  She’s a nut case.

Chris:   But what if she wins the election?

God:    Not gonna happen.

Chris:   And now the oil companies are turning to Kevin Costner for a solution.

God:    Hey, it’s good to have a celebrity on your team.

Chris:   But Costner was a Business major at Cal State Fullerton.  He doesn’t know shit.

God:    I know that.

Chris:   So the other oil companies are throwing BP to the wolves.  

God:    Kind of funny how the big boys all support each other until one of them becomes a convenient sacrifice.

Chris:   So how are we going to stop the flow of oil?

God:    You remember a couple of years ago when McCain and Palin were saying, “Drill, Baby, Drill”?

Chris:   Yeah.

God:    And you remember how thousands of people joined in and were chanting and screaming it?

Chris:   Yeah, I remember that.

God:    Stuff them all down the well and that will plug it up.

 

Jean:    The job is 40 hours a week, Wednesday through Friday 10 to 7, Saturday and Sunday, 9 to 6.  You’ll get Monday and Tuesday off.  Any problem with those hours or days?

Chris:   Anytime, anywhere.

Jean:    You’ll be on probation for 90 days.  After 90 days we’ll talk about benefits.

Chris:   I like benefits.

Jean:    The job pays eight-fifty an hour.

Chris:   That seems a bit chintzy.

Jean:    Monkey job, monkey wages.

Chris:   Yeah, I suppose.

Jean:    We operate on a very streamline labor pool here and if someone doesn’t show up for work it puts a hardship on the other people.

Chris:   So I have to show up for work?

Jean:    Yes.

Chris:   And be on time?

Jean:    Yes.

Chris:   Let me get back to you on that.  

Jean:    What would your last employer say about your performance?

Chris:   He’d tell you that I was a piece of garbage.

Jean:    Why would he say that?

Chris:   He had a long list of reasons.

Jean:    Any of them valid?

Chris:   Maybe the one where he accused me of racism because I had the audacity to hire a white woman instead of a tribal member for a cashier position.

Jean:    So what are your strong points?

Chris:   I can dead-lift four hundred pounds.

Jean:    And what are your shortcomings?

Chris:   You should ask my wife.  She could give you a long list.

Jean:    If hired, how long do you plan to stay with us?

Chris:   Until you get mad at me or I get mad at you.

Jean:    What are your goals?

Chris:   I just want to see the sunrise tomorrow.

Jean:    Thanks for coming in today, Chris.  I have a few other candidates to interview before a decision is made.

Chris:   Yeah, I need to run this one by my spiritual advisor.

 

Cecil was an over the hill biker – long hair, beard, leather vest. I'd put him somewhere in his late sixties. He'd been creating a problem over at Tam's blackjack table. Tam don't take no shit and told him to take a hike. So Cecil decides to mosey on over to my table. He was stinking drunk. I'm not sure if he'd pissed his pants before he came to the table or while he was sitting there. Cecil says to me, "Ya wanna know something?" "What's that, Cecil?" "I'm a muthafuckin white man," he says. "Well, I'm sure you must be very proud of that." He tells me to shuffle up and deal. "I got to see some money in the circle first." Cecil checks his wallet. The well was dry. "You wanna know something?" he asks. "Talk to me, Cecil." "I'm a white muthafucka." I could see that this conversation was going nowhere. Then he tries to intimidate me – gives me one of those "I'm gonna kick your ass" looks. I laugh at him. "Go ahead and try something you drunk bastard, and I'll bash your head in with an ashtray," I'm thinking to myself. He calls me bad names. "What an unkind thing to say," I tell him. "Can't we all just get along?" I laugh at my own jokes. Cecil can't handle that. Rick, a Casino Manager, was right on top of the situation. "How much you had to drink tonight, Cecil?" "Couple of beers. What's it to you, ya little prick?" Bad move. It took about twenty seconds for security to show up, then another ten minutes for Cecil to decide to leave the table peacefully. The guards escorted him through the casino and back to his hotel room. Along the way, he paid his respects to all the female players by calling them sluts and whores. I guess the point of all this is, pissing your pants is really not such a big deal when you have your mind on other things. May God be with you, Cecil.

I was working in a bomb shelter, four floors underground. That was the hub of the Los Angeles Police Department communications center. On this particular day, I was assigned to Foothill Division. A call for an additional officer came in as a psycho had barricaded himself in his home. According to his wife, he was unarmed. Then came a call for backup, then a call for a police sergeant. I relayed all messages according to policy. The next call was, "Shots fired. Officer down." Two cops had taken lead . I guess it was three or four days later that I was told that there would be a meeting for all communications personnel involved in the shooting. "For what?" I asked. I was informed that these meetings were standard operating policy - and mandatory. So I end up in a "get in touch with your feelings" group of women. I didn't want to be there. I never seem to do well in those kind of settings. There was a brief introduction, then each of us was supposed to talk about how this shooting had been a tramatic experience for us or some such shit. Unfortunately, I had picked the seat at the front of the room on the right side of the circle. I got to go first. "Early in life, I chose to major in Business Administration rather than become a prize fighter. I didn't want to get my brains knocked out for a living. When I went into the army, I refused an offer to become a helicopter pilot. Hellicopter pilots had a life expectancy of three missions in Vietnam. I drive a car to work instead of riding a motorcycle because I know that the odds on getting here alive are better in a car. These officers are adults and every day they are faced with a decision - hand in the badge and gun or roll the dice one more time and collect a paycheck at the end of the week. It wasn't my fault they got shot. Hey, I sympathize with them. I feel bad for their families. But they're big boys and they knew the risks when the chose this career. I wish them a speedy recovery." Next person to speak was Elizabeth M., an eleven year veteran of the department. First thing out of her mouth was, "I'm offended by what Chris just said." Oh Jesus! Why did I ever think that I would make it through this day without getting beat up? Elizabeth went on for four or five minutes about what an insensitive piece of garbage I was. Mary was the next to share. "I agree with Chris." Then Karla. "I think Chris makes a lot of sense." Then Karen backed me up and Elizabeth knew that she was outnumbered. Nobody actually told her that she was a rude and ignorant bitch, but I think she got the message. Two weeks later, I quit my job.

I stepped into the dealer's chair at the pai-gow table at six o'clock tonight. Two players were there. One guy had his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel. I suppose he wanted to be sure that everyone could see the gold chains around his neck. He wore three giant gold nugget rings and a cheap-ass watch with a gaudy gold band. The other player was some lard ass fuck with sunglasses and a cowboy hat. First hand out of the deck, I get a full house – kings over queens – a killer hand. The cowboy says, "Oh Jesus! Is this what you do for a living? You think you're a dealer? Is that what you think? Too bad you have to earn your own tips here." I ignored his remarks as I picked up his five-dollar bet and threw it into the tray. He mumbled something about this goddamn casino sucking the life out of people as he gathered up his remaining chips. "Would you like me to color-up those chips for you?" I asked, trying to be polite. "No thank you," he replied. "You've done quite enough already." Now normally, I'd put this guy on a 'don't pay no mind' list and get on with my business. But tonight, I was feeling a little uppity and took one last shot. "Have a nice day, Sir," I said as he left the table. He turned around to see me laughing at him. Three hands later, I had cleaned out 'Mister Hollywood'. He bitched a little. His manners were on a par with his wristwatch. So now I'm sitting at a dead table (one with no players), and I'm watching this cute girl count her money in front of the cashier's cage. She drops a dollar onto the floor. "Hey! You dropped a buck." She looks down and sees it, smiles at me and continues counting her money. "You need to put your foot on that if you're not going to pick it up right away. One of these drunks will grab it and make a run for the door." She bends down and retrieves the dollar then walks over to me and throws it onto the table – a toke. First one I'd received tonight. "Bless you, my child." A person's class is most accurately demonstrated by the respect he or she shows to those in a service position. Every now and then, someone with class comes into the casino. They're not hard to spot.

My internet went down a couple of days ago. I called the cable company and was told that there was an outage in my area. I actually spoke to a real person who told me that it should be restored within a day or two. This morning, I mentioned to my brother that the internet service was fubar, but that the cable guys were working on the problem. Then he mentions to me that we're on DSL. "Oh crap! That's right. I forgot." Then I call AT&T and get Apu on the line. He told me his name was Roger, but I recognized the voice. So Apu figures out that something flipped in my modem and working together as a team, we get it fixed. I wanted to ask him about the illegal wiretaps and intercepting of my emails that takes place in room 641A at the AT&T building, and maybe get a little feedback on how he felt about the Senate's refusal to grant retroactive amnesty to the telecom companies that have been eavesdropping without a warrant, but I figured he probably wasn't up to speed on the hearings so I let it go. I'm expecting a call from the cable company to let me know that everything has been resolved.

November 26, 2007 It still seems like a bad dream. When I arrived at the casino tonight, I saw police cars and an ambulance beside the parking structure. I parked my car and went inside. One of the dealers told me that someone jumped from the third level of the parking garage. Damn! I guess the third level is high enough to do the job, but low enough so that you don't have a lot of time to think about it on your way down. I seem to be cursed with this need to analyze everything. Then as I'm walking to the pit area, another dealer tells me that someone just died. "Yeah," I said. "He took a dive off the parking structure." "No, I mean some guy just died over at table 36," she replied. I think there must be some misunderstanding, so I walk over to table 36 and there's a guy on the floor getting CPR. But he's gone. "Jesus," I'm thinking to myself. "We got some bad juju here tonight." Song, a quiet little Chinese girl, was the dealer when this guy went down. She held her position at the tray until a relief dealer showed up. She didn't start crying until she got to the door. Other than all that, it was a pretty quiet evening.

"Excuse me, Sir. Did you park your car in that lot over there?" As a child, I spent a lot of time at the carnivals. Both my grandfather and uncle owned and operated them. "Did you see a little midget with a tall green hat when you came through the gate there?" Of course, I had free tickets to all the rides – tilt a whirl, octopus, chair plane, hammer, Ferris wheel, round up. I tired of them quickly and seeing the mentality of the ride boys who set them up, I never felt safe on them in the first place. "Oh gosh, I hired that guy to pass out these promotional tickets to our Roll Down game here. I wonder what happened to him." I was always fascinated by the carnival games, and spent a good deal of pocket change trying to win hunting knives, plaster crucifixes and assorted junk from Japan at the joints on the midway. "You see, this ticket entitles you to one free game of roll down here at our tent. You just roll the balls into the tray and they fall into these little numbered holes." Early on, I realized that certain games were not intended for eight-year old kids. There was a sinister atmosphere about them. "Then we add up the numbers and if they total one hundred, you win a hundred dollars and this expensive Bulova wristwatch." My grandfather never allowed the con games on his show, but he did let the gypsies set up a fortune-telling tent. I never went inside. I didn't like gypsies. "Well, I'm sorry that the little guy wasn't there to give you the coupon. Here, let me give you this one for a free game." There never seemed to be a shortage of suckers in the little hick towns. "You've got nothing to lose and you might come up a winner."

Dear Congressman Heller, Thank you for your reply to my concerns regarding President Bush’s Executive Order issued on July 17, 2007 authorizing the Secretary of the Treasury in consultation with the Secretary of Defense to seize the property of persons undermining efforts to promote economic reconstruction and political reform in Iraq. In your letter you state, “…any use of this Executive Order to seize the property of American citizens who disagree with America’s military actions would be blatantly unconstitutional.” This administration has never been concerned with the constitutionality of its actions and I would note that the aforementioned Executive Order does not exclude American citizens from its scope. American citizens who are victimized under this abuse of power would have no recourse through our courts since the sole authority to judge and punish lies with the executive branch. You also say in your letter “…any abuse of this Executive Order must be met with swift action.” The Executive Order is abusive by its nature. Your promise of swift action is of little comfort in that it presumes; 1) an administration that has been cloaked in secrecy since it assumed office would make congress aware of such abuses, and 2) that victims of such abuse would not be sent off to a secret prison in some foreign country and subjected to “enhanced interrogation techniques”. My concern is that our members of congress have not challenged this Executive Order and seem to be content to let it stand while promising to take action if necessary at some later date. The time to halt abuse is when the authority is claimed rather than after it has been applied. As my representative in congress, I feel that your duty is not only to rectify injustice, but also to prevent it. I appreciate the fact that you have personally participated in oversight hearings and that, as your letter states, you have not been afraid to criticize this Administration. I will follow the tangible results of your efforts closely. In the interim, please let me know what, if anything, you intend to do now about the authority claimed by the Bush Administration in the Executive Order that is the subject of this communication. Regards, Chris Nolan

12/21/06 I unpacked pictures today - Chinese watercolors and nineteenth century Japanese block prints by the masters (Kunichika, Utamaro, Toyokuni) - works that have been entrusted to me for safekeeping until I hand them down to the next generations of guardians. My father’s art – a Brueghel influenced oil that he created at the age of fifteen, the portrait of his mother’s dog, the clown he was painting in college when he met my mother. His paintings from North Carolina in the late forties, his Ohio paintings through the fifties, his more recent works from California - I remember watching him give birth to many of them. They all have a special meaning to me. I put his lesser works into an estate sale. They went for twenty-five to fifty dollars each. My series of student caliber block prints sold for thirty-five a piece. I find it amazing that his talent and my lack thereof would bring similar prices. I unwrapped my mother’s portrait of my brother who died in December of 1975. I remembered his laugh and the time we spent talking. I remembered her sadness at the loss. But all of these things are parts of previous chapters in my life. They will not be remembered when I am gone. My father’s books will never be published. His art, overshadowed by the commercial flamboyancy of marketing moguls, hacks who gave us technique without substance, and innovation without meaning, will probably end up as a roof patch on a chicken coop. And so it is as the ghosts of the departed fade gradually from existence – bit by bit until those who carry the memories are gone as well.