Protection 101

My column on the "f-word" generated a lot of rave reviews, as usual. And, as usual, the only sour note came from Ralph the Rattler, who informed me that I had misspelled the name of Mario Savio, the leader of the free speech movement at Berkeley back in the hippie days. Ralph should know. He was one of Savio's co-conspirators as they plotted to bring down our corrupt capitalistic society, starting with an insidious erosion of our moral values.

Then I was reminded by Denny Williams, The Bicycle Casino's tournament director, that he was the one who initiated the 20-minute penalty rule for uttering the f-word. OK, Denny, I hereby inform the poker world that you are to get the credit (or blame, depending on one's situation) for this rule. But don't get mad at me if someone belts you for causing him to lose a tournament.

Interesting, isn't it? Savio decriminalized the f-word and Williams criminalized it. I don't think the two of them would have gotten along very well together.

Then I got an E-mail from a fan of mine named John Hainly. The f-word column, you may recall, quoted an rgp post that humorously and at great length listed the many and varied grammatical ways that the word in question could be employed, often involving a certain "Mary." I knew that the material was not original, but I had no idea whence it came. John informed me that they were lyrics from a song called F is Not a Dirty Word, written and recorded by David Peel back in 1972 as part of an album called The Pope Smokes Dope, produced by John Lennon on his Apple label. He even offered to send me a tape, and I gratefully accepted. (I do appreciate these small tokens from my fans, because it is frightfully difficult to maintain a butler and maid on what Card Player pays me.) He also asked if I wanted a code word on the package so that I could tell it wasn't from a disgruntled fan sending me a "clock" or "box of powder."

I appreciated his concern. After all, one of the questions I am most frequently asked is how I have managed to stay alive and in one piece after poking fun at so many poker players and institutions over the years. Therefore, I thought it might be of interest to readers if I listed a few of the protective measures I have instituted to keep myself out of the emergency room.

Some of them may seem excessive, but remember the old saying: "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that people aren't out to get you." So, I don't think it's particularly excessive that I routinely carry pepper spray, a stun gun, a portable alarm, and a police whistle, and also bring along a German shepherd whenever possible.

Anyway, let's examine how I deal with that bomb-in-a-package threat raised by Hainly. If someone I don't know offers to mail me something, I tell him to send it in care of Card Player. Barry Shulman is a snoop, and if the package does contain a bomb, let him open it and blow himself up.

Next, I long ago removed my name from the phone book. Since I am too cheap to pay for an unlisted number, I hit upon the ingenious solution of listing myself under the most unlikely name I could dream up. My given name in the phone book is "Myron," and the surname I use is Asian. This has the additional benefit of sidetracking telemarketers who phone at 8 a.m. ("Good morning, Mr. Sha-pie-rio; how are you doing today?" Yeah, like you really care how I'm doing today.) Once in a while I do get a call from someone attempting to talk to me in Chinese, but I can live with that.

On occasion I will receive a package of cookies or other delicacies from an appreciative reader. It's not that I'm suspicious or anything, but I prudently make it a point to have Barbara taste them first.

Whenever I visit Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino, I am careful to park a couple of blocks away. He might be joking when he threatens to have my tires slashed, but why take chances? On the other hand, Dirty Wally would never deliberately harm me, but to protect my hearing, I make it a point to wear earplugs whenever he's talking to me.

On several occasions, players have invited me outside to the parking lot for offenses ranging from showing a bluff to arguing over who was next up on the sign-up board. Once I was in Tunica by the Mississippi River when, for a change of pace, my most dedicated enemy invited me to go jogging with him out by the levee. That confused me because I thought he meant David Levy, an L.A. tournament player. As a rule of thumb, I usually decline these challenges. It's not, you understand, because I am cowardly (well, maybe a little), but because I have always dreamed of becoming a concert pianist, and I fear injuring my hands. So, I simply explain that while I would love to engage in fisticuffs, I have a heart condition and am forbidden by my physician from engaging in such activities.

I am also indebted to my friend Mike Laing for teaching me a defensive posture to employ while talking to someone who might get violent. He instructed me to cross my right arm over my midsection, with my right hand cupping the elbow of my left arm, which is casually raised up in front of my face, ready to deflect any blows. Perfect. Yeah, and I know that someday, as I stand in front of a potential attacker, supremely confident that I can block any punch, he'll pull out a gun and shoot me.

Well, there you have some of my defenses against readers who can't take a joke. I'd list more, but I'm running late for my karate class.