By the time Mr. Byrd delivered his speech, the lunchtime offerings on the House side of the Capitol complex had already been changed. A sign in the food court in the House Longworth Office Building ‹ which, for the record, also serves tacos, vegetable lasagna, Greek salad and Chinese lo mein ‹ announced: "Update: Now serving in all House office buildings. Freedom fries."

 

A highly unscientific survey of cafeteria patrons found opinion to be either neutral, or anti-French. "There ain't a whole lot of need for the French," said Roger Todd, an official with the Albany, Ga., chapter of the Communications Workers of America, who was in town on a lobbying trip. "I would just as soon call them freedom fries, even though I'm a Democrat."  (New York Times 3/12/03)

 

 

The Poker Report

3-15-03

"Thousands of Miles From France Since 2001"

 

By Eric Martin

 

In America's 42nd largest city, the Omaha World Herald was reporting that someone, somewhere, wanted to go to France, dig up our veteran dead, and haul their corpses back to patriotic soil.   We didn't know that at the time, we were just poker players, playing Texas hold'em because that's what we thought real poker players played, and it seemed like we could go on like this forever, barely talking about midgets and whores and chocolate until suddenly France and Omaha were on everyoneís lips.  There was a connection there somewhere: dead soldiers, beaches, Texans, but nobody could make it.  A storm inhaled deeply outside, as electricity gathered over the flop, the turn, the river.  Five cards stared up at us from the middle of the table, eager to make fate.

 

Freedom poodles, someone said.  Freedom ticklers.  Freedom kisses.  That was Steve.  He flushed suddenly with clubs and pride, taking everything, kicking Benís straight curvy, guillotining kings, bulldozing the low road with a dismissive sweep of hand.  8s or under or you can forget about low.  Two from your hand, no more, no less.  We argued.  On the radio that afternoon they'd talked about soldiers in Kuwait unwrapping the plastic off their chem suits, and how that meant they had to be used in 30 days.  Steve won it all and worse, he was right.  There is always a most important moment, in every poker game, in every life, in every story, after which nothing, not even Omaha, is the same.

 

The game changed quickly.  Omaha lost the rule of 8, then gained the rule of flexible 4.  EgalitÈ was out but fraternitÈ was in.  The place was lousy with brothers, flown in from far away to play games they'd never played before and might never play again.  Steve and his apartment looked the same, like they never changed, no matter how many brothers you threw at them or which flavor of Omaha you picked or what France finally did.  It was a place of libertÈ, the way libertÈ is everything but lonely.  Someone had forgotten that the French invented freedom too.

 

Ben's brother Andrew was enormous, careful never to rise from his chair to dwarf us all, shyly releasing chips into the  pot as if he couldnít just break us all in two.  He lost slowly, with a large man's grace, breaking his silence to tell a single story of a time between wars, a terrible incident with horses, his insensitive laughing brother.  Ben loved him, you could tell from the way he said trifecta, they both loved each other, but when Ben later splayed four twos in Texas the rest of us hooted and hollered while Andrew quietly glanced away.  We all missed my sister, although nobody said so.

 

Jon and Jensen were in every hand, it seemed, drawing and quartering one another with gusto, never folding, never seeing a reason why if, even when you're dead some asshole might try to come and dig you up.  But Jon's little brother Denny was the one you kept thinking about, sitting like a happily coiled spring, having started the night with an unforgettable revelation: three queens, two kings, and two children, out there in the republic.  No one could beat that.  After that he struggled, the way parents do, but twice Denny fought back from the brink, pushing his last chips all in, winning because he had no choice, then buying back in because he did.  As I biked home through the pouring rain, the sky shaking me by my shoulders, I thought about those queens and king and kids and admired him immensely.  I wondered how and when the rest of us would have the guts to play those cards.

 

Eric Martin

Editeur d'invité

The Poker Report

 

 

 

Steve, The Editor of The Poker Report              +$20                + Too Much To Print

Ben, The Search Engine Consultant                  - $5                   - $19

Jensen, The Rock&Roll Enthusiast                   -$1                    - $13

Andrew, The College Freshman                        - $12                - $13

Martin, The Famous Novelist                            + $6                  + $9

Jon, The Jedi Night                                           + $6                   + $3

Denny, The Guest From Out Of Town             - $13                  - $13

Donahue, The Absent Engineer                        - amis                 - $5

 

Buy Eric Martin's Book: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0393049124/nowhere500com/002-9305668-4722434

 

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