Hannah's Blog Buffet

March 25, 2012

Looking Under the Hood: What Drives Us to Dress as We Do

Filed under: American Life,How We Live Now,Male/Female Relationships,Miscellaneous Ramblings,Politics,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 10:05 am

Living  in Vegas, I can attest that almost everyone who comes here looks like a cartoon stereotype of some niche of society: the young hoochie girls in 5-inch stilettos and dresses that barely cover their hoohas; the raging-hormone studs with Ed Hardie-esque shirts untucked over $175 jeans; the crazy old coots on oxygen tanks with tubes up their noses, willing to accelerate their emphysema to get one more shot at hitting Megabucks.  It’s a non-stop Groundhog Day here of drunken, passed-out chicks being wheeled out by security; ridiculously cocky men who think because they’re horny and away from the wife that you should be too; and blankly desperate people whose eyes say, “I’m already dead inside from meth, booze and loneliness.”

One of the things I actually like about Vegas is its lack of pretext about judging people on superficial things like money, clothes and hotness. In an America that claims to disdain all things material and worldly, Vegas reveals the truth: we still love the simple markers that say: “I’ve made it, or at least I want to appear to have made it.”

Recent news events point to the potential dangers of such categorizations, but it’s occurred to me that while a good section of the population, black, white and otherwise, express outrage over this issue, these same people want to be judged by what they wear as often as not ( as witnessed by the insane Nike shoe riots at malls recently), and also make constant appraisals about others based on same.

Clothes signify status: financial, sexual, religious and yes, even criminal. The problem is, in a society that has come to glorify the thug, the rapist, the drug-addled loser, it’s all gotten very, very fuzzy as to who is who and what is what.  Why? Because there are now numerous reality shows that depict prison life as having some aspect of coolness to it; because girls now offer up bjs to an audience of potentially thousands of men on Twitter with no understanding of the dangerous sharks encircling them; and because we refuse, as a nation, to acknowledge that terms like “black,” “white” or “Hispanic” mean very little anymore when we are all under the nonstop influence of each other’s cultures 24/7.

Growing up in a major melting pot metropolis like New York quite a few decades ago, I can tell you I do not  recall seeing anyone wearing a hijab, let alone a burquah, even once during all that time. Now, of course, not only are hijabs commonplace on Central Park South and throughout the city, just this past year, I’ve seen women wearing them here in Vegas, right in my neighborhood, a reality that jars and unsettles me on a very visceral level.

Before you bristle (or agree,) let me explain: I know not one practicing moderate Middle Eastern Muslim and make no claim to be comfortable with a culture that fosters seemingly tens of thousands willing not only to kill people completely at random, but to die themselves in the process.  The truth is, there have been no American or European suicide bombers that I’ve ever heard of anyway.  It cannot help but make me wonder what the fuck is bred into young minds to make them not only hate with such virulence, but actually find it acceptable to kill people based, yes, on simply being from a different culture than their own and then end their own lives in a firestorm to boot.

And let’s be honest: much of what fundamentalist Muslim culture seems to hate about the West stems from how we dress. I read recently about 50 teens in Iran being stoned to death by police with cement blocks for nothing more than wearing Emo attire. I thought perhaps this was some Internet exaggeration until I asked a retired U.S. Army sergeant who’s done four tours in Afghanistan if that seemed possible. He said it was entirely possible given their judgments about what they perceive as American styles of dress and the corrupting dangers they pose to their suffocatingly Puritan regime.

I often get feedback when I express thoughts like these that I am ignorant. But am I? I cannot accept that covering women from head to toe and threatening them with death if they don’t abide is an acceptable religious principle. To be honest, I find the dogma of most religions to be ridiculous; and Islam is certainly not the only religion with a long history of brutality foisted on non-believers; the Catholic Church being right up there from a historical perspective.

But the Church (who I am not defending from other well-known atrocities against children that continue) has at least evolved to a place where it no longer burns innocents at the stake or pulls their limbs from their sockets if they refuse to accept Jesus Christ as lord and savior. Islam of course has its radical as well as (we keep being told) its more evolved practices, but I question how people can continue to follow a religion that so broadly mutilates and murders for no reason but seemingly its own pleasure and dominance.

Looking at recent photos  of burquah-draped women in Toulouse, blatantly marching in support of the horrendous murderer of young children and a rabbi grabbed at random, I cannot help but be struck by the similarity of their apparel to members of the Ku Klux Klan. Faces covered to protect their identities, looking like identical Stepford Wives in some Middle Eastern horror flick.  Their garb says: “We mean to harm you and remain anonymous doing so.” If you think I am ever going to walk by someone in America wearing a burquah and not bristle, you’re crazy. You can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman in there.

I will leave you with this thought: We all communicate something with how we dress, and the observer also informs what you wear in their own minds as well. Whether this is to your credit (“how beautiful/successful/cool they are!”) or detriment (“this person scares me/disturbs me/nauseates me”), make no mistake, distinctions will always be made.  Choose your apparel as you would choose your friends: let it serve your best interests and support your personal mandate.

Then walk softly and carry a big stick. At the very least.

 

September 29, 2011

Daddy’s Girl: A Father-Daughter Retrospective

Filed under: American Life,Growing Up Hannah,How We Live Now,Life-Changing Moments,Male/Female Relationships — Hannah Elisabeth @ 7:05 pm

My father passed away on September 7th of this year, after a fairly brief encounter with lymphoma and congestive heart failure.  I do not say “battle,” because there was no battle; his doctors told him in no uncertain words that he had, at most, one to two months to live, and that the only treatment options would be “palliative care” (their fancy way of saying hospice administration.)

He was 84; a good age to go as death goes.  He lived a full life, helped innumerable people (myself included), and was, on balance, a man of extremely high character, moral veracity, and depth and accomplishment.  He served his country as a younger man in the Foreign Service; a career I believe he would have held onto had my own mother not gotten cancer at 32 and required what they determined to be better care than they could get in the relatively primitive hospitals in Eastern Europe that were mostly his posts.  Alas, it was to no avail:  she succumbed to cancer at age 35, two days before Christmas, fifty years ago this very year.

We (meaning me and my three siblings, as well as my stepmother to whom he was married for 45 years after my mother’s passing) were fortunate in that we had enough time (for those of us who lived afar) to schedule trips to spend time with him and to say our goodbyes.  When he passed, relatively quietly (I doubt that anyone passes without an iota of struggle, given our innate will to survive), we all felt pretty much at peace.  No words were left unspoken, no “I love yous” left unsaid.  There was an amazing amount of humour and fun for a man who was well aware his personal clock was ticking.  Once he got his diagnosis, he came home, and literally never left his bed again.  He operated as Lord of the Castle for about 10 weeks this way (the doctors had underestimated him, and he outlasted their predictions by a couple of weeks).  He could have moved around a bit: he had a wheelchair by his bed, two full-time day and one night hospice nurse, and a physical therapist who dropped by once a week and gave him exercises to do to stay somewhat mobile.  He was always polite to her, but after she left, he would do that funny thing he did where he would shrug his shoulders and throw his hand like he was tossing a ball and say “Eh” as in, “To hell with that, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

Surprisingly, he did not seem much depressed by his terminal prognosis.  Au contraire, we all noted that he appeared almost mysteriously delighted and freed by it.  He had probably fought depression (and certainly anxiety) his whole life; most likely a combination of genetic and circumstantial issues that he never really faced, and mostly politely buried in his Dickensian lord-of-the-manor way.  My dad was not one to confront: others, or his own inner demons.  From some brief talks with his hospice social worker following his demise, I learned that he perhaps questioned what he had surrendered in his avoidance:  some closer relationships, including with his children, and probably with friends or potential friends as well.  He was well-liked and spoken of with great admiration and respect wherever he went; but as his daughter who knew his many facets better than most, I knew there was some frightened child hiding in there, a child of the Depression, of a towering, tough and self-made father who made up his own rules and perhaps adminstered them harshly, and a mother who lived in a bit of a fantasyland of how her life might have been different had her own cold father not put her to work in her early teens to help fill the mouths of her 12 siblings.

My relationship with my dad, (nothwithstanding our healing and sweet last few months, where we mostly sang favorite songs and did a little ongoing comedy shtick), was actually pretty rocky throughout much of my adult life.  I think this was the result of our somewhat differing personalities ( I inherited much of his own father’s gambling streak, as well as an innately theatrical personality that didn’t really mesh with my dad’s extremely old-school manner), and somewhat a result of my own bitterness towards him over what seemed to me to be a lack of hands-on parenting where it would have directly impacted the outcome of my life.  As they said so pithily in that Mike and the Mechanics’ song:  every generation blames the one before.  Touche.  Having been robbed of a mother whose death was certainly a tragedy of epic proportions, perhaps it was easier to be mad at him than at some unknown forces that had stolen her from me.  That being said, he did abdicate a good degree of his fathering to a string of nannies and a young stepmother who was ill-prepared and ill-equipped to take on two strong-willed, yet emotionally beaten down kids approaching their teens.

Sometimes I think I was the victim of my incredibly adept skills at adaptation:  raised by innumerable nannies and sub-staff, as well as shipped off to sleepaway camp at age seven (something that, I must say, may have saved my life and my sanity), I became a master at landing on my feet time after time after time when probably a less quick learner would have gone to pieces.  The price was being paid with every change of caretaker and every time my dad did not hear my silent screams for help, however; paid emotionally and, I believe also, in a physical toll that has now manifested at a fairly young age as these things go.  We did not yell in our house, nor did we ever really share our feelings, particularly anger or distress. No one ever told us not to, we just didn’t, it was like written invisibly on some secret tablet that we all had ingrained in our subconscious.  A quite marvelous but also stern and old-school Dutch nanny did nothing to open us up to a more real and direct communication mode.  As one shrink so aptly told me years ago, the style of my childhood upbringing could best be categorized as “British aristocracy.”  No bad manners, no overt problems. The advantage of some pecuniary success is that many things can be avoided and swept under the carpet.  It is equally its disadvantage, a reality that only those who have been raised under the sharp blade of its double-edged sword can ever know. I was told in my adult years about some family secrets that had apparently been carried with much shame by my dad for decades; to do with his father (who had long passed when I was told the secret), I didn’t think any of it was either worth shame or secrecy.  My grandfather did some things that landed him in the joint in the 1920s, and he paid the price and I myself found it colorful and somewhat fascinating.  But for my father, born I believe the year he was sent away, it must have been some code of silence so impressed upon him that even sixty years later he could only refer to it as my grandfather’s “time of trouble.”  Oy.

Clearly, my dad was not prepared to be a single parent at 35, probably no man is.  He had envisioned his role as excellent provider and fun dad, and the glaring and unpleasant reality that this could not really be the case was not to sway him from that viewpoint.  Looking back from my current vantage point, I have no doubt he was devastated, lonely, terrified and unsure what the heck you were supposed to do with two bodacious young girls in Manhattan society; but at the time, I simply saw someone who just didn’t get who I was, or what I very much needed. I  will throw all pretext of modesty aside to say that I simply have a large array of creative talents that, had they been better fostered and shepherded from a young age, I believe would have taken me far in the world.  I was always a performer, and I think perhaps had my beautiful mother lived, she would have better seen and hopefully embraced that side of me.  For my father, it seemed to be a sort of uncomfortable reality to him, one that he tried quite desperately to sidestep, particularly as my college years approached.  A Harvard grad himself, with a bevy of siblings and relatives who had also metriculated from that iconic institution (including my older sister, mother and maternal grandfather), I think he just assumed that that was where I would end up.  But having endured nine long years of what I now call the “womens’ prison,” (an all-girls, but not at all girlie, uber-intellectual school not in any way designed to nurture the creative talents of a gregarious and outspoken entertainer such as myself), I absolutely and unequivocably put my foot down and refused to even apply.  Instead, I applied to three prominent drama schools in the Northeast, and was, quite honestly, devastated when none accepted me (a rejection that to this day pisses me off when I pass Juilliard at Lincoln Center.)

Completely side-slammed, I accepted an invitation from a very small college in Vermont that had just launched a pretty intensive drama program, and I whirled through their program in three years by doing old-fashioned summer stock repertory theatre.  On stage with me were Chris Noth (Mr. Big of “Sex in the City”) and David Asman (who has gone on to have a pretty illustrious TV news career).  I was absolutely certain that stardom awaited me as well upon graduation. But when graduation actually happened, I had not one clue what to do or where to go or how to take care of myself in the big, bad world.

Somehow, my father forgot that I would one day have to operate outside of his certainly loving and protective, if not always observant, care.  He simply never did one thing that would put me in a position to be independent of him.  I’m not sure this was a conscious choice on his part, but it was certainly a well-crafted one; I would have had to be a smarter person than I was at 21 to go off on my own into the streets of Manhattan and the challenging waters of a show business career when I had no money smarts, no real career direction, no emotional maturity, and no clue how to maneuver around the business side of show business.

An essay format does not lend itself to explaining all the ins and outs of the increasingly complicated (and no doubt mutually disappointing) aspects of our interactions over the ensuing years.  Suffice it to say that the more I moved away from him geographically, the more I became aware that he had, in some ways, imprisoned me as a child in an emotional vice grip that I had never been able to escape.  No doubt he was lonely for many years after my mother passed, and I was a sweet and adorable reminder of a happier, more carefree time in his life that would never come again.  I think maybe he needed to always see me as a child, as having no cares and frankly no real needs (except for materials one, which were all more than readily met). He seemed incapable of recognizing that summer after summer from a young age spent away from him would form me into someone he would not really know, and the annual return home from camp (or later, from summers spent in Europe) were always slightly painful to me, knowing that I would re-enter his limited scope of vision of who I was and who I was becoming.

And so, the dance that is life continues, until one day you get the news that this person who has been both your greatest protector and also your greatest enslaver has but two months to live.  I made two trips back to New York to see my dad in his final days, and both were quite wonderful.  I like to think that in his final weeks, confined to bed 24/7 and listening to a limited number of favorite CDs that he loved, that he finally saw the value and purpose of my talent.  We sang so many songs together, many from old musicals we both adored, and with the constraints of business and worrying about daily life finally lifted from his shoulders, my dad seemed to both genuinely relish my entertainment and singing talents, as well as access and enjoy his own.  I think we both saw each other through clearer and less tainted eyes, and no question our deep and underlying love for each other made pretty much everything that had come before unimportant compared to sharing some final precious moments together.

Now he is gone, and I find myself reliving both the pain and the happiness of our relationship over the years.  There are no neat bows in life, I don’t care what Oprah or Dr. Phil or Buddha says.  Life is messy and relationships are loaded with ambivalence and unspoken hurts.  Someone dying does not change that, if anything, it reinforces it.  I will go to my own grave wondering what might have been had I had a father who could better see and hear who I was, or support my dreams.  That’s just how life is.

June 9, 2011

The Heedless Years: On Caring Less About the Passage of Time

Filed under: American Life,Growing Up Hannah,How We Live Now,Humor,Life-Changing Moments,Male/Female Relationships — Hannah Elisabeth @ 7:58 am

Another birthday approaches.  A mid-decade number that five years ago would have made me shudder.  But, I can now happily report that I truly no longer give a flying fuck about the numbers.  And no, this is not because “age is just a state of mind,” because, trust me, physical issues that you never imagined start popping up seemingly out of nowhere as time marches on. No, it’s because I just don’t care anymore.  I’ve accepted that I can’t stop it.  Like the drowning victim who stops flailing around, gasping for air, I’m now quietly and peacefully floating face down in the waters of life.  It’s so much less stressful.

To what do I attribute this newfound freedom, when the onset of this decade caused me endless angst and the certitude that my life as I knew it would soon be ending?  Well for one thing, to paraphrase Mark Twain, the rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated.  Men haven’t stopped hitting on me.  I am still creative and in some ways, more so than ever.  I find myself asking “what am I saving it for?” regarding pretty much anything you can think of these days, and then just going for it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably never stop caring about how I look or thinking with some wistfulness about the body I had 20 years ago.  But truthfully, the body I have now ain’t that bad, and I can still look in a 50x mag makeup mirror without completely passing out, thanks to a variety of wonders offered by modern science and having been too pale to sit in the sun ever. Sure, I’ve had shit done, and I love Restylane and Botox as much as the next Hollywood has-been.  Except that I’m a Hollywood hasn’t-been-yet-and-still-hopes-to-be.

I know when I was much younger, I was so self-conscious about what men might think of me or what their actions towards me meant, it almost crippled me.  Having been raised in a largely all-girls’ educational environment, and with only a much-younger brother besides my old-school dad to act as paradigms,  I just didn’t have any blueprint for what I now understand as the oh-so-not-that-deep male mind.  Now I accept that 90% of what any man tells me is most likely bullshit and just let it all roll off like water on an oil slick.  No reason to bemoan and wail about it, that’s just how men are, I’ve come to see.  Don’t give it anymore attention than it deserves.

And don’t get me wrong, I love attention from guys as much as the next girl, always have.  I just process it differently now.  I’ve learned that while men can and do truly fall in love, until they reach that place, all bets are off as far as what they will say or do to take down another doe whose head they can stuff and put over their male amphibian mantle.  Interestingly, the hubris of very young men who think their sexiness is irrestible is virtually akin to that of older guys who think their bankrolls are.  In between, there are men who really can hold their own in a conversation about almost anything and even be sincerely and adorably charming when they so choose.

That being said, I’ve sort of made my peace with not being in a long-term relationship that looks like what most people would think of as “normal.” I could give you a load of crap about how I just haven’t “met the right one,” but truthfully, I think it has more to do with a childhood littered with endless caregivers and change that made me both uber-independent and extremely wary of deep-level connection.  Maybe it’s just easier not to intertwine my heart that deeply; maybe I really don’t know how.  You can feel sorry for me on that one if it makes you feel better, but I am pretty unrelenting in the no self-pity department. I’m the luckiest shit in the world in so many ways, so in this one area, I may be a bit of a paraplegic.  I’m just gonna get me the prettiest Rascal I can and zoom around on my wheels and have fun.

But enough of the self-examination, you say; where is the wisdom garnered from fifty-five years on the planet?  I actually do have some.  First and foremost, if you ever think you are all that, think again.  I am egostistical in many ways, but it is buffered by a sure knowledge that I am almost nothing but a minute speck of dust in the larger picture of the Universe.  Maybe more like an atom particle of one speck of dust, if that.  Keeps me humble.  If that doesn’t do the trick, picking up the crap made by my large and lovable Rottweiler takes care of it very well.

What else have I learned?  That most people are both too trusting and too blind.  They accept information that is presented to them without any thought as to whether it makes sense, yet miss the clearest tips written all over someone’s being and manner.  I have learned to trust my instincts, because at least 80% of the time, they are piercingly on point. No, I don’t always get it right.  So it goes.

Professionally, I’m making strides, however slowly, with my self-written comedy vehicle, “My Big Blonde Life,” on YouTube, (which now has received more than 3000 hits as of this writing), while poker continues to be the heaven-or-hell roller coaster that is, I ‘spose, built into the game.  The tremendous excitement I felt during 2008′s World Series of Poker, where I got 10 minutes of airtime on ESPN, is largely quelled this year.  Whether this is due to a subdued vibe following Black Friday, or my own more jaded sense of it all after four years attending, I cannot say.  I just know that even last year it all seemed much more glamourous and infused with excitement than it does this year.

At this point on the life path, you realize you have no clue how much longer you may be here, or how much longer you will want to be.  Seeing both my own and friends’ parents in the advanced stages of aging that lie ahead is also humbling.  When you’re a kid, you have no knowledge that your grandparents were ever any younger than 60 plus.  But as you yourself age, you see your own once-thirty-something parents become 80-somethings, and there are days when the transition is a tad shocking.  Not only the simple physical changes, no; even harder to get your mind around at times are the personality shifts that present.  And it reminds you that none of us are static, and none of us are here for long.

As for the future yet to come, I am probably more optimistic than I could have imagined I would be at this point 20 years ago.  I do believe in euthanasia, and after some of the things I’ve seen people suffer at the end of their lives, I hope it will be available to me when and if I need it.  But, this old mare ain’t quite ready to be put out to pasture yet.  She still has a few hooves to kick up and nostrils to flare.

Giddy up!

February 2, 2011

Breaking Up is Hard to Do: My On-Again, Off-Again Love Affair with Poker

Filed under: A Blonde's Guide to Poker,American Life,Growing Up Hannah,How We Live Now,Life-Changing Moments,Poker,Show Business,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 11:41 am
Like any long-term relationship, my connection with poker has spanned many years, life phases and levels of passion.  Right now, I happen to be in a state of near disdain.  But looking back historically at my life, my guess is that the pendulum will again swing back to sick passion somewhere down the line.  To understand this, though, you have to know a little bit about my long life as a poker player, so let’s start at the beginning.
 
I first learned poker at my grandparents’ kitchen table, at maybe ten years old.  This was not, perhaps, a typical grandparents’ kitchen table either: it was a sophisticated one, and the chip set, I can viscerally recall, was made of what I thought at the time was alabaster (but have since discovered was, in fact, some faux material created to look like it.) They were swirly and shiny and clicked on the kitchen table in my grandparents’ Washington, D.C. apartment.  I remember, too, loving the thrill of winning a hand. All we played was five or seven-card stud, or five-card draw.  No one had even heard of Holdem then.  But, the love affair had begun.
 
Fast forward to just past my college years.  Some fellow alumni  who lived not far from me in New York City started a penny ante home game.  The passion was rekindled.  I don’t think that home game lasted a year. I didn’t even know about casino poker then, as I had never been to Vegas.  I forgot all about it, and moved not long thereafter to the Midwest for a news anchor position.  Once done with that era, I moved West, to Southern California.  Land of legal cardrooms.  Which I had never heard of until I went to a Tahoe casino on a vacay.  “Do you play in the cardrooms down there?” my fellow patrons asked me.  And while learning about card rooms, I also learned about Holdem for the very first time. 
 
Returning to SoCal, I dipped a toe into the then well-known (but long since closed) local card room.  Three-Six Limit it was, and I had not one clue what I was doing (some would say I still don’t).  More lucky than smart, I did well.  I was quickly hooked, and started playing several times a week, in part to avoid some personal drama that I was going through at the time.  Of course, like all drama, wherever I went, there it was.  Welcome to Life 101.  ‘Nuff said on that topic.
 
Newly divorced, (and with the Mirage just opened and a brand-new sensation,) I vacationed in Vegas a few times and fell in love with that property’s very popular card room.  This was more than a decade before the Chris Moneymaker sensation of WSOP, and “online” had no meaning whatsoever.  My love affair was burgeoning into an obsession now.  But, as life will do, things took a turn and I moved to a different area of SoCal that didn’t have any card rooms in proximity.  I think, except for maybe a biannual trip to Vegas here and there, I didn’t play a single hand for about seven years.  I was knee-deep in a revived singing career, cutting a complex CD project in Burbank, and didn’t even think about poker.  My first and always love, show business in its many forms, had me once again in its throes, and was holding my attention like any good lover would. 
 
But this is where the love affair picks up again:  the CD I was making, called “The Sixties Show,” was all fabulously orchestrated remakes of great 1960s cover tunes.  Armed with this artistic extravaganza (which was a year in the making, including being mastered at Capitol Records in L.A.), I moved confidently to Vegas, ready to take the town by storm with my fun show of retro costumes and classic pop hits.  Alas, I was quickly to discover that the era of casino-backed productions was over for everyone but a Celine Dion-level performer.  Even Robert Goulet, (once the toast of Broadway in hits like “Camelot,” and a handsome, albeit aging, baritone,) had to “four wall” his own show here, meaning he had to come up with the production money and marketing costs on his own.  Shot down before I even began, I had to regroup, and it was two years in Sin City before I once again fell into poker’s firm and consuming grasp. 
 
I don’t really remember what made me venture back into casino poker after such a long break from it.  I only recall that it was Spring, it was seven years ago, and it was at the then-all-the-rage Bellagio’s old-school poker room.  Its exquisitely painted (and tragically gone with their later room renovation) walls, featuring 18th century, elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen enjoying a card game in their old Euro sitting rooms, reminded me of “Barry Lyndon,” the beautiful 1970s Stanley Kubrick film, based on the William Thackeray novel, about a debauched and deceitful, (but handsome of course,) young ne’er-do-well from Ireland who makes his way into 18th-century high society.  I dove right into a 15-30 limit game as I recall, and within a few years, was playing much higher than that.  As every poker player learns eventually, the Greek myths about hubris and flying too close to the sun will often apply as we burn ourselves moving higher and higher.  An initial lucky streak playing medium high stakes limit turned just as quickly, and I can still recall a really, really miserable night that lay claim to my greatest single-night loss ever, before or since.
 
And now, enter Le Moneymaker and the new reign of both online and brick-and-mortar casino poker.  With Indian casinos opening in almost every U.S. state, poker’s popularity skyrocketing worldwide, and online gaming becoming more popular than porn with the under-21 male contingent, it was poker, poker all the time.  I think I tried No Limit one day at Bellagio, and I was hooked.  The genre meshed more with my innate gambling personality than Limit ever did, and after my horrific first-degree Limit burn session, I was ready to switch gears anyway.  Within a short time, I was a regular at  2-5 No Limit, and went all over town at the packed poker rooms at the Wynn, Caesars, and the Venetian. 
 
And then, the whole world crashed.
 
Like everyone else, I got caught in the net of the Great New Depression.  Stupid financial decisions caught up with me, a high-paying job disappeared, and badda bing badda boom, many lifestyle changes were required for me to simply stay afloat. I was far luckier than many, so believe me, I’m not whining, merely stating a fact.  The days when I could play poker with no thought as to financial swings had gone with the changing Las Vegas wind.  Casinos were, horrifyingly, nearly empty at times at the economy’s lowest point a few years back.  Once busy poker rooms were close to desolate at certain hours.  For those of us who had played the game at its peak, it was sad indeed.  All but gone were the days when one could easily leave three racks up.  Along with the economic crisis, an entire generation of online poker whiz kids suddenly turned 21.  Boys who once went to Florida on Spring Break for their share of hot chicks, were now seeking to make their living as poker pros over Easter in Vegas instead.  The vast majority, of course, fell on their overly optimistic fannies.  But the tenure of the game seemed to change almost overnight: from a virtual ATM machine to a game that required new levels of knowledge and dedication that I neither had, nor was interested in mastering.
 
The only games that captured the old Vegas vibe were now the ones played during World Series of Poker in June.  With donkeys and suckers from all over the world playing 1-2 No Limit on up, the cash games were a veritable cash cow, even as late as this past year.  For maybe three weeks.  Then the “I wanna say I played in WSOP” touristas went back home, and the really solid, “I satted my way into the Main Event” players emerged.  And the cash cow’s milk dried up.  It was back to Economic Bust business as usual.
 
At the same time, my first completely self-scripted creative venture, “My Big Blonde Life,” came into being.  At first a podcast and comedic weekly report on my life in Vegas as a cougar-esque, poker playing blonde amongst mostly tawdry men, the show eventually has evolved into video, YouTube and more of a pop culture comedic commentary that a wider audience can now hang with.  As anyone who’s done their own online video productions will tell you, being a one-woman band who does her own creative, video shoots, sound and lighting engineering (with none to speak of of either one), and most importantly, post-production editing and finessing, not to mention being the talent, is no small or simple task.  It takes, on average, about five hours per minute of edited video to create a good, tight, funny show, and I try to do three to four a month now.  And my old vaudevillean, “the-show-must-go-on” background is so deep in my very genes (and jeans), it seems to consume most of my waking hours.  With what’s left, I have to promote and market this venture, try to stay in decent shape and just do all the normal crap that everyone else does: buy groceries, clean the house and walk the dog. So, for now, poker is once again on the back burner somewhat.

And so, dear poker, consider this your Valentine.  Many times you have broken my heart, and several times I have tossed you aside for other, more compelling, interests.  But, do not worry, I doubt I have cast you aside for good.  You are too sexy and alluring a lover to never play in your fiery embraces ever again.

 
And one thing’s for sure: you will get cards from me, every year. 
 
With Love, I Remain,
 
Your Very Own,
 
Hannah, Queen of Hearts

December 29, 2010

Personal Best (and Worst) of 2010: The Year in Review

Filed under: American Life,Food,Growing Up Hannah,How We Live Now,Humor,Life-Changing Moments,Male/Female Relationships,Miscellaneous Ramblings,Show Business,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 5:28 pm

Another overrated New Year’s Eve looms, so naturally my thoughts turn to the year that is about to pass into “was” status.  Like all years, it’s had its highs and lows, its breakthroughs and breakdowns.  I figure I am now past the worst of my so-called “mid-life crisis” years (as if I expect to live to be 100…or even 80 for that matter!), and that in itself offers a kind of peace and relaxation.  Like a drowning victim who gets over flailing aimlessly and pointlessly in waters that are bound to take you down, I’ve pretty much accepted that, (as my Dutch nanny used to say,) “Old age will come.”  I suppose, (as aging goes,) I’m doing it fairly gracefully:  traversing the terrifying high-wire between fighting the natural effects of gravity and life’s wear and tear, with just saying “fuck it” and almost falling off with all the inevitable velocity that entails.  Life is not a Dr. Phil show, ladies and gents.  Heck, it’s not even a Jerry Springer show, (though that comes closer to emulating reality, I suppose.)

Enough about that; let’s get to the “year in review” part.  Ok, so on the upside:

1)  I lost weight.

Yes, I actually ended 2010 about 12 pounds lighter than I began it, (and I’m down 17 from my all-time tubbo high a few years back.)  Phew.  I really can’t even take that much credit for the weight loss:  my only conscious contribution to its manifestation being that I started to treadmill (yes, that’s a new verb, “to treadmill”) on a semi-regular basis.  Other than that, a combination of factors having little to do with willpower reduced my appetite and (probably more to the point) drastically reduced my booze consumption.  Hmmm:  less liquor, more exercise and less food intake, who woulda thunk that would make you lose weight?!

I could easily lose another 10, but then I’ll be content.  My Eastern Euro build, my hormones and my skeletal structure are designed to pick hops or something like that, not idle piquaresquely in a meadow in a Jane Austen novel sniffing heather.  And I’m actually just fine with that.  I have somehow escaped the ubiquitous American obsession with being a rail.  Maybe it’s not having had a mother to tell me I should be one.  Or maybe it’s because men have always liked my curves, even at my very fattest weight when I felt shitty about it myself.  So, don’t worry, be happy, I say.  Food tastes good.  Eat it.

2) I became a creative force.

Ok, so I always knew I could write and I always knew I was funny; I just never knew I could write comedy per se. This year, I came up with my own audio comedy vehicle, “My Big Blonde Life,” (based on my real-life happenings in Sin City as a crazy blonde and a poker-playing one at that)  and after 24 podcasts, took it to video.  With no budget and no advertisers (yet), I am my own entire production team, from creative concepts to videographer to special effects editor.  Many years working in television and some kind of innate feel for this stuff makes it mostly fun, though I wouldn’t send a real video, sound and editing crew packing if they knocked on my door, (so long as I maintained creative control.)  Hopefully in 2011, the show will move on up to actually making some moolah.  I take hope from Betty White, who is considered a comedy hipster at 87, that I might still eek a few good years out of this show business thing.  Of course, she started making the bucks very young and has probably had more legitimate show business gigs than Cher.  But, one clings to whatever buoys one can in this vechacte line of work, so Betty White will be my beacon of light, realistic or not.

3)  I have further mastered the impoverished gentry lifestyle.

Scarlett picking her own turnips until Rhett decks her back out in fancy velvet, or Elizabeth Bennet holding her head high (and her hand in marriage at bay) when dissed by the wealthy and condescending Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice”:  take your pick of archetypes for my current lifestyle.  Where once I cleaned the racks at Nordstrom, I now delight in Kohl’s Kash and their coveted 30% off coupons.  I’m certainly not the worst off I’ve ever been, nor am I rolling in dough.  But compared to many, I know that I am very, very lucky, and a newfound respect for joints like Dollar Tree and Kohl’s helps spread whatever I’ve got a little further.  Medical expenses are beyond my control, so they are what they are (see below).  I still hold out hope of being kept by a wealthy and charming man who appreciates my talent to amuse.  (My ability to continue believing that this could happen is akin to a drug addict saying they can quit at any time, but oh well.)  Anyway, my general attitude anymore is, if I’m not living in the Mojave per se, or eating desert turtles and drinking the milk of tumbleweeds (which would leave me quite thirsty, I think), I’m ahead of the game. 

Now, on the down side…

1)  I can’t find the right guy for love or money.

You know, we all have lucky areas of life, and then some that are not so lucky.  I know I am extraordinarily lucky overall, so please don’t think I’m whining.  But one decent pick out of the estimated 3,564 men I’ve dated in my life wouldn’t really be asking too much of the gods, would it?  Apparently so.  They’re either too young…too dull…or too fucking crazy.  Yes, I know I’m crazy too, believe me, I know!  But that’s all the more reason I need someone who’s just a little less crazy than that.  Oh, yeah: or they’re pricks.  Why are so many men just plain out-and-out immature, self-centered assholes? I know women have asked this question for millenia, or longer than that.  If anyone knows the reason, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.  Yeah, that’s what I thought. 

2)  I’m one rear-ender away from becoming the Tin Woodsman.

Again, not to whine, because I had a helluva good run for the first half of my life.  I barely even threw up (well, except for the years when I downed a lot of JD and Coke), let alone had any major health issues.  Somehow, the last two years, all that has changed.  I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say, it seems every piece of my body is in some advanced stage of decay anymore.  And free healthcare, (as we all know by now,) is the biggest joke since “War of the Worlds.”  I’m lucky to have the lousy plan that I do, which I pay for myself, and which is capped (the only reason I can get it), meaning if I should need any kind of surgery (including one that is entirely possible) I am totally and quintessentially fucked.  But “don’t experience your pain in advance,” a shrink used to tell me; so deeeeeep breath in…..deeeeeeep breath out….and again……

Plus, for an old broad, I still look good, so I got that going for me.

3)  I can’t figure out where the fuck I belong.

I was born in Europe, came back to America at two and a half, and then was raised by a posse of Anglo-Euro-Afro influences that made me the insane bowl of bouillabaise you see today.  Although it’s made for an interesting person, it also has made me a sort of “Woman Without a Country;”  I don’t seem to really quite fit in anywhere.  I love the tawdry glamor of Vegas, but its utter and complete lack of culture (plus its unrelenting heat and sun for five months out of the  year) wear on my soul more and more.  The East Coast is just too fucking cold in winter and humid in summer.  Plus, the broads there are all one-hue brunettes and wear no eye shadow.  Fuck that shit.  Europe seems appealing, except that I am really, truly a dyed-in-the-wool, uber patriotic Americansky.  So, there ya go.  Maybe Venus would work:  do they have a Neiman-Marcus there?

And finally, my Best and Worst Decisions of 2010:

Best investment:

A can opener.  Shit, I was tired of struggling with those idiotic things that never grip into the tin properly and leave you feeling like you just pulled the entire rowing team from Harvard to shore single-handedly.  So I finally broke down and spent $18 for an electric one from Frye’s.  Absolute, unadulterated heaven, I tell you.  Yes, it took me three hours to figure out how the fucking thing worked.  But once I did, I was never going back to a hand job again!

Worst investment:

Actually paying for an online dating site.  It’s easily been six years since I did, but in a moment of giddiness (following one of those girlfriend dinners where you get yourself all psyched up about the possibilities,) I impulsively signed back on to the major one. Then, even more stupidly and impulsively, I got sucked into the vortex of its sister (and duh, pricier!) site as well.  They both suck gas.  The only blessing is that, since I listed my real age, the creepy crawlers and whackos are somewhat more limited in scope than they once were.  But, I remember now why I stopped doing it six years ago.  Solitude is definitely preferable to the one-toothed, big-gutted wonders who ride Harleys and want someone who wants to have sex on it while going 90 mph (because the guy’s only had one partner till now.)  Oy.  Okay, let me rephrase that:  Oy fucking vey.

My only good decision with this?  Signing up for just the minimum three-month stint:  run, Forrest, run!!

Best and Worst Investment of Time:

Best:

Facebook.  Everyone knows I’m as big a Facebook crack addict as ever lived.  It’s cyber, international ”cocktail party”  aura perfectly suits my gabby and overly self-revealing personality.  There’s someone to yak with 24/7/365; to tell your deepest sorrows and silliest moments to. There’s always someone there to laugh at my blonde “court jester” pithy observations at life.  Plus, you can take back really stupid things you say,( if you do it really fast,) with just the click of a button,  before anyone has commented.  If only real life were thus.

Worst:

Facebook.  This may surprise some of you, but I actually have a hermit side to my personality.  Sometimes I don’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone or even acknowledge anyone’s existence. Okay, I admit, these phases are somewhat shortlived; but they do happen.  And when they do, one’s Facebook friends can feel like needy, snot-dripping babies, screaming for mommy’s attention if she deigns to leave them alone for too long.  (Oh, don’t take it personally, I’m sure I annoy far more people than the other way around.)  But yeah, I’ve even had fleeting moments where I thought I would deactivate my page for a few days. Needless to say, I got over it, and didn’t.  Just the thought of not getting my main line hit to my cyber veins is enough to cause the delerium tremors to kick in.  Fuggedaboudid!

Good, bad and ugly, 2010 is almost history.  The great thing about a brand new year is, hope springs eternal.  Kind of like leaks in one’s car. 

Happy New Year, all.

September 3, 2010

Pride and Prejudice: Sending the Thought Police Packing

Filed under: American Life,How We Live Now,Politics — Hannah Elisabeth @ 11:19 am

With the Obama Administration has come a new zietgeist in America, one that has polarized and created tensions unseen perhaps since the 1960s.  Our first president of mixed ethnic origin (the man is, after all, as much Caucasian as African-American), combined with extreme tensions between the Islamic and so-called Western worlds, have coalesced to create a new viewpoint in what was designed to be a country of many and varied visions, a viewpoint that says, “You are not entitled to see the world through a different filter than mine, and if you do, I will call you an idiot!”  Like a dysfunctional family at an alcoholic Thanksgiving dinner, Americans now yell and shout over one another angrily, many years of pent-up frustration, feelings of being sleighted, and determination to be the Top Dog (or at least share the food bowl) overshadowing all possibility of discussion.

As our country becomes a bigger and bigger melting pot, with many citizens of mixed ethnic and cultural origin, perhaps it is time to rethink how we view each other, and I don’t mean in the “We Are the World, Embrace Everyone” sense of the term.  Perhaps it is time to focus on discriminatory legislation that makes sense, and stop enforcing the Thought Police right into a non-optional mindset. 

Being Jewish by genes and by familial culture, I know there are far more subsets of Jewish culture than most non-Jews (and sadly, many Jews themselves!) realize, and I have certainly listened to more than my share of ridiculous and trivializing stereotypes over the years.  However, I have come to the following conclusion:  you cannot control what people think.  I am not going to convince someone who thinks Jews gather weekly for meetings on how to take over the world that this is beyond laughable and absurd, and I don’t even care to try.  If you want to make up fairy tales that help you get to sleep at night – (or fill your need for a scary bedtime story) – that’s your prerogative.  You think we are all Christ killers, or heathens who will burn in hell, or money-grubbing thieves?  I am not here to change your mind. We are all raised with various prejudices, overt and more subtle, and perhaps acquire a few new dislikes along the way, based on our own (possibly limited) experiences and personalities.  It is built into the human condition to like and dislike, to feel kinship and alignment with some and not others.  Everyone’s particular groups of friends and foes may differ, some may involve mixtures of this but not of that, but I dare you to find me someone who has not one prejudice in them against anyone on the planet based on broader cultural stereotypes.  In fact, I worry most about those who claim to love everyone without any discrimination, as they are usually vulnerable to idiotic decisions that often involve a certain blindness, not to a group as a whole, but to individuals who freely take advantage of their “trusting” and naive natures.

We have lost sight of what legislation is for:  to minimize the possibility of discrimination, in the job market, housing, etc., based solely on one’s ethnicity, sex or sexual preference.  That being said, let me hit you with a piece of shocking reality: sometimes people just won’t like you. They may find your lifestyle choices distasteful.  Perhaps your religious or cultural beliefs disturb them to the core.  No, they can’t make decisions to hire or fire, to lend or lease, based solely on those viewpoints.  But they can still dislike you, for any reason they choose. They have the right, my friends. Yes, it’s important for everyone to have a reasonable chance at living the American dream. That being said, we cannot get to the point where ethnicity or gender or love tastes ensure that you can never be dismissed or kept from anything you do or would like to do, or we will truly become a nation of standardless robots.  I recently received a copy of my alma mater’s quarterly publication, and the lead article was about how the word “jihad” had been misappropriated and misunderstood by Western culture.  I have  a newsflash for these blind liberals: whatever it may have meant once, it now means “crazy terrorists who want to bring down the West” to pretty much any sane person who sees it.  Much like the Nazi Swaztika, no one now cares what it once may have meant.  All you are doing is showing a tolerance and acceptance that is akin to an abused person saying, “Oh, okay, I know you didn’t mean it,” when someone explains why they pistol-whipped them.

I offer this as an example of how we have lost our collective minds in America.  We now seem to think everyone should like everyone, tolerate everything, and have no opinions that say, “I am not a fan of cultures that jar with my own, of attitudes that butt heads with my own, or of decisions that offend my viewpoints.”  We shouldn’t  tolerate violence, ever.  Or threats of violence.  And, let’s keep a few things in perspective as well: yes, we embrace all cultures in theory, but in practice, American standards and law override many religious practices.  We do not let parents who don’t believe in “interfering” with their children’s terminal illness not do anything because it is against their religious beliefs.  We don’t let men burn their wives in the absurdly-titled “honor killings” that are accepted in foreign cultures.  We have freedom of dress and equal rights for women here, and why some cultures that frown upon that are considered merely “different”  yet acceptable, is so disturbing to me, I don’t even know where to begin.  We certainly don’t allow underage marriages to men who want to dominate and control girls who cannot even think for themselves yet.  Would someone tell me why a “foreign” culture that promotes women being kept shrouded and invisible is somehow alright?  Because I don’t accept that, as a woman.  In fact, it makes me sick.

It is not my job (or anyone else’s) to like what we do not like or support what we find indefensible.  This will, of course, vary from person to person, based on a myriad of factors. All that should be clearly defined is that there may be no violent actions threatened or carried out on behalf of anyone’s cultural or religious beliefs or viewpoints, period.  This should not be confused with war, or with crime and punishment practices: these are a whole ‘nother topic for another blog.  I am talking about citizens of different viewpoints living in a country that is otherwise “at peace.”  It’s about changing the focus from mind control to action control. 

You don’t own my mind, and I don’t own yours.  And if you hate my guts on sight, for whatever reason,  that’s okay too.  Now would you please pass the sweet potatoes and green beans?  And that’s enough Scotch for you down there.  God Bless America!

July 18, 2010

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours: On Signing On (Without Benefit of Legal Counsel) with Online Poker Sites

Filed under: A Blonde's Guide to Poker,How We Live Now,Life-Changing Moments,Poker,Show Business,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 1:08 pm

It first came to my attention in 2008 when I made it to Day Two of the Main Event of the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas.  I was approaching a women’s restroom near the tournament entry area, unaware of what lay ahead once I got into the room, when a young Asian man came up to me surreptitiously, and almost  like a drug dealer afraid of being caught by the fuzz, asked me if I wanted to sign on (on spec) with Poker Stars and wear their patch, in case I got some TV time on ESPN.  With a clipboard full of paper that had, (I saw as I quickly glanced through his pre-fab five-page contract,) more ifs, ands and buts than you could shake a stick at, it had clearly been created by some legal wiz kids on the Poker Stars docket. Whether he had noted that I had gotten tons of camera coverage on Day One (none of which ultimately made air, by the way) or simply figured I had an aura and look that might garner some camera interest (and in fact, ESPN had already shot a lengthy interview with me after the Day One coverage, which also never saw daylight as my run was, to say the least, not very deep), I am not 100% sure; there were certainly far less women in the event only two years ago, and many fewer young hotties than the 2010 events seems to have pulled in, so perhaps he just surmised that an attractive blonde would garner more TV time than a sweaty and sweatshirted young ‘hoody-ite.

With only 15 or so minutes till the start of Day Two (and anxious to begin the day without having an exploding bladder from the get-go), I listened to him for just a few minutes before brushing him off with my “no, I don’t want any of the religion you’re selling” practiced New York tone, and took care of business.  Then I headed confidently into the tournament room, where I soon discovered I was not to be at a “normal” table anymore, but, as the handmade markered placard in the middle of our previously-designated table indicated, we had been “moved to the Featured Table”.  Excited beyond belief, (because I knew this would mean good lighting and almost guaranteed TV time with whatever celebrity player they were putting up there with us,) I had almost made a clean getaway from my former table when two Caucasian vulture-men descended on me like Fagin on Oliver Twist, this time from Full Tilt, but with the same style of clipboards and contracts attached as their Asian counterpart.

“Hey, would you like to sign on with Full Tilt and wear our patch?” they asked me confidently, and their unbridled presence right on the tournament floor, (versus Mr. Poker Stars more devious approach outside the entry doors), made me immediately think they must have some kind of deal going with Harrah’s and/or ESPN that, cynic that I am, most probably involved a very nice lunch in Beverly Hills at some point, if you get my drift.

With literally minutes to airtime (and both the game and media exposure of my life laying in front of me,) I paid little attention to these two, and even less when they assured me I could “talk to their lawyers” they had on standby if I had any questions; I’m a city girl and at least know that taking counsel from the other side’s legal team is not a great move.  Unable to focus on the lengthy and wordy document they wanted me to sign, I decided to pass on signing it or wearing their patch; a move which ultimately cost me an easy ten grand as I was the only one who really got any significant media exposure at my table, besides the planted celebrity player, Chau Giang.  As it turns out, (I was informed by the dealer,) the entire table was there because of me, as either Norm Chad or ESPN had determined, based on my Day One and interview footage, that I would be an entertaining force on camera, a conviction I do not think I failed either of them in manifesting, and the cameras never left my seat for my brief 45-minute Day Two showing. Giang was simply “planted” at our table to give it some credibility, and me someone to foil off of, and thank goodness for it, as the rest of the players were a dull and silent lot overall.

So it was, in the end, a bad beat for both me and Full Tilt (or Poker Stars), but as they say in poker, you can only play your hand in a way you feel most confident about at the time, and the results are something else again.  In theory, I still think that signing a five-page legal document you haven’t read, aren’t familiar with, that signs away rights and assigns priveleges to its authors that you are unknowledgeable about from a legal standpoint, is not a good idea, period.  Having subsequently worked with an entertainment attorney who specializes in these kinds of contractual agreements when I was offered a shot at a TV reality show, and seen the incredible detail put into making sure that, given a certain level of success, the player will get their due reward, I think I played the hand correctly for 97% of the situations that might present themselves.  Although my reality show never came to pass in the end (a pilot was shot on an independent producer’s dime, and shopped around to several networks, however) we made a tight contract before the pilot was even created, and I was confident that if it did get picked up and lasted more than a year, I would make bank and never have to renegotiate.  Contracts, after all, are only important when people and situations are successful; failures seldom involve people arguing over air in a courtroom.

It concerns me sometimes that these huge poker sites, so superiorly armed (and knowing the battlefield so much more intimately than its interlopers, the players), present these situations under extremely pressured conditions to people who are often young, inevitably exhausted, inexperienced in the ways of the world in general (and of Hollywood and gambling monoliths, in particular,) and whose egos and short-term need for bankroll may often overide their long-term interests or even just their rights, period.  Of course, as with everything in life, it is caveat emptor: buyer beware!  Regardless of how tired, excited or broke you may be, you have to make important decisions on the spot that would normally involve at least 20 passes between the two parties’ attorneys before finalization.  And then, you have to live with your decisions, either way.

For me, I can live with how it played out because I know I played the hand correctly in theory, under time and mental constraints that would befuddle far greater minds than mine.  Next time, would I do it the same way?  Probably not; but I know more about how it all works now.  And then again, who knows?  Perhaps I’ll just bring my own contract-knowledgeable attorney with me next time, if it looks like Featured Table time and a patch lay in wait. 

Because I always think best-case scenario, and I don’t intend for my 2008 WSOP airtime to be the last I ever get, on or off ESPN, and you can lay odds on that.  It’s as sure a thing as you will likely ever put money on.

July 10, 2010

As Time Goes By: Musings on Its Passage and the Journey of Life

Filed under: American Life,How We Live Now,Life-Changing Moments — Hannah Elisabeth @ 6:42 am

Oh lord, that sounds so…heavy.  And really, with another birthday surrounding me, I feel as light as I ever have.  I realized not long ago that my mid-life crisis has almost officially wrapped up, just little things like not completely wincing when the occasional young guy compares me to their mom in some way, or someone guesses my age correctly within a five-year window.  I have now entered the “I don’t really give a fuck about unimportant shit” stage of life, and let me tell you what, the view is very refreshing from up here.

It has not always been thus.  Like many women who have parlayed their looks in some way, I have done whatever I can to maintain mine, through means both external and internal, and will continue to do so as a matter of simple expediency.  But when I turned the big 5-0 a few years back, the very mention of that first number made me shudder, and I literally wept for my youth that was being swept away like a castaway’s raft in a heavy undertow.  There was no saving it, and no holding onto it, and I cried for all the things you get being a younger, hotter chick in a world that rewards a woman’s beauty and youth like nothing else, and I cried some more because there was nothing I could do to change it.

Then one day, maybe a year ago, it was before she passed away, I happened to be looking on the internet and found a red carpet photo of Farrah Fawcett at some Hollywood event, taken a few years prior; it said in the picture she was 58 or 59 at the time of its snapping.  An iconic beauty of her time, Farrah had clearly benefitted from the skills of a great surgeon or two, and had remained wraith-slender and still had her famous and fabulous hair.  But she didn’t look 25, or even 35; she looked like a woman who had lived and loved and seen pain, which, if you followed her life at all, you know she certainly had her share of, along with tremendous fame and adulation.

And in that moment, it all clicked; I suddenly realized that what I was in mourning for was not, in fact, youth per se, but the fear of losing my very identity, as a sexy and sassy broad who commanded a room and flirted the way some people play tennis.  And I suddenly realized too, seeing Farrah’s famous face still sexy and riveting despite looking a little weathered and world-weary, that I was in no danger of losing any of those things; I just had to tweak and adjust my center of gravity a bit and it was all good.  And almost like magic,  pouf!, I was okay again, able to exhale as they say, and face age and time and life and the future from a new place, a place where I realized I was much less dependant on outer definitions of sexuality and beauty, and much more dictated by forces that are within my control.

And so, as I enter another year on this path that is life, with no way out but feet first, I’m good, and I’m actually…happy.  Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life; which, had you told me such a thing were possible 25 years ago, or certainly two or three years ago, I would have told you you were crazy as a jaybird.  But life, like poker, is full of swings and reversals of fortune, and sometimes it just takes that one card to turn it all around.  For me, it was something as simple as seeing that no, aging is not just a state of mind, but sexiness and attractiveness at least partially are, and that’s all we get to run with at this point in our timelines.

But needless to say, it’s not all about looks or how men perceive me at this juncture in my journey.  I am worn down and softened like a piece of seaglass these days, tumbled and tossed and thrown against so many hard rocks that there aren’t really that many jagged edges left to smooth over.  Many will probably laugh reading that, and say, “Really?”  Yes, really.  I am sassy and tough, no question about it.  But hard?  Not one little bit.  I cry at the ASPCA infomercial with Sarah MacLaughlan singing “Arms of an Angel” every single time; now I just mute it and look away, it upsets me too much seeing the soulful and pleading eyes of animals left to fend for themselves for no reason but that they got unlucky most of the time.  I understand how they feel all too well.  I am a morph of the Artful Dodger and Princess Diana: a hustling little street urchin and an uptown girl all rolled into one.

I’ve now survived not only numerous difficult and traumatic situations of my own, but those of several dear friends as well.  Enough that, I have no illusions that we control much on this planet except for our own reactions to how things fall, and even that takes tremendous effort and consciousness to achieve.  “The Secret,” in my humble opinion, is to keep going no matter what, and to never let anyone tell you who you really are.  All the rest of it is mostly designed to sell books and videos to people who want to believe there’s some code to be cracked out there that will open the gates of heaven.  No code, no heaven either.  Most people, to paraphrase John Steinbeck, lead lives of quiet desperation.  We are all going to die, so I guess age is not really “just a state of mind.”  Sometimes when I want to keep it all in perspective, I remind myself that, 150 years from now (if we allow for crazy advances in modern science), every single person on the planet today will be no longer.  Keeps me humble, as they say.  Or to put it another way, as William Thackeray wrote in the last line of one of my favorite tales of gambling debauchery “Barry Lyndon,” : “good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor; they are all equal now.”

For my money, the start of living well comes first in accepting reality, our own, as well as the larger, cosmic one.  In realizing we do not have infinite choices or endless years to make them, we start to act more decisively and with more peace that we are leaving some options behind, yes, but also moving forward with ones that are perfect for us.  How it all plays out, is bigger than any of us can say; most now-legendary artists were penniless and derided in their own times.  I am honored to be able to share some kind of gift with the world; a gift for which I can take no credit, as it was passed down through genes I didn’t choose and can’t control.  But they are mine to share now, and share them I will, and every time someone is moved or laughs or cries at something I say, it’s as close to heaven as my heathen self expects to get.

I think the year ahead is going to be a helluva jackpot year for me.  And even more so because I have so many wonderful people to share it with.  Thank you all, you know who you are. The best is yet to come.

June 4, 2010

Poker All the Time, or the Well-Rounded Life? Which One Really Wins?

Filed under: A Blonde's Guide to Poker,American Life,Poker,Show Business,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 1:39 pm

World Series of Poker 2010 has kicked off at the Rio, and poker aficianados from around the world have flown in to be a part of the party that is poker during June and July in Las Vegas.  Since I live here, I get to drop in on the craziness at random times, and then step away from it when I need to focus on other ventures in my life. For me, this yin/yang balance between the intense and sometimes insane world of poker, with the more creative and even mundane aspects of my life, has worked to make me both a better player and certainly a happier woman.  But you don’t have to look around too much at WSOP to see whole pods of erstwhile and often anemic-looking young men who, it is clear, eat, drink and sleep poker.  They don’t seem to care about girls, or getting an education (let alone a job), and taking care of their physical health is, from all empiric evidence, the last thing on their minds. They might spend six weeks in Vegas during WSOP and never see the sun; and their diet usually consists of fast food and Red Bull (occasionally mixed with booze for a nice amphetimine/barbiturate effect.)  Their only workout is walking from their 6-guys-in-a-room hotel suite to the poker room, or to get more coffee.  There are no nightclubs, no shows, not even the usually male-mandatory strip club visits for them: it’s all poker, all the time, and that’s how they seem to like it.

Interestingly, although the number of (particularly younger) women in No Limit poker has grown exponentially in the last few years, they don’t seem to reflect the same “poker is all I live and breathe” mentality that the young guys do.  Some would argue that might be why there are fewer female than male champions in the game; although recent coups by Annette Obrestad, Liv Bouree and Vanessa Rousso, among others, are beginning to lay that stereotype to rest at last.  Others would say that women are innately more balanced than men, with perhaps the latter being generally more genetically programmed to be single-minded in the old “hunter-gatherer” paradigm that has been bandied about by scientists for eons. (And yes, I know some of the men reading this are scratching their heads in wonderment, going, “Balanced?  Not any woman I’ve ever known!”)  But I’m talking here about interests, lifestyle and what ranks as important in our lives, not the emotional highs and lows we girls can be subject to that send the male pysche into a “Huh, what’d I do?” tizzy with such ease.

Whether or not one subscribes to the theory that some balance in life overall is the way to go, for poker players there is always the question of, “Ok, but what does it do to my poker game?” In other words, who actually wins more money: the players who spend their every waking moment calculating odds, reading poker books, playing 20 tourneys online simultaneously, and forgoing normal social contact, physical self-care, and the pursuit of any kind of non-poker related knowledge; or those who love the game and try to play it with as much zest and intelligence as they can muster, while still believing that family, friends, art and culture, and an occasional walk in the park  (not to mention on the wild side,) are just too satisfying to be missed in favor of becoming a poker nerd, even if it’s a winning one?

I sat yesterday in the so-called poker “kitchen” at WSOP, listening to two guys behind me yabber on endlessly about who played what hand and why and how and….oh my god, the huge, tedious yawn of it all.  I love poker, I think my cash and tourney games are the strongest they have ever been; but when I am not playing poker, it is frankly not my favorite topic of conversation.  Two fine artists of tremendous talent who recently found me on Facebook have reminded my culture-starved essence that there is much to lap up in our short visit to the planet other than poker, poker, all the time.  I have lived long enough to know that life is indeed fleeting, and there are many things I value more than a game of cards, as much as I genuinely enjoy playing this one.

It would, in fact, be interesting for someone to do an unbiased study of this issue, to track exactly what the win rates are of those who fall into the “live and breathe” poker category, versus those who don’t.  And by “those who don’t,” I mean including those who may have poker-related business ventures (training camps, websites, ad campaigns, photo shoots, sponsorship deals, etc) that are not specifically about playing the game non-stop in and of itself.  I myself have tied poker in with all of my creative assays: my humorous radio podcast, these blogs, and my upcoming video webisode series about Vegas.  But so many other talents, people and skill sets are involved in those efforts, that they pull me into a different part of my mind, heart and soul, while still keeping me connected to a world I know, love and truly relish.

Just as key as overall win rates, it would be fascinating to do a 40-year study that would follow players from say, age 16 to 56, just to see how satisfied they are with their lives as a whole, or even how many are still alive on both sides of the “all-poker-all-the-time” (or not) lifestyle choice.  I have met and spoken to so many of these “Peter Pan” boys over the past few years, and have advised many of them to see the world as bigger than just poker, before they find out they can’t even open the door to other vistas anymore.  I truly fear that severe loneliness, depression and social disconnection will engulf most of them over time, not to mention more obvious health issues such as how they eat, smoke, drink and ingest both legal and illegal substances.  We all crave love and acceptance, and we all want heart on some level in our beings; it’s just how human beings are, unless you are truly sociopathic, in which case you’re probably going to end up playing poker head-up with your cellmate on the other side of an electronic prison gate.

One of the things you learn as you become a better and more experienced poker player is how to make choices, and how to pick your battles.  In cards, as in life, we only get so many hands to play, so we better make the most of the ones we think are winners. For my money, diversity in life gets you more in the long run, just as it does in the game itself: those who tend to only play premium hands seldom get paid off, even when they hit.  It’s a helluva big game out there, and one with more outcomes than a mere game of cards could ever deliver.  I wouldn’t want to miss the best rivers just because I never dared to play the most unconventional and interesting flops. So I’ll keep on balancing poker with the other loves of my life: writing, broadcasting, good friends, hot guys, my dog, and shopping, to name but a few…and I’ll just let the chips fall where they may.

April 29, 2010

Going Rogue: Playing Poker Like an Outlaw to Win Big Pots

Filed under: A Blonde's Guide to Poker,Poker,Vegas Life — Hannah Elisabeth @ 8:27 am

The books. The videos. The online websites. There’s an awful lot of information out there to fill every nook and cranny of your brain with poker theory, isn’t there? Statistics, probabilities, variance, hand rankings: a person’s mind could explode from overload trying to master it all. Yet that’s what most players do, because they think they need to understand the “rules” of the game, and want to appear informed and educated to their opponents. But it is the poker players who are willing to throw away those books and ignore the standard rules of engagement in game battle who often play better, because they have learned to confound and confuse by doing things differently and creating their own game dynamics. For as any good outlaw knows, that means outsmarting “the law.” Which, in this case, are all those millions who play by the book(s).

Here’s the paradigm: the reason criminals are often one step ahead of the law is because they aren’t afraid to break the rules of normal society. The way things “should” be done, the weapons used to beat back their opponents, when and where they show up or hide, are all outside the box if they’re good at what they do (prisons, as someone once said, are full of stupid people: they all got caught!) Now we’re not proposing that you break any real laws, of course: only the accepted ones at the poker tables! That’s where unforeseen skirmish attacks, tricky con man lures, and disguises and smoke flares thrown hither and yon to distract and throw off the scent are both appropriate, and profitable.

In order to pull this kind of game off, however, you have to become fearless and even reckless, at times. You can’t play only AK, AA, KK or QQ, and you can’t only raise in late position. The secret to a good game of outlaw poker is to appear wild and crazy, without actually being so. It does mean you sometimes have to raise in early position with smaller suited connectors, even knowing that other players will think they have you trapped as they simply call with their high pockets pairs or their A-Qs. In order to play well as an outlaw, you not only have to break poker law, but you damn well better know what those laws are and how players may apply them, and you must be willing to flaunt the law too. For example, if you raise under the gun with 7-8 suited and get three callers, you can be pretty sure someone in that group has a pair, and someone has an Ace. So depending what hits on the flop, you can temper your play so you’re not merely donking off chips where someone else has you dominated and you have virtually no outs. On the other hand, if you do hit your hand or a substantial draw, you must be willing to play with the fortitude and fearlessness of any wanted man or woman, and put the “by the book” players to the test. And if your read on your opponents is that they haven’t hit any part of their hands (or a weak enough part to make them think it’s no good), you must play yours as if it’s a winner, no matter what cards you actually hold, and force them to fold and abdicate the pot to your outlaw ways.

You also have to be able to throw off the scent, because other players will go into full throttle hunt mode once you take some serious chips off them. The great thing about this mode is, you are in front of the pack, literally; thus you can confuse the bloodhounds with surprising ease. You want them to think they are so close to trapping you, and then disappear from their grasp once again, which will in turn make them even more determined to catch you. Players in chase mode are your best friend, because you know where they are, but they do not have the same advantage with you. You can plant confusing signals that will make them think you are weak when you are really strong.

A simple rule of poker is that whoever is controlling the action owns the game. They are making everyone else react to them, and because other players really don’t know if you have the nuts or nothing, you are in the driver’s seat, watching them watching you.  Because you are playing from power, not emotion, you will know when you can reel them in, or when you should disappear up a tree.

If you are a woman, you have double power with this play mode, because there is nothing that makes a man more insane than to be whamboozled by a woman at poker. They are not only minus chips, but also humiliated and embarrassed at the table, both inside and outside their own minds. Their sole goal is to reinstate homeostasis by dominating you once again, and taking back their chips. In pursuit of this goal, they will donk off huge stacks with bottom pairs, bad kickers, or on gutshot straight draws; even a tiny possibility of winning is so appealing to them, they have essentially lost all sense or reason at that point. As long as they don’t hit a sudden lucky streak, you will keep on beating them back and taking more chips off them with very little effort on your part. Once they do start hitting against you, though, you need to pick up your chips and cash out, before they move in for the kill.

Now in order to play this way, you are going to have to access your inner fearless outlaw, because cowardly outlaws get handcuffed or shot at, metaphorically speaking. If you’re going to do things that don’t conform to other people’s rules, you need to do it with conviction and purpose. In other words, don’t just rob a convenience store; rob a big ol’ bank. Go for deep chip stacks and weak players whose minds are yours for the overtaking. If you’re an experienced player, you can probably assess who’s who pretty quickly; otherwise, play tight when you first sit down and take some time to study players and profile them. Things like culture, age, and sex should play into the equation; but don’t ignore fellow female players as possible victims in this equal opportunity grab fest. Women are sometimes just as emotionally easy to manipulate as men, if they have an axe to grind or want to try and show you up for whatever reason. Study everyone, and make your determinations the same way any good criminal would: go for the easiest and most lucrative targets. Just remember to run for the hills and take your loot with you once the cards turn, because those law-abiding citizens (i.e., the ones who are confused and broke because they followed all the rules in the poker books) will form a posse to haul you off if they can! Remember: the only time you want to go to the “cage” is to cash out, and leave all those “sheriffs” in the dust. So play outlaw poker like your very life depends on it; your game success most certainly will!

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