Well, the dad is finally on his way back to the Great Midwest after another weekend out in the wild. As is par for the course, our time was split between train watching and low-stakes Texas Hold 'Em at a downmarket gaming establishment. After 10 days, I was starting to get that "no more guests" feeling, but to be honest, we spent the weekends doing what I would have been doing anyway (not that I am proud of that...)
The train watching itself was quite good. We made our way over the Sierras through the Feather River Canyon, which is the original main line of the Western Pacific Railroad - an exotic for a midwestern lad - and the original route of the great California Zephyr passenger train. I have done this route before, and love its tunnels in particular. I can't say it is top 5 in terms of crossings everyone should do, but for a train nerd and a Sierras nerd, it is better than even the Donner Pass double-track crossing along I-80.
Being able to go see the choo-choos with my dad, who is a lifelong railroad man, adds quite a bit to the experience. All I know is that I like trains. My dad - who left his job somewhat bitter at the final railroad he worked for - doesn't like them the same way I do, but he does seem to enjoy seeing all the classic equipment, much of which he remembers working with or on in the prime of his career.
Of all the California scenic train rides and train museums, I would have to give the Portola Museum of the Western Pacific Railroad the nod for best-in-state. When the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento is having a rail-fan special day, I would cop to it being the best single train-nerd event in the state, but if you wanna see classic California railroading in a museum setting on a garden variety day, Portola is tough to top (it also would be in my nationwide top 5 - so far anyway...) Whoever did the art direction for the Western Pacific was a genius, especially for their passenger units. If I ever make any real money in my life, I am going to go on a buying spree of old railroad china, especially the stuff from the named trains like the Phoebe Snow, The Bluebird, The Cali Zephyr, and the Silver Star. All in due time.
After a full day of trains, we headed down to Reno to play some Texas Hold 'Em. This is not my preferred game, but I have been getting my butt kicked at BJ & Video Poker (so much so I am swearing off all gambling but Texas Hold 'Em until at least the end of the year...), so I played. Really, this is more my dad's thing. He is crazy about it. He watches it on TV, he plays online, and he plays real games whenever possible. He was quite happy to find out that California is loaded with card rooms, and in fact, I live less than 10 minutes from The Oaks (where we played one weeknight last week.) As I said, I am less wild about it, but for whatever reason, when we finally sat down to a table together, I came away with more dough than he. Thankfully, we play flea-stakes stuff, and always play Limit. This means I don't have to attempt real bluffing (I know I turn red in the ears and blush when I get dealt killer cards - I will always have tells I can't do much about methinks) and can play tight while also still actually getting to play. As it turned out, I had incredible cards, and for the first time, I took someone else's full bankroll. I had one hand in which an asshole sitting next to me was being aggressive for no reason (the young men all seem to want to be tough guys - so sad to see that time has done nothing to make young manhood any more tolerable to live through or around), and after being a little smug at sucking out on a hand to beat me, I gave him a beatdown so bad, I don't think I have seen one all that much worse on TV. Long-story short, he was betting like a psycho because 3 nines came out on the board. I am assuming he had a full-house with Aces and imagined this to be the nuts. As it turned out, I had a nine. I tried warning him in the middle of a flurry of betting after the river card. I started doubling anything he put out, trying to get him to reconsider the whole exercise, and even stop thinking about being 'pot committed'. He wouldn't stop for quite a few rounds of betting, then finally called. I am not all that proud of myself for enjoying flipping over my 9, but I did enjoy it. He was a punk. To top it off, he went all-in against me on the next hand after running-up another pot, but the card-gods were with me then as well, granting me a jack-high full house. This ended his gaming for the day. He was angry, not that he didn't have a right to be, at least as far as bad beats and bad luck goes. I gladly took his money however, because as the saying goes, you can't cheat an honest man.
Anyway, this is how I ended up a week of trains and gambling with mine papa (we had gone up to the mini train in Tilden Park, Berkeley earlier in the week - pictured above, and very cool - as well as the Niles Canyon Railroad.) My dad's dad killed himself when my dad was 2. My dad had no role model to learn fatherhood from, yet I think he was still a great dad to me. While I wouldn't say he and I are cut from the same cloth (other than in appearance!), I enjoy spending time with him. As I have said here before, too much of our past time was spent on war stuff (which I think is unhealthy for him as he has been diagnosed with a relatively bad case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from his tour as a medic in Vietnam), but this trip was almost entirely free of even talking about that stuff. This may not seem all that big a deal since many men my age no longer even have their father's with them to do anything at all with. It is a luxury to be particular, but I don't wanna do war stuff with him anymore (keep in mind I have taken him and/or visited the Vietnam Wall twice, Normandy once, Gettysburg twice, Manassas twice, plus loads of parades, VA visits, and ceremonies in years past); I want to find other stuff to do, and on this trip, we did. Muy bueno.
In closing, you may be noticing that my beard experiment continues. The beard itself is pathetic, and this might be the week I throw in the towel. I last shaved June 7th and it is still patchy, wiry, and, in spots, blond as a pre-pubescent albino Icelandic boy's arm fuzz. Hopeless. Humiliating. Thankfully, enough hair has come in to allow me to see that I am not a good candidate for wearing facial hair, even when it does come in. It has been exactly 8 weeks now. The only thing preventing me from getting rid of it is my fear and hatred of shaving (and that is under my usual peach-fuzz conditions.) As soon as I can bring myself to give up the ghost with the shaving razor (which is cold...and it stings), I shall go back to the haggard man-boy look (my grey hair streak on top of my pompadour is really coming in nicely and the bad beard distracts from it!) My youngest sister is coming this weekend, and if I don't get rid of the lame-o beard, I can easily see people calling the police when they see us together as it will surely look like I have abducted her (she is a young, midwestern blonde - the kind California imports rather than produces.) I never want to step foot into the California Penal System under any conditions, but with that facial hair setup, I would likely set the world record for anal fissures in a 24 hour period.
And let me tell you...it's too soon to try for that again!
Posted by rudayday at August 07, 2006 12:10 AM