Nope, I mean the game. With the tiles. Zero-to-six dots on them. None of my friends had played before, not even the half Cuban. And at least two of them asked if the game involved lining the dominoes up and tipping them over. Which, with one set, would have made for a very short, or repetitive, evening. No, the game itself, invented probably by the Chinese in the 1100s, is a kind of like Uno, Bridge, Mahjong, and poker. Kind of.

At 8, E– arrived with fancy wine he’d won in a petanque tournament. Petanque is a whole other nonmainstream game. You want to know more about that, go to his site. T– arrived an hour later, what with having to make sure his teen kids were safely on their way home. He’s a good dad. And G— showed up the latest, delayed after some canoodling with his fiancee, I suspect.

The game got underway, with my trying to communicate what little wisdom I have about the game. I have played since I as a child. I do not want to exaggerate the importance of dominoes in Latino culture, since it verges on the stereotypic. But it is pretty important. In general I emphasized to my friends the importance of smacking a winning Capicua tile down and saying “Capicua!” with gusto. Other than that, there was, as in any other game where a bunch of guys are involved, much talk about literature. We killed the wine. T– went for a beer run.

The game went on, slowly. And, as in most evenings with a bunch of guys involved, it ended about the same time the beer did. Alas, we did not finish the game. It was 1:30 in the morning, E– was in the lead but was half asleep, T– had to get home to his family, G— to his fiancee. They left, and I stayed up, cleaning, mumbling a Van Morrison song. Actually, I may have just brushed my teeth and topple over like a tile onto my bed.

Nerd alert

As a youth dressing as Caspar the Friendly Ghost three years in a row until the costume could no longer fit.

At about 8 or 9 not being able to trick or treat because my parents were scared we’d get kidnapped or poisoned.

Side note: Underoos came out the year after I was too big to fit in them. This caused a melancholy that lasted for years.

At 18 dressed up for a Halloween party with adults and feeling ridiculous in a costume. I remember  exactly what I wore and am still too embarrassed to admit it.

At 24 thinking I’d come up with a cool at-that-time obscure pop culture character to
dress as and then getting progressively more depressed as one, two, then three other Zorros, each one more accurately and expensively attired, the final one with an actual sword, walked into the party.

All through my 30s my costume was that of a hard-working professional. What I was underneath that, who knew?

At 40 attending a costume party as Satan in Pennsylvania and progressively losing my horns, my tail,  and my bowtie by the end of the night.

Ouch

This picture accurately describes my overnight stay at the Moran hacienda the weekend after Labor Day. It is missing only the sand in my shoes and the wonderful breakfast I had to eat very, very slowly the next morning because of all the alcohol and nicotine poisoning. That’s Woodford Reserve, by the way, not to be confused with Woodhull Reserve, which is a pain in the neck and lower back.