LITTLE MURDERERS

"MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," is not a forum to show how smart I perceive myself to be.  I stay clear of religion and politics while sparing my readership the drudgery of commercialism. However, in a rare blog, (like today's), my glibness temporarily takes a giant step...backward.



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IMPOSSIBLE!  Impossible but true.  In 1971, a futuristic movie set and filmed on location in New York City did not include its single most significant (new) landmark, in any of the establishing shots or panoramic skyline views.

Somehow or for some odd reason, the filmmakers managed to keep the much ballyhooed World Trade Center out of their dark comedy, "LITTLE MURDERS."  If my guess is right, they were the most prophetic bastards since Nostradamus.

"LITTLE MURDERS" WAS ADAPTED FROM A JULES FEIFFER PLAY. THE SCREEN VERSION STARRED ELLIOTT GOULD AS THE BOYFRIEND WHO EARNED A GOOD LIVING PHOTOGRAPHING DOG SHIT.  THE SUPPORTING CAST INCLUDED, VINCENT GARDENIA, ALAN ARKIN, DONALD SUTHERLAND, DORIS ROBERTS AND LOU JACOBI.

I saw Little Murders in the theater when it came out.  I not only never saw it again (till last week) or saw that it was shown on TV...BUT nobody I ever mentioned it to, heard of it.  This obscure movie left a deep impression in me but after so many decades, my fuzzy memory caused me to slightly mess-up the title by calling it, "LITTLE MURDERERS."  (Which I now think is a better title).

 (above) VINCENT GARDENIA (1920-1992) PLAYS THE FATHER OF ELLIOTT GOULD'S GIRLFRIEND.  I HAVE A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY HEART FOR GARDENIA. NOT BECAUSE HE RESEMBLES MY UNCLE GEORGIE BUT BECAUSE THIS LIFE-LONG RESIDENT OF BROOKLYN WAS A REGULAR CUSTOMER IN MY *DAD'S GREETING CARD STORE, (LATE 70's TO EARLY 90's).  PLEASE NOTE THAT AS A TRIBUTE, A SECTION OF 16th AVENUE IN BENSONHURST HONORARILY BEARS HIS NAME. GARDENIA'S THEATRICAL CREDITS FROM 1945-1991 INCLUDE: A TONY AWARD FOR BEST ACTOR, TWICE NOMINATED FOR AN OSCAR AS BEST SUPPORTING FILM ACTOR AND IS BEST REMEMBERED ON TV, (1973-1974), AS ARCHIE BUNKER'S HENPECKED NEIGHBOR, (FRANK LORENZO) ON, "ALL IN THE FAMILY."

* I never had the privilege of meeting Vincent Gardenia but my dad held this pleasant, down-to-earth gentleman in the highest esteem.

When Little Murders came out, the absurdity of humor was far-fetched.  To the credit of my sixteen year-old mind, I got the sardonic, dark wittiness featuring the impending collapse of social mores that would result in functional society as we know it, to go haywire.

The theme of the movie is people getting beaten-down. Elliott Gould's character typifies the notion of "you can't fight City Hall."  So when he gets swallowed up by progress, he gives up.  This is proven when he allows himself to be repeatedly beaten by street toughs who think he's weird, (for taking pictures of dog crap).

He's so accustomed to being accosted that as long as they don't break his cameras, he doesn't resist. In one instant, a girl is awoken by the scuffling below her wide open, high-rise apartment building window. She phones 9-1-1, (wow, they already had 9-1-1 back then).  She has trouble getting through...and is finally put on hold. With the blind optimism that would epitomize her character, she risks her well-being, confronts the attackers and saves the man.  She and Gould start dating. The ever-spunky girl sees his acceptance to negativity and tries to retrieve his long-lost sense of feeling.

While her crusade to change her man gains momentum, we see the decaying world around them worsening. People are now getting regularly and arbitrarily gunned-down in the street...yet passersby can't be bothered by these atrocities.

The apathy becomes rampant and soon the citizens no longer have faith in their elected officials.  We also find out that the cops who are sworn to protect, are just as psychopathic as the out-of-control crazies who are responsible for the ever-rising 457 unsolved murders, (457 unsolved murders by today's standards hardly seems exaggerated).

In a society so beaten-down, the formerly desensitized Gould, through the tutelage of his girlfriend and her family, fight back. Unfortunately, soon they get married,.whatever faith in the goodness of mankind he regained was abruptly lost when he received the ultimate slap in the face.

The rest of Little Murders plot uses a similar formula, as a good adventure story.  The climax comes when the hero is backed into a corner and with all odds against him, he finds a logical, last second conduit to safety.  The pleased audience relaxes until an unexpected obstacle blocks any hope for "happily ever after" finish.  After the new dilemma gets ironed out, some obscure danger, bigger than anything else rises up.  A tremendous fight to the death ends in a crescendo victory and the satisfied movie-goers, to upbeat exit music, are all smiles as they file out of the theater.

The formula used by Little Murders has a subtle difference.  Through a thin veneer of humor, it's apparent climax splatters the viewers' face with intensely depressing visions.  We are led to believe that the movie has come to an acutely sad conclusion because Gould or even the bravest super-hero...could not possibly save the day or reverse the nervousness, paranoia and rising masochistic tendencies of an entire culture. Instead, we find that the situation CAN get worse when average, otherwise innocent and insignificant people own and irrationally use guns.

BEHIND VINCENT GARDENIA, IRON SHUTTERS (WHICH TO THE PLEASURE OF HIS WIFE WERE AVAILABLE IN BLACK, WHITE AND THE FAR MORE DECORATIVE BATTLESHIP GRAY), HAVE BEEN INSTALLED TO KEEP RANDOM SNIPER SHOTS OUT OF THE APARTMENT.  PLEASE NOTE, FOR THE CONVENIENCE OF THE CONSUMER, NARROW SLIDERS ARE INCLUDED IF THE USER WISHES TO CHANCE GETTING KILLED BY LETTING SOME SUNSHINE IN.

Eventually,we arrive at the ultimate finale.  The reality of the permanent doom and gloom of their imminent destiny is solidified when Gould uses role reversal to maneuver away from the most incredible trouble.  This results in him leading the family on a fantastic, heavy-hearted,  "if you can't beat them, join them," counter-attack.

Today, I  (we) frequently feel beaten-down.  I (we), live and work next to people with dangerous emotional problems that are so plentiful that the logistics and cost for their appropriate care are astronomically impractical...so, they are free to roam the streets, unsupervised and/or improperly medicated

The system is so overwhelmed that we have to be careful with the police too.  Many of them aren't fully trained so when a routine questioning turns out to be a pissing contest, we all too often find out, (despite the presence of body cameras and social media) that a great many of our protectors, are sociopaths too.

By the time we look for intelligent government leadership, we are guaranteed to unhappily realize that the cavalry isn't coming over the hill to rescue us.

AT A TIME WHEN THE USA NEEDS TRANSPARENCY AND NON-PARTISAN COMMON SENSE TO LIFT US FROM ECONOMIC DOLDRUMS, VARIOUS FORMS OF SOCIAL UPHEAVAL, THE PROJECTILE VOMIT KNOWN AS "AFFORDABLE HEALTH INSURANCE, " TAXATION GONE WILD, FEAR OF TERRORISM AND  BEING THE HATED GLOBAL POLICE, WE GET, BUSINESS AS USUAL CANDIDATES, (OR HEADLINE SEEKING AMATEURS).  WHO, MORE THAN EVER, WANT TO LINE THEIR POCKETS WITH THE BLOOD, GUTS AND HARD WORK OF THE COMMON MAN.

Yes, it seems IMPOSSIBLE but Little Murders was unfortunately way head of its time.  In a quirky, terrible way, it should also be congratulated for envisioning the not-too-distant future New York City without the iconic World Trade Center.

IN LOWER MANHATTAN, GROUND WAS BROKEN FOR THE WORLD TRADE CENTER, AUGUST 1966.  THE FIRST TOWER WAS COMPLETED IN DECEMBER 1970 WITH THE SECOND RIGHT BEHIND IT.  SO WHEN LITTLE MURDERS DEBUTED IN FEBRUARY 1971, THE TWIN TOWERS SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN ABSOLUTE MUST FOR OUTDOOR SHOTS OF THE CITY.  UNLESS THE MOVIE MAKERS KNEW THE BUILDINGS COULDN'T SURVIVE WHAT OUR WORLD HAS BECOME...

Little Murders or as I have come to call it, "Little Murderers," despite fine performances is not a dark comedy.  It's an all too real upper-cut to the jaw reminder that nothing matters.  That whoever you are, unless you have infinite resources or are well-connected, life is merely a struggle to survive. Therefore, considering how our beaten-down society has deteriorated, the movie is too depressing to recommend.

(I managed to avoid spoiling the plot, so I won't whet your appetite or waste your time by providing the amusing youtube movie trailer here).

THE PERFECT CASINO STORM

To quote an extremely bright and articulate person, "Only a thirty-year veteran homicide detective has seen more shit than a decent craps dealer with five years experience."

"THE PERFECT STORM," from 2000 was a fact-based movie about the high-risk, high reward nature of commercial fishing.

THE VICTIMS OF THE PERFECT STORM WERE A CREW OF UNLUCKY FISHERMEN WHO UNEXPECTEDLY SAILED INTO THE CROSS-HAIRS OF THREE CONVERGING STORMS...RESULTING IN BEING CAUGHT IN THE FIERCEST, GRANDDADDY OF LETHAL STORMS IN MODERN HISTORY.

From the movie, the term "perfect" has become chic to add to a wide assortment of acutely bad situations.  Today, I have the perfect casino story to attach this "perfect" moniker.



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From late 1984 to mid-1986, I dealt craps, in the perfect toilet of Atlantic City casinos, (the Atlantis),

THE ILL-FATED ATLANTIS (far left) WAS IN A GREAT LOCATION NEXT TO THE ATLANTIC CITY CONVENTION HALL (center) AND TRUMP PLAZA, (far right).  IT HAD ITS HEY-DAY JUST BEFORE I STARTED THERE AS THE PLAYBOY CASINO, (1981-1984).  DURING MY TIME, THE CASINO (NICKNAMED, "THE DUMP NEXT TO TRUMP)," QUICKLY SPIRALED DOWNWARD.  AFTER I LEFT, IT HIT ROCK BOTTOM AND LOST ITS GAMING LICENSE IN 1989. 

While I worked at the Atlantis, the financial value of dealing at any casino in town was about the same. However, two joints stood out as slightly better...and one (mine) was a distant worse. For this blog, it's not relevant why our tip income was inferior...what is important is, the low-class clientele.

The Atlantis' casino space was separated on three gaming levels.  The top floor had the high-roller games. Overwhelming, the folks who were attracted to these tables played close to the minimum ($25.00).  So these self-proclaimed big-shots...who would have been complete nobodies anywhere else...made themselves out to be aristocrats.

On weekends, many regular customers treated the old dump next to Trump as a private social club. They gambled, had meals, saw shows and hung out with casino friends, (strangers, whose schedule regularly coincided).  Some extended families did the same.  Once these clans learned the ropes, they played the system to maximize their freebies.  But far worse, they abused the privilege and treated the place (and employees) like they owned it.

Sometimes, we (the workers) felt like we were witnessing them playing pinochle on their kitchen table. They were so at home that it wasn't uncommon to hear embarrassing details of their lives or "too much information" when grievances turned into family arguments and dirty laundry was aired.

"SCARY MARY" WAS AN ESPECIALLY CLASSLESS, ABUSIVE, BIG-MOUTHED, CHAIN-SMOKING PHYLLIS DILLER-LIKE HAG WHO'D TORTURE THE STAFF ALL NIGHT.  IT WAS A RELIEF WHEN SHE WENT TO BED.  BUT WHEN HER *HUSBAND FELL ASLEEP, SHE'D EMERGE FROM THE ELEVATOR IN CURLERS LIKE A CHARGING RHINOCEROS, SLOVENLY DRESSED IN A SCHMATEH (RAGGEDY HOUSECOAT THAT ANY WOMAN WOULDN'T BE CAUGHT DEAD IN), AND FUZZY BUNNY SLIPPERS.  AT HALLOWEEN WHEN THE STAFF WAS PERMITTED TO WEAR COSTUMES, THEY USUALLY INCLUDED A THEME. ONE YEAR, THE FEMALE EMPLOYEES, (AND ONE GUY),  HAD A PRIVATE CONTEST TO RECREATE THE SCARY MARY LOOK, (I'M PRETTY SURE THE GUY WON).  

*  Scary Mary's milquetoast husband was nicknamed "Bullet-Head."  He had a golf ball-sized divot in his forehead which among my Atlantis craps brethren resulted from a failed gunshot suicide attempt.  After all, why would someone married to Scary Mary die so young...because he wanted to.

Matriarchal Scary Mary and her kin (sometimes as much as twenty people), became weekend fixtures. As "big fish" in a "small pond," they cut themselves a large chunk of influence and convinced management that the casino couldn't survive without them.

By using an iron-fisted personality, Scary Mary's three generations of low, high roller minions were forced to follow her lead.  Soon, in a family dominated by weak males, they all knew how to use their sense of entitlement.  With complete disregard to a craps employee's reputation and job security, this ploy was especially efficient to bolster their odds by making false claims, (lying and cheating).

These people wielded so much clout that well-adjusted employees wouldn't dream of correcting them.  They saw how Scary Mary treated her own family, so most of us got out of their way and hardly a brave soul reprimanded them.  So if there was a dispute on a craps game, any attempt by the staff to defend the house's best interest was guaranteed to result in a severe and demeaning tongue lashing.  If the situation erupted into a federal case, someone (100% in the right)...could lose their job.



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I have done a good job in forgetting nightmare customers. Unfortunately those harsh thirty-year old memories were rekindled last week at my present job.

 "B," my supervisor that night as well as being a former Atlantis coworker, pointed out a player and whispered, "There's Calvin Park."

This skinny, sickly man looked like he was over seventy.  I imagined him to be an old biker who led a tough life.  His companion was an equally mature woman with a bad blond dye job.  This lady took on a curious position behind him at another craps table.  She seemed to be his watchdog as she alternated watching him play ten dollars at a time and protecting his blindside from would-be rail thieves (chip robbers) and/or knife wielding enemies.  I don't use the term "broad" to describe women but that's what came to mind. This hard woman made me think what gun moll Bonnie Parker (Clyde's Barrow's Bonnie) might have looked like if she lived to be a senior citizen.

IN 17th CENTURY ENGLAND THE TERM "MOLL" OR "MOLLY" WAS SLANG FOR PROSTITUTE. DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION, (above) EVELYN "BILLIE" FRECHETTE (1907-1969) WAS DILLINGER'S GUN MOLL FOR SIX MONTHS. AFTERWARDS, SHE MADE A CAREER MAKING GUEST APPEARANCES AND DISCUSSING HER EXPERIENCES.

Despite my talent for remembering people, I told "B", "Who's Calvin Park?"  Within seconds of his description, I not only recalled the Calvin Park legend but I also remembered going out of my way (thirty years ago), to catch a mere glimpse of his incredible skyrocket to notoriety. To prove Park's rapid ascension was so unique... when I stole my tiny glance at him playing craps at Atlantis' top level...the last thing I was looking at...was his face.

THE "BOXMAN" IS THE SUPERVISOR SITTING BETWEEN THE TWO CRAPS DEALERS.  TIPS WERE SO BAD AT THE ATLANTIS THAT IT WAS A CUT-THROAT PROCESS FOR DEALERS TO ENTER LOWER MANAGEMENT.  THE ONLY CRAPS DEALERS CONSIDERED FOR THIS PROMOTION DEALT ON THE UPPER LEVEL.  I DIDN'T CARE ABOUT UPWARD MOBILITY  BECAUSE I WAS BIDING MY TIME, WAITING FOR MY DEALER TRAINING ACADEMY LICENSE TO BE APPROVED.  THAT MEANT, UNLESS THERE WAS AN EMERGENCY, I NEVER WORKED UPSTAIRS.

"B" was the boxman when Calvin Park had the defining moment of his life.  So he had first-hand knowledge of the backstory he shared with me.  Most notably, Park was a small business owner who had enough disposable income to burn $1,000.00 playing craps at the Atlantis high-roller pit, a couple of weekends each month.

Unlike the families and faux-social clubs that also met up there, Park was a withdrawn man.  While the others (that everyone hated) whooped it up, Park (who was equally loathsome in his own way), was a loner, playing a different style... quietly.

THE GREAT MAJORITY OF CRAPS PLAYERS WANT THE DICE SHOOTER TO WIN. THEIR BETS ARE PLACED ON THE "PASS LINE" OR THE "COME."  HOWEVER SOME FOLKS PLAY THE "DON'T PASS" OR THE "DON'T COME" AND HOPE THE SHOOTER WILL LOSE.  WHILE THESE APPROACHES SEEM OPPOSITE, THE BUILT-IN HOUSE EDGE USUALLY RESULTS, OVER TIME,  IN EVERYONE LOSING.

Park was a "don't" player.  Despite being razzed by the low-class masses on the pass line, he never wavered.  On several occasions"B" referred to him on that historic night, as golden.  He might have had temporary set-backs but overwhelmingly, he couldn't lose.

At first, the family took harmless verbal swipes at Park.  But soon Scary Mary led her entourage into an escalation of childish insults that morphed into a deluge of obscenities.  One by one, someone from the family exceeded what they were willing to lose and quit. But Scary Mary forged on. Between prolonged episodes of intense coughing, in her harsh, shrill voice, the black-hearted witch used language that would make a longshoreman blush, to profane Park every time he won.

Scary Mary didn't take her losing streak laying down.  Through vicious insistence, she demanded that the casino change the dice.  Even though it was against their policy, they accepted being manipulated, (they secretly rooted against her in general but in this rare case, they were superstitious and willing to do anything to stop the casino from hemorrhaging big money to Park).

To rationalize the switch and to eliminate the idea of a conspiracy, the casino manager showed Calvin Park an insignificant flaw in one die.  Park was in his rights to protest and stop the bullshit but he was so focused on winning that if a black cat was thrown on the table, he couldn't have been bothered.

When the game resumed with an aura of invincibility, he remained stoic and ignored Scary Mary's renewed verbal attacks.  Instead of being distracted, to spite her and the big bosses, Park rode the crest of this perfect casino storm and multiplied his bets to $1,000.00 each..

Scary Mary remained stubborn but over time, the intensity of her sarcastic MF-ing foul mouth weakened. Her barbs became infrequent as the new dice remained cold.  Soon, Park's most stubborn adversary raised the white flag of defeat as she pissed and moaned about her worse loss, EVER!

A large throng of spectators remained as Park played alone.  The area was as quiet as a cathedral until Scary Mary reminded everyone how evil she was even when she wasn't playing by yelling at a waitress, "I said six fucking sugars in my coffee not five...you think I can't taste the fucking difference!"

Park was in the zone.  Within a couple of hours, he was betting the $5,000.00 table maximum and making additional side bets to further support his cause.

That night I was dealing on the middle level.  Like a telethon, the news filtering down to us from upstairs reminded me of the giant tote board with spinning numbers always getting higher.

I REMEMBER AS A KID BEING ENTRANCED BY TOTE BOARD NUMBERS SPINNING HIGHER.  NOW THAT THEY ARE DIGITIZED, I THINK IT LOSES SOME OF ITS FASCINATION.

Some of my middle level cohorts went upstairs to see the action with their own eyes.

Each new report of Park's luck sounded like an exaggeration.  When I broke down to sneak my own peak, his rail included a gazillion gray chips, (each $5,000.00).  Which explains why I said I never saw his face.

"B" reminded me that late that night Park broke his silence and made one announcement, "I have $800,000.00 and I ain't stoppin' till I have a million."

To keep Park (and his booty), in the casino, the well-trained Atlantis management team used psychology and persuasiveness to arrange for Mrs. Park (in her pre-gun moll days?) and other family members helicoptered in.  Over the course of a marathon gambling session, (twenty hours a day for five days), the winds of Park's perfect casino storm simmered down to doldrums and finally stopped.

When a new storm brewed, the gale came from the opposite direction. So while he and his family were lavished with every amenity the casino could throw his way, Park lost every single dime back...plus some fresh, out of pocket cash.

"B" sighed, "The best casino stories involve greed, stupidity and a lust for power...that's why so few have happy endings.  You'd think that Park would have known...the freight train doesn't come through town every day. Just look at that burnt-out degenerate, he's still chasing the fantasy of another one-in-a-million perfect storm ."  I looked at the seemingly vigilant Mrs. Park and said, "So his misses isn't watching his back, she's just being polite and trying to hide her boredom."  "B" scoffed, "That dude could've had the world by the balls...and now look at him...thirty years after his ten minutes of fame, he's just a punchline, playing for peanuts and cursing the world every time he loses."

THE "THURSDAY" JOKE

In the late 1980's, I spent an afternoon with my parents in Manhattan.  At the South Street Seaport, the (then fledgling) Lifetime TV Network had a interviewer and a camera crew flagging down passersby and asking about their awareness of the new cable station.  

HEADQUARTERED IN NEW YORK CITY, THIS CABLE AND SATELLITE TV CHANNEL WAS ESTABLISHED IN 1984.  THEIR PROGRAMMING IS GEARED TO WOMEN'S ISSUES OR FEATURE WOMEN IN LEAD ROLES.  IN FEBRUARY 2015, IT WAS ESTIMATED THAT THE LIFETIME NETWORK WAS AVAILABLE IN 82.4% OF AMERICAN HOMES.

Lucky me, out of the flock of tourists, the microphone was shoved in my face.  Before asking me what I knew about their network, a lady asked some preliminary questions.  I got on a roll and had my folks, others in the crowd, the crew and even the interviewer, chuckling.  

One of those questions was, "What's your favorite day of the week?"  Without hesitation I said, "Thursday!"  The interviewer said, "Thursday?  I've asked that to a hundred people and you're the first to say Thursday."  I said, "It's simple. What day is today?"  She said, "Thursday."  I said with a twinge of sarcasm, "That's right!  And...Thursday is my favorite day of the week because...I'm off on Thursdays."

That became the original, "Thursday" joke.  But the joke was on me because the cameraman screwed-up and needed me to redo my little repartee.  I laughed, "Comedy is all timing, I could never recreate that moment."  I grabbed mom and dad and led them inside to the clam bar.



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Before casinos went national and opened on every street corner, I had a legion of loyal roulette followers.  On any day, I could count on a familiar face shoehorning onto my table to play...or at least waving as they went by.  Many of my people...whether they played or not were likely to make the hand signal associated with the new and improved, completely different "Thursday" joke.

UNFORTUNATELY, THIS SECOND "THURSDAY" JOKE IS VISUAL.  SO TYPING IT OUT WON'T SERVE THE ESSENCE OF THE HUMOR.  SO TO PUT A SMILE ON THE FACE OF THOSE WHO KNOW IT,  I PRESENT THE SIGNATURE HAND GESTURE (above).   IF YOU NEVER HEARD THIS JOKE, ASK ME TO TELL YOU THE NEXT TIME YOU SEE ME.

From the outside looking in, you'd think casino workers would use some level of schtick.   Of course not everyone has the enthusiasm, energy or willingness to be a cheerleader.  But overwhelming my coworkers lose sight of the fact that we are in the hospitality business.  They make no attempt to show an interest in their players or show a touch of sympathy to the losers.  So entertaining or even chatting with the customers is out of the question.

It's crazy to think but in that regard, many of my contemporaries view me as an oddball.  So while they suffer through the self-imposed drudgery of being there, I cultivate my customers in search of the right audience.  Therefore, whenever I can, I have fun on the job which helps pass the time.

Today's blog concerns itself with another one of the lines I like to use.

At times, a roulette dealer is swamped with work. Sometimes an impatient or less savvy player will ask another player to place bets they can't reach.  My answer to that is, "He's playing, I'm working. Give me sec and I'll professionally set-up whatever you need.  Besides, if an amateur screws up, you can scream at them until your head falls off...but you won't get satisfaction.  If I mess-up, you can still yell AND you might get what you wanted."

The bigger problem is, outside the casino, I have a long history of not heeding my own, "letting a professional do my work" advice.  This is especially true when it comes to me making home repairs.

In regard to my fix-it prowess, I am famous for trying to replace a light bulb and turning it into a "mature audience only" TV special. I have a talent for making insignificant inconveniences into a mess and messes into an epic problems and epic problems into catastrophes. A big part of my dilemma is, I am at times cheap, lazy and stupid, (or all three at the same time).

Far worse, because I have a poor road record, I keep trying to prove, (to myself...and family), that I'm not a bumbling idiot.

The latest installment of my ineptitude started six months ago on my day off, (a Thursday).  That's when we realized our dishwater wasn't draining.  I suggested running another cycle...and like magic, I found the cure.

My heroic status lasted a couple of months until after a big Thursday meal, we discovered that the bottom of washer was again flooded with stagnant water.

Here was my chance to prove that I am willing to go the extra mile, have common sense and that I'm not clumsy.  I referred my difficulties to the Google search engine.

GOOGLE IS A TECHNOLOGY COMPANY SPECIALIZING IN INTERNET-RELATED SERVICES AND PRODUCTS.  THEIR CORPORATE OFFICES ARE IN MOUNTAINVIEW CALIFORNIA.

Search engines were developed by Google (and their competitors) to allow users to receive a wealth of answers to virtually any question.  That's why the budding Internet called itself the, "information super highway?" So to  get to the source of my problem, I typed in, "dishwasher not draining."

I found out that most drainage problems were caused by: a clogged filter, drain or pipe or a drain motor failure.  I visited the Frigidaire web-page and found the dishwasher trouble-shooting page.

THE DIRECTION IMPLIED THAT A FOUR-YEAR OLD WITH AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE COULD FIND THE ROOT OF THE PROBLEM. TOO BAD I DIDN'T HAVE A LITTLE KID AROUND TO ASK FOR HELP.

I was self-assured as I followed the directions to siphon-out the still water.  But I lost all my momentum when I reached the "self-cleaning" filter.  It was as clean as a whistle and there weren't gobs of greasiness blocking the drain.  One last idea was to remove the propeller-like sprayer arm at the bottom, to check for a blockage in the pipe underneath.  I didn't see any screws and it wouldn't lift up so I gave up.

Lucky for me, I have a friend (neighbor) who is a handyman.  While its true the last thing he wants to do when he's not doing handy work...is do handy work, but for me, he'd do it.

It took a couple of weeks to coordinate a common time for both of us.  In that time, I figured out that the propeller arm twists off.  For a split second, I was so proud of myself.  But I also discovered that the problem couldn't be unearthed by looking under it.  In the mean time, I reconnected the propeller.

On a Thursday in early July, my buddy came over.  He detached the actual motor and tested it.  It worked.  He had experience with various dishwashers but he suggested calling a professional because he couldn't see what was wrong.

We made a Thursday appointment with an appliance service.  From the time that man set foot in the house until he identified and fixed this Mickey Mouse problem was three minutes, (a clogged water line).  BUT,  he also said, "Whoever removed the motor...broke it!  And it has to be replaced."

I was in no position to point a finger at my friend.  Even though he was out of his league, he was doing me a favor.  I can only blame my thriftiness, laziness and stupidity for trusting the job to a non-expert.  I ate $160.00 worth of humble pie.  The new motor had to be ordered so it wasn't until the following Thursday that the repairman returned to install it.  Unfortunately, he gave us a three-hour window, (3:PM-6:PM) and arrived (on time?) at 5:45 which killed my whole day off.

On his way out, he suggested that we run washer immediately, to eliminate the stench of the old dirty, still water. In the morning, (Friday) I emptied the washer.  To my surprise...the propeller arm that I had snapped (improperly) back on, before my friend looked at the dishwasher, had fallen off.  It was laying on the floor of the dishwasher atop the coil that heats the water.

Upon closer examination, the plastic arm had melted halfway through the coil and was fused to it. Ugh, I called the repairman back.  He gave me another three-hour window that now ruined both my days off.

IN THE 1960's, JESSE WHITE WAS THE TV COMMERCIAL SPOKESPERSON FOR MAYTAG APPLIANCES.  THEIR CATCHPHRASE, PRIOR TO THE ADVENT OF "TRUTH IN ADVERTISING," IMPLIED THAT THEIR PRODUCTS WERE SO RELIABLE THAT THEIR REPAIRMEN WERE THE LONELIEST GUYS IN TOWN.

My dishwasher repairman certainly can never complain about being lonely, I'm seeing him way too often. Maybe my schtick with him helped forge a bond between us. To prove how effective the second "Thursday" joke was, he used the hand gesture when he greeted me the last time.  It's like we're pals. So much so, he gave me a break and will install a new sprayer arm, (no service call charge), next Thursday for the price of the part, fifty bucks.

I'm already dreading the possibility of losing another day off.  This epidemic is rapidly becoming a third version of my Thursday joke...except this one isn't funny.