Free at last

Regular readers will be relieved to know that I’ve been released from the Bavarian prison and am now back in Fresno where I belong. Most of the allegations surrounding my recent flight to Germany have already been dropped, and I’m confident the final two, “willful destruction of private property” and “violation of the Mann Act,” will be resolved in my favor soon. The former charge, regarding damage to the Airbus 340 is rightly a warranty claim since at no time did I use the lavatory for anything other than its intended purpose. As for the Mann Act charge (transportation of women across state lines for immoral purposes), it’s on shaky ground. I met those tramps 35,000 feet over Iceland, had no role in their presence on the flight and only gave them that wad of $1 bills so they could make correct change for drinks. That rap will never stick.

The last few days of my incarceration in Germany were a blur of daily culinary nastiness, closed-door strategy sessions, odd gladiatorial games, and a visit to a palace and a nunnery. It was a challenge to keep my spirits up amid the abuse, but I did so and am back at work flushing 3/6 kill players from the weeds and picking up empty Corona bottles. I still have nightmares over the mess, but they say writing is good therapy. Over the next few days, I’ll provide some recaps to help cleanse my mental palette.

Fancy a bit of polo?

A few days into my detention, the sadists holding me decided that hilarity would ensue if they dragged my comrades and me to a polo pitch, propped us up on horses and forced us to engage in combat. I’m a competitive guy and my fellow captives were a doughy lot, so I would typically embrace this opportunity to shine like Maximus before a packed Coliseum. In heads up sport, though, I prefer something I can do with my feet on the ground like a good drinking game or Madden ‘09. Polo? Are you kidding me? So what if I’m a part-owner of a pari-mutual betting lounge? Playing the ponies isn’t quite like riding them.

As a little kid, I once remember bouncing around an indoor ring and someone yelling at me that I looked like a “goddamn sack of potatoes.” Then, twenty years later, I recall sweating atop an old nag named “Dusty” in Mexico as part of a not-like-it-looked-in-the-brochure day trip to a remote beach. My mental notes from that romantic venture were that flies the size of terriers swarmed around me all day and the horse directly in front of me had a diet high in fiber. That made two times in the last 40 years I’d been on a horse and both times left me with deep emotional scars. Awesome.

As a general rule, if I suck at something and I’m not being paid, I’ll avoid it. But here I didn’t have a say in the matter. I was herded together with the others and ordered to prepare for battle. First, we spent a few minutes of practice on wooden horses. Practice involved standing on the hobby-horse seen below, holding the reins like the thing was actually moving and swinging a mallet at a hard wooden ball on the ground.

Mount up, fellas


While a select few of us would flail from the horse like crazed tee-ballers, the others would retrieve the balls from the field without any protective gear. Most of these knuckleheads had the hand-eye coordination of Ray Charles but with 30 years of chasing tennis balls under my belt, I climbed up and gave a little clinic on keeping your head down and following through.

The Natural





Perfect, in reverse



After setting the standard, I hopped down and took my turn retrieving balls hit by the others. Imagine you’re ordered to collect balls at the local driving range without the benefit of a caged range car. Admittedly, most of the time, I wasn’t in any real danger—the typical “shot” was a complete whiff or feeble nick of the ball. But at least one of my colleagues connected with perfect timing and launched the hard wooden ball squarely against my left ankle. WTF! Ok, that’s why the horses have shin guards.

After a few minutes of this nonsense, I limped over and was given a helmet and instructed to mount a horse named Emily for “live practice.” I pulled myself up on the English/Argentine mix with the enthusiasm of Charles Manson’s cellmate ordered to the top bunk. Emily, like most women I’ve known, was unimpressed and began to wander off, disinterested in me and my commands. My captors found this hilarious, of course, and ridiculed my efforts to sweet talk her into compliance.

Edmond charms the beast



They had grossly underestimated my mastery of seduction, though. Like the others before her, she responded to smooth talk, sharp kicks to the sides and my breezy confidence in the saddle. Within minutes I had her right where I wanted her…sort of…

Emily, would it kill you to seem interested?



Cover shot from the October issue of Polo Times



When our captors decided that we were trained enough to play without harming the horses, they forced us out on the pitch, four at a time, to compete. It was gut-wrenching to see my friends pitted against each other in awkward battle and I cursed the bastards for making me watch. What’s next? Bussing in local nursing home residents for a soccer match? 1/2 limit? It was horrible.

El Polo Loco



When it was my turn to compete, I was forced back onto Emily, but she’d had enough of my self-deprecating charm and was intent on wandering back to the stable. At one point, I managed to steer her back in the general direction of the group on the field, but at no point was I within striking distance of the ball. I tried to figure her out, but she stayed true to the gender and refused to respond to logic or direction. It was like trying to make sense of Omaha hi/lo. Four cards, use two, high and low hands win? What the fuck is going on here and why? And what happened to all my money?

Emily decides she's had enough



At the end of our match, the evil bastards decided to highlight how pathetic we were by mounting the same horses and engaging in a quick scrimmage. To shame us further, a couple of young girls mounted up and joined them. Under skilled riders, the horses were different creatures, turning and stopping like an M-series BMW. Every shot rocketed downfield and the riders covered the 10-acre field like it was their backyard. It was like watching a bunch of middle-aged guys struggle at whiffle-ball and then having Derek Jeter and his girlfriend take the same bat and ball and hit line drives into Monument Park. Thanks, guys. Nice touch.

I wanted to forget the whole damn affair but my colleagues would have none of it. Later, at dinner, they presented me with the coveted Pegasus award, a stuffed horse key chain, for the rider “Least able to control his horse.” I accepted it with the same pride I felt when, at the age of 4, my friend asked me how I managed to roll my Big Wheel over 60 yards of wet sod into an empty wading pool. I still don’t know, but it was humiliating and tiring and I’m not doing it again.

Next up…Trapped at a convent.

He said

At present, I’m being held against my will in a small prison thinly disguised as a lakeside resort in the Bavaria region of southern Germany. I came here without a struggle thinking I was arriving to participate in an off-site strategy session for another business I’m involved in, but it’s now clear that a misunderstanding at LAX last night resulted in my immediate and indefinite incarceration in this 400-year-old farmhouse turned detention center. Think Club Fed…with smaller rooms and worse food. And it’s 50 degrees and raining.

The incident occurred when I showed up at LAX roughly 50 minutes early for an international flight. I meant to arrive earlier, of course, but got tangled up by my own scheduling and some nasty Friday night traffic. Despite my bad timing, I had only one piece of carry-on luggage and a valid passport so I thought for sure I was in good shape. I presented myself at the ticket counter and was promptly informed that the flight to Munich was closed and my seat was no longer available. What?

My recollection was that I used my considerable charm to persuade the ticket agent to downgrade the passenger who’d taken my seat and reclaim my spot on the flight. It was clear that she understood my situation was completely unavoidable and that the off-site conference would suffer from my absence. After a brief phone call and some quick keystrokes, she presented me a boarding card, bade me “Gute Reise!” and offered an energetic Lufthansa rep to move me through security without delay. The whole process was so seamless I made it to the gate in time to stop at the newsstand for magazines and snacks. The flight itself was fine and I thought nothing of it until I was picked up at the airport and dropped off at the entrance of the penitentiary below.

Wait, there must be some mistake…



She said

In a twisted case of “he said, she said”, the ticket agent’s report of our interaction differed dramatically from my own. According to the extradition filing faxed to me by my attorney, her sworn recollection was that I forced my way to the ticket counter “swinging my briefcase like a flail and threatening other ticketed passengers with profane language and physical harm.” Her statement continued that I was dragging a carry-on piece “in gross excess of FAA weight and dimensional limits” and her impression was, given my angry refusal to check the bag, that it contained “something incriminating…possibly a body.”

She was obviously in the grips of some hallucinogen because her statement continued with the assertion that I demanded that if she didn’t “downgrade that whiner who took my seat and give me my [expletive] boarding card,” I’d “burn this terminal full of squatters to the ground” and make sure that she would be “put on the street and sold into slavery.” According to her, she only released the seat to me because I appeared “uncontrollable” and the other customers who “were starting to sob and shake with fear.”

Conspiracy, obviously

Unfortunately, the Germans are a loyal tribe and her colleague joined her in the foul conspiracy. The escort alleged that my sprint through security reminded him of “a looter fleeing from the police” and noted that the only time I complied with posted rules was when confronted by an armed federal officer at the security detectors. He supposedly observed me stuffing magazines and beverages into my briefcase at the Hudson News shop and insisted that he “hadn’t seen the passenger pay for any items.” His account concluded that my behavior throughout reminded him of Colonel Jessup in A Few Good Men right after he’d been tripped up on the witness stand.

The final insult was the in-flight staff report that I commandeered every available pillow in business class and raided the service carts for all the Jack Daniels and premium vodka, which according to their inventory comprised 8 pillows and some 20 mini-bottles. Supposedly, I refused my in-flight meal with the demand that they “send this swill back to steerage where it belongs” and when offered Portuguese wine made some suggestive comment about having it served by a Brazilian in a thong for authenticity. For good measure, they made some wild claim that I “intentionally served two minors alcohol.”

All of these allegations are complete nonsense, of course, and some aren’t even actionable under current US law. In any event, on Monday, I intend to find local legal representation and address each of these specious claims in detail. In the meantime, I’m trapped in Hotel Gut Ising with nothing to entertain myself with other than my wits.

The Stalag

The prison website draws unsuspecting inmates by depicting outdoor activities like tennis, golf and equestrian activities. By description, it’s “an idyllic country hotel with a rural ambiance and private atmosphere on the beautiful Chiemsee.” (a large lake) and from the looks of the dogs and horses wandering around the property, pet-friendly. The location, per the website, is less than an hour from Munich and less than a half hour from Salzburg, and supposedly looks like the aerial photo below.

The location for the 2011 season of Prison Break



A more accurate introduction would be "Willkommen to Stalag Gut Ising. You can get here via a two-hour, high-speed drive through winding roads. If you’re not completely nauseated upon arrival, we have an exercise room with two pieces of equipment confiscated from the Mengele estate and offer the smell of known carcinogens in most rooms. We’ve left local programming on the TVs for maximum boredom and maintain our signage exclusively in German to keep you in a state of constant confusion. The dogs you see sleeping in the restaurant are trained attack animals and the guards on horseback will run you down should you try to escape. Oh, by the way, it’s damn cold and it rains all the time.”

The guard tower



The warden’s house



Hannibal Lecter had a better view



”Ok, where do I start?”



I’ve yet to find a staff person who will admit they speak English and have no idea what time it is, what I’m eating or how I’d find my way home even if the dogs didn’t run me down. I start shivering uncontrollably every time I go outside and my contact with the outside world is limited to a sketchy internet connection. Given the circumstances, it’s probably best if wrap myself in whatever blankets I can find and spend my time working on counter arguments to the Lufthansa allegations.

Pertinent facts

First, my briefcase is far too heavy to serve as effective flail. I may have used it to help a woman nudge her overloaded stroller forward but to claim that I “used it as a battering ram” is way off-base. Besides, what was a 4-year-old doing in a stroller anyway? Make that lazy brat walk off some of that baby fat.

Likewise, the notion that I may have been transporting a body in my carry-on is ludicrous. You’d have to be an idiot to take even a partial skeletal system through an x-ray station. If they can see a shoetree, what makes you think they can’t see a femur? Everyone knows the most effective was to dispose of a body is through extended submersion in water. What, I’m the only one who ever watched the Sopranos?

As for burning anything to the ground, it’s certainly a phrase common to me, but I was clearly joking when I said it. The concrete and steel construction of Bradley International wouldn’t respond well to fire and why would I even bother? The next earthquake should turn that rickety slum to a pile of rubble without any help from me.

The “selling into slavery” reference is wishful thinking by that mean trollop at the ticket counter. Given her sour look and bad attitude, it would cost the airline thousands of dollars to get rid of her. What value would she bring in any active slave market? And the other customers were sobbing? Oh, please. Tell those crybabies that air travel is not for the weak.

As I sit here today, there’s no way the gate escort saw me stuff anything in my bag. Did he mention the PowerBars? The Advil? No, of course not…because he couldn’t SEE me. And if he couldn’t SEE me, how could he HEAR me tell the newsstand clerk that I’d settle up on the following Saturday when I returned? Exactly. I’m notifying that weasel I’m considering a defamation action against him once we sort the primary incident out.

The in-flight claims have some element of truth but they aren’t crimes per se, especially without intent. The pillows and liquor are free to business class customers, right? Are there any posted limits per passenger? As for the food, any Lufthansa frequent flier will confirm that their menu is tough to stomach. So I was a little dramatic. What of it? Is that a crime? And my suggestion about improving the wine service was a good one. Put it to a vote of the business class travelers and you’ll see.

Finally, re: serving alcohol to minors, remember that the plane was darkened for overnight travel and I’ll state under oath that the little minx insisted she was of legal drinking age. And she herself suggested that we give bottle to her younger brother to settle the fidgety bastard down. In any case, that specific incident occurred somewhere over the Artic Circle. Who really has jurisdiction there—Canada? Russia? Finland? Good luck getting any court in those countries to convict a guy offering vodka to a girl.

On a positive note

I think once these pertinent facts are aired, I’ll be released with written apologies from all parties. It wouldn’t even surprise me if I’m offered some form of compensation for the gross inconvenience. I’m thinking a couple of business class seats anywhere in the Lufthansa system and a 10-day stay at somewhere warm with decent food.

In a crude attempt to keep Amnesty International at bay, my captives have let me and several other inmates make brief visits to local churches and monasteries to introduce some sort of repentance into my life. If it didn’t happen at Assisi, it isn’t happening in Bavaria, but I’m making the best of it. So far, I’ve had dinner in a former monastery, heard a German woman play a church organ once played by Mozart (Salzburg, his home, is less than an hour away) and managed to sneak a stein or two of the local brew product.

Been there, done that



They store the sinners here



Dinner in the monastery



Not Mozart, but he did play it



In any event, I’m stuck here until I can sort things out. Feel free to post me with suggestions on where I should take me free trip from Lufthansa.

Edmond

It's off-topic but I thought it might be of interest for some.



Last Thursday, Henry Z. Steinway passed away at his home in Manhattan at the age of 93. Henry was an American icon who ran the piano company that bears his name for years and remained an active spokesperson for the company up until his death. He headed the company from 1955-1977 and was known throughout the industry for his warmth and wit, his commitment to the piano industry and profound respect for artists of all kinds.

I’ve known Henry since 1995 when my partner and I first invested in Steinway & Sons. At the time, many of the people at the company looked at our purchase with skepticism—we were young finance guys—and Henry himself admitted years later that he thought, “Here we go up the flue for sure.” Over time, though, we gained his confidence and as our relationship grew, he always greeted my partner and I with the genuine warmth and wit for which he was known.

After he retired around 1980, he maintained an office at Steinway Hall, our flagship showroom on 57th Street in Manhattan, and continued to serve as ambassador for the company. Most days, you could find him in his office typing on a 60s-era typewriter, meeting with awe-struck customers or dealers or just wandering around the building. In recent years, his visits were shorter and more sporadic, but whenever he was at Steinway Hall, the building had an aura of history and goodness that all visitors could feel.

In 1958, he and his family sold the building that houses the Hall and I think he regretted it from the moment he handed over the keys. In 1999, we had the opportunity to buy the building back, and although the investment value was debatable, we did so to insure the showroom’s ongoing presence. At the time, were mocked by investors, but when we announced it at our annual dealer meeting, Henry jumped up, broke into a huge grin and hugged anyone within reach. Ironically, the appreciation of Manhattan real estate made the purchase a winner, but Henry’s reaction trumped any economic gain. It remains one of the proudest moments in my career.

Henry always had time to share his thoughts on the industry and treated my partner and me with respect despite our relative lack of industry experience. He never once showed a bit of arrogance despite his fabled name and was full of self-deprecating humor. When President Bush awarded Henry the National Medal of Arts, the nation’s highest honor for the arts, he mentioned it to me with the wry qualifier, “They’ve made a mistake, but I don’t want to embarrass them. He's the President, you know.” It was classic Henry.

He and his wife Polly were happily married 64 years and I often referred to them as the coolest couple I ever met. She is a beautiful, sweet woman and I’m sure she misses him greatly. We all do. He was a giant.

The New York Times obituary...Henry Z. Steinway, Piano Maker, 1915-2008

Homeward Bound

At I write this, I’m sitting in the Firenze (aka Florence) airport waiting for a short flight to Frankfurt before connecting to a 12-hour flight home to Los Angeles. As absurd as it sounds, I’m anxious to say arrivederci to my vacation in Tuscany and get back to work in Fresno. I’ve enjoyed the trip overall, but after a week in the Italian hills as the black sheep of the yoga gathering, I’m looking forward to food and conversation I can understand.

The highlights of the last couple of days were a visit to Assisi, birthplace of the saint of the same name, and then one to Siena and the Museo della Tortura, a museum dedicated to torture. Visiting the two in sequence was a fitting metaphor for the week among the yoginis—peaceful reflection punctuated by unimaginable acts of cruelty that tested my will and spirit.

A time for reflection

Despite my sarcasm, I generally like hanging out with yoga practitioners. They tend to be creative and tolerant and every yoga class I ever took had a girl to guy ratio of about 15 to 1. I used to go several times a week before sports injuries and arthritis made it difficult for me to take classes regularly. I still incorporate lots of yoga concepts into my workout routine, but I miss the classes and the view from the back of the room.

The yoga instructor who sponsored this retreat is a favorite of my wife’s. He’s in his mid-twenties but showed the wisdom of a much older man when a couple of days ago, he ruled that the group should observe four hours of silence after class. I’m on the fringe of the group so he whispered his reasoning to me in passing.

“They just won’t shut up!”

I put my hands together, made a praying motion and nodded my thanks, “Namaste.”

For those of you who dismiss yoga as an eccentric notion, imagine if your job description allowed you to prompt a room full of women in Hard Tail gear to assume a variety of twisting poses and direct that they remain silent for extends periods of time. Right?

Assisi

Two days ago, on a whim, several of us took a car to Assisi, the Italian mountaintop village that was home to St. Francis, the monk who founded the Franciscan order in the 1200s. I didn’t know much about the famed saint, but when my wife suggested the day trip away from chatter about shopping and chakras, I embraced the gift from God and tendered an offering to the taxi driver.

By nature, I’m not particularly religious unless I’m all-in on the turn with a weak draw or shoving light on the bubble of a high buy-in tournament. In such circumstances, of course, I’m a true believer and will call upon the Higher Power with the conviction of a man reborn. Most times, though, I’m of the “live and let live” faith and believe that whatever makes you happy and doesn’t involve the infliction of suffering on others is a worthy calling.

Given my lack of regular Sunday schooling, my knowledge of St. Francis was limited to the portraits I’d seen with those of Christ and Kennedy in the homes of my Catholic friends growing up. The trio can be found under every good Catholic roof throughout New England, and by association, I knew I was going to a place of uncommon sanctity like Jerusalem or Hyannis Port.

After a two-hour drive, we stopped at the base of the town and visited Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, a magnificent church which completely encloses a rustic 9th century chapel, the Porziuncula. It was here that St. Francis first heard the call of God, restored this hutch with his hands and started the Franciscan movement. Among pilgrims, the modest church is sacred place and I got my first look at the nuns and friars that we’d see throughout the day. You can see the Porziuncula in the photo below; it’s the small structure located at the end of the aisle below.

The outside of the big church



The little one inside



I’ve attended services at local churches and toured famous cathedrals like Westminster Abbey and Notre Dame, but those worshippers were like tourists at Graceland compared to the piety I found here. Inside the chapel were humble friars and nuns, kneeling and praying with clenched hands and conviction you could feel. I may be a heathen but I respect people of passion, especially those who can turn their back on material things and work for their fellow man. I certainly can’t.

We continued up to the town of Assisi, which is located on the side of Mt. Subasio. The village consists of a large church complex at one end and a couple of medieval castles keeping watch over the townspeople in-between. The entire village is a celebration of the life of St. Francis, who, at a young age renounced his family’s wealth, took a vow of poverty and committed himself to the word of God and the betterment of his fellowman. He’s credited with multiple selfless acts, inspirational sermons and the first acknowledged case of stigmata.

The widescreen view



The Church complex



The complex includes an Upper Church, a Lower Church and the Tomb of St. Francis and his closest followers. I wasn’t allowed to take photographs of the interior but you can get a sense of it from these photos I pulled from the web.

Upper Church



Lower Church



Tomb of Assisi



The interior of the Upper Church is decorated with a series of frescos recounting St. Francis’s life, and there was one striking painting of the Saint preaching to a flock of attentive birds which gave me pause. St. Francis was keeping their interest with scripture rather than bread crumbs, but I resolved to be more respectful to the next homeless guy I see conversing with birds in the park across from Club One. He may have more clout than I’ve bargained for.

“There’s a Lexus across the street…”



Touring the Church complex and reading about the Saint’s life was a humbling experience. According to the brochures, Francis died at 44 and was canonized by Pope Gregory IX less than two years after his death. In a time when the primary form of communication was word of mouth, the Holy See acknowledged his sainthood without hesitation or debate. Impressive. Even Major League Baseball makes you wait five years after retirement for eligibility into the Hall of Fame and puts it to a vote of the writers.

Doing the math, I felt ashamed of my life accomplishments. Within 46 years of St. Francis’s birth, the most powerful institution on the planet validated his life on Earth and beyond. At 46, I’m running a card room in downtown Fresno, ducking state regulators and wondering if anyone even reads what I write. I like to think I have ambition and purpose, but in the aura of the Saint’s greatness, I felt insignificant.

But what’s this? St. Francis is the patron saint of animals, birds and the environment? With three stray cats and a peacock in my house and the hybrid in my driveway, I felt at least some connection to his calling. And upon further reflection, it dawned on me that like the Saint, I’ve spent most of my life combating poverty. Admittedly, the first 26 years focused on my own economic despair, and the last 20 feeding and clothing impoverished women, but surely these selfless acts count for something? Think globally, act locally right?

It was a weak attempt at rationalization. My selfless acts notwithstanding, I think it’s unlikely I’ll ever be accepted into any organized faith, much less canonized by one. Frankly, if I’m lucky enough to get to the Gates of Heaven, I intend to go through like Shaundeeb through customs—moving quickly, avoiding eye contact and hoping that no authority asks for a closer look at my baggage. Best that I just acknowledge the greatness of the man and move on…

After buying a few souvenirs, we left the church complex and wandered around the village. The town itself is a series of genuinely old buildings and new buildings designed to look old. One of the things I really like about Europe is the respect given to old structures. To me, there’s something cool about buildings pre-dating Columbus with interiors renovated in modern style. Walking through Assisi and other towns in Europe, every few yards there’s another “Oh, wow” view that makes any path interesting.

Standard stuff





Monks



Also available in grey



“I’ll be at the bar by the entrance to the rampart.”



We spent the balance of the day wandering around the village, browsing shops and taking photos. Around 7p, we met our driver for the ride home, and just as we headed down the mountain from the village, a flash thunderstorm soaked the area. My fellow travelers congratulated themselves on their “good timing” but I couldn’t help but thinking if God himself stared down, saw me leaving and decided a good flush was in order.

Siena

The following day a group of us headed into Siena, yet another medieval town, albeit 80 kilometers closer. I knew sienna as the color of the interior of my wife’s car, which is to say I knew even less than I did about Assisi. According to the guidebook, Siena is a village within a fortress and home to Piazza del Campo, reportedly the best town center in Italy. The book gushed about its unparalleled charm, incredible basilicas and many buildings of historical import.

More to my interest, the guide noted that the town’s symbol is a she-wolf, it’s home to the world’s oldest surviving bank (Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena, a former pawnshop) and every August, they fill the Piazza with dirt and hold the Palio di Siena, a wild horse race in the town center. Even with that sales pitch, Siena was a bit of a letdown—it was more crowded and less spiritual than Assisi. To its credit, there were striking churches and towers and better shops and restaurants, but for me it didn’t have the same gravitas as Assisi.

Still pretty cool





The best town center in Italy



When we reached the Piazza (above), the group leader talked my wife into taking a couple of pictures for a forthcoming yoga book. A few years ago, my wife appeared in a black and white yoga calendar in a twisted headstand pose. It’s an artistic and tasteful photo, but she’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, so it caused a few awkward moments when one of my favorite health food haunts back home decided to a full-size poster of the original on its wall.

This photo shoot was a bit more tame—a simple double lotus pose, fully-clothed—so I took the opportunity to wander around. I turned down a random alley and happened upon the Museo della Tortura (Museum of Torture). The brochure offered a simple pitch “Terrible instruments of torture in history.” and claimed I’d see “more than 100 original instruments produced for causing pain and death. An authentic anthology of horrors and human cruelty.” Ok, I’ll bite. I dug out five euro for a ticket.

Whatever. Not my first dungeon.





The museum comprised several dungeon-like rooms filled with pieces of ancient torture equipment, all presented with a graphic write-up of their use and effect in Italian and English. It’s shocking what the human mind can conjure up to exact repentance or revenge and I made mental notes in the off chance I’m ever diagnosed with terminal cancer. In such a spot, a better man might look to the afterlife with heart full of forgiveness, but I’m not that guy. I intend to settle some scores. Call it my “fucket” list.

“What? You don’t remember me? Third grade…Roosevelt School…recess? That ring a bell? Perhaps one more turn of the screw…”

All of the items looked highly effective for sorting out harlots and heretics and reflected a time in which a good public hanging was considered quality entertainment. Standouts for me included the Judas Cradle, a sharpened pyramid upon which the naked victim was slowly lowered, and Flaying, the equivalent of being skinned alive. Ok, that would make me talk. Some were amusing even in their horror—the Goat’s Tongue, in which the victim was tied to a fixed spot, his feet immobilized and salted and a tethered goat left to lick the victim’s flesh clean off. But the one that really made me squirm was the Pear of Anguish, a disturbing device which can be inserted into any of several bodily orifices (depending upon the offense) and expanded. Ouch.

Visitors aren’t allowed to take photographs and a place whose inventory included hanging cages, head crushers and breast rippers doesn’t inspire disrespect of posted rules. In the interest of the continuing education of 2R readers, though, I pulled some photos from the museum’s website for viewing here.

“Mind the pedicure!”



A good deterrent



Several items were oriented toward public humiliation—say you hadn’t abided by your husband’s will or failed to make timely payment on a gambling debt. I liked the Barrel Pillory, which you wore around town subject to scorn and ridicule. Likewise the Shrew’s Fiddle, a violin shaped object with hole for the victim’s head and arms, was an impressive piece. I made particular note of one item, a “Good for nothing’s necklace” which was a chain of weighted cards and dice for those who had incurred gambling debts to wear in shame.

The Barrel for you, sir!



Head goes in the big hole



Some items weren’t particularly frightening. Frankly, the Inquisitorial Chair looked more comfortable than the piece of junk behind my desk at Club One. I considered offering the bastard to the museum for a display but I couldn’t find “swivel” and “Office Max” in my English/Italian dictionary. And, what would a museum like this be without a chastity belt?

Mine's worse, trust me.



“Do you know a locksmith who can keep his mouth shut?”



After I left the museum, I rejoined the group in the Piazza but kept my detour to myself. I didn't know how they'd take to me talking breathless about such things as evisceration or impalement. My discretion was unnecessary. In keeping with the theme of the afternoon, they tortured me all the way back to the car by lingering in tacky shops they wouldn’t give a second look in any American city. I kicked myself for not grabbing a bull-whip or heretic's fork when I had the chance.

Back at the entrance to the town, we were waiting for our driver and the yogi talked me into posing for a couple photographs for a book he was writing. It's been awhile, but my ego took over. I tossed him a couple of poses for the book.

Trikonasana, obv



Overall, if I had to choose, I’d take Assisi over Siena. Spiritual power and presence vs. better food and infernal devices? Let’s put it this way. The sister cities of Assisi are Bethlehem and San Francisco. The sister cities of Siena are Buffalo, New York and Weiner, Germany. Which would you pick?

We returned from Siena and packed for our 6a departure from Tuscany to Florence to Frankfurt to Los Angeles. The last leg commenced with yet another crazed taxi driver who didn’t speak a lick of English and ended with some little mutt at LAX sniffing my bags like he was preparing to mark them as his own. Two weeks ago, I’d have chased the cur away, pelted his chubby TSA handler with my cell phone and spent the night in an airport holding cell. But that was then, this is now…the new, tolerant me complimented the agent on her fine-looking partner and cleared customs without incident.

Tanned, rested and surprisingly tolerant…

Edmond

There's been a thread in the Brick and Mortar forum on 2+2 about jackpots with a number of regular players complaining that they're a tax on the system, just a scam for the benefit of the cardroom and should be eliminated. My opposing position (cardroom perspective) is that they're not a profit-center, and they're a legitimate tool to attract new and recreational customers. Regulars forget that their chosen profession requires a steady stream of new or rec players who will come in and make EV- plays because they're having fun and, consequently, fuel the ongoing poker economy. I'm not sure why they don't see that.


In any event, I figured I'd share some excerpts from my responses in the thread...

"...As a owner/operator, I'm very interested in keeping a grinder happy, but I also need to remember that most people come into the card room to have fun, get some good cards and win a few pots. They're not students of the game who discuss hands, strategy or edges on forums. They're at the table because poker's fun and that rush they get when they peek at pocket aces or scoop a pot with chased flush is awesome. Jackpots add to that excitement. It's true with slots and it's true with most poker players who approach the cardroom for entertainment and a maybe, just maybe, a shot at a nice score.

As for the fight over jackpots (Bike vs. DoJ circa 1995) a few years back, the big cardrooms fought it because they knew that recreational customers want them and they felt that they're an important constituency. That's not to say it was an altruistic fight; it wasn't. The cardrooms felt there would be a noticeable falloff in business, and based on my experience and interaction with the majority of our players, I agree with that.

The state's position IIRC was that the jackpots were an illegal lottery and was protecting the CA Lottery's turf. Similarly, if the state pressed to ban alcohol from all casinos, that might be eliminate abusive drinkers, improve the demeanor and health of most players at the table, but the cardrooms would probably fight it. Admittedly, when smoking was banned in CA rooms in 1998, everyone howled in protest, but the impact on business was marginal. Then again, only 17% of Californians smoke. I'm guessing most customers (i.e. a number higher than 17%) would prefer us to fight for their right to party and chase jackpots.

Look at it this way. The baseball purist probably finds all the kids out for bat day kind of annoying, but the future of the game (both for the owners and the pro players) depends on a constant flow of new faces and repeat recreational customers. We BOTH want new customers and the regular "I know there's a 3-bet in front of me, but I have pocket 7s and the jackpot hasn't hit in three weeks. Call." player, right? To me, talk about eliminating jackpots is the equivalent of tapping the tank. Dude...shhhh..."


From a later post in the same thread...

"...If we eliminate the jackpots and, while we're at it, other taxes on the system like advertising and comped food, how do we continue to bring in the players that we both need to survive and make a living? Should we count on the regulars to recruit their friends down to the cardroom to enjoy the camaraderie? Should we count on the WPT or ESPN? Maybe we should hope that the 100,000+ players on 'Stars decide that the "play on the laptop by the pool and generate more hands in two hours than a live player sees in a week" lifestyle is too convenient and anti-social and they'd prefer the challenge of driving down to the cardroom, getting on the list and engaging in the social niceties of live poker?

Jackpots and promotional tools are part of the business of bringing in new customers and keeping recreational players anxious to sit and stay at tables. In some markets, like Vegas, you can count on a continual stream of tourists--unless, of course, the economy sours and people are less-inclined to part with discretionary dollars. In other smaller or local markets, we can't just fire up a Cirque du Soleil show or a few white tigers and hope the husbands will waddle into the poker room. Therefore, we advertise and come up with promotions, jackpots and other things to stimulate traffic and butts in seats...

Complaining about jackpots is akin to Derek Jeter beefing about answering the same inane post-game questions or signing autographs for some kid he'll never see again. Or Tiger Woods refusing to play the pro-am because he makes his money on the weekend. They don't because they know that without the sponsors and the fans, their paydays wouldn't be what they are. Similarly, without the new or recreational players, how profitable do you think your games will be?

If you don't think promotions or advertising matter, ask yourself how good the live games were before the WPT, PartyPoker or guys like Moneymaker winning the WSOP? Ask yourself how good the games would be if there weren't new players getting in, chasing, making mistakes. What you only want good players who understand the game, read books published by 2+2 and play solid poker?

Put differently, jackpots are like your girlfriend's makeup. It may seem like a waste of time and a fraud on the purity of the sport, but I'm not sure you'd like the look of the game without it. Charles Revson, founder of Revlon, once said, "In the factory make cosmetics; in the drugstore, we sell hope." Embrace the hope. It's why the new and/or recreational player comes in and blindly takes the seat to your right."


Anyway, thought you might be interested on the perspective from the other side of the felt.

Edmond