The Gambler

Everybody knows that song. "Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away, know when to run".

I got one question for Mr. Rodgers. How in tarnation are we supposed to know? I mean, is it a course you can take in college? Wild West Poker 101. Is there an infomercial selling knowledge of what to do in every situation? Try this unfiltered knowledge risk free for 30 days or your money back. Is there anything in life that's actually risk free?

Bookstores are lousy with books trying to tell people how to live life correctly. Read this and you'll have a successful marriage. This book over here has the recipe for good self-esteem and the job you've always wanted. Everyone's got an answer for how to fix your problems. They seem to know when to walk away and when to run. Except...they're wrong.

That's right, they're all wrong. I'm not going to make broad judgements about your friends and family since I don't know them, so I'll keep this in the first person...just know I have my eyes on you. People who claim to be able to fix the flaws in my personality so I'll behave or respond a certain way, couldn't have it more mixed up. Why? Because keeping with our fun little ditty's theme I'm the only one who can clearly see the cards in my hand, so I'm the one who can make the decision of how to play. Everyone else has an opinion, and they're entitled to it, but I'm the only one who feels the itch in my legs that tells me when it's time to run like heck.

And at the end of the day, it's ALL a gamble. Some days you'll play your cards and end up on top, and others the whole pot will slip right out from under you. Sometimes you sprint when walking would have saved your breath and your legs. There are things you can set your watch by like the sun coming up, politicians lying, babies crying and the simple fact there is an all-knowing God who sees it all. Everything else is a toss up.

So why bother, right? Because this poker game is rigged. For those who believe, you know that we've already won. So take a gamble. Fold 'em, hold 'em or run like hell is on your heels. Play the game and don't bother listening to anyone elses' moves. You know your hand. Read the cards, think on your feet and keep one eye on the door. It's a wild, wild life so play the game and enjoy the ride.

(not sure I could have fit one more cliche into that, but I'll try harder next time)

Star(bucks) Spangled Banner

Dear Starbucks:

Thank you for always being there for me. On a day like today, when the rest of the world takes a break because it is July 5th and they can, thank you for realizing that it is no longer a holiday and being ready to serve me my decaf, non-fat, vanilla latte. Thank you for adding whip cream as an added treat, not because you got my order wrong, but because you knew I'd need the extra sugar rush to get me through the first hour of the day.

Thank you for caring enough about the sensitivity of my skin to always shield me from the heat of my latte by encasing the cup in it's little brown insulated ring. Made only from recycled paper because you like trees almost as much as you like that I come through the drive-in on most days that end in "y" with spare change for little box outside the window. You also love my potted plants enough to put your used coffee beans on the counter, so that I might take your trash, thus ensuring that your Baristas will not be forced to leave their posts to dispose of said garbage. Instead, they will bravely man the large machines that could have only been engineered by NASA in order to serve those of us willing to spend half our paychecks with the 2,345 possible combinations of coffee, espresso and tea (and now fruit smoothies).

Thank you, Starbucks, for refusing to use ordinary sizes like small, medium and large, but instead give pompous titles that make us regulars feel cultured, while intimidating those nubile consumers with words like Venti and Grande. I feel like I belong when I can rattle off an order for coffee using 25 descriptors like: Decaf, skinny, extra-hot, no whip, splenda, 2 shots, low-foam; all to describe one drink. And like a friend I've known for years, you understand every word.

Thank, you my sweet coffee paradise, for staffing your corporate-neighborhood coffee houses with people who wouldn't dream of working anywhere else. After all , outside of your strategically artistic walls, where would a magenta-haired, fairy-tattooed, skinny jean wearing man with holes in his earlobes large enough to hold my snack-sized donut, find employment? While he rocks out in his mother's basement at night, singing songs about the evils of capitalism and the death of originality; during the day, he wears the green apron worn by thousands of men just like him all-across this great land. That apron, like a beacon in the night to us weary wonderers seeking cookie-cutter culture at $4.25 a cup.

Thanks again Starbucks for realizing that today is no longer the 4th of July. You celebrate our great nation every day, by ensuring that my caramel machiatto tastes the same whether I am in Tennessee or Texas, Maine or Mississippi. From sea to shinning sea, the green aprons are there, swaying to Tracy Chapman or Miles Davis, serving the American dream, Venti and fully caffeinated.