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Katie (1989 – 2009)

With a last burst of energy, Katie joined me on the couch last night and, at 10:55 PM, lying beside me, she passed from this world. Having lived a full and happy life, for almost 20 years she was part of our home, our family, and our lives. We’re just going through the motions, today, remembering better days.

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I play in two bar leagues, one on Monday, one on Wednesday, and it’s always a mystery where, when, and if we are going to be playing on a given night. The schedules we were given at the beginning of the season are out of date, so our captain has to check with the league operator on game day and then call up the members of our team. Who needs that kind of aggravation?....

.. ..

Well, these headaches could be removed if the league had a web page that players could access quickly for information. Think of it – a schedule, the standings, top point leaders, and even rules and a picture gallery! A web page seems like such a necessity for leagues operating in the year 2009, that I decided I would provide such a service to league operators who desire a web presence but don’t have the resources or know how to do it themselves. Check out Ace's Pool League HQ.

Well, it's no secret – the biggest problem with Florida is old people. Sure, they bring their money when they come, but they also bring their declining health, their withered bodies, and their eroding mental faculties. Thanks a lot.

I have one friend who has endured constant pain for the last 5 years and several operations on his neck and spine as the result of one miserable old-timer's inability to control his vehicle. The old geezer shouldn't have been behind the wheel but no one in Florida has the guts to take a license away from an elderly person. The last time I had my license renewed, I went to the license bureau and, while I was waiting for my turn, I witnessed an exchange between an old man and the girl who was giving him the eye test. "Can't you see anything?" she asked, exasperated. "No," he answered. "Okay, okay," she sighed. Then she cleared him for renewal. This is what we have to deal with.

I haven't played golf in 6 years because the courses around here are littered with slow moving geezers who can't play a round in less than 5 hours.

Well, as odds would have it, a certain amount of these fogies find their ways into the pool rooms. I was down Hammer Heads yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, banging the ball around by myself, when the guy at the next table accused me of slipping over to his table during his absence and stealing his cue ball. Now, this guy is a well-known asshole. The last time I was down there, a week ago, he picked up my friends cue case from a table where it was lying and threw it onto the floor because according to him it didn't belong there. Now, I'm pretty sure this guy suffers from OCD. He can't start playing before he puts all the surrounding furniture and knickknacks in their customary places. He even has to put all the TV's on particular stations. He used to drop into DJ's occasionally, but the players there soon got tired of his constant complaining nicknaming him McNasty.

Anyway, I told him I didn't take his cue ball, and that I had no interest in it. I had been playing with a red dotted measles cb that the girl who handed out the balls had placed in the tray. I didn't ask her why she did it. I didn't care. But, old McNasty cared deeply. So, I traded cue balls with him to make him happy. Still, unconvinced of my innocence, he later complained to a friend of mine, Bob May, that I had stolen his cue ball. He oughta be locked up in a home some where.

Dear Willie,

If I may be so bold, it seems to me that this poem I wrote would make a great country song and NO ONE could sing it as well as you. So... check it out.

Mickey and the Wild Eight
by Ace Toscano

Don't play with little Mickey,
That pleasant Irish lad -
He's got a charming way of talking,
But his coping skills are bad.

I bumped into him at Chalkie's
Just the other day.
He offered me the wild eight.
I shot back, "Sure, let's play."

refrain
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.
Keep your head down till you hear that clicking sound.
And stroke, stroke-stroke, stroke thru the ball.

When he fell behind three to one,
He swore the table was at fault.
So we moved from two to three
Where I continued my assault.

Determined to expose me
To all his sharking tricks,
He vacationed to the men's room
Then moved the game to table six.

refrain

If you're seeking the worst table,
Table six is it.
It's just inside the entrance
And there's no safe place to sit.

Foot traffic rumbles back and forth
Through the ever-swinging door.
And everybody stops to chat,
"Who's winning?" "What's the score?"

refrain

Down two sets and dying,
Mick's attitude got meaner.
Then he choked as I hopped up -
T'was a concession misdemeanor.

He called me on it - I owned up
And offered him the game.
But, he kept on losing,
So, of course, my sharking was to blame.

refrain

Play ended with me three sets up,
But he only paid me two.
Next time he offers the wild eight,
I'll tell the lad, "Go screw!"

 
© Ace Toscano 2005

Best always,
Ace

"What was the purpose of it?" asked Uppy. 
In other words, she didn't like it. First of all, there was no happy ending, an imperative to make her favorites list. Second, vi-o-lence. She doesn't like that either. As for me, I found it interesting. A tragic ending to a young life effects the lives of his friends and family, not always in positive ways. Live with it.

Well Uppy liked this one which doesn't reflect at all on the movie's merits. Her praises amounted to "No F-words. No Violence." Keeping that criteria in mind, you can imagine how hard it is for me to find movies that she's not going to moan about. I mean – WTF! Anyway, August Rush struck me as children's fare. There were no surprises in this fairytale – the plot unraveled in predictable fashion. Still, it's nice for a change to sit thru a movie without my partner in life moaning and withdrawing by turning her attention to the day's junk mail. I wish I could have videoed her reaction to No Country for Old Men – it was a classic.

During my recent 4th of July trip to New Jersey, Bobby and I ran into Uncle Nicky at Rockaway Billiards. The proprietor was nice enough to snap this picture for us.


Then I snapped one of the Ricciotti brothers, Bob and Nick.




A few days later, I saw him again at the family picnic. Everything seemed okay. At one point, I went inside and found him in front of the tv agonizing over another frustrating Yankee game. When I got back to Florida, I remembered I had promised him a Sniper tip for his cue, so I stuck one in an envelope along with a short note and mailed it out. It seems that while I was wondering if he had received the tip and if he had put it on his cue, he was falling ill. Out of the blue, I heard he had been hospitalized. And then, suddenly, after a good day, things made a turn for the worse.

Uncle Nicky will be laid to rest this Friday. He will be sorely missed by his three children, several grandchildren, his brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and many friends, all of whom loved him very much.

Forgive the pun, but that's a no-brainer. Garbage trucks are most likely driven by someone who could not pass a kindergarten entrance exam.

I learned this one the hard way when I was a kid. In the rain on a 3 lane highway, a garbage truck swung without warning from the right hand lane across two lanes of traffic and turned into an island intending, I guess, to cop a U-ey, leaving his ass end blocking two lanes. I tried to brake but there wasn't time and no place to swerve, so I banged right into him. The insurance company wouldn't pay because they said it was my fault for running into him. Now, more than 40 years later, I still stay clear of all garbage trucks. No need to give them an IQ test.

First game, I broke, ran to the 8 and hid myself, tried to kick it in the side and missed. My opponent missed his only shot, then I made the eight in the corner. Second game, I made a tough cut into the side sending the cue ball 4 cushions around the table where it ended for a straight shot on the 8 into the corner. Third game, my opponent accidentally sunk the 8 into the side. Fourth game, I made a thin cut on the 8 along the short rail into the corner. Four games, four victories. I was subbing for one of the Boondocks teams who brought me in for the second week in a row because they wanted to make an assault on first place. They were playing a team representing one of the grubby little bars that line Hwy 19 in Hudson. In fact, we were forced to play outdoors in an area that looked very much like a carport. The guys on the opposing team were for the most part decent joes. Unfortunately, the guy keeping score for them tried to get slick. When regular play had ended, my guys were looking over the stats to see who would play the last game, a right that usually goes to the guy with the best record. I overheard one of them say, "Ace got 3." "What?" I asked. "You won 3," my teammate said. "Four," I insisted. "No, three," he said with certainty. "Who the fuck beat me?" I inquired, politely. "Charley," said the scorekeeper. "Who the fuck's Charlie?" I inquired, again with all the politeness I could muster. "That guy right there." He pointed to the guy I had beaten in game 3. "I beat him," I said. "He made the 8 in the side by accident." I called out to Charlie and he verified that that had indeed been the case. "Nobody fuckin' beat me," I reiterated with my usual charm and grace. "I won all four." The scorekeeper had the score sheet in his hand. I turn to my teammates and observed, "He's staring at the fuckin' thing. That ain't gonna change anything." Having won all four of my games, it should have fell upon me to represent the team in the final game, but since the scorekeeper was playing for our opponents I didn't want to play with him. I just have this thing about fucking cheaters. So, I put my stick away and asked one of my teammates to play for me. My teammates. I gotta say, I was more than slightly disappointed that they didn't have my back on this thing. Three. You won three. That's what they were saying as if the score sheet was the bible. And as far as the scorekeeper goes, there can be no question as to his intentions. When game three was over, I explicitly told him the results. There could be no misinterpreting the simply stated, "I won." Ahh, WTF, that's what happens when you play with nits in bars.