My sweetie’s father, Raoul, is some sort of character. He’s a bit older than Filthy Willy, has been married eight or nine times (everyone has lost count) and has daughters younger than my sweetie’s son. He’s tall, stately, dignified looking with a full head of white hair, and looks very much like Cesar Romero (when Cesar Romero was alive, that is). Every single night he goes out either to dance, or to sing karaoke (well, he calls it singing, but anyone who’s had to listen to him bellow six choruses of “I Did it My Way” might beg to differ), or to play poker.
What he calls playing poker, that is.
He once told me that Barbara inherited 98 percent of the poker talent in the family, while he got the other 2 percent. He wildly overestimates his share. While he may do OK in low-limit hold’em games—or …... Read More