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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 12:24 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

A Victorian Scrapbook
Hardcover
By Cynthia Hart, John Grossman and Priscilla Dunhill


Quote:
More on the Canfield Casino at the Saratoga Springs History Museum.

More on the club sandwich believed to have been invented by casino owner Richard Canfield at Gamblers' Nosh.





Quote:
With steadily mounting wealth and seduced by the heady tenor of the times, Victorians flocked to gambling. Fortunes were won and lost overnight in high-stakes games of faro, poker, roulette, and all manner of sports events - boxing, horse racing, wrestling, sailing.

First "opening its doors to Satan" in 1819, when city fathers winked at billiards, unchaperoned dancing and private gambling, Saratoga Springs had no peer when it came to the social station and inventiveness of its gamblers. Millionaires at the Springs dreamed up a new gambling game called Flo-lo, in which each player would set a cube of sugar saturated with honey in front of him at the dining table, place his bet, then wait to see which cube would first attract a fly. With the arrival in 1861 of John Morrissey, a huge, brawling, handsome Irish immigrant boxer, gambling was seriously - and openly - launched. At his Matilda Street club, Morrissey took cash only and barred women and local citizens from gaming. He was enormously successful, he gave large sums to charity and closed his doors on Sunday, but no blueblood dowagers ever welcomed him and his dazzling dark-eyed bride across the thresholds of their Broadway mansions.

Morrissey, cut to the quick, simply poured more energy into his trade. By the 1870s, rich carpetbaggers from the South, Nevada silver lode mining kings and the Eastern establishment industrial aristocracy all jostled for preferred places at his gambling events. Capitalizing on the Victorian appetite for sports, he built the Springs' first racetrack and sponsored boat racing on Lake Saratoga. Despite his efforts, Morrissey died at age forty-seven, porcine and worn out from overeating and other excesses, without ever having gained the social acceptance he so coveted.

His replacement was the dapper, elegant Richard Canfield, who came to be called the Prince of Gambling. Canfield bought Morrissey's club and redecorated it, much as it can be seen today, with red-flocked wallpapaer, moon-globe chandeliers, green satin draperies and cabbage-rose carpets. Importing the best chefs from France, he charged higher prices than New York's Delmonico's and Sherry's, and called his new place the Casino. Soon, ten gambling houses were imitating his success. The roulette wheels and dice clattered round the clock. Prodded by local citizens and sensing the circulation bonanza to be found in the high-life scandal of bluebloods, veteran newspaperman Joseph Pulitzer sent his star reporter, Nelly Bly, to expose the debaucheries of Saratoga. In August of 1894, the headlines of her story blazed across the pages of the New York World: "Money mad by night and day/Little children who play horses." The subhead was no less irate: "Reputable and disreputable women, solid merchants, bankers, touts, criminals and race track riff-raff crazed by the mania for gold."

The heyday would soon be over. (From Manly Pursuits at pgs. 101-104)


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PostPosted: Thu Mar 22, 2007 9:51 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Bootleg Series
Volume I
CD Audio
Bob Dylan]


Quote:
Listen at bobdylan.com.

Don't miss Bob's advice to would-be rock legends and poets at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Writing - Tips from the Masters.





and again in:

Older But No Wiser
Clancy Brothers and Robbie O'Connell
CD Audio




Quote:
Rambling, Gambling Willie

Come around you rovin' gamblers and a story I will tell
About the greatest gambler, you all should know him well.
His name was Will O' Conley and he gambled all his life,
He had twenty-seven children, yet he never had a wife.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

He gambled in the White House and in the railroad yards,
Wherever there was people, there was Willie and his cards.
He had a reputation as the gamblin'est man around,
Wives would keep their husbands home when Willie came to town.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

Sailin' down the Mississippi to a town called New Orleans,
They're still talkin' about their card game on that Jackson River Queen.
"I've come to win some money," Gamblin' Willie says,
When the game finally ended up, the whole damn boat was his.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

Up in the Rocky Mountains in a town called Cripple Creek,
There was an all-night poker game, lasted about a week.
Nine hundred miners had laid their money down,
When Willie finally left the room, he owned the whole damn town.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

But Willie had a heart of gold and this I know is true,
He supported all his children, and all their mothers too.
He wore no rings or fancy things, like other gamblers wore,
He spread his money far and wide, to help the sick and the poor.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

When you played your cards with Willie, you never really knew
Whether he was bluffin' or whether he was true.
He won a fortune from a man who folded in his chair.
The man, he left a diamond flush, Willie didn't even have a pair.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

It was late one evenin' during a poker game,
A man lost all his money, he said Willie was to blame.
He shot poor Willie through the head, which was a tragic fate,
When Willie's cards fell on the floor, they were aces backed with eights.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.

So all you rovin' gamblers, wherever you might be,
The moral of this story is very plain to see.
Make your money while you can, before you have to stop,
For when you pull that dead man's hand, your gamblin' days are up.
And it's ride, Willie, ride,
Roll, Willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin' now, nobody really knows.


Modelled on this Clancy classic:



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PostPosted: Sun Jun 03, 2007 12:24 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From Garden Gambles:

Door Into the Dark
Hardcover
By Seamus Heaney


Quote:
More of Nobel Prize-winning Heaney.

STILL MORE Heaney.

More at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry.

Heaney's Burial at Thebes, illustrating cross-border trade issues at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to International Trade.

Heaney's collection, District and Circle.





Quote:
The Outlaw

Kelly's kept an unlicensed bull, well away
From the road: you risked fine but had to pay

The normal fee if cows were serviced there
.
Once I dragged a nerous Friesian on a tether

Down a lane of alder, shaggy with catkin,
Down to the shed the bull was kept in.

I gave Old Kelly the clammy silver, though why
I could not guess. He grunted a curt 'Go by

Get up on that gate'. And from my lofty station
I watched the business-like conception.

The door, unbolted, whacked back against the wall.
The illegal sire fumbled from his stall

Unhurried as an old steam engine shunting.
He circled, snored and nosed. No hectic panting,

Just the unfussy ease of a good tradesman;
The an awkward, unexpected jump, and

His knobbled forelegs straddling her flank,
He slammed life home, impassive as a tank,

Dropping off like a tipped-up load of sand.
'She'll do,' said Kelly and tapped his ash-plant

Across his hindquarters. 'If not, bring her back.'
I walked ahead of her, the rope now slack

While Kelly whooped and prodded his outlaw
Who, in his own time, resumed the dark, the straw.

(-- pgs. 16-17)


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PostPosted: Mon Jul 30, 2007 1:46 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Dubliners
Paperback
By James Joyce
With an introduction and copious scholarly notes by Terence Brown


Quote:
More about Joyce in the Penguin bio by fiction writer Edna O'Brien - best of the series, in our view.





Quote:
... It must have been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows! What good company they were!

Cards! Cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his I.O.U.s for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.

The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. What excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much had he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks, talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the young men's cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then to gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers. (From After the Race at p. 41)


Quote:
The Dubliners
CD Audio
Read by Frank and Malachy McCourt and Celebrated Others of Stage and Screen




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PostPosted: Tue Oct 16, 2007 1:28 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry:

Staying Alive
Real Poems for Unreal Times
Paperback
Edited by Bloodaxe founder Neil Astley




Quote:
Tyranny of Choice

Pick a card, any card
You'll say. I love this trick -
The tease and tyranny of choice -
The dove's tail tender
On your fine and hidden fingers,
And the thumb I'm under.

You know my Queen of Hearts
By the dog-ear on her top-left
Bottom-right corner;
By the voluptuous sad mouth
Which will not smile,
Whichever way you turn her.

Elizabeth Garrett

(-- p. 56)


More on poet Garrett in the Poetry Society's Irish issue.

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PostPosted: Thu Oct 18, 2007 8:51 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Light of Evening
Hardcover
By Edna O'Brien


Quote:
Another unspeakable example of - tut-tut! - nobbling.

O'Brien on Joyce.





Quote:
Carts and sidecars had pulled up in the big courtyard of Jacksie's house, horses feeding out of oat bags and a fiddler ignoring the rain, coming out to usher us in. Jacksie was dressed as a bandit, had a patch over one eye, and ran to Cornelius to tell him that twelve tables had been taken, six players per table at five quid a head, packs of cards and grog donated by publicans far and wide, and Red River, as he whispered, in a barn miles away, because with a crowd like that and maybe a bit of jealousy, a horse could get stolen or poisoned or nobbled or anything.

"Have a tour, have a tour," Jacksie said to me and regretted the fact that since his poor dear mother died, the rooms lacked a woman's warmth, a woman's tough. In the kitchen two big women in cooks' outfits were carving legs of ham and beef for the sandwiches that would be served all through the game, then a big breakfast at dawn.

The players were mostly seated, itching to begin, impatient men shuffling the packs of cards, a center lamp on each table, and a hail of welcome as Cornelius entered. From the moment they started, everything quieted, the faces serious and concentrated, except for two men who were drunk and skittish asking if Red River had been covered by Man 'O War himself. (From Revel, pgs. 108-109)


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PostPosted: Mon Oct 22, 2007 8:31 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry:

Contemporary Irish Poetry
An Anthology
Hardcover
Edited by Anthony Bradley




Quote:
Brendan Gone

for Derek Mahon

Man seasick with drink
Steadying himself against a lamp post
Before he is game to risk: chance
The long street's precipice brink

Like a very fleshy ghost
Doing a St. Vitus dance
In night's depth, the disappearing
Act, the deep, death-fearing, lost
Irish bachelor in a New York flat

After money-making years of waste
Blown up with beer false fat
Losing one's boy taste
For life, woman, or
Enemy enounter during war
At night bolts his apartment door

Alone, window-hurtling to the street

A corpse once young and sweet.

(Padraic Fiacc, pgs. 150-151)


Quote:
Death of An Irishwoman

Ignorant, in the sense
she ate monotonous food
and thought the world was flat,
and pagan, in the sense
she knew the things that moved
at night were neither dogs nor cats
but púcas and darkfaced men
she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end
to eat thin diminishing porridge
in a stone-cold kitchen
she clenched her brittle hands
around a world
she could not understand.
I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a cardgame where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child's purse, full of useless things.

(Michael Hartnett, pgs. 300-301)


Quote:
New Territory

Several things announed the fact to us:
The captain's Spanish tears
Falling like doubloons in the headstrong light,
And then of course the fuss --
The crew jostling and interspersing cheers
with wagers
. Overnight
As we went down to our cabins, nursing the last
Of the grog, talking as usual of conquest,
Land hove into sight.

Frail compasses and trenchant consellations
Brought us as far as this,
And now air and water, fire and earth
Stand at their given stations
Out there, and are ready to replace
This single desperate width
Of ocean. Why do we hesitate? Water and air
And fire and earth and therefore life are here,
And therefore death.

Out of the dark man comes to life and into it
He goes and loves and dies,
(His element being the dark and not the light of day)
So the ambitious wit
Of poets and exploring ships have been his eyes -
Riding the dark for joy -
And so Isaiah of the sacred text is eagle-eyed because
By peering down the unlit centuries
He glimpsed the holy boy
.

(Eavan Boland, pgs. 343-344)


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PostPosted: Sat Nov 17, 2007 12:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From The Horses:

Horse Latitudes
Hardcover
By Pulitzer Prize winner Paul Muldoon

Even better, listen to the author read his work.

Quote:
More of the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry.





Quote:
The Old Country

I

Where every town was tidy town
and every garden a hanging garden.
A half could be had for half a crown.
Every major artery would harden

since every meal was a square meal.
Every clothesline showed a line of undies
yet no house was in dishabille.
Every Sunday took a month of Sundays

till everyone got it off by heart
every start was a bad start
since all conclusions were foregone.

Every wood had its twist of woodbine.
Every cliff its herd of fatalistic swine.
Every runnel was a Rubicon.

II

Every runnel was a Rubicon
and every annual a hardy annual
applying itself like linen to a lawn.
Every glove compartment held a manual

and a map of the roads, major and minor.
Every major road had major roadworks.
Every wishy-washy water diviner
had stood like a bulwark
against something worth standing against.
The smell of incense left us incensed
at the firing of the fort.

Every heron was a presager
of some disaster
after which, we'd wager,
every resort was a last resort.

III

Every resort was a last resort
with a harbor that harbored an old grudge.
Every sale was a selling short.
There were those who simply wouldn't budge

from the Dandy to the Rover.
That shouting was the shouting
but for which it was all over -
the weekend, I mean, we set off on an outing

with the weekday train timetable.
Every tower was a tower of Babel
that graced each corner of a bawn

where every lookout was a poor lookout.
Every rill had its unflashy trout.
Every runnel was a Rubicon.

IV

Every runnel was a Rubicon
where every ditch was a last ditch.
Every man was "a grand wee mon"
whose every pitch was another sales pitch

now every boat was a burned boat.
Every cap was a cap in hand.
Every coat a trailed coat.
Every band was a gallant band

across the broken bridge
and broken ridge after broken ridge
where you couldn't beat a stick with a big stick.

Every straight road was a straight up speed trap.
Every decision was a snap.
Every cut was to the quick.

V

Every cut was a cut to the quick
when the weasel's twist met the weasel's tooth
and Christ was somewhat impolitic
in branding as "weasels fighting in a hole," forsooth,

the petrol smugglers back on the old sod
when a vendor of red diesel
for whom every rod was a green rod
reminded one and all that the weasel

was nowhere to be found in that same quarter.
No mere mortar could withstand a ten-inch mortar.
Every hope was a forlorn hope.

So it was that the defenders
were taken in by their own blood splendour.
Every slope was a slippery slope.

VI

Every slope was a slippery slope
where every shave was a very close shave
and money was money for old rope
where every grave was a watery grave

now every boat was, again, a burned boat.
Every dime-a-dozen rat a dime-a-dozen drowned rat
except for the whitrack, or stoat,
which the very Norsemen had down pat

as a weasel-word
though we know their speech was rather slurred
Every time was time in the nick

just as every nick was a nick in time.
Every unsheathed sword was somehow sheathed in rime.
Every cut was a cut to the quick.

VII

Every cut was a cut to the quick
what with every feather a leather to ruffle.
Every whittrack was a whittrack.
Everyone was in a right kerfuffle

when from his hob some hobbledehoy
would venture the witterick was a curlew.
Every wall was a wall of Troy
and every hunt a hunt in the purlieu

of a demesne so out of bounds
every hound might have been a hellhound.
At every lane end stood a milk churn

whose every dent was a sign of indenture
to some pig wormer or cattle drencher.
Every point was a point of no return.

VII

Every point was a point of no return
for those who had signed the Covenant in blood.
Every fern was a maidenhair fern
that gave every eye an eyeful of mud

ere it was plucked out and cast into the flame.
Every rowan was a mountain ash.
Every swath-swathed mower made of his graft a game
and the hay sash

went to the kemper best fit to kemp.
Every secretary was a temp
who could shift shape

like the river goddesses Banna and Boann.
Every two-a-penny maze was, at its heart, Minoan.
Every escape was a narrow escape.

IX

Every escape was a narrow escape
where every stroke was a broad stroke
of an ax on a pig nape.
Every pig was a pig in a poke

though it scooted once through the Diamond
so unfalt -- so unfalteringly.
The threshold of pain was outlimened
by the bar raised at high tea

now every scone was a drop scone.
Every ass had an ass's jawbone
that night itself drop from grin to girn.

Every malt was single malt.
Every pillar was pillar of salt.
Every point was a point of no return.

X

Every point was a point of no return
where to make a mark was to overstep the mark.
Every brae had its own braw burn.
Every meadow had its meadowlark

that stood in for the laverock.
Those Norse had tried fjord after fjord
to find a tight wee place to dock.
When he made scourge of small whin cords,

Christ drove out the moneylenders
and all the other bitter-enders
when the thing to have done was take up the slack.

Whin was to furze as furze was to gorse.
Every hobbledehoy had his hobbledehorse.
Every track was an inside track.

XI

Every track was an inside track
where every horse had the horse sense
to know it was only a glorified hack.
Every graineen of gratitude was immense

and every platitude a familiar platitude.
Every kemple of hay was a kemple tossed in the air
by a haymaker in a hay feud.
Every chair at the barn dance a musical chair

given how every paltry poltroon
and his paltry dog could carry a tune
yet no one would carry the can

any more than Samson would carry the temple.
Every spinal column was a collapsing stemple.
Every flash was a flash in the pan.

XII

Every flash was a flash in the pan
and every border a herbaceous border
unless it happened to be an
herbaceous border as observed by the Recorder

or recorded by the Observer.
Every widdie stemmed from a willow bole.
Every fervor was a religious fervor
by which we'd fly the godforsaken hole

into which we'd been flung by it.
Every pit was a bottomless pit
out of which every pig needed a piggyback.

Every cow had subsided in its subsidy.
Biddy winked at Paddy and Paddy winked at Biddy.
Every track was an inside track.

Every track was an inside track
and every job an inside job.
Every whitterick had been a witrack
until, from his hobbledehob,

that hobbledehobbledhoy
had insisted the whitterick was a curlew.
But every boy was still "one of the boys"
and every girl "ye girl ye"

for whom every dance was a last dance
and every chance a last chance
and every letdown a terrible letdown

from the days when every list was a laundry list
in that old country where, we reminisced,
every town was a tidy town.

(-- pgs. 38-46)


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PostPosted: Thu Feb 14, 2008 10:08 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From the Ultimate High-Stakes Gamble:

Time's River
The Voyage of Life in Art and Poetry
National Gallery of Art, Washington
Hardcover
Selected by Kate Farrell


Quote:
MORE of the book.

MORE of Kate Farrell's art/poetry collections.

More of the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry.





Quote:
Brown Penny

I whispered, "I am too young.“
And then, "I am old enough“;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love
.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.“
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

William Butler Yeats, Irish, 1865-1939)

(-- p. 33, adjacent to Bartolme Esteban Murillo, Two Women at a Window, c. 1655/1600)


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PostPosted: Mon Feb 18, 2008 1:08 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Brandon Book of
Irish Short Stories
Paperback
Edited by Steve MacDonogh




Quote:
On the very evening I burned down the left wing of our house, my father told me that he hated me. He just stood there in the shadow of the gutted roof thumbing a shell into the rifle, making no bones about it nor putting a tooth in it in any way, just telling me quietly and for the last time that everything about me made him sick, everything: the massive dome of my head with its lank fringe, my useless legs and piping voice -- most of all the lack of shame and outrage in my heart. He told me again that all the cruelty and misshapen ugliness of the world was summed up in my body and that he could not suffer it a moment longer. Then he told me that he was going to kill me. Frankly, this wasn't news to either of us. Somehow we seemed to have always known that our relationship would come to this; it had been fated from the beginning to end in some swift settlement of accounts, some bloody reckoning. Putting it another way, neither our house nor our world was big enough for two people such as us.

... 'I'm going to shoot you stone dead,' he said evenly. 'And what's more I'm going to shoot you in the back.'

It's not going to be a fair fight then. I don't have any weapons to hand.'

'I'm going to give you a fighting chance,' he said. 'You're going to get a fifty-yard start over open ground and I have only one shot. If you make it, don't come back. Here's two hundred and fifty pounds to help you make a start in the world just in case. Invest it wisely. I'd recommend government bonds.'

... 'How about a head shot?' I said. 'You're always telling me that my head is too big for my shoulders.'

'Only at forty yards, beyond that whitethorn.'

'OK.'

'Plus ninety quid.'

'That's down to four pound a yard. It started out at five.'

'That's the law of diminishing returns. Take it or leave it.'

I thumbed the notes of the wad and handed them over.

'How do I know you'll only take the one shot?'

'One is all I'll need. Besides, I've only got one shell in the breech and if I have to reload you'll have gained another twenty-five yards. At that distance you'll be well in the clear.'

'What happens if I only get wounded? Suppose I take it in the lung and lie there bleeding to death?'

'Then I will leave you there and the crows will make short work of you. I'll walk out every day for as long as it takes and see how your death is progressing. On the day of your death I'll dump a bag of lime over you and within two weeks there won't be a trace of you except for a small, damp pile of chalk in the middle of that field.'

'A bag of lime isn't much of a memorial.'

'You're not much of a son.'

... By now the sun was a heavy rind over the hills and the earth glowered in shadow. The terms had been set out and I could think of nothing else I wanted to add to them. I was very calm and confident. I believed that at that moment I possessed every piece of worthwhile wisdom and knoledge in the entire world, every axiom and formula and instruction that was going to enable me to live longer. Nevertheless I wondered, did my father have any partinc words to send me on my way?

'You're not going to wish me good luck or anything?'

'There's no point in wasting fortune on a dead man.'

'Then I guess I'll be on my way.

'We seem to have covered everything.' (From The Terms by Mike McCormack at pgs. 265-267)


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PostPosted: Mon Mar 31, 2008 7:57 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Bernard Shaw
Selections of His Wit and Wisdom
Hardcover
Compiled by Caroline Thomas Harnsberger




Quote:
GAMBLING

1 The roulette table pays nobody except him that keeps it. Nevertheless a passion for gaming is common, though a passion for keeping roulette tables is unknown.

-- Maxims for Revolutionists in The Revolutionist's Handbook

2 The most popular method of distributing wealth is the method of the roulette table.

GAMES

I cannot play games because I can never bring myself to care whether I win or lose; and consequently I spoil games for keen players and never play anything well. What I want is a job of work. Thinning a junge for preference. But whitewashing will serve.

-- Henderson, Man of the Century, p. 781

(-- p. 119)


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PostPosted: Sun Mar 01, 2009 3:28 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Best of the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
Audio CD
Featuring The Moonshiner
Sing along with the boys at YouTube.com






Quote:
The Moonshiner

I've been a moonshiner for many a year,
I spent all me money on whiskey and beer.
I'll go to some hollow and I set up me still
and I'll make you a gallon fer a ten shillin bill.

I'm a rambler I'm a gambler
I'm a long ways from home.
And if you don't like me well leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry,
And if moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die.

I'll go to some hollow in this count-er-ey,
Ten gallons of wash I can go on a spree.
No women to follow the world is all mine,
And I love none so well as I love the moonshine.

I'm a rambler I'm a gambler
I'm a long ways from home.
And if you don't like me well leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry,
And if moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die.

O Moonshine dear Moonshine oh how I love thee,
Ya kill me ol' father but ar' ya try me.
Oh bless all moonshiners and bless all moonshine,
Oh it's breath smells as sweet as the dew on the vine

I'm a rambler I'm a gambler
I'm a long ways from home.
And if you don't like me well leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry,
And if moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die.


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PostPosted: Tue Mar 10, 2009 12:36 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From Omens and Lucky Charms:

The Capilano Review
Magazine Subscription
Tristram's Book
By an otherwise unreadable Frostback, Brian Fawcett
Based on the tragic romance of Tristan and Iseult
No. 19 (1981)


Quote:
More on this and other interpretations of this extraordinary old story at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Opera.



The story:

Quote:
Isolde was the daughter of the King and Queen of Ireland. Her mother, also named Isolde, was a powerful healer who taught her daughter that uncommon skill. The younger Isolde was called Isolde the Fair, and she was known near and far as an intelligent and extraordinarily beautiful woman.

The world of Tristram and Isolde was the Arthurian world, which is to say, a world of political and religious intrigue, small and vulnerable national kingdoms, and heavily structured systems of loyalty and commitment that were meant to provide human beings with the means to live within the maelstrom of war and venal ambition around them. Tristram entered that world when, after an education that made him a master of music, hawking and hunting, he came as a young man to live in Cornwall with his uncle. He was handsome, tall and muscular, and skilled in battle beyond his years.

A short time after Tristram arrived, a huge knight, the brother of Queen Isolde of Ireland, landed in Cornwall to extract from King Mark a tribute of money and young women. As was the custom of the day, the tribute would have to be paid unless this knight, called the Morholt, could be defeated in single combat. ... Young Tristram then offered himself as Cornwall's champion ...

A long and vicious battle ensued. It ended in victory for Tristram, who drove his sword through the Morholt's visor into his skull, where a shard from the sword broke off and remained. Tristram did not escape injury either; the Morholt wounded him in the groin with an envenomed sword.

Lacking the expected tribute, the Irish ship departed the harbour at Tintagel, bearing the corpse of the Morholt with the shard still lodged in his skull. Tristram quickly sickened with his poisoned wound. No cure could be found for him, and a soothsayer made it known that a cure could be obtained only in the land in which the venom was brewed. So Tristram was transported to Ireland, put ashore and abandoned by men rightfully fearful for their Cornish lives. He waited there for what was to befall him, playing on his harp sad songs ... to ease his passage into death's dark kingdom. But death did not hear him. Isolde the Fair heard him, and she marvelled at the lonely music, its sadness and its beauty.

Isolde the Fair took him in and healed his wound. He, in return, played for her pleasure and soon they were friends, walking together across the flowering heath day after day until his strength returned. It was in Ireland that Tristram first killed a dragon ... , and with that brave deed he paid the debt of his healing. ...

... She saw his sword, which he had carelessly left exposed, and noticed the notched blade. She recalled the shards taken from the skull of her uncle, the Morholt, fitted them with Tristram's sword, and felt all her affection for the young turn to rage and hate. ...

So Tristram returned to the castle of King Mark and to the rejoicing of Cornwall's people. Once there, Tristram sang the praises of Isolde the Fair to one and all, and especially to King Mark. ...

King Mark demanded, since this Isolde was so fair, and since he, Mark, was both queenless and without an heir, that Tristram return to Ireland to obtain the hand of Isolde the Fair in marriage for him. ... Tristram's praise of the young woman who healed him grew out of desire and not merely gratitude. Yet Tristram had no alternative because it was his nature and the nature of the times for him to do the bidding of his chosen king. He left in sadness and with little hope.

By a fortunate turn of winds, his ship became lost, and Tristram found himself in the realm of King Arthur, where by chance, also was the King of Ireland, who had been summoned there by accusations of treason and commanded to do battle for his honour against Sir Blamor de Ganis, cousin of Sir Lancelot. The Irish King feared for his life until Tristram championed his cause and defeated Blamor, receiving as his prize an irretractible boon ... the hand of Isolde in marriage - not for himself, but for King Mark.

From that time to the promised marriage, events passed as they were meant to, except for one. Isolde was unhappy at the prospect of marriage to an enemy, a middle-aged uncle of the man she had sought so lately to kill. Her mother, Queen Isolde, gave to Brangwen, the lady-in-waiting to Isolde the Fair, a potion made of wildflowers. This potion had the singular property of giving whoever drank it a lifelong passion for the person first looked on afterward. The Queen instructed Brangwen to give the potion to Isolde and King Mark in their chambers after the nuptials in order to seal their marriage with delight in one another.

But as the ship carrying Tristram and Isolde neared Tintagel, they grew thirsty, and, finding nothing to drink, they searched through the luggage and found the bottle that contained the potion. It looked and tasted like wine - a very good wine - and they drank it all in the presence of the other. They conceived a passion for each other they could not deny, then or ever.

There were resultant intrigues. ...

The third episode takes place in France, where Tristram travelled to help a young Duke named Cariados. This duke had a younger sister who was also named Isolde, Isolde of the White Hands. One day, some time after the Dukedom had been secured from its enemies, Tristram, now a man of around fifty, sat by the seashore with his harp, singing songs in praise of his Isolde. Cariados came upon him and, thinking the songs were meant for his sister and wanting to repay the debt he owed to his much-loved benefactor, devised to have them marry. Tristram was too worn with care to refuse and, seeing no alternative save the gravest of insults to Cariados, married the young woman. Yet true to Isolde the Fair, he came to his senses and did not consummate the marriage, revealing to the younger woman his life-long love of the other Isolde.

News of the marriage travelled to Isolde the Fair, and she, half-crazed with love and rage, sent word to Tristram of her rage alone, and that she would not consent to see him ever again. Tristram grew despondent and, letting down his normal guard, fell prey to one of Mark's assassins, a dwarf cousin who had long dogged Tristram's way and, who, in the dark of night, managed to wound Tristram in the groin with an envenomed spear. Tristram wasted slowly away and, on his deathbed, asked that word be sent to Isolde the Fair, for he had known for long that in her alone was to be found a cure.

Tristram instructed the messenger to raise white sails on the returning ship is Isolde the Fair was coming to his side, black if she refused. Isolde of the White Hands heard these words and, as a white-sailed ship came into harbour bearing Isolde the Fair, Tristram, too weak to rise, asked his unloved wife what colour sails the ship bore to the winds, knowing black sails would be his funeral shroud.

"The sails are black," she said. (-- pgs. 5-9)


Quote:
Tristram's Book was recorded on June 23rd, 1980 as a rdio performance for five voices and was subsequently aired on CFRO 102.7 (FM) Vancouver Cooperative Radio on June 30th, 1980. Voices were Jon Furberg, Alban Goulden, Penelope Connell, Brian Fawcett and Bill Schermbrucker. Al Neil accompanied the voices with piano improvisations.


The poems:

Quote:
A lousy bargain I was given
Tristram sad in exile

in return for an eternal love.
Sadness takes the comfort from home

no love is possible
to have and hold

without home. Taken
from me, given

in return
this eternal return

looking for you where no love
can thrive. This

is the first forest
I lost you in.

(-- p. 13)


From the Will to Win:

Quote:
Only a fool believes a single fire
can burn down a whole forest.

Yet in the face of ordinary logic, love
is a torch in the hand

of a pyromaniac. Or is it ordinary logic
in the face of love.

Between these, ordinary lovers hold hands
and build small fires to keep their love alive

believing in small fires and the existence
of the whole forest
.

In the face of which
despite love and logic

it begins to rain.

(-- p. 28)


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PostPosted: Mon May 25, 2009 2:47 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From the Big Apple:

Brendan Behan's New York
Hardcover
By Brendan Behan
with drawings by Paul Hogarth


Quote:
See Behan on theatre reviews at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Writing - Tips from the Masters.

More of the Big Apple.





Quote:
I went racing many times with Jim Downey at the Aqueduct Race Track, or the 'Big A,' as it is generally called. It is a beautiful course and the only way I can describe it is by calling it a luxury racecourse compared to anything we have in Ireland. It is all escalators and coffee bars and bars. I found the place betting at the window was the best way to win money, though you can only bet at the par-mutuel windows in America for they do not go in for bookies.

I was given several winners however by Eddie Ginevan, a friend of Jim Downey's, whom we used to meet, either at the 'Big A.' or the Belmont Race Track, and he would introduce me to the various peple in the racing business. As far as I know, his son trained horses or rode them and I think he trained some for Jim. (From What are they at round Broadway and the bars?, p. 45)


But a little while and possibly a few tipples later...

Quote:
Coney Island, like a great number of things in New York, is hard to compare with any place else. It is a terrific, fabulous and an extremely proletarian institution - I hope I don't offend the State Department - where thousands upon thousands of ordinary folk get out on the subway for fifteen cents and thoroughly enjoy themselves. I would say they enjoyed themselves as much as the class of people who are able to go to Las Vegas.

Now I am not knocking Las Vegas for I was in the place and I hope to go there again. One of the vices I haven't got, however, is gambling. I left having neither won a cent nor lost a cent. (From Down-Town Up-Town and In and Out of Harlem, p. 88)


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PostPosted: Wed May 27, 2009 8:30 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From The Horses:

The Irish Times
English-language cage liner still worth reading
Where's Godot?
Who's Godot?

The complete text of Bono's homage to Samuel Beckett at the launch of the Beckett Centenary Festival this week
April 1/06


Quote:
More on Jeffrey Sachs' book on eradicating Third World poverty for which the U2 icon wrote the intro, at the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to International Trade.

More of the PokerPulse Gambler's Guide to Poetry.


Quote:
Un homage du Bono au maestro
Samuel Beckett, starring un homage du Mannix Flynn
a Barry McGovern - or a piece what I wrote called


Waiting for Colgan


I'm so tired, I'm so tired of the telephone...
The telephone rings...
The sound of cigar...a booming voice in a booming town
Shattering the glasses of the drinking classes
1995 Puligny Montrachet, 400 quid a bottle...glug glug glug...
Good buy...good boy

One hundred years, one hundred bum steers, one hundred and
seventeen thousand black beers before your peers
One hundred ears flappy happy happy clappy ears
It's hard not to be happy when you feel the sappy in someone
else's veins
As they kick a banana ball through the splits
On your birthday
And Ireland
Wins the triple crown on your birthday

It's your birthday, it's your birthday

I've been waiting
Waiting a long time
One hundred years
It gets tiring all this velvety blackness
that's what Le Brocquy calls it...
Velvety blackness but there's no nothingness
Oh no, just everythingness and judgment
The judgment of your peers...
Where's Gaybo? Who's Ryanair? W
here are the trolley dollies?
It's not dollys on the trolleys now
It's the living and the dead clogging up the arteries of the
health service
oh yest late to the late...late to the Late Late Show
Isn't Brendan Gleeson the business
The pricks
The celts
Waiting, waiting for the tiger to catch its tail,
I'm waiting for the phone to ring
Michael Colgan
The sound of cigar
Booming town, booming voice, shattering the glasses of the
drinking classes
Puligny Montrachet 1995
400 quid a bottle
Glug glug glug
One hundred years
I'm so tired

Louis and Anne, remember you gave me a signed copy of the
unforgettable fire?
I told you I loved it? I lied. I never listened to it.

Too busy
Waiting
Waiting for language to turn to liquid
Waiting for language to be our own again

Oh, Joyce had his revenge on they that put it in our mouth
His revenge
Was to chew it, bite into it, masticate and masterbate it
Make chewing gum of it
Spit it into hand and stick it on the bottom of a schoolboy's
desk

Me...I shrank it, swallowed it, made a fart out of it, made a fart
out of everyone who didn't like the smell of it
Such confusion caused by ignoring the obvious
Metaphor...I only met her for a drink...ha ha that's what Simon
says
Black Bush. George Bush the da says
The bombs are dropping closer, the Brudder Nikki Sudden
Shattering the glasses of the drinking classes
Puligny Montrachet 1995 glug glug glug

Mother's milk
I never had the mother tongue...
Just the father's cranky aloof and lofty voice
That language was always there growing like teeth in the gum,
like Chomsky says
I got closer to the brain than anyone before or after

I could hear you thinking,
I can hear you thinking now
Blinkin' phone rings...sound of cigards
Michael Colgan birthday parties
Puligny Montrachet, 1995, 400 quid a bottle
glug glug glug

I'm so tired
All those PhDs
All those questions
Where's Godot
Who's Godot...
Everyone knows that
phone rings, sound of cigars
Table at the Unicorn
Puligny Montrachet
Glug glug glug
Big smoky voice shattering the glasses of the drinking classes
Birthday party sort it out...
Tell them death isn't funny but eternity is a laugh
Tell the tiger not to eat its tale
Ah to win the triple crown on your birthday
Parties, it's great to have them and not be there...
But don't leave people waiting for too long
One hundred years, it's a long time
The table is set, it looks great Michael
The sound of cigar, booming town, booming voice
Shattering the glasses of the drinking classes
Puligny Montrachet, glug glug glug
Waiting, waiting, waiting...to be fuckin' understood
Wating, waiting, waiting...for Colgan
Good boy, goodbye.'

- Bono

(From News Features, p. 5)


One tough critic at Irish Examiner.com had this to say about the piece on April 5/06:

Quote:
STILL MORE anti-Bono sentiment.


Quote:
Beckett honour should have been given to a writer

When we, as a country, finally have the chance to pay some hugely overdue respect to Samuel Beckett, arguably the most important modernist of the 20th century, who do we choose to open his centenary celebrations? Bono. Obviously. Who else would we ask? Not an infinitely more suitable literary figure. In our scrabbling attempts to claim back our national writers whom we now recognise as marketable commodities, we once again drag this narcissistic, glorified pop star back into the limelight.

Why could the Arts Minister not have taken this opportunity to offer recognition and support to the future legends - contemporary Irish writers like Heaney, Banville, Doyle and others - by offering this honour to an Irish writer?

As I read the stomach-churningly awful 'Un homage du Bono au maestro Samuel Beckett', written and performed by Bono at Dublin Castle, and reproduced in the Irish Examiner on March 31, I could not help laughing, as I'm sure Beckett would have, at yet another example of misguided Irish self-importance at its parochial best.

No wonder he left.

Nuala Walsh
Western Road
Cork


Quote:
Editor's Note: Further proof, if more was required, of just how tough it is to please the home crowd. Not long after Frank McCourt's second blockbuster memoir, T'is, was published, a review in the Irish Times appeared below the banner headline, T'isn't.


Quote:
Note: Many thanks to Celtic Crush host Larry Kirwan of the Black 47 for mentioning PokerPulse on the show June 6/09 and again June 13/09. Editor intrepid Leo Biblitz had forwarded the link to Bono's Homage to Beckett the week previously. Free beer for Larry and the boys in the band! Catch the show Saturday mornings 9-12 noon Eastern Time (ET), 6-9 a.m. Pacific Time (PT).


PokerPulse pal Larry Kirwan and his legendary Celtic rock band, Black 47, with the Funky Céilí:



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