Monday, October 27, 2014

PISSING-OFF ST. SLICK, THE PATRON SAINT OF FREEBIES

IN THE SPIRIT OF HALLOWEEN..."THEY" SAY, YOU CAN'T REMEMBER (BAD) OLD SMELLS...IT SOUNDS SPOOKY, BUT I CAN!


My wife Sue and I were shopping at BJ’s Wholesale Club last week. We typically split-up with me heading for the deli counter, in case there’s a long line. En route, I inspect the bevy of free samples being offered. On this occasion, between the banana pudding cookies and the Greek yogurt, the pickings were slim.

Luckily I was not shut-out. While waiting to be served, a meat department employee came out of the back room with a tray of fresh cold cuts samples, (ham, roast beef and turkey).

I helped myself to one of the yellow, frilly-handled toothpicks that skewered a healthy-sized sliver of roast beef. Well…actually…to be totally honest, it was expensive and very, very, very delicious roast beef. I craved more. So I entered into the realm of bad karma every time the butcher looked away...and snuck another slice.

Hey!  Don't give me that condescending attitude.  It's NOT like I ignored a gigantic, "ONE PER CUSTOMER," sign!  Because there wasn't one. Anyway...within three minutes, I had made a meal out of all six king-sized slices that were now prominently missing from the center of the display platter. To save face and protect my humble image (of myself) and prove to the counterman that I wasn’t a slob, I turned down his sample of my cheese.

I gathered up my lunch meat packets and set out to find Sue. I’m guessing even without one-to-a-customer signage that my sinful roast beef over-indulgence offended St. Slick, the Patron Saint of Freebies.

To pay for my gluttonous transgression, I believe old St. Slick made a sampling booth magically appear at the head of the coffee aisle, ala, "THE TWILIGHT ZONE." I'm positive, it WASN’T there five minutes earlier.

The sign read: JIMMY DEAN SAUSAGE, EGG AND CHEESE ON A BISCUIT. The suspicious look of the smiling representative reminded me of the demonic nanny (Mrs. Baylock), from the 1976 horror and suspence movie, "THE OMEN."
IN THE ORIGINAL, "OMEN," ACTRESS BILLIE WHITELAW NAILED HER EERIE PERFORMANCE AS THE DEVIL'S GOVERNESS...AND NOW I WAS ABOUT TO ACCEPT FOOD FROM SOMEONE WHO, COMPLETE WITH A HOLY-MOLEY-SIZED MOLE ON HER CHEEK, REALLY RESEMBLED HER.

The Mrs. Baylock look alike adjusted her paper hat and bobbed her head like a sinister jack-in-the-box clown. My brain knew I wasn't hungry.  Yet against my better judgment, I felt compelled...even with a belly full of roast beef...to be lured to siren's tantalizing bait.

In a fraction of a second, the lingering, marvelous memory of the expensive roast beef was ousted from my mouth. The scant, new taste of inferior sausage, egg and cheese was overwhelmed by the abundance of tasteless dough. I should have spit it out but I forcibly swallowed the pasty, spackle-like sludge down through my gullet. Far worse, I had an incredibly bad taste in my mouth…that would last the entire thirty minutes until we got home.

During the homeward drive, I rationalized that a bad taste in my mouth was better than getting my kishkiz burnt-out by unexpectedly hot food. I flashed back to January 1979.  That's when I had my moving to Las Vegas, good-bye party, at McSorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan.
McSORLEY'S SINCE 1854, IS THE OLDEST BAR IN NEW YORK CITY, (15 EAST 7th STREET BETWEEN 3rd AND 4th AVENUE).  I HAVEN'T BENT AN ELBOW THERE IN CLOSE TO THIRTY YEARS BUT IT WAS SPECIAL ENOUGH TO ONCE TAKE MY MOTHER THERE, (SEE MY SEPTEMBER 22, 2008 BLOG CALLED, "McSORLEY'S OLD ALE HOUSE)."

In my hey-day, McSorley’s offered a limited menu. If my memory serves, all they had was; light and dark (colored) beer, Pepsi and Diet Pepsi, turkey, ham and roast beef sandwiches and a cheese platter. For the sandwiches, each table had a vat of English unbleached mustard, (I have NEVER seen or heard of English unbleached mustard before or since...hopefully the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), made that inedible, toxic waste illegal).

I sniffed the open vat and felt heat painfully resonate through my nostrils. Yes, I enjoy spicy foods but my instinct was to avoid this one. When the waiter placed my, “bird” (turkey sandwich), in front of me, a friend suggested that I try the mustard. I said, “No.” My moronic buddy escalated his encouragement to a dare. I had enough of a buzz on to innocently accept. But I wasn’t so naive to dive in and commit a smear to my dinner. I dabbed the slightest bit of that shit on my pinkie. OUCH!  It was like my taste buds were nuked and my tongue burned all night.

The near-death experience of English unbleached mustard led me to recall my cross-country trip in 1976. That’s when I got “burned” twice by southwestern cuisine. First in Houston Texas, at a James Coney Island and Chili Parlor. I brought my chili con carne bowl to a table and realized there wasn’t any Tabasco Sauce in the condiment rack. I was too tired and lazy to get up. I took a huge spoonful of their specialty. It was a friggin' napalm explosion in my mouth! It was bad enough that the intensity almost killed me, but the witnesses’ reaction to my misfortune nearly made me die of embarrassment.
I WANTED TO GIVE SOME BACKGROUND ON THE JAMES *CONEY ISLAND AND CHILI PARLOR FRANCHISE BUT THE FIRST TWO REVIEWS I READ WERE SO BAD THAT I INCLUDED THIS PHOTO FROM ONE OF THEIR RIVALS INSTEAD. (*FYI - IN MANY PLACES DOWN SOUTH AND OUT WEST, A "CONEY ISLAND" IS A HOT DOG).

A week after my gasteric tumult in Houston, I was in Raton, New Mexico. In the perceived safety of a Pizza Hut, I learned the hard way that not ALL chain restaurants take pride in standard recipes. As if poisoned with cyanide, my Italian sub was laced with a lethal dose of jalapeƱo peppers. My scorched mouth made he gag as I trashed the whole fiery mess. When I composed myself well enough to speak, I complained to the manager. The prick shrugged, “Dude, you’re in New Mexico…”

We were halfway home from BJ’s when my memory took me back to the first stop on my sixty-eight day cross-country odyssey, a KOA outside Nashville Tennessee, (Kampgrounds of America). Except that experience didn’t involve five-alarm hot foods, it involved another bad taste in my mouth...courtesy of Jimmy Dean.  This event resulted in me starting a thirty-eight year vow, to boycott his products, (which temporarily ended with scary Mrs. Baylock coaxing me into violating my digestive system).
JIMMY DEAN (1928-2010) IS A MEMBER OF THE COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAME.  IN ADDITION TO SINGING, HE ALSO HOSTED A VARIETY TV PROGRAM (1963-1966).  IN THAT SHOW, PUPPETEER JIM HENSON RECEIVED HIS FIRST NATIONAL MEDIA EXPOSURE. TODAY, THE NAME JIMMY DEAN HAS MORE UNIVERSAL RECOGNITION FOR HIS BRAND OF PORK PRODUCTS.

I have no memory of Jimmy Dean's TV show. The only song I remember him doing was 1961's, “BIG BAD JOHN.” And I never saw the 1982 movie that bears his name, “COME BACK TO THE FIVE AND DIME, JIMMY DEAN, JIMMY DEAN.”
THIS THREE-STAR CHICK-FLICK CONCERNS FIVE WOMEN MEETING AT A RUN-DOWN TEXAS DRUGSTORE, FOR A TWENTY-YEAR REUNION OF THE JIMMY DEAN FAN CLUB.

The 1976 bad taste Jimmy Dean left in my mouth dealt more with issues of the heart...that were thwarted by a nauseating stink directly associated with him.

That KOA campground was conveniently located between the Orpyland Amusement Park and a Jimmy Dean sausage slaughterhouse, (I hope you see where this is going). I got myself situated and went about the rigors of pitching my tent for the first time and getting all my creature comforts ready at bedtime.

In the glorious morning, I discovered the side benefits of staying there included a great opportunity for socializing. I occupied the whole day meeting people, swimming in the lake, playing softball and hanging out.

A couple of girls that I met earlier in the general store were getting a volleyball game together. These two blond, Northern Virginians, Lu-Ann and Lynette were friendly and pretty with intoxicating southern accents.

Lynette was the actual organizer. She was taller, athletic and more serious than her friend. Lu-Ann was cuter, more feminine and silly. Which meant there was no way, I'd turn down a chance to be around them.

During the game, despite the constant roar of the screaming roller-coaster riders at the amusement park, I communicated well with both of them. Lynette looked sharp in emerald green gym shorts and a Richmond Spiders tee-shirt. But I couldn’t take my eyes off Lu-Ann, in her dungarees and bikini top. I put it in my head that I couldn’t go wrong with either one of them. But when the game broke up, they vanished.

Hours later, the campground manager made an announcement that after dark, they were having a bonfire. He invited everyone to bring weenies and marshmallows. A man around my age brought a guitar and we had a sing-along. The girls didn’t show-up so I gravitated to two Connecticut guys from softball. I kept my eye on the trail and hoped Lynette and Lu-Ann would show up. It was 10:00PM when the screams of the amusement park stopped.  A quieter mood came over everyone and my prayers were answered.

I saw Lynette and Lu-Ann, excused myself from the Connecticut boys and met the girls as they came out of the woods. Lynette said, “Where are you sitting?” I smiled, pointed at a nearby log that could accommodate exactly three butts and said, “We have immediate seating right here.”

For the next hour, I was hoping one of them would leave so I could hit on the other. Lynette was sitting in the middle. She consistently gave me a polite smile in response to my humor but Lu-Ann laughed at everything I said. I took that as a powerful vibe that I was getting somewhere with her. But my plan didn’t work because they both stayed. I was losing hope when the Connecticut boys came by and directly hit on them. In a pleasant way, the girls turned them down...yay me!

We were alone again as a rumble of thunder could be heard. Later, the distant sky lit up from approaching lightning. My bubble was then burst by another announcement that due to inclement weather, the fire had to be put out. And for safety reasons, everyone should go back to their campers.

Most everyone, (including the three of us) lingered. We got on the topic of the Grand Ole Opry. I used some of my superficial knowledge that I gained from years of watching “HEE HAW” on TV. They were impressed that a Brooklyn boy appreciated southern culture as I rattled off the big names in country music and quoted some “home spun” comedy lines. All the while, I was hoping they would invite me to their campsite.

I was running out of material when I suggested that the three of us tour Nashville together. Lynette was apologetic, “One of the windows fell out of our VW Microbus and our air conditioner is on the blink.” Lu-Ann sighed, “It’ll probably be an all day affair getting them both fixed.” I could tell she was disappointed and said, “Maybe I can tag along.” Lynette stated, “We're meeting people and will be with them while our VW is getting worked on.” Lu-Ann didn't like her tone and neither did I.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and changed direction. There was a sense of finality in Lynette’s voice but I plowed on, “How about we go to the amusement park the day after?” The wind change brought a disgusting stench. Lu-Ann said, “What is that God awful odor?” Lynette said, “It’s coming from the abattoir.” Lu-Ann and I said at the same time, “What’s an abattoir?” Lynette said, “It’s a slaughterhouse and that putrid fragrance is from down yonder.” She grabbed Lu-Ann’s upper arm and led her away. I called out to them, “What about the amusement park?” Lu-Ann looked back and squeaked, “Maybe…”

No spoiler alert here! To find out what happened with me and Lu-Ann you need to go into my blog archives and read the story from October, 25, 2010 called, “TRIANGULATION OF THE HEART.”


I take my romantic opportunities to heart. So when that one was disrupted by Jimmy Dean’s *pig slaughtering, I decided on a lifetime ban on his product(s).
I KNOW EATING PORK ISN'T HEALTHY.  BUT I'M NOT A HYPOCRITE.  I ALSO EAT OTHER FATTY FOODS, SUGAR, SALT AND BUCKETS OF CHEMICAL PRESERVATIVES.  HELL, IF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR GLUTEN, I'LL TAKE THEM...AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY ARE.  ALL THAT MATTERS HERE IS, THAT DAMNED SLAUGHTERHOUSE ODOR IS INDELIBLY INGRAINED INTO MY MEMORY BANK.  SO UNLESS I'M HYPNOTIZED BY WITCHY WOMEN GIVING OUT FREE SAMPLES, I WON'T EAT JIMMY DEAN PRODUCTS. 

*Please note, in 1997, I had the misfortune of having to smell the stink of the Perdue chicken slaughterhouse while driving through Virginia’s eastern shore. But because there was no disturbance or obstruction in my love life that disgusting experience didn’t sway me away from eating Frank Perdue’s products.

In the perfect storm collision of Halloween and offending the Patron Saint of Freebies, St. Slick displayed the potential of his wrath by distracting me away from my long-standing boycott of everything Jimmy Dean.  In addition to being induced into eating that spackle-like crap, I also paid the price of being dragged back to the horror story of missing out on being with Lu-Ann.  At least I'll always hold that close-call near to my heart and the sweet way she said, “What is that God awful smell.”

Monday, October 13, 2014

"COWBOY" CHRISTOPHER DEAN.

In May 1979, I applied for a craps dealing job at the Holiday International Casino. The only thing standing in my way…was passing their audition. In order to bridge the gap from working in rattle-trap dumps and taking a quantum leap forward in my casino career, was proving to them that I could handle the action.

I was stoked at the prospect of working at such a big, new and beautiful casino. During my try-out, I was swamped with 75c bets and had trouble keeping up with the volume and pace. I turned to my immediate supervisor (the boxman) for support. Instead of helping me, this toothless, giggly seventy-something year-old paleolithic relic said, “Look at my cufflinks.” They were shaped like six-shooters. The senile old fart started spinning them, “These is antiques…and shoot real, fake bullets.” I was struggling enough without his distractions. I realized what I was up against and concentrated on my work until he grabbed my arm, “But I can’t show you how it works ‘cause I lost the ammo.” Despite the handicap of his “assistance,” I got hired. I ran to a phone and called my mother. My exact words were, “I just got hired by a REAL casino.” In the end, the Holiday was a grind joint too...except through four months of repetition and the mentoring from some earnest boxmen, I learned my craft.
THE GOLDEN GOOSE CASINO WAS A SLOT MACHINE PARLOR ACROSS MAIN STREET FROM THE HOLIDAY.  TO LURE CUSTOMERS, THEY OFFERED TANTALIZING FREEBIES LIKE A LONG DISTANCE PHONE CALL AND A SOUVENIR PHOTO.  ON THE SAME DAY I WAS HIRED, I CALLED MY PARENTS WITH THAT GIFT AS WELL AS POSING FOR A SIMILAR (LESS SILLY), PHOTO FOR MY HOLIDAY EMPLOYEE FILE.
About ten years ago, my mother confessed that she would love to see me as, "One of those guy's who wear suits in the casino." Today’s blog is dedicated to the job I never wanted, the boxman.

In my Las Vegas years, (1979-1984), the casino boxman, (the immediate craps supervisor sitting between the dealers and regulating the game) had the widest range of responsibility. Depending on the casino and caliber of the dealers, their job varied to the depths of babysitting newbies (break-ins) or just passing time because the dealers were so sharp.

The dealers were sharp when I dealt craps at the Stardust Casino, (1980-1982). Those boxmen were generally “juiced-in” fossils. That meant that they parlayed their connections with veteran gaming savvy to land (do-nothing) jobs, (a much smaller amount of boxman were young.  Overwhelmingly, that group lacked ambition and worked enough to support bad habits).

If I had half a brain, I would have taken notes when those older boxmen told me their colorful gambling stories. That way, my blogs would include better descriptions of their wild adventures (tall tales).  I wish I remembered the details of the man who claimed he taught Elvis how to shoot dice. Or the braggart that said he dealt poker in a bar when he was twelve, got arrested and sent to a reform school until he ran away. Another gentleman dwelled on the time he was “in on” a big fix at the racetrack. Or the man who swore he (all American casino workers) were treated like kings before the revolution in Cuba. But my favorite was the man who lived a high life in New Orleans, as a high-stakes craps dealer in a Runyan-esque, depression-era speakeasy…when the rest of the country was starving.

Please don’t misunderstand, not all the old-timers were charismatic or entertaining. Many of these barnacles sat in a catatonic daze on hemorrhoid cushions, some fell asleep on their stool and others never stopped complaining about life’s most mundane topics.

The serious ones were housemen. They were no fun and guarded every casino dollar as if their life depended on it. So even if they had cool experiences, they were too attentive to the job or too reserved to brag about the glamorous women they had, the fortunes they made and pissed away or the heinous crimes they witnessed.

In my Stardust days, I didn’t need to see that boxmen earned a lot less than dealers, had little or no real power and had to maintain a costly wardrobe. Far worse, it was rumored that we were working for mobsters and the boxmen were directly responsible for the (big) money. Even if you were blind to all that it was obvious…ordinary people, (regardless of how extraordinary their skill set was) couldn’t rise up through the ranks and become upper management. So, being a boxman was the ultimate dead-end and therefore, an old-man job.  I may not have been particularly wise at twenty-six but I correctly knew, I wanted no part of it.
THEY SAY, "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW GOOD YOU HAVE IT TILL IT'S GONE."  WELL AT THE STARDUST, I KNEW I WAS LIVING A PRIVILEGED LIFE...AND LOVED EVERY PRECIOUS SECOND OF IT.

I lost my Stardust job in January 1982. I was unemployed for six weeks. The best job I could find was the Vegas Club which was on par, but slightly worse than the Holiday. I toiled at that toilet for six months.  The Vegas Club boxmen (of all ages) fit the old casino adage; those who can't deal craps, sit box.  So decent employees who had been bad or inexperienced dealers were hooked-up as boxmen.  I liked most of them but a lot of the time, I had to help them.  I remained stuck in that rut until the flying fickle finger of fate got me hired at the Golden Nugget.
STILL IN MY VEGAS CLUB UNIFORM, SUE AND HER GIRLFRIEND MET ME AFTER WORK AT 4:00AM.  BY THE TIME THIS PICTURE WAS TAKEN (OUTSIDE THE MINT CASINO), I WAS HEAVILY BUZZED.  AN HOUR LATER, WHEN I GOT SEPARATED FROM THE GIRLS, I STUMBLED ACROSS FREMONT STREET (WITH A HEINEKEN IN HAND) AND GOT HIRED 
*(JUICED) INTO THE GOLDEN NUGGET.     *THEY SAY "JUICE" IS UNFAIR...AND IT ISN'T FAIR...UNLESS, IT'S WORKING IN YOUR FAVOR.

At the time, the *Nugget was a dive…but still one of the top three, downtown craps jobs.

*Six months after I was hired, the Golden Nugget announced its expansion plans. True to its word, the casino experienced a metamorphosis (on a biblical scale) and transformed that shithouse into an incredible, luxurious, worldwide destination. This story however takes place before the big change.

I was informed that the Nugget as part of the hiring policy might use me first as a boxman for a few shifts. Nothing could interest me less but if that’s what I had to do, to get the job, I did it. Soon thereafter, I learned that this ploy helps the casino weed-out undesirables by seeing a potential craps dealer’s personality, knowledge and grace under fire.

On my first day, I learned that despite being a downtown saw-dust joint, the other dealers were experienced men who had fallen from better jobs. I immediately clashed with Stratton (eleven years older than me).  His attitude screamed out...just sit there and be quiet.  Other times, he treated me as if I was a senile old man trying to supplement my social security income.

Two of the other dealers on that crew were rednecks. They were sweaty, in their own world and hyped-up on whatever drugs they were doing. One was named Christopher Dean. I started my short (only) conversation with him by asking him about his nametag that read, “COWBOY.”

He said, “The name’s 'Cowboy' Christopher Dean, out of Lusk Wyoming. Maybe you heard of me, I was a rodeo star for ’bout ten years. Been on TV a million times but I kinda fell on my head a lot…had to give that shit up.” My mistake was saying, “So they put 'Cowboy' on your nametag because Christopher wouldn’t fit?” He said, “Heh?” I thought I was being clever and said, “Well if Christopher was too long, they could have just put ‘CHRIS…'” In a bi-polar reversal he went off on me, “Call me Cowboy goddamn it! Or call me by my Christian name, Christopher!” He was really upset and was muttering the harshest obscenities when I had the urge to say; Christian Christopher would be like me being called Jew Jewie. I’m so glad I didn’t say it.
AFTER THE EXPANSION, THE NUGGET BECAME A GREAT JOB.  AS YOU CAN SEE, I GOT BACK MOST OF MY MONDO-BOFFO STARDUST SWAG.  PLEASE NOTE THE SMALL SPACE ON THE NAMETAG, SO I WASN'T AN IDIOT WHEN I REMARKED THAT "CHRISTOPHER" WOULDN'T FIT ON IT.

Luckily, Cowboy found a quiet place in his hyper-active stupor and took his attention off me. But later, I had a direct clash with Stratton. It involved him indirectly robbing a player out of one dollar, (and using it as a tip for the dealers). When I stopped Stratton, he got in my face. I rebutted, “Look, this is my first day. I don’t know the good guys from the bad guys…but management is watching me. I need this job, (tip income there varied from five dollars/hour during the week to eight on weekends). I’ll double what I made at the Vegas Club, (which was still less than half compared to the Stardust).  I don’t want to be out on my ass again.”

Stratton sympathized with me and we got along for the rest of the shift. The next day, I sat box again except I was with the jet-set crew. Their leader was Fillmore Theodore Cunnynghame IV (his nametag read TEDDY). *Teddy was super laid back and even though he and I never actually became friends, I admired him. He was a true Renaissance man, a genius and the coolest person I met in my thirty-six years in the gambling industry.

*Teddy was the main character in my Romeo and Juliet-like short story, “ROOTERS.” He and his girlfriend Ariel Mott (a blackjack dealer at the Nugget) were star-crossed lovers who met on Halloween, at the Exorcist steps in Washington DC. Both of their wealthy family’s disapproved of their relationship, (he was from a staunch Episcopalian, republican, old money clan, living in a Chevy Chase Maryland mansion. Her's were devout Catholics, democratic, nouveau riche and living in a gated sub-division, in Arlington Virginia). When their parents blamed their children’s shortcomings on the other family, the couple ran away and became casino dealers in Las Vegas.
THE "EXORCIST" WAS FILMED ON LOCATION IN THE GEORGETOWN SECTION OF WASHINGTON D.C.  NOT ONLY WERE THESE STEPS EERIE IN THE MOVIE BUT THEY ARE JUST AS SCARY IN PERSON.

During a lull, Teddy, who resembled actor Gabe Kaplan, pointed out which bosses were hard asses.
(above) ACTOR, COMEDIAN GABE KAPLAN (1945-PRESENT) WAS BEST KNOWN AS THE STAR OF THE 1970's SIT-COM, "WELCOME BACK KOTTER."  TEDDY LOOKED LIKE A SCRUFFY, LESS HANDSOME VERSION OF HIM.  EVEN WORSE, WHEN STANDING NEXT TO ARIEL, HIS "DROP-DEAD" GORGEOUS GIRLFRIEND, TEDDY LOOKED ACUTELY UNATTRACTIVE.

Teddy also told me that “Cowboy” Christopher Dean was addicted to pain-killers.  But he was completely out of control when he mixed alcohol, speed, cocaine or whatever into a psychopathic cocktail. Teddy was specific, "DON’T mess with him or his two toadies. They're bullying thugs, desperate for money, drugs and attention."

On my third day, I finally dealt craps. During that shift, I found out that Nick Tucker (a fellow student of mine) from the New York School of Gambling also dealt there, (Tucker had an entire blog dedicated to him on June 30, 2014 called, "NICK TUCKER: A PUZZLE THAT WOULD BAFFLE BOTH CHURCHILL AND FREUD."  Nick and I developed a friendship and I was taken into his clique, (he shared Teddy’s opinion of the bad bosses and of “Cowboy” Christopher Dean).

Through Nick’s influence, I worked almost exclusively with him and my new friends. We dealt on the high-limit game which meant that while the others were breaking their backs pushing twenty-five cent chips around…we were standing-dead and bull-shitting for hours at a time. The other dealers recognized the unfairness of our special treatment but Nick (and more so another dealer on my crew Mateo) had so much pull that we were golden and couldn’t be touched.

In the months that followed, it became obvious that the “Cowboy” had a vendetta against Teddy. On at least two occasions when Teddy was alone, he was accosted by the brutal three-headed monster. Yet each time, through mental manipulation, Teddy talked his way out of a certain beating. Even when the rowdy trio crashed a private cocaine party at his house, Teddy used some incredible double-talk to subdue the leader and quickly and quietly get them out the door. I never knew what verbal tactics Teddy used until one night while I was waiting to clock out.

I had no direct dealings with the “Cowboy” after our confrontation on my first day. I avoided him and his cronies like the plague. I knew he was a loose-cannon and his servile psychotic followers were trained to obey his hostile whims. This all changed when they spotted me in the alley near the time office.

Just after I punched-out, on a night that I didn’t work with Nick or Mateo, the “Cowboy” snuck up behind me and yelled in my ear, “This is the prick that fucked with my money.” I was in shock. Outside, a group of spectators (none were good friends) encircled us. Everyone was staring at me as Cowboy shouted, “When he fucks with MY money, he fucks with ALL Y'ALL'S money.” I heard people in the crowd calling others over and saying, “There’s going to be a fight.”

My heart was really pumping but I had no idea what he was talking about, (later I found out that he was harboring a grudge over the one dollar Stratton tried to help himself to...for the dealers...on my first day. Without touching me, Cowboy coaxed me towards an alley. While I was back-pedaling I said, “Why are you being such a hard-on?” When the crowd ooh and ah’ed he crowed, “A hard-on? Now I’m gonna really kick your ass.” He pointed to his underlings and cried, “When I’m done, they’re gonna kick your ass. And if you’re still alive…anyone else can kick whatever is left of your sorry ass.” I was still moving backwards into the alley as I said, “You’re crazy.” I tried to walk past him but he blocked my path and said, “Come on try and hit me…it’s gonna be the only shot you get…”

People “encouraged” me by chanting, “Hit him! Hit him!” I made one last attempt to squeeze by but bumped into him. His fist was cocked as a voice yelled from out of the swarming throng, “CHRSITINE! CHRISTINE!” Cowboy’s rigid stance began to relax. It was Teddy. Like a Svengali-like mantra, he repeated "Christine" several more times. By the time he broke into through the ring, Cowboy seemed to be in a trance. Teddy whispered something in Cowboy’s ear and then told everyone, “Go home. There’s nothing to see. It’s over.”

I was standing alone with Teddy as the two lackeys cursed me. They hooked their arms through Cowboy’s and escorted their verbally wounded warrior off. I said to Teddy, “What just happened?” He laughed, “That nimrod can’t stand being called Chris. But I accidentally found out he really hates being called Chris Dean because it sounds like, Christine. Maybe he had issues as a kid because his manhood can’t handle being called by a girl’s name.” I was still confused as my savior added, “Any time you want him off your back, call him Christine…he just falls to pieces.”



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Way before my mother encouraged me to wear a suit at work, a friend (outside the casino business), asked me why I never became a boxman. I told him that I did twice, in 1982 and it almost killed me. I related the story above and added, "But dealers, especially in Atlantic City make more money than boxmen, have far less responsibility and save tons on clothes by wearing a simple uniform."  He was nodding as I continued, "My real reason is, being a boxman has been so ingrained in me as an old man job that I can’t help but feel that way, even *now.

Of course if I wasn’t forced to do that dirty job, I would have missed out on the chance to be beaten to death…and share the happy details of my rescue.

*Today, many casinos have eliminated an entire craps salary by making the boxman/floorman into a single, hybrid position. The corporate bean-counters have determined that the economics of a guaranteed savings from less wages paid out is worth the risk of loss to errors and theft.




                                                      #               #                #


To satisfy my curiosity, I googled…without success, “Cowboy” Christopher Dean. I even tried the professional and amateur rodeo circuit as well as his hometown. That’s why I’m using his real name because on top of being an ass-hole, apparently he was full of shit too.

P. S. –WAS invited to one of Teddy’s cocaine parties. It was he and Ariel’s, “Exorcist-themed” wedding, (the Cunnynghame's and the Mott's were NOT invited). Although I wasn’t allowed into the bedroom during the actual ceremony, I did witness “Cowboy” Christopher Dean and his two-man posse drive their pick-up truck onto Teddy’s lawn. They barged in and caused a raucous until Teddy calmly took the matter into his own hands. Even with tons of help available, Teddy merely called the Cowboy “Christine” a few times and whispered hypnotic words into the low-life's ear. It was magical moment in my life to see this "moron-whisperer" parlor trick work for a second time. Teddy kept it up until he (alone) had prodded them outside to their truck.

The wedding guests included several members of upper management.  So the next day, the three amigos were not only fired but were banned from the property, for life. On a suggestion from the casino manager, to insulate Teddy from future reprisals, the Nugget had a restraining order served against the Cowboy's mini-mob that prevented contact with Teddy, his wife and home.  Indeed, Chistopher Dean never bothered them again.

P.P.S. - Please note, the whole “ROOTERS” story takes thirty-five pages to tell. Let me know if you want to read Teddy and Ariel's, Romeo and Juliet-like saga.

Monday, October 6, 2014

QUESTION...WHAT SUCKS, WHEN IT DOESN'T SUCK?

KURUDAVE once said about me and my struggles with handy work around the house, “Even oddball repairs are usually common sense.” The implication that I lacked common sense was not appreciated. Deep down, I was confident that if I set my mind to any project, I could do it. So I said to KURUDAVE, “How many of me would it take to screw in a light bulb?” He pondered my silliness as if it was as intricate as Zen philosophy until he shrugged, “Dunno.” I said, “It would only take one me to screw in a light bulb…the real question is…how long will it take my lazy ass to get around to it!”

I didn't get this trait from my father.  He was a doer and a handy fellow. He, along with most Depression-era folks had the mentality to conserve money by being self-reliant. Dad absolutely tried to instill these skills and mindset into me. For whatever reason, these valuable lessons didn't stick. Down through the years when my own ineptitude let me down, I used dad as a scapegoat and convinced myself that he was a lousy teacher.

Now, I'm nearly sixty and through careful self-analysis, I realize that to protect myself from the likelihood of humiliation, I disguised my life-long fear of failure with an invisible force field that’s screamed out…I’M NOT INTERESTED. My point was proven when I tried to bestow the little fix-it knowledge I had onto my son Andrew.  That's when I realized, that my reluctance to mend things might be an inherited trait because…HE WASN’T INTERESTED either.
2003.  AFTER EARNING THOSE TWO DOZEN HOME DEPOT "KIDS PROJECT PINS" (ACROSS HIS CHEST), ANDREW ANNOUNCED THAT HE DIDN'T WANT TO PARTICIPATE ANY MORE...ON THE GROUNDS THAT HE, "OUTGREW IT."  IT IS FAIR TO SAY, THIS PICTURE MIGHT BE THE LAST TIME HE HELD A HAMMER OR ANY OTHER TOOL.

We didn't have Home Depot "Kids Projects" when I was young. So somewhere in my adolescence, I developed this “fix-it phobia.” Perhaps this fear was a convenience to support the laziness theory because I was convinced that I had a talent for making things worse.

On a 90Āŗ day in 1967, Dad gave me a quick tutorial on how to wash and wax his car. I breezed through the “wash” segment of my mission. Next, I smeared the Turtle Wax, with the care of an expert, twelve year-old artisan, over every inch of that Dodge.
TURTLE WAX HAS BEEN AROUND SINCE 1941.  TODAY IT'S AVAILABLE IN OVER 90 COUNTRIES.  FOR BEST RESULTS, IT SHOULD BE APPLIED AND TAKEN OFF IN SMALL SECTIONS, (WITHIN A MINUTE OR TWO).  DAD PROBABLY TOLD ME THAT AS MY WANDERING MIND WAS DISTRACTED BY THE DISTANT SOUND OF THE ICE CREAM TRUCK'S THEME SONG.

When I finished covering the entire car with Turtle Wax, it was time to wipe away the residue and reveal the shine.  But the baked-on wax refused to budge. Dad wasn’t pleased. After several unhappy trips to a car wash, nearly all the little gray flakes were gone.  Nevertheless, dad never asked me to wax his car again.

That same summer, I found out the reason why my father wanted me to mow the lawn once a week and water it EVERY day. Soon there after, dad didn't take the death of our grass well. For the next few years, he hired a service to do my gardening job.

Dad couldn't do every job.  He was a practical man and "farmed-out" the ones beyond his expertise. In the late 1960's, there was nothing sadder to him (or me) than seeing our gigantic console TV in pieces. It was bad enough that we were exposed to the sight of the repairman's butt crack but dad really got pissed-off when he was handed the final bill. Dad objected to a 29c burnt-out tube resulting in a $25.29 fee.  The repairman defensively made medical references and shrugged, “Yeah, the patient needed a 29c tube but all my years in med-school cost you $25.00...because I know where to put it.”

Of course getting the TV fixed on the spot was the good scenario because most times the guy would grunt, “There’s nothing I can do for you here, I’m gotta take the whole kit and caboodle back to the shop…for a couple of weeks." To rub salt in the wound, it was a guarantee that while our behemoth entertainment center was being wheeled out, the repairman would crash the chassis and put a dent in the wall or rip off floor molding.

Experiences with the TV didn’t make me see washing machine repairmen or auto mechanics as doctors, I saw them as villains. Unfortunately, to avoid being at their mercy, I couldn’t envision the value of learning simple repairs.

If I needed a push to further solidify my evasion of household chores and repairs forever…it happened when I was fourteen. My friend M’s dad was a union electrician. M always bragged that it was a “blood union” and that his father-son relationship assured him an apprenticeship that would lead to a great job when he was old enough. But M was forever swayed away from becoming an electrician when his dad nearly electrocuted himself. While it was true the ol’ boy survived, he was forced into an early retirement, went on permanent disability and was the shadow of his former self, physically, mentally and emotionally. M forgot about a career as an electrician. At the same time, I saw what can happen to a professional, so it seemed rational that I turned my back on doing repairs.

In the early 1980’s, my attitude was forcibly changed when I bought my condo in Las Vegas. Through the help of mentors, I became more responsible. Oh the joy of bleeding my own radiator, replacing antifreeze and doing my own oil changes.  But my past caught up with me on my 26th birthday when I became a victim of circumstance and ceased the engine on my wife Sue’s 1974 Mustang.
SUE'S ILL-FATED MUSTANG.  IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE AT THIS ANGLE BUT TWO PAD LOCKS HELD DOWN THE HOOD.  ON THE WAY BACK FROM MOUNT CHARLESTON, THE IDIOT LIGHT CAME ON.  SUE HAD THE ONLY PAD LOCK KEY BUT SHE LEFT HER KEYRING HOME.  STUPIDLY, I DILUTED MYSELF INTO THINKING WE COULD MAKE IT HOME.  THIS WASN'T HORSESHOES OR HAND GRENADES...SO GETTING CLOSE TO HOME WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH! 

At around the same time, I also learned basic plumbing techniques that saved me big bucks. As soon as I appreciated the nearly-erotic pleasure of using a seat wrench, I couldn’t wait for another leaky faucet. Too bad my prayers were answered by a drip inside my bathroom wall. I watched in earnest and took notes as my friend Manny easily pealed away some wallpaper, cut a hole in the wall behind my toilet, “taped” the worn pipe, replaced the hole in the sheet rock (with a miracle product called *spackle) and glued the wallpaper back into place.

* Hard to believe but true, I had never heard of spackle before 1981.

In 1989, I became a proud New Jersey homeowner. Lucky for me, Sue knew what she was up against with me and already owned a pink tool belt.

We were in the house about three years when a smashed, glass, spaghetti sauce jar compelled us to pull the refrigerator out (for the first time) and clean underneath. Attached to one of the metal supports under the fridge was a flat, grayish, blackish, brownish piece of plastic with dust and hair on it. It was the size and shape of a half piece of thick chewing gum with rounded edges.
PICTURE HALF OF AN UNWRAPPED, DARKENED STICK OF GUM.

Sue went to pull it off. I yelled, “Don’t touch that, it’s a fuse!” I flashed back to M's father (an actual electrician) almost killing himself and shared this indelible memory with her. So rather than take any chances, I called my friend Dean-Michael Hughes, (Dean). He had offered to help me anytime in an emergency...and he lived up to his word. Dean immediately laughed in my face.  He pulled the dusty plastic off and pretended to take a bite out of it.  I was confused until he correctly identified the culprit as a fossilized Vienna sausage. We don’t eat that crap so Dean presumed that one of the builder’s workmen left it for an archaeological dig in the distant future, (for a more in depth story about Dean, see my September 17, 2012 blog, "THE SHORT FUSE OF OFFICER DEAN-MICHAEL HUGHES)."

Today, maybe it’s a generational phenomenon but it seems once things get beyond their warranty, they are made to break. Cameras, telephones, appliances and so many more things that used to be repaired are now routinely disposed off. So even if your mindset isn’t to trash whatever doesn’t work, the Internet and Plumbing for Dummies-like books are chock-full-o-information.  Therefore, the villainous TV repairman and handyman work in general have become as obsolete as the village blacksmith.

About ten years ago, we bought a new vacuum cleaner. Over time, I became accustomed to troubleshooting it. I maintained that baby well. In addition to keeping it clean, I could take it apart and eliminate any clog. Plus, I knew the ins-and-outs of replacing its belt.  We were happy with it. Long after the warranty was up, it stopped working. There was nothing my mechanical prowess could do. My wife insisted we buy a new one, I said, “Let’s see how much it would cost to have it repaired.”

I allowed the repair and got a year guarantee. Two months after the damned warranty was up, it died. Again Sue wanted a new vacuum. I said, “No! I’m taking it back and that weasel will fix it for nothing!”

The owner of the repair shop said, “It’s out of my warranty.” I explained, "Yes, but for such a short time.  Besides, it's probably a simple fix."  The man balked.  I said, "Look, I'm not giving you another dime to fix it and I'm not buying a new one from you.  So you have nothing to gain from disappointing me. But in the name of goodwill, you should take care of it because the negative press you’d get wouldn’t serve you well."  I don't know how much the sixty-dollar repair actually cost him to do...but he did it for free. A week later I picked it up.  He droned on and made a big deal out of the difficulty in replacing the filter and used technical terms that just sounded like double-talk gobbledygook to me.  I politely nodded and asked for a demonstration.  I was satisfied that it worked after he sprinkled some dust bunnies on the floor (it reminded me of "Honeymooners" when Ralph Kramden bought a vacuum cleaner after it passed the salesman's oatmeal test).
DESPITE ONLY BEING ON THE AIR ONE SEASON (1955-1956), THE ORIGINAL 39 EPISODES OF "THE HONEYMOONERS" ARE CONSIDERED BY MANY AS THE GREATEST SIT-COM OF ALL-TIME. WHEN RALPH BROUGHT HOME A VACUUM FOR ALICE (right), IT DIDN'T WORK.  ED NORTON (center) TRIED TO DIAGNOSE TO PROBLEM.  HE SOUNDED LIKE MY VACUUM REPAIRMAN WHEN HE SAID, "THE PROBLEM IS THE ARMATURE SPROCKET IS BLOCKING THE FLOW OF THE DYNAFLOW."  RALPH SAID, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"  NORTON SAID, "I DON'T KNOW."

The owner of the repair shop handed me a receipt that included in big red magic marker letters, "OUT OF WARRANTY!"

Incredibly, my vacuum cleaner has needed little maintenance since then. So yesterday when Sue announced, “The vacuum isn’t sucking.” She added, “And I want a new one!” I joked, “It's like a riddle...what sucks, when it doesn't suck?"  Before she could respond I said, "A vacuum cleaner! It sucks…when it doesn’t suck.” She ignored my comic genius and repeated herself, “I want a new one and THIS time I’m serious!” I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Let me take a look at it first.” During my examination, I found on the bottom of the vacuum, an encrypted, dated message from January 2011, identifying that last service call. That means we got four years use…and our money’s worth…from the free, professional repair.

I was playing with house-money as I continued my search. The only abnormal thing I discovered was that the brush had a tangle of stringy carpet fibers hindering it from spinning. I pulled them out and used clumps of my dog Roxy’s shedding hair for my version of the oatmeal test.
ALWAYS READY TO LEND ME A HELPING PAW...OR SOME OF HER SHEDDING COAT.

Sue wasn’t satisfied with my oatmeal test results…and she was right, (maybe I should have used corn flakes). She was venting her displeasure when I said, “Wait, there’s one place I didn’t check (in retrospect, if I was truly mechanically inclined, it should have been the first place I looked). When I pulled the stringy fibers from the spinning brush, it stopped me from examining behind it for clogs. When I dis-assembled the brush housing, I discovered what should have been the obvious problem…the belt had snapped.

A two-pack of belts was $5.00. It took a minute to install. My vacuum doesn’t suck now because it sucks! I must have touched a positive nerve in Sue because later that afternoon I overheard her say to Andrew over the phone, "Thank God daddy fixed the vacuum." Yay me, I looked good to my family for once, saved myself from a repair bill or better yet, the cost of a new vacuum.

Just remember one thing.  If you need repair help, Kurudave was unfortunately right, I don't have the common sense necessary to do most jobs.  So you’d be better off with just about anyone else on the planet but me...and by the way, don't ask Andrew either.