It was 1950, probably May, when I peered out the window to get my first glance at my new piano teacher. She had pale skin, blue eyes and red hair. So, of course, twenty-four years later, I married a woman who looked like her. Thank you, Sigmund you-know-who. But I digress. I was an immediately hotshot at the piano. Big fish, small pond. Middle class Midwestern neighborhood. Lots of kudos, relatives et alia swooning at the piano. But after three years , I began to grow weary of it all. As luck would have it, my parents sent the piano to be refinished, and soon thereafter dad had some severe business reverses and they couldn’t pay the refinisher. So the piano sat in the shop for two years, which was absolutely great from my perspective. But the day finally came when the piano, a beautiful Chickering BTW, was again ensconced in our living room. I was panic stricken. But my folks, who had very high IQs, concocted a gambit to get my flying fingers back to the piano.

No this isn't a Cliff Notes version of Dostoyevsky's masterpiece. But the man did get it right. We're all gamblers at the slot machine of life. For some it's a career or business, maybe it's your family and children, personally it maybe that New Year's resolution. The list goes on and on and for us hustlers and artists it out there, we're gambling on ourselves to the point where we can't leave the slot machine. We've put it all on red at the roulette wheel of life and we're waiting for 7 to show up on the craps table. Hardest Part of the Game, Staying in the Game.